Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

  Donald didn’t say anything for a long while, but if it was a test, Douglas was more than ready for it. He’d stayed some months at a monastery, where the rules of silence were rigorously obeyed. He had no difficulty with the Laird of Kilmarin’s petty tyranny.

  “You’re as arrogant as any duke,” Donald finally said.

  “Am I?” Douglas smiled.

  “It wasn’t a damned compliment.” Donald rearranged himself on the chair again.

  A few more minutes passed while Donald looked him over.

  “Did you know my daughter?” he finally asked.

  “I didn’t have that pleasure,” Douglas said.

  “Is she happy? My granddaughter?”

  Douglas stared at the altar, stymied as to how to answer that question. Sarah had everything a woman would need to be happy—a magnificent estate in which to live, adequate food, and clothing. Someone to love her? Someone to love? He’d have offered himself up to her had he been certain she’d be willing to have him. Last night, perhaps, but passion died with the dawn and was sometimes replaced by regret.

  Did she regret her wedding night?

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. Perhaps his honesty would prove to be too blunt an answer.

  The old man levered himself up from his chair.

  “I’ve asked Linda to take Sarah on a tour of Kilmarin,” he said. “I’ll have Robert do the same for you.”

  “It’s not necessary,” Douglas said. “I doubt I’ll be this way again.”

  “Do you know your Gaelic, Douglas, or have you forgotten it like the fact you’re a Scot?”

  “I’ve never forgotten I’m a Scot, Donald,” he said, calm in the face of the older man’s gibe. “It’s in my blood. As to my Gaelic, I’ve probably forgotten most of what I knew.”

  “Then here’s a Gaelic word you should know,” he said. “Sealbh. It means fortune or luck. Providence. Some things are meant to be. Some are not.”

  Douglas couldn’t help but wonder why the old man’s words sounded like a warning.

  Sarah would have liked to spend some time thinking about her grandfather’s revelation, or at least his supposition as to why Morna had never returned to Scotland. Unfortunately, her cousin was intractable, insisting upon showing her Kilmarin, because, of course, Donald Tulloch requested it.

  After only a few minutes, however, she found herself enthralled by the tour of her mother’s family home.

  Kilmarin was easily four times the size of Chavensworth, a complex of ten buildings all linked by porticos. The first castle had been built atop a circular mound, but now fingers of buildings stretched outward over the hills and toward the River Tay. In the last hundred years, the walls of the oldest courtyard had been rebuilt, emplacements for ten guns had been added, and a new courtyard added to the area north of the towers.

  Linda led her to one of the ancient towers of Kilmarin. The circular space was saved from total darkness by the narrow arrow slits high in the six-foot-thick walls. Sloping, treacherous looking steps, their centers worn down by generations of Tullochs, led to the top of the tower.

  “Shall we?” Linda asked, moving to the base of the steps.

  “I would rather not,” Sarah said. “It’s not important that I explore everything, is it?” She waved her hand in the air when Linda would have spoken. “Grandfather will just have to be satisfied with what I’ve seen.”

  Linda’s face froze into lines of distress, but she didn’t comment.

  The Tullochs made their own cloth, weaving wool from the sheep that grazed on the sides of the hills adjacent to Kilmarin, and milled their own flour from the power of the River Tay. Kilmarin even had a dungeon, although she’d chosen not to explore it, either.

  At the beginning of their tour, Sarah had managed to restrain her reaction to all the wonders of her mother’s ancestral home, but at their noon meal, taken on a small terrace overlooking the River Tay, Sarah finally asked, “How on earth do you manage it all?”

  For the first time, Linda seemed a little less confident than she’d acted all morning. “I don’t,” she said. “I’ve nothing to do with Kilmarin. I want nothing to do with Kilmarin.”

  Perhaps that was why, when Sarah had begun to contribute what she’d done at Chavensworth to control mice, Linda had cut her off with the comment, “You need to tell Grandfather.” When she’d dared to tell her cousin how she’d rid the rooms of a wet smell after a storm, Linda had said the same thing. By the time Linda complained about the shortages in the larder or the problem of the warped floors in the east wing, Sarah had learned her lesson and remained silent.

  Their meal had been pleasant enough, consisting of a hearty lamb stew. The terrace on which they sat was adjacent to the dining hall and built to give a visitor a view of the River Tay through the balustrade.

  The small square table where they’d taken their meal was as rough-hewn as the dining table, but its surface was not as dark, and the pine scent it gave off was an indication that it had been recently constructed.

  At the conclusion of their meal, Linda remained silent, staring at the river for so many minutes that Sarah was left without knowing what to say or do.

  Her cousin turned finally and, with an apologetic smile, addressed her. “All your suggestions were good ones, cousin. But Grandfather is the one who dictates what happens at Kilmarin,” she said. “The rest of us simply obey.”

  Sarah raised her hand, as if to push the words away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cause any discord by coming here.”

  Linda smiled. “You haven’t. We’ve been at odds for months, he and I. Your presence has given me a respite, if you must know. I’ve been excused from lectures for two days.”

  They sat in silence for a moment before Linda spoke again. “Do you like being married?”

  Sarah looked at her cousin. It was such a strange question that she wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “I should think,” Linda said, before Sarah could formulate a response, “that being married to the man you love is the most wonderful feeling in the world.”

  Sarah didn’t quite know how to respond to that remark, either, especially after last night.

  “Perhaps some people are simply luckier than others.” Linda drew herself up and smiled at Sarah.

  The expression didn’t look the least bit sincere.

  She didn’t know her cousin well enough, wasn’t certain if she would be rebuffed, but Sarah asked the question anyway. “Whom would you marry, Linda?”

  The other woman didn’t answer for a moment. When she did respond, it was in a tone that warned Sarah that confidences wouldn’t be forthcoming. “Does it matter, cousin? What Grandfather wants is what will happen.”

  Douglas left his meeting with Donald Tulloch, and, while waiting for Robert, took advantage of the fair day to explore more of Kilmarin. The whole of Kilmarin was less beautiful, perhaps, than Chavensworth, but built for the rugged land on which it sat.

  He began to climb, feeling a need to find the highest point of land, a feeling he’d known as a boy desperate to escape the filth and despair of his surroundings.

  At the top of a small hill, scarcely taller than a knoll and nowhere near the mountain he’d wished for, Douglas stopped, planted his feet apart, and surveyed Kilmarin and the surrounding countryside.

  This was Scotland, his land, his home. Here, he’d played as a boy, dreamed of being more than he was even when he was hungry and cold. He looked to the left, where grayish blue hills gave way to rolling glens, the braes carpeted with lush green grass. To the right was the River Tay, sparkling in the morning sunlight, the sight of it bringing a lump to his throat.

  He’d wanted so much as that small boy—to be bigger and stronger, to be able to protect himself. He’d achieved every one of his dreams and even more.

  He loved.

  That single emotion seemed a miracle in itself. Having never felt it from his parents, he hadn’t known how to accept it from others. Alano’s kindness t
o an angry young man had been initially rebuffed. Only later, many months later, had Douglas realized that some people didn’t need to hit the defenseless to prove they were stronger. He’d begun by respecting Alano, and from that respect had come friendship. Because he’d been able to feel friendship for another person, he’d learned to love.

  A frightening emotion, love. Far more frightening and powerful than anything he’d ever experienced, including fear. Perhaps love was what made heroes of simple men.

  He would do anything for Sarah. He would climb mountains and swim the River Tay for her. He would lay bare his soul, and stand in wait, naked and defenseless, for her scorn.

  Perhaps he could become someone braver than he was, someone magnificent and capable of great and wondrous acts. All for love.

  He would open the envelope of time and show her who he’d been, reveal the boy filled with rage and determination and the man overflowing with curiosity and passion.

  For her, and in deference to what he felt for her.

  Toward the end of the day, Sarah and her cousin were walking through the corridor belonging to the family rooms when Linda suddenly stopped in front of one of the doors.

  “This was your mother’s chamber when she was a girl. Would you like to see it?”

  Surprised, Sarah turned toward the door. Kilmarin was evidently so large bedrooms could be set aside and never used again. She nodded, and Linda withdrew a key from the ring she carried, inserted it into the lock, and stepped back.

  Sarah walked forward, turned the latch, and entered the room.

  The curtains were shut against an afternoon sun, but light streamed between the panels.

  She’d thought her mother’s chamber at Chavensworth was lovely, but it was nothing compared to this room. A four-poster bed decorated with stunning ivory and red panels sat against one wall. Adjacent to it was a large armoire, and on the opposite side of the room were both a vanity and a small desk. There was no dust anywhere. Neither was there a musty scent, as if the room had often been aired.

  As if the room were readied for Morna’s return.

  “Do you know how to get back to your own room?” Linda asked softly.

  She nodded.

  “Then I shall leave you.” She came to Sarah’s side and pressed a key into her hands. “If you would lock the door when you’re finished. Grandfather does not like the room disturbed. He keeps it just as it was before your mother went to England.”

  “Like a shrine,” Sarah said softly.

  Linda didn’t answer, only turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Sarah stood motionless, wondering at the scent in the air. Something that smelled of roses, or perhaps lilies. Something lighter than the perfume her mother had worn at Chavensworth. A girl’s perfume, perhaps.

  Slowly, Sarah walked toward the vanity. On the wooden top was an array of crystal bottles, some of them still revealing traces of perfume. A long silver comb sat beside a silver-backed brush. To the left of the vanity, and reflected in the oval mirror, was a small oil lamp.

  Had her mother sat here as a girl, wondering about her future? Dreaming about it, in the way that young girls are wont to do?

  Sarah thought her heart would break.

  Sarah opened the right-hand drawer of the vanity, startled to find that it was filled with jars and bottles, some of whose contents had long since evaporated. One or two, she was surprised to find, were still full, like the container of talc, and the jar of pomade. Had Morna left for England, then, without any of her personal possessions?

  Instead of feeling as if she were a trespasser, someone rifling through her mother’s things, Sarah felt as if her mother would approve. Even more than that, she felt as if her mother were in the room here and now, the first time she’d truly felt Morna’s presence at Kilmarin.

  Here was the girl Sarah had never known. A child who’d evidently been cherished and treated as a princess. Had it been difficult for her, leaving Kilmarin and never once returning?

  She thought about what it would be like for her if she had to leave Chavensworth. What if circumstances decreed that she live somewhere far away? For now, her father was content to have her manage the estate, but perhaps he would remarry and bring another woman home. Would she grieve?

  Sarah looked at her reflection in the oval mirror of the vanity. She’d never before thought of leaving Chavensworth, and as Sarah did so now, she felt no sense of deep pain. The memories she had of her home were those involving people. Her early recollections of her father before she’d learned to avoid his presence. The joy of her days with her mother, her governess, the servants she’d grown to love. Without its inhabitants, a house was just a structure, however beautiful it might be.

  Was that what her mother had felt about Kilmarin?

  All these years, she’d thought she knew her mother, not strictly as a parent, but as a friend, a confidante. As she stared at herself in the mirror, Sarah realized that she didn’t know Morna Tulloch Herridge at all.

  She opened the left-hand door, deeper than the one on the right-hand side. Here, the drawer was nearly empty, except for an ornate inlaid box, the dark wood hinting at its age. She placed it on top of the vanity and opened the top.

  Inside was a hand mirror, crafted of gold, its handle heavily incised with trailing roses. She turned it over to see that the glass was brown with age.

  Something was written on the back, in a language she thought at first was Gaelic, but then recognized as Latin. Her governess had insisted she learn Latin, but it had been years since she’d done any declinations of verbs.

  Animadverto vestri, visum posterus. Either the words meant to see the truth of the future, or to view your future, she wasn’t sure which.

  Slowly, she turned the mirror and held the brown glass up in front of her face, raising her eyes to her own reflection. The dark surface of the mirror was no doubt due to its age. Behind her, she could see nothing. The only reflection was her face, and it was her but not her at the same time.

  The eyes of the woman who faced her were filled with grief, but not the sorrow she still felt, and would probably always feel, for her mother. This was a living, clawing emotion comprised of rage, denial, torment, and loss. As she watched, clouds boiled around her, as if her reflection were in the middle of a storm. Her eyes seemed to be windows into a pain she could not bear to witness.

  She lowered the mirror to the dressing table’s surface and placed both hands over the back of it, as if to keep the reflection within the glass.

  If such anguish was truly her fate, she didn’t want to know the future.

  Chapter 25

  Douglas wasn’t at dinner.

  When Sarah inquired about his absence, neither Linda nor her grandfather knew of his whereabouts. But Robert was also missing, which made her think the two men were together.

  Dinner consisted of a Kilmarin version of kedegeree, a dish consisting of flaked fish, rice, and greens. Served with Kilmarin venison sausages and black pudding, it was a very filling meal. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much of an appetite.

  “You spent the entire day with Linda?” her grandfather asked.

  Linda nodded. “She did, Grandfather.”

  “You’ve shown her all of Kilmarin?”

  Sarah spoke. “She has. I’m surprised my shoes have not lost their soles. Kilmarin is larger than it appears.”

  “Tullochs have been here seven hundred years,” Donald said. “Each generation has left its legacy. Sometimes that meant more building.”

  Sarah stifled her smile. From what she’d seen, Donald was more than willing to continue that legacy. Scaffolding over the exterior of the east wing had been erected for workers to add a two-story conservatory built to Donald’s specifications.

  “I found something in my mother’s room,” she said.

  “I thought she would like to see Morna’s room,” Linda hurriedly explained when Donald Tulloch turned an angry glance on her.

  “And I did,”
Sarah said. “Thank you, cousin.”

  “What did you find?” her grandfather asked.

  “A mirror. A hand mirror in a box. It looks to be quite old, and bears a Latin inscription about the future.”

  She waited for one of them to explain what she’d seen in the mirror, but both of them appeared confused.

  “I know of no mirror,” he said. “It might have been a gift to Morna, but it was not from me.”

  Her grandfather didn’t mention her mother again, and the dinner was a pleasant one, as if they’d never spoken in the garden, as if he’d never hinted that she might be a bastard.

  She excused herself finally, returning to the suite she shared with Douglas, only to find it empty.

  Where was he? She sat on the bench at the end of the bed. If they had been at Chavensworth, she would have gone to the observatory, but where did she seek him out at Kilmarin?

  At the sound of water she jerked her head around. She stood, walked behind the screen and opened the bathing room door, only to discover her husband standing there, once again naked.

  Two faint scratches marred the perfection of his left shoulder. Had she done that?

  “Where have you been?”

  A large oval mirror was mounted on the wall above the basin. He stared into it rather than look at her.

  “If I walked in on you, Lady Sarah, I’d be chastised, if not commanded, to leave the chamber.”

  She felt her cheeks warm. He was absolutely correct. She would not have tolerated such behavior from him. She turned to leave, her hand on the doorframe.

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  “I didn’t command you to leave,” he said.

  She warmed even further.

  “I’ve been exploring Kilmarin land,” he said. “And Kilmarin. I’ve been told that you received a similar tour.”

  She nodded. “Not of the land.”

  “Or the sheep,” he added.

  “Or the sheep.”

  “How about the cattle?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “No cattle.”