Chapter 12
The Girl from the Ice
Diana put a hand to her collar.
"I fell into a frozen river."
Alistair's fingers stayed still on the medallion. The wind came through the gaps in the chapel with the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves. Somewhere past the wall a horse struck a hoof against the ground.
He did not take his eyes off her.
"Show me."
The word did not come as an order given in front of the clan. There was something more held in about it, a need he appeared afraid to name.
Diana undid the clasp at her collar and drew the cloth aside.
The scar began below the collarbone and ran down in an uneven curve, pale against the skin. Ice had torn the dress, and the stone under the water had done the rest. Her father closed the wound that same night, his fingers still shaking with anger and relief.
Alistair let the medallion go.
His hand came up and stopped before it reached her.
"It was shorter."
"I was eight."
He watched the whole shape of the scar. Then he looked up at her face.
Diana watched the pieces come together.
Fraser.
The voice he recognized without knowing from where.
The chin lifted at any order she considered absurd.
The sense of having argued with her long before the road, the mill, and the ball.
"Your father was in a house near the river," Alistair said. "Treating a wounded man."
"A broken leg."
"You went out alone."
"I was chasing a cloth the wind had taken."
"A very poor reason to die."
"At eight it appeared sufficient."
His mouth nearly moved.
"The ice gave way near the bank."
Diana nodded.
"You used a branch to reach me."
"And my plaid."
"The plaid caught on a stone."
"You wouldn't let go."
"I was drowning."
"You argued with me anyway."
"You told me to stop thrashing."
"And you answered that you weren't thrashing."
The memory did not arrive whole in his face. There was no sudden instant in which sixteen years fell away. Alistair was gathering facts he already had and finding the exact place of each one.
His hand went to his own shoulder under the coat.
"The stone."
Diana looked at the place where she knew the other scar was.
"You hurt your shoulder when you pulled me out."
"My father said I was lucky I hadn't torn the muscle."
"Mine said you had very little prudence."
"Your father looked furious."
"He was. I had gone off without permission and nearly drowned."
Alistair regarded her again.
"Diana Fraser."
She closed the collar, though her fingers did not answer with their usual precision.
"Yes."
"The girl from the river."
"I preferred to believe I had improved since then."
"Did you learn to swim?"
The question reached a part of her that had stayed on that bank.
"I did."
The silence changed.
Diana knew the Alistair of twelve only in pieces: hands cut by the ice, wet wool, an impatient voice telling her to breathe. She had kept the name for years, and the memory had taken on outlines the real boy might never have had.
The man in front of her was different. Harder. Marked by losses she had not witnessed. Able to irritate her before he finished a sentence.
Even so, it was him.
"You knew from the road," Alistair said.
"I recognized the scar on your shoulder before I saw your face."
"And you didn't say."
"You were losing blood."
"Afterward."
"You were still losing blood."
"At the mill."
"Graeme already distrusted me. Announcing that I had known the laird since childhood would not have improved his disposition."
"At the shelter."
Diana settled the chain under her gown.
"You had just learned that your castle had burned, that Malcolm had taken the map, and that part of your clan was missing. It did not appear to be a suitable moment for discussing a childhood accident."
"You've had a good many moments since."
"Few were suitable."
"And this one is?"
"You were the one who asked."
He came a step closer.
The pallor was still on his face. A week of recovery had not taken the tension out of his mouth or the involuntary care with which he moved the wounded side. Diana wanted to order him to sit down. The wish arrived mixed with another one, less prudent.
"Is that why you saved me?" he asked.
The question she had been waiting for.
Diana looked at the lantern behind the stone. The small flame put light on the broken floor and left the rest of the chapel in shadow.
"That is why I recognized you."
"That isn't what I asked."
"I know."
Alistair waited.
The promise a child had made was still somewhere inside her. For years Diana had imagined that if she found Alistair MacLeod she would repay the debt cleanly and finally. One act would balance the other. Life would go on in order.
Nothing in these days had been in order.
"I would not have let you die," she said.
"Because of the river?"
"For many reasons."
"Name one."
"My father taught me to treat the wounded."
"That still isn't all of it."
"It is truth enough for tonight."
He did not like it. It showed in the line of his shoulders and in the way his fingers closed at his side. Alistair wanted complete answers because complete answers could be turned into decisions.
"You trusted me when you were eight," he said.
"I was inside a river. My options were limited."
"And now?"
"My options remain disagreeably limited."
"That didn't answer."
Diana let out a sigh.
"You are acquiring my habits."
"Answer."
She lifted her chin.
The recognition arrived in his eyes before the words.
"That," Alistair said, low.
"What?"
"You did the same thing at the river. I told you that you had to stop crying so you could breathe. You lifted your chin and announced that you weren't crying."
"Water was running down my face."
"You were crying."
"There are no reliable witnesses."
"I was there."
"You were twelve. Children are imprecise observers."
This time he smiled.
It was not a wide one. A brief change, unexpected, that took years off his face and brought the boy near enough that Diana's chest tightened.
"I remembered you," Alistair said. "The girl. The river. I didn't know I should be looking for your face in a woman's."
"Nor did I expect to find you bleeding behind a wall."
"My introduction could have been better."
"It could have been conscious."
The smile went. The warmth it had left did not.
Alistair raised his hand again. This time he touched the end of the scar at her collar. His fingertip was cold. The touch ran over far more skin than it reached.
"Did it hurt?" he asked.
"Very much."
"I should have held you better."
"You took me out of the water."
"You cut yourself when I pulled you over the ice."
"I would have died waiting for a more elegant rescue."
His hand went from the scar to the side of her neck.
Diana stayed still.
The chapel had grown smaller around them. The wind still came through the stones, and the cold no longer reached the place where his fingers rested.
"Diana."
The name came without the English title, without the distrust, without the distance he had been keeping since the road.
"You have to go back to Penelope's house," Alistair said.
"I do."
Neither of them moved.
"Malcolm will expect an answer tomorrow."
"Yes."
"And Boyd may have the map right now."
"Graeme is following him."
His hand stayed on her neck.
"We should talk about the plan."
"We should."
Alistair leaned in a little. His breath touched her face, warm and uneven.
"If I kiss you, will you tell me it's bad for the stitches?"
The question found Diana's humor and something underneath it.
"Probably."
"Does that mean I shouldn't?"
"It means that if you fall afterward, you should not expect compassion."
"I can stay on my feet."
"You have made similar assertions with unconvincing results."
The green eyes went down to her mouth.
"Tell me no."
Diana could have said it.
The mission was not finished. Malcolm knew her name. Penelope watched the house. Eliza was alone among people who could hand her over at any moment. There was a stolen map, a scattered clan, and men following shipments through the town.
None of those truths moved her hand when it took hold of the front of Alistair's coat.
"Kiss me before I recover my judgment."
He did.
The first touch was restrained, a question asked without words. The cold of the night was still in his short beard. His fingers pressed carefully at her nape, and the smell of wool and leather and winter air came with them.
Then she answered.
His mouth went firmer on hers. Diana gripped the cloth of his coat and pulled him closer without touching the wound.
The care did not last. Alistair put his free arm around her waist, and there was the length of him against her, the heat coming through the clothes, and the breath that lost its rhythm when the kiss went deeper.
Sixteen years disappeared the wrong way. The distance went, and left the memory standing.
Diana touched his face. Alistair turned his head for more, and the hand at her waist moved up her back. The wanting came fast, dangerous for its force and for the place where it found them.
He was the one who drew back first.
His forehead came against hers. The breathing of both of them filled the space between the stones.
"The mission," Alistair said.
Diana closed her eyes for a moment.
"I detest it when you demonstrate good sense."
"I can go back to my usual behavior."
"We have not the time."
She let go of the coat. The cloth stayed creased under her fingers, evidence that would be difficult to explain should Penelope have acquired an interest in the clothing of companions.
Alistair touched her mouth with his thumb.
"When this is over…"
"When this is over, we will have several overdue arguments."
"That didn't sound like an argument."
"You have not yet heard my complete assessment."
"I intend to survive it."
Steps sounded outside.
Alistair put Diana behind him and reached for the knife. The movement was too quick for the wound, and the pull of it showed in his face.
"If you have opened the stitches, I will deliver you to Iain myself."
"Quiet."
Three short knocks came on the broken wood. A pause. Two more.
Eliza's signal.
Diana moved Alistair's arm aside and opened the door.
Eliza came in wrapped in a dark cloak. Her face was red with cold and she wore an expression that left no room for personal questions.
If she took in Diana's mouth or the creased front of Alistair's coat, she demonstrated the discipline not to remark on it. For the present.
"Penelope sent Ellis to Boyd," she said. "I heard the order before I left."
Alistair put the knife away.
"Where's Graeme?"
"Following Boyd's cart. Probably arguing with it for not moving faster."
Diana shut the door.
"What did Penelope order?"
Eliza took a folded paper out of her glove.
"The parchment stays at the warehouse during the day. Malcolm believes it will be moved tomorrow near midnight."
She handed the note to Diana.
"And will it be?"
Eliza looked at the two of them.
"The map goes to the warehouse the night after."