The wind suddenly gusted, blowing her hair into her eyes. She scarcely noticed. Everything bloody hurt. So much that she bent forward, trying desperately to hold herself together. But her ribs felt battered and crushed. Her lungs wouldn’t work right.
She should follow him. She should explain, even though he hadn’t believed her the first time. Even though he wouldn’t believe her now.
But the choice was impossible. How could she have allowed herself to fall so deeply in love with him? How could she have so carelessly let Finlay’s absence make her forget?
“Lass?” Old, gnarled hands came into view. Cupped her cheeks and raised her face. “Didnae ye hear me?” The single, milky eye seemed oddly penetrating. The low, scratchy voice seemed oddly resonant. “What’s ailin’ ye, Annie?”
That was all it took for her to crumble. She collapsed to her knees, there in the grass. And for a long while, Mrs. MacBean held her while she rocked back and forth. Finally, she managed to whisper, “He wants to marry me.”
The old woman patted her back and kept rocking. “Aye.”
“I didnae answer.”
“Because of yer laddie.”
Annie nodded.
“Do ye wish to marry the man?”
Another nod.
“Aye, of course ye do.” A deep sigh. Then, the old woman pushed to her feet and bent to help Annie do the same. “Come.”
Dazed as she was, Annie didn’t argue. She allowed Mrs. MacBean to lead her back along the trail toward the castle. When they reached the churchyard, the woman tugged her toward the spot where the gate had once stood.
There, being overtaken by grass and a clump of thistles, was the wee ring of stones Annie had laid for Finlay.
“I cannae bear it,” she whispered, the confession torn from her heart. “I cannae bear to let him go.”
Mrs. MacBean squeezed her hand. “Which ‘him’ are ye referrin’ to, lass?”
The world turned watery. Light blurred and a tear splattered onto the soil. Another sharp gust blew through her, nearly knocking her flat. She clung to the old woman and gasped to catch a sob. “John Huxley.” Angrily, she swiped at her cheeks. “I love that bluidy Englishman until I cannae see straight.”
“Aye.” Mrs. MacBean patted her arm. “I ken.”
“But how can I abandon Finlay?”
“Mayhap it was always goin’ to end here.” She gestured to the unmarked grave, the little circle of stones with its tangle of weeds. “Mayhap some friends arenae meant to stay forever, but only until ye dinnae need them quite so much.”
Annie covered her eyes. Pictured Finlay’s sweet face. His wise voice—a lad’s voice carrying centuries inside it. How could she say goodbye? She’d promised to do whatever was necessary to bring him back to her.
But she hadn’t thought that would mean cutting out her own heart.
She tried to imagine feeding some other husband. Kissing some other husband. Conceiving a son with some other husband. Even if that son was Finlay, everything inside her screamed it was wrong. Annie should be John’s wife. She should feed him and love him and make him laugh because nobody else seemed able to do it quite so well.
So, she must let Finlay go. He’d be born to someone else. The void where he’d once been tethered would never entirely heal. And she would miss him. God, how she would miss him.
Another gust rocked her, colder this time. A bird called, loud and close. Annie blinked. Lowered her hand. Raised her eyes.
And there, on the tallest arch, was a white bird. It looked like a raven. She’d never seen anything like it. “D-do ye see that?”
Mrs. MacBean didn’t answer. The bird called again. Its caw was a bit scratchy and distorted. It took flight and disappeared inside the church. A moment later, it landed on the arch again, this time with something in its beak.
A scrap of fabric, she thought, though it was difficult to see.
The bird looked directly at Annie, and for a moment, she would have sworn its eyes were the same color as Fin’s. Then, it flew away.
But the scrap of fabric floated down, twirling and dancing on the newly vigorous wind. It landed in the center of the stones.
Blue and green tartan. The very same she’d used to make her Englishman’s kilt.
“Och, that clever bird must have snatched it from my pouch earlier when I was gatherin’ bog myrtle.” Mrs. MacBean bent down and retrieved the little scrap of wool. “I used this for yer marriage charm.”
Annie blinked at the old woman who always seemed so daft.
Mrs. MacBean smiled and tucked the scrap into the pouch she wore on her hip. “Seems I still have a bit of magic left in this auld blood, eh?”
“W-was the bird …” Annie pointed to the now-empty arch. “Was that—”
A pat of her hand. A tug toward the trail. “These are deep mysteries we seek to plumb, lass. Dark forces and hidden realms.”
“Aye. Ye’ve said that before. Why do I suspect ye ken a lot more than ye’re sayin’?”
Ignoring the question, the old woman bent to gather a handful of moss from a nearby rock and stuffed it into her pouch. “Do ye suppose Mr. Brodie’s uncle will attend yer weddin’, lass?” A daft sigh. “Ah, that would be a grand surprise. I havenae enjoyed a good caber toss in far too many years.”
Chapter Sixteen
TlU
Annie waited to change into her lilac gown until after Betty had gone home. She sat with Broderick until she felt him ease into sleep and waited until Angus’s door had closed to don her half-boots. She waited until the house was silent but for the night insects and owls outside.
Then, she made her move, slipping out the door into the bright, silvery night. Took the road north into Glendasheen, enjoying the crunch of gravel and the scent of green and the silken summer air on her skin. Soon, she was rounding the loch and approaching the castle.
Next, she was opening the door.
Near midnight, the castle stood quiet and dark. The MacDonnells had all gone home or gone to their beds. Now, standing in John Huxley’s entrance hall with moonlight pouring through his new windows, she wondered if she’d find him in his bedchamber or awake in his library or milling about his kitchen in search of food that Marjorie MacDonnell hadn’t ruined.
She wondered if she’d find him alone.
God, she hoped she found him alone.
Her body shook. Her hands sweated. Her throat was dry.
There was nothing for it now. She’d come here with an aim, and she meant to have it done. Slowly, she picked her way across the slate stones her English gentleman had laid with his own hands. She journeyed down the corridor to the stairs and felt her heart pounding thrice for every step she took.
She’d begin with his bedchamber, she decided. If he was there alone, she’d have her say, and that would be that. If he wasn’t alone … well, she didn’t know what she’d do. Probably something unladylike—insults about copulation with farm animals followed by sudden, vicious thrashing of tender body parts, perhaps. If he was elsewhere, she’d search until she found him, for she did not intend to leave here until her Englishman had been set straight. The pain in his eyes as he’d walked away haunted her.