Under the Same Sky (18 page)

Sorcha and Janet MacLeod heard the jingling of harnesses and the slick whisper of ponies slipping down the muddy hill outside the cottage. They peeked through the door, wary of strangers, then flung it open when they caught sight of Hector, blood-soaked and white-faced. Behind him trailed the other men, their muddied ponies snorting at sight of the barn. And with them, two fragile children, pale as eggshells.

Sorcha was efficient. She assessed and treated her husband’s injuries as well as she could, then coaxed him into a deep sleep on their bed. When she had finished taking care of him, she turned to inspect the other men. She checked Geoffrey’s rough bandages, and sent Janet running for clean cloths and water.

“Who’s this then?” Sorcha asked, bending over to inspect the children. They stared at her, blinking like owls.

Iain put a supportive hand on each child’s shoulder. “We found these two orphaned in the woods. Have ye somethin’ they might
eat? I think another moment an’ their stomachs will growl louder than my own voice.”

“Of course. Come with me, children,” she said. Clucking like a mother hen, she bustled them toward the table and brought steaming bowls of broth with currant cakes set on the side. The little faces stared in awe at the feast. Iain seated them on his vast lap and motioned for them to eat, then reached toward the bowl of broth Sorcha brought for him.

The huge fireplace took up the entire length of the west wall, burning fragrant peat. Janet sat on a bench by the fire, keeping to herself. She watched the guests and listened to their story, but kept her eyes averted from Andrew. Memories of their last meeting filled her with an unsavoury mixture of anger and shame.

When the broth and biscuits were finished, Janet set a chestnut pie on the table. When she placed Andrew’s plate in front of him, he touched her sleeve and looked into her green eyes. He spoke softly so only she could hear.

“I thank ye for the welcome and for the meal. I’ll no’ trouble ye long. I’ll be off in a couple o’ days.”

She frowned slightly and kept her voice just as low. She needn’t have worried. Iain was engaged in hearty conversation with her brothers. Any private conversation wasn’t likely to be overheard.

“Ye’re always welcome here. Ye ken that well enough,” she assured him. Her words were genuine, but spoken with a shadow of the warmth they used to hold.

“Aye, well, it’s time I go,” he said. His gaze flicked over the orphans. “I’ve had enough o’ this cursed country. I’ve no’ the stomach for it anymore.”

Janet looked as if she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to appear the least bit interested. But she asked nonetheless. “Where will ye go?”

“I dinna ken for sure yet. I’ll head to the coast and go from there.”

She nodded and a faint flush rose in her cheeks. She turned toward her mother. “I’ll go see if Da needs anything,” she said.

It was getting late. Geoffrey could no longer hide his yawns and retired for the night in one of the back rooms. The two little ones, already asleep on Iain’s lap, were laid into a box bed, tucked against the wall. Even asleep, the children turned toward each other, coming together in a knot of tangled arms and legs. Sorcha pulled the curtain across, giving the children a safe cocoon in which to dream.

Iain and Andrew shared another room. Andrew could hardly wait to sink into one of the two small beds. He splashed his face with cool water from a basin and swished it around his teeth.

“Did I hear ye say to the lass as ye were thinkin’ o’ leavin’?” Iain asked.

Andrew turned toward the deep voice, seeing the profile of its owner against the flickering light of a candle. A clean cloth lay folded beside the basin, and Andrew used it to wipe the water from his face before it dripped onto his chest. He leaned against the wall and rubbed the cloth between his palms.

“Aye,” he admitted. “I’m ready to move on. My family’s gone, my home’s gone. I’m tired o’ fightin’. I’ll leave when Hector’s well.”

Iain nodded, then muttered, “I’ve half a mind to join ye.”

“Do it then, man.”

Iain stood in silence while Andrew crawled into bed. When Iain spoke again, Andrew was almost asleep.

“I think I will,” Iain said. “I’ll join ye—wi’ the weans.”

Andrew smiled in the dark. “Aye. I’d no’ expect ye to leave ’em behind.”

In the morning, Iain and Andrew were up early. They headed into the woods and returned a couple of hours later, two rabbit carcasses dangling from each of their waists. Janet stood outside the
door of the house when they approached, wiping her hands on her apron. Her brothers, still yawning, walked around her, headed toward the privacy of the woods.

“Good mornin’, Miss Janet,” said Iain.
“Ciamar a tha sibh?”

“
Tha gu math, tapadh leibh,
Mr. MacKenzie. I’m quite well. And you—did ye sleep well?” she asked.

“Och, aye,” Iain answered gravely. “That’s a very soft bed your mother laid out.”

As if she heard her name, Sorcha came out to join them, taking a break from the morning meal’s preparations.

“Good mornin’, Mistress Sorcha,” Iain said.

Sorcha gave him a weary smile and reached for the rabbits. Her long black hair, so like her daughter’s, was tucked under her cap. A few restless wisps escaped and fluttered in the morning breeze. She brushed them from her face with the back of one hand.

“An’ to you as well, Mr. MacKenzie,” she said. “This will make a lovely stew. I thank ye both.”

“Did Hector no’ sleep well last night, then? Ye look like ye were up most the night,” he said gently.

“Oh, he’ll do. ’Twas a long night, to be sure, but he’ll do. I thank ye for askin’. And you? Did ye sleep well?”

They spoke of their plans for the day, and eventually came back inside for breakfast. Hector didn’t join them, but Sorcha assured them he was sleeping comfortably.

After the two little redheads had finished their parritch and toast, they clambered off their chairs and wandered the room, ingesting every detail. They had been bathed and dressed in shirts that had once belonged to Simon and Geoffrey, and had begun to speak, a bit at a time. The little boy introduced himself as Peter. He was five. His little sister, Flora, had just turned four. Their mother was a seamstress. Their father had been a blacksmith until he’d left with the army.

The conversation inevitably led to the tragedy in the cottage. Peter stood by the fireplace and crossed his arms, refusing to take refuge in Iain’s offer of a lap. He took a deep breath to steel his young heart.

“Mam was wi’ child again,” he said, “an’ Da left wi’ the rest o’ the men, so he said as it was me what was the man o’ the house.”

“Ma and I wept when Da left,” Flora added. “Peter said ’twas all right, that we’d do fine. But then the bairn started to come.”

Peter nodded. “I carried water from the river, while Flora ran to fetch the midwife, but there was no one at home.”

“There was no one anywhere!” Flora exclaimed.

“We was almos’ home, an’ we could hear Mam screamin’ somethin’ terrible. We was dead cold, so we run to the door, callin’ to her,” Peter said, “but all at once she quit her greetin’ and there were nae sound t’all. I was scairt to go in, but we didna ken what else to do.”

Peter looked at Flora, who stared at him with huge eyes. Peter cleared his throat.

“Mam was dead. We tried to give her a drink, we tried shakin’ her, but she was dead, an’ the bairn ne’er even born. Ever’thin’ smelled so bad I thought I mi’ get sick,” Peter admitted. Flora nodded, her big eyes filling with tears. “So we went outside again to wait.”

No one moved for a moment.

“What were ye waiting for, laddie?” Iain asked softly.

“Well,” Peter said, looking at Iain with eyes round with trust. “I thought maybe someone would have to come sometime, aye? And I was right, was I no’, Flora?”

He grinned at her and she gave him a smile that lit the room.

“Aye.” She turned to Andrew, who was sitting beside her. “Peter’s mos’ always right,” she said, as if that required confirmation. “We
went in the cottage to eat, but we couldna reach the top shelf. We tried sleepin’ in the kitchen, but the smell were too bad, an’ then the flies started to come, so we took all the biscuits and jam outside. We ate all the tatties. There was no more food, an’ we were hurtin’ wi’ hunger.” She paused and turned toward Iain, pale blue eyes searching. “Did the faeries bring ye?”

“Why do ye ask that?” Iain asked.

“Because at night we asked ’em to find help,” she said.

Iain nodded gently, cupping both little faces in his huge hands.

“Aye, the faeries tol’ us where to find ye,
m’eudail.
An’ they said ’twas up to me to keep ye safe from now on, so that’s what I’ll do.”

He lifted them as effortlessly as if they were a handful of feathers. Andrew picked up a couple of bannocks Janet had spread with jam. He handed one bannock to each child as Iain swooped through the doorway with the children in his arms. Before long, Andrew could hear the children’s giggles from the yard: silvery sounds falling like tiny snowflakes and melting in the warmth of Iain’s voice.

Andrew remembered other days like this: sunny days that promised nothing but laughter. He had spent those days playing with his brothers, and the memory pushed a lump into his throat. He swallowed hard.

Sometimes Andrew swore he could still hear his brother Dougal’s voice on the wind. He could see him clearly when he tried: long black hair and laughing eyes. He remembered Dougal’s fierce expression on that last miserable morning in April, when Andrew had followed his brother into the moor and lost him in the mass of kilts and steel. He hadn’t seen Dougal since that moment. He wished he could have at least embraced him before he died.

This sunny day, he decided, shrugging off his melancholy, would be spent in solitude. Having made up his mind to leave Scotland, he wanted time to reflect, to make plans. Ireland, maybe? Or perhaps
try to find his way in France, where Ciaran had hoped someday to go to school?

Andrew went out to the barn, to where the ponies hung their heads over the half doors. He unlatched the door to Fognan’s stall and she whickered, seeming happy to go with him. He led her outside, then Andrew swung onto the saddle and nudged the pony onto the same pathway they had taken before.

The colours of the meadow had changed since his last visit. Late summer had clothed it in a robe of lush green, speckled with purple and white flowers. Now early frost licked the fallen leaves, and their blackened edges crunched beneath Fognan’s hooves.

Andrew loosened the reins and the pony wandered through the grass until they reached the centre of the meadow, where they’d stopped before. Andrew dropped off and lay on his back, but it wasn’t the comfortable place it had been. September had cooled and stiffened the grass in preparation for winter, turning it a dull brown. It poked at his neck when he laid back his head. But the place was soothing, whether the pillow of grass was green or brown. He closed his eyes, craving the peace he had experienced before, and hoping to see the girl again. He drifted into darkness and blindly followed the dizzying path toward sleep.

It took a little longer for him to fall asleep this time. His thoughts were filled with the faces of those he knew: brief glimpses of the tiny children; deep lines of concern that creased Hector’s wan face; Janet’s faraway, green-eyed gaze; Iain’s haunting expression of sadness. Into Andrew’s mind flitted a surprisingly clear memory of his older brother, Dougal, giving him a wink and a grin. That one hurt the most, and yet he clung to it.

It was in that halfway world between consciousness and oblivion that Andrew saw her again. Her face seemed to float above him like a hovering bird. He studied it, burning every freckle and curve into
his memory. Unlike the last time, when she’d been torn and defeated, now her cheeks glowed a healthy pink and her long brown hair was braided loosely on either side of her face. She wore a soft dress dotted with beads that clung to her skin and hinted at her curves. He ached to touch her.

In that moment she was there, lying beside him on the grass bed, closer than she had ever been. The image was so real he almost pulled away in surprise. Instead, he reached for her hand, and though they couldn’t touch, he held it as if it had always belonged in his. The touch was almost real. Almost skin on skin. His palm buzzed with the contact, his fingers tingled. He wanted to keep her there forever. He wanted to stroke the soft curve of her face with his other hand, but he was afraid if he did, she would disappear.

“I will find ye,” he whispered.

And then she spoke. Not a whisper, but a true voice. The most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

“I know.”

Then she was gone.

“I
will
find ye, lass,” he promised.

Long fingers of shadow stretched over the leaf-littered ground, but there was enough light that Iain sat on a log, elbows on his knees, absorbed in whittling a small piece of wood. He whistled to himself and nodded once when Andrew came to sit across from him. Iain’s flaming mass of hair was tied back, affording Andrew a more detailed view of his friend’s face than he was used to seeing. Not a handsome face, Andrew thought, but a kind one.