He fisted his hands, lips curling into a scowl. He's not acting himself? What do they call a lass in trews?
Marjorie was acting rash, foolhardy, and it made him angry.
He knew she acted thus to spur him to action, but he wouldn't be swayed.
He had a quiet life, alone. He had returned from the wars a changed man. Bearing the scars of what he'd seen, what he'd done. He'd come back and worked hard to carve out a piece of solitude in a world that made no sense.
Though his seclusion hadn't healed his wounds, it had numbed them. And here was Marjorie, dredging up old feelings, conjuring the old impotence of that day, the unendurable pain of it.
And this other boy who'd been taken? Cormac was unwilling even to let the child pierce his consciousness. Pain would only beget more pain.
“Don't worry for me,” he heard Marjorie say. The words echoed down the empty stone hallway.
“But you can't go alone. ”
Cormac began to walk away. He refused to be pulled into her crisis, refused to be a party to it.
“Don't fash yourself on my account. I confess” — Marjorie laughed nervously — “I'm a bit frightened to go it alone. But I've thought of someone who can help. There is a man. ” Cormac stopped dead. What man?
“A physician surgeon from Marischal College. ” Marjorie's voice was tentative. Cormac leaned a hand against the cold stone of the corridor, listening. “He comes to help at Saint Machar. That's where we met. He's offered his…
support in the past. ”
Cormac's body went rigid. What kind of bloody support?
“I think Archie… that's his name… “
Archie. He balled his hands into fists. So they were on intimate terms. How intimate? Rage coursed through him at the prospect. He'd find and kill the man who'd touched her.
“I don't think he'll let me go to the docks alone,” Marjorie continued. “He'll come with—” Cormac burst through the door, slamming it open hard. Marjorie and Bridget sat on stools by the cook fire, their hands earnestly clasped.
Marjorie stared at him, the words frozen on her lips. Her large blue eyes were all the more vivid for being so bloodshot. She'd been crying.
The sight of one plump tear rolling down her cheek cracked his resolve.
Damn the woman. And damn his pathetic weakness for her.
Cormac took a step toward her. “I'll take you to Aberdeen. ”
Chapter 6
She awoke wanting a bath. But hauling fresh water to Dunnottar Rock was a luxury she'd not ask of the MacAlpins, and so Marjorie bent for a brisk splash along the shoreline.
The water was frigid, but she made quick work of it, chafing her face and darting her hands beneath her gown to scrub under her arms. Low, uneven waves slapped and ebbed, sucking at her feet. A breeze found the damp patches on her bodice, pebbling her skin tight, and she shivered with the pleasure of it.
Her last seaside wash had been with Davie. Stripping the boy down and tossing him in the waves had been the most effective way she'd found to get him cleaned. He loved splashing and dunking, grabbing for the small silvery fish that darted between his feet.
Dread turned her heart to lead. Davie surely wouldn't be enjoying any seaside baths now. What would he be doing?
Was he unhurt? Warm and fed?
She haphazardly scoured her ankles and calves. They had to get on the road quickly, before Cormac changed his mind.
Cormac. They had a long day's ride ahead of them. How would it be to travel with him for an entire day? Would he finally talk to her? How much did he resent her? The prospect made her queasy.
A distant splashing mingled with her own, so at first she didn't notice. But then Marjorie sensed a presence on the edge of her vision. She knew before she looked whom she'd find.
Cormac had haunted her thoughts and now seemed even to materialize like a ghost