by Candace Camp
“Nae, I dinna mean that. Only that you will have people there to whom you are more accustomed. Well-read, educated sorts. Isobel’s husband is English. Her aunt is the one I told you about who knows all the local lore.”
Somewhat mollified, Violet admitted, “I would like to talk to her.”
“There will be music,” he went on in the way of one offering enticements. “Dancing. Singing.”
“But I—you mean Scottish dancing?”
“The sort of thing you said interested you. Customs. Traditions. Old stories. Old songs.”
“It would be interesting to see.”
“More fun to do. I’ll teach you.”
“Oh. Well.” Just the thought of dancing with Coll made her heart pound. She glanced up and found him watching her. His eyes were the color of the sky on a sunny day, and a light was in them that made the blood sing in her veins. “That would be . . . but I do not . . . that is . . .”
“The whiskey will flow, the music will be fine; I can guarantee that, as my own father is playing. You might even get to see me make a fool of myself with a song or two, if the lads have gotten enough drams in me.”
“You sing?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been known to.”
Perhaps that was the reason his voice was so compelling, why the sound of it warmed her like brandy.
“Well, I could not pass up a chance to see that, could I?” She smiled up at him. “Very well. I will go to the dance with you.”
6
Violet was ready for the party far too early, of course, another habit her mother regarded with disapproval. But Violet simply could not see the benefit in being late or in making a gentleman hang about waiting for her. Especially tonight. She pressed her hand against her stomach, unsure whether the fluttering there came from eagerness or trepidation.
She took a final slow twirl in front of the mirror. Her gown was plain, its only ornamentation an edging of black lace along the neckline, but at least it was not dowdy. Fashionably high-waisted and low-cut, the brown satin had a lustrous, almost coppery sheen. She had swept her hair up in a less severe style than usual, allowing a few soft curls to fall from the knot atop her head, and she had even fastened an ivory cameo around her throat.
She wondered what Coll would think when he saw her. She had always considered it a great waste of time and thought to try to make her image into one a man would find pleasing, and she had been scornful of her mother and sisters for doing so. But now, thinking about the light that flashed in Coll’s eyes sometimes when he looked at her, she could not keep from wishing she could bring about that look again.
Coll was already waiting when she went down the stairs. He turned and looked up at the sound of her footsteps. His eyes widened, moving slowly down her, and his mouth softened in a way that was disturbingly gratifying. Violet was glad she had her hand on the banister, for her legs seemed suddenly not to work.
“Ah, lass, you look bonny.”
“I, um . . .” Violet hesitated on the stairs. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “That was not so hard, was it?”
“I am not entirely devoid of manners.” She went down the last few steps to join him. “And it is not that I am snobbish.”
His brows sailed upward. “Is it not then? I fear you have lost me—what are we discussing?”
“My woeful way of making people dislike me.”
“I am certain I dinna say that.” He stepped back and took her cloak from the hands of the waiting maid. “And I have no desire to argue with you this night.” He settled the cloak around her. His hands rested on her shoulders for an instant before he turned away. “Bundle up. We’re going across the loch, and it can be chilly on the water.”
“You mean, in a boat?”
“Unless you’d rather not. ’Tis the quickest way.”
“No, I have no objection.” Violet stuck her hands in her well-worn fur muff and followed him into the garden behind the house. He led her down the multiple levels to the stone balustrade overlooking the loch, where yet another set of stairs led down to a small wooden dock on the loch itself.
Coll climbed into one of the boats tied there, and to Violet’s surprise, he turned and grasped her waist, lifting her down into it. Violet gasped in surprise, instinctively putting her hands on his arms to steady herself. His fingers dug into her, his large hands engulfing her waist, and for a moment they stood, as still and silent as if they were statues. Even through the layers of clothing, she could feel the warmth of his hands, the solidity of his arms. They were almost as close as if in an embrace, and Violet felt a sudden, rushing urge to move those last few inches. It was so startling a thought that she stepped back, setting the boat to rocking beneath her feet.
“Careful.” Coll released her waist but took her arms in a steadying grasp. “Sit down easy, or you’ll have us both in the loch.” He guided her onto the wooden plank seat.
Violet braced herself on the bench, somewhat uneasy at the gentle rocking of the boat. Coll reached up to untie the boat from the dock, then settled onto the seat across from her and took up the oars.
“Is this your first time on the water?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “How, um, deep is the loch?”
“Deep enough.” He peered at her. “Dinna tell me you are frightened?”
“Of course not. Only . . . I do not know how to swim.”
“I’ll have to teach you when it’s warmer. Dinna worry.” His grin flashed white in the darkness. “I won’t let you drown.”
Violet pulled up the hood of her cloak and thrust her hands into the warm muff. A peaceful hush hung over the dark water, broken only by the rhythmic splash of the oars. Moonlight glimmered on the surface of the water. Violet’s nerves subsided. Watching the steady strength of Coll’s arms as he pulled on the oars, it was easy to feel secure.
As Coll had said, it was not far across the loch, and they soon docked the boat and walked up the path to Baillannan, a far less steep and taxing climb than the sheer cliff of Duncally. The house before them had none of the whimsical towers and crenellations of Duncally. It was a simple, massive gray-stone block. Violet suspected it would be termed bleak by many who saw it, but its solidity had a certain sturdy appeal, heightened by the warm glow of its lit windows.
A number of buildings made of the same gray stone were grouped around the house, and Coll made his way to the largest of these. The wide double doors stood open, light and noise spilling out. Inside, lanterns hung from the rafters, casting a warm glow over the crowd. Wooden trestle tables had been placed against one wall of the vast room, and across from them stood another table topped with a large keg, around which a number of men had gathered. At the far end was a raised platform where some musicians were tuning their instruments.
How different it was from the ornate ballrooms where she had attended dances before. Violet had little time to take it all in before Coll guided her toward a group of people. One was a striking dark-haired man, elegant in formal black and white, and beside him stood a tall, willowy woman, equally fashionably dressed in a sky-blue gown. Pearls gleamed at her neck and throat. She glanced up and broke into a wide smile.
“Coll!” She held out both her hands to him, and Coll went to her, beaming.
Coll loved this woman; it was clear to see. Jealousy shot through Violet, startling in its intensity.
“Isobel.” Coll took the woman’s hands and placed a chaste kiss on the cheek she offered. This, then, was the woman Coll had mentioned, the descendant of the lairds of Baillannan. The man beside her, presumably, was her husband, Jack Kensington.
“We have not seen you since Meg’s wedding,” Isobel scolded playfully. “I think you have forgotten us.”
“Nae. How could I do that?” Coll squeezed her hands and released them, turning to extend his hand to the man beside her. “Jack.”
“Coll.” The other man shook Coll’s hand, seemingly unperturbed by the woman’s fond greeting. Jack’s gaze slid over to Violet, s
tanding a few feet away. She had the sense that little escaped this man’s attention.
“I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners.” Coll turned and came back to Violet. “Come meet Jack and Isobel. You needn’t be shy. They are easy to talk to.”
“I’m not shy,” Violet said repressively. “I did not wish to intrude.”
“Intrude?” He gave her an odd look. “ ’Tis why we came here, is it not?”
Coll introduced her to the couple, explaining, “Lady Violet is here to study the ruins.”
“Oh! Indeed?” Isobel looked surprised. “How wonderful! We are so interested in finding out about that place. Auntie . . .” She tugged at the elbow of a gray-haired woman. “Did you hear? Lady Violet is here to excavate the ruins. Lady Violet, allow me to introduce you to my aunt, Lady Elizabeth Rose.”
To Violet’s astonishment, the older woman’s eyes lit up. “My dear . . .” She reached out to take Violet’s hand. “This is wonderful! I am so eager to hear about the ruins. I was quite astonished when Meg and that nice young man—what was his name?” She glanced toward her niece.
“Lord Mardoun?”
“Yes. Mardoun.” Her eyes crinkled. “Such a handsome young man. Well, when he and Meg stumbled across the place, we were all amazed. No one had any idea there had ever been a building there.”
“That is what Mr. Munro told me.”
“Was it a house, you think? Or just a wall? Isobel and I looked at the stones, but we could not tell much.”
“I have only started, so I do not know how extensive it is or from what time it dates. But I think it is possible it may have been more than one dwelling.”
“How exciting! That was once part of the Baillannan lands, but even the oldest of our records have no mention of any dwellings there.”
“You have records?”
“Yes, hundreds of years of records. Not continuously, of course. There have been fires and sieges and such. And many a Rose was not as careful as they should have been.” Elizabeth compressed her mouth in disapproval. “You know how men were in the Middle Ages—uninterested in knowledge or history, spending all their time drinking and fighting.” She paused, reflecting. “Many still are, I suppose.”
“You have record books from the medieval period?” Violet’s voice was awed.
“Yes, perhaps you would like to look them over sometime?”
“I would love to.”
“You must come for tea one day.” Elizabeth tucked her hand in Violet’s arm and steered her away. “Now tell me, what do you think happened there . . .”
“Well, that’s the last we’ll see of them,” Coll said, and laughed.
Violet ignored him, engrossed in conversation. Elizabeth led her to a bench tucked away in a quiet corner of the room, and they settled down happily for a lengthy discussion of the ruins. Elizabeth, Violet discovered, was much more informative and dramatic regarding the discovery than either Coll or Lord Mardoun’s letter had been.
“It happened after that storm, you see,” Elizabeth said, settling into the cadence of a born storyteller. “The storm of the century, people are calling it—though I would not think that would be so great a distinction, as this century is only seven years old. Oh, but the wind howled around Baillannan that night! I can only imagine what it must have been like for poor Meg and her sweetheart, trapped in the caves.”
Violet smiled at the description of the supremely sophisticated Earl of Mardoun as “Meg’s sweetheart,” but said only, “Mr. Munro showed me the cliff.”
“Yes, they are riddled with caves. Meg knows her way about in them, but she had not expected to get caught by the storm. Their boat was destroyed, so they had to climb out over the cliff. When they got to safe ground, they found that the winds had blown away so much sand that the tops of the rocks were exposed. So their ordeal was worth it. They found the treasure, too—not the whole treasure, of course, but at least the evidence.”
“The treasure!”
“Yes. The gold that my father brought back from France for the Prince.”
“The Prince?” Violet eyed Isobel’s aunt uncertainly.
Elizabeth caught her glance and chuckled. “I have not lost all my wits, I promise you. There really was a treasure, no matter how much skeptics like my cousin like to scoff. It was during the Uprising, and my father, Malcolm Rose, brought back money from the French king to aid Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
“Oh.” Violet nodded, relieved. “I see.”
“Most people believed Papa never came home. There were other tales that he had returned and that he had brought gold from the French king and hidden it. But no one ever found it.”
“But Lord Mardoun and Coll’s sister came upon it in the caves?”
“Not the entire treasure. They found only a few coins and the remains of a money bag with the Rose insignia on it. Still, it proved that the treasure was real and not just another of the old legends.”
“Mr. Munro said that you are the expert on the old legends.”
“I’m hardly an expert,” Elizabeth said self-deprecatingly. “But I do know a great many of them. Are you interested in the old stories?”
“Indeed I am. In all the traditions and customs of the area. I hope you will tell me about them.”
“I would be delighted.” The older woman’s cheeks pinked with pleasure, and she began to talk.
They were soon so lost in the tales that neither of them noticed Coll’s approach until he cleared his throat. “Ladies?”
“Oh!” Violet’s head flew up. “Mr. Munro. I did not realize—” She glanced around vaguely.
“I noticed.” He smiled.
“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth looked contrite. “I have been monopolizing our guest, haven’t I? I am sorry.”
“It has been delightful talking to you,” Violet assured her. “I would love to chat with you again.”
“So would I. But now . . .” Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled up at Coll. “I believe that Coll wants to sweep you off to the dance floor.” She rose, patting the man’s arm.
“The dance floor?” Violet’s eyes widened in alarm. “No, indeed, I don’t know how—” She turned toward Elizabeth, but the older woman was already walking away.
“Dinna worry. I’m not here to force you to dance. I brought you a taste of the local nectar.” He held out a glass.
“Whiskey?” Violet eyed the golden-brown liquid with interest. No one, not even her uncle, had ever offered her whiskey. It was considered scandalous for a lady to drink anything stronger than a glass of sherry.
“You canna know the Highlands if you dinna have a wee dram. Think of it as a remedy to make meeting the natives more pleasant.” A challenge was in his smile.
Violet smiled back in much the same way, taking the glass and sampling the golden-brown liquid. It hit her tongue like liquid fire. “That is—that is—”
“Nae, lass, you must not sip at it like a bird. You have to embrace the whiskey. Toss it down.” He demonstrated with his own drink. “That’s the way.”
Violet gulped the rest of it down in one swallow. For an instant, she thought she had lost her breath entirely. Her insides joined in the conflagration of her mouth.
“You tricked me!” she accused when at last she recovered her voice. A long shudder ran through her.
“I wouldna trick you.” His dancing eyes belied his words. “ ’Tis the way to do it. And now you will understand Highlanders better.”
“I understand that you are all mad to drink such a thing.”
He laughed. “But your nerves have disappeared, have they not?”
To her surprise, Violet joined in his laughter. She did, actually, feel rather . . . pleasant.
“What do you say to meeting a few people?”
“I say yes.”
To her surprise, Violet found herself enjoying meeting the other partygoers. It was easy to start a conversation with Coll by her side. He knew everyone and, even more astonishing to Violet, could find something to say to each
person. Coll introduced her to Sally McEwan, the cook at Duncally, whom Violet had not yet met. Sally’s greeting was polite but guarded. However, at Violet’s heartfelt praise of her meals, the woman warmed up, and when Coll mentioned Violet’s interest in the “old ways,” Sally happily launched into a description of the various winter traditions around the loch.
“Now, if you want to know about the past,” Sally said, breaking off from the story she was telling and nodding toward someone behind Coll and Violet, “it’s Auld Angus you should ask.”
Violet glanced over her shoulder and saw a small, wizened man approaching them. His face was lined and leathery, and his bushy, white eyebrows gave him the illusion of scowling. Or, Violet thought, looking at the set of his mouth, perhaps it was no illusion. Coll muttered something beneath his breath.
“Weel, Munro,” the old man said with grim satisfaction, “so you’ve joined the tyrant.”
“Hello, Angus. Always a pleasure to see you.”
Angus snorted and turned his gaze on Violet. “Another Sassenach, I see.”
The old man’s expression was so filled with gloom, his voice so ripe with resignation and disapproval, it made Violet want to laugh. She crossed her arms and raised her chin in a manner that mirrored his. “Yes, I am. And you are another Scot.”
Something twinkled in his dark eyes. “Ah, weel . . .” Angus heaved a sigh. “I knew how it would be once Red Meg bewitched that devil.”
At Violet’s blank look, Coll supplied, “He means my sister and the Earl of Mardoun.”
“Ah. And why is the earl the devil, Mr. . . . um . . .”
“McKay.” Coll sighed. “This is Angus McKay. Angus, allow me to introduce you to the woman you are offending—Lady Violet Thornhill.”
“Aye, I ken who she is.” The old man cast Coll a look of contempt. “All the glen knows the mad Englishwoman whae’s digging up the rocks.” Ignoring Coll’s smothered groan, Angus turned back to Violet. “The English canna let anything be.”
“And you, I take it, have no curiosity?” Violet countered. “You would pass by a wall of rocks suddenly poking out of the ground and not wonder why they were there? Or when they were laid? And how they came to be covered up?”