Highland Shadows (Beautiful Darkness Series Book 1)

by Baldwin, Lily

  *

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  February 1784

  “Please, I need a bed. S’il vous plaît, Madame. I am with child, and my time draws near. Please, take pity on us,” Claudine said, cradling her round belly. “I do not ask for charity. I can pay.” The owner of the common lodging-house, Molly, who was a handsome woman with red hair piled on top of her head, seemed to consider the coin in Claudine’s outstretched palm.

  “Please, Madame,” Claudine said. A knot comprised of dread and hope filled her throat as she looked up at the woman who with a simple aye or nay could decide the future of Claudine and her unborn child.

  “Nay, lass. I cannae let ye in and ye ken why. The lady whose husband gave ye that babe has forbidden it. Lady MacKenzie is a right bitch. I will not invite her vengeance. Not even for a sweet lass like yourself. Find your way home, Claudine Doucet. Ye will not find a bed in Edinburgh, nor will ye find any honest work,” Molly said. “In a few years, when the haughty cow has forgotten all about ye, then I will give ye a bed.”

  Despair drained the last hope from her soul as Molly slowly eased the door shut. The wind picked up, whistling down the alley. Her arms encircled her swollen stomach, shielding her baby from the fierce cold. Black soot covered the stone buildings that lined the narrow street on both sides, making the night appear even darker. Only a strip of starless sky could she see above the rooftops that were six and seven stories high. If she could climb to stand above the filth of the surrounding slums, could she reach her arms toward heaven? And if she could, would the good Lord above save her, or would he, too, fear the wrath of Lady Eleanor MacKenzie?

  Snow appeared in the air, drifting through the light of the one lamp that set aglow the far end of the street. She pulled her tattered shawl tighter about her shoulders and scrambled around the side of a nearby stairwell, seeking shelter from the snow, but as she peered beneath the stoop, a huddled mass of ragged children growled up at her, bearing their teeth like feral creatures.

  She turned and ran, fleeing the alley, wishing she could flee from the world. Tears choked her breath as she sobbed her misery to the sky. There was no more hope; she had sinned too grievously. She had been foolish to try to possess that which could never be hers. Upon their arrival in Edinburgh, James had confessed that he was, indeed, a married man. She should have turned away from him then and there. She should have cursed his lies, his promises, but love had bidden her stay by his side.

  Now, she raced down the street, slipping and stumbling upon the snowy cobbles. She turned onto Cowgate, a street that three months ago she would not have dared to walk down, even in the light of day. The crowded street forced her to slow her pace. She eyed the women she passed with their torn, faded gowns, their dirt-smeared faces, and hungry eyes. And then she froze and looked down at her roughened fingers and the greasy sway of her own threadbare skirt in the icy breeze. She gaped at the surrounding despair and realized the slums mirrored her own pain, her own unhappy end.

  When the Lady MacKenzie had discovered her husband’s affair, she had forced James to cast her aside, but it had not ended there. His wife had not been satisfied until she had brought about the ruination of Claudine Doucet. Lady Eleanor had ensured Claudine was barred from every theater. She could not even find work as a seamstress. No inn or lodging house would take her. She was nothing now but one of countless souls who passed each night wondering if they would have to face the dawn or if hunger or cold would at last bring them peace.

  “Aren’t ye a pretty bit of skirt,” an old woman said as she shuffled toward Claudine. Claudine eyed the woman warily. Her stooped shoulders were covered with the remnants of a ragged jacket. Creases lined her face, but her eyes were sharp and unwavering.

  “Ye need a bed, love?” the woman asked.

  Claudine nodded and dropped the last of her coin in the woman’s outstretched hand. Then Claudine followed her inside a nearby door, which opened to a stairway that descended into darkness. The old woman clasped tightly to Claudine’s fingers, leading her through unknown spaces devoid of light.

  “Where do you take me?” Claudine asked, though she feared the answer.

  “These are the vaults, dearie, tunnels and chambers built into the bridges. ‘Tis dark and foul, but the snow cannae reach ye down here.”

  Claudine felt the crushing weight of the city above. Thick, fetid air surrounded them, consuming what little joy she still possessed.

  “Here, lass,” the old woman said as she pulled Claudine into a cramped space. Claudine felt what her eyes could not see. It appeared to be a shelf with just enough room to lie down. “Ye shall rest here, and let ol’ Peggy care for ye.”

  Claudine surrendered to Peggy’s comfort and laid down upon her stone bed. Steeped in darkness, she fell asleep to the moans and wails of others who slept entombed beneath the city.

  That night, she dreamt of glittering light and lilting laughter, softness and perfumed breezes. She felt full and content, swathed in silk with the taste of champagne on her tongue. But then a stirring in her abdomen pulled her from the sweetness of her dreams.

  “Mon Dieu,” she cried as her womb cramped and pain shot through her back.

  Sweat dampened her brow. It seemed the walls were closing in on her, smothering her breath.

  “There, there, lass,” Peggy said, suddenly at her side. “Do not panic. ‘Twill be done soon.”

  “Non, non,” Claudine screamed. “Please, I cannot give birth to my child down here in this hell.”

  “Hush now, lass. Save your strength. It makes little difference whether your child draws its first breath here or up on the streets. Either way the air is foul.”

  Claudine gripped her abdomen as another pain twisted inside of her. “Either way my baby is damned,” she whispered. “Just as I am damned.”

  Hours of toil passed when at last her baby’s first cry echoed through the tunnels.

  “She is strong,” Peggy said. “Listen to her cry.”

  Claudine strained in the darkness to see the face of her newborn babe, but she could not. “Oui, he is a strong boy,” Claudine cooed as she pressed kisses to her baby’s cheeks.

  “Nay, Claudine. ‘Tis a lass. Feel for yourself. Ye have a daughter,” Peggy said.

  “Listen to me, Peggy. Had I a daughter I would show her the mercy God has refused me, and I would slit her throat right here and end her suffering. The slums would feast on her and make her a whore before her body even had time to ripen. This child is a boy. Do you understand, Peggy? His name is Robbie, Robbie MacKenzie. And he will rise from this hell.” She held her child to her bosom, and whispered, “Robbie, you must fight. Fight to breathe. Fight to live. You are fated for happiness—this I do not doubt, mon bijou.” My jewel.

  Chapter One

  Scotland

  1802

  The might of the Highland wind struggled to compel Conall MacKay back from whence he had come. It whipped his long hair into a frenzy, obscuring the path before him and tempted his senses with the perfume of the sea and the heady scent of the damp earth. Still, he fought against the wind’s power and kept his southerly course, a course that would lead him away from the Highlands and everything good and green, toward land now marked by the black stain of industry and greed.

  Too soon, the earth around him began to change. Rugged, wild moors, carved into pieces by jutting rocks, gave way to smooth fields and bustling villages. It was the land he had once described to his Aunt Agnes, who never strayed but a mile or two from home, as being tame. He shook his head in disgust as mining posts and iron mills rose up before him. This land was no longer tame. It was beaten.

  The wind could not follow. Billowing black clouds of soot and smoke wrapped their fingers around the currents of clean air, smothering its magic. His hair now lay unmoving down his back. The wind had retreated. He would go on alone without the rush of air from the sea or the familiar scents of home.

  For at least the tenth time that hour, Conall cursed his younger
brother, Davis, for having left Cape Wrath in the first place. Conall would never understand his brother’s desire to flee their home on the north westerly tip of the Scottish mainland. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the rocky hills that gradually sloped down to the coast where beaches of white sand shone in the sun. Further down the coast, cliffs rose up from the waves, towering above the water.

  His croft was nestled in a small valley between two steep bluffs. From the south, his house was hidden by the hills, but to the north, his land stretched out until a narrow cliff marked its abrupt end. In the evening, it was his practice to watch the sunset. He would leave his door and walk straight until his toes teetered on the edge of the cliff, and then he would wait patiently for the spectacle to begin. As the day drew to a close, the world would be dipped in gold and coated with jewels of light cast by the sun’s glow. He could not summon dreams of greater treasure or beauty than what awaited him just outside his door; however, the same could not be said of Davis.

  Davis gathered impossible dreams like cherished keepsakes. He rejected the quiet beauty of the land to which he belonged and hungered instead for material abundance. Conall reminded Davis that such riches were possessed by only a few who lorded their wealth over many, but Davis remained unswayed. The life of a farmer was no life at all, he would say. Much to Conall’s dismay, Davis longed to trade the towering cliffs and storm-tossed seas of Cape Wrath for the stone buildings and bridges of Edinburgh, dirt roads for cobbled streets, space and air for the crowded and tainted. Only in a city where excess and depravity ruled could Davis have his heart’s desire: money, fine suits, cigars, and, of course, women.

  Conall’s taste ran much simpler. Nothing pleased him more than the feel of cool earth sifting between his fingers or the satisfaction of a successful harvest. His croft was one of twenty on Cape Wrath, all home to families tied to the land, their devotion as steadfast as the cliffs themselves. Most could trace their lineage back to the days of the chieftains when the MacKay territory spanned out for miles.

  Conall seldom considered the world beyond his croft. He traveled from his home fashioned of stone and thatch only when demand called him away, although it had not always been thus. Long ago, it seemed to him now, he had been married. When his wife, Mary, still lived, they would frequent the nearby village of Durness, but illness stole his young bride when he was not yet nineteen. Heartbroken, he gave his grief to the land and withdrew from village life. Now at twenty-six, he made peace with love lost and the resulting solitude. Unlike Davis, his life was a collection of simple pleasures and humble dreams. Conall tried his best to quell Davis’s baser inclinations with lessons in swordplay, animal husbandry, and fishing, but Davis merely scoffed at such honest pursuits. He craved excitement and always had. Several months ago, he had left Cape Wrath behind determined to join a Scottish regiment, or so he had claimed.

  Two days ago, Conall was paid a visit by Gordon MacKay who resided in the village. He had encountered Davis in Edinburgh during a brief stay on his return from London, and his report was ill, indeed. He remarked on Davis’s lack of Scottish regimentals. Not only did Davis not appear to be a soldier, but judging by his mixed company, Gordon suspected Davis had found little other than trouble in Edinburgh. What worried Conall most was Gordon’s account that Davis had appeared frail and strangely agitated when Gordon had approached him. Only a few words were exchanged when Davis made excuses to leave, heading toward Cowgate, the lowliest part of the city.

  As much as Conall wished to make light of Gordon’s report, the love he bore his brother would not be silenced. Davis had never been anything but trouble since he was a wee lad, but despite his follies, he had a kind and trusting nature. Besides, he was blood, and Conall was raised to honor blood ties above all others.

  The irritating clacking of his horse’s hooves on the cobbled roads filled Conall’s ears as he rode toward Edinburgh. While still on the outskirts of the city, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He searched the slight breeze for just a taste of the Highlands, but only the acrid scents of city life hung in the air.

  He left his horse at the livery stable near St James’s Square in the New Town and then walked the short distance to a narrow street where he hoped the Cummings Inn would have a room available. In the past five years, the business of settling first his parent’s accounts when they passed away and later his uncle’s had compelled him to visit Edinburgh. On both occasions he stayed at the same quiet inn. He knew he could count on Mrs. Cummings running a clean and respectable business. Her fine cooking and one of her comfortable rooms were crucial to maintaining his sanity while in the midst of Edinburgh’s noise and congestion.

  It was early in the evening when he arrived at the inn. After a fine dinner, he thanked Mrs. Cummings and left the comforts of the inn behind. He knew where he had to go, Cowgate, but before he could face the inhumane conditions of Edinburgh’s Old Town, he first needed a guide—someone who knew the streets and would not raise immediate suspicion. A stranger could not enter Cowgate and expect a warm reception, especially a Highlander. He pushed aside the sudden voice in his head that warned all was for naught. Desperation and corruption strangled all hope from that dark street. Davis’s knavish appetites would attract the most crooked and unscrupulous villains that Cowgate had to offer. Conall prayed that he might find Davis before misfortune did.

  Clinging to hope, he made his way to Prince’s Street. Affluence gleamed from every brick stacked with care to form the townhouses and shops, which served the wealthiest of Edinburgh’s citizens. Men in knee breeches with silk stockings, fine waistcoats, and top hats moved with leisure down the wide, clean cobbled street. Through narrow lids, they assessed everyone they passed with a haughty air of dominance. These were men used to their own way who served no one but themselves. Conall wished nothing more than to punch the smug expression from each of their faces.

  On the other hand, the women seemed to move without a care. They lacked the strength and presence of Highland women. Like pretty snowflakes, they fluttered about in dresses of varying shades of white, some plain or embroidered with flowers, but otherwise they all looked the same. The dresses fell straight, close to their figures and cinched not at the waist but beneath their bosoms. Lace trimmings, attached at the low necklines, provided at least some modesty. In his mind, he could hear his Aunt Agnes tsking her disapproval.

  The empire waist gowns were worn in his village as well, but they were made of sturdier fabrics. Although it was late spring, there was a chill in the evening air. Still, none of the lasses wore cloaks or jackets. He had to resist the urge to throw a shawl or blanket around a young woman’s shoulders who could not have been much older than thirteen. He held his tongue as he hurried passed, but much to his amusement, the lass, who gasped when she saw him, was not as capable as he at concealing her thoughts. He earned similar responses from four young women walking in his direction who suddenly stopped when they saw the large Highlander in their path. He almost laughed out loud when they hurried to cross the street, nearly tripping over themselves in their haste to keep their distance. He pretended not to notice as he turned on to St. David’s Street. Accustomed to the flurry of interest he incited upon entering Scotland’s southern cities, he was not at all surprised that he was quickly becoming the center of attention. To the typical lowlander, he was an uncommon sight.

  At nearly six and a half feet in height he towered over most men. Current fashion demanded men trim their hair short around the ears and at the nape. His light brown hair fell free down his back. His legs were not burdened by breeches, nor did he carry a cane. He wore a kilt, belted at his hips, a linen shirt, and a plain wool jacket. Wool socks were folded at the knee and ended in a pair of deer hide shoes. His sporran completed his attire. He looked as foreign in his own country as he might in one of the distant colonies. He stopped to allow the passing of several carriages, the occupants of which all stared at him, the ladies hiding their interest behind their fans.

 
; The stares of onlookers were forgotten as he crossed to the other side of the street, for someone had caught his attention, someone who appeared to belong in that place even less than he. A boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen years was slumped against a building, shielded by a fine carriage whose footman was occupied speaking with the proprietor of a dress shop. The boy stood out among the manicured trees and bushes and polished inhabitants of Edinburgh’s New Town with his bruised and dirt-smeared face, but no one seemed to note his presence, except for Conall. The lad’s quick darting eyes conveyed his dishonest intent. The young urchin was just the sort of person who might aid Conall on his quest to locate his brother.

  He started toward the lad but then froze when the small, ragged body slunk back against the wall and held so still that he appeared to vanish into shadow. Meanwhile, two gentlemen passed by his hiding place. Conall noted with amusement that the pompous men noticed the lad no more than they would a smudge on the cobbles. And then something incredible happened. Conall could scarce believe his own eyes. The lad’s hand flashed out of his filth covered jacket, and with a touch, which must have been as soft as a sea breeze, he pinched a bag of coin from inside the nearest gentleman’s jacket. No sooner did the lad grab the purse than he dashed away and turned off down Thistle Street.

  With a grin Conall followed. His long stride overtook the lad whom he grabbed by the back of the jacket and lifted into the air.

  “I am willing to bet ye thought ye made a fine escape,” Conall said with a smile.

  Continue reading A Jewel in the Vaults http://amzn.to/1bSs8ih

  ABOUT LILY

  Historical romance author, Lily Baldwin, loves writing, Scotland, her wonderful husband and beautiful young daughter—though not necessarily in that order. She has a BA in anthropology from the University of New Hampshire, and an MA in International Studies from Birmingham University in the UK. She daydreams constantly, and gets her best story ideas while running; she is even training for a half-marathon. She also finds inspiration in Nature, a quality revealed through the powerful description and drama in her books. Currently TO BEWITCH A HIGHLANDER, HIGHLAND THUNDER, and TO LOVE A WARRIOR (Books 1-3 of the Isle of Mull series) are available, and Lily is also the author of A JEWEL IN THE VAULTS~one of the seven original novellas included in the Scrolls of Cridhe Bundle by the Guardians of the Cridhe (available now). Her newest release is Highland Shadows (Beautiful Darkness Series, Book 1). Other Guardians of Cridhe authors include Suzan Tisdale, Tarah Scott, Ceci Giltenan, Kathryn Lynn Davis, Sue-Ellen Welfonder, and Kate Robbins.