Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

“Nonsense. Of course you will. Despite your fierce looks and stern frowns, Lady Sarah, you’ve a generous heart and a loving nature.”

  What on earth should she say to that?

  As he left the carriage, she reached out her hand and touched his shoulder.

  “Be careful, Douglas.”

  A nod was his only response.

  When Douglas stepped out of the carriage, it was to find three men encircling Tim. He approached them slowly, hands out, palms to them, so they would know he carried no weapons.

  Ahead of them, shrouded in the dim light, was the approach to Kilmarin. On either side of the iron gates was a tall pedestal, each topped with a statue of a man holding a spear. The effect was not the least bit welcoming, but he didn’t suppose the Tullochs really cared. They’d held power in this part of Scotland for generations.

  “Is Donald Tulloch your laird?” Douglas asked.

  The taller of the three men separated himself from the group around Tim and faced him. Given the other inequities in this situation, Douglas was happy to see that they were the same height.

  “He is. And why would you be speaking of him?”

  “His granddaughter is in the carriage, and has come from England to see him.”

  “He has no granddaughter,” the man said with some certainty.

  “He does. Lady Sarah Eston, of Chavensworth. Her mother was Morna Herridge. The Duchess of Herridge.”

  The man stared at him for several moments. Since the rain showed no sign of lessening, and since he was drenched anyway, Douglas was more than happy to stand there as long as the other man decreed. But when he showed no sign a moving or saying anything further, Douglas folded his arms and suggested a compromise.

  “Why don’t you send word to Donald himself, and have him make the decision whether or not to allow admittance to his granddaughter. Otherwise, I can’t think him pleased with your decision to turn her away. Unless, of course, he defers to you in all things.”

  The other man surprised him by smiling. “Aye, we’ll do that, then.” He signaled to the two men who still stood by Tim, and within moments, they had disappeared from view.

  Their leader walked some distance away before glancing over his shoulder at Douglas. “Do you like standing out in the rain, man? If you do, you’re welcome to it. If not, come with me.”

  He and Tim followed, and when the man disappeared into a shadow, Douglas approached cautiously, only to find himself in a cave hewn from solid rock. A warm fire blazed in the brazier near a table and four chairs. A lamp sat on the table, along with a deck of cards. Evidently, guarding Kilmarin’s gate wasn’t strenuous work.

  He motioned to Tim to take one of the chairs, and he took another, stretching out his sodden boots to the heat.

  “I take it you’re the gatekeeper of Kilmarin,” Douglas said.

  “You take it wrong, then,” the man said. “I’m Robert Tulloch, grandnephew to Donald himself. We all take turns at the gate, just as we all take turns doing what needs to be done at Kilmarin.”

  Tulloch sat as well, focusing his attention on Douglas.

  “You look familiar,” he finally said.

  “I was born and raised in Perth,” Douglas said. “Perhaps we met there.”

  The man nodded. “Aye, perhaps we did.”

  The cave was evidently hewn from solid rock, but that hadn’t stopped whoever had created it from adding a few comforts. Two deep and long ledges carved into the wall looked as if they could be made into pallets if necessary. A shelf on the far wall held a quaich, a wooden two-handled bowl, and a small barrel.

  Tulloch stood, walked to the other side of the cave, and filled the quaich from the barrel.

  “Tulloch whiskey,” he said, returning to the table and placing the quaich between Douglas and Tom. “The best in Scotland. You’ll know that if you’re from Perth.”

  Douglas stifled his smile, as well as his comment that every distillery in Perth made that pledge. Still, he wasn’t averse to warming his insides since it was all too evident his outside was going to stay wet for a while.

  By the time they finished their whiskey, the two men returned. They ignored Douglas and Tim, turning to Tulloch.

  “He’ll see them.”

  Douglas stood. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “And the whiskey.”

  Tulloch only nodded, following them out into the rain.

  Douglas entered the carriage, keeping his distance as much as possible from Sarah and Florie. He was still sodden.

  “Your grandfather has agreed to see you.”

  She sat back against the seat, adjusted her bonnet, then clasped her hands together primly.

  He wondered if she knew how difficult the next few hours would be. Coming to Scotland was something she’d felt she had to do, and he knew her well enough to know that she would have come to see her grandfather either with him or without him. The least he could do was stand at her side.

  The great black gates of Kilmarin swung slowly inward, almost as if giving them time to reconsider whether or not they truly wished to enter.

  Four floors tall, Kilmarin was constructed of deep red stone. Few windows faced the drive, and only from the upper floors. Kilmarin was stolid and huge, dwarfing the countryside but possessing none of the aesthetic beauty of Chavensworth. Douglas had thought, from the first moment of seeing Chavensworth, that it resembled a French château. Kilmarin was defiantly Scottish.

  Tim drove the horses through the gates and up the sweeping drive to the castle. On a fair day, in the morning light, the gravel might have sparkled, the flower beds with their nodding blooms would have seemed a pleasant precursor to this meeting. In the afternoon, the sun would have lightened the deep red stone of Kilmarin, weathered it to a dusky pink. In a Scottish storm, however, there were only beds of blackened flowers, and shadowy fingers of darkness stretching onto the gravel drive, as if trying to snare a carriage wheel. Kilmarin’s brick was the color of blood.

  None of them spoke; the only sound was the drumming pattern of rain on the carriage roof.

  They didn’t reach Kilmarin as much as they were enveloped by the structure. As they drove beneath the porte cochere, the silence was sudden and as loud as the rain. The carriage rolled back and was still. Seconds later, the door opened.

  Douglas looked over at Sarah.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, more than willing to turn the carriage around and leave Kilmarin if she changed her mind.

  She straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and smiled. He’d studied her avidly over the last few days and knew pretense from genuine emotion. She was terrified, but he doubted anyone else could tell.

  He reached over and placed his hand on top of hers.

  “I’ll be with you,” he said.

  She bit her bottom lip but didn’t comment. A swift nod was the only acknowledgment she gave him. But there was a momentary look in her eyes, a glance of surprise and gratitude that would have to suffice.

  Douglas left the carriage first, nodding to the man who’d opened the carriage door. Unlike the servants of Chavensworth, he was not dressed in livery and, also unlike the servants of Chavensworth, he stared back. There was no subservient lowering of the eyes here. The man was as curious about Douglas as Douglas was about Kilmarin.

  He turned and held his hand out to Sarah. She placed hers on top of it and allowed him to help her down the steps. She spent some time fluffing up her skirts, but he could tell that she was also using the moments to look around and get her bearings. Kilmarin was awe-inspiring from a distance. Up close, it was even more amazing.

  He had never been here himself, had only heard about Kilmarin as a boy—how there was a dungeon rumored to be below the main structure, and how a young boy ghost haunted the Great Hall.

  Kilmarin was proving to be the equal of his childhood stories.

  Shields were displayed on all four pillars of the porte cochere. Not baronial shields that might reveal a man’s coat of arms, but shields that lo
oked as if they had been used in actual battles, round, thickly plated, and dented in several areas.

  An arched door led to what was evidently the interior of the castle. As he turned, extended his arm to Sarah, the door opened.

  By Douglas’s calculations, Donald Tulloch must have been in his seventies. He’d thought to find him ailing, a man near death. The man who greeted them held a cane in his right hand, but he brandished it more like a weapon than an aid for walking.

  Once, he’d probably been taller than Douglas, but age had shrunk him. His shoulders curved toward his chest, and his knees were bent as if unable to support his weight, skeletal though it was. A thick mass of white hair hung to his shoulders, and his face, long and narrow, was lined and weathered. The blue eyes that peered out from beneath bushy white eyebrows, however, were surprisingly alert.

  For several long minutes, he and Sarah stared at each other, neither speaking.

  Finally, Douglas stepped forward and because Sarah had taken his arm, she was forced to either drop it or come with him. They approached her grandfather with slow, measured steps, stopping a few feet from Donald.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us,” he said.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a voice that sounded scratchy and unused.

  “Douglas Eston,” he said.

  Before he could introduce Sarah, she stepped forward.

  “I am Lady Sarah Eston,” she said, in the most regal tone he’d ever heard her use. “My mother was the Duchess of Herridge.”

  Donald was quicker than his gatekeeper. He tapped the end of the cane against the flagstone floor. As if it were a signal, everyone around them fell silent.

  “My daughter is dead?” he asked.

  Sarah straightened, facing down the old man.

  “My mother is dead,” Sarah replied.

  Donald Tulloch nodded. A moment later, he turned, and slowly walked into Kilmarin.

  Douglas put his hand on Sarah’s arm as her grandfather vanished into the interior of Kilmarin. As a strategy, it was a fine one. They didn’t know if they’d been dismissed or welcomed.

  The storm had not abated; the day was advanced, and he was damned if he was going to allow Donald Tulloch to banish them so summarily.

  Like it or not, Kilmarin had some visitors.

  Douglas turned to the young man who’d opened the carriage door. “Have our trunks directed to our room and find someone who can show us our accommodations.” Before the young man could speak, Douglas held up his hand. “I will also need arrangements for my coachman, and my wife’s maid.”

  “I’ll see that it’s done. They’ll be treated with Scottish hospitality.”

  Douglas turned to find that Robert had followed them.

  He nodded to the other man, then glanced over at Tim. “Send me word if you need anything,” he said.

  Tim nodded. “I will, sir.” He looked around at the gathering of people under the porte cochere. From his expression, Tim was feeling a little overwhelmed by all the Scots.

  “We haven’t fought a battle with the English for a good hundred years, Tim,” Douglas said, both as a reassurance to Tim and a reminder to the Tullochs who surrounded them.

  A young girl stood at the doorway, her arrival evidently a signal for the others to disperse. One by one, they melted away into the storm.

  “Will you come with me?” she asked, stepping aside so they could enter Kilmarin.

  Sarah stroked her hand across his arm.

  “Your jacket is soaking. You need to get warm and dry.”

  “I do enjoy a solicitous wife,” he said with a smile.

  She frowned at him, but the expression was only surface deep. Pain still lingered in her eyes.

  “Shall we enter?” he asked.

  Her gaze encompassed the open door, the shadowed interior.

  “If we absolutely must,” she said, her smile fixed and determined. Sarah turned at the door. “Florie, after you and Tim are settled, have someone direct you to my room.”

  Until that moment, Douglas hadn’t realized how close to tears she was.

  Oh, love.

  He reached out, took her hand gently in his, and led her through the door.

  Chapter 20

  The young girl—Sarah was uncertain as to her actual position in the household—led them to a grand marble staircase that would have dominated any other structure, even Chavensworth. Kilmarin, however, was like a giant beast, and this marble-and-mahogany staircase seemed its spine.

  Sarah kept her hand firmly in Douglas’s, telling herself it was only for balance. Unfortunately, she had to release his grip when she needed to pull her skirts up slightly in order to navigate the stairs.

  “The family sleeps in that wing,” the girl said, pointing to a corridor lit by candelabra. Instead of heading to the left, toward the family wing, she turned right, to the rooms evidently set aside for visitors.

  Very well, let Donald Tulloch consider her a visitor. She wouldn’t be remaining at Kilmarin long enough to feel slighted.

  The girl stopped halfway down the corridor, opened the door, waiting for them to enter. Douglas stepped to one side so she could precede him, and for once she wished he wasn’t so chivalrous. As if he knew how loath she was to enter the room, he grabbed her hand again, and smiled at her, such a tender smile that her heart ached.

  “I’ll have the lamp lit in a moment,” the girl said. “It’s a fine and dreary day, isn’t it?”

  True to her word, the space was illuminated in only minutes. Had she not been trained so assiduously in decorum, Sarah might have gasped aloud at the sight that met her eyes.

  This was a suite, not merely a bedchamber. The sitting room was predominantly blue, the silk of the walls matching the upholstery of the two sofas arranged in front of the fireplace. Between them was a low mahogany table with carved legs ending in lions’ paws. A lamp sat at the end of each sofa, and another on the table beside the window, next to a high-backed chair and footstool. A small bookcase next to the chair was filled with gilt-edged books.

  “It’s the Queen’s Room,” the girl said. “One of our finest chambers.”

  Perhaps she’d misjudged her grandfather after all. If Kilmarin showed its unwelcome visitors this beauty and comfort, she could only wonder at the rest of the castle.

  She walked to the entrance to the bedchamber. The bed was massive, oversized, as was all the furniture in the room. Each piece of furniture was heavily carved, the relief stained a deep greenish blue, nearly the shade of Douglas’s eyes. Gold curtains hung at the bed and the skirt of the vanity. An intricately detailed gold screen sat half in front of a closed door—a bathing chamber?

  The counterpane was white, but in the center, heavily embroidered in gold thread, was an unusual crest, dominated by the figure of a wolf, stalking, its nose low, its jaws agape. Hardly amenable to dreamless sleep.

  “Does Tulloch mean wolf in Gaelic?” she asked.

  “Actually, it means hill,” Douglas said from behind her.

  “Shall I give you an hour, miss?”

  She turned to face the young girl.

  “An hour?”

  “Donald eats supper early,” the girl said. “I’ll be back in an hour to take you to the dining hall.”

  Before Sarah could think of a reason to refuse, she was gone, and Sarah was left staring helplessly at Douglas.

  “It’s only a meal, Sarah,” he said, his tone absurdly kind.

  She nodded.

  “It’s only a meal,” she repeated, but that didn’t make her feel appreciably better.

  Douglas began to change out of his wet clothing. Not behind the gold screen, or in the room behind it, which did turn out to be a bathing chamber. Instead, he simply peeled off his clothing, acquired a towel, and wrapped it around his waist. All done with the unselfconscious actions of a human who knows he’s quite attractive.

  “Have you always been that way?” she asked, grateful to have a subject to discuss other than her mother or gr
andfather.

  “What way?”

  “Comfortable with being naked. Especially in front of a stranger.”

  He folded his arms and regarded her, the expression in his blue-green eyes one she couldn’t decipher.

  “I wouldn’t consider you a stranger, Sarah. It concerns me that you do.”

  Perhaps this wasn’t a good topic of conversation after all.

  She turned and walked to the bureau, removing her bonnet with its lone wilted feather. It had begun the journey so perky, and now it looked so bedraggled. While she couldn’t have said that the journey was begun with any perkiness on her part, she felt the same.

  Those blasted tears were back. She blinked them away furiously, wishing that she’d been given her own chamber. If she had, she would probably have succumbed to a bout of weeping and felt better for it.

  “You will get through this,” Douglas said, coming up behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders. Slowly, he drew her back. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to rest against him.

  “You will get through this, Sarah. But you won’t get past it. You will always grieve, in your way, for your mother. You will always miss her. If I had the power of God, I would take away your grief, but in doing so I would have to take away your memories. Would you want that?”

  “No,” she said softly. “It’s just so hard. How did you bear it?”

  He pressed his cheek against her hair and didn’t quite answer her. “One day you’ll smile, then you’ll find yourself laughing. But the moments will always come when you remember. You’ll feel her loss forever, all the while you’ll know you were blessed by being loved.”

  She was so tired, tired of fighting the pain, tired of being strong. Douglas wrapped his arms around her, and she turned her head, laying her cheek against his chest. For long moments they stood simply and quietly together.

  Finally, Sarah pulled away, conscious of two things. Douglas was nearly naked, and she liked touching him.

  She busied herself by investigating the bathing chamber. The copper tub was a beautiful piece of art, deeply embossed with thistles and roses along the edge. Two sets of taps sat on the edge, and when she opened one, she was shocked to find that hot water ran through it. Evidently, Kilmarin had a boiler—more than Chavensworth could boast.