Chapter 12
“You cannot be serious, lad.” Napier slammed his cup down on the crude wooden table before him.
“Ah! If you could but stand up to my dear sister in this way—”
“You’ll not be impudent with me, James. A mere in-law I may be, but I am still a man of knowledge and reason.”
James tried—and failed—to suppress a smile as he studied his brother-in-law.
The first Lord Napier was lean where Margaret was plump, somber and stoic to her animated sentimentality.
Not a hair was out of place on his thinning pate.
The man was precise comportment in contrast to his wife’s bluster, and the poor sot loved Margaret more than life itself.
“I’ll not know why you insist on your present course of action,” Napier continued.
“The town officers have denied you support, so now you’re after Aberdeen like a pup worrying a rag.
Don’t you see?” He lowered his voice. He’d installed himself in a crofter’s cottage not far outside Aberdeen, and it would do no good for the wrong ears to overhear.
“The townspeople are merely the pot our king has placed over the fire so that he might better test the heat without risk to his own flesh.”
“You’ve changed topic, dearest brother-in-law.”
“Och, James, the topic? My topic is your folly. Your lass needs to return to Montrose. I could ferry her back tomorrow, safe into Margaret’s care.”
“You’ll not fight with us?” James cocked his brows encouragingly, but his brother-in-law remained as stolid as ever.
“You know I’ll not, James.”
Napier let the statement hang before continuing, “I love you as my own blood, but I must speak with candor. I’ve been following the news from Edinburgh.
As the days pass, it seems your Covenanters are becoming more like a gang of selfish and despotic nobles who’ve spied their chance to seize power. ”
“How could that be when they’ve asked that I lead? You ken me well, Napier.” Opening his arms, James raised his brows in mock innocence. “Am I so tyrannical?
“Truly, brother,” James continued in graver tones, “the king threatens to dictate the Church of Scotland. I’ll not sit idly by.”
Napier thoughtfully stroked the thin flesh of his cheeks. “You claim Charles has overstepped where the Kirk is concerned, but you need to see with your eyes, James, beyond the appearance of a thing, to its true nature.”
“My elder you may be,” James snapped, “but you’ll not patronize me. I indeed see the truth of what I fight for. I’m driven to battle for a principle, honor-bound to ensure Scotland’s religious freedoms are protected. It is that honor that will find us victorious.”
“Then at least let me take Magdalen. I fear she’s a distraction, and distractions kill, lad.”
“I said no, Napier. Believe me. I would that she were home— away to her own home.” He stood abruptly, curling his hands into fists then dropping them loose to his sides.
“But until that time, I’ll not cast her to the winds.
These are dangerous times. She was sent to me and shall remain under my care. ”
“Sent by whom? Och,” Napier grumbled when met with James’s silence, “I wish you weren’t so mysterious about this whole business.”
“You must trust me on this. The lass has none but me to turn to. I’ll not send her off until I have more of an . . . understanding of her situation. She can bide with you well outside Aberdeen while I fight.”
“She can bide with me in Montrose.”
“I’d keep her close to me.” James slammed his open palms onto the table in front of him, leaning close to his brother-in-law. “And that is the end of the matter.”
Napier stood to face him. “Who knows how many troops Charles might be marching toward us even now?” He pleaded, “You’ve no reckoning of the fight that could lay ahead.”
“Magda stays,” James said with finality. “Whatever my thoughts on the lass, I’ll not leave her.”
“We march on the morrow,” James announced, settling himself next to Magda on the grassy riverbank. “Our troops are rallied well beyond the Brig o’ Dee under a General Leslie.” He nodded toward the bridge in the distance, whose low, stout arches spanned the River Dee.
“We have some men of high birth, and a goodly number of swords-for-hire, but I doubt we’ll need to resort to such gross tactics.”
“You act like you’re excited about this,” Magda grumbled.
She didn’t relish watching him march into the sunset, nor did she want to be shuttled back to Montrose either.
Fate had sent her to James, and somehow she’d come to trust him.
Despite the close proximity of battle, she’d stay with him as he’d asked.
At least until they could find Lonan, and a way back to her own world.
“A chance to trade doublet for armor? Aye, I am excited. But,” he said, swooping up onto his knees, “I’d take a charm for the fight.”
Magda gasped at his suddenly unsheathed broadsword.
“Goodness, that’s some weapon.”
“Aye, indeed it is.” His wicked wink brought an indignant blush to her cheeks.
Balancing it on his forearm, James held the sword aloft. Sunlight glinted sharply off the blade, a couple inches wide at the base and tapered to a deadly sharp point.
“’Twas a gift from my father. He’d wanted to gild the basket,” he said, referring to the thick filigree work that protected the hilt and ultimately would guard the swordsman’s hand, “but I prefer the look of raw steel.”
James moved so quickly, she didn’t have time to protest. One swift flick of his sword, and a small strip of Magda’s hem fluttered between his fingers.
“For luck, aye?” James deftly tied the light blue strip of silk into a knot and pinned it to his bonnet. “You’d not deny the warrior a wee talisman, would you?”
He smiled and reached out to gently pinch her chin. “Don’t look so dire, hen. You’ll keep safe with Margaret’s husband while I fight.”
“So that’s it then?”
If only she’d listened to Walter more. Magda remembered that day at the museum when he’d told her of the horrible fate that James Graham had met.
Would meet.
Was this that moment? Would this next fight bring his death?
She stared sullenly at the river, concentrating on its noisy rush, willing the pounding of water over rock to deafen her to the thoughts in her head.
Tears stung her eyes as renegade memories crept in to stab her unexpectedly, and Magda wondered if she’d ever be able to look at the water the same way. Or if Peter’s death had ruined her forever.
And now James was off, more reckless than her brother ever had been. Magda didn’t think she could bear to watch yet another man cut away from her. She couldn’t withstand more grief.
“To what horrible place have I lost you?” The gentle tone of James’s voice brought out a husky Scots burr.
He sat, setting his bonnet on the grass by his side, and the soft brown waves of his hair tousled loose in the wind.
“You seem as if you’re the one who’s off to battle. Tell me your mind, hen.”
She tried to inhale deeply, her breath coming in shudders as she fought back the tears. “It’s my brother.”
"You’ve a brother then? I thought you said—”
“Had a brother. He drowned.” She took the ragged hem of her dress and twisted it between her fingers.
“Ah.” His face went still. “That’s it then. The reason you were so stricken at the stream.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever again be able to be near the water without thinking of him.” She spat out a mirthless laugh. “Sucks for me, huh? Seeing as the world is made of water.”
Ignoring her dismissive laugh, James caught her eyes with his and held Magda with his solemn gaze. “How did it happen?”
“He was visiting my folks. He’d just gotten back from South America. Ever the adventurer, my brother.” Magda gazed blankly at the rushing water. “He helped build some school.” She shook her head. “Adventurous and charitable.”
Dropping the hem from her fingers, Magda switched her focus to stare intently at her hands as they brushed along the top of the grass. “Not me, though. I had to work. Or . . . well, I chose to work that weekend. Work, work, work,” she added in a fake bright tone.
“He went to visit my parents, and I didn’t.
” She shrugged. “They had . . . they have . . .” She fumbled for a moment, suddenly intent on finding the proper tense.
“They’ve got a retreat on Lake George. Peter—my brother— was camping with some kids.
Just a bunch of stupid rich kids. They’d set up on a small private island on what we called The Narrows.
They’d been drinking, of course. Probably something stupid like cheap light beer.
It made them feel superior to think they were slumming it. ”
Realizing she’d been rambling about what were likely some pretty foreign concepts, Magda paused for a moment to see if James was registering her story. Somehow she wasn’t surprised to find his eyes holding hers steady, her pain mirrored in his drawn brow.
“Anyway, a couple of them went for a midnight swim, and Peter heard one of the girls get into trouble. He went out to help. Neither of them came back.”
She paused for a moment and froze, willing away the ache that inevitably clutched her throat at the thought of her brother. James slowly placed his palm flat on the grass, just a blade away from touching.
She stared at his hand so near to hers. “I can’t figure it out,” Magda finally continued. “The others said they heard her screaming, flailing. She must have pulled him under. That’s really the only explanation. He was a strong swimmer. We both were.”
"Were?”
“Yeah, well, I sort of lost the taste for swimming after that.”
“Aye.”
Magda was grateful for his firm nod, as if there could be no other response.
“The thing is,” she said, desperation in her voice, “I can’t get over that I wasn’t there. I don’t even remember why I thought it was so important I go to the museum that weekend. And if I’d been with Peter instead, maybe I could’ve saved him.”
“No, you couldn’t have,” James replied firmly. “There’s none stronger than a panicked swimmer. If you’d gone in after your brother, it would have been the both of you pulled under.”
“Well, that’s not what my parents said.”
“Och, your bloody parents were wrong!”
A shocked laugh burst from Magda. She’d beaten herself up over Peter’s death for a year now, holding herself secretly accountable, and here was this man she hardly knew, saying just the right thing to momentarily blunt the pain.
“Thanks,” she said. “My bloody parents.” She smiled at James through her tears. “What’s the other thing you say? Like, they bother me . . . ?”
“Aye,” he laughed, then said in an exaggerated Scottish brogue, “they fash ye!”
“Aye,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye. “They do at that. Or,” she added quietly, “they did . . .”