by Mary Wine
“Do nae hold out any hope,” Diocail replied. “There is a decade of letters sitting there. Any offers are long past their time of opportunity.”
His new lairdship was proving to be far more challenging than he’d ever thought it might be. Somehow, in all the times his mother had spoken to him of the day he’d take over the Gordon clan as laird, she had never mentioned just how complicated the duty was. There was building to consider, horses, men, training—and the list went on. All things he’d been taught as a man.
Now there was the kitchen, and God only knew what else went along with running one smoothly.
Well, not God.
He let out a grunt. Here was something he knew less about than the Lord above.
Women.
And, more precisely, a lady and the duties she would have been trained to do.
There were reasons a laird wed a woman from a highborn family, and one was that she would come with an education as diverse as any given to a laird’s son. Running a kitchen was more than turning bread; it was knowing how much bread to set out to rise in the morning so that the supper table was full and how much grain was needed to make it through the winter and how many hands were needed to produce it all. His head began to ache. He didn’t know what went into bread, much less how much was needed to see an entire castle through a day, but as laird, his duty was to make certain the tables were laid with fare.
Nor did he know anything at all about helping a lady settle into the place he hoped she’d make into a home. Muir was correct; she would run back to her father before sunup.
Diocail took another swig of the whisky, wishing it would dull his senses, but all it did was warm him enough to make him conscious of the draft coming through the holes in the roof. He tipped his head back and discovered stars peeking at him where tiles were missing, likely from the winter storms. Colum was a bastard for leaving his people to such circumstances.
Laird of the Gordons. Diocail’s mother’s dream.
And his nightmare, it would seem.
* * *
It was cold.
Of course, she’d expected it to be so, standing in nothing but a shift in the street.
“Ye’re contemplating yer options now.” Gillanders chuckled at her plight and rocked back on his heels. “Ye keep thinking because it’s going to take a bit of work on yer part to soothe me injured pride. Rejecting me offer so quick as ye did, now that was nae wise on yer part. No’ with yer husband dead and ye without a single penny to yer name and the gambling debts he left as well to be accounting for. Lucky ye were that I made ye an offer at all instead of tossing ye into the gutter. Ye were quick to lift yer English nose, but that will nae keep ye from freezing, now will it? Aye, me pride is wounded. Deep. It will nae be soothed…easily.”
The pudgy innkeeper leered at her. Expectation glittered in his eyes, and his meaning was clear to anyone watching. He wanted her to prostitute herself. His gaze swept her from head to toe as he all but licked his lips over the treat he intended to make of her.
She would not bend. Not now, not even if she died in a thicket from the Scottish chill.
So what if the villain had stripped her down to her chemise and left her standing in the street outside the Hawk’s Head Tavern, where her husband had so foolishly gambled the night before being killed by the men he’d been unable to pay and leaving her to face his debts? It wasn’t as if there had been any affection between her and Henry.
She scoffed a bit as she caught sight of Gillanders’s wife watching from inside the tavern with a pinched look on her face that revealed how little liking she had for her own spouse.
Marriage was a business, and that was simply that. Men sought brides who would bring them connections in business, and fathers looked for men who they felt would ensure their wives didn’t starve.
Henry had failed rather completely when it came to his part of the marriage bargain. The truth was she’d loathed him and was going to enjoy telling her father every last detail.
At least that thought sparked a fire in her belly.
Temper is a sin.
Well, so was turning her out, so Jane decided to embrace the flicker of heat and sent the innkeeper a narrow-eyed look. “I wish you good luck in soothing your pride, sir.” Jane held her head steady and ignored the way the wind cut easily through her smock. “For I will not invest any effort to please you. Pride is a sin after all, and as you have pointed out, my kin have already left you with enough burdens.”
People were watching, and some even appeared moved by her plight, but her English accent proved to be a deterrent none of them seemed willing to challenge.
Gillanders’s eyes narrowed. “Ye will change yer mind.”
He was a very fat man.
Jane used the thought to brighten her spirits as she turned her back on him and started to walk away from the boardinghouse he ran.
Although it would be more correct to say that he shouted at his wife and daughters and nieces while they performed all the work for not a single word of praise. He was fat on excess and laziness, and the man knew well how to feed those traits of his personality. Travelers were best to be wary of him, for he plied them with wine and then took them for every last coin they had.
Of course, he wanted something altogether different from her.
He wouldn’t be getting it.
Even if her husband had promised it to him once his coin ran out and his need to gamble persisted with the aid of the drink Gillanders used to ply him.
No, she would not turn whore to settle her husband’s gaming losses. There were limits to a wife’s obedience, she had decided. By Christ there were, and she didn’t care a bit for anyone who disagreed with her. And she wouldn’t be sorry for the fact that Henry had been beaten to death by those he’d tried to cheat the night before.
All right, perhaps she was a bit…well…touched by the idea that he was dead, yet only so far as feeling remorse toward a wasted life. Henry had hidden his laziness from her father, convincing them all that he delivered wine to Scotland because the dangerous duty came with the promise of higher pay for the entire family business.
In truth, Henry had enjoyed being able to gamble and drink to excess while away from anyone who might report his lapse in moral conduct. Henry had hidden his vices well, and her father would not be making another match for her so quickly once she made it back to England.
At least she hoped not, and she refused to allow herself to doubt because she needed her hope to keep moving as good wives going about their days stopped and stared at her indecent lack of clothing.
Well, that wasn’t her shame, it was Gillanders’s, and part of her enjoyed knowing that she’d had the strength to deny him the pleasure of breaking her.
Maybe later she’d regret it.
Not now.
No, she couldn’t be weak.
So she walked on bare feet. Turned out in her shift, every last possession she owned taken because Gillanders considered it his right. She walked through the small village, refusing to look at the spot where her husband’s blood stained the ground. Henry had never been a wise man, but she wondered what possessed him to wander outside the inn in the dead of night in Scotland. It had been a foolish action that he’d warned her against. Perhaps Gillanders might have interceded, in the interest of gaining what he believed was owed to him, but no one inside the inn had heard the fight.
That much she believed, because a dead man couldn’t write to his father and beg coin to settle a debt.
She stepped on a sharp rock, and that was the end of her concern for her late husband. The only way she was going to survive was to use all of her wits for herself. Even then, she doubted she’d make it back to her father’s home in England before the weather took her life.
Well, she would bloody well try to best the odds. They had never been in her favor anyway. Born a fourth
daughter as her mother tried to produce a son, her fortune had ever been a poor one. Which accounted for the choice of her husband. A third son of a wine merchant who was tasked with the duty of delivering orders into Scotland, Henry had seen her pretty face as a means to ease the costs of traveling. She’d seen him for the scheming lackwit he was.
Men might enjoy flirting, but when it came to business, they all wanted the most gain. Gillanders was certainly a fine example.
Well, she would not give him what he craved from her. Perhaps she might die in the wilds of Scotland, but she would not become a whore.
Even if she’d found marriage to be so very similar that she could barely tell the difference.
Well, now she was a widow.
* * *
“Ye could send someone else to collect rent.”
Diocail sent his captain a pleading look.
Muir chuckled as he checked the strap on his saddle. “Tired of playing laird already?”
“Another day of sitting at that high table, and I will be drooling like a daft man,” Diocail confessed. He patted his stallion’s neck. “It’s a fine time to go out and meet me tenants. Once the snow flies, I will have ample time to deal with more troubles here. For the moment, repairs are beginning. A few months and we’ll have a better idea of what to focus on next, and I’d rather show me face and quell the gossip.”
“Aye,” Muir agreed. “There will be many who will enjoy ye making the rounds. News tends to get muddled as it travels. I’ll no’ be surprised to hear that it’s being told ye had Colum drawn and quartered in the yard so as to take the lairdship.”
“He’d have deserved it for the ruin he’s allowed to befall this castle.” Diocail cast a look at the twin keeps of Gordon Castle. His mother had raised him to be its laird, but she’d also run for the north country when someone had tried to poison her, taking him along with her as a babe on her breast.
Colum Gordon had held the lairdship with an iron fist, and his sister’s bairn hadn’t been a welcome rival to his own children. Fate had decided that Colum would outlive all of his sons. Diocail didn’t think it was by chance either. No, men reaped what they sowed, and Colum had died knowing that his sister’s child was his only heir. It was his due for the selfish way he’d ruled. Instead of applying himself to the duty of being laird, he’d taken the deference of his people and given nothing in return.
However, that left Diocail with the duty of being laird, a true laird, who improved his land and eased his people’s burden. None of the Gordons expected it of him because they had never seen any better laird than Colum.
That fact filled him with determination. By Christ’s nightshirt, there was a great deal to do, and he was going to rise to the challenge.
His uncle’s senior captain looked down on him from the top of the steps. Sorley had happily passed on the duty of riding with the new laird in favor of overseeing construction. The castle was in poor repair because Colum had focused all his energy into hatred after his son Lye Rob was killed, and the condition of the stronghold reflected his inattention. The roof in the kitchen was only the beginning. Walls were crumbling, the wells were insufficient for the needs of the castle, the stable was a damn drafty place that wasn’t fit for man or beast, and the list went on. Under Colum’s rule, riding out to raid had been a priority, not keeping up the castle.
One thing Colum had done was make certain there was money in the coffers. The old man had been a miser, hoarding all manner of things he demanded as tribute from his tenants.
The truth was Diocail just might face an angry mob when he left the castle due to the amount of coin Colum had squeezed from his tenants. The Gordon people felt oppressed, and that fact was supported by all the plunder amassed in the upper rooms of the keeps. Diocail checked the last of his gear and felt his determination tighten.
Perhaps it had been his mother’s dream that he claim the Gordon lairdship, but he was planning to make it his legacy, so he’d be facing every tenant and making certain each one learned that he was a fair man.
He looked back at Sorley. Well, once the autumn had passed, Diocail would return to doing his best to right the conditions of the castle.
“I’ll make good use of the time ye are away,” Sorley claimed. “Going to finish the roof on the kitchen first.”
“Dry bread on the table when we return,” Muir declared. “We’ll no’ know what to do with that.”
Diocail mounted, his horse shifting from side to side in excitement. Sorley offered him a solid nod. “Do nae worry, Laird, we’ll be welcoming ye back when ye finish.”
There was a glimmer of respect in Sorley’s eyes that Diocail hadn’t seen before. Considering there were still a few cousins who considered their own blood a claim to the lairdship, Diocail found it a welcome sight indeed. “Do nae spare the coin. Buy what ye need, pay enough men to see the kitchen in good order before the snow flies.”
Sorley reached up and tugged on his bonnet, two other captains stepping behind him to show they supported Diocail’s claim to the lairdship. The yard behind him was full of Gordons. They stood watching and listening while keeping their expressions tight.
Not that Diocail blamed them. Respect was earned. At least, that was the way he wanted to come by keeping the position of laird.
“When we get back, ye can get on with choosing a bride,” Muir taunted from the back of his own horse.
Diocail shot Muir a sour look. “I bring a lass here as it is, and she’ll run straight back to her father.”
Yet the very real fact was that the clan expected him to wed.
And soon.
First the tenants. He raised his hand, and his men followed him out of the gates. It was just past first light, and people were starting to bring in the harvest. They rode at a slow pace due to the wagons needed. More than one family paid its rent in goods. It was a time-honored tradition, one he wouldn’t change. He shied away from thinking about the very real dilemma of putting those goods to use. There was another thing a true mistress of a large house was educated in: how to utilize the goods that came her way in order to gain what she needed to run the house.
Damned if he had any notion as to how to begin sorting the goods abovestairs or even who among his staff were due what for their loyalties. There were those among his retainers who likely harbored resentment because of what they had been denied in the way of comforts such as shoes or new shirts. He didn’t have the knowledge, only the experience of having seen his aunt presiding over quarterly meetings where she handed out such things to her own household.
Yes, he needed a wife. A lady for the clan.
He might well have to resort to raiding to get one of quality though. It was enough to make his shoulders tighten until they ached.
One task at a time, boyo…
Men looked up and tugged on the corners of their bonnets when he passed. There was a gentler mood on Gordon land these days. Diocail enjoyed seeing more smiles and children. As Colum had descended deeper into his cups and hatred, mothers had started to hide their children when he passed, fearing he might lash out at them.
Now, they played openly, their mothers watching him from their windows. Diocail rode out of the village and into the open, ready to prove himself worthy.
Very ready indeed. The challenges might be many, but he’d face them.
After all, he was laird of the Gordons, and he would not be shaming his mother’s faith in him.
* * *
Jane’s belly rumbled.
She’d ignored it for a day, but by the next morning, she simply could not any longer. Not that it changed her mind. She wasn’t returning to Gillanders and his offer to be his harlot in exchange for her keep.
Curse Henry for his gambling.
Jane regretted the thought. She knew it was unkind to think ill of the dead. Her body might ache, but she wasn’t yet ready to regret the
fact that she was still drawing breath. Life might be difficult, but it was still to be treasured. She stepped on a rock and winced as she moved toward the sound of water. It was only a temporary solution, but she cupped her hand and drank until she felt some measure of relief.
She straightened, looking at the water and seeking any sign of fish. Desperation was beginning to claw at her. The chill from the night lingered in her joints, and the water wasn’t very satisfying.
No, I am not going back to the boardinghouse…
However, that meant she very well might die in the wilds of Scotland.
At least her situation made for a good tale. A hint of adventure—wasn’t that what her stepmother had gleefully informed her would be her lot when she’d decreed that Jane would wed Henry with his determination to travel into Scotland when it was so very risky?
Oh yes. How grand Jane’s life had been with Alicia. Her stepmother had taken her husband’s house in hand and made it plain that Jane and her sisters would obey her. Not that such an attitude was uncommon. Still, the happy home she’d enjoyed with her mother had vanished within months of her father taking a second wife. Of course, her father had never noticed because Alicia made certain her husband was very comfortable indeed. Complaints to her father had met with his confidence in his new wife’s ability to raise his daughters into women who could run their own households.
Jane was bitter and not one bit interested in being repentant about it. What had all of her obedience to Christian values and duties gotten her? A husband who raised his hand to her, gambling away every coin and then going so far as to promise her favors to settle his unpaid debts.
Turned out in her shift.
Indeed I was.
And still, she preferred it.
Her belly rumbled again. It hurt now, the hunger.
Well, life had not been comfortable for her for many years, so there was no reason to think today would be different. There was, however, a very real satisfaction in rising to meet the challenges as they came her way. If that was pride, so be it.
She looked back at the water and moved a bit farther upstream as she watched for signs of life. The water was tumbling out of a pool, and a fish slithered down the fall.
