by Aubrey Wynne
There were about a dozen men dressed in homespun and wool caps, milling about the dock. Ian and Lachlan stood at the front of the crowd, observing a man yelling and waving his hands dramatically. Ian shook his head, pointing his thumb over his shoulder and then waving toward the sky—or to the north? The angry fellow turned, his arms out, saying something to his followers, who lifted their fists and started to yell. What were they arguing about? What was the purpose of confronting the MacNaughtons? She knew the tradesmen at home and in Scotland were unhappy about wages. Perhaps this group thought this was another mill bleeding the poor.
Lachlan rolled up his sleeves, then removed his neckcloth. He bent slightly, and she saw his hand move down to his calf and pat something inside his stocking. The hilt of a dagger flashed in the sunlight. She sucked in a breath, her palms and forehead pressed against the pane. When he left the knife in its place, relief flooded her. But only for a moment.
One of the thugs pushed to the front and spit at Ian. Fenella gasped, her stomach knotting in a tight ball. She couldn’t see Lachlan’s face but sensed the rage. In that second, his fist shot out and caught the man’s jaw, sending him flying into the group of onlookers. Chaos followed. Ian kicked one ruffian in the stomach, knocking over two behind him. Someone had grabbed Lachlan from behind so another could have free rein at his face. She watched in horror as Lachlan slammed his head backward into his captor’s skull. The man crumpled to the ground. With his arms free, Lachlan jammed his knee into the attacker’s stomach, doubling him over. He raised both his fists and smashed them down on the man’s shoulders. He collapsed, and Lachlan grabbed a fistful of his hair and sent him reeling sideways.
Fenella couldn’t take her eyes from the bedlam below. Colin appeared, picked up a protestor in each monstrous paw, clanked their heads together, and tossed them into the river. A giggle escaped as the hooligans still standing took flight. There didn’t seem to be any rules in this bout.
With a shake of her head, she backed up from the window and hurried to the office. This was a different world. While she didn’t condone violence, she also understood that the MacNaughtons were protecting their livelihood. Those ruffians needed to spend their energy at the mills that took advantage of their workers. Yes, she was sure her employers had been justified.
Fenella sat down behind the desk and picked up the first pile of invoices, put the tip of the pencil to her tongue, and began recording and tallying numbers. Contentment seeped through her. An unbidden smile curved her lips and would not fade. With a satisfied sigh, she shuffled the first set of papers and started on the payments received.
*
Lachlan dunked his fist in the cold water and winced. “Weel, that was a braw thrashing. I’ve no’ enjoyed myself so much since Ross Craigg called foul when I beat him in the hill race for the third year in a row. I bet he thinks of me every time he sees his crooked nose staring back at him.” He dipped his neckcloth in the bucket, wrung it out, and wrapped it around his hand, grinning at his brother. “Thank ye for calling me to help, Ian. Ye ken I needed that.”
“Yer welcome. Those jackanapeses need to focus on the factories hiring the immigrants. I heard the new cotton mill hired the Irish and only pay half the wages we do.” Ian wrung out a cloth and gingerly wiped at a split lip. “There are legitimate organizations that try to be the voice for the poor and working destitute. Those pieces of shite wanted payment not to defend them.”
“They’ll be licking their wounds for a while, but I willna be surprised if they come back with reinforcement.” Lachlan looked forward to it. One whistle would bring fifty men of Clan MacNaughton onto the dock in minutes.
“Dinna forget to tend yer eye, Ian. It’ll be a bonnie blue tomorrow.” Colin ducked at the bloody cloth headed for his face. “What?”
“How do ye manage not to get a scratch?” Ian asked, glaring up at his cousin.
“It’s his height. They canna reach his ugly head.” Lachlan was always glad to have his cousin at his side in a brawl. “Besides, we were about finished by the time he arrived.”
“Bloody hell ye were,” bellowed Colin. “I’m the reason the rest of them took to their heels.”
Lachlan touched the back of his scalp and felt the sticky warmth of blood. “That feckin’ dung beetle had a head like a boulder.”
“Let me call Sorcha to look at that, Lachlan. Ye might need a poultice.” Ian summoned one of the boys and sent the lad off with a message.
“Och, it’s nothing a good bottle of whisky willna cure, eh Colin?”
Sorcha MacDunn didn’t agree. A tall, middle-aged, buxom woman with dark, slightly frizzy hair bustled around the storeroom. After examining all three, she declared Colin and Ian were fit to continue their day and shooed them off. Lachlan needed a compress and some rest.
“If ye dinna listen to me, it will be the worse for ye, laddie,” she said with authority. “I’ve seen these head injuries before. Ye think all is well, then the glee of the victory wears off and ye’re hitting the floor.” She finished winding a bandage around his forehead to keep the compress in place. “Now go to the office and sit down or go home. I’m only giving ye the two choices and telling Ian myself.”
Lachlan was about to argue when he remembered Miss Franklin. He pictured her sitting in the office, her beautiful face bent over a ledger. “I wouldna dream of going against ye, Sorcha. I’ll go up directly and sit for a wee spell.”
The woman nodded but her brown eyes narrowed. “Laddie,” she called to the young boy who had fetched her, and ruffled his red hair, “follow him upstairs and come tell me if he goes anywhere but the office.”
With a chuckle, Lachlan stood and kissed her on the cheek. “I wish ye were twenty years younger, Sorcha. We’d have made a formidable pair.”
She beamed and swatted his arm. “Off with ye, ye impertinent cur. And ye couldna have handled me ten years ago!”
Lachlan made it halfway up the second flight when the stairs began to spin. He put his palm against the wall and steadied himself.
“Do ye need help, Mr. MacNaughton?” asked the boy, his dark eyes wide.
Pain stabbed the back of his head and shot through his eyes. He nodded. “Aye,” was all he could get out.
The boy disappeared, and Lachlan steadied his deep breath. His stomach churned when he tried to take another step. He closed his eyes. Shite! Without moving, his body seemed to tumble like a water wheel. He opened his eyes and focused on his shoe and waited, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. A swish sound and the flash of navy blue.
“Mr. MacNaughton, let me take your arm,” said a low, sweet voice in his ear. “Continue to brace yourself with the wall and lean on me with your other arm.”
He nodded, letting her words penetrate the fog in his brain.
“We have ten steps, and we’ll be to the office. Are you ready?” asked the angel at his side. “One foot at a time.”
A groan escaped as he raised a leg, clutching the wall and her shoulder. He could only focus on the next stair or the spinning and nausea increased. His other leg joined the first. Sweet Jesu! How many times did he have to do this?
Then the gentle voice began again, and he concentrated on her words.
“Step up. That’s it. The other leg now… good.”
She allowed him a couple breaths. “Step up. That’s it. Now the other leg… very good.”
And finally. “We’ve conquered the stairs, Lachlan. Just walk now. One foot at a time.”
He squeezed her shoulder as the wall on his other side fell away.
“Malcolm, give him some support on that side.”
The boy gripped Lachlan’s forearm, and he felt the boy’s head beneath his palm. It was just the right height to maintain his balance. Malcolm? The lad had a name.
After another grueling repetition of one foot after another, something hard was shoved behind his knees.
“Sit down slowly. We have you.”
He obeyed and was rewarded with a hard suppor
t against his back. His knees collapsed, and his bum hit the wooden seat. A bonnie vision of spun gold and sparkling gray eyes appeared before him. “I think I love ye, lassie,” he mumbled and darkness overtook him.
*
Water dripped down his neck. He dunked his face in the stream again and lifted his head, shaking his wet mane and flinging droplets across her bare chest. Pale yellow tresses hung loose over her shoulders and down her back. Creamy mounds rose and fell with her breath, begging for his touch. She smiled and murmured something.
“Come to me, lass,” he said, holding his arms out to her. “My golden angel.”
She put a finger to her plump lips. “Shhh… hush now while we tend you.”
Her hand was cool against his skin, and he leaned his cheek into her palm. “Ah, ye’re sent from heaven. Spread yer wings for me.” He reached up to fit his palm around one perfect breast, his fingers stretching to knead—
A sharp slap stung the back of his hand. His eyes jerked open, his hand still in midair.
“Ye’re a long time dead, laddie. And ye’ll be reaching Heaven sooner than later if ye get any closer.” Sorcha looked down at him, holding the bloody bandage she’d removed from his head.
Panic filled him as he realized how close he’d come to touching the older woman’s chest. Heat rose up his neck; an invisible club beat against his temples. He turned at the sound of a giggle. Miss Franklin stood beside him, wringing a cloth into a bucket of water.
Sweet Mary! “I was dreaming. There was a running brook and—”
“A gooolden angel,” crooned Colin from behind.
He groaned. “Of course, ye’d be here to witness my…” Lachlan shook his head to clear the haze, only to be rewarded with more thumping behind his eyes.
“Come to me, lass,” Colin said in a high-pitched voice.
“If I were ten years younger,” added Sorcha with another cackle, “mayhap I’d have let ye. It’s been a verra long time.”
Another groan. This tale would swell with each telling. He shut his eyes. Let them think he’d passed out again.
“Ye’ve a new bandage, and I’ve given instructions to Colin. He’ll take ye home in an hour or so, depending on how well ye can stand. I dinna want to see ye back here for at least three days, ye ken?” Sorcha’s voice was firm.
He opened one eye, then the other, his face still burning. “Aye.”
“What a remarkable first day,” taunted the object of his dream.
“Ye find me amusing?” he croaked.
“We golden angels are known for our sense of humor.” Silver flashed in her eyes before releasing the pent-up laughter. “I am sorry. You’re injured and we’re teasing you. Your head must hurt terribly.”
Colin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Och, lass. We’re just irritating him a wee bit. The harassment will begin when his brothers and cousins find out.”
“And ye’ll be quick to share the yarn, ye bleeding donkey’s arse,” he mumbled, then looked at the pink cheeks of their accountant. “Pardon me, Miss Franklin.”
“You’re not yourself, I understand.” She smiled and perched on the corner of the desk. “Are you thirsty? Shall I get you some water?”
Lachlan saw his own disgust mirrored in Colin’s expression.
“Here, Cousin,” he said, handing a flask to Lachlan. “This will put some color back in yer cheeks.”
Lachlan accepted the whisky. “First helpful thing ye’ve done,” he muttered. Two swallows later, he gave a sigh. “A cure for whatever ails ye.”
“Even the hiccups,” added Miss Franklin with a smirk.
“Be on yer guard, Miss Franklin,” Sorcha said with a wink as she gathered her bag and bandages. Colin handed the wooden pail to the boy and held the door open for the older woman.
“The MacNaughtons have a reputation for being hot-blooded, and ye seem to be in his dreams.” Sorcha patted Lachlan’s cheek. “Behave yerself, or this heavenly vision may cast ye into the depths of hell.”
Already there, Lachlan thought as the weeks ahead flashed before him, working in close quarters with this English beauty.
And then Miss Franklin flashed him a radiant smile, and his world turned right side up again.
Chapter Eight
Lying Ledgers
Early May, One week later
Glasgow, Scotland
“There ye are,” greeted her grandmother as Fenella entered the parlor. “Ye’ve got mail from home.”
Fenella ran to the side table and snatched up the envelope with her sister’s familiar script. “Oh, Grandmama, I’m so wonderfully tired. Have you ever felt that way?”
“Aye, always after a job well done. It gives ye a certain satisfaction right here,” she said, placing a hand over her chest.
“Shall we have some tea?” Fenella asked, setting the leather satchel on the side table. “My feet are sore and my back aches.”
Aileen chuckled. “Sit a spell and tell me about yer day. Is the handsome out and outer recovered yet?”
She sank into the cushioned leather chair and took off her boots. Wriggling her toes and skimming the pads of her feet in the thick wool carpet, she leaned back her head and thought of Lachlan. “It seems he will return to the mill tomorrow, and Ian leaves the day after that.” Fenella heard the excitement in her own voice. “Sorcha gave her consent two days ago, and he’s been taking care of some business inside the city.”
“Well, I shall make some berry tarts to celebrate his return. I dinna believe he got any of the last baked goods, did he?”
Fenella laughed. “No, Ian and Colin finished every crumb. Said the shortbread reminded them of home.”
“It’s settled then.”
Rose entered with a tray. “You look tired, Miss Fenella. I told you staying hunched over a desk all day would wear on you.”
“Doesn’t bother me a bit,” she argued around a mouthful of biscuit as Rose steeped the tea leaves. She leaned back and stifled a groan. “Perhaps a little.”
“A hot bath would be just the thing,” Rose agreed. “I’ll tell the maid to heat up some water.”
“Thank you. You’re a dear.”
“Grandmama,” Fenella said after Rose had left, “could I ask your opinion on something?”
“Of course.” Her brown eyes studied her granddaughter sharply. “There are no other randy goats bothering ye?”
“Oh goodness, no. It’s something I’ve found in the ledgers. I’m not sure if I should bring it up to Ian or not.” She chewed her bottom lip, her foot tapping the carpet. “Some of the older entries seem odd.”
Aileen straightened and set down the teacup. “Go on, lass.”
“As you know, every business has regular entries that are repeated each month—deductions paid out to suppliers. But there is a particular one that stops after the last accountant quit.” She sighed. “Perhaps it’s nothing.”
“Humdudgeon!” Her grandmother scowled. “What’s yer gut tell ye?”
“The man was stealing from them and that’s why he left.”
“What’s the company? I’ve been here fifty years and should recognize the name.”
She tapped her chin. “Mc-something or other, I can’t remember exactly. I’ve entered so many names these past few days.”
“Weel, that’s not much help, is it?” Her grandmother pursed her lips. “First, I’d do some research and see if it’s a legitimate supplier. Mayhap it’s a smaller company that couldna compete and had to close. It wouldna be the first.”
“And then?”
“If it’s no’? Go back as far as ye can and see how much was taken. Dinna go to the MacNaughtons until ye have all yer facts.”
She nodded. “That makes sense, Grandmama. Thank you.” She gulped her tea and stood. “I will go upstairs and wait for my bath. If there is any interesting news from London, I’ll share at supper.”
Once in her room, Fenella flopped on her bed and tore open the letter. Please, let it be good news. It had been a m
onth since she’d arrived in Glasgow. Lady Franklin and her sister would have attended numerous soirees, balls, and musicales in that time. Their mother would be content with a suitable daughter in attendance. A lovely, petite daughter who would have the young men lined up to attend her. No whispers, no awkward introductions, no cruel pranks. With her sister out of sight, Evie might relent and let some handsome man steal her heart. A titled man like the Earl of Brecken.
This last week had been so… liberating. While she’d had more freedom than other girls with her father, this was different. She was truly living her own life, getting a taste of what the future could hold. The wages afforded her an independence that her father’s allowance did not. Beholden to no one, Fenella could save her money or spend it as she liked. Not that she would be frivolous. It wasn’t in her nature.
A tiny voice of guilt hissed at her. Her father and sister’s image came to her mind. She missed them. And if she were honest, she even missed her mother. Yet there was no great yearning to return. Glasgow was a vibrant, bustling city that was growing and developing. Fenella wanted to mature along with it. Perhaps even find love.
Lachlan. Her stomach flipped as it always did when she thought of the handsome Scot. His sense of humor, his lilting brogue that could go from teasing to skin-tingling in a moment. A mischievous smile, then a heated look. Her heart leapt with the possibilities, but her brain screamed caution. Her inexperience was her downfall once, and she couldn’t trust her own instincts. She did not know Lachlan. What he hoped for, longed for, what he thought about when he was alone, or laughed about with his family. The scene in the office came back to her along with an unbidden giggle. Well, maybe she knew what made his family laugh.
Unfolding the letter, she leaned back against the pillows as Rose took a steaming bucket, dumped it into the tub, and handed it back to the lad.
Dearest Fenella,
