Rose turned her back toward the approaching farmer, then cupped her hands around her mouth to guard her words. “Fear not, Leana. All is not lost.” Her sister jumped down, landing right in front of her. “Not until you say, ‘I do.’ ”
“If you say so.” Leana hugged her sister and motioned her off toward the grazing pastures. Dear, contrary, adorable Rose. Filling her with envy one moment, plying her with encouragement the next. Leana smiled a litde and swung open the gate. “Mr. McDougal.” She sketched him a brief curtsy. “You've come for our walk, I see.”
“That I have, lass. Quit my cart and horse at the corn mill in Newabbey.” He glanced in that direction, yanking on his snug waistcoat as he did. “The cart was so heavy with grain I'd be bouncing all over this rutted road of yours.”
The road to Kirkbean is no better, she wanted to say but held her tongue. “You were wise to walk those miles then. Shall you stop and refresh yourself before we—”
“Aye. Believe I shall.” He strode toward the house while she hurried to keep up with him. Despite his girth, he kept a good pace, though he seemed winded by the time they reached the door. Neda greeted them and led them to the spence, her eyes regarding Leana with something uncomfortably close to pity.
Her father waited in his customary chair, standing only long enough to greet his guest and order Neda to bring libations before resuming his seat. “So then, McDougal, what news from Mr. Craik? Have you been to see him at Arbigland since we last met?”
“I have not, though I'm told the society will be meeting in a fortnight. You'll be joining us, of course?”
Leana listened halfheartedly as they sipped their drams and discussed her father's favorite subject: increasing the value of Auchengray's fields and flocks. The renowned Mr. Craik was president of the Society for the Encouragement of Agriculture, a group of landowners dedicated to improving their holdings. Arbigland, the Craik estate on the Solway coast, was a monument to his beliefs: Four hundred acres of water-clogged clay had been transformed into fertile farmland. Fergus McDougal's house of worship in Kirkbean had also been designed by the elderly Mr. Craik, a man much admired and respected by all of Galloway.
His daughter, Helen, was renowned for a different reason entirely.
Leana had not met Helen Craik, but she knew the tragic story. The cherished daughter of a wealthy man, Helen had thrown convention aside and fallen in love with a young groom at Arbigland named Dunn. Those who knew him declared the lad a brave and braw young man. Dunns lifeless body was found near the gates of the estate, felled by a single shot. By his own hand, insisted Mr. Craik, and the sheriff agreed. By Helens hot-tempered brother, the servants said, and the neighbors agreed.
Helen Craik had departed for England immediately, never to return. Her beloveds spirit still remained at the crossroads, or so the gossips reported. Leana shuddered at the thought of the poor young mans wraith wandering the parish roads very near the farm of Fergus McDougal.
“Is it my company that chills you, lass?”
Startled from her reverie, Leana clasped her hands in her lap to keep from shivering again, so real in her mind was the apparition. “Nae, not at all.” She abrupdy stood, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Perhaps if we took our walk now, the sun might warm me.”
McDougal rose with a grunt, and her father quickly did the same, stepping from the room to summon Willie to serve as escort. The laird of Nethercarse waited until her father's voice faded down the hallway before angling his head toward hers. He reached for her elbow and tugged her closer, brushing his parched lips against her ear. “By Hogmanay, I'll be the one to warm you.” His breath was hot, his whisper thick with her fathers best whisky. “Sooner, if you like.”
“Let me find my wrap,” Leana stammered, bolting from the room, tears stinging her eyes. Like a bird trapped in a cage, she flew from one room to the next, frantically looking for Neda, for Rose, for someone to set her free and release her from such a thankless duty.
Neda appeared moments later bearing the woolen wrap and a grim expression. “Mr. McDougal is waiting for you in the garden and none too patiendy. I thought you might be needing this.” She tucked the wool around Leana's shoulders, smoothing her hair as she did. “Show him your mothers roses, why dont you?” Neda added softly. “ ‘Twill help the man forget you fled from his touch.”
Leana gasped. “How did—”
“Come, lass.” Neda chuckled, slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her down the hall. “ ‘Tis the only reason a proper young lady runs from a suitor.” Her voice softened. “He's not the man I would have chosen for you, Leana, but he is the man your father has chosen. You must honor them both with all your heart and honor God in the bargain. Remember what I taught you? Submit yerself unto yer ain husband, as unto the Lord. ‘Tis your Christian duty as a wife and a daughter. Aye, Leana?”
“Aye.” She stood at the threshold of the back door, watching Fergus McDougal bend down to bury his bulbous nose in her white Damask roses. ‘Tis.
Twenty
To what happy accident is it
that we owe so unexpected a visit?
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
Rose fairly flew across Auchengrays pastures, aiming for the hills, the sheep, Lochend—anywhere but home. She'd never felt such a need to run, to put as much distance as she could between her sisters misery and her own joy.
Poor Leana! Doomed to marry such a hatesome man. Rose felt miserable, truly she did. It was unfair and unjust that her older sister must marry, while she, five years younger, had all the time in the world to find a suitably rich husband. Not that she was in any hurry to do so. By no means.
Rose picked up her skirts and leaped over the dry stane dyke, built only high enough to keep the sheep from wandering off to another pasture. Without Duncan to direct them, they might not move at all until the forage plants were gone and the grass turned to mud. While the shepherd was busy elsewhere this morning, she would inspect several of the flocks and see to the collies as well.
She reached the summit of Auchengray Hill and drank in the fresh southwesterly winds that lifted the tendrils of hair around her face, tickling her skin. The distant trees, dressed in a faint autumn haze, looked like a watercolor landscape with milk spilled over the canvas, muting the colors. Fine farms stretched in all directions—Troston to the north, Glensone to the west—and Lowtis Hill seemed close enough to touch, though it was two miles away. Leana and Fergus would be climbing in her direction soon. My, but her sister was kitdie this morning! Marriage might be the best thing for Leana. Give her some confidence, ease her sensitive nature. Mr. McDougal, however, was not the man to manage it.
Rose attended to her duties, counting the sheep in each pasture— only so many per hilly Scots acre—examining their legs for lameness, their sides for bloat. Duncan handled the less pleasant tasks of shepherding when diseases appeared among the flocks. Now that it was October, Duncan had purchased Auchengray's tups for the season and would herd the rams home from Jock Bells farm later that day. A week, two at most, and the rams would be about their business, introduced to the willing ewes, one by one. Rose cherished the lambs that came during Eastertide but found the breeding process unpleasant. She kept her distance during those weeks and pitied the ewes who had no choice in the matter.
All at once she thought of Leana, and her heart skipped a beat. Leana also had no choice. Would she have one when the time came?
Rose put such melancholy thoughts aside and finished with all but her last pasture for the day, calling a farewell to the dogs, which guarded the flocks as well as any shepherd. Her work done for the moment, she took off, gamboling over Glensone Hill like a four-day-old lamb.
“Ro-sieeee!” A male voice carried across the hilltops, borne by the wind. “Rosie McBride!”
She shook her head in exasperation and headed for the road below. No need to guess who that might be, shouting her name so boldly. Rab Murray was the only lad in the parish who called her Rosie, knowing how she
hated the childish nickname.
“Robert Murray,” she scolded him, catching sight of his red hair and checked plaid. “I'll call you Rabbie and see how you like it.”
The shepherd, a year older than she, merely grinned as she approached, elbowing the two lads with him. “Ye may call me whate'er you like, Miss McBride, if ye'll call me yer ain dear laddie.”
“I'll do no such thing!” she said, rolling her eyes. She was not being flindrikin, not at all. Merely taunting him. “Why are you not with your flocks?” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Are the three of you up to no good?”
“No good whatsoever.” Rab gave her a broad wink. “Care to join us, lass? We're headed to Lochend for a bit o’ fishin. Fresh pike makes a fine supper when its stuffed and baked in a savory sauce.”
“It does,” she agreed, gazing up at the sun to gauge the time. “I might come in a bit. Just to keep you lads company, you ken.” Fishing was hardly a lady's pastime. She gazed down the road toward Lochbank Farm and Maxwell Park beyond it. She could not risk her ladyship seeing her in such a disheveled state—muddy old shoes, drugget dress, her hair barely tamed by an unruly braid. Still, Lady Maxwell seldom ventured across the open park grounds, preferring instead her walled garden. Rose would hardly be likely to meet anyone of quality by the loch.
“Go on with you, lads.” She sent the shepherds off with a broad wink. “I'll join you soon enough.” As they disappeared over the hill, she made her way to Auchengray's last holding, approaching the flock as Duncan had taught her. It was no good hurrying around sheep or raising her voice. A gende word, a familiar scent, and the sheep remained calm, allowing her to run her hands along their woolly coats, grown thick again after the June shearing.
She was dismayed to discover the cumbersome water trough on its side. It would take several strong backs to turn it upright before she could fill it with fresh water from the loch. Perhaps the shepherds would help. “I'll see to it you have something to drink before the day is over,” she promised the sheep, moving among them with ease, taking note of the brightness of their eyes, the healthy color of their gums when she pulled back their lips. Rose sang to them as she worked, watching their ears twitch with amusement. “I'm not the songbird my sister is,” she confessed to a gap-toothed ewe. “But I sing a bonnier tune than you do, old girl.”
Rose finished at last and hurried down to the road, shaking the tendrils of wool from her skirt. She would go to the loch as promised and see what sort offish the lads had caught. Within minutes she spied Rab and the other two shepherds standing by the roadside, hands on their hips, looking straight at her. Even from a distance it was clear they boasted smiles from ear to ear. Suddenly they shifted their attention to the loch—not to the water, she realized, but to a person. Someone else was with them. Someone they found very amusing indeed. Their low-pitched laughter floated toward her, arousing her curiosity, drawing her closer, quickening her steps to a full run.
“Have the three of you gone daft?” she called, nearly out of breath by the time she reached them. “Come now, that can't be a pike you're talking to, lads.”
“Tis a big fish, all right.” A grinning Rab stepped forward as though to block her view, and the others quickly flanked him. “Bigger than any pike I've seen in Galloway.” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at her. From behind the three of them came the sounds of pine boughs thrashing and a male voice, deeper than theirs, grumbling rather loudly. Rab hastened to explain, “Our catch is…not suitably dressed for…ah, a proper lady's eyes just now. Mebbe if ye—”
“Suitably dressed? A fish? Rab Murray!” She stepped closer, and they tightened ranks. “Fish do not talk, nor do they blush.”
He laughed softly. “This one might.”
“Hoot!” Rose struggled to see over their shoulders, then stamped her foot. “I've had quite enough of your foolishness—”
“Begging your pardon, Miss McBride.”
The shepherds parted, bowing to the unseen visitor who'd spoken.
The dark-haired stranger stepped forward. “You'll find I am neither fish nor fowl,” he said, his mouth on the verge of a smile. “Though I'm wet from head to toe, and my wardrobe is most foul.”
Rose tried not to stare. “Indeed, sir.” His clever speech marked him as someone of quality; his appearance did not. Though fashionably cut, the man's clothes were a disgrace—stained with mud and covered with damp spots. His feet were unshod—a gendeman, barefoot! Fine for country lasses and male servants but not for the gentry. And his hair. Soaking wet and clinging about his shoulders. When she realized her mouth was hanging open, she snapped it shut.
He inclined his head toward the shepherds. “I believe you lads have some flocks that need tending.”
They disappeared like pipits on the wing. Rose did not even notice which direction they went, so shaken was she by this shameless gentleman with the too-familiar smile. Almost like her fathers, though that was hardly possible.
“So, lass.” He moved toward her. She sensed the warmth of him even from a few steps away. “Tell me, are you Leana? Or are you Rose?”
Twenty-One
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise mans son doth know.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
I‘m Rose.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have we met?”
Jamie fought a smile. “Aye, we have.”
Twelve years earlier a pink-cheeked cherub had climbed into his lap, tugging at his locks. “Cousin Jamie,” the black-haired child had said, eyes twinkling. “I'm Rose!” That same lass stood before him now, grown into womanhood, a creature as lovely as her name. Rose.
“Who are you?” she demanded petulantly.
“You weren't expecting me?”
“Nae!” She colored, though not with embarrassment. Irritation maybe. “Kindly introduce yourself, sir.”
The letter hadn't arrived after all. She didn't know who he was or why he'd come. He closed his eyes for a moment, marshaling his courage, then took a steadying breath. “I'm your cousin.”
“My cousin?” Her brows lifted into two graceful arches. “But my cousins are two fine gendemen in Glentrool. And you…” The truth slowly dawned in her eyes. “Surely you're not…” Mouth agape, Rose studied his hair, then his face, then the whole of him before letting out a faint gasp. “Are you…my own cousin? James Lachlan McKie?”
“Aye, dear Rose.” He held out his arms. “I am.”
“Jamie!” She squealed and leaped into his embrace, three years old again. “It's you, it's you!” Pressing her warm cheek against his damp, bearded face, she sighed in his ear. “Cousin Jamie, come all the way from Glentrool.”
Jamie swallowed hard and blinked harder. He'd done it. Without compass or coin he'd traveled the length of Galloway and found his family. On foot. Alone. Do you see, Father?
Rose suddenly pulled away from him, her skin more pink than ever. “Forgive me, Cousin. I shouldn't… Well, we haven't…” She demurely folded her hands behind her back and turned to watch a moorhen gliding along the loch surface, her black braid brushing her fingertips.
“Nothing to apologize for, Miss McBride.” He spoke in his most mannerly tone, as though they were at a society gathering dressed in their best attire and not two tattie-bogles standing in the middle of a country road, one of them covered with bits of wool, the other dripping with water from the loch. “If I had a hat, I would gladly sweep it to the ground. Unfortunately I have no hat.”
“So I see.” Rose shifted her gaze toward him again, amusement sketched across her features. “Nor do you have a horse.” She glanced down, her dimples deepening. “Nor boots.”
“Cousin, the list of goods that are no longer in my possession grows by the hour.”
She laughed, tipping her head back as she did. “Poor Jamie.” Her sweet laughter filled the air like lilting notes from a wooden flute. “Father will be pleased to see you, whatever your sad state.”
“I hope that's true.” He would need a ready expl
anation of some sort, enough to open the doors of Auchengray. Why hadn't he planned what he might say to Lachlan long before now? Jamie brushed his hands over his sullied coat, disgusted with his appearance. “As you can see, I'm hardly fit to sleep indoors, let alone dine at my uncle's table.”
“Wheesht!” Rose turned and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. “Such foolish talk, Cousin. You've had a hard journey is all.” She tugged him forward. “We'll hasten home to a tasty dinner of oyster pie. Our housekeeper Neda is quite the cook.” She chatted away in a cheerful babble, her conversation filled with people he didn't know and places he hadn't been. “Your cousin Leana and Mr. Fergus McDougal of Nethercarse will be there. Won't Leana be shocked to see you?”
He was content to let her talk, slowing his steps while he considered what he might tell Lachlan. True, his father had sent him off to seek a wife, but how would Jamie account for his hasty departure? His brother threatening to kill him was sufficient reason, but Lachlan would want to know what had fueled Evan's anger. Alec's decision to name his younger son heir to Glentrool explained much, but how had such a turnabout occurred? Every detail raised fresh questions that begged for answers.
Jamie discarded one fabrication after another, arriving at an unpleasant conclusion: He would tell his uncle the truth about what had happened at Glentrool. The Almighty had promised to bless him; let him bless an honest confession then.
“Jamie McKie, you've not heard one word I've said.”
He stopped to smile down at his bonny cousin. Sunlight filtered through the oak-leafed canopy above, lighting her face like a candle. “Aren't you the canny one, Rose? You've caught me thinking about what I'll say to your father.”
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