Chapter Nine
Lucy woke to light footsteps across the carpet.
Haddie drew aside the bed curtains with a cheery, “Morning, Miss FitzHarris.”
She yawned and stretched and buried deeper under the covers. “Morning, Haddie.”
The shutters creaked, the window cracked, and birdsong drifted in. Autumn had arrived on the chilly morning breeze. Lucy sat up and watched the maid poke the fire to life.
“Since you call Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Alex, perhaps you could call me Miss Lucy.”
“Thank you, Miss Lucy.” Haddie beamed. “Good morning, my wee mannie.” She scooped Hercules off the bed and held him close to her face. Haddie had developed a fondness for Hercules, and he for her. The dog bestowed her with his kisses before she set him down on the carpet. “Will you be wanting the yellow gown this morning, miss?”
“I’ll be working today,” Lucy said with some pride. “The grey serge will do nicely.”
Anxious to break her fast and get to work, she made a hasty toilet and then allowed Haddie to pin her hair up in a simple twist under a white kertch. She held up her stays to be laced. “Not too tight. I need to move about while I’m working with Mother Flora.”
Haddie smiled, transforming her homely face into something almost lovely to look at. After slipping the gown over Lucy’s head and fastening the buttons, she stepped back to appraise her. “You look like a fine Highland lady, miss. Like you belong.”
Lucy recognized the compliment. “Em…is Mr. Alex awake, do you think?”
“Och, hours ago. I passed Himself in the yard whistling and smiling like a loon. I dinnae ken what you’ve done to the poor lad. He’s normally terrible crabbit in the mornings.”
“Crabbit?”
“Aye. Bad-tempered as a wet cat.” Indicating the dog, Haddie said, “Shall I take Hercules out to do his business?”
“I think he would like nothing better.”
“Come on, then, poppet. Let’s see what Cook has put aside for my wee prince.” Hercules followed Haddie out without a backward glance. It seemed he, too, was settling into Balforss nicely.
Lucy met Flora in the hallway and they made their way down to breakfast, chatting about plans for finishing the candles in the morning and paying a visit to Aunt Agnes in the afternoon. When she stepped into the dining hall, she met Alex’s eyes right away. He gave her a sweet smile that made something flutter in her belly.
John and Uncle Fergus were also at the table, discussing business. The men rose when she and Flora entered the room.
“Good morning, dear wife,” John said to Flora. Lucy noticed an interesting exchange between the two. As if they shared a secret.
Flora smiled back at John. “Dear husband,” she said, and lowered her lashes.
Uncle Fergus greeted them with an individual nod. He took his leave, saying, “I’ll be taking Gunn and Eagan wi’ me to Thurso. Be back this afternoon.”
John held out a chair for Lucy while Alex held out his mother’s chair and received a kiss on the cheek for his troubles.
“Did you sleep well, Lucy?” John asked.
Lucy cast a furtive glance at Alex and met his shining grey eyes again. Her cheeks heated, but she managed a breathless response. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Seems everyone had a good sleep last night,” John said, eyes flicking up to his wife.
There was that look again, that wordless connection between them. Was it sexual? She stole another peek at Alex and felt a flutter in her belly again. He stared back. The look on his face was identical to that of his father’s, lean and hungry.
She hoped theirs would be like his parents’ union—strong, passionate, lasting. Mother Flora had said her marriage to John had been arranged. They hadn’t met until the day they were married, but they had come to love each other. Somehow. So it was possible.
John ladled porridge into Lucy’s bowl then pushed the saltcellar her way. “I almost forgot,” he said. “You have a letter.” He grinned and passed the missive to her.
A letter from home? From her father? Joy surged through Lucy’s body at the sight of the folded parchment and she gasped. Surprised by her involuntary reaction, she covered her mouth. “Do pardon me.”
“Dinnae fash, lass,” John said, amused. “I thought you would be glad to see it.”
The red wax bore an unfamiliar symbol, the head of a fox rather than the heraldic shield of her father’s house. She cracked the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read.
Dear Lucy,
I have made a terrible mistake. I pray this letter arrives in time…
Before she read any more, she skipped to the bottom. It was signed: Your Fool, Langley. The pulse in her temples jumped and throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
“Bad news?” Alex asked, concerned.
“No.” She didn’t dare read more in his company. “Please excuse me.” Lucy rose from the table, and the men stood. “I’m fine. Really. I just…excuse me.” She left the dining room, saw the door to the library open, and went inside. She closed the door and leaned against it, knees shaking, hands trembling. Gathering her strength, Lucy went to the window for better light.
Dear Lucy,
I have made a terrible mistake. I pray this letter arrives in time. Against the wishes of my father, I have broken my engagement to Miss Whitebridge. I am come to Scotland to beg your forgiveness and earnestly hope you still hold some affection for me, wretched man that I am. Lady Sutherland, my relation, has offered me shelter and solace, so aggrieved am I that you may wed another. Until I find you and hear my fate from your lips, I will harbor love’s hope.
Your Fool, Langley
Yes. She hadn’t been wrong. Langley did want her. He had defied his father, broken his engagement, and traveled to Scotland to retrieve her. Langley had come to make her his. The tiny crack the viscount had made in her pride disappeared.
Lucy stared at the sweeping, arrogant writing so like Langley. She suddenly realized she hadn’t thought about him for nearly two days. In fact, this letter was the last thing she had expected. She should feel elated, triumphant. She could return to Maidstone Hall vindicated, marry the viscount, and gracefully re-enter London Society.
Why, then, did she feel guilty? And why was she hiding from Alex? Had the letter arrived only two days ago, she would have been thrilled, would have waved it in Alex’s face, proof she was wanted by another. Now, the letter had an oddly disturbing effect on her conscience.
The door to the library opened, and Alex poked his head in. “Is ought amiss, Lucy?”
She forced a smile and held the letter behind her back. “No. I’m fine.”
“Is that a letter from your father?”
“No.” Knowing what his next question would be, she answered before he asked. “It’s from Lord Langley.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw flexed. He would ask to see the letter. She panicked. Though, whether she feared his reaction to Langley’s intentions or her guilt for considering them, she didn’t know.
“A love letter?” He spoke the words through clenched teeth, his barely contained rage frightening. An image of him, face blood spattered and eyes wild, came to her.
Lucy crossed the room and tossed the letter into the fire. Facing Alex, she said, “There. It’s where it belongs.”
Even though the crease between his tawny brows vanished and his tight expression relaxed, she had to fight the urge to back away when he approached her.
“Do you have regrets about him?” he asked. He was struggling to be sympathetic, she thought. But she could detect a definite note of suppressed anger in his tone.
“No,” she said with as much certainty as she could muster.
“Good.” He gave her a hard look as if trying to read her thoughts. “Because I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”
She remembered the highwayman he had cut down, and the man he had stabbed in the throat with his dirk. He had butchered two men to save her life, but still, the hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she swallowed hard. Alex meant what he said. Given the chance, he would kill Langley.
…
Too enraged to remain in her company, he left Lucy in the library and set off in a blind fury. Some bloody Englishmen had the audacity to write a letter to his woman. And, yes, it had been a love letter. He knew it. There could be no other reason for her to throw the letter in the fire without showing it to him. Doubt hung over him like a dark cloud. Jesus, did she still want the bastard? Would she prove him false? Either leave Balforss and return to England, or worse, go through with their wedding and play the dutiful wife, all the while wishing she were married to another?
He stormed toward the stable, kicking anything in his path. “Peter!”
The boy came scurrying out. “Aye, sir?”
“Saddle Goliath for me, now.”
“Aye, sir.” Peter hunched his head down between his shoulders and ran back inside.
Alex paced in front of the paddock. If the sodding English viscount dared come for her—and he wished he would—he’d sink his dirk into the man’s heart and watch him die. He’d likely hang for it, but it would be worth the satisfaction.
Christ, what was in that letter? He couldn’t bring himself to ask Lucy. It would sound too much like jealousy, a weakness he despised. Yet, even now, he was drowning in it. He’d been infected with a mild case of jealousy once before when he’d been spurned by Elizabeth, but that didn’t compare to the madness he felt at this moment. The degree of one’s jealousy must be in direct proportion to the depth of one’s affections, for the desire he had felt for Elizabeth in no way compared to that which he felt for Lucy.
Peter led the horse into the yard, saddled and ready to ride. Goliath, named so because of his size, was the tallest thoroughbred anyone had ever seen. Seventeen hands high and a deep chestnut brown. Just seeing the spirited warmblood made Alex’s heart rate slow.
“Are you angry wi’ me, sir?”
He glanced at Peter. The boy was out of sorts. “God, no. Why would you think it, lad?”
“You shouted at me. I thought because I couldnae pull the girth tight, you wouldnae want me for your groom.” The boy’s chin quivered, and tears streaked his dirty cheeks.
Alex’s body strung like a bow suddenly relaxed, the tension evaporating, his rage dissolving into remorse. “Nae, lad, I wasnae angry with you. I think you’re a fine groom. You know that.” He searched for a way to make it up to the boy. “Here now,” he said. “Go and saddle Heather. I need your help inspecting the north pasture.”
“Me, sir?” Peter wiped his eyes with a filthy sleeve.
“Aye. Magnus and Declan are busy. I’ll need my next best man. Will you do it?”
“Aye, sir,” the boy said, the gap-toothed grin reappearing on his face.
“Good. Get yourself ready. I’ll go to the kitchen and find us some food to take along.”
He had intended to ride Goliath hard until he and the horse were lathered and spent. Instead, he and Peter strolled down the Seaward Trail toward the north pasture on horseback with two herding dogs named Raphe and Denny. Peter proved to be the perfect companion for Alex. He said nothing. Just smiled and swayed atop Heather, a fat lavender-grey pony with a sweet temperament.
The boy was no great horseman, but he had no fear of the beasts and liked being around them. Naturally, the horses sensed this and tolerated Peter’s attentions. Finding Peter was a lucky thing. Lucky for the boy, and lucky for Balforss.
Finding Peter had been a lucky thing for Alex, too. He was easily drawn to violence—the satisfaction of vanquishing the enemy, putting down an attacker, taking the life of a foe. That was why he had left the army. He was liking it a little too much. One shouldn’t enjoy killing. It was the darker side to his nature, the part of his soul that was tarnished black. Peter was the good part of him. Evidence he might still redeem his soul.
When they came upon Old Sam Crannoch’s croft, they dismounted and led the horses inside the gate to the crofter’s small unkempt yard. The door to the thatched-roof croft opened and Old Sam stepped out, stooped and withered, wearing a toothless grin.
“Hallo, Sam,” Alex called.
Sam lifted a hand and let it fall back to his side, the effort seeming to cost him something.
He took a wrapped bundle from his saddlebag. “Mrs. Swenson bid me bring you some of her honey cake. She asked after your health.”
Sam nodded appreciatively but said nothing.
“This is my friend Peter. He’s riding with me to the north pasture.”
Peter waved a hand. “Hallo, Mr. Sam.”
“You’ve got to speak louder, man. Old Sam cannae hear much.”
Peter repeated his greeting with more force.
Sam motioned for the two of them to enter. They followed the crofter, Alex nearly folding in half to clear the lintel. Inside, the air was thick with smoke from the peat fire. The room smelled strongly of a full chamber pot and Old Sam’s unwashed body. Alex was unable to stand up straight in the croft, so took a seat—the only seat—while Sam lay on the bed where he probably had been all day. Peter stood in the corner, twitching uneasily.
“Are you feeling poorly, Sam? Shall I tell Mrs. Swenson to come see to you?”
Sam shook his head slightly and mumbled something in Gaelic. Peter spotted the chamber pot, picked it up, and went outside to empty it. Alex was mightily impressed with the boy’s courage, but supposed he might have removed the chamber pot, too, if it meant getting a gulp of fresh air. When the boy returned a few minutes later, Alex thanked him and gave him the water bucket to fill, as it was empty.
“I can see you’re tired, Sam. I’ll just leave the honey cake here on the table for you. I’ll tell Mrs. Swenson to stop by tomorrow. Perhaps she can make you more comfortable.”
Sam gestured with a claw of gnarled fingers, and Alex knelt by the old man’s bed. The linens were filthy, as were the clothes he wore. He must have stopped caring for himself months ago.
Sam exhaled his words on individual breaths. “Tell…your da…he’s a good…man.”
John Sinclair was a good man, but to be reminded how much his father was respected by one of his oldest crofters only made Alex wonder again if he would ever measure up. When the time came for him to assume his father’s role as Laird of Balforss, would he be equal to the task?
“I will, Sam. I’ll send Da to see you so you can tell him yourself.” He patted him on the shoulder.
Peter entered with the water bucket.
“Thanks, man. You’re a kind fellow. Let’s let Sam sleep now.”
Once they were out of the croft, Peter asked, “Will he be all right, sir?”
“Mrs. Swenson will see to him. She’s his niece, all the kin he has left in Scotland. His sons have gone to America. A place called Kentucky.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Do they have red savages that roast people and eat them in Kentucky?”
He chuckled. “Aye. But Mrs. Swenson’s had a letter from her cousins, and the natives they’ve met thus far have been the decent sort.”
They ambled up the Seaward Trail on horseback toward the north pasture, while the dogs, eager to get to work, raced ahead. Alex spotted the flock of sheep in the distant corner of the field. When last he checked, there had been twenty-eight grazing in this pasture. Now would come the tedious task of herding the sheep out of the pasture and into a holding field for the purpose of counting and assessing their health.
Peter led the horses to the far side of the trail, leaving them to munch on sweet green grasses. Dancing at Alex’s feet, Denny and Raphe sensed their time for business was at hand.
“What’s to do now, sir?” Peter asked.
“Denny and Raphe will herd the sheep to this gate.” He opened a narrow wooden gate set into the stone fence. “It’s wide enough for one sheep to pass through at a time. As they go through, we count them.”
Peter bowed his head and kicked at a few loose stones.
“Do you know your numbers, Peter?”
He shook his head.
Many people living and working at Balforss didn’t know how to read, but most, out of necessity, knew the basics of mathematics. Without that fundamental knowledge, one could easily be cheated.
“Right then. Time to learn your numbers.”
Peter jerked his head up, alert.
“Find yourself a stick, man.”
The boy ran off toward a stand of trees. He returned with a length of branch the width of Alex’s thumb.
“We’ll do this the way my da taught me,” he said. The trouble in Peter’s expression eased. “Every time I call out hep, you make one scratch mark in the dirt.” Peter made an experimental mark in the well-packed mud. “The counting will go quickly, so be ready.”
“Aye, sir.” He braced himself with the determination one might have when preparing to push a boulder up a steep incline.
“At ease, soldier. You’ll be called into action soon. You can watch for a bit, aye.”
Alex stepped over the stone fence, followed by two leaping dogs. “Are ye ready lads? Walk on.”
The dogs took off at breakneck speed toward the flock. Alex executed a series of whistle commands. Between shepherd and dogs, the sheep were skillfully escorted toward the gate, bleating their agitation. “Get ready, Peter.”
“Ready, sir,” Peter called breathlessly.
“Hep! Hep! Hep!”
In no time at all, the sheep were in the holding field, and the counting was done. Alex spent some time examining the sheep for disease and injury. Satisfied all was well, he executed another series of short whistles and commands. The dogs herded the flock back through the gate, the sheep looking at Alex as if to say, What was that all about?
“That’ll do,” Alex called. The dogs raced back to his side. He lavished them with pats and scratches and “Good lads.” Their final reward, chunks of dried beef, which they chewed enthusiastically.
“Let’s see how you’ve done, Peter. Shall we count your marks together?”
Peter gathered himself for the task, looking as pale as a soldier before his first battle.
Alex kept a straight face, not wanting to make the lad feel small. He held up both hands, fingers splayed, wiggling each one as he counted, “One, two, three…”
The boy held up his hands counting along, looking at his fingers as if seeing them for the first time.
By the time they reached twenty-two, Peter had the right of it. He continued hesitantly on his own with only an occasional prompting, all the way to twenty-eight.
“Well done, lad.” He tousled his pupil’s dirty blond hair. “Well done, indeed. It took me ages to learn my numbers, but you’ve conquered them in one day.”
Peter blushed at the compliment. An irrepressible smile formed on the boy’s face. Alex caught a glimpse of the tooth that would replace his missing milk tooth, peeking out from the gum.
“Time to celebrate.” He retrieved the food Mrs. Swenson had packed for them along with an earthenware bottle of good ale. The two sat on the stone wall, eating their potato and meat-filled pastries, enjoying each bite with the satisfaction of a job well done.
They passed the bottle of ale back and forth wordlessly until it was finished, then spent some time impressing each other with how well they could belch. While they had a piss behind the bushes on the far side of the road, Peter glanced at Alex’s member and back at his own with what seemed to be dismay.
“Dinnae fash,” Alex said. “It grows along wi’ the rest of you.”
After they had stowed themselves inside their trousers and adjusted for comfort, Peter asked, “When does the hair on your parts start to grow?”
“How old are you now?”
“Dinnae ken.” Peter shrugged.
“I’d say you’re about ten, maybe eleven,” he said, appraising the boy. “It’ll start to grow in the next three years.”
“Robby calls me a baby. Says I willnae be a man until the hair grows on my parts.”
“Robby’s lived in his father’s house his entire life. He’s never had to live on his wits like you. Your body may be that of a boy’s, but your spirit and courage are that of a man.”
“You think so, sir?”
Alex feigned indignation over Peter doubting his word. “I wouldnae take less than a man wi’ me to do a man’s work.”
Peter smiled at him with adoration, the gap in his teeth making him look fragile. It came to Alex that this boy had never been loved. Alex felt as if he’d swallowed something too large and it would not go down. “Are you happy here at Balforss?” he asked, the words coming out with difficulty.
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Do you feel safe?”
“I do.”
“Good. I’m happy you are here. I consider you a good friend. One I can always count on.”
Peter deepened his voice and puffed out his scrawny chest. “My word of honor, sir, I will lay down my life in your service, should you ask me.”
Alex remembered the oath he’d made to the duke when he was the same age as Peter, how desperately he had wanted to be a man, how important it had been to him that his oath be taken seriously. He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder just as the duke had done. “Thank you, Peter. I accept your solemn oath. You are a Balforss man now.”
Tears filled the boy’s eyes in contrast to his face-splitting grin.
…
Lucy lowered the broche, a long stick strung with candlewicks, into a vat of melted bee’s wax. She drew it out, let it drain, then repeated the process two more times before hanging the broche on a rack to harden. She selected another broche ready for a second dipping and began the process again.
She had hoped the work would distract her, would ease the worry she’d been plagued with all morning. Some was worry over Langley’s letter, but the majority was worry over Alex’s reaction to the letter.
Langley was here in Scotland. In the Highlands. Nearby. How did he intend to contact her? Did he know his life would be in danger if he were to come to Balforss? And what would she do if he did? What if he were to show up tomorrow and ask for her hand? What then? Even if Alex didn’t kill him as he had threatened, would she accept his proposal? Leave Balforss? Leave Alex?
Until Langley’s letter had arrived, Lucy had only one choice, which, of course, was no choice at all. Now she had a choice. Marry Alex, a union foisted upon her by her father, or marry Langley, and realize her dream of becoming a viscountess. Her decision should be easy.
Then why was she struggling? Why had her peace of mind been shattered by the letter?
Lucy finished dipping the broche and reached for another.
After only a few days at Balforss, she had come to like the pace at which life bumped and tripped along in the Highlands. She liked Mother Flora. Liked collecting honey and making candles. She had purpose here. What was there for her in London? Even if she returned as Langley’s bride, she knew very well a title would not stop those wicked wagging tongues.
And then there was Alex. Yes, he was irritating, impulsive, childish, and uncouth. But he was also handsome, brave, kind, and passionate. He had even given her daisies. Langley had never given her daisies, and he didn’t kiss like Alex kissed. He never made Lucy feel like she wanted to curl up on his lap like a cat. Alex may not have a title to offer her, but she preferred the Scot.
The proper thing to do would be to write to Langley, politely decline his offer, and ask that he never contact her again. Why then did she want to see him? The answer shamed her. The answer was as wicked and vindictive as Lucy felt. She wanted to see his face when she spurned him. She wanted to witness his pain, the same pain she had experienced when he had abandoned her.
Lucy selected another broche of candlewicks and began the dipping process.
She imagined several scenarios involving her chance meeting with Langley. Each featured a moment where Langley went down on his knees before her and begged her to marry him. Each time, she would state with noble sympathy that she could not marry him. Her heart belonged to Alex Sinclair, her handsome, brave Highland warrior.
Unfortunately, all the scenarios careened out of her control, ending in unhappiness. In one, Langley killed Alex, and she lived alone for the rest of her life, a martyr to love. In another, Alex killed Langley and was promptly hanged for the offense. The worst was the most probable scenario. Alex discovered Lucy and Langley talking, said he could never trust an inconstant wife, and sent her home shamed and heartbroken.
The broche slipped from her grasp and the rod with the six half-finished candles fell into the vat of hot beeswax. She reached reflexively to retrieve it.
“No,” cried Flora, too late. Lucy stuck her hand halfway into the wax before jerking it out.
“Merde!”
A quarter of an hour later, Lucy lay on her bed, a damp cloth on her forehead, her right hand submerged in a bowl of cool water sitting on a stand next to her bed. Hot beeswax, Mother Flora had told her, caused no lasting injury. “By tomorrow morning, you’ll be right as rain.”
The incident had, however, left her with a beastly burning sensation that throbbed, making any movement of her fingers painful. The accident had been entirely her fault. Flora had warned her to remain attentive at all times, but she’d let her mind drift and so had paid the price.
Perhaps it was God’s punishment for being prideful. For wanting to personally deliver her rejection instead of writing a polite letter. For wanting to restore her pride after Langley had failed to return her affections. For wanting ‘a piece of her own’ as John Sinclair would put it. That’s spiteful and petty. She didn’t see herself as a spiteful person. Yet, that’s what she was. How had she become so utterly wretched?
A sudden commotion echoed in the entry. Who was shouting? Footsteps thundered up the staircase.
“Lucy! Lucy!”
Her bedchamber door flew open, and Alex launched himself to her bedside, dropping to his knees, out of breath, fear tightening his features.
“Ma said you burnt your hand. Are you all right, lass?”
Overwhelming remorse snuck up on her. “I’m sorreeee,” she keened. Tears rolled down her cheeks like rain. She covered her face with her good hand to hide from Alex.
“Hush, lass. It was an accident.”
The bed dipped. She felt the comforting warmth of his body next to her. He removed the damp cloth and caressed her forehead with his lips.
Lucy sniffed, took a few gulping breaths, and tried to speak. “It was my fault. Everything is my fault. I’m sorry about the letter, Alex. I don’t want to marry Langley. I want to marry you, but I don’t want you to kill him.” She fell apart again, blubbering, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook with the effort.
“Wheesht, now. Wheesht. Dinnae fash. I willnae kill him.”
“How can you want to marry me? I’m awful. I’m spoiled, and prideful, and nasty to you.” She considered her appearance and wailed, “And I look terrible.”
Alex chuckled.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she blurted. Even as she said it, she knew he wasn’t laughing at her so much as her histrionics. She was being dramatic, as her father would say. Exactly as she had as a child. She wiped her eyes and nose on the bed linens, then struggled to a sitting position and made herself stop crying.
“Better now?” Alex asked.
She nodded and sniffed.
“Listen to me. You are not awful. You’re a bonnie, braw, and canny young lass. And I want to marry you for all those reasons.”
“What do you mean?” An unladylike hiccup escaped.
“You’re bonnie because you’re spoiled, but you came to Balforss, rolled up your sleeves, and learned to make honey and candles wi’ my ma. You’re braw because you’re prideful. You’re full of dignity and courage, and you willnae compromise what’s most important to you. You’re canny because you’re nasty to me. No one else dares.” He smiled, teasing her now. “You challenge me. You stand up to me.” He looked abashed and lowered his voice. “And you point out when I’m wrong. When I’m being an ass.” Alex softened and touched her cheek. “And you dinnae look terrible. You look like a woman who has toiled all day for her family. That’s a beautiful and noble thing, aye. You’re a true Highland beauty.”
She stared at him with her mouth half open. Did he really see her faults as assets?
“Show me your hurt hand,” he said.
She placed it on his outstretched palm, wet and looking small by comparison.
He bent and pressed his lips to the top of her hand where it wasn’t red. “I’ll take my daily ration now, if you please.” He placed a soft kiss on her mouth. “I’ll see you at supper.”
…
Alex bid Lucy good night straight after supper. His poor wee lass was tired as a lamb after the incident with the hot wax. Thankfully, Lucy had said the pain in her hand had passed. She would sleep well tonight.
He and his father retired to the library, where they took a dram of whisky and talked of plans for purchasing another two hundred cheviots, sheep prized for their excellent wool. Listening to his father speak of Balforss’s domestic future soothed Alex. His father was preparing him for the role of laird he would one day assume, slowly easing the mantle of responsibility down upon his shoulders. Still, Alex wondered if he would ever acquire the strength and wisdom necessary to bear that weight.
A knock on the library door interrupted their peaceful discussion.
“Come,” his father called out.
Uncle Fergus entered, his face an angry red.
“What troubles you, bràthair-cèile?” his father asked, using the Gaelic for brother-in-law.
“There’s a lad outside would have a word with you.”
“About?”
“Patrick Sellar.” Uncle Fergus spit out the name like a bad taste.
His father set his whisky down and slipped on his waistcoat. “Bring him in.”
Moments later, Fergus coaxed the lad through the library door. The boy’s eyes darted about the room then widened when they landed on Laird John’s imposing figure. Soot covered the lad’s clothing and ringed his face near his nose and mouth. He held his hat in hands wrapped in filthy bandages.
“What’s your name, son?” John asked.
“Callum Mackay, sir.”
“He walked here from Rosal Village,” Fergus said. “Took him three days. Tell the laird what you saw, lad.”
“Aye, sir.” On the brink of manhood, his voice faltered from low to high and back again. Alex estimated he was no older than fifteen. “Last week Mr. Sellar telt my grannie her croft was to be fired. She could leave it or burn wi’ it. He didnae care.”
In a low voice, Fergus inserted, “His granny’s Margaret Mackay. Lives near Strathnaver about twenty miles west.”
“When Mr. Sellar and his men come three days ago, Granny wouldnae leave and…well…”
“Ah, Jesus. They didn’t.” The muscles in his father’s jaw jumped and flexed, a sure sign he was enraged.
“Aye, they did. My ma and me come to help her move and found her croft afire just as the men rode awa’. We pulled her free of the croft in time, but I dinnae ken she’ll live. She’s awful bad.”
“Has a doctor come?”
“There’s a healer with her now, doing what she can.” The boy stepped closer to John, hands fisted, his birdlike frame shaking with anger. “Mr. Sellar’s men barred the door, wedged a log against it, set fire to the croft, then rode away laughing. It was pure luck we were there. They meant to kill her, sir,” he said, his voice breaking. “I come to you because folk say you’re the only laird brave enough to go against the Sutherland and get justice for my Granny Mackay.”
John placed a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “You did right coming to me. First thing tomorrow you’ll take us to your granny, aye. Mr. Munro will show you to the kitchen. After you’ve eaten, he’ll find a place for you to sleep.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Fergus, have Mrs. Swenson look at the boy’s hands, as well.”
Fergus led the boy away.
Alex said, “By the looks of him, he hasnae eaten a good meal in a long while.”
His father made no response, just paced in front of the fire, one hand propped on his hip, the other rubbing his forehead.
“Da, you know what we must do,” he said. “This is the proof we need to stop that bastard, Sellar.”
John continued his pacing. He freed his queue and swiped a hand through his hair.
“We cannae let this stand,” he said with more vehemence. Again, no answer from his father. “If you willnae do something, then I—”
“Enough.” John held up a hand.
Alex stilled under his father’s heated gaze. He knew instantly he’d misread him. He’d misread calculation for indecision. John Sinclair would never let this injustice stand.
“Go tell the men we ride to Strathnaver tomorrow before dawn. Then ask Mrs. Swenson to have provisions set aside for us. We’ll be gone two, maybe three days.” Before Alex headed off, his father said, “You know what this means, son. When we bring charges against Sellar, we make ourselves a target. I dinnae ken what the man will do, but you can believe Sellar will fight back.”
Alex stopped himself from smiling. He welcomed a chance to go head-to-head with Sellar and his men. The rat-faced bastard had threatened his woman. Sellar was a man who needed killing, and he wanted to deliver the fatal blow.
“We’ll be ready, Da.”