Page 58 of The Texan Duke
He didn’t say anything, and when she glanced over at him, he seemed to be studying her intently.
She stopped her mare and returned his look. Right at the moment, she could very easily believe that his ancestors were Vikings. With a strong square face and impressive physique, she could almost imagine him wearing a metal breastplate and carrying a double-headed ax. A berserker, but one with judgment and fairness. He wouldn’t be afraid of a fight.
Of course he would face Felix. How foolish she’d been to suggest that it might not be a good idea. Connor would never run away from a challenge.
She pulled her thoughts away from him and slowly edged the mare forward, glancing at Connor to see the reaction to his first sight of Castle McCraight.
Connor had never visited the Parthenon, although he’d seen etchings of it. What had struck him on first viewing the structure was the shout that had seemed to come from the building. A declaration and a warning that stated:Here I am as of today, but once I was a mighty place filled with warriors and statesmen. People with dreams once occupied me. They have died but the dreams remain, sheltered by my ruins.
He had the same thought about the castle he stared at now.
Snow was still mounded high against the roofless walls. Arches, like eyes, stared out at the sea. Nothing grew there. Neither ivy nor weeds filled in the cracks of masonry.
Castle McCraight gave off a proud loneliness.
The war he’d fought in had been filled with both patriotic and sad songs. As he slowly walked Samson forward, a ballad came to Connor’s mind. The tale of a woman waiting at home for a man who would never return, a soldier lost in the war. Castle McCraight seemed to embody the hopelessness of that eternal vigil.
This was the cradle that had guarded the seed from which his family tree had sprung. Men had lived and died here, had built this place in defiance of their enemies. When war and battles no longer raged, they’d moved their home farther inland, away from the cliff fortress whipped by a freezing, briny wind.
It wasn’t Bealadair he would remember when he thought of Scotland, but this place. This was the true anchor, the place where his heritage began.
The forest encircled them on three sides. Ahead was the sea, stretching across the horizon.
It was, perhaps, fitting that his father’s ghost should join him here, that he could feel Graham walking beside him as he advanced a few more feet.
Had his father played here as a boy or had it been forbidden him? He had the idea that the twin boys had defied the rules and come here as often as they could. Had they played scenes from Scotland’s history? Had one of them been English and the other a Highlander?
He could almost feel Graham smiling beside him. He had the sudden notion that his father would be pleased to see him here.
Pulling out his notebook, he began to sketch the castle, knowing that he’d like to show the place to his mother and sisters.
Elsbeth sat quietly beside him. He glanced at her more than once, wanting to thank her for not only bringing him here but for the look in her beautiful eyes. As if she understood the emotion of this moment.
She’d featured in his important discoveries at Bealadair. Standing off to the side, almost as if she were waiting for him to turn to her for comfort or peace or understanding.
“‘Keen blaws the wind o’er the braes o’ Gleniffer,
The auld castle’s turrets are cover’d wi’ snaw.’”
“What is that?” he asked. “A McCraight poem? Was my uncle given to writing verse?”
She smiled and shook her head. “It’s a poem by Robert Tannahill called ‘The Braes o’ Gleniffer.’ I’ve always thought it matched Castle McCraight.”
His sketch done, he put away his notebook and slowly dismounted, tying Samson’s reins to a branch before approaching the castle.
All of the walls looked as if the masonry had broken off at an angle. Only one whole wall remained, standing as a bulwark against the elements.
The brick and stone was gray with black patches, while the snow mounted on the arches and against the walls was pristine white. A monochrome picture that reminded him, oddly enough, of the morning of the Battle of Chickamauga with its deep fog. He pushed those memories aside.
“Do you sketch everything you see?” Elsbeth asked.
He glanced over at her, surprised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He hadn’t helped her dismount and apologized.
She brushed away his words with a smile. “You drew the cattle, too,” she said.
“I had to draw them. No one back home would believe me if I told them about your hairy cattle.”
Her laughter echoed in this lonely place. Elsbeth was exactly what Castle McCraight needed. Someone filled with life and purpose and determination.
