by Karen Ranney
“How far away is this Tyemorn Manor?” James asked, feeling as if the noose of responsibility was tightening around his neck.
“A few days’ ride, no more. It’s a landlocked place, so you cannot take a ship, but you know your way on horseback well enough.”
“Any MacRae does, Uncle,” Alisdair said in reproach.
James nodded reluctantly, pushed his tankard across the table. “Very well. I’ll go.”
“And Rory?” Alisdair asked.
“I’ll take the pup. If for no other reason than to keep him occupied.”
The former cabin boy, the same age as his youngest brother, Douglas, had sprouted up in the past year, his appearance altering along with his interests. He’d recently discovered females, evidenced by the fact that he often stopped work to stare at a woman if she came into his range of vision.
Alisdair grinned at him, the expression reminding him of their boyhood. As the two oldest MacRae sons they’d grown up together, becoming adept at managing bothersome younger brothers.
Yet James had the feeling, however ill placed it might be, that he’d been manipulated by his honor. The quick glance between the other two men did nothing to dispel the notion.
Riona entered the parlor, shutting the door behind her. She made her way to the settee and sat, folding her hands on her lap. Even though Harold stood at the window, his gaze intent on the view, she knew his attention was on her movements.
“I cannot imagine that a marriage based on duplicity would be a happy one,” she said as a greeting.
“A man in love can be desperate, Riona,” he said slowly, turning to face her.
Harold saw himself as a financier, someone who spent a great deal of time in meeting rooms in order to advance his family’s fortune. At least, that was what he’d told her on the one occasion she’d met him prior to the debacle in the garden. Only later had Mrs. Parker informed her that there was no family fortune to increase—Mr. McDougal was in the market for a rich wife, and it seemed he’d found one.
“‘Gi’e me a lass with a lump of land, and we for life shall gang thegither; Tho’ daft or wise I’ll never demand, or black or fair it maks na whether.’”
“I fail to see your humor,” he said stiffly.
“I think Allan Ramsay’s words say it best, don’t you? You haven’t the slightest affection for me. It’s all for my fortune.”
“If you feel that way, Riona, then there is nothing more for me here. I shall return to Edinburgh immediately.”
He knew very well that she couldn’t allow him to do that. But it was, nevertheless, a cunning ploy.
“If I do not marry you, Harold, my sister’s life might well be ruined.” Maureen’s silence weighed more effectively on her than Mrs. Parker’s irritation, Harold’s cloying pleas, or even her mother’s censure.
“People have a way of talking,” he agreed. The ease with which he said the words warned her.
“Your tongue will be among those telling the tale, won’t it, Harold?” she asked, forcing herself to remain calm. “Are you that desperate for money?”
His face didn’t change. He still looked agreeable enough, but his eyes seemed to shift, revealing another man beneath the affable exterior of Harold McDougal. This man was not nearly as pleasant or as patient.
“Again, Riona, a man in love will do what he thinks necessary.”
“I do not love you.”
Silence.
“Nor do I think I ever will.”
“Perhaps I can convince you in time, my dear.”
“No,” she said, standing, “I don’t think you can. Are you willing to trade a life of misery for my fortune?”
He smiled, the expression strangely unsettling. “Only a woman would think her life ruined because of lack of love.”
How refreshing that he’d finally dropped his act of pining lover.
“If I do not marry you, you’ll see us ruined,” she said, certain of it. He would, she suddenly understood, go out of his way to create rumor and innuendo, destroying Maureen’s chance of happiness. As to her own? She’d be just as happy remaining here at Tyemorn Manor the rest of her days. Without a husband, especially if the candidate was similar in character to Harold McDougal.
She resented being trapped into marriage, and although no one had asked such a sacrifice of her, it was clear they expected it. Maureen wandered through the house like a wraith, and her mother had taken to mumbling to herself. At first Riona thought her praying, but her name had come up too often for Susanna’s words to be invocations to the Almighty. The past week of obstinacy had accomplished nothing but to bring misery to her family.
Harold was still here, Mrs. Parker was still obdurate, and the situation was still bleak.
“Very well,” she said ungraciously. “We will marry.”
The expression in his eyes lightened as he bowed in front of her. “A wise decision, Riona. Shall we set the date?”
“A year from now.”
He smiled, the expression oddly cool. “I believe not. A month.”
“I cannot marry you that soon,” she said, feeling a surge of panic.
“You will have to become accustomed to the notion of it.”
He bowed slightly, then leaned toward her as if he meant to kiss her. Riona stepped carefully away.
“I shall inform your mother, my dear.” His expression was once again affable as if she’d not rebuffed him. “Until that blessed day,” he said.
Smiling brightly, he turned and left the parlor.
In less than a day James was ready, his bag packed and carefully tied to his saddle. Fergus had penned a letter and it lay, folded with a map, inside his jacket.
At the moment Alisdair was at the shipyards, some hundred feet below the castle walls. Half the men of the MacRae clan were with him, the others occupied with rebuilding Gilmuir. The sounds of chisels against stone, hammers against nails, and spikes being driven into wood had awakened him at dawn as it had for the past year. If for no other reason than quiet, James should welcome this errand of his.
His sister-in-law, heavy with child, waved at him. He waited patiently for Iseabal to approach.
Her condition had changed Iseabal from the shy and diffident woman she’d once been. Now she was more a termagant, surprising all of them with the force of her character. Iseabal, of the soft voice and winsome nature, could yell when she chose, and Alisdair, after his initial surprise had faded, tended to shout right back. Their disagreements, oddly enough, centered around their worry for each other. She was concerned about the danger he put himself in at the shipyard or scrambling up the scaffolding, while he wanted her to rest more than she did and cease placing herself in harm’s way around Gilmuir.
Iseabal saw nothing wrong with waddling through the construction site of Gilmuir Castle with one hand pressed against her back. Or in giving the men occasional orders while sitting in the middle of the courtyard and studying the work of the stone masons. More than once she’d called one down from the side of the wall to ask questions or obtain advice.
“I do not wish to take any of your time for more important things,” she said now when she reached him. “But I’m wondering if you could add my errands to Alisdair’s list. Only if you have time,” she added, patting his knee as he sat on his horse.
“You know I will, Iseabal. What is it that you want?”
“I need a new carving tool,” she said, handing him up a drawing of a crescent-shaped hook. “Fergus tells me that it’s too fine an instrument to be crafted by a smith, but perhaps a goldsmith might have some familiarity with it.”
“For your stone work, Iseabal?” She spoke deprecatingly of her talent, but she was capable of creating wondrous works of art simply from a block of stone and her imagination.
She nodded. “For the eyes, most particularly.”
Tucking the drawing into his jacket, he smiled down at her. “I’ll do my best. You realize, of course, that he might need some time to craft such a tool?”
&n
bsp; “I’ll have the time,” she said, returning his smile. “Your nephew is sure to make his presence known soon enough. I’ll no doubt be away from my carving for a while.”
“Fare you well, Iseabal.” He placed his hand on her arm, wished her ease in her travail with an unspoken prayer.
“Hurry back, James. What will the women of Gilmuir do without you?” she teased.
He shook his head at her, but she didn’t look the least abashed.
“Alisdair needs you also,” she added, serious once more.
Smiling again, he motioned to Rory to mount, leaving unspoken the thought that occurred to him. Alisdair could do without anyone but you, dear Iseabal.
He and Rory rode through the glen, once filled with great flocks of Drummond sheep. Over the past year they had been winnowed to make way for people and crops. Where other parts of Scotland were lonely and isolated, this corner of the Highlands was burgeoning with new life. Three babes had been born in the last month alone.
At the top of the rise, James turned and looked back toward Gilmuir. He had grown up in Nova Scotia, a land not dissimilar to this one. Yet neither place inspired in him the sense of home Alisdair felt. That lack left something missing inside him, a hole that desperately needed to be filled.
“I’m thinking that a horse is not unlike a ship,” Rory said from beside him. The boy was staring intently at a spot between the ears of his mount. “It takes a certain getting used to, all this swaying back and forth.”
James turned and smiled at his companion.
“I’m not saying I dislike it,” Rory added, still frowning down at his horse. “But, all the same, I’d prefer climbing the rigging.”
Rory had not yet made the transition from cabin boy to carpenter. Yet he had a natural affinity for building things, a talent that seemed to surprise him as much as it had anyone else.
A noise had James jerking in his saddle in time to see the branch of a nearby tree shatter before his eyes. Without thinking, he threw himself from his saddle, reaching Rory’s side and dragging the boy from the horse. Using their mounts as cover, he pulled Rory into the woods, knelt and looked around.
“Who’s the fool shooting at us?”
“A question I can’t answer. Stay here,” James said, leaving the cover of the underbrush. To his left was the promontory of Gilmuir, the bright golden light of morning illuminating the scaffolding surrounding the castle. To his right was the glen stretching up to a hill and beyond to another growth of trees. Behind him lay the forest, topped by a knoll they’d begun to call Iseabal’s Hill since she had a liking for that one spot.
Nowhere, however, was there a sign of another person.
“Is it a Drummond?” Rory asked.
For generations there had been a feud among the MacRaes and Drummonds, but that had ended a year ago with the death of Magnus Drummond. A few diehard supporters of the old laird had left, choosing to emigrate or live in Inverness rather than to accept the new order. His uncle would become, by marrying Leah Drummond, the virtual, if not titular, head of the Drummond clan.
Fergus was universally respected. None of the Drummonds currently residing at Fernleigh expressed any discontent about his presence or his rule. But silence can sometimes hide a man’s true thoughts. James knew that as well as any other leader of men.
“I don’t know who it is,” James said, scanning the countryside.
“Well, someone’s shooting at us, and no one else hates us that much.”
“Perhaps we weren’t the target.” There was a time when he and his brothers had accidentally shot the door of a neighbor’s cottage while hunting. Their father had meted out punishment swiftly—they’d been forced to replace the door, and spent hours at target shooting before being allowed to hunt again.
“It could be an accident,” James said now, more to alleviate Rory’s worry than because he actually believed it. His years of travel in foreign places had made him cautious by nature.
James returned to the boy’s side, retrieving his mount, anxious to be about this errand so that he could return to Gilmuir once more.
Thomas Drummond cursed the musket’s limited range and his own ineptitude with the weapon. He was more proficient with a pistol, but the man he’d robbed on the road from Inverness had been armed only with this useless bit of iron and wood and brass.
He would have to get closer.
Below him lay the place he’d dreamed about, had held in his memory all these days. Gilmuir Castle, the ancestral fortress of the MacRaes and the place where the Drummond clan had been defeated.
Here Magnus Drummond, his laird and cousin, had died. Here they had trussed Thomas up like a fattened goose and sent him to London aboard an English ship.
The wounds on his ankles and his wrists were barely healed, and they would forever bear the scars from English ropes. The whip marks on his back bore testament to the many times he’d been lashed in the service of His Majesty’s Navy. They’d impressed him as a sailor, and he’d never forget. The whole of the MacRaes would pay for his months of slavery.
A fortuitous accident had beached the hell ship Thomas was on, and he was one of fifteen sailors who had managed to survive. While the others had sought out another English ship, he and another man had taken advantage of the opportunity to escape. The two of them had made their way back to Scotland after many months, funding their expedition home by robbing those unwary travelers in their path. They’d parted ways weeks ago, Thomas’s destination the castle that lay before him.
For months he’d kept himself alive with a simple vow. One by one, he would kill them all, beginning with the one who’d murdered Magnus Drummond. As he watched, the MacRae and his companion mounted again. Placing the musket in the sling he’d devised, Thomas turned his horse and followed them.
Chapter 3
R iona sat beneath a venerable oak, her skirts arranged artfully around her. If a casual onlooker could ignore the streaks of dirt on her garments, the unkempt state of her hair, and the fact that her nails were dirty, she might have been considered one of Mrs. Parker’s prize pupils. But she’d helped deliver a calf this morning, and Riona doubted very much if that ability ranked highly in the older woman’s lexicon of acceptable behavior.
Tugging on her lopsided braid, she pulled it free, wishing again that there was some way of controlling her hair other than the heavy plait. Tying the ends again, she tucked the mess up on her head with what hairpins still remained, hoping it looked like a crown of sorts. A moment later, it came tumbling down again. Giving up on any semblance of propriety, she unplaited the whole thing, letting it frizz around her face like an auburn cloud.
Sitting back against the trunk of the tree, she surveyed the cloudless sky, marveling at the beauty of the day. In front of her was the lane and beyond it a meadow blooming with hardy flowers and tall grass. Sometimes, sheep foraged here, but it had been left to go wild these past months. On the other side of the expanse of land grew a series of hedges, kept neatly trimmed by the gardener and his boy. Oddly enough, the juxtaposition of the two, hedges and meadow, reminded Riona of herself.
She would dearly love to be left wild, but she was being trimmed all the time.
Take this morning, for example. She desperately wanted to discuss the birth with someone, but she wasn’t supposed to have been present, let alone to have placed her hands on the cow’s belly to gently urge the contractions.
Why should she be left in virtual ignorance of nature when she was going to give birth herself one of these days? Riona could only imagine the reaction should she ever voice that comment.
There was a book in her lap, one of those Mrs. Parker thought acceptable, but she wasn’t in the mood for Milton.
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all, but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
Suc
h place Eternal Justice has prepared
For those rebellious; here their prison ordained
In utter darkness, and their portion set,
As far removed from God and light of Heaven
As from the center thrice to th’ utmost pole.
Paradise Lost seemed a fate similar to what Mrs. Parker would have decreed for her, had not Riona chosen to wed Harold.
Riona stared at the page for a long moment, wondering why she suddenly envisioned Mrs. Parker as Milton. Perhaps it was because the older woman had not ceased in her endless complaints and dire predictions, despite the fact that Harold had announced their betrothal. All was still not well at Tyemorn Manor and would not be, evidently, until Riona—an immoral creature of sin—was safely married.
Putting the book down on the ground beside her, Riona folded her arms around her drawn up knees, staring off into the distance. The village was beginning to prepare for Lethson, the ceremony marking the summer solstice. Ayleshire had created its own celebration around the date, and this year would mark the first time the manor inhabitants would participate. At least she would be here for Lethson, she thought dispiritedly. The bonfires, the horse fair, and the blessing of the fields would take her mind from her coming nuptials.
Unless Mrs. Parker disapproved of Lethson as well.
As if she’d conjured her up, Riona heard the sound of a stick pounding on the lane. Twice a day, the Englishwoman took a bracing walk during which she quoted soul-elevating verse. “A time to exercise the spirit as well as the limbs, my girl,” Riona had been told during similar constitutionals in Edinburgh.
Mrs. Parker was making vigorous progress, striking the whins on either side of the lane with her stick until the air was perfumed with almonds. As if she were reprimanding the brilliant yellow flowers on their posture.
Realizing that she could be seen if the other woman glanced to the left, Riona looked around for a place to hide, finally choosing the hedge that bordered the edge of the front lawn. Throwing herself behind it, she lay at ground level, watching Mrs. Parker’s shoes through the gnarled branches as the older woman made her determined way to the front door.