She blinked, finding herself strangely speechless. His arrogance was truly astounding.
“Walk with me,” the earl said, not waiting for an answer. “I want to tell you what I have in mind.”
Margaret had no intention of walking with him or listening to what he had to say. She glared up into that handsome face and those dark, amused eyes and said, “I refuse to dabble in other people’s lives. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She walked away, back straight, full of her own integrity, and tried to ignore the soft chuckle that followed her across the square.
Chapter Fourteen
Summer 1816
Invermar Castle
They’d been back for a bare week and it was as if nothing had changed. Apart that was from the wooden framework that covered the west tower of the castle, holding it in place, while they waited for the stone mason to begin his work.
“To the left,” Olivia called, holding the map and waving her hand at Rory in the boat. He seemed less than enthusiastic today, and she couldn’t blame him. The air was chilly and the water was cold. He’d wanted to forgo the diving but she had insisted.
Behind them Mr Maclean sat in his chair rugged up to the eyeballs with blankets and a scarf, Mrs Muckleford hovering protectively at his elbow.
“Left!” Olivia repeated.
She could see Rory’s chest rise in a sigh, but he did as she said. “Here?”
“A little bit further . . . that’s it. Perfect.”
He looked up at her rather sharply, eyes narrowed, and she felt her smile freeze. But the moment passed and he prepared to dive. Behind her Archie told Mrs Muckleford to stop fussing and that he was perfectly all right. They could all see that wasn’t true. Since they’d been gone he had lost more weight and the bones of his face seemed much more prominent. He had become an old man. Rory had had to help him down the stairs this morning, and there had been a moment when Olivia had been worried he might insist his father go back to bed.
In the end he hadn’t. Even though his father could no longer take an active part in the search, he was still determined to watch, and no one had the heart to stop him.
Rory dived.
“The summer is nearly done,” Archie said behind her, and he sounded resigned. “Will you promise not to stop looking, Olivia? Next year, aye. I believe next year will be the year you find it.”
She was watching the surface anxiously. Rory had been down there a long time. Surely he was all right? Surely . . .
He broke the surface. A shake of his head and the water droplets scattered from his dark hair, catching the light like precious jewels. “Father,” he gasped. “Father!”
Archie struggled to his feet, grasping his housekeeper’s arm to steady himself. “What is it? Lad? What is he saying?”
But Rory was gone again, back down into the loch.
By now Archie was at Olivia’s side but before he could speak again, his son resurfaced. He had something in his hand and he lifted it triumphantly into the air.
Despite the dripping mud and the trailing weed, they knew at once what it must be. Archie cried out in a hoarse voice, and Mrs Muckleford jumped up and down, making the brown dog bark in excitement. Olivia stood frozen, watching the moment unfold.
“The sword!” her husband was shouting, laughing and gulping in air at the same time. “We’ve found it, we’ve found it!”
Archie had tears running down his face, and by the time Rory had waded from the water, the sword still held aloft, he was almost beyond speech. His son knelt at his feet and lifted the weapon toward him.
“The Sword of the Macleans,” he said with suitable reverence. His father reached out a hand, fingers trembling as he touched it. Olivia could see they were both moved beyond words. There were tears on her own cheeks, as she glanced at the map.
Would anyone notice the distinguishing mark she had placed on that particular square? She carefully crossed over it, just in case, and rolled the map up.
They carried the sword inside and cleaned it. The blade was dinted, but remarkably undamaged for something that had lain at the bottom of the loch for so many years. The handle was unadorned but Archie thought that the precious jewels that once decorated it must have fallen out and been lost in the mud.
He sat with the weapon in his hands, his lips trembling on a smile that refused to fade. “I knew it was there,” he whispered. “I knew it, lad. Now all will be well.” He looked at his son and nodded with heartfelt certainty. “All will be well, Rory.”
Exhausted but at peace, Archie was put to bed, the sword beside him. He refused to let it out of his sight.