Highland Storms

by Christina Courtenay

  ‘I can’t quite take it in, Starke,’ he muttered. It felt slightly unreal.

  He approached down a half-mile-long dirt road flanked by the twenty-odd rounded huts which made up Rosyth township. They had always been poorly constructed, but Brice couldn’t remember ever seeing them in such a dismal state before. They were all smaller versions of the inn he’d stayed at, made of timber, turf and stones, with turf- or heather-thatched roofs. From a distance, they blended in with the surroundings, except for the fact that there were little wisps of smoke escaping through the roofs.

  It looked as though most had been patched and mended as best the owner could manage, although some had gaping holes. There was no regularity in the way they’d been set out, and what passed for gardens, divided by dry-stone walls, were all different sizes. Brice could see most contained patches of kale and a few other vegetables, but it didn’t seem to be enough to feed one person, let alone a family of ten or more, which was what some of the huts contained. He’d spent enough time in them as a child to remember how crowded they could be.

  As he passed, he saw old men and women sitting in doorways, their faces dark and wrinkled, with skin like smoked herrings and eyes which could no longer see clearly, if at all. This was the legacy of years living round a peat fire, he knew. They gazed at him impassively, although he caught the occasional fearful glance. Children played in the dirt of the road, but even they seemed subdued. The only interest he received came from a group of girls walking along carrying farm implements. They were pretty, in a rough sort of way, but dirty and poorly dressed with bare feet.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Brice returned their sidelong glances with a bow, which sent them giggling into the nearest hut without replying to his greeting.

  The door of every cottage was flanked by a stack of turf on one side and a midden on the other. The noxious odour of these made Brice hold his breath as he passed. A few huts had a lean-to at the back to shelter a cow or a goat, but most had a byre incorporated into one end of the house, divided from the human living quarters by a wattle wall. There was also a corn-drying kiln and a few barns which presumably contained the community’s grain and hay stores. These were in a sorry state as well.

  Brice shook his head. ‘This isn’t how I remember it,’ he murmured, as Starke shied away from a dog that looked as though it hadn’t been fed in years.

  Nearer the main house, there were a couple of slightly larger and more substantial dwellings, both built entirely of stone, apart from the roof. One was clearly the smithy, since the sounds of hammering on metal carried along the road. It was also distinctive because it had a slate roof, rather than thatch, in order to reduce the risk of fire. The other, Brice recalled, had traditionally always belonged to the estate manager. He assumed it still did, which meant it was where Colin Seton lived. The thought made him wonder again what sort of man he’d be dealing with. Hopefully he would soon find out.

  Entering the courtyard of Rosyth House, he dismounted and looked about for someone to take his horse. Although several lads loitered in a corner, no one stepped forward or even greeted him. A swarthy, middle-aged man was the only one who cast him more than one glance and eventually he ambled forward, his steps slow and reluctant.

  ‘Good day to you,’ he said, the words coming out in a grudging fashion as if he didn’t really want to utter them. There was no welcome in his dark hazel eyes.

  Brice nodded. ‘Good afternoon, my name is Aaron. I’m travelling north and wondered if I could have a bed for the night, please? The inns around here aren’t exactly what you would call comfortable as I found to my cost last night.’ He lessened the sting of his criticism with a smile, so as

  not to give offence, but the swarthy man didn’t smile back or acknowledge the comment either way. Brice added, ‘And my father knows the Kinross family so he said to stop by here.’

  ‘I’ll inform the housekeeper,’ was all the man said. ‘The laird isn’t at home and the mistress is indisposed.’ He turned to shout in Gaelic at one of the loitering youths. ‘Ewan, take the man’s horse. You know what to do.’

  A surly boy came forward and led Starke away without much enthusiasm. Brice decided he’d better go and check on the horse himself later, but for now he followed the taciturn man into the house.

  A steep outside staircase led up to the main door, which in turn opened directly onto the great hall, situated on the first floor. Brice had spent many an evening in there, playing with his siblings and second cousins, and was pleased to be taken to this room first. He remembered it as vast, but warm and welcoming. That plainly wasn’t the case now.

  The huge fireplace halfway along one wall had cobwebs hanging in the corners and a pile of old ash littered the hearth. All the wall hangings were faded, their once vibrant colours washed out and drab, not to mention dirty, and all the cushions on the furnishings were in the same sorry state. A few rugs were scattered over the stone-flagged floor, but nowhere near as many as Brice recalled and most of them looked threadbare and in need of replacing.

  He frowned. His father was right, Rosyth House was not being looked after.

  ‘If you’d wait here, I’ll send for someone,’ the swarthy man said, indicating one of the chairs by the hearth.

  ‘Thank you, Mr …?’

  ‘Seton.’

  ‘Seton, that’s very kind.’

  A curt nod was the only reply Brice received as Seton turned on his heel and left.

  Brice sat down. ‘Well, this should be interesting …’

  Marsaili hated washing days with a vengeance. Not because the work was hard and mind-numbingly boring, but for the reason that most of the male inhabitants of Rosyth House always seemed to find some pretext for coming to watch.

  She wasn’t stupid, she could see why. With their skirts hiked up and their bare legs on display, she and the other girls were no doubt an enticing sight as they stood in the tubs up to their knees in washing, trampling it clean. Not to mention the way the steam from the hot water made their other garments cling to them and the rhythmic trudging jiggled certain parts of their anatomy. It was a wonder the men’s eyes didn’t grow stalks, Marsaili thought crossly.

  She was now struggling across the back courtyard of Rosyth House with two heavy pails of hot water to add to yet another batch of dirty linen. Her arm and back muscles strained in an effort not to spill any. The day was warm and sultry, but the soft air didn’t soothe her raw knuckles. She tried to ignore the pain. The washing was nowhere near finished and sore hands were par for the course. She was used to it. And since Seton claimed there wasn’t enough money to pay more servants, Marsaili had no choice but to help out.

  At the back of Rosyth House’s thick-walled towers, lower buildings had been added which contained stables and all manner of store-rooms. The washing didn’t take place indoors, however, but close to the edge of the loch, since it was more convenient for rinsing. Six young women, including Marsaili, shared three large tubs between them, singing as they worked. Marsaili headed for the nearest one to add the hot water, the steam from which was making her tawny hair curl even more than it usually did.

  ‘Now there’s a pretty sight and no mistake.’

  Marsaili turned too quickly and swore under her breath as some of the water sloshed out of the buckets. She glared at Seton, but didn’t dignify his remark with an answer. His attentions were becoming more marked by the day now, his whispered comments more pointed, but she knew as long as she kept out of his way after dark, he couldn’t hurt her. She wished he’d tire of this game and find someone else to hound, but it didn’t seem likely.

  She put the pails down and stared him in the eye. ‘Was there something you wanted, Mr Seton?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he said slowly, his gaze taking in every last part of her dishevelled appearance in the disconcerting fashion that made her skin crawl. Marsaili suppressed a shiver and was grateful she’d lowered her skirts for the moment.

  ‘I’m in the middle of washing,’ she told him, ‘so
if you wouldn’t mind coming to the point? I can’t stand around here all day. The water’s getting cold.’

  His mouth tightened. ‘Hoity-toity,’ he said, then added, ‘We have a visitor. A Mr Aaron. You’ll need to find him somewhere to sleep and organise a meal. Nothing fancy though, if you know what I mean. Remember what I said last time someone stopped here.’

  Marsaili frowned. ‘Another Sassenach, come to check on us?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t they satisfied yet? You’ve shown them enough of those letters from the laird in Sweden.’

  Seton shrugged. ‘Most likely, yes. Some of our hospitality should see him on his way right quickly though. We don’t want the likes of him hanging around any longer than he has to.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll see to it in a minute. Will you put him in the great hall?’

  ‘Already have. He’s waiting.’

  ‘Fine.’ She turned her back on Seton and continued to the loch.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll have to leave you to it for now,’ she told the other women working there. ‘Seems we have a visitor. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  She hurried back towards the house and into the kitchen. It was large, with a brick floor, and even warmer than the steam from the tubs. Cauldrons of water were being heated for the laundry in a never-ending stream and the cook, Greine Murray, looked hot and frazzled.

  ‘You’ve only just been in here. This won’t boil for a wee while yet,’ Greine said.

  ‘I know, I haven’t come for more water. Apparently we have a visitor. Are there any of those old barley bannocks left?’

  Greine nodded towards the larder. ‘Aye, there’ll be some in there. And the wine that’s turned sour.’ The cook smiled wryly. ‘Another Sassenach visitor, eh? Don’t fash, I’ll fetch ’em and prepare a tray while you go and greet the guest.’

  Marsaili returned the smile. ‘Thank you. The sooner he leaves, the better. But not the wine, give him watered-down ale instead.’

  Chapter Five

  After giving orders for a small bedchamber to be readied for their guest, Marsaili made her way to the great hall. She hadn’t exactly rushed, but although she knew it was rude to keep the guest waiting, it was part of the instructions Seton had given some time ago.

  ‘Any strangers turning up out of the blue are bound to be Redcoats in disguise, trying to prove we’re all rabid Jacobites,’ he’d said. ‘They deserve no consideration and none of the usual hospitality. Let’s hope they take the hint and don’t return.’

  Marsaili privately considered Seton overly cautious, even verging on paranoid, but kept her thoughts to herself. Culloden and its aftermath were in the past now and she doubted the English were interested in Rosyth House any longer. Still, there was barely enough food to feed the current inhabitants, let alone anyone else, so the fewer guests that returned, the better.

  She entered the great hall without knocking and walked over to the two high-backed chairs in front of the huge fireplace. All she could see of the visitor was a pair of very long muscular legs encased in travel-stained breeches and dusty riding boots. She opened her mouth to announce her presence, but didn’t get a chance since the visitor turned to look at her and spoke first, his clear, unaccented English proclaiming him a Sassenach of the worst kind – gentry.

  ‘Ah, I thought I’d been forgotten,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to the famed Highland hospitality I’ve heard so much about? A man could die of thirst here, I should think.’

  Marsaili realised he must believe her to be a maid servant, which was no wonder since she was still wearing the old clothes she used on washing days. She drew herself up straight and found her tongue. ‘I’m the housekeeper here and I apologise for keeping you waiting. I was detained, but I was under the impression you were being looked after.’

  ‘Haven’t been offered so much as a drop of water.’ The man stood up and put his head to one side to regard her critically. ‘You’re the housekeeper? You look far too young, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ His piercing gaze travelled the length of her from head to toe, a scowl marring his brow.

  Marsaili felt her cheeks flame. Men had stared at her since her early teens and she hated it. It made her feel very uncomfortable. Although she knew she should have been pleased that they found her beautiful and desirable, it had been nothing but a source of annoyance. This man was assessing her too, but he didn’t seem impressed with her looks. On the contrary, he continued to frown as if he found her wanting, which baffled her. It wasn’t the reaction she usually got. Either way, she knew there wasn’t a thing she could do about it except glare at him. He stared right back, his eyes startlingly blue.

  Disconcerted, but determined to stand her ground, she deliberately looked him over in the same way. Unfortunately, she found nothing to criticise, as he was quite the best-looking man she’d ever encountered. Not conventionally handsome perhaps, but unbelievably striking. On first impression, he seemed like a gilded statue, with deeply tanned skin and hair so blond it was almost pure white. Dead straight, some of it fell from a middle parting, caressing his high cheekbones, the ends just brushing a square jaw covered in at least a week’s worth of golden stubble. The rest was tied back in a somewhat messy tail which hung down past his shoulder blades. A strong nose, straight and sharp with a slight upwards tilt at the end, a firm but full mouth and a determined chin added character and made for an arresting face.

  Marsaili’s gaze moved down to take in broad shoulders dressed in nothing but a linen shirt, with the sleeves pushed up to show sun-kissed, well-muscled arms. The man wore no waistcoat or neckcloth and had left the shirt open at the throat so she glimpsed an equally tanned chest as well. It was a most unsettling sight.

  ‘Do I pass muster?’ he asked somewhat sarcastically. ‘Because if so, perhaps I could have that drink now?’

  The man’s words brought Marsaili back to her senses and she looked away. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ she murmured, feeling her cheeks heat up again. She couldn’t believe she had done to him the same thing she was usually subjected to herself. Now she’d been just as rude, and to the only man on earth who apparently wasn’t attracted to her.

  She took a deep breath and wondered if she should apologise, but then, out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly caught sight of Liath. The big dog was lounging on the other side of the chair the man had been occupying, seemingly at ease with the stranger. In fact, his tongue was lolling and he looked ridiculously happy. Marsaili gasped and looked around to make sure no one else had seen him, Seton in particular.

  ‘Liath!’ she exclaimed. ‘You know you’re not allowed in here. Back to the kitchen with you, now.’ She pointed towards the door, but although the dog sat up on hearing his name, he didn’t move. Marsaili blinked. Liath had never before disobeyed a single command from her, not since he was a small puppy.

  ‘Oh, leave him be,’ the man said. ‘He’s been keeping me company and he’s been most welcoming.’ He bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, earning himself a lop-sided grin from the hound. ‘So you’re Liath, are you? Pleased to meet you.’ Then he looked up at Marsaili. ‘And might I know your name?’

  Marsaili gritted her teeth and swallowed her anger. The sooner she served this man, the faster she could escape from his presence. ‘Marsaili Buchanan. If you wouldn’t mind waiting for a short while longer, I’ll fetch you some victuals then I’ll show you to your room.’

  ‘Thank you. Don’t rush on my account, by all means.’ Again the sarcasm that made Marsaili want to hit him, but she knew he was right and they hadn’t treated him as they ought, so she contented herself with marching off towards the kitchen.

  Brice was pleasantly surprised to only be kept waiting a few minutes before the woman returned with a tray. He was less pleased with what was on it – some sort of tiny, stale-looking biscuits. At least these were accompanied by a large tankard of ale and he immediately took several gulps before realising it was watery beyond belief. He hid a grimace. If it hadn’t been for the fac
t that riding on dusty roads made a man thirsty, he would have refused to drink this brew.

  ‘Hmm, what a treat,’ he murmured, then quickly disposed of the meagre meal without commenting further. Perhaps the house genuinely couldn’t offer him anything else. From what he’d seen so far, there was no prosperity here. In fact, most of the people looked as if they could do with a square meal. This made him frown because it wasn’t right. As his father had said, the Rosyth estate ought to be a prosperous one, despite the recent conflict. So why wasn’t it?

  He glanced at the woman – Marsaili, odd name – and found her waiting by the door with an impatient look on her face. Perhaps he was keeping her from her duties, but surely in that case she could have delegated the job of showing him to his room to someone else? He looked her over again, although not as blatantly this time. He’d already noted earlier there was nothing wrong with either her face or figure, although she was tall for a woman. In fact, she was most definitely a beauty, but he was so used to comparing all women to Elisabet and finding them wanting, he’d automatically done the same here.

  Besides, her hair, which hung in a thick plait over one shoulder, was made up of various shades of red and gold and she looked at him as if he was some sort of repellent insect. He’d never liked red-heads and had heard they had tempers to match their colouring, which he could do without. A woman should be soft and biddable – like Elisabet pretended to be, damn her! – and not sharp-tongued and glaring like this one was.

  He stood up. ‘I’m ready,’ he declared.

  The housekeeper nodded. ‘Then follow me, please.’

  Brice and the dog both did, Liath bringing up the rear despite being told once more by the woman to go to the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ she muttered. ‘He’s usually very obedient.’