Rose In Scotland

by Overfield Joan

  Hugh closed his eyes in relief. “Thank God,” he murmured feelingly. “I could not have borne it to have lost her as well.”

  “Ye almost did.” James’s lips curled in a rueful smile. “For when she heard what happened, what did the lass do but take herself off to London to demand their release. Aye, and her not but seventeen at the time. It was a grand thing, and the clans speak of it still.”

  Hugh was too stunned to reply. He had been in London but twice, and the filth and the vice of it had horrified him. The thought of his innocent sister alone in such a place filled him with terror, and he made a mental note to give the little deamhan a sound shaking when next he saw her. After he kissed her and held her close, he admitted to himself.

  “Where does Aunt Egidia stay?” he asked, turning his thoughts to the next thing to be done. “Is she still living on Chambers Street near the kirk?”

  James nodded. “Aye. Keir MacKinney is at university there, and writes he saw Mairi not one month past. ’Tis said he is after courting her,” he added, twisting in his saddle to cast Hugh a teasing grin. “Though ye’ll have to have a word with him on that yerself, MacColme, to be certain the lad’s intentions are as they should be.”

  Hugh was silent on the long ride back to the village. Mairi being courted, he mused, dazed at the very notion. For the past fourteen years he’d carried the image of a dirty-faced urchin close to his heart, clinging to her memory even as he’d gone screaming into battle. Although he’d known she was growing up through the years, until this very moment he hadn’t considered the ramifications of what that would mean. A reluctant grin tugged at his mouth as he remembered her passionate declaration never to marry. ’Twould seem a great many things had changed in the years he had been gone.

  Despite James’s insistence that Hugh stay with him and his family, Hugh returned to the small, rough tavern that passed for an inn in Loch Haven. As it had been when he’d ridden out earlier that morning, the taproom was filled with hard-faced men, and ’twas obvious by their ominous silence that they were no more pleasantly disposed toward him than they’d been when he’d left.

  “So, ye’ve been to the castle and seen fer yerself the truth o’ what we told ye,” Angus MacColme, his father’s distant cousin, snarled, his thin mouth set in a contemptuous sneer. “Yer fine English king nae mair kept his word to ye than did ye to us. Or have ye forgotten the oath ye swore before us all?”

  Hugh set his tankard on the bar with studied care. Years of swallowing every manner of insult without complaint had taught him to keep his temper hidden, and none of his rage showed as he raised cool eyes to meet the older man’s derisive gaze.

  “I forget nothing, cousin,” he said, his tone deceptively mild. “Not a vow nor a slight. I remember all.”

  Angus’s cheeks grew red at the implied threat, but before he could speak one of the other men asked challengingly, “And what will ye do to take back what is yers? With yer father gone ’Tis the laird of Loch Haven ye be; his obligations and duties are now yer own. What will ye do to fulfill them, Hugh MacColme?”

  This was a question Hugh had been asking himself since learning of his father’s arrest and the seizure of their lands and title. His years with the army had taught him much about English politics, and he intended on using every bit of that knowledge to gain back what was his. But to do that he would need to journey to London—an action he was certain would make his remaining chieftains even more wary of him.

  “I will do what I must,” he said simply, raising his tankard and taking a sip.

  There was an expectant silence, and when he did not elaborate, the men began shifting their feet and exchanging confused looks. “That is all?” the man who had spoken before demanded in a baffled tone.

  Hugh thought of the English major who had been his first commanding officer after he’d been made a sergeant. “Explain nothing,” the man had advised, giving Hugh’s shoulder a companionable slap. “Simply issue the orders and act as if they had already been carried out.”

  “It is enough,” he said, taking another sip of ale. “Now I would speak of the clan. Tell me how fares everyone.”

  There was an uneasy silence and another exchange of looks, and Hugh braced himself to prepare for anything from an insult to a dirk in the back. Finally a man Hugh recalled from his youth set down his own tankard and began speaking.

  “We are better off than many of the others,” he said, tugging at his beard in a gesture Hugh well remembered. “The seizure was limited only to yer father’s house and lands, and the rest of us were let be. The sheep and cattle are well, and so ’Tis enough meat we have to sustain us. Many of the crofts are in sad want of repair, but we have nae the money to see to it.”

  Hugh thought of the money tucked away in his things. Despite his meager salary he’d managed to put aside a considerable sum, and then there was the money he’d won as part of the booty seized in battle. All in all it was several thousand pounds, enough to repair a hundred crofts and see to the most immediate needs of the clan. Unfortunately, he feared, the money would be needed to buy back his land and title from an English court that would doubtlessly listen better to a man with bags full of gold than to one with pockets to let.

  “Talk to the other clans,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Offer a trade of meat for the material to help in the repairing of the crofts. That will help them as well as us. What else?”

  “We’ve several widows and women without their men to help them,” Lucien Raghnall, a man who had been Hugh’s close companion as a lad, volunteered warily. “They stand to lose all if their taxes are nae met by year’s end.”

  Hugh said a mental good-bye to a goodly part of his money. “They will be met,” he said. “Are there other matters to discuss? How many men were taken from Loch Haven?”

  “Besides yer father, uncle, and brother, there were ten others,” Angus MacColme said, the bitterness fairly dripping from his words. “And half a dozen more dragged off by the press-gangs that followed the soldiers, my own Donald included. Dragged from his own home, he was, and taken away as if he was nae mair than a runt to be slaughtered!”

  Hugh was silent, his heart aching at the thought of any man under the hell of impressment. Army life was bad enough, often unendurable at times, but it paled in comparison to what befell a man impressed into His Majesty’s navy. He’d heard stories horrible enough to give him nightmares, but now he grudgingly accepted there was naught he could do to help the men so cruelly taken away. The best he could hope for was to learn if they even lived, and he doubted that would provide scant comfort to those left behind.

  “James told me there was no word on the fate of the men arrested,” he said, focusing on the things he felt he could do something about. “Is that so? Were inquiries made?”

  “Aye, inquiries aplenty,” another man said heatedly. “For all the good it did us! Even yer sister could learn naught when she went there, and ’twas proper determined the lass was, too. Threatened to storm the prison herself and see to their welfare, she did, and was almost clapped into irons for her pains. But she didna back down,” he added with an approving nod.

  Hugh winced at the admiration in the man’s voice. ’Twould seem James had not exaggerated Mairi’s heroics, and he shuddered at the image of a flame-haired hellion dressing down some staunch and sour magistrate in a black robe and powdered wig. Well, he was home now, and the first thing he meant to make clear to his sister was that she was never again to do such a foolish thing. He was the laird, and what risks there were would be taken by him.

  “What will you do, Hugh?” Lucien was regarding him curiously. “Will you go to London to petition the courts for redress?”

  “I had thought to do so,” Hugh replied. “I’ve the king’s pardon to show them, and enough groats to grease as many fat English hands as it may take. Although I pray God ‘twill not be many.” He added this last part with a wry grin, and was rewarded when they broke out into raucous laughter.

&n
bsp; “Nae much chance of that, lad,” one of the wizened Highlanders chortled, slapping his knee in amusement. “ ’Tis greedy as ever the English be, and they’ll take yer gold, yer boots, and yer buttons if ye dinna keep yer wits about ye.”

  “Then I shall have to make certain to do just that,” Hugh said, pretending to relax even as he was careful to keep his guard firmly in place. “I haven’t survived this long to be buggered by some fat pig of a magistrate.”

  The crude remark won another burst of laughter from the others, and when he was certain his actions would not be misinterpreted, Hugh bought a round of ale. There was still a distance between himself and the others, but for the first time since arriving in his old village, he cautiously began to hope he would be able to put right what had gone so terribly wrong.

  “Will ye be stopping in Edinburgh to see yer sister, lad?” One of the men broke his hostile silence to send Hugh an inquiring look.

  Hugh felt his heart race at the thought of seeing his sister again. “Of course,” he answered at once. “And had I known Mairi was there, I should have stopped there first. But as it was, I was in a hurry to be home, and in no mind to be read a scold by my aunt, may Saint Giles bless her sweet soul.”

  More laughter followed, for Egidia Sinclair’s sour disposition was known to all. A rich widow, she could have remarried a dozen times over, but her sharp tongue and hectoring ways had driven off any suitor foolish enough to approach her.

  The men soon settled back with their ale to reminisce and gossip in the manner of men everywhere, and as he always did, Hugh was content merely to sit and listen in watchful silence.

  “When do you leave for London?” Lucien had picked up his tankard and moved to join Hugh at the end of the bar.

  Hugh thought of all that would have to be done before taking his leave. “The day after tomorrow,” he decided, unwilling to wait any longer before seeing Mairi. “If there is anything left to be done I will leave it to you. Do you mind?”

  Lucien gave an expansive shrug. “Not so much,” he said, raising his tankard to his lips. “I’ve been doing the little I can until now, but it will help if the others know I’m acting on the orders of the laird.”

  His words had a sobering effect on Hugh. “But am I the laird?” he asked, his glance going to the group of men deep in conversation. “I may have been temporarily forgiven, but that is a long way from being accepted—especially as laird.”

  Lucien’s gray-blue eyes flicked in the men’s direction. “Dinna let those old rashers of wind gype you,” he said quietly. “I dinna say you will be met with open arms, but there are more here who understand the wisdom of what you did than those who would condemn you for it. Be patient, Hugh. It will come with time, I promise you.”

  Hugh’s plans to leave in two days’ time proved optimistic, and it was almost four days after riding into Loch Haven that he was able to ride out again. He attended his duties as laird, riding from house to house to meet with his chieftains and tenants. He was relieved to see Lucien was right, and that most of the men he spoke with, while wary and defensive, seemed inclined to accept him as head of the clan. He listened to their complaints and observations calmly, taking what action he could before moving on to the next house.

  He also took the time to lay out his strategy, meticulously plotting each action he would take. In his years in the king’s service he had picked up much of English law from watching his commanding officers, and he knew that if he hoped to even win the court’s ear, he would first need the aid of a powerful patron. A galling prospect to be sure, but however much it stung his pride, he accepted it nonetheless. Fortunately for him he had just such a patron in his pocket, and upon reflection, he decided it just might be the thing to stop in Bath on his way to London.

  It was approaching evening when Hugh rode into Edinburgh, and he was astonished anew how much it had altered in the years of his absence. The area below the castle, which he remembered as being fields filled with flowers and grazing sheep, was now abuzz with construction, and everywhere he looked he saw evidence of new buildings being put up. The style was much like he had seen in London, all cream-colored stone and elegant wrought iron, and he thought it looked as out of place against the fields of Scotland as a wild Highlander would look in the overheated salons of London or Paris.

  His aunt’s home was the tumbledown wreck he recalled from his days at university, and he felt a wave of nostalgia as he gazed up at the soot-blackened bricks and glass. The creaky butler who answered his knock was another relic from his youth, and he was every bit as dour and disapproving as Hugh remembered.

  “So, it’s home ye’ve decided to come, is it?” he demanded, his faded hazel eyes glaring up at Hugh. “About time, I should think. Ye need to be after keeping an eye on that sister of yours, before she disgraces us all with her hoydenish ways. The mistress tries, but she’s no’ a match for that one.”

  “Are my aunt and sister at home, Gregors?” he asked, trying not to be too alarmed at the gloomy admonishment. The old butler had strong Presbyterian sensibilities, and had once pronounced Hugh on the road to perdition merely because he’d befriended a young Catholic from Ireland who was a student at the university.

  “The mistress is upstairs resting,” Gregors informed him, removing Hugh’s rain-dampened cape with a flourish. “And that devil’s she-cub is the Lord knows where. She doesna tell me where she goes these days, and more’s the mercy, I say.”

  Hugh ignored that, hoping Gregors was but exaggerating. “I would like to see my aunt, if you would be so good as to tell her I am here,” he said coolly, adopting the aloof tone he had heard in his officers’ voices—the tone of master to servant, even as the shells burst over their heads and the air was screaming with bullets.

  Gregors’s thin lips twitched in derision. “Suit yerself, lad,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “But she’ll be in a rare taking, I’m warning ye. Ye know where the drawing room is; take yerself there and I’ll inform Mrs. Sinclair ye’re here.”

  The drawing room was small and dark, furnished with faded pieces that had seen better years—better decades, Hugh amended, shifting as a spring in the sagging settee came into painful contact with his buttock. Looking about him, he would almost have thought his aunt a poor widow but one step from the almshouse. Tight as the devil’s breeches, was Aunt Egidia.

  He cast the darkened fireplace a thoughtful look, and was considering ringing the maid for a bit of coal for the fire when his aunt made her entrance. As he expected, she was already lecturing him.

  “ ’Tis amazed I find myself you’ve even remembered this address,” she said, studying him regally over her great beak of a nose. “Fourteen years gone, and not a word from you did I have. Well, lad, what have you to say for yourself? And speak up, my hearing is not what it was.”

  Hugh opened his mouth to apologize but suddenly he was gathering her up in his arms, depositing a kiss on her cheek as he whirled her in a circle. “Ah, Aunt Egidia, I’ve missed you!” he said, laughing as he set her on her feet once more.

  “Dolt!” Aunt Egidia swatted him with the edge of her fan before lifting her hand to tug at her powdered wig, knocked askew by his embrace. “Not yet six of the clock, and you’re already drunk as a sailor! A shame on your soul!”

  Hugh continued grinning down at her. His entire life had been turned on its head from the moment he’d stepped foot back into Scotland, but here, praise God, was one thing that had remained constant. “If I’m drunk, ’Tis happiness and not spirits that ’Tis to blame,” he told her, reaching out to pull the enormous monstrosity of horsehair and greasy powder into place. “I’m pleased to see you looking so fine, Auntie.”

  Lined cheeks painted the delicate pink of a young girl’s grew even pinker at his compliment. “Wheest!” his aunt exclaimed, her sour expression belied by the sparkle of her dark eyes. “Why are you nae out chasing the hizzies for a wee bit of loving? ’Tis holes in your purse to match the holes in your head you must have, to be wasti
ng your time flattering an old woman!”

  The thought of slaking his passions in one of the many prostitutes had occurred to Hugh, but he’d dismissed it with his usual fastidiousness. He’d seen more men laid low by the pox than he’d ever seen felled by an enemy’s bullet, and he’d learned to control his baser nature.

  “I’ve no time now to dance the reel o’ Bogie,” he said, taking an almost boyish delight in using the scandalous phrase in front of his aunt. “ ’Tis Mairi I’ve come to see, and then I’m to Bath and London to learn what’s to be done about all of this. Do you know where she’s gone?”

  “To call upon the son of an old friend of your father’s,” Aunt Egidia supplied, settling into one of the faded chairs. “I’ve no doubt you remember him: Iain Dunhelm, laird of Ben Denham.”

  The image of a fox-faced man with a sharp nose and shrewd gray eyes popped into Hugh’s mind. “Aye,” he said slowly, “I remember the laird. A clever man, and a mind more devious than that of a wizard. But why would Mairi go to him? Does she think he can be of help?”

  His aunt gave an inelegant snort. “Help? Aye, he could well be that, considering the way he’s helped himself to the lands about him!” she said, her lips pursing in disgust. “He’s more than doubled his holdings since the arrests began, and ’Tis nae a secret he’s been casting his eyes at MacColme land as well.”

  “And Mairi went to him?” Hugh demanded, angry and appalled by turns. “For the love of God, why?”

  “Because I told her to,” came the calm reply.

  “And don’t be looking at me like that, Hugh MacColme! You’re a soldier, and well you know the value of scouting the lay of an enemy’s land.”

  Hugh bit back a furious oath. “And you sent her alone?” he demanded, his hand tightening on the pommel of the sword he wore buckled to his hip.

  Aunt Egidia gave him a look of patent long-suffering. “Dinna be a bigger fool than you can help being,” she told him with a sniff. “I sent a maid and a footman with her, as is proper. He’s his mother living with him, and the poor woman has been sickening this past winter long. Mairi called upon her to inquire after her health and to bring a jar of my tisane. If she can learn what new designs the laird is plotting while she’s there, then more to the better, I say.”