“There is something I must do,” he murmured, turning to kiss her on the head, and then he rose, quickly dressed, and left.
Skye frowned in confusion, but she was not worried. As he closed the door behind him, he heard her rise from the bed.
He rushed out of the keep and walked toward the kirk. When he awoke, his heart felt heavy and full, but he could not tell whether it was from love or pain. Either way, he knew he had to come here.
He entered the cemetery and walked over to a small, simple stone. He stood before it, lost in thought, until Skye joined him.
He turned to her and smiled, but he could tell that she saw sadness in his eyes. She took his hand in hers and patiently waited for him to explain.
“This is me maither’s grave, Skye,” he murmured, turning back to the grave.
Skye read the inscription on the headstone, sensing the grief that echoed through the carved words. She squeezed his hand, conveying her support and love.
“Ye may find it odd, but I come here often,” he admitted. “I tell her about changes and events in me life. Today I will tell her about becoming Laird of Clan MacKeith.”
Skye listened respectfully as he spoke.
“I ken it might seem silly, but it helps me to tell her things. I ken she cannae hear me.”
“I dinnae think it odd, Arran. Nary a bit. But I believe yer maither hears ye. I think she watches over ye.”
His heart swelled at her words. Skye was the first woman he’d shared this with. He’d always thought this was too personal for anyone but him to know. But now he feltseen.
She understands me.
The rain had been heavy recently, leaving the earth soft and the air thick with the scent of damp grass and wilted leaves that had fallen from the trees. The air was cold, as the morning sun had not had a chance to warm the earth after a chilly night.
Arran knelt by the gravestone, and his hand reached out and traced the letters carved into the stone. “Maither,” he began softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wish ye could see everything that has happened. So much has changed.”
“She’d be proud of ye, Arran. Look at everything ye’ve accomplished.”
Arran nodded. “I hope ye are right. I think of her often, and I wonder what she would have said, what advice she would have given me.”
As he spoke, Skye’s eyes wandered over the grave, and she noticed that the earth had sunk slightly around the stone. In a depression, something metallic caught her eye. She frowned and leaned over to get a closer look.
“Arran, look,” she said, pointing to the object. “There’s something there, under the stone.”
Arran looked to where she was pointing. He used his hands to carefully brush away the moss and wet dirt. Indeed, a small metal box was wedged against the gravestone. The heavy rain had washed away its earthy cover. Arran pulled it out. The box was obviously old, the outside weathered and rusted.
“What do ye think it is?” Skye asked, her curiosity piqued.
“I’m nae sure,” Arran replied as he ran his hand over the box. “But it looks like it’s been here for a long time.”
The lid was rusted, and Arran’s several attempts to open it with his fingers failed.
Eventually, he pulled out his dirk and used the blade to pry open the lid, and the hinges creaked in protest. His eyes widened when he revealed a bundle of old papers, neatly tied with a faded ribbon, in the box. The paper was yellowed with age, but the writing was still legible.
Arran picked up the top letter, his eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.
“These were written by me faither,” he croaked. “Letters to me maither. They must be over twenty years old.”
“Come, Arran, it’s damp out here, and we daenae want the ink to run. Let’s read them inside,” Skye urged, helping him to his feet and wrapping the box in her shawl.
She held his hand as they walked back to the castle, occasionally stroking his knuckles with her fingers soothingly.
They returned to their room on the fourth floor of the castle and sat together.
With a deep breath, Arran reopened the box, untied the faded ribbon again, and carefully reopened the first letter.
