Chapter Twelve
An hour later and one dress fewer, Mal was awake again. Georgina sat beside him and dabbed at his face with a cloth dipped in cool water. It wouldn’t help the way quinine powder would have, but it might make him feel more comfortable.
For the moment, they were alone. The rest of the men’s voices drifted in to them through the open windows from time to time. Lu sat against Georgina’s feet, radiating warmth, as if the animal knew Georgina could use it. She was starting to become fond of Lu. She was an affectionate dog, even if she hadn’t been trained quite as well as Laddie.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Mal said.
“Like what?” she murmured softly. Her eyes fell on him, on his reddened, clammy face, before they skittered away again. She leaned back in her chair, letting her arm fall.
“Like I’m already dead. Your bedside manner could use some improvement.”
She smiled wryly. “Sickbeds make me…restless.”
“Everything makes you restless.” His teasing was soft and gentle. Intimate.
Too intimate. But Georgina was too happy that he was awake and talking to be as cautious as she should. “Lachlan and I burned some things,” she said. “It helped.”
Mal huffed like an exasperated father. “Lachlan’s school of coping. Have a problem? Set it on fire.”
“In lieu of other options, it works quite well.”
“Not you, too,” he said, but he was smiling slightly. “What did you burn?”
She looked down at her lap. “My blue dress. It had bloodstains on it…I couldna clean them out.”
Mal was silent for a moment. “I liked that dress.”
“I did, too.”
She’d liked it until she’d hated it. When she glanced at him again, he was looking at her with something like understanding. And sometimes, knowing someone understood you was worse than knowing you confused them.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Food?”
She was already sitting forward, dislodging Lu from her feet, when Mal said, “Will ye sing for me?”
She paused. That wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind. She didn’t know why Mal liked her singing so much. Her tutor had been quite clear that her singing voice was too raspy, too low, and too off-note. It made Georgina feel like she was cutting herself open when she sang to Mal, in a way she wasn’t sure she wanted to but couldn’t figure out how to stop.
“Take pity on a poor, sick man.”
She sat back. “What do you want to hear?”
“You choose.”
So she sang the first thing that came to her mind. She didn’t look at Mal while she sang; the act itself was intimate enough already.
“What’s this dull town to me? Robin’s not near: What was’t I wish’d to see? What wish’d to hear? Where’s all the joy and mirth, Made this town a heaven on earth? Oh! they’re all fled with thee, Robin Adair.”
At some point during the verse, Lu perked up and began to howl along, a low, mournful baying.
Georgina stopped with a laugh. “I’m not that dreadful, am I?”
“It’s not your voice. Christ, lass, your song choices are maudlin.”
“You told me to choose.”
“I’m rethinking that.”
“I have one I think you’ll like,” she said. Mal must have suspected something from her cheery tone, because he was watching her warily, eyes slightly narrowed. “But let them ask as they roll the Street, of any young virgin they happen to meet, and I know she’ll say from behind her fan, that there’s none can love like an Irishman.”
Mal groaned, flopping back on the bed. “Oh, the cruelty. You might as well take a dagger and finish me off right here.”
She lifted her eyes heavenward, but she couldn’t fight a smile or the lightness in her chest. It was a good sign that his penchant for exaggeration hadn’t dimmed. “I think you’ll survive. Anyway, it’s not like I’m speaking from experience. I don’t know any Irishmen.”
“Let’s be thankful for small favors.”
“They do have some lovely songs, though. Moore’s ballads are some of my favorites.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeated.
“For someone who wants to suck the marrow from life, you like such sad songs.”
She smoothed her hand across her skirt. “Sadness is part of the marrow, isn’t it? Everything is part of it, good and bad. And…I suppose…I like them because my mother used to like to listen to them.” Her heart skipped a beat. She shouldn’t speak so carelessly with him. But he was sick, and he’d been shot, and there were no guarantees he would recover. But more than that, he’d been shot protecting her. She felt like she owed him something, even if she wasn’t sure quite what.
“Your mother,” he mused. “And what kind of woman raised the fierce Catriona MacPherson?”
“She liked music, but she didn’t sing or play. She simply…appreciated it. She would hum along sometimes.” Georgina laughed slightly. “She couldn’t carry a tune, but that didn’t stop her.”
“You loved her,” he stated.
Love, she wanted to correct. Her mother had been the beating heart of their family. Irreplaceable. They all loved one another, of course, rather ferociously. It was what came of loss, perhaps—holding even tighter to what was left. But none of them had stepped into the space their mother had left. None of them had wanted to.
“Aye.”
“It’s different with mothers and fathers, isn’t it?” Mal asked. “We want to impress our fathers, but we’re satisfied with just a mother’s love. No, not just,” he added a second later. “Maybe that’s why we’re satisfied with it…it’s so vast.”
Georgina felt a twinge of sadness deep in her heart. For the past. And for the future. “Did your mother like sad songs, too?”
He shook his head, smiling slightly. “She always played the fast ones. The ones that made her fingers bleed. Music was something we held between us—it made things simpler.”
“What do you mean?” Georgina asked softly. There was something about this moment, something quiet, that she didn’t want to break. Mal’s face was relaxed, almost vulnerable, and his eyes were very far away.
“After my father died, I don’t think my mother really knew what to do with me. She was more involved with my sisters, and Da was more involved with me. I was always scheming about one thing or another—one time, I’d convinced my sister that if she cut off all of her hair and put it under her pillow, she’d dream of her future husband. That was Mary—she was more superstitious than the rest of us—and she had bright red hair, all the way down to her waist. I don’t know—maybe I was jealous. Ma was always brushing Mary’s hair until it gleamed like it was some sort of trophy. I didna know what was so special about it.”
“She didn’t actually cut it, did she?”
Mal shook his head. “My mother came in just in time to stop her, and then gave me a good thrashing. There were a hundred moments like that—she loved me, but I never stopped giving her grief. I think I was…angry…the first year or two after Da died. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what my place was without him. When my mother was at her wit’s end, she shoved her fiddle at me, and she said, if you can learn to play it well, it’s yours.
“That fiddle…it had been hers for as long as I could remember. So I took her up on the bargain. She taught me a little each day, and I practiced as much as I could. When I left to join the Black Watch, she gave me the fiddle, like she’d promised. Music made things between me and my mother smoother. It gave me the focus I needed, and it gave her something to share with me. We’d found our common ground.”
Georgina’s heart pinched, for the lost boy Mal had been. She couldn’t imagine his devastation when he’d returned from the war—had he felt like that lost boy all over again? Had he ever found himself?
“I would have liked to meet your mother,” she finally said.
“She would have loved you, fierce, clever, restless girl.” He turned his hand, palm up on the coverlet, like he was waiting for her to take it.
Her pulse stuttered. They’d kissed and he’d touched her bare skin, but those things had had purpose. She’d kissed him because she wanted to know what kissing him was like. He’d touched her bare skin to apply the salve. If she took his hand now, it would be for no reason. It would just be him and her and the soft press of their palms. A different kind of intimacy. A different kind of kiss.
Something new.
Something terrifying.
Mal’s eyelids were heavy. They fluttered darkly for a beat, then two. As he fell asleep, he let out a soft sigh.
It was only then that Georgina leaned forward and laced her hand with his.
…
Georgina woke up in the dark, disoriented. She was still holding on to Mal. She must have fallen asleep in the chair next to the bed. In the dim light, she tried to make him out—he was still, quiet. Quiet as death.
No.
No.
Suddenly frantic, she touched her fingers to his lips. Waited. Waited, with her heart in her throat. When she felt the caress of his breath against her skin, she nearly sobbed out loud. He was alive; he was just sleeping deeply. Tentatively, she reached out, pressing her fingertips gently to his brow—he was cool.
His fever had broken in the night.
Oh, Mal.
She bowed her head in relief, like she was offering up a prayer.
But her relief, however strong, was tempered, bittersweet.
If Mal was fine, she could leave. If Mal was fine, she must leave.
There was no future for them—the worlds they came from were too far apart. And if Mal knew who she was, he wouldn’t want her anyway. He wouldn’t call her fierce and clever; he wouldn’t hold out his hand for her to take. He wouldn’t look at her the same way. Not ever again.
The corners of her eyes stung. Each beat of her heart hurt her chest.
She hovered over him—a single tear escaped, slipping down her cheek and landing at the edge of Mal’s lips. She followed it down, kissed him chastely. Told herself the best thing was to let him go.
Even if it felt like her heart might shatter.
And then, without looking back, she wrapped up her mother’s music box with her other belongings. Led by the soft rush of the sea, she slipped away from the crofter’s cottage.
Like a thief in the night.
…
When Mal woke again, the deep-golden sun of late afternoon was slanting through the windowpane. He tasted salt on his tongue; his lips tingled with the gentle press of a kiss. Was it a memory or a dream? He felt clearer today, sharper, but he couldn’t remember.
He sat up, winced at the tight pain in his shoulder, and looked around the cottage. Lu had curled up in the warmest patch of light and seemed to be dozing happily. Catriona wasn’t in sight. He wondered if she’d gone outside.
“Mal?” Ewan came to him, a steaming cup clasped in his hands.
He took it, looked down at it, sniffed. It didn’t look like coffee or tea, and it had a strange bitter-sour smell. Was this another one of the Ewan’s family’s remedies? “Ewan, I thought we were friends. Are you trying to murder me?”
“Of course not!” The other man took the empty chair by the bed, staring at Mal with wide eyes.
“Are you going to watch me drink it?”
“Mal.”
There was something hesitant in Ewan’s voice. Something he wasn’t sure he’d heard before. “What is it?”
“She’s gone.”
Mal set the cup down in his lap abruptly. It splashed over, spilling hot liquid onto his leg, but he barely felt it. “Gone.” His voice was raspy. “What do you mean she’s gone?”
“She wasn’t here this morning. She took all her things. She took the music box, too.”
He dug his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh. Anything to feel something other than this horrible numbness.
That kiss. The taste of tears. Had that been her? Had he only imagined it?
“Are you…are you sure?” Christ, he sounded like a fool.
“I’m sure. It was hours ago, Mal. She hasn’t come back.”
Had he imagined everything between them?
“Mal…what should we do?”
“Do?” he said blankly. He noticed he was drawing blood and uncurled his fingers.
He was an idiot. She’d never wanted him—she’d toyed with him, with all of them, this whole time. She’d fucked them over. Taken the music box and slipped away like a coward. He wanted to laugh when he remembered he’d tried to give it to her as a gift. A beautiful token for a woman he found more beautiful than words. But what use would she have for a gift when she could just take what she wanted while he lay helpless?
Had anything she’d told him been true? While he was falling, deeper and deeper, thinking she was falling with him, she must have been planning to leave the entire time. She must have thought they were all pathetic—lost boys, playing at being outlaws.
What he didn’t understand was why she’d joined them in the first place. Just to steal from them? There were easier ways to do it.
But he shoved the thought aside. He didn’t care why. It didn’t matter.
His hand balled into a fist. “We’re not going to do anything. She left us.”
“Do you think Cat—”
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t speak her name. I don’t want to hear it.” Ewan looked at him worriedly, and Mal turned away. “Forget about her. Forget that she was even here.” He meant the words for Ewan, but they were a reminder to himself as well.
Sometimes, the only way through life was to carve out the things you couldn’t bear to contemplate.