by Candace Camp
He had better leave here soon or he might starve to death. Deciding that the bread appeared the only thing remotely palatable, he tore off a piece and found that it snapped in his hand like wood. Putting it in his mouth, he tentatively began to chew. Somewhat to his surprise, the thing did not crack a tooth, but it was bland and unsweetened and seemed to grow larger as he chewed it. He swallowed and washed the lump down with a sip of the bitterly dark tea.
The breakfast matched the rest of his stay so far. The mattress had been thin and the sheets cold, the servants clearly being strangers to a warming pan. The raucous cry of a rooster had jerked him awake, and the twitter of birds combined with the chill had chased away any possibility of further sleep. The maid who had come in to clean out the ashes and start the fire had been as dull witted as the others, and her brogue was equally thick. It had taken her a great deal of time to understand his request for a pitcher of water for the washstand, and when it arrived, it had been as cold as the cup of tea he was now holding.
He saw clearly why Sir Andrew spent all his time in London—although Jack did think it cruel of the man to leave his sister marooned here. The thought of Andrew’s sister was the pleasantest one he had had today, so his mind lingered on her as he forced down more bread and tea.
Her control had slipped for a few minutes yesterday afternoon, and he had rather liked watching the light flare in her eyes and her cheeks bloom with angry color—even if she was accusing him of taking advantage of her brother. Last night at the supper table she had regained her calm. She’d been nervous; he could see that in her eyes and the restless movement of her hands as she touched her glass and utensils, but she had been in command of her tongue. With a little effort on his part, she had even smiled, and seeing that had been even more enjoyable than her little spark of anger.
If Isobel’s lithe form was clad in a fashionable gown and her rich blond hair done up in a more modern style, she would have ample suitors in the city. Indeed, he would not mind in the least showing her some of the amusements London had to offer . . . and other, more basic, joys as well. It was easy to envision a little dalliance with the lovely Miss Rose to enliven his time in this grim place—though, since she considered him a thorough villain, it would require his best efforts of persuasion. But he enjoyed a challenge.
Less enjoyably, his inner vision of Isobel Rose turned to her face last night, her great gray eyes filled with sadness and loss, and he felt once again a pang of remorse. What had happened to her was not his fault, but he could not but regret that he was the one who had delivered her fate to her.
At that moment, almost as if he had conjured her up, Isobel walked through the door. Jack jumped to his feet, aware of a distinct lift in his spirits. Relief, no doubt, at the prospect of company other than the glowering presence of the butler beside the door.
“Miss Rose.” He managed to pull out her chair before Hamish could get there, which gave him a doubtlessly childish pleasure. “How lovely you look.” Because his mind had been on it, he continued, “You should come to London with your brother. The gentlemen of the city would be at your feet.”
“No doubt—as long as all the gentlemen of the city are as egregious flatterers as you,” Isobel retorted, but she gave him an unforced smile, which pleased him far more than seemed reasonable. Her smile was swift and devoid of artifice, and the small flaw of one slightly crooked eyetooth somehow only lent it even more charm.
Hamish left the room and was back almost immediately with a pot of tea—this one steaming, Jack noted—which he poured into Isobel’s cup. Hamish also set down before her a silver tray containing a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar.
“Hamish.” Jack tapped his cup. “You may pour me a fresh cup as well.”
The old man lowered his head in a courteous nod—as if he hadn’t been glaring at Jack the past ten minutes, the old charlatan—and refilled Jack’s cup. This cup of tea was a far cry from the original, confirming Jack’s suspicions that the servants were waging a subtle war against him.
“I see you are an early riser, Miss Rose,” Jack said conversationally.
“As are you.”
“Not normally.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I fear I am unused to the noise in the country.”
“The noise? I would have thought it just the opposite, that Baillannan would be much more peaceful.”
“Mm. Until the birds began their cacophony outside my window at dawn.” He was pleased to see that his wry words brought a chuckle out of Isobel this time. And since she was the only person here with whom he could converse, her smile would enliven his days.
“I am unused to greeting the dawn,” he went on. “However, it will give us ample time for our tour this morning.”
“You want to see Baillannan?” Her eyebrows rose. “I presumed you were merely being polite.”
“I was. Still, it seems a wise thing to do. And since there is actually a sun in the sky this morning, I thought we should not waste the opportunity.”
“Indeed not. I can see you are already learning the ways of the Highlands.”
“Of course, you will wish to eat your, um, breakfast first.” He cast a look down at his plate.
“Mm.” Isobel followed his gaze, then said to Hamish, hovering at her elbow, “I believe I’ll just have the porridge and an oatcake.”
“Of course, miss.” He returned quickly with a bowl of oatmeal, which appeared faintly less like gray sludge than Jack’s, and a tray containing pots of preserves and pale butter.
Isobel began to eat with what seemed to Jack an astonishing lack of repulsion. He toyed with his fork, pushing the food around on his plate.
“What is this thing?” he asked at last, poking at the wedge of dark matter.
“It’s haggis.” When he lifted his brows, she explained, “It’s made of bits of various meats and . . . other things. My father took his with a bit of whiskey poured over it.”
“I feel sure it would improve it.”
“I believe that it’s an acquired taste.” Her eyes danced with amusement.
“One wonders why one would wish to acquire it. What of this . . . sausage?”
“Blood pudding.”
“That requires no explanation. And this bit of paving tile?” He lifted the hard bread.
“That’s oatcake.” She laughed, a bright, infectious sound that made him smile in return. “Try spreading butter and jam on it. The oatmeal is better with cream.”
“Does all the food here need to be disguised?” But he did as she suggested and slathered the cake with butter and preserves. He would, he thought, need to be far hungrier to take on the porridge, even with cream and sugar added.
“We Scots are a plain folk.” Isobel pulled a sober face. “We like plain food.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“I will admit that the meal looks a mite . . . um . . .”
“Burned?”
“Except where it’s underdone.” An impish look brightened her eyes again. “I fear Cook is in a mood.”
“Does she have them often? Or only when I appear?”
“’Tis the first I’ve seen,” Isobel admitted. “Come. Shall we start our walk? I think I am done with breakfast.”
“Indeed, I was done with it ten minutes ago.”
They left the house, Isobel wrapped in her cloak, though Jack left his greatcoat and hat behind. The coat was still damp from yesterday’s drenching and smelled of wet wool. The hat, bought only a fortnight ago at Lock’s, was a complete loss. But the sun had burned off much of the damp cold, and he scarcely felt the chill.
He could see the loch, a long, gray strip of water. One path ran down to the water and the thick growth of trees beside it. The other path went up the incline of rocky ground, and Isobel took this one.
“I hope you will not hold it against them,” she said as they walked.
“Hold what against whom?”
“The unpalatable food. Hamish’s glares. I know it is not pleasant,
but they are good, loyal people. I would ask you to give them time to get used to the change. That you will not turn them out. Baillannan is their home as much as it is mine. I have known them since I was a child, and their resentment is all on my behalf.”
“I can hardly blame them; I would choose you over a usurper, as well.” He cast her a sideways grin. “In any case, I shall not be here long enough to warrant any change in staff. I cannot, however, speak for whoever buys the estate.”
“No. Of course not.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice, and the sound tugged at him.
Last night she had obviously hoped he would set someone to manage the place—perhaps the man with whom he had seen her talking yesterday afternoon. He wondered again what the fellow was to her. Maybe she planned to marry the man and she hoped to hold on to her home at least that much. Perhaps that was the purpose of this little jaunt, to win him over, manipulate him into doing as she wanted.
Irritated at the thought, he looked away. They had reached the crest of the ridge, and spread before them was the wide panorama of the entire loch and the rolling land beyond, the muted colors of green and blue and brown all washed in pale golden sunlight. He drew in a sharp, unconscious breath.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Isobel murmured.
“I am afraid I’ve never waxed nostalgic for the rural pleasures. Still, it does have a certain . . . stark appeal.”
“It’s strong and it’s harsh, and there’s beauty in that. But when the heather blooms and the earth is a blanket of purple, it’s glorious. And sometimes, when the mist hangs over the loch and crystal drops of water are clinging to every twig and leaf, you can almost see the fey folk dancing in the glen.”
“The fey folk?” he repeated skeptically.
“Aye.” She cast him a twinkling glance, her voice tinged with the burr of the Highlands. “ ‘The ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties.’ They say at evening time, in the gloaming, if you’re quiet and careful, you may see the selkies gliding out of the sea, shedding their skin, and walking abroad in the guise of mortal men.”
He stared at her. “Do you mean to tell me you believe in such things?”
Isobel chuckled. “Legends are at the heart of a Scot. When you sit by the fire on a long winter evening and your aunt tells you about the red man, who comes in the winter and knocks at your door, begging you to let him in, it is hard not to believe.”
“What happens if you do not answer the door?”
“You see? You cannot resist the tales either. The story goes, if you do not offer him hospitality, woe betide you, for he’ll play wicked pranks on you. But if you do let him in, you must take care, for if you linger with him too long by the fire, listening to him talk and talk, you will never leave there.”
“So you’re doomed either way.” He gazed down at her, enjoying the sparkle in her eyes and the smile in her voice. “Don’t tell me your sweet aunt told you such tales?”
“Indeed she did. Well, many of them we heard at the knee of Andrew’s nurse; Janet was . . . well, something of a woman of the forest. She knew the plants and their healing properties, and people came to her with their ailments. She also knew the old tales of selkies and kelpies and the Ghille Dhu.”
“And who are all these creatures?”
“The selkies are beings who come out of the water and appear as men. Some say they’re seals and shed their skin to become men. They are handsome and charming and lead many a lass astray, but at the end of the night, the selkie leaves his lover’s bed and returns to the water. If a woman looks to keep him, she must find his discarded skin and hide it away. Then he cannot leave her and must become a man always.” Isobel shrugged. “But others say they are spirits of the water and change their form to look human, then disappear when the morning arrives, leaving the woman not knowing who he was.”
“Sounds very convenient.”
“A kelpie, though, is an entirely different thing, for they are water horses and they do not change. They lie in the river, their heads barely above water, and if you come too close, they seize you and drag you under. They’re powerful and cruel, black in color, and water streams from their bodies, their manes tangled with river weeds. Then there’s the washerwoman at the ford who stands by the water’s edge and washes the grave clothes of those who are about to die. She keens in sorrow for the victim, a harsh, terrible cry.”
“A pleasant tale for children, I must say. I am surprised you ever went near the water.”
“That may have been the point,” Isobel admitted. “But there are nicer spirits as well. Ghille Dhu is a shy and gentle sort. He lives in the forests and his attire is made of moss and leaves.” She paused. “Of course, I’ve also heard he was really a code name for the Pretender.”
“To the throne? You mean James?”
Isobel nodded. “Or his son Prince Charlie. That may have been my aunt’s meaning. She was always more interested in stories of people than ones of spirits. Aunt Elizabeth loved the legends of the family. She was the one who told us all about the Lady of Loch Baille, a guardian spirit who loved the first Baillannan.”
“The house?”
“No. The first laird—the heroic one who did marvelous deeds and battled fearsome creatures.”
“Ah, I see—the fictitious Laird of Baillannan.”
“Such cynicism.” Isobel pulled a face. “There might have been . . . some slight exaggeration.”
“Such as being loved by a magical spirit?”
“She was not a spirit when she fell in love with the Baillannan, just a maiden who lived by the loch and was beautiful and kind and loved by all.”
“Of course.”
“I can see you are not moved by romantic tales.”
“No. I am not a man who believes in love. I find reality more useful than pretty pictures.” He softened his words with a smile. It was a pleasure watching her face as she talked, and the way the breeze from the loch molded her clothes against her body. He did not want her to stop. “But you tell a good story. Go on.”
“The Baillannan was charmed by her, too, so he stayed with her by the loch, but he had a wife, and after a time he returned to her. The maiden fell into a sadness from which she could not recover. Mad with her sorrow, she threw herself into the loch, intending to end her life, and she cried such tears that it turned the water salty, and so it has remained to this day. The earth took pity on her, and though death took her breath, she lived on in the loch, guarding and protecting it and keeping watch over Baillannan.” Isobel paused, then added pragmatically, “Loch Baille is a sea loch, not a freshwater one; at its narrowest point, it connects to the North Sea.”
“A far less romantic reason for its salinity.”
“True,” she sighed.
“Which do you believe? The romantic tale or the reality?”
She cocked her head, considering. “I know Baille is a sea loch, but I also hold the world richer for the story of the maiden’s tears. A person can believe in both, can they not?”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “I have found that fantasy usually tends to overcome reason.”
“On a morning like this, it might.” Isobel smiled and turned her face up to the sky, closing her eyes and soaking in the warmth. The look of sensual enjoyment stirred him, calling up a hunger to see that sensuality deepen. His hand itched to caress her cheek, to trail down her neck and onto her shoulder. He wanted, suddenly and fiercely, to kiss her.
His mouth went dry, and he turned hastily away, startled by the suddenness and intensity of longing that had run through him. He determinedly studied the loch. It was larger than he had assumed, long but rather narrow, and it curved slightly. They stood gazing down at the center of the curve, the widest stretch of water, and before them, some distance from shore, was an island, thick with trees and shrubs. Trees lined the opposite shore, and nestled in them, he caught a glimpse of a cottage, almost completely hidden by the foliage. At the far end of the loch stood a magnificent house, at least
three stories high and adorned with turrets and walls, layered down the side of a hill. At the opposite end of the loch, and much closer to them, rose jagged walls of stone, some tumbled down into piles of rubble.
“What is that?”
“Duncally?” Isobel opened her eyes and saw the direction in which he was looking. “Oh. That. The ruins?”
“Yes.” Something magnificent and poignant about the destroyed building pulled at him.
“That is the castle. The original Baillannan. That’s at the sea end, you see, and they needed a fortress to repel invaders. It was abandoned long ago, after the Vikings stopped coming, and they built a more pleasant house, easier to heat and farther back from the cold winds off the sea.”
Jack’s mouth quirked at the notion of the cold gray-stone house being considered “more pleasant,” but he said only, “It looks as if the castle succumbed to the invaders. I am surprised they let it fall into such ruin.”
“The English taxes on property were based on the number of roofs.” A mischievous smile flashed as she looked up at him. “So they took off the roof when they left a house.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Unfortunately, it makes them deteriorate more rapidly. And over the years, people have taken stones from it to build other things.”
“It looks as if it might house a number of your ghosts and goblins.”
She laughed. “There are ample stories of them, you can be sure.” Isobel pointed toward the imposing house at the other end of the loch. “That’s Duncally, the home of the Earls of Mardoun. They never live there, of course; they are in London or at their English estate. The Mardoun line ended in Susanna, the Countess of Mardoun in her own right. She married an English lord, so it’s her descendant who’s the earl now, and more English than Scots. The present earl and his lady came one summer several years ago, but we never met them. They were not especially interested in the local society.”