The Devil’s Due

by Boucher, Rita

  “I ask ye all for your pardon. For too many years, the Lairds of Eilean Kirk have enriched themselves and let the clan suffer, left debts unpaid and taken much . . . but given naught.” Duncan’s look touched each one of those careworn faces, hardened by time and disappointment. “‘Tis my intent to make a start at setting matters right. My father’s debts will be paid, though at present, I nae have the wherewithal to do so, but ‘pon my oath every crofter or tacksman will be recompensed for what was taken by force and trickery. Till ye prosper again, there will be nae rent or share asked.”

  A ragged cheer went up. “The curse is nae mair. The curse is nae mair.”

  “Nay,” Tam’s voice boomed above the din, “‘Tis nae passed yet. Recall ye what the Prince did say?

  ‘Thus he spake, our Prince sae bold,

  When MacLean places honor before his gold.

  When the silent find words t’ speak

  and MacLean his vengeance willna seek.

  Then this bane shall lifted be,

  When the blind MacLean shall truly see.’” The old man recited, like an ancient bard. “Seems to me, that our new laird may have honor, but there is nae much gold,” he added humorously.

  There was laughter from the crowd.

  “But he’s willin’ to try,” one hopeful voice piped up.

  “Aye, so he is,” Tam agreed warmly, putting a hand on Duncan’s shoulder and drawing him into a hearty embrace. “The MacLean, I say, The MacLean!”

  Duncan felt their eyes upon him, judging him. He wanted to tell them not to hope, that until now, he had never truly considered their needs, his obligations to them. He was bound to disappoint their expectations. Yet, though he was unworthy, they thrust their faith upon him, shackling him with every touch of a hand. Every tentative smile became another link in the chain that bound him. Slowly, the crowd took up the chant that Tam had begun, until the name that Duncan had hated rang in his ears. “MacLean! MacLean!” But for the first time in his life, there was no derision. It was defiance of the past, a wish for the future.

  Never before had Kate seen a man so utterly dumbfounded. The people of Strathkirk crowded around Duncan, shaking his hand, hailing him with warmth that melted his icy reserve. A bewildered smile lit every crag and corner of that powerful face as they surrounded him, welcoming their chieftain home at last. She had feared for him, she realized, but luckily that anxiety had been for naught. Certainly, he had no need of her now. She slipped off of Fred’s horse. But before she could make her way behind the crowd, Tam noticed her and quieted the din with a wave of his hand.

  “Do ye forgive me, milady, for doubtin’ ye, milady?” he asked.

  “As Duncan said, there is naught to forgive,” Kate said guiltily. “In fact, it is I who should be asking pardon as well . . .” She knew that she ought to end the deception, to tell them all that she was not Duncan’s lady. But as she looked around her she saw joy and smiles on faces that had never before held a hint of happiness. This was not the time for such truth telling. “My daughter too, had a nightmare last night. She was likely the one that your grandson feared as a she-ghoulie.”

  “There is nae a one among us who has nae cried out in the night, man, woman nor child, milady, milord,” Tam said including them both in his consoling look. “And even had ye come, milady, she was a seven month babe, come too fast and sickly, nae Laing for the world. I would though that my daughter had the comfort of yer hand and yer healin’.”

  “She can have it still, if she wishes,” Kate said.

  “MacLean and his lady!” Other voices took up the cheer and it echoed behind her as Kate hurried away to expiate her crime of fraud as best she could.

  . . .

  Time was running short. The doctors were shaking their heads even as they presented bills and false hopes. Vesey had allowed his wife the luxury of a small rally, not quite a recovery, but hopefully, long enough to locate his errant sister-by-marriage and her child. Once Chloe was dead, there would inevitably be questions and it would be infinitely preferable to have matters settled.

  At last, there was a definite clue to the whereabouts of his niece and sister-by -marriage. A carter near Dover had distinctly recalled two women and a child. . . a dark- haired child . . . clever of her to dye the girl’s hair. Kate’s hair was the color of deep glossy chestnut and as smooth to the touch as a length of silk. It had fallen well below her waist, down to . . . Vesey’s fist clenched. He would not allow himself to think of it. Best to deal with that later and occupy his thoughts elsewhere. Prinny was hinting at yet another loan and this time there would certainly be a barony when the debt was smiled away.

  Clasping that hope to his bosom, Vesey moved on to the business at hand. His desk was piled high. All of the Steele family affairs had fallen to him, naturally, and as always, he was moving carefully and judiciously. On the face of it, no one could claim that Vesey was anything other than the diligent steward. However, he did not dare to hire a secretary to ease the burden of correspondence and administration. He had learned the hard lesson that the slightest indiscretion, the least bit of heedlessness, could lead to inadvertent discovery. It was a lucky thing indeed that Duncan MacLean had been fool enough to confront him directly. Otherwise, all his diligent planning would have been for naught.

  Vesey scrutinized every bit of correspondence carefully, making notes, weaving his web of control over the Steele assets ever tighter. Still, he nearly tossed aside one letter as some mendicant’s plea or tradesman’s demand. The quality of the paper was poor and the seal less than impressive. However, it was addressed to Lord Steele. Vesey broke the wax and realized that it was from a solicitor’s office.

  Although he racked his brain, Vesey could recall no Edinburgh law firm with connections to his wife’s late brother. Puzzled he read on, his breath catching in his throat as he read and re-read the scrawled missive.

  MacLean was alive.

  The paper rustled, crumpling as Vesey’s hand closed convulsively. He breathed deeply forcing himself to read on. The Scot was a lord now, it seemed, a bloody Earl, and he was asking Marcus to return the bequest that was distributed to him, a book of Blake’s poetry and a ring.

  It took two glasses of port to steady Vesey’s hand. He reminded himself that he was a man to be reckoned with now, more influential, certainly, than he had been when MacLean had faced him with those accusations. It would be the Mad MacLean’s slander against the word of one of the members of Prinny’s most intimate circle. But the Scot was an earl now and there was the possibility that MacLean did have the evidence that he had mentioned so long ago. Dimly Vesey recalled the words of that conversation of the eve of the battle of Badajoz.

  “I shall give you one chance only, Vesey,” MacLean had warned. “Any charges against you would cause a scandal and damage Marcus’s career and name. Confess and resign your commission. Cooperate and you would get off fairly easily, in all likelihood and avoid sullying your family.”

  “This is utter nonsense, MacLean!” He had protested.

  “I have proof,” the Scot had said, his expression hardening into stone. “Names, dates, places. By nightfall tomorrow, Vesey. Provide your resignation, confession and an offer of restitution or you may sing your songs of innocence all you wish, for it will do you no good.”

  It had been a simple matter to arrange for MacLean’s demise. There were more than a few senior officers who owed Vesey favors, men who had feared being implicated. MacLean had been sent into the heart of the furnace, a section of the battlefield where he was sure to perish under fire, or so Vesey had thought. But now the Scot was back.

  If Duncan MacLean still had the evidence in hand, though, why had he not come forward yet? Vesey loosened the folds of his cravat, easing the points of his collar that were suddenly pressing against his throat.

  A deeply troubling thought crept from the recesses of Vesey’ brain. He read through the MacLean’s missive once more, parsing and weighing every word. According to the Scot, Blake’s So
ngs of Innocence was the book that had been left to Marcus. However, his brother-by marriage had despised poetry as so much rhymed drivel and had oft condemned poets as posturing scribblers. Surely MacLean had known of Marcus’s tastes?

  “You may sing your songs of innocence all you will.”

  Vesey recollected MacLean’s ironic smile. Yes, it would suit the Scot’s cursed humor to twit his enemy and dangle the hiding place for the evidence right before his nose.

  Vesey had searched MacLean’s tent after the battle, of course, under the pretext of gathering the Scot’s last effects. Vesey’s teeth gnashed as he recalled the lushly illustrated volume, remembered holding it in his hand and tossing it aside without consideration. He had falsely concluded that MacLean had kept the evidence on his person. No corpse had ever been confirmed as MacLean’s, but there had been many bodies on that bloody field that were charred or blown beyond recognition.

  Gradually, the hammering of Vesey’s heart slowed. If the evidence was in that book of Blake, then MacLean did not have it. Obviously, the Scot still believed that Marcus was among the living. Perhaps, MacLean was still hoping to avoid embroiling his friend in a scandal or was he just waiting for the return of the evidence that he needed? The book might very well be the key.

  Vesey calculated rapidly. The execution and distribution of a soldier’s will was often a slow process. So it was quite possible that Marcus had already been dead when the terms of the will had been fulfilled. It was extremely likely that the bequest would have gone to Kate a month or two before Vesey had moved himself and his wife into the Steele mansion.

  Kate had been pitifully easy to manipulate, believing him without question. It had been simple enough for him to gather the reins of power. She had seemed utterly without spirit, a pale, cowed doll of a woman, perfect in every way for his purposes, with a beauty that stirred his senses. With difficulty, Vesey turned his thoughts once more toward the whereabouts of that book.

  The volume was lost, Vesey told himself, but somehow that possibility did not allay his fears. A vague picture formed on the periphery of his consciousness, a picture of a tiger illuminated by moonlight. He cast deeper into the pool of recollection. The nursery . . . he had seen that book of poetry on one of his forays upstairs. One of Anne’s books.

  Vesey charged up the stairs, nearly knocking down the new chambermaid in his haste. He rushed to the bookcases, strewing the volumes in careless disregard as he searched for that one book. But it was not there.

  The blond porcelain doll that he had given Anne sat perched upon her bed, staring at him with her green glass eyes. With a roar of rage, he snatched up the doll and dashed it into the empty fireplace.

  . . .

  “There, that’s the last in this bucket,” Duncan said, daubing a trowel full of pitch on the sloped roof and surveying it with satisfaction. The sound of hammers echoed across the loch. Half the village of Strathkirk and nearly every MacLean crofter was up on the roofs, pounding and repairing the ravages of time and neglect. They had come at dawn, armed with brooms and mops, hammers and pitch. “I still think that I am dreaming.”

  Fred lowered the empty bucket to the ground and grinned. “The best dream you’ve ‘ad in a long time, I’d say. Seen the innards of the place yet? Daisy’s got the women in a lather, scrubbin’ and polishin’. I thought I was in the deserts of Araby, with all the dust they raised.”

  “They will have to be paid,” Duncan said, calculating against the thinning contents of his purse. “Unfortunately, I can give them little beyond the butler’s grace right now, my thanks and a few coins.”

  “They know you ain’t flush with the ready. Be right surprised, won’t they, when they find out you’re richer than Golden Ball” Fred chuckled.

  “Aye,” Duncan allowed himself a smile as he squinted into the sunlight, almost expecting those busy figures to disappear. There was a curious tightness in his chest, a swelling of pride along with a stab of fear. He could not fail them as his family had done so many times before. “And they are doing it without any expectation of compensation, Fred. Look at them. Every single one of these people is barely scrabbling by themselves, yet they are wasting their time on this old ruin. I can barely offer them a meal when they’re done, but I shall make it up to them,” he vowed.

  “Not now, I ‘ope,” Fred said practically. “Even though milady is keepin’ us fed, we’ll ‘ave barely enough to carry us through the winter.”

  “Why do you keep addressing her as ‘milady,’ Fred?” Duncan asked in an undertone, looking carefully about to make sure that there were no listeners. “You know it makes her feel ill at ease, especially now. She almost winces when one of the crofters uses it. Not that I blame her, mind. It is more a pity than an honor to be known as MacLean’s lady.”

  “The title is simple respect.” Fred glowered. “I’d wager every penny piece you owe me from before and till doomsday that she is a lady by right. Daisy makes use of it, even when she’s thinkin’ the two of them are private like.”

  “Force of habit?” Duncan questioned.

  “A long bred ‘abit then,” Fred reasoned. “In times of need, ‘tis ‘milady’ that Daisy calls for. Been around long enough to see what’s what. Makes Daisy fair to cringe to call ‘er mistress by ‘er given name. Slips sometime and calls ‘er ‘Miss Katie,’ Daisy does, but most times, ‘tis ‘milady,’ that comes when she ain’t watchin’ ‘er tongue.”

  “It would fit my suspicions,” Duncan said, untying the length of rag wrapped round his forehead and wiping his brow.

  “Seems to me with what we know betwixt us, we could find out ‘oo she is,” Fred suggested, dipping some water from a pail and offering it to Duncan. “Daisy won’t spill nothin’, stout lass what she is, but I ‘eard enough bits and pieces to put two together with two. Part of the twenty-ninth regiment, was milady’s father and Daisy raised ‘er. The lady’s Ma died when she were but fourteen. Been in the castle nigh on to six months. But they’re still scared, Sir, nervous as cats in the kennel and I’d like to know the why of it.”

  “So would I,” Duncan agreed, looking down into the courtyard. Kate was below, drawing water from the pump. Though she was working harder than any, she was laughing and chattering easily with the other women. Attired no better than they, dressed in a simple gown, she was still as distinct as a peacock among the pigeons. The wariness that she habitually wore was temporarily cast aside. When Kate looked up at him and waved merrily, his heart could not help but skip a beat. Suddenly, he felt a smile stretching across his face.

  “Got yourself a bonny lady, milaird,” Tam called, tugging on the line that held the bucket, “but mind the roofin’ laddie. The pitch’ll get cold afore ye will, I warrant.”

  There was a hearty gale of mirth from below and above. Kate blushed till her cheeks nearly matched the red on the MacLean tartan. But she gave no other sign of offended dignity as she walked indoors unhurriedly with all the pride of a queen. Luckily his own discomfiture was more easily concealed beneath his kilt and he blessed the bushy thatch of beard that hid his own self-conscious flush. Shamed that they had discerned his naked emotions so plainly, Duncan hauled up the bucket of hot tar, the laughter breaking in waves about him.

  He had forgotten how ribald and familiar his people could be. With the close ties of blood and history, the MacLean clan of Eilean Kirk had always treated their chieftains more as a first among equals than unreachable superiors. Above all, Duncan found himself wishing that what his people believed were the reality, that Kate was his in truth. Of late, he had found himself thinking of her, wanting her, until it would seem that the price of honor might well be madness.

  Heeding Tam’s advice, Duncan gave himself over to the rhythm of work, letting the steady pounding beat set his pace, filling his mind with nothing more than the warm fingers of sun stroking his back or the caress of the gentle breezes off the water. Loch Maree glistened like a sapphire set amidst an emerald field as he moved carefully across the shingles.
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  There would be no rain tonight to test his roofing skill. The sky was a flawless blue, with nary a cloud to be seen except the perpetual coronet of white that hovered at the mountain peaks. He was nearly exhausted, but it was a form of fatigue that he had almost forgotten, the rewarding weariness that comes from work completed, and a job done well. The overlapping rows of shingles brought their own peculiar contentment. Perched on the ridge, Duncan stretched like a panther, easing the soreness in his muscles, but feeling better than he had ever felt in his life.

  It began as no more than a faint feeling, touching his spine like a feather. More than once that vague uneasiness had saved his hide on the battlefield.

  “She’s watching me, Fred,” Duncan said quietly, between taps on the nail head. “Can you spot her?”

  “The little mite again?” Fred asked. “Midst all these people? Thought that she and that dog of ‘ers ‘ad taken themselves off when the folk started to come.”

  “So did I,” Duncan said, pulling a broken slate loose and tossing it to the pile below. “But she is watching me again, I can feel it. Has she been following you about at all?” Duncan asked.

  Fred shook his head. “Not so as I know of it,” he said. “No ‘arm in it as I see, though I can’t figure for the life of me why she’s been trailin’ you about.”

  “‘Tis deuced uncomfortable,” Duncan complained, shading his eye against the afternoon sun as he surveyed the landscape, peering up towards the tower. There was a flutter of movement as a bird flew hastily from the ledge, but not before he had seen a glimpse of a face. “There now! Did you spy her up there?”

  “The tower?” Fred clucked. “Yer seein’ things, Major. ‘You likely saw a pigeon. The door up is locked tight. Tried it myself, other day. Daisy keeps ‘er preserves in there.”