WILD CATRIONA
BY
MARINA OLIVER
Catriona's father is lost at sea, and her mother loses the will to live, leaving her with her Uncle, who wants to marry her to a much older, stern newcomer.
Cat is determined to escape, and does so with the help of her cousin. But she needs to hide from them all, until she can go to her father's Dutch family in Amsterdam.
Expert in fabric printing and making her own dyes, she persuades Rory Napier, struggling to manage his uncle's linen manufacturing in Glasgow, to employ her to supervise the new processes.
Though she is successful, their relationship is stormy. Can they succeed despite the problems and the rivalries?
Wild Catriona
By Marina Oliver
Copyright © 2011 Marina Oliver
Smashwords Edition
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover Design by Debbie Oliver
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
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See details of other books by Marina Oliver at
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Author Note
I saw block printing of fabrics in India, and found a fascinating book on the history of fabrics, which gave me ideas for this novel. The research, as always, is one of the most enjoyable parts of writing historical fiction, and I am often reminding myself, when tempted to delve into many side issues, that the novel is the main objective!
WILD CATRIONA
BY
MARINA OLIVER
Chapter 1
Scottish Highlands, late spring, 1758
Rory Napier, absorbed, watched a buzzard circling against the clear blue sky. Ahead and to both sides the Grampian hills, covered with heather which was just beginning to show the purple flowers, rolled into the misty distance. To his left, in the floor of the valley, a small herd of deer drank at a shallow river winding past closely nibbled turf. A stag, head proudly raised, stared towards the trees as if keeping watch.
The air was fresh, scented with pine and heather, and a gentle south-westerly breeze blew strands of his wig across his face. He didn't often have the time to ride in the mountains, and he'd relished the past few days, not hurrying, enjoying the good weather.
It was pleasant to be away from the noise and bustle of Glasgow, even though this visit to his uncle promised to stir the old man into a frenzy. The offer from Angus Mackenzie might tempt or infuriate him. He'd never been predictable, except in hating to have opposition to his own wishes. It had been a total surprise, even to his friends, when he had retired to his country estate the previous summer, leaving Rory in charge of his textile business. From wishing to control every last detail of buying, spinning and weaving flax into linen, Matthew Ogilvie had lost interest in running the business. All he wanted was the profit.
Rory, never satisfied with anything but success in any project he undertook, had fretted for years about the way the old man neglected the business. He longed for the power to change it from an enterprise just staggering on into a thriving concern, to make it successful once more before his cousin John, Uncle Matthew's son and heir, came home from India where he was serving in the army. He'd begun to make some progress and then, threatening all he'd done, new problems had arisen. He needed time. If Uncle Matthew sold out he wouldn't be able to complete the task. Even though he'd then be able to leave and start his own business, he hated leaving a task half done.
Unthinking, he dug his heels into his horse's flanks, and at that moment the horse shied and reared in fright. The next thing Rory knew was a whirling impression of mountain peaks and bright blue sky, then abrasive stems of heather grazing his cheeks. His head connected with a rock and for a brief while his mind went blank.
Regaining his senses he discovered a remarkably pretty face leaning over him, blue eyes anxious, and glossy flaxen curls, glinting gold where the sunlight caught them, tickling his chin.
'Thank goodness, I thought you might be dead, not just senseless,' she said in what Rory, even in his dazed state, thought far too matter of fact a tone for a girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen.
He struggled to sit up, fighting the dizziness which threatened to overwhelm him.
'Who the devil are you? My horse! Where is he?'
She pushed him back, and he was so weak that for a moment he was grateful to rest, and try to recover his wits.
'I'm Cat, Catriona Duncan,' she said, and stroked his hair back from his forehead. 'Don't fret about the horse. The stupid animal's grazing just over there. No, don't try to sit up, you've a nasty bump on your head, and a cut just above your eye which is bleeding quite badly.'
She was far too young and pretty to try and order him about, Rory thought, amused. His senses were returning rapidly, and ignoring her command he struggled to raise himself. He couldn't control a wince as his left shoulder protested at the movement. Then he felt the sticky blood ooze down and flow into his eye. He blinked to clear it, raising his hand, but the girl pushed him away and dabbed at his face with a piece of cloth.
'Don't worry, it will stop soon. Does your shoulder hurt? I expect you wrenched it. You're lucky it's not dislocated but if it had been I could have set it back in place,' she informed him, her attitude infuriatingly prosaic. 'I'll bind up that cut.'
Rory, more helpless than he liked, glared impotently at her. 'You'll do nothing of the sort! It's nought but a scratch, and I'm not having some lass meddling!'
She laughed and grinned at him. Her eyes, blue as the sky behind her head, twinkled, and her lips parted, revealing small, even teeth. 'As you wish. Be stubborn. You wouldn't be in this trouble if you'd been looking where you were going instead of wandering off the path.'
Rory glanced round. He was surrounded by heather. The path he'd been following had been a well defined one, though narrow. It could be just yards away, out of his direct line of sight.
'If you'd not startled the horse he wouldn't have been frightened,' he snapped at her.
He was a competent horseman, and inwardly cursed the inattention which had brought him to this ignominious plight.
She raised her eyebrows. 'You shouldn't have strayed from the path,' she repeated. 'Was I supposed to let him trample all over me? But lying in the sun's not helping your head. I'll bind it up with your cravat for the time being, until I can get some water and clean it.'
He felt her hands at his neck, and before he could resist she dragged off his cravat, swiftly folded it into a narrow band, and tied it round his head.
'It's fortunate you haven't followed the fashion for a narrow stock, or lace,' she added, and Rory felt an instant need to defend himself for being behind the times.
'A cravat like the Steinkirk's more comfortable for riding,' he said shortly. 'You're none too fashionable yourself!' he added, indicating her simple cotton gown, the coloured pattern of which seemed to merge with the heather around them. He closed his eyes. He still felt dizzy and was embarrassed at his curtness.
She chuckled. 'I'd look a really fine lady wearing hoops and panniers and quilted petticoats up here in the mountains.'
She had an educated voi
ce, she was no crofter's child. It was remarkably musical, too, soft and gentle even when she was arguing with him.
'You're a confoundedly managing wench!' he told her, but she merely laughed. 'Where are my hat and wig?'
'Just here. Don't fuss so.'
'I'm not fussing. I suppose you want me to be grateful you haven't torn the cravat into strips! Though if it's stained with blood it will never be fit for use again.'
She ignored him, apart from an amused, understanding grin which made him fume with impotent exasperation. 'Can you walk? It's not far to the bothy.'
'What bothy?'
'It's a hut where I stay sometimes.'
Rory struggled to his feet, spurning her offered hand, then discovered that his left ankle would not bear his weight. His head swam, but he gritted his teeth. He waited, balancing awkwardly on one leg, until the wave of nausea passed.
'What's the matter?'
'My ankle. I seem to have twisted it.'
'Then before it swells up we'd best pull your boot off, otherwise it'll have to be cut off.'
He protested, but at last, knowing deep down she was right, he gingerly lowered himself back to the ground and braced himself while she tugged off the long boot. They were fashionable, he thought irrelevantly, with cuffs turned up well over his knees. He would have regretted having them ruined.
'Stay here and I'll go and catch the horse, then we'll see if you can mount him.'
Did the wretched girl expect him to run away? Before the hot retort could be uttered, she was gone. Bare footed, she ran across the heather, gathering up her skirts and revealing slender ankles and shapely legs.
He had a vision of some of the modish damsels he knew in Glasgow, hampered by their elaborate clothes, the bell-shaped skirts or draping saque backs, doing the same. Her gown of thin cotton, close-fitting to the waist, and a wide, loose-flowing skirt, was infinitely more practical up here on the hills. But what was she doing in this remote region, apparently alone?
He watched in mingled admiration and frustration as she approached the horse. Samson lifted his head enquiringly and Rory waited with quiet satisfaction for her to have to admit defeat. Samson was tricky, and he disliked women.
To his astonishment the horse permitted the aggravating female to approach, and even bent his head for her to stroke his nose. Seconds later she had clambered into the saddle, and disdaining the stirrups urged him back towards his owner.
Rory allowed his gaze to linger on the sight of her long, bare legs, skirts bunched up around her thighs. She was a shameless hussy, and despite his injuries he felt a quiver of desire. He laughed softly, ruefully admitting his inability to take advantage, even if she were willing, and knowing that without her, unable to walk, he would be helpless. And without her, he reminded himself, he might not have been in this pickle to begin with.
'Stand,' she commanded, and Samson, unusually docile, complied. The wretched animal must be feeling some shame for having dislodged his rider, Rory decided.
'Can you mount?'
Rory nodded, and hobbled towards Samson. After several attempts he had to admit defeat. His head was pounding, and the effort brought back the dizziness. With a useless ankle and one shoulder protesting at every move, and both on his left side, he hadn't the strength or agility to clamber into the saddle.
'Where's this bothy? I can hold onto Samson's mane and hop if it's not too far.'
She was regarding him in some exasperation, biting her lower lip and shaking her head.
'Don't be foolish. You're too weak, and you'd most likely damage the other ankle too.'
'Then what else do you suggest,' he demanded.
She grinned at his tone, her blue eyes twinkling, and Rory bit back an angry retort. She was altogether too cheerful at his plight.
'Well?' he asked, his voice grim.
'There's one way, I suppose, if the horse doesn't take fright. Will he stand still?'
'He'll stand, if I tell him.'
'You're too heavy for me to lift, but if I bend over and you kneel on my back you won't have to put any weight on your ankle, and you might be able to haul yourself up with your good arm.'
He protested, but in the end could see no alternative, and feeling ridiculous, agreed to make the attempt. It was an ungainly struggle, and Samson laid back his ears in displeasure, but he stood still, and secretly Rory was relieved. He already appeared foolish and incompetent enough in this girl's eyes. At last he managed to hoist himself into the saddle, though sweating from the effort and dizzy yet again. Deprived of the reins as the girl twitched them over Samson's head and took them in her own hands, he clung grimly to the pommel and concentrated on maintaining his balance.
The girl bent to retrieve a small satchel, and despite Rory's demands to be given them, she also picked up his hat and wig and stuffed them inside. Rory forgot everything else for the next few minutes, as he fought to remain upright. Samson ambled slowly after the girl, following a narrow, almost invisible track through the heather. It led into a shallow bowl of a valley where a small pony grazed. On the far side, in the lee of a sheer wall of rock, built against it, was a small hut made of turf and thatched with heather. Alongside it was a shed of sorts, a roof only, supported on poles. It was probably a shelter for the pony. By the time they reached it Rory could feel himself swaying, and he knew no more.
*****
Catriona just managed to break his fall as he toppled slowly from the saddle. He was heavier than he looked, tall and well-muscled, but she gripped him under the arms and dragged him inside the bothy. With an extra heave she rolled him onto her bed, a simple palliasse of sacking filled with heather. Lifting his legs onto it she stood back and surveyed him with interest. She'd been too preoccupied with practicalities to observe him closely.
He had a thin face with wide forehead and prominent cheekbones. His skin was pale, apart from some tan which was very recent. It had been acquired, she guessed, on his journey, and indicated he had ridden for at least a day before this one. His black hair was cut very short, to accommodate his wig, and made him look much younger than he probably was. Not nearly so good-looking as her cousin Thomas, she concluded, but nonetheless decidedly attractive. Thomas was suave and sleek and always impeccably dressed in the latest fashions. Good looks could be a disadvantage. She preferred men who were less confident of their own physical perfections to her conceited cousin.
He was breathing easily, and his head wound had stopped bleeding. His shoulder looked normal to her, no protruding bumps to indicate a dislocation. She went to fetch his saddle bags, and took his horse to drink from the stream which threaded its way down from the mountain behind the bothy. Smiling, she hobbled the animal. It was not because she thought he would stray, but she was certain her unexpected guest would ask, and be irate if the answer was not to his satisfaction. Was he always so tetchy, or was it embarrassment at his ignominious fall and helpless state?
When she returned to the bothy he was awake, looking round the tiny space with puzzled eyes. There was more colour in his cheeks and he looked much healthier.
'I thought you were a dream,' he exclaimed, and she was amused to hear relief in his voice.
'I was tending the horse. How do you feel now?'
'My head aches abominably but it will soon mend, and I can be on my way. I can strap up my ankle and my shoulder feels better already, it's not dislocated, just a wrench,' he added swiftly, raising his hand to ward her off as she moved towards him.
'I know. I looked at your shoulder while you were unconscious,' she said calmly. 'You don't need to fight me.'
'You'd no right,' he exclaimed incredulously.
She laughed as he tried to twist round and inspect his shoulder. 'I wouldn't have harmed you even if it had been. My father taught me, he sometimes has to do such things for his men, and once he showed me how. It feels better?'
'The Lord preserve me from chits of girls who think they know everything and can't refrain from meddling! Your father, you said? H
e'll be here soon?'
Catriona bit her lip. 'No. He's a sailor.' She turned away. There was no reason to tell him that it had been over a year since her father, with his two brothers, had sailed on their latest journey, and must be lost. Even if they had sailed right round the world they should have come back to Aberdeen months before.
'What are you doing?' he demanded suspiciously as she busied herself with the contents of a small wooden chest in the corner of the small room.
'I have a salve here, of St John's Wort oil, which will be good to put on your ankle and shoulder, and I'll make a tisane with this sweet marjoram to help the dizziness in your head.'
'I don't need anything. Thank you,' he added slowly, 'but I'll be fit to ride on after a short rest.'
'You'll have difficulty mounting a horse, or holding the reins, for some while, even if you can keep your senses,' she retorted. The wretched man was so prickly. 'And longer without this,' she added, moving towards him with a small pot in her hand.
Reluctantly, but swallowing more protests, he permitted her to remove his shirt and anoint his shoulder. He insisted on removing his own hose, though, for her to bind his ankle with wet cold strips of linen. When she had finished, and he had drunk the tisane, he lay back on the pillow with a sigh of relief.
'It does feel better,' he confessed.
'Good. If you're careful and don't try to walk too soon you might be able to leave tomorrow.'
She saw a brief flare of consternation in his eyes. 'But I have to reach Braemar by tonight.'
'Braemar is several hours' ride away, even for a fit man, and you'll not make it before dark. These tracks across the hills are not like the fast roads General Wade built after the 1715 Rising, to control the Highlands. They are not good ones to be travelling after nightfall, even if you know them well.'
He frowned, then appeared to accept the situation. 'Is there a village nearby? An inn, perhaps?'
'There's a tavern in the village where I'm staying, but it's too far for you to ride. You'll be feeling dizzy from the drink I gave you. You can sleep here, though. I do, occasionally, in the summer. You'll be perfectly comfortable. And don't be afraid of not being able to manage. I'll stay, so you won't be on your own.'
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