Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties)

by Veronica Bale

  She watched his face as he flinched and battled through his pain. His was a pleasant face—one that looked like it might light up with a laugh or grow tender at the sight of a babe. A handsome face, the eyes wide and a vivid green beneath dark brows and rugged, well-defined features. A sense of pity and of loss overcame her. It was a shame such a handsome young man would die.

  She gave herself a stern mental shake, astonished that so ridiculous a thought would come to her at such a moment. Handsome or not, he was a savage Scot. A MacGillivray. An enemy to her husband’s people. Besides, his handsomeness was for naught, since she was fairly certain that she could do nothing for him.

  Though she would try.

  “I shall just step outside to the river,” she informed the man with a light touch to his hand. “That wound needs cleaning.”

  When he did not answer, she took the only vessel she could find—the deerskin sporran fastened beside his belt to the wool of his kilt—and carried it out to the stream. The water was crisp and clear as she dipped the age-softened leather below the ripples. It really should be hot water, she thought to herself, but what were the odds that the MacGillivray man had brought a tinder box with flint and steel with him into battle? And besides, what would she boil the water in?

  Bringing the full sporran back inside the hut, she sat down next to the man. Using his sgian-dubh to tear a strip of linen from his shirt, she dipped the strip into the water. Then, with a touch no lighter than a mayfly, she gingerly dabbed at the dried blood and dirt that had accumulated, clearing it from the wound. Even still, her feather-light touch was unbearable to him, and she winced sympathetically as she dabbed. She then re-wet the linen and dabbed at his face in an attempt to take some of the heat from his head.

  Beyond this, there was not much she could do for the man—at least not unequipped as she was now. She felt powerless, and overcome by her sympathy for him, she placed her hand alongside his face. His features, she was sadly sure, would soon rest peacefully in death.

  “Sir? Listen to me, sir,” she urged. “I must return now. I will be missed. Besides, if you have any chance of overcoming your fever and surviving this, I shall need a great deal of provisions.”

  Though the Scot made no acknowledgement that he’d heard her, she continued. “I cannot come back until everyone has gone to bed. But I pray you can hold on to life for that long, sir, because I promise you that I will be back, and I will do all I can to help you.”

  The urge to touch his face once more was powerful, and Jane yielded to it. Then she stood, convinced that she would not see the young man alive again.

  “Now all I have to do is remember the path we took through the forest to get here,” she mumbled to herself.

  “Turn to yer right and follow the brae,” answered the man in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  She snapped her head around to the prostrate form laid on the rotting rushes. His eyes remained closed, but his head was turned towards her.

  “The brae will take ye back to the castle.”

  “Thank you, sir. I shall,” she answered. And before she departed the dilapidated hut she added for good measure, “Try to stay alive.”

  She followed the young Scot’s advice and turned right outside the hut, walking along the bank of the brook that bubbled and gurgled its way through the dense forest. The going this way was much easier than the route they’d taken from the valley—the river’s edge made a natural path upon which obstructive foliage did not encroach. In a fraction of the time it took to reach the hut, she found herself at the edge of the wood on the other side. Peering into the distance she could see that, indeed, Dunloch was a speck on the horizon, and to the west of it she could see the cluster of dwellings which made up the village.

  She would have liked to visit the village, but now was not the time. She would need a proper escort if she were to do so—now that she knew the truth in Lord Reginald’s warning that MacGillivrays were out there lurking, many of whom were likely much more dangerous and vengeful than the poor, wounded wraith upon which she’d accidentally stumbled.

  The sun, in her time away, had moved across the sky in its morning, noon and afternoon positions, and was now contemplating setting for the evening. Realizing that the hour was much later than she’d first thought, Jane quickened her pace, worried that her long absence would cause panic at the castle. But as she passed through the main gate into the bailey, no one seemed particularly concerned one way or the other that she had returned.

  She was on the verge of breathing a sigh of relief as she made her way through the passageways and halls to her chamber, when a voice stopped her.

  “My Lady?”

  Jane turned warily. Standing behind her was Tearlach, the MacGillivray steward.

  “Yes, Tearlach?” she answered casually despite the nerves that fluttered about in her belly.

  “His Lordship were looking for ye. Ye’ve been gone a long while, if ye dinna mind me saying—only it were his Lordship that thought so.”

  “Oh, I was only out walking and lost track of time,” she lied smoothly. “I’ve never been to Scotland before, and I confess I was quite taken by the landscape.”

  There was a hint of scepticism in the elderly man’s countenance. Unnerved by his scrutiny, she added, “Shall I see his Lordship now then? Pray, tell me where he is.”

  “Actually, my Lady, it were only that the Lady D’Aubrey, the dowager baroness, were wishing to meet ye.”

  “The dowager baroness?” Jane said, startled by the revelation. “I had no idea his mother had arrived at the castle. I wonder why she did not come yesterday for the wedding.”

  Tearlach raised his eyebrows questioningly. “The Lady D’Aubrey lives here at Dunloch, my Lady. I am given to understand that she has lived wi’ his Lordship ever since the late Baron D’Aubrey passed. I believe her Ladyship is still in the solar, if ye dinna mind going to her.”

  “I shall, yes,” she answered, feeling foolish that she had not known such a significant detail. “Thank you, Tearlach.”

  She turned, glad to hurry away. But stopping suddenly, she turned back to the old man with a sheepish expression on her face. “I have forgotten myself ... how would one find the solar?”

  “Follow this hallway to that wall yonder, and then turn ye right. Ye’ll be wanting to go up the stairs. When ye reach the top, turn ye right again. Ye’ll find the solar about half way down this wing of the castle.”

  “Thank you,” she said again hastily, and dashed down the hallway.

  She found the solar with little difficulty. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar, just wide enough that she could peer inside without being seen by whoever was within. The room was neither small nor large, but a moderate size—a comfortable place to where the reigning family could retreat from the hustle and bustle of the great hall. A long wooden table dominated the centre of the space around which armchairs, constructed of dark oak and fitted with heavy, red velvet padding, were placed. The windows were high and arched, and the stained glass set intermittently among them threw magnificent patterns and colours in the setting sunlight across all that lay below. Above the wide hearth with its wooden mantle, in which a cheerful fire blazed, the outline still remained of a crest recently removed.

  The MacGillivray family crest, no doubt.

  One of the chairs from the table had been turned towards the hearth, but because it faced away from the door Jane could not make out the figure seated within. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she stepped into the solar, expecting that the figure in the chair would be a woman of similar appearance to Lord Reginald. Quite to her surprise the lady, who sat with a blanket draped over her frail lap, was rather delicate looking, with a childlike face despite her advanced age. Her countenance was serene as she looked her son’s new bride up and down, and Jane could easily discern that the lady had once been a great beauty.

  “My Lady,” she said, acknowledging the baroness. She curtseyed low in front of the lady with the
respect that her station commanded.

  “Please, stand up girl,” Lady D’Aubrey answered, encouraging her with a touch to the crown of her head. “It is you who is the reigning baroness now, not I. Please, sit with me a while.”

  Jane did as Lady D’Aubrey bade. “I am truly sorry, my Lady. I fear I have been told little about my new situation. I was unaware of your residence at Dunloch, else I would have endeavoured to come to your sooner.”

  The old lady laughed delicately. “Do not trouble yourself, child. It is as much my fault, for I was too ill to attend the ceremony yesterday.”

  “I hope it is nothing serious,” Jane ventured.

  “Oh, it is naught but age, girl,” the lady answered with a dismissive wave of her fragile hand. “Nothing you shall not experience yourself one day, I imagine. Now pray tell me, how are you liking Dunloch so far?”

  “I like it very much, thank you.”

  “Is that the truth?” Lady D’Aubrey pressed, sensing by the tone of her voice the lie that Jane could not hide.

  “Perhaps not the entire truth,” she admitted. “Do not mistake me, my Lady, it is a magnificent fortress, and the rolling hills and emerald mountains hold a majesty I have never before seen equalled. It’s just ...”

  “You are homesick,” Lady D’Aubrey finished for her when she fell silent. “I understand. We are very much the same, you and I. Our hands given away in marriage without our say, our lives uprooted, packed off to husbands far older than we, about whom we know very little ... and towards whom we feel very little attraction. I know that is a secret you harbour,” she added when Jane began to protest, wide-eyed. “And I can see by your countenance that you are a dutiful girl who is determined to keep that secret locked tight in your heart. It is just as well; things are the way they are for us women. We cannot rigidly resist the winds of our fate, else we shall break. We must bend if we are to withstand them.”

  Jane recognized a great wisdom in the old woman’s words, and a tender respect for the dowager baroness rooted within her.

  “It is not only that I long for home,” she said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Lady D’Aubrey’s assessment. “I confess I am also frightened of this land, for I have heard much about these vicious warrior Scots. I am beginning to realize how very close to the violent struggle I am here, and that is a terrifying thought.”

  “Yes, that is a constant concern,” Lady D’Aubrey allowed.

  “Even in the castle there are MacGillivrays about. Why, even the castle steward is a MacGillivray.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Tearlach.”

  Jane paused, and eyed Lady D’Aubrey curiously. “But his Lordship said he does not trust the man.”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” she answered dismissively. “Just as it is your duty to obey your husband, it’s his duty to be mistrustful of everything—for the sake of his wife’s safety, and of the safety of the people he rules. But I am not obliged to make the difficult decisions that go along with holding power, so I can afford to be more lenient in my judgement of people. I do not believe Tearlach is a threat to our peace at Dunloch.”

  “You believe, then, that he has truly changed his allegiance and now supports the king?”

  Lady D’Aubrey eyed Jane critically. “Heavens no, child. I think he is very much a MacGillivray at heart. Even now that my son rules his ancestral home.”

  “Then how can you be assured of his design? He has sworn allegiance to the Crown in order to be allowed to remain at Dunloch. He may very well intend to slaughter us as we sleep out of vengeance.”

  “My dear girl, I very much doubt that. I believe Tearlach swore allegiance because he had no choice. He was only trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

  “But it was a situation of his own making,” Jane countered. “These Scots have caused their own trouble by defying the king. Surely you can see that.”

  Lady D’Aubrey gazed at Jane, saddened by her girlish naivety; a hint of disappointment creased the corners of her eyes.

  “Jane,” she said with gravity, “you have come to a very troubled place, a very stormy place. If you are to weather this storm then you must bend. And to bend, you must open your eyes and see the whole truth. For there is much about Scotland and its people you do not know.”

  Chapter 4

  With what little time she had before the evening meal, Jane busied herself by preparing for her return to the wounded Scot. She had brought a few herbs and medicines with her from Sussex, but there were a great deal of items she still needed—thyme, for instance. In her experience, an infusion of thyme worked best to bring down a fever by causing the body to sweat. And she needed honey—if she could find it; sugar if she could not.

  She spent her time loitering about the kitchens, pilfering bits and pieces of necessities where she could—clean linens, a pair of thin woollen quilts and, to her satisfaction, a small but full pot of honey from the pantry which she managed to slip under her skirts and spirit away before any of the servants caught her.

  By the time night fell she was ready. A pack of her stolen goods, fashioned from one of the two quilts and wrapped with twine so that she could carry it on her back, was hidden away in her wardrobe.

  Her nerves were on edge. It was not that she had never done anything like this before; many times had she ventured out into the wilderness of her father’s Sussex estates, at night and alone, for no more than the exhilaration of being disobedient and free. In that respect, she was very much the opposite of her sister—where Amelia would stamp her foot and throw a fit if those around her did not bend to her will, Jane would meekly accept being told she could not have or do something. As soon as she was out of sight of prying eyes, however, she would simply find a way to achieve what it was she wanted without anyone knowing. And, she argued to herself, she only disobeyed when she knew there was no sound reason she’d been told no in the first place. Or when there was a greater good at stake. And her mission tonight certainly was for a greater good—even if the wounded man was a MacGillivray.

  The reason her nerves were on edge this night was because she would be venturing out, at night and alone, in an unknown and foreboding land teeming with barbarian Scots. She breathed deeply to steady herself. There were no second thoughts, no doubt in her mind about whether or not she should be doing this—it was not her place to question by what design God had placed her and the wounded man together. Her place was simply to do what she could to help, regardless of whether or not her own fears demanded that she leave well enough alone.

  After suffering her husband’s attentions for only the second of many more times to come, she donned her plainest wool dress, laced up a sturdy pair of shoes, and pulled her pack from the wardrobe. Then from under the bed she pulled out a large, iron pot which sported a convenient handle that she had stolen from the kitchen hearth. Though it was heavy, she was determined to carry it since she would need something in which to boil water. Adding to the weight of her burden, she’d placed several further items she would need inside: a stone cup, a pair of tongs, a ladle and a porcelain bowl. As a last measure, she fished a dying piece of charcoal from the fire and tucked it away in a porcelain box with a lid so that she would have something with which to start a fire once she arrived. The porcelain box she then placed inside her chamber pot—another necessary vessel in which to gather and prepare water ... despite its intended design.

  Loaded with her goods, Jane crept through the darkened castle. With more stealth than she would have thought herself capable, she slipped through the entrance at the rear gate house and past the sentries that stood guard atop the wall walk. Concealed by the darkness she ventured into the open landscape in the direction she thought the river would be.

  Luck was both for and against her. There was no moon that night—it lay hidden behind a dense layer of cloud. The absence of moonlight made her form impossible for the sentries to detect from atop the wall walk, but it also made it difficult for her to see anything herself as she prog
ressed. The vague outline of the horizon, jagged and darker even than the ground, indicated that the forest was ahead. The way was slow-going, and after a short while her arms began to ache from the weight of her load. Several times she stumbled over divots and uneven patches of ground, spilling the contents of her heavily laden cooking pot. Eventually, though, the sound of the brook ahead of her encouraged her to continue on her current course, and once she’d found the stream, the way was easier.

  After what seemed like an eternity the outline of the ruined hut slowly came into focus, and she quickened her pace in order to begin her ministrations to the wounded Scot inside. Standing in front of the woven-reed door, she steadied herself in preparation to meet what was likely by now a corpse. A moment’s panic seized her, rising in her throat, at the thought of the MacGillivray ghost lurking on the other side of the crumbling walls, waiting to take his revenge on the first English thing that happened upon him.

  “Silly girl,” she muttered to herself with a firm shake of her head. If he was dead, it would only mean the end of her responsibility to him.

  Upon entering the darkened hut, a series of muted sounds confirmed for her that the man was indeed alive, though just barely. She could hear the restless movement of his head and his laboured breathing through the near blackness ahead of her.

  “I am here,” she said to the man, though in his state of feverish delirium, she doubted whether he heard her.

  Fumbling blindly in the darkness, she set her things down on the rotting rushes strewn about the ground, and then gathered her cooking pot and returned outside to fetch water from the stream and to collect kindling for her fire. When she thought she had enough, she returned inside, dumped her collection in the long-unused fireplace, and pulled the porcelain box from her chamber pot. Removing the small lid from the box, she was relieved to see the piece of charcoal within was still glowing soundly. When her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness, she set the charcoal to her pile of kindling, and soon had a small but effective fire established. Darting quickly back outside once more, she fetched an armload of large stones which she would set directly in the flames so there would be something with which to boil the water.