Prologue
Crash! Thunk.
Icy air ruffled the bed curtains like groping hands.
“Papa!” Celeste shrieked. Visions of tattooed, spear-brandishing savages slithered through her imagination. Clutching her blankets to her chest, she pulled aside the bed curtain and felt about on a table until she found her eyeglasses.
Her father rapped at the door connecting their chambers before he entered, bed-shoes flopping, nightcap hanging in his face. “Are ye safe, lass?” He held up a candle and studied the shattered glass on the inn floor.
“No harm has come to me, but look.” Celeste pointed, still hooking a wire behind her ear with the other hand. “Another message. Someone follows us.”
A rock lay amid the shards beneath the window, wrapped in paper and tied with string. Her father picked it up, slid the note free, and read. The candle highlighted frown lines on his brow.
“Papa, what does it say?”
He threw the rock out the window and crumpled the note. “Come, let us trade chambers until morn. Have a care for your feet.”
“Papa, is it another threat? Why didna ye let me marry Roderick and remain in Edinburgh? He would have protected me.”
“We’ll discuss this another time. Be off with ye now.”
Chapter 1
Scotland, 1748
Through the thick lenses of her lorgnette, Lady Celeste Galbraith studied the passing landscape with avid interest. White clouds cast fleeting shadows across high green hills. Pine-scented air brushed her face. The heavy carriage swayed and bumped over ruts in the primitive road, its wheels passing alarmingly close to a steep drop-off. She looked behind, searching for pursuit, but the winding road lay empty in the wake of the earl’s procession of coaches and riders.
“Sit back, please, my lady,” moaned Mr. Ballantyne.
Celeste turned her lorgnette to survey her traveling companions in the opposite seat. Mr. Ballantyne covered his mouth with a lacy handkerchief. His wig sat askew upon his bald head, and heavy bags hung beneath his faded eyes. His daintily shod feet dangled above the floorboards.
“I am sorry ye’re ill, Mr. Ballantyne, but I’ve an interest in our surroundings.” She focused her gaze upon the earl. “This is a desolate land, Papa. These mountains roll on forever like the sea.”
Mr. Ballantyne moaned.
A twinkle appeared in the earl’s dark eyes. “I forget that ye dinna remember our last visit to Kennerith Castle, my dearie. Ye were but a lass.”
“I remember Uncle Robert from his visits to us in Edinburgh.” Celeste recalled a stern gentleman.
“Aye, ’tis not a year since last we saw him.” Her father looked pensive.
“Struck down in his prime, he was. A judgment from God.” Mr. Ballantyne shifted his handkerchief to speak.
Celeste saw a cloud cross her father’s face, but he said nothing.
“D’ye recognize these hills, Papa?” Celeste found it difficult to imagine him as a lad. Over one shoulder she regarded his narrow face and scholarly brow.
“Aye, that I do. This fresh Highland air nurtures many a hearty lad and forms him into a doughty warrior.” She saw his gaze slide to Mr. Ballantyne. “Else it breaks a man’s health, and he retires to the fireside, books, and ledgers.”
“Doughty warriors,” muttered Mr. Ballantyne. “Heathen barbarians, more like. These hills teem with painted, kilted savages. Nary a step up from the beasts, most of them.” His watery eyes focused upon Celeste. “Tales abound of their treachery. How they’ll skin a man alive and drag his woman into the hills and—”
“Fireside tales and legends. Enough, Ballantyne.” When Malcolm Galbraith spoke in that tone, few men dared oppose him. He coughed into his fist, frowned, and subsided into the corner. Ballantyne retreated behind his handkerchief.
Celeste returned her attention to the scenery framed by the carriage window. Did danger truly lurk amid these rocky peaks and sylvan glens?
The warble of a horn caught her attention. Craning her neck to peer forward, she saw the attendant riders ahead disappear over a rise. The coach horses strained, their sweaty haunches driving upward. A whip cracked, and the postilions shouted encouragement to the six-horse team. A lurch, and the carriage leveled out.
The earl joined his daughter at the window. “Kennerith Castle.” His voice held a breathless hush.
Beside the windswept surface of a loch, ancient stone turrets glowed against their emerald backdrop of hills. Then scudding clouds hid the sun, and the fortress plunged into gloom. With a great clacking of hooves upon paving stones, the entourage swept over a bridge and through a stone archway. Ahead, servants lined the castle’s stone steps and curving drive, shoes polished, wigs brushed, buttons gleaming. The brisk spring breeze turned coattails into banners and skirts into sails.
Celeste blinked and lowered her lorgnette, wondering at her sense of dread. “So many servants.”
“Ye’re the daughter of a laird now, my lady,” Mr. Ballantyne reminded her. “Remain seated until a footman places the step. Let me disembark first so that I may make proper introductions.”
As soon as Mr. Ballantyne looked away, Celeste rolled her eyes. Irritating little man. He seemed to have made a miraculous recovery when the castle came into sight. Papa should put Mr. Ballantyne in his proper place. Papa was the new earl; Mr. Ballantyne was a mere secretary, related distantly to the family.
The carriage stopped. Celeste heard a confusion of barking dogs, clopping hooves, laughter and shouts of greeting, and the rumble of the baggage coach arriving behind. Servants in the earl’s scarlet-and-silver livery passed the windows.
The coach door opened, and a footman placed the step. Mr. Ballantyne climbed down, his spindly legs tottering with fatigue, and began to speak to a waiting lackey.
“You next, Papa,” Celeste requested, dreading the scrutiny of so many servants. How did they feel about a new earl taking over Kennerith Castle? Would they welcome the earl’s daughter? The hand gripping her lorgnette handle trembled, making it difficult for her to see clearly. Vanity forbade Celeste to wear her eyeglasses in public, but the stylish lorgnette had its disadvantages.
Her father descended from the coach and surveyed his new domain. Mr. Ballantyne’s reedy voice announced into a sudden hush: “Malcolm Galbraith, fifth earl of Carnassis, seventh viscount of Dalway, and tenth baron of Kennerith.”
Cheering broke out, and Papa bowed. Still smiling, he turned back to the coach and reached a hand to Celeste. “Keep your head high and win them with your smile.”
Celeste followed her billowing skirts out into the sunlight and wind, holding her straw hat to her head. Everything was a blur until she let go of her skirts and lifted her lorgnette.
A middle-aged servant stepped forward and bowed. “Welcome back to Kennerith Castle, your lairdship. I am Crippen, the house steward.”
“Good afternoon, Crippen. May I present Miss … uh, Lady Celeste Galbraith.” Papa had not yet adjusted to his own august role, let alone to his daughter’s honorary title.
With Mr. Ballantyne leading the way, the earl and Celeste passed along the line of servants, nodding with polite reserve after each introduction. Celeste felt as if she were an actress playing a part. She did not catch even one name, and not one servant looked her in the eye. As they passed the lead coach horses, amid the animals’ heavy breathing, Celeste heard a whisper. Curious, she turned with a swirl of skirts and lifted her lorgnette.
Mr. Ballantyne gripped the sleeve of the manservant holding the bridle of one lead coach horse. Scrawny neck extended, standing on tiptoe, the earl’s secretary attempted to whisper into the servant’s ear, “His lairdship has need of ye.”
Celeste took one backward step and twisted her foot on a cobblestone. Stumbling sideways, she gave a little squeal. Someone caught her by the elbows, and she scrambled to regain her footing. The world was a blur of scarlet-and-silver uniforms except for the wrinkled face inches from hers. “Air ye hurt, me lady?”
&nb
sp; The old servant released her elbows and backed away until he, too, became a smudge. Celeste tried to laugh. “This terrible stony road! Just call me ‘Your Grace.’ ”
She quelled rising panic. “I seem to have dropped my lorgnette.”
“My lady.” One scarlet figure detached itself from the general haze. Celeste took a step forward and discerned an outstretched arm. “My lady, your spectacles.”
She reached to accept them, but her hand closed upon empty space. A gloved hand gripped her arm, and she felt the handle of her lorgnette press against her palm. Her face felt hot. Now everyone knew her infirmity. “Th–thank you.” She lifted the lorgnette. Silvery gray eyes met her gaze and widened. She caught a flash of amusement before he bowed.
“A pleasure it is to serve ye, my lady.” It was the man to whom Ballantyne had been whispering.
“Be thankful the lenses didna break,” her father remarked, then shifted his address to the helpful servant. “Ye’ve a familiar aspect. Have ye been at the castle long?”
The man bowed again. “I served the late earl many years, your lairdship. Perhaps ye’ve seen me attend him during visits in Edinburgh.”
“Ah.” The earl moved on. Celeste followed, her chin held high, bestowing a regal nod upon each person in the remaining lineup of servants. Her forearm still felt the firm grip of a leather glove. Was he watching? Her posture was perfect, her smile bright as she turned on the top step for one last overview of the serving staff.
Her eyes sought the coach horses. Her hopes drooped. The carriage was just disappearing into the stable yard below.
“Come in, lad. Come in.” Mr. Ballantyne and the earl lounged beside the hearth, smoking clay pipes.
Celeste did not look up from her needlework when the manservant stepped inside and stood at attention, but her heart picked up its pace.
“I’ve been telling his lairdship about ye,” Mr. Ballantyne said. Celeste distrusted the old man’s hearty manner. She pulled through a stitch of gold thread and arranged the strands with her thumbnail until they lay flat.
“Strong enough, aye, but he looks o’er-young. Are ye sure he’s the man we want?” Celeste recognized her father’s evaluation voice, usually reserved for oral examination of university students. For what task did he require this servant’s strength?
“Certain-sure. Take a seat here, Allan.” Ballantyne waved a withered hand. “Despite the lad’s Highland lineage, the late earl favored him. Sent him to school in Aberdeen, where Allan distinguished himself. After the lad’s graduation, the earl hired him as bodyguard.”
“Where was this Allan the night my brother Robert died?”
“No bodyguard could have saved his lairdship. The coroner said ’twas a stroke. If it means aught to ye, I saw this lad weep for your brother that night. I wept meself, if the truth be known.”
Celeste glanced up to see Mr. Ballantyne wipe his nose with a handkerchief. He would be wearing his sanctimonious expression, she was certain.
The servant named Allan perched on the edge of a chair. Celeste picked up her lorgnette and sneaked a look. He was as comely as she remembered. Those black brows and fine gray eyes! He must have dark hair beneath his wig, she decided. His hand picked at the buttons at the knee of his breeches.
He glanced right and caught her staring. He smiled. The lorgnette fell to her lap, and she picked up her needlework, holding the fabric mere inches from her nose.
“Are ye a supporter of the Jacobite cause?” the earl inquired gruffly.
“Nay—” His voice cracked. He coughed. “Nay, your lairdship. Some of my relations sympathized with the Stuarts, but I couldna support the cause. My loyalty and service are yours.”
“Which clan?” the earl asked.
“I have taken the name Croft.”
“I asked which clan.”
A pause before Allan said, “MacMurray.”
At her father’s exclamation, Celeste hastily retrieved her lorgnette. She could not interpret the earl’s expression, a combination of disgust and amusement.
“Och, Robert!” The earl shook his head, then pinned Allan with a glare. “Lad, ye must ken that we Galbraiths are sworn enemies to your clan these two hundred years and more. Blackmailers, thieves, pillagers, and worse are the MacMurrays.”
“I’ve heard equally dire account of the Galbraiths. I disapprove the violent acts of both sides. Before her death just ere my ninth birthday, my mother advised me to come to the earl of Carnassis.”
“And your clan didna object?”
“My mother’s wish overrode any objection. I believe some connection existed in the family, though I am unaware of its nature. Your brother, his lairdship, once told me I had no need to ken.”
The earl wiped a hand across his mouth and studied his slipper-clad feet. His gaze lifted to the portrait of his late brother that hung above one door. Celeste’s blood ran cold as she read her father’s thoughts, and she gazed upon the servant with empathy.
Mr. Ballantyne cleared his throat. “One reason I called ye here, Allan, was to deliver this. I found it among the late earl’s effects.” He produced a note with a broken seal and handed it to Allan MacMurray.
Celeste watched Allan turn the note over and over, then unfold and scan the message. His gaze lifted to the large Bible upon a reading stand in one corner of the room, and his face went red.
“Can ye tell us its meaning?” Ballantyne asked.
“Nay. It seems … out of character.” Allan read the message aloud. “ ‘My son, all ye need to know is found in the Holy Scriptures. C. IV’ ” After clearing his raspy voice, he interpreted the signature. “Carnassis the fourth.”
“So my brother turned to religion before the end,” the earl said.
“Yet ne’er did he confess his sins,” Ballantyne added with a lifted brow. “Now what do ye think, your lairdship?” He seemed to stress the term of address.
“I think ye’ve a brilliant mind,” the earl replied.
Celeste laid aside her sewing and arose. The three men started to rise, but she shook her head. “Prithee, pay me no mind.” They settled back into their chairs.
She began to stroll about the room, running her fingers across the spines of priceless volumes. Because of her voluminous skirts, she had to turn sideways to fit between the bookcase and an armchair.
“Are ye married?” the earl asked Allan abruptly.
“Nay.”
“Pledged?”
“I have ties to no woman or man.”
“Ballantyne tells me ye’re trustworthy with women. Is this true?”
“In God’s strength, I strive to treat all people as my kin in Christ Jesus.”
The earl sat back. “Ah, a sincere man of religion. I am satisfied. This is a delicate situation, Allan MacMurray.”
“Croft, if ye please, your lairdship.”
“Croft it will be. Ye see, lad, I neither expected nor desired to become a peer. I am a man of books, not of politics nor business, and the responsibilities that come with a title are odious to me. My brother, James, was Robert’s heir, and he had two sons. All three perished last year of influenza.”
Celeste pulled out a book and fluttered its musty pages. A silence and conferring whispers brought her attention back to the men. Unfortunately, her lorgnette lay on the table, so she was unable to read their expressions. At times she wondered if appearing more beautiful was worth being unable to see.
“Celeste, ’twould be best if ye retired,” the earl said, sounding ill at ease.
She closed the book. “If this concerns me, Papa, I wish to hear your arrangements.” Too many secrets had been kept from her already.
“Very well.” He turned back to the servant. “Allan, I wish to hire ye as personal bodyguard to my daughter.”
“I?” Allan’s voice cracked again. “What could anyone hope to gain by harming the lady?”
“I dinna ken. But twice I have received threatening letters. One arrived in Edinburgh ere our departure, the other last ni
ght at an inn along the way. Both poorly written, as ye’ll note.” He handed something to the servant—presumably the letters.
“Papa, why do I need a bodyguard?” Celeste asked. “I thought the threats were against you.”
“The first threat demanded that I remain in Edinburgh and abdicate the Galbraith family claim to title and lands. Last night’s note threatened your safety if I dinna return immediately to Edinburgh. The rogue knows the vulnerability of a father’s heart.”
The sincerity in her father’s voice startled Celeste. Did he truly care so much? A month ago she would have taken his love for granted, but now …
The earl addressed Allan. “I want my daughter attended at all times, night and day.”
Celeste turned back to the bookshelf lest the servant behold her crimson cheeks. Whatever was Papa thinking?
“At all times? Would not a woman be a more appropriate custodian?”
“I’m hiring ye to guard my daughter, not to question my judgment. I’m sure ye’ll come to a balance ’twixt protection and propriety. Her safety, not her convenience, will be your primary concern. I’ll so task ye only until the day Lady Celeste is wedded.”
Wedded? Celeste’s heart took wing. Papa must be considering Cousin Roderick’s matrimonial offer after all! Soon she would be married and living back in Edinburgh, far away from this castle. Closing her eyes, she pressed one hand to her throbbing bosom. Roderick knows me better than anyone, and he loves me.
“That day may yet be years away, your lairdship,” Allan protested.
“Ooh!” Celeste whirled about, and her skirts knocked a candlestick to the floor. Wax spattered in an arc across the rug. The flame extinguished.
“As ye see, I have other reasons for requiring her close supervision,” the earl replied calmly.
“Papa!” Mortified, she hurried to her worktable. Her groping hands knocked her embroidery to the floor. Her lorgnette—where was it?
Allan knelt at her feet. “My lady.” Once again he caught her arm and placed the lorgnette handle against her palm.
She lifted it to give him a baleful stare, but he was busy picking bits of embroidery thread from the Oriental rug. Folding her needlework, he replaced it on the table. Sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. His irritatingly angelic grin had vanished.
British Brides Collection Page 45