Mary dabbed her tears while Barbara blew her nose in her kerchief sounding like a blast from a trumpet. “My brother is ruining my life,” the blonde beauty wailed.
A fresh bout of tears welled and streamed from Mary’s eyes. “He’s ruining mine, toooooo.” She’d been crying ever since she fled to Barbara’s chamber. Both of them had been bawling like a pair of mourners at a funeral. Mary couldn’t even catch her breath, her head swooning with her short gasps. If only she could tell Barbara about how Sir Donald had behaved last eve. Merciful fairies, he’d stripped her bare—she’d lain prostrate on the bed for him while he had his way. Dear God in heaven, it was but a miracle the rake hadn’t taken her maidenhead.
She still couldn’t understand it. They’d been intimate together. Didn’t that mean love? Mary had been so sure he loved her—he mightn’t have spoken the words, but he’d shown it in so many ways. Her mind boggled. How could she live without him?
A wailing lament escaped her lips. How could he touch her like that and cast her aside with such callous indifference?
Barbara followed with a sobbing wail of her own. “With my luck, Sir Coll will be married before I ever see him agaaaaaaain.”
Married? Mary’s mind blanked. What would she do if Sir Donald took a wife? Holy Moses, she couldn’t even imagine him showering another woman with attention—kissing her, touching her intimately, baring her breasts…Oh, Lord in heaven, the notion of losing him was enough to send her into a frenzy. She dropped onto the bed and curled into a ball, crying with abandon, not caring who heard, not caring what anyone thought. Especially the accursed Baronet of Sleat.
Barbara sat beside her and rubbed Mary’s back. “You mightn’t see it now, but my brother is doing you a favor. He has no capacity to care for anyone.” She let out a high-pitched wail and hid her face in her kerchief. “Yoooooou can do so much better than Donald MacDonald.”
“You’re daft.” Mary buried her face in the crux of her arm. “I’ll be tucked away in Dunscaith Castle with no prospects.”
“It couldn’t be as bad as Duntulm on the north end of Skye. ’Tis absolutely desolate there.”
“So is Castleton. There are no suitable matches within miles and miles.” The image of Balfour MacLeod flashed through her mind. “Unless you want to be plundered by a vile dragoon.”
Barbara removed the kerchief from her face. “Thank heavens that awful lieutenant will no longer be bothering you.”
Mary shuddered. “I’d rather die than marry him.”
Barbara dropped to her back and stared at the canopy above. Mary rolled and joined her while their tears slowly ebbed, followed by deep sighs and thoughts of gloom.
“How far is Dunscaith Castle from Sir Coll’s lands in Glen Spean?” Barbara asked, her voice soft and dreamy.
“Not sure.” Mary wiped the dregs of her tears. “Perhaps two days’ ride, if not more.”
Barbara groaned. “If only it were closer I might gain an opportunity to see him if I accompanied you home.”
Mary rolled to her side and faced her friend, placing her head on her hand. “That would be fun, regardless. Though I’m afraid you might grow bored.” She chuckled—at least it wasn’t a wail. “What would your brother think if I taught you to shoot a musket?”
“Me?” she spouted through blubbering lips. “He’d be absolutely mortified.”
Mary sat up. “Why should you not have an adventure? With or without Sir Coll—besides, he’s a chieftain with a great many responsibilities. During the gathering, I heard he’s in the midst of a feud with the MacIntosh Clan.”
“You don’t say?” Barbara looked almost like a normal person with her face all blotchy from crying. “He never mentioned that to me.”
“Men.” Mary threw up her hands. “They always think they need to protect us from the bad things.”
“The bastards,” Barbara swore.
“I beg your pardon?” Mary was, by far, more uncouth than the younger woman, yet she’d never uttered such a curse.
“Well, they are.” Suddenly spry, Barbara hopped to her feet. “I will travel to Dunscaith Castle with you. If nothing else, it will give me a wee bit more time with Sir Coll, and even better, it will infuriate Donald.”
This time Mary’s belly shook with her laugh. “I do like how you think.” Perhaps if Miss Barbara accompanied her home it would give Sir Donald a reason to pay a visit himself.
***
The black chimney sweep’s costume had proved to be quite useful. Balfour had been a soldier for so long, he didn’t realize how tight-lipped people were when he was in uniform. During the evening meal, he’d sat among the vilest characters in the alehouse, but the information he’d gathered had been invaluable.
MacDonald’s men were scurrying to make repairs to the bastard’s galley so they could sail to Skye on the morrow. Balfour had nearly fallen off his rickety wooden chair. He needed to act, and fast. Now he’d been reassigned to Fort William, he’d never find an opportunity to see Miss Mary once she returned home. And she would. Through his questions, he’d learned there had been no announcement of a betrothal. Not to mention it would be scandalous if the baronet kept Mary in Glasgow whilst he sailed right past her father’s home. Och aye, he needed to seize his chance forthwith.
Once darkness had fallen, it hadn’t been difficult to slip down the close leading to the back of MacDonald’s townhouse. Not a soul had given him a second look. Now he stood in the shadows of the stable, looking up at the windows. Bloody hell, why one man needed so many windows was beyond him. The place looked even larger from the rear than it did from the front.
The windows illuminated by flickering candlelight caught most of his attention, though silhouettes on the lace curtains had been rare.
I’ll not give up, God bless it. And I’ll be damned if I’ll stand idle while that milk-livered haggard traps her in his snare. She’s mine.
A clank snapped Balfour from his thoughts. He ducked behind a stack of hay bales right before the stable hand pushed a barrow within inches of his nose.
Balfour lowered his face and held his breath. Then he laughed to himself. The dull-witted cad had no idea of his presence. The lad had just strode past, focusing on his barrow of shite. Christ, he could have run him through the back and the stable hand wouldn’t have known who’d attacked.
Numbskull. No one suspects a thing. The bastard’s men are all on the waterfront repairing the doomed galley—the sops.
When he again scanned the windows for movement, his heart froze. All the way up on the fourth floor, Miss Mary was holding the curtains aside. She stared beyond the stables, as if she were dreaming about something far away. Perhaps she missed home?
Perhaps she now realizes that I am the better match for her.
Such a thought emboldened him. He cared not if she was locked away in a tower with seven floors. He would slip inside and take what he wanted.
Quietly, Balfour moved to the flowerbed against the house and crouched between the bushes.
A servant burst through the rear entry with a bucket, heading toward the rear gate.
As quick as a cat, Balfour slipped inside before the door slammed closed. Now he only needed to hide until the witching hour when all would be asleep.
Dimly lit kitchens to his right, a dark stairwell ascended upward to his left.
How fortuitous.