by Karen Ranney
She held him against her cheek, smiling when the puppy licked her cheek.
“I’ll be keeping him, Miss Carew,” Daniel said. “He’s a smart one, he is.”
“Have you named him yet?” she asked.
Connor bent and scooped up another puppy. For such a large man he was incredibly gentle.
For the first time since she’d known him, Daniel looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“I have, Elsbeth,” he said. “But I expect that you won’t approve.”
She had an inkling of what Daniel was going to say before he admitted it.
“You named him Gavin,” she said.
He looked shocked. “No, Elsbeth. I would never do that. But he does look like a duke to me.”
Connor chuckled. “I agree. What have you named this one?” he asked, holding the puppy up at eye level.
“He needs a name,” Daniel said. “Nothing has occurred to me. He’s got all the instincts of a good herder.”
“We use the dogs mostly with our sheep,” Elsbeth said. “Although there are some people who use them to herd cattle.”
Daniel nodded, then turned and led the way into the main room of the cottage. Unlike Mr. Stuyvesant’s sparsely furnished home, this cottage was difficult to navigate because it was filled with Daniel’s treasures. He hadn’t thrown anything out since his wife had died and Diane had collected everything from pitchers to dresser scarves to thistles she’d dried and made into potpourri.
Since Diane’s death two years ago the dogs had claimed pride of place. In addition to the two puppies she and Connor held, there were three more, plus their mother and father. Once they’d given the alert to Daniel, they’d stopped barking, but Fiona was whining a little. Elsbeth knew what that meant. She sat, the puppy on her lap, and motioned the dog closer.
“I’ve missed you, Fiona,” she said, scratching in front of the collie’s ears. “I’m not taking your baby away, I promise.” Fiona nosed her puppy, then looked up at Elsbeth.
She dug down into her cloak pocket and pulled out the two bones she’d gotten for the dogs earlier, looking at Daniel for approval.
“From Addy?” he asked.
She nodded. At his okay, she gave one to Fiona and the other to Hamish. Once she placed Duke on the floor, he trailed after his mother, hoping for a taste of the bone.
“Have you ever trained your dogs to herd any other kinds of cattle?”
Daniel frowned at Connor, sat in the chair on the opposite side of the room and took up his pipe, nodding toward the settee nearest him.
Connor sat, opened his coat and the puppy made a home in the folds of the sheepskin lining.
“A cow is a cow,” Daniel said. “There’s not much difference between them.”
“Ever hear of a Longhorn?” he asked, his hand gently stroking the puppy, who promptly curled up into a ball and fell asleep.
“That I haven’t,” Daniel said.
Connor described the animal and talked about the cattle dogs he had now.
“I’ve given some thought to getting a Scottish collie or two and seeing if they would work.”
“Oh,” Daniel said, drawing on his pipe, “they would work. The dogs always do what they’re trained to do. The cows might have a different mind for a little while, but they would eventually catch on. Are you asking me if I’m willing to part with a few of my dogs?”
Connor seemed to study the other man for a moment, and then he nodded, just once. “I am. Two of them.”
“Well, it would take a few instructions with you,” Daniel said.
“With me?”
“Aye. Like I said, the dogs always do what they’re trying to do. It’s the human that’s often the problem. You would have to learn how to give them instructions.” He drew on his pipe then said, “You think on that for a while and if you agree, we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
Perhaps she should have warned Connor that Daniel charged a great deal for his dogs. They were worth it, but they didn’t come cheap. Of course, Connor was beyond wealthy now, wasn’t he? He would never have to worry about money again, especially if he went through with his idea to sell Bealadair.
That was such a sad thought that she bent and began to play with a puppy tugging on her shoelaces.
Chapter 19
Daniel invited them to stay for tea, but Elsbeth wanted to get to Castle McCraight before it turned dark. In the winter the days were short. Plus, the weather could turn bad again. Mr. Stuyvesant’s knee notwithstanding, it could begin snowing at any time.
“You liked Daniel, didn’t you?” she asked, once they were back on their horses. “I suspect it’s because he didn’t call you Your Grace once.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Did you mean what you said?” she asked. “Are you really interested in taking the dogs back to Texas?”
“I am. We have cattle dogs, but my father used to talk about Scottish collies. Maybe they could learn to work Longhorns.”
It was a comforting thought that a little bit of Scotland would return to Texas. Before she could tell him that, he spoke again.
“My father never spoke about Bealadair. I think, now, that it’s because he wanted to avoid thinking about Scotland. I’m surprised that he spoke Gaelic.”
“Or it could have been because he couldn’t bear it,” she said softly. “Sometimes, those things we miss the most are the least spoken of.”
He looked at her. “Is there something you miss, Elsbeth?”
She considered the question. “Perhaps my parents, but my memories of them have faded over the years. I miss Gavin.” She missed the security his presence had given her, a fact she’d never considered until his death.
She had the feeling that if she had told Connor what she felt, he would have understood. She really needed to find something terrible about him, some flaw in his character that would shock or repulse her. Some trait he possessed that would make him irredeemable in her eyes.
He loved dogs—that had been plain to see. He was patient—look how kind he’d been to Mr. Stuyvesant. He was intelligent. He’d obviously loved his father, and there was a fond look in his eyes when he spoke about his mother and sisters. He’d even seemed interested in her tasks and wanted to ensure she drew a salary. Not once had he acted like Felix, who occasionally ridiculed what she did but never stepped up to do it.
No, the man was dangerously intriguing. Not to mention attractive, a fact that made her feel silly and too young to be alone with him. What nonsense. She was Elsbeth Carew and she’d been schooled in propriety, had she not?
At least she should stop looking at him so often. Granted, his profile was strong, perhaps almost perfect. He had the McCraight nose, but it fit his face. His jawline was firm.
At first his hat had seemed odd to her, but now she was more accustomed to it. It looked right, just like the coat turned up at the collar.
He smiled, an expression she’d seen a thousand times on many different faces. Why, then, did it stop her heart? She looked away quickly, feeling her cheeks warm.
It wasn’t her fault that he was so handsome. Or that he fascinated her. Any woman would be stirred. Mrs. Ferguson had blushed when speaking of him. Look how Mary McCraight had behaved around him, all fluttery and girlie.
“You must miss your family,” she said.
“Yes.”
Just that one word and nothing more. No information about a sweetheart or an impending marriage.
“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a family,” she said. “A real family. Not a borrowed one.”
“Do you have no one else?” he asked.
“A great-aunt,” she said. “I understand she’s up in years, though.” She’d never met the woman. If her great-aunt had ever inquired about her, Elsbeth didn’t know about it.
“I might have other relatives, but Gavin was never able to find them. My father was an only child. As to my mother, I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t have asked
if I’d known it would bring such a look to your face,” he said.
Startled, she glanced at him. “Then I should apologize,” she said. “You said nothing wrong.”
“Where are you going to go, Elsbeth? When Bealadair is sold, what will you do?”
“Find a cottage,” she said. “Maybe in Glasgow. Mrs. Ferguson has a sister there and it would be nice to have a friend nearby. Or maybe just in Inverness. Or Edinburgh. I’ve never seen the castle or the other sights of the city. I should like to, very much.”
She smiled brightly at him. “You mustn’t worry about me, Connor. I’m quite fortunate, all in all. Now let’s talk about less dour things, shall we? Let me tell you about Castle McCraight.”
She began to slow, wanting to tell Connor the story of the castle before he actually saw it.
“They say that the original McCraight came from Ireland, although Gavin did everything in his power to research and debunk that rumor. Wherever they came from, the very first of your ancestors decided to settle here, on a bluff overlooking Dornoch Firth. It leads out to the North Sea, which is why Gavin thought the first McCraights were Norse.”
He didn’t say anything, and when she glanced over at him, he seemed to be studying her intently.
She stopped her mare and returned his look. Right at the moment, she could very easily believe that his ancestors were Vikings. With a strong square face and impressive physique, she could almost imagine him wearing a metal breastplate and carrying a double-headed ax. A berserker, but one with judgment and fairness. He wouldn’t be afraid of a fight.
Of course he would face Felix. How foolish she’d been to suggest that it might not be a good idea. Connor would never run away from a challenge.
She pulled her thoughts away from him and slowly edged the mare forward, glancing at Connor to see the reaction to his first sight of Castle McCraight.
Connor had never visited the Parthenon, although he’d seen etchings of it. What had struck him on first viewing the structure was the shout that had seemed to come from the building. A declaration and a warning that stated: Here I am as of today, but once I was a mighty place filled with warriors and statesmen. People with dreams once occupied me. They have died but the dreams remain, sheltered by my ruins.
He had the same thought about the castle he stared at now.
Snow was still mounded high against the roofless walls. Arches, like eyes, stared out at the sea. Nothing grew there. Neither ivy nor weeds filled in the cracks of masonry.
Castle McCraight gave off a proud loneliness.
The war he’d fought in had been filled with both patriotic and sad songs. As he slowly walked Samson forward, a ballad came to Connor’s mind. The tale of a woman waiting at home for a man who would never return, a soldier lost in the war. Castle McCraight seemed to embody the hopelessness of that eternal vigil.
This was the cradle that had guarded the seed from which his family tree had sprung. Men had lived and died here, had built this place in defiance of their enemies. When war and battles no longer raged, they’d moved their home farther inland, away from the cliff fortress whipped by a freezing, briny wind.
It wasn’t Bealadair he would remember when he thought of Scotland, but this place. This was the true anchor, the place where his heritage began.
The forest encircled them on three sides. Ahead was the sea, stretching across the horizon.
It was, perhaps, fitting that his father’s ghost should join him here, that he could feel Graham walking beside him as he advanced a few more feet.
Had his father played here as a boy or had it been forbidden him? He had the idea that the twin boys had defied the rules and come here as often as they could. Had they played scenes from Scotland’s history? Had one of them been English and the other a Highlander?
He could almost feel Graham smiling beside him. He had the sudden notion that his father would be pleased to see him here.
Pulling out his notebook, he began to sketch the castle, knowing that he’d like to show the place to his mother and sisters.
Elsbeth sat quietly beside him. He glanced at her more than once, wanting to thank her for not only bringing him here but for the look in her beautiful eyes. As if she understood the emotion of this moment.
She’d featured in his important discoveries at Bealadair. Standing off to the side, almost as if she were waiting for him to turn to her for comfort or peace or understanding.
“‘Keen blaws the wind o’er the braes o’ Gleniffer,
The auld castle’s turrets are cover’d wi’ snaw.’”
“What is that?” he asked. “A McCraight poem? Was my uncle given to writing verse?”
She smiled and shook her head. “It’s a poem by Robert Tannahill called ‘The Braes o’ Gleniffer.’ I’ve always thought it matched Castle McCraight.”
His sketch done, he put away his notebook and slowly dismounted, tying Samson’s reins to a branch before approaching the castle.
All of the walls looked as if the masonry had broken off at an angle. Only one whole wall remained, standing as a bulwark against the elements.
The brick and stone was gray with black patches, while the snow mounted on the arches and against the walls was pristine white. A monochrome picture that reminded him, oddly enough, of the morning of the Battle of Chickamauga with its deep fog. He pushed those memories aside.
“Do you sketch everything you see?” Elsbeth asked.
He glanced over at her, surprised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He hadn’t helped her dismount and apologized.
She brushed away his words with a smile. “You drew the cattle, too,” she said.
“I had to draw them. No one back home would believe me if I told them about your hairy cattle.”
Her laughter echoed in this lonely place. Elsbeth was exactly what Castle McCraight needed. Someone filled with life and purpose and determination.
“I didn’t sketch the war,” he said, his memories of Chickamauga coming back with a vengeance. As a member of the cavalry corps under General Wheeler, he’d seen too much combat. War wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t noble. Let people put up bunting. Let them wave their flags. The soldiers knew what the truth was, and they kept it to themselves in an effort to spare the civilians.
She came closer, standing so near he could have embraced her easily.
He wanted to. Because of that sudden wish, he should have moved away. He didn’t.
“Would you show me your drawing?”
With anyone else he probably would have declined, but this was Elsbeth. A thought that startled him. He hadn’t known her last week.
He pulled out his notebook and showed her the page.
She leaned closer. “You really are an artist,” she said. “You’ve captured it perfectly.”
He smiled at her. “I’m a rancher.”
“Would you rather be an artist?”
The question surprised him. No one had ever asked him something like that.
“You didn’t exactly have a choice in what you would do, did you?” she said, before he could answer.
“Does anyone? I didn’t have a choice about becoming the Duke of Lothian, either.”
She smiled, and he was struck again by how beautiful she was. Her red cloak was the perfect color to flatter her coloring, her gray eyes as warm as smoke as she looked at him.
“I love my life,” he said. “I love everything about it, even the things that are annoying. I like riding out in the morning and knowing that everything I see for that entire day belongs to my family. I like knowing that the ranch provides a living for hundreds of men and their families. I like seeing the herds and the horses, trying new things, new ways of doing things. I like my freedom.”
“And you don’t think you have freedom here, is that it?”
She had placed her hand on his arm and he could swear that he felt her touch through her glove and his sleeve. There was something magical about Elsbeth, something that caught at him whenever he looked at her.
The whole of the fortress was shadowed as if nature was beginning to pull a blanket over the day.
He pocketed his notebook again and walked into the ruins. Once inside the structure, he looked up to where the roof would have been a century or two earlier. The wind created an eerie moaning sound almost as if Castle McCraight was grieving about its fate.
When he said as much to Elsbeth, she didn’t disappoint.
“It’s the spirit of winter,” she said. “The sea has a winter spirit and a summer one. The winter one is angrier.”
He decided he wasn’t going to comment on that, either.
“Did my uncle tutor you?” he asked, genuinely curious. She seemed to know a lot about many subjects.
She smiled. “No, but he did quiz me on the lessons my governess taught me. I learned to pay attention so I wouldn’t disappoint him.”
Their gazes locked and her smile faded. He reached out and placed his cold hand against her face. She didn’t flinch. Nor did she move away.
He should have issued a caution to her, explained that he was feeling somewhat odd at the moment. Perhaps it was Castle McCraight pulling emotions from his past. He hadn’t had a sweetheart before he went off to war, but if he had he would have wanted her to be like Elsbeth. She had a core of deep loyalty and a sense of duty that equaled his.
Regardless of how people treated her, she fulfilled her obligations. It didn’t matter what the weather or the obstacles, Elsbeth forged on. He suspected that she didn’t care if she ever received praise for her actions. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone ever thought to thank her.
Not only did he like her, but he admired her. Plus, there was another feeling, one thrumming beneath the surface. True, he thought she was beautiful, but this was something more.
He looked away, toward the open side of the ruins.
“What is it?”
“I thought I heard something,” he said. “Twigs breaking.”
“It could be the Urisk,” she said. “He sits on lonely spots and watches intruders. Especially those who would invade his solitude.”
