Page 55 of The Wild Rose of Kilgannon (Kilgannon #2)

I was walking down the terraces at Kilgannon, going slowly toward the dock.

My skirts were rustling, the crisp swish of my taffeta petticoats sounding with every step, but I could hear nothing else.

That was strange, I knew, for Kilgannon was seldom quiet, but I was unconcerned about that.

Or anything. I was detached. There was no one about and I walked toward the loch as if drawn there.

The mist hung low over the water, obscuring the surface and the end of the dock.

The sun glinted above it and gleamed off the wet grass in the meadow to my right but could not penetrate into the white cloud.

At the dock I stopped while the hush roared in my ears and the mist rose higher in front of me.

I waited serenely. Faintly at first and then slowly, slowly more distinctly, came the figure of a man walking toward me from the end of the dock.

He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a kilt, and as he grew closer I realized without surprise that it was Alex.

He wore the same clothes he’d worn when he’d left Kilgannon, although his legs and feet were bare and his bonnet was missing.

His hair was loose and flowed around his shoulders, but something was different.

A dark shape was caught in it. As I watched him walk slowly toward me I tried to determine what it was, but I could not.

Behind him the dock disappeared into the fog.

I could see him clearly now, his expression calm, and as he closed the gap between us I opened my arms for him and smiled.

And then he was in my embrace. Before I closed my eyes I saw that it was seaweed in his hair, and I reached up to touch it.

His hair was dry, as were his clothes, but the seaweed was cold and wet, and I withdrew my hand, repulsed, and wrapped my arm around him.

He was solid in my arms, his lips next to my ear, and he whispered, “Mary,” as he held me to him.

I could feel the wool of his plaid next to my cheek, and I tightened my grip.

Alex , I thought. At last . But when I opened my eyes he was gone and I saw my arms holding only air.

I lowered them slowly, looking at my hands.

There was water on the fingers that had touched the seaweed, and I stared at it while the mist enclosed me.

I must have made some sound, for when I woke to find myself sitting in bed, my hands outstretched in front of me, the echo of my voice still hung in the air.

Of my room. In Mountgarden. I looked wildly around, expecting at any second to be transported back to Scotland.

I touched my face and the bedcovers to be sure, but this was all too real.

Alex was dead. I was certain of it. I moaned and jumped from the bed, rushing to and fro in a frenzy, as if by moving things from one surface to another I could erase the images I’d seen.

Alex was dead. The memory of my visit to the Tower washed over me, and I could hear my voice demanding, “Come to me after death. If it is possible, come to me. Promise me!” and his answering, “If it is possible, I will come to you.” Oh, dear God , I prayed as I sank to my knees beside the bed.

Dear God, do not let this be true . But I could not still the voice in my head that said it was.

Alex had come to me as I had asked, and on this icy morning, as I stood on the brink of hysteria, I knew he was gone.

He was with Angus now. And Harry. And Duncan.

How I got through that day and the next and the next I do not know.

It must have been the children that kept me getting up each morning and functioning.

I remember little of it, only Will worriedly asking me what was wrong and me muttering a reply about seaweed.

I knew I was in serious trouble on the third day when Jamie came upon me talking to myself in the hallway.

“Mama,” he said, taking my hand in his own and looking into my face with a frightened expression. “Mama, the baby needs you.”

I stared down at him, noting the untidy hair falling around his face, the blue eyes dark with fear.

Alex must have looked like this at his age.

Mary, you cannot do this , I told myself.

You will not do this . Taking a deep breath, I knelt before him, holding both his hands in mine.

He looked into my eyes, waiting. I smiled at Alex’s son.

“And so do you, Jamie, my love. You need me too. And I need you,” I said, gathering him to me.

The embrace was no substitute for the one I had dreamed, but it would have to do.

He hugged me tightly, his arms around my neck.

I waited. What exactly I was waiting for I never defined.

News. Confirmation. A brisk letter from a stranger that would open, “Dear Madam, I regret to inform you…” Nothing came.

I did not tell Will nor Louisa of my dream; I told no one.

I had no doubt they would think me mad, so I kept my fears to myself.

They are only fears , I told myself, only fears.

I know nothing for certain . But every time I closed my eyes I saw my fingers touching seaweed caught in golden hair and heard his voice whisper my name.

The days passed. Our only visitors were the neighbors and the only letters from Louisa, who wrote daily.

And then, on a cold and dark Thursday when Will and Betty were out, I got two letters, one from Gilbey, the other from the high judge, Lord Webster.

It was addressed to Mistress MacGannon and I held it in my hand, terrified of what it would say.

“Alex,” I whispered, but there was no answer.

Lord Webster’s letter was brief. He had written to ask me if I wanted to visit my husband. Immediately. I folded Gilbey’s letter and put it in my pocket. “Alex,” I said. It was a prayer. So my dream had been wrong. Alex was alive.