“Aye,” Gregor added. “Bridge apprised me of your situation just after you came up from the beach. I insist you rest here a while, and then Cormac will return with you to Aberdeen, to help.” Cormac's eyes narrowed. He wouldn't be helping Marjorie, because he couldn't. He'd tried such a thing, years ago, tracking Aidan — it was the reason he'd become a scout. And now, one more boy, among hundreds of boys, stolen from the streets of Aberdeen? It'd be easier to find a Covenanter in the king's court. “I'll do no such thing.” Bridget's jaw dropped. “Why ever not?”
“Because I… “ He hesitated. Then he mistakenly turned to look at Marjorie. She tried to keep a brave face, but Cormac alone could see the despair in her eyes. He wanted to fold her into his arms and stroke her hair until the lines smoothed from her brow.
No.
He wanted to grab her and hold her and kiss her until she forgot this Davie's name.
“Is it because you're busy fishing from dawn till dusk?” Bridget asked, crossing her arms defiantly. She stomped her foot at the answering silence. “No, Cormac. Tell me why you can't take a few days to help Marjorie find this boy of hers. Gregor, tell him.”
“Well… “ Gregor cleared his throat. “Our brother will do what's right. Now I'm afraid I must take this up later.
'Twas lovely indeed seeing you again, Marj, but—”
“Marjorie,” the other three corrected in unison.
“Aye, of course, Marjorie, but sadly, I must be going. I… “ Gregor appeared to be fishing for some excuse. “I'll go just now to send word to your uncle that you'll be staying on.” He flashed them a broad grin.
Cormac grimaced. Staying on. Having Marjorie in their home felt as natural as breathing. Worse, it felt right.
And it made him angry. He resented that she'd appeared, making him feel things he shouldn't be feeling.
The pain and shame of Aidan's loss, his mother's death, the hideous and meaningless years at war… it had taken him years to inure himself to it all. But he'd finally found solace in his solitary life. And here was Marjorie, ready to shatter that ordered solitude. Like a numbed limb prickling back to life, the sensation was unpleasant.
Their older brother bowed from the room, managing to look both nonchalant and vaguely alarmed.
“Typical Gregor,” Bridget muttered. At Marjorie's quizzical look, she clarified, “Our brother avoids any form of conflict. Unless, of course, he's donned in armor. In which case, he postpones his grand exits until he finds himself awarded full military honors.”
Cormac needed to escape, too. He didn't see how it'd be possible to help Marjorie, yet he could no longer bear the feeling that he'd somehow betrayed her.
“Not you as well,” Bridget said as he turned to leave the room.
Marjorie merely stared intently at the floor. He forced his eyes from her. She'd recover. Her grief was still fresh. Until now, the only hard lesson she'd experienced had been years ago, with Aidan's capture. Eventually she would learn that the world was cruelly able to heap a mountain of suffering onto one's shoulders.
“Don't you fret, Marjorie,” he heard Bridget tell her as he left the room. “We'll get Cormac to help you.” Chapter 4
Marjorie slept fitfully, and by dawn, was wide-awake. Though the MacAlpins hired occasional help from the village, they relied only on themselves to do things like stoke the morning fires, and her bedroom was as frigid as one would imagine a wind-whipped cliff-top castle to be.
She needed to feed and water her horse, though, and so she braced herself for her bare feet to hit the slate floor. She hurriedly dressed, and by the time she got outside, she found the morning air invigorating and the stroll a restorative one.
Though the palace ruins and the stables bracketed Dunnottar Rock along either edge, the plateau between was smooth and grassy, and Marjorie stopped, closing her eyes to savor the sensation of being so far above the sea. She felt it to her core; the scent, the sound, and, she imagined, even the pull of the tides, penetrated down to her bones.
Cormac's voice carried to her from inside the stables. A mix of nervous anticipation and simple pleasure rippled through her. She'd spent years coveting each sight of him. To have him so close now was a luxury.
She headed toward the sound of him. He was talking to somebody, and Marjorie deflated, waiting, wondering whom.
Nobody responded.
She reached the barn and paused, leaning in the entrance, canting her head to listen. He was speaking to a horse.
She marveled at the sound of him. His was a man's voice now, and it was a low sound, a confident sound, and she felt the echo of it deep in her chest. It was a stranger's voice but nearly familiar, too, as though, if only she tried harder, she'd be able to hear and recognize the boy she once knew.
What was he saying? She strained and plucked a single word from the soothing hum. Ree.
The thrill of it momentarily stole the breath from her lungs. He spoke of her. Whatever could he be saying? The thought of it was too much, and she tiptoed in.
A pony chuffed in his stall. He glanced a bored, waiting nod her way, before looking away again. A larger mount filled another of the stalls, a big chestnut, and as he tossed his head at her, Marjorie willed the animal to silence.
She strained but still couldn't parse Cormac's words. He barely put two words together for Marjorie. What would he have to say about her, and to her godforsaken horse no less?
There were windows along the back wall. She edged out of the stables. She'd hear better from there.
The building was a long rectangle perched on the edge of Dunnottar Rock, and Marjorie knew a moment of hesitation. It was a sheer tumble from the cliff top to the crashing waves far below. But she was no fool. She'd be careful. The windows toward the end weren't so very close to the ledge.
With a hand steadied along the yellowed stone walls, she stepped carefully along the side, quietly nestling her footsteps down into the calf-high tangle of weeds that fringed the stables. Wind whipped in from the sea, and she felt exposed, perched so close to the ledge and so high in the air. Nerves prickled up the backs of her legs. She estimated the distance between the barn and the drop below, assuring herself that a safe amount of land stretched between her and a fall from Dunnottar Rock.
She took a deep breath and pressed on, step by slow step. By the time she passed around the back, her heart was pounding in her throat. But, sure enough, Cormac's voice came to her louder than ever. And though it was still an aggravating mumble, she plucked more words from the air. Aberdeen… lass… learn… vexation.
Vexation? She glowered, eyeing the ledge. It was even wider than it had appeared from afar, and it gave her confidence. All she needed to do was make it a few more steps, and she'd be able to peer in the last window.
Slowly she reached along the wall, curving her fingers around the crude stone sill. It framed a square of shadow from which Cormac's voice resonated.
Would she be peering into his stall, or a neighboring stall? Would he smile or frown as he spoke?
The window was her sole focus, and she was so shocked when the rock crumbled underfoot that a scream lodged in her throat. She clung mutely to the windowsill, her foot scrabbling for purchase.
A single train of thought swamped her mind: she was ever a girlish fool, she'd messed it all up again, she was about to fall to her death, and she'd never find Davie.
And then an image came to her, in a flash, and the grief was unbearable. Her bed, Cormac's dark stare.
Cormac. She'd never know what it would be to kiss Cormac.
Marjorie gritted her teeth and scrambled for footing. Curse it, but she would find Davie and she'd steal a kiss from Cormac when it was all through.
An arm reached roughly around her waist. Astonishment released her voice from her throat, and she shrieked. She knew a moment of pure fear, and then she recognized the feel of him. Cormac.
“How,” she gasped as he pulled her tightly to him. He edged back along the side of the barn. Tilting her head up, she caught sight of his face, and she drank it in, fascinated. He exuded anger, possession, and strength. It was a side of him she'd never seen. The boy she'd known was long forgotten. It was a man who held her now. “How did you know… ?”
Rage twisted his features into a dark mask. “Good Christ, woman. What were you doing?” She felt strangely pleased. He wanted to wring her neck, but she didn't care. His face was infused with something she hadn't seen there in years: life. Cormac was animated and angry and alive. It must've meant something. He would help her; she was certain she could wear him down. Perhaps it'd even bring them closer again.
“I came to check on Una.”
“From the edge of a bloody cliff?” Wrapping an arm around her back and one beneath her knee, he scooped her up, his movements angry and abrupt.
She'd thought the look in his eyes had been foreign, but him, his body, this was more foreign and more thrilling than anything she'd ever imagined. He smelled faintly of sweat and leather, and his chest was a wall of rock against her side. Her Cormac, a man now.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. His hair brushed at her sleeves, and she wished her arms were bare. She longed to touch that hair, wondered if it would feel soft or coarse at her fingertips. “How did you know I was out there?”
“You can't spy on me.” His words were sharp, staccato punches. “It's impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?”
Cormac glared straight ahead, seeming unable even to look at her in his fury. “I was a scout. Nobody gets by me.
It's what I do.”
“That only confirms it.”
“What?”
“That I was right. You are the only man who can help me find Davie.” Scowling, he strode more purposefully onto the green. She chuckled at his obstinacy. This only seemed to rile him more.
“You can put me down now.” They were far from the cliff's edge, yet he showed no sign of slowing.
