Sarah Gabriel (12 page)

Connor missed his friend greatly—Rob had been a strong and clever comrade, loyal to clan and kin, to the Highlands, and to James Stuart. Kinnoull House and Duncrieff Castle were twelve miles apart, but Connor and Rob had not met until they both attended a Jesuit school outside of Paris, when their fathers had been exiled to France. They met again during the two years Connor spent at Edinburgh University. By the time Connor joined the newly formed Black Watch regiment assigned to police the Highlands, they were fast friends and rebel sympathizers.

Connor had joined the military regiment only because his father hoped it would protect him from the rebel affiliation of his kin. Later, he and his father were both arrested for Jacobite activities, and Duncrieff had hired Edinburgh solicitors to help them. Connor gained a release, but nothing could be done for his father.

In Duncrieff, Connor had a true friend. He would never forget MacCarran’s generosity, his capable strength and intelligence, his weakness for red-haired women, or his love of a good jest.

Jest indeed. The MacCarran would have chuckled over this mistake. Connor sensed a touch of his friend’s ironic sense of humor in the agreement they
had made—and sensed a deeper purpose to it as well. He meant to find out what it was.

Scowling as he walked, Connor looked up to see a young Highland man standing among the pine trees, intently watching the glen below. He slowed his step and moved toward him.

“Good morning, Roderick Dhu,” Connor said.

Roderick Murray whirled quickly, his hand going to the sword hilt at his belt. The tall, black-haired lad always had a ready blush in his fair, unbearded cheeks, but now his cheeks turned hot red in the thin and rainy light.

“
Latha math
, Kinnoull. I did not hear you.”

“Watching so carefully for red soldiers in the glen that you did not think to look behind you, hey?” Connor grinned.

Roderick laughed sheepishly.

“Ah, there’s your father coming up the hill. We were to meet here just after dawn.”

Roderick turned as Connor pointed toward the older man who climbed the hill toward them. “He and Andrew went down to the glen while it was still dark to watch the road.”

“Kinnoull!” Neill waved as he came near. “I am bringing some news.”

“Aye?” Connor waited.

“General Wade’s crews are making quick progress on their construction despite the weather. That road is coming this way faster than we thought.”

Connor nodded, not surprised. “General Wade is a determined and disciplined fellow. He would expect the same from his road crews, no matter what the conditions.”

“You ought to know, having been part of the Black Watch yourself.”

“That was long past.” Connor frowned at the reference.

“We’ve had some success delaying Wade’s progress on the roads,” Roderick said.

“A delay is not a true success,” Connor said. “Though it helps.”

“My news today is that the red soldiers are taking their straight stone road deep into the pass between here and the lands of Kinnoull,” Neill said. “I do not know where they intend to take the road, straight or turning east for Perth, but either way they are invading your lands.”

“Those are Campbell’s lands now,” Roderick added.

“Whoever owns the deed, they remain Connor’s lands,” Neill told his son. “His tenants are loyal to him, and still pay him rent, though he is no longer their laird. Twenty-eight households, is it, Kinnoull?”

Connor nodded. “I have asked them not to pay me, but they insist on scraping funds together through what little means they have to give me the customary rental fee, although they now pay Campbell the same amount. They cannot afford it.”

“Some of them borrow from Campbell’s herds, as we do, and pay Campbell with proceeds from his own livestock,” Neill pointed out. “But if you wish it to change, then the best thing you can do is gain back your rightful lands.”

“I wish I could,” Connor murmured. “Come ahead, we’ll go look at the Kinnoull road.”

Neill glanced toward the castle perched on the hill above them. “Your bride—you will not want to spend the day away—”

“It’s fine,” Connor answered brusquely. “She is exhausted after last night.”

“Exhausted?” Roderick lifted a brow.

“From the journey,” Connor growled. “She’ll rest and stay the day with Mary there. And we’ll be back before long.”

“Roderick, take up your post by the house until we come back,” Neill told his son. “And do not let Kinnoull’s bride get away. Kate MacCarran is a clever lass.”

“She is not Kate MacCarran,” Connor said. The Murrays turned to stare at him. “Though she is just as clever, if not more so.”

“Not Kate?” Neill looked dumbfounded.

“As it turns out,” Connor said, “I’ve married her sister Sophie.”

“What!” Neill exploded, while Roderick gaped silently.

“Duncrieff’s other sister,” he explained. “She just came out of a convent in Bruges.”

“A nun?” Neill’s brows rose high. Roderick laughed, until Connor shot him a dark glare.

“Not quite, but close enough. To be fair, Sophie looks like Kate—enough to fool me.”

“Kate’s a bonny lass. Is Sophie fine, too?” Roderick asked.

“Very fine,” Connor said, and saw Neill glance at him.

“Well, then,” Roderick said, “what’s the problem?”

“I would not have thought the lass to be a nun,” Neill muttered. “Though she did cow Andrew with just a look. They have a way about them, nuns do.”

“It’s all that praying,” Roderick remarked. “All that holiness. It’s frightening.”

“Andrew is easily cowed,” Connor pointed out, “and Sophie is not a nun. Exactly,” he added, frowning. He had not asked about the details of her convent life. The fact that she was Sophie, and not Kate, was more than enough detail for now, he thought.

“
Ach,
we’ll hope for your sake a wee nun enjoys something at bedtime other than praying.” Neill winked and Roderick chuckled.

“None of this is amusing,” Connor snapped.

“How could you marry the wrong lass?” Roderick asked.

“I was told she would be at Duncrieff this week, and their names are similar—she is Katherine Sophia.” Connor shrugged. “I thought she was Kate.”

“
Tcha,
” Neill said. “Why did Duncrieff not make it clear?”

“Perhaps he thought I would refuse to marry a nun.”

“He would be right,” Neill observed. “So where is Kate now?”

“London. Her sister came from the Continent only days ago.”

“Duncrieff must have known their plans,” Neill said thoughtfully. “He gambled that you would marry the wee nun and realize the truth when it was too late.”

“That seems so,” Connor agreed.

“He set a trap for you, Kinnoull,” Roderick said. “Does your bride know the reason?”

“She does not. But perhaps her brother confided in his kinsmen. Allan MacCarran might know. I’ll seek him out.”

“You will not be in the MacCarran’s good graces
with Duncrieff’s arrest and the stealing of their kinswoman,” Neill warned. “When they learn about their chief’s death…it could go badly for you in this glen.”

“I know. Roderick,” Connor directed, “go back to Glendoon and stand guard there. Make certain the lady does not leave. Sit with her until I return.”

“You might have to sit on her,” Neill advised. “And have some rope to hand. We’ll send Padraig to help you when we see him. Your mother’s gone up already.”

Connor nodded. “I let Mary in the gate myself, and she bolted it behind me.”

“Come, Kinnoull, I’ll show you where I spied the English working the road this morning,” Neill said after Roderick ran off toward the slopes of Glendoon.

Connor turned with Neill to walk over the hills in another direction. His ghillie bounded ahead of him, despite being nearly twice his age, his legs lean and wiry from years of running over the hills and moors. Connor proceeded slowly, thoughtfully.

He glanced back toward the ruined castle on its forbidding hill. His beautiful, desirable bride waited there. But for now he had best keep his distance from her, at least until he knew more about their wedding arrangement.

Neill spoke to him then and pointed ahead. Connor peered through drizzling rain, searching for the newest section of the military road.

B
rushing dried mud from her gown, Sophie frowned over the torn hems. Her mother had given her the dress in celebration of a bright future. But she would not marry a Highland magistrate, Sophie now thought grimly. Instead she was a rogue’s bride.

And the rogue did not even want her now that he had stolen and seduced her.

She had to get away, she told herself, and return to Duncrieff. Her brother needed aid, and her sister was still away. No one was left but Sophie to fight for Robert’s welfare—Mrs. Evans, a stranger to Duncrieff Castle and Glen Carran, would not know what to do, and she was of a nervous disposition anyway.

And Sophie knew of no reason MacPherson should keep her here now—she was not the bride he
wanted. A desperate feeling of need and loneliness went through her. She had to go home. No matter what her foolish heart—or her body—tried to tell her, she could not stay at Glendoon.

But if she left…She thought of Sir Henry and shuddered. This hasty marriage offered her protection from the magistrate’s interest in her, and in her clan. But she would have to trade that risk for the privilege, and the need, to be home again.

She had been gone for years, she thought, and home only a few days before this had happened. MacPherson would not be able to keep her here easily—especially now.

She would explore the castle that morning and find some way out of Glendoon. Connor MacPherson would be gone for a while. And since she was not the bride he had intended to marry, perhaps he would make no strong effort to keep her here.

Wriggling into her stays and petticoats, she dressed, fastening the gown as best as she could without help, and then braided her hair and tucked it up with silver pins from her pocket, though she lacked a pinner or lace cap to cover her hair as would have been proper.

Leaving the bedchamber, she took the stairs down. She could smell something heavenly wafting from the kitchens as she approached, and her stomach rumbled. The last full meal she had eaten, but for some cheese and oatcakes, had been at Sir Henry’s generous table—a meal she had lost all over Connor’s Highland brogans.

Well, he had only deserved that, she told herself.

She entered a shadowy corridor and found the wide arch of the kitchen entrance there. Sophie saw
no one about as she entered the large room. Under a vaulted stone ceiling an enormous hearth held a cheerfully blazing fire. A wooden table, scrubbed clean, held stacked wooden bowls and a few vegetables scattered about on the surface, as if someone had been working there. A covered kettle hung from an iron chain inside the hearth, and its simmering contents smelled heavenly, promising a good soup or stew. Her stomach growled again.

The large table also held a plate of stacked oatcakes and a bowl of winter apples. Sophie gave in to her hunger and took an oatcake, biting into it and sighing with pleasure, for it was crisp and still warm.

Elsewhere in the room she saw iron pans, utensils, and knives, and two sagging shelves held bowls, cups, pewter trenchers, and pewter tankards. There were even several wineglasses of etched green glass.

An aumbry cupboard set in the wall held food stores: a sack each of oats and barley; wooden boxes holding carrots, onions, potatoes, and apples, withered from the winter months; along with jars of seasonings, spices, honey, and butter. The supplies were not abundant, but adequate.

She left the kitchen and saw an exterior door that led to a small path and a tangled garden. Stepping out into the rainswept air, she heard the dogs barking and saw them running toward her from the back of the bailey yard, where a cluster of dilapidated outbuildings leaned against the curtain wall.

Everywhere she looked she saw broken walls and stones collapsed in heaps, and hopeless tangles of undergrowth, ivy, and briars. Although in poor condition, Castle Glendoon had once been a proud me
dieval tower. The crumbling keep dominated the center of the bailey, surrounded by a partly intact curtain wall sound enough to offer some protection. The front gate overlooked a steep hillside and a forbidding gorge, and the castle’s back and sides were buttressed by forested slopes.

The terriers ran toward her, followed by the brown and white spaniel. She stooped to greet them, and noticed the tall wolfhound ambling toward her, too. She petted his grizzled head, and shared bits of her oatcake with each dog.

They trotted with her as she walked through the courtyard. When the wolfhound gave a loud woof, she whirled.

A young man approached her, wearing a plaid of red and dark colors, his hair long black and glossy as it floated about his shoulders. He had very wide shoulders and a muscular build and moved with an easy spring in his step.

“Good morning, mistress. I’m Roderick Murray.” He smiled, his cheeks stained pink, his eyes sparkling blue. His smile was a beautiful thing indeed, she thought, charming and impish.

“Mr. Murray. I’m Sophie MacCarran of Duncrieff.” She held out her hand and touched his fingers briefly. “Did Mr. MacPherson tell you to keep me here?”

“Aye, until he returns.” He grinned sheepishly. “Come away from the gate, mistress.”

“I was not intending to leave. I was only exploring. Where is the laird?”

“Out and about, tending to his business.”

She tipped her head. “What business might that be?”

“He does what he does.” Roderick’s eyes danced. “And it is not so fine a morning to walk about the castle yard, mistress. There are broken stones and uneven ground, and the rain will make more mud.” He glanced up. “You should stay inside the castle today. And be careful wherever you go at Glendoon.”

“I hoped to meet Mrs. Murray, too. Mr. MacPherson said she would be here.”

“My mother was here earlier, and then she took some of the cattle out to pasture and said she would go home to tend to some chores there. She left a vegetable broth in the kettle and some oatbread. I was to tell you about it.”

“Thank you. Do you keep cattle here?” Sophie looked past him toward the back of the bailey, realizing that she had heard some animal sounds there. A few chickens scampered in front of what she now assumed was the cattle byre.

“Aye, the laird keeps livestock—some cattle, a goat, a few chickens. He has a flock of sheep, too, but they stay out in the hills most of the year.”

“Ah.” Likely all the beasts were stolen, Sophie thought.

The spaniel, Tam, came over to them then, nosing at her hand. Sophie rubbed his head, and when the terriers bounded toward them, Roderick leaned over to them.

“Here, you dogs,” he said. “Go on, all of you. You’re wet and dirty and should be leaving the lady alone. Mistress, it will be raining any moment now. Come inside. You will be spoiling that bonny gown.” He shooed the dogs toward the back courtyard and waved his hand to beckon Sophie along.

“It’s spoiled already—Oh!” Fat raindrops plopped
on her head, and she laughed, picking up her skirts to run back toward the kitchen door. The terriers raced past her, while the wolfhound reached the doorway and waited inside like a sentinel as she entered.

She glanced back and saw Roderick Murray running for the outbuildings with the brown spaniel dashing ahead. Whooping in delight as the rain soaked him, he ducked into a ramshackle wooden building that was either a stable or a byre.

Rain spattered over grass and stones, and Sophie watched the downpour, standing in the doorway. Finally she turned away, intent savoring some of Mrs. Murray’s soup.

After that she took her time exploring the levels of the castle, finding one empty room after another, some of them crumbling and open to the elements. Only four rooms were furnished—the kitchen, a large great hall, the bedchamber, and a room that appeared to be a study or library.

The great hall was huge and drafty and contained only a table, a few chairs, and a spinet decorated with painted scenes. Gray daylight filled the high, curtained windows.

Next to that room, a small study in an angle of the old keep housed bookshelves crammed with a collection of volumes. A writing table and upholstered armchair took up the center. Like the other rooms, this one was also filled with fine possessions. Delighted to find books—she had always loved to read—Sophie hoped for a chance to explore those shelves later.

If she could not leave, guarded as she was, and Connor MacPherson meant to keep her here for a day, a week, or longer, she would need something to
occupy her time. In the convent she had always kept busy. She had to find something to do at Glendoon, unless she managed to claim back her freedom somehow.

Crossing the study, she looked out the small window covered with red velvet drapes slung from a rope nailed into the wall. She gazed out at the hills and rainy sky.

Far in the distance she could make out the slopes of Glen Carran and the river that ribboned through the glen. Although she could not see Duncrieff Castle from here, she could imagine it well enough. Suddenly she felt a stab of homesickness, and tears pooled in her eyes.

Feeling lost and alone, she ached to be home, to be far away from this old castle and the mysterious, compelling laird who hid his broken dreams in this ruined place.

Her gaze dropped to the yard below. She noticed the contour of the curtain wall that surrounded the castle. One part of it curved outward to contain a tangle of growth that, from above, took on a meaningful shape as she studied it.

She saw botanical chaos—a mass of bushes, ferns, ivy, and other indistinguishable plants, all wildly overgrown. Trees thrust up like sentries at the back. She saw traces of another wall, enclosing the whole section with a gate.

A garden. She gasped in delight, recognizing the remnants of a large old garden, blurred by time and neglect. It must have been planted long ago—perhaps hundreds of years ago, she thought, for it had the old-fashioned layout of a hortus conclusus, an enclosed medieval garden.

Her curiosity was engaged. Glendoon was hardly the outlaw’s hideaway she had expected. She felt strongly that the old castle could be a beautiful, proud home again if someone would take care and effort with it, and give it the love and attention it needed. Its laird refused to see that.

Nor would she stay to see if the place could flourish, either.

“They are laying their road down alongside the river,” Neill said, pointing northward, “and bringing in more stone by cart. Padraig and another ran a long way along the drover’s track toward Perth and came back to report that they are bringing at least a dozen ox-drawn carts that way, each filled with stones. See, there comes another now, with a few of the red soldiers.”

Connor nodded, watching as a wagon pulled by a huge ox rumbled along the drover’s track that crossed the moor. Three dragoons in red coats and white breeches rode alongside the cart. Beyond, Connor could see the straight stretch of the military road in the distance, like a stone ruler laid upon the moorland.

He lay on his stomach beside Neill, hidden by long grass and old heather on the crest of a low hill overlooking the glen. From that vantage point he could see much of the northern end of Glen Carran. Opposite their hill, across the valley, higher mountains rose to meet a glum sky. Fast clouds had scudded overhead all morning, sending rain down in spurts and showers, so that the ground was damp and even boggy in places. Just now, as he lay there, rain spattered his head and back.

Pulling part of his plaid over his head like a hood, he continued to watch, while Neill plucked a long strand of grass and chewed on it.

“Stone roads,” the ghillie muttered. “Bah. We do not need stone roads in the Highlands.”

“The English need them for transporting troops, supplies, and cannon.”

Neill spat again in clear commentary. “We should do to this wee road what we did to that road in the Great Glen, when we were up there last year.”

“Blow it by force of black powder?” Connor asked. “That did not stop Wade from building his military highway, if you recall.”

“But it delayed him, and annoyed the government. And Wade chose another route for that road, away from the places we wanted to protect. We can do that here, too.”

“I have no doubt we can discourage them again.”

“Unless the Highland Ghost is too distracted by his pretty bride to do his work properly,” Neill drawled.

“He’s certainly distracted,” Connor muttered. In truth, he had scarcely had a clear thought all day that did not involve a golden-haired girl.

Neill huffed a laugh. “The stone in that cart is gray fieldstone, did you notice? Dressed fieldstone. Interesting.”

“Aye. What sort of stone was in the other cartloads?”

“Padraig mentioned three loads of graveled stone, two of smooth cobbles, another of smaller stones,” Neill recounted. “He said there were three or four wagons of the big gray stones, like those down there. And more to come, Padraig said. Near a hundred tons of it is expected.”

“They are planning to bring it along the track to this part of the glen?”

“Aye, and through the pass between the glen and Kinnoull. Padraig and Andrew saw them this morning, moving between the hills, alongside the river.”

Connor rolled to his back and looked up at the sky, resting his forearm over his eyes. His head still hurt from last night’s indulgence. And now his heart ached, too, in a strange way that was not physical, but rather from a burden of dread.

“What else did they see?” Connor tried not to take routes through Kinnoull’s territory, but for the times he and his men went to the Kinnoull fields at night to snatch a beast or two.

“They are using the gray stones to build abutments on the river banks. Not far from the house, and below the old wooden bridge that has always served Kinnoull.”

“But that narrow bridge would not support troops and cannon.” Connor groaned low. “They’re building a new bridge.”

“Aye, so we figured. They use the smaller stones to cover long stretches of the road, before they lay down the cobble and gravel. But the larger fieldstones…aye, it is a bridge.”

“Once they can cross the river near Kinnoull, they will bring more troops into the area. They might establish a garrison there, or even in the house itself. Damn,” he swore low, his forearm still shielding his eyes. “
Damn.
”