“What’ll I tell ’em, Laird?” Angus called after him.
He didn’t care. It was too late to make haste slowly—he had come before he was ready to face all the consequences but one. It didn’t matter what happened, as long as he could get to Greer—his lass. “Tell them whatever you think is right—but if you can, do it as slowly as possible”
In the yard, Ewan buckled the lead onto the stallion’s halter, and vaulted himself up onto Cat Sìth’s high, bare back, and set off at once, too ill at ease to even do as he had said and cool the animal. But he wanted the powerful feel of the stallion between his legs. He needed the sense of movement and control to combat the unease that he had pushed the situation past the point of control.
Ewan gave the horse his head, letting him range up the forest path and stretch his long legs as he willed before he gathered the stallion back to an easier pace, conscious of not over-working him—he’d already been ridden up the glens by bloody Gow. Ewan stroked the animal’s broad neck, praising him in turn, while exulting in the glorious feeling of unity with his own wee beastie.
Devil take him, but it felt good to feel that he was in control of even one small part of his destiny again. To feel that he was actively reclaiming what was once his. To collect up the forgotten parts of himself so he could be worthy of her. So he could win her for his own.
He guided the stallion beneath the sheltering canopy of the woods running east to where the mountain burns would join together into the Shee Water. Atop Cat Sìth, the miles flew past, and by mid-morning, Ewan was drawing rein at the yard of the Inn at the Bridge over Shee Water.
“Yer lordship.” The ostler he had met in Crieff village came running out. “Ye’ve yer wee beastie back.”
“Aye, lad. I thank you.” Ewan’s hand went to the pocket of his coat for a vail, before he realized he was neither wearing a coat, nor had any ready money to tip the ostler. “I’d like to have a quiet chat with your landlord.”
“Aye, yer lordship.” The lad went at a trot for the kitchen, while Ewan took the moment to take a long look around the whole of the yard, finding it familiar.
He remembered being there before, numerous times when taking the road to the south. He turned back to survey the building—the landlord would come out of that door, there—
“Yer Grace,” a suet-faced man bustled into the yard, greeting Ewan as he came, reaching for his hand to pump. “Praise be! We thought ye were dead.”
Your Grace. Aye. He was not nobody—he was somebody. He was Crieff.
“So I’ve heard, Boscowan.” The landlord’s name careered into his head. “I’d like to ask about the day I was here last.”
“Aye. I’ve thought about it often, Yer Grace.” The fellow wiped his palms on his apron as if it would clear his mind along with his hands. “Ye were on yer way tae Edinburgh, as I recall. Ye stopped, and took a pint of ale, and then ye continued yer journey on.”
Ewan braced himself for the assault of the images flooding into his mind. But nothing substantial came. “But I’m told my horse came back, riderless,” he prompted, nodding to the ostler in thanks for his earlier information.
“Aye,” the landlord confirmed. “But that were later—four days or a week or so after.” He licked his lips again. “The reins were unbelted—one was shorter than t’other, as if th’ animal had stood on ’em an’ snapped the leather.”
“Was he in distress?”
“Some,” the fellow acknowledged. “But not overly lathered.” He looked at Cat Sìth’s damped, sweat-stained hide.
Ewan recalled his duty to his animal and swung himself to the ground. “See him hot-walked, if you please,” he tasked the ostler, and released Cat Sìth to the lad’s care. “Was there any blood on the animal?” he asked the landlord.
“Nay, Yer Grace.” Boscowan shook his head, sure of his memory. “Nay. No sign of foul play, beyond the broken rein.”
Ewan’s ears pricked up—the anvil in his head pressed heavy in alarm. “Were you looking for some sign of foul play?”
“Aye, Yer Grace. For a mon I didn’t know came afore the horse. ’E said as ye were dead”—the landlord’s Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably—“and as ’ee was going tae Crieff tae tell ’em, I should be on lookout fer th’horse, His New Grace’s mon said.”
“Gow. When?”
“A’fore dusk. I sent out some lads tae look, for the mon had given me a gold guinea, and it only seemed right. But night was falling, and th’horse come back on his own in the night.”
The pressure in Ewan’s chest felt as if he would explode with all the anger and fear and suspicion careering around inside him. “And then?”
“And then I sent word tae Crieff that we’d found th’horse.”
Ewan forced himself to breathe, to draw air in and push it out of his lungs. To remind himself that his ribs were healed and he was no longer being suffocated by the black pain. “And then?” he prompted again.
“Then yer mon came for th’horse. And promised me another gold guinea to watch and keep quiet.” Boscawan shook his head like a bulldog trying to set himself to rights. “I took it, I’m ashamed to say, Yer Grace.”
“No harm done, Boscowen. Thank you for seeing to the horse.” Ewan had to work to breathe evenly and keep his breath from sawing in and out of his lungs like a bellows blowing out his fear. But he could no longer hide—he would have to trust in the truth. “And though I’ve no guinea to give for my thanks, I would ask you to keep my visit as quiet as possible. For I am a man caught in a damnably precarious position.”
A man still unsure of whom he could trust, besides his Greer. There was something about this Gow, who had come for Cat Sìth, and rode the stallion as if the animal were his own—however badly—that was unsettling and familiar all at the same time. And he seemed to be acting on his own, for the landlord made no mention of Ewan’s cousin, in the telling of the tale.
Was Gow a danger to Crieff? Was his cousin in as much jeopardy from the man, as Ewan seemed to be? Too many questions his bashed-up brain could not answer.
“Aye, Yer Grace,” the landlord pledged. “I should’a reckoned there were some great mischief afoot, for here ye are, and praise be. We’re that happy tae have ye back tae us.” He bowed his head, as if in contrition. “Ye can count on me—I’m yer man. I gie ye freely my fealty.”
Fealty. Now, there was a word—a damned medieval holdover of a word that still, somehow, applied in this supposedly enlightened world.
But as it was all that he had, Ewan would gladly take it.
Lord Ewan Cameron
Castle Crieff
Perthshire
26 May, 1790
Dear Ewan,
I fear telling you that I make a fine traveler ~ every portion of our trip north, from our passage over the mountains to Braemar, and then east along the Dee before turning north for Inverness has been a delight. The weather has held fine, and the roads firm, making our trip swift and smooth. And such a variety of scenery and of people! Each inn along the road has yielded such a variety of personages I wish I were a better artist so I might capture their likenesses.
But our conversations in-between the stops have really been the most illuminating. I had not remembered that my grandmama, and now my aunt, inherited the title of Countess of Kirdsay in her own right, through direct lineage. It seems when the Earl of Kirdsay was created such, the title was made with remainder to the heirs whatsoever of his body, which means that the titles could be passed on through both male and female lines. What a sensible arrangement!
I should have very much liked it if I could inherit Papa’s title as well as the estate. But instead my son shall have the title, along with yours, in time, if such a child were born within my Papa’s lifetime. It gives one leave to wonder, does it not, if we had not best get married as soon as you find yourself free and ready to do so? Though I must say that I should so much rather spend more time in travel that in raising babies. They don’t seem to be appealing wee things
at all. And we had much better spend our time breeding better cattle than any children.
Pray do tell me if you are earnestly opposed to my views, for I suppose I had better revise them if that is so. (A hopeless task, for once my opinion is set, it is a trial to undo, but one I shall undertake in the name of domestic happiness if need be. And kisses, of course ~ I fear I should do almost anything for your kisses.) I await your reply at Orkney.
Yours, G
Chapter 21
For the first time in what felt like ages, Greer slept nearly the whole of the night through. It was a comfort to know Ewan’s friends were there to help him, and that under the general cover of the shooting party, they could canvas the moorland to find him.
Whether she would be restored to Ewan, still remained to be seen.
The possibility that he could not remember her sat like a weight upon her chest, squeezing the hope from her. But that could just be her darling dogs, climbing atop the bed to rouse her out of her laziness to greet the gray day.
“Oh, gracious! Look at the time!” Greer rushed to dress against the chill of the wet autumn morning in a warm wool redingote of muted heather-colored plaid. She was embarrassed to find the rest of the party had already broken their fast and were waiting on her. “Mama, why did you not wake me?”
“Because you needed the rest. You’re worn yourself to a candlestub these past few weeks, with little sleep and no rest. You would do His Grace no good to be charging across the moors on an empty stomach and with no sleep.” Her mam’s tone was tart enough to brook no argument. “Now take some eggs before I allow you out upon the moor.”
Greer did as instructed—but it was nearly noon before the whole of the party, including her father’s moorkeeper, Jock Keith, and his son’s Lachlan and Leslie, was assembled and ready to head up the moorside.
“After consideration,” her father explained, “we decided it might be more efficient to split into different groups, to search the different paths and met again at Glas Maol.”
“I’m to come with you and Mr. Carrington, mileddy,” young Lachlan said.
“Excellent.” But Greer was too impatient for the slower pace of the lad’s highland pony, and rode ahead, letting her surefooted mare Nicnevin find her swift way up to the tor in the hopes that Ewan would be found safe and sound in his bothy.
Archie Carrington kept easy pace with her, asking a few questions about the lay of the land, but mostly leaving her to her own thoughts, which were all for the urgency of making Glas Maol as quickly as possible.
But when she arrived at her special viewpoint down into the glen hoping to find Ewan, who should she spy instead but Malcolm Cameron, accompanied by his man, Gow, investigating the bothy, surely looking for Ewan.
Greer swallowed down the panic that gripped her chest and immediately dismounted, gesturing for Archie to do the same.
She took out her spyglass to see that the bothy was empty, as evident by the way Cameron sat idly on this horse while Gow poked about with his riding whip and kicked what little was left within out onto the grass.
Only once it was clear the bothy had been abandoned, could Greer breathe again. “He’s gone,” she whispered, lest the contrary wind take her words down the glen.
“He’s a canny lad, injured or not,” Archie observed in a low voice. “We’ll find him yet.”
“I hope so.” However worried she might have been for Ewan, he seemed to be at least one step ahead of Cameron and Gow, who moved north up the seam of the glen, and out of her field of vision.
She and Archie followed their own path along the ridge, descending until they met with the rest of the search party.
“Any sign of him—your Ewan?” Papa asked.
“No sign.”
Papa gave her the same reassuring smile Archie had. “Well then, we can only hope he is safe for the nonce.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “The afternoon is wearing on—the wind is picking up and the clouds are blowing hard from the east. We had best make the most of what daylight remains to us. What think you, Jock?”
Before the moorkeeper could answer, Greer asked another question. “Would the Crieff moorkeeper Dewar know of the bothy in the upland meadow.” It was close enough to the divide between the two estates that Ewan could have walked there last afternoon—if, and only if, he had heeded her advice that he would be safe on Dalshee land. “Would he trespass to make use of it, do you think?”
“Aye,” Jock Keith decided. “He might at that, but I wouldn’t call it trespass if ’ee did. Known Dewar all me life.”
“Oh, of course. But I think that is the next place we should look.”
“The upland meadow it is,” Papa confirmed.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Don’t thank me yet!” Papa patted her hand. “Not until we find His Grace.”
And away they went, with her father leading the way forward up the mountain.
Greer followed, only to find the ghillies, Lachlan and Leslie, quickly ranging before and behind. “Lachlan Keith.” She fixed him with a narrow glare. “Did my father bid you protect me?”
“Oh, aye, mileddy,” the keeper’s young son answered straightaway. “So’s ye don’t get too far ahead o’ the rest o’ the party, mileddy.”
Greer saved her indignation to fuel her search, keeping her gaze on the crest of the hills—scanning the edge of her horizon, as if someone or something there were drawing her attention, like a midge dancing just on the edge of her sight.
Looking, in vain, she knew, for Ewan.
Several times the dogs set up large coveys of grouse that tempted her father’s sportsman’s eye, but they were out to find a man, not take braces of game. The dogs quartered back and forth, scenting and flushing out the grouse, but a glint of something—the glimmer of light on the ridgeline over her shoulder—deflected Greer’s attention from the field.
But then the cry, “Over,” went up as another covey burst from cover and the ghillies reflexively followed the line of their flight.
And then there was another sound. Louder, thundering down the glen from behind with a roar that most certainly could not have come from one of the shot-loaded fowling pieces, or pistols the party carried.
A deer gun, rifled for longer range.
Before her brain could catch up with the evidence of her ears, the result unfolded before her eyes—her father’s arm flew up and he fell from his saddle at the same time that young Leslie crumpled to the ground.
She was already flying from the saddle, running for her father when she heard her father’s voice, thin and pained, cry, “He’s hit!” He had already reached the lad. “Jock!” Papa called.
The Dalshee moorkeeper was instantly by his side, propping the lad up, pressing a wad of cloth to staunch the flow of blood blossoming from his shoulder and discoloring the dark tweed of his coat. “That’s no birdshot,” the keeper growled. “He’s hit by a bloody, goddamn ball!”
“Good God,” her father swore. “It struck him first and grazed me.” His gaze lifted to search the party. “Who in the hell has loaded with a ball—”
Another thunderous shot burst into the heather nearby.
“Git doon, man,” was the keeper’s fierce instruction as he pulled his laird by his coattails into the cover of the heather. “All o’ ye,” he screamed back down the line. “Git doon!”
Greer ignored the good advice to reach her father. “Where are you hit?”
“Just grazed. It’s nothing. Get down!” But a sludge of rusty red was soaking through his coat sleeve, and blood was dripping slowly from his fingers.
She hunkered by his side. “Let me see,” she insisted.
“Not now.” Even shaken, his voice brooked no argument. “We’ll see to the boy. We need to get off the moor and see to the him immediately.”
Greer’s gaze went back to the ridgeline, to the outcropping of boulders on the far crest of the hill—Glas Maol. She knew the spot like she knew her own face in the mirror. It was more than fami
liar—it was all but bred into her bones.
And she knew it was the perfect spot to hide from the world, or lie concealed, and steady the kind of rifled long gun used for deer stalking. Only today someone was stalking people.
Fear coalesced like a hot stone in her belly—a hot stone that couldn’t begin to heat the icy chill sinking into her bones. Malcolm Cameron’s words came hurtling back in to her mind—Accidents happen all the time, my lady. There are miscreants up there with guns.
An “accident” had already happened to Ewan. And now an accident was happening to Papa. But what had happened to Ewan was no accident. And neither might this be.
Had he been trying to warn her, Malcolm Cameron—what did he know about his cousin’s attack that he hadn’t told her? Was he trying to frighten her? But she had just seen him ride in the opposite direction, back toward Crieff, and away from Dalshee’s highlands.
Could there really be another man—a truly dangerous, mad man, who had been the one to try and murder Ewan—roaming these moorlands?
At the far end of the group, Alasdair was all but sitting on top of Quince to shield her, and the rest of them were hunkered down in the heather, taking what cover they could, with their fowling pieces at the ready, though there was not much they could do at such a distance.
“I’m going to draw him off,” Archie shouted from somewhere behind her. “And after the shot, you move, all of you, and get to better cover while he reloads.”
And then he was off, running for the far side of the hill, hopefully drawing the eye of the shooter away from the rest of them, who rushed or crawled at various speeds in the opposite direction, toward the shelter of the treeline.
Greer was frozen exactly where she was. Crouching in the scrubby heather. Waiting for some sign, some revelation about who this threat against Papa might be. Some movement from the ridgeline above that would give her a clue as to what she ought to do next. Her heart clanged in her ears like a church bell, drowning out all other sound—she could not even hear her own breathing as it see-sawed in and out of her chest.
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 21
