Turning to look back along the way that the carriages had come, Caoimhe turned into the wind and was forced to brush the ragged strands of her hair away from her face. They caught behind her ear and rolled up with the wind once more to catch in the corner of her mouth, lying flush against her pale skin.
“A mòd at Aberlynn, perhaps?” she asked her father. A summoning of men to the laird’s estate was uncommon but not unheard of. And those that took the road over the valley meadows and down towards the spit that struck out into the waters of the bay could only be headed for one of two destinations: Lord Brodie’s Aberlynn castle and estate, or the sea.
“More likely a cèilidh,” her father answered, shifting Effie’s weight upon his hip. The little girl was sucking on her thumb and watching the horses ride into the distance. “I heard that Malcolm Brodie’s wife was expecting. Perhaps she’s had the bairn already.”
“He’s the laird?” Caoimhe asked, not recognizing the name of Malcolm. Perhaps, if she were more interested in listening to her father’s talks with his old friend Lord Mackenzie, she would have been more aware of the politics that loomed over her beloved lands. All she knew was that their Brodie overseer was a man of little conversation and detestation of women. The idea that he was married seemed peculiar in itself.
“The laird’s cousin,” her father corrected, as the three of them set off once more.
They were careful to avoid the mud that had been churned up by the hooves and wheels of the passing carts.
“Perhaps I’ll ask Duncan what the to-do was about when next I see him.” He turned to look at his youngest grandchild. “You’ll have to listen, sweet Effie, for I’m sure there will be much story to tell of dancing and dresses.”
Caoimhe smiled at the light that suddenly infused Effie’s features with an eager curiosity. She loved to see her family entertained, even if she saw no delight in such things herself. She had little interest in speculating upon the happenings at the castle. All the rumors and gossip of the way the well-to-dos lived came to her as more frightening than exciting. She held no curiosity in the scheming games of the rich, nor in their needs to appear refined and elegant, despite such childish games.
The world of the rich only served to confuse her. There was no need to possess land to enjoy it, and food was always delicious, so long as there was enough.
Caoimhe reached up to tickle her niece beneath the chin as they walked, and the giggle that exploded across the morning air was all that she needed.
Life did not need threat, pride, and gluttony. Only the joy of a kind and loving family.
She would just have to pray that God permitted her that, one day.
3
God Is Listening
Caoimhe’s mother had often said that one could never be sure when God was listening. That was the importance of prayer. Not only did fealty on Sundays and the devotion to tradition prove your loyalty to the Almighty, but it also assured that your wishes were heard at one point or another. It might have been on that morning that you awoke with the sun too bright upon your eyes, or a moment in the night when you feared for sleep. Whenever you cast your mind to the heavens, there was a chance, but no guarantee, that the great Father was listening; that it was continuing devotion that was the sign of true faith.
Yet, apparently, he had heard Caoimhe well enough in just a single moment of thought.
The idea of a family, of union and children, had entered her mind only once in recent years—on that walk back from the docks on a dewy morning in late September. But, by the time the new year came, just a week later, her prayer had been answered nonetheless.
When wandering that narrow pathway and thinking that family and compassion were all that she needed in her life, Caoimhe had not been looking for such things to appear so soon. She was living neither a sad nor lonely existence tending to her mother and supporting her father. Especially now that her widowed sister had been forced to return to the family homestead, sons and daughter tailing in her wake. She was content in the family that she had, with no immediate desire to find one of her own.
Yet, fate had decided otherwise.
Not three days after Effie’s ribbon had almost been lost to the sea, her father had returned home to announce the opportunity for her to be equally so. Feeling as if she were riding the currents of the waters, floating on their tides without paddle or steer, Caoimhe was told of plans made for her to meet with Duncan Mackenzie. Arrangements were handled without preamble or hesitations for thought; a few days later, Caoimhe was seated in a fashionable carriage, on her way to the Aberlynn estate.
Beside her, Kenneth Webb sat in awkward discomfort. He shifted and jiffled in his seat, never content to sit still upon a moving bench. His eyes sought the grasslands beyond the structure of the cart and watched as fields and meadows passed by. The man had always seen fit to travel on his own two legs and rarely adhered to the need for horse riding, let alone a carriage, but Lord Mackenzie had insisted.
During her childhood, Caoimhe had learned much about the old lord from her father, but never in any context that she saw as provident to herself. He was a man of wealthy but common origins that had served with her father during an eight-year clan war some decades ago. He was, according to Kenneth Webb, a gentleman of integrity and honor, more suited to scholarly pursuits than warfare. He had served his lands only in patriotic fervor, more than in any desire for bloodshed.
Despite later marrying into the noble Brodie bloodline, the then Lord Mackenzie had kept his friendships intact, especially with his closest brother-in-arms—the sailmaker from down by the coast. The two were contemporaries in age—Duncan perhaps a little older—and had not seen their relationship dwindle as life had seen their paths divide.
Caoimhe had always held a sense of kindness towards the older man.
He had visited her family when she was little, giving gifts of sweetbreads and pretty flowers. She had called him “Lord Duncan” and he had taught her how to curtsy and bow like a little lady. Her nostalgia cast the man in an affectionate light but only through the eyes of a little girl for an uncle. It had been years since she had seen the man in the flesh, only hearing stories of his chatter and exploits from her father. Just how was she to combine such innocent affection with the duties of a wife?
Nevertheless, she reminded herself, as the carriage drew from the lane to the private grounds of the Aberlynn castle, no decision had yet to be made. She might not yet marry the man.
A chivalrous and charming gentleman to his soul, Lord Mackenzie had insisted upon her permission to take her hand from that of her father. He had vowed that such permission could not be given in right of mind and willing soul if they did not first meet face-to-face once more.
Feeling a flutter of nerves in her belly, Caoimhe mirrored her father and shifted in her seat to look beyond the carriage at the passing forestry. They had shifted from the open valley moors to the private woodlands of the laird’s castle, and the sight of brilliant greenery and succulent growth had her anxieties calm and her lips curling into a soft smile. She breathed deep and caught the scents of oak, willow, thistle weed, and dandelion. It was a wild and rebellious smell that had her fingers curling around the edge of the carriage window.
The Aberlynn lands were so vast that it took some time for the carriage to finally arrive at the first of the estate’s buildings. Large and imposing walls circled the territory of the laird with an uncompromising show of power. As the cart passed through an arched entrance, Caoimhe’s eyes widened at how thick the stone boundary was. It would take at least five paces of a tall man to see them from one side of the wall to the other.
Perhaps the whispers of the laird’s dislike of people were one of those rare things: a truthful rumor. There was little about the estate’s first impression that was welcoming.
On the other side of the wall, as sunlight broke back over their cart and set her vision bright, Caoimhe blinked and gasped at the grounds beyond.
It felt as if the lai
rd had built just as much land within his castle grounds as outside. Where trees and woodland stretched out and down the valley on the outside of the walls, the internal grounds had been cropped into submission. There were no trees nearby; simply open grassland that had been trimmed and maintained so that it would barely rise above a satin slipper. Stone walkways had been built so visitors might walk between the stretches of green without ever treading upon the grass itself. Bushes and plants that grew around the buildings were neatly scaled into smooth shapes and arches.
Shifting to look out her father’s side of the carriage, Caoimhe saw more woodland to the eastern side of the grounds, divided from its brethren of trees by the solid wall of the enclosure. But it was kept to its area, no descending growth of shrubs and trees leading into a riotous forest. Instead, the grounds were perfectly tended flatlands until the first trees that rose towards the sky. Beyond the western wall, Caoimhe knew that the sea waited. That the forests of the laird’s lands traveled down to the outlying spit that stood proud against the encroaching waters. If she listened hard enough, she supposed that she might be able to hear the tides, but within the walls of the estate, the wildness of nature was gone. Everything was ordered and controlled, kept within its little box as a display of human power over the world of God.
Caoimhe was only three miles from her home upon the beachland dunes, from her own shoreline and tide. And yet, she felt a thousand lifetimes away from it now. Her soul belonged in the rough and tumble of the long coarse grass and in the thatched little home that surrendered beneath the climbers and the vines that tried to pull the building back into nature. Not here, where stonework dominated the natural order of life.
The carriage drew to a halt before the first building inside the walls.
In the distance, Caoimhe could see the main castle of the Brodie laird. It stood three stories high yet still appeared stout. The wings of its structure reached out towards the widest compass points, as if to embrace the land it held. Or perhaps to control it. There was no greenery ascending the walls, no flowers at windows like there were back home. Instead, the only color upon the grand manor house was that of a single flag on the furthest tower. The breeze was light that day, barely setting the flag to wave. But, as it shimmered in the open air, Caoimhe narrowed her eyes to catch the colors of green and blue tartan.
Taking her father’s hand, Caoimhe stepped out of the carriage, careful to hold her skirts out from beneath her feet. The little slippers that her sister had lent her were silken and set the balls of her feet slipping over their surface. She wiggled her toes and tried to hold her balance better, letting the soft wool of her gown fall down over her feet.
Caoimhe was dressed in the finest that her home could provide her. The dress was of a deep green knit and fitted with a careful hand. The daughter of sailmakers, she could not be seen to wear textiles of poor craftsmanship. The gown was soft upon her figure and wide at the shoulders. Her neck, perhaps the most sweet and elegant of her features, rose in swanlike care from a thin and fragile frame. Caoimhe was no buxom Scottish maid and built on far finer lines. With looks that would appeal to the discerning. In a dress so fine, she looked even younger than her seventeen years, and her mother had attempted to offer her a look of maturity by twirling her braids into a knot upon her head.
Feeling exposed without her long tresses blowing about her face, Caoimhe was thankful for the distraction when the doors to the gatehouse were pulled wide and the figure from her childhood appeared in order to greet them. Diverted from her appearance and her concerns therein, Caoimhe smiled brightly in response to the open and genuine welcome that Lord Mackenzie cast upon the both of them.
“Webb, my old man! Where have you been? I expected you but an hour ago and have waited in bated breath at the arrival of you and your daughter!” His gaze then moved to Caoimhe and softened with warmth. “My dearest Miss Caoimhe, but how you have grown. I think the last I saw of you, you were no taller than my waist.”
Caoimhe smiled gently and then moved into a rudimentary but graceful curtsy of respect.
“Lord Mackenzie,” she greeted.
As her eyes lowered to the floor, she absorbed the man’s attire as well made and expensively dyed. But, in style, he was dressed a little differently than her father—in a long tunic, short in the sleeve, over an undershirt and hose. A belt was latched around his waist but only the customary knife hung upon his hip. No sword and no tools of a fighter. He wore a short beard and had hair to his shoulders, but his locks were tamed and clean. His face was ruddy with a little age, though his eyes were bright and his smile one of witty knowledge. When it came to the gaudy decor of the upper classes, Lord Mackenzie wore only a golden cross around his neck. Caoimhe spotted a signet ring upon his smallest finger as his arms parted in the ghost of an embrace.
“Oh please, call me Duncan!” he begged of her, dispensing with formalities. He looked at his friend as Caoimhe rose back to her full but small height.
“Your daughter is one of great manners, Webb, but I fear she is nervous of me.” He looked at her again. “I would have thought a lady of your prettiness and gentility, my dear, would take all of such meetings in stride. Come, come, I have some fine mulled wine inside for us all to enjoy.”
When Duncan spoke to Caoimhe, he held a unique skill in flattering her person without ever turning his compliments desirous. She had never felt uneasy in the man’s presence and was quickly realizing that such a sentiment would not be changing now that she was an adult. She flushed in blushing pride over his words, having never been told before that she was pretty. Her gaze fell to the ground as she became self-conscious, and she was quiet as she followed the men towards the gate lodge.
As her father followed his old friend inside, Caoimhe waited a moment to look upon the structure, wondering if this would become her new home. It was only a tenth of the size of the main estate, but it held that same powerful shape upon the skies above. It rose, four stories high, a solid turret of stone that stood guard over the arched entryway. A warden to guard the lands of the laird. The same flag of blue and green tartan hung from above its doorway, regal and uptight. But Caoimhe was pleased to note a glazed pot of blue sitting before the front step. White flowers fluttered merrily in the breeze, smiling at her in welcome; a singular strike against the imposing dominance of stone.
The bark of a dog had Caoimhe jump and almost trip over her skirts as she took two hurried steps back away from the sound. The sharp canine call had rent the air in a sudden blast, but it came from far away. Caoimhe pressed a hand to her racing heart, feeling it thunder against her breast. A cool sweat had broken over her shoulders and down her chest at the very sound. Ever since she was small and bitten by a wild stray that had chased her for half a mile, she had always feared dogs. Logically, she knew there was nothing to fear from trained animals, but still, their barks and cries haunted her with a dreaded terror she could not seem to subside.
Looking out across the grounds, Caoimhe spotted the animal in question. It ran and chased two more of its kind. The creatures were so far away that she couldn’t tell if they were a solid black in coat or if they were just silhouetted against the morning sun. However, she could tell that there were three of them, enjoying a game of chase or fighting between themselves for supremacy.
A male call, a command lost on the wind, drew Caoimhe’s eyes to the figure that followed the three dogs. Wondering if he was closer than he seemed, for his height was immense, Caoimhe watched the animals obey the man’s instructions. She was not surprised that they bent to his authority. He moved like one of them, a stride and gait of power that determined him as the alpha of his domain. His legs were long, his hips lean, and his shoulders broad. She could see neither his face nor clearly identify his clothes; he was a simple shade on the horizon, on the other side of the estate. But, for a moment, he stopped and appeared to look at her.
A tension in her body had Caoimhe swallow, watching the man who appeared to be watching her back, though
she could not see his eyes.
But something in that stare had her hair standing on end and her lungs catch on the cool morning air.
“Caoimhe?”
Her father’s call broke whatever spell had been cast upon her, and Caoimhe looked sharply away from the shadow on the horizon. She turned towards her father, who stood in the doorway, watching her with bemused indulgence.
“Come, Daughter,” he beckoned her.
With one last, wary glance in the direction of the dogs, Caoimhe saw their master wandering after them, as if he had never noticed her at all. She swallowed, shook off the silliness that had sent a shiver down her spine, and followed her father into the gatehouse and towards her new future.
4
Snakes in the Grass
Niall had forgotten that one of his serving maids had entered the room to see to the cleaning, until she made him jump. The cusses he growled beneath his breath were vile enough to have the older woman jolt, a startled look upon her features. She glanced towards her master, tentative and fearful that such harsh language had been directed at her, but Niall only went back to the letters in front of him. He didn’t have the time to soothe ruffled sensibilities when people were trying to steal his lands from under him.
He pawed over the parchment letters strewn about his desk. The ends curled back on themselves from where they had been held prisoner to a heavy seal of wax. His large hands flattened the paper so that he might read the reports once more.
Haunted By A Highland Curse: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance Page 3