When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  Just before crossing the bridge, he dismounted. Little Bit rushed ahead, barking a warning that his master was home. Gideon paused beneath one of the yew trees flanking the bridge, tucked his shirt into his breeches, and rolled down his sleeves. The reddish brown bark shown with purple in the morning light, and the low hanging branches swayed softly in the breeze. He walked across the bridge, buttoning his cuffs, his boot heels clicking against the bricks. The water below sparkled as lilies floated lazily along, an occasional fish making a splash. A stable hand waited on the steps, holding a crust of bread out to the dog.

  “Give him a long rubdown. He worked hard this morning.” Gideon gave the horse another pat on its muscular neck and handed over the reins.

  “Yes, my lord.” The man led the animal away, the tatty pup at his heels.

  Sanders, the butler, greeted him at the door. “Good day, my lord. Lady Stanfeld is waiting for you.” His gray eyes, matching his thinning hair, danced with humor as he collected his lord’s waistcoat, crop, and gloves. “She appears to be making a list.”

  Gideon groaned. “Of females?”

  “Yes, my lord, I’m afraid so.”

  “Thank you, Sanders.” Gideon ignored the family portraits and the suit of armor stoically standing guard as he strode through the entryway. Intent on changing before greeting his mother, he bounded up the circular staircase two steps at a time.

  Gideon entered his chambers, finished a quick half-bath, and wiped dry with a clean linen towel. He dressed in fresh buckskin breeches, a white cambric shirt, a brandy-colored waistcoat, and finished tying his cravat as he hurried down the stairs.

  “Good morning, dear Mama,” he murmured as he bent low to kiss her cheek. “You look fetching in that deep shade of lavender. I’m happy to see you finally out of those blacks. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’ve followed the English tradition of mourning in honor of your father. But I’m happy to have some color back. It brightens the skin.” Her words still held the barest hint of a Scottish accent. Maeve smoothed her crepe skirt and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “So I’ve been told. Perhaps some coffee before you bombard me with your list?” Gideon smirked at her surprised look until those dark blue eyes flashed with determination. He held up a hand. “I’ll listen with interest as soon as I’ve finished a cup and had something to eat.”

  Maeve watched in bemused silence as a servant poured the steaming black liquid into a china cup. Gideon lathered soft butter onto a thick slice of fresh bread and scooped some cherry preserves on top. With a groan of delight, he chewed with his eyes closed and finished with a smack of his lips. “This season’s cherries were superb.”

  Maeve opened her mouth then closed it as he reached for his coffee. She made a face.

  “And is that displeasure aimed at me, Mama?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know how you can prefer that horrible drink to tea. And without even a drop of milk or lump of sugar.”

  He grinned, spearing a piece of cold beef with his fork. “I have my father’s dour demeanor and prefer the bitter to the sweet. Now, who is on your marriage agenda?”

  She frowned. “It is not an agenda or about marriage. I’ve decided to have a small dinner party, and I’ve listed a few names that might be of interest.”

  The last thing Gideon wanted was to be surrounded by tiresome young ladies looking for a husband. But seeing the light back in his mother’s eyes, he kept his thoughts to himself. It had been over a year since she had accepted an invitation or entertained. He was willing to be the sacrificial lamb to see her reenter society.

  “I am happy to play host for whatever event you would like to arrange. Now about that list…”

  His mind wandered as she told him of the families that would receive an invitation. His father had endured these social affairs as a matter of course. Always the proper gentleman, always the mannered aristocrat, always the impassive Englishman. Life was a set of rules and one followed those tenets to the letter in private, in social circles, and in business. The world, according to the late earl, was black and white.

  The exception had been his wife, the vibrant and outspoken Maeve of the prominent Clan MacNaughton. The earl had disliked the superstitious and rebellious Highlanders but had fallen in love with one of the chieftain’s daughters. She had seemed to be the only weakness in his inflexible world, the only person or thing he allowed to let him stray from society’s rigid rules. Gideon had seen her pull caps with him and hold her own, occasionally even winning an argument. Those instances had ended with a wicked glint in his father’s eyes and a smug smile on his mother’s lips. Then the two of them would hide away in their bedchamber the rest of the day.

  “I received a letter from Marietta last week. She’d like to visit before winter. So I will plan it as a welcome dinner in September. She’s finally with child, you know. It may be quite some time before she can travel again.”

  The last words sounded wistful and brought Gideon back to the conversation. Marietta, the eldest sister, was less than two years behind him. Then came Charlotte, four years his junior, and Helen the youngest at eighteen. All had married well, in their father’s opinion, with the exception of Helen. She had wed a wealthy base-born Irishman. “It will be good to see Etta again. I’m surprised Lord Burnham is allowing her out of his sight. After three years, I swear the man is still smelling of April and May.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being in love. And he’ll most certainly keep a close eye on that girl.” Maeve laughed. “She’s still a bit impetuous, but motherhood will slow her down.”

  “I hope something does.” He rose from the table and kissed Maeve again on the cheek. “I will leave you to your preparations, then. I’ll be with the steward for the rest of the day. ”

  The accounts for the quarter completed, Gideon and Jethro Birks admired the sheep littering the grassy hillside. They were fine stock and his steward had finagled an excellent price the previous year. “Outstanding job. I’m impressed with the results of the spring shearing. Damn good wool and damn good profits.”

  “It took some talking, my lord, but I finally convinced your father to let me bring in these sheep from Gower. Much better quality than the Vale long wool and brings twice the price.” The summer sun had bleached Jethro’s hair almost white, making his brown eyes and tanned skin appear even darker. He pointed in the direction of a southern pasture. “I’d like to try grazing the cattle same as the sheep. Get the animals out of the yards, and we’ll see better milk and beef.”

  “With your past record, I’m inclined to trust your judgment on this. By god, you even managed a second hay cutting this summer. There’ll be plenty of feed for the winter.”

  “Can’t take all the credit for that, my lord. The weather helped a bit.”

  Gideon looked over the acreage with a contented smile, his father’s words coming to mind. Surround yourself with competent men, treat them well, and your land and finances will prosper.

  This was proof of that philosophy. He’d known Jethro since they were boys, hunting squirrel with slingshots and swimming in the horse pond. He was the third generation of Birks to manage the Stanfeld estates, and Gideon was thankful to have such a downy steward.

  “I’ll be in London for a few days, checking in with the solicitor. Fair warning”—he cleared his throat—“Lady Stanfeld has come out of mourning and is planning a country party for September. What she has described as a small dinner gathering will no doubt turn into a week of company.”

  “Yes, my lord. Consider me prepared for the upcoming requests.”

  “Give my regards to your charming wife.” Gideon turned his gelding back toward the manor. It had been a productive day, and he was ready for a glass of sherry and a good meal.

  The Countess of Stanfeld settled into her favorite chair near the library hearth. She held a small book of poems and read a few pages until her eyes grew weary. Her thoughts strayed to her late husband Charles and the
heart condition that had sapped his strength his last years. It had made him weak of body but not weak of mind. He had remained lucid and pragmatic until the end, knowing death was upon him and looking the reaper in the eye. Maeve had always admired his supreme will and saw that same strength in her children.

  But he had also been a narrow-minded man in a sense, whose rational views did not allow him to see anything except what lay in front of him. If it was not factual or quantifiable, it was not real. He had laughed at her first vision of a sinking ship he planned to invest in, indulging her recount as if it were an amusing story. Until it came true. It had shaken the very foundation of everything he considered Truth. Rather than look too deeply into the situation, he shunned the unexplainable. Ran from it as if it were the devil himself after his soul.

  His reaction had been swift and irrevocable. Her female mind was too easily swayed by homeland folklore. Maeve would not return to the Highlands while there was breath left in him. She would remain in England, become a proper countess, and forget the mystical nonsense of her childhood. By that time, she loved him so deeply that the fear in his eyes had frightened her also. He didn’t understand, didn’t have the capability to conceive of something so intangible, other than God. And he struggled with that omniscient presence. So she never told him of another vision, and instead did what she could to avoid tragedy whenever possible. She willingly gave up her childhood home for him but refused to give up her family.

  The earl had compromised with his wife and in-laws by going to the Scottish Lowlands and meeting in Glasgow twice a year. The couple had first been introduced in that city, when Charles and her father, Calum MacNaughton, had met to discuss the purchase of a textile mill. Her father still insisted the papers had only been signed after Maeve had agreed to his courtship. The trips satisfied the desire for her children to know the MacNaughton clan. Gideon had always been especially close to his grandfather, growing more like his image every year with Calum’s muscular build, black hair, and piercing blue eyes.

  She smiled, closed her eyes, and gave in to a pleasant afternoon nap.

  * * *

  He pushed against the throng of men, women, and children to hear the gentleman on the stage. The stink of unwashed bodies and a hum of excitement filled the air. He pulled off his waistcoat as the sweat pooled beneath his collar. The speaker’s words of reform and the right to vote echoed in his head and filled him with purpose.

  A woman holding a small child sidled up next to him, a smile on her lips. The pair made him think of his own wife and the family they would have. The wee girl had the same dimples as her mother. The babe waved a hand at him, and he caught her chubby fingers in his. Grasping her mother’s braid in her other hand, the babe sucked heartily then began to cry as the noise increased. She squealed as the crowd jostled the pair and reached toward him. The pressure of bodies behind them intensified, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. Something wasna right.

  Screams pierced the air, and he turned to see the cause of such panic. Mounted Hussars stormed the assembly, the rhythmic whisk of blades slicing the air. A glistening black beast, eyes rolling, lunged forward then reared. Flying hooves pawed at the scrambling bodies and struck the infant in the head. The mother screamed, her arms reaching for the falling child.

  He pushed the frantic woman away from the soldier’s sword then threw himself on the tiny, lifeless form. “Ye bloody bastards,” he cried as the horse reared once again.

  This time its full weight landed on his back. The crack of bone echoed in his ears. Excruciating pain exploded along the length of his body. From the ground, he saw a jumble of feet and hooves, all moving in different directions. A man’s face—contorted in pain—trampled by the frantic feet escaping the massacre. He tried to hunch over the child still beneath him, protect it from the stampede, but his body had been flattened. An image flashed of the local butcher pounding a tough piece of meat.

  A blow to his head…a piercing throb… Then the world spun in slow motion. The shrieks of victims and harsh shouts of the soldiers came from far away now. Another image. His sweet wife’s face.

  “I’m so verra sorry, Lissie…” he whispered.

  Gideon entered the library, still warm from the afternoon sun. Mama sat before the fireplace, the large wingback almost swallowing up her small frame. She had aged in the last year. A few streaks of gray now blended with the rich auburn hair. Her eyes were closed, but her lids fluttered as if dreaming. The sapphire ring, a wedding gift from her husband that matched her eyes, glinted and winked as her slender fingers gripped and released the armchair. Her head rocked back and forth as Gideon squatted down next to her. His fingers covered hers, and he squeezed to wake her from such troubled sleep. The touch sent a jolt through her body. Her eyes snapped open.

  “No!” she gasped, her gaze fixed on the darkened hearth.

  “Mama, you were dreaming.” His thumb stroked the top of her hand, his voice soft and soothing. “Look at me, Mama, and you will see.”

  Maeve slowly turned her head, tears now spilling down her cheeks. “Oh Gideon, it was ghastly.”

  “What did you dream?”

  “It was not a dream.” Her voice faltered. “Your cousin, Ian, is dead.”

  “What? Did you receive a letter from Scotland?” Gideon had not seen any correspondence from his mother’s family over the last week, and nothing had arrived today.

  “I do not need a letter. I saw it. There’s been a terrible slaughter in Manchester, and Ian was trampled...” She lifted her chin and wiped at her wet cheeks with determination. “You must take me home to my clan.”

  “To the Highlands? You haven’t been there since your wedding.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t just run off to Scotland with my aging mother because of a dream.”

  “Aging?” Her eyes narrowed, anger shining from beneath her lashes. “I have more stamina than most of those mutton-headed females of the ton.”

  He had to agree with her but bit back a smile. “This is folly. A trick of the mind from lack of sleep.” He pressed his lips to her fingers. “Let’s have a glass of sherry, and you’ll feel better after we eat.”

  “Don’t patronize me. Your father didn’t believe in…” She took his face in both her hands, strength growing in her touch and her gaze steady and direct. “It doesn’t matter. Listen to me. It was not a dream but a message of sorts that we are needed at home.”

  “This is our home.” Gideon stood and leaned an arm against the fireplace mantel, worried the past year had also taken a toll on her mind. An uprising in Manchester? There had been rumblings throughout parts of the country but nothing significant.

  “This is your home. Mine has always been in Scotland, regardless of how long I’ve been away.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

  “What about Marietta’s visit in September?” That would end this foolishness, he was sure.

  “It will have to wait until October. You must promise we will leave as soon as you return from London. Or I will go alone.”

  He looked up to the ceiling, hoping for some divine intervention. None came. “I give you my word.”

  Chapter 2

  “Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.”

  —William Shakespeare

  August 1819

  Naught Castle

  Scottish Highlands

  Alisabeth was lost without him. Utterly adrift among the clan members she’d always considered a second family. She had been betrothed to Ian for as long as she could remember. Her family was part of the smaller neighboring clan of Craigg, who pledged fealty to the MacNaughtons. She and Ian had grown up together, played and fought together in the hills and heather, and swam together in the nearby loch. The two clans had celebrated every solstice and Samhain at Naught Castle.

  As part of a long ago agreement to mend the clans, the Craigg had offered his first granddaughter in marriage to the MacNaughton’s firstborn grandson. Though after her grandfa
ther’s death, her parents had given her a choice once she’d been of an age. But she had known the marriage was her destiny from the bond shared since they were children. So Alisabeth had happily said her vows at the age of seventeen. A year later, she floundered in a sea of sympathy, struggling to accept his violent death and grasping at the wisps of her future. Who was she, if not Ian’s intended?

  A few of the Glasgow weavers, who had traveled with Ian to Manchester, had wrapped him in linen and carried his body back across the border. The men had considered it an honor and their duty to bring home Calum MacNaughton’s grandson. He was a respected chieftain, and the weavers were all either members of his clan or lived in nearby Dunderave. It had been two days since Ian’s corpse had been laid out, and Alisabeth could not bear one more word of condolence or look of pity from the constant stream of well-wishers. A continuous flow of ale and food, provided for those family members and close friends keeping watch over his still form, had resulted in numerous ghostly tales and stories of remembrance. Her husband, always so full of life, would have loved hearing the humorous recounts and correcting their exaggerations.

  “Ye need to eat something, Lissie,” said Ian’s grandmother, Peigi, over the boisterous laughter coming from the dining hall. One thick gray braid hung down her back, matching the black and silver stripes of the fine wool arisaid that extended from her shoulders and past her slight hips. She wrapped an arm around Alisabeth’s shoulders, her faded green eyes filled with concern. The other hand absently rubbed the circular silver and garnet clasp that held the long shawl in place. “My grandson would be angry if I let ye waste away.”