He wanted to leap out of bed and feel the cold floorboards beneath his bare feet. He wanted to walk completely around the island, exploring as he went. He wanted to walk anytime, anywhere—that’s what he wanted.
He eyed the wheelchair sitting in the corner. Friend or foe? For now, it would have to be friend. At least it would get him out of this bed.
Maggie came in, carrying a steaming mug, hair pinned into her usual bun. She wore a gray tweed skirt and pale blue sweater. She looked so beautiful in mufti he stifled a groan.
The unexpected aroma of coffee made his mouth water. “Not tea?”
“You hate tea.”
“Didn’t think you’d have coffee here.”
“Father sent it with us. It’s no’ rationed like tea, but it is hard to find. He had one of his staff search all over Edinburgh for a large enough supply.”
He grabbed the mug. “Satan, get thee behind me.”
“There you go again.” She laughed, wrinkling her nose. “Drink your coffee. Angus will be here soon to help you into your chair. We’ll get your wash-up and shave out of the way and by then, you’ll be starving and we can have our breakfast outside on the front entry.”
“Entry?”
“I believe ’tis what you call a porch.”
***
When she washed his legs and feet, he could swear he felt more. “Feels guid,” he said, using the Scots word. Since he’d be stuck here on Innisbraw for months, it would be a good opportunity to pick up the language.
“You feel more, then?”
“Must. Never felt the water trickling down my outer thigh before.”
“That’s wonderful.” She dried him briskly. “Does this feel guid, also?”
“Verra, verra guid.”
“Now, I’ll shave you and find you some fresh nightclothes.”
He was tired of feeling like an invalid. “What I’d really like is a shirt and pair of pants. That okay with you?”
“I don’t see why no’, as long as you don’t mind having to change in the mornin and again at night.”
“I don’t. Are there pants and shirts in that duffle-bag the base hospital sent with me?”
“I’ve never opened it. But first, I’ll get a clean basin of water and a razor.”
***
She settled a fresh towel over his chest and hummed as she lathered his face. He savored her closeness and the scent of the heather soap she used to soften his whiskers. He closed his eyes as she drew a straight razor carefully over his neck, chin, jaw, and upper lip, opening them when she jumped back and picked up the basin.
“I’ll empty this and fetch your bag.”
The thought of getting into real clothes pleased him. He had no idea what they packed or who had done the packing—probably Hank Hirsch. He noticed his watch on the bedside table and strapped it on, grinning. A little past 0800, the hack-hand ticking off the seconds. Maggie must have wound and set it.
She dragged a large duffle bag through the doorway and up to the side of the bed, untied the bag, and began pulling out the clothing. “Here are your breeks.” She held up a pair of uniform trousers.
“Breeks,” he repeated, stiffening his resolve to learn the language. “They’ll do, though I should wait to see if there’s another pair. I doubt you have a dry-cleaner here and I’ll need something clean to wear when I return to duty.”
She smiled. “‘When I return to duty.’ I like the sound of your optimism.”
“Keep it coming, lass. I had a pair of denims but I don’t know if they packed them.”
“Denim ... breeks?”
“Right—I mean, aye. They’re dark blue.”
She brought out another pair of uniform pants, his crush cap, two uniform shirts which she insisted were called “sarks,” and a uniform blouse and tie, carefully folded between tissue. Several khaki skivvy shirts and boxer shorts followed, then a V-neck sweater he had bought in London, his dress boots and, at last, a pair of denims. “Is this what you want?”
“Perfect. Any socks in there?”
She tossed a pair on the bed. “That’s all, except a heavy leather jacket.”
“Yes!” He took it from her hands. “My A-2 jacket. This has been a lot of places and seen a lot of things.”
“Really?”
“I’ve had it since I graduated from flight school.”
“Tell me what you want to wear so I’ll know what to repack until I can find time to put everything in the clothes press.”
She stacked what he named on the bed and finished re-packing the bag. “They forgot your sleeping garments.”
“Don’t wear any.”
“Och.” She pulled the strings tight. “’Tis a guid thing I packed your pyjamas from the Royal Infirmary. The legs and sleeves are too short, but you’ll have to wear them here.”
“Don’t try to move that. Wait, and I’ll ask Angus to put it over in the corner behind the chair.”
Didn’t say much for a life when most of it would fit in a duffle bag. Of course, they hadn’t packed everything: the rest of his uniforms, a few old clothes, his books, framed pictures of various flight crews, his one football trophy from high-school, old letters, and his raincoat. He hoped they were stored in a dry place. The new CO would be using his quarters.
He put on his skivvy, then the sweater. It felt so good to be wearing clothes again. “I’m going to need your help getting these on,” he said, waving the boxers and denims. “And my socks.”
By the time she had him dressed, sweat gathered at his hairline. This was work.
She pulled up his khaki socks. “Those breeks are so tight they make you look taller, even lying in bed. Are you sure they’re going to be warm enough?”
“Don’t care. What’s keeping Angus?”
She looked at her watch. “He is a bit late.”
“I gathered that.” A bite crept into his tone.
“You’re in a bad mood.”
“Not at all. It’s just that I was taught punctuality is a mark of civility.”
“Really!” She placed her hands on her hips. “Well, I suppose if you’re fortunate enough to have work you can leave any time you wish, that might be true. But there are some who don’t have that choice.”
He must have insulted the crofter.
Angus arrived, full of apologies for being late.
“Had a ewe yean with twa wedder lambs, and so ahint the others. Took a while to get them suckling.”
“He said one of his ewes gave premature birth to twins very late in the season, and it took time to get them nursing.” Maggie shot him a haughty look.
“Are the lambs going to make it?” Rob asked, adding the proper amount of concern to his voice.
“Och, aye, they were going at it with great slaiger, they were.”
“He said—”
Rob interrupted Maggie’s translation. “I get the picture.”
She lowered the bed, helped Rob to the side, and Angus took over from there. He was relieved to find the transfer almost pain-free.
She helped him into his A-2 jacket and pushed him out to the stone porch—entry—where Angus took his leave with a smile and a wave.
“Are you starving yet?” she asked.
“If you mean is my stomach touching my back-bone, the answer is yes ... aye, definitely.”
“I’ll heat up the broth and bannock and be right out.”
“Is there another cup of coffee in there?”
“Another one? With all that caffeine, you’ll be jumping out of your skin.”
“I have to get to work on those exercises. It’ll give me the energy.”
“Any excuse for another cup of coffee. I’ll catch you up in a minute. Are you warm enough?”
“Plenty.”
He smiled at her retreating back and sat looking out at the harbor and sea. A brisk breeze whipped the tops of the waves into frothy whitecaps. Far in the distance, a large convoy of British warships headed up the Minch, probably on its way to the North
Sea. He closed his eyes, demoralized by guilt. While he sat here doing nothing, his men were far into German-occupied airspace on their way to take out some rail yard or manufacturing plant.
But he couldn’t allow himself to think about what he would be doing right now if that piece of shrapnel hadn’t done its damage. He had enough on his plate without adding guilt.
He opened his eyes and studied the harbor below. A deep expanse of white sand ringed the natural basin, the tide being out. Only one old fishing boat rocked beside the dock. Malcolm must have left for another mail-run and all the other boats tied up there the evening before were probably out at sea.
Seals barked stridently, wrestling and fighting for the best perch on several large, flat rocks at the base of the tall cliff on his right. His binoculars—another thing missing from his duffle bag.
He rested his head on the back of the chair. Innisbraw wasn’t at all what he’d expected. The little he’d seen of the island was very nice if he made allowances for the lack of trees. If only it wasn’t so far from everything. It must be a real chore having to take an all-day trip on a smelly fishing trawler to reach the nearest town in Scotland or walk to get anywhere on the island. And no phones. And for many, no electricity.
Maggie came out the door, carrying a tray laden with bowls, cups, and a large iron pot. She set it on a broad bench and motioned him over. “’Tis a little low for a table, but it will have to do.”
“Smells great.”
“It will taste grand, too. Flora is a verra guid cook.”
“Who’s Flora?”
“She’s Angus’s wife. Father pays her to keep the infirmary clean and ready while he’s away.”
“Is it used as an infirmary now?”
“When Father’s here. And Alice Ross, our postie—Post Mistress—is a midwife so she uses it for a difficult birthing. I’m certain I’ll treat a few minor illnesses or wounds, but I’ll have to send anyone in need of a doctor to the Cottage Hospital on Barra.”
“Barra?”
“’Tis several islands north of us. Anyway, when the war is over, Father hopes to retire from the Royal Infirmary and University and be here full time, though he’s been saying that for so many years I’m no’ sure I believe him.”
Eyes dark blue. So this was a sore spot. What he’d assumed a perfect relationship between father and daughter had at least one bone of contention. McGrath’s insistence that Rob do nothing to hurt Maggie was not as ingenuous as he’d thought.
She handed him a bowl. “I know ’tis unusual to have Scotch broth for breakfast, but it was there and fast to heat.”
As he balanced the bowl in his lap, she reached over and tucked a napkin into the vee of his sweater-neck.
“We don’t want you slubbering all over your special jacket.”
“Sure don’t.”
He ate a spoonful. “This is great. How about a piece of that bread? Is that what you call bannock?”
“Aye. ’Tis oat griddle bread. It might be a little plain for your taste, but it goes well with the spicy broth.”
He ate half a piece in one bite, then dipped the other half into the broth and ate that. “This is verra, verra guid,” he said, wiping his chin with his napkin. “Why didn’t they have this at the Royal Infirmary?”
“You’ve forgotten about the rationing. We’re fortunate here, for we grow most of our food on the island.”
“I hope you have plenty. I really am starving.”
She laughed and sipped her own broth. “Say the word and I’ll hand you your coffee.”
He ate three bowls of the rich broth and four pieces of bannock, then leaned back, coffee mug in hand, sipping contentedly. “Pass on my compliments to Flora. What was the meat in that broth?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Lamb.”
“Lamb.” He choked on his coffee. “I hope it wasn’t one of those premature ones.”
“Och, Rob.”
He laughed, holding the mug out to one side so it wouldn’t spill. “Gotcha.”
“You can be a terrible tease.”
“Can’t help it. You wouldn’t believe some of the pranks—uh, tricks—Den and I pulled at the Point.”
“But surely you didn’t do what you call ‘pranks’ there. Isn’t that like University?”
“We had to do something to break up the tedium of study, study, study.”
“Och, you men. You talk about women never being serious, but you have your own way of making fun.”
“I guess we do. Is it about time for those exercises?”
She stacked the used bowls on the tray. “If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’d like to go over to the cottage. It’s been empty so long I’m sure it’s in need of a guid cleaning.”
“Empty?” That surprised him.
“What did I say?” she asked, expression anxious.
“Oh, nothing. I just thought, I mean I assumed ... I just thought your mother must be there, that’s all.”
“My mither!”
Her shock drove the words from his mouth.
“I thought you knew my mither died when I was eight.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie, I didn’t know.” He squirmed. Why had he made a thoughtless remark that caused her pain? “You never talked about her so I thought that maybe the two of you were not close ... or something.”
“She died birthing my brother, Calum.”
He leaped at the opportunity to change the subject. “You have a brother? You’ve never mentioned him.”
“I must have done so when your thoughts were muddled with morphine, for he’s in my prayers daily. He’s fourteen and at the boarding academy on the Isle of Harris, where I went to school.”
“Is he going to be a doctor like your father?”
“Though Father would like him to, no. Calum will either sit for his Highers—those are advanced A-level examinations—and go on to University after he finishes academy. Or, if Calum has his way, he’ll apprentice on one of the fishing boats. All he’s ever wanted is to be a fisherman.”
“I’m sorry about your mother. I feel like a fool, bringing it up like that.”
“You didn’t know so you have nowt—nothing—to be sorry for.” She placed their utensils and her teacup on the tray. “What about your mither? Is she still living?”
Her casual question caught him off-guard. He set his empty coffee mug down with a clack. “I’m all talked out.”
She took the mug and put it on the tray. “Of course,” she said before picking up the tray and walking off, shoulders stiff, head high. “I forgot. You ask about my past but don’t want to talk about yours.”
He’d done it again. She talked freely about losing her mother. Why couldn’t he be as open with her?
But she grew up with a loving father and a younger brother. She had a family. He took a deep, ragged breath. If he couldn’t overcome his reticence, Maggie might ask her father to send another nurse to take her place. He couldn’t bear to think about enduring the following weeks of therapy without her encouragement. How much more would it take to make her dislike him, to drive a wedge between them that could never be removed, even by a thousand apologies?
CHAPTER 13
On the far side of the island, Una Hunter bolted upright, eyes wide with confusion. As her gaze traveled over the familiar furnishings in her cottage, she took a deep breath and unclenched her hands. She had fallen asleep in her chair late the night before and had a nightmare.
Head pounding, she made her way unsteadily to the mirror she had hung so proudly in front of a makeshift dressing table when she was a lass. Streaks of black now tarnished the silver backing and dark green smudges from her fingers marred the once-bright gilt frame. But there was none like it on Innisbraw.
She studied the distorted image of her face. Even as a young lass, no one had called her “bonnie,” but her long nose, dark, almost black eyes, pointed chin, and high cheekbones were once considered “braw.” Her hair had been her crowning glory. Thick, dark brown, tending to
wave over her shoulders and down her back.
Now, her nose turned down and looked much closer to her pointed chin, thanks to the thin lips that had almost disappeared in the past few years. Only her eyes were unchanged. Dark, intense, glittering in the light from the single oil lamp she had left burning. She plucked the pins from the tight bun at the top of her head and released the limp strands, scratching her scalp in relief, then rubbed her throbbing temples before picking up her hairbrush. Carved from exotic wood and set with boar bristles, it was made in Italy and given to Una by her mother’s sister when Una was only a lass—another treasure from the past.
“One hundred strokes from root to ends,” she said in the Gaelic, mimicking her mother’s voice—Scots was for the lowbred and its use forbidden. “You’ve a nice enough body, but your hair is your one redeeming feature. Since you’re unfortunate enough to favor the Hunters in looks and not the Munros, you’ll never attract a suitor if you don’t keep it shiny.”
She dutifully drew the brush through her long, greying hair, her thoughts crowded with a litany of her mother’s complaints about her father’s family. “The Hunters are all good-for-nothings,” she said aloud, making sure to interject the right amount of venom. “Allowing your grandfather to force me to marry one is the most dreadful mistake I ever made. Look at your father now, already in bed and snoring, and the sun not even set. Him and his sheep. Couldn’t go into business with my father on Skye. Had to be a man and make it on his own. Rubbish! If my family didn’t send a stipend every year, we would eat nothing but skirlie every meal.”
The brush faltered in her hand as she pictured her father staggering into their thatched cottage every night, calloused hands filthy, clothes covered with grass stains and worse, and dark brown eyes dull with fatigue. Over the years, she grew to hate the man who sired her and stamped his unattractive features on her face. But she nursed him faithfully through his last lingering illness and saw that he had a proper funeral and burial. Pride would not allow her to do otherwise.
Her mother’s sudden passing from a violent seizure a year later almost laid her low. Her auntie had been too ill to come for the funeral and take her back to her lovely home on the Isle of Skye as a live-in companion. Now she was alone in this desolate, dreadful cottage with only her own voice to break the silence.
She returned to the present with a start. “Why haven’t you sent for me, Auntie?” she asked her image. “Surely you need help now you’re so old.” She sneered. “But until you do, I’ve other things to keep me busy. That Yank who came here is up to no good, and Maggie McGrath will rue the day she brought him here.”