LITMIR.BIZ

      9

      Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1918

      It seemed strange to be married in November, Flora reflected, looking out across the sea from her perch on the window seat where she sat curled up among the old chintz cushions. Tomorrow she and Angus would be married. It was the right thing. The only thing she could do for him, now that Gavin and Uncle Hamish were gone, for he’d never manage on his own, and Gavin would have expected it of her.

      Still, it seemed unreal. But then, everything seemed unreal, even Gavin’s death. She was still not able to register that he would never again walk into a room, his eyes glinting in that unique way, inviting her on some impossible adventure. She turned and stared at the door as though he might suddenly materialize. She didn’t feel his death—she never had. Of course, hoping he might be alive was wishful thinking. She knew that. But still…Even the memorial service and the engraving on the family tombstone, next to Uncle Hamish’s name, hadn’t made it sink in.

      And tomorrow she was to become Angus’s wife. She tried to suppress her sadness. Being his companion, helping him with the estate and doing her duty by him were one thing. But the other…She clasped her arms tight, pulling her heather-colored cardigan tight as a shudder went through her. How was she going to react when he…She closed her eyes and tried desperately not to think about tomorrow night or the grief of being anyone but Gavin’s.

      She sighed and turned again toward the churning gray waters that smashed against the rocks below. The lump in her throat, which surfaced so often of late, returned. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Angus’s feelings. On returning from France, after learning of Uncle Hamish’s sudden death, she had agreed to be married as soon as possible, and she was determined not to spoil it for him.

      It was dark and misty outside. In the distance, a small fishing vessel bobbed on the horizon, heading into port. Flora listened to the rush of the wind and the gulls squawking overhead. She heard Millie barking in the distance as she gazed across the leaden November waters, feeling as if part of her had remained in the Somme with Gavin, leaving her distant, as though in another world.

      It was hard to show enthusiasm for the lovely trousseau that Tante Constance had lovingly chosen, all the while lamenting that it could not be bought in Paris. She hated standing for hours while dressmakers pinned her wedding dress and fussed. Angus had presented her with a beautiful ring that had belonged to his great-grandmother and which Tante had suggested for their engagement. When he had slipped it onto her finger, she had shuddered, forcing back the tears in an attempt to show a happy front. She was determined not to think of what might have been, but that was proving impossible. Each folded sheet, each delicately embroidered pillowcase where the wrong initials entwined were an agonizing reminder of the nights she would never spend in Gavin’s arms.

      She watched the boat disappear from view with a sigh. Tante would have a list of last-minute things to go over before the formal dinner tonight. Oncle Eustace, Tante Hortense, Cousin Eugène, René and little Geneviève, who was to be a bridesmaid, had arrived earlier in the day and were resting in their apartments on the second floor.

      The wedding was to be a small affair, for which she was thankful. She couldn’t have handled a huge ceremony, the pomp of a cathedral. The tiny chapel erected at Strathaird four centuries ago was beautiful, and would make the event bearable, even though the place was permeated with memories of Gavin. She smiled and a tear rolled down her cheek as she remembered eating apples with him under the altar, his foot nudging hers as he tried to make her giggle during Mass.

      She wiped her face and wandered reluctantly down the wide oak staircase, wondering if she was right to be marrying one man while mourning another. Should she call the whole thing off while there was still time, she wondered, stopping on the landing and gazing up at a portrait of Struan MacLeod, Gavin’s great-grandfather. Those same twinkling eyes met hers and she swayed in sudden panic, as though he were there before her.

      “Are you all right?”

      “Oh! Goodness!”

      Eugène, tall and slim, stood solicitously next to her in his black priest’s robes. “You gave me a fright,” she exclaimed, trying to smile.

      “Je m’excuse, Flora. You seemed so…sad. Is there anything I can do?”

      She thought, then smiled. “Will you take my confession?”

      “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m not fully ordained yet. But if you wish, we can talk and I will give my vow of secrecy.”

      “I would like that. Perhaps we could go for a walk after tea, or up to the old drawing room.”