almost as if she’d read his mind. “I saw how upset the lad was when he came in.”
But Jamie scarce heard her. He was looking past her to the chapel, his stomach knotting.
Someone had even draped rowan around the splendid carved standing stone that guarded the entrance to his family’s ancient, half-ruined sanctuary. Supposedly built many centuries before by a follower of Skye’s far-wandering saint, Maelrhuba, the tiny chapel stood on the site of an even older stone circle.
Clan belief held that the remaining standing stone marked the burial place of the chapel’s sainted builder. But some graybeards and local henwives insisted the magnificent Pictish stone was all that survived of the original pagan circle, claiming early Christians destroyed the sacred stones, renaming them Na Clachan Breugach, the Lying Stones.
An intended slur against stones once believed to have been prized as the Stones of Wisdom because of their ability to foretell the future. Tradition claimed that anyone stepping within the stones’ charmed inner sanctum on the nights of certain moons would be blessed with brief glimpses of events yet to transpire.
Jamie didn’t know which version of the remaining stone’s past he believed and, truth be told, he didn’t really care.
At the moment, he could only think of his brothers as he’d last seen them. Bold, brash, and mirthful, each one bursting with spirit and vigor.
“’Fore God,” he swore again, blinking hard.
The wind surged then, splattering his face with icy rain droplets, but he made no move to dash at them. Instead, he let them track down his face, rolling over his cheeks like the tears he could no longer shed.
He did narrow his eyes on the little chapel and its hoary sentinel, fixing his gaze on the rowan garland wrapped round the proud stone’s venerable height.
Wind whipped at his plaid and tossed his hair, but he stood rooted beside the burial cairns, his fingers swiping at raindrops that suddenly felt hot on his skin, salty on his lips.
Whether or not the stone was a true remnant of the Na Clachan Breugach, the handsomely carved relic didn’t need the rowan’s protection.
The monolith held magic of its own.
And so far back as he could remember, deference alone would have kept any Macpherson from even touching a finger to such a sacred relic of the clan’s dimmest, haziest past.
“Thunder of heaven,” he breathed, his heart drumming against his ribs.
He flashed another glance at the chapel door’s rowan-draped lintel. In keeping with old Devorgilla’s erstwhile instructions, he could see bright red ribbon winding through the berry-rich branches.
Like as not, he’d find the interior of the church equally festooned; the whole wee chapel brimming with charms and foolery designed to scare away his brothers’ souls.
Jamie’s jaw tightened. He kicked at a clump of rain-speckled, knee-high deer grass. Then he stooped to snatch up a small rock, hurling it into the moon-glinting waters of a nearby burn. Only Aveline’s presence and his damned knight’s spurs kept him from muttering an oath that would’ve blistered the night’s chill.
An oath that would’ve made his brothers roar with laughter and jab each other with their elbows as they wriggled their brows at him, challenging him to do better.
But he couldn’t.
Not this night.
Not standing in the wind and rain, heart-stricken, and knowing he’d still be missing them even after he’d drawn his last breath.
Then make me proud and prove you have at least a bit o’ my charm by seeing your lady out o’ the rain. Now, before it’s her last breath that concerns you
.
Kendrick!
Jamie started, glancing around.
The words still shimmered in the darkness. They’d come from nowhere and everywhere, yet echoed in his ears so real as if his brother stood right beside him. Glowing with vitality and strength, too handsome by a stretch, and ready as ever to boast about how easily he turned female heads.
Make
But Jamie scarce heard her. He was looking past her to the chapel, his stomach knotting.
Someone had even draped rowan around the splendid carved standing stone that guarded the entrance to his family’s ancient, half-ruined sanctuary. Supposedly built many centuries before by a follower of Skye’s far-wandering saint, Maelrhuba, the tiny chapel stood on the site of an even older stone circle.
Clan belief held that the remaining standing stone marked the burial place of the chapel’s sainted builder. But some graybeards and local henwives insisted the magnificent Pictish stone was all that survived of the original pagan circle, claiming early Christians destroyed the sacred stones, renaming them Na Clachan Breugach, the Lying Stones.
An intended slur against stones once believed to have been prized as the Stones of Wisdom because of their ability to foretell the future. Tradition claimed that anyone stepping within the stones’ charmed inner sanctum on the nights of certain moons would be blessed with brief glimpses of events yet to transpire.
Jamie didn’t know which version of the remaining stone’s past he believed and, truth be told, he didn’t really care.
At the moment, he could only think of his brothers as he’d last seen them. Bold, brash, and mirthful, each one bursting with spirit and vigor.
“’Fore God,” he swore again, blinking hard.
The wind surged then, splattering his face with icy rain droplets, but he made no move to dash at them. Instead, he let them track down his face, rolling over his cheeks like the tears he could no longer shed.
He did narrow his eyes on the little chapel and its hoary sentinel, fixing his gaze on the rowan garland wrapped round the proud stone’s venerable height.
Wind whipped at his plaid and tossed his hair, but he stood rooted beside the burial cairns, his fingers swiping at raindrops that suddenly felt hot on his skin, salty on his lips.
Whether or not the stone was a true remnant of the Na Clachan Breugach, the handsomely carved relic didn’t need the rowan’s protection.
The monolith held magic of its own.
And so far back as he could remember, deference alone would have kept any Macpherson from even touching a finger to such a sacred relic of the clan’s dimmest, haziest past.
“Thunder of heaven,” he breathed, his heart drumming against his ribs.
He flashed another glance at the chapel door’s rowan-draped lintel. In keeping with old Devorgilla’s erstwhile instructions, he could see bright red ribbon winding through the berry-rich branches.
Like as not, he’d find the interior of the church equally festooned; the whole wee chapel brimming with charms and foolery designed to scare away his brothers’ souls.
Jamie’s jaw tightened. He kicked at a clump of rain-speckled, knee-high deer grass. Then he stooped to snatch up a small rock, hurling it into the moon-glinting waters of a nearby burn. Only Aveline’s presence and his damned knight’s spurs kept him from muttering an oath that would’ve blistered the night’s chill.
An oath that would’ve made his brothers roar with laughter and jab each other with their elbows as they wriggled their brows at him, challenging him to do better.
But he couldn’t.
Not this night.
Not standing in the wind and rain, heart-stricken, and knowing he’d still be missing them even after he’d drawn his last breath.
Then make me proud and prove you have at least a bit o’ my charm by seeing your lady out o’ the rain. Now, before it’s her last breath that concerns you
.
Kendrick!
Jamie started, glancing around.
The words still shimmered in the darkness. They’d come from nowhere and everywhere, yet echoed in his ears so real as if his brother stood right beside him. Glowing with vitality and strength, too handsome by a stretch, and ready as ever to boast about how easily he turned female heads.
Make
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