“As I said, there was no stopping the man.” Angus shrugged. “We ken that your kinsmen watch us, and there is talk of coin offered for ye—or for the laird. We watch, but there isna much else one can do. I sent a few men out after him and told them to stay out of his sight, yet watch out for him.”
“Do ye think that those men will try and turn me back? They willna ken that ye said I could walk outside of Rathmor.”
“As long as ye walk straight to the laird and stay with him, they willna try and stop ye.”
With every step she took toward the kirkyard, Ailis debated the wisdom of going after Alexander. He could become furious with her for intruding upon a very private moment. The thought worried her, yet she did not falter. Instinct told her to go to him. She inwardly cursed and wished that her instinct would tell her what to do when she got there.
Her first sight of Alexander tore at her heart, and she knew she would endure more coldness, even more insults, in her attempts to reach him. The man knelt before a tiny grave marker, sprigs of dried lavender sprinkled over the brown grass. His hands were tightly clenched and rested on his knees. His head was bowed, the cold but gentle wind lightly tousling his thick gold hair. As she neared him, he tensed and turned to face her even as he nimbly got to his feet. The first expression she saw was not a welcoming one, but then he smoothed his features.
“Did no one accompany ye? They just let ye walk out of Rathmor?” he demanded.
“Aye. Where would I go? To Donald so that he can take his fury out on me? Or mayhaps to my uncle so that he can tell me how deeply I have shamed him?”
“Are ye saying ye willna try to leave now?”
“There is no gain in it for me.” She looked at the stone, which held a simple carving of a few sprigs of lavender and the name Elizbet, under which was written “The beloved daughter of Alexander—a wee angel whose memory will ever linger in her father’s heart.”
“Your daughter.”
“Aye. So ye have learned about her.”
“That took no skill or cunning. ‘Tis no secret.”
“Nay.” He idly nudged a sprig of the dried lavender with his feet. “She loved the scent of lavender.”
“ ‘Tis a good one—neither too sweet nor too strong.” Ailis paused, trying to form her next words. “I dinna try to replace her,” she said in a quiet voice and did not cower beneath Alexander’s intent stare.
“Ye never could.”
“I ken it.”
“Do ye? Can anyone understand how it feels to bury one’s own child unless she had buried one of her own?’
“Nay, probably not, and if it pleases God, I hope I never have to learn how it feels.” She placed her hands over her stomach.
Alexander’s gaze fell to her hands. He placed one of his over hers, and he met her gaze. For one brief, stirring moment Ailis knew they were in complete accord. She felt as if they had touched in a deep, personal way and felt her first honest taste of hope. She prayed it was not a false one.
