Grandfather had played the part of the bard and regaled them with stories of their long-dispersed clan and of battles fought, once against the Vikings and more recently against the English, passing the family history on to the next generation, often in Gaelic song. Fiona’s head barely reached the kitchen table so she could help Agatha whip the cream and add the raspberries and oats for the delicious cranachan she favored, before she knew all about the noble Bonnie Prince Charlie and his final victory at Falkirk, followed so swiftly by his defeat at Culloden Moor. Fiona’s courageous ancestors had played a vital role in those battles.
After Grandfather wove his tales, Grandmother played the ancient clarsach, a triangular harp whose use disappeared many years ago along with the clans—thanks to British interference. Her uncle sawed on his fiddle, her cousin played the pipes, and there would be dancing and singing.
Fiona missed those days.
Seeing a white ribbon of waterfall in the craggy hills ahead, Fiona prodded her mare to climb that direction. The gentle spraying sound of water was pleasing to her soul, and she slid off the gray’s back. She stroked Skye’s soft muzzle before trudging to the edge of the rippled water, white with froth from the pounding fall. Kneeling on the damp loam, Fiona dipped her hands into the ice-cold pool and drank her fill. The rains had stopped long ago, the weather a fickle companion to this ruggedly beautiful land. One minute the sun kissed the earth, causing the mountain burns and lochs’ waters to shimmer as though jewels hid beneath their crystalline depths. The next, rain slapped the ground, streaming from beneath low-lying clouds that often skimmed the heather hills and glens and broad, rolling straths—all of which looked as if they’d been covered with an abundance of rich green velvet, whose nap waved in the constant breezes.
A soft whinny—not Skye’s—ruffled the air behind Fiona. She stiffened and looked over her shoulder.
His bearing rigid, the Englishman sat atop a cream-colored steed Fiona recognized as Barrag, a horse belonging to the castle stables. The interloper tipped his hat, inclining his head her way. A most peculiar heat bathed her face, and she hurriedly returned her gaze to the pool. While she shook her hands free of drops, she heard him dismount. The rustle of his booted steps came close. She sensed him crouch by the water’s edge and tensed.
“I wish to make a suggestion,” he finally said, making her jump from the suddenness of his voice—closer than she’d thought. She darted a glance his way. He stared over the pool, his eyes seemingly on the tall waterfall in the rocks ahead.
“Aye?” The word came warily.
“It would be folly to escort you back to the castle. I would lose a half day’s ride at least, and I have as fervent a desire to prevent this wedding from taking place as you do.”
Fiona bristled at his inference that, had there been time, he would have forced her to return home. As if he could! She narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”
“I propose we band forces and journey together. For reasons earlier stated, I was formerly opposed to such a plan. However, now that matters have changed and you’ve taken it on yourself to set out alone, I see it as the best recourse for all involved. Together, we might reach Dumfriesshire that much faster. You know the lay of the land better than I, and in return, I could offer you any protection you might need.”
“You?” She stood and laughed. “An Englishman offering a Highlander protection? If I should need protection—and I dinna need any such thing—perhaps ’twould be wiser t’ seek someone t’ protect me from you!”
He let out a weary breath and stood, facing her. “You have my word, I’ll not touch you. You’ve no reason to fear me.”
“Hmph.” Fiona crossed her arms. “And how am I t’ ken that you’re not cut from the same cloth as your brother? I’m certain ’twas his talk of trinkets that led poor Gwynneth astray.”
“Is your sister the type of woman to marry a man solely for his money?”
She balled her hands at her sides to prevent herself from slapping his aristocratic, planed cheek. Raising her chin high, she said, “Ye dare speak ill of me sister after your brother has committed so heinous a crime as t’ snatch her from her home?”
“By her letter, your sister was willing. It was no abduction, this.”
“Oh!” Fiona spun around and made for her horse.
“Besides protection, I can think of another reason why we should accompany one another in our search,” he called after her.
Curiosity at what he would say next compelled her to stop. Yet she didn’t turn or address him.
“Though Beaufort and I are not cut from the same cloth, as you suggested, I know how he thinks. You do not. Should he and your sister encounter problems during their journey, I can better surmise the steps he may have taken to meet them. Also …” The sound of his footsteps came closer until he was standing before her. She met the disturbing blue-gray of his eyes and looked away.
“You may be disinclined to hear this,” he continued, “but the truth of the matter is that I, being an English gentleman, likely will receive more aid from the villagers than will you, being a Highland lass. We shall be traversing country different from your own. Especially in the Lowlands, from the little I’ve witnessed, the Scots do not abhor the English. Neither do they hold any ancient grudges against them. Indeed, they’ve come to recognize the benefits of living under British rule. Yet I’ve also heard it said there are those Scottish Lowlanders who think poorly of Highlanders. For that reason, you may find it difficult to retrieve any information you seek.”
Fiona stiffened, thinking of the land clearances, still in progress. Tenants were being driven from their homes in droves to make wider sheep runs so that the lairds could grow wealthier. Kennerith Castle needed to do the same but for different reasons. They could no longer support their tenants and thrive. Bad crops and the tenants’ inability to pay rent had forced the decision neither Fiona nor her grandmother wanted to make. Both realized that to keep the castle and remain in the Highlands, there was no other way for them but to raise the money-producing sheep, which thrived well on rocky soil ill fit for farming. This morning, when Fiona broke the news to the Finlays at her grandmother’s request, she’d given them several weeks to move, even offering to help relocate them to crofts by the sea or to the Lowland’s cities to work in the factories there—unlike other lairds whom she’d heard gave their tenants only an hour’s notice, even burning their homes so they couldn’t return to them.
“ ’twas you English who encouraged the land clearances,” Fiona stated in an effort to assuage the guilt. “So why should any Lowlander be opposed t’ me or my kinsmen—and no’ to you as well?”
“It’s not merely the land clearances that make them prejudiced.” He hesitated, as if he would say more, then shook his head and moved toward Barrag.
She followed him. “Speak, then! What is it that would turn my countrymen against me?” Another thought struck. “Or perhaps ye lie t’ seek your ain way, Englishman?”
He stopped walking and abruptly faced her. She barely refrained from barreling into him.
“I speak no falsehoods,” he said. “I merely do not wish to repeat ill words spoken about another.”
“If ye dinna tell me, I’ll be sure ’twas a lie, and I’ll go nowhere with you.” Fiona was surprised by her words and quickly added, “Not that I plan to go with you in any case.”
He released a breath, clearly exasperated. “Very well. If speaking will persuade you to join me, I’ll make an exception this once, though to do so goes against my nature. Those Lowlanders of whom I spoke are of the opinion that all Highlanders are a wild, brutal, and uncouth lot.”
“That’s a lie, if ever I heard one! A Scotsman wouldna have said such about another Scot.”
Or would he? Fiona had no idea. She only had knowledge of those things that her grandparents told her, mainly the history of her clansmen, but very little about the land or people outside her Highland home, except to say that the Lowlanders were weak for so readily giving
in to the English and making their homes in cities there. Nor had her childhood nurse or tutor taught her anything but the rudiments of a girl’s learning.
Alex looked at her with pity, and Fiona marched back to her horse.
“Will you accept my offer of protection and aid?” he called.
“No!” she fumed, mounting Skye. She guided the mare closer to the Englishman. Lifting her chin, she stared him down. “I need protection from no man. Especially if that man be you!”
Bouncing her heels into Skye’s flanks, Fiona urged the horse into a full gallop. She needed no one’s protection except the Almighty’s. Her grandmother had raised Fiona to fear the Lord, and Him only did she serve. Her own people feared her, in the truest sense of the word, and some had accused her of being a witch or possessing an evil spirit until she saved a tenant’s son from the loch’s deep waters. Then the hurtful words finally ceased from all except the older children. Yet the people kept their distance. And their superstitions.
Sadness enveloped a heart Fiona thought fully hardened against the taunts she’d endured since childhood. No, she needed no man’s protection. Likely, all would flee in the opposite direction should the curse visit itself upon her while she was in their midst.
Alex guided his horse south, far behind Fiona’s gray. Whether she was aware of his presence or not, he didn’t know. She gave no outward indication. To allow a woman to travel unaccompanied went against his nature, and he’d appointed himself her guardian. If she wouldn’t travel with him, then he planned to follow her—all the way to Dumfries and Gretna Green if necessary. She made good time and didn’t dally, so perhaps she wasn’t the burr under his saddle that Alex had thought she would be.
He frowned when he remembered her firm declaration of needing no man’s protection. Stubbornness had made her eyes glint like a sword’s honed edge. Yet her proud bearing was in direct opposition to the betraying tremble of her lower lip, which hinted at her vulnerability. Her ancestor may have been a fierce clan chieftain; however, Fiona wasn’t as tough as she pretended. What had put such pain in her heart—enough to make her almost crumble when she spoke of needing no man’s protection? Had someone hurt her? A lover, perhaps?
Irritated with his mind’s wanderings, Alex shifted in the saddle and assessed the scope of treeless moors they crossed. Different from his home in Darrencourt, these primitive surroundings possessed a wild, eerie beauty—dangerous yet beguiling. Mauve-colored heather, wild bracken, and tufts of yellow broom carpeted the ground while barren crags etched a murky sky. High above, a golden eagle sailed. A breath of silver mist uncurled like smoke in the air for miles around, yet Alex could see well enough to travel safely, and his charge showed no inclination toward stopping. Soon, they would need to find somewhere to rest for the night. Hopefully a village would emerge before twilight fell.
A thick batting of angry gray clouds loomed closer, shadowing the land and bringing with it rain. When the drops grew more furious, Alex was relieved to note Fiona guide her gray toward an outcropping of rock. She sought shelter under an overhang, and Alex did the same, glad for the respite, though his cloak helped to keep some of the moisture off. Like these Highlands, his English home was known for its frequent rain showers.
In the cramped twelve feet of dry space with a recess no more than six feet deep, Fiona went as far to the other side as possible, and Alex stayed on his end. The cream-colored steed nudged his shoulder, as though looking for a treat, and Fiona gave a disgusted snort.
Alex looked her way. She leaned back against the rock wall, chewing on a hunk of bread. Remembering his own meal, Alex withdrew a wrapped napkin from inside his coat. Unknotting the cloth, he saw a crust of bread like Fiona’s, a single smoked piece of fish, and a hunk of hard cheese.
Wondering if the woman only had bread, he held out the napkin. “Would you like to share?”
“I want nothing from you, Englishman,” she said in a voice rivaling the cold rain.
He lifted his brows in a shrug and began to eat the cheese.
“So tell me, did ye steal that food from Kennerith, as you stole our horse from the courtyard stables?” Fiona’s words held rancor, as did her expression. “Your kind makes a habit of ripping away what belongs t’ others, is that no’ so?”
“My kind?”
“You English. You stole our way of living, our traditions, even our dress. Why no’ steal our food and horses, as well?” She tore away a large hunk of bread with her teeth, no doubt wishing it were the back of his hand instead.
“I seem to recall that much of what you named has been reinstated to your kinsmen. The dress, the traditions—”
“But no’ the clans,” Fiona interrupted.
“No, not the clans.” Alex knew his history. The clan system of which she spoke had been considered too dangerous and was abolished decades ago after the Scots’ defeat at Culloden. Likewise, all Highland customs and dress were done away with and stiff penalties invoked on those who opposed the ordinance, except on those soldiers who’d given over their loyalties to serving Britain. Approximately forty years ago, Highland dress and customs were restored to the people. Yet evidently that wasn’t enough for this fiery slip of a girl, who stared at him with daggers in her eyes. Alex thought it wise to change the subject.
“Your accusation is false. Your grandmother gave me the horse in exchange for a few pounds.”
“My grandmother wouldna have sold Barrag! Nor anything else belonging t’ Kennerith—no’ to an Englishman!”
“The horse is only borrowed. I shall return it to the castle upon completion of my task. Your grandmother was naturally anxious about your sister’s welfare. Her primary concern was that I find her in time to stop the wedding.”
“I dinna believe you. She knows I went after Gwynneth.”
Alex decided it best not to repeat that a well-traveled Englishman would likely entertain more success than a girl who’d never left the Highlands—and her grandmother had realized that. He trod carefully. “She arrived at the conclusion that two seeking out the couple would garner more success than one. At any rate, she did grant me use of this horse and, while I saddled the beast, also had your cook prepare food for me—food, I will remind you, which you so graciously offered before your hasty departure from the castle.”
Fiona smiled sweetly. “Let’s hope she poisoned it.”
Alex withheld an answering grin and brought the smoked fish to his mouth. He stopped short of biting into it, her words fully registering, and stared at the silver morsel. He thought he heard her softly laugh, but when he looked, her focus was entirely on the rain.
Alex discreetly sniffed the fish, then, feeling ten times the fool, bit into it. Fiona might be as wild as the buffeting wind and as obstinate as the endless rain, but Alex was certain neither she nor her frail grandmother would be an accomplice to murder.
At least he hoped such was the case.
Chapter 3
With the vast ocean on their right, Fiona and her unwelcome escort approached a scattering of white crofts shortly before nightfall. The Englishman inquired about a place to sleep from an old man mending a net, and he and Fiona were directed to a humble stone croft nearby. A thatched roof topped the single-story dwelling, and a large bundle of cut and dried brown peat lay stacked high against a wall. Plots of farmland ran right up to the front of each cottage, unhindered by boundaries of hedges. Even flower gardens were absent, and Fiona thought of Kennerith’s beautiful rose garden started centuries ago by a serf maiden who married a laird. Girls like Gwynneth swooned over such a legend, but a romantic, Fiona was not. Still, she loved to stroll through the well-kept garden and breathe deeply of the roses’ sweet scent.
At Alex’s knock, a rotund woman came to the door. She nodded to Alex, who explained their need for a place to stay. Casting a cursory glance over both of them, she offered shelter and food for ten shillings, including lodging and feed for the horses.
“Have another couple like us, an Englishman and a Scott
ish woman, been through here?” Alex asked, handing over a gold half sovereign, which the woman eyed greedily. “The gentleman is approximately my age and has fair hair. The woman looks much like my companion, except her hair is dark.” At Fiona’s gasp of surprise that he should be so knowledgeable about Gwynneth’s appearance, he glanced her way. “Your grandmother told me.”
“Sich a couple rode through here late this mornin’,” the crofter’s wife responded. Alex smiled. “Thank you. If you have separate quarters for us to sleep, I would be most obliged.”
“Give him a bed,” Fiona inserted. “As for myself, I’m in need of a fresh horse and lantern, if you have them.”
Alex faced her, incredulous. “Surely, you jest. You cannot mean to travel by night.”
“If ye feel the need for rest, Englishman, dinna let me keep you from it.” Fiona drew herself up. “We Galbraiths are a strong lot. My ancestors endured many a night without sleep while in battle, and I will do the same.”
“A foolish lot, I daresay,” Fiona thought she heard him mumble. She peered closely at him, but his attention was focused on their hostess. He addressed her with a polite smile. “If you’ll excuse us a moment?”
She looked back and forth between them and nodded. “I’ve bu’ one empty bed, since my Sean jist married. The lady can sleep wit’ my daughter.” She moved away.
“Thank you, but I dinna need a bed,” Fiona called after her. “I need a horse.”
The woman gave no sign of hearing.
Frustrated, Fiona snapped her gaze to Alex’s. “Now see what you’ve done?”
Alex’s eyes were serious. “Miss Galbraith, it would be most foolhardy of you to continue in the black of night with no moon to guide you. Rest the evening here, and we’ll leave before dawn. Beaufort isn’t an early riser. Wherever the two have chosen to stay the night, I doubt he’ll break that lifelong habit. Especially since it’s doubtful he knows he’s being pursued.”
British Brides Collection Page 53