Highlanders

by Tarah Scott

Phoebe fidgeted with her shawl, but her efforts to flatten it over her breasts were useless. Tied over itself, the shawl only emphasized the fact her breasts nearly spilled over the narrow lace. She finally gave up and loosened the tie, throwing the corner over her shoulder so that the edge hung over the bodice. She started down the narrow hallway at a sedate pace. Halfway down the corridor, Mrs. Grayson's voice filtered to her from a room up ahead.

  “Dora swears we will no’ have snow for at least two months,” the housekeeper said.

  Masculine laughter followed.

  Kiernan MacGregor.

  Phoebe slowed.

  “Dora hasn't always proven reliable,” he said. “I shall hazard the ride north.”

  A chair squeaked and Phoebe realized one of the two was rising. She turned on her heel with the intention of hurrying back down the hallway, but the corridor spun in a dark swirl around her. She groped at the wall.

  “Heddy.” Kiernan’s voice closed in on her.

  Phoebe found herself swept off her feet, her face crushed against the velvet lapel of his wool morning coat.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded, bringing his face so close to hers, Phoebe swore she could taste the saddle soap he had washed with that morning.

  “I see by your coat you have already been riding this morning,” she complained.

  “I am allowed that privilege,” he replied tersely. “You are not.”

  “Dr. Connor said I might leave that cursed bed,” she retorted.

  “I—” Kiernan began, but was cut off by Mrs. Grayson.

  “Good Lord, what’s happened?” She touched a hand to Phoebe’s forehead. "You're a might flushed, dearie.”

  “No doubt due to being surprised,” Phoebe grumbled. “Put me down, sir.”

  “That I will. Step aside, Bridget.” He hugged her so tightly a rush of air was forced from her lungs.

  “By heavens,” she wheezed.

  “Now, Kiernan,” Mrs. Grayson began as he started down the hallway.

  “I don't wish to spend any more time in bed,” Phoebe protested.

  “Kiernan!”

  Mrs. Grayson’s shout stopped him. He faced her. “Bridget—”

  “Dinna’ Bridget me,” she ordered. “Bring her into the kitchen. She can sit with me at the table. It'll do her good to be up and about. She is less likely to do herself harm under your watchful eye.”

  He hesitated. Mrs. Grayson gave Phoebe a knowing look.

  He must have discerned its meaning, for he started down the hallway toward the kitchen as he muttered the single word, “Women.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kiernan leaned back in his chair and studied Heddy. There was a flush in her cheeks and her eyes were clear. Being out of bed agreed with her. And he couldn't deny the ridiculous dress she wore agreed with him.

  “More tea?” Mrs. Grayson asked.

  Heddy shook her head and the housekeeper looked inquiringly at him.

  “I’ve had quite enough tea for one day, thank you, Bridget.”

  “Perhaps, then,” Heddy said, “you should be off attending to business.”

  Kiernan rubbed his chin. “I have no business as interesting as you.”

  Her lips thinned. “I am not Heddy.”

  “You keep saying that. Yet, not once, have you offered an alternate identity.”

  “I'm sure I told you that I’m Phoebe Wallington, Lord Albery’s niece.”

  “No," he said. "I don’t think you did. I haven't had the pleasure of Lord Albery’s acquaintance.”

  She raised a cool brow. “He spends little time in Scotland.” She faced Mrs. Grayson. “After three days, it must be clear I'm not who he thinks I am.” Heddy shot him a sidelong glance. “Even if I were, he had no right to kidnap me.”

  “Kidnap?” He tsked. “Come now, Heddy, we have discussed this. If not for me, God knows what those brigands would have done—” The barking of dogs outside interrupted him. Kiernan rose and went to the window where he lifted the curtain and surveyed the street.

  Mrs. Grayson stepped up beside him. “Oh dear.”

  “What is it?” Heddy asked.

  “Strangers,” he replied.

  Kiernan studied the man who walked in the forefront of the newcomers. The carved walking stick he leaned on showed wear and the haunted look in his eyes confirmed he'd been too long on the road.

  Mrs. Grayson clucked her tongue. “Look at the women, as thin as rails. I made bread yesterday.” She turned from the window.

  “Wait.” Kiernan caught her arm. “I don’t care for the looks of the leader.”

  “They're hungry,” she protested. “Ye can't expect the homeless to look like proper lords and ladies.”

  “Bridget,” he released her, “forego the bread for just a moment.”

  Kiernan exited through the kitchen door and headed toward the small crowd gathered around the strangers. A cold nose nuzzled each hand and he glanced down at two hounds that nudged for attention. He gave each an affectionate pat, then brushed them aside as he stopped before the newcomer’s leader.

  “M’lord,” the man said.

  Kiernan nodded an acknowledgment and surveyed the group before returning his attention to the man. “Where are you from?”

  “Hay territory, m’lord.”

  “Hay? Are things still so bad in the north you couldn't find work between there and here?”

  The man looked surprised. “‘Tis powerful bad, m’lord. We found what work we could, but…”

  “There are only seven of you?”

  “Aye.” The man pointed to the man and woman at the rear of the company. “That is George and Sharon.” He went on to name the remaining three men and the other woman, ending with himself, “Alan Hay.”

  “No children?” Kiernan asked.

  Alan pointed to the second woman. “Rebecca’s bairn died two days into the journey.” He nodded toward Sharon. “She had a wee one, but not enough milk for the babe. We buried the children in fields.”

  “Good God,” a female voice behind Kiernan said.

  He whirled. Heddy stood a few paces away. “What are you doing here?"

  Her attention remained on the newcomers and a look of surprised recognition flitted across her face.

  “We only ask a bit of food,” Alan broke in.

  Kiernan faced him. “Food will be provided.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “What is your destination?”

  Alan frowned. “Wherever we can find work.”

  “The Glaistig Uain can offer no work for one man, much less four. You'll do well to move farther south. For tonight, you may sleep in the stable.” Kiernan motioned to the stables across the lane.

  Alan's mouth thinned. “Kind of you to let us sleep with the animals, m’lord.”

  “Aye,” he replied, then, “Baths can be arranged, if you like.”

  Alan nodded. “The women will be glad for that."

  “I imagine so,” Kiernan agreed. “Particularly if the men avail themselves of the luxury, as well.” He gave a final nod and took two steps to Heddy. Her gaze remained fixed on Alan. “What is it, Heddy?”

  “You see that?” She nodded at the thick, wavy stick Alan carried.

  “The walking stick?”

  “A swordstick. Silver mounted buckhorn handle, if I’m not mistaken. Certainly disguises the sword hidden within quite well, doesn’t it? And those.” Kiernan followed her line of sight to the combination weapon stuffed into Alan Hay’s belt. “The short hanger, a hunting sword. Ideal for mounting a flintlock. Queen Anne cannon barrel type. And that one.” She nodded at the weapon in George’s belt. “At least forty years old, but still deadly. Four barrels, two on each side.”

  The group turned, led by one of the villagers, and started for the stables.

  With a final glance at Alan Hay, Kiernan returned his attention to Heddy. “They have traveled far. Weapons would be a necessity.”

  “True,” she agreed. “But thos
e look well used.”

  “It's likely they survived the journey by hunting.”

  “But what do they hunt?” Heddy murmured.

  His gaze caught on the shawl that had fallen afoul of her bodice. “You'll catch your death.” He grasped the shawl’s edges.

  Her attention broke from the strangers and she looked at him. Kiernan tugged the shawl across her breasts. He would have to find a way to thank Mrs. Grayson for giving Heddy this particular dress. Heddy glanced down at the shawl, then raised her face to his, her mouth turned down in a dry expression. Kiernan laughed and dropped his hands to his sides. He glanced again at the retreating Hays—his attention flicking over the walking stick—before grasping Heddy’s arm and leading her toward the inn.

  “How is it you're acquainted with weapons?” he asked.

  “My uncle is an amateur collector. I have been subjected to long lectures on weapons and their uses.”

  “You spoke of your uncle before.” Something Regan hadn't mentioned about her. One of the hounds bounded up to his side and woofed. Kiernan gave the dog a playful cuff on the nose.

  “My father died when I was seven," Heddy answered. "My mother when I was fourteen."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "It was long ago."

  "What of your remaining family?" he asked.

  “They are…a mixed cup.”

  The dog bounded off in pursuit of the other hound that had shot across the lane toward the stables. “How so?” Kiernan looked down at her.

  One corner of her mouth twitched in the first indication of amusement he’d observed, but she answered with gravity, “My father’s brother is a good man. His wife, however, isn't so amiable.”

  “Why?”

  Heddy laughed, the sound devoid of warmth. “The most common reason: money.”

  “MacGregor!”

  Kiernan turned at the call. Davis Hamilton rode toward them. He brought his horse to a halt beside them. “‘Tis good to see you, MacGregor.”

  “It's good to see you. What brings you south?”

  Davis reached down the neck of his shirt and pulled out a letter. “Clachair sends his thanks.” He handed Kiernan the letter.

  Kiernan took the document and slipped it into the front pocket of his jacket. “We have visitors from Hay territory. They tell me things are still bad up north. I hope you are faring better.”

  Davis nodded. “Times aren't easy, but we're managing.”

  “How long can you stay?”

  “I'm returning home immediately. I've been gone too long.”

  “A shame. How are the children?”

  Davis shrugged. “They are adjusting to losing their mother.”

  “And you?” Kiernan asked.

  Davis’ expression clouded. “I canna’ get used to her being gone.” He cast an embarrassed glance at Heddy, then said, “I'll be going.” Without further conversation, he pulled on his horse’s reins and returned in the direction he had come.

  Kiernan turned back to Heddy. “Shall we.” He gestured toward the kitchen door.

  She turned with him and they began walking. “Your friend doesn’t look nearly as bad off as the others. The Hays look half starved.” She lifted her skirts for the single step that led into the kitchen. “Are they from the same place?”

  Kiernan opened the door. “Hay country is farther north than Davis' home.”

  "Is that where you plan to visit when you go north?"

  Kiernan shifted his gaze onto her. "Are you thinking you would like to accompany me north, instead of staying at Brahan Seer? Perhaps you'll miss me just a little?"

  He didn't miss the annoyance that flickered in her eyes, but she said, "I have never visited the northern Highlands. I've heard they are beautiful."

  "You would like it there," he said, and, oddly, thought it was true.

  They entered the kitchen and Kiernan escorted Heddy to the chair she’d occupied earlier. “Bridget.” He looked at the housekeeper who stood at the counter cutting bread. “Ah, I see you are already preparing food for our guests.”

  “The famine,” Heddy remarked, pulling his attention back to her. “It has lasted nearly two years now.” She frowned. “Did the two hundred thousand pounds Dr. MacLeod raised to assist with the famine not help?”

  “They say the Duchess gave aid to three thousand people on her estate,” Mrs. Grayson interjected in a mocking voice.

  “Three thousand?” Kiernan repeated. “Kind of her, considering she’s likely displaced that many this year alone—despite her advanced age.”

  Mrs. Grayson snorted. “More like ten times that many.”

  “Ah, Bridget, perhaps not quite so many?”

  “It might as well have been,” she answered in a lofty tone, “for all the damage she caused.”

  “True,” he agreed.

  “Duchess?” Heddy asked.

  “The Duchess of Sutherland,” he said.

  “She displaced these people? Then the famine isn't the cause of their plight?”

  “The famine is the final nail in the coffin. The real cause is the clearances.”

  “Clearances?” Heddy repeated. “I've heard the word bantered about, mostly as propaganda voiced by elders not in favor of progress. I understood the changes in Scotland were for the better.”

  “For the noblemen," he replied. "For the tenants who have been farming the land for generations, the switch to cattle ranching has meant eviction, homelessness, and starvation. The duchess has been clearing her land for years and, though she alone can't be blamed—the Morenish and Breadalbane evictions are just as terrible—she has displaced nearly fifteen thousand Highlanders.”

  “By heavens,” Heddy said. “I can see why the three thousand she aided is paltry in comparison. Why is she doing this?”

  Kiernan gave a wry smile. “The most common reason.” Heddy gave him a questioning look, and he said, “Money.”

  *****

  Phoebe waited until the occupants of the Green Lady Inn had retired for the night before stealing to Kiernan MacGregor’s room, a taper in hand. A clock inside the room struck a muffled gong. She waited until ten more gongs sounded and the room fell silent before tapping lightly on his door. As hoped, silence followed. If her instincts were correct, Kiernan was checking on Alan Hay. Earlier, when the strangers arrived, there had been no mistaking Kiernan’s curt remarks. He clearly didn't trust Alan Hay.

  She knocked again. When no answer came, she turned the knob and eased open the door. Silence. Phoebe stepped inside and clicked the door shut behind her. She lifted the candle and scanned the room. An empty bed sat against the far wall and a chair and small desk were located in the far right hand corner. Her gaze caught on the single letter lying on the desk. Was that the letter from Clachair that Davis had given him?

  When Davis handed Kiernan the letter and said it was from Clachair, she recalled four years ago, reading a notice in the paper about a five thousand pound government bounty on a man with the unusual name. The likelihood of the wanted man being the man who'd written the letter was slim, but this was just the sort of information she was obliged to investigation. Phoebe hurried to the desk and picked up the envelope.

  A thrill raced through her. Was this how her father felt when he investigated Arthur Thistlewood? For the first time since she had agreed to spy for Great Britain, Phoebe felt the kinship with her father she had always sought. They hadn’t shared their lives, but they shared patriotic passion. The exhilaration was replaced by unexpected regret. If this Clachair was the man wanted by the government, that meant Kiernan MacGregor was himself a criminal. By heavens, she hadn't liked any of the criminals she'd come in contact with—hadn't considered the possibility she could like any of them. But then, Kiernan MacGregor wasn't like Lord Capell, who sold women, or Lord Wallace, who would sell his Parliament vote to the highest bidder. Phoebe suddenly wished she knew nothing of the letter. But she did. She withdrew the single piece of paper from the envelope and read.

  Dear Kie
rnan,

  All is well here. I received the writing paper you sent. As always, your generosity comes at the most opportune time. I have distributed the paper amongst my students. They shall make good use of it. Thank you for thinking of us. I look forward to seeing you when next you come north.

  Clachair

  There was nothing the least bit suspicious about the letter, and Kiernan had left it in plain sight. Tension eased within her as she slipped the letter back into the envelope, then placed it back on the desk. How many times would she suspect a man of criminal activities and find out she was wrong? Not many she feared.

  The small but distinct creak of the windowsill to the left of her bed alerted Phoebe that someone had entered her room. Only a few minutes earlier, the clock had softly gonged once. So, the intruder had chosen climbing the trellis leading to the portico, instead of risking the lighted hallways. Choices a practiced thief would make.

  Through slitted eyes, Phoebe watched him move stealthily from the window to the armoire. He inched open the door and rifled through her cloak and gown. She had removed her reticule and stuffed it beneath the mattress, her father’s letter intact. Had Kiernan read the letter, he would have realized his error in mistaking her for Hester. If only she could show him the letter. But the one piece of evidence that could free her was the one thing she couldn’t hazard revealing for fear of incriminating her father.

  The intruder cursed softly. Phoebe tensed. He abruptly turned as though to exit the way he had come, but paused and gazed at her. Moonbeams shone through the window in front of him, but he remained in the shadows. She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. He couldn't possibly discern the fact her eyes were cracked open. He lingered, and Phoebe realized he struggled with some inner decision. Could it be the same indecision she had sensed in Alan Hay that afternoon? Was this Alan Hay, or had he sent one of his men to do the robbing?

  He hurried back to the window and climbed back onto the roof. Phoebe waited until the count of three before throwing back the covers that hid her fully clothed body. She sat up. No dizziness or pain. Just as Dr. Connor had predicted, today was a turning point in her recovery. She hurried to the window. Peeking outside, she spied the man on the edge of the roof. He turned and fitted a boot into a trellis rung and quickly disappeared from view. Phoebe thrust her hand forward, intending to shove the curtains aside, only to have her fingers catch in the intricate weave of the Nottingham lace.