The person in question flung open the carriage door. An older woman with streaks of white in her orange hair pushed through the throng. “My sweet Maeve, let me look at ye.”
“Oh, Moira, ye havena changed a bit,” cried the countess as she threw her arms around the tiny woman in a fierce hug. “Where are yer children and grandchildren?”
“All here. Ye’ll come to the house and sit a spell?”
The voices rose as Lady Stanfeld recognized each villager and was introduced to family members. Calum bellowed at a lad to take the horses, flapped an arm at the ruckus, and pulled Gideon and the minister away from the group. The villagers had been to Naught Castle for the funeral, so the MacNaughton did not need to stay for the gossip. Lissie watched the men disappear into the minister’s house, knowing whiskey would be part of their conversation.
“Lissie, come with us,” called the countess. “Help me remember all the new names.”
“Yes, my lady.” Alisabeth picked up her skirts and moved to her side.
“Please, call me Maeve. Do I still look like Lady Stanfeld?”
She took in the local material and familiar plaid adorning Maeve’s shoulders. “No, my lady, ye dinna.” Taking her elbow, she led the older woman toward the row of houses. “Where shall we begin?”
Gideon took his second “wee” dram of scotch whiskey and held back the shudder. Robust spirits for a stout people. He looked around the modest home and thought of the elegant home of the bishop near his English estate. A small hearth graced the far wall, peat glowing in the grate. The walls were layers of stone, and flagstone had been dug into the packed dirt floor. Material wealth did not seem a priority in this strange land.
They sat at a small wooden table, scarred and stained from years of use, with two back chairs and a stool. The minister had insisted his guest take the chairs while he cheerfully perched his thin frame on the three-legged stool. The hounds lounged near the door. Gideon again found himself socializing in peculiar surroundings. Squalor, his father would have called these conditions. Yet here in the Highlands, these men were his equal.
The minister had taken the stool to be hospitable toward his new guest. He offered the chair to his grandfather in deference to his position and reputation, which the chieftain had earned. Gideon realized he wanted that type of esteem, not the kind one was born to and given without thought. His privileged life had created a selfish man with a high opinion of himself. It jarred him. He was his father, pompous and proud. But he wanted to be like his grandfather.
“There’s a bit of an issue that will need yer attention before ye go, Calum.” Reverend Robertson poured more of the fiery liquid into Calum’s glass. “It seems a few of Rory MacDunn’s sheep got mixed in with another flock, or didna, according to Ross Craigg. He says MacDunn stole them. As ye ken, MacDunn’s elder son was flogged several years ago for stealing a prize rooster, and Craigg has since blamed the clan for mishaps not of their doing. To keep the peace, I took the sheep until ye arrived. They will abide by whatever ye say.”
“They are both family. MacDunns are part of the MacNaugton clan and the Craiggs are Lissie’s family.” Calum nodded at Gideon. “Not much different than yer responsibilities as an earl. It’s the hardest part of my position, deciding who lies or exaggerates. The lines of truth are not always clear.”
“I disagree. It can always be found in a man’s eyes if you look deep enough.”
The minister arched an eyebrow. “An English philosopher, eh? Ye may come in verra handy for these proceedings.”
Gideon opened his mouth to decline but a pounding from outside had the minister trotting for the door. Two men walked in, pulled their caps, and tried to smooth their tousled hair. With a bow of their heads, they greeted Calum.
“I hear there’s a difference of opinion,” began Calum. “Why do yer sheep not have a keel or lug mark?”
The minister whispered to Gideon, “We use common pasture. Keeling is a paint that tells us from a distance who the beasties belong to. Or marks are cut into their ears. Each farmer has his own particular notch.”
Since he had recently invested in sheep, Gideon found this all fascinating. As the men explained how these three sheep might have escaped the keeling, it seemed the sheep did have lug marks. As they made their way around the back, Calum ordered the dogs to stay a respectable distance from the group. The men examined the animals loaded in a wagon. The Craiggs used a single V notch, and the MacDunns used two Vs. All the sheep had the MacDunn marking.
Calum frowned. “It’s no mystery to me. They all have the MacDunn lug marks.”
“The second mark has been added,” said Ross Craigg accusingly. “Look closer, ye’ll see one of the Vs is more recent.”
Calum rubbed one ewe’s ear, his eyes narrow. “MacDunn, what kind of thievery is this? Do ye think my brain’s no bigger than this sheep?”
“I swear to ye by all that’s holy, I didna add that mark.” MacDunn bellowed, panic in his voice.
It was one thing to argue over livestock that had been mixed together. It was another to steal. If the marks had been added, it was proof of deceit. In England, men were hanged for such an offense. The best-case scenario was another flogging. Either way, the atmosphere had gone from bright to dark.
Gideon stared at the man. “You’re saying you never tampered with those ewes, and no one under your employ touched them to add a mark?”
The man shook his head adamantly. He was telling the truth, it showed in his countenance. He’d gamble that MacDunn had not been in on this plot.
“Liar! Ye did and ye’ll hang for it,” cried Craigg. His dark coloring and light brown eyes resembled Alisabeth, but the similarity ended there. He had a bulbous nose with blue veins running through it—a sign of a heavy drinker. The deep lines across his forehead and around his eyes gave the appearance of a permanent scowl. This man had a malicious countenance, and Gideon did not trust him.
Calum towered over the men, his presence demanding and his voice deadly quiet. “I will make the judgments here. We are in Scotland not England. I’ll not hang a man for a bit of wool. But I’ll flog him myself if he’s guilty of lying.”
Craigg glared at Calum, and as the irate man balled his hands into fists, Gideon saw it. The hatred and the deceit in his eyes. Without a doubt, he knew the man had added a mark to his own sheep. But why?
“The MacDunns have a reputation for pilfering. Ye would take his word over mine? My cousin Alisabeth lives under yer roof, and ye side with this common criminal?” Craigg sneered. “Or are ye getting weak in yer old age and afraid the MacDunns will retaliate?”
“I take offense on both counts, Ross. Our clans have been at peace for too long for ye to speak such filth.”
Calum’s neck went red. Gideon could see the tick in his jaw. This confrontation was turning dangerous. His father had told Gideon of the constant blood feuds and raiding between the clans. But he suddenly knew there was more to this than the theft of sheep. He looked into Craigg’s eyes and held his gaze. The other man grew more uncomfortable the longer Gideon stared. And then he knew. The Truth slapped him in the face and shook him to the core. There was a girl and boy involved, a young couple. They had fled from their parents. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. This was not information one could guess or assume without knowing the people involved. Good God, he did have an ability. How would he explain it?
He cleared his throat. “Grandfather, could I speak to you and Reverend Robertson for a moment? I might be able to help but would like to confer in private.”
The minister nodded, relief in his eyes. “Craigg, stay here with the ewes while we go inside. MacDunn, ye can wait out front.”
Calum beckoned Black Angus, pointed to Ross Craigg and ordered, “Fuirich!” The dog moved next to the other man, standing sentry.
They walked around the cottage once again. Behind them, Craigg bellowed, “What kind of trickery is this?” Angus growled low, stopping any further complaints.
Befor
e entering the house, Calum left Brownie with the other man. Reverend Robertson wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “This is not what I expected, Calum. I apologize when ye’ve come to issue invitations and bring Maeve here for a visit.”
“Och, it’s no one’s fault. And it’s my duty as chieftain. So, let’s see what my grandson has to say.”
Gideon wasted no time. “The man named Craigg is lying. He added those marks to incriminate MacDunn.”
Calum rubbed his jaw. “Ye are sure?”
Reverend Robertson seemed leery. “We’re to convict a man because ye have a feeling about one of them? I canna say this is a good idea, Calum.”
He wiped his sweaty palms against his breeches. “No, it’s more than that. It’s”—an imperceptible move of his grandfather’s head told him others did not know—“a skill I possess. I can read a man and tell if he’s cutting a sham.” He turned back to Calum. “He wants revenge because… I’d wager it has to do with his daughter and MacDunn’s son.”
“The thief? I can understand Craigg’s ire,” admitted Calum.
The minister stroked his chin. “No, MacDunn’s youngest boy was courting the Craigg girl. He claimed they were handfasted. When Craigg found out, he beat her until she denied giving her consent then forbade her to see the lad again. They tried to elope but MacDunn caught them, sent the girl back, and locked his boy in the cellar for a week. But that was last spring.”
Gideon’s pulse thudded in his neck. He’d been right. How the hell had he managed it?
“Early spring or late spring?” asked his grandfather.
“May Day when they eloped. Why?”
Calum’s face split into a wide grin. He slapped Gideon on the back. “God’s teeth, lad. Ye’re brilliant.”
He went to the door. “MacDunn, get that boy of yers over here. The one who’s sweet on the Craigg girl. He marched to the back. “Ross, ye bring yer daughter here within the hour. If ye dinna, I’ll come and find ye and flog ye myself.”
An hour later, father and son and father and daughter stood in the minister’s house. The fathers looked murderous. The children looked nervous.
Calum looked at the tall, lean lad. “Hamish, how old are ye?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“Do ye love the lass?”
Hamish gave the pretty dark-haired girl a sideways glance and nodded. “With my last breath.”
“Weel, let’s hope it doesna come to that. Nessie, do ye love him?”
She sniffed, picked up the edge of a voluminous apron, and wiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. “With all my heart and soul.”
A growl came from her father, and he knocked her on the side of her head. She stumbled and Hamish lunged for the older man. Both deerhounds jumped to their feet with a snarl, teeth bared and hackles up. MacDunn wrapped his son in a bear hug, the boy kicking and throwing punches in the air.
“Touch the lass again, Craigg, and ye’ll have my fist in yer face. Ye understand?”
He grunted in reply, still scowling at Nessie.
Calum smiled at the girl. “Lass, are ye with child?”
One hand rubbed the side of her head where her father had smacked her. Now the other hand went instinctively to her belly, showing a swell under the ample material as she nodded her head.
“Ye no good whore!” cried her father. She shoved a fist in her mouth to stifle a sob.
“Weel, this isna so complicated after all, is it?” Calum crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Ross, it seems ye have two choices. Ye give yer daughter consent to marry the lad so the bairn has a father, and I don’t flog ye. Or I flog ye, and tell the whole village what’s conspired here.”
“Ye will not tell me what to—”
“Make yer choice.”
With gritted teeth, he spit out, “Marry the little brògan. She’s dead to me.”
“Fine,” said Calum in a cheery voice. “And as dowry, she’ll bring along anything her ma would have given her. As a wedding gift, ye’ll give them the sheep in the back, seeing they already have MacDunn’s lug mark. Agreed?”
“Aye,” Ross growled.
“Rory MacDunn, will ye take the lass in? They canna live with the Craiggs.”
“Aye,” Rory said, giving a sharp elbow to his son. “See what comes from trusting the chieftain? Justice.”
“And a lovely wife,” added the minister, also ignoring the irate father.
“And there’ll be no laying of hands on the lass before she leaves yer home. Do we have an understanding?”
Craigg jerked his head in assent but looked directly at Gideon, his eyes blazing with hate. “I dinna ken why this is any of yer affair or how ye were privy to my business. But it’s not over yet.”
“Mind yerself, Ross. Ye’re lucky the MacNaughton is a generous man,” the minister said grimly. “Dinna put more strife upon yerself or yer family. Let it go.”
Calum smiled at the young couple. “We came with an invitation to Naught Castle, a cèilidh to celebrate the return of my daughter, Maeve. I’m thinking we may as well as have a wedding while we’re at it.”
Chapter 7
“Lord, help my poor soul.”
—Edgar Allen Poe
Early October
Naught Castle
Peigi had not taken kindly to a wedding added on to her agenda. She capitulated once Calum explained the circumstances. Ross was known for his cruel streak, making him a black sheep in the Craigg clan. His daughter Nessie would be better off with the MacDunns. That made Alisabeth giggle. A black sheep, and it was sheep that caught him up. The mirth faded as she remembered the rumors of his simmering anger and mutters of betrayal.
Gideon had relayed the details on the trip home, and she still wondered how the men had managed to uncover the mystery in so short a time. Oh, how she would have enjoyed seeing the look on her cousin’s face when Calum threatened to flog him. That was why he was chieftain. Few men could make threats like the MacNaughton. Fewer men could carry them out, and he was known for keeping his word—good or bad.
Alisabeth pulled her stockings up, tied the garters, and slid on her leather shoes. Smoothing down her satin skirts of deep blue, the color reminded her of a clear midnight sky. The sheer matching lace covered her hair, pulled high on her head and falling in ringlets. She arranged the plaid about her shoulders and tugged at the curls about her face. With a sigh, she approved her image in the looking glass and twisted the band still on her finger. The circle of continuous love. She said a silent prayer that tears would not mar the day when the young couple exchanged their rings.
The last three weeks of preparation had been hectic, and now it was time to celebrate. Last Sunday Reverend Robertson had announced the union of Nessie and Hamish for the third time. Today they would be married at the small chapel on the MacNaughton land. The meat was prepared and refreshments ready. Venison and pig sizzled on spits. Dishes for the rest of the courses, along with baked goods, were cooling or simmering in the kitchen. Alisabeth had made the bridescake herself since her cousin had refused to let Nessie’s mother attend the ceremony. Her own parents would be standing in their place for the Craigg clan.
In the main hall, Peigi gave last minute orders to housemaids and cooks. “Be certain there is plenty of wine and ale. My husband willna be happy if we run out of either. Once the food is served, ye may join in the festivities. Keep at least two on duty throughout the day and evening to check the pitchers and platters.” Guests already filled the hall for the late morning ceremony. She spotted Alisabeth across the room and beckoned with a wave.
“It looks splendid, Peigi. Nessie willna believe such finery is for her wedding day.” Tressle tables lined one wall with small pies, breads, and fruit compotes. More tressles were set up with benches for eating and visiting, white linen spread across the wooden boards with candles and crystal water bowls for washing. Maeve and Glynis had seen to the table decorations and had personally supervised the making of the entwined circles of marzipan. The s
ugar creation sparkled and shed twinkling crumbs along the length of the linen. On the dais, silver goblets and plates had been set out for the guests of honor and their hosts.
“It is a celebration for my daughter as well. Her visit is passing much too quickly, but I take comfort in the fact she’ll return again.” A whistle from the courtyard silenced the hall.
“The bride is here. Everyone outside for the procession to the kirk,” called Maeve, her cheeks flushed. “Gideon, give me yer arm!”
He stood at the entrance of the hall, his wine-colored tailcoat fitting snugly across his shoulders with an embroidered gold waistcoat and matching trousers. His intense gaze searched the room. Alisabeth’s breath caught when he found her. His blue eyes sparkled like a loch in springtime then his smile turned her stomach to jelly. He made his way through the room, offered his mother an arm then the other to Lissie. She took it with a grateful smile, her fingers light upon the hard muscle beneath the cloth, and joined the guests in the courtyard.
Waiting in the wagon, Nessie glowed in her muslin rose gown. Her shining dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, crowned with a ringlet of pink flowers.
“Right foot forward for good luck,” someone yelled.
“Yer father hated these old wives’ tales. I’ve almost forgotten some of them,” laughed Maeve to Gideon as the girl stepped down with the correct foot.
A piper led the procession, followed by neighbors sprinkling a trail of flower petals, and then the groom. The bagpipes serenaded the party as they stopped in front of the kirk. Hamish’s best man, Ian’s brother Lachlan, escorted Nessie. He had the same chestnut hair as his mother Glynis but his grandfather’s sapphire blue eyes. Lachlan had arrived from Glasgow the day before. It had been a disappointment that Lachlan’s younger brother and sister had been unable to attend, but many other clan members had made the journey. The men were splendid in their tartans with dress sporrans and glinting dirks, hair clean and shining, beards trimmed or faces shaved. The women wore their best satin or silk dresses or earasaids, plaids over their shoulders or across their chest, depending on their station.
When a Rogue Falls Page 94
