The grin slid off Conall’s face. He knocked back his whisky in one before slamming his cup on the table. “Where havenae I been? My duties take me all over this land of ours.”
“Everywhere except yer home, ye mean?”
“James,” Annie said in a low voice of warning. “Leave it. Conall made his choice.”
James sighed, spreading his hands. “Aye. Ye are right. Forgive me. Ye are here now and that’s what matters.” He downed his own drink and then fixed Conall with a knowing stare. “But I get the feeling ye willnae be staying. Am I right?”
Conall shifted in his seat, the wood creaking under his weight. His eyes flicked to Molly, to Annie, and then back to James. “No. I willnae be staying. Ye know how things are with my father.” His voice was quiet, throbbing with an old pain.
James pulled a hand through his whiskers. “Aye, I know, lad.” He reached out and gripped Conall’s shoulder. “But I canna help hoping the two of ye will sort it all out one day. Clan Sinclair needs its heir.”
“I have dozens of cousins who would jump at the chance to inherit the Pinnacle.”
“All right, let me put it another way,” James huffed. “Clan Sinclair needsye.”
“It’s too late for that.”
A tense silence fell. Molly said nothing, watching this interplay with a held breath. There were undercurrents here, memories of past troubles and old pain that she didn’t understand. It seemed the hurt went deeper than she realized.
“How are things here, James?” Conall asked, changing the subject. “The place seems prosperous.”
“Aye,” James replied, scratching the side of his nose. “It is. Yer father has made several trade agreements that brought wealth into the area.”
“What sort of trade agreements?” Conall said it casually, but Molly knew him well enough by now to hear the slight intensity in his tone that betrayed his interest in James’s answer.
The ferryman shrugged. “All sorts. Wool. Dye. Annie and the other weavers have been inundated with orders for cloth. Yer father ships it out to Holland and France.”
“And ye’ve not seen any other comings and goings? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Like what?”
Conall shrugged. “Ye are the ferryman. Ye see the goings on around here every day. Any odd visitors? Any strange cargo?”
“Naught out of the ordinary,” James replied. “Although they rarely bring cargo down to the castle anymore. That’s all holed up at the new place.”
Conall looked at him sharply. “New place?”
“The port up the river. Well, I call it a port, but it isnae really. Just a few storehouses and a dock. That’s where most of the cargo that comes in and out is stored these days—an easier route to the sea and all that.”
Conall said nothing, but Molly could almost see his thoughts turning. She wanted to ask questions, to figure out what was going on, but she didn’t know where to start.
Conall glanced out of the window to where the sun was dipping towards the horizon. It would soon be dark. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Molly and I should be getting back to the keep.”
“I’ll row ye over,” James offered.
“No need, old friend,” Conall replied. “I brought a boat. I’ll take us back over.”
With that, Molly rose from the table—a little unsteadily due to the whisky she’d consumed—and bid goodnight to Annie and James. She found herself a little reluctant to leave. James and Annie had reminded her that friendship was possible even when you were so far from home, and the thought of going back to the keep filled her with unease.
Annie squeezed her into a tight hug, James gave her a big kiss on the cheek, and then she and Conall were waving farewell and walking down to the water’s edge in the gathering dusk. It was a still, quiet evening, with swallows darting low over the water and wispy clouds turned orange by the sunset. They walked in silence down to the dock where they found a boat tied up next to James’s ferry. It was a rowing boat, big enough for two people.
Conall held out his hand and Molly took it to steady herself as she stepped down into the boat, pleased when she managed to seat herself without making it sway too much. Whisky, she decided, had been a bad idea. She felt pleasantly light-headed, but that was a dangerous thing to feel when Conall was nearby. She had to keep her wits about her around that man.
Conall stepped lightly down into the boat, settled himself on the seat, and took up the oars. Molly said nothing as they pulled away from the shore, the muscles in Conall’s biceps bunching and releasing as he began rowing with long, powerful strokes. She turned and looked back at James and Annie’s cottage as it began to recede into the distance.
“I’m sorry about today,” Conall said suddenly. “About not being here, I mean.”
She turned to look at him. It was growing dark, and shadows covered most of his face. She could only see his eyes through the gloom. “I’m sure you had important things to do.”
