Highlander’s Gypsy Lass (Highlander's 0f Clan Macgregor Book 1)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “Ever since what?” Rosalie asked.

  Gale looked at her with her dead gray eyes. “Since ye died.”

  The skin between Rosalie’s brows pinched together. Since I died. “What’s tha’ supposed tae mean?”

  “Never min’,” Gale twisted her hair. “I’ll be rid o’ this place soon enough once I marry the baron.”

  “The baron? The one Edward hunts with?”

  “Aye.”

  Rosalie grimaced. “He’s so old an’ fat, too.”

  Gale shrugged. “He can still sire bairns.”

  “Doesn’t tha’ bother you?”

  “Why should it? ‘Tis my responsibility. An’ once I bear a son, I willnae have a thing tae worry abou’. I’ll be the lady o’ my own keep, an’ willnae be locked up anymore. I’ll have the company o’ me bairns an’ a house tae run the way I wish, an’ I can spend as much time in the gardens as I like.” Her demeanor changed back to her usual defenses, cold and condescension. She looked Rosalie up and down. “No’ like you’d understand any o’ this. Yer people pair off like dogs.”

  Gale let out an annoyed sigh and walked across the room. She pulled a pin from her hair and worked at the old lock on the door. The ancient lock popped without much ceremony, and without another word, Gale left.

  There was a moment where Rosalie sat there dumbfounded, her face hot. Gale’s words stung—not because of the unfounded insult she threw at the people she loved; this was something she’d come to expect from the young woman. No, it was her accusation that Rosalie could not understand responsibility. It hit too close to home and reminded her of how disappointed Magda was, how the last moments with those she loved were selfish and ruined everything.

  It took her a moment to move. She was afraid that at any moment, Lady Catherine would wheel in and start yelling at her for letting Gale run off without consent. She listened and heard nothing out in the hall.

  When she mustered up the courage to look out the open door, she found Gale nowhere in sight, having gone off to do whatever the poor girl did to abide her time. There was no question what Rosalie wanted to do with her moment of freedom. She quickened her pace towards the kitchen, stealing glances over her shoulder, afraid that at any moment she might be caught.

  All while she had stayed at the keep, she had never seen the servant’s quarters or the kitchens. She knew where they were and could smell them before entering. Meat and root vegetables and broth and woodsmoke hit her with a bout of instant nostalgia. The heat of the kitchens wrapped around her like a warm, comforting blanket. A sudden moment of reverence washed over her. She no longer tiptoed in from fear, but from a feeling that at any second, the moment might vanish. Homesickness welled in her throat and stomach.

  “Flora,” a woman stirring a massive pot called without looking, “Be a dear an’ pluck the feathers, will ye?”

  Rosalie did not say a word. She swallowed the pain she felt in her heart, reminded so much of Magda just then. Her hands set to the familiar task, and for the first time, she felt like it might not be as bad living there as she thought.

  When the woman turned around, she gave a shrill cry and grabbed her heart/ “Oh, dear me, yer no’ Flora. M’lady!” She was quick to place her over Rosalie’s, her skin rough and peeling from years of hot steam and hard labor.

  “Please?” Rosalie pleaded.

  The woman was uncertain. She looked over her shoulder. Rosalie repeated herself, her eyes begging to stay in the familiar for only a little longer.

  Flora’s mother whispered, “If the lady comes in, it’ll be hell in a handbasket fer the both o’ us.”

  Rosalie’s mouth twisted. The last thing she wanted was to get anyone into trouble. She pulled a few more feathers from the chicken before pushing it towards the graying woman.

  “May I stay? I can come up with somethin’ tae tell Catherine if she asks.”

  It was easy to see that Flora’s mother, like everyone else, was afraid of Lady Catherine’s temper. Still, after peering into Rosalie’s eyes a moment longer, she nodded in consent. “But o’er there, in that window. Gale will do it sometimes. At least when she were younger. Waitin’ fer pies an’ whatnot.”

  Rosalie obeyed. Silence passed between the two women for quite a while. It was an awkward silence, one in which both people wish to say something, but neither know how to start, and either one can feel it thick in the air, just waiting to shatter with the right words.

  “Flora tells me ye were there.” It was not what Rosalie intended to start with. Yet the question had consumed her mind for days, and the moment she opened her mouth, it freed itself from her at last.

  Rosalie could see a pink hue rise in the woman’s light olive complexion. “Aye.” She did not look at Rosalie or ask for more information. She knew what the young woman wanted to know.

  “Can ye tell me what happened?”

  There was silence. Rosalie started to think the woman had not heard her. She opened her mouth to repeat herself when Flora’s mother turned to the pot an’ said, “It were a long time ago. No reason gettin’ in tae all that.”

  Anger, driven by desperation and desire, simmered beneath Rosalie’s pale skin as she pressed her lips hard together, curving into a frown as she tried to control her emotions. This was her only chance.

  “Please, I need tae know. I have tae know.”

  As soon as she spoke, the anger melted, and her eyes watered until everything in the kitchen blurred behind a glassy film. The woman turned before Rosalie could dab away at her eyes. “It’s the onions,” Rosalie said, the words coming out pathetic and sending a pang of humiliation through her.

  Rosalie could see sincere sympathy in the woman’s eyes, more than she had seen in anyone since arriving. “Oh, deary,” she said, and then the woman looked as if she might cry as well. She turned her face away from Rosalie. Her voice fell. “It’s me fault. I was the one watchin’.” Her words were lost in a choking sob. “Oh, pardon me.”

  Rosalie felt terrible for causing the woman to cry. “I’m sorry. I didnae mean tae.”

  The woman waved her hand. She turned around. Her face was red, but she was smiling through the tears. “No, dear. It’s no’ yer fault. None o’ this is yer fault.” She took a shaky breath. “That day’s jus’ haunted me,” she shook her head and touched her fingers to her lips.

  “Please. I know it’s hard.” Rosalie was standing now, “But please, anythin’ ye can tell me….”

  She walked slowly towards the woman as if approaching a frightened animal. Flora’s mother tensed. Her eyes swam with guilt. Rosalie touched her hand, and the woman started before relaxing a bit as tears fell. She cursed under her breath and turned back to her pot.

  Through sniffles, she said, “Ye should sit back down. If the lady sees ye even lookin’ like yer workin’, she’ll take it out on me.”

  Rosalie obeyed and waited. Her fingertips curled into the threadbare cushion. The woman in front of her calmed her breathing.

  “I really shouldn’ tell ye,” she stalled.

  “I promise I willnae say a word. I jus’, I have to know.”

  The woman’s shoulders heaved. “Ye were a little cute t’ing. Durin’ those days I was workin’ as a governess teachin’, no’ in the kitchens. No’ tha’ I’m no’ grateful. Edward, bless his soul,” she sighed, “ye were always runnin’ wild. The moment ye could, ye’d bolt right out the front door an’ take off into the woods.”

  Rosalie hung on every word. So far, this sounded like her. Not like the dresses and assurances of her favorites counted by Catherine.

  “That’s when ye disappeared.”

  It was spoken with finality and satisfied nothing for Rosalie. “Yes, but how? Who took me?” She was bordering on frantic, impatient to hear what she needed to know—if it was Magda… if she had been taken?

  Something in the old woman’s voice changed. She choked on her words a moment, and then, what came out next sent a chill down Rosalie’s spine. “A woman had come tae the grou
nds earlier. She’d asked after work. Offered tae read fortunes and do odd-end house duties. I tol’ her we weren’t interested, an’ I thought she left. When ye ran off, I couldn’ catch up tae ye. I called fer ye as ye reached the woods. Ye didn’ come. By the time I got to the woods, I couldn’ see ye nowhere. An’ then I heard ye an’ that woman in the distance. I ran as hard as I could, but I couldn’ find ye.”

  The way she said it sounded rehearsed. It didn’t sit right with Rosalie. None of it did. Yes, it was true; in camp, sometimes the women would tell fortunes, but it was never a service offered to the public. Even when asked, it was all for show. And the way Flora’s mother’s tone changed? All of the emotions leeched from the story except the shaking of nerves.

  “An’ they jus’ disappeared?”

  “Y-yes,” the woman’s voice shook. “Like magic.” The last word squeaked as if squeezed from her.

  “An’ what did the woman look like?”

  “I-I don’t ken.”

  “Was she short, tall, dark hair, light hair, anythin’?” Rosalie’s interrogation rose in intensity.

  “I cannae ‘member.” It was clear the woman was crying again. “It were so long ago. I cannae ‘member.”

  “Ye cannae remember anythin’?”

  Rosalie did not believe her; she could sense it. Something about it was not right. There were secrets here, things no one wished to tell her, and she had to know the truth.

  “N-no, I swears tae ye. Ye jus’ ran off, an’ then I tried to fin’ help, an’ I jus’ weren’t fast enough, an’—” the woman was hysterical now.

  Rosalie persisted, “An’ then what? No one came tae find me? They didnae send ou’ dogs? Surely an old woman an’ a little girl cannae get far on foot.”

  “They prob’ly had horses or—”

  “Or there’s more yer no’ tellin’ me,” Rosalie spit out.

  “Please!” The woman was visibly shaking over her pot.

  Rosalie was angry. She was so close to the truth, but her heart was too soft to push the woman much further. For a moment, she stared at her backside, wondering how to push her for more information without breaking her down any further.

  “Who’d ye tell?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Who’d ye tell when ye fin’ out I were missin’?”

  “Edward. I went tae Edward immediately.”

  That was the truth. Rosalie could hear it—not like her disconnected account of the magical gypsy woman whisking off a little girl into the woods without a trace. In her gut, Rosalie knew it could not have been Magda. Still, she needed closure. It would drive her mad, not knowing.

  She stood up. “Thanks,” was all she said as she left the woman, a mess over her cooking.

  Rosalie returned to the study to think in silence until summonsed again. She caught a glimpse of Gale out the window, sitting in a flower bed, plucking petals, and stroking a fat stray cat with a missing ear. It suited Rosalie just fine to have the room alone.

  Lady Catherine seemed absent-minded for the rest of the night. She never came to collect Rosalie or noticed Gale’s rendezvous outside. Rosalie could not help but wonder how many times Gale was forgotten, locked up in rooms, before she figured out how to undo the locks.

  That night in her chambers, Flora was silent. Rosalie did not push her—not at first. It wasn’t until the girl started making audible grunts to accompany her noticeable anger that Rosalie finally gave in.

  “Jus’ say it.”

  “Ye upset my mother!” The words exploded, finally unleashed.

  “Aye,” Rosalie grimaced. “She lied tae me.”

  Flora’s mouth fell open and then closed beneath her scowl. The anger didn’t subside from her eyes and face. She pulled at the knots in Rosalie’s curls with sharp tugs.

  “Ow,” Rosalie rubbed her scalp. She stood up and walked to the window. “Look, I didn’ want tae upset her. I jus’ have tae know the truth.”

  Down below, Rosalie spotted a dark figure walking across the grounds, a shadow against the slim moonlight. Flora, having grown maybe too comfortable, rattled and ranted. Her words were distant. Rosalie only picked out one or two as she watched the slender figure walk towards the woods.

  “Flora,” Rosalie interrupted.

  The girl stopped abruptly, annoyed. “Yes?”

  “Who is that?”

  Flora stood behind Rosalie, looked out at the lawn. The figure was slipping into the tree line. Flora watched, forgetting her anger for a moment of common curiosity.

  “I thin’ it’s Edward.” Her voice was sad, not surprised. She looked at Rosalie.

  “Does he do tha’ often?”

  “Aye.” Flora stood up and started to clean up the chamber.

  It made sense. Edward was always disappearing. The couple of times Lady Catherine pestered him about it; he had half-hearted excuses. Rosalie’s heart jumped. She knew how she was going to have a private conversation with Edward.

  Chapter Twenty

  Angus and Declan tried their best to shield themselves from the torrents of rain, pulling their hoods over their eyes and their cloaks tight. There were not many homesteads around the keep, and the few closest they passed early on, afraid of being too close to a possible threat. The first fingerings of dawn broke before they saw a small cottage set amongst overgrown fields.

  The rain softened to a drizzle. As they descended the hill above, a man stepped from the small home. He stood with one hand in his pocket and the other puffing away at a small pipe, watching them. Declan and Angus stopped a ways from him out of respect.

  “We’re lookin’ fer a place to sleep,” Declan yelled.

  The cold and damp soaked them to their bones, and their teeth chattered uncontrollably. The old man’s gaze was hard and gray as the granite boulders up above. Declan felt his breath hitch in his throat. If the man turned him away—the cold and discomfort grew his fears to something larger than reality.

  “Pa?” a soft voice called, followed by the wail of a baby. A young woman in her early twenties appeared in the door.

  “Gie back inside.” His accent was thick enough to slur his words until they were hardly recognizable.

  Declan took a risk and called out, “Please miss, we’re freezin’ an’ have nowhere else tae go.”

  The woman started. Her eyes widened with both surprise and sympathy. She turned to her aging father, and her soft features turned cross.

  “Pa, wha’ ye doin’ makin’ ‘em stand in the rain like tha’?”

  A grumbling moan came up from the old man’s diaphragm. He smacked his lips before inhaling on his pipe, staring at Declan, judging him up. He gave a sideways glance at his young daughter, her features puckered and stern in disapproval.

  “Och, fine,” he relented.

  “Thank ye.”

  Declan and Angus dismounted and rushed towards shelter. The old man never stirred from his post as his daughter held the door open for them. Their rain-soaked clothes pooled water onto the floor. The girl was unfazed.

  “Thank ye,” Declan repeated.

  “PA! Ge’ in ‘ere.” The old man made another noise of discontent and stomped his way in, still puffing on his pipe. “They need clothes.” She turned to Declan, holding her child close to her breast. “Stoke the fire.”

  Declan obeyed her commands. The old man produced clothes for the two of them. Declan couldn’t stop smiling. They were warm, safe, and he knew where Rosalie slept. He worried if she was safe, but the hope of seeing her after a small bit of rest filled him with joy. “Me name’s Rhona,” the woman said, bouncing her child. “Ye’ve missed dinner an’ we don’ have much, but ye can have the bread on the table there.”

  Angus immediately fell on the half loaf of bread. He ate it while warming his hands over the fire, grateful for the warmth. The one-roomed cottage sat in silence for a bit as they adjusted to the temperature change. Everyone was ready to sleep, and no one wished to be rude.

  “They’ll sleep in da animal shack
.” It was the most the old man had said since they arrived, and it came out as one firm word, just under a scream.

  “Pa!”

  “Nay, miss, it’s fine. It’ll do us fine,” Declan smiled. “Ye’ve done enough fer us.”

  “I’ll lay yer clothes out soon as they’re dry.”

  Declan nodded. “We’ll be movin’ on as soon as we wake.”

  Rhona’s father grunted approval. Declan and Angus found the lean-to shack without issue and made themselves beds out of hay. Within moments, Angus fell asleep, snoring loudly in the night. Declan laid awake, thinking of Rosalie and forming plans based on what he saw.