British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  His words, “Wherever the two have chosen to stay the night,” struck an icy shaft of awareness deep within Fiona’s heart. Her expression must have betrayed her, for Alex quickly spoke. “I assure you, my brother may be many things, but he is a gentleman and will treat your sister as a lady.” A flush of red crawled up his neck. “They’ll have separate quarters, as will we.”

  “I told you, I’ll not stay.”

  Alex exhaled a weary breath. “At least come inside and allow me to buy you a meal.”

  The hunk of bread she’d thought to grab before fleeing the castle had done little to sustain Fiona. Good food did sound appealing. Deciding that to tarry one hour wouldn’t hurt, she brushed past him and through the door. “I have my own money, Englishman. I want nothing from you.”

  Inside, a warm peat fire welcomed her deeper into the room. A wooden table filled the area, with a bench on either side. On the other end of the big room, two beds had been built into the wall, each with a curtain for privacy. At one end of the table sat a red-faced man, seeming to enjoy the barley juice he tippled more than the steaming bowl of soup before him. He directed a cursory glance their way, nodded, then looked back to his cup.

  Alex took a seat across the table from Fiona. Immediately her attention went to the peat glowing red in the stone pit. A rosy-cheeked young girl stoked and blew on the smoldering fire underneath the kettle that hung on a hook, urging it, until it burst into yellow flame.

  The woman set a platter of oatmeal bannocks between them followed by two steaming containers of partan bree. With Fiona’s stomach close to rumbling from the pleasant smell of the peppery crab and fish, she picked up her wooden spoon and dipped it into the rich, creamy soup.

  She trained her attention on her food and noticed Alex also made quick work of his meal, even asking for a refill. Halfway through the meal, he leaned closer, as though about to confide a secret. “Miss Galbraith?”

  Fiona looked at him over the spoon she targeted toward her mouth.

  “I propose we call a truce.”

  “A truce?” The uneaten spoonful plopped into what was left of the soup, and she scoffed at him in disbelief. “Tell me. How is it that a Galbraith can make peace with a Spencer?”

  His brows lifted slightly, as if surprised she remembered his name. “The century-old battles on which you dwell are recorded in the annals of history. They shouldn’t affect the present in which we live. Even Almighty God has commanded that we not strive with our fellow man but learn to live peaceably with one another.”

  His words made Fiona uncomfortable, almost guilty. She shook the undesirable feeling away. “Did your ancestors fight at Culloden?”

  “Truthfully, Miss Galbraith, I do not know.”

  “Ye dinna know?” The admission surprised her. “Did ye have no bard to tell you stories ‘round the fire about your family history?”

  His loch-blue eyes gentled, and an awkward lump rose to her throat—probably due to the thick soup. She tore away a hunk of bread and ate it, hoping to dislodge the discomfort.

  “That is solely a Scottish custom, I do believe,” he said. “However, my father did speak to us of recent ancestors, as well as briefly outlining the Spencer history and our lineage, time and again. Since I’m not in line for the title, he chose not to prepare me as thoroughly as he did Beaufort.”

  “Title?”

  He studied her before speaking. “My father is the earl of Darrencourt. My brother is viscount and shall inherit the title and all that goes with it one day.”

  “Hmph. No doubt he enticed Gwynneth to her destruction with his talk o’ wealth. Poor simple lass that she is, t’ fall for such a trick.”

  Fiona hadn’t realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud until Alex narrowed his eyes. “And is your sister so easily enticed, Miss Galbraith? Perhaps, to her, wealth is a matter to be pursued, even grasped?”

  Fiona stiffened. “Are ye implying that my sister would marry a man for his title and money?”

  “Such a prospect is not unheard of. It has been done before this,” Alex said soberly. “After living in such, shall we say, meager conditions, it’s understandable that she should want to seek a better life.”

  Fiona swiftly rose to her feet. “So ye think us t’ be wallowin’ in poverty, is that it? That we’re so destitute as t’ snatch whatever morsels we can from whoever’ll give them—even if it be from our foes?”

  She drew herself up, reached into the small drawstring bag she carried on a belt around her waist, and slapped down onto the planked table two silver shillings for her meal. “Ne’er let it be said that a Galbraith took anything from a Spencer, in this lifetime or in the lifetime t’ come. If Gwynneth be guilty of any folly, ’tis in believin’ the lies of a cloven-tongued Englishman, who likely dallies with every poor lass he meets!”

  Realizing what she’d just spewed in her anger and seeing Alex’s mouth drop, as well as the other man’s, Fiona felt humiliation’s fire scorch her face. Her eye began to twitch and grow heavy. Swiftly she turned and headed for the door.

  She would find another horse or die trying! She would not tarry another moment in his presence.

  Before dawn the next morning, after a filling bowl of porridge and cream accompanied by oatcakes, the grain of which Alex thought better suited to a horse’s food intake than a person’s diet, he hurried to the stables. He hadn’t ceased thinking of the Scottish spitfire since her hasty departure last night. When a heavy thunderstorm began only minutes after she left, Alex felt obliged to go on foot in search of her. Yet the wind had proven too beastly, blowing the slicing rain at a slant into his eyes and causing the ocean’s waters to crash high upon the rocks. Soon Alex returned to the cottage, assuring himself that Fiona would know how to take care of herself, having lived in the Highlands all her life. Surely she would have found shelter elsewhere and not attempted to ride in such weather.

  In the predawn light, Alex made out the building that housed the stables. He moved across the muddy ground and, not seeing anyone about, pulled open the ancient wooden door. It gave a low, protesting squeak. A horse’s whinny greeted him, but it was a woman’s sleepy groan that stopped him cold.

  In the dim shaft of blue light forcing its way into the darkened building, Alex noticed a blanketed form on the ground at the end of a stall. The blanket undulated, the form rose, and a pair of half-open eyes underneath a matted tousle of ginger-colored ringlets blinked his way. The apparition sneezed.

  “Miss Galbraith,” he said in surprise.

  She clapped her hand over her nose and mouth. “Be it mornin’ already?” The voice came groggily through her fingers.

  “Yes. Just.” Alex hesitated, awkward. “I came to ready the horse for departure. I shall do so now.” Hurriedly he moved toward the cream-colored steed.

  Fiona put her hand to the wall, using it for balance, and rose to her feet, clutching the blanket to her throat. Alex wondered if he should excuse himself and give her privacy, but before he could speak, she turned her back on him and loosely folded the blanket. Alex was relieved to note that she wore not only her dress but her cloak as well. By her nervous actions, he feared she’d been clothed only in her undergarments.

  “The crofter’s wife has porridge bubbling on the hearth,” Alex offered.

  Fiona shook her head. “There isna time. And I’m no’ that hungry. There’s … there’s something I must say. I–I wish …”

  “Yes?” Alex prompted, curious about what incited such self-conscious behavior.

  She faced him. “I wish t’ go now.” With awkward steps, Fiona moved to her gray, threw the blanket over the horse’s back, and reached for the saddle. “What do I owe for lodging Skye?”

  “The debt is paid in full.”

  “I canna take money from you,” she all but whispered.

  “And neither can I receive payment from you.” He injected lightness into his next words. “So you see, it seems we’ve reached a stalemate. Now we can both stand here and argue all day
about who will concede, or we can leave things as they are and continue on our journey—which is the reason we’re here in the first place, I’ll remind you. To reach my brother and your sister in time to stop the wedding.”

  “Aye.” She nodded but still didn’t look at him.

  He returned his attention to the horse. The steed tossed its head when Alex tried to slip the bridle over its muzzle. Alex tried again but got the same response.

  “Barrag can be irritable of a mornin’.” Fiona came up beside Alex. “Sometimes, when Grandmother used to ride him, she would first stroke his nose and sing to him. Like this.”

  Bedazzled, Alex watched Fiona rub the horse between the eyes and down its muzzle, softly crooning to it in a language unfamiliar to him. Dawn’s pale light streamed from the stable’s open door, making her face glow. Indeed, her countenance had softened as she dealt with the horse and slipped the bridle over its head. A peculiar twinge clutched Alex’s stomach when he noticed the red splotch on her pale cheek where her arm had evidently pressed against it while she slept. Her hair was frizzled with wild ringlets, an indentation at the back coupled with the way it bunched up on one side making it appear as though she’d lain down while it was wet.

  “You should have taken shelter in the cottage,” he said quietly. “You could have caught your death of cold sleeping on the ground after having been out in the rain and with no fire to warm you.”

  Her gaze flitted to his, surprise making her light gray eyes shimmer like precious metals. “I’ve slept in a stable before, when Skye birthed her foal. You needna worry, Englishman. I’ll not slow you down.”

  Alex stood, rooted in shock, and watched her lead the gray outside. So she had changed her mind and decided to ride with him. What spurred such a decision? He wondered if this was another of her tricks, but what purpose would it serve? Even if she did slip away, she must know by now that he would follow.

  Fiona rode silently beside the Englishman, aware of his frequent glances her way but unable to explain her behavior. Earlier, when they stood inside the stables, the apology concerning her ill conduct last night had shuddered to a stop.

  An admission of guilt was often difficult for her. She’d been raised to believe that a Galbraith or a MacMurray apologized to no man—and she still felt rattled over the dream. The dream captured her attention, left her confused. Her grandmother had taught Fiona that the Lord sometimes spoke to people through dreams. Yet surely such a dream could not have come from the Almighty Himself!

  Last night, when the affliction came over her and she’d been caught in the rain, Fiona slipped into the byre with the cows and horses to hide. Unfortunately, an older lad, a simpleton who cared for the animals, was inside mucking out the stables. She pleaded with him to let her stay until the storm stopped, when she would be on her way again. But he only gaped at her, as if she were the frightening, rarely sighted creature from Loch Ness, and backed out of the building.

  Shivering and wet, Fiona had grabbed the blanket off her dry horse, thrown it around her shoulders, and huddled in a corner. A pervading cloud of despair loomed over her, making her feel as weak and hopeless as a starving kitten. Why had God made her this way? Why? Did He not accept her either?

  Over and over she asked herself those questions before falling into exhausted slumber. The dream revisited her, as it had many times over the years. She was fleeing across a barren heath—at first on Skye, then on foot—while clouds boiled overhead and some unknown pursuer chased her. She raced toward a shimmering loch, knowing that if she could cross it, she would be safe. Always, before she could swim across, a monstrous shadow fell over her from behind and rocklike appendages encircled her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. This time, however, the dream ended differently.

  Before she could reach the loch’s cool blue waters, feeling the pursuer’s breath hot on her neck, sensing his shadow creep over her, Fiona unexpectedly ran into a pair of open arms that closed around her back. Only these arms weren’t cruel or harsh; they were gentle and comforting. The shadow lifted, the sun broke through the clouds, and Fiona raised her head from the man’s strong chest to thank him.

  Again, as had happened when she’d abruptly awakened from the dream to see the Englishman standing in the stable entryway, Fiona experienced a breathless, almost dizzying sensation.

  Her rescuer’s face had been his.

  Chapter 4

  The road took them beyond one of numerous hills, and Fiona heard the lonely wail of bagpipes. Up ahead, she saw a line of people. By the look of their clothes and the belongings they carried over their shoulders, they were tenant farmers. Several men guided beasts of burden that carried woven baskets and other goods. Midway up a nearby hill, a Highlander stood wearing a kilt and tartan plaid. The wheezing yet shrill notes of his bagpipes from the slow, haunting pibroch he played swept through the deep glen, as though bidding farewell to the people and the way of life they’d known.

  Tears stung Fiona’s eyes, and she blinked them away. “Likely they’ve been driven from their homes and seek new ones. Such has been the way of it for many years.” She threw an unsmiling glance Alex’s way. “Behold the ‘improvement’ of which ye speak so highly.”

  Without waiting for Alex to remark and feeling a twinge of guilt that she and her grandmother were forced to do the same with their tenants, Fiona tapped her heels into Skye’s flanks and guided the horse along the road. Once she drew closer to the refugees, she saw what appeared to be five families, nearly twenty people, all with a lost look in their eyes.

  “Where do you travel?” Alex’s voice came from behind, and Fiona looked over her shoulder to see him address an old, bent woman.

  “Tae the first burgh in the Lowlands we come tae wi’ a factory,” she said tiredly. “Tae seek work. Five days o’ walk we’ve had.”

  “You must be weary,” Alex said. To Fiona’s surprise, he slid off Barrag. “Ride my horse. My companion and I are traveling in the same direction, if you don’t mind the company?”

  Relief swept across the woman’s features, and she nodded. Alex helped the woman mount, then took the reins, leading the horse. A blond-haired giant of a man moved Alex’s way.

  “Thank ye fer helpin’ my mathair. You’re welcome t’ travel with us as long as ye have a care to. I’m Hugh MacBain, formerly of Inverness near Moray Firth.”

  “And I’m Dr. Alexander Spencer of Darrencourt.”

  “A doctor!” the old woman exclaimed from atop Barrag. “The Lord love ya, laddie, fer surely He sent ye tae us this day.” She motioned behind her, and Fiona saw two children pulling a small cart where a little girl lay. Her head was nestled on a collie’s sleek fur. “My gran’daughter isna well. She fell while runnin’ doon a hill.”

  “I shall see to her.” Alex offered Barrag’s reins to a fair-haired youth and moved toward the cart. Hugh announced to the others that they would stop for a rest, and Fiona reined in Skye as well, turning her horse so that she could watch Alex inspect the wee girl’s foot. He asked for a strip of cloth and bound the dirty, bare foot tightly. “ ’Tis only a slight sprain,” he announced to her family, who stood nearby. “I recommend she stay off of it for a few days.”

  “She can ride my horse,” Fiona found herself saying. Everyone turned to look at her as though just remembering she was there. Heat crept up her face. “There’s room enough for the other two children as well. They look in need of a rest.”

  Alex’s eyes were gentle as they studied Fiona. “Her foot should be elevated, but since that’s not possible under such circumstances, perhaps riding atop your mare would be more comfortable for her than having her leg jiggled in the back of a cart.”

  Hugh nodded as though Alex’s word were law. “The wee ones would ride best bareback. Ne’er have they used a saddle the likes o’ yours.”

  Fiona dismounted and readied the horse. The injured child’s eyes widened as another man, obviously her father, set down the straw container he carried and lifted her from the cart. An old
er boy picked up Fiona’s saddle and threw it where the girl had lain, then took hold of the cart handles, preparing to pull it. Gently the man set the child atop Fiona’s horse, placed the small boy behind her, and the other girl in front. None of them looked over the age of eight. Their little legs stuck out to the sides on Skye’s wide back as each wrapped their arms tightly around the waist of the person in front of them and the older girl gripped Skye’s dark mane. The boy turned Fiona’s way.

  “Thank ye, miss. I’m Kiernan, and these are my sisters, Rose and Mary. Mary is the one who was hurt. She’s but three and is forever runnin’ o’er the place. Like a wee fairy, she is.”

  Rose giggled, and Mary stared at Fiona with huge eyes, the same misty green as the other two children’s.

  Fiona wasn’t certain how to reply. She was unaccustomed to speaking with people, except those at Kennerith, of course, and she rarely spoke to children. The tenants’ offspring habitually taunted her, and Fiona found it best to steer clear of them.

  She offered a hesitant smile to the MacBain children, then directed her attention to the long road ahead.

  Hours later, the gloaming painted the sky with rose, blue, and amber once the sun dipped below the horizon. Twilight followed the lengthy afterglow of the sunset and purpled the glen, and they stopped for the night. Fiona had no idea of the expanse they’d covered nor of the distance yet to go, but she strongly was beginning to feel the discomforts of traveling and wished for a vat of steaming hot water with which to bathe. She felt so dirty, and her hair was a matted, frizzled mess. One kind woman had given her a piece of soft leather so she could tie her hair back, and Fiona gratefully did so. Now, as the chill night cloaked them, the white stars winking from a thankfully cloudless sky, Fiona drew close to the fire one of the MacBains had built.