CHAPTER ELEVEN
One week turned to nine days, then ten, with no sign of Dair Sinclair’s ship.
Moire o’ the Spring sat with Fia and Gillian in the rose garden, where the lady of Carraig Brigh spent every afternoon, watching the sea for sails.
Moire gathered roses, cutting them with her crescent-shaped knife. The heavy blossoms drowsed in the afternoon sun and hummed with bees. The honey would be sweet this year, the midwife thought as she placed the flowers into her basket. In the meantime, she’d steep the rose petals with lavender for Fia, make a tea to help her sleep, to soothe headache and melancholy.
Fia rested in the shade, her expression tight, her face pale, and her hand on her belly, holding the troublesome child within. She scanned the empty sea again and sighed.
“He’s been late before,” Moire said.
“Yes. He won’t sail if there’s a storm, but there are other things, worse things, that could happen. I can’t help but worry,” Fia replied.
Moire knew the tale, had seen what the English had done to Dair Sinclair. He’d been broken, mad, scarred. The Sinclairs owed English John a tremendous debt for rescuing him from the hell of an English gaol. Just what English John had done to be sharing Dair’s cell had never been made clear. He kept himself to himself, and guarded the secrets of his past like a miser. She’d discovered for herself that he was kind, clever, and honorable, but not happy, not whole.
Moire looked at Gillian MacLeod, who sat holding Fia’s hand, lending her sister strength. There was another one who held her secrets close. But still waters often hid treasures under a placid surface. Moire suspected it was so with this lass, that she was deep and full despite her quiet nature.
Fia’s restless sigh rivaled the wind off the sea, and Gillian looked to Moire.
“Worry does the babe no good,” Moire said. She laid her hand on Fia’s belly. The child moved under her touch, and Moire smiled. “Och, she’ll be a strong lass, this one.”
“It feels different this time,” Fia said fretfully. “I wish Dair were here.”
“He’ll be home soon,” Gillian said soothingly. Fia squeezed her hand tight.
Moire looked at Gillian MacLeod. What did a maid know of such things as babies and longing for a man who was far away? What would she ever know, planning to wed a man three times her own age? Fia spoke of the match as if a husband older than her own father was a blessing for the shy lass. Moire suspected Gillian wasn’t truly happy. When others chattered happily of the wedding, Gillian MacLeod’s smile never quite reached her eyes.
Moire frowned at the girl. She was doing as others expected her to do, when she’d do better to follow her heart. Moire had a strong idea what—or who—Gillian’s heart yearned for. She’d caught the lass following English John in the dark when she was last here, and now she saw how Gillian blushed whenever John was near. She was sure it wasn’t from being shy or fearful of Sassenachs. Nay, there was yearning in her eyes, desire. It made Moire wonder if there was more to it, a part of the tale that she didn’t know.
Moire liked English John. He was a good man. Tira Fraser wasn’t the only Sinclair who found game and bread on the doorstep in times of need, or the only one daft enough to think it was fairy-given. They just didn’t want to believe the bounty came from a Sassenach.
But Moire knew. She’d seen John hunting rabbits and grouse in the wood at night, though he ate all his meals at the castle. Folk thought him a rogue and a seducer, but Moire knew at least half the tales of his dealings with women were false. He was chivalrous, gentle, and honorable—especially with women. He kept company with one or two widows from time to time, but far less often than folk believed. He was careful not to breed bastards or offer hope of a wedding. He trained hard with his sword, taught others, recognized each man’s talents and brought them out, gave them pride, but took no credit. And he played his flute, of course, and made flutes for the children in the spring when the willow was green and supple. In Moire’s opinion, English John deserved a good woman, a home, and bairns of his own.
It hadn’t escaped Moire’s notice that John had been different in the past months, quieter, more serious, restless. Elspeth had been seen keeping company with Allan Fraser.
Moire had considered slipping a tonic into English John’s cup, something to stimulate his desires—lovage, perhaps, or hawthorn, or damiana. But she’d seen something spark in him when Gillian MacLeod returned.
And the lass flared like a pine torch whenever John so much as passed by her.
Moire slipped up behind Gillian now. “English John,” she whispered in the lass’s ear. She hid a grin as Gillian jumped and blushed, and scanned the garden for the Englishman. Now who needed to peer into the goddess’s spring and beg for secret signs when it was so plain to see that the lass was smitten with John Erly? She suspected he was smitten with her, too. Och, but the goddess liked a challenge—or a bit of fun. The lass was betrothed elsewhere, and John didn’t dally with women who belonged to other men. She was leaving soon, too, and John was staying at Carraig Brigh.
Moire sent up a wish to the goddess, and silently promised to leave a gift at the spring when next she visited.
“The roses are sweeter, bigger, more fragrant this year,” Fia said, taking a blossom from Moire’s basket and holding it her nose. “They say they grow stronger when true love is in the air.” She smiled at Gillian. “I’ll send you cuttings, and you can plant them at Sir Douglas’s estate.”
“Thank you,” Gillian said simply.
“Do ye love him?” Moire asked Gillian.
The lass’s blush renewed itself. “I—oh. You mean Sir Douglas.”
Moire raised her eyebrows. “Who else could I mean?”
“I hold him in the highest possible regard. He’s a fine man, and very kind,” she said as if she were reciting a lesson.
“Kind?” Moire squinted at her. “Kind? Is he the kind who would kiss a lass senseless?”
Gillian MacLeod raised her eyes fast enough at that. Her blush rivaled the reddest, most passionate rose in the whole garden, and Moire knew it wasn’t for her elderly groom.
