Highland Storms

by Christina Courtenay

  ‘Marsaili? What are you doing in here?’

  She whirled around and put up a hand to still her heart, which had just done a somersault inside her chest. ‘Mr Seton! I didn’t hear you coming. I … er, was just checking to make sure the soldiers hadn’t damaged anything in here.’

  He grunted in reply and glanced quickly round the room. ‘They haven’t.’

  ‘I know, so I’d better return to my duties. If you’d kindly step aside? I have much to do.’

  Brice put his ear to the wall and held his breath. He’d heard Seton’s voice soon after he closed the secret entrance and knew Marsaili was alone in the room with the man. Judging by her vehemence in denying any liaison between them earlier in the week, that was probably the last thing she wanted. But she was trapped and it was all Brice’s fault. He swore silently.

  He heard a change in Seton’s voice as he answered her request to step aside. ‘Oh, aye, you’re always busy, but one of these days you’ll make some time for me, eh?’

  ‘No, I won’t. I’ve told you before, there’s no chance of that.’

  There was a small thud and the wall next to Brice, which was quite thin at that point, shook slightly.

  ‘You’re not hearing me, Marsaili. I won’t wait for ever and sooner or later I will take what I want, with or without your agreement.’ Seton’s voice was a hoarse whisper, vibrating with suppressed fury and also, Brice guessed, desire.

  ‘Take your hands off me this instant.’ Marsaili’s clipped tone was equally angry and Brice frowned. What would he do if Seton forced himself on her? He couldn’t stand by and let it happen, but neither could he reveal he’d been listening on the other side of the thin wall. And there was Mr Keil to consider as well. The preacher was in another part of the passages, but if the soldiers got wind of a possible hiding place, they’d leave no stone unturned until they found the man.

  Hell and damnation! He waited with bated breath, his hands clenched into fists.

  Marsaili solved the problem for him. She let out a shrill whistle, the kind any boy would be proud to produce, and Brice heard Seton utter an exclamation of annoyance at the same time as the sound of scrabbling claws came rushing down the corridor outside the room and through the door.

  ‘Blasted hell-hound,’ Seton swore. Liath growled and came to a noisy halt with a low, but threatening bark. ‘Don’t you dare touch me or else …’

  ‘You know he won’t unless I tell him to,’ Marsaili said, sounding more than a little relieved. ‘Now hadn’t you better make sure the Redcoats aren’t helping themselves to anything they shouldn’t, Mr Seton?’

  Seton muttered something which sounded like a coarse oath, but nonetheless he stomped out of the door. ‘Haughty bitch,’ was the last thing Brice heard the man say and then all was quiet for a moment.

  Marsaili let out a sigh of relief and then murmured to the dog. ‘Good boy, Liath, thank you. One of these days I’m going to let you savage him, so help me God … If only he’d give up!’

  As she moved away, followed by the dog, Brice picked up the blankets and provisions and made his way along the dark passage towards the place where he’d left Mr Keil. His thoughts were all focused on what he’d just heard, however, and he realised he had been very wrong in his assumption that Marsaili was in collusion with the factor. It was clear Seton wanted the housekeeper, but she had refused. Several times, by the sound of things. And now he was threatening her if she didn’t give in. How long had this been going on?

  It certainly put his first visit to Rosyth in perspective and it was evident Marsaili had only been doing Seton’s bidding as an employee. For some reason, that thought made him very happy. Then he drew in a sharp breath and stopped dead as he realised why.

  He wanted Marsaili for himself.

  Seton stormed into his own house and slammed the door shut so hard the rafters shook. He kicked an empty bucket which happened to be standing nearby and swore under his breath, but although the bucket made a satisfying din as it hit a wall, it didn’t soothe him one bit. Captain Sherringham’s parting shot hadn’t exactly sweetened his temper either.

  ‘I don’t know whose idea it was to send for us, but you can tell the dolt from me that I don’t appreciate people wasting my time. I won’t be coming here again without very good reason.’

  Since Seton was the ‘dolt’ in question, he had a hard time not answering back. He managed to bite his tongue, but only just. Instead he vented his fury on Iain, who happened to come looking for his father soon after.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ he spluttered. ‘How did the damned clergyman manage to escape? I made absolutely sure the English approached the house from two directions and still he evaded them. It’s unbelievable!’

  ‘It was you who called them out?’ Iain stared at his father with a slightly disapproving frown. That was enough to make Seton even more annoyed.

  ‘Of course. Who did you think it was? We want rid of the laird, I’ve told you before. If we can get him arrested, maybe he’ll think twice about staying in Scotland.’

  ‘The Sassenachs would never be able to convict him for housing a non-juring minister, surely? He’s a foreigner and the Lord only knows what faith he belongs to. They can’t blame him for that.’

  ‘That’s not the point, you fool. We want him scared off, running back to his own godforsaken country with his tail between his legs. Even if the Redcoats don’t convict him of anything, they sure as hell won’t treat him well while he’s in their custody. We all know that.’

  Iain was quiet for a while, then said, ‘It’s not right, Father. This estate belongs to him and you’ve taken more than enough of what’s his already.’

  ‘Have you gone soft in the head, boy?’ Seton grabbed Iain by the shoulders and shook him hard, but Iain shrugged him off and glared at him.

  ‘No, I think I’m coming to my senses. What you’ve been doing is wrong. As long as the laird was some stranger living far away, I didn’t think about it. I thought he was an arrogant bastard who didn’t care about his clan or his lands. Now I’ve met him, I know that wasn’t so. He’s a decent man, trying to make improvements and help his people. That changes things.’

  Seton ground his teeth. ‘No, it doesn’t. Not for us. We still have our own lands and people to think about. They need us and the only way we can help them is by getting Bailliebroch back. How do you suggest we do that if we can’t continue what I’ve started here? Think, boy, there is no other way. We’ll never earn enough money otherwise unless we turn to highway robbery.’

  ‘That’s more or less what you’re doing already,’ Iain muttered.

  ‘I’m doing it for you, for us!’ Seton felt as if the rage would choke him and he wanted to punch his fist through the nearest wall. ‘Can’t you see?’

  ‘All I see, Father, is that it’s wrong and I want no part of it any more. Face it, we’ve lost Bailliebroch and we have to make the best of our situation. I for one am happy to stay here and be the factor after you. And Kirsty doesn’t mind, she’s not after being a grand lady.’

  ‘Kirsty,’ Seton spat. ‘The stupid girl has turned your head to mush. I don’t even know what you see in her. Insipid, blonde chatterbox –’

  ‘Don’t say another word or you’ll regret it.’ Iain’s voice had enough menace in it to penetrate even Seton’s fog of fury.

  The two glared at each other for a moment longer, then Iain flung away and headed for the door. ‘Do what you want, Father. But just so you know, I’ll have no further part in it.’

  ‘Yes, you will, or I’ll tell the laird it was you who was stealing from him all along. He’ll believe me, because no one in their right mind would denounce their own son unless it was true. And it is true, you were in on it from the very beginning. I can prove it.’

  Iain stared at his father with eyes that shot sparks of fury. ‘You’re despicable,’ he spat, before leaving. He slammed the door and Seton threw an ale jug after him. It shattered against the wood with a gratifying crash, but
it didn’t help cool his temper any more than kicking the bucket had earlier. He still wanted to murder someone, but he’d be damned if he’d give up this easily. This plan hadn’t worked, too bad. He’d come up with another.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thomas Sherringham was a man who’d been eminently suited to take part in the Duke of Cumberland’s ‘cleansing’ operation in the Highlands. He hated the Scots with a vengeance and believed he had just cause – his only sister had died because of them. It made his blood boil just thinking about it.

  Susanna had had her head turned by a Jacobite when the Young Pretender marched his troops into England. Believing herself in love, she’d followed the man back north and was never seen again. Sherringham later found out she’d died in childbirth in some Highland hovel and he’d taken great pleasure in killing the inhabitants and burning the place to the ground. In fact, he revelled in all the punishments he was able to mete out to suspected Jacobites, young and old, male or female. They were scum. An ideal world, to him, was one where the reprisals never ended, but unfortunately it was mostly coming to an end and the government easing up on their task.

  It was not to be borne.

  Sherringham knew the insurgency was far from over. These people were heathens, barbarians, totally without honour, in his opinion, and the Duke had been right when he refused to treat the Jacobites as normal opponents in a war. He agreed they were traitors to the crown, one and all, and not entitled to any rights or consideration even as prisoners. Sherringham was convinced they’d never give up their preposterous claims, even if outwardly they pretended to do so. The ferment was simmering just under the surface and all he had to do was scratch the top and it would come bubbling up.

  He had recently been reassigned to the very edge of the Highlands where his superiors felt there would be less cause for him to punish anyone. He was determined to prove them wrong.

  ‘There are Jacobites everywhere,’ he declared to his troop. ‘The people hereabouts may pretend innocence, but in their eyes I see defiance and deceit lurking. It’s merely a question of rooting out the worst offenders by foul means or fair. Then we apprehend them and give them their just desserts.’

  Instead of using only force, Sherringham now operated by stealth. He pretended to befriend a number of local men and waited for them to let slip some clues about their neighbours’ proclivities. Often, he would join them for a dram or two of their infernal drink of choice, whisky, which he only tolerated because he had to. Men talked without constraint when under the influence of alcohol and he’d made use of this on a number of occasions.

  Seton was different. He had actually sought out Sherringham of his own accord several times. Just recently he’d told him of the return of the heir to the Rosyth estate and his possible Jacobite connections. Sherringham immediately detected an ulterior motive, and this had proved to be the case. Seton wanted someone with connections to smooth his way towards buying back his own estate and he was willing to pay.

  Seton had obviously thought information was enough to secure him a deal, but in that he’d been wrong. Sherringham wasn’t about to sell his services for what might amount to nothing more than speculation. Instead, he demanded payment in gold and information.

  ‘How much d’ye want then?’ Seton clearly didn’t like the idea of having to part with so much as a farthing extra.

  ‘It will depend on how difficult I find it to convince them to sell you the land. Let’s start with a down payment, shall we?’

  And he’d made him pay several times now, which was perhaps why Seton had called him on this fool’s errand today. Sherringham scowled as he rode away from Rosyth House. He didn’t doubt there had been a preacher there, but the new laird was obviously too canny to get caught harbouring one under his roof. It was annoying, but not the end of the world. The man was newly arrived and if he really did have Jacobite tendencies, as Seton claimed, then it was only a question of time before he slipped up.

  When that happened, Sherringham would be ready.

  The harvest feast, or ceilidh as the villagers called it, was a great success. As the weather continued fair, they held the celebration in the courtyard outside Rosyth House and benches and make-shift tables were set out in one corner. Having seen their laird take such an active part in the harvest work, everyone seemed to have unbent towards him, at least a little. Marsaili heard quite a few whispered comments to the effect that perhaps the ‘mon wasnae sae bad after a’ and ‘belike he was a bra’ carle’. A good man? She couldn’t agree more, but she also knew they still had a lot to learn about him.

  He received more than his fair share of flirtatious glances from all the girls of marriageable age and even some of the older women. This wasn’t surprising either, Marsaili thought, since he was a fine looking man. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance, however, because he wasn’t discouraging them in any way. Whenever some girl smiled at him, he smiled right back. Marsaili found herself wondering if his deep blue eyes were as mesmerising to the other girls as they were to her. And did he look at them in the same teasing way?

  She tried to banish such thoughts. They weren’t good for her peace of mind.

  When everyone had eaten their fill of the plentiful supply of food and some people had had a few too many cups of wine, strong beer or whisky, old Mungo got out his fiddle and one of his grandsons a whistle. ‘Time for some dancing!’ he shouted, and all the younger villagers present jumped up with alacrity to begin a reel with much clapping and stamping of feet.

  Marsaili watched from the shadows, trying to keep out of Seton’s line of vision. She knew he’d try to claim a dance whether she wanted to or not and she preferred to avoid this if possible. His hands wandered much too freely for her liking these days and nothing she did ever discouraged him. With any luck, he’d drink himself into a stupor soon. That had happened before.

  ‘Are you not dancing?’ The voice came out of the darkness behind her and made her jump. Brice materialised beside her and looked at her with eyes that glittered in the light from the nearby torches. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘We can’t have the most beautiful woman in all of Rosyth without a partner. There’s another set forming, will you show me the steps, please?’

  ‘I … you don’t know them?’

  ‘It’s been a while, my memory needs refreshing.’

  She should have said no. This man was dangerous to her equilibrium and her conscience was telling her – no shouting at her – to stay away from him. But her body had other ideas. Putting her hand in his, she followed him over to where the other dancers were performing energetically. She gave Brice a short demonstration and told him what to do. He soon caught on, making her suspect he hadn’t been entirely truthful.

  ‘You, sir, are a liar,’ she told him, but sweetened the accusation with a smile. ‘You’ve done this before.’

  He grinned back, unrepentant. ‘I told you, it was a long time ago. But I confess, I wanted to hear your voice describe the steps and watch you perform them first.’

  ‘Why you –’

  He didn’t allow her to finish the sentence. Instead, he laughed and caught her round the waist, lifting her high into the air to swing her around. It wasn’t part of the official steps, but she didn’t care. She forgot about everything except the way his eyes danced with merriment and his hands felt so warm through the material of her clothes as they held her. Strong and capable, they almost encircled her waist completely and she revelled in the sensation.

  ‘There’s no need to lift me,’ she protested half-heartedly. ‘You’re going to injure yourself. I’m not exactly a doll.’

  A strange expression flitted across his face, but was gone almost as soon. He smiled. ‘No, but you’re perfect nonetheless.’

  Marsaili didn’t know what to say to that, except a mumbled, ‘Thank you.’

  When they stopped for some refreshment in the form of claret, she felt the wine humming through her veins. Or perhaps it was the excitement of dancing with
him? Either way, it gave her the courage to ask him about the preacher.

  ‘So what happened with Mr Keil?’ she whispered, making sure she was leaning close to him so no one else could hear.

  He came even nearer and she felt his breath fan her ear when he replied. A tremor of awareness shimmered down her back. ‘I shouldn’t tell you really,’ he said. ‘It’s best you don’t know anything about it, but he’s gone so there’s no need to worry.’

  ‘He escaped despite the Redcoats?’

  ‘Yes, they won’t find him, I promise. And he’s not coming back either, unless he’s desperate. I gave him enough money to live on for a while and he said there were still places where he was safe.’

  Marsaili nodded. It was good to know the danger was over, at least for now. ‘It’s a shame he can’t be left in peace, but he’s made his choice I suppose. Do you … I mean, are you one of his flock?’

  ‘No. I was brought up in the Swedish church. It’s slightly different, but not markedly so. To tell you the truth, I don’t have strong feelings either way. I go to church like everyone else, where is immaterial. I believe God listens wherever I am when I’m praying.’ He sent her a teasing glance accompanied by a lop-sided grin. ‘Right now, I’m praying for another dance with you. Do you think he’s listening?’

  ‘For shame,’ she hissed, but couldn’t stop a giggle from escaping her lips. ‘That’s blasphemy, my lord.’

  ‘Brice, remember? No one can hear you.’

  ‘Brice …’ She loved his name, loved the sound of it. Loved the owner? No! Absolutely not. She glanced up at him and found him staring at her with a strange expression in his eyes. It made her insides melt, but she told herself firmly it wasn’t love and he wasn’t for her. Liar, a little voice whispered inside her mind. She ignored it. Whatever the case, one more dance couldn’t hurt, could it? She took a deep breath and reached out her hand. ‘Very well, just one.’