Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  He took his leave, and Uncle Gordon’s scowl deepened, but whether from the doctor calling him laddie, or he’d detected the nuance of untruth in Doctor Wedderburn’s words, she didn’t know.

  At the moment, she didn’t care, truth to tell.

  Not a thing new about Gordon’s darkling temper, and today, she wasn’t in the mood, nor had the patience, to cajole him out of his pout.

  “Please excuse me, Uncle Gordon. I promised Da I’d fetch his midday meal. He didn’t eat much breakfast and is quite famished.”

  Slight exaggeration there, but he must eat. He’d grown far too thin in recent months.

  “Lydia, ye do ken I want to help ye in any way I can, didna ye?” Uncle Gordon touched her shoulder, his eyes filled with compassion.

  His concern moved her, and she softened minutely.

  “Ye’ve born much, and a woman be fragile. Your delicate constitution isnae made to carry such heavy burdens.”

  And there went her pathetically short-lived empathy. “I assure you, I’m neither fragile nor delicate, Uncle.”

  He bristled, and quickly masked irritation flickered in his eyes before he schooled his angular features. “I’m nae a fool, Lydia. I ken Uncle be ailin’, has been fer a wee while. Time he named a successor, but with yer brothers dead . . .”

  Chapter 2

  Lydia stifled the vulgar retort thrumming against her teeth. She didn’t typically curse or have a hot temper, but at this moment, unleashing her tongue sorely tempted.

  Uncle Gordon’s broad hint hung suspended, awkwardly filling the silence. He’d always coveted the chief’s position, but even as the laird’s brother-in-law and steward, he didn’t stand a clooty dumpling’s chance in the soldiers’ barracks at mealtime of an appointment to the position.

  The men didn’t respect him.

  Never had, and since coming to live at the Keep fifteen years ago, he’d done nothing to remedy their ambivalence.

  In fact, they’d resented his promotion to steward four years ago, and had made no bones about their objection to Da elevating him to war chief.

  Which was one of the reasons the clan, yet, lacked one.

  That, and none of the clansmen possessed the skills Da demanded to train his men and defend the Keep. With an ailing laird, the situation left Tornbury entirely too vulnerable.

  Slender, actually thin to the point of scrawniness, Gordon didn’t wrestle, couldn’t wield a sword well, and those deficits, combined with his volatile temperament, added substance to the clan members’ opposition.

  “Thank you for your concern and your offer of help. I’m sure when Da feels the time’s right, he’ll announce his successor.”

  Da hadn’t confided his intent to name her laird with anyone, and it wasn’t her place to do so. From the mutterings she’d overheard, some mightn’t be altogether keen about the selection, her uncle included.

  Da had probably heard them too, or at least heard of them.

  True, Scotswomen had carried the title before her, but Farnsworth clan hadn’t. She’d be the first The Lady Tornbury Fortress, and that troubled Lydia.

  Gordon’s drivel about a woman’s delicate constitution also rubbed more than a little. She could out-ride, out-swim, and even with her eyes closed, out-perform her spindly uncle with a bow and arrow. And although not a large woman, she could out-eat and out-drink him as well.

  She eyed his hanging coat. Probably could out-arm wrestle him too, if permitted to compete.

  Maddening, how many things men prohibited women from doing. That would change when she became laird, at least as much as the law allowed.

  “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I really must see to Da’s meal.”

  “Of course.” After a slight dip of his head, Gordon disappeared back into the study.

  He must’ve forgotten something.

  A few minutes later, carrying the tray, Lydia made the return trip through the polished walnut-paneled corridor. Unlike the stone floors at Craiglocky Keep, the colorful oriental red and blue runner beneath her slippers muted her footsteps.

  Candle flames danced in the wall sconces as she passed, and glancing upward she met the black, sightless eyes of a dour-faced, bearded ancestor.

  Savage fellow, her three times great-uncle Donell had been. Or so family legend held. He’d always given her the shivers too.

  Not as much as the suits of armor displayed at Craiglocky Keep, however.

  A medieval stone castle, Craiglocky was far older and in some ways grander than Tornbury. Colder, too, than the E-shaped manor house her ancestors had called home for five generations. Tornbury possessed a cozy warmth she’d never found in any of the opulent mansions she’d visited during her single London Season.

  Where she’d met Flynn, the Earl of Luxmoore.

  No, he was the Marquise of Bretheridge now. And he was married.

  Blissfully so.

  Lydia was glad for him. Truly, she was. He was an honorable, decent man.

  Flynn had never looked upon her with the same absolute adoration he’d shown his wife, and she wouldn’t begrudge him his happiness. Even if it meant he’d never be hers, and she’d never know the same joy.

  “Miss Lydia.” McGibbons, the butler, hurried along the corridor, his haste emphasizing his pronounced limp.

  Foot poised atop the bottom riser, Lydia paused. “Yes?”

  “An invitation arrived. Should I place it in the study, or do ye want to deliver it directly to the laird? I ken he prefers to read his correspondence promptly.” McGibbons held up a creamy, scarlet-ribboned parchment bearing the McTavish seal.

  An event at Craiglocky this time of year? How unusual.

  “Thank you, McGibbons. I’ll take it. I have his midday meal, anyway. Just place it on the tray, beneath the serviette.” Gordon snooped, and Da ought to know the contents before her uncle.

  After doing so, McGibbons folded his hands before him and peered at her with his one remaining pale blue eye, the other having been lost in a long-ago battle and now covered with a patch. “How be our chief, if’n ye dinna mind me askin’?”

  Da’s closest chum, McGibbons had come to work as Tornbury’s butler the same year Da had become laird. Hard to believe the now entirely proper servant had ever cavorted and whooped his way across the Highlands with her rapscallion father.

  “Of course, I don’t mind. I’m sure it will be no surprise to you, he’s determined to be up and resume his duties.”

  Probably to his health’s detriment.

  Bernard wound his way around Lydia’s lower foot. His loud rumbles as he rubbed his scent on her ankle vibrated his lean form.

  McGibbon’s face broke into a lopsided grin. “Aye, that sounds like Bailoch.” His attention fell to the tray once more. “Do ye wish me to carry the tray fer ye?”

  “No, it’s not heavy, but thank you.” Such devotion and loyalty her father had earned. How could she possibly replace him? How could anyone? “Could you please find Esme, and tell her that I’ll have to postpone her archery lesson until tomorrow?”

  “At once, miss.” He scooped Bernard into his arms. “I’ll also take this fellow to the kitchen before he trips ye. Och, and miss, Sheba whelped eight healthy pups this mornin’.”

  “Da will be so pleased.” Da had a particular fondness for Border collies, especially Sheba. He’d never roam the moors with her trotting at his heels again.

  Lost in grim ruminations, Lydia swiftly arrived at Da’s chamber then scowled at the partially cracked doorway. He’d better not have taken it upon himself to ignore the doctor’s orders and leave his bed.

  Obstinate fool.

  She would tie him to the posts.

  Nudging the door open further, Lydia marched inside.

  “Da—” She faltered to an unste
ady stop.

  Her gaze vacillated between her father propped against his pillows and Gordon looming beside the bed.

  “Uncle Gordon. I didn’t know you were here. Doctor Wedderburn wants Da to rest.”

  Gordon offered a sheepish grin and his gaze shifted away. “I wanted to see fer myself how Uncle Bailoch be, and I had somethin’ I needed to discuss with him.”

  “Something urgent? Enough to disturb his rest?” Gordon’s measure of urgency typically proved much different than Lydia’s. He sent for the doctor if he had a corn or a blister.

  “Nae, nothin’ like that.” He waved his hand and had the grace to look abashed while delivering an apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Glancing into Da’s sitting room, she squinted then frowned. The small servant’s door stood slightly ajar. Only Da’s man ever used it, and rarely at that.

  “You thought it necessary to use the domestic’s access? Why?” Unfamiliar irritation pricked her.

  At this rate, she’d be a harpy by her first-and-twentieth birthday.

  Did he think she’d lied earlier? Whatever he’d needed to discuss might have waited a day or two, and his sneaking in the servant’s entrance made no sense.

  Looking properly contrite, he offered a closed-mouth smile. “I didna want to knock and wake Uncle if’n he slept, so I thought I’d use the staff door.”

  Suspicion niggled, but Uncle Gordon’s excuse was feasible, if somewhat shallow.

  “I assured Gordon, I’ll be fine as a fiddle tomorrow.” Da gave her a telling look before happiness wreathed his face and he sniffed, scooting back into the rumpled pillows. “Och, the soup smells delicious.”

  Lydia eyed the disheveled bedding. What had he done whilst she’d been below? Wrestled boars?

  “Uncle Bailoch might ride with me to the village on the morrow, Lydia.” Gordon rested a shoulder against the bed poster and folded his arms.

  A man who could barely sit upright in bed—supported by pillows, no less—wasn’t soon gadding about atop a horse.

  To keep from snapping at Uncle Gordon and revealing just how weak Da was, Lydia bit her tongue and set the tray on a small oval table near the roaring hearth. The movement jostled the contents and the invitation’s corner poked out from beneath the serviette.

  After pushing her hair behind a shoulder, she lifted the parchment. “An invitation has arrived from Craiglocky. Naturally, we’ll send our regrets.”

  “Nae so fast.” Da extended his hand, his expression animated. His thick, coppery hair stood on end, giving him a somewhat demented appearance.

  What had he been doing while she’d been below?

  “Let me see it, lass.” He donned his spectacles, the lenses magnifying his eyes. “I’ve been contemplatin’ a reason to send ye to speak with the McTavish on me behalf.”

  “Uncle Bailoch, really, isnae that a duty fer yer steward?” Gordon helped himself to an oat roll, earning him a censured look from Lydia as he took a large bite.

  “That’s for Da. If you’re hungry, I’m sure Anice would be happy to prepare you something to hold you over until dinner.” Lydia handed Da the crisp parchment then urged him to lean forward before placing another pillow behind him.

  She flinched upon brushing his bony shoulder.

  So horribly thin.

  Uncle Gordon swallowed his mouthful. “Besides, Lydia be in mournin’, so attendin’ affairs widnae be proper. I’d be happy to take any message ye have to Ewan McTavish.”

  His lenses balanced on the tip of his nose, Da glanced up from reading the invitation. “Dinna tell me protocol, son. Did ye forget yer also in mournin’?”

  Hand at his mouth, Gordon faltered. “Nae, I just thought it be more fittin’ fer me to go in yer stead than a woman.”

  More of his women being inferior hogwash again.

  Gordon finished the roll and slid a hungry glance at the remaining two.

  I don’t think so.

  Lydia retrieved the tray and then in four strides reached the bed. She waited for Da to finish perusing the invitation, and when he’d refolded the paper, removed his spectacles, and smiled at her, she placed the tray onto his lap.

  “Lydia, order yerself and Esme new gowns, fallalls, fripperies, slippers, anythin’ ye need. Ye’ll be attendin’ the McTavish’s week-long Valentine house party.” He winked conspiratorially as he dipped his spoon into the soup. “There be a ball, too. Bound to be a few eligible chaps in attendance. Ye can look fer a husband while yer there.”

  Chapter 3

  Lydia snapped her gaping mouth shut. She should’ve tossed the invitation in the fire when she had the chance.

  Da scooped a mouthful of soup then closed his eyes and sighed. “Nae finer cook than our Anice.”

  “Da, Esme and I cannot possibly attend. Why, the weather alone is worrisome, but Mum’s only been gone three months. What would people say?”

  Besides, she wanted to spend every precious moment she could with him, and she’d imposed upon the McTavishes too much already.

  “I agree, Uncle. Most imprudent.”

  Gordon sank into a high-backed chair. Crossing his thin legs, he cupped the arms with fingertips sporting overly-long nails and stared covetously at Da’s luncheon.

  Before taking another sip of soup, Da’s attention brushed over Uncle Gordon.

  “She nae be attendin’ to have a grand time, me boy.”

  Resentment flared Uncle Gordon’s nostrils and whitened his mouth. He resented any inference to his lack of maturity.

  Da’s keen gaze rested on her, and a proud smile lit his wan face. “Ye’ll be performin’ yer first task as me potential successor, lass.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Ribald laughter echoed off the lichen and moss covered crags as Alasdair McTavish led the small hunting party the last stretch toward Craiglocky Keep.

  Though windy, bitingly cold for February, and ominous, pregnant clouds shrouded the twilight sky, the weather had mercifully held.

  And there’d be fresh venison for the house party as well as a stiff dram of whisky to reward his cold, tired men. He might enjoy his drink in his eagerly anticipated bath. Might also snatch some of those special salts Seonaid recommended for muscle aches, as long as no one knew.

  Couldn’t have his fellow Scots thinking he’d become a soft, pasty-skinned Sassenach.

  Kicking Errol’s sides, he urged the huge gray into a trot and grinned at his twin, Gregor. “Canna keep up with me, ye great gollumpus?”

  “Aye, I can, brother, and I’ll beat ye to the Keep too, ye dotty old crone.”

  Gregor’s horse lunged forward, and Alasdair threw back his head, releasing a whoop as he charged after.

  Their hooves churning the sodden ground, the horses tore down the road, bordered by Scots pine on one side and plunging cliffs leading to jagged rocks and boulder outcrops on the other.

  Laughing and bent low in his saddle, Alasdair inched past his twin.

  “Bloody hell.” Gregor’s blue-gray eyes widened and alarm streaked across his features. He pointed, his expression grim. “Look.”

  Alasdair whipped around just in time to see a coach and four farther along the road.

  Having lost a wheel, it tilted at a precarious angle before spilling onto its side and launching the coachman from his perch. The conveyance’s momentum yanked the rear horses off their feet and also sent the postilion astride the lead mount hurtling to the soggy ground.

  Terrified shrieks, neighs, and hoarse oaths filled the air.

  The lone horseman accompanying the vehicle reined sharply around before thundering back toward the carriage. Amid the sharp crack of wood and glass shattering, the vehicle rammed into a cottage-sized boulder a few feet off the trail.

  Thank God, else the ent
ire conveyance and team would’ve plummeted over the steep cliff.

  Certain death for the passengers and the horses.

  As the other clansmen rounded the bend, Alasdair yelled over his shoulder and gestured. “A coach has tumbled off the road.”

  This near the Keep, the occupants were likely guests for Craiglocky’s house party. He squinted, attempting to make out the coat of arms on the coach’s black side.

  Impossible given the conveyance’s perilous angle.

  The other Highlanders immediately surged forward and in moments, the Scots arrived at the chaotic scene.

  The downed horses had managed to gain their feet, and the equine quartet stood lathered and trembling, but seemingly unharmed.

  A pair of good-sized trunks had tumbled onto the road—one sporting a jagged crack—and the splintered wheel’s debris lay scattered in all directions.

  The coachman moaned and cradled his shoulder while the postilion, despite the blood running down his face, attempted to climb atop the sideways coach.

  Hushed, terrified feminine sobbing echoed from within the vehicle.

  Cursing, the tall rider accompanying the coach slid from his horse. But rather than assist either of the injured men or the passengers, like a petulant child, he swore and kicked at a piece of wheel across the road.

  “Guid-damned, incompetent smithy. I be havin’ his head. I told him to check the wheels, myself. Farnsworth will be furious.”

  Farnsworth?

  Alasdair’s stomach plummeted to his mud-caked boots, and he speared the carriage a desperate glance. Was Lydia Farnsworth a passenger?

  Since Searón Neal, no other woman except Lydia had breached his guarded heart—a secret he protected as fiercely as he did his clan.

  The man swore again and pushed his hat higher on his forehead.

  Gordon Ross.