by Trisha Telep
Donald drank from it. “He’ll no go back on his word, then. You know Cameron.”
“Aye, pigheaded – a Fraser to the bone.” Jimmy drank another dram of whisky and the two brothers rode gloomily on in their cousin’s wake.
Cameron took no notice. He was used to his cousin’s complaints. They’d stick with him, he knew. He was glad of it. Another few hours to Inverness, and then to find a bride. The whole idea was somewhat … daunting.
He’d never given marriage much thought. He liked women well enough, but marriage was a serious business, the sort of thing a man considered in his thirties. But he couldn’t let his uncle squander any more of his inheritance.
Cameron’s mother and her brother, though of pure Scots blood, had been born and raised in France. Their grandparents were exiles who’d fled with the Prince after the disaster of Culloden. Raised in Parisian luxury, fed on romantic, impossible dreams of Scottish glory, they’d both found Scottish reality, and the poverty that resulted from the effects of war, sorely disappointing.
Cameron’s mother had died of an ague when he was a wee lad, but her brother, who’d initially come for the wedding, had stayed on, never marrying, seemingly harmless. Cameron’s father had tolerated him, and Cameron was inclined to do that same. Blood was blood, after all.
Though to name him as trustee … Who would have expected Uncle Ian to sicken and die of a chill, such a big, hale man.
But if, after nearly thirty years of sponging off the Frasers, Charles Sinclair thought he could now turn a Scottish castle into a mini Versailles, he had another think coming.
They reached the bog at the southern edge of the estate. A narrow raised road had been built across in ages past. At the end of the causeway was the wooden bridge that would take him on to the Inverness road.
In ancient times the bog had proved a useful barrier. The estate lay on a promontory, defended on two sides by water, and on the third by mountains. The narrow, easily defended causeway was the only way to cross the treacherous, muddy land of the promontory, and the bridge over the burn that the bog slowly drained into gave the only access to it. History had lost count of the number of times Frasers had burned the bridge to keep out invaders.
But those times were long past. The current bridge had been built when his grandfather was a boy. It was time to drain the bog and build a sturdy stone bridge, Cameron thought. His father had planned to do it but he’d died.
God grant Cameron would soon have the power to begin the necessary work. All he needed was a wife. It wouldn’t take him long, surely, in a town the size of Inverness.
His spirits lifting, he urged his horse along the causeway, galloping into the rain.
A herd of sheep suddenly appeared, ghostly in the misty drizzle, bunched thick along the causeway, blocking the road. Cameron hauled his horse to a standstill. It snorted and moved restlessly, misliking the situation.
The sheep eyed Cameron suspiciously and backed away, but “Get on there!” a voice shouted from behind the herd. “You on the horses, stand still and let the sheep through!”
Cameron squinted into the rain. Dimly he could see a boy in a too-big coat and hat, waving a crook. A dog barked and the sheep bunched and milled and baaaed uncertainly, crowding to the very edge of the causeway.
Behind him Jimmy and Donald’s horses plunged to a halt. “Get those beasties out of the way,” Jimmy shouted.
“Dinna shout at them, ye fool,” the boy snapped. “They’re stupid beasts and are like to panic. And if any get into the bog …”
Jimmy, being well into the contents of his flask, was inclined to argue – gentlemen on horseback took precedence over sheep – but Cameron held up his hand. “Stay still,” he ordered.
The dog barked again and suddenly the first sheep darted past Cameron. The milling herd followed, streaming around and past the men on horseback like a living river, baaing madly, their long sodden woollen skirts swinging frantically as they fled along the causeway. Two little black-faced lambs, however, plunged off the causeway and floundered in the muddy bog. Their mother followed.
“Damn ye tae hell, ye fool beasties!” the boy swore and followed them into the bog with a splash. He grabbed the first lamb and set it back on its feet. It stood, bleating plaintively. The boy then began to heave at the mother, both of them floundering in the mud. Jimmy and Donald watched the show from horseback, grinning.
Cameron barely noticed. The rain had eased and he could see the bridge, a few dozen yards away. Or what remained of the bridge. It was impassable, smashed to pieces, looking more like a scattering of giant toothpicks than a bridge.
It must have happened during the great storm. Rage slowly filled him. His uncle must have known. And he’d done nothing. This was as bad, or worse than the roofs needing repairs. The bridge gave the estate direct access to the Inverness road.
Uncle Charles, however, only cared about access to France, and that was by boat, not road.
Cameron stared at the devastation. He’d have to return the way he’d come, and leave by the westerly border. Hours more travel and they’d still be on the estate.
“Give it up, Cam.” His cousin Donald touched his arm. “We’ve no choice but to turn back now. It’ll be dark before we even get home.”
“I’ll no’ go home wi’ my tail between my legs,” Cameron muttered, though in truth he could see no other alternative. “And I’ll not leave the estate in my uncle’s hands a day longer than I must.”
“There’s naught you can do wi’ the bridge in that state, though, is there?” Donald said reasonably. “Ye canna cross it, ye must go back.”
“Dammit, I can see that!” Thwarted and furious, Cameron glared at the bridge. Hearing laughter behind him, he turned to see his cousin Jimmy swigging whisky and chuckling at the spectacle of the boy still trying to drag his wretched sheep from the bog. The large, ungainly animal was plunging deeper into the bog, struggling desperately, as if the lad were trying to drown it instead of saving it. From where Cameron stood, the sheep was winning. Both lad and beast were black mud to the eyebrows. And on the far side of the struggle the remaining small lamb was sinking fast.
“Make yourself useful, will ye Jimmy? Give the lad a hand.”
“And get my new boots filled with black mud?” Jimmy snorted. “Not likely.”
Cameron glanced at Donald, who shrugged and made no move. The lad fell for the third time. The tiny lamb struggled to keep its head above the muddy water.
Cameron swore, swung off his horse and waded in. He scooped the lamb out first and set it on its feet beside its twin. Then he hauled the boy out, shoving him close to the bank. “Jimmy! Pull him out.”
Jimmy dismounted, gingerly took the boy’s dirty hands and dragged him on to the solid causeway. Cameron waded back in and tried to fetch the mother sheep. The stupid thing bucked and fought, and in seconds Cameron himself was black with bog mud.
His cousins watched from the bank, passing the flask back and forth, making bets and roaring with laughter.
But Cameron was strong and big and angry. He wrapped his arms around the sheep’s middle and heaved, almost throwing the filthy beast on to the bank, causing his cousins to leap back like ladies to avoid the mud. The sheep shook itself, bleated and trotted indignantly away, followed by the lambs.
Cameron’s cousins were laughing fit to burst. He’d fix them. “Help me out.” He held out his hands, but they laughed and backed away.
“We’re no so far gone we’d fall for that old trick,” Jimmy chuckled.
“Canny bastards,” Cameron muttered as climbed out of the bog, black mud dripping from him. “And if there’s no whisky left in that flask, I swear I’ll throw you in anyway.”
Laughing, Jimmy tossed him the flask. Cameron was about to drain it when he saw how the shepherd lad was shivering in the cold. He thrust it towards the boy, saying, “Here, you need this more than me.”
The boy accepted it with a surprised expression and took a quick swig. He shuddere
d violently as the whisky went down, but managed to gasp out his thanks.
“So, boy,” Cameron said. “What’s your name?”
His cousins guffawed. The shepherd boy gave a quick grin, a cheeky white slash in a muddy face. “Jeannie Macleay, sir, and thank you for getting the sheep out o’ the mud, even if you did panic the beasts in the first place. My uncle would’ve kilt me if I’d lost her.” She tried to wipe the mud off her face with her sleeve and only smeared it more.
“Jeannie?” Cameron stared. The coat she wore was a man’s coat, too big for her, rolled up at the sleeves and hanging down almost to her ankles, but though it was hard to tell because of the mud, there was a skirt beneath it. The boots she wore were a man’s boots, too big, surely for her feet and the hat crammed on her head was a man’s hat.
“Are ye married, Jeannie?” Jimmy asked, suddenly intent.
She frowned. “No,” she said cautiously.
“And where were ye born?”
“Stop that!” Cameron snapped, realizing what his cousin was up to.
Jimmy gave him an innocent look. “No harm in asking.”
“Drop it, Jimmy,” Cameron told his cousin. He was not going to marry some ragamuffin he’d just dragged out of a bog.
“She’s the first one you’ve seen,” Jimmy insisted.
“The first what?” the girl demanded.
“He couldna take her anyway,” Donald argued. “She’s just a wee thing, no’ a grown woman.”
“Take me where? Nobody’s taking me anywhere.”
“Stow it you two, the whole idea’s ridiculous,” Cameron said. His cousins took no notice. There was a bet on and the contents of the flask were obviously well absorbed.
“How old are you, Jeannie lass?” Jimmy asked.
“Nineteen,” Jeannie Macleay said, eying each man suspiciously. “But I said, nobody’s taking me anywhere.” She began to edge away.
Jimmy grabbed her by the arm, careless now of any mud, intent only on his wager. “And where were you born, Jeannie, me dear?”
“I’m no’ your dear.” She yanked her arm from his grip and hurried away, flinging over her shoulder, “And not that it’s any of your business, but I was born on the island of Lewis.”
At her words, Jimmy let out a whoop of triumph and punched his brother in the shoulder. “Lewis! She’s eligible! You owe me a monkey, Donald!”
“The bet’s not won until the deed is done,” Donald insisted. “Cameron’s yet to wed her.”
“He will, he will,” Jimmy crowed.
Donald snorted. “It’s a crazy notion, and Cameron’s no the crazy one here.”
Jimmy shook his head. “He gave his word, man, and Cameron never goes back on his word.”
The girl followed her sheep, putting as much distance between herself and the men as she could, running swiftly despite the clumsy, man-sized boots. Cameron watched her thoughtfully.
When he’d made his rash statement he had no thought of wedding anyone except a lady born. This bog sprite shepherdess was totally unsuitable.
But he’d never broken his word before. Rashness gave way to serious thought; there might be wives to be had in Inverness – ladies – but how long would it take to get one to wed him? And how much would his uncle squander in the meantime?
Jimmy grabbed him by the shoulder. “Well, Cammie, will ye wed her or no? There’s a bet on.”
Cameron swore softly under his breath. The girl was young, unmarried and born outside the estate. What difference would it make anyway who he wed? Women were for running the house and birthing babes and any female could do that. Getting control of his inheritance was what counted. Besides, the little he knew of ladies born was that they were a lot of trouble. They expected a man to dance attendance on them, whereas a lass like this, country bred and down-to-earth … She floundered in the mud. Very down-to-earth.
“Aye, I’ll wed her,” he declared.
“Aha—” Jimmy began, then let out a yell. “She’s getting away. Don’t worry, Cam, I’ll get her back for ye.” And without warning he jumped on his horse and galloped after the girl.
“Och, the mad fool,” Donald began. “Whatever will she think—”
Cameron leapt on his horse and set off after Jimmy.
The girl, seeing Jimmy bearing down on her, screamed defiance at him and ran faster. Jimmy let out a whoop, as if he was running down a hind.
“Leave her be, Jimmy,” Cameron roared.
But Jimmy was almost on the girl and oblivious. With a bloodcurdling yell he scooped her up and tossed her over his saddle. She fought and struggled but Jimmy just laughed and smacked her on the backside as he wheeled his horse around and cantered back to Cameron with a triumphant grin.
“I fetched her for ye – yeeeowww!” He broke off with a yell of pain. He stared down at the girl in shock. “She bit me! The wee vixen bit me!”
The wee vixen moved to bite his leg again and Jimmy hastily shoved her off his horse. She dropped lightly to the ground and glanced warily around, preparing to run again.
“There’s no need to be afeared,” Cameron said hastily. He dismounted and took a few slow steps towards her, holding his hands up pacifically, saying in a soothing voice, “Nobody here will harm you. My cousin is a wee bit enthusiastic, that’s all—”
“He’s drunk,” the girl said, backing away.
“Maybe, but he meant well,” Cameron told her.
She snorted. “Meant well? To kidnap me in broad daylight?”
“Nobody’s going to kidnap you,” Cameron assured her softly and moved closer. She backed away and glanced at the bog, as if weighing her chances of escaping across it.
“Ye daft wee besom, he wants tae marry you,” Jimmy said, still rubbing his leg.
She snorted. “He’s drunker than I thought.”
It was now or never, Cameron thought. He cleared his throat. “It’s true,” he said. It came out as a croak.
She made a gesture of disgust. “You’re drunk, too.”
“I’m not. I’m offering you marriage.” There it was out. He was officially crazy. But at least he’d get control of his inheritance.
Away on the moors a curlew called, a mournful, other-wordly cry. The wind blew across the bog, carrying the scent of heather and dank, rotting mud.
The girl scrutinized his face, then turned to look at each of his cousins. “Marriage?” she said eventually. “You’re proposing marriage to me? To me?”
Cameron nodded. “Aye.”
In her dirty, mud-streaked face, her blue eyes gleamed bright with suspicion. “Why?”
Cameron shrugged. “I must marry someone. Why not you?” It was ridiculous when said aloud, but with the eyes of his cousins on him, he wasn’t going to back down. He’d never broken his word yet.
But he might not have to. The girl could still refuse. He waited.
Down the road the girl’s sheepdog barked. A sheep baaed in response. “You’re tetched in the head,” she told him. “You canna mean such a thing. Why, you never set eyes on me before today.”
“It sounds mad, I know, but it’s an honest offer I’m making ye,” Cameron told her.
Stunned, Jeannie Macleay chewed on her lip and stared at the solemn young man in front of her. He was asking her to marry him? It couldn’t possibly be true. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her if he met her again – she was all over mud, anyway. He was drunk, or tetched in the head, but … Marriage? The thought gave her pause.
She would have married almost anyone to get away from Uncle Ewen and the sheep. And suddenly, like something out of a dream, here was this tall, beautiful young man, asking her.
Was he one of the fairy folk? She’d never believed in them until now – well, not since she was a little girl – but she’d heard they were invariably beautiful, and this one certainly qualified.
He’d wiped his face clean of mud. His cheekbones and jaw might have been cut with a blade, they were so perfect and sharp. His nose was bold and straight as a
sword and his mouth firm and unsmiling. And his chin … her mother always used to say a man with a firm chin could be relied on.
Warrior stock, no doubt, like many folk in the highlands, of Viking descent. His hair was brown and sun-streaked yet his eyes weren’t Viking blue, but hazel. They watched her steadily, but she sensed an intensity beneath the calm manner.
He was well off, too, going by the quality of his clothes and his horse.
God knew why he’d even looked twice at her, with her in her uncle’s old coat and boots and covered in mud, but he had. And try as she might, she could not dismiss it. She pinched herself, hard, to be sure it wasn’t a dream.
“I don’t know you from Adam,” she said to silence the clamour in her head.
“My name is Cameron Fraser.”
Fraser. It was a common enough name around here.
Oh Lord. She ought not to even consider his proposal. The poor lad was no doubt a wee bit soft in the head, and his friends were too drunk to realize what he was doing.
But she was only human.
The choices loomed large in her head; life with Uncle Ewen, the stingiest, gloomiest, dourest man in all of Scotland – or life with this tall, solemn young man.
The rest of her life spent on the moors, half the time cold, wet and hungry, looking after Uncle Ewen’s sheep – or marriage to this beautiful young man who was probably tetched in the head to be offering marriage to her on so little acquaintance.
No choice at all.
People said better the devil you knew. Not Jeannie.
“Do ye have a house?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Would I be its mistress?” It was the summit of her dreams – to have a home of her own, to be beholden to noone. To belong.
He nodded. “My mother died when I was a bairn. You’d be the woman of the house.”
The woman of the house. There it was, her dream laid out for her. All she had to do was to say yes. She swallowed. What if he proved to be a madman or violent?
She thought of how he’d plunged into the bog and hauled her and the sheep out out. He hadn’t given a thought to his fine clothes. And he’d set the lamb on its feet with a gentle hand.
