Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,85

knee round the pommel and arranged her skirts.

Firmly seated, Elisabeth took the reins and exhaled the last of her fears. “I’d forgotten how wonderful the world looks from the back of a horse.”

“ ’Tis even more wonderful facing this direction.” He inclined his head, leading them uphill and away from town. “Have you been to Lessudden?”

“The farthest east I’ve traveled is Bell Hill. And you?”

He smiled. “Canton, China.”

Had the admiral been her brother, she would have swatted him.

The farther they climbed, the more stunning the views. Elisabeth caught her breath, taking it all in, as they continued along a high ridge. The land rolled and dipped on either side of them, and the sky felt close enough to touch.

Lord Buchanan pointed ahead. “The Eildon Hills,” he said. “Unusual, aren’t they?”

Elisabeth gazed at the three distinct hills. Rather than gradual slopes folded into the landscape, the Eildons poked straight up out of the farmland with only bracken and heather to soften their stark, bald appearance. “More unsettling than beautiful,” she confessed.

Their route took them downhill once more, through wide open fields and pastures. Sheep, newly shorn, wandered across the narrow track, bleating pitifully, as if in mourning for their wool.

“We’ve left Selkirkshire behind,” the admiral told her. “As promised, here is the village of Lessudden.”

She found the thatched cottages charming enough. “But none of them are ancient,” she chided him, “and I see no ruins.”

“Patience, Mrs. Kerr.”

At his leading they rode north of the village along a high, forested path. The sun was still shining low in the sky, but deeper within the woods, twilight had fallen. A thick carpet of dried leaves and pine needles softened the horses’ steps, until it seemed they were approaching on tiptoe.

A slight clearing in the woods revealed their destination: the lofty remains of an abbey. Silent, beautiful, mysterious.

“Tell me, Mrs. Kerr,” the admiral said in low voice. “Is the twelfth century ancient enough for you?” He quietly dismounted and tethered his horse, then helped her down as if she weighed nothing.

For a moment Elisabeth sensed he might take her hand, then felt foolish when he didn’t. She walked ahead of him, lest he spy her warm cheeks. “What do you know of this place?”

“King David the first founded Dryburgh Abbey,” the admiral told her, “but, beyond that, I cannot say. One of my gardeners recommended a visit here. Now I see why.”

“Aye,” she breathed. A wall here, a wall there, nothing like a whole building, yet sacred nevertheless. The arches of the transepts took on a rosy glow in the diminishing light, while the tall, narrow window openings were dark and blank. Gravestones were scattered about, some grand and ornate, others plain and low to the ground and covered with moss and lichen. She peeked through an immense, roundheaded door into an empty chamber with a stone seat stretching along each wall. “The monks met here,” she said, then jumped when her voice echoed through the vast interior.

Lord Buchanan continued exploring the pink sandstone ruins with Elisabeth not far behind. “The Tweed,” he said, indicating the river encircling the abbey. “Our horses will be glad for some refreshment.”

While their mounts drank their fill, then nibbled at the grass round their feet, the admiral and Elisabeth settled on a low stone wall overlooking the placid waters.

“You said I’d return home having eaten my supper,” she reminded him.

“Right.” He was on his feet at once and unbuckled a leather bag attached to Janvier’s saddle. “I could manage only cheese, bread, a flask of cider, and ripe cherries from the orchard. A poor man’s meal, I’m afraid.”

“Then ’tis well suited for me.”

He resumed his seat beside her, his brow furrowed. “Mrs. Kerr, I did not mean to suggest—”

“Nor did you,” she assured him, taking the bread from his hands.

They ate little and spoke even less, tearing their bread into crumbs to feed the blackbirds hopping about. She sampled a few cherries, ate a bite of cheese, then took a long drink of cider from the flask before handing it to him. “The rest is yours.”

He downed it in a single gulp, then pressed the cork into place, looking at her rather intently. “I brought you here for a reason, Mrs. Kerr—”

“Please call me Bess,” she said, hoping they might dispense with such formalities.

The admiral slowly nodded. “I confess it suits you better.”

She’d not sat this near to him before. His forehead was lined, but faintly so, and his nose long and planed on the sides. His cheekbones