His grin broadened as he took in Kathleen. “Well, and how do you do, good lass?”
The casual insolence set her teeth on edge. “As the gentleman said, can we help you?”
“I’m looking for the vicar. Do you know if he’s in?”
“Not at the moment,” Grant replied. “Who wants to know?”
The man swept off his hat and gave an extravagant bow. “I’m his brother. Captain John Brown, at your service.” He winked at Kathleen. “Especially yours, my dear lady.”
Chapter Sixteen
Grant jumped the bay gelding over the low wall that separated Lochnagar lands from the road to Dunlaggan. He’d spent the morning riding through the more remote corners of the estate, where the rugged countryside of gorse-filled ravines, hidden glens, and deep caves all held potential boltholes for criminals. So far, he had found nothing. If the gang had a camp near the hamlet, they were doing a damn fine job of hiding it.
He was quite sure no locals were involved, since most were gainfully employed and intensely loyal to Clan Chattan. That was Sabrina’s clan, to which most people in the area were related by blood or marriage. He couldn’t imagine any of them creating such havoc in their own community.
A bit of smuggling was one thing, as recent history had shown. But holding up travelers, stealing cattle, and breaking into churches? Those were entirely different. The villains were professional thieves, and dangerous ones at that.
Why had they chosen this part of the Highlands for their mark? While Dunlaggan was both rural and remote, making it easier pickings, those pickings weren’t exactly generous. Grant wondered if the gang was always on the move, cleaning out one spot before moving on to the next. He’d already written to Nick for help. No one had more contacts throughout Scotland than his big brother, so Grant was hopeful that some piece of information might result.
Still, it was a faint hope. At the moment, he had only questions that kept him up half the night.
Thoughts of his Irish colleen were keeping him up at night, too—and in a state of sexual frustration. That day in the garden, he’d come within a whisper of finally taking her lush lips. Kathleen had been more than willing until the vicar’s obnoxious brother had rudely interrupted them. Although their conversation with Captain Brown had been short, it had thoroughly embarrassed Kathleen and destroyed any chance for a romantic interlude.
Even more frustrating, the lass had gone skittish, retreating behind a courteous and even shy façade or avoiding him entirely. Since Kathleen was anything but shy, he could only assume she was having second thoughts about the garden incident, as he’d come to think of it.
Not that there had been any opportunities for first thoughts. But that she was very conscious of him was evident when they encountered each other. Her lovely Irish complexion would fire up, setting her whimsical freckles aglow. She would then either flee the room or engage in a dementedly bright conversation about nothing at all—usually with Sabrina or Jeannie, if they happened to be there.
Of course, what Grant was hoping for, aside from the opportunity to discover every freckle on her sweet body, was still a bit of a mystery to him.
Solve one mystery at a time, lad.
Keeping everyone safe by ending the crime spree was his first order of business. Once he’d accomplished that, he could turn his mind to Kathleen and what the future might hold for them.
He trotted the bay along Dunlaggan’s single street, heading for the Deer and Hound. Tracking down elusive villains was thirsty work, and the hamlet’s only pub was the best place for gossip and getting a feel for how the locals were doing. Graeme and Sabrina were greatly worried about that. Sabrina’s father had been an absentee landlord who cared not a farthing for his northern estate. Still recovering from those years of neglect, the locals were rattled by recent events and expected their lord and lady to solve the problem sooner rather than later.
That did rather put the pressure on. Graeme and his bride had moved heaven and earth to bring Lochnagar and Dunlaggan back to life, and under no circumstances would Grant allow a gang of scaly bastards to damage or even destroy all their hard work.
Mr. Harrison, the local butcher, emerged from his shop and began sweeping the stoop. Grant nodded in greeting.
“Guid day to ye, Sir Graeme,” the butcher called.
“It’s Grant this time, Mr. Harrison,” he replied with an apologetic smile.
More than once since his arrival, someone had mistaken him for his twin. Hannah, Sabrina’s maid, had repeatedly done so, much to Graeme’s amusement. A few times, Graeme had even pretended to be Grant. Once Hannah had twigged to the deception, it had earned them both another scold. When Grant tried to defend himself, Hannah had replied that he was no better than his nigmenog of a twin, and that it was a lucky thing Sir Graeme was the magistrate. Otherwise, she would have reported them to the law for their tomfoolery.
“Och, my pardon,” Harrison said. “But there’s not a farthin’ between ye. How milady tells ye apart is a wonder.”
“Easy. I’m the one with the brains.”
With a snort, the butcher waved him on.
Actually, Sabrina had always been able to tell the twins apart, even from a distance. Kathleen had the same knack for it, never once confusing him for his brother.
Grant found that ... interesting.
He trotted along the neatly maintained row of stone houses with their scrubbed stoops, flower-filled window boxes, and brightly painted doors in red or blue. Dunlaggan might be just a quaint wee spot of civilization in the midst of a craggy, rather inhospitable landscape, but it was a comfortable sort of place, nonetheless.
Not for him, though. Unlike his twin, Grant would probably go out of his mind with boredom.
There’s one thing here that wouldn’t bore you, though.
Firmly repressing any more thoughts of Kathleen, he reined in the gelding when he reached the pub.
As usual, the rustic bench out front was occupied. Graeme joked that the village elders took assigned shifts, since a worthy ancient invariably occupied the bench, observing whatever there was to observe. Today, it was Mr. Chattan, a canny fellow who served as unofficial mayor of Dunlaggan. He sat quietly, puffing out acrid plumes of smoke from a pipe that looked as old as he was.
Grant dismounted. “Good afternoon, Mr. Chattan. I hope the day finds you well.”
“Och, somethin’s always achin’ at my age, Mr. Grant,” he said with a dramatic sigh.
Grant knew that Chattan was in fact both spry and sharp as a tack. In many ways, the old boy reminded him of Angus.
“I am sorry to hear that,” he politely replied.
“The old bones are nae what they used to be, what with the rheumatics. Still, there’s nae use to complain, I suppose. All I ask for is a wee dram now and again, just to keep out the cold.”
“That’s easy enough to fix. I’ll have one sent out to you.”
“Och, yer a good man, just like yer twin. Ye’ll be wantin’ me to watch yer nag, I ken?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Nae trouble for ye, sir.”
With nary a hint of rheumatics, the old fellow stowed his pipe in a nearby flowerpot and bustled over to take charge of the bay.
“Much of a crowd this afternoon?” Grant asked.
“The usual lot. Yon parson is in there, along with that brother of his.”
Grant heard the note of derision. “Not too impressed with Captain Brown, are we?”
“Since the captain be mighty impressed with himself, he has nae need for my admiration. And Reverend Brown.” He shook his head. “He’s a wee bit starry-eyed when it comes to his big brother. A very trusting sort is our vicar.”
“That’s rather in the job description.” Grant studied the old man, curious. “And why shouldn’t Mr. Brown trust and admire his own brother?”
“We’ll see how far it gets him,” Chattan replied.
“And what do you think it will get him?”
“Tr
ouble.” Chattan took the horse’s reins and disappeared around to the back of the building.
It was a typically cryptic remark from the village Methuselah. Chattan knew everything there was to know about Dunlaggan’s residents and was usually spot-on with his analysis. He also had an annoying tendency to keep much of that analysis to himself. Unlike the rest of the elderly gents who lounged about the pub, this old duffer was no gossip.
Grant ducked under the low doorway and stepped into the pub. The large, timbered room had a mismatched collection of tables and chairs, a polished bar at one end, and a large stone hearth with a cheerful peat blaze at the other. Mullioned windows let in the late afternoon sunlight and lamps dotted the tabletops, imparting a cheerful glow. Like the rest of Dunlaggan, the pub was simple, neat, and homey, inviting all and sundry to stop in for a wee dram.
The pub was about half full now, but would slowly fill up as the workday drew to a close.
Mr. Monroe, the publican, greeted him with a smile. “A guid day to ye, Mr. Grant. Will ye be having a dram of Lochnagar’s finest?”
“Just ale, thanks.”
While the publican drew off a mug, Grant leaned an elbow on the bar and cast a look about.
Captain Brown and the vicar occupied a table in front of the hearth, and several of the other patrons had pulled their chairs around, listening to their conversation. From what Grant could tell, the captain was holding court to a spellbound audience, expounding with verve, as well as the occasional jest if the general laughter was any indication.
The vicar sat mostly quiet, cast into a shade by his older brother. Although there was a strong physical resemblance between the brothers, the difference in manner was striking. For all Mr. Brown currently annoyed Grant with his awkward courtship of Kathleen, he was a modest and gentle-mannered fellow, as befit a vicar.
In contrast, Captain Brown struck Grant as a jolly dog, always ready for a drink or a jest. His easy, expansive manner probably appealed to both men and women.
And Grant didn’t trust him one damn bit. His instincts told him the man was not a Captain Brown but a Captain Sharp, in Lochnagar for something other than a friendly but unexpected visit with the brother he’d not seen in over four years, according to Sabrina.
Of course, it was entirely possible that Grant mainly disliked the man for interrupting what had been shaping up to be a very pleasurable first kiss with Kathleen.
“The vicar must be pleased to see his brother,” he remarked to Monroe.
The publican turned a jaundiced eye toward the captain. “It’s a rare bit of mystery, if ye ask me. Never once showed his face around here in all the years the vicar has been seein’ to us. Then he pops up all of a sudden like, just for a wee visit with his brother, or so he claims. Except the captain’s been in here for the last two days yacking about a land scheme and fillin’ some heads with barmy ideas.”
Grant frowned. “What sort of land scheme?”
“He claims there’s land in South America needin’ settlers, ye ken. Hardworkin’ Highlanders can make their fortunes farmin’ the land.” He snorted. “As if anyone ever made a fortune in farmin’.”
“Except for the landowners who squeeze every farthing out of their tenants,” said an attractive, red-haired young woman who joined Monroe behind the bar. “Our present lord and lady exceptin’, of course,” she added, flashing a smile at Grant.
He returned the smile. “Ah, Patty. Back at the pub, are you? I thought Magnus was keeping you busy at the distillery.”
Monroe’s daughter, Patty Barr, had worked at the Deer and Hound until she’d wed Magnus a few months ago. Since she had excellent organizational skills, she now helped run the office at the distillery.
“Just helpin’ until the regular barmaid is over the grippe,” she said. “Poor Da was at sixes and sevens without me.”
Monroe gave his daughter a quick hug. “It was a sad day when ye left me for that big lug of yers. Dinna think I’ll ever get over it.”
She scoffed. “Since ye live with me and Magnus, that’s not really a problem. Not to mention that my husband keeps ye in the best whisky this side of Inverness—at cost, ye ken.”
“Now that is an excellent deal,” Grant said.
“Aye,” Monroe agreed. “Magnus might be a little short in the brainbox, but he brews a fine whisky.”
His daughter elbowed him. “None of that, Da. Ye’ll hurt my man’s feelins.”
Monroe looked incredulous. “Lass, I insult yer man every day. And he agrees with me.”
“Anyway, we canna all be geniuses like Mr. Grant or Sir Graeme,” Patty said.
“Actually, Lady Sabrina is the brains of the outfit,” Grant replied. “Graeme and I just do what she tells us.”
Patty gave an approving nod. “It’s a wise man, ye are. Now, are ye peckish, sir? Would ye like a bit of stew from the kitchen?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll join the others. I’m curious to hear more about the captain’s land scheme.”
Patty’s snort was an uncanny echo of her father’s. “That one. He’s a flash, if ye ask me.”
Monroe shrugged. “As long as he pays his bills.” After asking Patty to take old Chattan a dram, Grant strolled over to join the gathering around the brothers.
The vicar gave him a friendly wave. “Mr. Kendrick, how are you? I do believe you’ve met my brother, John.”
The captain stood, casting Grant a broad smile from under his broad mustache. “We had the pleasure of meeting the other day, along with an excessively charming young lady.”
He winked at Grant.
Bastard.
Grant had to control the impulse to drag the captain across the table by his waxed mustachio and toss him out the window, mostly because of the promise he’d made to himself to stop breaking other people’s furniture. He and Graeme had demolished more than a few pubs in their wild youth, not to mention the occasional society drawing room.
The vicar looked startled. “Who are you referring to, John?”
“The lovely young lass who was hanging about your garden with Kendrick, here,” his brother replied. “They seemed much engaged ... in conversation.”
Grant mentally frowned. Was the idiot trying to provoke a fight with him?
“It was Miss Calvert,” he said to the vicar. “I was helping her repair the damage to your garden.”
“Is that what you were doing?” Captain Brown mockingly asked.
Grant crossed his arms and gave the captain the slow smile that had sent more than one bullyboy into rapid retreat. The man blinked, momentarily disconcerted.
“That’s exactly what I was doing,” Grant replied.
The vicar cast a swift look between them before smiling at Grant. “That was exceedingly kind of you and Miss Calvert. Coming home to find my garden so well restored was a great comfort after such wanton destruction.”
The captain rolled his eyes. “Good God, David, it was simply a bunch of flowers. Hardly the end of the world.”
His brother stiffened. “Perhaps not, but losing the church’s silver was a blow, I hope you’ll admit.”
The captain gestured to Patty before sitting back down. “Yes, bad luck, that. Sorry, old boy.”
“Och, it was more than bad luck,” said one of the local crofters. “’Twas a sin, is what it was.”
The vicar mournfully nodded. “Indeed it was, Mr. Robertson.”
“A bleedin’ crime,” Robertson’s wife piped up. “A body canna sleep safe in her bed, what with villains roamin’ the countryside. They’ll be murderin’ us next, mark my words.”
Patty marched up and thumped another mug of ale in front of Captain Brown. “Och, stop yer nonsense, Jennie Robertson.” Then she whacked one of the other villagers on the shoulder. “Make room for Mr. Kendrick, ye booby. Where are yer manners?”
“It’s fine, Patty.” Grant quickly hooked an empty chair and pulled it over to sit across from the vicar.
“And I am forgetting my manners,” said the vicar wit
h an apologetic smile. “Please do join us, sir.”
“Yes, do.” John tilted his head, inspecting Grant. “Kendrick, I believe you run the Glasgow offices of your family’s trading company, do you not?”
Grant impassively returned his gaze. “I do.”
That earned him another broad, mustachioed smile. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you and Sir Graeme about an investment opportunity that I’m sure you’ll find most interesting.”
The vicar shifted uncomfortably. “This is not the place for such a discussion, my dear John. I suspect Mr. Kendrick simply wishes to enjoy his pint.”
His brother waved an expansive arm. “We’re all friends here. We’ve already had quite a good discussion with some of the villagers, have we not?”
An approving round of assents greeted the captain’s statement. Clearly, some of the locals were receptive to his pitch.
“I don’t generally discuss business outside the office,” Grant replied. “But please feel free to give me the broad outlines.”
“Och, Mr. Fancy and his broad outlines,” Jennie Robertson muttered.
Her husband shushed her, but Grant ignored her sarcasm. Jennie was a bit of a troublemaker, so he’d give her no fuel to add to the fire.
The captain leaned forward, suddenly eager. “From what my brother tells me, the Kendrick family is well acquainted with doing business in the Americas.”
“True, but we only work out of Canada.”
“Hardly any difference from north to south, my good fellow. It’s all the same, league after league of fertile land, just sitting there empty. It’s a crime, all that land going to waste.”
“I suspect the native people who inhabit those lands would disagree with you,” Grant dryly said. “Not to mention the settlers who’ve been there for, oh, three hundred years or so.”
Brown scoffed. “Natives? They’re hardly worth mentioning.”
Grant leaned a casual elbow on the table. “My brother Logan is the principal owner of Kendrick Shipping and Trade, and he would not countenance such a view. His son is part Mi’kmaq, from one of the native peoples of Canada.”
The Highlanderâ??s Irish Bride Page 21
