She did not desire him.
The arrogant rake. Stomp, stomp. Smug wretch. Stomp, stomp. Inconsiderate rakehell. Stomp, stomp. Egotistical scoundrel—
“Miss Seonaid, please slow down. I canna keep up with ye.” Maeve, clutching her plumpish side and panting heavily, trotted several lengths behind Seonaid on the muddy, rutted path.
“Do forgive me, Maeve.” Slowing her gait to a more sedate speed, Seonaid replayed the music room scene. Again.
“Won’t suffice,” Jacques had declared. “Snare a man,” he’d sneered. “Tolerate your second sight.” That had been the coup de grace—the death blow to the last vestige of warm regard she held for him.
Did anything bite deeper or fiercer than rejection and humiliation?
Seonaid blinked away scalding tears. She would not cry over the likes of Monsieur le baron. Raising her face, she welcomed the brisk breeze cooling her cheeks and temper.
Maeve caught up and, her breathing labored, gave Seonaid a toothy smile. “Thank ye fer askin’ me to accompany ye. I haven’t seen me da, mum, or sisters fer nigh on a fortnight.”
“You’re the logical choice to take Una’s place. Poor dear. When her rheumatism acts up, she’s miserable and can scarcely hobble a few steps.”
Seonaid might have taken the dogcart, but fewer than two miles separated the village from the keep, and she needed vigorous exercise. It helped dispel her wrath, and besides, Maeve’s parents lived on the township outskirts. The servant could enjoy a nice visit while Seonaid called upon Mrs. Drummond and ran a couple of other errands.
Ten minutes later, Seonaid returned Mr. and Mrs. McDuff’s and their other five daughters’ waves as they noisily spilled from their cottage edging the woods upon hearing Maeve’s exuberant greeting.
Grinning, Seonaid called, “Maeve, I shall collect you in about two hours.”
Maeve managed a nod before her chattering family whisked her indoors.
Another half-mile, and Seonaid passed the rectory, purposely keeping her head turned away.
As her fiendish luck would have it, Reverend Fletcher descended the steps as a half-dozen noisy village children that had been playing in the street crowded ’round her. Laughing and jostling, they politely waited for the shortbread she brought to town for them.
Coincidence that he happened along at that precise moment? Or had the busybody peeked from the window, watching passersby, and when he’d seen her, made it his business to meddle?
Rather than continue on his way, as courtesy dictated, he screwed his eyes to narrow slits and boldly watched her quickly dispense the treats.
The children, cheeks rosy with excitement, tore into the pastries, thanking her with their mouths full and spewing crumbs.
Drawing close, he eyed the basket suspiciously.
She held her breath as his unpleasant odor wafted past.
His face flushed and pinched with disgust, he scowled at the children, stuffing shortbread in their mouths. “What be ye bewitchin’ the bairns with?”
“Our cook’s famous shortbread. There’s one left, would you like it?” Seonaid offered him the one remaining biscuit, but he threw his hands up and stumbled back.
“Nae, I’ll not be takin’ anythin’ from ye.”
What, didn’t he have a cross or garlic to ward off evil spirits?
Dragging a rather grayish handkerchief from his pocket, he pointed at the pastry before mopping his sweaty forehead. “Ye might be tryin’ to poison me.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Nothing of the sort. You certainly are overly suspicious.” Seonaid bit into the crisp, buttery biscuit. “See. Perfectly safe, and quite scrumptious.”
Her stomach gurgled, and she took another bite. The upset with Jacques had caused her to forgo luncheon, and now, she was quite ravenous.
“A witch canna poison herself with her evil concoctions or harm herself with her wicked spells either.”
A few onlookers slowed and exchanged alarmed glances upon hearing his harsh declaration. Even the children, crumbs upon their lips and fingers, paused in chomping their biscuits.
One wee lad ogled his half-eaten pastry, then glowered at the vicar. Lower lip protruding, his small face puckered in confusion. “Miss Seonaid nae be a witch.”
“Assuredly, I’m not a witch, Jack.” She tousled his mop of red hair. “The vicar knows not of what he speaks.”
One fisted hand resting upon her jutted hip, she dared the rector to contradict her. She’d had enough of men maligning her and her ways.
Fletcher slanted his skeptical gaze to her basket again. He pointed a knobby finger, and her stomach contracted at the grime wedged underneath his fingernail. “What be in those bottles and jars then?”
Busybody. Who was he to question her?
“Tonics and salves made from herbs. Mrs. Drummond’s babe has colic. Midwife McCreary has a lingering cough. And Mrs. Tipperary’s arthritis pains her.” Seonaid lifted each out in turn. “I have a natural remedy for foul-smelling breath too.” She smiled sweetly. “I would be happy to make you some.”
A few children giggled into their hands.
“Ye make them?” Cunning sharpened his features and voice. “Yerself?”
What of it? Was he truly so ignorant?
“Yes. From herbs and plants I either grow or find.” Once she’d secured the cloth around the medicines, she looped the basket over her arm. “You’re aware many remedies come from plants, Vicar, aren’t you? And one would hardly dare accuse alchemists or physicians of dabbling in witchcraft or sorcery.”
He opened his mouth, but snapped it shut when two women walked past.
“Good day Miss Seonaid, Vicar,” the elder said, a cheery smile rounding her cheeks.
Seonaid nodded and returned her smile, but kept her attention riveted upon Fletcher.
He folded his hands prayerfully and, bowing his head, mumbled a cursory greeting.
Charlatan.
The wind picked up, whirling her pelisse about her ankles. Her bonnet ribbons flitted across her cheeks as she examined the sky. A few charcoal-tinted clouds littered the heavens, and a good many more darkened the horizon. “If you’ll excuse me. I must be on my way if I’m to make the keep before dark or it begins to rain.”
After rapidly perusing the street, he edged nearer, releasing another waft of pungent odor. “I be watchin’ ye, Miss Ferguson. I take my duty to protect God’s citizens—”
The rest of what he threatened was lost to her as an image of him abusing a young girl plowed into her mind. The shortbread she’d devoured a moment before threatened to make a violent reappearance.
Oh God. Ewan must be made aware.
“Miss Seonaid?” Someone tugged at her pelisse. “Miss Seonaid?”
Jack grasped the garment, the remainder of his shortbread clutched in his other hand. “Why ye be starin’ at the vicar like that? Yer eyes look funny, and yer all white.”
Procuring a false smile, she patted his head. “A bout of dizziness, I fear. I didn’t eat luncheon today. Come along, children. It’s time you made your way home.”
Fletcher’s beady gaze danced from her to Jack and back to her again before he brazenly gripped her forearm. “Ye looked the same dazed way at the inn too. And in the coach. Mighty curious.”
She jerked her arm, but his hold remained fast, a dangerous—or was it mad?—glint in his watery eyes.
Lifting her chin, she leveled him a wrathful glare, but mindful of the children, spoke calmly. “Unhand me at once, else I tell my brother of your untoward behavior.”
“He canna always be comin’ to yer rescue. There be thin’s a powerful laird like the McTavish has nae say about.” He licked his lower lip, before sliding the onlookers a superior look.
Alarm, concern, and disbelief skittered across their countenances.
“Thin’s that an anointed man of God, like myself, be empowered to know and do.”
He might be anointed, but it wasn’t with Godly power. More like stale sweat and oily hai
r. Seonaid gave another yank, and this time he released her, a feral smile contorting his mouth.
“Ye see unnatural thin’s, don’t ye, lass?”
Chapter 17
Bile surged to Seonaid’s throat.
Fear’s bitter taste.
Fletcher knew. God help her. He knew.
A small crowd had gathered and whispered quietly amongst themselves.
“You have a dangerous imagination, Vicar Fletcher, and you’d best watch yourself.” Her pulse faster than an injured bird’s, she dredged up her last remnant of fortitude. “Ewan won’t take kindly to you manhandling me or stirring up discord. Or making rash and dangerous accusations.”
Folding his arms, he ducked his chin toward the wide-eyed children. “Ye dinnae deny ye be bewitchin’ the bairns.”
“I didn’t think such ludicrousness needed a denial. As these good citizens can attest,” waving her hand, Seonaid indicated the small crowd, “I’ve been doling out pastries for years, each time I venture to the village. And I assure you, none of them have ever made a child ill or caused them to behave in a peculiar manner.”
“That be true.”
“Miss Seonaid is a healer. She is pure and kind.”
“I be knowin’ wickedness when I see it.” He glowered at her supporters before turning his irate gaze onto her. He pointed to the basket again. “Ye admitted to mixing potions.”
“Bah, I did no such thing.” Completely off his pointed little head. “I said I’d made tonics and salves for medicinal purposes. Healers have done the same for generations.”
“Aye, ’tis true,” one of the onlookers agreed.
Another declared, “Nary a family in the village hasn’t benefited from Miss Seonaid’s healin’ skills.”
“The Good Lord made plants too, Vicar. Ye’d do well to remember that,” Mrs. Bowie chastised. “Miss Seonaid, please tell yer mother I’ll have her bonnet done soon. I got a wee bit behind.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her, Mrs. Bowie. We’re having a grand house party in February, so I expect we’ll pay a call soon to order gowns.”
Fletcher snorted his disapproval.
The passersby dispersed, a few casting troubled glances over their shoulders, then bending their heads near. Not intentionally unkind, they’d nevertheless spread the tale throughout Craigcutty faster than the Highland’s brisk winter winds.
“Go along home, boys. Molly, I’ll walk with you.” Mind reeling, Seonaid took Molly’s small hand and, pointedly turning her back to the rector without bidding him farewell, she steered the children to the village’s center.
More than three hours later, Seonaid hustled toward the McDuffs’ cottage. More precisely, she tried hurrying, but with muck for a path, she progressed slowly.
The clouds heralding rain earlier made good their threat, and fell in a continuous sheet. As she slogged through the mire, her boots squelching with each squishy step, she berated herself for lingering in Craigcutty.
But Mrs. Drummond had been charmingly proud of chubby wee Cailin, and Mrs. Tipperary had been so excited to have a visitor, she insisted Seonaid stay for tea. Which she drank from a cracked teacup of questionable cleanliness as a mouse watched from the corner, grooming its needle-thin white whiskers.
Good thing Seonaid claimed a stalwart constitution.
Her basket contained two jars of preserves from Mrs. Drummond, a new mortar and pestle, and three medicinal books Seonaid collected from the alchemist’s.
The final delay had been the delicate task of warning Molly’s mother about letting her daughter play near the church.
Seonaid had fibbed a mite and suggested Vicar Fletcher preferred to maintain the rectory’s holiness and peace and asked that the children play elsewhere.
Utter balderdash, of course.
She couldn’t announce she’d seen him . . .
Well, she wasn’t quite sure what she’d seen, but it had been enough to curdle her blood and put her off food. That man was evil to his debased heart, and worse, he used the Kirk as a guise to practice his corruption.
Couldn’t Ewan send Fletcher packing? Must he wait for a response from the Bishop?
The good people of Craigcutty would carry on perfectly fine until Reverend Wallace’s return. The Lord only knew what mischief and damage Fletcher might stir in the meanwhile.
The crafty satisfaction in his eyes today didn’t portend well for her. Best she stay clear of him until he departed. Or take a male escort with her when venturing to the village.
Douglas would volunteer, but she wouldn’t take him from his blacksmith apprentice duties. She’d let Ewan or Father decide who should accompany her.
Clasping her hood tightly at her throat, Seonaid ducked her chin to her chest in a vain attempt to prevent the lashing rain from pelting her face with ice-cold droplets. It would be fully dark by the time she and Maeve made the keep, and Mother would cluck and fuss. If she hadn’t already sent someone to retrieve her.
A branch cracked not far behind her, and Seonaid jumped, her heart thumping wildly. Another hare bolted across the path, likely headed for its warm den. Lucky creature.
Teeth chattering, she faced forward. She’d been edgy and tense since entering the pinewoods. Likely that ugly business with the rector had unnerved more than she’d credited. She’d traveled these woods, this path, hundreds of times with nary a hint of peril, yet at the moment, she wished she’d brought her dagger with her.
Thunder grumbled and crashed, shaking the heavens as lightning cracked the firmament. She jumped, barely stifling a startled yelp.
Hound’s teeth, what a ninny.
Half expecting to see a specter floating behind her, she casually cast a glance over her shoulder, and when she faced forward again, a cloaked man, his hood obscuring his face, blocked the road a few feet ahead.
Fletcher.
Did he truly think she wouldn’t recognize him?
Shoulders squared and head held high, she stood her ground. Today of all days, to have forgotten her blasted blade. “Step aside and permit me to pass, Vicar Fletcher.”
He snickered, shoving off his hood and revealing a whip.
Sweet Jesus.
“I mean to see ye repent of yer wickedness. Confess and I be lenient with ye.”
“I shan’t do any such thing, and you have no right to detain me.” Firming her grip on her basket, she vainly searched the path for other travelers. “I’m tardy returning to the keep, and I expect someone has already been sent to fetch me home.”
“Then, I’d best be hurryin’, hadn’t I?”
He lunged at her, but Seonaid had anticipated his movement. Swinging the basket with every ounce of strength she possessed, she aimed for his head.
He ducked and twisted, kicking at her knee. His shoulder deflected the basket, though he grunted in pain. “Evil witch.”
“Perverted despot. I saw what you did to that little girl.” Clutching her skirts, she whirled to run in the other direction.
The whip’s crack echoed an instant before the stinging leather encircled her ankle. With a cry, she tripped and crashed to the ground, landing on her knees and palms.
Before she caught her breath Fletcher was upon her, viscously yanking her hair and forcing her head back. “Ye’ll not escape so easily, Satan’s daughter.”
“Let me go,” she screamed, still thrashing.
He poured an awful, bitter liquid down her throat.
Choking and sputtering, she jabbed her elbow backward.
The blow glanced off his ballocks, and he howled in pain. His grip relaxed a fraction, giving her enough time to jerk loose, then turn over.
Frantically clawing the ground, she tried to find a rock, anything to strike him with. “Help! Somebody he—”
Laughing, he pounced on her, his eyes a terrifying mixture of lust and hatred-filled slits. Panting, his fetid breath gagging her, he ground his pelvis into her stomach, encircling her throat with his hands.
“Witch. See what ye do to me?
” he groaned, rocking his hardened manhood into her. “Ye’ve cast an evil spell on me.”
Her vision blurred as she bucked and gasped.
Jacques.
Hunched low in his saddle, Jacques cursed Scotland’s perpetual rain, the unpredictable mine, his lack of coin, and Fate’s fickleness. He’d rather chew glass or hot coals than continue to reside at the keep or ask McTavish to extend him a loan, but what choice had he?
The miners must come first.
Twilight hovered on the horizon, but within the shadowy gray-green coolness of the pinewoods, dusk had already fallen.
Yanking his collar higher, he grimaced as rain trickled down his neck, further soaking him and blackening his already dismal mood. Every now and again, a gust of wind shook a branch and deluged him with an icy rainwater shower.
Head lowered, the mare plodded along the familiar road to Craiglocky. His impetuous decision to visit Oakberry today, after all, necessitated borrowing a horse rather than driving as he’d previously done.
After riding two hours to the mine, and the same number on the return journey, his arse ached. As did his throbbing ankle. He’d wrenched it exploring the new shaft with Newton—the one that was supposed to contain the silver lode.
A self-depreciating smile contorted Jacques’s mouth. He was soft and pampered compared to the sinewy miners.
He flexed his injured hand but stopped when the scab drew the flesh taut. An image of Seonaid forced its way to the forefront of his mind; how she’d hovered over him, tending his wound, her bottom lip caught between her neat teeth and her brow puckered in concentration.
She’d smelled lovely, a delicate blend of her own scent and something light and flowery. A small mole on her nape enticed him unbearably, begging him to kiss the love mark and nibble his way along her silky shoulders.
He’d never enjoy the pleasure.
Merely thinking of her warmed him, and for a few moments, he indulged in a daydream with her as his baroness, their children cuddled upon their laps as they sat for a family portrait.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 15
