by Marie Laval
She took a deep breath. She didn’t have to see him at all. She could pretend she wasn’t feeling well and stay in her room all day.
‘I’m afraid Lord McGunn can’t be with you this morning,’ the girl continued. ‘He had to go to the village.’
‘Good!’ It was as if a weight had been lifted of her chest and she could breathe again. ‘I mean, will he stay there long?’
She slipped her hand under the blanket and crossed her fingers. With luck, the beastly man would be out all day.
‘Until tonight, I think. So I’m sorry to say you’ll be on your own for breakfast, since Morag left early, too, to run some errands.’
Rose gave a sigh of relief so loud that Agnes looked up and smiled.
‘I dare say my lady isn’t very keen to meet Morag or the laird this morning.’
Rose’s cheeks grew warm.
‘I do find Morag a little … forbidding. As for Lord McGunn, he scowls, frowns and glares just like that …’
She narrowed her eyes to slits, frowned hard and gave Agnes a dark, angry stare.
‘In fact, I’ll call him Lord McGlum from on,’ Rose carried on. ‘What do you think?’
Agnes burst out laughing. ‘McGlum! That’s him, for sure. ’Tis true that the laird doesn’t often smile these days, let alone laugh.’
Except when he’s having fun at my expense, Rose corrected silently.
Agnes’ smile faded and her eyes became serious once more.
‘Then again he does have a lot on his mind. He tries to hide it but we all know how exhausted he is. He works all the hours God sends, never accepts anyone’s help, even MacBoyd’s.’ She sighed. ‘He’s making himself ill.’
She poked at the fire and placed a few dark bricks onto the grate, and soon the strong earthy smell Rose had noticed before filled the room. She wrinkled her nose.
‘What do you put in that fire? It smells awful, like dry mud.’
‘’Tis peat, my lady.’ Agnes wiped her hands on her grey skirt and turned to Rose, a satisfied look on her face.
‘There you are. You’ll be all nice and warm now.’
Rose didn’t think that the fire made a blind bit of difference to the freezing temperature in the room, but she couldn’t linger in bed any longer. She wrapped Bruce McGunn’s blue and green plaid around her and climbed out of bed.
The girl pointed at the blanket.
‘That’s our laird’s plaid!’
Cursing inwardly for not thinking about hiding the blanket under the bedcovers, Rose feigned surprise. ‘That old thing? Is it really? I found it in the room … there on that chair.’
Agnes stared at her woolly socks.
‘These were on the chair too,’ Rose added quickly.
‘They’re the laird’s socks, and they’re far too big for you.’
‘And awfully scratchy too,’ Rose added as she rubbed her hands over the flames. ‘By the way, is there any news about the girl who was found on the beach yesterday?’
At once Agnes’ eyes filled with tears. Her chin quivered and a sob escaped her.
‘It was Fenella MacKay.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. It is very sad.’ Now she knew why the maid had been crying the evening before.
‘Aye, my lady, but in a way ‘tis better for her poor mother and father that she was found at last. At least now they know for sure she’s gone. All this waiting, all this hoping, it’s been very hard for them.’
Rose’s throat tightened. She remembered only too well the agony her mother and she had gone through when her brother had run away, blaming himself for their father’s death. It hadn’t been Lucas’ fault at all that their father was murdered by French soldiers after being trapped in a cave, but Lucas didn’t see it that way. He had given no sign that he was alive for five long years, during which they had feared him dead, without ever being able to mourn him. Rose and Lucas had both suffered in their own way after their father’s death: Lucas by living in the desert, plotting with rebels and forsaking his family; and she had developed a terror of being trapped inside a dark, enclosed place, like her father had been the night he was killed.
Her fear of darkness was forever a part of her now, along with her rage and bitterness about her father’s unjust death, and the cruel awareness that she had been powerless to console her mother or draw her out of her grief.
She heaved a sigh and shook her head. Maybe now she was married, her mother would be proud of her at last.
‘What happened to Fenella?’ she asked.
‘I heard the laird and MacBoyd say that she was murdered,’ Agnes replied, ‘but nobody knows who did it yet. It was the summertime when she went missing. She went out to pick bilberries on the moors and never came back. We looked everywhere for her. Her father went back to their village in the hope of finding her there, but there was nothing but rubble and burnt wood. It was as if she’d disappeared from the surface of the earth. Some people even said that Black Donald took her.’
‘Donald? Who is he? Did Lord McGunn talk to him?’
Agnes leaned closer to Rose and whispered.
‘No, my lady. Black Donald isn’t a man; he’s the Devil.’
Rose’s heart skipped a beat at the sinister image conjured in her mind.
Shaking her head, she recalled something the maid had just said, something odd.
‘Did you say that her village was burnt down?’
‘Aye, my lady. Her village was destroyed by Morven.’
‘Morven?’ The name sounded familiar.
‘He is McRae’s factor, and just as mean and heartless as his master.’ Agnes’ hand flew to her mouth.
‘I’m sorry, so sorry, my lady. I shouldn’t have said that. I forgot Lord McRae is your … that you’re his …’
But Rose wasn’t listening. ‘I remember now,’ she said. ‘Cameron mentioned Morven a few times … why do you say he burned down Fenella’s village?’
The girl hesitated. ‘You mean you don’t know about the evictions and the clearing of the land?’
‘What evictions?’
‘Morven is clearing the land to make way for sheep farms. He gets a judge to sign eviction orders he serves to the crofters. If they refuse to get out, he gets his thugs to burn the cottages so that people can’t come back. It’s happening all over Westmore.’
‘That’s terrible!’ Rose put a hand against her heart. ‘Is there nothing people can do about it? Can they not report this Morven to the police?’
Agnes snorted. ‘The police are on his side, my lady, and so is the army. Sometimes they even give him a hand. I’ve seen constables beat old women up and drag them out of a burning house by the hair.’
‘Then Lord McRae and Lady Patricia must be told about it without delay!’
The girl opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again without saying a word.
‘Where do people go once their house has been destroyed?’ Rose asked.
‘Some go to Glasgow, Aberdeen or Dundee. Others board a ship bound for America or Australia, but many are left scraping a living in one of the new coastal villages. We were lucky. Lord McGunn took us in. He gave us a house and some work.’
‘So you and your family came from Westmore too?’
The girl nodded. ‘We left our hamlet near Chaelamy last year.’
She pulled her sleeve above her elbow. Her forearm bore ugly red scars.
‘I was helping my mother gather our things when Morven and his men served our eviction order. We didn’t get out quickly enough and my dress caught fire. Luckily for me, Lord McGunn paid for Doctor Kilroy’s fees and for all the ointments I needed too. We had nothing left, you see, no money, nothing.’
Rose shook her head in consternation.
‘I must tell my husband about these terrible things his factor is committing in his name. I promise he’ll have that despicable Morven arrested and thrown into jail.’
Once again Agnes seemed about to speak, but she shrugged and said nothing.
The clock on the
mantelpiece rang the hour. Rose waited for the music to start and the shepherdess to do her dance, but nothing happened.
‘That’s odd. There’s no music this morning.’
Agnes looked at her as if she had lost her mind.
‘It’s just a clock, my lady, it doesn’t play music.’
‘It does. It kept me awake most of the night.’
Rose couldn’t resist reaching for it and stroking the clock’s smooth lines.
‘It’s so beautiful. I wonder who it belonged to.’
‘This was Lady Bonnie’s room – Lord McGunn’s mother – before she …’ Agnes stopped, bit her lip and tucked her hands in the folds of her skirt.
Rose looked at her, willing her to continue. ‘Before she … what?’
‘Before she died, miss. It was a long time ago, when the laird was only a bairn. I was told the poor lady fell from the cliffs.’
She lifted her hand and tapped her forehead with her index finger.
‘She didn’t have all her head. Apparently it wasn’t the first time she’d been wandering alone at night.’
She glanced towards the door and lowered her voice.
‘People say she jumped off the cliffs on purpose, that’s why she isn’t buried in the village churchyard but on the cliff top.’
‘You mean she committed suicide?’
Agnes nodded.
‘It must have been a terrible shock for her husband.’
‘She didn’t have one.’
Rose’s eyes opened wide in shock. ‘Then who is Lord Bruce’s father?’
Agnes picked up the empty bucket.
‘Nobody knows,’ she said, walking across the room and opening the door. ‘And nobody ever talks about it.’
‘I shall send my report to Thurso as soon as the weather lifts. In the meantime I’ll have a word with the pastor about Fenella’s burial.’
Bruce held the office door open for Kilroy and the two men walked down the corridor. The smell of fish and brine, salt, seaweed, oilskins and wet boots clung to the walls and the floor, thick and pungent.
Bruce didn’t mind the smell. What he minded were the quiet and the emptiness of the cases and boxes lining the corridors. His boats needed to go out to sea; fish needed to be caught, processed and despatched to towns in Scotland and England. Without income from the fisheries, the prospect of repaying the bank loans he owed slipped further and further away.
McNeil had taken up guard duty outside the cold room where the girl’s body had been laid out. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, he was busy stuffing tobacco into his clay pipe.
‘Thanks for the tea this morning,’ Bruce said as he walked past.
The bulky, dark-haired man nodded. Silent and unsmiling as usual, he lit his pipe and drew hard on it until his thickset features disappeared behind a cloud of tobacco smoke.
‘Not the most eloquent of men,’ Kilroy remarked a minute later as they stood by the main door, ready to step into the storm outside. ‘I can’t say I’ve heard him say more than three words in the six months he’s been here.’
He pulled his sheepskin hat down over his fair hair and fastened his cloak.
‘There’s nothing wrong with being economical with words,’ Bruce replied. ‘McNeil might not say much but he is solid and dependable. Actually, he helped me out of a sticky pass during our trip to Inverness.’
‘What kind of sticky pass?’
‘We were ambushed at the docks one night. I was knocked out and can’t remember a bloody thing. It was lucky McNeil was there to take me back to our inn.’
Kilroy arched his eyebrows, looking puzzled.
‘What? The legendary Claymore Devil defeated by a gang of common muggers? I find that difficult to believe.’
As always when his memory failed him – which happened more and more often these days – a dark cloud pressed on Bruce’s chest and frustration made his temper rise.
‘Well, you’d better believe it, because it’s the truth. We had a meal and a card game in a tavern at the docks. It was after midnight when we headed back to our inn. I remember walking down a dark alley. Then someone jumped on my back and …’
He lifted his shoulders, made a gesture with his hands.
‘McNeil had to fight off our attackers single-handed and drag me back, unconscious, to our inn. I surfaced, late the following afternoon, bruised and groggy.’
Kilroy arched his eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘And that’s all there is to it.’ His voice came out sharper than he had intended.
He took a deep breath. There was something else in the recesses of his mind: a series of blurred and disjointed images of a beautiful, dark-haired woman scantily dressed, lying in a room decorated with crimson silk curtains, gilded mirrors and a huge brass bed – a bordello no doubt. The woman looked scared and bruised, but his memories were so elusive he couldn’t make any sense of them, let alone talk about them.
He must have been drunk, even though he didn’t remember drinking that much. He never did, never had. Growing up with his grandfather, and seeing how whisky could change a sensible man into an incoherent and violent drunk, he’d never been keen on following his example.
He raked his fingers through his dark hair.
‘Anyway, McNeil sleeps as little as I do, so he brings me breakfast at dawn every morning, and shares a whisky or two with me sometimes in the evenings.’
‘So you still have bad nights.’ Kilroy’s tone was casual but his pale blue eyes were sharp as they assessed him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Some are worse than others. Actually, last night was rather eventful.’
Bruce raised his hand and added quickly. ‘And before you jump to any conclusions, it wasn’t because of a headache or a nightmare, but because of a woman.’
Kilroy didn’t have to know that the woman had come after the headache and the nightmare.
The doctor’s blue eyes twinkled with laughter.
‘A woman? Things are looking up, McGunn. Who is she?’
‘You must have heard that I’m playing host to McRae’s new bride, Rose.’
As soon as he said her name it was as if he was back in his room with the woman in his bed, her barely clothed body tantalisingly soft under him. He could smell her sweet, feminine scent and feel her heart fluttering against his chest like the wings of a butterfly trapped in a net.
He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had affected him so much. She was everything he despised: a scatterbrain and a spoilt, capricious heiress. Worse still, she was McRae’s wife. Yet, there was something about her. Something sweet, funny, irresistible …
‘I can’t wait to meet her. What is she like?’ Kilroy’s voice drew him back to reality.
‘She is … different. Actually, why don’t you come for supper tonight and find out for yourself?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Good idea. Maybe I can appeal to her good heart and get her to ask McRae to stop the evictions.’
‘You’re welcome to try but I wouldn’t be too hopeful if I were you. She treats her own people in Algeria as harshly as her husband does here in Westmore. And even if she was sympathetic to the crofters’ plea, I doubt McRae would listen. He cares more about the cut of his jacket or the card tables than his tenants.’
‘He’ll listen if he wants her to be happy,’ Kilroy retorted with a quiet smile. ‘Don’t underestimate the power of love, my friend.’
‘Love? What’s that?’ Bruce sneered. ‘I didn’t know you were such a sentimental fool, Kilroy.’
Ignoring his friend’s quizzical look, Bruce pulled his collar up, pushed the gate open and stepped out into the white of another blizzard.
Rose dropped the heavy, musty volume into her lap and rubbed her aching neck. Agricultural management was such a dry subject – all those tables filled with figures and calculations, these technical, scientific words … try as she might, she couldn’t remember a word of what she’d read that afternoon. Perhaps she could try one of Gibbon’s volumes on
the history of the Roman Empire instead, or that essay on law and politics …
She closed her eyes. Who was she trying to fool? None of these books were for her. She just wasn’t bright enough to understand any of them. Hadn’t Cameron laughed out loud when she asked him about Westmore?
‘Don’t trouble your pretty head with all this, my poor darling,’ he had said, taking her hand and laying a trail of kisses from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. ‘I have an exceptionally competent factor and an army of stewards to take care of all that.’
He was wrong, though. According to Agnes, Morven was a thug, and it was high time Cameron was told the truth about him.
She slipped the note Captain Kennedy had sent earlier inside the book to mark the page, even though she knew she would never read any more of it. Unfortunately, Lord McGunn had been right. The Sea Eagle wouldn’t be sailing out of the Kyle of Wrath any time soon. Captain Kennedy confirmed that it would take at least two weeks to fix the topgallant and make the ship seaworthy again.
Her only hope now lay with Lord McGunn. She would ask him to freight one of his ships or lend her a carriage to travel to Thurso. She didn’t care if she arrived in a cart or a fishing boat, she simply mustn’t miss the grand ball on Saturday and the announcement of the marriage.
‘Would you like any more tea and scones?’ Morag’s sullen voice behind her made her jump.
Startled, Rose swirled round. The housekeeper seemed to have the uncanny habit of creeping up behind her …
‘I have eaten enough already, thank you.’ She forced a smile.
‘Then shall I light another lamp so that you can carry on with your reading?’
‘Oh no, I have quite finished reading for today.’ Rose shuddered at the thought of opening the musty manual again.
She gestured at the window. ‘Perhaps I will go for a walk now that the snow has stopped.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Lord McGunn said you weren’t allowed to go out.’
Rose stiffened. Who did the man think he was, to dictate what she could and couldn’t do?
‘I will go out when and where I want, whatever Lord McGunn says,’ she insisted.
