Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Donaldina woke to footsteps beyond her chamber door. At first, she thought the sound belonged to the remnants of a dream. Then, the footsteps came again.
She opened her eyes. The fire had burned low, leaving a faint red glow beneath the ashes.
Moonlight peeked through a gap in the curtains, casting a pale line on the floor.
Mairi was asleep in the next room. There were no guards calling out or alarm bells ringing.
However, after Cormac, silence no longer meant safety.
Donaldina pushed back the blankets and reached for the dagger beside her bed.
The weapon had been Roy’s suggestion after their first lesson.
She objected that keeping steel beneath her pillow seemed an excessive response to poor sleep.
He replied that Cormac possessed an excessive devotion to returning where he was unwanted.
She pulled a wool robe over her nightgown and stepped into the corridor. Cold stone met her bare feet through the thin soles of her slippers. The passage was dark except for the torches burning at either end, their flames bending whenever the wind pressed through the arrow slits.
The footsteps sounded below, so she followed.
She descended the narrow stair with one hand upon the wall and the dagger concealed within the folds of her robe. At the lower landing, she saw a dark figure cross the far end of the corridor.
Her heart struck once, hard. Then the man passed beneath the torchlight.
Roy.
He wore no cloak and carried no sword, though a dagger remained at his belt.
His shirt hung loose at the throat, and his hair had not been tied back.
He moved through the castle as though he knew every shadow, though he had lived within Dun Ard scarcely long enough to learn which doors stuck in damp weather.
She paused, sensing an unease in his stiff shoulders.
While she saw no threat or anger, she detected fatigue instead.
He didn't seem to notice her as he moved across the hall and lifted the bar from the small courtyard door.
Cold night air poured in, carrying a salty, damp mineral scent of stone. He then stepped outside.
Donaldina should have returned to her chamber. After all, a man was entitled to solitude. Roy more than most, perhaps. He guarded his silences as fiercely as other men guarded land. Yet, she followed.
The courtyard lay silver beneath the moon.
Rain had passed, leaving the stones slick and shining.
The clouds had broken apart above the sea, exposing stars in scattered clusters.
Roy crossed beneath the gate and took the path toward the cliffs.
Donaldina knew where he was going even before he turned.
Lachlan’s cairn was situated beyond the burial path, soaring above the water where many MacNicols had been laid to rest beneath stone. The wind was stronger there, capturing her robe and pulling it around her legs as she kept her distance.
Roy did not look back. He reached the cairn and stopped.
Lachlan’s resting place was still new enough that the stones appeared pale among the older graves.
Heather had not yet begun growing between them.
The plaid laid there after the burial had been removed before the last storm, but a small carved piece of wood remained near the base.
It was a child’s offering, shaped roughly like a boat.
Roy stood with his head bowed.
For one strange moment, she felt as though she had come upon something private between the two men. Lachlan had known Roy in a world from which she received only letters, rumors, and eventually a body wrapped for burial.
Roy had known the final years of her brother’s life. Perhaps he had known the last things Lachlan feared, the final joke he made or whether he called her name when death approached.
She wanted to ask. She feared the answer too much.
Roy spoke without turning. “Ye shouldnae be out here alone.”
Donaldina stopped beside him. “Neither should ye.”
“I am difficult tae abduct.”
“Cormac may yet surprise us both.”
A breath escaped him, a sound that, on any other night, might have conveyed amusement. Donaldina tucked the dagger more securely into her robe.
For several moments, neither spoke. The sea moved below them, black beneath the stars. Waves broke white against the rocks and disappeared. The air smelled of wet heather and salt, cold enough to sting her lungs.
Roy kept his gaze upon the cairn. Donaldina was looking at him instead.
Moonlight sharpened the scar along his jaw and deepened the shadows beneath his eyes.
She noticed them before. She had mistaken them for the ordinary exhaustion of travel, battle and the strain of entering a hostile clan’s hall.
Now she wondered.
“Could ye nae sleep?” she asked.
Roy’s mouth tightened faintly. “I did sleep.”
“Nae for long.”
“Nae.”
The answer came without defense.
Donaldina rubbed her thumb along the edge of her sleeve. “I heard ye walking.”
“I didnae mean tae wake anyone.”
“Ye didnae. I was awake already.”
Roy glanced at her then, but did not ask why.
She was grateful. There were nights when she woke expecting Cormac’s hand around her wrist. Then, there were other nights when she heard Lachlan laughing in the corridor and rose before remembering that the dead did not return merely because grief imitated sound well enough.
Tonight, it was Roy who had been called from sleep.
Donaldina turned toward the cairn. “Ye once told me the roads from war were long.”
“They were.”
“And when I asked what happened tae Lachlan, ye answered only what was necessary.”
Roy’s gaze settled upon the sea.
She hesitated. “Will ye tell me more now?”
The wind moved between them. For so long, he remained silent that she thought he would refuse. She would not blame him. Some memories survived only because they were never touched.
Then Roy drew a slow breath.
“There are things I remember clearly,” he spoke as if to himself. “Things I wish I didnae.”
His voice was low, nearly lost beneath the water.
“We lost men in every season. Some tae battle. More tae cold, fever and wounds that shouldnae have killed them.” His jaw tightened. “There was never enough food. Never enough shelter. Orders came from men who hadnae seen the ground upon which they expected us tae die.”
Donaldina looked down at the cairn stones.
“Lachlan hated poor orders,” she said.
“Aye.” A shadow of warmth entered Roy’s voice. “He was remarkably willing tae explain their failings tae anyone wearing a finer coat than his own.”
That sounded like her brother. The ache it caused was almost sweet.
Roy continued. “He kept men laughing when they had little cause. When rations failed, he told them hunger improved the imagination.”
Donaldina smiled before she could stop herself. Then Roy’s expression changed, and the smile left her. “I still see them,” he confessed.
The words came quietly.
“Lachlan?”
“All of them.”
Donaldina’s attention sharpened. Roy looked beyond the cliff, into some darkness farther away than the sea.
“The men I couldnae reach. The ones I ordered forward. The ones who trusted me when I told them we would hold.” His fingers curled at his side. “Sometimes I dream they are standing where I left them. Sometimes they ask why I returned when they didnae.”
Donaldina’s throat tightened. Roy had spoken of war before as though it were weather endured: bitter, violent and beyond question. He had never spoken of guilt.
“Ye brought men home,” she reminded him.
“Nae enough.”
“Perhaps nae number would feel like enough.”
Roy said nothing. The wind lifted his shirt against his body. Donaldina remembered the scars beneath it, the marks across his chest and back, each one evidence that death had reached for him repeatedly and failed.
She thought those scars proved how often Roy nearly died. She understood now that he carried the dead within him as surely as he carried their wounds.
“When did ye last sleep through an entire night?” she asked.
Roy’s eyes remained upon the horizon. “Before the war.”
The answer struck her with quiet force.
“Years?”
“Aye.”
“And ye have told nae one?”
“Hamish kens.”
“Kenning isnae the same as speaking.”
“Nae.”
Donaldina looked at his face, at the rigid calm he wore even now.
“Why did ye tell me?”
At last, Roy turned toward her. The stars reflected faintly in his gray eyes.
“Ye asked.”
It should not have been enough to move her, but it was. Donaldina instinctively reached for him, her fingers tightening around his hand without a second thought. Roy went still. So did she.
His hand was larger than hers, rough with calluses and colder than she expected. For one uncertain instant, she thought he might withdraw. He looked down at their joined hands. Her courage nearly failed.
She had touched him before to bind his wound, to correct the hold of a honey frame, to steady herself when he caught her. Each touch possessed an explanation.
This one had none.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, uncertain whether she meant for the men he lost, the sleep taken from him, or every night he had stood alone with both.
Roy did not answer. He turned his hand slowly beneath hers until their palms met. Then his fingers closed around her own. The movement was slight, but it affected her more deeply than any declaration might have done.
They stood beside Lachlan’s cairn beneath the scattered stars, hand in hand, while the sea broke endlessly below. Roy did not speak again. Neither did she.
For once, silence did not feel like absence. It felt like something shared.
Roy found the carpenter shortly after sunrise. The shed stood against the inner wall, warm with the scent of fresh-cut wood, resin and damp shavings. Pale morning light entered through the open door, falling across unfinished stools, broken shutters and lengths of timber stacked against the stone.
Ewan MacNicol looked up from the table where he was fitting a new handle to an axe.
“Me laird.”
Roy disliked the title in Dun Ard. It sounded too much like a claim.
He placed one hand upon a plank of seasoned oak. “Ye built the hives in the western garden?”
“Some of them. Lady Donaldina built the oldest with her brother.”
Roy noticed the difference. The first two bore rough joints and uneven measurements, preserved more from affection than sound construction. One leaned slightly toward the sea. Another had split along the lower edge where rain entered.
The storm had damaged both, but Donaldina had said nothing of it. She had stood among the bees as though the broken wood did not trouble her, but Roy remembered the care with which her fingers passed over the cracked frame.
“I want another built,” he told the man.
Ewan set down the axe handle. “The same size?”
“Larger by half a hand. Raise it from the ground so damp cannae settle beneath it. Use oak for the base and pine above. The roof should slope farther over the sides.”
The carpenter’s brows rose. Roy ignored him.
“Fit the corners with proper joints. Nae iron near the comb. It will rust in the salt air.”
“Aye.”
“And make the entrance narrower. The wind strikes hardest from the west.”
Ewan looked toward the open door, where that same wind moved dust and shavings across the threshold.
“Ye have given this considerable thought.”
“I have eyes.”
The man’s mouth twitched.
Roy selected another plank and tested its weight. The wood was dry and sound.
“She shouldnae lose the hive tae another storm,” he said, but he was not certain if he were speaking to Ewan or merely thinking aloud.
For one moment, he saw Donaldina beside Lachlan’s cairn beneath the stars. Her hand was small within his, yet she held him as though there were no weakness in offering comfort.
He could not sleep afterward. Not that he wanted to. The memory of her fingers remained with him through the night, warm against a place in him long accustomed to cold.
“How soon?” Ewan asked.
“As soon as ye can have it done.”
The man thought about it for a moment. “That will require setting aside the western gate repairs.”
“Use one of me men tae assist ye.”
“And Lady Donaldina?”
Roy looked at him. Ewan lowered his gaze with suspicious speed.
“She neednae know who ordered it,” Roy urged.
The carpenter’s mouth moved again. “Naturally.”
“I mean it.”
“Aye, me laird.”
“Nae one mentions me name.”
“Of course.”
Roy stepped toward the door, then stopped. “And sand the edges smooth. She works without gloves when the weather is warm.”
Ewan stared at him. Roy’s expression hardened.
The carpenter immediately reached for the oak.
“Nae a word,” Roy warned.
“I heard nae name at all.”
Roy exited the shed before the man could get more amused. Behind him, the first measured strike of the carpenter’s mallet echoed through the morning air.