“She seems lovely.”
No need to clarify whoChris meant.
“Aye. I haven’t officially declared my intentions, but Miss Rollins is truly a bonnie lass.”
Chris nodded, the wind-reddened tip of her pert nose peeking out from the brim of her bonnet.
How odd.
Alistair had spent the entire afternoon with Miss Rollins, and yet he could not recall a single thing they had discussed or even the color of Miss Rollins’s gown.
But he easily remembered every detail, every word spoken, with Chris.
“Are ye leaving?” he continued.
She ran her fingertips over his initials embroidered in a corner of the handkerchief.
“I do not see how I could stay, Alis.”
“Alis, am I now? Notmy lord?”
“That is the problem.” She finally lifted her gaze to his, a storm gathered in her gray-blue eyes. “I realized that I cannot pretend you are anything butAlisto me. It is why staying is too difficult—reliving everything from Florence while watching you woo Miss Rollins.”
“Aye.” He heartily agreed with her.
Swallowing again, she wiped her cheeks with a frustrated growl.
“Imeantto leave. But then I remembered that stone out in the bog there.” She pointed to the rock standing tall on a wee island of firmer ground. “And ithurt...to leave without knowing if it was deliberately put there. And if so, its purpose.”
“Ah. Curiosity always did get the better of ye.”
“It did.”
“’Tis what makes ye such an excellent archaeologist—ye aren’t content to let something be until ye have sussed out an answer.”
She gave a hiccupping sigh. “Do not c-compliment me, Alis. Not at this juncture.”
My heart cannot take more bruising, she didn’t add. But Alistair heard the words anyway.
His own heart panged in sympathy.
“Ye might need to let this mystery be, Chris. The bog makes reaching the stone treacherous. Best to wait until July when the sun has dried out the marsh somewhat. Besides, it’s likely just agowk stane.” He pointed to where it stood above the bog.
“Gowk stane?”
“Aye. A cuckoo stone, to translate it from Scots. There are many here in Aberdeenshire.”
Interest peeked out from her gaze. “They are marked somehow, then?”
“Nae. There is no logical reason why they are calledgowk stanes. Some are marked or carved. Others are simply natural boulders. But if a community deems a rock to be agowk stane, then it becomes one.”
“That seems . . . arbitrary.” Chris frowned.
He shrugged. “Thegowk stanesare believed to be gateways between this world and the underworld—the place that cuckoo birds retreat in winter and emerge come spring.”
“Ah. A visual reminder of rebirth.”
“Aye.”
