Just in Time for a Highlander Page 6

  Duncan moved around the open door and gazed in. It was not a room but a tight, round stone stairway rising higher into the castle. He stepped inside cautiously.

  The walls were bare save for narrow slits cut through the rock at eye level every four steps or so. A chill went through him despite the evening’s warmth. The slits were for arrows. He was standing in a battle-ready turret.

  With whom had Abby quarreled, though? Whose room was at the top of these stairs? He felt certain he could guess.

  He heard a noise and slipped back into the hall, closing the door with a click. He was halfway to the door into which Abby had disappeared when Nab ambushed him from the other direction.

  “There you are.”

  “Where is everyone?” Duncan asked.

  “Och, there’s a fiddler playing in the upper bailey and a quite decent game of dice. A lot of men are watching. I think Murgo’s going to lose his goat, though. I passed Sir Alan outside the Great Hall. He was looking for you.”

  “Was he?” Duncan said, still looking abstractedly at the turret door. “Say, I might take a walk, possibly until quite late. If I wanted to swing by after that to chat with Rosston, where exactly in the castle do you think might I find him?”

  Nab considered this for a moment. “Well, he’s usually up with the owls. I think no matter how long you walk, you’ll find him with his men, so probably in the bailey.”

  “Right,” Duncan said, disappointed. “But let’s say my walk were to take me as far as, say—”

  “I cannot recommend walking much beyond the castle walls,” said a man holding an armload of papers who was cresting the stairs. “Not tonight. Between the wolves and the soldiers, ’tis not a night for a lone stroller.” The man, of middle years, had thinning hair, bright eyes, and the face of a kindly, curious bird. He held out his hand. “I’m Jock Kerr, Lady Kerr’s steward. Though if you’re ever looking for a companion, I do enjoy watching the stars.”

  “I’m Duncan MacHarg. I’m, er, Mrs. Fallon’s adviser. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kerr.”

  “I saw you at dinner,” he said, taking Duncan’s outstretched hand. “Call me Jock.”

  “Oh, aye. I can see it’s not going to be too hard memorizing last names around here.”

  Jock laughed, his eyes wrinkling with pleasure. “No. Though it does make knowing who to trust a wee bit trickier. Even the bad ones are called ‘Kerr.’”

  Duncan smiled. “Are you involved in her ladyship’s canal?”

  Jock looked down at the paper in his hands, spotted the two-inch-tall “Kerr Canal Plan” calligraphed on one of the top sheets, and grinned. “Och. Just a bit. Lady Kerr is still hoping for a discussion with Sir Alan tomorrow. I’m trying to get the key issues laid out on paper for him.”

  “The idea of a canal is not universally embraced, I take it?”

  “You noticed that, did you? Well, it is a financial risk. Then there are those in the clan who feel the canal will attract an unwelcome element.”

  “The English?”

  Jock’s snort was all the answer he needed.

  Duncan knew enough about business to know that building a canal could make you fantastically wealthy. But if you built one in the wrong place, or at the wrong time, or without the right support, you could also be wiped out, as easy as snapping your fingers. Scotland’s Darien scheme, a forerunner to the scheme that built the Panama Canal almost two hundred years later, had brought Scotland to its knees financially at the end of the 1600s, and would, in many ways, be the driving force behind the country’s submission to England’s demand that they join them in a union called Great Britain.

  He also knew that no canal of any magnitude existed today, even in disuse, near Langholm. If Abby’s canal had been built—which he doubted—it had failed.

  Jock gathered his papers to carry on, but Duncan had one more question. It was essentially the same question he’d asked Nab earlier, but he knew Jock would have a more informed point of view. “Lady Kerr’s rise to the chieftainship has not been an easy one, has it?”

  Jock’s gaze traveled to the hall’s far window, as if remembering a time long ago. “Her father, Lachlan Kerr, was a devil of a man. Caesar couldna hold a candle to him. He ruled the clan with an iron hand, and they loved him—those who didn’t feel the sting of his lash, that is. When his health started to fail, and Abby was his only surviving heir, the clan had the choice of supporting her, a wee lass who’d never lifted a sword, or Rosston, her cousin from the estranged side of the family. Many were surprised the clan wanted Abby. Being a direct descendant of Lachlan was more important to them than experience leading men. In truth, I think there were those who thought they’d be able to control her. But I knew she would never stand for it—she was a wicked bowwoman with a mind of her own even then. Once she was chosen, I knew she would lead even if it meant fighting them one at a time to prove she could.”

  “Her father must have been proud. They wanted his daughter, his blood.”

  Jock scratched his chin. “Her father refused to approve the line of succession. ‘No girl will run my clan,’ he said. ‘Not as long as I draw breath.’ He threw his support behind Rosston. Banished Abby from the castle until the matter was settled. She lived for a year with a friend in Cumbria. Lachlan wouldn’t even let her into Scotland.”

  “Her mother allowed this?”

  “Dead when Abby was just a girl. Not that it would have mattered. Lachlan didn’t temper his opinions to please his wife.”

  “What happened? She’s obviously the chieftess.”

  “The clan overruled him. Halfway through the year away, Abby survived an attack. There were some among the clan who thought Lachlan had sent the man to kill his own daughter. I suppose the truth will never be known. But that was enough to turn the tide in her favor. Lachlan saw his last great effort thwarted by his own men. He was furious. He used his last shreds of power to negotiate a compromise between Rosston’s sept and his men. Abby has their support, but the alliance has not been an easy one.”

  Duncan could imagine. With Rosston looking over her shoulder, ready to take over at a moment’s notice? He wouldn’t want to be in her boots.

  “One more thing,” Duncan said. “You mentioned Lady Kerr was Lachlan’s only surviving heir. I take it she had brothers?”

  “Oh, aye. Two. One younger. He survived only a day or two after birth. And her older brother, Bran. Bran was six years older and the apple of his father’s eye. Handsome, brave, a true warrior. He was killed in battle when Abby was fifteen. You’re wearing his sword.”

  Duncan winced. No wonder Abby had been so upset.

  “I must excuse myself,” Jock said. “Lady Kerr and I are meeting before dawn on this. She never gives up, I’ll give her that.”

  Each man bowed, and when Jock was out of earshot, Duncan said to Nab, “What a tough position to be in.”

  Grendel, who still lay curled at Abby’s door, let out a long, canine sigh.

  “You know what?” Duncan said. “Let’s take the dog for a run, shall we? We can do that much for her.”

  Nab whistled for Grendel and headed for the stairs. Duncan left his candle on a table to light his way on his return, but what he heard when he passed Abby’s door brought him to a dead stop.

  Nab was halfway down the stairs when he noticed Duncan wasn’t behind him. “What is it?”

  Duncan pointed to the door and whispered, “She’s crying.”

  Nab rolled his eyes. “What about the walk?”

  Duncan shrugged, helpless. “I’m sorry.”

  “C’mon, Grendel,” Nab said. “We don’t need anybody else to have fun.”

  “Stay within sight of the castle now,” Duncan called.

  Nab, who was already running through the entry hall, laughed. “Jock might be afraid of the wolves, but I’m not.”

  Duncan hesitated before
knocking. The sobs were quiet but steady.

  “Lady Kerr?”

  “Not now.” It was a plea, not an order.

  “Lady Kerr, please.”

  She didn’t respond, but he heard steps and, after a long moment, the door opened. Her eyes were as red as cherries, but it was clear in the moment before answering, she’d wiped her face dry and was determined to keep further tears at bay. She gave him no greeting and shut the door quickly once he’d entered.

  The space was much more than a bedroom. It was an apartment of sorts, three times the size of the room she’d put him in. The main space, covered in thick wool rugs, held shelves of books, a settee and chairs in front of a hearth, and a large desk scattered with ledgers and papers. To the side, in a wing off the room, was a four-poster bed draped in plum satin, and a large wardrobe. On either side of the bed were doors, which led, Duncan assumed, to a bathing area.

  “You cannot stay long,” she said, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. “I have a reputation to uphold, and my clerk is not here.”

  “I won’t. No one saw me enter, in any case.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  She looked so unhappy. “I am sorry, Lady Kerr.”

  “For what? You had nothing to do with these tears.”

  “But I am sorry for them, nonetheless. More important, though, I am sorry for this.” He pulled the sword from his sheath and laid it on her desk.

  She closed her eyes. “Who told you?”

  “Your steward. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m deeply sorry for taking the sword without your permission and reminding you of it.”

  A fresh tear striped her cheek, but she gave him a wan smile. “If you were hoping to keep me from crying, I’m afraid you have said entirely the wrong thing.”

  “You’ll find I have a knack for that. It seems to be my trademark.”

  Her shoulders hitched. “I miss Bran. I miss having someone to talk to, someone who would understand. Sometimes it’s just so…”

  She covered her face.

  “I came here to apologize,” Duncan said, feeling his own throat tighten, “and I’ve upset you. I’ll go.”

  “No…no. Please. Stay. I feel as if I could just talk to someone for a bit—about anything other than the clan—it would help.”

  Duncan stepped closer. He was not an inexperienced seducer, and many late nights in bars, empty offices, and hotel rooms had taught him that in this moment, he could take her in his arms and kiss her and that she would likely kiss back. But he dared not attempt such a thing. He knew one false word, one false move, would instantly destroy the tiny bit of trust he’d built here with her.

  “I would be happy to stay, Lady Kerr. I will do whatever you wish.”

  She took a step and reached for him. To his surprise, she kissed him hungrily.

  With the little part of his mind not focused on the melon taste of her mouth and the dizzying scent of lilacs in her hair, he battled to control his hands. What she chose to embark on was one thing. He would not take the role of aggressor. In fact, he was so afraid of overstepping his bounds that when she broke away, he found himself cupping the back of his head with both hands.

  “Och,” he said, “that was wonderful.”

  But the look on her face was embarrassment. “Well, that explains why no one wants to talk to me. That was unthinkably rude. I do apologize, MacHarg.”

  Duncan twisted and turned, fingers still laced, trying to find a way—any way—to rescue the moment. “I—I—”

  A noise in the hall made her straighten. “I’m sorry, but you must leave. I must also ask you not to mention our meeting. ’Twould make things uncomfortable for me.”

  “No, of course not.” He was stumbling backward toward the hall, propelled by the sheer force of her will. At the door, he made himself stop and gather his thoughts. He did not want to leave, and he certainly didn’t want to leave her regretting what had just happened.

  “Lady Kerr, if you want me to stay the night, I would consider it an honor. And you can be absolutely assured that whatever happened in that bed would stay strictly between you and me.”

  He heard a giggle and turned.

  While he’d been making his impassioned plea, the young maid who’d interrupted them in his room earlier in the evening had appeared in one of the doorways beside the bed, holding a large tin jug. She eyed Duncan with amused interest. The noise Abby had heard hadn’t been in the hall; it had been in the bathing area.

  “Your bath is drawn, milady.”

  Abby cleared her throat. “Thank you, Mr. MacHarg,” she said quite formally, “for the honor of the offer, but I think you understand why I cannot accept it.”

  Duncan, you imbecile.

  He reached for the knob. “I wasn’t lying when I said it was my trademark. You can count on it to pop up at the most inopportune times.”

  Nora snickered, and Duncan’s heart dropped sixteen stories. “No, no, no! That’s not what I meant. I meant my—”

  “I know what you meant,” Abby said, smiling. “I wish you a good night.”

  Nine

  Duncan retreated, his cheeks burning like fire. But no matter how embarrassed he was, the glow from those seconds in her arms would outshine everything for many, many hours to come. He could endure a lifetime of Nora’s snickers for a reward like that.

  Happily whistling “Walking on Sunshine,” he picked up the candle he’d put down earlier and walked all the way to the end of the hall before he realized he didn’t remember which room was his. He turned and spotted something he hadn’t on the first pass. His wooden sword was leaning against one of the doors—the door, he had to assume, that was his. He gazed at the carefully burnished wood and shook his head. Neither potent nor artful. A perfect metaphor for him in the eighteenth century. On the other hand, who had just been kissed by the most enchanting woman between John O’Groats and Lands End? Duncan MacHarg, that’s who. Perhaps if Duncan were very lucky, he could extend those few seconds of happiness to an hour or even a particularly glorious eight in the time he had left here, assuming, of course, there would be an end to his time here.

  He opened his door and set the candle on his bedside table, where he discovered a decanter of what turned out to be very fine whiskey. With a freshly poured glass, he returned to the doorway. He could see the faint light emanating from the space under Abby’s door and smiled. Was it candles or just her enchanting glow? He would have said angelic glow, but there was definitely a streak of something other than the temperament of angels to her. And that made him smile even more.

  Abby’s door opened and Nora emerged, jug in hand. Then Abby herself appeared, in a diaphanous slip, half-hidden by the door, to relay some instructions. Nora listened, curtsied, and headed for the stairs. Before closing the door, Abby looked down the hall. Her eyes, unsteady, met Duncan’s, and his heart quickened. A footman making his rounds crested the stairs and looked surprised to see Duncan in the doorway. In explanation, Duncan pointed to the mists off the loch visible through the window at the end of the hall. “Quite a sky.”

  The footman nodded politely, turning in the opposite direction, and when Duncan looked for Abby again, the door was closed.

  Duncan stared at that door for a good five minutes, debating. At last, he came to a decision. With a deep, uncertain breath, he swallowed the rest of the whiskey and placed the glass on the table just inside the room.

  When he looked up, Rosston was tapping lightly on Abby’s door. Duncan ducked back inside and watched, unseen. Abby’s door opened and Rosston slipped inside.

  For many moments, Duncan stared at the door, walloped to his core. Only when Grendel bounded up the stairs, wagging his tail madly, with Nab half a staircase behind, did he break his gaze.

  Nab looked at his benefactor with curiosity.

  “Is Lady Kerr in love with Rosston?” Duncan
asked without preamble.

  “I should hope so,” Nab said. “They are betrothed. The wedding will be at Michaelmas.”

  Ten

  Abby cut through the gurgling water like a bird extending her wings, and the cool of the liquid balanced the warmth of the sun on her naked back. The loamy smell of the river filled her head, and she could feel the grit and disappointment of the day before slowly being washed away.

  “I am in love with the sea,” Serafina said, coming up for air, “but I must admit swimming in such placid waters, with the larks singing overhead and the early morning sun sparkling among the reeds, is quite lovely.”

  “It’s called Candle Pool. It is one of the most magical places in the borderlands—or so Undine says.” Abby turned on her back to float, putting her hands behind her head. Their clothes were heaped under the boxwood overhanging the bank, and a bountiful breakfast of boiled eggs, sausage, and buttered bannocks sat wrapped in a basket awaiting them after their swim.

  “Do you believe in Undine’s magic?” Serafina asked.

  “Indeed I do,” Abby said, snorting. I shall be dealing with the effects of it for many days to come. “If you are worried about her ability to help you, you mustn’t. She is very good at seeing the truth, sometimes even better than one wishes. She’ll be able to guide you.”

  “’Tis not the truth I need,” Serafina said sadly. “Far from it. I need someone to pretend to be my former fiancé so that I may collect cargo that, when sold, will repay the money he stole from me. I was hoping Undine might give me a spell that would help conceal the identity of whomever I hire.”

  Abby smiled and ran her arm over the surface of the water, sending ripples in all directions. “I have no doubt that will pique her interest. She is at least as fond of concealing secrets as she is of exposing the truth. Her magic, it seems, can be quite potent.”

  Serafina’s face softened. “Did her magic have something to do with Mr. MacHarg?”