There was a fleck of orange pulp stuck to her lip, and he bent on impulse and kissed it off, the tiny burst of sweetness rich and tart on his tongue.

“Well, they examined me as to doctrine and understanding, and we talked a great deal; prayed together for discernment.” He felt somewhat shy talking to her about it. It had been a remarkable experience, like returning to a home he’d never known he’d missed. To confess his calling had been joyful; to do it among people who understood and shared it …

“So I’m provisionally a minister of the Word,” he said, looking down at the toes of his boots. “I’ll need to be ordained before I can administer sacraments like marriage and baptism, but that will have to wait until there’a Presbytery Session held somewhere. In the meantime, I can preach, teach, and bury.”

She was looking at him, smiling, but a little wistfully.

“You’re happy?” she said, and he nodded, unable to speak for a moment.

“Very happy,” he said at last, his voice hardly audible.

“Good,” she said softly, and smiled a little more genuinely. “I understand. So now you’re sort of handfast with God, is that it?”

He laughed, and felt his throat ease. God, he’d have to do something about that; he couldn’t be preaching drunk every Sunday. Talk of giving scandal to the faithful …

“Aye, that’s it. But I’m properly married to you—I’ll not forget it.”

“See that you don’t.” Her smile now was wholehearted. “Since we are married …” She gave him a very direct look, one that went through him like a mild electric shock. “Jem’s at Marsali’s, playing with Germain. And I’ve never made love to a minister before. It seems kind of wicked and depraved, don’t you think?”

He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help; he still felt giddy and light-headed, doubtless from the smoke.

“Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant,” he said, “and our bed is green. The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies.” He reached out and touched her, gently.

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.”

“They are?”

“It’s in the Bible,” he assured her gravely. “It must be so, aye?”

“Tell me more about my navel,” she said, but before he could, he saw a small form bounding out of the woods and haring toward them. Aidan, now fishless and panting.

“Mrs. Ogil … vie says … come now!” he blurted. He gasped a little, recovering enough breath for the rest of the message. “The wean—she’s poorly, and they want her christened, in case she should die.”

Roger clapped a hand to his other side; The Book of Common Worship that they’d given him in Charlotte was a small, reassuring weight in his pocket.

“Can you?” Brianna was looking at him worriedly. “Catholics can—I mean, a lay person can baptize somebody if it’s an emergency.”

“Yes, in that case—yes,” he said, more breathless than he’d been a moment before. He glanced at Brianna, smudged with soot and dirt, her garments reeking of smoke and baked clay rather than myrrh and aloes.

“D’ye want to come?” He urgently wanted her to say yes.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she assured him, and discarding the filthy scarf, shook out her hair, bright as banners on the wind.



IT WAS THE OGILVIES’ first child, a tiny girl whom Brianna—with the experience of long motherhood—diagnosed as suffering from a vicious colic, but basically in good health. The frighteningly young parents—they both looked about fifteen—were pathetically grateful for everything: Brianna’s reassurances and advice, her offer to have Claire visit (for they were much too scared to think of approaching the laird’s wife themselves, leave alone the stories they had heard of her) with medicine and food, and most of all, for Roger’s coming to baptize the baby.

That a real minister—for they could not be convinced otherwise—should appear in this wilderness, and condescend to come confer the blessing of God upon their child—they were overwhelmed by their good fortune.

Roger and Brianna stayed for some time, and left as the sun was going down, glowing with the faintly self-conscious pleasure of doing good.

“Poor things,” Brianna said, voice trembling between sympathy and amusement.

“Poor wee things,” Roger agreed, sharing her sentiments. The christening had gone beautifully; even the screaming, purple-faced infant had suspended operations long enough for him to pour the water on her bald head and claim heaven’s protection for her soul. He felt the greatest joy in it, and immense humility at having been allowed to perform the ceremony. There was only the one thing—and his feelings were still confused between embarrassed pride and deep dismay.

“Her name—” Brianna said, and stopped, shaking her head.

“I tried to stop them,” he said, trying to control his voice. “I did try—you’re my witness. Elizabeth, I said. Mairi. Elspeth, perhaps. You heard me!”

“Oh, now,” she said, and her voice trembled. “I think Rogerina is a perfectly beautiful name.” Then she lost control, sat down in the grass, and laughed like a hyena.

“Oh, God, the poor wee lassie,” he said, trying—and failing—not to laugh himself. “I’ve heard of Thomasina, and even Jamesina, but … oh, God.”

“Maybe they’ll call her Ina for short,” Brianna suggested, snuffling and wiping her face on her apron. “Or they can spell it backward—Aniregor—and call her Annie.”

“Oh, you’re a great comfort,” Roger said dryly, and reached down to haul her to her feet.

She leaned against him and put her arms round him, still vibrating with laughter. She smelled of oranges and burning, and the light of the setting sun rippled in her hair.

Finally, she stopped, and lifted her head from his shoulder.

“I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,” she said, and kissed him. “You did good, Reverend. Let’s go home.”

PART EIGHT

 The Call

58



LOVE ONE ANOTHER

ROGER TOOK THE DEEPEST breath he could, and shouted as loudly as he could. Which was not very damn loud. Again. And again.

It hurt. It was aggravating, too; the feeble, choked sound of it made him want to shut up and never open his mouth again. He breathed, shut his eyes, and screamed with all his might, or tried to.

A searing flash of pain shot down inside his throat on the right, and he broke off, gasping. All right. He breathed gingerly for a moment, swallowing, then did it again.

Jesus, that hurt.

He rubbed a sleeve across his watering eyes and braced himself for another go. As he inflated his chest, fists curling, he heard voices, and let the breath out.

The voices were calling to each other, not far from him, but the wind was away and he couldn’t make out the words. Likely hunters, though. It was a fine fall day, with air like blue wine and the forest restless with dappled light.

The leaves had just begun to turn, but some were already falling, a silent, constant flicker at the edge of vision. Any movement could look like game in such surroundings, he knew that well. He drew breath to call out, hesitated, and said, “Shit,” under his breath. Great. He’d rather be shot in mistake for a deer than embarrass himself by calling out.

“Ass,” he said to himself, drew breath, and shouted, “Halloooo!” at the top of his voice—reedy and without volume as it was. Again. Again. And yet again. By the fifth time, he was beginning to think he’d rather be shot than go on trying to make them hear him, but at last a faint “Halloooo!” drifted back to him on the crisp, light air.

He stopped, relieved, and coughed, surprised not to be bringing up blood; his throat felt like raw meat. But he essayed a quick hum, then, cautiously, a rising arpeggio. An octave. Just barely, and it was a strain that sent shooting pains through his larynx—but a full octave. The first time he’d managed that much of a range in pitch since the injury.