by Marie Laval
So this was how her husband’s factor replied to pleas for mercy. He was a monster, a criminal.
Rose squared her shoulders and marched up to him. Quivering with indignation, her breath short, she looked up into the man’s ruddy face and met his blood-shot blue eyes.
‘I order you to help this poor woman, right now.’
‘And who might you be, my darling?’ Morven’s gaze travelled slowly, leisurely, from Rose’s face down to her boots, then up again, in a way which made her blood boil and her face grow hot.
‘I am Lady Rose McRae, and I order you to…’
‘Lady Rose McRae, hey?’ he cut in. ‘I’m sorry, darling but the only Lady McRae I know is Lady Patricia.’
Rose let out a frustrated sigh. No one here would know about her, since Cameron was keeping their wedding a secret until the ball.
‘Anyhow,’ the big man resumed, ‘I’m only obeying my lord’s orders. He wants me to clear the strath of all these damned tenants before the end of the week and that’s exactly what I’m doing.’
Did he dare claim that Cameron had ordered this? Rose swallowed hard and pointed to the flames which now licked the walls and roof of the house.
‘But you can’t leave an old woman trapped inside this house. She‘s going to die!’
Morven leant sideways towards her and she caught a whiff of his tobacco-smelling breath. ‘That’ll be one less mouth to feed; one less pauper on my lord’s register.’
Rose stepped back with a cry of rage.
‘You and your men are no better than murderers. Rest assured that I’ll tell my husband all about this. Your days as Factor are numbered.’
If she had hoped to shock him, she was disappointed. He stared at her for a while then his fleshy lips twisted into a thin, cruel smile.
‘We’ll see, my darling, we’ll see. For now my work here is done and I bid you a good day. Oh and by the way, I’ll tell my Lord and Lady you’re on your way when I next see them.’
He bowed his head in a mock salute, gave his horse a sharp heel kick and rode towards the mail coach. Rose saw him gesture to the guard who jumped down from his seat to talk to him. The men spoke for a couple of minutes then Morven rode away. His gang of men dispersed too, taking to their horses and starting in a rowdy convoy out of the burning village.
Rose looked at the pieces of wood, some half-burnt, charred and smouldering, that lay on the snowy ground. Grabbing hold of a thick, sturdy looking stick, she ran to the burning house the woman was still trying to get into.
‘Get a stick and help me! We’ll break the door down,’ she instructed, before ramming the club into the door as hard as she could. It took the two of them and several attempts before the door cracked open and fell back.
‘Grandma? Where are ye?’ The woman shouted as she took a few steps inside.
Rose followed her cautiously, lifting her skirt right up to shield her face from the intense heat and thick black smoke. There was a loud whoosh sound when the roof caught fire and cinders started raining inside the cottage and onto her hair.
‘I can see her. She’s over there.’ The woman darted forward, oblivious to the fire roaring around her.
There was nothing Rose could do. It took only a few seconds for the ceiling to collapse, engulfing the cottage, the woman and her grandmother into flames. She ran out and slipped to the ground, tears streaming from her burning eyes, and coughing so hard she could hardly catch her breath.
She didn’t have the strength to protest when the post-guard lifted her in his arms and carried her away from the burning heap of rubble.
‘What did you think you were doing? Are you crazy?’ he shouted. ‘You could have been killed.’
Her ears still filled with the thunderous roar of the fire, she hardly heard him. He put her down on the snowy ground and she raised her head to look at the fat, grey clouds in the sky above, saw white flakes swirl as they fell slowly to the ground. Sick and gripped with panic, she closed her eyes and shuddered uncontrollably.
These were ashes from the ruined village – from the houses, the people and animals Morven had set fire to – falling on the ground and all over her. Choking her.
Only when she felt wetness and cold slipping against her cheeks and into her neck did she realise it wasn’t ash falling, but snow.
‘We have to go, my lady,’ the guard said, ‘or we’ll be late in Borgie.’
Numb, exhausted, she nodded and followed him to the coach. Before she climbed on board, she turned to survey the devastation her husband’s men had left behind, the looks of desperation on people’s faces as they searched the smoking ruins of their homes for whatever they could salvage.
‘Where will these people go now?’
The post-guard shrugged.
‘They’ll find somewhere, a village on the coast, or Inverness, Dundee or Glasgow. But I gather most of them will make their way to Wrath. Lord McGunn won’t turn them out. He never does.’
And he slammed the door shut.
Chapter Two
‘So you’re going after her?’
MacBoyd watched Bruce saddle Shadow from the stable doorway. Behind him the sky lit up with the first signs of daybreak – pale grey hues with a line of fire along the horizon.
‘I have no choice. I need her to add weight to my negotiations with McRae,’ Bruce growled. ‘I must get her back here before she reaches Westmore and ruin my plans… or before she trips over a rock and falls down a cliff, or gets lost on the moors. The woman is a walking disaster.’
He paused and smiled. ‘Then again the other passengers might throw her out of the mail coach when they tire of her calling them monkey names or silly McNames.’
MacBoyd’s eyes widened. ‘Monkey names? McNames? What on earth are you talking about?’
Bruce carried on buckling the saddle straps.
‘When she doesn’t say I’m a baboon or a macaque,’ he explained. ‘She calls me McGlum… or was it McGrouch?’
MacBoyd let out a booming laugh and slapped his big hands on his thighs.
‘Either suits you, my friend, especially today. You’ve done nothing but rant and shout since you found out the lass didn’t come back to the Lodge but sneaked out of the doctor‘s house and boarded the mail coach all on her own and without anyone paying any attention.’ He shook his head. ‘You must admit she outwitted you.’
Bruce clenched his jaw.
‘She didn’t outwit me at all,’ he snarled. ‘But she’s resourceful, I’ll grant you that.’
He glanced up at his friend. ‘Stop grinning, it’s not funny.’
‘Lord McGunn?’ Agnes called from the courtyard.
MacBoyd moved aside to let her pass. Bruce arched his eyebrows. His friend’s cheeks looked very flushed suddenly, and he wondered if there was some kind of attachment between him and the young maid. She looked pretty flustered too…
‘I packed some warm clothing and some food, like you asked.’ Agnes gave MacBoyd a timid smile as she brushed past him and handed Bruce two leather bags and a flask.
‘I also filled your flask with the whisky from your study; I thought you might need it.’
Bruce thanked her and slipped the flask into one of the bags. Agnes shifted on her feet, hesitant.
‘Is there anything else?’
She blushed more deeply.
‘I put Lady Rose’s shoes in your bag too – the pretty ones she lost in the village that you asked me to retrieve for her. I think she’d be glad to have them back.’
‘You asked Agnes to retrieve Rose’s slippers?’ MacBoyd arched his eyebrows.
‘I wonder why I bothered. These silly shoes won’t be any good in the snow,’ Bruce muttered, aware of his friend’s amused gaze. ‘Anyway, it’s time I left. I should catch up with the post-coach later today. It can’t travel fast with this weather. I’ll take the ferry boat across Loch Eriboll then another across Tongue Bay, and after that I’ll ride flat out across the moors.’
MacBoyd pointed to the pist
ol at his side. ‘I see you’re expecting trouble.’
Bruce shrugged. ‘There’s no harm in being prepared, especially with Morven and his thugs roaming the roads these days.’
He slung a bag across his chest, led Shadow out into the courtyard.
‘Take care of things in my absence,’ he said as he swung onto the horse. ‘It might be a couple of days, maybe more, before we come back.’
‘Don’t worry.’ MacBoyd looked up at the sky and frowned. ‘Get yourself and the woman back here safely. Another storm’s on the way.’
‘Aye, and we’ll be right in the thick of it if I don’t hurry,’ Bruce agreed wearily. He bade his friend goodbye and rode out of the courtyard and onto the coastal path.
The coach had probably stopped at Tongue for the night. Its progress today would be hampered by the snow. If he rode hard and took short cuts, he’d catch up with it before the night – and the storm.
He rode like the devil, stopping only to take the ferry, rest the horse and have a bite to eat. As he travelled eastward the sky became heavier, lower, filled with threatening, lead-coloured and snow-laden clouds, but the storm held off.
It was late in the afternoon when he reached Borgie. Sheltering in a wooded valley on the banks of a fast flowing river, the village was on the main road to Melvich and the mail coach always stopped there.
‘They’re only a couple of hours ahead of you,’ the landlady at the coaching inn said as she poured him a mug of strong, steaming hot tea.
‘One of the horses had to be re-shod at the blacksmith. It was just as well they had a long break, if you ask me. Their lady passenger was very poorly.’
Bruce put his mug down on the counter and frowned.
‘What was wrong with her?’
‘She was in shock, poor lamb, crying and shaking like a leaf no matter how much hot tea and scones I fed her. I believe she saw Morven and his gang evict crofters this morning.’ She looked at him, her face grim. ‘I heard they burned the hamlet and two women died.’
Well, well…so Rose had seen for herself how McRae treated his tenants. She must have been so ashamed of him and his callous methods she hadn’t even told the landlady who she really was.
The landlady finished wiping the counter with a damp cloth and looked up.
She gave him an appraising glance. ‘Is she a friend of yours?’
He nodded and replied without thinking.
‘She’s a lot more than a friend.’
Rose was his security for the future of his estate against McRae’s dishonest, underhand practices.
The landlady’s eyes gleamed, she smiled and a sigh shook her generous bosom.
‘Then she is a lucky lady.’
Damn. The woman had misunderstood him.
‘No, it’s not what you think. I mean, she is…’
The woman put her hand on his forearm and leant over the counter.
‘You don’t have to explain, Lord McGunn. She is very pretty, and very sweet.’
He opened his mouth to set her straight then sighed and shook his head. It didn’t matter after all, let the woman believe what she wanted.
Light was fading when he left the inn. Looking up at the greyish-blue sky, he gathered he had about an hour of daylight left, which should be enough to catch up with the coach. He would get Rose out, and return with her to spend the night at the inn in Borgie. They would make their way back to Wrath in the morning – whether she wanted to or not.
Now, where had that bonnet gone?
Rose looked around the carriage, on the floor and between the seat and the side panel. Her blue bonnet was nowhere to be seen. She should never have taken it off to have that nap after leaving Borgie…
‘Please my lady, hurry,’ the coach driver called again from his box seat outside.
She glanced towards the window and frowned, then opened the carriage and stepped down.
‘Where are we?’
She looked in dismay at the cluster of cottages and derelict outbuildings that huddled together in a forest clearing.
‘Surely we’re not stopping here for the night. The place looks abandoned.’
The post-guard averted his eyes and fumbled with the fastenings of his coat without answering. Rose examined her surroundings once again. No smoke came out of the chimneys. No light glowed behind the grimy, broken glass or the wooden shutters covering the windows. No sound broke the thick silence of the forest except for the harsh crowing of ravens from the tree tops.
‘Don’t you worry, my lady, I know the people who live here. They’ll look after you.’
People? What people? Before she could object once again, the post-guard grabbed hold of her bag and started towards a small cottage on the outskirts of the hamlet.
Rose turned to the coach driver who hadn’t moved from his seat.
‘Can we not return to the inn at Borgie? I don’t like it here.’
The man shrugged but didn’t look at her. ‘It’s too far.’
The mail guard stopped and turned round.
‘Are you coming?’ He too sounded impatient.
Puzzled, she followed him to a thatched cottage with shuttered windows. He lifted the bar off the hooks and opened the door then stepped aside.
‘This way.’
She looked at him. ‘Aren’t you coming in too?’
‘I forgot something in the coach. Make yourself comfortable, I won’t be long.’
He handed her the bag and Rose took a tentative step inside. The cottage was dark inside, and even colder than outside. She breathed in dust and mould and sneezed.
‘Wait a minute. No one lives here. You said there were peop…’
She didn’t have time to finish. The post-guard gave her a hard shove in the back and slammed the door behind her. She heard the scrapping of a piece of wood being slotted into position to bar the door. By the time she realised she was being locked inside the old cottage, it was too late.
‘Hey! What are you doing? Come back!’
It didn’t make sense. Why would the guard abandon her?
She stuck her ear to the door and held her breath. Was this the sound of the coach rattling away on the path as it left the village? She pounded her fists on the door and gave frantic kicks, screamed for the men to come back.
No one answered. Silence and darkness soon fell, smothering like a thick blanket.
She turned away from the door, crossed her arms on her chest to stop herself from shaking and forced a few deep breaths down, but shivers of panic crawled all over her skin like spiders. This was her worst nightmare. She was trapped in total darkness, with not even the slightest glimmer of light filtering through the shutters. Her heart hammered hard against her ribs.
Perhaps she could make a fire…
She took a few cautious steps, her arms stretched out to feel for objects in the way. Her foot kicked a tin pot. The noise echoed like the ringing of a bell in the empty house. Biting her lip, she carried on and this time rammed her hip hard into the corner of a table.
‘Bedbugs and stinky camels!’
Shouting wouldn’t help. And neither would crying, she thought, as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She had to keep her wits about her, make a fire, and get some light.
After fumbling in the dark for what felt like an eternity, she found the fireplace and knelt down on the cold, uneven stone floor. Her fingers touched a metal grate, burnt twigs and a pile of cold ashes. Whoever had made the last fire had long gone…
Frantic now, she rose to her feet and groped around for a piece of candle, a box of matches, a lamp. Please let there be something that she could use to light a fire!
There was nothing. As her eyes got used to the darkness, she could make out the shapes of furniture: a table and chairs, a dresser, and a bench along one of the walls, or perhaps it was a bed…
What had happened to the people living here? Where had they gone? A chilling thought went through her mind. What if they hadn’t left but died and their decayed bod
ies still lay there? She could brush past them in the dark and wouldn’t even know it.
No! Don’t think about that. Think about nice things. Think about riding out on the plains in the sunshine, about the flowers in the garden. Think about Bou Saada…
Bou Saada. Home. Thousands of miles away from here.
She sat down on the flagstone next to the fireplace and wrapped her arms around her knees. It was so cold she couldn’t stop shivering. It was so dark she could hardly breathe. Yet somehow she would have to survive the night, the cold, and the fear of the darkness.
Where the hell were they? He should have met the coach by now. He’d ridden as far as Melvich where no one had seen the coach yet. He had then gone back on himself, asking travellers along the way. Every time the answer was the same. No one had seen the post-coach, it was as if it had disappeared from the surface of the earth.
He came to a stone cross marking a crossroads and reined Shadow in. The horse neighed softly. Its breath steamed in the cold night. Bruce narrowed his eyes to survey his surroundings. Damn, it was cold. He pulled his flask out of the bag, unscrewed the top and drank a sip of whisky.
A feeling of dread weighed down on his chest. Something was wrong. Even if the coach was stranded with a broken wheel or an injured horse, he would have come upon it by now. No, something else had happened.
Shadow stumbled over a rock. Bruce patted its neck, issued a few reassuring words. The horse was exhausted and he ran the risk of causing it a serious injury if he rode any longer. He would spend the night at Leckfurin or Bettyhill and resume his search at first light. He drank a little more whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the flask back in the bag.
Then he heard it – the unmistakable rattling of a horse-drawn carriage driving at speed on the road. It was them, at last.
He jumped to the ground and stood in the middle of the road. The coach driver and the post-guard might need a little persuading to relinquish their passenger. Willing or not, Rose McRae would come back with him, and he wouldn’t let anybody stand in his way.
It wasn’t long before the mail coach appeared on the track.
