When she had departed earlier, there had been much laughter and singing. Women were hanging out the laundry to dry and weaving baskets; grooms were mucking out the stalls in the stables. Now no one spoke or even moved. They stood quietly, staring at where two figures were conversing a distance away in front of the castle’s barmkin. When they noticed her approaching, the people began to whisper to one another. They had been watching for her arrival.
As Grace strode across the courtyard, she recognized Christian as the taller of the two men, his dark hair and confident stance so very familiar to her now. The other man was not quite as tall as he, but in spite of his height, his manner spoke of his belief in his superiority above everything and most everyone around him.
Grace did not stop for a moment, but continued boldly forward, stopping only when she stood at Christian’s side. Dubhar, who had ran with her from the hillside, took his usual place at her leg. He did not, however, sit as was his custom. Instead he remained standing, on guard, sensing the tension that accompanied the unsavory stranger.
Starke glanced once at Grace when he noticed her arrival, but briefly, as he might at an annoying midge. It was all the notice he gave her. Given the fact that she was dressed like any of the other women about the estate, her hair unkempt now from her run, he no doubt thought her one of the Highlanders. Grace made use of his inattention to give the man a thorough study.
From the stories she’d heard of him, she would have expected someone more formidable, but in truth he lacked most of the characteristics she would have thought to find in him. His clothing was garish, his manner more plebian than well born, and his prolonged smirk demonstrated a somewhat sadistic enjoyment at the atmosphere his coming had brought.
“My lord,” Starke said to Christian, “might I say what a fine effort you have made in restoring the Skynegal estate?” He turned his back on Grace purposefully, as if to regard the castle behind him. ” ‘Tis amazing what actually lay hidden beneath all that ivy growth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Starke,” Christian said, “but the credit should go to Lady Knighton, for it was she who undertook the castle’s restoration.”
Starke was silent a moment, then turned to regard Christian again. His eyes seemed almost to narrow when he noticed Grace was still there.
“Pray tell me, my lord, are you of a mind to sell the estate?” And before Christian could respond, he added, “Perhaps you have heard tell of my employers, the Marquess and Marchioness of Sunterglen? Fine people. They have expressed an interest in purchasing the estate of Skynegal and have charged me, as their factor, with the honor of presenting an offer to you.” He stared at Christian. “They are prepared to pay a handsome sum.”
His words were so honeyed and so perfidious that Grace had to prevent herself from blurting out that she would never sell the estate. Christian responded before she could.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Starke, that you are speaking with the wrong person. The estate of Skynegal came to my wife through an inheritance from her grandmother, who was born and raised here. While as her husband, I might advise her and manage certain affairs of the estate, the decision of whether or not to sell Skynegal would be entirely hers.”
Grace looked at Christian. He had turned to her and she was suddenly reminded of the first night when she had fallen through the wall panel at his feet. A feeling she had spent the past months pushing aside began to reach for her deep inside once again.
Starke nodded. “Indeed. Well then, perhaps you might direct me to her ladyship so that I may present my offer to her personally.” He glanced around, completely ignoring Grace who stood not four feet from him. “Is Lady Knighton within the castle? Perhaps we might send someone for her.” He glanced at Grace as if intending to charge her with the task of summoning herself, but thought the better of it. “Or perhaps I might just wait awhile for her if she is presently away.”
Christian smiled, obviously enjoying the man’s oblivion. “No, Mr. Starke, Lady Knighton is not within the castle, but in fact, she is very close by.”
“Splendid. Shall we go to her then, my lord?”
Two burly Scotsmen standing closest to them chuckled softly to one another. Starke threw them a quelling look, one he no doubt employed often during his misdeeds.
“There is no need to seek Lady Knighton out, Mr. Starke,” Christian said, “for you see, Lady Knighton stands before you even now.”
Starke turned to look where Christian had gestured to Grace at his side. The realization of her identity played visibly across the factor’s face. She looked no different than she had upon approaching, a handful of moments earlier, but somehow, now that he knew who she was, she warranted his full attention—without the smugness he’d worn for her before. In fact, Starke went so far now as to bow his head reverently.
“Lady Knighton, indeed, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
Grace did not respond in kind. She might be wearing woolen and her hair might not be properly dressed, but she had been born and bred the daughter of a nobleman. She was wife to the grandson of one of England’s most powerful and wealthy men. Grace had never worn her position in life when dealing with others, not from her peers to even those who served—until now. Her mouth remained fixed as she stared at the man hard, her only thought for the many Highlanders whose lives had been forever destroyed because of his actions. It was because of him that Seonag had been evicted from her home and had very nearly died, her child with her. For months Grace had seen how the very mention of his name brought terror. Even now, on the outskirts of the courtyard, the people hung back in fear.
Starke looked to her. “As I was just saying to his lordship, my employers, the Marquess and Marchioness of Sunter—”
“I heard you, sir,” Grace said, abruptly cutting him off. “I decline your offer. Skynegal is not for sale.”
Starke frowned. “Perhaps, then, instead of the estate entire, you might consider selling a portion of the lands to the east, the ones that border on the Sunterglen estate—”
Grace crossed her arms before her, raising her chin as she continued to stare at him with all the iciness and arrogance he had her earlier. “Pray tell me why I should sell the land to your employer, Mr. Starke. So that you might turn out my tenants from their homes as you already have at Sunterglen, in order to graze sheep upon the graves of their ancestors?”
Starke glanced at Christian as if expecting him to intervene. He blessedly remained a spectator to the exchange.
“I can assure you, madam,” Starke said, his voice steady, controlled, “any tenants we did wish to move would be relocated to alternate plots on Sunterglen.”
“Alternate plots? Is that what you call it, Mr. Starke? Just as you relocated Seonag MacLean whilst her husband Eachann was away and she in the eighth month of her pregnancy?”
Starke’s face turned a shade ashen at the accusation, one he wisely did not seek to refute.
“Look around you, Mr. Starke.” Grace gestured to the crowd of Highlanders standing around the courtyard watching the exchange. “These people are the very ones who once peopled the estate of your benevolent employer, those who managed to survive your evictions. Because of greed, sir—greed for land profit—they have been forced to come here to Skynegal to seek shelter from the elements. I am the great-granddaughter of the last laird of Skynegal. This castle and this estate have been a part of my family for countless generations, as it has been a part of the lives and history of the people of Wester Ross. Do you honestly believe I would sell off so much as one ell of this estate so that you might continue your onslaught?”
Starke’s face reddened. “I had thought since you come from England,” he faltered—
“My great-grandmother, while English, was a MacRath down to her kirtle. She proudly supported Prince Charles at Culloden in hopes of preserving her Scottish heritage. As long as I live, sir, I can assure you I will never disgrace the memory of my ancestors, both English and Scottish, for a few pounds’ profit.”
&
nbsp; Starke simply stared at her, speechless. His eyes, which had before been deferential, now narrowed on her with a scarcely concealed hostility. He looked one last time to Christian. “If you should happen to change your mind, my lord, my employer’s offer is a generous one.”
It had been intended as an affront to Grace, one that Christian was less than willing to allow. He stepped forward, forcing Starke back across the courtyard to where he almost stumbled. When Christian spoke, his voice was hard with warning.
“I caution you, sir, to heed me and heed me well. I do not take insults against my wife at all lightly. In fact, I take them quite personally. I believe Lady Knighton has adequately explained her feelings to you on the matter. You no longer have any business here. I will therefore direct you to your horse so that you may leave the premises. I would further suggest that you refrain from ever returning. If I learn of your having placed one foot on Skynegal soil, I will have you arrested and charged with criminal trespass. Even a self-appointed magistrate must answer to the Crown. Do I make myself clear?”
Dubhar reaffirmed Christian’s words with a low growl that came from deep in his belly.
Starke stared at Christian. “With all due respect, you are making a mistake, my lord.” He bowed his head slightly to Christian, then looked at Grace, staring at her with patent contempt. “Your ladyship.”
Starke turned and started walking to where his mount awaited with the three soldiers who had accompanied him. He pulled himself up and settled into the saddle, tugging on his gloves and setting his heels to the horse’s sides before calling to the soldiers to follow.
As he rode from the courtyard, he was followed by the jeers of the very people he had himself once maligned—and when he was gone, the jeers turned to cheers for the laird and lady of Skynegal.
Chapter Thirty-one
The conversation around the fire in the great hall that evening was of nothing else but Grace’s swift and just dismissal of the despicable factor from Sunterglen. Those who had been witness to the scene earlier that day related the tale time and time again for the others who had been occupied elsewhere. Each time the story was repeated, the embellishment grew until, by the time they had finished their supper, it had taken on ridiculously epic proportions. No, she had not ordered the factor away at swordpoint, Grace pointed out, nor had she delivered him a blow, or had him seized and thrown bodily into the loch. The more the uisgebheatha flowed, the more elaborate the tale became. Soon some even began composing ballads in her honor. Grace, though embarrassed by the attention, was happy to allow the Highlanders this much-deserved vindication after their recent misfortunes.
When they began making effusive toasts to her fingers and toes, Grace managed to break away from the raucous trestle table and crossed the room to join Liza, who sat holding tiny Iain in a secluded corner. Miraculously the babe was sleeping through the chaos that surrounded him.
Grace smiled at the maid as she took the seat beside her near the hearth. To see Liza now, one would never believe that she had once played the part of the proper English ladies’ maids. Echoing Grace’s example, Liza had abandoned her prim linen maid’s habit for a loose chemiselike blouse over full ankle-length skirts, leaving her hair hanging free and undressed. She looked utterly contented.
” ‘Twas a good thing,” Liza said, “Your having ordered that devil away like you did.”
“I did nothing more than anyone else would have done under the same circumstances.”
“You minimize your efforts. It is not just what happened today. It is all you have done here in the past months.”
“We have so much to celebrate,” Grace said, smoothing a finger over the slumbering Iain’s soft cheek. “Everyone has worked so hard and the castle looks—”
Grace soon noticed that Liza wasn’t listening to her. She looked and saw that the maid’s attention was planted squarely upon a handsome Highlander who was standing across the room on the outskirts of the assembly. He was a great hulking figure of a man with midnight black hair and adventure-filled eyes. Those same eyes, Grace noticed, were fixed keenly upon Liza in return.
He smiled at her, raising his whiskey cup in silent salute. Liza drew in a quivering breath. She broke away from her study of him only briefly when Seonag returned to claim the sleeping Iain. Settling back in her chair, Liza looked once again to where the Highlander still stood watching her with a gaze that rivaled the heat of the fire beside them.
“Goodness, my lady, have you ever seen such a man?” Grace grinned. “Ah, I see you’ve noticed Andrew.” Liza never took her eyes from him. Had she been a cat, Grace wouldn’t have been at all surprised to hear her purring.
“Noticed him, aye, I have, indeed, and more. Why haven’t you told me about him afore now?”
“His name is Andrew MacAlister and he arrived at Skynegal just yesterday. He fought in one of the Highland regiments against Napoleon and has just returned to Scotland from the Continent. His family emigrated to America, but he decided to remain in the Highlands. He’s come seeking work and a place to settle.”
“Have you ever seen legs like that?” Liza went on, appreciating the fit of his kilt. She actually sighed, giving Grace a chuckle. “Perhaps I could introduce you…”
Liza turned to stare at Grace in abject terror. “Oh, no, my lady, I look so disheveled. My hair is…” She smoothed back an errant curl. “And my clothes are…”
Grace glanced over Liza’s shoulder to see that Andrew was already approaching them. She grinned. “Well, it looks like you won’t have any choice in the matter, for he is headed in our direction as we speak.”
Liza’s eyes went as wide as Alastair’s and she froze, too anxious to turn or even move. She remained rooted to her chair, her back to the hall, staring at Grace with an expression of pure panic.
A deep rich brogue sounded from behind her.
“Gude e’ening, Lady Grace. I hope I’m no’ disturbin’ you. I was hopin’ I micht beg an introduction to this fine lassie sittin’ ‘ere aside you.”
Grace smiled, winking at Liza. “Of course, Andrew, it would be my pleasure.” She stood. “May I present to you Miss Eliza Stone? Liza, please meet Mr. Andrew MacAlister.”
Liza turned about slowly in her chair to face the waiting Highlander. The look on her face as she peered up at him was akin to profound awe. Andrew took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a gallant kiss upon it. “It is an honour t’ make your acquaintance, Miss Stone.”
“L-Liza,” the maid murmured. “You can call me Liza.”
“Aye, but only if you call me ‘Andrew’ in return,” he answered on a grin, the sort of grin that would make any girl’s knees turn to jelly. It was a good thing, Grace thought to herself, that Liza was still sitting.
“Andrew,” Liza repeated.
“Aye.” He motioned outward to the hall. “They’re preparin’ to play a bit o’ the fiddle. Would you care to partner me in the dance?”
Liza’s face fell. “Oh, but I cannot. I do not know the steps.
“Och, ‘tis nothin’. I’ll teach it to you, lass.”
Andrew drew Liza up from her chair and away with a nod of parting to Grace. Grace stood by and watched as Andrew set his great arms about Liza’s smaller frame and slowly demonstrated the movements of the dance. They made an attractive pair, both dark haired, he standing nearly a head taller than she. It wasn’t long before Liza had shed her reserve and was laughing even as she misstepped onto his toes.
Grace wondered what it would be like to have a man look at her in the way Andrew looked at Liza, the same way Eachann watched Seonag now with such open and total appreciation in his eyes as she held their infant son to her breast. This was love, she thought—the beginnings of it for one man and woman, the perpetuation of it for another—that indefinable magic that brought two together with the exchange of a glance. It was indeed the stuff of fairy tales. “Good e’ening, my lady. ‘Tis a fine night, is it no’?” Grace turned to see that Alastair had suddenly appeared besid
e her, taking up the cup of whiskey one of the others had brought to him.
“Alastair, good evening. I was wondering where you had gone to.”
“I was in the office, going over some figures with Lord Knighton and the Duke of Devonbrook for the proposal they plan to make to the Lords about the building of the roads. The duke has offered to help us find passage for some of the evicted tenants to travel to New Scotland and America and has promised to move others who are willing to his family’s estates in the south to fine plots of land there. Also, it seems the duchess’s father, Mr. Angus MacBryan, has a small importing venture that he’s looking to improve in the coming months and thus will need able hands to help him.”
Grace smiled, nodding over a sip of her punch. Robert and Catriona had proven a godsend in their efforts to help the displaced Highlanders. After viewing firsthand the full scope of the people’s plight, they had pledged funds and supplies to help see the tenants settled elsewhere. They had offered temporary housing at their estate Rosmorigh as a stopping-off point for those wishing to move south toward Glasgow. They had also given their hand, along with Grace and Christian, to a letter that would be sent to all the noble landowners in the Highlands, Scottish and English alike, asking for their support in the road-building venture. With the signatures of a powerful duke such as Robert, as well as the heir to the Westover dukedom, they would hold a much better chance of gaining their support. Grace’s most fervent hope was that they might induce the landowners to look at the benefits of putting their efforts toward the betterment of their tenants, so they might put a stop to the clearances all together. “Alastair, do you know where might I find—” Alastair, however, was no longer standing anywhere near her. While Grace had been lost to her thoughts, the Scotsman had stepped away to stand with the others. His attention was focused at the center of the throng of Highlanders, where it seemed everyone else’s attentions were focused, too. Grace hadn’t even noticed that the dancing had stopped. The music still played, only now it was soft and low, with a timbre that was as misty as the Scottish hills. There was singing with a sweet lyrical voice unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was the sort of singing that touched one to the heart, the sort that carried one away. Grace listened then to the words of the song being sung.
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