“I'm Marjorie's maid,” the woman said. “Fiona. ”
Though she didn't strike him as nervous, her cheeks flushed immediately and thoroughly. Cormac placed her at once.
He shook his head in wonder. “Fiona. ” A girl named Fiona had come into the Keith family household when Marjorie was eight. Not long before, he thought, his every milestone in time falling either before Aidan s capture or after.
Cormac hadn't been much interested in the girl at the time, though he had noticed her peculiar habit of blushing at the slightest provocation. “The same Fiona?”
She shrugged, wandering in to straighten the bed, blushing anew. “Same as what?”
“Aye, you'd be the same Fiona, then. ” He shook his head. Lasses and their ways. It aggravated him. “Be easy, woman. I'm Cormac MacAlpin. ”
“Oh aye, Cormac. Aye. Of course. ” A strange look crossed her face, and he could've sworn she muttered, “Finally decides to appear, he does. ”
Cormac stared. “What?”
The girl stared back, then, like water come to a boil, she exploded into chatter. “Marjorie said she'd find you.
That she'd bring you back. She knew where you lived, you see. Your sister tells her everything. Bridget, I mean.
Oh, and that dear Archie” — she sighed, pressing a hand to her breast — “he wants to help. ”
“Archie. ” Cormac didn't realize until he heard his own voice that he'd growled the name. Did this Archie captivate every female he came into contact with?
“But Marjorie'd have naught to do with his plan,” the maid prattled on.
Cormac tried to keep up, parsing her nonsense, wondering what cursed plan she could be referring to. She was nodding meaningfully, and he found it inexplicably irritating.
“Oh, but I told her she should,” Fiona said with a scold in her voice. “Archie knows all manner of noblemen.
But, she wanted you. You know she thinks… that you are… well… never you mind that. ” Her eyes suddenly widened. “But you were sitting on her bed!”
Her words echoed in his head. She wanted you.
“I need to know where she is. ”
“Well it wouldn't be her day for Saint Machar,” Fiona mused. “Likely she just went to her place. ”
“Her place?” he prodded impatiently.
“Why, the shore, and where else? Aberdeen Beach. She fancies the waves. Says they're bigger there. ” Relaxed now, the maid bustled around the room, straightening the bedclothes where he'd been sitting.
“Is that where she got all these seashells?”
“Oh, aye. She finds them along the sand. It's fair soft there. Our Marjorie likes to take off her shoes and walk by the waves. ”
Our Marjorie. What did she see, standing in the surf and looking to the horizon? Did she feel the same pull, find the same lonely solace as he?
My Marjorie.
“The whole thing strikes me as a fool silly thing to do. Her hem when she gets home — it's a mess!” He could imagine it in his mind's eye. Marjorie walking along the shore, the wind whipping her hair, her cheeks flushed from the brisk air. She wouldn't be a mess. She'd be beautiful.
He had to go to her. He had to see her for himself.
“Well, I never… “ Fiona sputtered, as Cormac stormed past.
He fled from the house and didn't even think to fetch his horse from the mews. Instead, his feet devoured Aberdeen's winding streets in long strides. Navigating mucky wooden cobbles, over Hangman's Brae, past Gallowgate, heading eastward.
To her.