“Ye two stay with the boat,” Archie commanded, gesturing to the youngest pair. “Keep watch. We’ll be back before nightfall.”
The three other men turned inland, toward where smoke rose from Lochbuie’s cottages over a thicket of sycamore and oak to the east. Salt spray hung heavy in the air, and the rumble of surf filled their ears.
Climbing the path from the beach, Archie and his companions passed stands of wind-bent hawthorn and patches of yellow gorse. Its sweet scent tickled his nose. The afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders, warm despite the sea breeze. This summer was proving to be the hottest in years. Ahead, the village spread along the coast—a scattering of thatch-roofed bothies.
Archie cast his companions a sidelong look. “Do ye remember where the midwife’s cottage was?”
“Aye,” Ross grunted. “North edge of the village.”
“I doubt the old woman has moved,” the second warrior, Ian, replied, flashing him a grin.
Archie snorted. “Lying old ronyon.”
Barely two months earlier, they’d visited Lochbuie. After asking around, they’d tracked down Esme, the village midwife. They’d then questioned her about a woman who would have given birth thirty-one years earlier—a tall lass with long black hair and startling blue eyes. A young woman without a husband.
At first, the old woman had jeered at them. Thirty years? Did they expect her to have such a sharp memory? But then, when Archie had described the lass, her face had blanched.
Aye, she’d remembered her.
Esme hadn’t wanted to divulge any details; it was only when Archie whipped out his dirk and held it to her neck that she’d spilled her secret.
The lass’s name was Rhona. But she’d died during the birth, taking the bairn with her. It was a tragedy. The whole village had mourned her.
Pleased to have settled the matter so swiftly—for his next task had been to track down mother and daughter and slit both their throats—Archie had returned to the Macquarie holding on Ulva and told his chieftain what he’d learned. He’d thought that was the end of it. Until a day ago, when the Macquarie had stormed into the guardhouse and backhanded him across the face. The first words out of his mouth were, “Ye gowk! She lied!”
As he remembered, the midwife’s dwelling sat slightly apart from the others.A rambling garden surrounded a stone bothy with a thatch roof that looked in need of repair.
Archie strode up the path, pushing aside mint and nettles, and rapped his knuckles on the door frame. Twice. Hard.
Footsteps followed, and then the door opened to reveal a young woman, perhaps twenty summers, with mousy brown hair and wary eyes.
“Aye?”
The three men exchanged glances. This wasn’t the crone they’d been expecting.
“We’re looking for Esme,” Archie greeted her bluntly. “Where is she?”
The young woman’s expression shuttered. “My aunt died a fortnight past.”
Lucifer’s turds.Archie’s jaw clenched tight. So much for getting the truth out of her this time.
“Our condolences,” he said, though he felt none. “Did she leave any records? Papers about the births she attended?”
“No.” The lass’s hand tightened on the door. “She didn’t know her letters … and neither do I. Now, if ye’ll excuse me.”
“Wait.” Archie placed his boot against the threshold. “There was a birth. Thirty-one years ago. A woman named Rhona Maclean, who died afterward. Do ye know if the bairn lived?”
The lass’s gaze narrowed. “I wasn’t born then.”
“No … but ye’ll have heard old tales over the years, I’m sure.”
The woman stared back at him. “I know nothing of my aunt’s work from those times.”
Archie studied her, searching for a flicker of a lie in her eyes. There was none.
She tried to close the door, but he wedged his boot in. “If ye remember anything … anything at all … there’s coin in it for ye.”
“I told ye. I know nothing.” Her voice rose slightly. “Now leave … or I’ll call for the smith.”
