Now, in one thoughtless moment, she’d helped destroy Shaw’s chance at a happy marriage and proven without a doubt she was no lady.
Folk would gossip loud and long about her rolling around on the floor hissing and spitting at Caitlin Blair. She tried to recall how the whole thing had come about. If she hadn’t kicked Rory Blair…
He was as responsible as she for the fracas—another victim held fast in the thrall of the feud that had poisoned many lives. She wondered if he, too, longed to be free of the hatreds.
As the walls and turrets of Drummond Castle came into view, Fiona knew with a heavy heart that she’d isolated herself from the brothers she loved. Gordon and Logan would naturally side with Shaw. She’d be more alone than ever. The dismal prospect was too heart-wrenching to contemplate.
*
As Shaw rode through the gate of Drummond Castle, he recognized with a sinking heart it was the first time in his life he hadn’t felt glad to be home.
The nurturing fortress now had to be a place of secrets. There was no choice but to pursue marriage with Caitlin. His heart dictated it. However, there was also the matter of protecting the clan from the king’s wrath.
Trying to change his father’s mind would be a waste of time, and Fiona had proven she couldn’t be trusted. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but the bond they’d shared was irrevocably broken. She’d put the clan in terrible danger.
The time had come to relieve his father of the lairdship. Clearly, the mon could no longer make rational decisions.
Gordon and Logan were his only potential allies, and they were bairns. Shaw knew from experience how intimidating Fiona could be if she wanted to pry information from a child. It was too soon to know if she’d support his bid for the chieftaincy. The older she got, the more unpredictable she became.
He was determined to wed Caitlin, but couldn’t get his thoughts around what might happen when he brought his bride to Drummond Castle. Fiona would just have to accept that she no longer ruled the roost.
The prospect of a looming war made his head ache.
*
Since childhood, Caitlin had paddled barefoot in the loch that surrounded Ardblair on three sides like a protective moat. Now, as she followed Rory across the narrow land bridge at dusk, the black depths felt more like an impenetrable barrier designed to keep her in the castle.
The home that had nurtured her since birth would henceforth be a place of secrets. She’d have to be careful what she said, even to Nairn. Her younger sister was on her side, but she also loved Rory and looked up to him.
She wished her brother was already laird. Their father had clearly lost his wits. If the Drummond-Blair marriage didn’t take place, King William’s anger would descend on the clan. They’d lose Ardblair, of that she was sure. Did Rory not see the danger?
However, the certainty she and Shaw must marry had little to do with politics, kings or feuds. The broad-shouldered warrior had stolen her heart. She could never wed another. The possibility she might become a bitter spinster like Fiona Drummond was too gut-wrenching to contemplate.
Cold Water
Shaw tasted the bitter compulsion to storm Ardblair Castle in order to retrieve his bride, but common sense dictated he take his time and plan carefully. Violence would do naught to end the feud. He had to get the clan elders on his side if he was to lay claim to the chieftaincy. Fiona held sway with many of them—or, more likely, they found it easier to go along with her—but she had to be kept in the dark.
After much deliberation, he decided to speak to Jamie Drummond, hoping his godfather would see his point of view, despite being the current laird’s younger brother. The move was risky. If his father got wind of it…
Come rain or shine, Jamie could be found every morning at dawn indulging in his favorite pastime—fishing on the Earn.
Shaw owned a rod but had never truly mastered nor taken an interest in fly-fishing. However, his godfather would be suspicious if he turned up without the appropriate gear.
Trudging through dew-laden grass reminded him his favorite boots needed repair.
“Good morn,” he shouted when he espied his uncle standing in waist-deep water, his shirt rolled up and knotted around his ribs.
“Shh,” Jamie admonished hoarsely. “Ye’ll frighten the fish, laddie.”
Shaw whispered an apology, then realized he hadn’t brought bait. “Can I borrow one of yer flies, Uncle?”
The question might seem harmless enough, but Jamie fashioned his own flies with painstaking attention to detail. He treated them like the bairns he’d never had.
Without averting his gaze from the river, his uncle nodded.
Having prepared his rod and line, Shaw removed his boots, unfastened his belt and divested himself of his breacan. There was naught for it but to wade out to his uncle if he wanted to have a conversation, so he hoisted up his shirt and knotted it at his chest.
He was shivering even before the frigid water numbed his feet. The prospect of immersing his balls in a river that probably had ice on its surface a scant hour ago…
“Nay afraid of cold water, are ye?” Jamie taunted as Shaw gingerly waded deeper, his teeth chattering too much to offer a response.
Five minutes later, Jamie had landed two trout. Shaw had made a dozen casts and caught nothing, his body numb from the waist down. He couldn’t wait much longer to begin the conversation about the chieftaincy, or he’d be no use whatsoever to Caitlin as a husband.
“So, what was it ye wanted to discuss?” Jamie asked as he reeled in another fish, unhooked the wriggling creature and stuffed it in the creel strapped around his body.
“Ye’re too canny,” Shaw replied. “There’s nay point denying I had an ulterior motive in coming here.”
Jamie laughed heartily. “Ye’ve never been a fisherman, and yer gonads are likely as shriveled as mine, so let’s get to the bank and ye can say what ye came to say.”
They waded to the shallows. Shaw’s clumsy fingers could scarcely untie the fly he’d borrowed and he was desperate to swathe his shivering body in his plaid. Jamie, on the other hand, stood half-naked, the ends of his now untied shirt dripping water, but seemingly in no hurry to clothe himself.
“’Tis my best Kirby hook,” he said, accepting the fly back from his nephew. “I canna understand why ye didna catch aught with it. Of course, I could give ye some tips on improving yer casting, and ye might want to wait to don yer plaid. There’s naught more irritating than wet wool on a mon’s…”
“Aye,” Shaw interrupted, wondering if his uncle’s mind was perhaps going the same way as his sire’s. “I want to speak to ye about yer brother.”
Jamie sat on a fallen log and wiggled his toes. “Sit. Let yer feet dry before ye put yer boots back on.”
Shaw obeyed, hoping nobody happened by to witness two grown men wearing naught but shirts seated on a log wiggling their toes.
“Ye’re worried about yer father.”
“His unreasonable behavior in Stirling has put the clan in a perilous position. He’s full of hatred and has lost sight of what’s important. King William willna be pleased.”
“There’s more to it, though.”
“Aye,” Shaw admitted, hoping he didn’t sound too much like a spoiled bairn deprived of something he wants. “He didna consider for a moment how I might feel.”
“He didna realize nor even ask if ye liked the Blair lass.”
Shaw inhaled deeply. “I never expected to like her, but I kent the moment I set eyes on her, she was the one.”
Jamie gazed out at the river. “I loved a lass once. Brodie didna consider her suitable.”
Shaw had heard rumors of a lost love years ago, but hadn’t been aware his father was the cause of his uncle’s lifelong bachelorhood. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I didna ken.”
As they assisted each other to don and belt their breacans, Jamie said, “So, ye want to be laird.”
“’Tis the best thing for the clan,” Shaw repl
ied, sure in his heart it was the truth.
“Best get yer boots on then.”
Shaw’s hopes rose until Jamie picked up his creel and asked, “Have ye spoken to Fiona?”
*
Caitlin lay awake listening to the familiar sounds of dawn at Ardblair Castle. Servants chattered as they set about their duties, the goatherd gathered his bleating flock for milking, the rooster crowed his dominance over the henhouse.
She hadn’t slept well, her restless dreams filled with memories of Shaw Drummond. The tall, well-muscled, handsome warrior was the kind of man lasses dreamed of marrying, but she’d never been preoccupied with the notion of marriage—until now.
The prospect of sharing kisses and caresses with Shaw brought on previously unknown yearnings in intimate places, but there was something else about him that drew her. She couldn’t say exactly what it was, but he felt it too, of that she was certain.
She rose and tiptoed to the window, not wishing to wake Nairn still sleeping in her own bed. The loch was always a source of inspiration—sometimes calm, sometimes whipped into a frenzy by the wind sweeping down from the Highlands. It protected her home and was a place where she found joy and peace.
Today, it was naught but cold water that offered no solution to her predicament.
She searched the loch’s depths for any memory of affection between her parents. Perhaps, if her father had felt for her mother what she felt for Shaw…
But she recognized it was a false hope. If her parents had ever loved each other, they’d hidden it well beneath sarcasm and hurtful remarks. Her father’s decline since his wife’s death seemed all the stranger.
Nor was it of any use to appeal to Rory, a confirmed bachelor who wouldn’t recognize love if it bit him on the arse. Until he became laird, he had little alternative but to be a loyal son, and then there was no guarantee he’d want to end the feud.
After all, it was he and Fiona Drummond whose outbursts had sabotaged any chance of things working out as the king wished. Two of a kind.
“I might have expected my father not to care about my happiness,” she whispered to the morn, “but Rory…”
“Aye, ’tis a fine kettle of fish,” Moira declared, kicking the door shut with her foot as she entered bearing a tray of food. “What can ye expect of men? I suspected ye wouldna wish to break yer fast in the hall.”
Nairn stirred, sat up and yawned.
“I didna hear ye in the corridor, Moira,” Caitlin murmured. “I thank ye, though I’m nay hungry.” Not wishing to alarm her little sister, she wiped away welling tears.
Nairn rose and came to the window. “Dinna be sad,” she said, wrapping her arms around Caitlin’s waist.
“How can she nay be upset?” Moira exclaimed, setting the tray down on the table in the center of the chamber. “Betrothed to a fine mon, the future laird of a noble clan, and now…”
“We should just escape and ride to Drummond Castle,” Nairn said. “Though it looks chilly out.”
Caitlin stroked Nairn’s hair, thankful her sister understood her turmoil. “I wish we could,” she replied, “but Papa has ordered me confined to the castle grounds.”
“In any case,” Moira said, pulling back the bed linens. “The wind is raw. Ye canna venture out this day.”
Caitlin had spent much of the night pondering the possibility of a tunnel to the ruined Newton Castle. Given that Ardblair was surrounded on three sides by a loch, it was difficult to understand how such a thing could exist. Nevertheless… “’Tis a good day for exploring indoors,” she suggested, suddenly finding she was hungry after all.
Conflicting Loyalties
Sitting alone at the head table in Ardblair’s Great Hall, Rory gave up waiting for his sisters to arrive and embarked on the trencher of smoked ham and bread placed before him. His father never rose until the sun was high in the sky, and he’d been foolish to hope Caitlin and Nairn might appear.
He hadn’t slept well, his dreams haunted by Fiona Drummond’s outburst. Something about the woman had unsettled him, causing a thoughtless reaction to her words. If only he’d curbed his tongue.
He scanned the sullen faces of castle folk gathered to break their fast. He understood their animosity. It was only a matter of time before the king’s wrath descended on the clan. If William’s troops confiscated Ardblair, they’d clear out those whose loyalty might be suspect.
He filled his lungs, feeling isolated. He’d alienated Caitlin, the sister he’d always been close to. There was no one to share his burdens, no wife to soothe his troubled thoughts. Perhaps, he needed a helpmate, a strong woman…someone like Fiona Drummond.
Scoffing at the folly of the notion, he shoved aside the remnants of the stale bread and tasteless ham. It was a reminder he intended to speak to his father about the deteriorating quality of victuals coming from the kitchens. Even the ale was flat. The cooks claimed to be doing what they could with the limited funds placed at their disposal by the laird.
Rory had been obliged to take over many of the mundane duties his father had let slide, but his sire steadfastly refused to show the clan’s ledgers to his son. ’Twas folly. Rory was no green youth and the heir to the chieftaincy had a right, nay a duty, to be aware of how the clan’s income was dispersed. Fiona would agree.
Crivvens, enough of this preoccupation with the hussy.
The two surviving clan elders—both in their dotage—weren’t consulted about expenditures. Laird Blair stubbornly refused to appoint new elders.
Things had to change.
*
Fiona sat at the head table in Drummond’s Great Hall, feeling rather ridiculous flanked by Gordon and Logan—like a mother hen with her chicks. Except they weren’t her chicks, just her younger brothers. She swallowed the lump in her throat. As a lass, she’d harbored fancies of bearing many healthy, strong sons, but a woman couldn’t sire bairns without a husband. She’d never even been allowed to kiss a man.
“Cheer up, Fiona,” Gordon said with a tentative smile. “Maybe Shaw will be here soon to break his fast.”
She nodded and pasted a false grin on her face. “Aye.” She couldn’t share her worries with the lads. Not only was it unlikely Shaw would forgive her, it was possible they might all soon be cast out of Drummond Castle.
If only she had someone to share the burden. Someone who understood about conflicting loyalties, someone like Rory Blair.
Crivvens! Was it not enough she’d fretted about the aggravating mon all night long?
Nay, the right thing was to seek out her father and discuss matters with him. However, there was no sign of him this morning and, these days, he rarely took notice of her opinions anyway.
In need of fresh air, she left the hall and wandered to the door of the keep, just in time to see her brother and uncle walk through Drummond’s gate. The rods and creel indicated they’d been fishing, which wasn’t unusual for Jamie, but Shaw was no fisherman.
They were deep in conversation—until they espied Fiona. Shaw scowled, shook hands with his uncle, then brushed by her without a word of greeting. She deserved his anger, but it was hurtful just the same. The urge to retaliate was too strong. “I see Uncle Jamie caught all the fish,” she shouted to his back.
He ignored her and kept on walking.
Jamie kissed her cheek. “Ye’ll nay improve matters with that attitude, lass,” he warned.
She’d always had a better relationship with her uncle than with her father, so his admonition stung. “What were the two of ye discussing? Nay the fish, I’ll warrant.”
He shook his head as he walked away. “If a mon and his nephew canna spend an hour fishing without being interrogated…”
Fiona rolled her eyes. Obviously, Shaw had sought out his uncle to discuss events in Stirling. Had her brother decided it was time to assert his right to the chieftaincy?
Nay before time, she muttered under her breath, then instantly felt guilty for being disloyal to her father.
Her duty was to inform
her sire of her suspicions regarding Shaw’s intentions.
However, since the death of his wife, Brodie Drummond had neglected many of his responsibilities. Now, he’d put their ancestral home in jeopardy.
Things had to change, but what could a woman alone do?
Fruitless Search
“I dinna like it down here,” Nairn murmured fearfully.
“Neither do I,” Caitlin echoed, regretting having brought her little sister into the underbelly of Ardblair.
Even the indomitable Moira had fallen silent as they traipsed through seemingly endless damp, cobweb-festooned cellars. They hadn’t actually encountered rats, but there was evidence of droppings and an unmistakable rodent stench.
It was almost reassuring when a large cat prowled out of the darkness, though they shrieked upon first seeing its gigantic shadow looming on the wall. It hissed at them, clearly annoyed they’d invaded its domain.
It was a part of her home Caitlin had never ventured into before, and never wished to again.
“I truly dinna think a tunnel exists,” Moira declared, “and the last torch is burning low.”
Caitlin appreciated her maid’s presence and marveled the woman had managed to keep the torch aloft for as long as she had.
“Dinna let it go out,” Nairn pleaded.
“Naught I can do to prevent it,” Moira replied.
Caitlin dreaded being plunged into darkness, but reasoned the tunnel must exist—if they could just find the hidden entrance. “Why would there be rumor of a tunnel if none existed?”
She shivered when she realized Moira and Nairn had begun to retrace their steps, taking the light with them. “Wait,” she urged, hurrying to catch up.
“’Twill be difficult to find the way back without the torch,” Moira said.
With a heavy heart, Caitlin accepted she was right.
Shivering with cold, they emerged long minutes later at the top of the narrow staircase on the main floor. Moira doused what little remained of the torch in a bucket of sand and they climbed out of the trap door.
Kilty Party Page 5
