Tying the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  “No doubt her illegitimacy has made her an easy target for wagging tongues,” Magnus said with no lack of sympathy. The big man’s most appealing quality was his kind heart.

  “The whisky’s gone. We drank it all. You best get to bed. We’ll have an early start tomorrow.” Alex said his good nights and went upstairs.

  But he couldn’t sleep. He kept picturing what Lucy’s face might look like when he met her. Dismayed, disappointed, disdainful?

  Early the next morning, he stood outside the stable, anxious to be underway. He had taken leave of his mother after breakfast. Flora Sinclair, more than anyone, was enthusiastic about his impending nuptials. With his sister Maggie married and gone to live in Edinburgh, and his brother Ian away in the army, his mother was thrilled at the prospect of having someone new to blether with.

  Peter, the newest and youngest groom, led Alex’s horse from the stable, a huge chestnut gelding named Goliath. Alex checked the girth. Loose again. Small for a groom, Peter didn’t have the strength required to pull the strap as tight as it needed to be.

  “Sorry, Mr. Alex,” Peter said, seeing him tighten the strap.

  He placed a big hand on the dejected looking boy’s narrow shoulder. “It’s all right, lad. Remember, asking for help doesnae show you’re weak. It shows you’re canny, aye?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Go and have your breakfast, man.” He gave Peter a gentle shove toward the kitchen and the boy dashed off.

  Alex joined his cousins in front of the house and waited for his Uncle Fergus to bring the wagon around. John Sinclair appeared at the door. His father would want a private word with him before their departure. This was an important mission. No doubt his father was worried he might cock things up.

  “Are you ready, son?”

  Alex attempted to make light of his serious business. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He rested a hand on his horse’s rump, assuming a casual pose.

  “You mind what we talked about. Make your way through Sutherland with caution. Dinnae bring attention to yourselves. And guard Lucy with your life.”

  “Aye. I will.”

  “There’s still time to change your mind.” His father was dead serious. “If you like, we can postpone the wedding until spring. You would have more time to get acquainted with your bride.”

  As usual, his father had no confidence in him. “No need. I have a better plan for getting to know her.”

  John swiped a hand over his face. “Son, your ideas, although creative, have on occasion, ended in calamity. What exactly do you have planned?”

  “Nothing but an innocent diversion. Dinnae fash.”

  Chapter Two

  The day the Arbroath took sail, Lucy felt as though she stood upon a tiny bit of England that had broken away from the mainland and floated north. Today, though, they would make port in Inverness. Then she would step ashore and say good-bye to England. Possibly forever.

  Lucy braced herself on deck, the North Sea wind whipping her skirts and threatening to tear off her bonnet. She cradled Hercules in her arms. He whined, and she hugged his warm body closer, nuzzling her face in the soft fur of his floppy ears. Hercules was the only companion she’d brought with her to Scotland.

  She loved Nounou Phillipa. Their parting had been tearful. The woman had been Lucy’s nanny since forever, and in many ways, was the only mother she’d ever known. But Phillipa was old now—close to her pension—and not always well. The cold, wet Scottish winters would be bad for her rheumatism. The poor woman would be miserable. So, out of love, she’d left Phillipa behind. Trembling on the deck of the Arbroath, however, Lucy regretted her decision. She would not feel half so frightened if she had her maid by her side.

  The four-day journey to Inverness had been blessed with good sailing. Lucy had spent whatever time she could on deck, as the cramped quarters below stank of unwashed humans, vomit, and ordure. It had been so awful she’d had to lie with a bundle of dried rosemary close to her nose in order to sleep at night.

  Her brother George had delivered her into the hands of the ship’s captain, Benedict Honeyweather, a kind, older gentleman, and a friend of her father from his days in the Royal Navy. The captain and his wife had invited her to dine at their table each night. Her hosts had provided dull conversation and even duller food, but a break from her solitude.

  Inverness loomed in the distance under a grey sky. She turned up the fur-trimmed collar of her pelisse to shield her cheek from the wind. So cool in September, what would winter be like in this wretched place?

  And what kind of man was this horrible Scot she would have to marry? This Alexander Sinclair? He didn’t even have a title. Her father had said he was a man of honor and would be Laird of Balforss one day. She had a vague recollection of that day in her father’s study when Alexander had made an oath to protect her. Would he still honor that oath?

  “Beg pardon, Miss FitzHarris.” A gangly young sailor named Bailey approached her. Like a puppy, he had not yet grown to match the size of his hands and feet. He pawed at his unruly hair, a fruitless endeavor in the wind. Lucy found his attempt to groom for her sake touching.

  “We’ll be dropping anchor in an hour. Captain wants to know if you’re packed and ready to go, miss.” The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  “Yes, thank you. You can tell the captain I’m ready.”

  She had said the same thing to her brother before she’d boarded the Arbroath. Papa had sent George in his stead, explaining with a laugh that he didn’t trust himself not to blubber in public when they said their good-byes. She’d seen the tears in her father’s eyes and knew he spoke the truth, so she had tried doubly hard to be brave for him.

  At dockside, she had braced herself for George’s mischief. He would most certainly gloat over her misfortune. Yet, he hadn’t, which had been odd. He had behaved very unlike himself. Even his sneer had disappeared when he’d spoken to her just before she went aboard.

  “Lucy,” he’d said. “I am sorry to see you go, you know. You might not believe it, but I am.”

  She’d waited for the sharp end of his jibe, but George’s voice had softened.

  “You must never regret not marrying Langley. Trust me. He is not a good fellow. He’s a rather despicable person, to be honest.”

  She eyed George with suspicion. Why would he lie about Langley?

  “May I give you some advice?” he asked with a sincerity Lucy had never heard him use before.

  She nodded.

  “It’s something Stevens told me before they sent me off to school. He said, ‘Don’t let fear and anger rule you. Instead, think of this as a great adventure, and value each moment—good and bad.’” Then her brother had leaned down and given her a tender kiss on the cheek. After a moment, he’d said, “Ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Good-bye, Lucy Goosey.” And he’d winked.

  Lucy contemplated the exchange. Why had he said those things? Was it his way of making up for all those years of teasing and tormenting? Was he finally growing up, finally learning to behave like a gentleman? A sharp pain lanced through Lucy’s chest. If it had been George’s way of showing his brotherly love, she hadn’t returned the sentiment. She might never again see him to put things right.

  The Arbroath dropped anchor in Inverness Harbor just after ten in the morning. In an awkward but gallant gesture, young Bailey offered to take Lucy’s gloved hand, and then guided her down the gangway to shore. His help was much appreciated for it took her a few moments to adjust to dry land. When she set Hercules down, he, too, staggered on sea legs.

  “Thank you, Bailey. You have been very kind.” She removed a shilling from her reticule and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, miss. It’s been my pleasure.” Bailey stood a little taller in his ill-fitting coat. “Captain said I was to stay with you until you were met by your escort.”

  She scanned the docks crowded with men loading and unloading ships, foremen shouting orders, sea
gulls screaming. She held an inkling of hope that Langley would have come to his senses, broken his engagement to Miss Whitebridge, and secretly stolen away to Scotland to meet her here. But there was no Langley.

  Merde.

  What on earth did he see in Virginia Whitebridge beyond her money? She was as timid as a mouse and terribly near-sighted, for goodness’ sake.

  “Miss FitzHarris?” a voice asked in a soft Scottish burr. She found the sound of it pleasing.

  “I am.” She turned to face the voice. Hercules barked. The little dog didn’t like it when strange people got too close. “Quiet, Hercules.”

  “Welcome to the Highlands, Miss FitzHarris. I am Fergus Munro, Laird Sinclair’s factor. I’ve come to escort you and your companion to Balforss.”

  The man made a polite gesture, more a dip of the head than a bow. She bobbed him a curtsy. He was an older man with greying hair and skin like cured leather. Although he didn’t smile, he struck her as a kind fellow.

  “Hercules is my only companion.”

  “You traveled alone? Unescorted?” Mr. Munro’s brows buckled with disapproval.

  “Didn’t my father tell Laird Sinclair? The wife of the ship’s captain was my escort aboard the Arbroath. I assumed Laird Sinclair would provide a lady’s maid to act as my companion.”

  “Forgive me, Miss FitzHarris. I brought no lady’s maid, but you have my assurance, you will be in no danger. The rest of our escort will join us outside of Inverness.”

  “And my fiancé, Mr. Sinclair? Where is he?” she demanded.

  Mr. Munro rolled his shoulders as if his jacket was too tight. “Waiting for you at Balforss, miss.”

  Anger rushed to her cheeks. Instead of meeting her in Inverness, her intended had sent men to collect her like baggage. Exactly what she expected from these Highland savages—a complete lack of propriety. How could her father have sent her to this place? Imagine not even bothering to meet one’s betrothed when she’d traveled so far. Lucy had never been so insulted in her life.

  She pressed her lips together and gave Munro a curt nod. Turning to the young sailor, Lucy felt a sudden bond with her countryman, maybe the last she would see for some time, and was reluctant to leave Bailey.

  “Best of luck, miss.” Bailey made a clumsy bow.

  She experienced a moment of panic.

  The boy met her gaze with eyes wise beyond his years and said, “You’ll do fine, miss.”

  His sweet reassurance buoyed her spirits. Lucy bobbed him a low curtsy then followed Mr. Munro to the carriage. She had promised her father she would try to make this work, and so she would.

  Lucy’s shoulders sagged. Carriage? More like a large wooden crate on wheels. Instead of a roof, the conveyance was covered with a tarp, an afterthought. Lucy doubted the fabric roof would actually shield a person from the elements. The side openings—she wouldn’t call them windows—had no coverings at all. In place of elegant carriage horses, one gigantic black draft horse pulled the wagon. Lucy inwardly shook her head.

  Mr. Munro hoisted her trunks onto the back of the wagon and tied them securely, then lifted the wooden case that held her bow and quiver to do the same.

  “No,” Lucy said, too sharply.

  Mr. Munro froze.

  “I’ll keep that with me, if you don’t mind.” For some reason, she felt safer with her bow at hand. If something disastrous happened—and there was every likelihood that something bad would happen in this wilderness—she’d be armed. Mr. Munro placed the case in the wagon and helped Lucy and Hercules inside. After he latched the door, Lucy asked, “How long before we reach Balforss?”

  “Maybe three days, if the weather holds. We’ll stay in Golspie the night.” He hopped aboard the front and whistled. The wagon lurched forward, toppling Hercules off the seat and giving him a terrible start. The tiny darling scrambled into her lap, shivering.

  “It’s all right, little man. Everything is all right. We’re on our own now. We must be brave.”

  They traveled north along the coast. The appearance of homes and villages became less frequent until all traces of civilization disappeared. Through an occasional break in the trees, she spotted the sea, its surface sparkling in the sun like a carpet of diamonds. To her left, mountains towered in the distance. She’d seen paintings of landscapes such as this, but to see the mountains, the sheer magnitude of them, was something altogether different. Tremors of apprehension or excitement—she couldn’t distinguish the two feelings—rippled across her arms and shoulders. This was the Highlands, a wild place.

  Lucy was reminded of Harrington Wells, a retired captain, who had served in the King’s army as a young man during the Jacobite Rising. He had regaled guests at one of her father’s dinner parties with tales of the rebel Highlanders. Unlike other people who spoke with authority and disparaged the Highlanders, even though Lucy had known they had probably never visited Scotland, Captain Wells had a profound admiration for Highlanders, particularly their courage and fighting ability.

  “Sir John Cope marched us north to Preston where we set up camp.” A rapt audience leaned into Captain Well’s story. “It was to be a short foray into Scotland. A week or two, Cope told us. Arrest the troublemakers, make an example of them, put an end to the nonsense once and for all. It was hardly seen as a rebellion at that point.” Several of the men at the table made noises of agreement. “Little did we know the lot of us were about to be on the receiving end of the Highland Charge.”

  Several ladies emitted titillated oooh sounds.

  “It was the drums we heard first. A dead sounding dum-dump…dum-dump. The kind of sound you expect to hear at the gates of hell.” The captain’s voice was as low as the guttering candles.

  More gasps from the ladies. The ancient fellow was an excellent storyteller. Even the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

  “I’m not ashamed to say, I nearly soiled my britches. We scrambled out of our tents into the night. We could hear them, but we couldn’t see them. At dawn, the call came to fix our bayonets. The drums picked up pace. Thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump. Then we saw them. They boiled over the hill like devils. Running like madmen, swords drawn, hair flying in the wind, half naked, and shrieking like banshees.”

  The captain paused for effect and surveyed his wide-eyed audience.

  One of the ladies asked with a tremulous voice, “And then?”

  Captain Wells pounded on the table, causing all the women to jump and squawk. “We ran,” he bellowed, and gave a hearty laugh.

  Lucy smiled at the memory. What had become of Captain Wells in the four years since that dinner party? The duke had admired the captain, having been a navy man himself, and she had always been attracted to men in uniform. Phillipa had once told her that all women liked men in uniform.

  Phillipa. She sighed. Oh, my dear Phillipa. Something clutched at her heart and her mood turned melancholy. Was this how it would be from now on? Would the memories of home only bring her pain?

  The regular clopping of the draft horse changed cadence. There was another horse…no…horses following them. A rider came up from behind on the right side of the wagon. He leaned down. The instant she saw him peek inside the wagon she turned her head away, her bonnet brim shielding her face. She did not like being on display. The rider continued to the front of the wagon. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a bare knee. He was wearing a kilt. Who was he? A brigand? Were they about to be robbed?

  Lucy poked her head out of the opening. The rider posted alongside the wagon, exchanging words with Munro. They seemed to be on friendly terms. No need for concern. The rider was a broad-shouldered man seated tall in his saddle. Rather than sporting the shorter cut that had become the fashion in London, his reddish-blond hair was long and plaited in a tight queue.

  Two more riders wearing similar clothing and bristling with weaponry passed the wagon on her left. Were they military men? Yes, of course. Mr. Munro said the rest of their party would meet them outside the city. And they
wore uniforms, not livery. Alexander Sinclair had sent Highland soldiers to escort her to Balforss. Better than mere footmen, she supposed.

  She peered out of the wagon opening at the first rider. This time, she got a good look at the man’s profile when he turned his head to speak to Munro. A strong chin, long straight nose, and sandy colored brows. He was what they called a ginger. He turned his head in her direction, and she sat back in the wagon seat out of view.

  Why on earth is my heart pounding?

  …

  Alex guided their party into Golspie by nightfall and arranged for rooms above a local public house. The village of Golspie lay on the coast of the North Sea about a mile southwest of Dunrobin Castle, home of Lady Sutherland, one of the largest and most powerful landowners in all of Scotland. Alex nodded a greeting to the proprietor of Ogilvy’s Tavern. Neil Ogilvy was a big man, both in size and in character. Ogilvy’s wife, although not as tall, outweighed her husband by two stone or more—a testament to her good cooking, no doubt.

  Having visited Ogilvy’s Tavern many times, he had been treated to Mrs. Ogilvy’s venison sausage in autumn, smoked fish in winter, roast lamb in spring, and hearty beef stew in summer. Declan and Magnus sat across from Alex, industriously shoveling Mrs. Ogilvy’s summer specialty into their mouths.

  Alex had positioned himself to allow a clear view of Lucy, who shared a table with his Uncle Fergus in the opposite corner of the tavern. She picked at her bowl of stew, occasionally hand feeding bits of meat to her wee dog. At least, he thought it was a dog. It barked like a dog, but looked like no dog he had ever seen. He speculated the animal’s life might be short at Balforss. If his father’s wolfhounds didn’t mistake the dog for a large rabbit, a hawk would surely make off with the beastie.

  Uncle Fergus made several attempts to engage Lucy in civil conversation. Each time she responded, then fell silent, seeming to prefer interaction with her pet. She called it Hercules. She must enjoy irony. That was the second discovery he’d made about her. The first discovery: she was indeed beautiful. More beautiful than her miniature, to be sure.