Chapter 5

CRàDH PRISON - JUNE 1, 1384

H aving waited all day to see who his visitor would be, Léo sprang to his feet as soon as the slat in the door slid back. For thirteen weeks she'd refused to appear.

The red-headed guard angled his eye over the slat. "Visitors."

Visitors. Plural. For the briefest moment he registered with wonder the feeling of his spirits rising as they hadn't in six months. Father Allen entered and stepped aside. His heart fell. Where was she?

Father Allen looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. "Come on, love."

Moira took a few wooden steps into the room, basket perched upon her hip, raindrops clinging to her plaid, eyes fixed on the floor.

Remembering the dusty remnants of his courtly manners, he bowed before her as he would've done if they were meeting in Paris, instead of in his stinking cell. "Father Allen, Mademoiselle Allen. How good to see you."

The door began to shut and Father Allen held up his hand. "Hold there. My daughter is going to complete Léo's visit today. I'll be down with the other political prisoner, Eoghan O'Gallagher. Can you keep an eye out for her again? "

Moira's eyebrows shot up into her hairline and she looked at her father, horrified.

"It'll be all right, dear. The guard will keep the slat open and an eye on you. It's good to see you. Léo. I hope you don't mind. The other prisoner is in need of extra care this week."

His spirits rose further as the old man disappeared out the door. "Oui—aye. I'll be happy to visit with Moira."

The door clanked shut and she stared at it.

Afforded good looks since birth, Léo was accustomed to using the tone of his voice and a few eyebrow arches to persuade a woman to do anything. He looked down at his wasted appearance and the long, straggly beard he'd grown in the last six months and cringed. On top of looking like a street urchin, his words to her the last time they'd met stung his conscience and he knew he would need to make amends in a more tangible way.

Oblivious to his wildly racing heart and frantic thoughts, Moira went through the motions of the benevolence visit. Shaking out her plaid, she looked at him and then quickly away, then around the room as if the moldy stone walls and sour rushes on the floor were infinitely more interesting than paying him any attention. He felt himself smiling at her, amused.

She hefted the basket up and he flew forward, trying to wrench it from her hands. "Let me help you."

Her mouth tightened and her face pinched together. She shook her head and held on.

Léo clinched his teeth, trying to get a better hold. "I'm trying to help you. Just…give…me…the…basket."

She wouldn't let go. He gripped her arm and tried to pry it away but she held on with more strength than he expected. Fingers probing, he discovered a strong, well-muscled arm.

The guard's voice raised. "Hands off or she goes!"

He let go and put both hands up, and she stumbled backward and nearly to the floor.

Blowing a curl out of her eyes, she walked the basket the three feet over to the fire, putting it down with a thunk.

Génial. They were off to a great start.

Her hands produced three jars from the basket, and she placed each one down on the hearth with an annoyed-sounding bang.

"What's for supper today?"

Moira shot him a look that reminded him of the many times he'd made Théa mad. He swallowed. Guess it would be a surprise.

Minutes passed as she prepared the meal. Unable to help himself, he studied every detail of her charming face as she looked over her ingredients. The twitch of her eyebrow as she struggled to get the cork out of a bottle. The press of her coral lips as she blew into the fire. The stubborn curl that kept dropping in front of her crystal-colored eyes and was pushed away with an irritated swipe.

The smell of beef made his mouth water, and he watched each move she made with increasing hunger. When the pot was steaming, she poured in a small jar of vegetables. Several more minutes passed and she opened the final jar and began pinching dough off and dropping it into the broth.

Saliva filled his mouth. "Stew."

The aquamarine of her eyes lifted to his and her lips twitched.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

The barest of grins passed over her face and he became drunk on the thought of making her laugh. Now he was getting somewhere.

Taking a cloth from her basket, she removed the small cauldron from the fire, placed it in front of him, and handed him a spoon.

Tender, savory beef filled his mouth and he blessed God aloud. It was delicious, the best food he'd tasted since leaving France last spring. He looked up and realized she was giggling, but no sound beyond a low rasp came out. He felt himself smiling stupidly at her. He'd made her laugh.

She leaned over and touched his lips and his heart skipped.

"What was that?"

She touched his lips again and then her ear. His lips and then her ear.

"My words?"

She nodded, then lifted her shoulders and palms, touched his lips and her ear.

"What language am I speaking? "

Her eyes lit up. He'd guessed correctly this time and was filled with a sudden rush at figuring out a tiny part of her mystery.

" Je parle fran?ais. French. I speak French."

Moira rested her chin in her hand and mouthed words, but he couldn't make them out.

"Again. Slower this time."

The ripe peach of her lips enunciated a silent word. Not. Then enunciated another. Islander.

Meaning dawned on him. "I am an Islander. Born right on Skye at Dun Ringill. My father was Chief of the MacKinnons, my French mother was his leman? 1 ." An attractive primrose blush spread over her cheeks, and he imagined her thoughts. "I know. Scandalous."

He spooned a fluffy dumpling into his mouth. Saturated with hearty broth, it was the perfect consistency. Words from the one-hundred-and-third psalm spilled out of him. If he closed his eyes he was at his grandmother's table in France, eating in freedom. When he opened them she was staring at him, looking entertained.

A smile spread across his face, matching her own. He shook his now-loose tunic in his hand. "You would rejoice too if you were given porridge once a day for six days and got one extra portion a week. Where did you learn to cook?"

Her lips mouthed a word. Maw.

"Your mother?"

She nodded.

Eating in silence for a few minutes, he was relieved that a companionable feeling had replaced the awkwardness of their last visit. As he neared the bottom of the cauldron he realized she was studying him.

Slowly mouthing words she silently spoke. You have a son?

He smiled again, remembering his beloved boy. "Gabriel."

How old?

"He just turned three on the twenty-fifth of March."

Knowledge dawned across her face. That is why he is named Gabriel.

Bittersweet memories came to his mind. "Oui, the Feast of the Annunciation. …Labor began in the early morning hours. Quick and agonizing for my Théa. The midwife made it to our cottage just as Théa ne eded to push. Poor woman was still wearing her mantle from the journey when he was born. Théa cried out for me and I held her. After three pushes he was out. Our beautiful boy. Ten fingers and ten toes, a strong cry."

He'd never spoken to anyone about that day, and he wasn't sure why he was sharing it with her, but she was listening intently, interested in his words.

"I was overjoyed and we kissed. Gabriel was so perfect and strong. He had my chin and eyes just like his maman. The midwife lay him on Théa's chest, and he snuggled right against her, knowing the beat of her heart and the sound of her voice. It was then I noticed how pale she was. How much blood she was losing. The a-alarm on the midwife's face." Unable to swallow his emotion at the memory of Théa's pale face, he choked on the words.

Concern knit in Moira's eyebrows and she scooted closer to him.

"The beauty of her face was masked with white and her arms trembled against the baby. I placed my own arms around her to try and steady her, to stop her from slipping away…" He choked again on a sob. "But she placed a weak kiss upon the baby's brown hair. ‘Gabriel,' she said. ‘Gabriel.' Then she looked at me, life fading away. ‘Gabriel.' …And she was gone."

He sucked in a breath against the pain. "The midwife handed me the baby because he started to scream. I-I didn't know what I was doing, and he didn't want me. He wanted his maman. I had never held a baby before, or comforted one, so I smoothed my hand over his little head, and we cried together."

Tears trickled down Moira's cheeks and she brushed them away.

"I was lost. It seemed impossible. One minute alive with labor, the next gone. I didn't understand what just happened. And then, Gabriel stopped crying. His sweet blue eyes opened and he looked bewildered by my tears. He had his maman's eyes, so inquisitive, like he was trying to understand what I was upset about. And he smiled… I know it's not possible, it must have been wind." He laughed and choked. "But he did. He smiled. And I knew all would be well, because we had each other." Longing for his son gripped his soul. "At least we did. I've been gone for over a year. I know I must be hurt—hurting him by st aying away." He couldn't continue against the hopelessness in his soul.

Moira sniffed and mouthed words. You are a good father.

He blew out a breath and wiped his cheeks. "You don't even know me. I could be a t-terrible man."

She shook her head and mouthed words with slow intention. You aren't. Or your brother would love you and you wouldn't be here.

He gave a wet snort of laughter, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. When he finally gathered the courage to look over, she was watching him, compassion in her eyes. For some reason, he trusted her. "My whole life, I've been an outsider. But she was my one…the woman I wanted by my side forever. With her, I never felt alone. It's so hard without her."

Moira shook her head again with determined insistence, her slender hand covering his. For a few moments she seemed to be thinking, then formed words. You have Jesus with you. She touched a finger to his chest . His Spirit is in your heart. You're never alone. Not for a moment. She shook her head. You must not give up hope. She curled her bicep. He is a powerful savior. She motioned chains breaking. He is working to free you from here. She bit her lip. And…you have… It was the most she'd ever said to him, and he waited, rapt with her words. He could see her heartbeat thrumming in her neck as she carefully formed her next words. You have me, Léo.

Sudden hope flooded his heart and he felt drawn to her, wanting to sweep her into his arms and hold onto her strength. Instead, he searched for words to thank her for her kindness—for listening to him, for encouraging him. He spooned more stew into his mouth, his heart lifting as though he had just found a gold lode. The unfamiliar emotion left him boggled and it took him a few moments to remember what it was—joy.

Moira turned away, searching in her basket, then took a wooden board out and sticks of charcoal, and paper. His heart leapt. Gabriel. Palming her knife she raked the charcoal stick into a point, then unfurled the paper across her lap. She adjusted her fingers to the end of the stick and then looked up at him, brushing the curl away from her face, gray smudging her temple .

She caught him staring and pinked again, then gestured to him and to the paper.

"Gabriel? You will sketch Gabriel?"

She nodded and patted the floor beside her and he shifted, sitting so he could see her work. "How do I begin?"

With her clean hand she traced the shape of his face. His eyes met hers. It had been so long since he had been touched he'd almost leaned into her hand. She traced the shape of his face with her fingers again and her eyebrows lifted and he realized she was asking a question.

"Gabriel's face is round, but he has my chin."

Her charcoal moved over the paper and her eyes concentrated on his chin. A tiny version of his chin took shape on the page and she filled out plump babylike cheeks. Her clean hand touched his hairline around his forehead.

"High forehead, and his hair parts the opposite way of mine."

The charcoal glided lightly over the paper and a forehead and hairline began to take shape.

"A little higher here." He pointed to the part in the hair and she deepened the line.

Her hand reached beside his face and touched his ear.

"That's easy." He gathered the long lengths of his hair into his hands and pulled it back, revealing both ears. "He has my exact ears."

She smiled and angled his chin so she could see, and the outline of his ears appeared on the page. A faint, sweet smell tickled his nose and he tried to place it as she adjusted her grip on the charcoal and sketched in the folds of the ears.

An elegant finger slid down the length of his nose, and she smiled.

"He has his mother's nose." Her sketching hand paused, and he realized she didn't know what Théa looked like. "It's long and straight, a little wide at the bottom but it gives him the look of an elf."

Her lips curled back into a smile as she traced the nose as he described.

"A little wider here."

Using her third finger she smudged the line then widened it. She looked at him, lifting her eyebrows slightly.

"Yes. That's it. "

The clear blue of her eyes traveled to his eyebrow and she drug a finger along its length.

"Just like mine. Only small."

She nodded. Her eyes went from his face to the page and sketched two miniatures of his brows with featherlight strokes.

The pad of her thumb brushed over his bottom lip and he jumped, horrified with himself. He'd nearly kissed it. Her eyes were wide.

"His l-lips are thinner than mine, but wider here." He indicated along the lower border of his lips. "His top lip looks similar to your own. They turn up at the corners."

Her lips moved. Yours do too.

"Not as lovely as yours, though."

Blushing, she traced a perfect bottom lip on the first try then began the top.

"This should have a higher peak."

She corrected the upper border and then looked at him. "Yes. Like that."

Moira opened her mouth and pointed to her straight, white teeth.

"The front two come forward a bit and gap apart."

Searching the room in thought, her eyelashes lifted from the page and fluttered.

An idea of how to describe them came to mind. "He sucks his thumb at night, it's affected the shape of his teeth. His mémé says he is too old to still suck his thumb, but I cannot get him to stop. I've tried everything. I wrapped his hands in toweling, but he wriggled out of it. I bribed him with promises of extra tarts and trips to the beach, but he wasn't interested. I painted his thumbs with cod liver oil but that only made him soil his tailclouts ? 2 all night long." He shivered at the memory of changing dozens of tailclouts. It was incredible how much could come out of one two-year-old child. He had to scrub poor Gabriel for over an hour just to get him clean.

She laughed until tears appeared in her eyes and she attempted to straighten her face. Sorry. Your face… She laughed again.

"Don't be sorry. You're lovely when you laugh."

Wincing and pointing to her throat, she stuck her tongue out. The rasp .

He shook his head again. "You are lovely when you laugh."

Blush crept across her cheeks again. Carefully, she filled in the mouth, and a few baby teeth gapped apart in Gabriel's grin. When her eyes lifted to his, he fell into their blue pools.

"Perfect." He wasn't sure if he was talking about her sketch, or her countenance.

When she touched his eyes, Léo remembered himself. "They're his mother's eyes, not like mine. Bright blue, and a bit rectangular. Yes, like that. The lashes are like baby feathers, his eyelids hooded."

Her charcoal traced an eye and she looked up at him. Her fingers braced apart and touched the distance between his eyes.

"Wide set. The other eye should start here."

She traced the left eye. His son began to take shape on the page and he had a hard time disguising his enthusiasm. "Yes! Just like that."

She paused and tapped her head, then looked at him.

"Do that again."

Repeating herself, she mouthed the word, but he still didn't know what she meant.

In the space where she would fill in hair she wrote a faint word. Thoughts?

"What does he think about?"

She smiled and nodded.

"Does that matter?"

She nodded, insistent.

He scratched his beard and thought back one year. "He loves boats and is inquisitive about everything. He finds insects in the garden and brings them home…" His throat constricted and he stopped.

Her expression went soft. I think I understand.

With the tip of her charcoal she filled in the eyes. Over the space of several minutes Gabriel's eyes came to life, a look of wonder and curiosity shining in them. She moved back to his cheeks and skin, sketching shadow, light, and texture. She paused to sharpen her charcoal then reached out, touching Léo's hair.

"It's short but a little bit longer on top. Well groomed, always. It is the French way. "

A thick eyebrow arched and her eye moved slowly over his appearance before returning to the page.

He chuckled. "The French way when one is not stuck in the hell of prison."

A smirk touched the corner of her lips. Pausing to sharpen her charcoal every few hairs, Gabriel's tresses began to take shape. She lifted her hair and then pointed to his.

"No curl or waves. It's straight, just as his mother's was." She nodded and touched her hair and then his again. She mouthed something.

"Repeat that."

Her eyebrows knit together and she lifted the long strands of his hair and held it against her own, moving charcoal between his hair and her own.

"Color?"

She nodded.

"Dark brown, not like yours or mine. Like his maman."

Her eyes softened and she took her time filling in each hair and then deepening the color. She considered it for a few moments and then added a few out of place strands, as though he'd been playing. She paused to finish his neck and shoulder, shading everything in, then blew the dust away and presented it to him.

Gabriel's happy face looked into his own as if he'd just run in from the garden to show him a cricket, and emotion overcame him. He placed a hand over his mouth and studied the cheerful chubby cheeks and the hundreds of questions brimming in his son's eyes about the world. He brought the paper to his lips and kissed his boy, longing to hear him call him Papa.

"Moira, I don't know how to thank you."

She placed her charcoal down and dusted her fingers, then swept her fingers away from her chest, mouthing welcome .

If only he could hold his child. If only he could tell him that his father wasn't dead and would return to him one day. An idea formed and he dropped his voice. "Do you have more paper?"

She nodded and picked up another piece and her charcoals. He took her charcoal and mouthed no picture, and pointed to the guard at the door. She nodded.

"Can you reheat my stew? It's gone cold."

Understanding his meaning, she took the cauldron and replaced it in the fire, angling her body between the door and himself. Quickly he sketched a missive on the paper.

Chieftain Hector MacLean. Lochbuie. Isle of Mull. —I am alive. Cràdh Prison off the coast of Skye. Please send word to Gabriel that I am well, and will return, and love him very much. Not safe for rescue. Details to follow. Léo.

He put the charcoal down, eyes on the door, and then picked it up again. I trust Moira with my life. You may trust her with any information.

He dropped the charcoal into the basket and rolled the paper, secreting it beneath her empty jars. Creeping toward Moira, he slipped the heavy gold necklace off and put it over her head, lifting her hair, then tucking it beneath the neckline of her dress.

Carefully he studied the door, but did not see anyone watching. His hands covered her upper arms, pulling her close as he whispered in her ear. "I trust you beyond all others with my life. Please take it to him when your father will allow. Show him the necklace so he knows it's from me."

The smell he'd picked up on as he sat near to her flooded his senses and pulled him under—lavender. Bright, happy memories overtook the dark reality of his imprisonment, and he buried his face in her hair. Provence in summer. Warmed skin.

Unable to control himself, he drew her shoulders toward him, bringing her neck closer as he breathed in the outside world and femininity. Gliding his bare hand along the softness of her neck, he inhaled once more, nestling her close, drinking in her freedom. How he wanted to kiss her again, to feel her in his arms, to let her affection bring him back to life as it had the day they'd met.

A warm hand came to his own and pressed him away. Léo's eyes flew to the slat, but the guard hadn't turned around.

Moira shot to her feet, depositing the last of her supplies into the basket in quick succession before covering it and scrambling to the door. His heart lurched.

"Moira. Moira, wait! I'm sorry." He grabbed her hand and she looked at him, not fear in her eyes, but something else. Pulling her back to him, he endeavored to keep his tone low. "I'm sorry. Your soap. You smelled like lavender and I couldn't stop—I'm sorry. Not just for that, but for what I said. You aren't soft in the head, not in the least. You're right, I am an idiot. And I'm sorry…for…for kissing you when I met you."

Her eyes widened, and she tapped her chest and pointed to his head.

"Aye. I remember. Not everything, but judging by your reaction what lies in my hazy memory was not a product of the fever. I took advantage of you badly."

Moira bit her lip, her eyebrows crinkling as she gave him a shy smile. You were so sick, and close to death. How could I deny you the comfort?

The heated memory made goosebumps spring up on his arms. Two years of loneliness and longing had gotten the better of him as soon as he'd clamped eyes on her. They'd shared fevered, desperate affection that had warmed his heart and made him feel whole again. Yet no matter how right it had felt in the moment, and how out of his mind he'd been, he had still taken advantage of her.

Words spilled out of him in a rush as he argued with her to stay. "I was feverish. I thought I saw my wife and was overcome. I would never look at you in that way. I was out of my head. Nothing should ever have happened, and nothing will ever happen again. I swear to you. I am still in love with Théa. You have to believe me. I'm sorry it happened. I've spent thirteen weeks wishing to tell you that."

It wasn't the truth. He wasn't sorry in the least. He thought of Moira constantly, obsessing over her presence in his dreams, and the mysteries in the thoughts she couldn't speak. Yet he couldn't very well say that and scare her. She would never come back again.

Moira wilted. Something was wrong. She took a step back and swallowed, then nodded. She pointed to the cauldron and gestured a spoon coming to her mouth.

Confused, all he could do was respond, "Oui, I' ll finish every bite."

She turned and knocked on the door.

His heart dropped. "Wait, Moira."

Without looking back, she slipped away.