Page 67 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

“I’ll try, Robert,” she said. “That’s why I’ve come.

” She hurried down the hall, stopping at the duke’s study and knocking softly on the door.

No one answered, so Annabella opened the door and stepped inside.

The Mackinnon was sitting on his chair behind the desk, his head resting on his chest. Stepping closer, she noticed a quill in his fingers.

On closer inspection, she saw he had been writing a letter to his solicitor in Edinburgh.

Tears welled in her eyes and she reached out and took the quill from his fingers.

He’s been through so much, lost so much. He doesn’t deserve this.

The duke snorted and shifted his position, his eyes opening slowly. “You came,” he said. “I knew you would.”

Winter settled in. Christmas came and went.

But not even the cold weather could slow down progress.

Percy and the Mackinnon made repeated trips to Edinburgh, talking with the solicitor and hiring investigators, always returning without much hope.

Annabella remained behind at Ross’ request. He had written his grandfather.

Don’t bring her to Edinburgh. Things look grim for me. I don’t want to put her through the pain of seeing me like this. Tell her—tell her to remember me as I was that day I went hunting. She will know what I mean.

March arrived, all blustery and windblown, as if Mother Nature had decided to throw a tantrum.

Perhaps it was the temperamental weather that sparked it, perhaps it was the agony of being kept away—whatever it was, this was the month Annabella decided to accompany the duke and Percy to Edinburgh.

She couldn’t let Ross go without seeing him at least once more.

Four days after she made her decision to go to Edinburgh, she was there, crossing Dean Bridge and the Water of Leith into the city Robert Burns called Edina, Scotia’s darling seat. She sat in the coach reading Holyrood :

The moon passed out of Holyrood, white-lipped to open sky;

The night wind whimpered on the Crags to see the ghosts go by;

And stately, silent, sorrowful, the lonely lion lay,

Gaunt shoulder to the Capital and blind eyes to the Bay.

Annabella closed the book and glanced out the window. A sea of daffodils danced in the wind in front of the cold stones of Charlotte Square as they passed, and she wondered if Ross would ever be free to see them.

It was two days before they allowed her to see him, but the long, nerve-dangling wait was now over. She waited for him in her black taffeta dress—for she was still in mourning for Gavin—but she had thrown a Mackinnon plaid over her shoulder.

Only an hour ago she had left the office of the duke’s solicitor, Lord Braxton.

They had spent the better part of the morning there, discussing an earlier meeting Lord Braxton had had with the advocate.

The case would be tried in the highest criminal court, the High Court of Justiciary.

Their decision would be final, for there was no appeal, not even to the House of Lords from that court.

The finality of the solicitor’s words rang in her head like the echo of an iron gate closing.

And now she was here, where they kept Ross.

Waiting. The chamber she waited in was small, sparse, and stifling.

She moved to the window to open it, and noticed the bars.

The shock of seeing them, of knowing Ross had spent weeks that were now turning into months behind bars such as these—was more than she could bear.

She turned quickly away from the window, her mind, as always, on Ross.

A jury of fifteen would decide his guilt or innocence.

Fifteen people who would, by a simple majority, decide if Ross was to live or die.

The door opened and Ross was led into the tiny waiting room, which was furnished with only a small table and two chairs.

“Fifteen minutes,” the guard said, then left, bolting the door behind him.

He looked the same, but tired. He was thinner, paler, and so tired; his face showing the deep, jagged lines of strain.

But the beloved face, the inky blackness of his hair, were as she remembered.

The fire and spirit of the man she had known still burned in his eyes, but the clothes he wore were strange, not his usual buckskin pants and blue denim shirt.

The moment he had entered, his eyes were upon her and she saw the bright flare of emotion quickly repressed. He loved her, but she knew he would do his best not to let it show.

He looked at the Mackinnon plaid draped over her shoulder and a lingering smile touched his mouth. “There was a time when you wouldn’t have worn that plaid,” he said softly.

She smiled at him. “There was a time you wouldn’t have cared if I did.”

His expression turned somber. “I didn’t want you to see me like this, lass. It would have been easier for y—for us both if you had stayed away. It isn’t very wise of you to be here. If you had given it more thought, you wouldn’t have come.”

“You told me once that a man who does everything with planning and forethought has very few memories worth keeping.”

“Memories, is it? Is that why you came?”

“Oh, Ross,” she said, rushing to him and throwing her arms around his waist. “I came because I love you. Surely you know that.” She pressed her face against his chest and closed her eyes, pretending for a moment she was happy and never wanted the moment to end, pretending for a while the pain and grief that surrounded them was all a bad dream.

“Darling Annabella, I’m not clean. You’ll leave your sweet smell with me and take my stench,” he whispered, his words fluttering soft and gentle against her hair.

“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except being with you.

I had to see you. I wanted to see if you were as dear to me as the picture my memory holds.

I had so many things I wanted to say to you.

Only now…now that I’m with you, I don’t seem to know what to say.

” Tears bubbled up from the hurt place inside and she couldn’t go on.

“I know,” he said, cradling her head, feeling the anguish of her tears, knowing she cried for both of them.

“I know.” He didn’t say anything more; he was content for a while to hold her and let her cry herself out.

The only comfort he could offer her was to cradle her to him as if she was precisely what she was: the dearest thing in life to him.

When the tears gave way to jerky sobs that eased into an occasional shudder, he slipped one finger beneath her chin and lifted her head until she was looking at him, and as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he kissed her.

It was a kiss not given in passion, or one to feed its hunger.

It was a simple kiss, one of compassion, of understanding, because he cared for her and because he could not bear to see the suffering in those green, beautiful eyes.

“I didn’t kill Gavin,” he said.

“I know,” she said slowly. She studied his face. “Oh, Ross. Why did you say that? Why did you even feel you had to tell me? Didn’t you think I would know?”

“I didn’t want you to wonder years from now, after I’m… I just wanted you to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

She smiled sadly. “There you go again, using one of those odd expressions. At least I understand that one.” Her arms slipped around him to hold him to her and she felt him flinch and stiffen as if her squeezing him had caused him pain.

“Why did you wince? Are you hurt? In pain?”

“Just a little bruising on my rib,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“How did it happen?”

He sighed and looked off.

“They beat you, didn’t they?”

“It was just a small disagreement.”

“Over what?”

“My signing a confession.”

“Oh, Ross…” Her voice trailed off and she reached out and touched his rib gently. “This side?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

“It’s nothing. Just a small bruise.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, you big bairn.”

How wifely she sounded. How concerned. He did not miss the way she had used the Scots word for baby, or how it sounded so natural on her lips.

He felt a flood of pride in her. She didn’t cringe or cry, or wring her hands, or do any of the dozen other things an overprotected English lady would do.

Scotland had changed her and she was his lass now.

With a stab of regret he remembered where he was and what it meant that she was here.

She was his lass.

But it was a happiness that came too late. A happiness that was gone before it arrived.

She took his hand and led him to the table, pulling out one of the chairs.

He sank into the welcome support, weariness heavy in his bones.

She began unbuttoning his shirt with quick, capable hands, pulling the shirt from his breeches when she finished.

“Oh, Ross,” she said, seeing the inky bruise that fanned his ribs, her fingers touching him gently where the purpling gave way to blue. “Do you think it’s broken?”

“Cracked, I believe. But it doesn’t matter. I hardly notice it, since all I do is sit around waiting in a cell all…my God, Annabella…sweetheart…my God!”

She had dropped down beside him in a billow of rustling black silk, her hands pushing the fabric of his shirt apart. Her head down, she was kissing his bruise with all the gentleness she had used when touching him with her fingers.

Again and again, she kissed him, her hands fanning out flat against his chest, her fingers woven into the hair that covered him there.

Her touch, her kisses drove him wild. He wanted her.

Here. Now. On this hard plank floor. He wanted her here, because he knew he did not have enough time left to have her anywhere else.

The weight of his future pressed down heavily upon him.

He pushed her away, intending to bring her to her feet, but his weakness for her took over and he found that instead of pushing her away, he had drawn her face up to his.

Whispering. Needing. He nuzzled her and searched for her face.

Finding her mouth, he covered it with his own, forcing it wider, kissing her hungrily, unable to kiss her long enough or deep enough to give him ease.

If he had the rest of his life to kiss her like this, it would never be enough.

His feeling knew no bounds—none save those imposed upon him for the punishment of a crime he did not commit

The weight of his own death pressed down heavily upon him, and he felt the last urging of desire fall away. What are you doing, man? You’re only making it harder for her. Don’t give her false hope. Don’t give her something you don’t have.

As quickly as he had pulled her to him, he put her away.

He stood up, drawing her up to stand in front of him.

His hands still holding hers, he looked her over, committing her to memory.

“You must go now,” he said. “Promise me you won’t come back.

Promise you will remember me as I was. Not like this. ”

“Don’t say that, Ross. Please. I want to be here with you,” she said “I don’t want you to go through this all alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” he said. “I have too many memories of you to ever be alone.”

“I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you, not being with you when you need me.”

“I don’t want you here. I want you to forget me, starting now.

I want you to put the past behind you and go forward.

You were meant to be loved, Bella. Find someone who will love you.

Find someone who will love you enough to make you forget.

” He knew what she was going to say, knew she was going to resist him.

“Get away from me now. Get away and leave my memory behind when you go. Forget me, Annabella. Leave this place and don’t ever look back. ”

“Will you kiss me before I go?”

“I can’t,” he said, and turned away. “Guard,” he said, pounding on the door. “Open up. The lady is ready to leave.”

She left the room without looking back.

Only when she had gone was he able to think of her as lost to him. Only when she had gone was he able to weep.

The old Annabella would have listened to Ross. The old Annabella would have returned to her life and grieved for his loss for a time.

The old Annabella would have.

The new Annabella did not. The new Annabella had no intention of forgetting him, of finding another man to help her forget.

As long as there was a breath in his body she would not give up.

As long as he lived, he was worth fighting for.

For that reason, she hung on to hope, long after Ross had given up on his.

One week before his trial another letter arrived at Dunford, this one a short note reminding her not to come. “It will be easier on me if you don’t come.”

It was cold and raining the next morning when Percy and the Mackinnon left for Edinburgh, and Annabella couldn’t help wondering if she should look at that as a bad omen.

Standing at her bedroom window as she watched the coach pull away from the house, she fought the urge to grab her cape and go running after them.

“It will be easier on me if you don’t come,” he had written.

Little did he know it was so much harder on her because she did not.