A Highland Folly

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “There is no need to treat Bonito with such cruelty,” she said, trying to keep her anger in check. “He was simply curious about you.”

  “Keep him away from me.” He straightened his waistcoat across his full belly and knocked dust from his breeches. It was the same gray as what had been on Neilli’s dress. Had Neilli been close to the work site? “Animals do not belong here. Neither do you.”

  “I am quite aware of that, Mr. Potter.” She had curbed her temper with Neilli, and she would not lose it with this officious man. As she had before, she wondered how Lucais endured him. “I have come to speak with Mr. MacFarlane.”

  “He is not here, Lady Kinloch.”

  “If you will tell me where he is—”

  Mr. Potter sneered, “You are as want-witted as the rest of these Scots. Don’t you understand? He does not wish to see you.”

  “I would prefer to hear that from him.”

  “That is your misfortune. Mr. MacFarlane has many more important things to do and would not let you waylay him from his duties. I heard him say as much himself.”

  “You did?” She wanted to accuse him of trying to fill her head with out-and-outers, but she could not help recalling Lucais’s anger when he had left Ardkinloch a fortnight ago. A fortnight! Had she bamblusterated herself with her expectation that Lucais would greet her warmly after avoiding her for two weeks?

  Mr. Potter smiled broadly, and she realized he was enjoying her discomfort. To let this disagreeable man hurt her with his viciously honed words proved she was as much of a bird-wit as he guessed her to be. She needed to talk with Lucais and get the truth of what had sent him from Ardkinloch, as well as his help in deciphering the puzzle of what had divided this glen more completely than the swift currents of the river. Until then, she would hold her counsel and not make any quick judgments.

  Putting her arm over Bonito’s back, she said quietly, “Mr. Potter, I would appreciate it if you will let Mr. MacFarlane know that Lady Kinloch called, wishing to speak to him about a matter concerning the bridge.”

  “The bridge?” He laughed. “You came here to speak with him about the bridge?”

  “Yes,” she said, struggling to maintain her tarnished dignity. Why did Mr. Potter have to put the same emphasis on that word as Neilli did? “I wish to discuss the impact of the bridge connecting this side of the glen and the far side. He will understand what I mean, and I trust he will give me a look-in at Ardkinloch at his earliest convenience.”

  “Convenient is what you have been for him, my lady.”

  The hateful fire scored her cheeks with a blush. “You have overstepped the bounds of propriety, Mr. Potter, with such a comment.”

  “I speak the truth.” He laughed again. “While he was waiting for the supplies to come up from London, you were here to entertain him. I guess whoever said the Scots were not hospitable was mistaken.”

  Anice walked away. His laughter followed, but other voices than Mr. Potter’s were what she heard. The voices that had derided her mother for being an air-dreamer for marrying Anice’s first stepfather and her second and her third and her fourth. No doubt, there were those who warned her from marrying into the Kinloch family, where her husband might be forced all his life to answer to his dowager mother, who ruled the family.

  Each time, there had been those who believed the match was a mistake, as well as those who were convinced that Anice’s mother had been blinded by love and desire. Each time, her mother had proven them wrong, enjoying the time she had with each husband and sharing that exciting life with her young daughter as they traveled around the world.

  It was the greatest irony that the one who had been tripped the double by love was Anice Kinloch.

  Fifteen

  Anice checked the accounts in the book in front of her. Her knees shifted beneath her lap desk. She hated this part of overseeing Ardkinloch but never more than today, when she wanted to be upstairs seeking the letter that she was beginning to fear had been lost or destroyed generations before.

  “My lady?” called Webber from the parlor doorway.

  She looked up to see the butler standing as straight as the pillars being raised in the middle of the river. “Yes?”

  “You have a caller, my lady. Mr. MacFarlane.” He stepped aside and bowed Lucais into the room.

  Coming to her feet and setting the lap desk on the other cushion of the settee, Anice savored the sight of Lucais. How could she have forgotten in the past two weeks how his hair glowed with blue sparks when the sunlight glided across it? Or how his tanned skin accented the firm planes of his face? Or how his strength gentled when his fingers caressed her? His hands were hidden behind his back, she noted, suggesting that he was holding something out of her sight.

  “Lucais! It is so good to see you. I—”

  “This is not a social call.”

  Her delight vanished. His tone was as frigid as when he had left Ardkinloch. Swallowing roughly so he would not guess how that chill shredded her dreams, she said, “I should have guessed that, for it is barely past midday, and I know you wish to use every moment of daylight to get closer to completing your project.”

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath, then said quietly, “Yes, you are quite correct, Anice.”

  She hoped he could not hear how her heart pounded at hearing him speak her name without icy vexation. “Do come in and sit. I can ring for tea if you have the time.”

  “I do not.”

  “Will you sit?”

  He nodded, and she motioned toward the chair beside where she had been sitting. Instead, he lifted her account book and lap desk from the settee. Sitting there, he reached up and took her hand. Slowly he drew her down to sit beside him.

  She gazed into his eyes, sure that she would be eternally lost within their sapphire depths. She could not imagine where she would be happier than floating amid the potent emotions glowing there. Her hand rose, for she could not resist caressing his cheek.

  He placed a broken wooden disk on it. When she balanced it on both hands, she asked, “What is this?”

  “It was the top from a barrel of gunpowder.”

  “That I can see,” she replied as she tilted it to see the lettering on the other side. She handed it back to him. “Why did you bring it here to show it to me?”

  “Because it should have been burned in the fire that destroyed the camp.”

  Anice gasped, instantly realizing that he thought the pranksters had stolen the barrel before setting the fires that had gotten out of control. “You are certain this barrel was in your camp before the fire?”

  “Aye,” he growled, and for the first time she heard the accent that flavored every word her family spoke. He must be more furious than he ever had been to lose the polish he had gained in England. “I had these barrels of gunpowder marked before we arrived here, so I could keep track of how much we were using during each aspect of the project. The replacement barrels have markings as well, but different ones.” He touched a small red circle. “See? The new barrels are marked with a blue star.”

  She stared at the stencil, wishing she could ignore the thoughts flooding into her head. “Where did you find this?”

  “Near your cottage up on the brae.”

  “My cottage? What were you doing there?”

  His scowl deepened. “I know you Kinlochs guard what is yours with avarice, but—”

  Setting herself on her feet, she looked down at him. “If you insist on taking that tone with me, you need not stay.”

  “Is that Lady Kinloch speaking?” he asked, standing.

  “It is any lady who has been spoken to so roughly by a man she thought would never treat her with such a lack of respect.” She clasped her arms in front of her and gripped her elbows to keep her fingers from trembling. “I bid you good day, Mr. MacFarlane.” She walked toward the door.

  “Anice …”

  At the entreaty he put into her name, she stopped. She did not turn. If she saw a matching expression on his face, she
might not be able to keep herself from forgiving him. If she saw only the coldness, she might never be able to forgive him.

  “Yes?” she replied.

  “I need your help with this.”

  “Why?” She still did not face him.

  His hands on her shoulders turned her toward him. Her yearning to soften against his strength vanished when she saw how taut his mouth was. “Anice, do not play the widgeon with me. I saw your reaction when I said this barrel had been in the camp before the fires were set. “You understand.”

  “Understand?” She twisted away. “I do not understand anything. I do not understand why anyone would set fire to your camp and I do not understand why the Kinlochs have carried on a feud for centuries when no one seems to know why and …” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I do not understand why you left here as you did and did not come back until now.”

  He picked up the broken barrel lid. Slapping it against his hand, he said, “You do understand that if the gunpowder in this was stolen, then someone could be involved with something they truly do not know how to handle. Something more dangerous than your cousins and their allies realize.”

  “You have no proof to accuse anyone.”

  “I found this—”

  “By the cottage. Yes, you said that.” With her heart breaking, she seemed to be watching this conversation as if from a distance. Part of her was mourning that he had returned here only to get her help in halting the pranksters, while the other part of her was furious that he accused her cousins of the heinous crime of robbery and setting fire to the road camp. “Did you ever stop to think, Mr. MacFarlane, that if you have free access to the brae between the cottage and Dhùin Liath, others have the same? You cannot be sure if any Kinloch was involved, so you should not come here with your allegations of misdeeds.”

  “Anice—”

  “I think you should leave,” she said, wanting to bite back the words but knowing she must say them. She did not want to love a man who would accuse Neilli and Parlan without proof. Although that was silly, because she did love Lucais MacFarlane.

  As had happened so often, a multitude of emotions flashed through his eyes. This time, as never before, she could read them. He was furious and shocked and … sorrowful. When he put his hand up to cup her cheek, she stepped away and looked aside. She must not allow any of those promised passions to seduce her into forgiving him again.

  She winced as she heard him walk off. Wanting to call him back, she went to the window and looked up at Dhùin Liath. She had never guessed that the price of finding a family would be losing her happiness.

  “So you have made a complete muddle of this?” Lord Chesterburgh laughed as he poured a second glass of brandy and held it out to his son.

  Lucais took the glass. He had not enjoyed such a fine vintage since he had left London. Taking a sip, he tried to savor it but could not. The dregs of his conversation with Anice remained too bitter in his mouth. “That describes the situation quite accurately. I have let my shame at not being honest with Anice turn into heated words that have created even more pain for her.”

  “And for yourself.” Sitting, the marquess asked, “How do you intend to rectify the situation, as you call it with such dispassion?”

  “If I had an iota of honor left, I would say without hesitation that I intended to rectify this with the truth.”

  “But?”

  “How can I tell Anice that I have been false with her from the moment we met?” He paced from the hearth to the wide bookshelves that lined his father’s favorite room in Chester Hills. “I have had numerous opportunities to tell her the truth that I can claim the title of Lord Chesterton, but I have not. At first, it was because I did not want to call more attention to the road project. Then, when she learned of the anger that has simmered for generations between this family and hers, I was certain she would denounce me for being as untrustworthy as all Kinlochs see us.” He paused and glowered at his father. “Now this wild-goose chase you have set her upon has complicated things further.”

  “It may not be a wild-goose chase.” His father tapped his glass with the tips of his fingers. “There was correspondence between our Chesterton ancestors and the Kinlochs during the seventeenth century. I have seen references to it in the records here at Chester Hills. A search of the house here garnered me nothing.”

  “So you assumed the letters are at Ardkinloch.” Lucais clenched his glass until he realized he was about to snap it. Loosening his grip, he demanded, “How could you be so heartless? Haven’t you seen that Anice wants to have everyone live peacefully here? She has had such a turbulent life, she wants serenity now.”

  “Is that so?”

  Lucais was about to retort, then smiled when he saw the twinkle in his father’s eye. “Do not say it. You believe that I have created more turmoil in her life than you.”

  “Love can be a maelstrom rather than a sweet spring shower.”

  Lucais sat across from his father. “Do not abuse my ears with your idea of poetry, Father. I need your sage advice.”

  “Sage advice? You have never seemed interested in it before this.”

  “I have never made such a muddle of things before this.” Unable to sit, he stood again. “Oh, I thought it was love that I harbored in my heart for Gwendolyn when I was in London last Season. Mayhap it was calf-love brought on by a desire for what was unobtainable, but no more. I learned the truth when she showed her interest in me only when I was no longer addressed as the Honorable Mister, but as my lord.”

  “So you wanted to find out if Lady Kinloch truly cares for you as Lucais MacFarlane instead of being eager for your title of Lord Chesterton.” His father sniffed derisively. “Why did you choose now to be such a sawney? And with a Kinloch?” He sighed. “You know such a match may be impossible.”

  Lucais’s brow lowered. “You are jesting, aren’t you? I know we have stayed much to ourselves on this side of the Abhainn an Uruisg while the Kinlochs have kept themselves on the other bank, but the ancient ways are going to be useless when the bridge spans the river.”

  “It may take more than a bridge to span the chasm between the two families, depending on what was in those letters.”

  “What could be in them that matters after almost two hundred years?”

  The marquess’s face grew taut. “The truth.”

  Anice flinched as she heard the harsh crash of rock against rock from near the Abhainn an Uruisg. Iron bridges might be common in England, but here the road crew was depending on the ready supply of stone that had been blasted from the ridge along the river.

  The breeze tugged at the pages in the box on her lap. She had come up here by the cottage to go through them because she knew here she would neither be interrupted nor have to explain what she was doing. Her family might not be pleased to discover that she wanted to find the missing letter Lord Chesterburgh believed was at Ardkinloch. In the past few days, she had read birth records and death records and slips of paper listing how many sheep had grazed on the hill in the early eighteenth century and how much the rents for the houses in Killiebige had been seventy five years before. Nothing had resembled a letter from someone at Chester Hills to someone at Ardkinloch.

  Picking up another page, she glanced at it. She flattened it on her lap and squinted to read the faded handwriting. When she saw the date on it was from the mid-seventeenth century, she tried to puzzle out the words that had nearly vanished into the yellowed paper.

  “What are you reading, Lady Kinloch?”

  She looked up to see Sir Busby. “Just some of my grandmother’s old papers.” Looking beyond him as she folded the sheet and put it back into the box, she asked, “How did you get here without Bonito following you?”

  “He has been ignoring me lately.”

  “I didn’t realize that.” She had come to trust the llama’s reactions to people. When they had first arrived in Scotland, Bonito had greeted Sir Busby as soon as he stepped onto Ardkinloch land.

&nbs
p; As he now did with Lucais.

  Lucais! She did not want to think of him and how he had expected her to heed his accusations, which he had made on the slimmest of evidence. Although she would not be surprised if either Neilli or Parlan or both had had some hand in a few of the pranks, she could not believe they had set fire to the camp.

  She should be furious at Lucais, and she was. Despite that, she found herself so often thinking of his smile in the moment before his lips slanted across hers as his broad hands swept up around her. Losing herself in that rapture had been exquisitely enchanting, and she wanted it again.

  “May I?” Sir Busby asked, pointing to the rock where she was sitting.

  “Yes,” she said as she tried to rearrange her thoughts, pushing those tantalizing fantasies aside. “Please do join me.”

  “I trust I am not intruding.”

  “No, of course not.” Anice frowned when she noted how his hands were trembling. Something was distressing her neighbor. Foreboding sank through her stomach. Sir Busby had been this upset at the beginning of the archery contest. Only partway through did he have to own that it had eased the strain between the Scots and the roadmen. “Is something amiss, Sir Busby?”

  “We need to speak.” He kneaded his hands anxiously as if he were trying to get sensation back in them after a frigid winter walk along the high braes.

  “If you want to know if I have changed my mind about the road project—”

  “No, I wish to speak of something more personal than the road.”

  Anice smiled as she saw his nervous expression. He had called at the house twice in the last week and had spent time sharing some tea with her and Aunt Coira. By how he had looked about the house expectantly, she was sure he had been hoping to see Neilli coming to join them.

  Setting the box of papers on the ground by her feet, she said, “Please speak frankly, Sir Busby.”

  “I think it would be wise for you and me to consider a match, Lady Kinloch … Anice, if I may be so bold.”

  “You and me?” Her voice squeaked on the words.

  “It is logical.” He sighed. “And it seems it is quite the time for someone to be logical.”