Amanda Scott (53 page)

“You are not going,” he said.

“Don’t be absurd. Of course, I must go.”

“You will do as I bid, Bridget. You will stay here.”

“But who will stay with me?”

“I’ll be gone only a day or two. If this weather holds, I can ride through Glen Tarbert to Loch Linnhe in the morning, take a boat across to Kentallen, and hire a horse at the inn. I should reach Loch Leven and Balcardane by midafternoon.”

“Well, I’m still going with you. You cannot leave me with only servants to look after me, Michael. What if something happens to you? What then?”

“Nothing is going to happen to me. You will stay here.”

“But I want—”

“By God, you will do as I tell you for once,” he roared, smacking the desktop with his hands as he rose to his feet “I’ve got half a mind to let Sir Renfrew have you, after all. Seek your room now, and do not let me see your face again before I leave in the morning.”

She hesitated, as if she meant to argue; then, muttering furiously to herself, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Michael looked at the dog, which had curled up on the hearthstones again. “Sometimes I wish I were a more violent man, Cailean,” he said quietly.

The dog’s tail thumped the floor, as if in agreement.

Fortunately for the earl’s continued calm, his sister did not show her face again before he and Cailean left Mingary for Appin Country the following morning. The sun was shining brightly; the breeze blew from the southwest and was strong enough to send his hired sailboat skimming across Loch Linnhe in good time. The landlord at Kentallen Inn was able to provide him with a good-looking black gelding at small cost, but that was the end of his good fortune for the day.

He saw Balcardane Castle’s famous square tower some time before he got near enough to see the whole castle, and his pulse quickened at the sight of it. He knew enough about the MacCrichton’s parentage to think the lad or his guardian might welcome the simplicity of an arranged marriage, and that thought sustained his optimism until sight of the massive castle planted solidly on the hillside above the rippling waters of Loch Leven reminded him in no uncertain terms of the power of its master. He realized that that power could mitigate the qualms that any noble father might have about allying a daughter with the questionable MacCrichton line.

Michael was glad he had brought along a miniature of his sister. Her beauty must count as a considerable asset, and any guilt he felt at not bringing her in person, he suppressed. His mission was difficult enough, for he knew that his pride might hinder his good intentions. One hint of Bridget’s temper, though, and all would fail.

His heart was pounding by the time he reached the tall double gate. One side opened enough to allow a lackey to emerge even as he drew rein.

“What will ye, sir?” the man asked, touching his cap politely.

“Pray, inform your master that the Earl of Kintyre seeks an audience with him on a matter of some import,” Michael said.

Seeing the lackey’s eyes widen, he realized that coming alone had been counterproductive, and wished he had been able to provide himself with a proper tale. On the other hand, he would then have had to hire horses for the others, as well, and he could not afford that. He held the lackey’s gaze with his own.

The man said ruefully, “’Tis a pity, me lord, but the master’s awa’. Ye’re welcome to Balcardane’s hospitality, but I canna give yer message to his lordship.”

“When will he return?”

The lackey seemed to measure him for a long moment. Then he gestured toward the inner courtyard. “Will ye enter, me lord? I’ll fetch our captain straightaway.”

Understanding that the man was reluctant to give information about his master’s plans to a stranger, Michael nodded and urged his mount through the open gateway.

Shutting the gate behind him, and dropping the iron bar into place, the lackey waited politely for Michael to dismount and precede him across the vast stone courtyard toward the stables.

Glancing around, Michael decided that an enemy hoping to take Balcardane during its master’s absence would be sorry to have made the attempt. Men at arms stood everywhere. Swords clashed in one corner of the yard, where a group sat watching two men practice their skill. He counted at least twenty others in plain sight on the walls and in the courtyard, which told him there were undoubtedly at least three times that many on the premises. The ones he saw were well equipped and looked well fed. The earl was clearly a man of extreme wealth and power.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” a large, muscular man said, approaching him. “I am Bannatyne, his lordship’s captain of guards. The lad tells me ye’re wishful to see his lordship.”

“Aye,” Michael said. “I come from Mingary, on the peninsula of Ardnamurchan. I can return another day, if necessary, but if his lordship means to return shortly, perhaps it would serve me better to stay here.”

“I cannot say when he will return,” Bannatyne said, watching him narrowly.

“I understand your reluctance,” Michael said. “I should be wroth with any man of mine who revealed my whereabouts or intentions to a stranger. The matter I wish to put to his lordship is one of some import, however. It concerns young MacCrichton, as well. Is it possible that they have traveled to his estates?”

“The family departed for London some days ago,” Bannatyne said, evidently making up his mind to trust him with that much information. “For the Season.”

“Devil a bit,” Michael said, his mind beginning to race. The most likely reason for Balcardane to take the young MacCrichton to London was to introduce him to society, and the most likely reason for that was to arrange his marriage. There was no time to be lost. “Thank you. I shan’t trouble you for hospitality. If I hurry, I can still make it back across Loch Linnhe before dark.”

It was late when Michael returned, so he did not see his sister till the following morning. When she hurried into his bookroom after breakfast, he looked up from the work on his desk to greet her with a wry smile.

“Good morning, Bridget.”

“I did not think you would be back so soon, Michael. What did they say?”

“They said nothing at all,” he replied. “They have gone to London.”

Her face fell ludicrously. “Oh, no! How horrid! Now, what shall I do?”

“Did you want me to succeed, then? I should not have guessed it”

“Well, to speak truly, I don’t know what I want, but it seems a shame that we shall never know if I might have married Lord MacCrichton. He is rich, is he not?”

“Aye, although I do not yet know the full extent of his fortune,” Michael said. “As to our never knowing if he will have you, I cannot predict that either.”

“I don’t understand you. Why are you looking so oddly at me?”

“Well, I was just wondering if you still want to visit Edinburgh.”

“If I—Merciful heaven, sir, do not tease me! You know I wish it above all things. Do you mean to take me, after all? Oh, Michael, say that you do!”

“I am inquiring presently into numerous possibilities,” he said. “I’ve written a letter to Aunt Marsali that I will send with a runner to Fort William for the first post to Edinburgh, and if you will grant me a few minutes’ more peace, I mean to finish this letter to go with the same runner.”

“But you said that you have no money!”

“I am going to sell Glenmore a dog,” Michael said evenly.

“The Earl of Glenmore? But you said he would take only—”

“—only Cailean, that’s right.” Michael glanced at the great dog, which lifted its ears and began thumping its tail at hearing its name. Ignoring the sick feeling in his midsection, he said, “The sum he has offered won’t repay the debt to Sir Renfrew, but I believe it will be enough to take the three of us to London in style.”

“London!” Bridget stared at him in astonishment. Then, as if fearing to put the matter to a test, she turned and left the room without another word.

Glen Moidart

Near Ardmolich

Later That Same Morning

W
HEN THE BELL RANG
to announce that his men were ready to tap the iron, Sir Renfrew Campbell looked around his newest bloomery with satisfaction. The iron ore from England had made it safely from his wharf at Abernish to the smelter in the lush forest that had once belonged to the MacDonnells and which was now part of his own vast, sprawling estate. Sir Renfrew was one of the largest landholders in the Western Highlands. Much of his property—from its northern boundary on the original MacDonnell estate near Arisaig, which he had inherited from his mother, to the east as far as Glen Finnan and to the south as far as Glen Tarbert—was heavily timbered. A grateful government had awarded the estates to him for his Campbell loyalty after the failed Rising twenty years before.

When he looked at his trees, Sir Renfrew did not see lush green oaks, beeches, and Caledonian pines. He saw good English gold, and he was no fool. Much as he owned, he knew that he needed more. He was burning five tons of timber for each ton of iron he produced, and at such a rate a bloomery denuded its forests more rapidly than anyone had expected, and then had to be moved.

The bell rang and rang to announce the tapping, and children who had been gathering dead wood for fuel from the forest floor ran from every direction to see the grand sight of molten metal pouring like the devil’s own blood from the furnace mouth. One small one, holding her skirt to her chin and flying barefoot over the pine needles, rocks, and cones in her path, tripped over a root and sprawled right at Sir Renfrew’s feet. Tangled in her skirt, she fell again when she tried to get up, and began to wail in frustration.

Bending over, he picked her up, set her on her feet, and dusted her off. “Cease yer bleating, lassie,” he said kindly. “Ye willna die of a wee fall, ye ken.”

“I want tae see the deevil’s fires,” she sobbed.

“Aye, sure, and so ye will. Yonder they spew from the furnace, and they’ll be pouring forth the whole livelong day, so ye canna miss seeing them. Here,” he added, reaching into his pocket for a halfpenny when she looked at him with her lower lip extended and tears spilling down her pale cheeks. “Here’s a wee copper bit to make ye smile again.”

Blue eyes widening, the child took the halfpenny and clutched it in her grimy fist. Beginning to turn away, she remembered her manners and bobbed an awkward curtsy before dashing off to see the tapping.

He watched her go, then turned when he heard his furnace manager’s voice call out behind him.

“It looks to be going well, MacIver,” Sir Renfrew said with a nod. “Ha’ ye the figures yet from the last run?”

“Aye, sir. Took just over a hundred pounds o’ wood, that ’un, but this’ll tak’ more. We’ve no so much o’ the hardwoods left till we can cut more, and whilst the pine burns hot, it burns gey quick as well.” He handed Sir Renfrew a sheaf of papers. “Mr. MacPhun said tae give ye this, sir. ’Tis the list o’ them what still owes the furnace stores for flour and meal and whatnot.”

Sir Renfrew scanned the list. “Did he tell ye who owes the most?”

“Aye, Gabhan MacGilp.”

“He owns a cow, does he not?”

“Aye, a fine one, and a wee pony as well.”

“Tell MacPhun to go and put my brand on the cow. Tell him MacGilp can buy her back when he pays his shot for his supplies. That will bring the others in quick enough, I vow.”

“Most ha’ no siller tae pay,” the man said uneasily.

“They’ll find a way. Tell them they can work extra hours in the gravel pits or loading gravel and tobacco if they want to earn more, or they can sign on with one of my ships.”

“Aye, I’ll tell them, but most work eighteen t’ twenty hours the day, as it is, and the ones wha’ fancy a life at sea ha’ gone wi’ the boats already.”

Sir Renfrew, being of no mind to listen to paltry excuses, turned away without reply. Then, bethinking himself of another matter, he turned back and called to the man, “Has MacKellar returned yet from Mingary?”

“Aye, sir. I saw him ride up tae Dunbeither House earlier when I were up on the ridge top. Likely he stayed the night wi’ his granny at Shielfoot. He’ll likely be along straightaway.”

Sir Renfrew nodded and dismissed the man, then turned and walked up to the furnace. Built from bricks he had imported all the way from Wales, it was huge, two stories high. Such height was necessary because the charcoal and iron ore were poured into the closed furnace from above. Then, from below, a set of bellows blew the furnace to the great heat required to melt iron from the ore. A huge iron wheel, turned by water running along a lade from the River Moidart, powered the bellows.

Although that particular bloomery had been in operation little more than a month, the clinker dump—the pile of slag from the reduction process—was vast. He walked past it to the sheds behind it, where the ore and charcoal were stored. A short distance beyond that, men were building a second kiln to produce the charcoal from the cut wood.

Charcoal burned hotter than fresh-cut wood, which meant more sustained heat from even the softest timber, but a solitary kiln could not produce it quickly enough, so presently they were burning only small amounts of charcoal compared to the tons of wood they burned. With two kilns, he would be able to produce more of his own bricks, too, which would eliminate the necessity of purchasing any more in Wales. Scotland produced few bricks, so at the rate the bloomeries were sprouting, there would be a good market for the ones he did not need himself right here, just as there was a market in England for his gravel and the tobacco he shipped duty-free. Sir Renfrew was an entrepreneur with an eye to the main chance.

He was mentally measuring the pile of charcoal in the shed when MacKellar found him. “I’ve brought yer reply from Mingary, sir,” the man said, touching his cap and holding out the folded missive.

Breaking the wax seal that bore Kintyre’s signet, Sir Renfrew read the earl’s bold, black scrawl swiftly and with increasing annoyance, then looked up to find his henchman eyeing him warily. “Hold yer whisst, man,” Sir Renfrew said. “I’ve never yet killed a messenger for bringing me bad news.”