British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  “What? This wee bit of rain?” she asked with an innocent smirk, lifting her palm to shoulder level to catch the drops.

  He shook his head slowly, as though dealing with a backward child. “In that assessment we most assuredly differ, miss. Yet perhaps my view is colored by the fact that I’ve been traveling in this ‘wee bit of rain’ for a matter of hours. That said, I would be most grateful if you could tell me, is this the way to Kennerith Castle?”

  “Kennerith Castle?” Fiona repeated in bewilderment.

  “Yes,” he said wearily. “Kennerith Castle.”

  Suddenly suspicious, Fiona took several seconds to examine his upright bearing and expensive attire. She gave a curt nod. “Aye. ’Tis that.”

  “Thank you ever so much,” he replied, sarcasm coating his words.

  Narrowing her eyes, Fiona left him and took a shortcut near a stand of birches that forked off the road. Englishmen! He could go and get lost in a bog, for all she cared.

  When she reached home a short time later, she hurried through the entryway of the crumbling gatehouse to the living quarters beyond and slipped off her plaid. Squeezing the water from the tartan wool, she hung the cloth over the back of a chair near the peat fire to dry, all the while assessing her meager surroundings. Her grandmother huddled in a chair close to the hearth.

  “Gwynneth has not yet come down from her chambers, and it’s nearing noonday. Go and see what keeps her.”

  “Aye, Seanmhair,” Fiona said, using the Gaelic endearment for grandmother. Though the language had trickled away and all but disappeared, her family had passed down the dialect over the generations. Fiona was proud of that, intending never to let it fully die.

  Exasperated with her irresponsible sister, mostly because searching her out was an interruption she didn’t need, Fiona headed for the east tower. If Gwynneth were immersed in one of those idealistic novels with which she wasted her time, she would receive an earful from Fiona—that was certain!

  The repeated bangs of the doorknocker resounded through the area, halting Fiona’s steps. Deciding that Gwynneth could wait, Fiona whirled around and hurried to the entryway before old Agatha could get there. Checking to see that her tunic was properly tucked in, Fiona noticed that mud covered the bottom of her ankle-length skirt. She grimaced, but there wasn’t time to change into another. Smoothing her damp, riotous curls away from her face, she straightened her shoulders and, as she opened the huge, heavy door, assumed the dignified air befitting the granddaughter of the earl of Carnassis.

  The Englishman stood in the rain and stared, shock written in eyes that Fiona could now see were blue-gray. An impish hint of satisfaction swept through her, but she struggled to keep her face expressionless and inclined her head graciously. “Welcome to Kennerith Castle.”

  The rain continued to beat down on Alex as he took in the smug expression of the bright-eyed wisp of a woman standing inside the door. Her eyes, a shade lighter than the overcast sky, glistened silver. Briefly he wondered how the slim column of her neck could hold up her head, as weighed down as it was by the mass of ginger-colored ringlets trailing to her waist. The plaid she’d worn earlier had hidden them. Yet what she lacked in size, she made up for in spirit.

  “You could have told me,” he said, giving her a mildly reproving look.

  She shrugged. “You didna give me the chance. You were not exactly of a cordial mind.”

  “Nor were you.”

  She gave a grudging nod. “ ’Tis true enough, I suppose.”

  Despite his irritation, Alex couldn’t help but appreciate the lilting way she spoke and rolled her Rs. Of course everyone in Scotland spoke in such a manner, but with her smooth, pleasantly pitched voice, it sounded especially nice. If only her disposition were as sweet.

  “I am Dr. Alexander Spencer, recently arrived from England, and I have need to speak with your mistress, Miss Gwynneth Galbraith, on a most urgent matter.”

  She straightened to her full height—the top of her head still only coming to his shoulders—and glared at him with disdain. “Now see here, Dr. Alexander Spencer of England—Gwynneth Galbraith isna me mistress, nor will she ever be. I am Fiona Galbraith, Gwynneth’s elder sister and the granddaughter of Hugh Galbraith—the sixth earl of Carnassis, eighth viscount of Dalway, and eleventh baron—and laird—of Kennerith. If ye have need to speak with Gwynneth—though for what reason I canna ken—ye will need t’ speak through me.”

  Her sister! Alex sobered. “Forgive my error. Actually, the matter concerns Gwynneth. It is your audience I desire.” He motioned with one hand. “Might I come inside, out of the rain?”

  The mystified expression on her face proved that she’d not yet heard the news. A measure of relief swept through Alex. Perhaps he wasn’t too late.

  Her manner still suspicious, Fiona stepped back, allowing him entrance. With a quick, calculating glance, he pulled off his hat, shook water from its brim, and surveyed the interior of the drafty citadel. The imposing exterior of the stone fortress, with its four square towers, moat, and keep, didn’t reveal the true condition of the ivy-covered castle. Furnishings appeared worn and in need of replacement. The flagstone floor was in dire need of repair. Everywhere he cast a glance, evidence of neglect and poverty was visible, and Alex imagined the other chambers fared just as badly.

  As though she discerned his thoughts, Fiona stepped into his line of vision, blocking his quiet perusal. “Ye wish to speak with me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Fiona?” a woman called from somewhere nearby. “Who is that you’re talking to?”

  “Only a strange Englishman who wandered here in the rain,” Fiona retorted, her rigid gaze never leaving his face. “He soon will be leaving.”

  “Bring him to me!”

  Fiona blew out a breath. “Aye, Seanmhair.” Her eyes narrowed at Alex. “Come on with ye, then. But I warn you, if it’s mischief you’re aboot, you’ve come t’ the wrong place!”

  The woman was impossible. Alex just managed to hold his tongue and followed her to a nearby chamber. The obvious scarcity of furnishings made the room seem larger. Near the fire, an elderly woman sat in one of four chairs in the room and looked at him, narrowing her eyes over her half-moon glasses. Two portraits hung side by side over the mantel. The one on the left was of a kind-faced gentleman in a plain, gray tie-wig, the other of a fierce-looking warrior with curly ginger-colored hair much like Fiona’s. Both men and the girl shared the same feature of silver-gray eyes. The warrior in the painting wore a kilt with a long plaid of matching red, black, yellow, blue, and green clasped to his shoulder, and he bore a broadsword in his hand.

  “That is my grandfather, Angus MacMurray, once a clan chieftain,” the old woman said, following Alex’s gaze. “And the first portrait is of my husband’s father, Allan, who was also Angus’s nephew.” Her sober gaze turned his way. “Angus MacMurray fought—and died—at Culloden.”

  The stern words carried with them a warning Alex recognized. He was English; they were Scots. And though close to a hundred years had passed since the battle at Culloden Moor, these people had not forgotten it. That being the case, they would never approve of what Gwynneth Galbraith had done. Alex’s lips turned upward in a dry smile. Without the women realizing it, they were on his side.

  He quickly introduced himself to the old woman and withdrew the letter from his coat pocket, grateful to find the message only slightly damp. “While on an unannounced visit to my brother, Lord Beaufort Spencer, a scholar at the University of Edinburgh, I did not find him but came across this instead,” Alex explained. “My brother had delivered it into the hands of a friend along with directions to mail it to our father next week. In short, the letter states that Beaufort met a woman visiting there, fell in love, and they have eloped. He doesn’t say where they’ve gone.”

  “I dinna see what that has to do with us,” Fiona argued.

  “The woman is your sister—Miss Gwynneth Galbraith of Kennerith Castle.” At Fiona’s gasp of dis
belief, Alex added, “It’s all here in the letter, if you care to see it.”

  Glaring, she covered the short distance between them and snatched the paper from his outstretched hand. She scanned the missive, her face paling.

  “Fiona?” the old woman rasped. “Tell me it’s not true, lass.”

  “Aye, Seanmhair,” she murmured. “ ’Tis that.”

  “Perhaps it’s not too late,” Alex said, understanding their shock, for he’d been rocked by the same emotion. “Beaufort left only the day before I arrived, and surely, if this is as much a surprise to you as it was to me, then there’s a strong chance Gwynneth might still be on the premises?”

  Fiona’s countenance lightened. “Aye! She must be. I was on my way t’ talk with her when your knock came.”

  Without waiting for a response, Fiona whirled around and headed for the opposite end of the castle. She took the winding and narrow tower stairs, passing a portrait of the ghoulish-looking Olivia Galbraith, who’d once occupied this same tower chamber. Many female ancestors had stayed in the well-fortified east tower, including Fiona’s great-grandmother, Lady Celeste, whose love for a servant brought peace between the once-feuding Clan MacMurray and Clan Galbraith, and her other great-grandmother, Beryl, who’d been a simple ladies’ maid. Now Fiona’s sister occupied the tower that legend said had a reputation for bearing doomed women.

  Fiona threw open the door to Gwynneth’s sitting room. Seeing it unoccupied, she moved to the adjoining bedchamber, disheartened to find it empty, as well. She mustn’t jump to conclusions. Perhaps the lass had gone to the crag that jutted out near the loch. She often enjoyed sitting there and looking out over the lake’s waters.

  On a nearby table, atop a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, lay a novel Fiona had never seen—Pride and Prejudice. Beneath its title, the cover only said: “by the author of Sense and Sensibility.” Fiona grimaced at the book, whose script lettering seemed to accuse her, and wondered how her sister had come by it. She spotted a paper rectangle peeking from within the pages. With heavy heart, she slid it out and read her name on the parchment in Gwynneth’s flowery hand. Fingers trembling, she opened the note.

  Dearest Fiona,

  When you read this, I will long be gone. I have fallen in love with a most wonderful man, Lord Beaufort Spencer of Darrencourt. Aye, he is an Englishman. I met him when I visited our cousin in Edinburgh last spring. I knew you and our grandmother would not approve, so I thought it best to keep our acquaintance secret. Beaufort also thought it wise not to inform his family of our wedding plans. Yet the love we share is strong, and we’ll not be denied a life together due to prejudices that are centuries old. As you read this, we are on our way to Gretna Green, and when next you see me—if you will see me—I will be Lady Spencer. I pray that you can look beyond your intolerance for anything English and can share in my happiness….

  Fiona’s hand holding the letter dropped to her side as she sank against the four-poster bed. After awhile, the stunned feeling dissipated, and she marched to her chamber, resolute.

  There was nothing to be done but go after the foolish girl. And Fiona was up to the task.

  Wondering what was keeping the young woman, Alex stood, clasping his wrist behind his back, his hat in his hand, and gazed at the paintings, though he was very aware of the elderly matriarch’s stern eye on him. The musty scent from the smoky fire coupled with the faint odor of mildew fit in well with these primitive surroundings. From the little Alex had seen, it was a wonder the castle still stood.

  A quick, light tread on the flagstones made him turn, and Fiona rushed into the room. She stopped short at seeing Alex, as if just remembering he was there, narrowed her eyes at him, and moved toward her grandmother. Alex noticed Fiona had taken time to change from her muddy clothes into a serviceable dark blue wool dress. He wondered why. Certainly she hadn’t done so for him.

  “Well, child—speak.” The old woman leaned forward. “Dinna keep me in suspense.”

  Fiona’s woebegone expression told all. “She’s gone, as he said. I found this letter in her room. She must have taken the secret stairway.”

  The woman put a hand to her heart, skimming the parchment. “Gretna Green! Such news may give your grandfather another stroke … though likely he’s beyond understanding.”

  “She willna get far,” Fiona assured her grandmother, retrieving the letter from the woman’s limp hand now lying in her lap. “I’ll see to that.”

  “Excuse me.” Alex stepped forward, earning him a cold stare from both women, as though he’d been the one to steal their relation away and not his brother. From the little he’d seen of the castle, he doubted Gwynneth Galbraith had needed much enticing. “Might I see the letter? If I’m to find them, I’ll need to know what it says.”

  “That willna be necessary.” Fiona folded the letter and stuck it within the high neckline of her dress. “I’m capable of findin’ my own sister.”

  Alex could barely restrain a laugh. “You? Surely you jest. Traveling to Gretna Green in this weather could take many days, even weeks.”

  “Perhaps for an Englishman,” Fiona retorted, a gleam in her eye. “But no’ for a Scot.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Galbraith, but I simply don’t have the time or the inclination to act as companion—which is preposterous in any case. Surely you realize the impropriety of a man escorting an unmarried woman without a chaperone present?” He didn’t add that should she produce such a chaperone, the two would only slow him down.

  Challenge sparked her eyes. “Who said anything about me goin’ with the likes o’ you? I’m perfectly capable of findin’ the place on my own.”

  “What?” Alex couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You can’t travel alone!”

  “And why not?” She faced him, hands balled on her hips. “Because I’m only a wee slip of a lass and not a laddie?” she challenged.

  “Yes—no.” Alex twisted his hat around in his hands. The girl was confusing him. “It’s a hazardous journey. You might not be safe.”

  “To be sure, I’m well able to take care o’ myself.”

  “Fiona, you are certain?” her grandmother interrupted.

  Incredulous, Alex glanced at the old woman. Surely, she couldn’t be in favor of such a preposterous plan!

  The expression in the girl’s eyes softened. “Aye, Seanmhair. I’ll find her.”

  “And how do you propose to get there?” Alex inserted triumphantly. “Obviously you’ve no horse, or you wouldn’t have been walking in this downpour. And I certainly won’t give you the nag I was saddled with, poor beast that she is.”

  After a long silence, Fiona lowered her head in evident defeat and turned her back to him, shoulders slumping. “Aye. Perhaps ye speak wisely. Perhaps ’tis best I stay. For surely, I canna walk across all o’ Scotland and make it there in time to stop the wedding.”

  A little off balance by her unexpected change of heart, Alex paused before replying. “I’m relieved that you see things my way at last. It’s best for all concerned. Do not fear; I shall see to it that your sister returns safely.”

  “How good of ye.”

  Alex stared hard at the mass of ginger-red curls flowing down her back. Had he detected a note of mockery in the words?

  “Grandmother, ye’ve not yet had your broth,” Fiona said, as though the thought had just occurred. “I’ll see what keeps Agatha.” She directed a cool gaze toward Alex. “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ food as well before continuin’ your search?”

  Alex considered the prospect. “That would be splendid. Also a cup of tea, if you have it.”

  “Ye’ll not be findin’ English tea at Kennerith Castle,” she said proudly. “As to the other, I’ll see to it.”

  Alex watched Fiona whisk from the room. Though the offer for refreshment had been less than charming, Alex looked forward to a quick, hot meal to warm him before heading into the chill rain again. Moreover, somewhere he must find a better piece of horseflesh if he were to catc
h up to his brother in time. Alex’s father wouldn’t tolerate failure in accomplishing this task.

  Minutes passed, the low crackle of fire in the hearth the only sound heard. The old woman sat upright, staring out a nearby window as though looking for someone. Evidently she desired no idle drawing room chitchat, if this indeed could be considered a drawing room. Alex eyed every object in the sparse chamber twice, fiddling with his hat, turning it round and round, wishing the girl would hurry so he could be gone from this place.

  From outside, the clatter of galloping hooves followed by muffled pounding—the sound of a horse exiting the drawbridge and tearing up sod—caught his attention. He rushed to glance out the same window the woman stared at. Through the paned glass, he made out a cloaked figure astride a fine gray mount flying like the wind. The hood fell away, and an abundant banner of long red hair unfurled behind the rider.

  The old woman chuckled and turned her proud gaze toward Alex. “My granddaughter isna easily crossed, Dr. Spencer. She has the spirit of her forebears. You would do well to remember that.”

  Alex stared in disbelief and watched Fiona ride away along the high moor.

  Chapter 2

  Hours had elapsed since Fiona’s escape. She still grinned when she thought of how she’d outwitted the annoying Englishman. Imagine, telling her what she could and could not do! The need for a hasty departure had been crucial; otherwise they would have wasted precious time arguing the matter, and Fiona didn’t take kindly to anyone ordering her about.

  Nigh unto two years had passed since her grandfather’s stroke that left him an invalid and void of his mental faculties. Since that time, Fiona had needed to unofficially assume any pressing duties that her frail grandmother or the earl’s secretary couldn’t handle. Fiona and Gwynneth had been orphaned at an early age and had come to live at Kennerith with her mother’s parents. Her fondest memories were the nights of the ceilidh, when young and old in their household, along with any visiting family or friends, would gather cozily ‘round the fire while outside the fierce winds howled.