He’d always been good with distractions, and his antics lightened her heart for a moment. “Ah, there’s a smile, sister,” he said as he stooped to set her down. “I’ve missed it since we arrived home.”
After shooing the two younger men out to wash, she resumed preparing dinner.
“He’s right,” said Campbell. “Ye have been melancholy.”
She gathered onions from the basket and began chopping. “The news about Broderick wasnae exactly glad tidings.”
“Da said ye havenae mentioned yer laddie in weeks.”
The MacPhersons knew about Finlay, and they accepted she had a friend they could not see. She’d never been certain whether they, like the villagers, thought she simply imagined the boy, or whether they believed she really did have a ghostie attached to her. But they gave her no trouble about it, and she didn’t press the issue by insisting they believe her.
“What’s wrong, Annie?”
She continued chopping, her knife thudding into wood. “’Tis the onions. They make me weep.”
“Nah. Ye were sad before the onions. Before we told ye about Broderick.”
Her knife halted on a downward slice. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she swiped them away with her wrist. “He’s gone,” she whispered.
“Yer laddie?”
She nodded.
Silence. “Have ye asked Mrs. MacBean about it?”
Campbell and Broderick had helped rebuild the woman’s cottage, so they were familiar with Mrs. MacBean’s “expertise” in otherworldly matters.
She nodded again and resumed chopping in angry slices. “Daft auld woman’s no help at all. A few days ago, she had me burying charms and chanting spells in the churchyard up by the castle. I dinnae ken who’s the greater fool, her or me.”
Campbell’s expression darkened. “Ye went there alone?”
“Aye.”
A pause. “Did ye see Huxley?”
She avoided answering, instead scooping the onions into a pot and starting on the potatoes. The MacPhersons were a mite protective. Better for Huxley’s health if they never got any wrongheaded notions about her and the Englishman. “I did everything Mrs. MacBean instructed, with naught to show for it.”
“Perhaps her remedy takes a while.”
“How many bride charms has she given ye?”
“A dozen or so.”
“And have ye a bride?”
His response was a grunt.
Campbell was a strong, braw male in his prime. Like all the MacPherson brothers, he had heavy muscles, a full head of dark hair, stone-chiseled features, and a jaw fit to power a mill. He was five-and-thirty. He should be married by now, charms or no.
She quartered the potatoes and tossed them into the pot. “According to Mrs. MacBean, Halloween is Finlay’s best chance to return. She told me that’s when the realms are easiest to bridge.”
“Tonight, then.”
She nodded, her stomach cramping. What if he didn’t return, tonight or any other night? What if she never saw the Fin Grin or held his wee hand again?
“Would that I could retrieve him for ye, Annie.”
Her heart squeezed so hard, she had to set down her knife and lean against the table. She raised her head to meet Campbell’s gaze, which remained solemn and steady. She nearly crumbled. Her hands curled upon the table’s surface. Her eyes swam. By sheer will, she managed to blink the tears away before they spilled.
“Would that I could thank ye for it, brother.”
Late that night, after her brothers had gone into the village to enjoy the bonfires, whisky, and likely a willing lass or two, Annie curled up beside the hearth in her bedchamber and struggled to stay awake. The day had been long and, with all the fashing about Broderick, her eyes were heavy. But she didn’t want to miss Finlay.
She watched midnight come and go before her laddie finally found his way back to her. He appeared near the edge of the wood beyond Glendasheen Castle. She’d been riding a stag near the loch.
Dreaming, of course. Stags didn’t let you ride them, much less decorate their antlers with daisies. But this one carried her to Finlay, who emerged from behind a tree holding something in his fist. She slid from her perch, sobbing and aching at the sight of him.
He raced toward her, his blue eyes lighting with joy. “Annie!”
“Oh, thank God,” she panted, tears streaming now. “Thank God, thank God.” She fell to her knees upon yellow leaves and opened her arms to catch him.
He was warm. Finlay was never warm, but here, somehow, he was.
She clutched him so tightly, he wriggled. “I’m sorry.” She kissed his cheeks over and over. Cupped his dear, sweet face between her hands. Ran a hand over his hair. “Finlay. Are ye all right? God, how I’ve missed ye, laddie.”
His wee hand stroked her brow, her cheek. His smile was wide and a little crooked. The Fin Grin. “Nae more than I’ve missed ye, Annie.”
As always, his voice sounded young, but his eyes spoke of centuries.
She could scarcely keep herself together. Seeing him again—the boy who’d been with her always—was a reminder of all she’d lost when he’d disappeared. Her friend. Her wise companion. Her confidant. He’d seen everything that had happened since her mother’s death.
Grisel MacDonnell’s spiteful attacks.
The vicious gossip amongst the lasses of the village.
The loneliness. God, the loneliness.
Dinnae touch Mad Annie, or ye’ll go mad, too!
Finlay had witnessed it all, holding her hand and lending her courage. Without him, she was truly alone.
His hand stroked her cheek again, small and warm. “There isnae much time,” he said gently. “I must tell ye …”
“No, Finlay. Dinnae leave again.” She squeezed him harder. “Please.”
He shook his head. “I want to stay. But I …” He grew breathless, as though he’d been running uphill. “Too weak. Cannae remain with ye the same way as before. Crossin’ betwixt one world and the other … takes great power. Even here in Glendasheen.”
She stroked his beloved cheek, which had begun to pale. “What must I do?”
He held her gaze. Brushed away the tears she couldn’t stop. “I stayed with ye, Annie. Long as I could.”
“Stay longer,” she gritted. “What must I do to keep ye with me? I’ll build a thousand bluidy circles. I’ll recite silly rhymes ‘til my voice runs raw. I’ll—”
“Ye must marry.”
The odd floaty feeling she usually experienced in dreams whipped away, replaced by the distinct sensation of being kicked in the stomach. “M-marry? I dinnae want a husband. I’ve a houseful of MacPhersons to take care of. Besides, a husband will want to … do things. Perhaps pleasant. Perhaps not. But he’ll nae like … well, ye wouldnae understand, wee laddie that ye are. Trust me. In the eyes of most men, I’m—”
“Must marry a lord.”