Devil's Highlander

Little did they know, if overheard by the wrong person, they'd find themselves back on the Oliphant, but this time she'd be trussed up right alongside. “Get back here now.”



But it was too late. There were sounds of murmuring and of creaking shutters, and the hard scuff of warped wood against stone, as folk looked out their doors to see what the ruckus was about.



“Miss Marjorie?” The voice was tentative, and hearing it, Marjorie nearly crumpled in relief.



Turning around, she spotted a linen-capped head peeking out from a doorway behind her. Fiona. Once this was all over, she vowed she'd double the girl's pay. “I… we need your help.”



“I imagine you do at that.” Fiona darted a look up and down the alley. If she had any questions, she held her tongue, and Marjorie was grateful.



“My da's out.” The maid paused, a peculiar look flickering across her face. “But you've come in perfect time.



I'm about to put supper on.” A few of the boys hesitated at the sight of her cramped, one-room dwelling, but Fiona shooed them in. “In you get, then. So many of you… “



“Quickly now,” Marjorie added, cramming them all inside and following close behind.



She pulled the door shut behind them and cringed, fighting the urge to put a handkerchief to her nose and mouth.



Not because of the filth, for a single glance told her that Fiona kept a spotless home, but because of the cook fire. The room was cramped, and the fireplace not well ventilated, and the charred odor of woodsmoke gave a twinge in her lungs.



“Not what you're used to,” the maid muttered matter-of-factly. She began bustling around at once, leading Marjorie to a small washbowl in the corner, arranging the smaller boys around the hearth, and pointing the older ones to a corner. “But we'll all fit in, we will.”



She went to a table along the side of the room and, hands on hips, contemplated the food spread before her. She snatched up a skinned hare, holding it by its hind paws. “I've a fresh-caught mawkin.”



“A rabbit?” Davie popped up to marvel at it. “He's so pale and wee without his coat.”



“Aye, wee indeed.” Fiona laid the rabbit out along a modest table, its wooden slab top scarred from years of use. She took up a knife and set to dressing the meat. “Too wee for all these bellies,” she noted, scanning the room. “But I've a bit of barley… mayhap in a broth, 'twill stretch it.” Marjorie was amazed that, with nary a question, the young woman determined she'd give up the full bounty of her family's supper, sharing it instead with a houseful of strange children. Yes, she decided, she'd insist they begin paying Fiona more. Much more. “I'll not take the food from your table, Fiona.”



“I'll pretend I didna hear that, and you can pretend you didna say it.” She continued to prepare the meal with deft hands, and eventually the smell of rabbit soup filled the room. The rich aroma had a calming effect on all of them. The boys gradually relaxed and began to chatter quietly among themselves. Marjorie's panic had dulled, and all that was left were thoughts of Cormac and a thick ache in her throat.



Wiping her hands on her apron, Fiona turned her focus to a meager pile of vegetables. “So, then.”



“So.” Marjorie sighed, preparing for an onslaught of questions.



“Does this have aught to do with that Cormac fellow?”



Marjorie blanched, unable to speak through the grief thick in her throat. Cormac.



Fiona hesitated, a faint blush pinking her cheeks. Meeting Marjorie's eyes, she said, “I seen him, you know.



Cormac was rifling about in your room, mightily bothered he was, and quite keen to find you.” She focused on her food once again, chopping turnips with great intent. “Trouble follows them MacAlpins,” she mumbled. “Like smoke from fire.”



Marjorie sat up straighter. “What did you say?”



Fiona paused to study Marjorie, gauging her, and must've seen something that gave her enough courage to continue. Putting her knife down, she announced confidendy, “I didna like that you went away so close after he appeared. Your uncle said you'd gone to visit that Bridget lass, but I think you should have a care when it comes to those MacAlpins.”



Marjorie swallowed hard. She was the trouble now — not the MacAlpins. And she'd brought it under Fiona's own roof. She eyed the boys, wondering how to explain them, and what to say about her sudden appearance on her maid's doorstep. “It's not Cormac… or… well, 'twas Cormac who helped me.” Her tongue felt thick, and she looked down, worrying the fabric of her skirts in trembling hands.



Fiona turned to stir the soup. She allowed a few minutes of silence before asking, “When will you take them to Saint Machar?”



“The boys?” The maid was right — Saint Machar would be precisely the place to drop them, if she hadn't spotted Archie that night at the bailie's party under such suspicious circumstances. But she dare not confess her doubts about Archie, and so she lied instead. “There's no room there for now.” Fiona's eyes widened. “No room at Saint Machar?”



She nodded, despising her deception. A lull heart never lies, she thought, considering the old proverb with regret. “I'm hoping to find their families. And I'm hoping to find them work.” Both statements were true, in their way. Working in a Scottish kitchen had to be far preferable to toiling on a distant plantation. And who was to say she wouldn't find their families? She'd need to begin at once, querying the boys as to their origins. For all she knew, they hailed from as far away as Glasgow.



The door screeched loudly as it scraped against the stone floor. A heavyset man stood in the entrance, glowering.



“Good Christ preserve us,” Fiona whispered.



What little light there was in the vennel hit him from behind, casting strange shadows on an already hard and ugly face. The room fell silent. “What the devil… ? Who let these vermin in?” The words tripped uneasily from his tongue, and Marjorie thought it might be whiskey that dulled the man's speech.



Slamming the door, he stormed to Fiona, hovering over her, the rage plain on his face. “What are you up to now, you silly chit?”



“I… I… “ Fiona's cheeks turned crimson as she sputtered for words. “Da, this is—” Her father? Marjorie bristled. Father or no, Marjorie wouldn't sit idly by as a drunken sot bullied her maid. He struck her as a tyrant who hadn't a care for any but himself. A man like that would not only balk at having folk under his roof, he'd turn the lot of them out on the street without so much as batting an eye. Drawing her shoulders back, Marjorie spread her grand skirts around her. She knew his type.



She'd put the situation into language he'd understand. “My name is Lady Brodie, sirrah, and your daughter is a clever chit indeed.”



“Brodie,” he said, and then belched. “I've not heard of no Brodie around here.”



“I'm a woman of great resources, though I insist on a quiet life. But now I find myself in a crisis, and your daughter offers a means to my preferred ends.” Marjorie pulled the coin purse from where she'd hidden it in the skirts of her gown. “Her wily tongue talked me out of nigh close to my entire savings. It's all arranged, though.” Waving the pouch enough for the coins to clink enticingly, she cocked a brow in challenge. “Unless you disagree?” Shaking her head, Fiona tsked quietly. “A full purse ne'er lacks friends.” The sound of money stopped the man, as Marjorie had known it would. He stepped closer. “What are you talking about, woman?”



“I've important business to attend. In… Glasgow,” she improvised, realizing perhaps she was onto something. If she could hide the boys away here with Fiona, it would buy her time to… What?



She'd saved Davie. That had been her sole intention. She'd had no plans after that.



Without Cormac, things felt so incomplete. What did she need to do now? She'd have to travel back to Dunnottar, of course. Deliver news of his passing. Tears stung her eyes, and she forced herself to focus on the moment.



She'd also need to sort out the Archie… situation. Fury spiked her veins, and it was almost refreshing. There was no way she'd allow a predator back into Saint Machar, where he could cull the strongest of Scotland's lads for a profit.



“I've asked your daughter to attend my charges for me.”



“Your… charges?” A bit of spittle flew out of his mouth at the last word.



Grimacing, she flicked a bit of food where it'd landed on her arm. “Aye, they're students of mine. They'll be no trouble. And it won't be long until I return. I've offered her coin for her trouble.” He steadied himself with a hand on the table. “They're to stay here?” Fiona gaped, no less shocked. “Lord love her.”



“Aye, here.” Marjorie sat up, trying to look as much like an affronted lady as possible. “I offered your daughter one bawbee per day for each lad, but she asked for two bob, to which I said no indeed, and I went up to a shilling, which wasn't good enough for the likes of her, and so we finally ended up at half a crown for minding the lot of them.”



Fiona's father gawked, clearly not following, which had been Marjorie's intention precisely. She willed the man to shut his mouth, though. He was exuding a powerful stench, and it was beginning to turn her stomach.



Schooling her features, she slipped the pouch back into her skirts. “I should be gone no more than a fortnight.” Fiona's father stared, astonished. “A half crown comin' to me, eh?”



“To you,” the maid scoffed under her breath.



“To your daughter,” Marjorie snarled, losing patience. She felt the desperate urge to escape — from the stench, from this man, from her loss.



She rose and marched to the hearth, pinning him with her haughtiest look. “You will receive payment only upon my return, and only when I see that neither these boys nor your daughter have come to any untoward harm.” He shrugged, his face a simple, thuggish grimace. He may not have understood her words, but it appeared he at least understood their gist.