By the time Rose made the long trek across the open divide and emerged onto the top of a small hill, the rain had spent most of its fury and so had she. She sat for a while and rested where the hill sloped away in a breathtaking fall of rocks that spilled into the head of a lovely glen. The fecund scent of wet earth and fragrant pine filled her nostrils. As the sun began to set, she pushed away from the rocks and continued walking.
Water sluiced over granite boulders, disappearing into mossy crevices. She crouched to avoid a low-hanging branch and as she maneuvered her way down the narrow footpath, she thought she heard the faint whicker of a horse. Through the mist, she could see an aged chapel ahead. A three-foot-high iron fence surrounded the chapel yard. She approached a cemetery, wet leaves muffling her footsteps. This was Ruark’s family cemetery.
She followed the fence around the chapel. She could see Stonehaven’s rooftop in the far distance through the thinning branches of the trees.
She almost laughed.
For all the time she had spent traipsing across the parkland and through the woods, she had somehow walked in a circle. It occurred to her then that no matter what she did, she could not seem to escape Ruark or her fate. Surely, there was irony to be found somewhere in that observation.
She peered at the chapel where moss had grown over the stones turning the entire north side a deep green. The building looked sad and alone standing among the stone monuments of the dead.
The mist began to thicken and she shivered as she looked around the empty yard. Her gaze fell on the horse tied to a wooden hitching post off to the side of the chapel.
Loki.
Rose looked around but saw no sign of Ruark. She drew back the iron lever on the gate, wincing slightly as it screeched on rusty hinges. She entered the yard and walked among the stones to where the horse tore chunks of grass from the wet ground, chewing thoughtfully as he eyed her approach. No one was near to prevent her from taking the horse and riding away. But something stopped her.
All her life, she had felt trapped by other people’s decisions about her future, leading her about like a horse wearing a halter, telling her what she could do or not do, who she could be or not be. She found that even drenched as she was and with mud caking the hems of her skirts, she had never felt more in control of her own fate. Even if the illusion of choice falsely empowered her, ’twas her choice to not take Loki and run.
Behind her, the door to the chapel stood slightly ajar, and she found herself stepping inside. The interior smelled old and musty like mildew, beeswax, and a hint of incense that had been burned into the stone walls over the decades. A beautiful mural of angels colored the domed ceiling high above her head. She thought a candle burned in the loft. She turned up the stone staircase to her right. This was a crypt. The wall bore the names and ages of the various Roxburghe earls along with their wives, sons, and daughters for the last two centuries. A small, narrow room opened at the top of the staircase. A candle burned in a ceramic holder.
Someone had set it on a narrow table in front of an engraved stone built as part of the wall. Rose bent and read:
RUARK JAMES LINDSAY KERR
BELOVED FATHER AND HUSBAND TO JANELLE HIS ENGLISH BRIDE
1650–1685
CHANCE NOT. WIN NOT.
A profane statement about one’s destiny.
“He was my great-grandfather.” Ruark’s voice came from behind her and she spun around alarmed. He stood on the stairs. “I surprised you,” he said. “I apologize. You were absorbed.”
She had not seen him when she entered, but it looked as if he had been up here awaiting her.
She gestured to the angels floating against the ceiling. “This area looks newer than the rest of the chapel.”
“The loft was added during my great-grandfather’s tenure as earl, after a candle caught fire and burned the timbers in the old chapel roof. So he has been granted his place of prominence ... despite the fact that he was presumed to be a traitor and distrusted by many on both sides of the border. He was a privateer in the service of King Charles the Second.”
“Perhaps he was also a smuggler and pirate. I cannot imagine any relative of yours selling out so completely, no matter appearances.”
Ruark climbed the stairs, stopping just before he reached the landing where she stood. He’d tied his hair at his nape with a leather thong. Soft leather riding boots hugged his calves.
His cloak and hair were damp as if he had not been long out of the rain. She could smell the clean scent of soap on him. He walked to where she stood and peered out the window as if to make sure Loki remained tied.
“I considered it,” she said. “Escaping.”
“I know.” Leaning a shoulder against the cold stone wall, he folded his arms. “I was beginning to think you had got lost.”
“You knew I would be coming here.”
“I saw where you went into the woods and knew where you would be exiting. There is only one path.”
“You left Loki unguarded?” she accused him. “I could have stolen him!”
“And yet ... you did not.”
