Sinful Scottish Laird

As MacNally was on foot, they walked the mile or so to Auchenard. They came through the woods, emerging near the drive. Weeds had sprung up among the gravel, and as they neared the lodge, Cailean could see the windows were unwashed, the lawn overgrown. Cailean paused and looked pointedly at MacNally.

MacNally read his expression quite accurately. “I’ll put it to rights, laird. I will.”

Cailean grunted at that and continued on. He didn’t believe it for a moment, but MacNally was not his worry.

He strode up to the front door and rapped loudly. Several moments passed before a man wearing shirtsleeves and a leather apron answered the door. “Sir?”

“Lady Chatwick,” Cailean said.

The man blinked. He looked at MacNally, then at Cailean. “Who...who may I say is calling?” he asked uneasily.

“The laird of Arrandale.”

The man seemed shocked. He hesitated, casting a disapproving look over MacNally.

“Be quick about it, lad,” Cailean said impatiently. “I havena all day for this.”

The man’s throat bobbed with a swallow. He nodded and disappeared into the dark and dank foyer of the lodge.

Several moments passed. Cailean could hear male voices, and then a sudden and collective footfall. It sounded as if an army were advancing on the door, but there appeared only the lady, the butler and two other men. One of the men was familiar to Cailean—he’d brandished a sword yesterday. The other man was a stranger to him.

Lady Chatwick, who led them, looked worried as she approached the door, but when she saw him standing there, a peculiar thing happened. A smile lit her face so suddenly and so sunnily that it startled him. “You again,” she exclaimed, and her voice was full of...delight?

She should not be delighted to see him, and Cailean eyed her suspiciously. She was dressed plainly, her hair tied up under a cap. Her slender neck was unadorned, and he could faintly see the pulse of her heart in the hollow of her throat.

He looked away from her neck, shifted his weight onto his hip. “Aye,” he said impatiently.

Her smiled deepened. What was she doing, smiling at him like that? He didn’t like it—it unbalanced him. She should not be smiling at him; she should be trembling in her silly little boots.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, touching a wayward strand of hair. “We’ve only just arrived, as you know, and I’m afraid we’re not ready to receive callers. I had hoped to be here a week earlier, but the journey was so arduous from London that we were delayed. First the rough sea, then all these hills.”

Why was she nattering? “These hills,” he said brusquely, “is why the area is called the Highlands. One might have expected it. And I’ve no’ come to call.”

Her green eyes widened with surprise. And then she laughed, the sound of it soft and light in that cluster of men. “I thank you for not couching your opinion in poetic phrases, sir. Of course you are right—I should have expected it.”

Just then a lad pushed his way through and latched onto her skirts, staring up at Cailean with trepidation. “Ah, there you are, darling.” She turned slightly, put her hands on lad’s shoulders and moved him to stand in front of her. “May I introduce my family? My uncle, Mr. Alfonso Kimberly,” she said gesturing to the taller of the two men. “And of course, Sir Nevis you have met,” she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Sir Nevis stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Both men glared at him with wariness, as if he were the intruder here. Cailean grunted at them. He didn’t care who they were, was not interested in introductions.

“And my son, Lord Chatwick.”

The lad stepped back into her, practically hiding in the folds of her skirt, but she gently pushed him out again. He looked to be about seven or eight years old, slight and pale, his blond hair sticking to his head. Cailean wondered if the lad was ill.

“Ellis, might you bow to the gentleman?”

The lad clasped his hands behind his back and bowed woodenly. “How do you do.”

“Latha math,” Cailean said absently.

The lad blinked up at him.

“I said, ‘Good day, lad.’ Have you no’ heard a Highlander speak?”

“I thought you might be English,” his mother said.

“English!” he very nearly bellowed. By God, he looked nothing like an Englishman! He was wearing trews, for God’s sake. “No,” he said gruffly, feeling slightly injured by the insult.

“Well, it’s not as bad as that, being English,” she chirped and gave him a lopsided little twinkle of a smile.

It was at least as bad as that. “I am a Scot,” he said stiffly.

She pulled the lad to stand in front of her again, putting her arms over his shoulders and holding him there. “You must admit you do sound a bit English,” she pointed out.

What was happening here? He’d come to speak to her about MacNally’s employment, not about the manner of his speech. As it was, MacNally was looking at him with horror. Cailean could imagine how the story would travel up and down the glen and evolve somehow into one of his being sympathetic to the English or some such nonsense. Tongues in this glen wagged with the force of gale winds. “My mother is English,” he bit out.

“Is she, indeed?” Lady Chatwick said happily. “Who is—”

“I’ve no’ come for pleasantries, madam,” he said curtly, cutting her off. “MacNally tells me you’ve released him from service.”

“Perhaps I ought to discuss this with the gentleman,” her uncle said, moving to stand beside her.

“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” she said pleasantly. “I think the gentleman means no harm.”

Of course he meant no bloody harm, but how could she possibly know what he meant? He was a dangerous man when he wanted to be, and he thought perhaps he ought to point that out...but she was talking again.

“I did indeed release Mr. MacNally from service,” she said, with a gracious incline of her head, as if she was accepting his praise. “I thought it imperative that I do so, as I explained to him. Did I not explain it, Mr. MacNally? I think we might all agree there are certain expectations when one employs another as an agent in their stead.”

MacNally looked at Cailean. “Do you see?” he asked in Gaelic. “She says so many words, and with much haste.”

Cailean ignored him. “The man has been caretaker here for nigh on fourteen years.”

“It is true that he has been employed as the caretaker here for that long...but somewhere along the way he quite forgot to take care of it.” She looked meaningfully at the broken window over her shoulder.

“I had no money,” MacNally said in Gaelic, understanding more than he was apparently willing to admit.

“He informs me your husband did no’ provide the funds for repairs, aye?”

“Did he, indeed?” she murmured, and one finely sculpted golden brow lifted above the other. “My husband has been dead for more than two years. I have not received any requests for funds to repair Auchenard, and yet I’ve seen to it that Mr. MacNally’s stipend has been sent to him with unfailing regularity.” The second delicate golden brow rose to meet the first in a direct challenge to Cailean to disagree.

That subtle challenge stirred something old and unpracticed inside Cailean. He looked away from her green eyes, glanced at MacNally and asked in Gaelic, “Is this true? You’ve not asked for the funds?”

“How was I to know to ask for funds?” he returned nervously. “No one has come round.”

Now Cailean glared down at MacNally. “Yet you’ve managed to put your hands on the stipend. Surely you know from where that has come.”

MacNally shrugged, scratched his scraggly beard and looked off contemplatively at the hills. “Did the best I could, I did,” he said defensively.

“Pardon? What does he say?” the lady asked politely.