It was late afternoon, and the sun struck Greyfriars Kirkyard at a sharp angle. White light illuminated tombs and trees from the side, making them appear more vivid, somehow beyond real. Long black shadows tapered from the bases of elaborate tombstones like specters emerging for the night.
Tall, tightly packed walls of tombstones closed in on either side of him, gray, elaborately carved monuments covered with macabre images of ill-shaped skulls and ominous epitaphs extolling the lives of brave husbands and loving wives. Oversized family vaults studded the graveyard, looming like small haunted dwellings frozen in time, the years moldering and blackening their names and their detail.
The elegant steeple of St. Giles Cathedral hovered in the distance, putting him in mind of Brother Lonan. He thought of Rollo too, wondering if he lived or died. That Rollo might be out there somewhere at that very moment, in the borderlands not too far away, struck him. But whether he suffered, thrived, or had already breathed his last, James had no way to know.
He let his mind turn to Magda then. Clever, beautiful, surprising Magda. Since they’d met, she’d flourished, like an elegant heron, once stiff and straight, who’d spread her wings to reveal the startlingly spectacular plumage beneath. It had taken a special kind of courage to snub her nose at danger, sneaking into the Tolbooth to administer him poison, of all things.
And it had taken love too. For surely that is the only thing that could fuel such recklessness. Just as he loved her. His chest swelled with it. It expanded him, ennobled him, somehow made him more than just a man.
“Graham.” The voice behind him was furtive hush.
The smallsword was in his hand before he’d finished turning about. The blade may have been intended for decoration, but it made a pretty hum as it cut through the crisp autumn air. The terror on the man’s face stopped James’s hand short, and he halted the sword to touch a light kiss on the stranger’s right ear.
“State your business, man.” Pent-up energy hummed along James’s veins, his body still coiled from his ordeal of the past days. “How is it you know my name?”
“I-I . . .” he stammered. James eased away his blade, realizing the man in front of him was a half-wit. A quick scan and blackened nails, filthy bare feet, and the dirty knees of his trousers hanging loose betrayed his status as a simple workman.
“Easy, lad.” James resheathed his sword. His relaxed posture was intended to put the stranger at ease, but James scanned the graveyard all the while, looking for signs of movement or telltale shadows peeking from behind the towering tombstones.
"Mag-da—” the man began, his tongue thick in his mouth.
“What of Magda?” Panic shot through James, and he fought to keep a calm stance. “You’ve time. Say it, man. Who has brought you here?”
The man clapped a hand to his pocket, and James pulled his own hand back to rest once again on his sword hilt.
“M-Magda says Graham comes with me.” He pulled something out of his pocket and thrust it toward James.
The button James had given her so long ago once again rested cool in his palm. Sunlight shimmered along the delicate gold filigree and made the blue enamel glow luminous.
“She says give Graham the button and Graham comes with me.”
“So I shall,” James told him, shaking his head at his wife’s keen mind. Long stripped of his sporran, he tucked the button in his shirtsleeve. He gave the man a reassuring clap on the shoulder. “Graham comes with you, lad.”
The man led him down the path at an aggravatingly slow pace. Irregularly paved stones wended through grass that was an eerily vivid green against the colorless kirkyard. They reached an alley, and James spotted the coach waiting at its end, just at the intersection of Grassmarket.
The carriage was backlit by the sun, lower now in the sky. Flares of white sunlight streaked across the black painted exterior, casting sinister shadows of carriage and horse along the alleyway. He saw her then, stepping out. She was lit brilliantly from behind, setting off warm, bright streaks in her hair. A breeze swept down the passageway, sweeping the long russet locks up to dance like flames on the wind.
As he approached, her features emerged from shadow. The slight curl to her lips belied the intensity in her eyes. She looked happy to see him, but relieved too, and not yet certain they were out of danger.
James leaned in to kiss her, and she gave the slightest shake to her head. Turning, Magda climbed back in the carriage. Blood pounding in his chest, he watched her. Took in the curve of her hip and the slight shift of muscle as she alighted.
James was quick behind her, pressing his body along hers, urging her in, and kissing the words from her mouth as the coach door slammed shut.
Chapter 40
Magda shut her eyes and inhaled, soothed by the distant ebb and flow of the waves. James had insisted they open the balcony door while they took their tea, despite the shocked protestations of his sister. The third-floor sitting room was small, but with charming furniture and a door that opened to a view of the sea, it was one of Magda’s favorite places. Though the journey back to Montrose had been harrowing, and nice as it was to be safe for the moment with a roof over their heads, they’d gotten accustomed to feeling the air fresh on their faces.
Tom had arranged the carriage out of Edinburgh, but they could only afford to let it for the day. It had been enough, though, to hide James as he quickly changed his clothes, and they’d gotten outside the walls of Edinburgh disguised as a wealthy family. From there, they convinced a Queensferry fisherman to take them out from the Firth of Forth to sail directly into Montrose harbor. Magda had breathed a sigh of relief when they finally arrived at his home late the following night.
“Where is that woman?” Margaret exclaimed. “I called for her a quarter hour past.” Chafing her arms, James’s sister glared once again at the open balcony door. “Well,” she announced, “you two may insist on taking a chill, but the premature cooling of this fine tea would vex a lesser woman.”
Margaret had been bustling about since their return to Montrose, and Magda had been more than happy to let herself get swept along by all the commotion. They would stay but one more night before they had to leave, gathering the supplies necessary to be in disguise and on the run once again. In search of additional blankets, Margaret had led her to the same dusty storage room whose trunks Magda had so thoroughly rifled through. In a moment of whimsy, she dashed off a little something to store with James’s portrait. Careful not to touch it, she laid a slip of paper atop the painting with the note: “Property of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“We know well it is the rare concern that makes you peevish, Margaret.” A mannered smile spread across James’s face, which Margaret only greeted with a sisterly glare.
Though returned home, James still wore only a tartan and shirt. He’d simply smiled when Margaret gently hinted that he should dress like her husband, Napier, and don proper trews. And, looking at him now over the lip of her teacup, Magda grinned and thought she never would’ve guessed that a man could look so sexy walking around in what basically amounted to a skirt.
But James was nothing if not sexy. His skin glowed from so much time outdoors, setting off the smoldering cocoa color of his eyes. His nose was recovering from the break. It had been on the large side to begin with, and the injury left a small bump on the length of it, an appealing imperfection on his otherwise gorgeous face.
