Chapter Eighteen
Rose took off her slippers before she climbed from the dinghy and sank her toes in the wet sand. It felt wonderful to be on shore. Thick fog made the air heavy and lent the landscape an otherworldly feel.
Tristan offered her his arm. “Are you ready to see the cottage?”
“Indeed, I am,” she answered, weaving her arm through his.
They trudged through the soft sand, following a path lined with tufts of stiff seagrass. After climbing up a gentle slope, the cottage came into view.
She chuckled at his side.
He glanced down at her. “What is so funny,”
She shook her head at him. “Ye are, and no mistake. Yer small cottage is more than three times the size of the home I grew up in with my parents, five brothers and wee sister.”
He scratched his head. “Well, all right. Then it is somewhat modest.”
She laughed before racing ahead to admire the grounds. Flat, white stones marked the path to the cottage door, and running along both sides were hedges dotted with pink sea roses. Coming up behind her, he clasped her hand and swung open the door. When she saw the inside, she gasped with delight.
There was just one large room with a bed like she had only heard about in stories with four intricately carved posters and blankets that begged for her touch.
A long table was pushed up against the wall beneath a wide casement with a single bench that stretched its full length.
Along the back wall towered a large stone hearth and two high back chairs.
“What do you think?”
“’Tis amazing,” she gasped the instant before she pressed her cheek to the soft, wool blanket covering the bed.
“Make yourself comfortable while I start a fire.”
“If ye insist,” she laughed and scurried on top of the bed and buried her head in the pillows. “This is what it must feel like to sleep on a cloud.”
“Have you never slept on a real bed?”
She shook her head at him once more. “We were born to different worlds, Tristan.”
He looked at her curiously. “Soon you will see my world up close. Tomorrow is the feast of Saint Peter, and we will be sailing to England.
She froze and grew pale.
“What is it?” he asked. “What did I say?”
Tears glistened in her eyes. She slid from the bed and went to stand by the window. Pulling back the shutters, she gazed out at the seagrass bending in the breeze.
“Are you all right?” he asked, coming to her side.
She looked up at him with clear eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. Then with a deep breath, she crossed to the hearth and peered into the empty iron pot. “Ye told me there is a neighbor who takes care of this place for ye.”
“Yes, he’s an old codger named Abram. He lives just over the first hill.”
She gazed about the room with an expression of wonder on her face. “It seems a sad and amazing thing to have so many homes.”
“Why sad?” he asked.
She shrugged. “’Tis just that this lovely place must stay empty most of the time.”
He nodded. “My parents have reached an age where travel is now uncomfortable. And I seldom come here.”
Her eyes brightened. “Let us fill it with a little life then. Would Abram have some fresh meat and cabbage he might be willing to part with, mayhap a game bird or two?” she said with a wink.
“I’m certain of it. What do you intend?”
“Ye said once that ye wanted to taste my cooking. Well, I’m going to make us a fine meal.”
TRISTAN SAT IN ONE of the chairs by the fire feeling, to his own surprise, perfectly at ease.
Usually, he felt restless on dry land, even during brief visits.
But at that moment, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could be heard through the open window.
And no sunset, blue sea, or distant port could compete with his current view of Rose bustling from the table to the hearth with handfuls of chopped meat and vegetables.
With her simple, unembellished beauty to gaze upon and the smell of simmering stew and fresh baked bread filling the air, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so content.
Rose caught him staring and flashed a bright smile. Her long red curls hung free down her back. Her slim figure moved about with strength and ease. She hummed as she ladled stew into two wooden bowls, which she then set upon the table near the open window.
“There now,” she said, stepping back to consider her work. The smile that played at her lips told him she was pleased by what she saw. And why shouldn’t she be? He crossed the room to stand beside her and admired the steaming bowls and plate of fresh bannock.
“Shall we?” she asked.
“It smells heavenly,” he said, taking his seat. “Thank you, Rose.”
She sat across from him but didn’t take up her spoon straightaway. Instead, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I love that smell,” she said. “Salt air mingling with the scent of fresh stew.”
Tristan smiled and took a bite. The meat was tender and the flavor rich. He dipped his bread in the sauce. “Rose, you’ve made a truly splendid meal. Mayhap, we can bring some of the fresh meat on board tomorrow so the crew might enjoy a fine stew such as this on the feast day of Saint Peter.”
Her brows drew together, and a darkness marred her exquisite countenance—only for a moment, a breath. But it was there—unmistakable suffering.
He reached across the table and took her hand.
“Forgive me, Rose, but I can keep my silence no longer. I know you are a private woman, and that we have only known each other a brief while. But owing to the circumstances of our relationship, I feel like I’ve known you... well...my whole life somehow.”
She nodded. “I also feel that. I could almost weave stories of our youth spent antagonizing each other or rambling over the moors. ‘Tis strange, really. Ye’re at once so familiar and still more mysterious than any man I’ve ever known...” Her voice trailed off.
“There,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “There it was again.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “What was there?”
He paused for a moment and considered her. Then he stood and offered her his hand. “Let us walk along the shore. You seem most comfortable out of doors, smelling the sea air.”
She wore a wary expression on her face as she tentatively took his hand. He led her outside and across the field to the beach. When they reached the sand, he sat down and took off his boots. She also left behind her slippers, and they set off toward the sea, their bare feet sinking in the sand.
“I’ve never known a woman like you,” he began.
“You are so much more engaged in the world around you than many of the women I’ve encountered.
Privileged women, whether noble or not, are shielded from everything.
They keep their eyes averted, never looking headlong.
But you’re different. You’re smart, Rose, and courageous and kind. ”
Then he stopped and turned to her. “Forgive me for saying so, but you are also so very sad—not all the time. It lies just beneath the surface. It flashes through you when you gaze out to sea. It is as much a part of you as your laughter and your passion. It is real, and when it comes to the surface, it twists and hurts.”
Tears stung her eyes.
He drew closer and cupped her cheek in his hand. “What is it that hides in your heart that can make you so very sad?”
A strangled sob fled her lips as her hands flew to cover her face.
Her whole body tensed. He could feel her battle for control.
After several moments, her hands dropped to her sides.
Tears still pooled in her eyes, but they did not fall.
“I did not know the date until you said tomorrow was the feast of Saint Peter,” she said, her voice strained.
“Yes, that is correct.”
She swallowed hard. She opened her mouth to speak but the words seemed trapped. He took her hand to help her. Her pain was palpable. It tore through him, tightening his chest and causing his own heart to ache on her behalf.
She pressed her lips together, fighting back her tears. “Today is my Ina’s birthday.”
He shook his head, not understanding. “Who is Ina?” he asked softly.
“My daughter.” The words blurted from her throat, hurried and steeped in anguish.
She turned from him and stumbled as she started down the shore.
In three strides he overtook her and scooped her into his arms. Her breaths were coming in panicked heaves.
He cradled her and hastened back inside the cottage.
Then he sat on the bed and held her in his lap.
She gripped his tunic and looked at him with pain-stricken eyes.
“My three daughters and my husband were also slain during the massacre,” she whispered.
His heart shattered. “Oh, Rose.”
She nodded and took a deep breath. “Now ye know,” she said quietly as she slid off his lap onto the bed next to him.
“I am so deeply sorry for your loss, Rose,” he said, wanting somehow to ease her suffering. “I know this must be a familiar platitude by now, but I wish there was some way I could ease your pain.”
She looked at him, her blue eyes earnest. “Their bodies grew within mine. Their souls, their hearts are tied to me in a way no one else ever could be. Loss burns within me, like I’m constantly on fire, but I don’t want it to stop, Tristan.
I don’t want the fire to go out. ‘Tis their souls still within me that I alone carry now because they cannot.” She sat straighter and swiped at her eyes.
“They are my angels, my precious girls. They’re always with me. ”
He squeezed her hand. “What were their names?” he asked softly.
Tears stung her eyes once more, but she smiled through them. “Ina was my oldest. She would be fifteen today.” Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling a sob.
His pulled her close. “I’m so sorry. It is too painful. I never should have asked.”
She shook her head. “Nay,” she said through her tears.
“Thank ye for asking. No one ever asks me about my girls. They’re too afraid to upset me or worried it will hurt too much.
But I want to talk about them. I want to remember.
” Her tears fell freely. She looked at him and did not try to hide or fight her emotion.
“Tell me more,” he said softly.
She smiled and sobbed all at once. “Ina was the one most like Henry.” She began, her voice trembling. “My husband was a good man. I loved him dearly.”
“Was he a fisherman?”
Rose shook her head. “Nay, he was a carpenter. He didn’t like the sea very much, and neither did Ina.
Like Henry, she preferred the warmth of home.
She had his rich, brown hair, even temperament, and kind heart.
She loved to sing and would fill the air with song from morning to night.
” She took up the hem of her tunic and wiped her eyes.
When she spoke again her voice was stronger, clearer.
“Now, Nora was my wee imp,” she said, chuckling.
“A miniature version of me, fiery red hair and all. What a wild wee lass she was, always running and climbing. We could scarce keep her from scaling the rocks along the shore. Henry and I decided the only way to keep her safe was to teach her to swim.”
Her hands folded over her heart, and she stared off into space, seeing what Tristan could not.
Her body gently swayed side to side. “And then there was Florrie. She was my baby,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Just two years old. She was her da’s best girl and always wanted to follow Henry off to work every morning. ”
Rose’s shoulders sagged a little, and she blew out a long, slow breath.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “They sound like remarkable girls.”
Laying her head on his chest, she nodded. “They are,” she whispered. Then she looked up at him. “I’m tired now, Tristan. I ken ‘tis early but I would like to go to sleep.”
He nodded and stood up and helped her off the bed to pull the covers back. “You take the bed,” he said. “There’s plenty of room here for me to sleep on the floor.”
She seized his hand. “Nay,” she said, a flash of panic in her eyes. “I want ye to lie with me. I want ye to hold me.” Once more her eyes flooded with tears.
He pulled her close. “I’m here,” he crooned softly in her ear. Then he scooped her into his arms and laid her on the bed. He curled up behind her and held her tight. He could feel her fatigue. “Rest now, Rose. I’ve got you. You just rest.”