Tempting The Laird

“It is true that the abbey is a concern for the Crown,” Whitson said, and casually flipped the tail of his bobbed hair over his shoulder. “I have been sent by the Lord Advocate’s office.”

“The Crown?” Cailean repeated skeptically, and stepped forward, putting himself before Catriona. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we are in the midst of a wake for Miss Griselda Mackenzie.”

“My condolences,” Whitson said. “I regret my arrival is inopportune, but our previous correspondence went unanswered. As I attempted to explain to Miss Mackenzie, I’ve come with an urgent matter for the laird.”

“Aye, bring them forth, Cailean,” Catriona’s father called from the other end of the room.

Whitson did not wait for further invitation. He neatly stepped around Cailean and began to stride across the room, heedless of the others gathered.

The room had grown silent, all ears and narrowed gazes on this man.

Cailean followed Whitson, but when Catriona tried to move, Aulay tugged her back. “Stay here.”

“I’ll no’ stay back, Aulay! That’s my abbey now.”

But Aulay stubbornly tugged her back once more. “Then I would suggest, if you want to keep it, you mind your mouth, Cat. You know how you are, aye? Particularly after a wee bit too much to drink.”

She was not going to debate how much she’d had to drink with him. “What of it?” she snapped. “Zelda is gone and I have drunk my sorrow.” She shook his hand off and hurried after the others.

Her father had come to his feet. He leaned heavily on a cane, but he still cut an imposing figure and was a head taller than Mr. Whitson. Her father was a good judge of character, and he had judged this man’s character quickly, for he did not offer him food or drink. He said curtly, “What is your business, then?”

Mr. Whitson lifted his chin slightly. “As you are to the point, my lord, so shall I be. Kishorn Abbey was used unlawfully in the aiding and abetting of Jacobite traitors who sought to displace our king in the rebellion of ’45, and in return for that treason, the property as such is forfeited.”

Catriona and her family gasped, but her father, Arran Mackenzie, laughed. “I beg your pardon? Kishorn Abbey sits on land that has been owned by the Mackenzies for more than two hundred years. There was no aiding and abetting. We’ve been loyal subjects, sir, that we have.”

“Kishorn Abbey was used to house fleeing rebels after the loss at Culloden and was operated by a known Jacobite sympathizer in the form of Miss Griselda Mackenzie. It is pointless to deny it, my lord—we have the witness of two of the sympathizers. As the property was used to house traitors, it is forfeited to the Crown by order of the king.”

“By order of the king?” Cailean echoed incredulously. “Are you mad, then? Ten years have passed since the rebellion.”

Mr. Whitson shrugged. “It was a crime then and is yet, sir.”

“What does the Crown care for that old abbey?” Rabbie scoffed. “It’s falling down and too remote to be of any use.”

“There is interest in it,” Mr. Whitson sniffed, and paused to straighten his lace cuffs. “There are those who believe any use would be better than housing women of ill repute.”

Catriona gasped with outrage. “How dare you! Have you no compassion?”

Whitson swiveled about so quickly that she was caught off guard. “There are many in these very hills who do not appreciate the likes you seek to house, Miss Mackenzie. Some are very much against it.”

“It is no one’s affair what we do with our property,” Catriona argued. She was acutely aware of Rhona’s nervous fluttering behind her, and even more acutely aware of the anger that was seeping into her bones and warming her face.

“I will ignore your discourtesy, Whitson, that I will, for you are no’ from these parts, aye?” her father said. “But if you ever deign to speak to my nighean in that manner again, you’ll find yourself at the receiving end of Highland justice, that you will.”

Whitson arched a thick brow. “Do you threaten an agent of the king, my lord?”

“I threaten any man who dares speak to my family in that manner,” her father snapped. “Have you an official decree, then, or are we to take the word of a Sassenach?”

Whitson’s eyes narrowed. “I rather thought you were a man of reason, Mackenzie. You’ve a fine reputation as it stands, but it’s best for all concerned if you do not push too hard, if you take my meaning. An official decree was delivered to Miss Griselda Mackenzie. I’ve not a copy of the decree on my person, but I can have one drawn up, if that is what you prefer.”

“Griselda Mackenzie has departed this life,” her father said to Whitson. “Until I’ve seen official notice of it, I’ve no reason to believe you.”

Mr. Whitson clasped his hands behind his back. “I shall have it delivered posthaste. In the interest of expediency, allow me to inform you the decree grants you and your people six months to vacate the premises of the abbey, and if, by that time, you’ve not vacated, it will be taken by force. The property is forfeited, my lord. The king’s orders are quite clear.”

Catriona’s head began to swim; she thought she might be sick. There were twenty-three souls at the abbey, all but one of them women and children who had been cast out of society. Where would they all go?

“Aye, and you’ve a quarter of an hour to vacate these premises, sir, or be removed by force, as well,” her father said, and with that, he turned his back on the strangers.

“Expect your decree to be delivered by week’s end,” Mr. Whitson said icily. He turned about and started for the door.

“Have you no conscience?” Catriona blurted as he walked past her.

He paused. He slowly turned his head and set his gaze on hers, and Catriona felt a shiver run through her. “My advice to you, madam, is that you keep to the charitable works of proper women.”

“Get out,” Rabbie said in a voice dangerously low.

Whitson walked out of the room, his assistant hurrying after him with his soggy cloak.

All of them remained silent for several moments after the intruders had gone. Catriona’s head was spinning. She thought of the women of the abbey: there was Molly Malone, who had been beaten so badly by her husband that she’d lost the child she was carrying. She’d slipped away in the dead of night with her two young children and a single crown in her pocket. And Anne Kincaid, who, as a lass, had been cast out by a father who had no regard for her. She’d been forced into prostitution to survive. And Rhona, dear Rhona, such a godsend to Kishorn! When her husband had died, there had been no one to take her in. She had done piecework for a year but couldn’t pay her rents. Her landlord had offered her a bargain—her body for a roof over her head. Rhona had endured it for three months before refusing him. He’d forced her onto the streets without a second thought.

There were more of them, many of them with children, and Catriona could not bear to think of what would become of them. She sank onto a chair, her gut churning with disbelief, her heart racing with fear and her head beginning to pound.

“Well, then,” Catriona’s mother said.

“Airson gràdh Dhè, what are we to do with this news?” Aulay asked.

“What can we do that has no’ been tried before?” her father returned as he carefully resumed his seat. “The MacDonalds fought to have property seized by the Crown returned to their heirs and were no’ successful.”

“Aye, but the land they wanted returned was arable land,” Cailean reminded him. “It was more valuable than this,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the window.

“Aye, ’tis no’ worth a farthing for planting,” the laird agreed. “But this is a valuable glen for a Sassenach who means to run sheep.”

“Can they no’ put their sheep in the glen and leave the abbey?” Catriona asked.

Vivienne snorted. “They donna want the abbey or the women who live here.” She paused and glanced sheepishly at Rhona. “My apologies, Rhona.”

“’Tis no’ necessary,” Rhona said. “We know verra well who we are.”

“I’ve a suggestion,” Catriona’s mother said. “I think Catriona ought to deliver Zelda’s letter to my brother sooner rather than later.”

Her father looked at his wife curiously. “A letter? What letter?”

“Zelda wrote a letter to my brother that has not yet been delivered. You know Knox nearly as well as I, Arran. If there is anyone who might help us, it’s him. He knows everyone in places high and low, and it so happens he is summering in Scotland.”

All of Catriona’s brothers groaned.

The Earl of Norwood’s summering had been a sore spot for them all. He was one of the wealthy Englishmen who had benefited from the forfeitures and seizures of Scots’ land after the rebellion. He’d bought a small estate near Crieff from the Crown and had once crowed he’d purchased the property for as much as a horse.

“Zelda’s letter has naugh’ to do with this,” Catriona said as she looked around for her wineglass.