“For an Englishman, he was a good man,” Laird Campbell said. “He cared for her.”
There were no good Englishmen. “Where is he now?” I asked, glancing about uneasily.
Laird Campbell answered with a clouded look, and shaded, almost guilty eyes.
I didn’t understand at first; then an awful suspicion filled my mind. “He’s one of them, isn’t he?” I demanded. “One of the soldiers who killed my father.”
Chapter Three
To keep from giving away my overwrought emotions as we moved toward the front door, I looked down at the ring on my finger. The slender band was not plain, as I had supposed, but intricately designed. I lifted my hand, studying it closer.
“This is beautiful,” I said, somewhat astonished at the detail on a piece so tiny. Two delicate bands, each engraved with a distinct and different pattern, converged in the middle, crossing over one another and looping together so as to be joined. “Where did you—”
“I made it,” Collin said. And in that moment I determined to think of him by that name instead of Lord or Laird MacDonald. Anyone who could create something so beautiful was someone I ought to be able to call by his given name.
“You’ve found the way to her heart, Collin. Just ply her with jewelry,” a Campbell called out.
It’s not that. It’s not that at all, I wanted to say. I’d been the first one in the family to offer up my jewelry when our funds ran low. I hadn’t missed any of it, had never had a piece I cared much about— until now.
“Thank you,” I said, ignoring the comment and looking at Collin. As before, he did not quite meet my eye. “It must have taken you a very long time.”
“I began some years ago,” he confided. Or at least, it felt like a confidence to me. “When I received your father’s letter, I had only to polish the ring.”
“I will treasure it.” I clasped my hand to my heart, which had quickened at his words.
I knew the labor a painting required— the hours of sketching, the process of mixing colors, the brush strokes and shading that had to be just right. But this ring was an entirely different type of art, one that had to have required infinitely more time and patience. I thought of the previous evening and my frustration with a sky that had taken only a few weeks to paint. I’d hoped to have fixed it, but had I been working with metal and something so fine and small, there would have been no margin for error, no possibility for change.
A swell of admiration for my new husband— or his talent, at least— took hold inside of me, a spark of warmth on an otherwise cold occasion.
We’d made our way through the crowd of Campbells and MacDonalds, and for the last time, I walked out the front door of the only house I could ever remember living in.
Mother ran along beside us, the envelope that Collin had given her thrust forward in her hand.
“Lord Macdonald, there must be some mistake. This is not what was agreed upon.”
“It is what was available.” He paused on the step to look over at her. “My people are starving. That I have spared this much is nothing short of a miracle. I suggest you make good use of it.” He turned to me, holding his hand out toward the carriage. “Katherine.”
Inwardly I cringed at the use of my given name. A few minutes ago I’d been Katie. Why the change? For some reason Katherine had always sounded harsh to me, whereas Christina seemed more melodic. But I supposed now— since I was returning to my mother’s homeland, and her name had been Katherine, too— that I ought to get used to being called that.
I also supposed that my situation was not about to improve, as I had been led to believe by both my mother’s words and my father’s letter the previous night. Had Collin MacDonald been an English lord, this trickery would have bothered me far more than the twinge of worry I felt right now. But Collin was not English, and I was not just a Macdonald now. I was a Campbell, and my marriage was the link to my past.
“I must have a minute to say goodbye to my mother.” I did not ask it of Collin, but expected that courtesy and turned away, taking Mother’s arm and leading her a short distance from the carriage.
“Oh, Christina, whatever will we do? Your grandfather is getting on in years. The cousin who is to inherit his estate has already moved closer and begun taking over some of the duties with the tenants. He’ll not want Timothy and me there for long.”
I opened my mouth to say something but found I could not. I was about to leave— forever, possibly— and my mother was still going on about the money.
“Anna will have to take us in, and she won’t be the least happy about it. We’ll arrive penniless. There is hardly enough in here to outfit us and get us to London.”
“Perhaps you would like to join me— in Scotland,” I said, irritated and hurt that all she could think of in this moment of our parting was finances.
This seemed to snap her from misery. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. You must feel more wretched than I. You should not have been forced to this, and now with no money to come of it— If your Father were here, I’d—”
“Don’t say it.” I held up a hand. “Do not speak ill of the dead.”
She tapped her foot on the ground. “He is fortunate to be in that state, at the moment.”
“Mother,” I gasped.
She waved my protest away. “You cannot tell me you’ve not had an angry thought about him the night past.”
“No,” I admitted. “I cannot.” I glanced over my shoulder at Collin. He stood with three other men near the carriage. The rest had moved off toward the horses I’d seen earlier.
Mother followed my gaze. “I didn’t know about them— about all this. Your father told me very little.”
“You might have told me sooner,” I accused.
She shook her head. “I promised him I wouldn’t.” She wrung her hands. “I promised him a great many things I think I oughtn’t have.”
“Like what?” I asked, wary now that there were more unpleasant surprises in store. Though I could not imagine what she might come up with beyond what had occurred already this morning.
“Your season,” she said, taking my hands in hers. “Your grandfather— my father— he wished to pay for it as he did Anna’s, and your father wouldn’t let him. I didn’t understand why at the time, and we fought over it terribly. But I realize now—”
“It was because of this.” Because of him. I glanced at Collin again. Father had not wanted me to have a season, a chance to meet someone and fall in love. Because of some promise he made long ago.
“I’m sorry,” Mother said again. “So sorry. I think he would have been, too. I don’t think he realized how barbaric—” She stopped herself suddenly, as if just realizing what she’d said. “Well, maybe they’re not as bad as all that.”
“Maybe not,” I said drily.
She smiled and squeezed the tips of my fingers. “You must admit, Christina, that a part of you likes this. A part of you has yearned for this very thing.”
“I have not!” My whispered denial was harsh. “I did not wish to marry a stranger and leave England.”
“Maybe not aloud you didn’t,” Mother said. “But think of your paintings. You hardly ever paint anything familiar. Your imagination is always taking you to foreign places.”
Was it? Her insight gave me pause. I thought of the painting I’d worked so hard on for Lady Gotties, and how it had not come out the way I felt it should. Because I did not paint the sky as it looks here. I never painted the sky— or much else— as it looked here. I’d never realized this before and found it a rather startling revelation. Do I long for adventure? I didn’t know. I hadn’t longed for marriage, nor had I been concerned with my heritage. But in the past hour I’d found I was curious.
About both, were I completely honest with myself. Collin did not seem horrible— not the old, fat, overbearing lord I’d imagined. I was not afraid of him. He seemed serious but not mean, and was not near as frightening to look upon as some of his clansmen.
Like
that Ian.
As for traveling to Scotland... It wasn’t anything I’d ever imagined I would do. But I could not deny the curious pull I’d felt since the mob of Campbell men had surrounded and befriended me.
“You agree,” Mother said, having watched the revelations cross my face the past minute.
“Not entirely,” I said, pleased to realize that what I felt most right now was not sorrow or fear, but agitation. I was still upset that I’d been tricked— by Father— and I didn’t like not knowing what was going to come next. I vastly preferred being in charge of my own destiny, and at the moment felt anything but.
And I was irritated I could not pull out my easel right now and paint this scene. Behind us, the men had mounted their horses and made all the more impressive a picture, clustered together as they were. Collin cleared his throat loudly, but did no more. I knew it was time to part.
I leaned forward, hugging my mother. “Tell Timothy I shall write to him. And I’ll send him something wonderful from Scotland.” What that might be I didn’t know, but I guessed there must be something of interest there to a seven-year-old boy.
Tears misted my eyes when I thought of not seeing him again for a very long time. Ever? I clutched Mother tighter. “I love you,” I whispered, regretful that I had not said those words to her often enough.
“And I shall always love you,” she said. “Daughter.” Her arms fell away, and I stepped from her embrace, hastily wiping an escaped tear. I did not whisper goodbye— it seemed too final— but walked quickly toward Collin and the other men still standing in the yard.
The carriage door was already opened. My trunk had been secured on the back. Collin held his hand out to me, and I took it, grateful for his steady grip as I stepped up into the carriage.
Once inside, I slid to the far end of the seat and turned my head to look out the narrow window. I heard him climb in beside me and felt the carriage rock as the other men clambered on top and behind. The driver called out to the horses, and the reins snapped. We rolled forward with a lurch. I turned toward Collin, saw the closed, latched door on the other side of him, and my agitation burgeoned, intensified by sudden, irrational fear.
I felt a surge of hatred for the unseen Englishman and even his daughter, whom I’d met earlier. Mostly I felt loathing for the vile man before me.
“I sent him to do it,” the Campbell laird admitted, and only my shock kept me from leaping from my chair and going for his throat.
“I sent him because I knew he would show your father mercy.”
“Mercy?” I gasped. “Is that what you call it?” Da’s broken, bloodied body came to mind, and the food I’d eaten earlier threatened to come up.
“There are far worse ways to die,” Laird Campbell said. “Do you know what they’ve done to the traitors taken to London?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “They’re flogged, all while a crowd of people look on, leering and taunting. Then, if the prisoners survive that— and some have, God help them— they’re beheaded and their heads held up for all to see, mounted on a gate post, while the bodies are dragged through the streets of London.” Laird Campbell leaned near to me. “Can we agree now that I showed your father mercy?”
Chapter Four
Spiders. Heights. Sickness. Poverty— Mother’s great fear. All acceptable phobias for a person to have. I ran through the list in my mind, hoping to distract myself in any way possible from the one thing I feared.
I imagined myself precariously balanced on the roof of our house or in a very high tree. I imagined what views I might see up there— similar to those I saw from my attic’s tiny window, only grander. While it isn’t particularly natural for a person to be so very far above the ground, I also found that the idea did not particularly frighten me either— at least not enough to distract me from my present concerns. I have to get out of here.
I tried spiders next. Closing my eyes, trying to block out my surroundings, I pretended that I was back in my attic room and a giant, hairy creature emerged from the eaves. Spiders can have deadly bites, and they are disgusting besides. I might scream if I saw such a sight, but I also knew I could squish the spider with my shoe. Thinking of arachnids was not going to distract me. We need to stop.
What if I was gravely ill? What if I lay dying of the fever and pox? Sickness could rob even the young and vigorous of their lives, so it was possible. But I would not care. I’d watched my father waste away and knew that when the body became so far gone, the mind was like to follow. In his last days he’d been incoherent and unreachable. In some ways it had been almost a relief when at last he’d been free from his ailing body.
I found I could not muster any amount of fear over illness either. I cannot breathe.
And what of poverty? Lord MacDonald— Collin— had told Mother that his people were starving. Did that mean I was likely to be starving soon, too? Somehow I doubted that he would fail to take care of me. His vows, though somewhat ridiculous, had also been reassuring. If I was to have the first cut of his meat and drink of his wine, there would have to be meat and wine to be had.
As for poverty in general— I felt I’d survived that well enough the past year. It had caused Mother no little amount of strife, though I always felt her worries about our change in status had more to do with how we were viewed by our neighbors rather than the practicalities of how we were to continue to eat and where we were going to live. At any rate, even her fears were somewhat normal and justified. Whereas—
Mine was not. Not normal or logical or even explainable, yet it existed within me as real as anything I’d ever experienced. And I had experienced this blinding terror on more than one occasion and felt it rear its head now within the close confines of the carriage. Let me out.
My forced thoughts— attempts at directing my worry elsewhere— had met with little success and taken up precious little time. We’d not yet passed the edge of what used to be our property, and already I fumbled with the shade covering the largest window on my side, pushing it up so I might see out. Only there was no window, or no glass in it, at least. I stared for several seconds before realizing my good fortune then pulled a pin from my hair and used it to secure the shade, away from the opening.
In the crevice of the open frame I could see little shards of glass— remnants from the pane that must once have been there. That it was there no longer seemed an unexpected blessing. Sitting on the edge of my seat, I pressed my face through the opening and gulped calming breaths of fresh air.
“This coach was the best we could find,” Collin said, sounding annoyed again. “The glass was probably shot out by a highwayman.”
“A comforting thought,” I said, though being attacked was the least of my concerns at the moment. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t— couldn’t look anywhere on that side of the carriage for fear of seeing the locked door again.
“A man would have to be a fool to try it,” Collin muttered.
Thinking of the well-armed Campbells and MacDonalds riding in front and behind us, I had to agree. Still, just in case we were stopped by thieves or otherwise, I folded the square of tartan and tucked it carefully up inside my sleeve. Tomorrow I would see to it that it was hidden even better.
“You should close the shade. We’ll be breathing nothing but road dust soon.”
I knew he was right but could not bring myself to follow his suggestion. Though the air coming in through the window was a bit dusty, it was still air. And the open space was enough that I thought I might be able to endure the ride— for a while at least. I could feel a surge of terror hovering just below the surface of the temporary calm the missing glass had brought.
I could crawl through that space if necessary. I am not locked in here.
“I should prefer to leave it open and enjoy the scenery,” I said, hoping Collin would not press the issue.
“You may have my seat,” he offered. “And look out the glass here.”
Silently I cursed his chivalry. “No, thank you. The open window is f
ine.”
“Still stubborn,” I thought I heard Collin grumble, but he did not bother me about it again.
We traveled in silence to the main road. The carriage turned north, and had I not been so anxious about being inside, I might have felt excited. I had only ever traveled south, toward London. What lay north beyond Nottingham was both mysterious and alluring.
But I could not appreciate that now. Dust stirred up from the horses ahead of us was indeed coming inside the carriage. I coughed several times before reluctantly pulling my face from the opening. Collin reached over and snapped the shade back in place.
No! I flashed panicked eyes at him, then at the locked door.
“Stop the carriage,” I demanded, practically climbing over Collin to reach the door. I fumbled with the latch and was surprised at how loose it was. I was still gripping the handle when the door detached from it and flew open.
Collin grabbed me around the waist, saving me from pitching out onto the road face first.
“Stop the carriage!” he shouted, stomping loudly with his foot.
“Whoa,” the driver called to the team as Collin did his best to pull me back inside. But I was having none of it.
“Let me go,” I cried, pushing his hands away. We were still moving slowly, but I managed to right myself and jump, landing in a crouch on the road. Collin shouted something at me, but it was unintelligible, and I didn’t look back. Instead I stumbled off, through the tall grasses growing alongside and over to a clump of bushes. These I leaned over, gasping and choking and certain my stomach would empty itself.
Alistair reached me first. He’d dismounted and had his arm on mine, steadying me as he whispered soothing words. I gagged more, but nothing came up. I’d not eaten dinner last night or breakfast this morning and found myself grateful for that, as it would not lead to further embarrassment or shame in front of my new husband and his people.
I was starting to care about that again, and to return to myself now that I was outside the wretched vehicle. I became more aware when Alistair stepped aside and Collin stood there, a guarded expression upon his face.
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