Dancing for the Devil

by Marie Laval

  ‘I am mulish? Well, you are pig-headed, or bear-headed, take your pick of whichever animal has the thicker skull and the smaller brain.’

  His lips stretched into a slow smile. He was making fun of her. Again.

  ‘What, you’re not calling me monkey names today? I rather like it when you say I’m a macaque or a baboon.’

  She clenched her fists so hard her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. If only she could punch him! But the sleeves of his coat were so stiff she couldn’t even bend her elbows.

  Still smiling, he took a few steps toward her.

  ‘What are you smirking at?’ she hissed, stepping back until her bottom hit the table, with a bump. ‘You don’t care one jot if you just ruined my reputation, if people believe I’m your fancy woman.’

  ‘Shh, gràidheag, be quiet and trust me for once.’

  He lifted his hand and pressed a finger to her lips.

  She shivered at the contact, no doubt because all she wanted right now was to bite him! His finger lingered on her mouth. She held her breath, parted her lips.

  ‘Can we come in?’ a timid voice asked as the door opened. ‘I hope you’re not upset because of us.’

  Alana McKenzie and her mother-in-law walked in, followed by the children. The women looked at her and Lord McGunn in turns, their expression full of curiosity.

  ‘Of course not. Please sit down near the fire. You must be frozen after travelling in the storm.’ McGunn gestured toward the table and turned to Rose. ‘My sweet, will you make tea for our guests while I go out to help the men? I’ll need my coat.’

  Seething with rage, she pressed her lips in a hard line, unfastened the coat and handed it to him.

  ‘Thank you, gràidheag.’ He caught her hand and lifted it slowly to his lips, holding her gaze all the time as if daring her to pull out of his grip.

  She could hardly slap him now, not with the two McKenzie women and the children staring, so she forced a smile as he brushed the back of her hand with his mouth. It was only a light caress but once again the contact sent shivers along her arms and back, all the way down to her bottom of her spine. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and leant toward him, almost craving more of his heat, his strength, his touch.

  What was wrong with her? Her eyes flicked open, she snatched her hand away and took a step back.

  A smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, he slipped his coat on, dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out something blue she didn’t immediately recognise.

  ‘By the way, I believe this belongs to you. I found it in the mail coach.’

  It was her old bonnet – the one she thought she’d lost. He had found it and brought it back to her! She mumbled a thank you and snatched it from him.

  ‘I think you should hurry before it gets dark and there’s nothing left for you to do, my gràidheag,’ she said, mimicking his earlier term of endearment.

  He arched his eyebrows but didn’t reply. As soon as he closed the door behind him, the McKenzie children burst out laughing. Even the two women chuckled. She turned to look at them in surprise.

  ‘What is it? Why are you laughing at me?’

  ‘It’s obvious you’re not from round here, miss,’ the elder girl replied, her eyes sparkling. ‘You shouldn’t have called him gràidheag. That’s what boys call girls. You should call him gràidhean.’

  Annoyed and still disoriented by her body’s strange reaction to McGunn’s kiss, Rose clutched her bonnet against her chest and pursed her lips.

  ‘Well, I don’t speak Gaelic, and right now, I can think of a few words I’d rather call him other than gràidhean!’

  McGorilla, for one, she thought, proceeding proceeded to list more names in her head as she added wood on the grate, hooked the cooking pot full of water above the fire and placed tumblers on the table.

  Alana McKenzie sat down and looked around the cottage.

  ‘We used to have a croft house very much like this one back in our village. Now we have nothing.’ Her eyes filled with tears, her voice shook.

  Her mother-in-law squeezed her hand. ‘We still have one another, which is more than some folks can say.’

  Remembering the two women who were burned alive in front of her very eyes the day before, Rose’s resolve to see Morven punished hardened. The heartless man would pay for what he was doing to Cameron’s people, she’d make sure of it. For now, she would brew some tea and offer the McKenzies a little comfort.

  She opened a jar of preserve, took biscuits out of McGunn’s bag and turned to the children. ‘Now, I was wondering if you three were hungry.’

  They clapped and cheered and wasted no time in grabbing hold of a handful of biscuits and covering them with a thick layer of jam.

  ‘Fancy meeting Lord McGunn here!’ The older woman remarked in a quiet voice as she sipped her hot tea. ‘We heard so much about him. Garbhan’s younger cousin was in his regiment in the Punjab, you know, and he swore Lieutenant McGunn, as he was then, was the bravest and the most fearless man he’d ever met. No doubt you know what they used to call him.’

  ‘The Claymore Devil?’ Rose poured a cup for herself and sat down.

  ‘That’s right. My nephew never got over the way he was discharged for dishonourable conduct. He said it was shameful the way the other officers made a scapegoat of him, and that he took the blame for one who had deserted the field.’

  Rose frowned in surprise and leant across the table.

  ‘An officer deserted the battlefield?’ McGunn hadn’t said anything about that.

  Alana nodded. ‘Captain Frazier, he was called. He ordered his unit off the battlefield instead of charging to the aid of Lieutenant McGunn, but as he was the son of a general and had important connections he got off lightly. It was claimed he suffered from heatstroke and didn’t know what he was doing.’ She paused and sipped her tea. ‘A friend of mine, a lass from the village, is a laundry maid at the big house. She said that same Captain Frazier is a guest of Lord McRae’s at Westmore Manor right now, along with a very smart crowd.’

  ‘They must be here for Cameron’s ball – I mean, for Lord MacRae’s birthday …’ Rose sighed. ‘Do you often see him … Lord McRae? I believe he takes great interest in his estate and his people.’

  The women looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  ‘Lord McRae? He’s hardly ever at Westmore,’ Alana replied. ‘And when he is, he has better things to do than trouble himself with the likes of us. Of course now he’s getting married to a grand lady from London, he’ll be up there even less. I heard the woman hates Scotland and only agreed to come because of his Lordship’s birthday ball and the reading of the banns in church.’

  ‘What grand lady? What wedding?’ Rose’s hand started to shake and a little tea spilled onto the table.

  ‘His Lordship is getting married next week. The banns were read at church on Sunday … Lady Sophia Fairbanks, she’s called. Apparently, everyone at the manor house is afraid of her. She has terrible tantrums and thinks nothing of slapping her maids and throwing her fancy silver hairbrushes or silk slippers at them when the mood takes her.’

  Rose tried to breathe, but her chest felt too tight and the room danced and spun around her as she rose to her feet.

  Alana frowned. ‘Are you not feeling well, Miss Rose? You look awfully pale all of a sudden.’

  Rose’s cup shattered on the table and scalding hot tea splashed all over her dress, soaking the fabric. Her knees buckled under her and her fingers gripped the edge of the table for support.

  ‘Miss Rose, what’s wrong? Are you ill?’ Alana’s voice seemed far away.

  ‘Of course, she’s ill. Look at her!’ The older woman scolded. ‘Help me get her onto that bed over there.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Rose said. ‘Why are you saying that he’s marrying some lady from London …’ Panic made her heart drum in her chest, fast, too fast. ‘You must be mistaken. He can’t marry anybody. He just can’t.’

  The two M
cKenzie women stared at her in astonishment. The children glanced up from their jam and biscuits.

  ‘But he is, the banns were read in church, I told you. You need to get out of that wet dress, lassie.’ The old woman’s tone brooked no contradiction. ‘Have you any spare clothing?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘Only a nightdress and …’ She was about to mention her pantaloons, shirt and bolero when the woman interrupted her.

  ‘Then you shall wear your nightdress and wrap that nice thick plaid around you.’ She pointed to the blanket which McGunn had left in a heap on the bed.

  ‘No, I don’t think …’

  ‘You’d be wasting your breath arguing, Miss Rose,’ Alana interrupted. ‘My mother-in-law always gets her way. Besides, you will only catch a cold if you stay in your wet dress. Look, you’re shaking already.’

  Rose was too shocked to explain that it wasn’t her wet dress that was making her shake, but what the elder McKenzie woman had just said.

  Alana bent down to pick up Rose’s bag. ‘Come on, let’s get you undressed. We’ll talk later.’

  Garbhan and Angus McKenzie chose one of the larger cottages for their family, and Bruce helped them unload supplies and blankets from their cart. Together they gathered wood, made a fire and tidied the place up. Like the other abandoned houses, it contained a few pieces of furniture, crockery and cooking pots, even bedding. It was as if its former occupants had left to run an errand and would return at any moment.

  Bruce brought in a last pile of wood and stacked it near the fireplace to dry.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking but I’m rather curious about your young lady.’ Garbhan tipped the straw mattress off the bed to shake off the dust. ‘She’s a pretty lass but she doesn’t sound like she’s from round here.’

  ‘No indeed,’ Bruce replied. ‘Rose is from Algeria, in North Africa.’

  Garbhan let out a low whistle. ‘Algeria? Now that’s a coincidence. Lord McRae brought back some fancy women dancers and musicians from that very same country two weeks ago.’

  He put the mattress back and stroked his chin, thoughtful. ‘What’s your young lady doing here?’

  ‘Her ship was caught in a storm and had to stop in the Kyle of Wrath for repairs.’ The MacKenzies didn’t need to know any more.

  Garbhan’s father carried on pulling blankets from a one of the bags he’d unloaded and piling them up on the bed.

  ‘I heard there were some funny goings-on in the hunting lodge with those dancers,’ he said after a moment. ‘Mind you, it’s the same every time McRae is up in Westmore. The man is a rotten apple. He’s nothing like his father. Now, he was a decent sort, Niall McRae …’

  ‘No McRae is ever decent,’ Bruce said between clenched teeth. As far as he was concerned, McRaes were, and had always been, devious, lying cheats and murderers.

  ‘No, he was a good man, really,’ the old man insisted. ‘He would never have gone along with the clearances. He wanted to improve the land and life of his cottars and crofters. I remember he even wanted to put an end to the feud with your family. He visited your grandfather often. There were even rumours of …’

  He stopped mid-sentence, looked away and coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘Rumours of what?’ Bruce asked, frowning.

  The old man turned away, but not before Bruce saw his face colour.

  ‘Never mind. It was a shame he got himself killed at Waterloo. Life at Westmore was never the same after that. Lady Patricia was already a harsh and bitter woman, but after Lord Niall died she let that thug Morven rule the estate like he owned it. And that son of hers, he was never any good.’

  Yes, the man had got that right. Lady Patricia was indeed a heartless bitch, and McRae a depraved rake.

  When the crofter’s house was ready, the McKenzies and Bruce made their way back to the women and children. Bruce stopped by the barn to take care of Shadow on the way. It was dark by the time he walked across the clearing. He kicked the snow off his boots against the wall, pushed the door open and was greeted by the sound of Rose’s voice telling the children a story.

  One glance at her was enough for his breath to catch in his throat. She sat on the bench in her long white nightdress, his plaid wrapped around her shoulders and her blonde hair falling in wild curls down to her waist, glowing like gold threads spun by fairies in the light of the fire.

  The two McKenzie girls sat on her knees. Next to her, the boy pretended to be bored but Bruce could tell from the intent look in his eyes that he was listening to her every word. Longing tightened his chest so much he actually stopped breathing. This was what she would look like one day, sitting with her own children – hers and McRae’s children – as she told them bedtime stories.

  Children … the thought of having any had never crossed his mind before. You didn’t have children when you had nothing to give, nothing to teach but bitterness

  He crossed his arms on his chest and leant against the door to listen.

  ‘And so the evil djin tricked Old Ibrahim into leaning over the well and tugged hard on his long, black beard. Old Ibrahim fell down the deep, dark pit, never to be seen again.’

  Rose paused and carried on with a whisper.

  ‘But every so often, people swear that a long, dark shadow creeps out of the village well, slides into the houses of Ibrahim’s enemies and scares them to death.’

  The three children shrieked in one voice. ‘The beard!’

  Rose nodded and repeated. ‘The beard indeed. People say it’s still as beautiful, lustrous and black now as it was fifty years ago.’

  Bruce smiled. A haunted beard? Now that was unusual! So this was the story behind that Ibrahim character she so often referred to.

  Sensing his presence, Rose looked at him. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen. He frowned, a pang of alarm hit his chest.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She stroked the little girls’ hair before lifting them gently off her lap.

  ‘Go and help your mother and grandmother prepare something to eat,’ she said before rising to her feet.

  She looked so small, vulnerable and lost that he had to fight the urge to gather her in his arms and hold her against him. Instead he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and scowled.

  ‘Why are you wearing your nightclothes when we have company?’

  She pulled the sides of the plaid closer onto her chest.

  ‘I spilled hot tea all over my dress.’

  ‘Miss Rose got herself all upset when we told her about Lord McRae getting married,’ Alana said.

  ‘What do mean, McRae’s getting married?’ He glanced between the woman and Rose, who stood pale and still as a statue.

  ‘Lord McRae is marrying a grand lady from London,’ Alana explained. ‘We were in church when the banns were read last Sunday.’

  So Rose had lied. She wasn’t married to McRae at all and MacRae’s wedding to Lady Sophia Fairbanks was still on … not pausing to examine why he felt more relief than anger at the news of being taken for a fool, he took his coat off and threw it on the bed.

  ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘There’s some tea left,’ Rose said in a weak voice.

  ‘Tea? I’d rather have a dram of whisky.’ He looked around. ‘Have you seen my flask anywhere?’

  This time, her cheeks flushed bright pink.

  ‘It’s in your bag but …’

  He arched his eyebrows. ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s empty. I – I poured the whisky out.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I thought I was doing you a favour since whisky doesn’t agree with you.’

  ‘Good grief, woman, whisky does agree with me! What happened last night had nothing to do with it,’ he roared. ‘Oh and never mind. If all we have is tea, then you’d better make it strong.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bruce closed the door to the McKenzie’s cottage and strode across the clearing at the centre of the abandoned hamlet. It had sto
pped snowing some time during the evening and the temperature had dropped even further. The cold burnt his lungs, the wind slapped his cheeks but he relished the chance to be alone at last.

  He gave a last look to the cottage where children and adults were tucked up in bed, safe and warm for now. He brushed away the odd feeling he had experienced when he’d put Ross McKenzie to bed while Angus and Garbhan took care of the little girls. As the boy linked his arms around his neck and gave him a sleepy smile, he had once again felt something stir deep inside – an urge so strong, so vital and alien it had knocked him sideways. What would it feel like to have a son, to care for him, watch him grow and become a man – and to be the core of a family? Would his life have turned out any differently had he been wanted, loved and cherished like Ross McKenzie, instead of being the bastard son of a mother who’d taken her own life, the bastard grandson of a violent drunk eaten by hatred and bitterness?

  He would never know …

  He took a deep, cold, burning breath before pushing the door to his cottage. Damn, he was being annoyingly sentimental tonight. Not a good idea when he had to confront a liar, find a murderer and save his estate from ruin.

  He walked into the house and shrugged off his coat. Rose was still up, seemingly engrossed in tidying up.

  He gave her a hard stare and threw the coat onto the back of a chair.

  ‘Why did you lie to me?’

  ‘I didn‘t.’ She didn’t even look at him but carried on stacking the dirty tumblers up. She then snapped shut the lid of the jam jar and brushed the crumbs off the table top into the palm of her hand. When she threw the crumbs into the fire, the flames hissed and flared.

  Like his temper. He strode toward her, stopping only a couple of paces from her.

  ‘You did lie. You heard the McKenzies … the question is why.’

  The rush of heat to her cheeks didn’t escape his attention, and neither did the trembling of her hands as she caught the sides of the plaid slipping off her shoulders. So she wasn’t that cool and composed after all.

  He narrowed his eyes, hardened his voice.

  ‘I want answers, and I want them now. Who are you? McRae’s mistress? A whore he picked up in the docks in Algiers?’