“That will not answer, sir,” Templeton said. “If it is a question of finance, I assure you my daughter’s dowry is formidable. I have connections.”
“Would those be English connections?” Egan let some of his Mad Highlander persona slide into his voice. “Lordlings who evict their Scottish tenants so they can raise sheep in their place? Dinnae try to win me over with Sassenach money.”
Templeton drew himself up. “Then you have brought us here on false pretenses. There are laws against breach of promise, you know.”
“I did not bring ye here at all,” Egan said, barely containing his temper. “I cannae answer for everything my sister does.”
“See here—” Barton began, but a commotion interrupted him.
Faith and Olympia had halted at the edge of the ballroom floor, and now faced each other with cherry-bright faces. As guests turned to stare, the room quieted until Egan could make out the girls’ words.
“He will never dance with you, Faith Barton. Mr. MacDonald doesn’t like colorless misses.”
“Well, he doesn’t like shameless hussies who get themselves kidnapped so he’ll rescue them!”
“I never did it on purpose!” Olympia shrieked.
“I’ll wager you did!”
“I never! You walked outside with your bodice drooping open, hoping you’d get kidnapped too.”
Faith screamed. She seized Olympia’s curls and yanked hard. Olympia’s carefully coiled hair came straight off her head in one piece, and Olympia screeched, trying to grab the false hair. Faith stared at the mass in her hand then burst out laughing.
Olympia howled and flew at her, fingers curved, but Gemma appeared out of the crowd and jerked the girls apart.
“Shame,” she shouted, shaking them. “Shame on ye both. Come away and stop this nonsense.”
Gemma, half a head shorter than either girl, bore them away past the interested crowd and their mothers, who stood by with plump mouths open. As Gemma marched them out of the ballroom, Faith and Olympia finally subsided, the guests laughed a bit, then returned to their conversations.
Templeton and Barton looked Egan up and down again, and Templeton said, “Well, how about it, MacDonald? Which will you have? Faith or Olympia? Tell us quickly.”
* * *
Zarabeth slept fitfully that night, still disturbed from her overlapping vision of Sebastian and Adam. Her husband’s barbs reached across the distance and stabbed at her—You’ll do as you’re told, Zarabeth. I’ll train that stubborn conceit right out of you … I never realized I’d married a hussy, and a brat, and a disobedient bitch.
When dawn broke, Zarabeth at last fell asleep in deep exhaustion, but she woke not many hours later to the sound of one of the red-haired maids stoking the fire.
Zarabeth emerged, washed and dressed, from her chamber not long later, to find Egan on the landing below this floor, deep in conversation with her Nvengarian footmen. Constanz and Ivan were blaming themselves yet again for failing Zarabeth, and Egan was trying to calm them.
She was grateful that Egan could speak Nvengarian, making him the only Scotsman she knew who could handle the two energetic lads. As Zarabeth descended the staircase toward the landing, Egan silenced the footmen with a word. They bowed to Zarabeth but scooted down the stairs, obeying Egan.
“What was that about?” Zarabeth asked, watching Ivan and Constanz leap down the stairs to the ground floor with the energy of youth.
“They wanted to come with us today, but I told them they couldn’t,” Egan said without heat. “We have an errand t’ run.”
“Do we?”
“Aye, and I don’t want a great lot of Nvengarians tramping after us. My men grew up in these hills—they can follow us without blundering about and interrupting things.”
The window on the landing was streaked with rain, and the clouds obscured the mountaintops across the river. The morning wasn’t much lighter than it had been at dawn. “More fishing?” she asked.
“No, something I need to do and something I need to show ye.”
“And you’ll not hint about either one?” she asked.
Egan flashed his grin, looking more like his old self. “No.”
“And if I catch my death of cold?”
He looked her up and down, a hot spark in his eyes. “Ye look healthy enough. If ye can stand kissing Adam on a cold terrace in the middle of the night, ye can stand this.”
“Adam kissed me,” she said, exasperated.
“Oh, aye, I forgot. Ye stood like a stone while he slobbered on ye. Ye defended him strong enough when I came t’ see what was the matter though, I noticed. Did ye want to kiss him or no?”
“No. But he did not …” Zarabeth stopped, clenching her hands. “Oh, never mind. Will you allow me to have breakfast before you drag me out to catch consumption?”
“Aye, of course.” Egan took her arm, fingers hard. “I wouldn’t dream of keepin’ ye from your morning porridge.”
* * *
By the time Zarabeth had finished her delicious porridge and Egan led his horse to the courtyard, it was nearly noon. Williams clicked his teeth a little over the late night and late morning the family kept today, annoyed his routine had been disturbed.
Keeping city hours, his sour thoughts touched Zarabeth as he helped her with her wraps. This is Castle MacDonald, nae a Parisian salon.
Zarabeth hid her amusement and went out to meet Egan.
The rain was chill, but not icy, the wind calm. The clouds were like a blanket holding warm air in the valley, while the rain fell steadily.
Egan insisted Zarabeth ride double with him, as she had when he’d brought her here from the inn near Ullapool, as much as she protested that she could ride a horse perfectly well on her own.
“I learned at an early age,” Zarabeth said as Hamish helped her into the saddle and Egan settled her in front of him. “As you know, Egan MacDonald. I beat you in several horse races, if you recall.”
Egan turned their mount toward the gatehouse, lifting his hand to Hamish in thanks. “Because ye told the horses t’ give me trouble beforehand,” he rumbled over the horse’s echoing hooves in the gate’s tunnel. “I know ye for a witch, Zarabeth.”
“A minor mage,” Zarabeth said quickly. “Talismans and potions only, and they don’t always work.”
“Mmph,” was his only response.
Egan guided the horse carefully down the steep hill—the horse knew the way very well, Zarabeth could tell—then they took a road that skirted Loch Argonne and rose toward the hills.
Zarabeth put aside her worries to enjoy the beauty of the land around her. The loch lay in a cut of hills that rose steep and gray-green from the bowl of valley. The water was dark today, rain churning its surface.
The road took them through a pass between the steep hills then climbed through trees to the top of a flatter hill. Heather bent under the rain, stretching across the rolling terrain, black rocks poking through its carpet. Behind them the land dropped, giving Zarabeth a spectacular view of the loch and purple hills beyond, all the way to the sea in the misty distance.
She let out her breath in contentment. “You must love this place.”
Egan made a noncommittal noise. “Ye grow used to it.”
“You do love it. I see your eyes when you look at it.”
Egan turned the horse down a path that led toward a line of trees with mist in their branches. “We didn’t ride out here to talk about whether I love Scotland.”
Zarabeth glanced at him over her shoulder. His hair was damp with rain, his dark eyes enigmatic. “What did we come out here to talk about?” she asked.
“I told ye. I have an errand.”
“Always cryptic, is Egan MacDonald.”
He shrugged. “Ye’ll see soon enough.”
Zarabeth heaved a small sigh and stopped asking questions. Having his strong arm around her waist was distracting enough.
A hill dropped away on their right as they followed the path to reveal white st
one houses nestled in the fold of the valley. At first Zarabeth thought them lovely against the green-gray heather, but then she noticed their air of desertion. The roof of one cottage had fallen in, and the shutters on another were broken, the windows gaping empty and black.
“Does no one live there?” she asked.
Egan turned to look where she pointed, not slowing the horse. “No longer. There are clusters like that all over Scotland now, because of the Clearances.”
“Clearances?” Zarabeth asked in curiosity. “I’ve heard your family mention that. What does it mean exactly?” She’d read much about Scotland’s history, wanting to learn everything she could about Egan’s homeland, but she didn’t know a great deal about recent events.
Egan guided his horse under the darkness of the trees, shutting off the sight of the sad houses. “Large landholders in the Highlands are busily evicting their tenants. ’Tis easier to make a fortune raising sheep than to have tenant farmers pay ye from their meager crops. The farmers have nowhere to go. Most move to the cities to look for work.”
Indignation touched her. “Did you evict yours? Is that why the houses are empty?”
Egan’s brows drew down. “No, that’s nae MacDonald or Ross land. Our neighbor, Strathranald, made friends with the English, bought a passel of sheep, and gave his farmers the boot—people whose families had lived on that land for hundreds of years.”
“How could he?” Zarabeth asked in outrage. “That’s terrible.” In Nvengaria, a landlord wouldn’t dream of turning out his tenants—that would be one of the most dishonorable things he could do, the lowest of the low. Also in Nvengaria, furious tenants might take their wrath out on their former master, which could result in death, fire, and the army being called in to put down the revolt. Best to treat tenants well and live peacefully.
“But what is the answer?” Egan asked, his voice holding anger. “Shall we all starve together?”
“The Rosses don’t seem to starve,” Zarabeth pointed out. “Has Adam turned out any of his tenants?”
“No.” Egan looked somber. “When Adam’s great-grandfather was killed and Ross Castle razed, the tenants’ homes were burned and the folk either butchered or taken away. The Ross family lost everything. Adam’s father was clever enough to learn new ways and make money from them, at least, and Adam and Piers have brought tenants back, some descendants of the families that were displaced. His father’s success makes Adam insufferable, but he’s good to his people.”
Zarabeth warmed on Adam’s behalf—she did like him, and was unhappy she’d caused such a scene with him last night.
She didn’t want to talk about that again, so she fell silent, sorry that there should be such grimness in all this beauty.
The mists were thick under the trees, and they rode in solitude. Rain trickled through the branches, the horse’s hoof beats muffled by the mud. If Egan’s men or Baron Valentin followed, they were keeping well out of sight.
The solid wall of Egan’s body was comfortable to lean back against, the plaid he pulled forward to wrap her heating her pleasantly. Sitting so intimately with him made Zarabeth want to pull the moment to her, holding it tight with both hands, never letting it go. The woods were peaceful with the quiet patter of rain on the leaves—Zarabeth thought she could ride with like this with Egan forever.
They went on through the trees, the mist thickening, gloom deepening. Egan made no sign of stopping.
“Have you decided to tell me where we’re going?” Zarabeth asked after a time. The close air muffled her words.
“Hush, lass,” Egan said against her hair. “Not so much noise. I don’t want to scare them.”
Them?
“Who are we meeting?” she whispered. “The Fair Folk?”
She felt Egan start. “The wha’?”
“The Fair Folk,” Zarabeth repeated. “The Sidhe from the Far Realm.”
Egan’s laugh was plenty loud. “Who’s been telling ye tales? Jamie? Or Hamish?”
“Neither. I read about them.” Her studies of Scotland had included its folktales, many of them frightening, but most fascinating. There was Red Cap, a terrible demon who killed innocents in the lands bordering England and Scotland. Selkies were people who could turn into sea creatures—Zarabeth wondered if they were similar to the logosh.
“Ye read trash and nonsense,” Egan said. “Those I’m tryin’ to find are very much of this world.” He shook his head, trailing off in amusement. “Fair Folk ...”
“The logosh are real,” Zarabeth argued. “Magic spells are too. Why not Fair Folk?”
“Aye, I grant ye that the Nvengarians and their Romany ancestry have produced some strange creatures. But I’ve nae seen evidence of it in Scotland.” His tone was firm.
“I have that Romany ancestry,” Zarabeth reminded him. “I do hope you are not calling me a strange creature.”
“Huh. I know better than that. I do remember ye playin’ with magic when ye were younger. Lookin’ at grimoires and things.”
Zarabeth flashed him an annoyed look. “Not playing. I have some minor powers as I’ve said. Not enough to threaten anyone on the Council of Mages. They rather sneer at women with magic.”
“Shortsighted o’ them.” Egan’s grip on her tightened. “So ye truly can make a magic spell?”
“Small ones.” She strove to sound modest. “In fact, I’ll tell you a secret—I made one for you the night I asked you to kiss me, at my father’s house in Nvengaria, so you’d fall in love with me.”
Zarabeth said it to make him laugh, to put the embarrassing episode behind them. She felt Egan’s start clearly this time, his hands almost jerking the horse to a halt.
“Did ye now?” he demanded.
“It was on the silly necklace I wore,” Zarabeth said. “But there’s no need to be angry with me—it didn’t work. In fact, it appeared to have the opposite effect on you. As we discussed at the time.”
“Discussed?” Egan gave her an incredulous look. “I thought we had a grand, loud argument about it.”
“Whatever you like to call it. The point is the magic didn’t work on you. Perhaps you are immune to spells altogether.”
Egan shook his head. “I don’t think so. A few years ago, when Damien married Penelope, someone put a sleep spell on an entire household, and I succumbed as quickly as anyone.”
Zarabeth clutched the horse’s mane so he wouldn’t see how her hand trembled. “Ah well, perhaps it is only my magic that will not affect you.”
“Hmm,” Egan said. “’Twould be an interesting test to make.”
Zarabeth tried to rein in her imagination, but she couldn’t help picturing Egan lying on her bed, candlelight touching his bare skin, while she chanted a spell over him. Her cheeks went hot, her heartbeat speeding.
Egan’s face was difficult to see in the gloom, but she caught the gleam of his eyes. Did he guess what she was thinking?
Egan ended the conversation by guiding the horse down a steep hill, and Zarabeth had to concentrate on not slipping from the saddle. At the bottom, he put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Be silent as a mouse. There they are.”
Zarabeth looked to where he pointed and saw a tall, strong-bodied horse that to her trained eye had good bloodlines—excellent conformation, long racing legs, an intelligent face. It was not a wild creature but one used to a pampered, sheltered life. Escaped from the stables at Castle MacDonald?
She opened her mouth to ask when a shaking, weak-kneed foal inched around the other side of the mare. It caught their scent and sent up a shrill little whinny. The mare swung around, ears pricked, her nostrils testing the wind.
Egan halted his horse, lowered Zarabeth from the saddle, and slid off beside her. He took some cloths from the saddlebag and started toward the mare and foal, his step quiet but sure. The mare watched protectively, putting her body between Egan and her foal.
“Run off again, did ye, lass?” Egan’s voice was a low rumble, soothing and calm. “What have ye there?”
Zarabeth followed him as noiselessly as she could, holding her plaid skirts out of the muck. The horse they’d ridden from the castle lowered his head and leisurely cropped the grass.
The foal peeked around its mother’s hindquarters, curious. It was a bay, dark in the shadows, with a black mane and forelock. Large brown eyes peered at Egan then Zarabeth, who’d halted a few feet away.
Egan moved with a quietness his size belied. He patted the mare, reassuring her, then held out his hand to the foal. The little horse took a step toward him, too newborn to be frightened.
“That’s the way,” Egan said, his voice softer than Zarabeth had ever heard it. “Come on, lad.”
The mare nuzzled Egan, worried but recognizing him. The foal staggered forward, keeping one shoulder against his mother, and stretched his head to Egan’s hand. The foal lipped his fingers, then jumped when Egan scratched his nose. Deciding he liked it, the foal stepped forward again.
“Good lad,” Egan murmured.
Egan skimmed a cloth along the foal’s side, and the foal did another small leap sideways into the mare. The mare swung her head around to watch but less nervously than before. Egan’s warmth and scent seemed to reassure her.
Egan stroked the foal with the cloth, wiping off rain and muck. The foal ceased its sideways prances and settled down to enjoy the caresses, his eyes half closing.
Gentleness itself, Egan rubbed the little horse dry while its mother hung her head over Egan’s shoulder. Zarabeth marveled how Egan could dampen his strength and his boisterousness to not frighten the animals. He’d be as good with children, she sensed. A pity he was so against marriage and having a family of his own.
A pang stole through Zarabeth’s heart as she thought of how her ruined marriage had robbed her of her chance to have a family. She could always remarry, of course, once Damien had put through her divorce, but by the time her heart healed from what Sebastian had done she might be too old for children. She had the feeling she’d be ninety before she was whole again.
Egan glanced over his shoulder at her. “Come see him, lass. He’s not afraid.”
Highlander Ever After: Nvengaria, Book 3 Page 12