hair. He
was
trying to mend things with his da. Leastways, he was trying to help the man.
But at the moment, the nine burial cairns hit him like a fist in the gut. Nine hard-hitting fists cutting off his air and knifing through him like fire lances. His insides churned and he would’ve sworn hot, smoldering coals burned in his chest.
Now he knew why he’d put off coming here.
The pain was worse than he’d expected. Far worse. Cold rain and blustery winds were sweeping in from the west, but he paid scarce heed to the rough night.
Even so, the finality of the combined scent of rich damp earth, leaf mold, and regret, almost knocked him to the ground. As did the unspoken echoes of words he wished he’d said and now would ne’er have the chance.
“Holy saints.” He blew out a breath, more aware of his bride’s pitying glances than was good for him. “If only I’d told them how much I loved them.”
“They knew,” she said, her voice revealing the thickness in her own throat. She stepped closer, reaching to touch him again, this time smoothing a fold of his plaid. “Their fondness for you was one of the reasons I knew I needn’t fear our betrothal.”
She raised her head and looked at him. “Your father loves you, too. He hides it well, but he does.”
Jamie shrugged. Were they anywhere else, he might have hooted his disbelief. Or questioned her, for the possibility did give his heart a jolt.
But here, in the windy dark of the churchyard, he could see only his brothers’ graves. He stared at them, feeling the weight of his sorrow bearing down on his shoulders.
A fierce, searing pain he’d endure gladly if only such suffering would undo the cause.
Certain his soul was ripping, he stared up at the heavens, seeking answers but finding only a scattering of cold, frosty stars and drifting, wind-torn clouds.
The night sky stared back at him with all the chill silence of the hills and the thick-growing whin and broom bushes hemming the churchyard. The dread row of low, piled stones he knew held his brothers’ bodies until their fine granite tombs and effigies had been readied for them.
Only he couldn’t feel them here.
Not his nine full-of-swagger brothers who should have come strolling forward to welcome him home, their eyes alight and their arms spread wide.
Loud, boisterous, and alive as he remembered them.
Jamie’s mouth twisted and he clenched his hands, the hot tightness in his chest stopping his breath. He could think on his brothers all he wished, hearing their voices and seeing their smiles. But still they’d be gone.
Already
were
gone—and well beyond where’er he might reach them.
Nothing but oppressive silence greeted him as he forced himself to approach the graves. A black and eerie quiet marred only by the howling of the wind and the drumming of rain on the dark, wet stones.
That, and as a glance across the deserted churchyard proved, fat clusters of red-berried rowan bedecking the narrow chapel door.
He frowned.
His bride curled her fingers around his elbow, gently squeezing. “Your father thought it best,” she explained, once again playing his da’s wee champion. “What can be the harm if such safeguards soothe him?”
Jamie tamped down the urge to scowl at her. The
harm
was in allowing his da to sink deeper into his delusions. “My father is close to losing his wits,” he finally said. “That is the danger.”
The maid’s chin shot up. “I told you, I have seen the ghosts, too,” she reminded him. “And so have others. Just the other day, one of my father’s squires swore he saw Neill and Kendrick in the wood near St. Bride’s Well.”
This time Jamie did scowl.
But he held his silence, not trusting himself to comment on such foolery.
Neill and Kendrick, his two favorite brothers, were just as dead as the others. Alan Mor’s squire had likely seen morning mist drifting near the sacred well.
Not his brothers’ bogles.
“’Tis true,” his bride persisted,
was
trying to mend things with his da. Leastways, he was trying to help the man.
But at the moment, the nine burial cairns hit him like a fist in the gut. Nine hard-hitting fists cutting off his air and knifing through him like fire lances. His insides churned and he would’ve sworn hot, smoldering coals burned in his chest.
Now he knew why he’d put off coming here.
The pain was worse than he’d expected. Far worse. Cold rain and blustery winds were sweeping in from the west, but he paid scarce heed to the rough night.
Even so, the finality of the combined scent of rich damp earth, leaf mold, and regret, almost knocked him to the ground. As did the unspoken echoes of words he wished he’d said and now would ne’er have the chance.
“Holy saints.” He blew out a breath, more aware of his bride’s pitying glances than was good for him. “If only I’d told them how much I loved them.”
“They knew,” she said, her voice revealing the thickness in her own throat. She stepped closer, reaching to touch him again, this time smoothing a fold of his plaid. “Their fondness for you was one of the reasons I knew I needn’t fear our betrothal.”
She raised her head and looked at him. “Your father loves you, too. He hides it well, but he does.”
Jamie shrugged. Were they anywhere else, he might have hooted his disbelief. Or questioned her, for the possibility did give his heart a jolt.
But here, in the windy dark of the churchyard, he could see only his brothers’ graves. He stared at them, feeling the weight of his sorrow bearing down on his shoulders.
A fierce, searing pain he’d endure gladly if only such suffering would undo the cause.
Certain his soul was ripping, he stared up at the heavens, seeking answers but finding only a scattering of cold, frosty stars and drifting, wind-torn clouds.
The night sky stared back at him with all the chill silence of the hills and the thick-growing whin and broom bushes hemming the churchyard. The dread row of low, piled stones he knew held his brothers’ bodies until their fine granite tombs and effigies had been readied for them.
Only he couldn’t feel them here.
Not his nine full-of-swagger brothers who should have come strolling forward to welcome him home, their eyes alight and their arms spread wide.
Loud, boisterous, and alive as he remembered them.
Jamie’s mouth twisted and he clenched his hands, the hot tightness in his chest stopping his breath. He could think on his brothers all he wished, hearing their voices and seeing their smiles. But still they’d be gone.
Already
were
gone—and well beyond where’er he might reach them.
Nothing but oppressive silence greeted him as he forced himself to approach the graves. A black and eerie quiet marred only by the howling of the wind and the drumming of rain on the dark, wet stones.
That, and as a glance across the deserted churchyard proved, fat clusters of red-berried rowan bedecking the narrow chapel door.
He frowned.
His bride curled her fingers around his elbow, gently squeezing. “Your father thought it best,” she explained, once again playing his da’s wee champion. “What can be the harm if such safeguards soothe him?”
Jamie tamped down the urge to scowl at her. The
harm
was in allowing his da to sink deeper into his delusions. “My father is close to losing his wits,” he finally said. “That is the danger.”
The maid’s chin shot up. “I told you, I have seen the ghosts, too,” she reminded him. “And so have others. Just the other day, one of my father’s squires swore he saw Neill and Kendrick in the wood near St. Bride’s Well.”
This time Jamie did scowl.
But he held his silence, not trusting himself to comment on such foolery.
Neill and Kendrick, his two favorite brothers, were just as dead as the others. Alan Mor’s squire had likely seen morning mist drifting near the sacred well.
Not his brothers’ bogles.
“’Tis true,” his bride persisted,
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