by Amy Jarecki
He toted the basket inside the old ruin and took it to the bench across the brazier from Janet. Sitting beside her was as dangerous as boarding a sinking ship. I never should have brought her to Moriston Hall. She was right, dammit. I should have set a course for Achnacarry and taken my chances.
“What’s in the basket?” Janet asked. Smoke lingered in the air, making her appear surreal.
“Ham, pickles, and bread,” Emma replied.
Robert pulled away the cloth and looked inside. “And a flagon of watered wine with wooden cups and plates.”
“That is practical. Allow me to help serve,” Janet said, joining him. She reached for the plates, her fingers sliding over the back of Robert’s hand. His breath caught. The softness of her touch made gooseflesh rise across his skin. Aye, he. The great Grant laird tingled at the caress of a wee maid—a woman he had no business lusting after. He reached out to pat her shoulder but stilled his hand in midair.
I would be a cad to encourage her affection.
He busied himself pouring the wine while watching the lass out of the corner of his eye. Even with one hand, she efficiently portioned the plates, first giving one to Emma, then offering him one. “I hope you are hungry. There’s enough food here to feed ten men.”
Robert couldn’t help but meet her gaze. Her cornflower-blue eyes were kind, and blonde curls framed her face beneath her tartan bonnet.
“My thanks,” he said hoarsely, taking the plate and giving her a goblet in return.
Once everyone was served, Janet ventured back to her place across the fire. Though the bower was only ten feet wide, she seemed too far away. A hollowness spread through Robert’s chest. He ached to touch her as she nibbled a bit of ham, the heat from the brazier making her face waver. In the future all his dreams would be filled with this vision of grace.
She smiled and looked down, blushing. “You said your great-grandfather built this place. What was its purpose?”
“He built it for his wife…ah…” Robert stopped himself before he blurted the story. God, he was daft.
“They once came here for the magic,” Emma broke in. “Great-Grandmamma said the water from the falls makes wives fertile and men…” She laughed and shook her head. Thankfully Emma didn’t say “hard,” but judging by the O forming on Janet’s lips, she understood the idea.
Uncomfortable silence filled the air.
Janet fanned her face. “So,” she said in a very high pitch, “That’s why ’tis magical.”
“Aye,” Emma agreed, “and to add testament to it, Great-Grandmamma birthed seven sons and four daughters.”
The poor lass’s jaw dropped, though she refused to look Robert’s way. Instead her cheeks grew scarlet while she turned to stare out the window.
He took a long swig of watered wine, wishing it were something stronger. “Now the bower is just used for clan gatherings. In summer we oft turn a pig on a spit whilst the wee ones wade in the pool down below.”
“Hmm.” Janet returned her attention to her plate. “That sounds lovely. Our gatherings at Achnacarry are usually on the banks of the River Arkaig.”
“Is there a waterfall?” asked Emma, growing oddly still.
“Not like Moriston Falls. The river is wide, though in places it moves swiftly with white water, especially when the floods come.”
“A rider’s coming,” said Emma.
Robert’s spine went rigid as he turned his ear, but he heard only the rush of the falls. Still, it wasn’t wise to ignore his sister’s warning. Emma could hear a whisper two rooms away. “I’ll see what it is about.” Standing, he picked up his musket and headed to a vantage point where he had a clear view of the bridge.
No sooner had he raised the butt of his rifle to his cheek than Jimmy rode out onto the bridge at a canter, leaning over his horse’s withers as if he was on a mission of grave import. Robert lowered his weapon and met the lad at the bend. “What’s afoot?”
“Lewis has returned with news. Word is there’s a band of thieves holed up in the caves of Creag Ard.”
Robert scratched his chin—Creag Ard was no more than thirty miles away. “Bloody hell, that’s practically near enough to spit.”
“Aye, and I’ll reckon the bastards poached our yearlings, altered their brands, and drove them thorough the glens. Sold them at Crieff market—clear the other side of the mountains from Inverlochy.”
“Blast. Why are we only finding these thieves out now?”
“You’ve found the cattle thieves?” Janet asked, dashing from the bower.
“It looks as if we may have. And there’s no time to waste. Quickly, pack the basket. Jimmy, go on ahead and tell the men we ride in an hour. I’ll be there shortly, and I’ll want a full account of these miscreants from Lewis straightaway.”
Chapter Nineteen
Robert and his men crawled on their bellies until they peered over the crag and across to the caves of Creag Ard. The sun had disappeared on the western horizon, and what little remained of the daylight was dim at best. But he saw clearly enough.
“That lot is nothing but a mob of ragged tinkers.” He raised a spyglass to his eye. “Six of them.”
“Their fire’s burning like a beacon,” said Jimmy. “And I can smell the beef from here.”
Robert scanned the lands below and saw not a single beast. “Bloody hell, Lewis, who told you these scoundrels stole my yearlings?”
“Met an old crofter in the alehouse down by Laggan. Said he’d run them off his land with a pack of dogs and a musket.”
“They’re thieving. I’ve no doubt.” Robert closed his spyglass. “But I do not think they’re the maggots who made off with our yearlings. They’re too sloppy.”
Jimmy stared along the sights of his musket, though his finger wasn’t on the trigger. “Mayhap they ken who did.”
Pushing back to his knees, Robert started back down the hill. “That’s why I aim to pay them a visit.”
“Now?” asked Lewis.
“At dawn.”
* * *
Janet put a candle on the table beside the settee and sat. Though it was nearly midnight, she couldn’t sleep. So many things weighed on her mind. A new shift, a set of stays, and three day gowns had arrived from the seamstress—they were practical woolen kirtles much like Emma’s, and Janet had accepted them with a mixture of gratitude and trepidation. On the one hand, she needed clothes. On the other, three gowns signified the expected length of her stay. With Robert away, the servants had acted more reserved and less friendly toward Janet, though Emma maintained her good-natured demeanor. Still, things were not as comfortable without the laird’s presence.
Janet prayed for Robert and his men to find the reivers and return safely. She also prayed the thieves confessed. If the mystery of the missing yearlings was resolved, it might help end the feud between Clan Grant and her kin. Eons had passed since the Grants accused the old Cameron laird of debauchery, after which they’d burned her ancestor’s house and stolen his cattle. That alone should have been the end of it. But no, both sides carried on like a mob of warring enemies from the Dark Ages, with nary a one having spine enough to attempt to make amends.
What if her father did make amends with Robert? What then? Would the braw Highlander ask permission to court her? Twice now they’d shared kisses sizzling with a passion she’d never dreamed could be so moving. But was she the only one so moved? Janet was inexperienced with these things, and His Lairdship’s reputation alone told her he was not.
Whom am I fooling?
Though Robert kissed like a man enraptured, his behavior otherwise was unpredictable. Throughout the pony cart ride their thighs and shoulders had touched. And then when he lifted her down, there’d been a heated moment between them. But that was the end of it. In the bower he sat across the brazier as if he had an oak board up his backside.
Was it Emma?
No, silly. ’Tis the same reason I cannot think of him as anything more than an acquaintance. Goodness, I’m daft.
/>
Robert Grant could no more look fondly on her than she could upon him. That was the unpleasant reality of their predicament, and she’d best hold firm to her conviction, lest a scandal erupt. Yes, the laird had extended the undisputed hand of Highland hospitality, welcoming her as his guest under the watchful eye of Mrs. Tweedie and his sister, but if Da suspected foul play, there’d be no stopping the Camerons from staging an all-out war against the Grants.
A chill snaked up Janet’s spine. What if Da misunderstood Robert’s good intentions? What if Da declared her ruined? Would he force Robert to marry her? Worse?
Good glory, all this worry made her nervous. Her father wasn’t an unreasonable man. Robert had saved her from a grisly death at the bottom of the ravine. He’d acted heroically, and Da had no choice but to own to it. Janet needed something to while away the time while she healed and stop her confounded worrying. If only she could start knitting again, making mittens and scarves would busy her—calm her nerves as well. She wiggled her left fingers to mild pain. Perhaps crocheting might be a better option.
I wonder if Emma knits…Hmm.
Not a bit tired, she reached for one of the books she’d taken from the library and opened it. Shockingly, two dice and a cup fell onto her lap. On closer inspection, she saw that a square had been cut out of the inside pages. She gave the book a shake and two gold guineas dropped out as well. Hmm. The coins made more sense than a pair of dice. She pushed the pages aside to the title page. “Property of John Grant, remove at your peril” was written in a bold hand just below the title, The Faithful Lovers. Evidently Robert’s father did not appreciate romantic novels.
Does Robert know this book was his da’s hiding place?
She chuckled, remembering their game of hazard in the bothy. At the time she’d thought the kiss she’d received from Malcolm MacGowan had been something special. Well, now she knew differently.
Janet ran her fingers over her lips, unable to quell the sensation of Robert’s mouth on hers. When she closed her eyes she was there again, in the library, on the writing table, in his arms. If only she could be there now. If only he were a man with whom she could fall in love.
But he is not.
Why had he done this to her? In all her days, she would never believe any other man could kiss her so thoroughly, so possessively. No other man would make her feel so unbridled, so daring.
What if Da arranged her marriage with a man whose kisses were no more impassioned than Malcolm MacGowan’s? What if her heart didn’t thunder every time their gazes met? What if she felt nothing?
Am I doomed to a marriage of mediocrity?
Her head swimming with more questions than answers, Janet replaced the items in the treasure book and blew out the candle.
Perhaps I’ll not marry at all.
* * *
Five Grant clansmen stood behind Robert with their muskets at the ready while he crouched and angled his dirk against the neck of the guard sleeping at the cave entrance. “If I were a sheep-swiving tinker, I’d not slumber so soundly.”
The man’s eyes flew open as he startled. “Friggin’ hell!” He reached for his dirk, but Robert pressed his knife against the throbbing vein on the bastard’s throat.
“If you want to live, you’d best not move. One twitch and you’ll bleed out faster than ye can draw your blade.” Robert raised his voice and projected it toward the cave. “Up, up, the lot of you. We have you outnumbered.”
“Throw down or we’ll shoot,” brayed an ugly voice from inside the blackness.
“With what?” Robert ventured. “You’re nothing but a mob of beggared tinkers, and I’ll wager you’ve not got an ounce of dry powder between you. Come out now, and I’ll spare ye. Fight, and every last one of you will be roasting in the fires of hell afore the sun peeks over Creag Ard.”
“Ye swear you’ll nay harm us?” said the voice, not so deep this time.
“I’m Robert Grant of Glenmoriston, and when I give my word, it is sincere.” Robert beckoned them. “You’re fortunate it is I who found ye and not the queen’s dragoons, else you’d be hanging from Fort William’s gallows on the morrow.”
After a pause, footsteps crunched from inside the cave, and in no time four grimy faces appeared from the dim shadows. Robert recognized one of them—Leith Whyte, their leader for certain.
Jimmy shifted his musket. “There were six of them.”
“Call out the last,” Robert demanded, holding his dirk steady. “I’ll tolerate no skulduggery.”
“Come, Mor,” Leith hollered over his shoulder. “Let us hear what Laird Grant has to say.” The man turned back and gave Robert a sideways leer. “And it had best be good.”
“I wouldn’t be so cocksure.” Releasing his grip on the guard, Robert inclined his head to the firepit where he’d first seen the tinkers. “We’ll talk there.” Three and twenty more Grant clansmen surrounded them, just to keep things amiable.
“We’ve committed no crime,” Leith said.
“I doubt that.” Robert sauntered to the fire, his dirk secured in his fist. “Starting with the steer you ate last eve.”
The shift of Leith’s eyes proved his guilt.
“I do not give a rat’s arse from where you stole the beast, but I am very interested in what happened to my steers—six and sixty of them went missing during the grazing season.”
“What makes you think the lot of us thieved over sixty head of cattle? We’ve no horses for driving. No dogs, either.”
“That’s why we’re talking at the moment and you’re not dead.” Robert eyed the man, planning his interrogation. “How long have you been up in these hills?”
“A time now. Though ’tis dangerous to stay in one place overlong.”
“A man like you who moves around ought to have heard rumblings about poachers and thieves.”
Leith scratched his wiry beard. “Can’t say that I have.”
Lies. “Where do they sell them?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmm. ’Tis a shame.” Robert signaled his men with a nod. “You might have walked free if you’d spoken true.” With his nod, the Grant men seized the backbiters and bound their wrists. “A fortnight or two in the Glenmoriston gaol ought to help your memories.”
Chapter Twenty
He was weary from sleeping in the drizzly mountains with nothing to keep him dry but an oiled tarpaulin. Robert’s shoulders sagged when he finally walked in the front door of Moriston Hall. They’d marched the tinkers down the slopes of the Highlands and around the banks of Loch Ness at a snail’s pace. Thankfully the blighters were now tucked away in the wee gaol built out the back of the stables by his grandfather. The chieftain of Clan Grant’s word was law throughout the district, though it had oft been encroached upon by government dragoons of late.
We’d all be better off if Parliament returned to Edinburgh. Nary a Scotsman was in favor of the queen’s abolishment of the Scottish assembly seven years past. Worse, the aristocracy was forced to travel to London whenever the houses were called to session. England upped the taxes on Scottish goods and took her landowners away from their homes far too many months of the year.
As he passed the drawing room, the mantel clock chimed midnight. He removed his sword belt and climbed the stairs, his every footfall echoing as if the house were empty.
In the corridor he paused for a moment outside Janet’s door, his hand itching to turn the knob. And then his jaw dropped when the door opened of its own volition.
“Robert? You’ve returned.” Janet’s eyes glistened like sapphires in the shadows.
“I have.” His gaze dipped lower. She wore only a linen shift with an arisaid draped about her shoulders and clutched at her long, slender neck—he pictured his lips tasting her there. And the picture was made only more enticing by the waves of golden tresses cascading clear down to her waist. “But you should be abed,” he said. “’Tis late.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Suddenly Robert did
n’t feel like sleeping, either. He leaned on the doorjamb. “Is it your arm?”
“Actually, it has been feeling better of late.” Her gaze meandered down his chest and back up. “I’m surprised you’ve returned so soon. Did you find the thieves?”
“We found a mob of a half-dozen tinkers, but I doubt they had the wherewithal to steal six and sixty head of cattle.”
“Do they know who the culprits were?”
“Said they didn’t, though I tossed them in a cell to help jog their memory.”
“They’re here?”
“Locked up out back.”
“Are they cold? Hungry? Do they need blankets?”
“Och, they’re prisoners, lass, not bloody guests.”
“Well, I’d like to visit them on the morrow. No one should suffer the cold, no matter how lowly born.”
“Or how far he’s fallen.” Sighing, Robert snatched a lock of her hair and twirled it around his finger. If only he were on a bed with her silken locks spread across his bare chest.
“I want to show you something.” She ducked inside and retrieved a book from the table, then handed it to him. “I thought I’d do some reading and found this in the library.”
He opened the cover and chuckled. “Look at that. I’d forgotten about Da’s hazard dice.”
“He added an inscription to the book—remove at your peril.”
“Aye, to dissuade any sticky fingers from helping themselves.”
“Is that why he hid them?”
“Nay. He kept them hidden from my mother.”
“She didn’t approve of gambling, I take it.”
“Nor should you.”
“Then I blame you for your scandalous influence.”
He winced. “Apologies.”
“No apology needed.” Biting her bottom lip, she tapped the book with her finger. “So, what do you say? Shall we partake in a few wicked rolls of the dice afore we retire?”
