Hartopp cast him a deferential glance. “Word spreads, McCullough. In the Highlands, everyone knows yer business.”
He displayed a smile. “Glad to hear it.”
They had quietly footed through the forest, careful not to step upon any twigs or brittle leaves lest they scare away any game. Finally, they spotted a pair of beautiful young does munching in a clearing. Stealthily, Brandubh braced the rifle against his shoulder and took aim. As the men silently watched, Brandubh pulled the trigger. The sound of the rifle exploded in Hartopp’s ears, and a puff of smoke burst from the flintlock. Brandubh’s shot found its mark, crippling one of the does. They bolted, one of them hobbling away.
“Did ye see? I clipped her in the flank,” Brandubh crowed. “Let’s go after her.”
“Och! She’ll get far before she’ll tire. And my legs won’t sustain me. Go on. Follow the trail of blood. Ye’ll find her soon enough.”
The younger McCullough took off running through the forest to finish off his quarry.
“I trained him well, did I not?” asked Duncan. “Do you have any children of yer own, Hartopp?”
“No doubt, but none that I’ll claim,” he quipped, to Duncan’s rich laughter.
“Brandubh’s an ambitious cur, more than his da was before him. He’s just as keen to grow the McCullough holdings, but that boy has a head for politics. I canna wait to see what will happen to the Council when I turn Brandubh loose upon them.”
It was not pride in his son that Hartopp saw in Duncan McCullough’s eyes. It was bloodlust.
“Now,” he burst, changing the subject. “I sense ye’ve come with a proposition for me. Let’s have it.”
“I’m a loyal man, my lord. The moment I laid eyes upon the girls, and realized who they were, I knew that they must be returned to ye. I remembered yer reputation for rewarding such loyalty.”
“And how can ye be sure these are the right MacAslan girls?”
“If ye’re after Shona and Willow MacAslan, daughters of John MacAslan of Ravens Craig, then these are the right ones.” Hartopp relished seeing Duncan practically drooling for the prize that Hartopp held. “And they bear the mark of the slaighteur.”
Duncan licked his lips. “And where might I find them?”
Hartopp could almost feel his balls grow. “I’ll be happy to take ye to them, my lord. For a fee of ten thousand pounds.”
Duncan nodded his head, which had only started to thread with white. He kicked at a loose stone on the ground, overturning it to reveal a swarm of slithering worms.
Hartopp watched him do it. And by the time their eyes met again, the end of Duncan’s rifle was pointed at Hartopp’s belly.
The blood began to pound thickly in Hartopp’s head. His manic gaze flew from the muzzle of the rifle to Duncan’s face to the servants who pretended to be absorbed in the study of their shoes.
“Do ye know what happens to men who try to get the better of me, Hartopp? Their satisfaction never lasts long.”
Hartopp had two daggers on him, but he could reach neither one of them swiftly enough to defend himself against a man with a rifle. His only sure weapon was Duncan’s own greed. “Shoot me and ye’ll never get the information ye need.”
Duncan’s forehead dimpled with incredulity. “Shoot ye? I’m not going to shoot ye, man. Ye’re the one that’s going to take me to the MacAslan gels. For a fee of two thousand. Isn’t that the bargain betwixt us?”
Hartopp let out a ragged breath. “Aye. That’s the bargain.”
“Good. Let’s drink on it.”
A servant immediately poured two goblets full of whisky and served them up. The two men eyed each other over the rim of their glasses.
At that moment, breathless from running, Brandubh returned. “The fucking doe got beyond me.”
Duncan clapped Brandubh on the shoulder. “No matter, son. She’ll not be able to run forever. Leave her to the wild dogs. She’ll sate them for a while, and that’ll spare the sheep. We’ve got ourselves a new hunting expedition.”
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TWELVE
Shona jumped onto the seat of the cart and flicked the reins. Conall would be pleased today.
Market day had been long, but very profitable. The farmers on the eastern side of the estate had done well, even though her newest reforms would not show fruit until the spring harvest. The tenants handed over their quarterly sums—plus ten percent for those who’d received a subsidy from Conall—all of which was safely ensconced in a wooden box under her seat. Kieran and his cousin Fergus, a stout man who easily weighed three of Kieran, rode with her to safeguard the cache.
Conall had been so inexplicably distracted these past few days, and she knew he’d been laboring under financial concerns. She desperately wanted to put a smile on his face, and she was certain that the rent monies would do the trick. But she was especially thrilled to bring news of a discovery she’d made on the way to market. There, in Conall’s own park lands, were some large burls growing upon a smattering of larch and beech trees. These large growths upon the trees create a beautiful swirled grain to the lumber, used for artistic wood veneer. In London, this wood would undoubtedly fetch high prices from furniture makers and wood sculptors. Shona was excited to tell Conall that he had a cache of green gold growing right on his land.
Ever since that vulture Hartopp had been discharged, the farmers had become acquainted with a different picture of Conall. Conall had been trying so hard to be the honorable sort of landlord, the kind that tries to collaborate with the tenants as a partner, rather than as an overlord. She had been with him a few days ago when they stopped in to the pub for refreshments after overseeing the delivery of shovels, picks, and bone dust to drain Firley’s field. The pubkeeper himself bought a round of drinks for Conall and Shona, and within minutes, their table was littered with glasses from the rounds that men at the neighboring tables bought them in gratitude for either giving them employment or helping their neighbors. He laughed as he saw the collection of ales and whiskies upon their table.
“Let this serve as a warning to ye,” she’d told him. “This is what happens when ye become well liked in the village.” Conall was beginning to remind her of her father, who had been a much-admired man among his people.
The carriage rumbled up the southern approach to Ballencrieff House, its once derelict landscape now beginning to green with newly potted plants. The moistened ground gave off an earthy smell, offering the delightful promise of the coming harvest.
As the carriage came to a halt, Shona jumped off the perch, her loose hair floating down her back. She reached under the seat and took the box clanking with the sound of coin. “Farewell, Kieran. Farewell, Fergus. Send my love to your mother, now.”
“Good-bye, Shona,” answered Fergus, his deep baritone booming across the stable yard. “Will ye be needing me tomorrow then?”
“Aye. We’ll be doing the Stonekirk market in the morn. Come and collect me at six o’clock sharp.”
As she ran through the stable, she noticed several unfamiliar horses munching on hay. Two unhitched carriages crowded inside the coach house.
It appeared that Ballencrieff House was entertaining visitors.
HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF BASINGHALL
Conall rubbed his thumb across the lettering on the calling card that Bannerman had just handed him. Like her letter, the duchess’s card was terse and snappish, and communicated in just six words a centuries-old arrogance that demanded to be knelt before.
He expelled a labored breath, and cast a meaningful glance at his brother. “They’ve arrived.”
Moments later, a footman announced the duchess and a second woman into the drawing room. Conall and Stewart rose in greeting.
The duchess herself was a beautiful woman, with striking Gallic features and a narrow waist. Dark hair was collected in curls at the crown of her head, revealing earrings of pearl that almost matched the paleness of her smooth skin. Her emerald dress draped handsomely down her l
ithe figure, and from the bodice shone a diamond and pearl brooch connected to a rope of pearls that encircled her high waist.
“Greetings, Your Grace,” Conall said, bowing before her. “I am Dr. Conall MacEwan of Ballencrieff. You are happily met. I hope your journey was not too unpleasant.”
“Quite uneventful, Ballencrieff. Please accept my gratitude for your gracious hospitality.”
It was not arrogance she wore, but eminence—as if a mist of regal distinction surrounded her at all times. The duchess waved to the woman beside her. “May I present my daughter, the Lady Violet.”
The other woman was a young doppelgänger of the duchess. Beautiful in face and form, with milky skin and shiny brown hair. Like her mother, she had wide, almond-shaped eyes that were distinctly alluring. Her dress, aptly enough, was a pale violet in color, and, although cut a bit low, set off her sylphid waist and high bosom to advantage.
Conall bowed. “Lady Violet, it is an honor to meet you.”
Lady Violet curtsied gracefully. “Dr. MacEwan.”
“You remember my brother, Stewart MacEwan,” he said, gesturing behind him.
Stewart effected a stylistic bow. “A great pleasure to see you both in good health.”
The look of pique upon the duchess’s face did not escape Conall’s notice.
“I’ve arranged for some refreshments. Won’t you please take your ease upon the settee?”
The ladies situated themselves next to one another, appearing like a couple of gemstones in a crown. Conall and Stewart sat opposite them in wing chairs.
The duchess placed her hands neatly in her lap. “Forgive my directness, Ballencrieff, but I am a candid woman, a fact for which my late husband Frederick often chided me. Therefore, to prevail over any lengthy awkwardness, I shall come straight to the point. You’ve no doubt been apprised of the reason for my visit.”
“I have read your letter, Your Grace.”
“The first thing to say is that I will not excuse my daughter for forgetting her good breeding and position of responsibility, both socially and morally.”
Violet’s eyelashes fell upon her cheeks as she blushed hotly. Her poise cracked ever so slightly at the reproof, but to her credit, she maintained her composure. Clearly, this was but one of the many times she had heard this remonstrance.
The duchess continued. “Children in this day and age are famously in want of strictness and restraint. Nevertheless, it is inherent to the conscience of every good mother that any fault found in her child is a fault in herself. While I do not condone the impropriety of my daughter, I must share in the blame for her failures.”
Conall glanced at Violet. Her back was straight, her legs were folded demurely at her ankles—yet despite the sting of the invective, she was enduring it graciously. He began to feel a need to defend the girl.
“Who among us has not fallen short of perfection, Your Grace?”
“It is not perfection I expect, sir. It is duty. Requirements are made of all of us, and she must comply with hers, just as we all must. Her dalliance with Mr. MacEwan ill befits a lady of her station.”
An unsettling thought was beginning to take shape in Conall’s mind. “May I ask what Your Grace specifically finds fault with? Is it the fact that your daughter has fallen from grace, or that in doing so she has landed in my brother’s arms?”
“My daughter has been instructed in every one of the social graces—piano, singing, dancing—as well as having been tutored in history, French, Latin, and dozens of other subjects that would strain the intellectual capability of most men. She is capable of masterfully organizing a masked ball for five hundred guests at a moment’s notice, and can speak on a variety of subjects to a person of any class, from a member of the clergy to His Royal Highness. Let us be perfectly candid with one another. How many masked balls do you expect your brother to hold?”
Conall shifted in his chair. “Surely that isn’t the measure of a man’s worth in your estimation?”
“Not if we’re discussing humanity, Ballencrieff. But we are speaking of practical matters. Now that she is damaged, I cannot in good conscience give her hand in marriage to a man of equal breeding. Neither, however, does one indiscretion make her fit only for dogs.”
Stewart leaned forward. “Dogs? You do me a great disservice, Your Grace. Although I am no prince, I cannot allow you to slander me—”
With the quiet dignity of an elder statesman, the duchess halted Stewart’s argument. “Please contain your protestations, Mr. MacEwan. While I can certainly appreciate your sordid interest in Lady Violet—my daughter is a pearl after all—it is beyond the pale that a presumed gentleman should take advantage of a girl of such tender years. My daughter has defended you by claiming you did not force yourself upon her, but I think I can say without contradiction that you and I know better than that. We are worldly people, you and I, and we know that in moments of passion, the sword will demand its sheath. You’ve behaved reprehensibly, and I regret that my daughter did not realize earlier on that you were nothing but a common lothario. To my knowledge, your only known achievement is having seduced scores of women, and that is a shabby accomplishment indeed. You would do better to become a chimney sweep, sir, for then you can claim to have done some good in the world.”
Stewart reacted as if he’d been slapped. He ground his teeth and gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white. Although Conall reluctantly shared the duchess’s opinion, he felt sorry for his brother. The duchess seemed to possess the cruel skill of exploiting people’s insecurities. But Conall was surprised to notice the pained expression on Violet’s face. Once the duchess’s ammunition turned upon Stewart, Lady Violet seemed prepared to jump out of her seat to protect him.
“Your Grace,” said Conall, “as reasons for the liaison between these two, you’ve cited the moral decline in our society, the laxness of your maternal guidance, and the recklessness of my brother. There is one reason that you did not mention. Had you stopped to consider that Lady Violet and Stewart might be in love?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the duchess answered. “Does that matter?”
Conall searched her face. He had never seen a countenance so beautiful, yet so cold.
The duchess continued. “People of noble birth do not have the luxury of love, Ballencrieff. Matches must be made to the advantage of both families. This is as it has been for hundreds of years, and how it always shall be done. Empires rise and fall on alliances made at the altar. And for peers of the realm, a good alliance makes the bloodline stronger, while a bad one ends in disgrace.”
“An alliance to the bloodline of MacEwan is the same whether your daughter is wed to my brother or to myself.”
“Let us not quibble, Ballencrieff. I think you understand precisely the point upon which I stand.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, I believe I do.” He’d say one thing for her. She was venomously direct. “Nevertheless, I do not believe that a woman should be dragged to the altar. What, may I ask, does the young lady opine about all this?”
The duchess turned gracefully toward her daughter. Not a single perceptible change in the duchess’s expression had occurred, but Violet seemed able to read her mother’s face a great deal better than Conall.
“I … am receptive to becoming better acquainted with Dr. MacEwan, er, Ballencrieff, if he’ll do me the very great honor of paying court.”
The duchess returned a triumphant look at Conall. “Are we then in agreement?”
He glanced at Stewart. His brother’s face dissolved from offended pride to sullen rejection to … jealousy?
Conall cleared his throat. “I would consider it a very great privilege to become better acquainted with Lady Violet. I find her delightful and charming, and I am certain that her heart is as pure as you claim. But I am a recent widower, as you know, and it has been a challenge to overcome the feeling of loss I had when my wife departed this world. I would like an opportunity to get to know Lady Violet at leisure,
and allow her equal time to consider me. Perhaps then, in due course, she may choose—”
“There is no due course, sir. The banns must be published immediately.”
“Your Grace, this is beyond tolerable. I will not be marched down the aisle at the point of a rifle—”
“There is a child.”
The last word seemed to echo in their ears.
The silence stretched tight. Conall’s eyes darted from the duchess to Violet. Violet’s gaze was riveted upon Stewart.
“Lady Violet, are you quite certain?” asked Conall.
The younger woman’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I missed my monthly courses, sir.”
“A fact she confessed to me only last week,” the duchess added with a clip of irritation. “So you see, we also do not possess the luxury of time. My grandchild may have been conceived a bastard, but I will not have it born as one. We can have the wedding at Basinghall within the month. On the wedding day, I will bestow upon you a dowry of fifty thousand guineas, plus her goods and a house in St. James Square. You should also know that Violet is the sole heiress to the estate of Basinghall, and upon my death, it too shall proceed into your hands.”
Conall began to squirm under the pressure. There was no denying that marriage to Violet would reverse his financial woes. And indeed, Violet herself was a very beautiful and well-mannered young woman. Not to mention what a blessing it would be to the poor girl to take her out from under her mother’s dictatorship. But every single one of his instincts screamed that marrying Violet would be a colossal mistake. The reasons could not be put into words, because there was only a face: Shona’s.
“That is … a very generous offer, Your Grace. And your daughter is worth marrying even without all the added inducements. But I regret to tell you that I am not the right suitor for her.”
Lessons in Loving a Laird Page 6
