by Stobie Piel
Nathan looked at the dog hanging in Miren's arms. Its expression was clear. So close, and yet so far. Unlike Miren,
Nathan felt sure the dog was sizing up his potential, and possibly his wealth. Its expression altered to determination.
Miren put the dog down, but positioned herself in front of the door. "It is my intention to guide my flock to a suitable shearing station, collect the proceeds from the sale of their wool, and secure passage on a ship." She sighed. "It may take a few seasons."
Simon eyed the flock in distaste. "It may, at that. Blackface dinna give wool worth anything but rug-making and mattress-stuffing."
Miren braced. "You are mistaken, sir. My flock represents a superior faction of the Blackface." Nathan noticed that she addressed both Simon and himself as "sir." Indiscriminately, as if they were both worthy of equal respect, and only a certain amount of it.
Simon shook his head. "You'd be better off selling the whole flock now for mutton than trying to pry any wool off them."
Her small face flushed with indignation. "My sheep are not to be confused with mutton sheep. They are well on their way to producing a fine quality wool, which will make sweaters for babies, wraps for ladies, and possibly hats for gentlemen during the winter months."
"Ha! A Blackface has to be crossed up with a better breed for at least three generations to produce anything resembling salable wool."
Her expression altered. Her face fell. "Truly?" Her shoulders slumped again. "Three generations . . ." She sighed. "And I'd have to get another ram. Huntley is old and doesn't have much interest in ewes anymore. I've sold off his best sons to other flocks to pay for our meals."
For a reason he didn't understand, Nathan didn't want to hear how Miren Lindsay scrounged for meals. He found himself wanting to help her, and this wasn't possible. He had too much to consider already. "Where are you headed, before you embark for America?"
"I have no idea . . ." She caught herself and coughed. "South. Southwest, back to Kilmartin."
Simon huffed again. "Your sheep seem to be heading north, toward the Highlands."
She looked distressed but made no comment.
Simon gestured down the road behind the coach. "You got yourself on a private roadway, girl." He indicated a fork in the road. "Off to the right there is east, and that'll take you smack into Loch Fyne and Laird MacCallum's estate."
"What's the straight path, the north one?"
Simon frowned. "Trouble."
Miren stood on tiptoes to look through the trees. "I can spot a glimpse of Loch Fyne from here. There's quite a meadow." Her voice trailed off, as if this posed a threat to her plans. "I see a rooftop with three gables." She glanced at Nathan. "Is that your house, sir?"
"It is. At the corner of my property is an old abbey. The monks are fond of privacy, so I suggest you avoid the meadow, Miss Lindsay. Farther along the drive, my stepmother is hosting a garden party at my estate house. I doubt she would take kindly to sheep arriving in its midst."
Miren shuddered, as if she visualized the scene too easily. "She's not a farming woman, then?"
"No. She's an Englishwoman . . ." Nathan meant to explain further, but Miren nodded, as if being English was enough to explain Lady MacCallum's bad temper.
"If she's not your mother, why is she living in your house?"
"Impertinence!" Simon stamped his foot, but Nathan ignored his outburst.
"Lady MacCallum and her son have lived at my father's estate for many years. In fact, no one knew of my existence until recently. Since he had no other heirs, my father saw fit to search me out in America. Unfortunately, he was killed in a fire shortly after our meeting. A fire which I barely escaped myself."
Miren's eyes sparkled with interest, and perhaps in pleasure at the delay. "How horrible!" She paused. "Lady MacCallum can't have been pleased at your arrival. How did you convince them you're his real son?"
A shrewd question. Almost too shrewd. Nathan expected another outburst from Simon, but the old man just stood still, mouth agape. Nathan cleared his throat and tried to maintain a casual expression. "Simon managed the American side of MacCall . . . my father's business. Simon knew of my existence, and has verified my authenticity as rightful heir."
Miren's gaze shifted to Simon, then back to Nathan. "You have brown eyes."
"I do . . ." The woman was beautiful, but she was odd.
"If he knew of your existence, why did it take your father so long to find you? You're quite old . . ."
"I'm twenty-seven."
She nodded. "As I said, old. . . . What took him so long?"
Simon issued a choking cough. "None of your business, lass!"
Nathan's patience strained. He'd told this story many times. Each time required thought to keep the details straight. "An unfortunate accident separated my parents when I was born. My father returned to Scotland thinking his wife dead, not knowing she bore his child."
Nathan paused, but Miren waited as if a storyteller's main pitch was to follow. "Go on." For a reason he didn't understand, his uneasiness surpassed what he'd endured when posing his story to Lady MacCallum and her son. "So how did Mr. MacTavish know you existed?"
Simon stomped his foot. "I knew!"
Nathan ignored Simon's burgeoning rage. "Simon discovered my existence some years later, and reported back to my father."
"I see. How very interesting. And here you are."
"Here I am."
"You must resemble your mother."
"Why do you say that?"
"I met your father once. He was fair." She paused. "His eyes were blue. I recall, because they were so pale a color."
"My mother was dark. Very dark."
"I'm sure she was lovely." Miren studied Nathan's face, and she sighed faintly. "Quite beautiful, in fact."
Nathan's pulse quickened. Like most women, Miren Lindsay appreciated his exotic good looks. As long as they didn't know the source of his appeal, women found him attractive, and succumbed easily to his charms. He couldn't offer her much. His stay in Scotland wasn't permanent, and he would soon be gone.
Miren didn't strike him as the sort of girl who would be satisfied with a brief encounter. With Simon fidgeting beside him, Nathan couldn't find out, either. Simon rolled his eyes and groaned.
"Miss Lindsay, as pleasant as it's been to make your acquaintance, Mr. MacTavish and I are expected for"Nathan paused"a pressing engagement."
"You avoided your stepmother's guests, I suspect."
Nathan's lips twitched into a smile. "I had more important matters to attend to."
Nathan wondered if she would pry into his "important matters," but Miren nodded, then looked around at her sheep. She fingered the whistle that hung on a rope around her neck. She pursed her lips as if to blow, then cleared her throat. "I suppose you'll be wanting to move on?"
Nathan checked his watch again. "It was my intention to move forward, yes."
"Not back the way you came?" She spoke as if it would be easier to turn the coach around on the narrow roadway than to alter her flock's direction.
"No."
She gulped, then looked around as if desperate to find a new distraction. "Those are fine horses you've got pulling the coach."
Nathan's patience strained. ''Thank you. Miss Lindsay"
"What are their names?"
"I don't know!"
Her lips parted. Soft, bowed lips, pink from the sun. Nathan fixed his gaze on her eyes instead.
"You don't know their names?"
Her eyes were well made, too. Wide, angled upward at the corners, framed in thick, black lashes. "Whose?"
"Your harness horses! Sir, that is unacceptable." Indignation rang in her voice. "We share our lives with our creatures. We owe them respect. Names are symbolic of that respect. They must have names."
Nathan glanced at the coachman, who shrugged. "Have they names, Grainger?"
Grainger suppressed a grin. Nathan wondered why he'd allowed the girl to delay him this way. "One and Two, sir
."
Miren nodded. "Their names are One and Two."
Nathan drew a calming breath. "Miss Lindsay, I give you my word to use their names at every meeting, if you will remove your sheep from my path."
She looked a little pale. "Of course, your presence is disturbing them. It's possible they won't adhere strictly to my commands just now."
Nathan turned his dark gaze to the sheep. "They don't appear 'disturbed.'"
"You don't know them as I do."
His patience crumbled. "Nor is it my desire to know them better. Miss Lindsay, progress your flock on their way."
She looked around as if wondering which way.
"Southwest."
She nodded. "Just so." She sighed, gazed heavenward, then put the whistle to her lips. She blew so hard that her cheeks turned pink and her eyes watered. One sheep looked up. Blossom. The ewe looked more disgusted than inspired to move.
Nathan glanced pertinently at the Border collie. It took hisglance as an invitation, and moved to sniff his boots. The small dog looked thoughtful. It turned its attention to Simon, and appeared pleased. Nathan endured the uncomfortable sense that the creature was scheming.
"Molly . . . Speak!"
Here was a command the dog recognized. Molly sat back on her haunches and barked twice. The sheep looked up. Miren beamed with pride and gave the dog a cookie.
Nathan watched in silence. The interlude seemed unreal. It would soon be over, and he would never see this odd young woman again. The world was so much larger than Miren Lindsay, yet he felt curiously drawn to her.
It had to be because she was pretty, and obviously in need. He recognized a dangerous combination. "I'll move them along now," she said, looking strained. "And I'll try my best to avoid your stepmother's garden party."
"That would seem wise."
Simon tapped his cane to the earth between the sheep. "You'd better avoid Garrison Campbell's land, too, lass. He's just north of here." Simon sounded gentler now, as if his sympathies had softened despite himself. "North will land you in trouble and nowhere else. Campbell, he ain't a man with scruples, but he's got enough power to see you tossed up and to Inverness for trespassing."
Miren paled. "North, you say? I'll see what I can do about avoiding his land." Her small face looked tense, as if knowing about possible dangers wasn't enough to prevent them.
Nathan hesitated. He knew he should be gone. He was already late. She looked so vulnerable, and so alone. "Is there anything I can do to assist you, Miss Lindsay?"
She eyed him doubtfully, as if surprised by the change in his voice. Her head tilted to one side as she studied his face, her whistle held poised in one small, dirty hand. The dog looked between them, waiting.
"No, sir. I need nothing. But it was kind of you to inquire."
Nathan considered several things Miss Lindsay needed. Clothes, food. A new dog. Fewer sheep. Possibly a home. He could give her clothes. He might find a new dog, and he could arrange to sell her sheep. But he couldn't give her a home, and that was what she needed most.
Miss Lindsay blew again, then waved her arms. She pulled her tartan blanket from her waist and shook it violently. The sheep reacted. They jolted themselves forward.
And they were moving north.
Chapter Two
So close, and yet so far.
Molly stared down the road, still listening to the coach's grinding wheels. Fine interior. Plush seating, good windows. Ample space for a house pet. The dark human had an even, low voice, the kind Molly preferred. No shouting, no arm-waving such as she'd seen from several irate farmers. He smelled clean. He was well fed, but strong. All fine qualities for the caretaker of a well-tended house pet.
Making matters simpler still, he was male. The young mistress was female. When they spoke, they leaned subtly toward each other. Clear indications of compatibility. The young mistress's attention diverted from her sheep to focus on the male. Molly had sniffed him to be certain he didn't have another mate, and to determine his health. All clear.
Despite all the signs, he'd gone on his way in his coach. Without them. A bitter shame. The young mistress required a mate. Molly wondered where she'd gone wrong. She'd wagged her tail as a signal of friendliness. She'd barked oncall. What more could a human male require?
Molly gazed miserably down the road. The sound of the coach disappeared. He wasn't turning back.
Something rammed into her rump, shoving her aside. Molly's legs floundered out to the sides, her stomach scraped the earth before she snapped herself together. She turned with a low growl.
Blossom cast a patronizing glance Molly's way, seized a fern, and began to chew.
"He seemed nice." Miren shaded her eyes against the sun and watched Nathan MacCallum's coach disappear down the twisting road. "But I suppose we'll have to stay away from his stepmother and this Garrison Campbell."
The flock made its way along a steep, rocky embankment. A small waterfall cascaded down toward the road, then whisked south in a fast spring stream. Molly sat at Miren's feet. The dog looked disgruntled.
Miren reached down and scratched Molly's ears. The disgruntled expression remained. "You seemed to like Mr. MacCallum, too. I don't blame you. He was . . . quite something. I'm not sure about his valet, though. They didn't seem to get along very well."
Miren gazed back at the empty road. She liked talking to someone who answered back. Molly might understandMiren felt sure she didbut she couldn't respond verbally. Nathan MacCallum had a pleasing voice, low and softly accented. She'd heard Americans speak before, but she'd never imagined the sound could be so beautiful.
Something about him didn't fit her image of a laird. Despite his perfect attire, his perfect white cravat and his perfect, shiny boots, his hair was just a little too long, his skin just a little too dark for gentility. His eyes were too soft a brown to be housed in a guarded man. He looked like an ancient Highlander chieftain disguised as a gentleman.
She knew from the moment she met him that he was hidingsomething. That he had a plan, and that his mind was working in a methodical, cool rhythm for a purpose. If drawing a sword or wielding a claymore with two hands would work best, Miren felt sure Nathan MacCallum would do just that.
Maybe Simon MacTavish would do it first. He seemed far less controlled than his employer, with a devil-may-care attitude obvious in his stance. Simon seemed an odd choice as Nathan MacCallum's manservant. He wasn't polished, or silent as servants tended to be. He spoke up, without deference to the young laird, his eyes snapping with impatience, his lips curled beneath his gray beard.
Nathan's story piqued her curiosity. His life sounded excitingfighting in the American Civil War, freeing slaves to live better lives. He even seemed to know something about the American Indian. He'd become a ship's captain, now a laird of a vast estate. He'd have to run it better than Kenneth MacCallum, anyway.
Whoever's son he really was.
"Got a message from Inveraray Jail this morning." Simon spoke idly, as if the information offered nothing to distract Nathan's attention. They were alone in the manor library. Irene MacCallum had gone to Inveraray Castle, and her son had left that morning for a Highlands hunting expedition.
Nathan paced around the library, fingering books that held relevance to nothing. He'd found information on the Clan MacCallum, its branches in Colgin, Glen Etive, and of Kilmartin, but nothing to further his investigation. Kenneth MacCallum had been proud of his heritage. Blue and green plaids hung everywhere. Irene MacCallum had built her entire wardrobe around her husband's tartan, despite being English herself.
"Jail?"
"That's what I said. Jail." Despite his stolid nature, Simon seemed as impatient and restless as Nathan. His short, chunky body moved in a straight line from one library wall to theother. He circled a useless, ornamental desk, then faced Nathan, chunky arms folded over his chest.
"It shouldn't interest you, of course." Simon paused, allowing the suspense to build. Nathan kept his expression impassive, but it
wasn't easy. Another day with Simon MacTavish and his mission might prove intolerable.
"A young ladyinmate, as it werehas asked to see you."
Nathan's eyes narrowed, but Simon turned to look out the tall, narrow window. He waited a moment, then glanced back over his shoulder. "It's her. The sheep lass."
"I knew that." Nathan pulled a book from the third shelf and examined it. A history of Inveraray. He replaced it and searched out another. "She's in jail."
From the corner of his eye, Nathan detected Simon's frown of disapproval. "Shouldn't have given her your name."
"I knew that, too." In jail. Nathan abandoned his search. He stared at an open page, but he saw Miren Lindsay's small face instead. He had offered to assist her. She'd turned him down.
"Told her too much, you did."
Nathan's lip curled to one side. He longed to remind Simon who it was that rattled on about family history, but he restrained himself from increasing their mutual antagonism. "I doubt Miss Lindsay poses any threat to our plans."
"You can't know that. Telling her you served in the war . . . now, it may be safe enough. But what if someone goes searching?"
"I did serve in the war."
"Yes, but Kenneth MacCallum's son did not. Expect you just wanted to impress the girl. You weren't no more than a scout."
"A scout who ended as captain of a ship." Nathan couldn't resist the reminder. Simon fancied himself a seaman, and it provided no end of irritation that Nathan had followed suit, with far greater success.
"You got it by default."
Nathan didn't argue. He gazed out the window toward the garden beyond. Rhododendron branches hung low in a soft, steady rain. "Everyone who outranked me died. The first mate panicked. Someone had to take over."
"You were lucky."
Nathan smiled, enough of a response to inspire a flush of red anger beneath Simon's volatile skin.
"The Good Lord didn't design your kind to captain sea vessels."
"My 'kind,' if you recall, is mixed."
"And unholy."
Simon resorted to biblical references only when his more tangible repertoire failed. Nathan took it as a victory. He turned his attention back to the window, to the dismal gray sky beyond. The MacCallum estate sat on the crest of a vale, facing east over Loch Fyne. Every day, the vale was shrouded in rain.
