He hadn't realized his shoulders had tensed until he felt them unclench just then. “Aye, if we're to search for the boy, we'll need a plan. We're up the coast to Aberdeen, and to your uncle's by dusk. We'll take a turn around the quay tomorrow, at first light. ”
She nodded and stilled her mare for him to catch up.
Cormac felt a fraction lighter inside. Empathy was too painful, but this planning, this he could do. He was in it now, and if he was going to do a thing, there was no sense in not doing it right. His words came more easily.
“I'll need to know about the boy. You'd said he's a wee lad, just five?”
“Aye. ” Her voice cracked. She cleared it and started again. “He didn't know exactly, but he thought five. I'd say not more than six. ”
“What's he look like, then?” He braced himself. He would hear her response and parse it as though devising a military campaign. He'd not let himself imagine this boy too vividly. This boy who would never be found.
“He's a wee rascal. ”
Cormac heard the smile in her voice and kept his eyes trained on the path ahead. He gathered his nerves. He'd not let himself grow attached to the t
hought of a missing child. And more even than that, he'd not allow concerns for Marjorie to penetrate his defenses.
“He's a little ginger-haired boy,” she continued, warming to the topic. “Smaller than the others. With freckles, and a pointing chin, and mischief to spare. From the start, he seemed to me a fey creature. ” It was clear she loved the boy. It suddenly struck him how much she'd enjoy raising a child of her own. He wondered why she hadn't yet married.
And he realized he was oddly glad she hadn't. Deep down it pleased him that there was someone out there who'd turned to him for help. More so, that it'd been Ree who had. The thought that she might've married, might now be relying on another man for support, sent a plume of instinctive, protective anger snaking through his belly.
He let the sensation hang briefly before pushing it away. It'd do no good to dwell on such things.
“And you're certain he wouldn't simply have wandered off?”
“I'm certain of it,” she said with a steadiness that made him feel a strange wash of pride. “Evening was his favorite time of the day. Supper at Saint Machar isn't a grand affair, by any means. But there's a pack of them, the youngest boys, who play in the evenings. Such grand stories they enact for themselves. Davie's favorite is to relive tales of the Campbell, just as we did. Remember?”
“Aye,” he said quietly, feeling a small crack in his heart. Of course he remembered. It'd been his favorite thing as well.
Cormac's expression softened almost imperceptibly, and Marjorie swelled at the sight.
She let herself relive memories of Davie. “They'll play at the same stories for days,” she said, smiling wistfully. “Such elaborate campaigns with pretend armaments and battle plans. Fights with the Marquis of Montrose are a particular favorite. Except when Davie has to play the Campbell. Och, but he hates being the Campbell, just like—”
Marjorie stopped herself short. She glanced at Cormac, but his face was shuttered. She grew cold. Just when he'd begun to open up, she went ahead and spoiled it by speaking without thought.
Such thoughtless chatter. She cringed.
“Just like Aidan,” he finished for her.
His comment took her aback. The look on his face was calm but not cold, and her relief was profound.
“Aidan always hated playing the Campbell, too,” he said.
He wasn't smiling, but he was speaking, and it gave her courage to press him. “Do you ever think about him?” He was quiet. The only sound was their horses' hooves in the gravel of the drover's road. Geese called overhead.
If she listened for it, she could hear the hiss of the sea in the far distance.
Just when nerves once again began to chill her blood, he spoke. “There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about my brother. ”
“Of course,” she said quietly. Such an understatement. Of course he'd think of Aidan. Every day. But did he blame her for it? He'd endured such pain. His whole family, such pain. She blamed herself. He must damn her as well.
But would he speak of it? Never. He only stared, silent accusation in his eyes. She'd lived for thirteen years with the guilt, and she refused to keep it in a moment longer. It needed to erupt, here and now, to the surface. “I know it's my fault. ”
“It's no' your fault,” he said, his voice flat.
“Aye, it was my fault. ” As she brought her darkest thoughts to light, she realized the words couldn't come fast enough. So much time had passed; she needed desperately to talk about it. “I dared you boys to climb the chimney.
You must blame me for it. ”