“He'll provide it, of course,” Bridget said briskly.
“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.