Torquil appeared with his meal. “I will prepare some clothes for ye,” Torquil said. “What will ye need?”
Neil paused. He would go to Edinburgh first. His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, was there, currently in residence at Holyroodhouse. He would make it clear that the countess was under his protection, then he would pay a visit to Lochaene.
“I am going to try to see Cumberland,” he said.
“Your best clothes, then?”
Neil nodded. He had purchased some clothing after inheriting Braemoor, knowing that on occasion he would need it. But he still didn’t feel comfortable in the silks and satin. He far preferred the outlawed kilt. Still, he had a pair of dark blue satin breeches and a light blue doublet, and dark waistcoat. It was fine enough material for Cumberland’s presence.
As soon as he finished eating quickly, he shaved as Torquil prepared his better clothes for travel, then pulled on his riding clothes: plain buckskin breeches, plain woolen shirt and jacket. ’Twas somber wear, especially with the boots he preferred, but it suited his taste.
Within the hour, he went to the stable where Jamie had already saddled two horses, one for the young lad and the other for himself. They mounted and trotted out of the courtyard.
He hated taking time to stop at Jock’s but the man knew he had gone to inspect the new lands. Trust was still a fragile thing for both of them, and he could not disappear for days, perhaps a week, without an explanation.
Jock was not at his cottage, and Neil took another two hours to find him. When he did, Neil tossed Jock a leather purse full of coins and told him to get what was needed to build the cottages on the new property. He drew a map, indicating where he believed the best locations were.
“Should I no’ wait for yer return?”
“Nay, I donna know how long I will be gone, and we made promises.”
Jock just looked puzzled.
“Someone I … know might be in trouble.”
A small smile tugged at Jock’s mouth. “You be taking care of ’em, then. I will see to things here.”
“I know you will,” Neil said. And he meant it.
Cumberland eyed Neil with haughty amusement. “I see you have none of your cousin’s taste in clothing.”
Neil had stopped at an inn to change clothes before requesting an audience with Cumberland. Internally, though, he squirmed with discomfort. His personal contacts with Cumberland had been minimal. Rory had manipulated him, but Neil had none of Rory’s talents for subterfuge. He only knew how to state his case bluntly and he felt much like a ruffian in the princely surroundings that was Holyroodhouse. The thought was too close to reality for comfort.
“Nay, my lord,” he said simply.
“You asked to see me?” Cumberland said impatiently.
“Aye, Your Grace. I am here on behalf of the Countess of Lochaene.”
“Ah, the newly bereaved widow,” Cumberland said. “And what is your connection with her?”
“My uncle and her father were friends.”
“Her father was a Jacobite,” Cumberland said coldly.
“And my uncle and I fought beside you,” Neil reminded him. He knew he was stepping on shaky ground but he steeled himself for whatever was coming.
“You have never married,” Cumberland said thoughtfully.
Neil went still. He had not known what Cumberland was going to say, or do, when he’d approached his adjutant for an audience. Now he wondered what to say. If Cumberland knew about the madness in his family, would he continue to support Neil’s claim of Braemoor?
“I’ve been in no position to marry,” Neil said. “I had nothing to offer until my cousin died.” He hesitated, then added, “In your service.”
“There are whispers that she might have murdered her husband.”
“There are often whispers, but I know the countess. ’Tis a ridiculous accusation.”
“A woman cannot run an estate.”
“Then appoint me her guardian.”
“You are busy at Braemoor,” Cumberland said. “Reginald Campbell is willing to take responsibility.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I think his ability … and reliability … is in some question.”
From his facial expression, Cumberland had caught his meaning. Reginald Campbell had avoided the king’s service. “His family has always been loyal to the crown.”
Neil wished again he had Rory’s ability with words. He tried to use the one argument he thought would appeal to Cumberland. “I believe, Your Grace, I could produce more taxes for you than the Honorable Reginald Campbell.”
Cumberland’s eyes were like ice. “If you are so interested in her welfare,” Cumberland said, “you could think about marrying her.”
“Her husband has been dead only these past weeks. She is still in mourning.”
Cumberland’s eyes narrowed. “I told Campbell I would consider his request.”
Neil had made it his business to know about the Alasdair Campbell’s family. Janet’s husband had declared for King George but Neil did not remember seeing him at Culloden. His brother, Reginald, had been in England.
His stomach tied into a knot. His heart beat faster. He knew that Janet would be furious about what he was about to do, but he needed to buy her time. “I do have an interest in the widow,” he said. “I was planning to wait a proper amount of time.”
Cumberland regarded him with steely eyes. “How is Braemoor faring these days?”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
“No problem with the tenants?”
“Nay.”
“I must say I miss your cousin, even if he was a popinjay. He always brought me fine brandy.”
“I will endeavor to do the same.”
Cumberland allowed a small smile, then returned to the subject at hand. “I will appoint you temporary guardian for the young earl and will allow you a short time to court the new widow, Braemoor. But you will be responsible for seeing that Lochaene pays its share of taxes. The army needs money.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Neil bowed his way out of Cumberland’s chamber.
Once outside, he tried to relax. He was not sure what he had done. He had provided Janet with some time, but he knew she would not be pleased with the conditions attached. She most certainly would not happily view him as a prospective husband.
Nor could he even consider marrying her. He would not be able to keep away from her. He knew that. And nothing had changed since that day he’d learned about his past, about his family.
But he’d bought her time, time to find another champion.
In the meantime, she would have to accept his protection. He did not think that would be easy for her to swallow.
He heard a snort of laughter and was surprised to realize it was his own. It had no humor in it, though. He’d just spun a web that might well trap them both.
Chapter Five
Janet gazed out of her chamber window. She’d had no more success in prying the books away from Reginald than on her last attempt.
She had ridden to see the solicitor but he had given her no help. He, too, had insisted that a woman had no head for business or management. It was “unfortunate” that after her son’s birth her husband had not made provisions for a guardianship. Her brother-in-law was assuming that role, and she should be grateful.
She fumed with helpless indignation.
It had been more than a week since she’d sent her letter to the Marquis of Braemoor, and she had heard nothing. She didn’t know whether she felt disappointment or relief. Certainly, she had been right in her assessment of his concern.
But she had not found a way to get around Reginald’s refusal to acknowledge her rights to Lochaene. He had even gone so far as to tell the grooms that they were not to accept orders from her. If she did not acquiesce, he implied he would press murder charges against her.
The bairns—except for Grace, who was in the kitchen—were down for the afternoon. Janet knew she had to get away from th
e tower, from its cold, gray stone walls and the bleakness of the rooms.
She went to the stable and chose a mare. Kevin was not there, but a rough-looking man came up to her. “The master said ye were not to ride alone.”
“I will do as I wish.”
“Nay, mi’lady. I ’ave my orders.”
She could only surmise that the solicitor had reported her visit and Reginald wanted no more interference. “Then you may ride with me,” she said.
“I got work ’ere,” he said rudely.
“Where is Kevin?”
“I donna know who ye mean.”
“He worked here yesterday.”
The man shrugged.
“Your name?”
“Bain.”
“Have you tended horses before?”
“Aye.”
“Then let me see you saddle this horse,” she said.
He started to walk off.
“You take one more step, and you will leave Lochaene.”
“Ye ’ave no authority.”
“I do not know what the Honorable Reginald Campbell told you, but I am the Countess of Lochaene. My brother-in-law has no authority to forbid anything. My son is earl.”
She did not know whether or not it was the anger in her voice, but he hesitated. She saw sudden indecision in his eyes. “You do not have to saddle the horse,” she said, “but I would advise you to consult with my brother-in-law again before denying me my own property.”
That did it. He obviously thought her incapable of saddling her own horse. He shot her an angry look, then lumbered toward the tower. As soon as he was out of sight, she found the lightest gear and quickly saddled one of the two mares. She’d done it often as a young girl; her father had thought she should learn everything in handling a mount.
With the help of a mounting stone, she settled into saddle, hooking her knee around the saddlebow. She walked the mare through the stable doors only to see Bain coming toward her. He started to run toward her. A shout spooked the mare who broke into a trot, then a wild gallop.
Janet allowed her rein. It suited her purposes that Bain believed the horse was spooked. She would blame everything on him.
She allowed the mare to run until they were out of sight, then she slowly but firmly reined her in and slowed her to a walk. Then she headed toward the mountains. One afternoon. Just one afternoon. She felt the tears welling behind her eyes. She told herself it was frustration. She’d never believed in self-pity.
Janet rode into the mountains, toward a waterfall that fell into a pool below. A mist fell over the gray-green mountains, and it washed out some of the anger. Her hair fell from its knot and lay damp across her face. It had been so long since she had felt this kind of freedom.
She rode for another hour, until she was drenched through and through. The air had turned cold and slashed through her wet clothes. Janet shivered and turned back. It was time, more than time to return.
Halfway back, she saw smoke curling from the chimney of a croft. Neatly plowed rows in front looked empty, unplanted.
She rode the mare up to the croft, slipped from the mount and knocked on the door.
It opened, and a man who looked to be in his late middle years stared at her blankly.
“I … am Janet Campbell,” she said, uncertain about either her welcome or even her own intent.
“The countess,” the man sneered. “I know rightly who ye are,” he said coldly.
A woman pushed beside him. “And she be soaked an’ shiverin’, Angus.” She pushed him aside. “Come in and warm yerself.”
The inside of the croft was dark, the sides blackened by peat fires. The smell of peat permeated the interior. She looked at the table. It was full of bowls. Her gaze went around to four small, thin children.
“Will ye ’ave some hot soup?” the woman said.
Janet heard a grunt of protest from a corner. An older boy leaned against a wall. “Ain’t enough fer us now,” he said.
“Hush,” said the woman.
“Nay,” Janet said. “I just saw your fire, and the fields outside. They are not planted.”
“There is no seed,” the boy said. The older man, apparently the father, said nothing.
Janet swallowed a bitter breath. It was the lord’s responsibility to provide the seed. She wondered how many other crofters had not received their allotment. Without seed, they could not pay rent. Without rent, they would be evicted.
She had heard of the clearances, knew that many landlords were clearing their land to raise cattle and sheep. She’d even heard her husband speak of plans to purchase more livestock. She had not realized, though, that he was starving out the tenants.
And yet the woman had offered her what had to be sorely inadequate for her family. They all looked starved.
“I thank you,” she said, “but I am not hungry.”
“No’ for our poor offerings,” the boy muttered.
She wanted to reassure them that she would take care of their needs, that she would provide seed, but how could she promise anything? How could she give them help when she could not help herself, when she had to steal a horse to take even a ride? Anger fermented inside her. No wonder Reginald hadn’t wanted her to explore the holdings.
“Are the other crofters … not getting seed?” she asked.
“Do ye not even know?” the boy said contemptuously.
“John!” The woman said in rebuke.
“Why? Wha’ are they goin’ tae do tae us tha’ they ha’ no’ already done?” He moved closer to her. He was a tall lad of eighteen or nineteen years with a hank of black hair falling over his forehead. “As fer yer question, many have already left. The ones tha’ ain’t are starvin’. My mither and her mither willna leave. So we stay and starve until the sheriff comes.”
She felt his hatred radiate through her.
Janet wanted to back up, straight out the door. But she had been cowardly enough these past few years. She did not know if she could have done something, but she could have tried. It would only have made him angrier, more determined to do what he planned to do. But mayhap she may have been able to slip some food to the tenants.
I will do something. I have to do something. For Colin’s heritage, his inheritance.
She straightened her back. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said.
“But ye are still wet,” the woman protested.
Janet heard a snort from the boy. “She will soon be warm an’ well fed.”
She turned to face him. “You are right,” she said softly. “I wish … I could do the same …” She felt the too-familiar tears coming to her eyes, and she backed away, going out the door and nearly running to her horse. With the help of a stump, she managed to mount, then looked back. Six thin faces stared at her from the doorway. Thin and resentful. All but the woman, who merely looked weary beyond her years.
She turned the mare away. In some way, she would regain control of Lochaene. And then no man would ever control her, or her actions, again.
She swore it.
Neil rode hard. The lad, Tim, was riding one of Braemoor’s horses; the lad’s own decrepit beast was stabled at Braemoor until it had been well fed and rested.
The vicar apparently had given Tim a sovereign to deliver the letter. Neil intended to add several more, and mayhap give him employment. The lad had told him his father could not find work, and there were three small brothers to feed.
Neil could not help but realize the changes that had overtaken Scotland since Culloden. He was fully aware, of course, of Cumberland’s rampage across the land, killing every Jacobite he could find and burning both crofts and manors. He remembered the ceilidhs that he had attended as Donald’s aide and bodyguard. He could almost hear the plaintive sounds of the pipes and spirited fiddles, see the Highlanders in their plaids and women in their clan tartans. They were all banned now.
The hills and mountains seemed ghostly reminders as the mist closed around them. Many of the Highland clans—all o
f those which were Jacobites—had been decimated. He closed his eyes, seeing them as they were earlier at Culloden. Proud and brave and stubborn. They had been the best of Scotland. To the day he died, he would regret his part in it. He would try to make his own kind of atonement, just as Rory had.
He reached Lochaene in late afternoon, finding it an uproar.
An angry Reginald Campbell was berating someone outside the doors. He looked up as a dusty, damp Neil rode up.
Neil had left the lad with his family in the small village a few miles distant. He did not want anyone to know that Janet had written him. He came, though, with an order from Cumberland.
Campbell regarded him balefully, obviously not remembering him from his brother’s funeral. But Campbell had been drunk then, Neil remembered. Neil’s travel-stained clothes obviously did nothing to assist the man’s assessment of his visitor.
Neil dismounted. “Campbell,” he said, not even granting him the “honorable” title.
The man bristled, his gaze flickering contemptuously over Neil. “It’s ‘my lord’.”
“I think not,” Neil said. “I understand the new earl is but a bairn.”
“’Tis none of your concern,” Campbell said as he turned away.
“Aye, but it is,” Neil said with equanimity. “I have been appointed guardian of the young earl. I believe it was at your urging that the Duke of Cumberland decided a woman could not competently manage such an estate. I owe you a debt of thanks.”
Color drained from Campbell’s face. Then, just as rapidly, color flushed back into it. “You lie.”
“You will take back that word, Campbell. No one calls me a liar without consequences.”
Campbell’s face turned even paler. “Who are you?”
“Oh, did I forget to introduce myself? So sorry. I am the Marquis of Braemoor. You can call me ‘my lord.’ And I have not heard your apology.”
Neil knew he should not take such pleasure in tormenting the man, but it seemed little enough for the misery he’d obviously caused Janet. A taste of his own medicine should be instructional.
The Heart Queen Page 7