The Highlander's Return

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Before you leave, you mean?’

  He didn’t feel ready to leave. ‘It depends on what I get out of your mother,’ he said, relieved—though he wouldn’t admit it—to have that excuse. ‘Go on in, it’s getting cold. I’m going round the long way, it will give me time to marshal my thoughts.’

  She left him, winding her way through the gardens to where the long drawing-room window that opened on to the terrace was still partly open. Her mother had no doubt been chastising the gardener for being insufficiently ruthless when pruning the roses, as she did every year. Wearily, Ailsa headed for the sanctuary of her bedchamber. Her skin tingled, tight with salt and sun. It had been a long time since she had spent so much time outdoors like that. It felt good. She resolved not to let such a long time pass again. She would claim An Rionnag for her own, when Alasdhair was gone.

  When Alasdhair was gone. If she let herself, it would be easy to fall for him again. Too easy. And too painful. He cared for her. That should be enough. He would not care for another. That should be a comfort. It wasn’t, though the idea of another woman at his side was no comfort either.

  ‘So contrary,’ she chastised herself in the mirror as she unpinned her arisaidh, ‘you cannot expect to have it all ways.’ Her reflection looked back at her, wind-burnished, her hair in a tangle, the soft line of her lips blurred. She touched her finger to them. Well-kissed lips. The feel of his hands, his mouth, his body hard on hers, was so vivid she closed her eyes, the sudden rush of wanting that flooded her with such a poignancy making her feel as if it were happening again. Any doubts she had about her own sensuality were put to flight. She could desire. She could need. She could feel.

  All the more reason for being on guard. Her feelings would not be returned. Much better not to have them exposed. Safer. She knew that. Why then was caution, her watchword, now such an unattractive proposition?

  A short while later, Alasdhair entered the castle by the front door, heading through the great hall and up the main staircase two steps at a time. Striding along the complex series of corridors that connected the various parts of the castle, he had no difficulty at all in recalling the way.

  The large room on the top floor of the oldest part of Errin Mhor castle commanded a view out over the front of the grounds towards the village. It was Lady Munro’s book room, from whence she was wont to oversee her domain, and in which Alasdhair had on many occasions been on the receiving end of her icy reproaches. Not doubting she would be there, he rapped loudly on the door and went in without awaiting her response.

  The room had not changed at all. Shelves of leather-bound household accounts going back decades. The unpadded wooden visitor’s chair placed where the light streamed in from the window into the face of any occupant. The imposing desk, behind which Lady Munro sat, her expression disdainful, her laird’s expression in the portrait that hung behind it equally so. Such unwelcome memories it all brought back. Alasdhair straightened his shoulders and strode in. ‘Lady Munro. What a pleasure it is to return to this cosy nook. It evokes so many happy times.’ He declined to sit, instead leaning his shoulder against the mantel in a pose of studied casualness that he knew would irk her.

  Age had left little trace on her countenance, that seemed to have hardened rather than become lined. She looked to him almost exactly as she had always done, the shadows under her eyes the only sign of her recent loss.

  ‘Mr Ross. I do not recall requesting your company.’

  Lady Munro’s tone was positively glacial. Alasdhair managed a smile with some difficulty, surprised to find that he was tense, bracing himself for the onslaught as if by habit. But she could not hurt him. She was nothing to him, not any more. ‘Come, my lady, do you not wish to chat over the old days?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Lady Munro demanded uncompromisingly.

  Abruptly abandoning all pretence of politesse, Alasdhair took the seat in front of the desk, turning the chair around to sit astride it. ‘I want some answers.’

  ‘I see your manners have not improved. No doubt you find yourself quite at home with the savages in America.’ She said the word in the same tone as she would say Sassenach.

  ‘None so savage as your tongue, my lady. I see your manners have not changed, either.’

  ‘You are not welcome here, Mr Ross.’

  ‘Oh, but I am, Lady Munro. As your son’s guest. Calumn is the laird now, had you forgot, and my name is no longer blackened.’

  Her eyes blazed.

  ‘Your whore of a mother blackened the Ross name long before you got yourself banished by setting your sights on my daughter.’

  Alasdhair pushed back his chair so violently that it clattered to the ground. He leaned menacingly over the desk, forcing Lady Munro to shrink back in her chair, though she held his fierce gaze unrepentantly. ‘If my mother was a whore, as you call her, she had you as her example, my lady. Did not you do as she did, abandoning your son for the sake of a man?’

  Lady Munro got to her feet. ‘How dare you! How dare you compare my actions to your mother’s? You know nothing of the weight of duty a laird’s wife has to endure, the sacrifices she has to make, the pain she has to bear. All for the sake of her sire and the clan. My motives were honourable, however unpalatable the actions required of me.’

  For the first time in his life his blow had pierced her armour and it surprised him. ‘Did that include tormenting me? I was an upstart in your eyes, I know, but I was just a bairn, and an orphaned one, to all intents and purposes. You made my life a misery and I think it was deliberate. I want to know why.’

  ‘I made your life miserable,’ Lady Munro hissed. ‘You have no idea what suffering is.’

  ‘Aye, but I do, and it was you who taught me much of it. It would have cost you nothing to be kind to me or even just to let me be, but instead you took pleasure in my pain.’

  ‘I would have taken greater pleasure still had you never been foisted upon me in the first place.’

  ‘That was your husband’s decision.’

  ‘Oh, I know that only too well. He would not have my cuckoo in his nest, but he was perfectly happy to—’ Lady Munro took a quick breath. ‘He came to regret it, though. Aye, I must remember that. He regretted it. You betrayed him. The laird did not forgive you for that, even though—no, he did not forgive you.’

  ‘I did not betray him!’ Realising he was in danger of allowing her the upper hand simply by losing his temper, Alasdhair stood back from the desk and resumed his seat. ‘Was it Rory?’ he asked in a calmer tone.

  ‘Rory? What about him?’

  ‘Your first born. The child of your first marriage. Is it that simple? You resented me, a factor’s son, living here when he could not? It must have been hard, seeing me take his rightful place.’

  ‘Nothing is that simple. You’re not capable of taking Rory’s place. He is a laird, of noble blood, you are a bastard.’

  ‘But it must have felt as if I was doing so,’ Alasdhair insisted. ‘I can see that now. All the harder a blow to bear since it was Lord Munro’s decision in both cases. Guilt is a terrible thing too, is it not, my lady? No wonder you can’t look Rory in the eye. No wonder you don’t feel entitled to see your grandchild.’ She had paled, though she still did not speak. He had clearly hit upon the truth. Or part of it. ‘Is that the only reason?’

  For long moments, Lady Munro made no reply, gazing off into the space over his shoulder. Indeed, she seemed to have forgotten his presence all together, for her eyes were blank, her thoughts turned inwards, her hands clasped so tight together that the knuckles showed white. It was a chilling sight. The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Lady Munro glanced behind her at the portrait of her husband. Why not? The shame of it would be worth it, if it rid them all of Ross. Why not? She turned her gaze back to Alasdhair, curling her lip. ‘You’re right, there is another reason, Alasdhair Ross, but I don’t see why I should have the bother of telling you. That honour should go to the root cause of it all.’

  ‘Who?’<
br />
  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘My mother!’ Alasdhair’s brows snapped together. ‘She’s still alive, then? You know where she is?’

  ‘I have always made it my business to know.’ Lady Munro’s eyes narrowed. ‘When you’ve seen her, when you’ve heard what she has to say, there will be nothing to keep you here. You’ll be going back to Virginia?’

  ‘That is my plan.’

  ‘Then make sure you stick to it.’ Lady Munro’s mouth curled. ‘When you’ve heard what she has to say, I don’t doubt you will.’

  ‘What do you mean? What has my mother to do with you? Why—?’

  ‘Ask her, Alasdhair Ross. Ask her why I hate you. Tell her I gave my permission for it to be the truth.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Lady Munro shook her head. ‘She’s in Inveraray. Ask her. And then get the hell out of Scotland and leave my daughter alone.’

  Realising there was no more to be had from her, and determined not to allow her to see how much her hints had stirred his curiosity, Alasdhair got to his feet. He had what he needed. He was anxious to be gone.

  ‘You need not seek Ailsa out to say your goodbyes,’ Lady Munro said sweetly, ‘she will be otherwise engaged tonight. Her husband-to-be has just arrived.’

  ‘McNair is here?’

  ‘She told you about the betrothal?’

  ‘Of course. Unlike you, Ailsa has no liking for deceit.’

  ‘I will bid you goodbye then, for I am informed that you plan to spend the night at the smiddy,’ Lady Munro said. ‘An excellent idea. Hamish Sinclair and his wife are much more your sort of company than the more exalted ambiance of the castle.’

  It surprised him, how petty her spite sounded. He wondered if it had always been so. ‘You are quite right, Hamish and Mhairi are much more my sort of company, and I hope it is ever so,’ Alasdhair said. ‘There is, however, no need to say your farewell to me just yet. I shall be back in the morning to see Ailsa. I do not intend to leave a second time without saying goodbye to her. Through your duplicity and treachery you succeeded the last time. I do not intend to let you succeed again, so it is merely adieu.’ He bowed. ‘I will take my leave now. I find the air in here too fetid to breathe.’

  Pulling the door closed behind him, he leaned against the wall panelling. Thank God he was not obliged to face dinner here. Ailsa would have more than enough to cope with tonight without the additional angst which his presence would cause.

  Back in the book room, Lady Munro picked up the letter opener that sat on her blotter. Made of chased silver with an ivory handle, it had belonged to her first husband. Rory’s father, one of the very few things of his she had in her possession, for Lord Munro had preferred to believe that Rory and his father and indeed her first marriage had never existed. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the little knife high above her head and hesitated for a moment before plunging it deep into the oak desk.

  Ailsa was dressing for dinner, donning a dark green silk half-robe. It had long sleeves, fitted tight to her elbows, where the lacy ruffles of her clean sark billowed out. She wore it over a cream petticoat patterned with sprigs of yellow flowers. She looped a long strand of milky pearls around her neck, and was fastening her hair up, securing it with a good many painful pins, when Lady Munro let herself into the bedchamber.

  ‘I am glad to see you looking so well,’ she said, eyeing Ailsa’s toilette with approval. ‘Donald is here.’

  The pin Ailsa was holding dropped to the floor. ‘Donald? I thought—I assumed you had postponed his visit, after our last conversation.’

  ‘After our last conversation, I thought his visit was all the more urgent.’ Dressed in a close-fitting dress of black silk, Lady Munro looked like a beautiful and lethal serpent. There was a brittleness about her, too, that was rather frightening. Ailsa wondered if it was the result of her interview with Alasdhair. Only the knowledge that her mother would tell her nothing, unless it suited her, prevented her from asking.

  ‘You do not rate my advice, I know,’ Lady Munro said, picking up the fallen hairpin and placing it carefully into Ailsa’s coiffure, ‘but you would do well to heed it, none the less. You would be very foolish indeed to give way to this flight of fancy and end your betrothal.’

  ‘Which flight of fancy would that be?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. It is no coincidence that your sudden change of heart has come hot on the heels of Alasdhair Ross’s return. I have seen the way you look at him, like a besotted schoolgirl.’

  Did she? ‘Indeed I do not,’ Ailsa said defiantly.

  ‘Alasdhair and I are friends. We were always close, until you put an end to it.’

  ‘Well, I have no need to put an end to it this time,’ Lady Munro said with a glacial smile, ‘he is quite capable of doing that himself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He is off tomorrow, seeking tears and reconciliation with that mother of his.’

  Ailsa swallowed. She had suspected, despite his protestations, that Alasdhair would be unable to resist seeking his mother out once he knew her whereabouts. She had not expected he would discover them so quickly, though. ‘So you knew all along where she was?’

  ‘Of course I knew. Everything that happens on Errin Mhor is my business.’

  Ailsa bit her cheek. This time she would not lose faith. ‘Alasdhair wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. If you say otherwise, I won’t believe you. You lied the last time, but it won’t work again.’

  ‘No, you’re right, he wouldn’t. He said as much.’ Lady Munro twisted her jet bracelet round her wrist. ‘He may say his sentimental goodbye if he wishes. That is of no real consequence to me. The important point, daughter of mine, is that he will be gone and gone for ever,’ she said with a triumphant smile.

  Chapter Six

  Ailsa gazed at her mother in despair. ‘Why do you detest him so? Why are you so desperate to see the back of him?’

  ‘I know you and I have—there have been—in short, you think I do not care, but …’ Lady Munro faltered under her daughter’s look of disbelief. ‘Now your father is gone, I had hoped we would have a chance to put our relationship on a better footing.’

  ‘Now my father is gone! My father had been ill for a long time, yet you showed no sign of any such wish. In fact, you have never given me any sign at any time that you care for me. We do not have a relationship to rebuild.’

  ‘That is not true. I may not have shown you outward affection, but—

  ‘Please, don’t tell me that you have always cared for me in your heart, for you do not possess one. This has nothing to do with my father dying. You are like a dog with a bone, Mother, only interested in it if someone tries to take it from you. You want me to marry Donald so you can keep me close, under your control. Alasdhair is a threat to that, that is why you are so desperate to see him gone. It is not out of love for me, but to protect your own selfish wishes.’

  Lady Munro, who had momentarily seemed to be on the point of some softer emotion, now paled, and stiffened into something more nearly resembling a marble effigy. ‘Listen to me, Ailsa, and listen well. Whatever it is you think you feel for Ross, it is wrong. It cannot be. I won’t—I can’t—it would be wrong.’ She took a quick breath. ‘Ross feels nothing for you. You cannot be so foolish as to end such an advantageous marriage as has been arranged for you for the remnants of an adolescent fancy.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Lady Munro relaxed a fraction. ‘I knew you would see sense.’

  ‘I’m not ending my betrothal because I think I’m still in love with Alasdhair. Mother, you must listen to me for a change. Just this once, you must take me seriously.’ Ailsa took a swift turn about the room. ‘I cannot marry Donald. I will not marry Donald. I am sorry if it upsets your plans, but I will not sacrifice myself to duty as you did. Whether you believe me or not, my change of heart has nothing to do with Alasdhair, and everything to do with my finally coming to know my own mind. We would
not be suited.’

  ‘There is no one who would suit you better. If not Ross, then tell me, Ailsa, what is it that has changed your mind so suddenly? It is not as if this betrothal is a new thing, nor, I am sure you do not need me to remind you, has it been undertaken without your consent.’

  ‘I know that, of course I know that, but I was wrong. I cannot, Mother. I don’t care enough for him.’

  ‘Care? You will learn to care, once you are wed.’

  ‘No. I don’t love him.’

  ‘I wonder where you get these fancies from! A good marriage comes about from shared interests, an investment in the next generation and a common desire to make it work. It takes commitment and unquestioning loyalty and hard work. It has nothing to do with affection.’

  ‘Yours certainly did not.’

  ‘My marriage was a success. As yours will be.’

  ‘I don’t want that kind of success—it comes at too high a cost.’ Ailsa clasped her hands tightly together to stop them shaking. ‘You said you cared for me. Don’t you want me to be happy?’

  ‘Marriage to Donald will make you happy, if for no other reason than it is what everyone else wants.

  There is much to be said for doing one’s duty, Ailsa. I cannot commend it to you highly enough.’

  ‘Even if it makes me miserable.’

  ‘You are wilfully misunderstanding me. The doing of one’s duty cannot make one miserable. If I cannot persuade you, perhaps Donald will. I will ensure that you and he have some privacy later.’

  ‘Mother! Please, I beg of you do not. I don’t want to be left alone with him. I am not going to marry him, you must accept that,’ Ailsa said despairingly.

  ‘Nonsense. You owe it to him and to me and to the memory of the laird, and to Calumn, too, for that matter, to honour this betrothal.’ Lady Munro nodded with satisfaction, ‘I wonder why I didn’t think of this before. Sometimes the old ways are best.’