The Storyteller: A Highland Romance (Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 45)
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Five years of good and hard work.
Food and a place to sleep.
His owner would set the rules.
Property now and no longer his own man.
His long-empty stomach clenched in bitter disagreement, but Fin forced his hand to mark the document. As a traitor and convict, Fin expected disrespect and loathing and was surprised to see something different in the Quaker’s gaze.
“Come thou now,” the man said quietly.
Before they took a step, Fin looked back at those yet remaining on the platform. Those men were the only links back to his homeland and his lost family. Some were distant cousins or neighbors who’d been caught up in the Jacobite uprising’s fever. Some were prisoners with whom he’d shared a cell or, more lately, the hold of a ship.
“Have thou belongings to claim, Finlan?” the man asked.
Pain pierced him as surely as a dagger through his heart. The only thing he’d had was lost to him now. His mother had pressed her luckenbooth brooch into his hand as he’d left to follow his father into the fighting. The gemstones on it had saved his life several times but were gone now. Even the gnarled and bent metal had purchased some morsels of food in prison.
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “I have only the clothes on my back.”
The heavy hand on his shoulder spoke of a man used to the hard labor of working metal and yet his light touch gave Fin some succor.
“Thou hast thy life and thy soul and thy mind,” the man said. “Many have begun a new life with less.”
“A new life?” Fin had only thought on the deprivation and loss of the last year and not beyond it.
“Aye, Finlan Blackwood. Thou hast a new life, an open road before thee to makest what thou will of it. Most men never have this chance.”
He stood a little taller then, for he had not considered this an opportunity. The others had spoken of the harshness ahead of them and not once had he thought of the possibilities. Five years was a long time, but if he worked hard for this man who seemed a fair one, he would earn his freedom. If he learned the trade his father had pointed him to, he would have a way to make a living. Then, he could seek out those kin he knew lived farther south, in the Carolinas and try to establish a life and family there. Just then, his life did not seem as filled with loss as it had been minutes ago.
“What do I call ye, sir?” he asked.
“Neither lord nor sir, nor any term that sets one above another,” the man said. “Those in Fellowship use our given names to address others. My name is Richard Montgomery. So, thou may call me Richard or Friend Richard or simply Friend.”
Fin held out his hand and took a firm grasp of the Quaker’s larger one.
“Richard,” Fin said, shaking his hand. “Friend.”
“Come, let us see to getting thee some sustenance and then I can finish my errands here in town.”
Fin’s stomach grumbled loudly at just the mention of food. His ma had said he ate for three men. His ma … there would be time enough to mourn and grieve, but not now. Now, he had just been given a gift by this man. Questions flooded his thoughts then and he asked them as they walked away from the harbor.
“Where will I live?” he asked.
“Thou will live with me and mine,” Richard replied. “My smithy is at the edge of the town, to the south.” Richard pointed to the left and off in the distance. “And I offer my services out into Chester County, as well, where my farm lies,” he added. “That is where thou will work whilst thou learn the craft better.”
Fin followed the man and climbed into the wagon Friend Richard indicated was his when they reached it by the public house. They rode in silence through the busy town to its edge.
Five years.
In five years, his debt would be paid and Fin would be his own man, free to come and go as he pleased.
In five years, he would seek out his kin and make his life with them.
Five years.
Chapter One
Cooper’s Farm, Chester County
July 1721
Taking her ease in the shadows created by the front porch, Elizabeth stood in silence and stared across the fields at the dust rising from the road to the east. The clouds above her and the humidity that thickened the air around her promised that the dust would soon be weighted down with moisture. Dust to mud with one afternoon shower was usual for this time of the year in this corner of southern Pennsylvania.
The sound of a cart’s wooden wheels was familiar as they approached. The blacksmith was making his rounds of the farms along the Brandywine River, repairing the farming implements and preparing the metal scythes and plow blades for the coming harvest. As soon as the cart turned onto the lane leading to the house, Elizabeth realized it was not Friend Richard but his man, Finlan Blackwood. He nodded as he slowed the cart before her.
“Mistress Graham, how do ye fare this fine day?” he asked. A trace of the Highland accent yet flavored his voice even these five years since his arrival. Elizabeth tugged the handkerchief free from the wristband of her sleeve and mopped her brow.
“Is that what you call it, Mr. Blackwood?” she asked, smiling. Thunder rumbled above them, making one of her points.
“Just so, Mistress,” he said, laughing.
Even a God-fearing widow like herself could not help but notice the deepness of his laugh and the broadness of his shoulders. Or the way his voice had deepened as he reached maturity. He’d grown up well these last five years since his arrival here. Aye, he’d grown up well.
“Is there something on my jacket?” Mr. Blackwood asked, brushing his hand over his shoulder as he spoke. He’d caught her staring. So much for the God-fearing and respectable widow demeanor for which she’d striven.
If truth be told, she had enjoyed the physical side of her marriage to Jonah and missed the closeness of it. Still, gawping at the blacksmith would not bring Jonah back or accomplish anything of what yet stood undone in her day. Such as finding a way to pay this man for repairs he would perform on the plows on her farm.
“Nay,” she answered, glancing into the distance to cover her perusal. “I was just looking for Nathaniel in the southern field.”
The blacksmith turned to look in that direction and the width of those wide, muscled shoulders now blocked her view of anything else. Aye, he had grown up well.
“His leg still bothering him then?” Now, he removed the wide-brimmed hat from his head and raked his fingers through his auburn hair. Standing taller, he tossed his hat in the wagon and took a step away from her. “Would you like me to bring him back in the wagon?”
“There’s no need,” she said. “The cart is there.”
He faced her then, the full force of those forest green eyes on hers, and nodded. ‘Twas time to bring her shame to light. No matter how much she’d rather not reveal the terrible state of the farm’s situation and her potential loss, Elizabeth was pragmatic enough to know she had run out of time, excuses and money.
“Mr. Blackwood, would you like a cool drink of water? I just brought up a pitcher from the springhouse.” She forced a smile on her face and reached for the door. The house was not much more comfortable in temperature, but being out of the sun might bring some relief. And, she would speak easier if he was sitting and not towering over her as he did now.
“With gratitude, Mistress Graham.”
She lifted the latch and pushed the door open. Blessed by its position on the hillside, the house caught the best breezes as they moved through the vale toward the Brandywine River. His heavy boot steps followed her inside and, after he’d passed her, she motioned to the kitchen. Leaving the door open, she walked to the table near the window and reached for the stone pitcher and cups there.
“Here, let me,” he said, reaching past her to lift the heavy vessel. He managed to stand at her back and reach the pitcher without touching her, his long, strong arms easily lifting the water.
She’d not heard his appro
ach but she was grateful for his help. Elizabeth brought the cups and he filled each one before placing the pitcher on the table. They sat across the well-worn table and Elizabeth took a sip before speaking again.
“I am afraid you have come all this way for nothing, Finlan.” There, that was a good way to begin.
“Do yer implements no’ need sharping for the harvest?” he asked. Though his fingers still encircled the cup, he did not partake of the water.
Elizabeth pulled her dignity and wits tighter around her and smiled at him, bravely putting on an expression she hoped showed a calm she did not feel. This would be but the first of many such encounters and admissions, so she steeled herself against the shame and fear before meeting his gaze.
“I cannot pay for your services, Finlan. I’m afraid there is not enough coin or crop to cover the cost of them.”
Elizabeth had looked down at his hands as she finished admitting her situation and watched as they clutched the cup tightly. Now, she attempted to raise her eyes once more, knowing she must accept the pity she would see, first from him and then from others, once her circumstances were known among her neighbors and friends.
A clear gaze, neither pitying nor judging, met hers. A flash of something else shone there, but Elizabeth could not decipher its meaning. She searched his expression for his opinion and found only an openness she did not expect.
“I ken, Mistress Graham.”
The quiet words pierced her. How? How did he know the truth?
“Worry no’ on the cost for now. Without the right tools, ye cannot clear yer fields. I could not, in good conscience, allow a friend to face that if I could help them.”
In one of their conversations over the last several months, Finlan Blackwood had revealed that he’d kept to his own faith in spite of living with Richard Montgomery, a faithful Friend. With his words, though, he’d shown that some of their practices had, indeed, rubbed off on him during his years here.
Still … his words were very much like a Friend in Community would utter. When he reached out and touched her hand with his, she understood that the action was not.
“Mistress Graham, is there no one to whom ye can turn in this distress? A relative or one of yer late husband’s family? A friend?” Then, before she could reply, he pulled his hand back and shook his head. “Forgive me for my intrusion into a private matter,” he said as he stood.
“You knew?” she asked. A quick and slight nod gave her his answer. If he knew, then who else did? Elizabeth stood as well, gathering the cups and taking them to the sink. “Does everyone know?”
“’Tis no secret from yer neighbors and others.”
The shopkeepers who’d allowed her to purchase on credit. The other workmen who waited still for payment. Her neighbors who noticed the fewer and fewer fieldworkers and more uncultivated fields than fields ready for seed. His quiet admissions shredded her pride.
“So, then, I think you will find that the Camerons have need of your services now,” she said. She walked through the cabin to the front door, not able to look at him. “I am sorry you came out this way for nothing.”
“Elizabeth,” he said softly, standing before her as she fought the tears of failure.
Elizabeth? The fact that he’d used her given name finally struck her and forced her to lift her head. Now, those green eyes looked at her in compassion. Something else glowed there but she could not identify it.
“I will tend to the farm plows and blades. We will speak of payment when ye are able to.”
When she wanted to argue, he shook his head and crossed those strong arms over his chest. For an insane moment, she wished he would wrap his arms around her and hold her close until her fears eased. Before she could say another word, he nodded at her.
“My thanks for the water. I will see to things,” he said.
He walked through the open door without another word or glance. Within a few moments, she heard the sound of his wagon making its way around the house and up the road to the barn near the southern fields.
Only then, as he was almost out of sight, did she give in to the growing despair and fear. Elizabeth walked to the table, sat down once more. Leaning her head down, she covered her face with her hands and let the tears flow.
Only when the sounds of a song being sung drifted through the open door did she lift her head. The faint Scottish lilt in the voice of the singer made her smile.
Finlan Blackwood could carry a tune.
Meet Terri Brisbin
RWA RITA®-nominated, award-winning and USA Today best-selling author Terri Brisbin is a mom, a wife, grandmom(!) and a dental hygienist. Terri has sold more than 2.5 million copies of her historical and paranormal romance novels and novellas in more than 25 countries and 20 languages. Her current and upcoming historical and paranormal/fantasy romances will be published by Harlequin Historicals, Penguin Random House, St. Martin’s Press/Swerve and independently, too.
For more info about Terri, her works and upcoming events, visit:
www.TerriBrisbin.com
Connect with her:
Facebook: @TerriBrisbin
Facebook Author Page: @TerriBrisbinAuthor
Twitter: @Terri_Brisbin
Other Books by Terri Brisbin
Brandywine Brides
A Blackwood Legacy Anthology
Upon A Misty Skye
from Once Upon a Haunted Castle
Across A Windswept Isle
from The Forbidden Highlands
Kidnapping the Laird
The Queen’s Man
MacKendimen Clan series
A Love Through Time – Book 1
Once Forbidden – Book 2
Christmas in Kilts – includes A Highlander’s Hope – Book 2.5
A Matter of Time – Book 3
A Highland Feuding series
Stolen by the Highlander – Book 1
The Highlander’s Runaway Bride – Book 2
Kidnapped by the Highland Rogue – Book 3
Claiming His Highland Bride – Book 4
A Healer for the Highlander – Book 5
The Storm series
A Storm of Passion – Book 1
A Storm of Love – Novella - Book 2
A Storm of Pleasure – Book 3
Mistress of the Storm – Book 4
For more info on all of Terri’s books, visit her website!
www.TerriBrisbin.com
The Storyteller
by Terri Brisbin
Copyright ©2018 by Theresa S. Brisbin
Published by Luckenbooth Press. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. With the exception of short quotes for reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9996540-8-8
Book Cover Design: © Kelli Ann Morgan of Inspire Creative Services
Digital Formatting: Nina Pierce of Seaside Publications