Mine Is the Night (57 page)

She brought out her stocking and poured the rest onto his plate, thinking if he saw it all, he would understand.

“ ’Tis a miracle,” he finally said. “And those only come from God.”

Marjory sighed. “What a wise man I am marrying.”

He curled his arm round her waist and pulled her onto his lap. “And I get a rich woman in the bargain.”

“Not rich, but we’ll not starve.” She looked about the house. “When Bess and Lord Buchanan marry, which surely they will, we can live here, if you like.”

“We can indeed, but I still must wark at something,” he cautioned her. “I canna be a kept man.” He kissed her, lightly this time. “The reverend will read oor banns on Sunday. And marry us three weeks hence, aye?”

Three weeks
. She nodded, overwhelmed by the thought.

“On the Sabbath,” Neil said firmly, “in the manse. If the Almichty means for us to marry, then let us honor him from the start.”

“Aye,” she said without hesitation, then stood, remembering dinner. “Might I offer you meat before you return to your labors?”

“Ye may.” He let her go, though he did not take his eyes off her.

She felt him watching her closely as she went about her tasks. Slicing the juicy meat. Cutting open the hot potatoes. When a moment later she joined him at table with their plates in hand, she asked, “Are you imagining what it will be like, day after day, seeing me cook?”

His mischievous smile told her otherwise. “I was imagining ye all richt. But not at the hearth.”

“Neil Gibson!” she exclaimed, pretending to be shocked, though she was secretly delighted. They were not young, but they were not dead.

“I must think of a praisent for ye,” he said, then bit into his mutton with a satisfied groan.

She brushed the hair from his brow. “You love me, dear Neil, with all my faults and weaknesses. That gift will last me a lifetime.”

“I mean it to, lass. A lang life, full o’ a’ that is guid.”

She watched him now, as he’d watched her, and forgot everything she ever knew about fretting.

ill you be finishing that, milord?” Dickson eyed the large cut of beef that sat untouched on his master’s plate.

Jack pushed the remains of his dinner across the table. “I thought you left such poor manners aboard ship.”

“Oh, I did, mostly.” Dickson cut into the meat with relish. “But I brought my appetite with me. And ’tis a shame to waste good meat.”

Jack gazed out the inn’s small-paned windows into the Grassmarket, eager to quit the capital and start for home. But when they’d returned to the inn to change into riding clothes and claim their belongings, Dickson had reminded him he’d eaten little for breakfast that morning, and they’d be some hours riding to Middleton. “We’d best dine now,” Dickson had said. So here they sat on hard wooden chairs while the clock ticked round.

When Dickson had consumed everything on both their plates and began gazing longingly at a stranger’s meal, Jack pushed back from the table. “Time we were off.”

“Lord Buchanan!” a voice called from the entrance. “Can it be ye?”

Jack turned to find Archie Gordon, the bearded Scotsman charged with looking after Fiona Cromar’s welfare, lumbering toward the table. Jack had chosen the man not only for his honesty but also for his size. Even the fiercest Highlanders might think again before they’d take on Archie Gordon.

The man lowered his bulk onto a tottery chair and planted his elbows on the table. “Are ye lodging here?” he asked.

“We were,” Jack told him, “but are now bound for Bell Hill.”

“Weel, that’s whaur I was headed.” Archie wagged his head, his thick red hair tied back with a bit of leather. “A coincidence, aye?”

“I prefer to think of it as divine providence,” Jack told him. “You must have news of some import, Archie, to bring it to my door rather than post a letter.”

The man’s jovial expression faded. “Aye, milord.”

Jack’s stomach knotted. “Good news or ill?”

“I’ll let ye be the judge o’ that.” Archie rubbed his hand over his beard, then waved over the innkeeper and ordered a pint of ale and a kidney pie before finally relaying the news. “Ben Cromar is deid.”

Jack stared at him.
“Dead?”

“Aye,” Archie said, frowning. “Got into a brawl with a neighbor after they both had too much whisky. Cromar fell and hit his head on a rock sticking up from the ground. Folk were there as witnesses. ’Twas an accident and naught else.”

Jack sank back in his chair. “I am very sorry to hear it.”

“Is that a fact?” Archie looked at him in amazement. “I thocht ye micht be pleased, cruel as the man was.”

“Relieved,” Jack admitted, “but not pleased, not at another man’s death.”

“Aye, weel.” Archie took his first sip of ale and sighed. “To be sure, Fiona Cromar is alone noo, with none to provide for her.”

Jack stood. “That I can remedy.” He sought out the innkeeper, then returned to the table shortly thereafter with quill, ink, paper, and wax. “In a moment I’ll have a letter ready for Mrs. Cromar. When you return to Bell Hill with her answer, I’ll reward you for your labors. Will that suit?”

“Aye, milord. If ye’ll not mind, I’ll have my dinner while ye write.”

Jack nodded, his pen already moving across the paper. He did not know Elisabeth’s mother well enough to guess how she would respond. But he knew Elisabeth.
Say you will, Fiona. For your daughter’s sake
. Jack added a few pieces of gold, then sealed the letter well.

Dickson looked at him askance, then said in a low voice, “Are you certain about that, milord?”

“Aye.” Jack had no qualms entrusting Archie with his gold. Unlike the young messenger tarrying round the punch bowl, Archie Gordon was not prone to drink and had shown himself to be an honest and honorable man.

Archie dropped the sealed letter in his coat pocket with a nod of assurance. The delivery was as good as done. “Sorry to bring ye bad news, Lord Buchanan. Ye leuked quite happy whan I first saw ye.”

“Indeed I am, for I’m to marry this month.” Just saying the words made his heart leap.

“Weel, then,” Archie said, “ye’re in the richt city. Walk up to the Luckenbooths in the High Street and find a silver brooch for yer bride. ’Tis an auld Scottish custom.”

Jack was not keen on delaying their journey any longer. But if it meant taking home a gift for Elisabeth, something that might have a special meaning to her, he’d make time for it. “Come, Dickson. It seems we’re going brooch hunting.”

The two men climbed the West Bow, a steep, winding street that carried them up to the main thoroughfare where the Luckenbooths, a series of market stalls kept locked at night, sat in front of the High Kirk of Saint Giles. Weaving his way through the jostling crowd, Jack headed for a shop with a promising sign painted above the lintel:
Patrick Cowie, Merchant, Jewelry and Silver Bought and Sold
. Surely this Mr. Cowie would have a silver brooch or two to choose from.

Jack and Dickson ducked inside the small, dimly lit shop and were greeted by Mr. Cowie himself. “Guid day to ye, gentlemen,” he said, waving them toward a glass case brimming with jewelry. “Whatsomever might ye be leuking for?”

Jack began, “I am to marry this month—”

“Then I’ve just the thing.” The merchant quickly produced a small silver pin with two hearts intertwined. “Ilka bride in Edinburgh langs for such a praisent.”

When Jack saw several more brooches like it, the item lost its appeal. Elisabeth deserved a unique gift, meant for her alone. “Perhaps something else,”
he said, studying the other jewelry on display. “Might I see that one?” He pointed to a large, oval-shaped cameo bearing a woman’s likeness.

“Verra guid, sir.” Mr. Cowie lifted out the wooden box and placed it in his hands. “Carved in Paris for a leddy in toun.”

Jack touched the peach-and-ivory shell, the delicate silhouette done in relief. “I know ’twill sound odd, but this woman is the very image of my bride.”

Dickson looked round his shoulder. “You are right, milord.”

Jack was already reaching for his leather coin purse, certain he’d chosen well.

Once the merchant had money in hand, he admitted, “Bit of a sad story with that one. But it’s aff to a guid hame and will nae doubt come to a blithe end.”

Dickson stayed Jack’s hand. “Do you mean to say this pin is unlucky?”

“Weel …” The flustered merchant waved his hands about. “I wouldna say
that …
”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Jack assured him, “so it matters not.” He tucked the wooden box in his waistcoat pocket and turned toward the street. “Come, Dickson. However fine this cameo, I’d rather gaze at the woman herself than study a likeness carved in shell.”

“We’ve two days’ ride ahead of us,” his valet reminded him, hurrying to keep up.

Jack was already striding toward West Bow, his mind fixed on the stables in the Grassmarket below, where Janvier waited to carry him home.

To Bell Hill. To his bride.

ut whan will we see his lordship?” Peter cried, a decided pout on his freckled face. “Oor picnic will be ower afore lang.”

Elisabeth eyed the heaps of cold duck and beef, the mounds of hard cheese, the willow basket brimming with crisp apples and succulent pears—all fresh from yesterday’s market, now spread across a plaid blanket. “We have plenty,” she promised the lad. “Enough to feed Lord Buchanan
and
Dickson.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” Michael said, reaching for an apple. “I’ve watched Dickson eat.”

Elisabeth was glad for such sanguine company on a day when her future hung in the balance. General Lord Mark Kerr was not a man of mercy. Had Jack found some way to convince him? Knowing very well it was not the king, nor the general, nor the admiral who could save her, she glanced at the heavens.
I have trusted in thy mercy
. Then she remembered the rest of the verse and was comforted by it.
My heart shall rejoice in thy salvation
.

The Kerrs woke that morning to unseasonably mild weather. Elisabeth had suggested they take their dinner out of doors and bring the Dalglieshes with them. Gibson, too, if the reverend might allow it.

The rolling meadow at the foot of Bell Hill seemed a worthy spot for a picnic.

“So you can watch for a certain admiral?” Marjory had guessed.

Elisabeth could not pretend otherwise. Jack had said, “Look for our return on Saturday afternoon.” So she was looking. And waiting. And praying. Of the three, waiting was the hardest.

With a sigh she stretched out on the blanket and lifted her face to the sun, drawing strength from the warmth of its rays. They’d not have many days like this left in the year. Even the occasional breeze had no bite to it. At least the road should be dry through the Moorfoot Hills. Though anything might delay them. An injured horse. An injured man …

Elisabeth sensed someone’s shadow blocking the sun and opened her eyes to find Peter leaning over her, arms akimbo, chubby fists at his waist. “Must ye take naps, like I once did?”

She sat up and pulled him onto her lap, hugging him close. “Aye, sometimes.”

Elisabeth rested her chin on his curly head and watched the two couples who’d each claimed a corner of the blanket. Anne and Michael, playful and teasing, still rather shy round each other, at least in public. Marjory and Gibson, tender and gentle, with an undercurrent of passion that charged every glance.

In three weeks the older couple would wed. Elisabeth wished them only joy, yet she longed to join them at the altar with Jack by her side.

When Peter wriggled free to chase a leaf that blew temptingly near, Anne turned to watch him, her eyes filled with maternal affection. Elisabeth looked away, ashamed at the stab of envy that pierced her heart. Aye, she wanted that as well.
Am I being selfish, Lord? Am I being foolish? Dare I hope?

Michael was soon up and chasing after the lad. A good father to his son, as Jack would surely be someday.