Positions such as this were few and far between, and destitution was not an inviting prospect. With a heavy sigh, Jessie dashed away her useless tears and firmed her resolve. Regardless of how unpleasant life was at Lochrose, she would just have to swallow her frustrations and somehow soldier on.
Glancing over to Lord Strathburn, she could see he was still snoring quietly. His head rested against the side of his leather wing back chair and a woollen blanket was draped over his knees. Despite her own cares, she smiled softly. He was a charming man—nothing at all like his son—and was perhaps only a little older in years than her father. But he seemed at least twenty years older in many other ways.
The castle’s cook, Mrs MacMillan, had recounted the sad story of the earl’s decline over tea and scones in the kitchen on Jessie’s first morning at Lochrose.
‘The good man never recovered after his eldest son, Robert, rode out for the Young Pretender at Culloden. It broke his heart when the young master chose to leave. Lord Strathburn threatened to disinherit him, ye ken. He dinna really have any other choice. The entire estate could verra well have been forfeited to the Crown if his lordship hadna declared which side of the fence he stood on. Now Mr Grant will most likely get everything when the earl passes, which I’m sure pleases her ladyship no end.’ She had then winked at Jessie in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Now ye dinna hear that from me, lassie.’
‘I apologise if this question seems indelicate, Mrs MacMillan but … does the family know wha’ became of Lord Lochrose at Culloden?’ Jessie had asked, curious about the young nobleman’s fate. ‘I have heard it was a terrible battle.’
Mrs MacMillan patted her arm with a floury hand. ‘Och, it’s all right to ask, lassie. It’s no’ often talked about here, ye ken, given what passed between Robert an’ his father was such a tragedy—the way they fell out wi’ each other. Rumour has it tha’ the canny wee devil managed to escape and leave Scotland, but as to where he ended up or how he is after all this time, nobody kens. I’m certain his lordship would be verra happy to have Robert home once more. But unless the Sassenachs take the price off his head, he willna be able to set foot on Scottish soil again. Better to live in exile than end up meeting the same fate as poor Fraser of Lovat.’
Jessie had to agree. Although she had only been nine years old at the time, she still recalled how shocked her father had been when Fraser of Lovat, the chief of one of their neighbouring clans, had been beheaded at the Tower of London in 1747 for his role in the Rebellion. The English did not easily forgive or forget Scottish traitors. In recent times, she had heard of pardons being granted in rare instances—young MacDonald of Clanranald had been one such case. But by and large, acts of clemency were few and far between.
‘But thank heaven fer small mercies.’ Mrs MacMillan had given Jessie a warm smile. ‘I thank the Lord that yer father has come. It’s aboot time that Lord Strathburn passed the running of things over to a manager, before Lady Strathburn and Mr Grant go through the family’s entire fortune—although ye never heard me say tha’. It never used to be this way, ye ken.’
Mrs MacMillan, obviously a keen orator, refilled their teacups at this point before she continued to reminisce. ‘It seems like only yesterday tha’ Robert, the young master, was here. A fine man in the making he was. He took after his lordship, in looks and temper, ye ken. Charming an’ full o’ good humour. Fair minded wi’ the staff and tenants too. A natural born leader. Everyone thought verra well o’ him.’ Her brown eyes suddenly twinkled. ‘A bonnie man to look at too, he was. Och, all the lassies were turning their heads for Lord Lochrose. Why he even made an old piece o’ mutton like me flush an’ jibber when he looked my way. Quite the rake he would ha’ been. If he’d stayed, he’d be wed by now to be sure, with a few wee bairns underfoot.’
She then grasped Jessie’s hand and looked her in the eye, suddenly serious. ‘Now Mr Grant, he’s quite a different kettle o’ fish. Ye must needs be careful around him. If he likes the look of a bonnie lassie such as yerself … weel let’s just say, the other female staff have dubbed him ‘Master of the Wandering Hands’ if ye ken wha’ I mean. Although you have yer father here so he may no’ think it wise to try any such nonsense with you.’
If only it were so.
The sound of a birch log falling in the grate pulled Jessie out of her reverie. An early portrait of the earl hung over the fireplace in the drawing room. Tired of sitting idly, Jessie crossed the room to study it. She found it hard to reconcile the weak and broken man slumbering behind her with the braw and confident looking clan chief in the painting. The younger version of Lord Strathburn had been very handsome, she decided. Even though the earl’s countenance was now deeply lined with age, one thing about him hadn’t changed; the deep blue eyes looking down at her had a familiar twinkle in their depths.
There was little resemblance between him and Simon, who favoured his mother in looks, she thought. She suddenly wondered what Robert Grant, Viscount Lochrose, the real Master of Strathburn looked like, and if he had indeed been as attractive as Mrs MacMillan seemed to think.
Jessie turned to glance at the earl again. He had shifted slightly in his sleep and the rug had slipped a little off his knees. As she bent to adjust it, she noticed something lying on the floor next to his discarded walking stick. It was a small, round silver case, like a fob watch, suspended from a chain. His lordship must have dropped it. Picking it up with the intention of returning it to the side table, the clasp unlatched in her fingers revealing not a timepiece but a small portrait inside. It was of a young man, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties. Jessie knew straight away that it must be Robert Grant.
Mrs MacMillan had been right. He had been extraordinarily handsome. Rather than wearing a powdered peruke like most aristocrats, Lord Lochrose had worn his dark brown hair clubbed at the nape of his neck. And just like his father, he had arresting midnight blue eyes. In fact, as Jessie examined the miniature painting more closely, she could definitely see a marked resemblance between the young man’s features and Lord Strathburn’s. There was something similar in the lines of the straight nose and strong square jaw and the curve of his wide attractive mouth. A mouth that was tilted into a slight, lopsided smile as if he was secretly amused. Without thinking, Jessie gently touched the portrait with the tip of her finger. She was sure Lord Lochrose would have made her blush and stammer too.
The sound of Lady Strathburn’s voice in the hall outside startled Jessie from her study and she hurriedly clicked the case shut before depositing it into one of the earl’s hands. Even though he was asleep, his fingers seemed to close around the case reflexively, possessively.
Jessie stepped away just as Lady Strathburn swept into the room. In the countess’s wake followed her harried looking seamstress.
‘Now, Miss Munroe, what have you been up to all this while?’ Lady Strathburn’s cold green eyes flickered over Jessie, then her husband who was now stirring. She didn’t wait for Jessie to reply. ‘Not much I see. You can assist Mrs Beattie with her sewing for the rest of the afternoon.’
‘Aye, milady.’ Jessie forced herself to bob a quick curtsy. It was difficult to maintain a respectful manner around the countess when she behaved so arrogantly. Which was most of the time.
She began to take her leave but the countess raised her hand. ‘Wait a moment.’ Lady Strathburn’s eyes narrowed as she made a blatantly scathing appraisal of Jessie’s serviceable gown of brown wool. The countess herself was always expensively and tastefully dressed. A tall woman of middle age, she’d kept her handsome figure well. This afternoon she wore a panniered silk gown striped with lavender, cream and leaf green. Cream Bruges lace cascaded from her sleeves and a fichu of lavender chiffon was pinned over her ample bosom with an elaborate pearl brooch. Like her son, she adhered to the fashion of wearing a powdered wig. Today her artfully arranged ringlets were dusted with a lavender hued powder to complement her dress.
Her perusal complete, the countess added in a tone that br
ooked no arguement, ‘Might I suggest that you do something about the state of your own wardrobe, Miss Munroe? I have been meaning to mention it to you since you arrived. If you wish to continue attending on our family, you must attire yourself in something more suitable. Why, the scullery maid is more presentable. Have Mrs Beattie measure you up for at least five gowns.’
Jessie’s cheeks flamed with shame. ‘Wi’ the greatest respect, milady, I have limited means and canna afford more than a gown or two.’
‘That is not my concern,’ Lady Strathburn said with a derisive sniff. ‘But I’m sure the price of the gowns can simply be deducted from your father’s salary if you cannot pay.’
‘Caroline, you will do no such thing.’
The countess whirled around to see that her husband had risen from his seat. The earl was leaning heavily on his cane and the blanket had fallen to his feet. His dark blue eyes, although slightly puffy with sleep, held a determined light. Turning to Jessie, he addressed her gently. ‘Choose anything you want, my dear girl, anything at all. Mrs Beattie may just add it to Lady Strathburn’s account.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘That is far too generous, milord. I dinna think—’
‘Now, now. Think nothing of it, Miss Munroe,’ he said with a smile, his eyes regarding her with genuine warmth. ‘Just indulge the whim of an old man who would have liked to have had a daughter of his own.’
‘Thank you, milord. You are too kind,’ Jessie replied, returning his smile. His unexpected kindness brought tears to her eyes and she curtsied with a bowed head so he wouldn’t see her unseemly rush of emotion.
As Jessie turned to follow Mrs Beattie from the room, her gaze locked momentarily with Lady Strathburn’s. The look in the older woman’s eyes was so venomous, Jessie’s nape prickled with cold dread. The Countess of Strathburn did not take well to being crossed.
Life at Lochrose was proving to be more perilous with each passing day.
Chapter Two
Simon groaned as he finished with the chamber pot before thrusting it at his valet, Baird. His head ached like hell. Damned cheap Portuguese red wine. Why couldn’t his father afford to stock his cellars with something half decent from France?
The sudden racket coming from outside didn’t help his already foul mood. He donned the silk banyan proffered by Baird then shuffled to the bedroom window. Pushing back the heavy velvet curtains, he grimaced at the early morning. Alasdair Munroe was riding out of the gates of Lochrose with the earl’s accountant and a small group of men-at-arms who would provide them with protection during their rent-collecting tour of the Clan Grant lands.
Despite the sickening pounding in his head, a smirk of satisfaction lifted a corner of Simon’s mouth. Now he had plenty of time to do as he liked with Jessie. And there would be ample opportunities.
He had been more than pleased to hear that Munroe had arranged for his daughter to actually stay within the castle instead of remaining at the Gate-House during his absence—for her safety. Simon’s smile widened at the irony.
His mother had been less than impressed by the arrangement, but at his insistence, she had grudgingly acquiesced to install the girl in one of the east wing guest rooms, instead of with the other staff in the servants’ quarters. She knew it was useless to thwart his needs.
‘For Heaven’s sake Simon, just don’t get the girl with child,’ had been her final words to him at dinner last night, after his father had shuffled from the room with his valet. Not that it would have mattered if his father had been there when she’d made that pronouncement. The doddering fool generally didn’t know what day it was, let alone what his son got up to.
A sudden flash of red at the corner of Simon’s vision claimed his attention. Turning to look, he caught sight of Jessie, also riding out from the direction of the stables. Ah, his sweet Jezebel was intending to take a morning ride. Alone.
He watched as she ambled her mount across the wide stretch of lawn toward the trees and mist-veiled loch beyond. The lying hussy obviously didn’t have the cold she’d purported to have yesterday if she was up and about at this hour.
Struck with sudden inspiration, Simon called over his shoulder to Baird to ready his riding clothes. Although it was early in the day, it was high time he made it abundantly clear to the young chit what his expectations of her would be over the coming weeks. And that she should think twice about evading him.
He could feel himself growing hard already with anticipation.
* * *
The autumn morning was crisp and clear as Jessie set out for a long overdue, and much longed for, ride on Blaeberry. She knew that Lady Strathburn would not expect her presence until at least mid-morning. It meant she had at least an hour or two to herself.
Jessie had tried very hard to smile and chatter away as if she didn’t have a care in the world as she’d bid her father farewell in the stable-yard. Now that he was gone, her troubling thoughts returned full force to plague her. She prayed that her ride would provide a welcome distraction. She really didn’t want to think about Simon Grant at all this morning. There would be more than enough time to worry about Lochrose’s resident reprobate later.
Blaeberry puffed white clouds into the frigid air and her hooves crunched the frost-rimed ground as Jessie gave the mare her head. In no time at all they reached the small stretch of woodland lining the shore of the loch. Entering the copse, Jessie slowed Blaeberry’s pace to a sedate walk and let the mare pick her way through the ancient beech, chestnut and oak trees. The last wraithlike shreds of mist rising from the loch drifted around them as they drew closer to the water’s edge. Aside from the quiet crunch of Blaeberry’s hooves on the carpet of leaf litter, there was utter silence.
Once they reached the shore, Jessie slid from Blaeberry’s back and found a smooth grey boulder to sit upon at the water’s edge; she was determined to find some peace for at least a little while. Closing her eyes, she tried to empty her mind of everything except for what she could sense; the cool edge to the breeze lifting fine tendrils of her unbound hair off her face, the sighing of the leaves in the woods behind her and the occasional jangle of Blaeberry’s harness. She was so tired. She’d tossed and turned and had barely slept at all last night.
When Jessie again opened her eyes, the mist had fully risen and the loch’s waters sparkled with dazzling light. The air was still frosty but huddled in her chestnut velvet riding habit and thick cloak of red wool, she felt warm enough. And contented. Blaeberry had wandered off a few yards to crop the lush grass on the bank. Somewhere in the woods behind them, a rook called.
When Blaeberry abruptly lifted her head and turned toward the trees, ears pricked, Jessie frowned and looked toward the shadowy copse as well. And then, her heart seized. She heard it too.
The approach of another horse.
* * *
Robert reined his hired mount to a stop beneath a dense cover of Scots pines on a low ridge overlooking Loch Kilburn and the home he thought he’d never see again—Lochrose Castle. From this vantage point, he had a good view of where the castle’s grounds ran into the waters of the loch, mist-shrouded at this early hour. Behind the adjoining woods he could just see the two turreted towers of the castle set against the peaks of the Cairngorms and dawn-hued sky.
A range of emotions washed over him. A yearning, so sharp and strong it was like a physical pain, sliced through him. He had a powerful sense of homecoming, of belonging to this place, yet the scene before him also seemed slightly alien, different to how he’d envisaged it in his memories. And dreams; an odd sense of unreality clung to him and he had the urge to pinch himself, to make sure he was really here.
But perhaps everything seemed different because he was now changed. He was no longer a hot-headed, adventure-seeking twenty-year-old who thought he knew everything and took his responsibilities for granted, but a man of thirty, who had learned the hard way that honour and duty to clan and family were far more important than chasing phantasms of glory on the battlefield for a p
retender to a long lost throne. He needed to right past wrongs.
He prayed with all his soul that he would be given the chance to do so.
Swallowing past a hard lump in his throat, he focused on how he could gain access to Lochrose undetected. The reason for this early morning foray was essentially to carry out reconnaissance. He needed to minimise the risk of being caught when he attempted to reconcile with his father. Arrest was a very real danger even after a ten year absence. Although raw impatience clawed at his insides, he knew that walking straight in through the front door in broad daylight would be beyond foolish. Simon and his stepmother, Caroline would not let him escape this time. Not when a fortune and title were at stake.
Robert surmised that the best time to reach his father without arousing anyone’s notice would be first thing in the morning or during the dead of night when others such as his damnable brother and stepmother would likely be abed. Which meant he had probably missed his chance of acting today. The sun had risen too high already and the mist was almost completely burnt off. But he could still scout closer to the castle.
With a shiver, Robert urged his horse down the slope. Here in the heavy bone-chilling shade of the trees, his dark brown wool coat and buckskin breeks provided far from adequate insulation against the bite in the air. Although the morning was fine, he had forgotten how damn cold it was in the Highlands. Thank God, he and his squire, Tobias, had been able to hole up in his father’s obviously long-abandoned hunting lodge last night. His mouth tilted into a wry grin—living in the Caribbean for so long had made him soft indeed.
About halfway down the brae, a flash of red across the water caught his eye. Dragoons? Pulse leaping, he halted and narrowed his eyes against the bright diamonds of sunlight dancing on the water. No, it wasn’t a soldier. There, on the bank sat a woman in a scarlet cloak. Her horse, obviously saddled and harnessed for riding, grazed nearby.
The Master Of Strathburn Page 3