Kilty Party

by Markland, Anna

  Dirty and disheveled though they were, they had no choice but to cut through the kitchens to get to their chamber.

  “Cook will be busy making preparations,” Moira assured them. “She willna notice us.”

  She was right. Caitlin breathed more easily when they made it through the smoky kitchen with only a startled glance from a scullery lad. Her heart lurched when they came face to face with her scowling brother. Rory stood with legs braced, arms folded across his chest. “And where have ye lot been?” he growled. “We’ve spent hours searching for ye.”

  *

  Rory eyed the three mucky-faced lasses. “Ye’ve been in the cellars.”

  The maid opened her mouth, but scurried off when he shook his head and dismissed her with a jerk of his thumb.

  Nairn’s chin quivered, but Caitlin glared defiantly. Having already undermined her trust in him, he had better tread carefully. She was hurting. However, he couldn’t allow his sisters to wander about in the cellars. It wasn’t healthy.

  “What were ye doing down there?” he asked Nairn.

  “Exploring,” she replied, avoiding his gaze.

  “But ’tisna a suitable place for lasses to explore.”

  Caitlin took her sister’s hand just as Rory judged Nairn might be ready to tell him the truth. “’Twas too cold to go out, so we went down to the cellars. We dinna have to account to ye for what we do.”

  Rory’s hopes for an early reconciliation plummeted. Caitlin had never answered him back before. “’Tis true, but ye canna blame a mon for being worried when no one can find his sisters.”

  The depth of resentment burning in Caitlin’s eyes brought a lump to his throat.

  “’Tis a pity ye didna concern yerself as much with my welfare in Stirling.”

  He had no answer as he watched her stomp up the stairs, still keeping a firm grip on Nairn’s hand. The catastrophic events at the banquet had worsened the feud and likely incurred the anger of King William. But was the fiasco also the reason for his sisters venturing into a place they’d have refused to enter if he’d suggested it? Clearly, they’d been searching for something. But what?

  *

  Hoping a long ride might warm him up after his morning dip in the river, Shaw asked the cook to pack bread, cheese and ale before setting off for the ruined castle at Newton.

  It was a faint hope the former Drummond stronghold was linked to Ardblair by a tunnel, but he had to do something to get his mind off the fiasco at Stirling. The longer he held on to his anger, the less likely it was he would be successful in becoming chieftain. Once he was laird, there’d be no one to naysay his marriage to Caitlin. The prospect kept him going when the drizzle began.

  He stopped only once during the thirty-mile trek. When the drizzle turned to a downpour, he dismounted and pulled Doak into a shepherd’s bothy. He shared his bread with the faithful gelding. “But I ken ye dinna like cheese,” he said. “So, I’ll nay offer it to ye.”

  Doak snorted as if in agreement, sticking out his tongue when Shaw swigged down the potel of ale. “Nay. Ye can quench yer thirst with rainwater once we set off again,” he chided.

  The horse turned up his nose.

  As Shaw hoped, the rain abated after ten minutes or so, and he resumed his journey, espying the ruin late in the afternoon. Dark clouds brooded over the blackened walls. He shivered, imagining the despair of the men forced to seek refuge in the vaults while the castle burned around them, torched by Oliver Cromwell’s troops. History recorded many survived; legend had it those who’d perished still haunted the ruin and could be heard screaming in the night.

  He wished he’d started out earlier in the day, especially when Doak shied before they reached the walls. He dismounted and led the horse into the meadow. “Just a quick search,” he assured the beast. “Then we’ll away back to Drummond. In truth,” he confessed as the animal began chewing grass, “I’m nay hopeful there is a tunnel, but I’ll warrant a mon can see Ardblair from the top of yon wall.”

  The prospect gave him courage as he entered the ruin. He stood at the base of the tallest wall still standing, spat in his hands, rubbed them together, and began the climb.

  He lost his footing more than once, but eventually reached the top, his knees scuffed, his hands scratched and bleeding. Panting, he peered into the forest. There, not a mile distant, sat Ardblair atop its crag in the midst of a loch. “So near, yet so far away,” he rasped. “Dinna fash, Caitlin. If there’s a tunnel, I’ll find it.”

  The urge to remount Doak and ride to claim his bride was powerful, but he was uncertain of his reception.

  Ardblair might look close, but it was a considerable distance away for a tunnel to have connected both strongholds. And what of the loch surrounding the castle? In addition, a tunnel could only have been dug hundreds of years ago, when the Drummonds and Blairs were on friendly terms.

  From his perch he looked down into the ruin, trying to ascertain where the end of such a tunnel might be. If it had existed, there was little chance it had survived the centuries. As far as he could see, there was no discernible sign of any hidden doorway, though the light was fading.

  He took a last look at Ardblair then began the descent. Back on firm ground, he examined the most likely walls, but could find nothing to indicate an entryway to a tunnel.

  Disappointed, he looked up at the rising moon. Riding home in the dark was risky. From his vantage point, he’d espied what had once been the stables. He pulled a reluctant Doak into the remains of the stone shelter, wishing he hadn’t shared his bread with the horse.

  It was going to be a long, cold night. As he bedded down in the damp grass, he hoped none of the screeching ghosts appeared.

  The Green Lady

  Fiona finally moved away from her window at Drummond Castle and collapsed on the bed, exhausted. She’d stared at the moon for so long she could still see it behind her eyelids. Shaw had left earlier in the day and there’d been no sign of him since, though it was well past midnight. She fretted he’d fallen victim to an accident. His horse must have lost its footing and thrown him. A lump constricted her throat when she thought of her darling brother lying injured, or dead.

  It was foolish to venture abroad alone, especially overnight, and Shaw wasn’t a fool. Wherever he’d gone had something to do with the events at Stirling. Had he ridden to Ardblair thinking to carry off Caitlin—and been slain by that fiend, Rory Blair?

  On second thought, Rory was too ruggedly handsome to be considered a fiend, and he couldn’t be faulted for protecting his sister.

  She buried her face in the pillows and pounded the bed in frustration. As if Caitlin needed to be protected from Shaw, and why couldn’t she get the infuriating Rory Blair out of her thoughts?

  The whole day had been a disaster, beginning with Shaw’s rudeness early in the morning.

  She’d hoped to have a talk with him at the midday meal, mayhap suggest a truce, but he’d failed to show up and she discovered he’d left the castle.

  Gordon and Logan scurried off as soon as they’d finished eating, claiming they had lessons assigned by their tutors to attend to—this from two lads who avoided studying at every opportunity.

  Finally alone at the high table with her father, she saw an opportunity to speak to him. If there was to be discussion about a change in the chieftaincy, she wanted him to be prepared. However, she was determined not to spoil Shaw’s chances by getting Brodie riled up. Her heart acknowledged it was time Shaw became laird. She’d do everything in her power to help him in the task, though she doubted he’d welcome her assistance.

  In any event, her father dismissed her with a wave of his hand and hurried away before she had a chance to begin. It was as if he knew what was afoot and was avoiding the issue.

  Instead, she’d tried to speak to Uncle Jamie, but the conversation he was having with some of the other elders ceased abruptly when she approached.

  Preoccupation with the events of the day fogged her brain. Too tired to disrobe,
she dozed fitfully, praying for Shaw’s safe return.

  *

  Doak’s snorting startled Shaw from a restless doze. His body was stiff from lying on the hard ground, his breacan damp.

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The moon was full but dark clouds diminished its light. In the distance, an owl hooted. “’Tisna the screaming ghosties,” he reassured the horse. “Just an owl.”

  Yawning, he pulled his plaid up to his chin, but Doak shook his head and danced about restlessly. Shaw wasn’t foolish enough to ignore his horse’s distress. Something was amiss.

  He stood and stroked Doak’s nose, scanning the darkness for any hint of what had spooked the animal. “What is it, boy?” he asked.

  It took him a minute or two to perceive a faint green light which seemed to be emanating from the base of the wall he’d climbed earlier. He thought it might be the moonlight shining on the grass, but then it grew stronger and began to pulsate.

  He wasn’t alone in the ruin.

  He drew his sgian dubh, chuckling when Doak calmed instantly. The horse evidently trusted him to deal with the threat.

  Crouching low, he moved quickly, keeping close to the ruin, until he had the base of the wall in view. He narrowed his eyes, unsure of what he was seeing.

  Was it a trick of the moonlight that turned the eerie green light dancing on the face of the brick into the form of a woman? She appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.

  He blinked and swallowed hard. Many a castle boasted of its Green Lady, a benevolent ghost who watched over the castle and its inhabitants. It was rumored Drummond had such a protectress, though he’d never seen her. Was this apparition Newton’s Green Lady? If so, who was she, and why had she appeared to him? Or, was he simply exhausted with worry over recent events?

  Spellbound, but strangely unafraid, he straightened and walked into the open, sheathing his sgian dubh. If the ghost meant him harm, a dagger would be of little use.

  The light grew brighter, but he sensed no malevolence. Perhaps the lady was trying to show him the entrance to the tunnel?

  The light dimmed.

  Dinna leave.

  Certain this phantom had a message for him, his spirits lifted when the light grew brighter.

  He’d heard tell some people could communicate with ghosts. Most thought they were witches and gave them a wide berth. He personally had always deemed the notion malarky. Nevertheless, if this was a ghost…

  “Are ye a Drummond?” he whispered.

  The light danced on the wall, the folds of a flowing gown easy to discern.

  “Did ye die in the siege?”

  The light faded. His Green Lady had apparently died before the catastrophe that destroyed Newton.

  His thoughts went unbidden to Caitlin, his heart beating wildly when he realized for certain the lady understood his pain. The feud had robbed her of a great love.

  “Was he a Blair?” he whispered.

  The light stilled, then faded before disappearing altogether.

  Shaking from head to toe, Shaw approached the wall and gingerly touched his hands to it. The warmth in the bricks assured him he wasn’t losing his wits. He’d come face to face with a long-dead Drummond woman who’d been in love with a Blair.

  He fisted his hands against the wall. “But did ye wed?” he shouted hoarsely, though he knew the answer.

  *

  Unable to sleep for pondering the mystery of the tunnel, Caitlin rose from her bed and went to the window. If she studied the lay of the land between Ardblair and the ruin of Newton Castle, the location of a tunnel might become clearer. An inner voice told her it was a hopeless notion. She was beginning to doubt a tunnel had ever existed.

  Perhaps it was time to think of another solution to the problem of reuniting with Shaw.

  Drummond Castle was too far away to ride there alone, though, strangely, she had a feeling Shaw was nearby.

  She peered into the darkness, wishing the clouds would dissipate. There was something odd about the ruin tonight, but she couldn’t make out what it was. A green light? Had Shaw come to rescue her? Were he and his warriors camped at Newton, ready to strike?

  Elation and dread warred within her. She didn’t want blood shed—on either side. There had to be a way to resolve the problem without lives being lost and hatreds intensified. If only she knew what it was.

  A plan formed. On the morrow, she would make her way to Newton and reunite with Shaw before an attack could be launched.

  Newton

  As soon as the first hint of a pale dawn showed in the sky, Shaw took the pick-axe out of his saddlebag and strode to the wall where he’d seen the Green Lady. After her disappearance, he’d wedged himself into a corner of the ruined stable, waiting for her return. In the sober light of day, he decided the whole episode was a dream that signified the entry to the tunnel was hidden at the base of the wall he’d climbed.

  He slipped his breacan off his shoulders, braced his legs, hefted the pick-axe and struck the wall. A few chips of brick flew off, but the impact traveled up his arms and nigh on knocked him off his feet.

  Shaken, he gritted his teeth, filled his lungs and swung again.

  A half-hour later, he’d succeeded in removing a veneer of brick, only to discover a layer of impenetrable thick stone beneath. He threw the pick to the ground, frustrated, hungry, thirsty and exhausted after a sleepless night. The urge to ride to nearby Ardblair and simply claim Caitlin was powerful. He’d beg if he had to.

  However, he was covered in brick dust and didn’t smell too sweet after the exertion. Deflated, he struggled to get his breacan adjusted properly, tightened his belt and walked back to Doak.

  “’Tis a waste of time,” he told the horse as he stowed the pick-axe. “There isna a tunnel. I’ll have to claim the chieftaincy. ’Twill take longer, but…”

  He stopped abruptly. Every Highlander could hear horses approaching from miles away, and Shaw was no exception. He’d warrant there was a large group coming from the south. Intuition told him they were soldiers. Bandits didn’t ride in large groups. Had King William’s dragoons stationed in Perth come to confiscate Ardblair? If so, another contingent was likely on its way to Drummond.

  He should ride to warn the Blairs, but what could he or anyone accomplish against government troops? His duty was to his own clan. If he could persuade the king’s soldiers he was the new Drummond laird and convince them of his intention to wed Caitlin Blair, both families might yet hold on to their ancestral homes.

  He mounted Doak and galloped away from Newton Castle.

  *

  Caitlin dressed warmly, having decided her best chance for successfully evading Rory was to walk to Newton. If he caught her leaving the castle, she could plead her intention to take her usual walk along the shore of the loch—something she did every day in summer.

  Her walks were less frequent in early winter, and there was no possibility of removing her boots to paddle in the ice-crusted water.

  She stopped by the kitchens and begged a loaf of fresh bread from the cook. “I’m going to eat outside,” she explained, aware the woman had a soft spot for her.

  “Poor lass,” the cook clucked, handing over the bread. “Good thing ye wore yer tam. Dinna stay out too long.”

  Caitlin nodded, tucked the loaf into her plaid and made her way to the door of the keep.

  “Wait for me.”

  She turned, dismayed to see Nairn hurrying to join her. “Ye canna come today,” she said, filled with regret she was about to hurt her sister’s feelings. “I dinna want yer company.”

  Nairn’s crestfallen reaction was upsetting, but her brother’s appearance on the scene sent her heart racing.

  “Better to take Nairn with ye if ye’re going to walk along the lakeshore,” he suggested.

  His conciliatory tone tested her resolve. He knew he’d contributed to her unhappiness. Perhaps, if she reasoned with him about the betrothal…

  “Ye canna pout forever,” he said.


  Her hopes for a sensible, negotiated solution went up in smoke. He’d destroyed her future and put the clan in danger, and he thought she was merely pouting. “I prefer to walk alone,” she insisted, adjusting her tam.

  She stalked to the entry without looking back. Lying was foreign to her and guilt gnawed, making her head ache.

  Outside, she inhaled deeply, thankful her brother hadn’t followed.

  She took the usual steep path down to the water then walked along the familiar shoreline. When the land bridge came in sight, she glanced over her shoulder, changed direction and slipped through the postern gate. She hurried away from the loch, eventually coming to a trail she’d ridden many times without incident.

  The air was chilly but the brisk pace she set soon warmed her, and the prospect of seeing Shaw again was exhilarating. She was confident he hadn’t yet mustered his warriors to attack Ardblair.

  Pausing to catch her breath when the ruin came into view, she tore off a heel of the loaf and chewed, puzzled by the silence. A raven cawed, sheep bleated in some far-off meadow. If Shaw had gathered an army, they must yet be abed.

  Even before she was within Newton’s blackened walls, it became clear her betrothed wasn’t there. The ill-fated castle was a place she’d visited countless times while out riding, but never by herself. It was always intimidating. Now, it was downright terrifying. Fear skittered up her spine. She shouldn’t have come.

  She looked back to Ardblair, ready to run back home, but something strange about the tallest wall caught her eye. Upon closer inspection, she discovered someone had hacked away part of the brick. Elation soared. Had Shaw been there, searching for the tunnel? If so, he’d apparently been looking in the wrong place. Had he taken cover on hearing her approach?

  “Shaw,” she called hoarsely. “’Tis Caitlin.”

  Her voice echoed, causing a flock of pigeons to erupt from the ruin, then there was naught but silence. Except…she held her breath. Horses. Too many to be Rory coming to find her.