Alexander shook his head. “Nay. I’ve sent enough men. Cunningham came back fair traumatized. I dinnae ken what they’re up to at O’Donnel farm, but it’s far gone the time for me words and come me time for action.”
“I’ve been sayin’ that since we were eight and nine years old,” Nathair teased. “I think I’ll take this Irish Cob. Does he have a name?”
Alexander patted the horse’s nose. He knew each of the animals in here by heart and could recite where the stable master had purchased them and for what price. Alexander liked horses.
They make more sense than most people, tha’s for sure.
“Aye,” he said. “This is Ailill. The filly I’ll be ridin’ is his sister, Aibreann. Catherine got them from an Irish trader when they were naught but foals an’ she left them behind when she went to wed her Laird.”
He headed across the stable to where the filly in question was snacking on some hay and smiled. Horses were, indeed, majestic creatures.
Aye, they’re filthy at times, but their glossy coats and their discipline more than make up for it.
“Aibreann? Ye ready for a journey?”
As if she understood, the horse let out a low whinny.
Chapter 3
Operibus Anteire
Leading the Way with Deeds
Alexander and Nathair didn’t even wait a day before they left, not giving any leeway to Cameron O’Donnel’s foremen to warn him of their coming. They took the back roads, avoiding human and animal traffic where they could.
Gallagher Castle was on a high peak, a statistically logical place for the Laird’s castle to be. The surroundings were mostly rocks and moss, and the whole thing looked like a severe fort from myth. The stone castle almost seemed to grow out of the hill. From here, it seemed as much a part of the craggy landscape as the cliff’s edge.
But the lower into the valley Alexander got, the more things began to change—from moss-green to the green of rain-fed grass, and wild heather as far as the eye could see. They didn’t stop often, and the sights flew by faster than Alexander could imagine.
His people were spread out across the vast Gallagher lands, but they avoided all of the small village clusters for the most part and completely circumvented the one next to the castle. Alexander loved his people, but that didn’t mean he knew how to talk to them.
Besides, they’d just be alarmed to see their Laird ridin’ into town wi’ nae notice whatsoever.
As they climbed new hills and traversed new valleys, Alexander had to admit to himself that it had been a long time since he’d witnessed the beauty of his own land. He spent so much time in his castle, worrying about his people and seeking order, that he sometimes forgot what waited outside.
The disorder of the countryside stressed him, but it filled him with a childish wonder, too, deep in his heart where nobody else could see. The faerie mounds with their stones and flowers, the rushing rivers with their little silver and blue fish. The weeds that looked like the most exquisite blossoms, thistles and dandelions and daisies decorating the landscape.
Mither always loved daisies. Me an’ Catherine used to bring them in big bunches.
Nathair kept pointing out landmarks as they traveled. He tried to interest Alexander in the finer mythology of the Gallagher land. Every few seconds, he said something like, “Look, there’s where Joshua Wainwright got Madame MacCallum wi’ a bairn!” or “There’s the tavern where Mary Reid ran away wi’ that English banker!”
“Ye’re makin’ half o’ these stories up,” Alexander said in disbelief. “In fact, ye’re speakin’ absolute nonsense.”
“I am nae!” Nathair told him, offended. “I’m just tryin’ to introduce Me Laird to his own people and land.”
As much as Alexander would have liked the journey to end as quickly as possible, Aibreann and Ailill were as alive as he and Nathair and required rest from their burdens. While they usually stopped at a tavern or subject’s cottage nightly, they were always off again at first light, no time for gallavanting at all.
On the seventh day of travel, as they approached the outskirts of the O’Donnel farm, Nathair managed to convince him to stop. The sun was beating down unusually fiercely even for July, and their poor horses were clearly thirsting for a drink.
“Here,” Nathair insisted. “We stop here. We’ve nae been to the Loch de Òr since we were lads.”
Alexander gave his friend a skeptical look but eventually agreed. It had been a long time since he’d seen the so-called Loch of Gold, and longer still since he’d been near it, other than in a carriage while speeding past the border.
I have nae been here since me betrothal turned sour. I wonder if it’s still beautiful.
So they dismounted, their bags still on their horses' backs, and led the creatures off the beaten track and over the small hill that hid the vast loch behind it.
Oh me God.
He’d forgotten. He always forgot how beautiful the loch was. It got its name from multiple sources, all of which contributed to the sheen of gold that colored the waters no matter the time of year.
In the autumn, the golden leaves of the surrounding trees were reflected back, but even in winter, it retained its shine. The base of the loch was unusually sandy, with little gold, silver, and bronze fish that swam to and fro in the waters. When the sun hit just right, thanks to the angle of the loch, the light reflected back was otherworldly.
Now, in the height of summer, the trees were a stunning dark green. It added to the effect rather than taking away from it, though. Alexander found himself at peace as he stared into the green loch with its flecks of gold, representing calmness, representing peace.
At least she could nae take this from me.
Nathair was giving him a knowing look from the side of his eye. “Ye quite grand there, Laird?”
Alexander snorted. “Proud o’ yerself, are ye, Chieftain?”
“Och, aye,” Nathair agreed, pulling out some of their provisions and taking a seat on a jutting rock near the water’s edge. “I’m always proud o’ myself when I get a reaction out o’ ye, Stoneface, Laird o’ Statues.”
“Ye’re a menace,” Alexander told him with a smile, hunkering down next to him and accepting the offered bread. “But regardless, I’m glad ye’re me menace.”
Nathair gave him a long look, then patted him on the shoulder. “Dinnae ye worry, Sandy. I will nae tell anyone how soft ye’re gettin’.”
“Much appreciated,” Alexander snorted. “Now shut it so I can eat me luncheon.”
Six hours later, the night was beginning to fall, and Alexander had to admit they were horribly lost. They couldn’t have been more than a few hours out from the farm as they reached the crossroads, but neither had any clue which way to turn.
There was an old stone marker dead in the center, but it was weather-beaten beyond readability. Though it clearly marked out two different directions, the words were entirely obscured, and Alexander couldn’t tell at all which way he was supposed to go.
“Look,” Nathair pointed out. “An’ old man’s approaching yonder. Perhaps he kens where we’re supposed to be goin’.”
Alexander looked where Nathair indicated. There was, indeed, an elderly gentleman, perhaps seventy or so but sprightly for it, making his slow way along the path they’d just ridden. “Hail, Grandfaither,” Alexander called. “Will ye stop for some poor lost travelers?”
He ignored the look Nathair gave him at that, more interested in the surprised expression on the old man’s face.
“Ye’re talkin’ to me, sir?” the old man asked cautiously as he approached. “I dinnae have any money nor status. If ye’re lookin’ for—”
“Simply directions, me good man,” Nathair told him jovially. “To the O’Donnel farm. Do ye ken it?”
The old man’s eyes widened in alarm. Closer, his age was much more apparent. While he was hale and healthy, and obviously had been quite fit in his youth, his dark eyes had lightened with time. His forehead bore the many
creases of age under his shock of white hair. “What business do ye have wi’ Farmer O’Donnel?” he asked cautiously.
Alexander and Nathair exchanged looks before Alexander said, “If ye dinnae mind, Grandfaither, me name is Alexander MacKinnon, an’ this is me friend, Nathair Barcley. We—”
The old man squinted at Nathair. “Barcley? The Man-at-arms Barcley?”
Nathair gave a little flourishing bow, made more impressive from the fact he had not yet dismounted his horse. “In the flesh, good sir. Ye ken me?”
“Aye,” the old man said absently, suddenly looking alarmed. His eyes were darting around the place, and Alexander wished that he could read minds so that he might understand the calculation in the old man’s head. “Aye, me granddaughter, me wee Jeanie, she met ye once when she was a-courtin’ one o’ yer soldiers. I—”
Then the old man’s eyes widened as he seemed to fully take in Alexander as well.
“And ye’re the Laird o’ the castle,” he said, with something like a tremor hidden in his old voice.
“Aye, that I be,” Alexander agreed. “An’ hopin’ to reach the O’Donnel farm before true nightfall. Do ye think ye can help us out?”
Swift calculation crossed the elderly man’s brow, almost too quickly for Alexander to read, and then his old face cleared into a smile. His alarm all but vanished as he said, “Aye, Me Laird. If ye and the good Chieftain just take a right here an’ keep ridin’ for a mile or two, ye’ll come across the farm in nae time at all. Ye cannae miss it.”
“Good,” Alexander said. He reached into his pocket and drew out a gold coin, which he gently tossed towards the old man. The fellow caught it with surprising deftness and a look of shock. “For yer troubles,” Alexander explained.
Nathair grinned. “Thank ye kindly, Grandfaither,” he said, and with that, the two men and their horses turned to the right path and began to ride.
Chapter 4
Pater Familias
Master of the House
“Cil. Cil!” Jamie called at the top of his voice. “Cil, come down. Someone’s here! An’ it looks urgent!”
Alarmed, the farmer called downstairs, “Has somethin’ happened? Who in the world is callin’ at an hour such as this?”
“It’s Old Man McCaul,” Annys’s voice harmonized with their brothers. “He’s right out o’ breath. I’m gonnae fetch him somethin’ for his thirst, an’ let Mrs. Humphries ken he’s here, but he’s askin’ for ye.”
The farmer let out a shaky breath, allowing some relaxation. The last time they’d received a visitor this long after dark, it had been the healer visiting, merely to make their father comfortable before the inevitable.
Cameron O’Donnel had been a hearty man, only just into his fifties, and his three children had thought him untouchable. Immortal, even. But the fever that took him cared not for his children, for his youth, and now he was gone, leaving a son too young to run the farm, his twin daughter, and no wife remaining alive.
All of that, and an older child, who’d quietly taken over and lived in daily fear of being caught and having the farm taken away.
An’ here I am, a year later, still hidin’ me shameful womanhood so they dinnae try it.
Cicilia knew what would happen if they caught wind of her father’s death. The farm would be taken from her and placed in the Laird’s trust until Jamie was of age, or perhaps even forcibly sold to one of his lesser men. That a young, unmarried daughter would take over—such a thing was unheard of.
And yet, Cicilia loved the farm. Cameron had adored his children and taught them well. Until the twins were born, Cicilia had spent seventeen years as the only apple of her father’s eye, the only child in his life, and he had doted upon her.
I wonder what Mammy would say if she could see me now? And Daddy?
Both her father, Cameron, and her mother, Lillian, had treated Cicilia as daughter and son both. They educated her in scholarly pursuits and taught her the running of the farm alongside the womanly arts. They taught her independence of the sort that was frowned upon even now amongst the upper classes, with whom their wealth found them rubbing shoulders often.
And me mammy never cared if I was nae as proper as a lass o’ me wealth should be.
One of Cicilia’s fondest memories of her mother was when Cicilia, aged six-and-ten, had announced that she was running away to wed a soldier, following the advice of her younger best friend, Jeanie. Cicilia had fancied herself in love with a young transfer from a neighboring clan. It helped that Jeanie was prone to falling in love with any boy who so much as smiled at her, and encouraged Cicilia to do the same.
Lillian told her only to remain safe. When Cicilia came crawling back in tears a week later, discovering her beloved had wed another, there was no judgment and no harsh words. Cicilia had buried her head in her mother’s chest and cried that her near-miss with the soldier would bring shame upon the household.
Her mother had shaken her head. “Ye’re barely a bairn, me love, and still a maiden,” Lillian assured her. “An’ while they’ll never admit it, plenty o’ noble ladies have given a lot more away for less. You an’ me, we have servants, we have money, but we’re farmers, Cil. All ye need is yer brain and yer good heart, and me and yer Daddy will always be proud.”
It had not comforted Cicilia much at the time, but as she grew older and wiser, the words had stayed with her. She’d abandoned the idea of men after that, focusing on her work and her duty at home.
This resolve had only grown stronger when she gained a new duty. Sadly, Lillian died just the next year with the unexpected birth of the twins, but caring for them only strengthened the love for Lillian in both Cicilia and Cameron’s hearts.
“It’s gonnae be hard without yer Mammy,” Cameron had told her when he introduced her to the babies. “But ye and I, mo laochain, we’ll manage it.”
Mo laochain. Me little hero. I loved it when he called me that.
It was a term for young boys, usually. Still, Cameron had used it with Cicilia throughout her whole life, and it filled her with warm contentment. That she was a girl did not matter to him nor her mother either; they simply saw her as their child and a success and source of pride.
Now, despite the odds being ever against her, Cicilia was determined not to let them or their memories down.
She had been bathing, but she dressed hurriedly in a pair of farmer’s trews and a loose blouse. She quickly made her way down the rickety stairs, heading toward the kitchen, where she knew Angelica would be playing the dutiful daughter and attending to Ewan.
Sure enough, the plump, motherly cook was there, along with her husband, Cicilia’s driver. They both looked up as Cicilia entered, moving away from the old man to give her some space.
“Ewan,” Cicilia greeted. “Ye look tired out yer mind. What on Earth brings ye here at this hour? Ye dinnae run all this way, did ye?”
He certainly looked like he had. For a man in his seventies, Ewan was very fit. His once-blond hair was now white as snow and his eyes a lighter brown, but other than that, he still looked fit and healthy. And he was, for the most part. But now his hair was slicked down to his scalp, and there was exhaustion making his lower jaw tremble.
Ewan raised a thin hand in greeting. “Och, dinnae worry yer pretty heid about this old man, Miss Cicilia. I had to run. Ye’ll never guess who I met on the road.”
“Who?” an excited voice asked from the corner. Cicilia glanced over to see the twins huddled together, obviously extremely excited by this unexpected visitor. She considered telling them off for not being in bed, but perhaps it was a good thing they weren’t yet.
“None other than our Laird o’ Gallagher himself,” Ewan said, shaking his head. “Abou’ two or three hour’s ride out, wi’ his Man-at-arms, Nathair Barcley. An’ they were askin’ after the farm, Cicilia. I sent them off in the wrong direction, but they’ll work it out soon enough.”
Cicilia froze in place. She could feel Angelica and George Humphries with their eyes o
n her and heard the twins gasp, but she focused only on Ewan. “Ye ran twenty miles? That must o’ taken ye near four hours, ye crazy old man!”
Ewan grinned. “I keep tellin’ ye I’ve still got life in me yet, lass. It was nae perhaps a full twenty, but aye. I imagine His Lairdship an’ his companion have discovered me wee trick by now. Ye’d better get ready.”
“Jeanie’s gonnae kill me when she finds out ye did this,” Cicilia sighed. “Can ye walk?”
Her best friend was Ewan’s granddaughter, the Humphries’ daughter. She lived with her grandfather in the village and tended the family market stall.
Her parents were quite happy with the arrangement, as it meant there was someone there at home with Angelica’s overly-energetic father. At the same time, they worked at the farm to bring home a good wage between them, and out of loyalty to the O’Donnel name.
A Hellion for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 3