“Magdalen?”
“Hm?” She looked at James. He tucked his thumb down to stroke the palm of her hand, his brows raised expectantly as he waited for her to answer.
She met his gaze, so steady and so focused on her. In it, she saw everything he promised, saw his heart opened to her, and she knew this was right. No matter the future, no matter the past, this felt right.
“’Tis time you kissed me now.”
Magda found herself beaming back at him then. And she kissed him.
Chapter 24
It had been a leisurely ride north to Perthshire, and for the first time Magda truly began to absorb the land around her. It was more idyllic than any pastoral painting she could’ve imagined. Blair Atholl, the small parish they temporarily called their home, was all gently rolling glens and lush trees surrounded by the Grampian mountain range in the distance.
MacColla had rallied his troops from the west, and while James spent his days busy with them, Magda explored. Water flowed from higher ground to feed many of Perthshire’s waterways, and she often discovered small burbling falls or gently rushing streams, hidden gems that never ceased to delight her. The River Garry wound through the heart of Blair Atholl, and a particular stroll with the river in sight had become her favorite.
Weather during the summer months was as unpredictable as ever, and Magda appreciated those mornings that dawned sunny and clear, where she could take the thick woolen arisaid from her shoulders to savor the feel of the sun’s rays.
The days were much longer than when she’d first arrived. She rarely caught the sunrises, which came earlier than ever. The sun-sets happened well past supper now, and she loved nothing more than watching the sun drop behind the mountains, warmed by the nostalgic feeling of childhood summers and evenings that went on forever.
Their party was hosted quite graciously by Clan Donnachaidh. Although Alexander Robertson, the chief of the clan, was too young to join James in his fight, the family showed them every hospitality. James had, without pause, introduced Magda as his wife, raising Will Rollo’s brows, but making her heart thrill. As a result, they got to share a lovely room overlooking the gardens of Blair Castle, and though James was immersed in training the massive force MacColla had brought from Ireland, they had their nights together, and Magda savored every moment. Increasingly, she’d caught him staring at those mountains in the distance, his usually easy features furrowed in thought, and she knew that this serene interlude would soon come to a close.
Wanting to be unobtrusive, she’d stayed far from James and his field practices during her walks. But Magda found that her curiosity was getting the better of her, and one day found herself walking toward where she knew James spent his days.
She crested a rise and gasped at her first sight of the Irish encampment. MacColla’s forces were night and day from the Highlanders. The Irish traveled with their women and children in tow and had taken over one of the glens, now a vast sprawl of humanity, with dirty faces and threadbare clothes and chaos all around.
“Quite a spectacle, aye?”
Magda jumped. Placing her hand on her pounding heart, she turned to see James standing just behind her. A light breeze swept along the hilltop, clinging James’s tartan and sweat-dampened shirt to his body, and Magda’s breath caught at the sight of him.
“Sorry, hen. I saw you walking the hill like some fey wraith and thought I’d catch you as you reached the peak.” A mischievous light flashed in his eyes. “What say you?” James clapped his hand on her bottom and grabbed her to him. “Have you peaked yet?”
“Stop it!” Magda swatted at him playfully.
“Aye, we can’t let the Irish see us indiscrete up here. Though, by the looks of all those striplings running about, they’re well versed in the mechanics of indiscretion.” He nodded down toward the glen below. “It seems each Irishman brings five sons, if he brings a one.”
Shading his eyes, James looked up at the sky. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the sun glinted gold off the whiskers of his strong jaw.
“Midday is upon us.” He opened his sporran and took out a cloth-wrapped mound. “Would you join me? Though I fear all I have is a cold oatcake and some dried meat.” He gave a sheepish shrug to his shoulders.
“I’d love to,” she said as they sat in the grass, “but I think I’ll pass on your feast there.”
The grass was cool and slightly damp beneath them, but the sun was warm on their shoulders, which touched gently as they leaned into each other. Their peaceable silence was interrupted only by Magda’s stray giggles at the sight of James struggling to chew and swallow his lunch.
Bagpipes jarred to life, as they invariably did, cutting across the valley like a knife. Listening to the notes keening and tripping along, Magda couldn’t tell if the tune was joyful or mournful, and she realized that was precisely the reason the pipes were so uniquely Scottish. In their music—as in their landscape and their lives—jubilation and desolation lived in tandem, Scotland’s warp and woof.
She couldn’t help the tears that stung her eyes, filled as she was with emotion, its roots as likely from joy as from sadness.
“The tune is called ‘Flowers of the Forest.’” James wrapped his arm around her shoulders, clutching her tight to him. “Do you know the story, hen? Of the Battle of Flodden?”
She looked at him, her knit brows asking for his explanation.
“Well you’ll know King Henry the Eighth of England, aye?”
“Of course.”
“Well, the Battle of Flodden was a bloody battle. And mayhap one of the largest ever fought on our land. ’Twas between Henry the Eighth and Scotland’s King James the Fourth, well over one hundred years past now.”
Nestling his chin on her shoulder, his voice was wistful over the drone of the pipes. “The Scots army was hewn into a mountain of dead that day, with King James himself cut down.”
