The road from Twyneholm followed the swift-flowing burn for a mile or so. Low hills rose and fell on both sides, covered with heather in muted shades of purple and brown, framed against the darkening sky. At the spot where the stream meandered north he found Rab and Davie waiting for him.
“We’ve stopped tae water the flocks,” Rab told him. “Though by the leuk o’ things, they’ll be wet suin enough.”
Jamie watched the lambs for a moment. Instead of calmly drinking at the burn, they were leaping about, butting one another with their woolly heads—a certain sign of a change in the weather. His mount was unsettled as well, pawing the ground. Growing along the roadside was the poor man’s weatherglass, scarlet pimpernel, with its red petals closed tight. Aye, rain was on the way.
“Drive the lambs straight on from here without stopping,” Jamie directed, “then let them graze on Mr. Murray’s pastureland this side of the Fleet. The old Castle of Cardoness looks down on the vale below. ’Tis a meikle landmark you’ll have no trouble spotting. I’ll meet you there later, aye?”
Water of Fleet, yet another river to be crossed, would wait until tomorrow. They would use the bridge in the village; Jamie refused to have another lamb lost in a swollen stream. Gazing north toward faraway New Galloway, he wondered how the bulk of his flock was faring under the guidance of Nicholas Donaldson. He’d provided the topsman a letter of introduction and detailed instructions for his father to accept the lambs as his, pay the men accordingly, and send them on their way.
If all went according to Duncan’s plan, the shepherds and flocks taking the northern route would arrive at Glentrool on Saturday. Jamie envied them that. He would not see home until the Sabbath. Aye, but you will see home. Would he be welcome, though? Would he find his brother there? And would Lachlan McBride offer any protest across the miles? Those were the unanswered questions looming over him like the thickening clouds above.
Leaving Rab and Davie in charge of gathering the sheep, Jamie charged ahead, tossing up bits of gravel as he rode. If thunder rumbled overhead, he did not hear it for the pounding of Hastings’s hooves against the hard-packed military road, steadily climbing, mile after mile. The air was thick with moisture but not yet with rain as he crossed the burn at Littleton Farm, the ground rising beneath him, the mountains ahead stirring a longing for Glentrool.
A massive stretch of woodlands, still dressed in the many greens of summer, forced the road to veer north. It could only be Cally Park, a thousand acres of gardens and orchards surrounding Cally House, home to the man who owned Girthon parish and all it contained: James Murray of Broughton, a member of Parliament. Years ago Jamie had met the gentleman on a visit with his father to Cally House; if time allowed, he would bring Murray greetings from Alec McKie. For the moment, more pressing matters required attention.
Skirting the northern border of the park, he passed the entrance drive to the Grecian-styled house—not as old as Glentrool but more palatial in scale—and rode up to the inn, horse and rider both breathing hard. The clouds hung low to the ground, like pewter buckets preparing to tip. He said a prayer for the lasses and lambs both trailing far behind him as he found a stable lad to care for Hastings. Brushing the dust from his riding coat, he strode across the street and into the Murray Arms.
Cobbled together from an old gatehouse and a newer addition, the two-story inn of whitewashed stone seemed well plenished and the proprietor accommodating. Aye, they had two rooms available. “For two nights?” Jamie asked, a sudden inspiration. Why not stay and catch their breaths? The lambs already looked thinner; a day of grazing would do them good. And Gatehouse of Fleet was a thriving village, many times the size of sleepy Newabbey. Annabel and Eliza would be pleased to wander up and down the town’s three streets, while their mistresses enjoyed hot baths and soft beds.
“Two nights it is, sir,” the proprietor said, then directed him to the estate office where Jamie arranged for grazing land.
In less than an hour Jamie was astride Hastings once more, retracing his route. A strong wind with the scent of rain threatened to steal his hat. The rain would not be long in coming. When he spied the wagon at the eastern edge of Cally Park, he rode harder, elated to find them so near their destination.
“You made excellent time,” he told Leana, bending down to clasp Rose’s hand and ruffle Ian’s hair. “Come, before the skies split open.” He escorted the wagon round the park boundary and into the village, then carried whatever they might need for two days up the steep stair to their rooms. Leana lay down for a nap at once, while the maidservants took Ian with them on a brief tour of the village, prepared to dash back to the inn at the first drop of rain.
Rose, the happiest he’d seen her in days, twirled round the spacious room with its painted walls, sturdy furniture, and two broad windows facing the street. Jamie caught her in midspin and wrapped her in his embrace. “After several nights of shared beds and rustic cottages, I thought a quiet room to ourselves would be …”
“Wonderful,” she finished for him, welcoming his kiss.
Several kisses later—and with much regret—Jamie reminded her that Rab and Davie were awaiting him with the lambs. “I’m sorry, lass. Duty calls.”
“Suppose I walk out with you and explore the village.” Rose preceded him into the corridor and down the stair, talking over her shoulder. “Jamie, where might the Girthon parish kirk be?”
“A good bit south of here. On the far side of Bar Hill, well beyond Cally Park.”
“Will we not … pass it?” She sounded genuinely dismayed.
“Nae, we’ll be heading west from here, I’m afraid.”
When they reached the street, Rose clung to his arm as thunder rolled through the valley. “To think we’ve come all this way only to be trapped inside by the rain.”
“Better to be here than at Auchengray.” He could not keep the grim note out of his voice. “Your father should be arriving home shortly. When he discovers Leana gone as well as you.
“And Neda gone as well as Duncan.” Rose looked up at him, more wistful than he’d ever seen her. “At least Father will have his new wife and sons to keep him company.”
“And his thrifite full of gold,” Jamie reminded her, then felt Rose shiver beneath her plaid.
Fifty-Nine
Senseless, and deformed,
Convulsive anger storms at large; or pale,
And silent, settles into fell revenge.
JAMES THOMSON
Walloch was foaming at the mouth, sweat pouring down his flanks. Lachlan drove him still harder, using his riding crop as a weapon, his spurs as punishment. “Worthless beast,” he grumbled as the horse pounded down the road south of Dumfries. Ominous clouds, thick with rain, hung overhead as a blur of familiar properties swept past him.
The farm names barely registered. Cargen. Gillfoot. Whinny Hill None of them mattered. Auchengray was all he needed to see. His land, his sheep, his servants, his daughters. The property of Lachlan McBride. That was all that mattered.
Never in his sixty years had he been so humiliated. By his own overseer—his own man—standing up for a scoonrel like Jamie McKie within earshot of his new wife and sons. The shame of it was not to be borne. Lachlan shouted an oath to the dark heavens, his words swallowed up by the wind.
The family carriage was far behind him by now. He would not torture himself imagining their conversation. The five of them had arrived in Lockerbie on Sunday and gone straight to their lodgings at the Kings Arms. He’d not bothered to see after his lambs, pastured a mile from the bustling town. Among twenty thousand sheep, how could he have located a few hundred? It had been Duncan’s job to see the lambs readied for the English dealers come Monday’s sale.
“And my job to bring home the silver.” Lachlan gripped the heavy purse beneath his shirt, his rage easing only slightly at the heft of it. The lambs had sold for a good price. But what of the rest of them, spirited off to Glentrool? “My lambs,” he fumed, aiming his exhausted mount past Kirkconnel
l. “My silver.”
It was not until Duncan delivered the bill of sale in his hands yestreen that Lachlan knew the truth. Received for four hundred lambs … Duncan had neither flinched nor apologized when Lachlan accused him of treachery. Half the folk in the sellers tent must have heard him threaten to withhold Duncan’s pay for the term.
“ ’Tis just as weel,” Duncan had told him, his voice maddeningly calm. “I canna take silver from a man I canna respect.”
Livid, then and now, he’d bellowed, “You’ll not work for me another day!”
“I’ll not wark for ye anither hour.” Then Duncan had walked off. Walked off.
There were too many witnesses; Lachlan had no choice but to let Duncan leave the tent unchallenged. Where the man went was none of his concern. Let Duncan walk the twenty miles home. At least he’d not stolen Walloch. The horse was stabled at the Kings Arms, waiting for his master.
Duncan Hastings would show up at Auchengray soon enough, wool bonnet in hand, begging for his old position. Where else could the man go? Lachlan would see him well humbled before he’d fee him again. And make certain he suffered for his disloyalty.
Jamie would pay for his crime as well. A bill for the selling price of three hundred lambs would be sent by post to his nephew. Better still, to the lad’s father. Let Alec McKie see the duplicity of his useless heir, and his sister, Rowena, the sleekit ways of her favored son.
Walloch straggled onto the road for Auchengray. “You’ll not slow down now,” Lachlan growled. “ ’Tis five o’ the clock, and I’ve had nae dinner.” And what would Neda Hastings have to say about her husband’s perfidy?
Thunder rolled across the skies over Auchengray as the signpost appeared. Lachlan straightened in the saddle, his pride returning. He was still a prosperous landowner, was he not? Still the laird of his keep? When his sons and wife arrived later, he would remind them of that fact. The key to the thrifite hung round his neck. No one else’s.
Deaf as he was, Willie still heard Lachlan’s approach, for he stood waiting at the end of the drive. The auld man had a nervous look about him, though he managed a shaky bow. “Walcome hame, sir.”
Lachlan dismounted, ignoring the stiffness in his joints as he handed over the reins. “I’ve ridden him hard, make no mistake.” He did not wait for a reply but marched toward the front door, relieved that Willie didn’t ask where Duncan might be.
When Lachlan leaned into the front door, expecting it to swing open, his shoulder met a solid wood obstacle. Locked? The door was never locked, for good reason. Who would dare rob Lachlan McBride of his worldly possessions?
“I have what ye need, sir.” Hugh, his valet, stood behind him on the lawn, holding out a stout iron key. “ ’Tis meant for luck, walkin’ across yer ain threshold whan ye return from a raik.”
Lachlan rolled his eyes as he snatched the key from Hugh’s hand. “Luck indeed.” He unlocked the door, then flung it open and was taken aback when no one was standing there to greet him.
“Neda?” He strode down the hall, certain he would find his housekeeper hard at work in the kitchen, even though no tantalizing smells wafted his way. He had a taste for roasted goose. Surely it could be prepared on short notice.
But the kitchen was empty. Worse, the hearth was cold. He felt the chill of it climbing up his back as he stared across the abandoned room, not a bite of food in sight. “Neda?” he called again, certain of an answer. None came.
Hugh appeared behind him, quiet as a ghost. “Pardon me, sir, but Mistress Hastings has flit tae her new hame.”
Lachlan turned on him. “What new home?”
“Kingsgrange, sir. She’s tae be their hoosekeeper.”
He stared at his manservant, too shocked to speak. If Neda was gone, then Duncan did not mean to come back.
Anger and fear rubbed inside him like two sticks starting a fire. “Leana!” he shouted abruptly, marching through the kitchen and out the back door. His daughter lived in her garden. She would not be hard to find.
But Leana was not in the garden or in the orchard. Neither was Eliza, her shadow.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of one of the new maids brought from Edingham at Morna’s request. She stood by the corner of the house like a fawn about to bolt in search of its mother. “You, lass.” He motioned her toward him. “Where are my daughters? And my nephew?”
“Th-the McKies are … g-gone, sir.”
“Gone?” He fell back as though the clap of thunder overhead had struck his chest. “Do you mean to say they’ve left for good?”
He could not tell if the maid was nodding her head on purpose or trembling so violently that it shook on its own.
Jamie and Rose were bound for Glentrool, it seemed. Chasing after the lambs and taking their bystart of a son with them. “Leana, then. Where is my older daughter?”
“Sh-she … she …”
Irritated, Lachlan prodded her. “She what, lass? Can you not say two words?”
“She … Miss McBride … left. Wi’ the ithers.”
Fat drops of rain began splattering on the toes of his dusty boots as he stared at the maid in disbelief. “I have been gone but three days, and already my household is dismantled?”
“Their maids left as weel, sir. Annabel. And Eliza.” She lowered her head as if ashamed to share such news. “Yer daughters said the servants were the only tocher ye gave them.”
Biting back an oath, Lachlan left her standing in the rain and marched through the vacant kitchen, ignoring his growling stomach. Morna would be home shortly and attend to supper. He found a candle and carried it into the gloomy spence, inhaling the scent of books and leather and whisky. Outside his window, the skies darkened as the rain unleashed its fury.
He moved slowly across the room, squinting in the darkness, holding his candle aloft. When the faint light fell on the hearth at his feet, he stopped, arrested by the strange fire laid before him. Stones and glass were neatly stacked, as if waiting for the touch of a flame. Except they would never burn nor keep a house warm.
A stone fire.
Lachlan’s innards began to churn. An unco practice among kintra folk, meant to convey ill luck to the landowner. Who could have done it? Willie knew the auld ways but would not dare speak a curse against his master. Neda was too righteous, and Leana cared nothing for such cantrips.
He stared at the false fire with a growing sense of dread. Had Lillias Brown been inside his house? The thought made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Nae, the witch would never be so bold.
Rose. She was the only one braisant enough.
“My own daughter.” He breathed out the words, not quite believing them. Staring hard at the window, he imagined Rose climbing out, as custom dictated. She was the one who’d locked the door, then. For ill luck. My own daughter. My unfaithful Rose.
Kicking the stones with his boot, he knocked apart the cursed fire, attempting to destroy any power it held over him. When he bent down to claim the heaviest of the rocks, his silver tumbled out of his shirt and onto the floor. “Och!” He snatched up the doeskin purse, then balanced stone and silver in each hand, like the scales of justice. “And did you curse me, lass? Did you curse your own father?”
Fueled by rage and a pain too great to bear, he threw the rock with all his might, shattering the window glass. Shards flew across the floor as rain poured through the ragged opening.
“Lachlan!” Morna stood in the doorway, eyes and mouth agape. “Whatever is the matter? We’ve just walked in the door …” She stared at the rocks and glass piled at his feet, the broken glass beneath the window, then finally looked up to meet his gaze. “What—”
“My household has conspired against me.” As he chronicled the list of those who’d departed Auchengray while the rest of them were at Lammas Fair, Morna’s ruddy skin turned the color of bleached muslin. “So you see, my wife, we will require a new housekeeper. And Malcolm will serve as overseer.”
He took a full breath, only
now beginning to feel his heart beating again. Though four family members had fled from his door, four new ones had moved in. No true loss, then. As for the others, they were mere servants. Replaceable.
Lachlan gestured toward the broken glass. “Have Willie sweep this up. And board the window.” While Morna hurried off to find him, Lachlan poured a dram of whisky and sank into his chair, feeling every minute that he’d spent in the saddle.
“Here’s to you, Rose.” He lifted his pewter cup toward the hearth, then drank it down too quickly to be prudent. Heat tore through him. With no food in his stomach since breakfast, the whisky’s potency hit him full force.
“Mr. McBride … ah, Father?” Malcolm stood where his mother had a moment earlier. “Mother said I am to be … overseer?”
Lachlan fixed his gaze on him. “Do you think you can handle it, Son? ’Tis a meikle responsibility for a lad who’s seen but twenty summers.”
Malcolm threw back his shoulders, his bravado as thick as his neck. “I can, sir. Will I be in charge of keeping the ledgers?”
“Nae.” Lachlan wagged his finger at him. “Those will be mine to tally. And the gold, mine to count.”
Malcolm took another step into the hallowed room. “You’ll be wanting to add the money from the lambs to your thrifite, aye?”
Lachlan pushed himself to his feet with some effort. One hand reached for his purse, the other for the key round his neck, as he turned toward the desk.
His thrifite was gone.
Gone.
Like a man who’s been shot, Lachlan stood there, stunned and unmoving.
“Father … where is …”
Jamie. He cleared his throat. “Stolen. Jamie.”
“Your nephew?” Malcolm was beside him at once. “Does he think we won’t come after him? ’Tis our money as well. And Mother’s.”
Lachlan shook himself all over, as though waking from a drugged sleep. “We will indeed go after him.” He tore into the corridor, where Gavin and Ronald stood, their faces like stone.
Whence Came a Prince Page 37
