Megan Denby

by A Thistle in the Mist

  The breeze picked up and whistled through the trees. An owl hooted her annoyance at being disturbed. Maggie’s breath chuffed from her nostrils in streams of white, her hooves clopping a muffled rhythm on the damp carpet of leaves.

  Angus held on tight and let his thoughts drift to Sloan and Deirdre as the cart bumped through the forest. They were wholly evil, the two of them, and more importantly they were very clever. They had stopped at nothing to get what they wanted and had made sure no one outside the castle had found out. Regular threats to the servants and their family members had easily bought their silence. And Deirdre and Sloan had reminded them frequently that there was not one scrap of evidence to prove their treachery.

  Angus cared not a lick for his own wellbeing and they had anticipated that. He would never have written the letter had they merely threatened him. But to drag wee Flossie into their scheme was unpardonable. They had known he would cooperate and he had. Flossie had been returned to the nursery unharmed, Janet never knowing the difference and Angus had written the letter of lies.

  Captain Duff, the only one who may have been able to help them, would most definitely have sailed by now and in several weeks Meara would receive the news that Duncan and Heath were dead. The letter had been sent with no funds so the wee lassie and young Rabbie would not be able to come home any time soon. He knew rightly the effect the letter would have on Meara and his old heart had almost given out that night. He was to blame. Guilt for his part in the siblings’ duplicity rested like a heavy stone his gut.

  But he was going to set things straight and getting to Duncan immediately was the first step.

  Empty trees sped by on either side of the wagon as Angus pressed on.

  ******

  Duncan tipped his head back and felt the burn as the whiskey slid down his throat. He banged the empty mug down on the sideboard and emptied the bottle, watching the amber liquid sparkle in the lamplight as it flowed into his cup.

  He had already emptied two mugs and was finally starting to feel the numb that he craved.

  Cradling the cup, he limped to the chair by the fire. Settling his head back, he stared at the dancing flames.

  He’d let himself in twenty minutes earlier and had made straight for the stock of liquor his father had kept in the library. He wasn’t a drinking man but tonight seemed the right time to start. He hadn’t bothered to wake anyone, didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to see the well-meaning sympathetic looks and didn’t want to answer any questions.

  He brought the mug to his lips and took a long haul. He inhaled the comforting scents of his home; the lingering fragrance of his father’s cigars, the roaring fire. And the sour tang of whiskey.

  He thought of his father, of the stern, unyielding man who had raised him. He had never doubted his father’s love for him but he never remembered him actually saying it either. He did remember getting his hide tanned more than once by the belt that usually held up his father’s kilt. He had been an arrogant teenager, especially after his mother had died when it had just been Duncan and his father. He knew now that the guilt he carried for not being able to save his mother had shadowed his world and his father had turned into a surly and impatient man, so that they spent most of their time warily circling one another. He remembered the look in his father’s eyes the day Mother had passed away, the look he thought was accusatory. He’d carried the weight of that guilt for many years, Meara the only light in his life, until just before his father died. After he’d got sick, his speech hopelessly slurred by the apoplexy that had damaged his brain, his father had finally confided to Duncan that he had never blamed him, that each time he looked at his son, his own guilt ate away at him – his guilt for encouraging Duncan’s mother to continue trying to have another child when it was obvious the Lord had deemed it not possible. Though he’d been just a boy when Mother had passed away, he had never been able to rid himself of guilt but was thankful he had made peace with his father on his deathbed.

  The whiskey dulled the pain, but he was not comforted. He could never be comforted and he could never be happy again. He had lost everything and now Hannah was gone too.

  He had failed Meara in every way possible.

  The flames of the fire reflected the torture in his eyes, played across the ravaged planes of his face.

  He set the mug on the table by his chair and fumbled at his side until he opened his sporran. He smoothed his fingers up and down the glossy back of his mother’s carved dolphin. The cracked dorsal fin had worn smooth with age. He closed his eyes for a moment then kissed the small figure and carefully set it on the table. Next his fingers closed around Meara’s handkerchief and he brought it to his face.

  He breathed deep, searching for the lingering scent of Meara. Her glorious hair had always smelled of wildflowers, the crook of her neck, the cleft between her breasts. He held the soft cloth against his cheek and closed his eyes again, letting himself drift on the numbing river of whiskey. Her scent was all he had left and soon that would fade too.

  The clock on his desk chimed once and then was silent, but Duncan did not hear.

  Nor did he hear the soft knock on the door down the hall some time later.

  ******

  Angus knocked again, more loudly this time. The castle was shrouded in darkness. What if Duncan had not come here? He had not seen which way the lad had gone, just assumed he’d come here. Lord God what would he do then? Could the servants of Duntulm band together against Sloan and Deirdre? Janet’s husband, Alec, was still at sea, aboard his fishing boat and the stable lad was of no use. In fact he would probably take their side and Angus didn’t want any of his girls hurt. If they rebelled against the sinister twosome, there was no doubt that someone would get hurt.

  In despair, Angus pounded his fist on the door. Then he turned the knob and boldly stepped into the foyer.

  He had never actually been in Dunvegan, even though he had spent practically his whole life at the neighbouring Duntulm. He paused for a moment, strained to hear any signs of human life. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark he noted the many corridors that branched off from the main room. Where to start? Christ’s blood! He didn’t have time for a game of hidey. Where the hell was Duncan? Then he noticed a thin band of light beneath a door down the closest corridor.

  He trudged toward the light. He didn’t try to be quiet and with each uneven step, his cane clicked distinctly against the stone floor. The door was slightly ajar and he reached up and rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood.

  Then he pushed the door inward and hesitantly took a few steps into the room. A few logs crackled in the fireplace. The room was substantially warmer than the drafty hall. Books lined three of the walls. Bottles of liquor lined the fourth. Angus moved further into the room.

  A wing chair had been pulled close to the fire and Angus noted the empty mug on the side table.

  He approached the chair quietly. As he leaned in and peered around the wing, a skiff of air shot past his teeth

  Duncan slouched back. His dirk balanced on the back of one hand and he moved his fingers slowly, watching the shining blade dip up and down, the gleaming steel twinkling in the firelight.

  Angus peered into his face and Duncan stared back, his haunted eyes registering no surprise. The dirk fell from its precarious perch to land harmlessly in his lap.

  He smiled crookedly up at Angus, “Och, man, will ye ha’ a wee sip o’ whiskey with me?” Angus did not recognize the voice that rasped from Duncan’s throat. Be he did recognise the signs of inebriation. Duncan’s words ran together and the haunted blue eyes blinked slowly beneath hanging lids as he gazed up at Angus.

  Angus moved closer and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  Duncan stared blearily up at the old man, new lines of pain and sorrow carved into his young face. The half-smile slowly faded from Duncan’s lips and his eyes welled up.

  “They’re dead, ye ken.” His lips trembled, “Meara and our bairn... they’re go
ne.”

  “Nay lad. Nay.” Angus’ voice quavered and he felt the hot rush of tears in his own eyes. “They’re alive, Duncan.” He squeezed Duncan’s shoulder as he repeated, “They’re alive, laddie.” He clamped his teeth to still the tremors that passed through his lips and silently cursed his weakness. When had he turned into a blubbering old fool?

  Duncan stared back at him and slowly shook his head. “Nay.” The word whispered across his teeth. “Nay, dinna say that man. The letter.”

  “They lied to ye, laddie, all lies. Meara’s alive and so is the wee lad.”

  Duncan’s eyes widened and he sat straight in his chair. He reached up and his large hand clamped down over the bent fingers that grasped his shoulder.

  “Do ye tell the truth, man?” he asked desperately, his eyes suddenly clear.

  Angus nodded down into the ravaged face that gaped back at him in shock. “Aye, Duncan. Deirdre has yer wee laddie but dinna fash, I ken he’s weel enough. They did send Meara away but I’ve had word she’s alive and weel.”

  “Meara? Alive? But how?” Duncan looked up in wonder and repeated, “Meara’s alive?”

  “Aye, lad, they’ve lied to everyone and committed unspeakable acts but yer lass lives as surely as I stand here afore ye.” Angus nodded as Duncan’s grip tightened painfully. Angus turned his hand over and clasped Duncan’s cold fingers. “I’ll tell ye everythin’ on the way tae the stables, lad, but ye must come the nou. I ken Deirdre’s plannin’ to steal yer wee lad away from Duntulm nou that yer back. She means to ha’ him for herself. She’s no right, that one.”

  Duncan leapt from the chair as though his arse was on fire. His dirk clattered to the floor and he quickly bent to retrieve it and sheath it at his waist. He grabbed the handkerchief from the arm of the chair and shoved it and the dolphin into his sporran, rapidly closing the clasp.

  He halted for a moment and looked to Angus with hope in his eyes, “And Hannah?”

  Angus knew what Duncan asked and slowly shook his head. “Nay, lad, I’m sorry but the cailleach didna lie aboot that.”

  Duncan ran his hand across his eyes, slowly shaking his head. When he lowered his hand his eyes had hardened to steel. His jaws bulged slightly and it seemed all effects of the whiskey had fled. He limped swiftly to his father’s desk, wrenched open the bottom drawer and withdrew his father’s flintlock pistol, a lead ball and a tin of gunpowder. His eyes flattened with ferocious intent as his stare met Angus’ across the room.

  “They willna hurt anyone agin!” The harsh words ground from between Duncan’s teeth as he half-cocked the hammer, jammed the lead ball down the barrel, tapped a small amount of powder into the pan then shoved the loaded pistol into his belt. Pausing for a moment, he reached into the drawer and grabbed another lead ball.

  Angus watched then nodded his shaggy head. “Aye, lad, it’s good to ha’ ye home.”

  ******

  Angus followed with Maggie but had insisted Duncan go ahead. Duncan did not know the fate of Tormod but his horse had not come home from battle. Quickly, he saddled one of his other horses as Angus briefly filled him in on the incredible tale.

  Meara was alive, his beloved lass was alive! And he had a son! He was a father! Despair drained from his body and was replaced with an incomparable joy that flowed through his veins like a heady wine.

  But his son was in danger and he was not going to allow anything to happen to him

  Duncan rode like a madman through the trees to Duntulm and left his mount tethered in the wood. Crouching low, he crept by stables, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his dirk, his mind intent on his purpose.

  Clouds billowed across the moon, throwing the path to the kitchen door into darkness.

  Adrenalin coursed through his body and his heart hammered as he raced for the door. Had she seen him? The windows of the circular tower room were just above his head and offered a view of the countryside from every angle. He dared not look up.

  Soundlessly, Duncan tried the knob. It was unlocked as Angus had promised. Glancing furtively over his shoulder, Duncan turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  A pale face emerged from the shadows. Mary, her long hair loose, flew at him, a rolling pin raised high above her head. Instinctively, Duncan protected his head and the blow glanced off his forearm.

  “Mary, it’s me! It’s Duncan!” he hissed.

  Mary’s hand froze above her head as she was about to release a second blow. Her eyes widened and the rolling pin slipped from her hand and thumped harmlessly to the kitchen floor. She stared up at him as he raised his finger to his lips and rubbed at his bruised arm with the other.

  Then he felt her heavy arms close around him and felt the wet of her tears as she pulled his head down for a kiss. “Oh, Master Duncan, is it really you, lad? Ha’ I finally lost my mind?” she whispered. She tipped her head back and stared up at him as he awkwardly patted her back.

  “Aye, Mary. It’s really me.” He smiled down at her shocked face. “And I’ve come for my son,” he added firmly.

  “Oh Lordy, course ye ha’. Oh Duncan, Duncan, I’m so happy to see ye laddie and I bashed ye like a crazy bampot! Where’d ye come from? Where ha’ ye bin? Oh Lordy, sweet lad, is yer arm all right?” she cried, prodding gently at his arm. Duncan hugged her again and assured her he was fine while the small woman fiercely hugged him back, her tears snuffling in the quiet.

  He quickly filled her in on the heroic measures of her father as he scanned the kitchen by the light of a single candle on the table. Mary listened avidly as he outlined his plan. His eyes fell upon the half-eaten scone and the glass of milk and he smiled at Mary, “I’m sorry to interrupt yer evenin’ snack, Mary. I must ha’ given ye quite a fright, surely.” Mary glanced over her shoulder at the table and shook her head.

  “Nay lad, never mind about that, we’ve all been livin’ in fear for months,” she said earnestly as she reached out and took his hand. “But yer back the now, laddie. Come, I’ll show ye to yer son.”

  Meara’s deplorable aunt had better still be here or he would hunt her down and kill her, Duncan vowed silently. He did not voice his thoughts but his mouth tightened grimly.

  Mary started for the door, then turned and bent to retrieve her fallen rolling pin. She held it up and spoke solemnly, “I’ll bash in her bloody head if she gives ye any trouble.”

  Duncan raised his brows at the feisty wee woman’s back as she turned and led the way down the dark corridor and across the foyer. The wall sconces flickered but added little light to the castle at this hour. The study door was closed but a glow came from beneath the door. Mary pointed at the door and mouthed the word Sloan. Duncan nodded and together they continued to the foyer. “I need to see my son first then I’ll come back for Sloan,” Duncan whispered. Mary nodded and they tiptoed up the stairs and along the hall to the door that led to the tower room.

  Duncan turned to Mary. “Stay here, Mary. I dinna want ye hurt.”

  Mary shook her head. “Nay Duncan, I can help wi’...” Her whisper was cut off by a singular bong. They both jumped and looked up at the clock. The pendulum swung silently back and forth. The hands read three-thirty.

  Duncan looked back at Mary and nodded. “Verra well but stay close behind.” He removed the pistol from his belt and turned back to the door.

  Mary’s eyes widened as she looked at the gleaming gun. Dear Lord, please let no blood be shed tonight, she prayed silently.

  Duncan’s back disappeared into the dark ahead and Mary quickly followed. The stairway was as black as Deirdre’s soul and they silently felt their way, step by step.

  When they reached the small landing at the top, they stopped. All was silent save the sound of Mary’s laboured breath. They stood motionless for a moment, listening, and Mary’s plump hand found Duncan’s in the dark. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze then his hand was gone.

  Next the door burst inward, swung back hard on its creaking hinges and smashed against the wall. Deirdre stood by t
he bed. In her hands she held a small white gown. A trunk lay open on the bed, partially filled with clothing. Another stood on the floor, the lid closed. A painting leaned against the side of the bed.

  Deirdre’s jaw dropped and the tiny gown slipped from her fingers. In that same instant, a baby’s cry filled the room.

  Deirdre’s head spun on her thin neck then immediately swivelled back to the two intruders.

  Then all was a flurry of desperate movement as Deirdre careened across the room toward the crying child. Mary shoved past Duncan and trundled toward the cradle which stood closer to her.

  Duncan pointed the gun in Deirdre’s direction and hollered, “Stop!”

  She ignored him and both women reached the baby at the same time. Deirdre reached for the flailing child as Mary drew back her hand. With all the force she could muster, she shoved the handle of the rolling pin into Deirdre’s belly. A rush of air shot from Deirdre’s pinched mouth and she fell back onto her rump. Mary stood above, legs spread wide, rolling pin raised over her head. Deirdre snarled something unintelligible at Mary, her dark eyes darting to the cradle and back to Mary’s makeshift weapon. Deirdre moved forward but Mary prodded the fallen woman none too gently with her toe.

  “Stay where ye are wumman and dinna move!” Mary’s voice rang with angry authority, two years of fury finally breaking free. “I willna hesitate to bash yer sorry head in!”

  Mary glanced quickly over her left shoulder but Duncan was gone. A slight movement at the door caught her eye. She squinted through the dim but saw nothing. She looked back at the cradle.

  Duncan had come round behind her and now stood by his son’s bed, the gun dangling at his side. Heath had stopped crying and stared up at the new face, his green eyes sparkling with tears in the lamplight, his lashes wetly clumped.

  Duncan did not take his eyes from his child but asked, his gravelled voice breaking, “What’s his name, Mary?”