“What do you expect me to do?” Finley edged into his line of vision, holding her slight, white hand out toward the man. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” she encouraged. “He’ll nae harm you, even if he is a stinking Blair.” She glanced up at Lachlan, and then turned her full attention once more to the man clutching at the crates at his back, seemingly preparing to climb through the chamber’s stone ceiling at any moment.
“I’m Finley.Carson. Me da’s Rory Carson, an elder in the town. Do you know him? Are you Carson?”
The man didn’t reply, but at least he had ceased destroying the ancient stacks behind him.
“Good,” Lachlan said. “Keep talking.”
Finley inched closer. “Have you been staying here? In the cliff? It must be cold in the nights.”
He shook his head hesitantly and then glanced toward the corner, where black remains were piled. “I’ve a fire. No one sees the smoke.”
“Well, that’s good,” Finley said, and lowered herself to a cross-legged seat, pulling her skirts down over her knees. “What’s your name?”
The man looked back at Lachlan, and the terror in his big eyes was very clear. “He’ll tell,” he rasped. “He’s a Blair and he’lltellthem. He’ll tell the chief I’ve been hiding all these years.”
“He willna,” Finley rushed, leaning slightly to put herself into his range of vision and gain his attention once more. “He is a Blair, but he and I are married. He lives in Carson Town now.”
The man glanced accusingly at Lachlan again. “Heliveshere.”
“He sleeps here, aye,” Finley allowed. “But he willna tell anyone anything you doona wish him to.” She looked up at Lachlan again. “Will you, Lachlan?”
“You’ve my word,” Lachlan said at once.
The man looked between them anxiously, and it was clear he wasn’t yet convinced of his safety. And so Lachlan made a fast decision—the only thing he could think of that might possibly instill some trust in him from the man.
“I couldn’t tell Archibald anything even if I wished to; he’s dead. And while I am called Lachlan Blair, Thomas Annesley was my father.”
“The chief is dead?” The man stilled and brought both filthy, thin palms up to cover his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. He rocked himself slightly and took a long, jagged inhalation through his nose. Then, in a blink, he had crawled across the floor of the stone chamber and wrapped his arms around Lachlan’s legs, sobbing, “Edna’s son, Edna’s son.”
Lachlan looked down at Finley and tossed his head pointedly at the man who had attached himself to him. She threw out her hands in exasperation and then, with a roll of her eyes, turned on her hip, scooting closer to the man, and hesitantly lying her hand on the bony prominence of his shoulder.
“Shh,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.” She patted him until he had quieted and turned his head against Lachlan’s knees to face her. “There you are. Hello. Can you tell us your name now?”
He gave a noisy sniff and then swallowed before speaking in a hoarse voice. “Geordie,” the old man said. “I’m Geordie Blair.”
* * * *
Geordie sat in the brush of the wood, the skirt of his old tunic stretched across his knees and filled with the roasted nuts he’d brought with him into his hiding place. He’d stopped crying at last, he knew, because he could clearly see the nutmeats as the shells cracked open against the hilt, and then the broken tip of his knife, and also because his cheeks had the stretched-tight feeling left by a wash of salty tears now dried up.
They’d taken so many of his friends. Would have taken Edna, too. Thanks be to God he still had her in the town, even if she was cross and shouting at everyone most of the time. She never shouted at Geordie. Edna was very sad now, just like him, and Geordie reckoned they both would be sad for a good long while.
He bit down on the walnut flesh, soft and bitter and still slightly green-tasting, and chewed it to a pulp. He didn’t understand why his friends had wanted to go with the Englishman and be servants in his house, any matter.Northumberland—he didn’t even know where that was. It couldn’t be so nice as here, with the mountain and the loch and the wood and all their family. But Harrell had said there would be more food for them in Northumberland, and more food to go around in the town now, too. Lots more.
Blairs is poor, Geordie-boy; you know that. Poor and starving.
Acras.
Geordie didn’t care; he would have shared his part with them all if they’d just stayed. He’d thought perhaps Tommy Annesley would have been his best friend of all, the way he’d listened to Geordie and not shushed him or called him “daft bugger” or “runt” or “fool.” Edna liked Tommy very much, too. But Tommy didn’t choose to leave, so it weren’t his fault, Geordie reckoned. Tommy was dead, his skull bashed in on the hillside by them mean, greedy Carsons.
His chin flinched and his vision grew watery at the remembrance of it, and he would have descended into weeping again had it not been for the crashing sounds of someone approaching in the underbrush. Geordie turned his head and listened, and the sound grew louder and closer, the arrhythmic crunching hinting that there was more than one person sharing this corner of the wood with Geordie.
“It must be tonight.” Harrell’s voice; Geordie recognized.
“Good God, Harrell, they’re still buryin’ their dead.” That was Archibald. “Give the bastards at least the night.”
“Sure, give them the courtesy they’ve nae shown us,” Harrell taunted, and his voice was rough, not the way he usually spoke to the chief. It made Geordie feel sick in his belly. “They torched the boats with our own aboard.”
Geordie’s mouth fell open and his temples ached at trying to make sense of what Harrell was saying. Did he mean the Englishman’s boats? The boats his friends had gone on?
