The Shadowy Horses

"Some things," he said, "are worth waiting for."

The Fort path led out past the caravan park, and a snatch of music blaring from a radio gave way, as we walked, to the muted sound of a couple quarreling. David kept possession of my hand, whistling softly under his breath as though he were well pleased. As we passed the last row of caravans he slowed his step, and the whistling ceased. "There you are," he said quietly. "What did I tell you?"

Two figures were standing locked in an embrace alongside the furthest caravan. The man I couldn't see too well, but he was clearly kissing Fabia. One couldn't mistake her, even at this distance.

David nudged me along. "See? My mother is always right."

"Hard luck on poor Adrian.”

“Aye." David smiled. "Still, I reckon he'll find some comfort in that redheaded lass he was trying to pull at the ceilidh."

"I missed that, actually. How was he doing?"

"Not bad. Did you really not notice?" He raised a dark eyebrow. "He was being dead obvious about it."

In all honesty, the entire Royal Family could have been dancing a reel beside us and I wouldn't have noticed, but I didn't tell him that.

He didn't take the road toward the harbor, but led me uphill instead, along a curve of darkened houses, and out again onto the road that would take us back to Rosehill.

I didn't pay too much attention to our walk home. One minute we were crossing the motorway at the edge of Eye-mouth and the next we were turning up the long drive, in companionable silence. The windows of Rose Cottage were dark, and up at the house the only light still burning was the one over the front door. Peter, if he'd come home before us, had gone to bed.

David didn't kiss me goodnight at the door. He followed me into the entrance hall, and up the curve of smooth stone stairs, and when I turned in the middle of my bedroom he was still there behind me, putting the cat out.

"David," I asked him, low, "what are you doing?"

He glanced over his shoulder, as though it were plainly self-evident. "I'm locking the door."

I heard the key catch. And then he was coming toward me and I found myself suddenly at a loss for words, nervous in a way I hadn't been in years. I was trembling—actually trembling—when he touched my hair, his fingers working to undo the plait, arranging the long strands over my shoulders.

XXXIV

The horses woke me in the dark hour before dawn. Snorting and stamping, they thundered past beneath my window and were swallowed by the lonely field and the wind that wept through the chestnut tree like a wandering lament.

I shivered into wakefulness, and forced my leaden eyelids open, momentarily confused by the heavy weight of something warm across my waist, the quiet even breathing close beside me on the pillow. And then I remembered.

"David."

He shifted at the whispered word, his face against my hair. "Mmm?"

"Did you hear that?"

But it was obvious he hadn't. Still half asleep, he tightened his arm around my waist to gather me closer against him, his powerful body shielding me from, harm. "Whatever it is," he murmured, soothingly, "it'll have to come through me, first. Go to sleep."

And closing my eyes, I turned my face against his shoulder and felt all my fears flow from me while his strong and steady heartbeat drowned the shrieking of the wind.

It might have been a minute or a lifetime later when I heard Jeannie's voice calling my name. She sounded close.

I thought drowsily. A good thing David locked the door, or else . . .

"Come on, Verity—waken up, now." Jeannie's hand jostled my arm and my eyes flew open with a guilty start to focus on her face. She shook her head, her expression neither shocked nor judgmental, and crossed to draw the curtains. "Jings! You do sleep like the dead."

The warm weight across my stomach shifted and stretched, and looking down I saw that it was Murphy, rolling over on his side to test his claws against the blankets. He had not quite recovered from the indignity of being chucked out of my room last night, and his level stare was icily aloof. Beside me, the mattress was empty and cold.

"It's nine o'clock," said Jeannie, briskly. "Peter said to knock you up at nine."

Closing my eyes again, I let my head drop back against the pillows. "On a Sunday?"

"He didn't want you missing all the excitement."

"Kind of him," I mumbled. Then, as her words began to penetrate: "What excitement?"

"D'ye never watch the news?" she asked me. "They were talking about it all yesterday, ken—that big storm out over the Channel."

"Oh right, Brian said something ..." I frowned, trying to remember what he'd said, exactly. "It was just sitting there, wasn't it? Not moving."

"Aye, well, it's moved. Can you not hear the change in the wind? It'll be here by noon, I should think."

"The storm's coming here?" I opened my eyes as the realization struck, and levered myself onto my elbows. "God, the excavations .. . we'll have to cover—"

"It's already been done," she informed me. "Davy and Peter and Dad did all that, afore breakfast. And they're moving the students up into the stables, in case those wee tents don't stand up to the storm."

"Is there room in the stables?"

“Oh, aye. In the common room, like. Peter,'' she confided, "would have put them all downstairs in his own sitting room, I think, only Davy told him that was daft. It's only for one night, and they'll have more fun up there, without us old folks hanging round."