The Laird of Lochlannan

by Fiona Monroe

  AC

  PS: What an evil, black-looking fellow he is.

  "Beg your pardon, ma'am, I'm to take back a reply."

  Catriona blinked at the stripling, thinking fast. She glanced through the crowd, but could not see Sir Duncan anywhere. Another dance was starting up; people were linking hands and forming themselves into a huge circle.

  She had no writing implements on her, of course. "Did the writer of this letter give it to you himself?"

  "Yes, ma'am, and I'm to return to him with your reply."

  "Listen carefully. Do you know the old mill near the road?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I will meet with him there, inside the mill, in about two hours from now. That will be... ten o'clock. He must keep inside and wait for me, in case something delays me — as long as he can. You will show him the way. Do you understand?"

  The boy nodded, and his quick eyes darted in wonder around the revels before he took off.

  It was still fully daylight at nearly ten o'clock as she hastened along the path into the woods, her skirts bunched in her hands to keep the bejewelled hems from brushing the dried pine needles underfoot. At least it had been fine, dry weather for several days, and there was no mud to soak her dancing slippers. In June, in the Highlands, night scarcely fell at all.

  She had slipped out after the feast was mostly over. It seemed to be the juncture at which she would be least likely to be missed by Sir Duncan if she left the castle, even for an hour or so; the ladies left the table first anyway, even in the informal atmosphere of the ceilidh, and the men stayed to drink whisky and talk amongst themselves. None of the women would pay any heed to whether she was there or not, as Caroline was her only friend and Caroline, she knew, was fully occupied in boasting about her married condition to every aunt, cousin and distant acquaintance. There was every chance that she could get to the mill, talk to Mr. Carmichael and return to the castle without anyone realising she had gone.

  It had not seriously occurred to her to tell Sir Duncan about the note, despite what she had agreed to earlier. He would not understand her need to face Mr. Carmichael, alone, and make it plain to him that he had entirely the wrong idea. If he believed her to be coerced by Sir Duncan into breaking off their engagement, then her only chance of convincing him that she was repudiating him of her own free will was to meet with him privately. She did not know whether she could convince Sir Duncan of that, and she could not risk him insisting on intervening. Anything Sir Duncan communicated to Mr. Carmichael would be misinterpreted, wilfully or otherwise, as further proof of his evil influence.

  The substance of Mr. Carmichael's note had, in fact, disturbed her greatly. It was wretched not to be believed, after all the time and care she had taken over her letter to him; all the tears and ruined sheets of paper. She was desperate to see him, make herself understood and finally be free of him.

  In the gloomy lingering daylight, the old mill still had an oppressive air about it. She had to cross a rackety bridge over the swift-rushing burn to reach the door, which was rotting on its hinges but yielded easily to her tentative push.

  All within was musty, sweet-smelling darkness. Catriona had not thought to bring any kind of lantern, as night would not close in for another two hours at least. She blinked as she let her eyes acclimatise, and soon shapes emerged from the gloom; a table and two chairs, a bare wooden floor, an empty fireplace, an old mangle, and a pile of hemp sacks in one corner, still full. It seemed that this room must have been some kind of office, or perhaps part of the living quarters of the miller and his family.

  She shuddered at the thought of living here. But a fire must once have blazed in that hearth, and perhaps a kettle boiled cheerfully over it and babies played on a rug before it. Everything now was filthy, the air damp and chill.

  There was no sign that Mr. Carmichael was here, though she was a few minutes after the appointed time. She could not be sure that he had even got her message, of course. She paced around the room, restless and agitated; her nerves had been wound up to confront him, and now that she was forced to wait in such uncertainty, she was growing frightened. She could not have said why it was that the decaying building filled her with horror, but it was hard to be in here alone.

  To quell this irrational sense of dread and occupy her mind while she waited for Mr. Carmichael to appear, she examined her surroundings more closely and tried again to imagine how the room might have been when it was someone's home. Would there have been a framed print or embroidery, perhaps, above the fireplace? She ran her fingers lightly over the crumbling plaster, and found some holes that might have been made by nails driven into the walls.

  Although, they were oddly shaped and placed for such a purpose. Now that she was looking closely, she realised that there was a scattering of small, perfectly round indentations in the plaster to the right of the fireplace, as if someone had taken a handful of gravel and flung it at the wall with such force that several stones had penetrated the surface. It was hard to see in the dim light from the cobwebbed, grime-encrusted window, but she thought there was something inside one of the holes.

  Intrigued, she dug her fingernail into the plaster and worked it loose. It was a tiny pellet of metal, no bigger than a cherry pip. She found the same thing in the next hole, and in another.

  Then her eye was caught by something incongruous on the floor, against the skirting board. She stooped to examine what proved to be a torn strip of fabric which seemed to have been caught in the wrought iron foot of the ancient mangle. It had stood out because it was even at first glance not a common rag, but a scrap of finely-woven muslin with the fraying remains of delicate embroidery along one edge. It looked as if it might be part of the hem of a lady's gown, and half of it was stiff and stuck together with a rusty brown contamination. As Catriona unravelled it, flakes of brown shed all over the floor.

  "Catriona."

  She had been so absorbed that she had forgotten to be alarmed, and had forgotten that anyone was supposed to join her there.

  He was standing in the open door, silhouetted by the late evening light, tall and awkward. But her heart had so long greeted the sight of that figure with a pulse of joy that it stirred in spite of her altered feelings. That momentary softening and confusion meant that she offered no immediate resistance as he caught her in a firm embrace.

  "Ah, Catriona," he gasped. "At last. I've been travelling for days. I walked when no-one would offer me a ride. I slept under hedges..."

  Indeed, he smelled as if he had. "You should not have come," she said, making a feeble effort to disengage from his arms.

  He held her tighter. "I had to see you, whatever the cost, see you and tell you that I know, I understand, I saw it all at once. I swear to you, once your fortune is secure and we are married, I will fight the blasted coxcomb for trying to separate us."

  "You will do no such thing, Mr. Carmichael." She was making a more determined attempt to pull away. "You cannot fire a pistol straight, for one thing, and for another — it really is not necessary. I did not write under duress, Sir Duncan had no part in it..."

  She wavered slightly, reflecting that this last statement was not entirely true, on two counts. He had after all ordered her to break the engagement, and she had done so because of him.

  "It was my decision entirely," she continued in a more decided tone, and looked him steadily in the eye. "I'm sorry. I explained my reasons in my letter. I no longer feel that I can give you the wholehearted affection that a wife ought —"

  She broke off as he flung his arms up in the air with a cry that was half a growl and strode away from her. "What? Is he listening? Are you listening, sir?" His voice rose.

  "Mr. Carmichael! Do not be ridiculous. We are the only ones here."

  "Then speak the truth, for God's sake. You can tell him whatever lies are convenient afterwards."

  "I am speaking the truth, and I will not even tell him of this meeting. He does not know I am here."

  He looked her up
and down, as if noticing her for the first time. "Why are you dressed up like that? Is this what you wear of an evening now you're lady of the castle, eh?"

  "I am not lady of the castle. There is a ceilidh to celebrate Miss Buccleuch's wedding. Did they not tell you this in the village?"

  "I don't know what the hell they told me in the village."

  "I need to get back there before I'm missed."

  "Why this subterfuge, eh? Why are you meeting with me behind his back if he has not forbidden you to see me?"

  "I... do not wish to bring trouble on you."

  "God damn it! God damn it! I know you're lying. You're not even very good at it. Catriona!" He seized her arms. "You were never feeble back home. You were always sharp with the come-back. I would say tell him to go to the devil but we have to have the money. You have to hold your nerve and play the part of the dutiful ward but you do not have to act a part towards me. In fact I insist you do not. I command it. Do you hear? As your affianced husband I command you to speak the truth." He was shaking her.

  "I love another!" she cried.

  She had not intended to say it, she regretted even the oblique hint she had given him in the letter that her affections might be engaged elsewhere. But she could not see what else she could say that would have sufficient force to convince him that their engagement was at an end.

  This got through. His face changed, he released her arms and he took a step back. "Who is he?"

  "It doesn't matter! All that matters is that he exists and that I — that I love him, and not you. I'm sorry."

  "Who is he?"

  She was silent, unflinching.

  She was sure now that he believed her, but was struggling to maintain his previous position. "Oh, and are you telling me, that in the few short weeks you have been here, some fellow has come to this out of the way spot and made you forget the man you have been engaged to for over a year? I mean — who can you possibly have met here? Surely there is no one, no single man excepting Sir Duncan Buccleuch himself!"

  She did not intend to reveal anything, but her face must have spoken its own story. She knew that she had always been unable to conceal anything, she was no dissembler and he was intelligent enough.

  His mouth sagged open in horrified comprehension, and he whirled away from her with his hand clutched in his head. "No. No. He has corrupted you. I sent you here — and he has violated you!"

  "No! Mr. Carmichael, listen! He has not violated me."

  "I know his reputation!"

  "Whatever his reputation, he would never force himself upon anyone. And surely you do not think I would surrender my virtue —"

  "By God! Who do you think you are — Pamela? What, you think the laird of the castle is going to marry the preachy little dependent?"

  She said nothing to this, unwilling to confess that she knew how unlikely it was that her love for Sir Duncan could ever be consummated in matrimony. And that being the case, it was scarcely respectable. His scathing reference to the heroine of the famous novel of the same name, a spirited servant girl who steadfastly refused her master's advances and was rewarded eventually by marriage, underlined the absurdity and danger of her situation. In the real world, wealthy baronets did not marry girls of no family and small fortune, any more than they married lady's maids.

  He seized upon her hesitation. "You're not stupid, Catriona. You have never been stupid. You know what he means to do with you."

  "No." She tried to step past him. "I must return to the castle before I am missed. Please just go now, Mr. Carmichael. Take this for your journey back to Edinburgh or — or go to Blair Atholl and stay with your family for the summer —"

  She let out a cry as he swept the two gold sovereigns she had tried to offer to him clear out of her hand, with such violence that they bounced off the wall. Then he grasped hold of both her arms and walked her forcibly back into the darkened room.

  "I will not be paid off," he snarled. "I am not some servant. I am your promised husband, and no libertine laird is going to take what is mine. I will bring you back to your senses."

  It had not occurred to her that she needed to be afraid of him. All at once, as he pinned her arms to her sides, she was terrified. There was nothing cajoling about the way he held her, nothing that even attempted to woo her compliance. With all his strength he wrestled her to the filthy floor.

  "You will be mine," he growled. "Your precious laird won't want soiled goods."

  She screamed, even though she knew there was nothing outside but trees and a deserted road and nobody to hear.

  He clamped a grimy hand over her mouth, choking her, and pinned one arm down with his elbow and the other with his free hand. His grip was manic and his eyes, inches from hers, were wild and merciless.

  She fought back with all her might, but his whole weight was upon her and she could hardly breathe; his hand was large and was pinching closed her nostrils. Dark spots began to flash before her eyes and her limbs grew weak and heavy. She felt her skirts being yanked up and a knee forcing apart her legs and a hand on her inner thigh—

  A hand. The part of her brain that was still alert realised that he must have let go of one of her arms. She whipped up her hand like a claw and gouged at his face, digging her long fingernails into the flesh.

  He let out an agonised curse and for half an instant rose from her. Before she could scramble out from under him, he slammed her back down so hard that her head banged on the wooden floor.

  The pain brought tears and dizziness and the end of struggling. He knelt his full weight on her abdomen, and started to unbutton his breeches.

  "Hold still," he snarled. "You want me. By God, I'll show you what love truly is."

  She had just enough breath to scream again before he seized her throat and tore at her skirts.

  There was a wet, heavy thudding noise, and Catriona — who had closed her eyes to block out the sight of his twisted face — squirmed in horror as she felt him collapse on top of her. For a confused and terrified moment, she thought this must be the end of it. And then she was free, as Mr. Carmichael's limp body was lifted clear of her and savagely shoved aside.

  Sir Duncan stood over her, holding a shotgun upside down and wielding its butt like a club. He had struck Mr. Carmichael on the back of the head, and it seemed to have laid him out cold.

  Catriona scrambled to her knees and then sank down again, weeping, overcome by weakness and relief. Sir Duncan was beside her, his arm around her, his head pressed to hers. "Did he hurt you?" he asked in a gentle yet dangerous voice.

  "Not... not really..." He throat felt bruised and she massaged it.

  He lifted her to her feet and helped her to a chair. She was shaking, but she could walk. She sank gratefully onto the old wooden seat, trying to gain mastery of herself.

  There was a groaning from the heap on the floor. Mr. Carmichael stirred and rolled over onto his hands and knees, grimacing and rubbing his head.

  Sir Duncan rounded on him. He rammed a foot onto his chest, knocking him back down, and levelled the shotgun directly at his face. "Have you defiled her?" he demanded quietly.

  Mr. Carmichael gaped up at him, his mouth moving soundlessly, as if desperately chewing unspoken words.

  "Answer my question, you filthy cur. I want to know whether I'm going to blow your head off right now, or merely beat you to a pulp for attempting it. I would ask Miss Dunbar but something tells me she'd lie to spare your worthless neck."

  "I would not!" she cried. "But he did not. You saved me in time. Sir Duncan..." She got unsteadily to her feet and went to him, and boldly put her hands over his arms. "Do not be a murderer. He is not worth it. Please — put the gun aside."

  There was a long, terrible pause. Catriona kept her hands steady on Sir Duncan's forearm, and she felt his muscles tremble.

  "Go," he spat at last. He had not lowered the gun. "Get out. Never set foot in Gleann a' Chaisteil again."

  If Sir Duncan's anger had not been so real and terrible, and i
f instant death had not been inches from his nose, Mr. Carmichael's retreat would have appeared comical. He scuttered crab-like backwards on his backside towards the door, obviously afraid to turn his back on the gun until the very last moment; when he scrambled to his feet and bolted through the half-open door into the gathering twilight.

  Once he was out of sight, Sir Duncan raised the shotgun and fired.

  The noise was tremendous. Catriona had never fired a gun and had never, before the night of Caroline's attempted elopement, been close to a gunshot. The shotgun was larger and louder than the pistol Sir Duncan had discharged on that occasion, and in the confines of the small room it was deafening. The mouldering door took the full force of the blast and flew off one hinge, collapsing sideways in the frame.

  "He'll be in no doubt now that the gun was loaded," said Sir Duncan with satisfaction, blowing the end of the barrel. "He won't be back."

  Catriona took her hands from her ears and found herself staring at the dislodged door. She had, if she had imagined anything, thought that firing a gun at a door would blast a single large hole in the wood. Instead, the surface was scorched and peppered with tiny indentations.

  "Sir Duncan... the wall back here — it looks as though someone fired a shotgun in here before —"

  "Come on." He hoisted the gun over his shoulder and put his arm around her. "Let's get you back home."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sir Duncan was ominously silent all the way back to the castle, steering her through the woods and across the lawns with his arm linked in hers. Still a little shaken by Mr. Carmichael's assault, but relieved and profoundly grateful for her escape, Catriona had not the spirit to venture a remark herself. She wanted to express her thanks for her rescue, she wanted to beg forgiveness for having defied his explicit instructions, but she could not find the words. And she could feel his anger in the firmness of his grip, and the haste of his step.

  The castle rang with music, laughter and happy shouts, windows brilliantly alight and torches blazing along the terrace where the party had spilled out into the everlasting summer twilight. People were actually dancing a reel outside on the lawn to the tune of a solitary fiddler, a laughing whirling circle of kilts and muslin gowns; the melody clashed with another from somewhere within the castle, the strident sound of a piper.