Cullah made beds for the three of us on this new floor of the house, hanging a blanket for my sake, as Goody Carnegie had done. We spoke not at all, but pointing and nodding, we made for bed. Before I went behind the blanket, though, I saw Jacob and Cullah had both brought their boxes of tools and both boxes had been opened and laid out. They had false frames in them. Under the woodsman’s tools, a fold of plaid lay unwrapped, displaying an array of blades of differing sizes—swords and daggers, dirks and pistols. A brace of leather had held the claymore in place, though with the clatter of hammers, bits and drills, no one could have heard it rattle. In Cullah’s box lay more plaids and a large silver buckle, with a set of pipes and two glistening swords.
I lay on my pallet staring into the darkness. I did not weep, then. Poor Goody had gone to her Abigail at last, and perhaps was at rest. No more would she cry through the woods. I had to get away from this terror-filled place of cold and gray and wickedness. Rafe MacAlister was lying; I knew my mother was still alive. The men talked in whispers in their strange language. Then Cullah called, “Miss Talbot, are you asleep?”
“No.”
“We were almost too late to save you. I am truly sorry. I hope, that is, I pray, that, that you were not much harmed.”
I said nothing but squirmed on my pallet, thinking of that vile part of Rafe MacAlister so close to me. If not in body, could a spirit be raped? For if so, then I was much harmed.
He went on, “You see, we had had no need of the weapons for so long. The false bottoms of the chests were secured and hard to open. I am terribly sorry. We would have come sooner.”
Jacob added, “We did come soon’s we saw them from the rooftop, but getting our weapons took too long. I apologize, too, lass.”
“I am still whole, if that is your worry. I am only broken of heart and soul. Only that.”
“Men may die of that,” Jacob whispered.
The fire crackled in the grate.
“Men are weak,” I said, not hiding the anger in my voice.
“Well and aye,” answered Cullah. “My tears for you were about the other, and yet these words you say are the more sad.” His large hand breached the opening where the blanket hung, twisting by its own sagging warp, away from the wall. I saw it, outlined from the light of the fire; I remembered my own hands cupping a flame long ago. He turned his hand and reached as if to beckon me, and against my own impulse, but feeling so bereft of hope, I reached for it. Instead of a hearty, strong grip, he held my hand with the tenderness I would use to lift a fledgling bird back to its nest. I held on as his fingers closed over mine.
I fell asleep with the words ringing in my head, “Ma is not dead.”
CHAPTER 20
October 20, 1736
I wrapped clean linen around Jacob’s middle, stretching my arms so far that it was as if I hugged the man. “You must have been a soldier,” I said, stifling a shudder when touching his back webbed with white scars far worse than his face.
“It is better you know little of that time. Let it be that my son and I have built a house for you. We work for Lady Spencer. We are woodworkers.”
“You are Jacobites.”
“Aye.”
“Freemasons, too?”
Jacob looked surprised. “Aye.”
“And what are your real names? Were you transported here or did you flee after the rebellion? You thought I had not heard of it? My father talked of little else. My mother also. How did you come by the scars on your face?”
“You are a right pressing little lass.”
“It is my nature. I know this much. A MacLammond is the son of Lommond, from the shores of Loch Lommond. Highlanders. Argyle and Donald, they were my mother’s people.”
Cullah said, “Ceallach Lamont. It means war. None of those are my real name. It is Eadan. I’ll thank you not to use it.”
Jacob moved my hands from his chest and pulled his shirt over the bandage. “It was a crazed flight through the nights to the sea. Captured and sentenced by the magistrate right there on the shore, we were both to hang again, but we were put aboard a filthy transport to the colonies.”
“In the hold?”
“Aye.”
I nodded. “I was in a hold. More than one. It was wretched. Patience nearly died.”
“They sought to make a puff of my boy. When he fought back, the bosun’s mate slashed him with a sword. I killed the man. They took the cat to me. Tore out my eye. Bled me near to the bone.” He grinned. “The mate had beaten another boy to death, causing the crew to tramp upon his wee corpse and grind his grease into the deck. When I was thrashed, the crew mutinied. Took the ship and sailed to Virginia. Took the captain to the authorities but they only fined him and commenced to put us all in jail. Hung a few. My boy slipped out of their hands. When they went to send me to the gallows, he argued with the magistrates. When that didn’t work, he found a pick and dug me out of the cell. We are wanted. Unwanted, too, I expect. The names of Brendan and Eadan Lamont will get a man hung. Jacob and Cullah MacLammond are just two woodsmen making their trade serve to fill their stomachs.”
Cullah looked up from working the edge of his axe with a stone.
“And what is a puff?” I asked.
“What?”
“You said they would make a puff of Cullah. What is that?”
“To use a boy as a woman. Filthy sodomites. Oh, lass, I’ve blighted your ears. No way to speak to a lady. I beg your pardon.”