Under the Same Sky (23 page)

“My name’s Maggie,” she said finally, her voice sounding almost shy, and then, “Margaret.”

“Maggie,” he whispered.

The sound of her name escaped his lips like a sigh. He stared at her with an intensity anyone else drawing near might have been able to feel.

“I’m Andrew,” he said. He shook his head like a dog, trying to clear his brain, but he immediately regretted the movement. His body was beginning to ache, stretched tight as a bowstring by the
magic in the stone. The muscles in his back and neck were beginning to throb. “Andrew Adam MacDonnell.”

“Andrew.” She said his name slowly. Her lips formed a small circle he ached to touch, to kiss. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Scotland, but I’m leavin’ here. I’m comin’ to find ye, Maggie. Where do ye live?”

She grinned. “I’m in America. South Carolina.”

Andrew nodded slowly, then stopped. The muscles in his neck protested, tightening until he could barely move his head. A burning pain ripped up the length of his spine, searing one vertebra at a time until it gripped his neck like a claw. Andrew pushed his mind against the pain. He needed more time.

“This is strange magic, Maggie. I dinna ken how long this will hold, but I”—he cleared his throat—“I need to try somethin’, if ye’ll allow me.”

She nodded. “I think I know what it is.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, touching him as lightly as a feather might brush against his face. He was overwhelmed by the feel of her lips, and seized her face between his hands, bringing her mouth to his. Her lips burned against his, and her curves pressed against his body. She knotted her arms around his waist, and he felt the delicious thrill of her fingers digging into his back. He gathered the soft brown waves of her hair, winding his fingers through it as he kissed her. His hands slid down to her shoulders and down the deerskin tunic, grazing the soft outline of her breasts, circling her waist. She pressed against him, needing more.

But the pain was impossible to ignore any longer. It was a demon, possessing his entire body so he could barely move. Where there had been a vibrating connection between himself and the stone, now there were sharp spasms, jabbing, pulsing inside his head. But how could he release her? After all these years, how could he let her go?

She pulled her mouth from his, gasping. Her hands flew to the sides of her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the pressure.

“What’s happening?” she cried. “Do you feel that?”

He could see his pain mirrored in her eyes, and he knew he had to let go. Every one of his muscles strained until he feared they might snap. It was as if he were exploding from within.

“I have to go, Maggie. I canna stand it, and I willna suffer ye to bear it wi’ me.”

“Andrew!”

“Aye?”

“Find the Cherokee when you get here. They’ll know where I am.”

He clutched her hands and, fighting his screaming muscles, pulled her fingers to his lips. He filled his eyes with her. “I will be wi’ ye every day, every night, Maggie.”

His body convulsed and he lost her, disconnecting from the stone as if thrown. He lay on his side, writhing in agony. Iain and Janet were beside him in an instant, their hands flitting around him, looking for injuries.

“What is it, Andrew?” Janet cried. “What’s wrong? Are ye damaged?”

They could see nothing. No wounds, no explanation for Andrew’s suffering. Iain stared at him, watching Andrew’s movements begin to slow, listening as his cries lessened. Only a moment before, Iain had seen Andrew leaning against the stone, napping; he could have sworn Andrew had been smiling.

The children sat nearby, watching in silence. For once, Iain wasn’t paying attention to them. He was troubled. Was the lad ill? Had he eaten something that gripped his innards? He had seemed well enough earlier. And they had all eaten the same food. What then? Iain scratched his head, then glanced toward the stone. Could the legends be true? Could the stone speak? There seemed no other
explanation for it, but—damn. Iain didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to admit the possibility. He rubbed his hand over his face a few times, trying to think. Then he rose and walked to the stone, where it stood solitary and dull in the grass.

After a moment’s hesitation, Iain laid his hand on the rock’s face. And waited. Waited for what, he didn’t know. Nothing happened. If the rock was cursed, if it was the thing that had paralysed Andrew, there was no evidence of its power now. And yet in that moment, Iain realised he believed in magic. He became aware there was nothing he could do to comfort Andrew. That knowledge frightened him.

The blazing fire in Andrew’s head mellowed into a steady, crackling flame. With great effort, he uncurled his body and tried to relax his muscles. He fought to pry open his eyes, then squeezed them shut again at the sharp intrusion of daylight. Open or closed, the sparks of the sun shot through his lids, like needles of white heat.

Janet placed his sweat-dampened head onto her lap and poured sips of whisky through his lips. He choked but swallowed it down. She rubbed her fingertips in small circles around his temples and across his forehead, and he felt the taut muscles in his face slowly relax. Within moments he lost consciousness again.

Andrew slept for three hours. He lay on his back where he had fallen, arms splayed at his sides, face toward the sky. He didn’t flinch when Janet moved his head from her lap onto a cushion of plaid.

When he awoke, his body was unwilling to rise. It felt weighted down. He wanted to breathe,
needed
to breathe. His lungs burned and his heart pounded in his throat.

“Andrew! Wake up!”
the voice in his head whispered.

Maggie.

He cracked his eyelids open and tried to focus on a cloud floating
overhead. His body felt stiff. Molded to the ground. As if he had lain in that spot forever. As if he lay cold in a grave. Every muscle screamed and his head pounded. His mouth was dry and tasted like blood.

Janet made a small sound of relief, seeing him regain consciousness, and her fingers stroked the hair from his forehead.

“Welcome back,” she said.

She poured a sip of whisky through his lips and used her thumb to wipe a stray drop from the side of his mouth.

“Ye had us a wee bit worrit,” she told him, “but never mind. Ye’re back now. Can ye sit?”

Andrew considered her question. He didn’t remember ever before having to ask permission of his limbs, but he did so now. Their response was noncommittal. The ground beneath Andrew shifted, and he stopped moving abruptly, waiting out a wave of nausea. Janet moved to brace his back, and he sat the rest of the way up, crossing his legs and hooking his hands under his feet to anchor himself there. He felt dizzy and let his head hang over his knees until he could control his balance.

He sat like that for a while, saying nothing. What could he say? He could offer no reasonable explanation. He gave Janet a weary smile.

“Hallo, lass.”

The worry in her face melted at the sound of his voice.

“I’m that glad to see your eyes open, Andrew,” she whispered. “I’m hopin’ it wasna my bannock what set ye off.”

She lifted a delicate black eyebrow, but Andrew only smiled.

“The food’s no’ the problem.”

She waited, but he said no more. He scratched his head hard with both hands, trying to distract himself from the throbbing pain.

“I’m sorry to have scairt ye,” he said. “Have ye a wee bit more o’
that whisky?” He raised one hand to his brow and closed his eyes to the sunlight.

She reached for the bottle behind her and gave it to him. “Do ye think ye can walk?” she asked.

He took a sip, then wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Soon,” he said. “Tell MacKenzie I’ll be up presently. Just need to make sure my head stays between my shoulders.”

She smiled uncertainly, and got to her feet. “Andrew?”

“Aye?”

“What happened?”

Andrew couldn’t tell her. None of it made sense. He shrugged and shook his head. “I’m sorry to have scairt ye, Janet,” he repeated, and left it at that.

He was left alone with his thoughts and the cold, black stone. He stared at its profile. It still buzzed in convivial invitation, but with less intensity than before. Andrew longed to reach out to it, risk the pain for the possibility of touching her again. But he knew his body couldn’t stand the agony again. Touching the stone now would kill him.

Despite the waves of pain in his head, he warmed at the memory of her in his arms. He had kissed her. She smelled like grass and earth and wood smoke. The sound of her accent filled his ears.

And her name was Maggie.

By the time the group reached the slopes of Greenock, the wind had shifted so the salt air tickled their nostrils and kept their skin moist. They could look down over the town’s narrow bay and see where it opened farther along the shore, clearing the way for a view up and down the Firth of Clyde. Along the water’s edge lay a flat quarter mile of land, dotted by docks, streets, and buildings.

The town centred around the bustling activity at the docks. Ships were being built and loaded with everything from herring to cattle to whisky. And in the hold, if there was room, huddled a different sort of cargo: those of the human ilk, desperate to escape their present circumstances.

The travelers walked the main street of Greenock, stepping from quiet wilderness into mild uproar. Andrew’s senses worked madly, adjusting to the confusing hive of people, animals, and buildings. The streets smelled horrible. Like the farm when it was time to slaughter pigs. In some places the thoroughfares were inches thick
with dirt and waste, though the locals didn’t seem to notice. Men and women made their way along the road, bumping against the visitors in their late afternoon rush. Bits of broken conversations filled the air. Everything was so much
more
than Andrew had anticipated.

Flora and Peter seemed oblivious to the mucky ground. They perched on the men’s shoulders, chattering to each other, pointing and twisting to see everything. Flora’s little feet pounded Andrew’s chest whenever something excited her. Iain’s glistening black eyes darted with purpose, searching for a tavern. When he found one, he and Andrew lowered the children to the ground and the five travelers ducked through the heavy wooden door.

The mingled smells of food, drink, and the unwashed crowd hit Andrew like a wall as soon as he entered. The evening oil lamps hadn’t yet been lit, so other than a dim glow pushing through two dirty windows, the place was dark. And loud. Patrons and servers bellowed to each other, gesturing when their voices couldn’t be heard.

Iain led Andrew and the others to a table against a wall. They crowded onto benches and lifted the children onto their laps. A waitress brought cups of ale, and with shared grins, the group lifted their cups twice in celebration: the first to mark their arrival, the second in anticipation of what was to come. They filled their bellies with meat and bread, cheese and broth, and for the first time since leaving the empty cottage, they slept on actual beds.

In the morning, Janet stayed with the children in a rented room while Andrew and Iain spoke with the tavern’s owner, who claimed to know everyone in Greenock. At the docks, the coastal wind stirred the water and a half-dozen ships tied to the dock heaved against their ropes as if impatient to be on their way. At the far end sat the largest of the ships, the
Boyd of Glasgow.
She was set to sail to
Virginia in two days’ time. That was the ship Iain and Andrew were seeking. They moved among the sailors, asking for the captain the taverner had suggested.

The
Boyd of Glasgow
had been docked for two weeks, and although the crew enjoyed mingling with the townspeople and local whores, their home was aboard the worn wooden deck, rolling over the Atlantic. The unpredictable swaying of the sea was more familiar to them than solid earth, and they were looking forward to casting off again.

Four sailors stood at the slip where the two-hundred-ton galley was tied, happily leering at any woman who strayed in their direction. Andrew looked the men over with interest. Not Highlanders. He could tell from their swagger, from the images etched into their corded biceps, from the cocky teasing that darted through their mouths. He couldn’t picture these men in the green peace of his homeland.

“Good morn to ye, sirs,” Iain said, addressing the man who appeared to be in charge.

The man in question was taller than the others, though nowhere close to Iain’s size. He wore an open vest, with nothing beneath, and his faded breeks hung loose around his hips. The sun had baked his skin to a dark leather, and both his face and the top of his bald head were covered by freckles. A gold hoop earring dangled from one ear, and there was a vacant space where one upper tooth should have been. His shoulders were broad and veins strained over the solid bulk of his biceps. His forearms were wooly with curly gold hairs.

“Aye, that it is. An’ a good morn to ye as well,” the sailor replied. “Be there somethin’ I can help ye with?” He raised his eyebrows, cutting three large creases across his brow. They were the only hairs to be seen on the man’s head. Andrew thought the man’s expression held a glint of intelligence, but those of his companions did not.