by Marie Laval
Bruce silently promised to give MacBoyd a terse telling off. He had no right talking to Kilroy, or anyone else, about his plans.
‘What I’m doing with Lady McRae is nobody’s business, not even yours.’
Shock registered on the doctor’s face.
‘So it’s true! And I thought MacBoyd had had too much ale. These aren’t the old days of the clan wars, McGunn. You can’t keep a woman locked up in your tower and hold her to ransom.’
‘I’ll do what I must to protect my estate and my people against McRae and his bankers. Not that I have to justify myself to you.’
Kilroy looked sharply at McGunn but he must have thought better than to insist because he shook his head and added with a resigned smile, ‘Well, you know best, I suppose.’
He opened the door. Bruce stepped outside and breathed in a lungful of icy wind. There was more snow on the way but for now the butter-yellow half moon played hide-and-seek with black clouds.
‘I’ll drop by in the morning to check on Morag.’
The two men shook hands and Bruce made his way to the stables behind Kilroy’s house. A short while later he was riding back to Wrath Lodge, the man and the horse darker than the night on the deserted cliff path.
The loud sounding of the horn woke Rose with a start and she bumped her head against the side panel inside the coach.
‘By Old Ibrahim’s Beard, what was that terrible racket?’ she gasped, rubbing the forehead with her fingers.
‘Only the post guard warning the coaching inn of our arrival. We’re stopping for the night,’ the man sitting next to her replied.
As the carriage lurched around a bend in the road, he shifted on the seat and Rose caught wafts of wet dog from his pelisse and horse manure from his boots. Queasy once more, she searched her pocket for a handkerchief but only found the bunch of pine tied with the faded pink ribbon. That was strange, she didn’t remember taking it with her that morning.
The man moved again, and this time the smells of dung and dog hair were so strong Rose heaved. She was going to be sick.
‘The window,’ she gasped, ‘please open the window. Quick.’
‘I am sorry but I can’t,’ the man replied, gesturing to a lock at the top of the window. ‘They’re locked.’
In desperation, she buried her face into the sprigs of pine, and took deep, long, calming breaths, hoping that the fresh scent of pine would stave off her nausea. Doctor Kilroy had been right about travelling in a post coach. It was a nightmare.
When she was sure she wasn’t going to be sick, she put the posy back inside her pocket and looked outside. It was pitch-black with only a half moon watching over like a large yellow eye.
‘Where are we?’
‘We just passed Tongue.’
‘Are we still on Lord McGunn’s land?’
He shook his head. ‘No, my lady, we’re on McRae land.’
She closed her eyes to hide her relief. She was safe. Lord McGunn wouldn’t come chasing after her now.
‘I fear we’ll have more snow before the morning,’ the man carried on. ‘I can feel it in my creakin’ old bones. Lucky for me, I’m not too far from home now.’
He went on to explain that he would get off the coach the following morning at Borgie, talked about his business, his wife and bevy of children while Rose nodded politely.
The horn rang again. The horse’s hooves rumbled on a cobbled courtyard and the coach shuddered and rattled to a halt.
‘Lady and gentleman, time for a hot meal and a well-earned rest,’ the post guard announced with flourish as he opened the door.
He held out his hand to help Rose get down, taking hold of her elbow and giving it a little squeeze. Rose shivered as she walked across the courtyard toward the two-storey stone building. Lights glowed behind the steamed-up windows, giving it a warm, welcoming appearance. It would be so nice to sit by the fire and enjoy a hot meal, then sleep in a warm, comfortable bed …
She stopped in her tracks and turned to the post guard.
‘I can’t go in.’
‘Why is that, my lady?’ He leant toward her, a puzzled look in his small, beady eyes.
‘I have no money. Unless I can pay for food and lodgings with another necklace? What do you think?’
He flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll settle the cost of your lodgings for you. We’ll sort everything out later.’
‘Thank you, you’re very kind,’ she told him with a sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t have to spend the night inside the coach in the stables.
He patted her arm and leaned closer.
‘That’s no problem. I couldn’t leave a lovely young lady out in the cold, could I?’ For a second, his eyes glittered with something other than bonhomie – something sinister and threatening – then it was gone and he smiled again.
Less than an hour later, Rose was getting undressed in her small bedroom on the first floor. She had gulped down a bowl of hot stew and two fat slices of bread before retiring for the night, leaving her travelling companions to their pints of ale, tumblers of whisky and game of cards.
The raucous noise of men’s laughter and conversations from below drifted up through the floorboards. Shivering again, she hastily washed her face and hands in a bowl of lukewarm water before unpinning her hair, removing her boots and dress, and slipping her nightdress on over her chemise.
The shawl she wrapped tightly around her shoulders didn’t ward off the chill, so she spread her cloak over the blankets, and thought longingly about Lord McGunn’s thick plaid and socks. If only she had them with her now, she wouldn’t be so cold.
She held her breath, and her chest tightened.
McGunn.
By now he must know she had escaped.
She pictured his face as clearly as if he was there in front of her. His grey eyes, dark and stormy, his mouth unsmiling and the thick, dark stubble on his cheeks and long black hair which made him look like some warrior from a violent past. Never had a man deserved his nickname more than Lord McGunn, and even though she’d never seen him fight, she sensed that his nickname of ‘Claymore Devil’ suited him like a glove.
Her body tensed and she threw a nervous glance toward the door. She slid further into the bed, curled into a ball and pulled the covers over her head.
This was silly. Of course, McGunn wasn’t about to barge into her room! She was well out of his reach, and in another day and a half, two at most, she would be reunited with Cameron and take her place by his side at Westmore.
The thought filled her with such sudden, overwhelming panic, her mouth went dry and her heart raced frantically. Would Cameron still be angry with her or had he forgiven her? Would she find the frosty-eyed stranger who had boarded the Sea Lady, his face pale, his mouth twisted in a cruel scowl, or the handsome and witty man who had courted her?
She turned in the bed again and memories of their three wonderful weeks in Algiers flooded her mind.
Together they’d strolled the shaded lanes of the Jardin d’Essai – Algiers’ enchanting new public garden overlooking the bay. They’d explored the Kasbah’s narrow lanes, bought slices of juicy watermelon and melt-in-the-mouth honey and almond pastries from street stalls, and taken barouche rides in the hills outside Algiers or along the coast.
Cameron had been an attentive, devoted suitor with exquisite manners and dazzling charm. No man before him had brought her fresh bouquets, written poems which compared her eyes to a starry night. Akhtar urged caution and said it was a mistake to wed someone after such a short length of time. But he was an old man. What did he remember about being young and in love?
As for Malika … Rose swallowed hard as tears stung her eyes. Malika had disliked Cameron intensely, even going as far as inventing shocking lies about him. Cameron said Malika was jealous and, as much as it pained her to admit it, Rose thought he was probably right.
It didn’t matter any more. Malika was dead, buried in the little graveyard at B
alnakeil. She would never smile, dance, or climb orange trees with her again to get to the juiciest fruit. What had happened to her friend after they last argued, and who had killed her?
She clasped her fingers tightly together and listened to the sounds of laughter and talking until late during the night.
‘Why are these people screaming and shouting?’
Rose pressed her nose against the window. The coach slowed to a walking pace as they entered a small village.
‘And look at these poor children standing barefoot in the snow!’
Her travelling companion cleared his throat.
‘It looks like the hamlet is being cleared.’
A cold fist tightened around Rose’s heart.
‘Cleared? You mean to say that odious man, Arthur Morven, is here?’
Her travelling companion nodded.
‘I think that’s him over there,’ he said, pointing to a thickset man wrapped in a dark-grey cloak who sat on a black horse, away from the crowd.
As the coach reached the centre of the village, the noise of men shouting, women and children wailing, and dogs barking, became deafening. At the centre of it all, a dozen men ran around, holding torches or clubs and shoving people out of the way as they kicked down the doors of cottages, beat the animals and cattle with sticks and set fire to houses.
On the side of the road, a little boy sat alone in the snow in blood-spattered clothes. He looked straight at Rose through huge, tear-filled eyes as the coach drove past, held his hand out and called, ‘Màthair, Màthair!’
‘What is he saying?’ Rose asked.
‘I believe he wants his mother. She must be around here somewhere, gathering what’s left of her things.’
With a cry of outrage, Rose pulled down the door handle and flung the door open. Enough was enough!
‘What are you doing, are you mad?’ the man next to her shouted.
‘I’m going to talk to Morven, and make him stop this once and for all!’
She leapt forward, missed her step and landed on her knees but the snow cushioned her fall. Jumping to her feet, she pushed past a gang of young men who cheered as yet another house collapsed in a burning pile. Thugs, that’s what they were, and judging from the smell of whisky lingering around them, they were drunk too.
‘Help me. Please, someone help me! My grandma’s still in there.’
A woman beat her fists against the closed door of a nearby cottage. Plumes of smoke escaped from under the door, through the gaps in the shutters.
The woman ran to Morven who sat impassive on his horse, and clutched at his booted leg.
‘Please, sir, I beg ye. Help me get her out, she’s eighty-five and bedridden.’
He shook his leg so hard he kicked the woman in the chest and she stumbled backward with a cry of pain.
‘Then the old crone’s lived long enough and I’m doing you, and her, a favour.’ He coughed and spat into the snow next to the woman.
So this was how her husband’s factor replied to pleas for mercy. He was a monster, a criminal.
Rose squared her shoulders and marched up to him. Quivering with indignation, her breath short, she looked up into the man’s ruddy face and met his bloodshot blue eyes.
‘I order you to help this poor woman, right now.’
‘And who might you be, my darling?’ Morven’s gaze travelled slowly, leisurely, from Rose’s face down to her boots, then up again, in a way which made her blood boil and her face grow hot.
‘I am Lady Rose McRae, and I order you to …’
‘Lady Rose McRae, hey?’ he cut in. ‘I’m sorry, darling but the only Lady McRae I know is Lady Patricia.’
Rose let out a frustrated sigh. No one here would know about her, since Cameron was keeping their wedding a secret until the ball.
‘Anyhow,’ the big man resumed, ‘I’m only obeying my lord’s orders. He wants me to clear the strath of all these damned tenants before the end of the week and that’s exactly what I’m doing.’
Did he dare claim that Cameron had ordered this? Rose swallowed hard and pointed to the flames which now licked the walls and roof of the house.
‘But you can’t leave an old woman trapped inside this house. She’s going to die!’
Morven leant sideways toward her and she caught a whiff of his tobacco-smelling breath. ‘That’ll be one less mouth to feed; one less pauper on my lord’s register.’
Rose stepped back with a cry of rage.
‘You and your men are no better than murderers. Rest assured that I’ll tell my husband all about this. Your days as Factor are numbered.’
If she had hoped to shock him, she was disappointed. He stared at her for a while then his fleshy lips twisted into a thin, cruel smile.
‘We’ll see, my darling, we’ll see. For now my work here is done and I bid you a good day. Oh and by the way, I’ll tell my lord and lady you’re on your way when I next see them.’
He bowed his head in a mock salute, gave his horse a sharp heel kick and rode toward the mail coach. Rose saw him gesture to the guard who jumped down from his seat to talk to him. The men spoke for a couple of minutes then Morven then rode away. His gang of men dispersed too, taking to their horses, and starting in a rowdy convoy out of the burning village.
Rose looked at the pieces of wood, some half-burnt, charred and smouldering, that lay on the snowy ground. Grabbing hold of a thick, sturdy-looking stick, she ran to the burning house the woman was still trying to get into.
‘Get a stick and help me! We’ll break the door down,’ she instructed, before ramming the club into the door as hard as she could. It took the two of them and several attempts before the door cracked open and fell back.
‘Grandma? Where are ye?’ the woman shouted as she took a few steps inside.
Rose followed her cautiously, lifting her skirt right up to shield her face from the intense heat and thick black smoke. There was a loud ‘whoosh’ sound when the roof caught fire and cinders started raining inside the cottage and onto her hair.
‘I can see her. She’s over there.’ The woman darted forward, oblivious to the fire roaring around her.
There was nothing Rose could do. It took only a few seconds for the ceiling to collapse, engulfing the cottage, the woman and her grandmother in flames. She ran out and slipped to the ground, tears streaming from her burning eyes, and coughing so hard she could hardly catch her breath.
She didn’t have the strength to protest when the post guard lifted her in his arms and carried her away from the burning heap of rubble.
‘What did you think you were doing? Are you crazy?’ he shouted. ‘You could have been killed.’
Her ears still filled with the thunderous roar of the fire, she hardly heard him. He put her down on the snowy ground and she raised her head to look at the fat, grey clouds in the sky above, saw white flakes swirl as they fell slowly to the ground. Sick and gripped with panic, she closed her eyes and shuddered uncontrollably.
These were ashes from the ruined village – from the houses, the people and animals Morven had set fire to – falling on the ground and all over her. Choking her.
Only when she felt wetness and cold slipping against her cheeks and into her neck did she realise it wasn’t ash falling, but snow.
‘We have to go, my lady,’ the guard said, ‘or we’ll be late in Borgie.’
Numb, exhausted, she nodded and followed him to the coach. Before she climbed on board, she turned to survey the devastation her husband’s men had left behind, the looks of desperation on people’s faces as they searched the smoking ruins of their homes for whatever they could salvage.
‘Where will these people go now?’
The post guard shrugged.
‘They’ll find somewhere, a village on the coast, or Inverness, Dundee or Glasgow. But I gather most of them will make their way to Wrath. Lord McGunn won’t turn them out. He never does.’
And he slammed the door shut.
Chapter Twelve
; ‘So you’re going after her?’
MacBoyd watched Bruce saddle Shadow from the stable doorway. Behind him the sky lit up with the first signs of daybreak – pale grey hues with a line of fire along the horizon.
‘I have no choice. I need her to add weight to my negotiations with McRae,’ Bruce growled. ‘I must get her back here before she reaches Westmore and ruins my plans … or before she trips over a rock and falls down a cliff, or gets lost on the moors. The woman is a walking disaster.’
He paused and smiled. ‘Then again the other passengers might throw her out of the mail coach when they tire of her calling them monkey names or silly McNames.’
MacBoyd’s eyes widened. ‘Monkey names? McNames? What on earth are you talking about?’
Bruce carried on buckling the saddle straps.
‘When she doesn’t say I’m a baboon or a macaque,’ he explained, ‘she calls me McGlum … or was it McGrouch?’
MacBoyd let out a booming laugh and slapped his big hands on his thighs.
‘Either suits you, my friend, especially today. You’ve done nothing but rant and shout since you found out the lass didn’t come back to the Lodge but sneaked out of the doctor’s house and boarded the mail coach all on her own and without anyone paying any attention.’ He shook his head. ‘You must admit she outwitted you.’
Bruce clenched his jaw.
‘She didn’t outwit me at all,’ he snarled. ‘But she’s resourceful, I’ll grant you that.’
He glanced up at his friend. ‘Stop grinning, it’s not funny.’
‘Lord McGunn?’ Agnes called from the courtyard.
MacBoyd moved aside to let her pass. Bruce arched his eyebrows. His friend’s cheeks looked very flushed suddenly, and he wondered if there was some kind of attachment between him and the young maid. She looked pretty flustered too …
‘I packed some warm clothing and some food, like you asked.’ Agnes gave MacBoyd a timid smile as she brushed past him and handed Bruce two leather bags and a flask.
‘I also filled your flask with the whisky from your study; I thought you might need it.’
