“You really are a savage, aren’t you?”
The grin widened. “Yes, I am.”
• • •
Two leisurely days later, they reached Pitlochry, where the Kirkwell carriages and Ash’s wolfhound were waiting. It was only early afternoon and they hadn’t far to go, so after the earl and the countess had changed into their great kilts and Ash had sent word ahead of their impending arrival, he herded them toward the carriages for the short ride to Northbridge.
Rafe had never seen the earl in his ceremonial garb. But as he watched him mount the magnificent black horse that had been brought from Northbridge for his triumphant ride home, he could see that donning his clan tartan changed him.
Despite the enveloping folds of plaid cloth that hung past his knees, he seemed freer than Rafe had ever seen him. Bigger. Taller. More given to sweeping gestures, rather than the tautly controlled mannerisms of a military officer. He was in his element.
In contrast, the countess seemed out of hers. There was pride in her posture and the lift of her head, but not the boisterous joy her husband displayed. Maybe because she was one of the barely tolerated English. Or because the years spent in this remote place while Ash was off soldiering hadn’t been happy ones. The earl had told Rafe that he and his wife had been estranged for a time, and Maddie had gone to America to start a life without him. Perhaps coming back to Scotland had renewed all those unhappy memories.
Frowning, Rafe watched her climb into the carriage. The empathy that made him so attuned to horses now rose in concern for her. Was that fear he saw in her coffee-colored eyes? Did she think that because she carried the Kirkwell heir, she would be trapped in this bleakly beautiful place forever?
And it was definitely bleak. A broad, treeless valley, sandwiched between Loch Rannock and the boggy marshland of the Great Rannock Moor, it reminded Rafe of the stark grasslands of Oklahoma. But wetter. Especially with that roiling gray sky whipping the wind into an icy blast. At least here cyclones didn’t spin down from the clouds, plucking man and beast from the earth without a trace.
The ride was a short one, led by Tricks and the earl on his prancing horse. A crowd of cheering people, all wearing the same plaid Ash and the countess wore, greeted him when they turned onto the long, rocky drive that led to an imposing stone structure perched on a slight rise near the loch.
Laughing, Ash leaned down to accept a ribbon-bound bouquet of heather from a child as he rode by, then he straightened to acknowledge shouts and well wishes with a grin and a wave. It was a rousing welcome that brought a smile to Thomas’s stoic face, and a look of terror to Pringle’s. Especially when they reached the house and the gray clouds parted in a slash to reveal a sunset of such violent hues, it was as if the jaws of hell had opened before them. A stirring sight.
Ash’s ancestral home less so.
Wind-and-rain-scoured walls the same dark gray as the brooding sky rose at least sixty feet high. At one end sat a crenelated tower with several stones missing—at the other, a crumbling buttress in the process of either being repaired, or falling into decay. Tangled gardens, weed-choked walkways, what might have once been a moat, now a gully of tumbled stones. A proud, ancient castle waiting to become a ruin.
“Lord help us,” Pringle muttered.
Battered doors crashed open as they rode through the outer wall and into an enclosed open area. “Fàilte dhachaidh,” a tall, plaid-draped woman cried, racing toward Ash. “Welcome home, my brother.”
Behind her, a big, hairy fellow in a different plaid called out, “’Tis guid tae have ye hame, Kirkwell! Failte gu Alba—welcome to Scotland!”
Rafe guessed these two were the family caretakers left in charge of Northbridge during the earl’s stay in America.
“Glynnis! Fain!” Ash rushed toward them, embraced them both in bear hugs, said something in Gaelic, then turned to assist his wife from the carriage. “Here’s the countess . . . and our babe,” he added proudly.
More welcomes. Hugs between the women—which Rafe was pleased to see erased that look of dread from Maddie’s face. Then, with his arm still around his wife’s shoulders, Ash, Lord Kirkwell and Laird of his clan, turned to the waiting crowd. “Alba gu bràth,” he shouted and raised a fist in triumph.
The crowd cheered wildly, their answering yells rising to a crescendo when their earl tossed back his gray head and gave a savage war cry.
Rafe felt like he’d stepped into the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s novel. He wished he’d brought the book with him to check the index for translations. Glancing over at the grinning Cheyenne, he hoped the Indian didn’t join in with a war cry of his own, which would be less stirring than frightening.
Turning, Ash motioned to those waiting beside the second carriage. “Come, Rafe. Thomas. Pringle, ye may approach, as well, but dinna speak. Meet my sister, Glynnis, and her husband, Fain McKenzie.”
After introductions were completed, the earl led them through the huge castle doors and into a place time had forgotten.
They walked over gritty stone floors scoured by thousands of feet over the years. From smoke-blackened beams hung huge chandeliers sprouting antlers and dozens of smoking candles. Above sooty fireplaces, ancient tapestries depicted bloody battle scenes. Instead of framed artworks, the walls were decorated with dented shields, battered swords, axes, and claymores. And in the place of honor in the Great Hall, above a fireplace that looked big enough to accommodate several stout men, hung the Kirkwell crest.
Rafe had to laugh. Northbridge so perfectly suited its master.
Awaiting them by the hearth were mugs of Scotch whisky—Rafe was becoming accustomed to the Scots’ pronunciation and spelling—which brought a frown to Thomas’s face and a smile to Pringle’s. After several Gaelic toasts, washed down with the same smooth, smoky brew the earl kept in Heartbreak Creek, the doors were thrown open and the waiting crowd rushed in to fill the benches at the long, worn tables set up throughout the hall.
The noise and laughter bouncing off the stone walls grew to a deafening pitch. Even Tricks hid under a table to escape it. Or maybe he was hunting scraps.
Serving people bustled in and out, bearing trays laden with Scottish fare. Fish soup called cullen skink, turnips and potatoes called neeps and tatties, honey-coated fruits, poached fish, roasted meats and fowl, and a lumpy, congealed substance the countess said was a traditional Scottish dish called haggis.
Which was almost the exact sound Rafe made when she added that it was made of various sheep organs—or pluck—simmered in a sheep’s stomach.
More whisky. Shouts and laughter. War cries. Heat rising from the giant fireplace further blackened the ancient beams overhead, while a smoky veil coiled around the vast array of armaments displayed along the walls.
It was stirring and primitive, and made Rafe want to rush out and fight something. But that might have been the whisky talking.
Once the meal ended, a more somber mood fell over the gathering. Ash and Maddie went to stand below the Kirkwell crest, and with great ceremony, the people of Northbridge lined up to pay homage to their new earl and countess and offer well wishes for their babe. It was an amazing homecoming and explained a great deal about Ash.
• • •
The next morning, Rafe awoke with a pounding head—then realized it was someone hammering on the door of the room he shared with Thomas. With a groan, he rose and opened it to find Fain McKenzie grinning in the hallway.
“Guid morn tae ye,” he said, adding several extra r’s to the second word. “Kirkwell will be busy wi’ the stewards today, and asked me tae show ye and the Indian aboot.” Scratching his bearded chin, he looked past Rafe at Thomas’s empty bed. “Do ye ken where the lad might be?”
“Anywhere.” Rafe stifled a yawn. “Thomas has a habit of wandering off whenever the mood strikes him.”
McKenzie gave a worried frown. “’Tis dangerous country, so
it is.”
“He’ll be all right. Is there any food downstairs?” Maybe that would settle his rolling stomach.
“Aye. Bannocks and honey and skalk—a wee tot of whisky tae clear the sleep from yer head. Come along, lad. ’Tis well past dawn already.”
Several minutes later, they were huddled against a heavy mist, riding rough-gaited Highland ponies along the loch. The wind cut through Rafe with bone-chilling malevolence, and he envied the fat sheep in their thick coats of wool that scrambled out of their way. Here and there, picturesque stone and thatch huts dotted the long slope that led down to the water’s edge, their neatly walled gardens turned under for the winter and children waving from the porch.
It didn’t seem to be an especially prosperous place. Yet Rafe saw contentment in the smiling faces, and the houses looked to be in good repair. “Are sheep the main source of income around here?” he asked, wondering how many sheep it would take to keep his workers fed and still provide Ash with enough money to buy pure-blooded horses and build a grand home in Heartbreak Creek.
The Scot smiled proudly, showing gaps in his strong white teeth. Rafe guessed he was a bit of a brawler, as most of these Highlanders seemed to be. Including Ash. “Our wool is the finest in the Highlands. Northbridge ships take it straight tae weavers in Ireland, where they spin it intae cloth sae fine ’tis like silk against yer skin.”
“Kirkwell has his own ships?”
“Aye. Tew.” McKenzie held up two fingers. “’Tis easier tae avoid the tariff collectors when ye have yer own docks and boats, so it is. Those bloodsucking English would starve us oot, if they could.”
Judging by McKenzie’s robust frame, the enterprise was doing well. “Does he smuggle anything else?”
“Smuggle?” The bearded man reared back to glare at him. “We dinna call it smuggling. We call it staying free. If the English had their way, they’d have us off our land and toiling in their sooty factories like slaves. We willna do it.”
Rafe didn’t respond. Being more partial to cattle, he didn’t have much fondness for sheep and the harm they did to grasslands. But here, in this wet climate, the grass probably recovered quickly enough to prevent lasting damage.
“And then there’s the drink, o’ course.”
He looked over to see that sly look back on McKenzie’s face. “Drink?”
“Scottish nectar.” McKenzie gave a startling bark of laughter that made the horses sidestep and sent several fat ground birds into fluttering flight. “The Earls of Kirkwell have been making it for many years, so they have. And no’ that auld stuff that rots yer gut. Northbridge Scotch Whisky is as smooth and gentle as a kelpie’s kiss. And now that the earl is opening other markets in yer country, we’re all sitting grand.” His big grin faded into a scowl as he swung his bright blue gaze in all directions. “But ye dinna hear that from me, lad.”
Ash and smuggling and whisky. Rafe wasn’t surprised.
• • •
Pembroke’s Pride’s workouts continued. Josephine kept an eye on Hammersmith and Gordon Stevens, but the lessons in the round pen passed without incident and the stallion improved more every day.
Not so the relationship between Josephine and her father. Although there had been no additional discussion of her unmarried status after she told him about the incident with Mr. Calhoun and demanded he stop bandying it about that she was “available,” the tension between them remained high.
They rarely saw each other except at meals, and those settled into a chilly reserve that robbed Josephine of what appetite she could muster. Because drinking made Father cruel and argumentative, she no longer risked having Jamie join them for dinner. She would have avoided those tense meals, herself, had her father not insisted she attend. In stilted silence, they sat at either end of the long table, Father staring at her as he drank more than he ate, while she ignored him and thought of Rafe.
Tonight was no exception.
He had called her “Josie.” She’d not heard that name in a long time, not since they had left the tumbledown cottage in the village outside the mine where Father had toiled before fortune had lifted them into higher society. Back then, she had had friends, and neighbors, and other children with which to play. She had never felt as alone in that humble cottage as she did in this palatial home.
Then Rafe came into her life.
Did he think her too bold for kissing him?
He had seemed to respond, but it had been so long since she’d kissed a man she might have imagined it. Wishful thinking, perhaps.
Lining green beans in a row on her plate, she smiled at her own daring. That kiss had surprised her, too. Even before her Great Indiscretion, she had never been an impulsive person. And later, as her dreams had crumbled around her, she had stayed in the shadows, terrified to attract more attention to herself, draw more sneers and barbed comments—never spoken directly to her, but always within her hearing.
And then Rayford Jessup had come.
Uncomplicated. Incapable of guile or malice, he had seen through her hard-built armor and the pall of criticism that had shrouded her for so long. With him, she felt daring, and desirable, and worthy.
Without him, she could feel those old doubts creeping back into her mind.
Lost in thought, she chewed a piece of roast pheasant. Such a simple thing, a kiss. Such a commonplace act, to hold another’s hand. But to one desperate for a touch, a kind word, a caring smile, it was like the breath of life.
“Pembroke is doing well,” her father said from the other end of the dining table, startling her into a cough.
She cleared her throat. “He is.” Even though her father hadn’t sold Pems out from under her, she still didn’t trust him, so she quickly added, “But he remains skittish around water. I fear he always will.”
“He could be the key to our salvation. I wish you would understand that.”
She did understand. She knew the prospect of sliding back into poverty was intolerable to her father. Because she had Jamie to protect, she was able to ignore the sly looks, innuendoes, and snide remarks that followed wherever she went. However, Father had nothing to sustain him but his illusions of wealth and the sense of importance they gave him. Without them, he would perish. Or drag her and Jamie back into those black holes of despair with him.
“What about the money the earl paid for the horses?” she asked him.
“That bought us a bit of time. Nothing more.”
A chill pressed against the walls of her heart. “So what are you going to do, Father?” She knew, but needed to hear him say the words.
His red-rimmed eyes slid away. “I have no choice, daughter. If he wins, we stand to make a fortune.”
“He won’t win.”
“He might.”
Setting down her fork, she clasped her hands in her lap so he couldn’t see that they were shaking. “He will never jump water, Father. Even after all the work we’ve put into him, he will barely step into it now.”
He waved his free hand in dismissal. “He’s got six months to learn. The Grand National isn’t until April.” Setting down his goblet with such force wine spilled like blood over his fingers, he glared at her down the long length of the table. “I’m entering Pembroke’s Pride in the race. You’d best accept that. And when the time comes, girl, your horse will either make the jump or die trying.”
Eleven
Rafe eyed the aging valet slumped at a table in the kitchen, a greenish cast to his whiskered face and “a wee tot” of whisky in his trembling hand. “Do you cut hair, Pringle?”
Wincing, the old man pressed a hand over his ear. “Stop shouting.”
“Will you cut my hair?” Rafe asked in a softer voice. “It’s starting to curl over my collar. Before long, I’ll look like one of these hairy Scotsmen.” He shot a grin at the eavesdropping kitchen helpers and received a giggle in response.
&nbs
p; “No.”
Rafe bent down to look into the old man’s bleary eyes. “No, you won’t cut my hair? Or no, I won’t look like a hairy Scotsman?”
“Both. Either. I don’t care. Bad enough I’m banished to this wasteland of superstitious savages, I’ll not whore out my skills like a common servant.”
Across the room, the cook snorted.
Straightening, Rafe scratched his stubbled chin. “I could have Ash make you do it.”
This time, it was Pringle who snorted.
“Or Thomas.”
That got his attention. He frowned, then a crafty look came into his red-rimmed eyes. Lifting a shaking hand, he studied it for a moment, then smiled evilly at Rafe. “Certainly, sir. Do let me retrieve my sharpest scissors. And would you care for a shave with my straight razor, as well?”
“I would gladly cut it fer ye, sir,” a breathless voice said behind Rafe.
Turning, he looked down into the hopeful face of one of the maids who giggled incessantly whenever he and Thomas came into the kitchen.
“Well, ah . . .”
“I’ve sheared many a sheep, so I have,” she said, pressing her breast against his arm. “And hardly a nick, I’m proud to say. Shall we have a go?”
“Maybe later,” Rafe said, and fled.
In the end, Thomas cut it, using his long-bladed hunting knife like a saw. A bit uneven around the edges, but Rafe had had worse.
That afternoon, the countess sent word for Rafe and Thomas to join her and Ash in the sitting area off their bedroom.
Like the rest of the castle, the earl’s quarters were stark and cold and filled with masculine trappings left over from the previous earls, Ash’s older brothers, both of whom had died in recent years. In her bright blue dress, Lady Kirkwell stood out like the first bluebell in a barren winter landscape. Here and there, small feminine touches had been added, but she had yet to make the room her own. Or any of Northbridge, for that matter. Perhaps she didn’t want to do anything of a permanent nature lest she feel compelled to stay. Rafe hoped she wouldn’t. He couldn’t see a woman with such a gentle and vibrant spirit thriving in this austere place.
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