John was already shaking his head. “Nay. They mean to make amendsto ye, laddie.”
Cian sucked in a breath and tipped his head back to rest his attention in the simplicity of the rafters and appreciate how often this place had brought peace to his heart. But if he took the time to appreciate it much longer, and he might well walk into the storm he’d been warned about.
Should he trust his fears? Or should he trust John and a pair of witches who had no earthly reason to know of him? He honestly couldn’t decide.
He was so very weary of living in fear. Perhaps no one would fault him for taking a wee respite from it.
“Arright, John. I’ll go.”
John squeezed his arm. “Ye don’t mean to flee? To disappear on me?”
“I will go back to Balnacoorie. And come March, I shall expect ye to have the kettle on.”
His friend seemed vastly relieved. “Aye. I will! And we will have a bottle of The Macallan. The 18, even! We’ll blether into the night, aye?”
They both chuckled, their worries slightly abated. Cian stood and brushed his hands together as if they’d completed a weighty task. “My happiness, they said?”
“Aye.”
They loaded the sled, and when they were done, Cian pulled out the bundle of carved pieces he’d brought to exchange for his supplies. John fairly forgot to breathe when he was presented with the large hilt carved from the base of the stag’s horn. Around the spaces where a man’s hand would be seated, there were sections of carved figures depicting the Battle of Culloden.
Some figures rose head and shoulders above the others, blades in hand, targes held high. A tam here and there. A leader on a flawless white horse depicted Bonnie Prince Charlie, leading his men into the charge as he ought to have done. It had taken Cian half the year to finish it.
“Auch, my friend, no man is worthy of this.” John held it out, pointing. “And how did ye create the shadows?”
“Blood.”
John blinked, met his gaze. “Yers?”
“Aye.”
His friend could find no words.
“This is not to be on offer,” Cian told him. “T’is for ye alone. I trust ye can make a blade to fit.”
“For me?”
“A gift of thanks fer bein’ my friend all these years. My one friend. For not turnin’ me away when I confessed who I was. For keepin’ m’ secret.”
“This…” John swallowed. “This is already my most prized possession. I will make them bury me with it.”
Cian smiled and nodded. He couldn’t have been more pleased. “Now, I reckon I should go and do as I’m told.”
“If I were ye, I surely would. I surely would. And whilst I wait to hear the tale come March, I will pray ye find that happiness they mentioned.”
“To arrive home hale and hearty, with no one following, will make me happy enough.”
Watching out the window,John followed the progress of The Ghost of Glenmore and his sled as they disappeared into the trees. “Dear Lord,” he whispered, “that honorable lad deserves more than he asks for. Surely?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Inever thought of myself as the jealous type—until that moment.
Watching the rest of the skiers divvy up into twos and threes, gravitating to their friends, egging each other on, I couldn’t help but wish I had someone with me. Anyone. It didn’t have to be Tara. In fact, if I had to choose between Tara and solo, I’d take solo.
Yes, I was glad she suggested I leave town. Yes, I was glad I was there on that trail, although it wasn’t quite far enough from Vermont that no one would have ever heard ofThe Last Chair. Maybe, when Tara called me at the airport, an hour before the flight, I should have changed my ticket to Spain, or Italy, or any place I wouldn’t have run into ski bums who happen to be fans of Sugarbush Onion Pie!
The flight to Spain or anywhere else wouldn’t have been any easier, though. I still would have been a blubbering idiot and made my seatmates horribly uncomfortable. And any other flight attendant would have taken pity on them and moved them into first class to make up for me snotting all over them.
