“Oh, Anne, I’m so cold.” And she began to shiver, her trembling flesh once more asserting its will to live. Anne Scott took their two blankets, joined them together, and sat with her closely huddled in the straw. Both wept, and held each other, knowing fully and without illusion, what it was to be a woman.
Twenty-Eight
Life would not go away. There was no room for fatalism or self-pity, and he knew it. Nothing else mattered, nothing was real, until Mary and his mother were set free.
Michael put on his coat, and climbed down from the loft. Going to his mother’s room, he unbuckled the fallen officer’s sword, and put it about his own waist. Then he took the man’s pistol and slipped it under his belt.
Moving to the kitchen, he filled a dipper with water from the urn, and walked with it into the main room. By now the morning was full, and sunlight pushed against the heavy curtains. The two men saw each other clearly.
“I thought you might be wanting this,” said the Highlander. Stephen Purceville eyed the dipper, then the man, suspiciously.
“I’m not going to poison you, Purceville.” Stephen’s eyes then shifted to the pistol. “I’m not going to shoot you, either. If you’ll drink this, and promise not to try anything foolish, I’ll untie you as well. We’ve got to come to an understanding.”
“First tell me who you are,” said the Englishman. “And what you’re doing here.”
“My name doesn’t matter. All you need know is that I’m a friend to Mary, and the widow Scott. My one concern now is to get them out of your father’s prison. Here, drink.” And again he held forward the dipper.
“Why is that so important to you?”