Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

M ercy woke with a start, her eyes widening into saucers when she saw Cailean standing not a few feet away from her. She felt Rory move slightly behind her, and she squeaked and threw her head under the blankets in embarrassment.

“What is it?” she heard Rory ask sleepily.

“Can I go with ye today?” Cailean asked earnestly. His voice was muffled, as she was still under the blanket, but she heard him clearly enough.

“Go where?” Rory asked, yawning. “Wife, what are ye doing?”

“Hiding,” Mercy answered honestly from beneath the wool.

“Why?” Rory asked with amusement in his voice.

“Because Cailean is here,” she said, shutting her eyes. It was all extremely improper.

“Aye,” Rory said, and she was certain he was grinning, even though she couldn’t see his face. “Cailean, I do believe yer upsetting my fair wife’s delicate sensibilities, seeing her with her hair undone and all. Oof,” he grunted when she elbowed him in the stomach.

“It’s not my hair,” she said angrily, suffocating under the wool. “I’m, I’m…”

“She has not a single piece of clothing on her,” Rory explained soberly to Cailean.

“Well I figured as much, Rory, but I didn’t see anything, just her head,” Cailean returned, sounding slightly baffled by her behavior.

“It seems, brother,” Rory said leisurely, “that the women in the colonies prefer more privacy than they do in the Isles.” When Mercy could no longer stand the hot and shallow breaths she was forced to take under the blanket, she popped her head out into the cold morning air.

“We do,” she said sternly, keeping the blanket carefully about her neck, and Rory’s laugh rumbled through her naked body.

“Alright, Mrs. Miller,” he said with a grin.

“Cailean,” Mercy said, closing her eyes in aggravation. “Since you are here, standing on top of my clothes,” Cailean looked down and jumped when he realized his boots were on the skirts she’d left on the ground, “and I am with my husband in bed in quite a compromising state, why don’t you just call me Mercy.” At that, Rory let out a bark of laughter and Cailean smiled sheepishly.

“Yes, Mercy,” he said, trying not to laugh.

“Cailean,” Rory said when he’d regained his composure. “As my wife said, we are in our marriage bed with not a stitch on. While I enjoy yer company, I’d rather like for ye to be on yer way. What is it ye came to ask?”

“Oh,” Cailean said, “I want to go with ye today, to town. Amity said ye’ll be selling tobacco and goats and such at the market, and Rabbie said ye’ll be manning the tavern at night.”

“The market?” Rory asked, looking at Mercy.

“I forgot to tell you.” She shrugged in her cocoon.

“Miss Amity says there’s a whole day’s worth of celebration, and I…”

“Yes, Cailean,” Rory said, cutting him off. “Of course ye can come. I don’t know that we’ll be needing ye at the tavern, and I’ve only been promised pay for two men’s work, but…”

“Thank you, Rory,” Cailean said with obvious relief. “If I canna help ye man the tavern, then perhaps I can man the women. That is,” he said, tripping over his words, “man the Barnetts. Keep an eye over the Barnetts while ye man the tavern. Watch over the…”

“Cailean,” Rory said finally with a puff of air.

“Aye, Rory?”

“Go.”

“Manning the tavern?” Mercy asked after Cailean’s footsteps had faded away.

“The barkeep has promised to pay me and Rabbie to keep the men from getting too out of hand tonight,” Rory said, pulling her on top of him.

“I see,” Mercy said with uncertainty.

“What are these All Hallow’s Eve celebrations like, lass?” he asked, and she had a hard time finding words, any words, as he began to stroke her lower back.

“There’s, there’s a holiday market,” she managed, stretching like a cat as he moved his hands downward. “And candles,” she added.

“Candles?” he asked lazily, kneading her buttocks. Nothing had ever felt more luxurious.

“Yes,” she said breathily. “A bonfire, ghost stories.” Rory pulled his hands from her body and stretched. “The Catholics from Maryland Colony have moved into these parts,” she explained, the words coming more easily now that he wasn’t exploring her, “and brought with them those Irish traditions. I wonder if they are not so different from the Scots traditions,” she pondered.

“Sounds similar enough to our Samhain,” he said, nodding.

“I think my grandmother might have been Catholic,” she mused.

“Ye don’t know for sure?” Rory asked, his eyebrows raised.

“No,” Mercy said, resting her elbows on his chest and drawing circles on his throat with her forefinger. “She and my mother never spoke of their life before this mountain—before my father,” she said.

“Rabbie is Catholic,” Rory said, and Mercy looked at him expectantly.

“But not you or Cailean?” she asked, finally, wrinkling her brow.

“Nae, just Rabbie.”

“I thought all the Jacobites were Catholic.”

“Nae. The Macleods of Raasay are Protestant.”

“Alight,” she said, finally. “But how is Rabbie Catholic and you and…”

“Mercy,” Amity called gaily as she ran up to the makeshift bed.

“Oh, for the love of all that is holy,” Mercy exclaimed, rolling off Rory and pulling the blanket over her head again.

“Ye sound Catholic yerself,” Rory teased.

“I want to show you something,” Amity said excitedly. Mercy peeked out from under the wool. Amity’s hair was woven into a braid that flopped over her shoulder and her cheeks were pink.

“Now?” Mercy asked, exasperated.

“I have a surprise,” she said, grinning.

“Amity, you can’t just come here when we are…”

“Cailean got to talk to you,” she said defiantly, crossing her arms. “Why can’t I?”

Mercy let out a long breath. “What is the surprise?” she asked finally.

“Come see,” she said, “I’ll need help.” Mercy bit back a retort just as Amity skipped away.

“I think we must do as she says, lass,” Rory said, a smile on his lips.

“Must we?” Mercy asked, disappointed. His hard, warm body was exactly where she wanted it.

“Aye,” he said, and he dropped a kiss to her forehead.

After he and Mercy had dressed and poured water over their fire, they walked back to the farm, shyly holding hands. Rory was very glad indeed that his brothers couldn’t see the grin eating up his face. Her small hand, her slender fingers, they felt so right intertwined with his. He couldn’t help but puff up with a mixture of pride and pleasure. Surely his wife was the most beautiful woman in the Americas, perhaps the world. And, Rory thought with unconcealed delight, she was also kind, and smart, and powerful. He’d had no idea how much he would enjoy being with a powerful woman. Mercy rubbed her thumb over the top of his hand, a simple gesture that filled him with warmth.

Aye, she was everything a man could want or need. She was everything that he could want or need. She was...Rory stopped cold in his tracks, icy panic flooding his veins.

“What is it?” Mercy asked, concerned.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking his head. How will I leave her? The question sent his heart racing.

“Are you sure?” she asked, drawing closer. Her brown waves framed her face just so, and her lips, when turned into that adorable frown, did something awful to the organ in his chest.

“It’s nothing at all, lass,” he said, and made a show of straightening his waistcoat so that he’d have an excuse to drop her hand. Touching her was suddenly too much. He had been mad not to see how deep she’d burrowed into his heart. Going west was going to be like leaving his soul behind.

“Alright,” she said warily, then walked alongside him in silence. Rory’s stomach twisted when she began to hum quietly. This cannot happen, he thought violently, but it was getting harder to pretend that he hadn’t already fallen in love with her. He tried to draw his attention from her and found that he couldn’t. No, his mind shouted, but his heart wouldn’t listen. He’d never felt this way before, he realized with dread. He wasn’t tiring of her, and he wasn’t going to. No, his mind said again, though this time less loudly.

“Amity,” Mercy called when they reached the clearing.

“Here,” Amity called back from behind the chicken coop. Rory wiped the cold sweat off the back of his neck. “Come on,” she cried, barely able to contain her excitement.

Rory followed Mercy past the coop and through the trees on the other side of the cabin, his thoughts rolling like stormy seas, until they reached a clearing.

“Amity,” Mercy breathed, clearly in awe.

“What is it?” Rory asked, searching for the surprise.

“Pumpkins!” Amity pointed to several thick green vines on the ground.

“Pumpkins,” Rory repeated skeptically, but then his eyes went wide. “What are these?” he asked, crouching down. At his feet was a mammoth orange sphere, dimpled with pocks.

“Oh, Amity,” Mercy squealed, pulling Amity into a tight hug. “Where did you find the seed?”

“I stole money from Father last year.” Amity gave her a diabolical grin and Mercy laughed.

“I found another,” Cailean called in the distance. Rory hadn’t even noticed him. He was holding a pumpkin over his head in triumph, his shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms and a beaming smile on his face.

“How many are there?” Rory asked.

“That one makes twenty-two,” Amity said, and Mercy giggled in delight beside him.

“But how will we transport them?” Mercy asked.

“Oh,” Amity said, her eyes lighting up, “that’s the real surprise.” Just then, Rabbie appeared from behind a tree, dragging a small wagon filled with pumpkins behind him.

“Is that…” Mercy started to ask, and Rory saw her mouth drop open.

“The very same one,” Amity said. “I told Father someone had stolen it, since I knew it was only a matter of time before he sold it,” she explained to Rory.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Mercy asked, tilting her head.

“Had you ever needed it, I would have told you,” Amity reassured her. “How many shall we keep for ourselves?” she asked as Rory sliced through a stem with his knife and lifted the pumpkin he’d found. It was heavy. He pressed his nose against the skin and was surprised to find it had no smell.

“I should think five will be more than enough,” Mercy answered, clearly overwhelmed. “Oh, Amity, what a wonderful surprise. These will catch a fair amount at the market.”

Before they left for town, Mercy had Amity store the pumpkins they planned to keep in the barn while she made everyone a breakfast of eggs and potatoes. Rory scraped his plate clean and then was sent to the barn to change into clothes better suited for town. Mercy returned in her nicest purple skirts, Amity in her mantua gown, and the Macleods donned blue, green, and red waistcoats, respectively. Rory thought that Cailean, in scarlet silk and an expertly tied cravat, looked both dashing and devilish, what with his rakish scar. All three of them had shaved, and Rory drew his fingers over the smooth skin of his chin as he pondered how to make it through the day while his heart and mind were in a vicious war with each other.

“Are we all ready?” Amity asked, loading up the last of Mercy’s mint tobacco between the pumpkins in the wagon. Mercy went to the fence and untied the two goats she had chosen to sell and nodded.

The five of them made their way down the carriage road at a leisurely pace. Rory was glad that Mercy was walking arm in arm with Amity, as he wasn’t sure how he would react if she’d tried to stay beside him. He was in turmoil. If her nearness unnerved him, then her distance fractured him. He frowned as she laughed with Amity, wanting to join in her laughter. Wanting every part of her life to be a part of his. Knowing that it could not be. He rubbed the back of his head roughly and bit back a growl. Though he wanted her, he needed to get his brothers to safety. And that meant severing the bond between them.

“Let me take over,” he said, stealing the wagon from Rabbie. The women did not have the proper equipment to hitch the wagon to the horse, so the men volunteered to pull it.

“Will we make enough to build the mill?” Cailean asked Rory as he tugged on the goats’ leads.

“I don’t know,” Rory answered. “We’ll need axes, saws, spokeshaves, calipers, gimlets and augers…”

“I don’t even know what all those are,” Cailean said, clearly surprised that tools beyond hammers even existed. Rory sighed and peered over at Cailean.

“Had ye ever taken an interest in the Clachan mill, ye’d know, Cailean,” Rory said.

“We’ll need to find a stonemason,” Rabbie said quietly. Rory nodded reluctantly. Though he had been quite adept at mill repairs back in Raasay, he’d never had the knack for carving the actual millstones, two large circular slabs chiseled so that when they turned, they effectively cut the grain like scissors.

“I’ll ask Bell about the stonemason who cut the millstones in Frederick Town. Perhaps he knows of him,” Rory answered.

“It’ll be expensive,” Rabbie said, gazing up at the trees innocently.

“I know that,” Rory growled quietly. He glanced over at Mercy and Amity, who were walking ahead of them and out of earshot.

“Am I Cailean Miller now, Rory?” Cailean joked.

“In town ye are,” Rory answered.

“And what about in private?” Cailean pressed. Rory sighed, feeling his patience wearing thin.

“Ye can be whatever ye want in private Cailean.”

“So I could be…” he started to say, but Rabbie cut him off.

“Quiet,” he said. Rory knew that Rabbie had sensed his foul mood. He only hoped Rabbie couldn’t sense the reason for it.

“Don’t overturn those pumpkins, Rory Macleod,” Amity called sternly. She had turned and was looking at him with penetrating curiosity. Rory steadied his hands on the wagon and gave her an exasperated look.

“Miller,” he replied. “Practice now. We are all Millers now, barring you, little sister. I don’t want ye saying Macleod at all. Is that understood?” he asked, scanning all their faces. When his eyes met Mercy’s, he could see there was a twinge of concern. Surely she was wondering what had dampened his mood since this morning. The others nodded in agreement, and Rory was worried for a moment that Mercy would slow her pace to match his, but she looked forward and kept marching in front. Rory let out a sigh of relief. He needed time to think.

Though Rory was acting strangely, Mercy refused to let it spoil her mood. She was unaccountably pleased that Rory knew she could not have children, and did not think less of her for it. The marriage was temporary, and he surely did not want to leave her with child, but many men treated barren women as diseased. Unworthy. He could have easily been sickened by the thought and leapt from their bed. Instead, he’d stayed, wrapped her in his arms. Murmured her name in his sleep whenever she shifted against him. Pulled her back whenever she shifted away.

Besides, Amity’s excitement was contagious, and with her surprise bounty of pumpkins, they were bound to make enough money to last them for a month or two. Clever Amity , Mercy thought affectionately. Stealing from their father without him noticing must have been quite a feat. Before he died, the man had an uncanny talent with mathematics, even when he could barely walk.

“Look,” Amity said, pointing. “It’s already begun!”

The springs in town, though not as enchanting as Mercy’s own spring back on the mountain, were lovely pockets of water in smooth stone, but you could hardly see them for all the people removing their shoes to step into them. Closer to town, the men’s spring was a veritable circus, with limbs flailing, water splashing, and boys jostling. The women’s spring, which they were passing now, was a much more stately affair, with all the ladies taking pains to hide their ankles from the men a few yards away.

On the road just past the springs, there were nearly fifty souls milling about on the street in front of the Halfway House, an astounding number for this early in the morning. Several vendors had already staked out spots and had hung hand-painted signs from their wagons. Somewhere, someone was tuning a fiddle, and children ran through the throng with hoots of laughter. To the right, Mercy saw oiled saddles and boots, buttery-soft satchels and gloves at a leatherworker’s stall. On her left, stacks of paper and finely made quills were displayed next to jars of walnut ink.

“Where shall we set up, Mercy?” Amity asked, dodging a group of well-dressed matrons.

“Down there,” Mercy said, pointing at a small empty spot nestled between a wagon filled with linens and another selling bowls, plates, and utensils carved from bone. She led the four of them through the crowd and set about displaying their wares. The pumpkins, of course, stayed in the wagon, as they surely wouldn’t go unnoticed, but she stacked her jars of mint tobacco and other herbs in small towers in front of the wagon wheels, and the goat cheese was placed on top like small turrets.

“Where do ye want Angus and Mordecai?” Cailean asked, motioning towards the goats.

“Cailean dear, I don’t think you should have named them,” Mercy was saying as Rory started rumbling with laughter. Even Rabbie was grinning from ear to ear. “It will make it harder to part with them,” Mercy added while she looked at Rory questioningly.

“Ah, don’t worry about that, lass,” Rory said. “Angus here,” Rory said, pointing to the fatter of the goats, “was surely named for our cousin, who really was a terrible honeypot.” Cailean snickered.

“And Mordecai?” Mercy asked, hands on her hips as if dealing with naughty children.

“That one’s a long story,” Rory said, slapping Cailean on the shoulder. “One best told over a bottle or two of whiskey.”

After Amity had shooed the three Scots away to explore the rest of the stalls—and more importantly not scare off any patrons—they sold fifteen pumpkins, ten jars of mint tobacco, and Mordecai, in just under three hours.

“Goodbye, Mordecai,” Amity called after an elderly couple led him away. “They assured me they needed him for breeding,” she said, turning to Mercy. “I hope Cailean won’t be too disappointed that he won’t meet a grisly end.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t tell him,” Mercy said conspiratorially, and Amity laughed.

“Oh, I do like you this way, Mercy,” she said, grabbing her hand affectionately.

“What way?” Mercy asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Happy,” Amity said, smiling dreamily.

“Oh, you,” Mercy said, exasperated, but she couldn’t help but smile back.

“What are ye two lasses on about?” Rory asked, and Mercy turned and met his eyes as he approached. Those eyes, black as night, were filled with emotion, but Mercy hadn’t the faintest idea which one.

“Nothing, Mr. Miller,” Mercy said innocently, her eyes crinkling, and his face softened immediately.

“Are ye sure, Mrs. Miller?” he asked quietly, coming around the wagon to stand close to her.

“Aye,” Mercy said, mocking him. It was midday now, and she slapped a hand to her stomach as it rumbled, embarrassed. Rory, noticing, handed her a loaf of bread.

“Shall we steal a bit of cheese from Mrs. Miller’s wares, Amity, and split this meal among us?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Amity said, opening a muslin cloth and holding out the goat cheese. Cailean and Rabbie appeared behind Rory and accepted their shares with thanks. Just as Mercy bit into some bread, old Mr. Bell shouted out and waved.

“Ho, if it isn’t my favorite Scots,” he exclaimed, stopping before the wagon and admiring the pumpkins.

“Mr. Bell,” Rory said, rising, dusting his hand off on his breeches before extending it.

“Rory,” he said, grinning, the white wisps of his eyebrows raising in pleasure as they shook hands. “And Rabbie, I see,” he said with a nod, then stopping abruptly when he spotted Mercy. “Why, Miss Barnett,” he said, pulling his straw hat from his head and holding it to his chest. “It is so very good to see you out and about.” He bowed, but she was not surprised. He had always been kind to her.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Bell,” Mercy responded awkwardly, and before she could say anything else, Rory had taken her by the waist.

“I don’t think I mentioned, Mr. Bell, that I am newly married,” he said.

“To our Mercy Barnett?” he asked, his eyes widening in understanding. “I never!”

“May I introduce Mrs. Rory Miller,” Rory said, glancing down at Mercy with an affectionate smile.

“Mrs. Miller,” Mr. Bell said, taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “Excuse me, but I am overwhelmed with joy,” he said, clearly taken aback. “One day, I meet this giant Highlander, a man sent to me by God, I am sure, and the next I am told that he has married the most sensible woman in all our backcountry!” Mercy laughed nervously, though she couldn’t help but be pleased at his compliment. Mr. Bell had never treated her family poorly, ever since she and Granny had successfully treated his brother for dropsy.

“I would say I’m disappointed that I haven’t seen you lately, Mr. Bell,” Mercy said finally, “but most people visit when they are ill, and I am very glad that you are not.”

“Sensible,” he repeated, nodding approvingly. She smiled when waves of relief washed over her. Perhaps conversation wasn’t so very complicated after all.

“Have you a stall, Mr. Bell?” Amity asked. Mercy wasn’t sure if Mr. Bell had ever met Amity or not, but he took no offense at her familiar way.

“I do,” he said, then his eyes grew dark. “Had the God forsaken wagon drivers returned my grains in time, I’d be selling quite a lot more, but as it is, I am merely selling cider.”

“Mr. Bell,” Rory said then, taking his hand away from Mercy’s hip, “I think you and I should speak privately.” Mr. Bell lit up at the prospect and leaned his head towards Rory’s as they walked away into the crowd. Mercy, however, felt strangely hollow when he left, as if he’d sucked all the warmth from around her. Her waist was cold where his hand had been.

The rest of the day was spent in a serene blur of haggling, firm handshakes, exchanged coins, and laughter. When a young couple came to buy Angus, Cailean made sure they meant to slaughter him at once, which amused the sisters to no end. Though Rory had been gone for some time, the other Macleods were never far from the stall. They had made a point of not hovering after Amity had accused Cailean of frightening Old Mrs. Porter. Amity had told him that he was both too pretty and too dangerous looking, and none of the women would buy from them while he was there. Cailean had taken much delight in the scolding and had promised to stay at least a few yards away.

Twilight descended over the merriment, and the merchants began packing up their stalls. Mercy chewed on her lip, feeling completely discomposed after being without Rory for so long. She picked at the skin on her fingers, knowing that she would have to let him go eventually, but for now, until the first thaw of spring, she would let herself feel whatever attachment she wanted to.

“Amity, dear,” Rose Clintock called, gliding up the aisle. She was wearing a fine, gray silk gown and a fur about her neck. Mercy straightened her shoulders and pulled her mother’s old blue shawl tighter across her chest, acutely aware of her station in life. “Mercy, my friend.” Beside her, Theo was in all blue, no less arresting. Her skin was slightly sallow, though, and Mercy yearned to speak with her, know everything there was to know about her ailment so that she could find a way to help her. Theo, however, was a gentleman’s daughter, and Rose had told her that they had a doctor visit regularly. It would be completely inappropriate for Mercy to offer her services, and she knew it.

“Rose,” Amity said, taking her in her arms in a tight hug. “Theo,” she said, leaning back and gently grasping Theo’s hands in hers.

“My, have you done well or did you have nothing to sell?” Rose asked, looking over the paltry wagon.

“They’ve done well,” Cailean growled. Mercy nearly jumped from her skin, not having noticed him return to the wagon. She watched with interest as Rose’s eyes narrowed, clearly annoyed by his tone.

“Ah,” she said coolly, “the convalescent. I am so glad you are up and about,” she said, but it sounded to Mercy as if she really wasn’t. Cailean muttered some violent sounding Gaelic words loud enough for Rose to hear and Mercy was completely intrigued. Though Rose was a sheltered and perhaps spoiled young woman, really a girl, at nineteen, she was rarely cruel on purpose. Cailean, too, was an uncommonly kind man.

“We’ve only one pumpkin left, Rose,” Amity said proudly.

“Oh, let’s do buy it,” Theo said softly, running her fingers over the orange flesh.

“You have no need for a pumpkin,” their companion said severely, coming between them. Mercy had only met the companion, Clara, once, and it had been abundantly clear that though she harbored no true ill will towards the Barnetts, she would never allow them in the Clintock parlor.

“Of course we do,” Rose snapped petulantly. “Amity, dear,” she said, her voice once again as honey-like as her hair, “we would like to buy a pumpkin.” Amity grinned and accepted the coin while Mercy pulled the last gourd from the wagon. “I would ask a gentleman to carry it for me to the bonfire,” Rose said airily, “but seeing as there are none about, I will carry it myself.” At this, Cailean clenched his fists. “I hope you two will find us at the bonfire,” she said to the sisters earnestly, and then the three women left to walk through the crowd towards the Halfway House, Clara scolding Rose all the way.

“It’s time for me to be off,” Rabbie said quietly when he appeared from the shadows. “Rory and I will be at the tavern, should ye need us.” Mercy nodded and handed him the last jar of mint tobacco.

“A peace offering, or a bribe, should you need either in there,” Mercy said, smiling. She knew very well how the Halfway House patrons could get.

“Thank you,” he said, staring down at the jar as if bewildered. “Sensible,” he said finally, meeting her eyes and surprising her with a half-smile. “Cailean,” he said, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Rory says ye must stay and…”

“Aye,” Cailean said, “Of course. Man the women,” he said, and Mercy stifled a laugh. “Shall we?” he asked, placing Mercy’s hand through the crook of his arm after Rabbie had disappeared in the crowd. He held out his other for Amity, who happily linked her arm in his and held her head up high.

“We shall,” she proclaimed loudly, and the three of them left the wagon well hidden amongst all the others on the road.