Men of Midnight Complete Collection Page 4

  She stopped a short distance from April and waited. Once she had been a fanciful child herself. She knew that April needed a moment to absorb this new and better explanation for what had appeared to be a dozen slaughtered—and flattened—sheep.

  “They’re not dead?” April asked at last.

  “Och no, no’ dead at all. The sheep are busy growing more wool right over there.”

  “Why are their coats on the grass?”

  “I’m letting the sun soften them. Come here and feel one.”

  April moved slowly toward her. Several feet away she stopped; then she stretched out her hand. She rubbed her fingertips over the fleece,and her eyes grew wider. “It feels funny.”

  “When I’m done with it, it will feel wonderful, all soft and cuddly, like a wee bittie lamb.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  “Well, right now, I’m teasing the wool.”

  “Like my daddy teases me?”

  Mara couldn’t imagine Duncan Sinclair teasing anyone. It had been weeks since he had confronted her at Cameron’s, weeks during which she had relived those short minutes in her mind and gotten angrier in the process.

  She had known men like Duncan before. Her former husband, Robert Fitzwilliams, was one of them. Robbie had known what was best for everyone, too. Like Duncan, he was a physically appealing man, a man who would catch a woman’s eye, then imprison her in a web of his own conceit and self-righteousness. She had learned more from Robbie than he would ever know. Most of all, she had learned to see him in others.

  She put her arm around April’s shoulders and guided her toward the house. “You can help me with the wool, if you’d like,” she said. “But first you have to tell me if anyone knows you’re here.”

  April was silent. It was answer enough.

  “Will they no’ worry?” Mara asked.

  “No. Jessie thinks I went home after school.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “I came on the bus to the end of the road with Lolly. And I made her promise not to tell anybody.”

  “Your father will be worried, will he no’?”

  “He thinks I’m at Jessie’s. He wrote me a note for the bus.” April looked troubled. The complex strategy had obviously taken its toll. Mara guessed that April seldom disobeyed her father.

  “You must have wanted to come here very badly.” Mara stroked a lock of April’s hair.

  “Daddy…”

  Mara knew what April wanted to say. “I know. He’d rather you did no’ visit me. But surely you can understand why. I’m a stranger to him, am I no’?”

  “Daddy says there’s no such thing as fairies.”

  “Well, perhaps he’s right.”

  “But you heard them singing!”

  “I’m very fond of fairy tales. Perhaps I only want to hear them.” They reached the bench where Mara had been sitting.

  “I want to hear them, too.”

  “Perhaps you will one day.” Mara sat, and April joined her. Mara snapped her fingers, and Guiser, all wags and lolling tongue, lavished canine affection on April.

  She hugged him like a favored teddy bear. “May I tease some wool?”

  Mara gazed into April’s pleading gray eyes and knew she couldn’t refuse her. “Aye, you may. But then we’re going to have to take you back to Mrs. Gunn’s house, are we no’? We can no’ have anyone worrying about you.”

  “I’ll just stay a little while.”

  For the first time in two years Mara wished she had a telephone. But her cottage lacked everything that most people considered conveniences. There were neighbors closer than the Gunns, but their houses were still a good distance away. There was no easy way to let anyone know where April was.

  She picked up a lock of wool. “A sheep’s fleece can get matted and creeshie when it’s covering the sheep.”

  “What’s creeshie?”

  “Greasy, like your hair or mine if we did no’ wash it. So after it’s sheared, I set the fleece in the sun. The grease warms and makes the wool soft. Then I can take the longest fibers, like these, and tease them apart with my fingers. If they’re no’ too tangled, I can spin them without carding them.”

  “What’s carding?”

  Mara picked up two wire brushes on the ground beside the bench and turned them over. “You put the wool on these and rub them back and forth. Like this.” She demonstrated. “The brushes straighten the wool and blend it. But I like to tease the best part without carding it, because after I’ve spun it, it takes dye in a bonny way.”

  “What will this be?” April took the wool from Mara’s hands.

  “That’s the best part. I dinna know. Someone will buy it when I’ve spun it into yarn, and use it for weaving or knitting, whatever their imagination tells them it should be.”

  She demonstrated how to tease the wool, taking another lock in her left hand and separating the fibers. Then she helped April do the same with hers. The sun was warm, and the little girl was fascinated by the new task. Minutes slipped by. “You have perfect fingers for this, nimble and strong,” Mara said at last. “Look how even your fibers are.”

  April glowed at the compliment. Mara knew that expression. For this brief moment, the child believed in herself. It made the moments that had come before and those that would come after seem more poignant.

  “Would you like to try more?” Mara asked.

  “Can I?”

  They worked in silence for a while. April showed no signs of tiring, although Mara watched her carefully to be sure. Skylarks wheeled and sang overhead in accompaniment to the hum of the occasional car on the road below. Dragonflies flitted from shadow to shadow.

  Even though she knew it was time to take April back, Mara bent over to get more wool. The little girl’s company made the afternoon perfect, and she was reluctant to see it end. She was searching for one last easy clump to guarantee April’s success when Guiser began to bark. She knew whom she would see if she straightened. She supposed his arrival had been inevitable, despite all April’s scheming.

  “Quiet, Guiser.” Mara sat up. She noticed for the first time that dark shadows had cut across the sunlit expanse of daffodils. Even the baby lambs seemed chastened as they huddled closer to their mothers.

  “April.” Duncan stood at the end of the path that led down to the road.

  Duncan’s arms, encased in a dark blue jacket, were crossed over his chest. The sunlight glinted against his brown hair but ignited no sparks of gold or red. If there were hidden depths, sensitivities or emotions inside Duncan Sinclair, there were no signs of them now. His striking face, with its dark brows and shadowed eyes, was expressionless.

  April moved closer to Mara, as if for support. But Mara knew better than to come between father and daughter. “I think it’s time you were on your way, April,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  April stood. Mara watched Duncan closely. She couldn’t keep him from taking April home, but neither would she allow him to mistreat his daughter. April lacked the natural confidence and spontaneity of most children her age, and Mara was afraid she was about to witness the reason for it.

  But Duncan surprised her as April approached him. He squatted so his eyes were level with the little girl’s, and he didn’t raise his voice. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Springtime?”

  She hung her head. “I wanted to see Mara.”

  “There are people who worry about you, me at the very top of the list. Didn’t you realize I’d be worried if you weren’t where you were supposed to be?”

  “But I fixed it so nobody would worry!”

  He lifted her chin with a gentle hand. “I’m afraid you didn’t.”

  April looked down at the ground again. Duncan gently cradled her chin in his hand and lifted it again. “I called Jessie to see if you’d gotten there yet, and she told me you hadn’t come home with Lolly. You never thought I might call her, did you?”

  April shook her head.

  “Haven’t I told yo
u that I always check to be sure you’re safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I mean it. That’s my job, and I’m very good at it. I’m going to be sure that nothing ever happens to you.”

  “I just wanted to see Mara.”

  “Next time, you have to tell me.”

  “But you’ll say no!”

  Duncan looked up, and Mara met his eyes. She lifted a brow in question. He lowered his gaze to April again. “Whatever I say, you still have to tell me. I have to know where you are.”

  April began to cry. Duncan pulled her closer and held her in his arms. “Now look, I parked the car on the road. I want you to go down there and wait while I talk to Mara.”

  Mara rose. “Guiser will go with you to keep you company,” she said. “He needs a good walk, anyway. Will you take him for me?”

  April, tears still running down her cheeks, nodded. She broke away from Duncan and started down the path. Mara signaled, and Guiser followed in pursuit.

  The shadows seemed to lengthen as Duncan and Mara stared at each other.

  “Well, I’ll give you this,” he said finally, when the sound of April’s footsteps had died away. “You meant what you said at Cameron’s.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That if April ever found her way here again, you wouldn’t do a thing to be sure she got back home.”

  She knew it was useless to defend herself. He wouldn’t believe she had intended to take April back to the Gunns. “Aye, I suppose I did say that.”

  “That’s pretty irresponsible, don’t you think? Did it occur to you that I might be worried sick?”

  “No. But it did occur to me that if you found out she’d been here, your ego would take a terrible beating.”

  “My ego?”

  “It can be very threatening, can it no’, when a child takes it into her head to do what she wants? April defied you, and I’m guessing you’re no’ a man who likes defiance.”

  “You think that’s what this is about?”

  She watched him, and she saw what she had refused to see at first. She sighed. “No. That’s no’ all it’s about, I suppose. You were worried. I’m sorry.”

  “You obviously don’t have children.”

  “No. But I understand them, and I understand that your April finds something here that she’s no’ getting anywhere else.”

  “And what might that be?”

  She knew better than to provoke an argument. She shook her head.

  “I give April everything she needs. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

  Mara wondered what Duncan’s face would look like if he smiled. It would still be a strong face, a face defined by bold, uncompromising angles. But his mouth fascinated her. It was a grim slash that just hinted at the possibility of transformation.

  “Then let her come to see me,” Mara said. “If there’s nowt you will no’ do for her, let her come here sometimes. She needs it enough to defy you. Let her take what she needs. I will no’ hurt her.”

  He looked beyond her to the cottage that was her pride. “I don’t know you or anything about you, except the little I’ve heard in the village.” His eyes flicked back and condemned her.

  “And the way I live is hardly a recommendation, is it?” She lifted her chin. “I gather you’re no’ a man with simple tastes, Duncan Sinclair.”

  “Your name provokes a strange reaction whenever I hear it mentioned. Why is that?”

  “What kind of reaction?”

  “Something close to fear. You told me yourself that half the people in Druidheachd think you’re a witch.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Yet you think I should turn my daughter over to you.”

  “You told me yourself, you’re no’ a man who believes in the supernatural.”

  There was a commotion on the road below. Duncan whirled, as if he expected to find April in trouble. But it wasn’t April who was approaching. A white-haired woman was coming toward them. Mara recognized her closest neighbor, Marjory Grant, at once, just as she recognized the feelings that assailed her. She felt for the bench behind her and sat. Her hands began to tremble. Somewhere in the distance, Guiser began to howl.

  “Mara MacTavish, I’m wanting to speak to ye,” the woman said when she was close enough to be heard. “And I will no’ be put off. Do ye ken?” She stopped several yards from Duncan and stared at him.

  Duncan stared back.

  “Ye look like yer father,” the woman said.

  Duncan nodded and remained silent.

  The woman faced Mara. “I’ve come for the truth. I’ll have nowt but. I want to know about my Fergus.”

  “Please go home, Mrs. Grant. There’s nowt I can tell you.”

  “Last week he was peely wally, so I put him to bed thinking that would take care of it.”

  “Mrs. Grant, there’s nowt I can do for you.”

  “Then last night he took a turn for the waur. The doctor says he’s fair ill, and they want to remove him to Glasgow.”

  “I’m sorry, I truly am, but I can no’ do a thing to help you except look after your sheep till you get back.”

  “Ye can tell me what I’m facing! And some in this glen say ye can even cure Fergus—if ye’ve a mind to!”

  “Those who say that have no idea what I can or can no’ do.” Mara stood, although her legs felt as weak as a newborn lamb’s. “I can no’ cure your Fergus, Marjory. I’m no’ a doctor.”

  Marjory’s hand, spotted and gnarled by age, swept the air, gesturing to the land behind Mara’s cottage. “I’ve seen yer garden. What grows in that patch of earth? No tatties, no kail. Yet, for a’ that, ye tend it like a mother tends her weans. What is it ye do with the plants ye grow if ye dinna use them to heal?”

  “Come back later in the spring and I’ll show you potatoes and cabbages. But I also make dyes from what I grow. You’ve seen me dying yarn yourself, out here under the trees. And I grow herbs and flowers for sachets to sell in the stores in Inverness and Fort William. I grow none for healing.”

  “My Fergus is dying!”

  Mara swallowed tears. Marjory Grant and Fergus, her son, had not welcomed her to Bein Domhain. Jessie and Roger Gunn and Roger’s mother Frances had extended friendship immediately, and some of the other residents along the mountain road had been gracious, if cautious, but Marjory had been suspicious and antagonistic from the beginning. Still, that hardly mattered now. She was suffering, and Mara knew what it meant to suffer.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You’ve no idea how sorry I am.”

  “Then he is dying.” Marjory moved closer. “And yer sorry because ye can see it. It’s just as everyone says. Ye can see the future, and ye can see that my Fergus will no’ survive this.” She moved closer again, her eyes narrowing. “Tell me what ye see. I have to know! Tell me or I do no’ know what I’ll do!”

  Mara felt the woman’s approach as clearly as she saw it. There was almost a malevolence about Marjory’s determination to know the future. She had moved beyond grief to some place more frightening. She would sell her soul to save Fergus. She would challenge the devil.

  “Mrs. Grant!” Duncan stepped in front of the old woman. “No one can see the future, no matter how much they might want to. Any stories you’ve heard about Mara are just that—stories.”

  Marjory Grant swayed, as if she were balanced on the edge of a chasm no one else could see. Duncan steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “I have to know,” she said. But the threat had gone from her voice.

  “I wish I could help.” Duncan dropped his hand. “I know Fergus from the pub. He’s a fine man. I’m sorry he’s ill.”

  “No one will tell me anything.”

  Duncan shook his head sympathetically. Mara witnessed the transformation she had only imagined before. His face softened, and his eyes warmed. For a moment he seemed capable of a full range of human emotion. “Maybe I can help you there,” he said. “I know Dr. Sutherland well. He delivered me.”r />
  “Aye. Yer one of the wee laddies of midnight.”

  “Shall we talk to him together? I’ll go in with you, and I’ll be sure he answers all your questions. I’ll drive you in now, if you’d like. We’ll go to his house if we have to.”

  Mrs. Grant seemed to crumble. “Ye’d do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can no’ go now. But they told me I could see Fergus after tea this evening. Ye’d go with me then?”

  “I’ll meet you at the cottage hospital at half past six.”

  “The doctor will listen to you.”

  Duncan smiled warmly. “I’ll make sure he does.”

  She didn’t smile back, but she looked as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She turned to Mara. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll remember that ye would no’ help me when I needed it. And I’ve rowan growing beside my fence. Remember that if ye come to call.”

  “I’ll pray for Fergus,” Mara said. “And for you.”

  The old woman sniffed. “Does God listen to the prayers of the likes of ye, Mara MacTavish?” She turned without waiting for an answer and started down the path to the road.

  Mara felt the bench against her legs and sat. She put her head in her hands. She didn’t know how much time passed before she felt a warm presence beside her. In the wake of Marjory Grant’s words she had almost forgotten that Duncan was still there.

  “Rowan?” he asked.

  “Dinna you know? Rowan keeps away witches. I’m surprised she does no’ wear a cross of it when she visits me.”

  “She’s an old woman, and she’s very upset,” he said quietly. “Don’t let her get to you.”

  She opened her eyes and found him sitting beside her. His leg was stretched along the length of hers. She could feel his warmth through her wool skirt, sense the complex essence of the man in the air that surrounded them. His presence seemed both an invasion and a peace treaty.

  “I guess I hadn’t given much thought to what it must feel like to be branded a witch in a place like Druidheachd. In California, where I’m from, it would be pretty ho-hum. There’s probably a coven on every block.”

  She didn’t know what to say.