Amanda Scott (11 page)

Still, whatever she might think of him, she ought to know he would not have left any child in that crevice. Such a tiny thing, too. It made him angry just to think how far she had had to walk from Shian. Not that she had looked any the worse for that walk, but still, there it was.

His men rode silently behind him. Not even Bannatyne ventured to ride alongside, let alone speak to him, and Duncan could not blame any of them. No doubt they imagined steam rising off his clothing from the heat of his anger.

He told himself he was a fool to let any wench get under his skin the way she had. But the way she had stood there, listening politely to him,
humoring
him, while he explained the dangers of her situation and challenged the stupid decision she had made to return to Maclean House—Even now, just thinking about her unruffled calm in the face of his displeasure made him angry all over again. Women!

For her to thank him for his concern as if he had been an elderly advisor of some sort to whom she had felt obliged to listen patiently, and then to announce that she was going to do the very thing he had advised her most strongly against, showed plainly that the woman was an idiot with a reckless disregard for the danger she courted to herself and to the others. The sheer folly of it dumbfounded him.

Perhaps she did not know she had made a treacherous enemy by infuriating MacCrichton. She had probably never even seen him angry. But that thought stirred the memory of an upraised whip and her scream, and he quickly revised it. She had certainly seen MacCrichton angry. Even so, she had not seen the look Duncan had seen when MacCrichton discovered she had chosen to risk her life by climbing down a slender rope from the high turret, rather than stay with him.

Duncan had managed to keep the man from instantly setting out in search of her, but thinking back, he wondered why he had exerted himself. At the time he had thought it urgent to find out if MacCrichton had lied about his relationship with Allan Breck. Now, having obtained no more information at all about Breck, he knew he had asked more questions only to delay MacCrichton.

He had even tried to convince the laird that he would do better to tell his men that Mary had strayed by accident, to keep them from learning that she had run away. MacCrichton had said flatly that he did not care what his men thought. He wanted the lass back. At that point, the hour he had allowed himself nearly spent, Duncan had offered to search the Glen Creran trail on his way back to Balcardane.

When MacCrichton agreed, he had dismissed any plan to return to Dunraven. Keeping Bannatyne with him, he had sent the other two men back with the boat, and with only minutes to spare, he and Bannatyne had rejoined the others waiting for them. Following the river track, he ordered all his men to keep their eyes open for anyone walking through the woods or above them on the ridge.

He knew that MacCrichton had agreed to the offer only because he believed Mary would take the shortest way possible back to Maclean House, but Duncan did not think the laird knew about Bardie Gillonie. Knowing from past experience that the dwarf enjoyed a close friendship with the residents of Maclean House, he also knew that Bardie’s cottage lay near the hill pass from Glen Creran into Glen Duror. Bardie had a well-deserved reputation for shrewdness, and in the absence of her family, what had been more likely than that Mistress Maclaine would seek help and advice from a wily friend?

Thick woods hugged the river Creran, but they thinned quickly up along the sides of the glen, until naught remained but bare granite near the ridge. He had been tempted more than once to send a couple of men to walk the hill route in search of her but decided that would call too much attention to what was, after all, another man’s problem. That he spotted her himself had been entirely fortuitous.

Even then he had not known what he meant to do. He had not known about the children, but he had certainly led MacCrichton to believe he would return Mary to him if he found her. Still, he had taken care not to promise anything. His conscience would remain clear on that point, although he suspected MacCrichton might not see the matter in the same light if he learned that Duncan had found her.

In any case, he washed his hands of her. He had done his Christian duty by helping to rescue the child and by explaining the dangers of Mary’s present position to her. That she endangered the damned dwarf now, as well as herself and two children, was certainly no reason to concern himself further. He and Bardie Gillonie had never been friendly, because the latter had an unfortunate knack for annoying his betters. And although the dwarf was wise enough to see the danger if the wench told him the whole tale, Duncan doubted that even Bardie would be able to persuade her to take precautions now that she had taken the bit between her teeth.

It occurred to him that Mary might have been more reasonable had someone other than himself pointed out the error of her ways, but he rejected the notion. Logic was logic, and facts did not alter simply because a listener wanted the person reciting them to be wrong. In the end, she would find that he was right, of course, and she would learn a hard lesson. With increasing annoyance, he felt the first drops of icy moisture begin to fall. In moments, sleet was pelting down at them.

The sleet began while Mary and Bardie were preparing a simple meal for the children and themselves in his cottage. Pinkie’s injured leg was responding well to an herb poultice, and Mary soon realized that it would be foolhardy for her and the children to leave before the storm stopped. Darkness fell long before then, however, and so they passed the night with Bardie, leaving his cottage shortly before dawn.

Mary led the compact, well-muscled bay gelding that Black Duncan had lent them, with Chuff and Pinkie clinging happily to its back. As she walked along the familiar track, leading the gelding, she turned her thoughts to her aunt and cousins, and wondered what they would think of her decision to keep the children with her. They would not expect her to turn them out, but she knew they would not be overpleased, either, to learn that she wanted to add two more mouths to the household. Doubtless they would expect her to find positions for them in a suitable household, but try as she would, she could think of no such place.

Things had come to such a pass in Appin—and, indeed, throughout the Highlands—that most folks had all they could do to feed their own. Even an assurance that Chuff would work hard for his keep would not tempt most to take him on, and Pinkie was so young and so small that it was hard to imagine how she could truly earn her keep.

Again Mary found herself mourning the loss of James of the Glen, for over the years, he had taken many children into his household and fostered them to adulthood, including the outlaw Allan Breck. In that case, however, his efforts had gone unrewarded. Indeed, they had led to his death, for the authorities, convinced that James had conspired with Allan to murder the Crown factor, had tried and convicted him of the crime, and had hanged him.

Despite offers of huge rewards and frequent rumors of Allan’s presence in Scotland, no one had turned him in, but then many still thought him a hero. No one had betrayed Bonny Prince Charlie in the months after Culloden, either, although the English had offered thirty thousand pounds for his capture. Mary approved of the prince’s successful escape to France. She felt otherwise about Allan Breck.

“What are ye thinking on, mistress?”

Chuff’s voice startled her from her reverie, and she glanced over her shoulder at him to say, “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.”

“I dinna see any sheep.”

Mary chuckled. “That is what one calls a figure of speech, my dear. It means that I was lost in a daydream.”

“Thinking,” the boy said flatly.

“Yes, I was thinking.”

“Aye, sure, and isna that what I asked ye? What are ye thinking on then?”

Mary stifled her amusement. Chuff had spoken earnestly, and she did not want him to think she was laughing at him. Pinkie, too, peering solemnly around her brother, seemed to be waiting for Mary to explain.

“I was thinking how much I will enjoy having you stay with me,” she said.

Chuff frowned. “Did ye live all alone afore the laird took ye tae Shian?”

“I wouldna like that,” Pinkie said.

“I have never lived alone,” Mary said. “I have lived with my aunt and cousins for some years now, but they are presently visiting in Perthshire.”

“D’ ye no have a daddy and mam, then?” Chuff asked. “Like us?”

“No, my mother died when I was about your age, Chuff, and my father died six years ago. Even so,” she added quickly, not wanting to expand that subject, “I do not live alone. Our housekeeper, Morag MacArthur, lives with me.”

“Will she like us?” Pinkie asked.

“I am certain that she will,” Mary assured her, “but she will not be at Maclean House when we get there. I gave her leave to visit her brother when I left for Shian Towers. There are men who work the land, of course, and tend the animals, but they do not live in the house. We shall be on our own for a few days, I think, so that we can think about what to do next.”

Chuff frowned. “Ye willna send us back, will ye, mistress?”

“Not unless I must, Chuff,” she promised. “What authority has the laird over you? Do you know?”

The boy shrugged. “Like I said afore, Flaming Janet said she didna want tae keep us any longer, because the laird wouldna pay for our keep and we were too sma’ tae work for it, so she sent us tae live wi’ him.”

“But you are certain that he is not your father.”

“Nay, our daddy and mam are both dead.”

“You said your mam died when Pinkie was born,” Mary said. “When did your father die?”

“He went wi’ the old laird tae follow the bonnie prince,” Chuff said. “Flaming Janet said it was a good thing, but not so good that he niver came back. When the siller give out, she had nobbut the charm he left, and that only a bit o’ plain brass, she said. She give it tae me,” he added, fingering his odd belt buckle.

Looking at it, Mary could see why Flaming Janet had not been impressed. It was no more than an oddly shaped chunk of black metal, interesting only to a child. “Your father must have been one of the laird’s tenants,” she said, thinking aloud. It was clear to her that the children knew little about their antecedents, but she could be absolutely certain that the sister of a woman with the interesting name of Flaming Janet had not been a member of the gentry.

They continued for some time in silence before Chuff said, “Will Himself come tae see us, mistress?”

“I certainly hope not,” she said, “but if Lord MacCrichton shows his face at Maclean House, you need not fear him, my dears.”

“I wasna speakin’ o’ the laird,” Chuff said. “I thought Himself would ken what Pinkie and me should do wi’ ourselves.”

“Faith, do you mean Black Duncan?” She repressed a chuckle at the notion that he could think of Duncan in terms generally reserved for the chief of a clan, but Chuff nodded vigorously. Pinkie nodded, too, and faced with their earnest solemnity, Mary could not bring herself to reveal her dislike, so she said matter-of-factly, “I do not think he will bother his head about us. He is a very busy man.”

“Aye, and so I thought,” Chuff said.

“It’s darkening up again,” Pinkie said, looking at the sky. “Will it snow?”

“Perhaps,” Mary said, “but I think we will be home before it does.”

The weather held, and they reached Maclean House shortly before noon. Mary turned the bay gelding over to one of the men who worked for the family, asking him to have someone return it, with her thanks, to Balcardane Castle. Then, holding hands with the children, she led them toward the house, noting with satisfaction that Pinkie walked now with only a slight limp.

“This is nice,” the little girl said, looking around the yard.

“Yes,” Mary agreed. “Maclean House is a pleasant place to live.”

Inside it was not as pleasant as usual, however, because the parlor was chilly without a fire, and sounds she was accustomed to hearing from the kitchen were absent. She was not one to dwell upon such deficiencies, however, and quickly set about lighting a fire on the hearth, and another in the kitchen. To her surprise, the wood baskets in both rooms were nearly empty.

“Chuff, there is a woodpile just outside the scullery door,” she said, pointing the way. “Go and fetch some wood for the baskets, will you, please?”

“Aye, I’ll go.”

“I’ll help,” Pinkie said instantly.

“Let me look at that leg again first,” Mary said. Though it was still angry looking, it was healing well, so she saw no reason to keep the child in. When they had gone, she poked up the kitchen fire and took the kettle from the hob to fill at the scullery pump. A bowl, a platter, and a mug sat in the sink, used but unwashed.

She frowned as she filled the kettle. It was not like Morag to leave the house without washing her dishes.

The children returned, their arms laden with wood, which they took into the parlor. Mary heard thumps and chuckles as she put the kettle back over the fire, and then the children returned, passing her without a word on their way outside again.

Moving to set places for them all at the kitchen table, she saw crumbs on its surface—as if someone had sliced bread there—and a ring the size of a mug.

Listening intently, she heard only the children’s voices outside and the crackling of the nearby fire. She glanced at the ceiling, forcing herself to remain calm. No sound came from above, but she hurried to the stairway off the parlor and went quietly upstairs. Finding her aunt’s bedchamber empty, and the one she had shared with her cousin Diana in a like state, she entered Neil’s room and stopped, staring in puzzlement at the rumpled bed. Clearly, someone had slept in it.

Her first thought had been fear that Ewan had broken in to wait for her, but she knew he would not have gone away again so quickly. Having failed to overtake her, he would know she had taken another route. He would know, too, that she could not reach Maclean House as quickly on foot as he could on a horse.

Hearing the children in the kitchen, she put her worries aside and went downstairs again. “Shall we make something to eat?”