The air tasted dead. She bent to keep from bashing her head on jutting rocks. With a lamp in each hand, she could not balance herself against the walls. The staircase must wind around the thick outer wall of the tower, leading down—she would find out where. Her legs shook from fatigue by the time she reached the bottom step. A stone-lined passage lay before her. Something ran ahead, squeaking; its feet pattered on the uneven floor. Her own shadow loomed double on the walls, moving as she moved.
What lay at the end of this eternal tunnel? Dougal had entered it; she could exit it. The temptation to run back up the stairs to her familiar bedchamber passed through her mind, but she dismissed it. Allan was imprisoned in a chamber possibly less cheery than this. She must find a way to rescue him.
The tunnel ended. Celeste glanced around. Had she missed a door? The walls seemed solid. Perhaps another hidden door? She set her lamps down and searched for a lever. Nothing.
Lord Jesus, please give me aid! She backed up and bumped her head. When she reached up to rub the spot, her hand connected with a hanging metal ring. A wooden door lay above her. She remembered to say a quick word of thanks for God’s guidance before she pushed upward. The door gave, but its weight frightened her. Although the tunnel’s ceiling was low, she might lack strength enough to push the trapdoor all the way open.
Allan. She could do it for Allan. Groaning with the effort, she gave a mighty shove. The door popped open but slammed back down. “No!” she shouted and pushed again. This time, to her surprise, the door lifted easily and swung back to hit the floor above.
A white face gazed down at her. She shrieked.
“Lady Celeste! Thank the guid Lord above, ye’re alive!”
“Mr. Ballantyne? I thought ye were a specter!”
The little man reached a shaking hand to take the lamps from her. Celeste feared she might pull him into the tunnel if she accepted his aid, but for his pride’s sake, she allowed him to assist her. Once seated on a stone floor with her legs still dangling into the tunnel, she glanced around. “Where are we?”
“In the crypt beneath the chapel.”
Celeste froze. The stone blocks had a different aspect once she knew their contents.
“Why are ye here?” she asked.
“Where is Dougal Mason?” he asked at the same time.
Celeste looked at Mr. Ballantyne with sudden suspicion. “Ye waited here for him?”
“Aye. I told him of the secret passage, to my regret. I didna tell Roderick.” His shoulders bowed. “Come into the chapel, and I shall reveal all. I must atone. You carry one lamp.”
Celeste gripped his elbow and let him lead the way among granite monuments and marble effigies. He seemed barely able to climb the steps into the chapel. Once in the sanctuary, he dropped upon a bench and covered his face with his hands.
“I carena if they kill me; I must confess all. God has granted me no peace since the business began, and I canna spend eternity in such torment of soul!” he moaned.
“Mr. Ballantyne, what have ye done?” Celeste laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder.
“ ’twas Robert’s doing. Had he not looked upon a MacMurray wench, none of this would have come about.” Mr. Ballantyne sounded angry.
“Uncle Robert?”
“Aye, lass.” Mr. Ballantyne lowered his hands. “He loved Laura MacMurray and married her in the village kirk, with me as witness. Fearing the wrath of his father, the third earl, he kept the marriage secret, promising Laura to own her as his wife once he became earl. But the hatred against Highlanders in these parts kept him silent even after his succession to the title, and ere he made up his mind to claim his bride and wee son, Laura died. She sent her innocent lad, him not knowing his ain father, to Robert’s care.”
Celeste felt a strange heaviness in her breast. “He never acknowledged his rightful heir!”
“Cowardice destroyed him from within. He nigh burst with pride and love for the lad, yet he couldna look Allan in the eyes and tell what he’d done to the lad’s mother. Robert laid the charge upon me to set up Allan as heir upon his passing.”
Celeste shook her head. “Why did ye not? My father doesna care to be earl.”
“Ah, lassie, the shame of it! I couldna bear the thought of a MacMurray taking back Kennerith! A Highlander.” He nearly spat the word. “I told Roderick where to find the kirk marriage record so he might expunge it.”
“Roderick knows! No wonder he hates Allan. He is—Allan is our cousin.”
“Not yours by blood, my lady. Yet I’ll not have ye thinking shame on your mother. She was married and widowed ere she wed Malcolm. Your father was a French army officer.”
Celeste grabbed Mr. Ballantyne in a quick hug. “My mother and Allan’s were both good women. I knew it! Truly, I did.”
“ ’Tis all accounted in the family Bible there upon the stand. I didna yet reveal that record’s existence to Roderick.”
Celeste stared at the huge book, visible now in the morning light streaming through stained-glass windows. “Uncle Robert told Allan in his note: ‘All ye need know is contained in the Holy Scriptures.’ ” She ran up the steps to the lectern and turned to the family record in the front pages of the huge Bible. A sealed paper lay inside the book’s leather cover. It bore a spidery inscription. Celeste read aloud, “ ‘Allan MacMurray Galbraith.’ ” With a thrill of satisfaction, she slipped the letter into the front of her gown.
The ground seemed to rumble. “Horses arriving. A carriage.” Mr. Ballantyne tottered to open the chapel door.
In the courtyard, a sea of mounted horses surged around the earl’s carriage as it slowed to a stop. “Papa!” Forsaking caution, Celeste ran down the stairs, across the cobblestone drive, between startled horses, and flung herself into her father’s arms as he stepped down. “Ye’re alive! They told me ye were dead.”
“I might ha’ been, but for Dougal’s ineptitude with a firearm.” Malcolm’s voice held the ring of steel. “Thank the guid Lord, ye’re safe! That maid Beryl warned me of a plot against your life. Where is Roderick?”
Celeste glanced around, noting uniforms, guns, and swords. The earl had returned to Kennerith in the company of a military unit. Her heart sang. “Papa, ye must hear Mr. Ballantyne’s tale. Ye’ll be thankful.”
Cold from the stone wall seeped through Allan’s torn shirt and drove deep into his bones. No matter how he strained his eyes, no glimmer of light relieved the dungeon’s darkness. He wondered if he would live long enough to lose his power of sight.
Heaving a sigh, he tipped his head back. Protect Celeste from that monster, Lord. I cannot see Your plan in this adversity, but I must trust that You remember Your children.
He heard a clank overhead and running footsteps echoed. “Allan?”
“Celeste!” Was he dreaming?
Light appeared as a tiny square in the door to his cell. “Where are you?”
“Here.” He rattled his chains and a moment later heard a key turn in the rusty lock.
The door creaked open, and Celeste stopped to stare. “Oh Allan!” An iron key ring hung from her hand.
He blinked in the brilliant lantern light. “Ye’re safe?”
She set the lantern on the floor and began to try keys in his wrist shackles. “I am well. My father returned safely, and I used the secret door in the tower to escape and—oh Allan, how could he abuse ye so?”
Losing patience with the keys, she knelt upon Allan’s bench and wrapped her arms around his neck. Smooth, lavender-fragranced skin filled his senses. He tugged at his fetters. “My lady—” She cut him off with a kiss that eradicated the dungeon’s chill.
Her hands caressed his hair and rasped over his stubbled chin and throat. “Allan, I love you.”
Helpless, he simply savored her kisses. As soon as he was free, he must run to the hills and never again lay eyes upon his beloved lady—but at the moment, this dungeon cell was paradise.
“Allan, I have a letter for you from your father.” She slipped a n
ote from her bodice and held it before him. “He married your mother! Ye’re his true heir, not Papa. We’re to hurry upstairs and hear Papa’s announcement.”
Allan wiggled his hands. “ ’twould help if ye’d release me, my lady.”
In Kennerith Castle’s great hall, Malcolm Galbraith confronted his two nephews. Soldiers gripped the arms of Roderick, whose twisted features expressed rage and defeat.
Allan stood alone. Despite his bare head and filthy, tattered clothing, the assembled company regarded him with evident awe.
Anxiety pinched Celeste’s pounding heart. Since he had read his father’s letter, Allan had spoken not one word. Heat seared her cheeks, and she avoided his gaze. What had compelled her to declare her love while he was unable to escape her advances? Nevertheless, come what may, she had memories to treasure of Allan eagerly returning her kisses.
Malcolm spoke. “After hearing Mr. Ballantyne’s testimony and reading the surviving record of my brother Robert’s legal marriage to Laura MacMurray, I declare Allan MacMurray Galbraith the true fifth earl of Carnassis. Let each man present stand as witness.”
A murmur rose among the assembled servants and soldiers, quickly breaking into a roar of approval.
Epilogue
A carriage stopped before a modest row house on a street near the university. The coachman placed the step and held the door. “Shall I wait, your lairdship?”
The earl of Carnassis stepped down. “Ye needna stand about in the cold. Return for me in three hours, John.”
In the entryway, a maid took his cloak. “Step into the study, your lairdship. I’ll tell the professor and miss that ye’ve arrived.”
“Thank you, Beryl. A certain crofter of mine asks about ye regularly—Adam MacKinnoch. Fine fellow.”
She returned his smile and blushed. “I’m thinking I’ll soon be following my lady back to Kennerith.”
He grinned and chucked his cousin under her chin.
Beryl left him in a book-lined study. An embroidery, partially completed, lay on the arm of a chair.
“Welcome, your lairdship!” Malcolm Galbraith stepped into the room. He clasped the earl’s hand and shook it.
“Ye look well, Uncle,” Allan observed.
“Pleased to be where I belong.” Malcolm drew his daughter forward. “I know ye’ve come to see my lass, but first I’d hear the news. What has come of Roderick?”
Allan bowed over Celeste’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “My lady.”
The lacy fichu crossed upon her chest seemed to flutter, and her face turned pink. “I am no longer to be addressed so, your lairdship,” she said. “Kennerith Castle has a fresh heir. I am simply Miss Galbraith.”
She sat down and picked up her needlework, but her gaze remained on Allan. He relaxed upon a horsehair sofa and attempted to direct his attention to her father. “Roderick has run to the Continent. I thought it best to show mercy.”
“Did the minister at Dalway testify that Roderick rifled the kirk’s marriage records?”
“ ’Tis true enough.”
Allan could scarcely keep his eyes off Celeste after three months’ deprivation. She appeared rosy and healthy. Her blue eyes glowed behind their thick lenses.
“What happened to your MacMurray kinfolk?” she asked.
“Dougal, of course, perished that night. Many of my kin decided to emigrate to the colonies; others I have granted crofts on the manor. I pray God will reclaim the MacMurray clan, starting with Beryl.”
“She is an amazing woman,” Celeste said. “We are fast friends now. She favors a young man from Dalway, however, so I may soon lose her.”
“Perhaps.” Allan restrained a smile.
“And Mr. Ballantyne?” Malcolm asked.
“He remains at Kennerith. His health deteriorates; he seldom leaves his rooms. Although I have forgiven him, he seems consumed by remorse. Only the Lord in heaven can remove such a weight of guilt. ’Tis joy to know that my father did accept God’s forgiveness before his life ended, according to his letter. I regret he didna find courage to confess to me; nevertheless, all is forgiven.”
“Your poor mother,” Celeste sighed.
“Aye, yet now she lives in paradise and suffers no more earthly pain. I moved her body to lie beside her husband’s beneath the chapel.”
“Although their story is sad, I trust their son will have great joy in this life as well as in the life to come.” Malcolm laid his pipe upon the mantelpiece. “If ye wish to address me, lad, I’ll be in my drawing room. God bless ye both.”
As soon as the door closed, Allan knelt at Celeste’s feet, enveloped in her voluminous skirts. “My lady, how I have missed ye!”
“And why should the earl of Carnassis miss the likes of me?”
“Because he loves ye more than life itself.”
“Och, I dinna believe it. All those months guarding me, and nary a word ye said.” One dainty finger touched his waistcoat.
He caught her hand and clasped it to his heart. “Nary a word, but ye must have read all in my eyes.”
“I’m short-sighted. I must hear these things to know them.”
“Every time I said ‘my lady,’ I claimed ye as mine.”
She leaned forward to touch her lips to his forehead. “Ye seemed cold at times. I thought ye loathed me.”
“ ’Tis a fearful thing for a servant to love his mistress. How I prayed for immunity to your beauty and charm!” His arms slid around her waist.
“Ye speak as if I were a disease.” She framed his face with her hands. “And now ye’re a great laird. What would ye need with a clumsy, sharp-tongued, bespectacled lass like me?”
He ignored her question. “The castle is cold and dank and falling to pieces about my ears. Without ye, I’d soon take ill and die of loneliness. I need ye to help turn a fortress into a home. I need ye with me to ride in the hills and to work in the Lady Fayre’s rose garden. I need ye to read Scripture and to pray with me and to raise our children to love and serve the Lord Christ. I need ye with me to shine the light of God’s love upon this dark world.”
“I prayed … that ye’d want me,” she confessed. Her lips met his, warm and soft.
Allan nearly lost his balance in the effort to bring her closer. Admitting defeat, he rose, gripped her hands, and pulled her up with him. Now he could hold her close without hoops digging into his thighs. She twined her arms about his neck and melted against him.
“We’d best ask your father’s permission to marry,” he murmured between kisses. “He’s expecting us.”
“Be warned that should ye choose to be my husband, I shall try to make your life wonderful,” Celeste said.
ENGLISH TEA AND BAGPIPES
by Pamela Griffin
Dedication
Thanks to all those who helped and encouraged me, especially to Mom and my local crit group.
And to Tracey, Tamela, and Jill—my online critique partners and fellow writers in this collection—it’s so wonderful to be in a novella anthology with you lassies! *grin* In the beauty of the gloamin’, in the dismal gray of storms, my God is ever faithful.
It is to Him I devote this story.
For without the Lord in my life, accepting me when few others would, you wouldn’t be reading this now.
Only by pride cometh contention: but with the well advised is wisdom.
PROVERBS 13:10
Chapter 1
Scotland, 1822
Fiona moved up the slippery path with care, clutching a plaid underneath her chin to block her head from the light shower. The long rectangular cloth did little to keep her completely dry, but then, she was accustomed to rain. It was her previous talk with the Finlays that gave her distress. Frowning, she paused to look up and study the familiar landmarks.
Endless steep-sided hills speckled with gray granite rose on either side and before her in the deep glen, adding their distinct signature to the untamed beauty of the region. Peaks of distant snow-covered mountains could be seen in the gap
between hills at her right. To her left, a loch glimmered as drops ruffled the surface of the lake’s waters. The cool, soft rain touched the rugged land, watering the earth of her Highland home.
Directly ahead, Fiona spotted a man sitting bolt upright on Ian MacGregor’s shaggy nag, Dunderhead. From the navy coat, top hat, and black shiny boots he wore, the man must be a stranger, though she could only see him from the back. Why he was on Ian’s horse was the real puzzle. Still, Fiona kept herself far removed from her neighbors’ affairs, and likewise they left her to her own. The gentleman didn’t seem the type to be a horse thief. What’s more, who would want to steal old Dunderhead?
Fiona pulled her plaid farther over her hair as she walked past, her shoes squelching in the puddles.
“I say—wait a moment!” he called.
Fiona grimaced in her distaste for anything English.
“Can you help me?” he yelled more loudly over the tapping rain.
“There’s nae need t’ screech like a banshee.” Fiona pivoted to face him. “I’m no’ deaf.”
She forced herself to calm. Often, when she was excited or upset, the thick Highland brogue rolled off her tongue rather than the proper speech she’d been taught as a child. She took her first real look at the dark-haired rider. Even wet, his countenance and form appeared pleasing to the eye, she had to admit. For an Englishman, that is.
“Thank you.” He tipped his hat, civilly inclining his head. “I have twice been given erroneous directions to the place I seek and feel as though I’ve traversed this entire countryside. To make matters worse, I made the dreadful mistake of purchasing this nag that seems to know only one speed. Slow. So if you could assist me, I would be most obliged.”
Fiona hid a smile. “Any halfwit knows just t’ look at the beast that Ian’s horse isna worth a shilling.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice bearing a slight edge. “I, too, have arrived at that conclusion. However, as much as I would like to stay and hold a discussion concerning the idiosyncrasies of the locals, I don’t relish doing so in a downpour.”
British Brides Collection Page 51
