Tying the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Riding single file, his father led, and then Callum, Fergus, Magnus, and Declan followed in that order. Alex brought up the rear. All six men rode silently, cold, wet, and uncomfortable.

  They had a grim task ahead of them. His father would inspect the remains of Margaret Mackay’s croft in Naver. Then, if she still lived, he would gather what details he could from Granny Mackay. If his father had further plans, he had not yet revealed them to him. Whatever came next, Alex had faith his father would do the right and honorable thing no matter the risk.

  Alex appreciated the quiet ride. His mind drifted often to his betrothed. Lucy was nothing like the woman he had dreamed he would one day marry. Oh, she was bonnie, had a comely figure, and a sweet mouth. But she was not the biddable lass he had imagined. She was strong-willed, outspoken, argumentative, and often infuriating. To Alex’s surprise, he found her spirit arousing. Just as he appreciated a worthy sparring opponent, Alex enjoyed the challenge of his difficult woman.

  Lucy had been abed when they’d left Balforss. Ill at ease about leaving without a farewell, he had deliberated for several minutes with a quill poised over a blank sheet of parchment. What to write? Words of devotion, regret, desire, reassurance? Running short of time, he’d scribbled five words.

  He smiled remembering his message, words that would spark equal feelings of passion and anger in the wee bizzum. He wished he could be present when she read his note. It seemed the sharper her temper, the more passionate her kisses.

  The storm dwindled to a fine mist by the time they took their mid-day meal at a tavern aptly named Tabhairne Nabhair, Gaelic for Naver Tavern. Alex tucked into a good bowl of smoked haddock soup—good because it was hot.

  Young Callum grilled Declan and Magnus for details about the army. The lad was eager to join a Highland regiment. King George was fighting wars on two fronts, France and America. No doubt the army would take him, despite his age. Perhaps Callum would be better off. The boy’s life would be in no more danger on the battlefield than starving and homeless in the Highlands.

  “Where’s Uncle Fergus?” Alex asked his father.

  “I sent him to Invernaver to collect the bailiff, a man named Innis Clyne.”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll pen the statements made by the witnesses and swear to them. I’ll present the statement to the Chief Magistrate and request a warrant for Sellar’s arrest.”

  “Do you ken the bailiff will come willingly?” he asked.

  “He’s the brother of Aunt Agnes’s half sister’s husband. He’ll come.”

  Alex smiled to himself. Family ties were strong in the Highlands, no matter how stretched or how thin.

  Two hours later, Fergus arrived at the tavern with Innis Clyne, a small man with whispy white hair, a bulbous nose, and eyes that crinkled shut when he smiled. The bailiff looked a comical sight dressed in waistcoat, breeks, stockings, buckled shoes, and wide-brimmed hat, sitting atop a shaggy, fat-bellied pony.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Clyne,” his father said after Fergus made introductions.

  “I’m pleased I can be of service, Laird Sinclair. Munro tells me I’m to record the testimony of several witnesses. May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “Murder, Mr. Clyne,” John said. “It’s best you dinnae speak of the details to anyone.”

  The smile slowly faded from Innis Clyne’s cheeks. “Does this have anything to do with Sutherland’s…improvements to the land?”

  “You’ve got the right of it. Any reservations about lending your services?”

  “Nae,” Clyne said, sitting taller in his saddle. “Lead on, sir.”

  …

  They came upon the remains of Granny Mackay’s croft late afternoon. Blackened stone walls and hearth outlined where once had been a one-room shelter. Nothing inside the croft had survived the blaze. Sellar’s men had also fired the open cow byre and trampled the kale yard.

  The Sinclair men circled the property on horseback, seeing no need to dismount. Mr. Clyne, however, clambered down off his pony, opened his leather satchel, and removed the instruments of his trade—ink, quills, parchment, and a writing board. He walked around the perimeter of the croft, making quick, short notes. Then he stepped inside the burnt walls, lifted a few mangled tools, and turned over a charred bucket. His quill scratched away after inspecting each item.

  “Did your granny own any livestock?” Clyne asked Callum.

  “Oh, aye. A cow and six chickens.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Dinnae ken. Run off. Or maybe the men took ’em.”

  Clyne made another note, examined the kale yard, made more notes, and then returned his writing tools to his satchel.

  “Have you finished here, Mr. Clyne?” John asked.

  “Aye. I’ve seen what I need to see.”

  “What was it you were writing, sir?” Callum asked. The question hung on the lips of every man, yet Callum was the only one willing to risk looking ignorant.

  “The croft belongs to Lady Sutherland. The livestock, the produce, and the possessions lost in the fire belong to your granny. I’ve made an inventory so that she might recover their value should Patrick Sellar be found guilty of willful destruction of property.”

  “How did you know Patrick Sellar was responsible?” John asked.

  “He’s responsible for clearing all of Sutherland. That alone is no crime. Our task will be to prove he ordered the croft fired with Mrs. Mackay inside. That’s the only way we can get him for attempted murder.”

  “Right, then,” John said, turning his horse eastward. “Take us to your granny, Callum.”

  On the way to see Granny Mackay, Callum explained that his father had died two years ago. Since then, the boy had been working the potato fields, or tattie rigs, as he called them, alongside his mother. The foreman had recently informed all the Rosal Village crofters this would be their last harvest. By winter, Callum and his mother would lose their croft, as well.

  “I’d join the army,” Callum said. “But I worry aboot me mam. I cannae leave her alone.”

  “Dinnae fash yourself, son,” John said. “We’ll sort things once Mr. Clyne has finished with his writing.”

  Alex marveled at his father’s ability to interact with strangers both highborn and low. He had an uncanny way of making people feel at ease in his presence, yet all the while maintaining his air of command. Friends and enemies alike respected John Sinclair. Was his da born a leader or had John Sinclair learned the skill from his father, Laird William? Once again, the question of whether he had the proper temperament to be Laird of Balforss ate away at Alex’s confidence.

  The afternoon sun at their backs created elongated shadows on the dirt road before them, eerie dark images of apocalyptic horsemen, a mesmerizing sight.

  Magnus urged his horse even with Goliath. “Seems you and Miss Lucy are on good terms again.”

  Alex snapped out of his trance. “Oh, aye. She likes me well enough.”

  Hearing the exchange, Declan turned in his saddle. “The gowans worked, did they not, Alex?” He lifted an I-told-you-so chin to Magnus.

  “She liked the gowans fine, but she likes my kisses even more.”

  Magnus gave a lusty laugh. “Ye gomeril. I ken she liked you from the start. Did you no’ mind the way she looked at you on the road from Inverness?”

  “Nae. When did she look at me?”

  “Mostly when you werenae looking at her. And when she was deviling you for being such an ass—”

  “You calling me an ass?” Alex shot a hot look at Magnus.

  Magnus pointed an accusing finger back at him. “Dinnae deny it. You know you were a horse’s ass playing her for the fool.”

  Declan laughed, and Alex shouted for him to shut the hell up.

  From behind them, Fergus added, “Magnus is right. You were a horse’s ass.”

  “I dinnae need your opinion, Uncle.”

  Is everyone set on riling me today?

  “Anyway,” Magnus sa
id, “my point is, anyone could tell by looking at the two of you that you never had cause for concern. You were made for each other, man.” The white of Magnus’s teeth flashed through his black beard, quelling Alex’s mounting agitation.

  “Fine.” Alex blew out a gust of surrender. “I was an ass, and I paid for it dearly.” He waited a few seconds before he smiled and said, “But I ken she likes my kisses, too.”

  Their party reached Rosal Village near sunset. Callum’s croft was similar in size to Granny Mackay’s, one room with a roof barely tall enough for a man to stand upright. The lad scrambled down off the horse John had loaned him for the journey and ran to the door, calling for his mother. The remainder of their party dismounted. Declan led the horses and Mr. Clyne’s pony into a clearing where they could graze.

  When Callum motioned for Mr. Clyne and John to step inside the croft, Alex followed them into the tiny space. He got no further than the threshold. His father’s broad shoulders blocked the view of the suffering woman, but he could hear her moans of agony. He sniffed the air. Callum’s mother must be roasting meat for supper. His mouth watered.

  Hunger turned to bile instantly when his father bent to one knee, and Alex saw the horribly burned body of Granny Mackay. Both arms, hands, and legs were blackened and blistered. One side of her face had been burned, leaving only a few wisps of grey hair trailing from her oozing red scalp. A light-weight flannel had been draped over her middle for modesty’s sake. Granny Mackay’s entire body shook uncontrollably. The pain from her burns must be unbearable.

  Mr. Clyne asked Callum’s mother, “Can she speak?”

  Mrs. Mackay shook her head, then lifted her apron to her face and wept.

  Overwhelmed, he stumbled out of the croft into the dusky light. He bent over, thinking he might vomit. After a few gulps of fresh air, he straightened. Fergus, Declan, and Magnus stood before him grim-faced.

  Alex bared his teeth. “I’m going to kill Patrick Sellar.”

  …

  “Is it raining?” Lucy stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  Haddie swept the bed curtains aside, allowing the sun’s cold gray light into her chamber. Hercules, excited to greet Haddie, raced up and down the length of her bed, trampling over Lucy’s belly with tiny paws.

  “Gonnae no’ dae that, ye numpty.” Haddie plucked Hercules off the bed. “Oh, aye. It’s a dreich day.”

  “What?”

  “It’s cold and wet. A miserable day to be traveling,” Haddie said, poking up the fire.

  “Traveling? Are we going somewhere?”

  “Och, nae. It’s the Laird and Mr. Alex what’s gone awa’.”

  Lucy tossed aside the bedclothes. “Haddie, you’re not making sense this morning. Do you mean Alex and Laird John have left Balforss?”

  “Aye. Will you want your grey gown, miss?”

  Growing more impatient by the second, she said, “Mr. Alex didn’t say anything about a trip. Where did they go?”

  “Dinnae ken. Och. I almost forgot. Mrs. Swenson telt me to tae gie ye this.” She held out a folded piece of parchment.

  Lucy snatched the note from the maid’s hand and read.

  Dream of me. Your Master

  The back of her neck went up in flames. “Impertinent Scot,” she mumbled. “Master, my behind. Infuriating.”

  “What’s that, miss?”

  She sucked in her cheeks to keep from smiling. Alex wanted her to dream of him while he was away. A romantic thing to ask of a woman. Still, of all the brazen, disrespectful, rude—Alex wrote this to provoke her.

  “Merde.”

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  “I’m fine, Haddie. Take Hercules out for me. I’ll manage dressing on my own this morning.”

  Twenty minutes later, she found Mother Flora seated alone in the dining room.

  “Good morning, Lucy dear. Is your hand better today?”

  “Yes, thank you. Where are Alex and Laird John?” She tried and failed to sound casual.

  “Sit, a nighean. Have some breakfast and I’ll explain. There’s no need for alarm.”

  Lucy swallowed hard and took a seat. In her experience, the words no need for alarm always preceded distressing news. Could Alex have gone in search of Langley? He’d promised not to kill the viscount, but he hadn’t promised not to hurt him. Her heart banged away inside her chest.

  “They have gone to the home of a crofter in Sutherland. John is looking after the welfare of some tenants recently affected by an incident on their property.”

  Flora revealed what little else she knew of their journey. She noticed how carefully Mother Flora chose her words.

  “Will there be danger?”

  “There is always an element of danger outside our borders,” Flora said.

  All Lucy’s earlier irritation with Alex and his impertinence vanished, replaced instead with worry for his safety.

  “I share your concern.” Flora placed a hand over Lucy’s and smiled kindly. “They are capable men, dear. Fergus, Declan, and Magnus are with them. They will return in two days’ time.”

  Anxiety over Alex’s welfare only partially assuaged, Lucy had little appetite for breakfast. She nibbled some dry toast at Flora’s insistence. Two days without Alex. Two days worrying about his safe return.

  As if reading her mind, Flora said, “We’ve so much to do for the wedding feast, there’ll be no time to fret. Come. We’ll finish the candles this morning. If the weather clears, we can harvest the remaining herbs in the garden and hang them to dry.”

  True to her word, Flora kept her busy all day Saturday. Lucy had never worked so hard in her life. Oddly, none of the chores felt like work. Candle-making was a new source of pride. Creating something useful for the residents and guests of Balforss had an exhilarating effect on her. She found working in the garden rewarding as well. They harvested the last of the cooking herbs for Mrs. Swenson, tied them into bundles and hung them from the ceiling in the pantry cupboard to dry.

  At supper, she practically fell asleep in her bowl of stew. Flora gently coaxed her out of her chair and guided Lucy to her bedchamber. Haddie was there to help her remove her gown and turn down the bedclothes.

  “Will you wake me if Mr. Alex returns?” she asked dreamily as she slipped under the covers.

  “Oh, aye. Will you be wearing your yellow gown to kirk in the morning, miss?”

  “Mm-hm.” Lucy snuggled close to Hercules. “Alex will be home soon, mon cher. There’s no need to worry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alex slept under the roof of a small cow byre crammed side-by-side and head to toe with Declan, Fergus, Magnus, and Mr. Clyne. His father spent the night inside the croft, insisting he relieve Callum’s mother from her vigil at Granny Mackay’s side.

  Alex was in awe of his father’s fortitude. It took amazing strength of will to remain in the oppressive atmosphere of the croft with Granny Mackay suffering so. John Sinclair had spent ten years in the army, as opposed to Alex’s two, and had witnessed much human suffering when fellow soldiers had been wounded in battle. Perhaps his father could endure their pain because his heart had hardened to such things. Or more likely, John Sinclair’s heart held an unfathomable well of empathy for the suffering of others. Whichever the case, Alex was proud of his father. A man’s talent with a sword was important, but kindness and compassion make a great man. And Laird John Sinclair was a great man.

  After breakfast, Alex spotted three riders approaching. Uncle Fergus went to alert Laird John inside the Mackay croft, while Alex, Declan, and Magnus walked toward the road, all three making certain their swords and pistols were on display. The lead rider reined in and called a halt to the riders behind him. Alex’s hands fisted when he recognized Patrick Sellar.

  “You again?” Sellar said. “What the hell are Sinclairs doing on Sutherland property?”

  “We’ve come to see what’s to do about Granny Mackay,” Alex said. “Seems someone tried to murder her five days ago. Set fire to her
croft with her inside. Do you ken who that someone is?”

  “Feeble-minded old woman probably set her own croft afire. I should charge her for the damages.” Sellar removed a rolled document from inside his coat. “I’ve come to serve a notice of eviction to the occupants of this croft.”

  A voice boomed behind him. “I’ll take that.” Alex’s father strode forward.

  “Laird John. Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Sellar looked down his beak-like nose at Alex’s father. “Just as well. Give this to the tenants. I doubt they can read. Tell them they must be out seven days hence.”

  “Certainly. Right after I finish taking statements from those that witnessed your men fire Margaret Mackay’s croft,” John said.

  The smug smile vanished from Sellar’s face. His upper lip curled into a sneer. “I’ve had enough of your meddling, Sinclair. I’ll teach you not to stick your nose into my affairs.”

  At the challenge, Alex drew his sword, with Declan and Magnus drawing a half second following.

  “Halt!” John called.

  “Having trouble controlling your men, Sinclair?” Sellar taunted.

  The desire to obey his father warred with Alex’s need to spill blood. He gripped the hilt of his sword so tight his arm shook. “He’s a murderer, Da. The blackguard cannae go unpunished.” Alex, Declan, and Magnus advanced one step. “We can take them—”

  “Stand down!” his father shouted.

  Alex and his cousins froze.

  Sensing the mounting tension, Sellar’s horse danced under him. The man laughed then spun his gelding around, nearly trampling Alex’s father in the process. All three riders took off at a gallop. John Sinclair’s jaw worked while he watched them ride away.

  “Da! Why did you stop me? We had them. We had them!”