Twenty-eight

Perhaps if Michael had a better horse, he could have accomplished the ride to Darnalay in the half day the countess had described. But the old mare from the stables at Glenoch was not to be rushed.

They plodded down the road to Inverness, into the glen, past the burnt-out houses and great flocks of sheep until they came to the smattering of farms on the riverbank that he now knew were part of the Banton estate—or, used to be.

From there he asked directions, grateful for both his change in appearance and the distance he'd kept from the tenants in his brief time as laird here. He got plenty of curious looks, but no one seemed to recognize him for the man who had come so close to evicting them eight years before.

As he rode through the fields of rippling oats and hay, past the tidy cottages that were nearly hidden by the gardens surrounding them, he wondered how on earth he could have ever seen this land as a wasteland, needing improvement of any kind.

He swerved to avoid a flock of fat hens scratching in the dirt, and the sound of children's laughter floated on the breeze.

This was Eden. And he'd almost destroyed it.

Looking out over that lush landscape, for the first time in his life he was glad of what had transpired. Glad that Sommerbell had found the letter and held the secret of it through all those days in the dungeon. Glad, even, that Michael himself had been caught. His years in New South Wales had been nothing compared to the misery that might have transpired if he had succeeded in his plans here.

The sun was well past its zenith when he finally made it to the village of Darnalay. Here, he had no doubt he could be recognized so he pulled down his hat and rode through without stopping. It wasn't until he came to the stone bridge—that same bridge where Sommerbell had hidden the letter, and where Michael had confronted his cousins for the last time—that he allowed himself to breathe.

It felt unreal somehow, this place. So familiar, yet entirely altered. Probably, it was the same, and it was Michael who had changed.

He rounded the bend, and the castle came into view.

It looked exactly as it had when he'd first arrived after his uncle's death, and before he'd allowed everything to fall into disrepair. A bright red flag flew high over the tower, stretching and snapping in the breeze. Below it, the grand stone facade shone golden in the afternoon light, surrounded by sprawling orchards dappled with shadow. Towering trees flanked the drawbridge, and the portcullis was raised, opening up a view into the courtyard where two large urns overflowed with flowers.

Above the clopping of his horse's feet, the piercing, gleeful shriek of a child sounded. A lad appeared in the archway—a little boy of six or seven—dashing in and out of sight from one courtyard to the next. His small hands reached for a dog that was darting ahead of him.

"James. Come back!" An older girl, almost a woman, followed close in pursuit, her blonde braids streaming behind her.

Neither of them noticed him.

It wasn't cold. The sun was shining on his back. Still, Michael shivered.

He started to dismount, but before his foot touched the ground, the same dog—a squat, fat bulldog with an ugly, scarred face—galloped over the drawbridge, its tongue lolling. Clearly, it was enjoying the chase. The children followed hard on its heels.

Halfway over the bridge, the dog seemed to register the man and horse. Its errant path gained purpose, and it stiffened and ran straight at them, barking wildly. Michael's horse shied. He took his seat again, fighting to hold the mare steady.

As soon as he noticed Michael, the little boy scampered back into the castle, but the girl forged on, darting forward to grab hold of the bully. "I'm sorry, sir," she called to Michael. "He's a good boy, just not used to strangers."

A footman emerged, passing by the girl as she dragged the dog back into the courtyard. "G'day Miss Rose." He smiled with evident amusement. Then he bowed to Michael and flashed an unaffected grin. "G'day sir. May I be of help?"

Michael stared at him. He could still change his mind.

No.

He swung down from his horse, handed the man the reins, forced the air into his lungs, then spoke. "I am here to see the earl."

"And who should I say is callin'?"

There was a buzzing in Michael's ears, his feet felt unsteady all of a sudden, as if the ground were shifting beneath him. "I'm Michael Dunn. His cousin."

The servant's eyes widened. Obviously, he'd heard the story of Michael Dunn. "H-his cousin, ye say?" His eyes darted back the way he'd come, but he made no move to lead Michael there.

"Yes."

"I—" Clearly, the man wasn't sure if he should allow Michael entry. And for good reason.

"Please." Michael put his hands up, trying hard to sound as harmless as he could. "You can tell him I come bearing no ill will."

The servant's wary gaze skipped from Michael to Michael's horse "Very well, sir." Then he shouted toward the stables. "Niall, there's a—"

Before he could finish, a stable boy appeared. Niall, evidently. He took the mare's reins and began to lead her away. The footman followed the lad for a few paces before leaning in and murmuring something in his ear. The boy's eyes flew to Michael. They exchanged a few more words. Then the boy nodded and continued on his way.

The footman returned. The open friendliness of his greeting had vanished, replaced by a suspicious sense of responsibility. "Follow me, sir."

They went over the wooden drawbridge, under the portcullis, then down the steps and through the courtyard. Michael barely recognized the place. It looked so different from the barren, cold fortress he had briefly been master of. There were flowers everywhere, and wooden benches lined the stone walls. One had a shawl draped across it, an open book carelessly left behind on the seat.

They came to the thick, wooden door that led into the castle itself. This door had not changed. It was the same red cedar with the same black iron hinges, the same handle, and the same lantern hanging above. The thick buzzing in Michael's ears returned, and his knees threatened to give way. He almost stumbled as he crossed the threshold. But somehow he forced himself to walk, as if his body were made of wood and he, its puppeteer.

The great room, too, was as Michael remembered. High ceilings, fine furniture. A huge hearth towered at one end, and portraits of the family lined the walls. It was clean, much cleaner than Michael had ever kept it, and it held an air of peace. A room well loved.

The door behind them opened. Michael held his breath, but it wasn't Cameron who came through. This man had black hair, not ginger like his cousin. He strode toward him, and Michael met his glowering stare. He knew who this was. It was the stablemaster, one of the servants who had helped his cousins on that fateful night.

What was his name? Damn. He couldn't remember.

The man stared at Michael for a long time. Then he nodded to the footman. "Wait here. I'll tell ‘im." He turned and strode toward the stairs that led deeper into the castle. Just before the dark-haired man disappeared from view, he turned, once again addressing the servant. "Search ‘im, will ye?"

Then he was gone.

The footman awkwardly crossed to Michael and proceeded to follow the stablemaster's orders. His hands shook during the task, but he did a thorough job—as good as any guard in New South Wales—first patting Michael down, then examining his coat and shaking out his boots. He even looked inside Michael's hat. When no weapons were forthcoming, they began their wait.

Michael stood. The footman stood. They didn't say anything, didn't look at each other. There wasn't even a clock to break the silence. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the windows. The shadows lengthened.

Finally, the stablemaster returned. He addressed the footman first. "You searched ‘im?"

"Aye, sir," the servant answered. "There's nothin' on ‘im."

The stable master's eyes settled on Michael. "He'll see you." His expression was hard as granite. He turned to the footman. "He's in the library."

If the wait in the great room had felt endless, then it had been a mercy, because the walk to the library seemed far too short. It was as if each step were a beat of the drum leading to Michael's execution. He was guilty. A man already condemned.

They reached the top of the stairs, and the panic flared. This was a fool's errand. Why had he come?

He froze. Every impulse urged him to turn around. To flee.

In the shadow of the corridor ahead, Caitlin's face appeared, beckoning him. Warm sunlight and fields of ripe wheat reflected in her eyes, her lips red with raspberries, sweet with honey . . .

Somehow, inexplicably, the magpie's lilting song echoed off the stone. It cut through the roar in his ears and urged him on.

For her. For them.

Then they turned a corner, and another door loomed. The footman opened it and stepped inside. "Mr. Michael Dunn," he announced.

The buzzing in Michael's head rushed back to the fore. It was deafening now, his heartbeat pounding through him so hard he shook with it. Slowly, he forced one foot forward, then another.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. Wood smoke and old books. One inhalation, and the memories came crashing down . . . This was the room where he'd planned the cruel-hearted improvements to the estate. The room where he'd argued with Sommerbell and given in to the mad urge to send the man tumbling into the pit. The room where he'd sat, frozen in place as his victim's horrible screams filtered up through the floor. And where he'd ogled his own cousin, only feigning kindness because he imagined himself in her bed . . . This room had seen him at his most vile, his most evil. And now he was back—

"Thank you, Gregor." A voice jolted Michael from his daze. Cameron—it was unmistakably Cameron as he looked just like his father—was sitting behind the great desk, his chin resting on steepled fingers. He gazed at Michael with an unreadable expression, and Michael stared back. He'd rehearsed this conversation, over and over on the way, but now, standing here, the words he'd planned seemed absurd. Meaningless. How had this seemed like a good idea?

The door snicked shut.

He swallowed. Absurd or not, they were the only words he had.

"I—I came to apologize." It was his own voice, but he heard it from a distance, barely audible over the roaring in his head. "I should have sooner, but I—" He swayed slightly, then caught himself and continued, "I have no excuse. I am so very, very sorry." The words shook as they left his mouth and hung in the air, empty and pathetic. "I was unconscionably cruel to you and your sister both." He hesitated. "And to—to Sommerbell—" His voice cracked, and before he could stop it, a shuddering sob escaped his lips. His body convulsed, and he reached up to cover his eyes, pressing hard to stop the tears.

When he dared to let his hand drop, he found Cameron staring at him. His cousin opened his mouth, closed it again, then chuckled mirthlessly under his breath. "I wasna prepared for this." He looked past Michael, out of the window at the gathering dusk. "You're right. What you did all those years ago . . . ‘Twas cruel beyond anything." His brown eyes focused on Michael. "I dinna so much blame you for my part. Your father drilled it into you that you were to be the earl, I suppose. And fathers—well, they have an effect on one, dinna they? In truth, I had no wish for the title." He shrugged. "But what you did to Sommerbell"— he shook his head, his tone grinding into anger—"and what you almost did to the tenants. ‘Twas—"

"Unconscionable," Michael repeated. "I know. I've regretted it every day since."

"It was unforgivable ," Cameron corrected him. He glared at Michael, and when he spoke again, the words were slow and labored, as if it took a great deal of effort to get them out. "I dinna ken if you fully understand. What you did to Sommerbell . . . It's taken years for him to recover. I dinna ken if he ever truly will. He still can't abide small rooms, you know, or closed carriages."

Unforgivable . The word ricocheted off the inside of Michael's skull.

Cameron's eyes narrowed, and his voice rose. "What do you want me to say to you, cousin?" He shrugged. "I dinna wish you ill. You've served your time. But I canna sit here and tell you all is well. That everything's forgiven. I canna. It's simply not true."

There was a long silence as Michael struggled to think, to find the right thing to say next. But everywhere he looked there was just one word, looming, blocking his path.

Unforgivable .

Surely, there was more he could say. Something to convince Cameron, to show him just how much he'd suffered. How sorry he was.

Unforgivable .

What did it matter how sorry he was? What difference did it make? It wasn't as if a few paltry words of apology or any suffering on his part would be enough to smooth over the enormity of what he'd done. Nothing could make it better. Of course it couldn't. How had he even thought that?

Unforgivable.

It was over. He'd failed. He'd been a fool to even try.

"I understand." He blinked at the stinging in his eyes. "I'm—I'm sorry for bothering you. Thank you for seeing me."

Something softened in Cameron's gaze. "I do mean it, you know. I wish you well. Truly. I hope you find happiness. Just not— here."

Michael nodded. The buzzing had gone, replaced by a desperate, ringing silence and the sudden urge to flee. He must leave. Get out. Now.

Cameron rose. "I'll call Gregor to see you out—"

But he couldn't wait. Michael turned, wrenched open the door, and tore out of the room. He fled down the stairs, through the great hall, past the heavy cedar door, into the courtyard.

Cool air enveloped him, along with music. Guitar music.

The sky spread above the stone walls, indigo blue studded with the first few pale stars. A man sat on a bench on the far side of the courtyard, bent over an instrument. A group of children crowded around him. Michael recognized the boy he'd seen earlier, James, as well as the older girl, who now had her dog on her lap and was absently stroking its head. They evidently hadn't noticed Michael's entrance.

The man was playing a jaunty, happy tune, and the children were watching, the light of a single lantern dancing over them. Clearly, they were entranced. One young girl was whirling around in circles, her skirts ballooning around her.

It didn't dawn on Michael who the man was until he ended the song with a grand flourish and looked up at his adoring audience. "And now, ‘tis time for bed." He grinned.

It was Sommerbell.

Michael stumbled backward as if he'd been struck.

"Just one more, pleeease, " the tiny dancing girl begged.

Michael backed up another step into the shadows. He must leave. He shouldn't be here. But somehow, he couldn't look away.

Sommerbell cocked a brow and laughed. "I already played one more. Three times. To bed with you all. Come along." He stood, brought his guitar back into position, started to play again, and led the children like the Pied Piper toward the door Michael had just come through. They'd almost reached it when it opened and a woman's head poked out.

"There you are." There was a note of anxiety in her voice. She stepped into the courtyard and craned her neck, as if looking for something. "Is all well?"

She was looking for Michael. Of course she was. He'd run out of the library like a mad man. They were probably searching the castle for him.

But Sommerbell seemed oblivious. Without stopping the music, he leaned forward and kissed her deeply. "All is well, my love. We were just going to bed."

"I see." Her tone changed. His kiss had assured her. She chuckled, a low, joyous sound. "Come along, then."

The group disappeared. The door closed. The lantern flickered.

All was silent save for the rusty chirping of crickets outside the castle walls. Michael stood in the shadows and stared at the heavy cedar door.

And finally, he understood.

Forgiveness wasn't the point. Cameron was right, Michael's actions truly were unforgivable. To pretend otherwise would be a lie, a lie that didn't serve anyone. What Michael sought, what he needed , was grace. The strength to wrest himself away from his past, to step out of the black shadow cast by the man he used to be and allow himself to move into the light.

That face, that grinning joyous face surrounded by children and music and life—it was so different from the pale, terrified visage of Michael's nightmares. Sommerbell might never truly recover, but he'd learned to live with his pain. To move past it and to be happy.

And so could Michael.

The weight lifted. The chain broke.

Just as he had when his fetters had been cleaved off in Sydney, Michael felt unstable. Teetering at the shock of freedom.

The door flew open again, and the same footman who'd escorted him into the library stalked out, a lantern raised before him.

"I'm here." Michael stepped out of the shadows, showing himself. "I was just going to collect my horse."