The Laird of Lochlannan (Bonnie Bride Series Book 2)

by Fiona Monroe

  Lady Buccleuch stood over the bed, holding a large, heavy-looking wooden hairbrush in one hand and leaning her other hand into the small of her daughter's back. She had been about to lift her arm to swing the hairbrush, but as Sir Duncan entered, she straightened up and let her arm fall back.

  Caroline raised herself a little from the bed and twisted half-round to see who had come in, and at the sight of her brother and what he held in his hand, she burst into anguished sobs. She buried her face in the coverlet and balled her fists.

  "I've come to find out whether Caroline is properly sorry for her tantrum at the dinner table," said Sir Duncan. "I can see you've given her a fair hiding so far, Mother. Has she learned her lesson yet, do you think?"

  "She still speaks words of defiance over Mr. Ross's proposals," said Lady Buccleuch stiffly.

  "Oh, don't you worry about that. That is not in question. Caroline will marry Ross when the time comes. This punishment is for her abominable rudeness and unladylike behaviour at the table, insolence to her mother and brother, and dropping a damned heavy chair on Johnson's foot. All in front of our new ward. A fine first impression to give Miss Dunbar of the way young ladies behave at Lochlannan. Well, Caroline? What have you got to say for yourself?"

  There was a muffled wail from the bed.

  "Answer me!" Although he barely raised it, Sir Duncan's voice changed in a moment from relaxed and faintly mocking, to stern and entirely serious.

  "I'm sorry!" Caroline cried out loud. Her tone was tinged with anger, despite her tears.

  "I don't think you are, not truly. You're sorry that you have a sore behind, but you are not sorry for your impertinence. You need a short extra lesson from me to help you think about your behaviour, and reconsider in future where your duty lies." He flexed the fearsome strap. "A taste of the razor strop across your rear end should give you something to think about."

  Catriona held her breath as Sir Duncan raised his arm over his shoulder and brought the fearsome strap down across Caroline's exposed backside with a tremendous crack of leather against flesh. It did not seem that he spared any of his strength. Caroline's whole body jerked upwards as she let out a scream, and the skirt of her nightdress fell down as she slid off the bed to her feet and clutched at her injured bottom.

  Her eyes went wide with shock as she saw Catriona for the first time.

  "Back over the bed and hold still!" Sir Duncan snapped. "Mother!"

  Lady Buccleuch grasped her daughter's wrist and hauled her none too gently to lean face forward over the bed once more. Caroline did not resist, but began to heave with sobs. "Please, brother. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

  "Aye, and you'll be sorrier yet. Bare her."

  This last was to Lady Buccleuch, who wordlessly lifted Caroline's nightgown skirt back up around her waist. Catriona did not really want to look at her cousin's exposed nether region, but it was impossible to avert her eyes from the long angry weal that the lash of the razor strop had raised across both cheeks. On top of the dark red glow from the hairbrush walloping, it was puffy and white-edged and wrapped round to her thigh.

  "Hold her fast," Sir Duncan said to his mother. "Let's get this over with."

  Lady Buccleuch's face set into a grim and determined expression, and she caught hold of both her daughter's arms and pinned her down to the bed.

  Without further remonstrance, and with a brisk, business-like air, Sir Duncan delivered three rapid, swingeing lashes of the strap. At each, Caroline bucked and shrieked and kicked her legs, but her mother pushed her down firmly into the eiderdown and prevented her from rising.

  Sir Duncan paced to stand on his sister's other side.

  "No more!" cried Caroline. "Please no! It hurts!"

  Her plea was cut short and turned into a wail as the razor strop hissed through the air once more, cutting two fast hard lashes in the other direction across her buttocks and another square across her upper thighs.

  Sir Duncan lowered his arm, and nodded at his mother, who released her grip on Caroline's arms. Caroline stayed in position, sinking further forward, sobbing so hard that she began to hiccough.

  "Get up," Sir Duncan rapped.

  Slowly, Caroline eased herself to her feet and stood before him, rubbing her backside through the fabric of her nightgown. Her face was scrunched with pain and streaked with tears and she looked utterly chastened and subdued.

  Sir Duncan curled the razor strop in one hand and tapped it lightly against the palm of the other. "I trust you have learned your lesson now."

  "Yes, sir," Caroline whispered.

  "What have you got to say to me and to our mother?"

  "I'm very sorry for my insolence, sir. Ma'am."

  "And?"

  "Th-thank you for correcting me."

  "And I think you ought to apologise to our cousin, too, for that damned display of temper on her first night under our roof."

  The last thing that Catriona wanted was to have any further attention drawn to herself, and she blushed with mortification as Caroline turned to her with lowered eyes and said, in a shaky voice, "I'm very sorry, Miss Dunbar." She took her hands away from her bottom to curtsy, then winced and clutched at her behind again, rocking slightly from foot to foot.

  "Very well." Sir Duncan flexed the doubled-over strap against his palm. "But I warn you, Caroline. Any further displays of defiance or disobedience, and I'll give you a full dose of our father's fine old razor strop. It won't be our mother handling your punishment next time. Do you understand?"

  "Y-yes, sir."

  "I'll order Cruikshank to keep it oiled and hung up somewhere to hand. You may go now, Miss Dunbar."

  Catriona hurried thankfully away.

  Catriona was awoken the next morning by a maidservant stoking her fire. She lay in bed unmoving for a few minutes, watching the girl at her work, slowly remembering where she was and why.

  And she remembered too the extraordinary scene she had stumbled into the night before, and wondered how comfortably Caroline could have spent the night. She herself had not been skelpt for many years, certainly not since she became a woman. She well recalled a few scorching trips across her mother's knee for childhood misdeeds, including the time she had taken three pennies from her purse and spent it on sweets; on that occasion her mother had borrowed a belt from a neighbour and, as she put it, 'taken the skin off her'. The unbearable sting that would not subside, however much you rubbed it, and the tenderness on sitting the next day, she had not forgotten. She had certainly never stolen anything ever again. But to be chastised as a grown woman, and by an older brother's stronger hand, must be very much worse. She had thought Caroline's behaviour at dinner very reprehensible, but she still felt pity for her.

  Breakfast at Lochlannan Castle was served not in a morning parlour, but in the same gloomy dining hall of the keep. Catriona made sure to come down as early as she could, anxious not to create a bad impression on her first morning, and found Lady Buccleuch already seated, eating eggs and toasted bread, and reading a letter. She merely nodded in good morning, not raising her eyes from the page.

  Catriona flushed, highly conscious of how they had met the night before. Her hostess, however, displayed no signs of being perturbed by this circumstance, or of thinking about it. Lady Buccleuch did look up sharply when Caroline came into the hall, before turning her attention once more to her correspondence.

  "Good morning, ma'am," Caroline said, in a very subdued tone. "Miss Dunbar."

  Her mother said nothing, and Catriona was too embarrassed to know what to say. She could not help watching as Caroline took her seat, and noticing that the other girl eased herself carefully on the hard wooden chair and that a spasm passed over her features as she finally sat.

  There was a servant in attendance at the side table where breakfast was laid out, who brought Caroline what looked like grilled herrings and oatcakes. Catriona had already selected a simple bowl of porridge, though it was served with sweet cream and came with a small silver jar filled with jam.
Catriona was still getting used to the idea that she would never again wake up in the morning and wonder how to eke out their food supply through the day so that she did not go to bed hungry that night. She did not need to confine herself to this bowl of porridge, she reflected as she finished it off. She could take a slice of that cold veal pie if she liked, and there would still be meat at supper time.

  There was an excruciating silence for several minutes. Catriona began to wonder whether she would be obliged to finish her bowl of porridge and rise from the table without speaking to either lady. The attendant footman saved her from this embarrassment by murmuring an offer to fetch her something else to eat, and Catriona requested a small serving of kidneys in mustard and cream.

  Eventually Caroline said, her voice quavering a little, "I trust you slept well, Miss Dunbar?"

  "Yes, I thank you."

  "Are you comfortable in the north tower room? It is not large, I know, but when the weather is cold, as it often is here, the smaller bedchambers in the old keep are warmer than the larger rooms in the new wing."

  "I am quite comfortable there, thank you."

  "I am glad. We thought you would like to have your mother's old chamber."

  "Yes," said Catriona, and silence fell once more. She toyed with the kidneys on her plate, wondering how soon it would be polite to escape.

  After a few minutes more, Caroline began, "Miss Dunbar, perhaps after breakfast we might—"

  Her voice trailed off as the sound of rapid footsteps rang on the stone staircase the led to the dining hall, and a moment later, Sir Duncan strode into the hall. He was dressed for hunting, and in fact was carrying a gun and had an enormous lean, shaggy dog at his heel. He thrust the gun into the hand of the footman, who carried it away impassively, and threw himself into his chair. The dog coiled around his feet and settled down under the table.

  "Fine morning," he said. "Already bagged a buck up beyond Scourie. Ah! Rising at dawn always seems a damned outrage of an idea in town, but out here it's bracing when you can manage it. Good morning to you, Miss Dunbar! Did you sleep well on your first night under the old stones, or did the ghost keep you awake with its wailing?"

  "Thank you sir, I slept well. And I know of no ghost."

  "Pish, did your mother not tell you of the Grey Lady of Lochlannan?" Sir Duncan was leafing through the pile of post left by his plate.

  "Duncan," said Lady Buccleuch, "Miss Dunbar does not wish to hear of that nonsensical fairy-tale."

  "Of course she does, mother! All young ladies love a ghost. Well, Miss Dunbar, the Grey Lady is said to be the ghost of Margaret Buccleuch, daughter of a sixteenth century Buccleuch, who fell in love with the chief of a rival clan—I forget which—and was forbid to marry him, naturally. He was supposed to meet her by the shore of the loch in the dead of night and whisk her away, but there was a storm and his rowboat overturned and he and his man drowned. When she heard the news, the silly strumpet threw herself off the roof of the keep. Now her ghost wanders the halls and staircases of the tower, endlessly waiting to be brought news that her lover is waiting for her at the shore. You look pale, Miss Dunbar."

  "I... do not, sir."

  "I take it you do not believe what my mother so rightly says is a nonsensical fairy-tale. You can see her memorial stone in the old chapel, they must have decided it wasn't suicide after all. Incidentally, I believe that legend has it that the north tower room was her own bedchamber."

  There was a sharp clatter, and Catriona looked round to see that Caroline had dropped her knife onto her plate. She also did not seem to have eaten very much of her herring and oatcakes.

  "And how are you this morning, sister?" said Sir Duncan. "Sitting a mite uncomfortably? Perhaps we should ask Johnson to bring you a cushion."

  Caroline said nothing, but looked both sulky and abashed. Catriona saw how she shifted slightly back and forth in her seat, as if trying to escape the ache of the hard wood.

  "It's a fine morning, as I have observed," he continued, breaking the seal of a letter and waving to the servant to bring over some food. "You will have no difficulties in making the journey to Inverlannan to visit the dressmaker with Miss Dunbar, Caroline. It won't rain—James can take you in the gig."

  "I should prefer the coach," said Caroline, almost in a whisper. "In case of rain."

  "It won't rain." Sir Duncan's tone was decisive and final.

  Nothing much more was said. Sir Duncan turned his whole attention to his correspondence, eating kippers and kidneys, eggs and potato scones in indiscriminate forkfuls, and Caroline excused herself timidly.

  She paused by Catriona's chair. "Perhaps you would like to meet me in my room when you are ready to go out, Miss Dunbar."

  Catriona nodded, still embarrassed.

  She excused herself as soon as possible after this, to an indifferent nod from Lady Buccleuch and silence from Sir Duncan, and retreated to her own room for a while. By daylight, it was scarcely any less oppressive, and now that she knew it was likely haunted, it had acquired a sinister air.

  She tried the latch on the pointed latticed window, and found that it unfastened easily enough. A wave of fresh, cold, water-scented air swept into the room. She leaned out, and after catching a glimpse of the shimmering expanse of the loch beyond some trees, she saw how far it was down to the ground. A wave of dizziness made her retreat quickly back into the safety of the room, although she left the window standing open.

  It was only now that she recalled her mother's story about how Sir Wallace had locked her in this very room for nearly ten days, allowing her no more than a hunk of bread and cheese every morning and a pitcher of water, until she had broken down and given her solemn promise that she would not allow Ezekiel Dunbar to contact her again. Caroline saw how impossible it must have been for her mother to contemplate escape, if that very solid oak door was firmly locked, with such a sheer drop below the window.

  "He took hold of my hair then," she remembered her mother saying, her voice tremulous as she relived the ancient outrage, "and forced me to my knees in the chapel, and made me swear before God that I would renounce your father for ever. Or he said he would return me to my prison, and never let me out. I could not endure the thought, so I perjured myself before the Lord. That man put my eternal soul in peril."

  Catriona shuddered. She had willingly put herself in the same prison, and though she knew her reasons—not least of which, at that moment, was the simple, comfortable sensation of a satisfied appetite—she wondered what her mother would have thought.

  It occurred to her that if she was to go into town, the same town she assumed that they had passed through the day before on the last leg of their journey, then it would be an ideal opportunity to take a letter to the post. It might be her only one for a while, as she did not dare to entrust any correspondence to the hands of a servant. She would write a brief note to Mr. Carmichael, then find an opportunity to slip away from Miss Buccleuch, or even take her into her confidence. She was not sure of that yet. She would certainly not tell her about her engagement, although a secret correspondence would of course heavily suggest that to any young lady's mind.

  Catriona's few possessions included an old writing case containing a couple of rather worn-down pens and an almost-full inkwell, and she had brought a few sheets of writing paper with her. For now, she was self-sufficient, but it would not be long before she would have to ask Lady Buccleuch for fresh writing supplies. That might prompt questions, she knew. She wondered if she would have the effrontery to tell an outright lie about why she wanted pen and paper.

  She selected the most promising of the pens, cut its nib, and then hesitated over the blank sheet of paper for a long time. She found herself unable to think of a single thing to write to Mr. Carmichael, that was not an expression of anger or resentment. Anger because he had wanted to force himself on her, anger that he had valued her so little, anger that he had not apologised, even though he had had not really had the opportunity to do so. Resentment, that
he had pressed her to put herself into this position. She had tried to put their last meeting out of her mind, though memories of his wild eyes and the unpleasant sensation of his tongue in her mouth had intruded unbidden at night, and came back again now as she tried to form tender words on the page.

  Eventually, conscious of the passing of time, she wrote:

  Dear Mr. Carmichael, I am arrived safely at Lochlannan Castle after a tiring but uneventful journey of five days. The country we travelled through is very beautiful, although I do not need to tell you that. I am most comfortably accommodated in the same room that was my mother's, when she lived here. There is a fine view of the loch from the window. Sir Duncan and the dowager Lady Buccleuch have been most welcoming, and Miss Buccleuch is a charming girl who has already extended her friendship to me in the warmest terms. It is clear that I shall want for nothing here, so you need not be at all anxious for my comfort. I will write again at greater length when I have an opportunity. Your most affectionate Catriona.

  She read it over with a sinking sense of dismay. With the forced exception of the final words, it was not a love letter, nor did it sound like herself. It was insipid and cold. She could read her anger behind every bland sentence. She knew she herself would be disappointed, even hurt to receive such a letter in these circumstances.

  She sighed and added:

  PS: It may not be possible to write often, nor wise to write explicitly: but you are always in my thoughts.

  Uneasily, she folded and sealed the letter and addressed it to the Medical School, then tucked it into her bosom.

  CHAPTER SIX

  She had still not decided whether to tell Caroline about the letter by the time she reached her cousin's apartments, and knocked softly on the door. It was impossible not to feel uncomfortable as she approached the same place where she had witnessed Caroline's chastisement, only a few hours before.