The Sea-Harrower: A Scottish Highlander Historical Romance by Abigail Clements & CL Skelton

Author:Abigail Clements & CL Skelton [Clements, Abigail]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: scottish highland romance, scottish fiction, highland romance, scottish highlander romance, highlander, scottish historical fiction, scottish historical romance, highland escape, highland romance books, highlander romance
Publisher: Wyndham Books (Scottish Highland Romance)
Published: 2020-03-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

A small fair child, leading a milk cow by a rope spun round its shaggy horns, came through a gap in the drystone wall that ambled brokenly about the old graveyard. She had a brown wraith face, half-wild, and underfed, and she flung her hand up to it and nearly cried out, seeing the man there. He was a tall man, in ragged shirt and coat, and knee-breeches, with a plait of black hair. He had his back to her, halfway, and scarce noticed her, looking down solemnly, as he was, at the grave before him.

‘Please forgive me, sir, I was not knowing there were ever folk about.’

He spun around, shocked at the sound and then, seeing his sabre-scarred face, she did cry out, ‘Oh Jesus save me,’ and began backing away, stumbling against the cow, and protesting the while, in uneasy English. ‘I was but taking the cow to grass, fer my mam. We were not knowin, sir, and thinkin’ there’d be none to mind. The grass is good here, and the walls were keeping her in. She is the terrible cow for the roaming …’

Rory laughed, aloud, shaking his head and saying, in Gaelic, ‘Wheesht, lassie. ’Tis no matter about the cow. ’Tis not my grass, nor my grave. But come, you can be of help to me.’

He stepped closer to her, and she held her ground, though looking ready to flee. Comforted perhaps by his use of her native tongue, she permitted him to come right beside her. He knelt down. She was only a wee thing, slim-boned and barefoot. She reminded him eerily of Charlotte.

‘Look now,’ he said, ‘I am not so fearsome, surely. I cannot help my face. ’Twas an English soldier did it, long ago.’

She nodded solemnly, as if that at least were understandable. She came forward then and touched the scar, curiously. Rory smiled and she smiled as well.

‘Yer not so ugly when ye smile,’ she said.

‘I hope not.’ Rory grinned and stood up. ‘Will you be telling me your name?’ he said.

‘’Tis Jamesina. Jamesina MacKinnon.’

Rory smiled again, to himself, and said quietly, ‘Aye, lass. Your name speaks louder than you do yourself. Clan MacKinnon you are, then. I am knowing now all there is to know, of your kin, and their politics.’

‘D’ye know my mam then?’ she said, curious.

‘I do not think so, lassie; that was not my meaning. But tell me now, do you remember the lady that lies yon?’ He waved his hand over his shoulder to the grave. It was the newest of the names in that small family ground of Glentarvie.

‘I don’t know,’ the child said, losing interest. But then she stepped closer and nudged at the turf with her foot and said, ‘Aye, but I do. Is it not the lady they brought from the West? All the way across yon hill there, they carried her, dead, to be buried here.’ The child’s eyes opened wide at the thought. ‘My mam told me,’ she said, ‘with great flames at night, to light the way.

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