Suddenly there was a hot liquid in her mouth. The taste of strong spirits flooding her senses. Tara choked and sat up suddenly. The dreamlike state disappeared, and reality slapped her awake. She swallowed the hot liquor, coughed once, and then reached out for the flask which hovered near her mouth. She took a pull at it, swallowed again. A warm hand held the flask, and her hand was touching it. She blinked and looked around, disoriented.
She was sitting on a tuft of rough scrubby dune grass. There was sand under her. The sound of the sea was a rippling undercurrent to the sound of the wind rattling the dry dune grass. Kneeling in front of her was a young man, about her age. He was handsome, a well-made, solidly built youth with blue eyes and fine brown hair which caught around his face. He had full lips and good teeth, high cheekbones and long eyelashes. She was holding his hand as she held the leather flask. Slowly, she released it.
Behind him there stood a strikingly beautiful woman. She was much taller and more strongly-built than any woman Tara had seen before. She wore riding clothes and had long, long red hair which played around her body in the wind. She held two horses by the reins.
Tara took a breath and tried to speak. Her voice came out as a hoarse croak.
“Tha… thank you,” she managed. The handsome young man nodded, and the beautiful woman smiled then slung a padded knapsack from her shoulder and handed it to the man.
“The water,” the red-haired girl said, nodding at the sack. The young man rummaged in it and came out with a bottle.
“Fresh water,” he said, offering it to Tara. She managed to wet her lips but immediately coughed, the water catching in her raw throat. She dropped the flask, gasping, and the young man quickly retrieved it from the sand.
The red-haired woman had tied the horses to a bush and wandered back down to the waterline, inspecting the wreckage. Her companion watched Tara, his eyes full of concern.
“My name is Callan MacPherson,” he offered after a moment. Tara reached for the water again, managing to swallow some of it. Her lips felt cracked and sore from the salt of the water.
“I’m… Tara Bright,” she said in return.
“Ye were on a ship?”
“I was. My father…” her voice trailed off as she looked out over the beach, at the scattered floating flotsam and the churning white water over the reef.
The young man’s eyes were full of sympathy.
“We have found no others alive,” he said. “Soon we will get word back tae the castle, and a thorough search will be made for any survivors.”
“The castle…” she said in a vague voice. “Where am I?”
“Well, ye are in Scotland, Miss,” he said gently, “the east coast o’ Scotland, about a day’s ride south o’ Aberdeen, near the town o’ Fisher’s Cove. This is the land o’ the Clan Grant, and the Clan chief’s castle is near. Where were ye bound? No, wait, don’t speak yet,” and he noticed that she had begun to shiver. “Ye don’t have the strength for it. Come on, up ye come. We must get ye back up tae the castle and intae the care o’ the doctor there.”
Scotland. Her head swam. She desperately wanted to speak with her handsome rescuer and find out more about what had happened here, but she felt like her head was full of wet wool. She tried to rise but could not.
With gentle strength, he put his arms around her and helped her to stand. She leaned on him, overcome suddenly with weariness, fear, and terrible sadness. The sound of her own blood rushed in her ears and mixed with the sound of the sea lapping at the shore.
“Alice!” called Callan in a loud voice, and the red-haired woman turned from her perusal of the tideline.
“I’m taking her back up tae the castle!” he shouted, and she waved her acknowledgement of his words.
“Can ye mount the horse?” he asked gently.
“I… I don’t know.”
She felt the ground giving way below her. Darkness swam at the edges of her vision. She took a breath, closed her eyes.
When she went limp, Callan carefully eased her onto the back of the bigger of the two horses. She slumped forward, breathing deeply, and let out a small moan. He was a fool, he thought, trying to question the poor lass. Here she was, half-drowned, near death, and grieving for the loss of her father and her companions, and he had tried to bother her with questions about her ship. He shook his head at his own folly, put his arms around her unconscious form, and took the reins.
Callan rode the big horse carefully back up the beach and onto the track which led up to the castle. As he rode, he passed a little group of townsmen who were wandering down toward the beach with their fishing nets slung over their backs, chatting together. He slowed the horse and called out to them.
“There has been a shipwrecked upon the reef!” he called. “I’m taking this lassie back up tae the castle, but there may be others who escaped. My sister, Alice MacPherson, is there. Go down and help her tae search for survivors. I’ll send help from the castle.”
The townsfolk of Fisher’s Cove were all too familiar with the discovery of wrecks. They immediately sent one of their number back to the town, and the others hurried down toward the beach. Soon the whole village would be out, and their little boats would scour the water for survivors. No doubt any valuable wreckage would also be salvaged by them, thought Callan, but that was only to be expected. The woman in his arms moaned miserably, and he urged the horse onward.
* * *
“What is that?” cried Murdo. “Who is that? And where is yer sister?”
Callan’s father hurried forward from where he had been sitting, conversing quietly with a dark-haired man of about Callan’s own age, on a bench in the main courtyard of Castle Grant. The dark-haired man also stood up, and Callan recognised John Grant, Iain Grant’s eldest child and only son, the heir to the prestigious name and fortune of Clan Grant. Briefly, Callan explained the situation, and as John and Murdo helped him to ease the now unconscious woman off the horse, John gave orders to a serving-man to ready a party of soldiers to go down to the beach and help with the recovery operation.
“I will go and inform Iain Grant,” said Murdo, and hurried off without a backward glance.
“She’s a bonnie lass,” John noted as they lowered Tara down from the horse. “Did she say anything tae ye?”
“Oh, aye,” said Callan. He took Tara’s shoulders, awkwardly supporting her lolling head, while John Grant lifted her by her ankles. Between them, they began to carry her toward the door.
“Aye, she spoke, she drank a bit of whisky when we first found her. That woke her up, and then she took a little water. Fool that I am, I plied her with questions, when I should hae seen how sick she was. She’s an English lassie, by the sound o’ her accent. Said she was on a boat with her father, but that was all she managed before she passed out again…”
“What the hell are ye’s daein’?” an outraged voice broke in on Callan’s explanation. “Ye pair o’ daft galoots! The poor lassie isn’t a bloody sack o’ potatoes! Bring her here this instant!”
Callan looked in surprise to see where the voice was coming from. They had got as far as the inside hallway and were about to mount the stairs, but they were being accosted by a tiny, ancient-looking woman who was hurrying toward them from the other side of the courtyard. She leaned heavily on a knotty stick which looked as old and twisted as she did, and she waved it threateningly at the two young men. Two servants followed behind her, bearing a wickerwork stretcher between them.
Callan looked at John, who smiled, rolled his eyes, and indicated that they should obey the old woman with a nod of his head. Callan began to reverse back out of the door, still carrying Tara. He was surprised when the imperious old woman dealt him a blow with her stick.
“Eejit!” she admonished him, and then John received the same treatment. “Numpty!” she shouted. “Put the poor lassie down on the stretcher here, that’s right. I’ll have her up tae the infirmary and make sure she’s fit before anyone else sees her. Carrying her about like a sack o�
� potatoes. Honestly, young folk nowadays! No more sense in their heads than in their boots, I don’t ken what the world’s coming tae…”
Still muttering, cursing, and waving her stick, she led the two brow-beaten servants off, carrying Tara back through the door.
“Who on earth was that?” Callan rubbed the spot on his arm where she had whacked him.
“Oh, that’s old mother MacManus,” replied John, also rubbing his arm. “She’s got a tongue that would lash the devil if he dared tae come close, but she’s just about the best healer anybody around here has ever seen, and she’s been here at the castle longer than anybody can remember. She’s trained up many other healers, passing on her knowledge o’ herbs and ailments as much as she can, but she still rules the infirmary here. She delivered me when I was born, and every one o’ my sisters, and my father too. She has less tae do these days since the truce came about and there’s less warfare.”
Callan nodded. “She’s handy wi’ that stick,” he commented ruefully, rubbing his arm again. John laughed.
They wandered aimlessly out of the courtyard together into the sunshine.
“Did the lassie tell ye her name before she lost consciousness?” asked John.
“Tara Bright,” said Callan. John stopped in his tracks.
“Tara Bright? Are ye sure?”
“Aye, Why? What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it as such,” said John, as they start walking again, “but if her name’s Tara Bright, then I ken who she is, and where she’s going.”
They stood in the warmth outside the wall of the castle. The late afternoon sun was bright on the green grass of the hill below them and sparkled on the sea in the distance.
“Well?” said Callan, “are ye not going tae tell me? Who is she then, and why are ye so interested?”
John leaned in confidentially toward Callan. “She’s only the bride o’ Ranald Carlisle o’ Balmore!”
Callan raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Oh, aye? I see why that’s interesting, then. Why Ranald and his father will be very grateful indeed tae Clan Grant and Clan MacPherson for finding her and delivering her tae them! This could make a real difference in relations between Balmore and us.”
John was nodding. “Have ye seen Ranald since he’s come back?”
“No, I kent he was betrothed, but I didn’t pay much attention if I’m honest. I thought he was away at university in Edinburgh?”
“Aye, he has been. He’s been away for years,” said John. “The marriage was arranged by the father, Laird Carlisle o’ Balmore, and Ranald has only been back in the Highlands for a few weeks. He’s here for the wedding, but since he’s been back, there’s been no sign o’ the father. The word is he’s taken sick, and is like tae die, just in time for Ranald tae inherit the whole estate.”
“What’s Ranald want tae marry an English lassie for?” asked Callan.
“Sheep,” replied John sourly. “That lassie’s father buys and sells sheep and wool. Ranald and Laird Carlisle want nothing more than tae cover their Highland holdings with Cheviot sheep, and the marriage will give Laird Carlisle a powerful ally for buying sheep and selling wool. Good luck tae them, I say, but ye won’t catch me putting sheep on my land when I come intae my inheritance.”
“Nor me, either,” said Callan.
The sheep industry was a sore point in the Highlands. In the years since the war of 1744 and ’45, and the great defeat of the Jacobites at Culloden, the Highlands had seen an influx of new landowners, who bought up tracts of land from disillusioned, greedy, or desperate clan chiefs, using them primarily for sheep farming. The introduction of sheep was becoming increasingly accompanied by the forced eviction of the folk who lived on the land and farmed it, in the way they had been doing for centuries. The way of life in the Highlands was changing fast, and many of the common people were either being forcibly evicted from their homes or leaving of their own accord to seek a better life overseas. Glens and moors which had once been full of little villages and a thriving cultural life were now empty, filled with wandering flocks of sheep which pulled at the grass around the ruins of the old villages.
“Laird Carlisle, though, he’s no’ as bad as some we could mention, eh?” said Callan.
“Aye, yer right there,” agreed John. “He hasn’t cleared any o’ the villages on the Balmore estate, nor tried tae force the tenants out with unreasonable rents. But that’s down tae the work o’ yer father, and mine. Laird Carlisle doesn’t want tae have angry neighbours on both sides o’ him.”
“If only we could say the same for Laird Snedden tae the south. Some o’ the stories I’ve heard from Lochboyle….”
John shook his head, angrily.
“I ken, I ken,” he said. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Don’t let us speak o’ it, Callan, it makes me so angry I could spit. Look, here comes yer sister.”
Alice rode up at a sedate pace and met them at the gate.
“The townsfolk are down at the beach in force,” she said, “and Iain Grant has sent a troop o’ his soldiers down tae coordinate the operation.”
“Any more survivors?” asked Callan, and Alice shook her head.
“We’ve found many dead, though,” she said sadly. “Come, let’s go back up intae the castle. I need something tae refresh mysel.”
They trooped up into the castle together, where they found Iain, Murdo, Emily, and Flora sitting around a big table in Iain’s study, discussing the tragedy.
“Ah, John,” said Iain, “how are ye, son? Murdo said ye had arrived back earlier. Are ye well? How went yer mission tae the south?”
John took a seat at the table, and Callan sat next to him.
“It went well enough, father,” said John, after he had exchanged polite greetings with his sister and the MacPhersons. “Though the news isn’t good for the poor folk. Laird Snedden is, as we suspected, clearing out the populated glens which border our lands, and sometimes he is using brutal methods tae do it.”
“And what o’ the rebels?” asked Iain.
“The reports o’ the rebels are hard tae read,” said John. “I spoke tae several people, and there is certainly a band o’ armed folk who are attacking the troops used tae dae the clearing. Several villages hae been saved, but as tae who this band o’ rebels are, naebody seems tae ken.”
“Hm,” muttered Iain. “Well, well, it’s tae be expected that folk should band together to fight back. That will have tae do for the moment. We will speak later. Callan, the lassie ye brought up from the beach earlier, old mother MacManus has looked her over and is satisfied she will make a full recovery. She just needs tae rest. She has been brought up here tae a guest room, and the fire has been stoked up for her. Have ye any idea who she is?”
When John and Callan explained to her what they had worked out, Iain Grant sat back in his chair and laughed heartily.
“Well, well, that is good fortune for us!” he cried, “and it will be good fortune for the poor folk o’ Balmore, too! Young Ranald and his father will owe us a great deal if we return his betrothed tae him, and we can use that influence tae reinforce the conditions o’ the truce and stop him from clearing any o’ the small folk from his land. This will be a boost tae the relations between our two clans and the Lairds o’ Balmore, and I will make sure that Laird Carlisle kens that MacPhersons hae a share o’ the credit for it.”
“But father,” put in Flora, “if this lassie’s father is dead, as seems likely, well, maybe Ranald and his father won’t wish tae go ahead wi’ the wedding at all? There will be no-trade advantage tae it, surely?”
“Perhaps she has a brother who will inherit?” suggested Callan. “If so, he will benefit from the trading alliance as much as the father would have done.”
“Let us hope so,” replied Flora. “For if not, then the poor lassie will be stranded up here in the Highlands without family or prospects… oh, it’s a terrible thing. The poor lassie!”
“Don’t fret, Flora,” said Iain G
rant, kindly. “We will see that she is alright. Even if it turns out as ye say we will find a place for her here.” And he smiled at Flora, and then at Callan, pleased to see them interacting. Callan, who had, for the moment, almost forgotten the impending betrothal, felt his heart sink again as Flora’s eyes widened and she smiled at him. He found a smile of his own and plastered it across his face, hoping he didn’t look as sick as he felt.
“And now, my friends,” said Iain Grant to the MacPhersons, “I ken that ye had planned tae leave in the morning, but I have an invitation tae extend tae ye. What with all this excitement, there will no doubt be a deal o’ business tae attend tae over this. Ranald Carlisle will have tae be told, and the lassie’s relations contacted, and also the wreck will have tae be identified and all the poor souls who have lost their lives identified and buried with the proper rites. So I ask, will ye say a few more days at Castle Grant? Murdo, I’d be pleased tae have yer help over the next few days, and I’m sure that John and Flora would both be pleased tae have Callan around the place for a few more days?” He gave a rakish wink that took in the whole table, and Callan felt his face reddening, but he forced his smile to stay in place. Flora giggled, and everyone smiled at them both. Alice covered her mouth with her hand.
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 28
