Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
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Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Hard Shell Word Factory www.hardshell.com
Copyright ©1999 Jackie Hallquist October 1999 Hard Shell Word Factory NOTICE: This ebook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This book cannot be legally lent or given to others. This ebook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.
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Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Prologue London, October 1887 PROFESSOR DONNELLY dead at age 57. It was learned only today that Professor Bruce Donnelly died earlier this month at Karonga, a small African Lakes Company trade mission situated on the shores of Lake Nyasa in Northern Rhodesia, Africa. His death resulted from wounds sustained during a raid by Arab slave traders on the small native village of Nkonde where Professor Donnelly, noted anthropologist and celebrated author, was conducting research for his next book. He believed the Nkonde, a gentle, peace-loving people, were descendents of the Hamites, the lost tribe of Israel. The undefended Nkonde village was attacked without warning by Arab slave traders lead by one called Mlozi. After selecting the finest and the strongest of the young men and women for sale in the markets of their masters, the Arabs, together with their native henchmen, the ruga-ruga, slaughtered everything in sight: old men and women, children, even cattle and dogs, then torched the village. Professor Donnelly is survived by his daughter, Margaret. Though seriously wounded during the slavers’ attack, Miss Donnelly and her father managed to hide amongst the reeds along the lake shore, then make their way to Karonga where the Professor succumbed. Miss Donnelly, an accomplished photographer, has traveled with her father since the death of her mother some 3
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
ten years ago.
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Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Chapter 1 Karonga, Rhodesia, Africa—October 1887 REVEREND DOOGOOD took his place before the newly dug grave, opened his small, black, book of services, and began to read. A slightly built man, thin and frail, his voice was surprisingly strong and melodious. Beside him, Margaret Donnelly stood tense, dry-eyed, listening intently, seeking to make sense of the words. “Ashes to ashes...” Yes, everything was ashes ... the village ... their little hut ... everything.... “Dust to dust.” Yes, all her world was dust. Everything ... ashes and dust. So how could the sky be so blue ... the sun so bright? Grief and pain swelled in Maggie's chest, rose in her throat like bitter gall, filled her mind, blanketing the sound of the minister's voice. Desperately trying to maintain her composure, Maggie fixed her attention on the far shore of Lake Nyasa; let her gaze wander over the rugged blue-grey crags and pinnacles of the Livingstone Mountains thrusting upward into the cerulean sky. Below the peaks, a tremendous precipice fell sheer into the deep, blue waters of the lake, and here and there a waterfall cascaded down, spreading like a misty veil across the face of the cliff. How serene ... how beautiful it was. Her father had loved this place, loved the gentle, fun-loving Nkonde. 5
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
The scent of smoke carried on a sluggish breeze brushed Maggie's nostrils. She paled, stiffened. But the Nkonde were dead ... like her father ... all dead.... Maggie began to tremble as the gun fire of the Arab slavers, the hoarse shouts of the ruga ruga, and the terrified screams of the people again filled her mind. “Miss Donnelly.” Maggie gasped, looked wildly about, for a moment unable to recall where she was. Beside her, Montieth Fotheringale, who headed up the African Lakes Company trade mission at Karonga, cleared his throat, and after one false start, said, “I am truly mindful of your loss, Miss Donnelly. Your father was a fine man.” Maggie turned, looked up at him, but made no reply. Watching her, Fotheringale's eyes held a deep sadness. How delicate, how fragile she looked, this slender young woman with the pale blond hair. Yet, having known her for over a year, he knew that she was neither delicate nor fragile. Still, he wondered what would become of her now. Her father, a widower, had been the mainstay of her existence. But, Fotheringale told himself, she must have kin... Again, he cleared his throat. “It is, of course, impossible for you to remain here, alone. Indeed, with that fiend, Mlozi, and his slave raiders in the area, I cannot allow any white women to stay in Karonga.” He paused. Still Maggie remained silent. “I have taken the liberty of asking Reverend Doogood and his good wife if you might accompany them to the coast and thence to England.” 6
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Maggie made no protest. With her father gone, she understood that she must leave Africa. Indeed, after the horrors she had witnessed during the raid on the Nkonde village, she had no desire to remain. She was only too grateful that there was someone trustworthy, able, and willing to see her safely away. Though where she was to go, what she was to do, once she reached England.... She managed a weak smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I am most grateful...” The next morning, Maggie, together with the Doogoods, boarded the small missionary ship, Ilala, for the trip south. Jane Doogood, like her husband, was small; but life with the Reverend Doogood, by nature a dreamer, had forced her to become the practical, efficient member of the family, traits that now stood them all in good stead. It was she who took Maggie under her wing, found a shaded place to sit on deck. What had been a pleasant voyage on the serene, blue waters of Lake Nyasa when Maggie and her father first came to Karonga, was now a trip through the outer reaches of hell. The shoreline, once lush with fields of bananas punctuated by prosperous villages inhabited by a gentle, peace-loving people, now held nothing but fire-blackened shells strewn with rotting corpses. Everywhere, the cruelty and rapacity of Mloki and his ruga ruga were written clear. Maggie sat staring with shock-glazed eyes, filled with an agony of despair: for the people, for her father, for herself.... They reached Monkey Bay at last and disembarked. From there they traveled overland to Blantyre, but the mission was already overflowing with refugees from the villages ravaged 7
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
by the slave traders. Maggie and the Doogoods did not long tarry, but continued overland to the Zambesi river and thence by paddle-wheeler to the coast where a little merchant steamer took them aboard. Exhausted, bedraggled, Maggie mounted the gang-plank, then went to stand against the deck railing, scarcely aware of the tears spilling down her cheeks. Until that moment, encased in a shell born of loss and pain and shock, she had moved through each day like a puppet, feeling little, caring less. Now, without warning, consciousness of all that she had lost abruptly overwhelmed her; and as the little steamer pulled away from shore, she clung to the rail, sobbing. Gradually, the coastline faded to a distant shimmering blur, and as the water shushed and whispered against the ship's hull, Maggie's sobs sank to a shuddery sigh. Only then did she become aware that someone stood nearby. Wearily, she raised her arm, dragged the ragged sleeve of her grimy shirtwaist over her tear-stained cheeks before turning to face a tall, auburn-haired man. As their glances met, his eyes widened, his cheeks blanched, and he stared at her as if he had encountered a ghost. Maggie was too tired, too emotionally drained by all that had gone before, to be affronted. Indeed, considering her appearance: she had not had a proper bath in days; her hair was grimy and matted; and she still wore the clothing in which she had fled the Nkonde village: filthy, tattered, reeking of smoke—small wonder he found the sight of her shocking. 8
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
For a long moment, the man remained transfixed. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he recovered his aplomb. “Allow me to present myself, Miss Donnelly. Geordie MacPhaedair, recently with her Majesty's forces in the Transvaal, at your service.” Before Maggie could respond, Jane Doogood approached. “Come, my dear,” she said. “A cabin has been secured for you. Let me show you the way.” Without a word to Mr. MacPhaedair, Maggie turned and followed Jane. The cabin was small: a wash stand with a pitcher of water, a straight-backed chair, and a narrow bunk suspended from the bulkhead. Maggie would have collapsed upon the bunk and turned her face to the wall; but Jane, in her kind but efficient way, insisted that Maggie first sponge herself down and wash her hair. For the next three days, Maggie remained in her cabin: by day, grieving for her beloved father; at night, tossing and turning, tormented by infernal nightmares. Mrs. Doogood or some member of the crew brought her her meals on a tray, and Reverend Doogood took time each day to sit with her, read to her from the scriptures. The trays were returned to the galley untouched; the Reverend's comforting words fell but lightly on Maggie's lacerated spirit. But even the deepest grief does, with time, begin to heal. And on the third morning, as Maggie lay huddled in her narrow bunk, it occurred to her that she had allowed herself to become a burden. This was not, after all, a passenger ship. The captain had taken the three refugees aboard only because of their desperate situation. Maggie knew she must 9
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
not expect to be waited upon, catered to, for the entire five or six weeks that it would take to reach London. It was time she put aside her sorrow and assumed responsibility for her own needs. When the ship's bell announces breakfast this morning, Maggie admonished herself, you will join the others in the dining room. Thus resolved, she rose and stretched, then padded across to the porthole and looked out. The equatorial sun had risen, flooding the world with blinding light. Already, the air was warm, heavy with moisture. Quickly, Maggie washed herself with the water provided in the metal pitcher, then donned the skirt and shirtwaist Mrs. Doogood had found for her amongst the garments contributed to the mission at Blantyre by it's patrons back in Edinburgh. It was obvious that Jane had made her selection based on serviceability rather than fit, for both items were several sizes too large for Maggie's slender frame. The shirtwaist drooped and the skirt bunched and sagged in a most unbecoming manner. But they were clean and whole. Maggie grimaced, thinking, Well, I never was a fashion plate. Traveling with her father, living for months at a time in strange and out-of-the-way places, she had dressed for comfort or expedience, often attiring herself in pants and shirt like a boy. “Very sensible,” had been her father's comment. Then he would add, “You are very like your mother, you know. She was a sensible woman ... and very beautiful. You look like 10
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
her, my dear: same fair hair, same blue eyes ... but you are taller. She would have been pleased...” Someday, it would be a happy memory, but for now the remembrance was like an open wound. Maggie swallowed against the ache it raised in her throat, took a deep breath. Then she gave the sagging skirt a determined hitch, opened her cabin door, and stepped out into the sunlight. How fresh and clean the air after her long sojourn in the stuffy cabin. How incredibly blue the sky; and the waters of the Indian Ocean, stretching smooth and calm to the African coast, sparkled like a giant sapphire. There was a time when such a sight would have sent Maggie's spirits soaring. Now, she only thought, How can a place so beautiful harbor so much that is evil? The morning was crystal clear, and already quite warm. Sailors were hurrying to and fro, intent upon their duties. No one took the least notice of Maggie. She wandered along the deck wondering what she should do next? However, she did not have to wonder for long. Even as the breakfast gong sounded, Reverend and Mrs. Doogood joined her and they went into the dining salon together. Maggie noted that there were three other passengers already seated at one table: two rather elderly gentlemen and the man who had spoken to her the day she came aboard. When he glanced up and caught Maggie's gaze, he smiled and inclined his head in greeting. She tilted her head in response, observing absently that he was, indeed, very handsome. When the meal was over, the Captain, a heavy-set man with snowy hair and a gentle countenance, approached the 11
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Doogood's table, introduced himself, then addressed Maggie. “I have long been an admirer of your father,” he said. “His loss will be felt by a great many people, but by none so keenly as yourself. My sincere sympathy, Miss Donnelly. If there is anything that I can do for you, you have but to speak.” “You are very kind,” Maggie replied. “I do appreciate everything you have already done for me. Thank you.” Then the Captain turned to Reverend Doogood. “Would you and the ladies do me the honor of joining me for dinner?” The Reverend accepted with pleasure, and thus the routine of their days was established. It was on the following morning, as Maggie strolled about the deck, head bowed, lost in her memories and worries, that Geordie MacPhaedair spoke to her for the second time. Taken unawares, she jumped and whirled to face him. “Ach! Forgive me,” he said. “I had no thought to startle ye.” Despite her troubled state of mind, Maggie couldn't help noticing again how handsome this man was. Though he must have been approaching thirty, he had the look of Pan about him: unruly, auburn locks curled along his brow, and he spoke with the same soft Scottish burr as had her father. Just the sound of it reawakened the pain in her heart and brought the sting of tears to her eyes. Her beloved father. What was she to do without him? Maggie took a deep breath, willing the anguish away even as she acknowledged MacPhaedair's greeting. 12
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
“I wish only to offer you my sympathy, Miss Donnelly. If there is aught that I can do to be of service, it would be my pleasure.” “You are very kind,” Maggie murmured. Then, by unspoken agreement, they began to stroll together along the deck. In the ensuing weeks, Geordie became Maggie's constant companion. He devoted himself to turning her thoughts away from the horrors she had witnessed, the pain she had endured. He had a rare gift for story telling, and he regaled her with tales about Dunphaedair, the ancestral home of Clan MacPhaedair, and of his boyhood adventures in the Scottish Highlands. He ended most tales with a shake of his head, saying, “Ach! There's no place on earth more beautiful than the Highlands.” Maggie fancied that most of his stories were woven from whole cloth, but she found them none the less entertaining for that. Indeed, Geordie could be very amusing, and she found herself laughing for the first time in weeks. One evening as they strolled the deck, she asked, “Do you have brothers or sisters?” “Aye. One of each ... a twin sister and an older brother.” “A twin. Are you much alike?” “Ach, no! Jeannie is a bonnie, wee lass, as bossy as a banty hen.” If not the words, the tone of his voice told Maggie he was very fond of this bossy, twin sister. “And your brother?” Geordie sighed and a shadow darkened his expression. But it was gone as quickly as it had come and he said lightly, “My noble brother, the laird.” 13
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
“The laird?” “My half-brother, Stuart. Firstborn of our father. He inherited everything when our sire died: Dunphaedair, all the land, the distillery...” A cynical note had crept into Geordie's voice, and suddenly he turned from Maggie to gaze out across the water. Clearly, the affection Geordie felt for his sister did not extend to his brother. Well, Maggie thought, that was often the way in families. To ease the tension, she suggested they find the Doogoods and have a game of whist before dinner. His good spirits restored, Geordie replied, “Capitol idea.” The tenor of their days flowed smoothly on. Maggie had felt comfortable with Geordie from the very beginning. Perhaps it was the Scottish burr in his speech, so reminiscent of her father, that put her at ease. Or perhaps it was because she had spent so much of her life traveling with her father, solely in the company of men, that she found it easier to talk to Geordie than to Jane Doogood. Whatever the reason, Maggie soon came to look on Geordie as a dear friend. To others, Maggie knew, that might seem strange. But her mother had died before Maggie's sixteenth birthday. During the ensuing ten years, she had traveled with her father. They had never stayed anyplace long enough for Maggie to make friends—anyplace civilized, that is. Not that she had been lonely or unhappy. Scarcely ever had she missed having a home and neighbors. She loved her father and she loved taking photographs. It had never occurred to her to ask more of life. 14
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
But now she was alone. And try as Maggie would to ignore them, loneliness and dread lurked very near the surface. At first, she put on a brave front. “After all,” she explained to Geordie, “my position could be worse. Unlike many women left on their own, I have a profession: I'm a photographer.” Geordie nodded. “And your father was a very famous man.” “He was a wonderful man,” Maggie added. Then, warming to her subject, she recounted for Geordie the years she had spent traveling with her father. “While he gathered material for his books, I took photographs to illustrate them. Sometimes we lived and worked under very trying circumstances, but I was happy...” “You are, indeed, a remarkable young woman.” Maggie glanced at Geordie sharply, thinking she heard a touch of sarcasm in his tone; but his smile was warm, his eyes admiring. Several days later, as their ship was steaming through the Suez Canal, Maggie said to him, “I've thought it all out. I shall return to Omaha ... I grew up in a small town near there ... and I shall open a photographic studio.” “Hummmm...” was Geordie's only comment. What Maggie didn't tell him was that she had no idea how she was going to get back to Nebraska or acquire the equipment she would need; neither did she admit that without family or friends to whom she could turn, without money or prospects, she had no idea how she was to survive once they reached London. 15
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
She did have a few gold coins tucked into the money belt her father had insisted she always wear strapped to her person. But it was scarcely a sum sufficient to meet all her needs and see her back to the United States. **** DAYS BECAME weeks, carrying her relentlessly toward the time when she should find herself stranded, alone in a strange city. And with each passing day, the fear grew in her breast, squeezing her heart, stealing her breath as she wondered, What will become of me when my gold coins are spent? Long before they left Africa, while they were traveling down the Zambesi, Jane Doogood had offered to take Maggie to the church's mission school in London. “Pastor Makepeace is a fine man,” she said. “Very dedicated, indeed. But it has been difficult for him since Mrs. Makepeace went to her reward.” Mrs. Doogood had stopped speaking and smiled wanly into space. Maggie had said nothing. Abruptly, Mrs. Doogood turned to Maggie once more. “He needs someone ... there's always so much to be done. If he had someone he could rely on to direct the activities of the school, he could devote himself to the saving of souls. Indeed, with the proper helpmate, he might soon take his mission abroad...” Maggie had shifted uncomfortably under the older woman's steady gaze. After a protracted silence, Maggie finally said, “I'm sure he is a most admirable man.” 16
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Nodding enthusiastically, Mrs. Doogood continued, “I've been thinking, my dear. You are all alone in the world now. What a happy coincidence it would be if...” Aghast at what Jane Doogood was obviously about to suggest, Maggie had jumped to her feet mumbling something about having business elsewhere, and had taken herself off in all haste. Mrs. Doogood had broached the subject again over dinner one evening, but at the time, appalled by the idea, Maggie had graciously but firmly declined to consider it. Now, as they neared the end of their journey, Maggie was filled with doubt. Had she been too hasty? They were only a few days out of London when she said to Geordie, “I fear the only course left open to me is that suggested by Mrs. Doogood.” Geordie's brow arched sardonically. “Come, now,” he said. “Do you really fancy yourself the bride of ... what was his name? Pastor Makepeace?” Maggie could feel the hot blood rising in her cheeks. “Of course not. I would run the school for him, teach the little ones in exchange for my room and board.” “Maggie, lass. Why would you want to devote your time to such an endeavor when only a few days ago you were making plans to open a photographic studio in America?” Maggie hesitated, then blurted, “It is not so easy as all that. I need a wardrobe as well as equipment...” A puzzled expression stole over Geordie's featuress. Finally, he said, “You can purchase anything you need in London.” 17
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
“You must understand,” Maggie said, “my resources are limited.” “But your father ... his books are known and read all over the world ... he must have been a very wealthy man. Did he leave you nothing?” Piqued at Geordie's tone, Maggie snapped, “Father was a scholar, not a banker!” “Of course,” Geordie murmured, but he appeared nonplused. However, Maggie's thoughts, prompted by Geordie's comment, took a new direction. Once in London, she could send a cable to her father's bank. There might be something ... but she knew it was a meager hope at best. Her father had spent not only his life savings, but all that he could beg or borrow to finance this trip to Lake Nyasa. So what was she to do? Returning to her original idea, Maggie said to Geordie, “If I were living at the mission, I could spend what I have on new equipment, and then I could take photographs ... perhaps do a book about the mission school...” “Perhaps,” Geordie agreed and turned away from her to stare out across the choppy water of the channel. What Maggie had expected him to say, she didn't know, but she was stung by his response; and sensing his air of dismissal, hearing the indifference in his tone, suddenly, the finality of her situation became real. The life she had known with her father: traveling, taking her photographs, safe and secure in his love, was over ... forever. 18
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Without warning, Maggie had become an orphan; at age 25, a spinster without prospects or hope for the future. She tried to tell herself that she was most fortunate, that she could have been forced into service as a maid, or perhaps had no option at all except the streets. But secretly, as the days had passed and their friendship grew, even while telling herself it was an utter impossibility, Maggie had begun to hope that Geordie would come to her rescue. He did not. And so it was that on the morning they arrived in London, Maggie approached Jane Doogood and, with a heavy heart, announced that she had reconsidered Mrs. Doogood's kind offer.
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Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Chapter 2 THE FOLLOWING morning, Maggie, filled with apprehension, hesitated at the top of the gangway, staring in astonishment at the crowds of people gathered on the dock below. Not until urged on by the Doogoods, did she finally start down. And upon reaching the bottom, she was quite taken aback when two smartly attired gentlemen: one rather portly with a ruddy complexion; the other taller, thinner, stooped of shoulder, suddenly stepped forward and addressed her by name. “Miss Donnelly?” Startled, Maggie only nodded. The portly one said, “I am Sir Evelyn Barnestone and this is Sir Dabney Witherspoon. We are friends of your father's from the Explorer's Club.” Maggie acknowledged the introductions and listened politely as Sir Evelyn explained that word of Professor Donnelly's passing had reached London some weeks before. Both gentlemen offered their condolences, then expressed their hope that Maggie would allow them access to her father's notes and papers. “I would gladly have given you anything that might have been of value to you, but everything was destroyed ... burned...” Hearing the distress in Maggie's voice, seeing the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes, the gentlemen again hurried to 20
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
offer condolences and ask if there was anything they could do for her. Being too proud to admit the sorry state of her finances, Maggie thanked them but declined their offer of assistance. As Maggie spoke with Sir Evelyn and Sir Dabney, Geordie and the Doogoods stood nearby, watching. However, as those gentlemen prepared to take their leave, Geordie suddenly stepped forward and assumed a protective stance close beside her. “Are these gentlemen troubling you, Miss Donnelly?” His tone was polite but firm. Maggie gazed at him, speechless. During the past few days he had all but ignored her; now he was assuming the roll of her protector? However, quickly regaining her composure, Maggie introduced him to Sir Evelyn and Sir Dabney, explaining that Mr. MacPhaedair had been a fellow passenger on the ship that brought her from Africa. Geordie mentioned that he had but recently left his Majesty's service with the troops in the Transvaal, which led to a brief discussion of the situation there. But at last Sir Evelyn and Sir Dabney, after wishing Maggie well and urging her to call upon them at any time, withdrew. As the deputation from the Explorer's Club departed, the gentlemen of the press, who had waited nearby, surged forward. Pushing, shoving, shouting, they surrounded Maggie, demanding details of her father's death and her own dreadful experiences during the slavers’ raid on the Nkonde. In Maggie's ears, the sound of their voices suddenly became the bloodthirsty cries of the ruga-ruga, the anguished 21
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
screams of their victims. Her heart began to race and her breath grew short. She could think of nothing except escape ... she had to escape... Instantly, shouting at the men to keep back, Geordie threw an arm about her shoulders, shielding her from the onslaught as he hailed a hansom cab. He helped her in, then climbed in beside her, and still the voices seemed to howl about her. Trembling, she clung to Geordie as the driver urged his horses out into the stream of traffic. Not until Geordie spoke, calmly, softly, over and over, telling her that they were safely away, did she begin to relax, raise her eyes to thank him. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't know what came over me; but I do appreciate...” Then, suddenly remembering the Doogoods, she gasped, “Oh, my. The Reverend ... Jane ... we must go back.” “Everything is taken care of,” Geordie hastened to assure her. She stared at him, still slightly dazed, feeling vaguely ill at ease. Why was he doing this? For the last few days his attitude toward her had been so distant, his comments when they chanced to meet, hurried and vague. So why, now, had he abruptly done an about face and assumed responsibility for her well-being? Ignoring her silence, Geordie continued, “I told the Doogoods I would see you safely to the mission. We are on our way there now.” On their way to the mission ... abruptly, a huge stone seemed to settle on Maggie's chest. Nevertheless, she 22
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
managed to murmur, “You are very kind,” before turning to stare out the window. In the streets, crowds of people bustled and shoved, pushcarts vied with wagons and buggies for room, costermongers shouted their wares, dogs barked, children laughed and cried—it was Bedlam. And the air blowing into the carriage was damp and redolent of horse droppings and the sickening odor of offal. Was this, Maggie wondered with a sinking heart, to be her lot? So disheartened was she by the prospect, she hadn't the courage to face Geordie when he asked, “Are you certain that you have made the right decision? Do you think you'll be happy living at the mission?” Indeed, recalling his recent behavior, she was surprised that he should ask. Or had she, she wondered, misjudged him? Was it possible she had only imagined that he was avoiding her? Had she read too much into the change in his attitude? At last, keeping her tone noncommittal, Maggie replied, “I shall be safe at the mission and engaged in work that is respectable...” Disregarding her words, Geordie continued, “And even if you can find time between teaching and aiding the good Reverend Makepeace, do you really think anyone would be interested in a book about him and his mission school?” Maggie shrugged; those depressing thoughts had already crossed her mind. “I have a much better idea,” Geordie said softly. “Come home with me.” 23
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Maggie stiffened, then, slowly, turned to stare at him, doubting that she had heard aright. “Do say yes, Maggie. I don't know why I didn't think of it ... suggest it, sooner.” Maggie continued to stare at him, not certain what he was suggesting. Why would he ask her to go home with him? Somehow, his invitation did not seem quite proper; and yet... Geordie hastened on: “Jeannie is always delighted to receive visitors. She would be especially pleased to have another young woman about the place. It is difficult for her, living so far from society with only our brother for company.” Maggie hesitated. “It is very kind of you, Geordie, to invite me; but how can you be certain your sister ... your brother ... would welcome a perfect stranger. And what could I do there? I must make my own way now that Father is dead... “You're a photographer, Maggie. You can spend your time taking photographs. There is no where on earth more beautiful than the Scottish Highlands, and Dunphaedair is the most picturesque of castles.” “Dunphaedair ... it's a castle?” Though Greordie had spoken often of the place where he grew up, he had never said it was a castle. Now he laughed. “Aye. ‘Tis old and drafty, but I call it home.” Still Maggie gazed at him, silent, unable to think just what to say. It was a tantalizing proposal. To live in a castle, free to devote all her time to taking photographs. It would be wonderful. And it would solve all her problems ... at least for the time being. Finally, she asked, “Do you really think your family would be willing to receive me?” 24
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“Of course. I know my sister. Jeannie would be delighted to have another female about the house.” Still Maggie hesitated, her brow furrowed. “But how could I repay her ... them...?” Geordie laughed good-naturedly. “Well, I dare say Jeannie would be immensely pleased to pose for a photograph.” When Maggie still hesitated, he became serious. “You need time to think, to regain your strength, Maggie. You need time to plan and prepare for your future. For now, come home with me. If it will make you feel better, help Jeannie. Goodness knows, she has more than her share to do, being mistress of Dunphaedair.” “What about your brother? Are you certain that he would welcome a stranger into his home?” “‘Tis my home as well,” Geordie snapped. For an instant, anger tightened his lips to be quickly replaced by a lop-sided grin. He continued in a quiet tone. “Stuart can be a wee bit stiff-necked, but he will make you welcome.” Actually, it took little to persuade Maggie. After all, other than the mission school—a prospect that she found increasingly distasteful—she had nowhere else to go. As for Geordie's recent behavior, obviously he had had things to take care of as they neared port. Maggie silently chided herself for having been so silly and self-centered as to feel neglected. One other consideration troubled her. To accept Geordie's offer would be to place herself in an awkward situation: a woman alone, traveling unchaperoned with a man who was practically a stranger—because that was what Geordie was. 25
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For all the time they had spent together, for all his tales, he had not truly revealed a great deal about himself or his family. Yet, he was obviously well-born. And it wasn't as if they'd really be alone. Just because they were traveling on the same train ... they'd be surrounded by people. And, anyway, surely Geordie meant her no harm.... No, clearly, his invitation was offered in all generosity to a friend in need. How kind. How thoughtful. For if she could stay with the MacPhaedairs while she photographed all the things Geordie had described so eloquently: lochs and tors, heather-strewn hillsides and dark, gloomy moors—perhaps even an elusive Scottish wildcat, what a beautiful book she could make. Surely her father's publisher, in view of the photographs she had produced for her father's books, would accept a work of her own. And once she had sold a book, Maggie assured herself, she would repay Geordie and his family. They must understand from the outset that she was not a charity case.... While these thoughts raced through Maggie's head, Geordie had been watching her eagerly, eyes alight, lips smiling. Noting that expression on his face, another idea crept into Maggie's mind, and try as hard as she would, she could not dismiss it: Was it possible that Geordie's feelings for her ran deeper than she had suspected? Had his recent aloofness been dictated by sadness, knowing they were so soon to be parted? Was there more to his invitation than the simple wish to help a friend? 26
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Maggie immediately thrust the idea aside. After all, Geordie had never, in any way, indicated that he felt anything for her save respect and friendship. And were not these the very feelings she afforded him? Yet, she could not deny that during the preceding weeks, just the touch of his hand beneath her elbow as they strolled the deck, or his shoulder brushing hers as they leaned upon the rail, had sent a most pleasurable sensation flowing through her. Even now, sitting there beside him, when he looked into her eyes, Maggie was aware of warm little tremors that started deep inside her and brought a blush to her cheeks. Did he feel the same way? Was it possible that ... but, no. Resolutely, Maggie put those thoughts away and brought her mind back to the issue at hand. One way or the other, Geordie's offer was far more appealing than the one made by Mrs. Doogood. Abruptly, casting all caution to the winds, Maggie gave Geordie her answer. They remained in London only long enough for Maggie to purchase a limited wardrobe, a small trunk, and a minimum of equipment: a good camera, photographic plates, a darkroom tent and chemicals. Maggie had intended to carefully husband what resources she had; but, at the last minute, she could not resist a marvelous, brass-bound, view camera recently developed by Hare and Company. Maggie was also greatly intrigued by a new camera from Charles Eastman, a fellow American. He called it a Kodak. Smaller and lighter than the Triplex she had been using, it 27
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would allow a freedom never before available to a photographer. Had she had the wherewithal, she would have bought one immediately she saw it. However, after the purchases she had already made, she had barely enough money left to settle her account at the lodging house where she had stayed, and to pay for her train ticket to Scotland. Indeed, she experienced a moment of panic when she noted that her store of gold coins was all but gone. But done is done, and Maggie resolutely put the matter from her mind. On the day they left London, Geordie sent a telegram on ahead announcing their time of arrival. Then they boarded the train to Dingwall. This leg of their journey took two, long, grueling days that soon became a blur of noise, grit, and grime, punctuated by the constant jolts attendant upon each station stop along the way. But exhausting as the train ride was, it was as nothing when compared to the last stages of the trip which they made, first by public carrier to Lairg, then onward in the family brougham that had been sent from Dunphaedair to meet them. They traveled a road that was little more than a cattle trail. In places, deeply rutted, in others scarcely visible beneath a litter of detritus, it wound through a landscape, overpowering in its fierce beauty: ancient, boggy moors; desolate, rocky glens; valleys all black and still as death where age-old mountains veiled in silvery scree stood guard. Maggie, her fatigue forgotten, perched upon the edge of the seat, gazing first through one window, then the other, 28
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
enthralled, wanting at every moment to stop and take a photograph. Geordie laughed. “Patience, Maggie, there will be time enough for picture taking once we have arrived at Dunphaedair.” From time to time, they encountered shaggy, Highland cattle, or a small flock of sheep followed by a solitary shepherd and his dog. Scenes that were picturesque, yet achingly lonely set in that desolate wilderness. So different from, yet reminiscent of, the wilderness Maggie had so recently left behind in Africa. For an instant, the holocaust she had witnessed there, the torn bodies, the blood, the screams of the wounded, the glassy eyes of the dead, filled Maggie's mind. Instinctively, her body stiffened, braced itself against the horror. And then, as had happened so often in recent weeks, she heard Geordie's voice, calling her back to the present. She turned her head and gazed into his eyes. “Steady on, Maggie, lass,” he murmured. “It's over and done with now. Don't be looking back.” It was good advice, but easier given than taken. The bruises and lacerations Maggie had sustained during the desperate flight from the slavers had healed. But the damage done her spirit during the massacre, the loss of her father, went much deeper. She knew she would recover, but it would take time. Maggie felt certain Geordie understood. Had he not been in the Transvaal? They had never spoken of what had befallen them in their separate hells; nonetheless, it was a kind of 29
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shared experience that formed a bond between them. Now, sitting in the MacPhaedair family coach, jouncing over what passed in the Highlands for a roadway, she gazed into Geordie's eyes and let her cruel memories dissolve in the warmth of his smile. Abruptly, he leaned forward, gesturing through the window. “There it is, Maggie. The hereditary seat of Clan MacPhaedair.” Eager for her first glimpse of the castle, Maggie turned back to the window. They had just crested a rise and were now descending into a tree-filled glen. Down its center, reaching almost from end to end of it, was a long narrow loch. On the opposite shore, floating, or so it seemed, on the water's dark surface, was Dunphaedair. A place straight out of a fairy tale with crenelated parapets and round, corbeled towers, each capped by a steeply-slanted roof. The edifice stood a full seven stories high, its grey stone walls soaring upward to merge with the leaden sky. How beautiful it was. Without warning, Maggie's stomach coiled itself into a knot. A shiver flowed through her. Geordie leaned back and reached for her hand. “Are ye cold?” Maggie turned her glance to meet his. “No ... a little anxious, perhaps.” “Anxious? Why would ye be anxious?” How, Maggie wondered, could she tell him exactly how she felt? What if his family didn't like her? What if, despite what Geordie had said, they felt it an imposition for her to suddenly appear in their midst? And how would she fit in with people 30
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who lived in a castle? Geordie had assured her that the Scots were not a class conscious people like the English; but for the past ten years Maggie had lived, for the most part, in a native hut surrounded by savages. Finally, she said, “Maybe anxious isn't the right word...” and turned to look out the coach window once more. They were closer, now, and from this new vantage point she could see that Dunphaedair had been built atop a lowlying outcrop of stone; hence, the illusion that it floated on the water. What a marvelous photograph the castle would make. Instinctively, Maggie's eyes took note of distance and shape, searched out the best angles, and for the first time in weeks she felt the old enthusiasm welling up. Geordie had been right. If there were anywhere where she could put her ghastly memories behind her and start anew, it would be here in this beautiful place. All the while, Maggie continued to crane her neck, leaning out the coach window the better to see. They were close enough now for her to make out tall, mullioned windows inset at irregular intervals, all of them far above ground level. As Maggie gazed, entranced, each pane of leaded glass began to glow with yellow light, then burst into a blaze all red and gold. A terrified gasp escaped Maggie's lips as visions of the flaming Nkonde village filled her mind, and she cowered against Geordie's shoulder. Once again it was his voice that called her back. “Easy, Maggie. ‘Tis only the reflected radiance of the setting sun. There's naught to fear.” 31
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Slowly she sat up, but she did not look at Geordie as she spoke. Rather, she stared at her fingers, twisting themselves together in her lap. “I don't know what is wrong with me,” she whispered. “I was never so cowardly before. I faced many dangers while my father was yet alive, and I never quailed or had the vapors...” Geordie reached out and took her hands in his. “Dinnae fret yourself Maggie. It happened with the men sometimes when they had seen too much of death. It will pass. Do not think on it. Look again at Dunphaedair ... the light will not last long, but for now it is a marvelous sight to see.” And so it was. For a few moments longer the windows of the castle continued to glow, and then the sun slipped down behind the hill. Slowly the light faded. The deep blue shadows of evening crowded in upon Dunphaedair. And as Maggie gazed at that structure of towers and gables and crenelated walls, wisps and tags of mist, pale grey and eerily luminescent, began to rise, to drift about it, for all the world like vaporous shades trailing their gauzy raiment behind them. Restless souls of long departed Scots? A shudder rippled through Maggie, not that she believed in ghosties and ghoulies—not then. But Geordie did. In response to her scoffing he had, on more than one occasion, assured her, “Many's the braw bricht moonlicht nicht I've heard a ghostly piper i’ the glen...” At the time, Maggie had laughed; but now, with that storybook edifice looming there before them, the memory only served to remind her that in a very short while she would 32
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be entering an ancient, Scottish castle, meeting Geordie's twin sister and his brother, the laird.... “Won't be long now...” At the sound of Geordie's voice, Maggie started, and he gave her hand a comforting pat. “Ye are all of a dither, aren't you? Don't be. I'm certain the family was much impressed when they received the letter I wrote about you.” Maggie turned from the window, suddenly wary. “What did you tell them about me?” Geordie pursed his lips, a hint of mischief in his sidelong glance, “Only that you are quite famous ... and beautiful.” He paused, then turned to face her, adding slyly, “In fact, the laird, nae dout, will try to steal your heart right away when he sees what a bonnie lass ye are.” “Geordie!” Whereupon, grinning wickedly, he continued, “My brother the laird is a fine figure of a man. You two would make a very handsome couple.” “Don't be silly,” Maggie muttered, not quite certain how to take this teasing. Had she been wrong to think that Geordie felt something special for her ... something more than friendship? Abruptly, she turned away lest he see the hurt in her eyes. They were rounding the end of the loch, and the promontory on which the castle stood lay just ahead. Beside her, Geordie murmured, “Be it ever so humble...” Neither of them spoke again until the coach had passed under a portcullis, and pulled up to the entrance. Before they had come to a full stop, heavy ironbound doors set within a 33
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wide stone arch swung open spilling forth streamers of light. And even as Geordie helped Maggie from the coach, a fey creature, all lace and ribbons and wild auburn curls came flying out. Maggie gazed in astonishment as Geordie swooped the young woman up and swung her round while they both laughed delightedly. Then he set her on her feet. Now, seeing the woman clearly, Maggie noted that she bore a strong family resemblance to Geordie: curly, auburn hair; wide-set, hazel eyes; mobile, expressive features. Only in size were Geordie and the woman greatly disparate: whereas Geordie was only inches taller than Maggie, the top of the girl's head came barely to his shoulder. Of course, Maggie thought, she must be his twin sister. Beaming up at him, the young woman said, “I see ye have not changed a whit since last you were home.” “Not a whit,” Geordie confirmed. Then they both turned toward Maggie. The girl, her lips parted as if she were about to speak, stiffened, then jerked her head about and exchanged a swift glance with her brother. This reaction recalled to Maggie her first encounter with Geordie, and she couldn't help wondering what that look meant? But Geordie was already speaking. “Maggie, this is my sister, Jean...” Before he could finish the introduction, the girl stepped forward, threw her arms about Maggie. “I ken who ye are ... you're Maggie. I'm so glad you are finally here. You're even 34
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prettier than I imagined, and we're going to be great friends. I always wanted a sister...” At the word sister, Maggie's heart skipped a beat and the unbidden thought flashed through her mind: Geordie had hinted to Jeannie.... Jeannie continued to prattle until Geordie interrupted. “All this blether can wait,” he said to his sister, and with his hand under Maggie's elbow, he turned her toward the entrance. “Come along,” he said. “It's cold out here and I'm wanting my tea.” As Geordie urged Maggie toward the doorway, she glanced around wondering where the brother might be. It seemed odd that he was not there to welcome them. But Jeannie, still chattering, was hurrying on ahead, leading the way back through the double doors and up a long staircase to another set of double doors. Geordie and Maggie followed close behind, through the doors and down a long dark corridor, then into a cavernous, high-ceilinged hall where firelight gleamed on dark polished wood, glanced off ancient helmet and shield, glinted in the glass eyes set in antlered heads that hung upon the walls. But the air in that vast room, despite the huge log blazing in its immense, baronial fireplace, remained chill. Geordie guided Maggie to a settee within range of the fire's warmth, then turned to Jeannie, “Where's Stuart?” “Same old thing ... some sort of problem at the distillery ... nothing serious. He'll be along directly.” As she spoke, Jeannie seated herself in a wingback chair facing Geordie and Maggie. “We'll not wait for him.” 35
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Abruptly, she jumped to her feet once more, shaking her head, rolling her eyes as if in disgust. “I'm sorry, Maggie ... ye don't mind if I call you Maggie?” And not waiting for a reply, she rushed on, “Where are my manners? I should have thought ... you must be weary after your journey. I'm certain you'd like to freshen up a bit before tea. Come along. I'll show you the way.” Nodding her gratitude, Maggie stood and followed Jeannie from the room. In the hall, she paused, took Maggie's arm, and guided her along, pointing out paintings of renowned ancestors and prized family trophies. Maggie tried to offer appropriate responses, though she was so tired she could scarcely keep her mind on what Jeannie was saying. After what seemed like miles of dark, drafty hallways, and two flights of stairs, Jeannie showed Maggie into the chamber that she was to occupy during her stay. While Jeannie lighted some candles, Maggie gazed about, enthralled. The room was not large, but richly furnished. It was also agreeably warm and Maggie noted that in the far wall, in a small fireplace set within an elaborately carved oak surround, orange flames danced upon a bed of glowing coals. “The dressing room is here,” Jeannie said as she guided Maggie past a six-fold screen into a smaller room, an ell, actually, hidden behind it. Here, Jeannie lighted another candle revealing a marble-topped washstand on which stood a large, china ewer and bowl decorated with garlands of hand-painted roses. Soap and towels lay near at hand. On the wall above hung a large, oval mirror in an elaborately-carved, 36
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gilded frame. Beside the washstand stood a wooden commode equipped with a rose-garlanded chamber pot. Jeannie glanced at a watch she wore on a chain around her neck. “I'll be back for you in fifteen minutes. Will that give you time enough? No need to change, of course; not tonight. Actually, except for holidays, we dress only on special occasions. Not that this isn't special, but I know how tired you must be.” These last words she spoke over her shoulder as she made her exit. Alone at last, Maggie released a long tremulous sigh as she took a more careful look around. The bed, a huge four-poster, was the kind you climb into with a stepping stool. The valance that hung above it was of lavender brocade trimmed with yards of apple green lace. The bed was spread with a matching counterpane and was bedecked with a lace-trimmed bolster. Maggie's valise stood atop a large chest at the bed's foot, and all her photographic equipment was neatly piled nearby. Her new trunk stood next a huge oaken clothespress at the far end of the chamber. A feeling of unreality stole over Maggie as she thought, Can this really be me—Margaret Donnelly—small-town girl from Nebraska—here, in a castle—preparing to have a wash in the kind of basin my grandmother kept in her guest room? But precious minutes had already ticked away and though she longed to examine this chamber and its furnishings in detail, Maggie knew there wasn't time. She removed her bonnet, availed herself of the commode, then tipped some water from the pitcher into the bowl and washed her hands 37
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and face. Next she pulled the pins from her hair, combed it, and refastened it securely into a chignon at her nape. A glance in the mirror, as she completed her hurried toilette, told Maggie that there were deep purple smudges of fatigue under her eyes that made them look more violet than blue. On the other hand, in the candlelight, her fair hair shone like pale silver. So, everything considered, she deemed herself presentable. With a sigh, Maggie turned to leave the dressing room just as a rap at the door announced Jeannie's return. “We waited tea,” she explained as she led Maggie once more through the maze of corridors and back down the two stairways. “It's usually served at four o'clock, but we knew you and Geordie would be wanting something after your long journey.” “Thank you,” Maggie said, suddenly aware that she was, indeed, very hungry. “I shall enjoy a cup of tea.” No sooner had they rejoined Geordie and taken seats, than the door opened once more and a tall, spare, grey-haired woman entered. She was pushing a teacart which she rolled to a spot near Jeannie's left elbow. “Thank you, Iona,” Jeannie said. Then, as the woman turned to leave, Jeannie said to Maggie, “Iona is our housekeeper. If you need anything, she can be of help.” Then to Iona, “This is Miss Donnelly. She will be staying with us for awhile.” Iona and Maggie acknowledged the introduction, and Jeannie added, “That will be all for now, Iona. We'll ring if we need anything.” 38
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A curt nod, and Iona departed without a word. As for Maggie, she could only gaze, scarce believing, at the goodies on that teacart. After the fare she had become accustomed to in Africa and on board ship, this was opulence, indeed. “I hope you like finnan haddie,” Jeannie was saying. “I can ask Mrs. Allchin ... she's our cook ... to scramble you some eggs or something if you prefer. But do give the fish a try. Most people find it very special, indeed. That's because Mrs. Allchin smokes it over a blaze smothered in oak sawdust.” Then, to Geordie, “Fix Maggie a plate while I pour.” And without drawing breath, she again addressed Maggie. “How will you have your tea?” While Jeannie handed round the cups, Maggie studied her through lowered lashes, again noting the uncanny resemblance between the twins. She wondered if they also shared thoughts and feelings as she had heard twins often do. Or was that only identical twins? Geordie, who had risen obediently to prepare a plate, returned almost immediately carrying a dish on which he had placed an ample serving of the smoked haddock, a large triangular oatcake, a potato scone, and several slices of bread. After taking a few bites, Maggie said, “This is wonderful. I didn't know fish could taste this good. And the scones ... these are better than the ones my grandmother used to make.” Jeannie accepted the praise with a nod of her head. “We do have a fine cook. We're fortunate she has stayed with us. 39
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So many have left to take better paying jobs in the Lowlands.” Maggie nodded. Jeannie's words seemed to spark a memory. But Jeannie was still speaking. “Do try the marmalade,” she urged. “Mrs. Allchin makes it just like they do in Dundee. The flavor is developed over several years by aging in an old whiskey cask.” She laughed merrily. “Goodness knows it's easier to come by whiskey casks in this household than to garner the oranges and the sugar.” Then, turning to Geordie, she said, “Do you remember the time...” Her words died away as the door swung open once more, and a tall, broad-shouldered man strode into the hall. Though Maggie's gaze was fixed on the newcomer, she was aware that Jeannie had risen to her feet though Geordie continued to sprawl in his chair. Slowly, her hand out-stretched as if in supplication, Jeannie began moving toward the man. “See who is home at last, Stuart. He's been so anxious to see you again...” Now Geordie's drawl cut across his sister's voice. “Tis the prodigal son come home again, Stuart.” The man had stopped just beyond the circle of light so that Maggie was unable to see the expression on his face, but his tone, when he spoke, was cold. “So you've returned.” Maggie listened, taken aback. Why did this man—he must be Geordie's brother—sound so displeased? “I was homesick for the land and could nae stay away.” 40
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Was that mockery she heard in Geordie's voice, Maggie wondered? Now Jeannie was speaking again. “And just see who Geordie has brought with him...” The newcomer had moved into the light now, and his face was clearly visible. Maggie needed no introduction to tell her who he was. The planes of his face, the set and shape of his features were much like Geordie's; but even at a quick glance, she saw that the brothers, though the resemblance was marked, did not, after all, look alike. This man's hair was midnight black as were his eyes, and there was nothing boyish in his expression as there was in Geordie's. Rather, there was strength in this man's countenance, and his features bore the stamp of pain, of sorrow.... Abruptly, filled with confusion, Maggie wondered if she should leap to her feet and curtsy in the grand manner, as if she were being presented at court. The man was a laird, after all, and ... Maggie's thoughts stuttered to a halt and a chill washed over her. The man had stopped, now stood rigid while his eyes, huge in a face suddenly gone pale, stared at her as if she were an unholy apparition.
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Chapter 3 THE EXPRESSION was gone from Stuart MacPhaedair's face as suddenly as it had come. Yet Maggie was certain it had held the same incredulity she had read in Geordie's face the first time he saw her. And she recalled the startled glance that Jeannie, upon seeing her, had darted at Geordie. It had seemed natural to attribute Geordie's odd reaction, on that first day, to her bedraggled appearance; but on this day, Maggie felt certain her grooming was not at fault. Tired she might be, with circles under her eyes, but her fair hair was clean and neatly coifed. Her traveling costume, though not in high fashion, was of good woolen material—serviceable and becoming. So what had brought that look of shocked disbelief to Stuart MacPhaedair's face? Could it be that she reminded these people of someone? Someone unwelcome? Now the laird stepped forward, still pale, but once more serene. They shook hands and Maggie murmured, “How do you do?” The laird's fingers clasped hers firmly, but he gave only a curt nod in response to Maggie's greeting. His black eyes, staring into her own, were cold, penetrating. She tried to look away but could not, and abruptly an awareness flashed between them, bringing a rush of warmth to Maggie's cheeks. Still, she was not certain whether the feeling he awoke in her was one of admiration or apprehension. Perhaps a bit of each. “Tea, Stuart?” Jeannie's voice shattered the moment. 42
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The laird started, released Maggie's hand, turned to his sister. “Aye.” She filled a cup and, as she handed it to him, said, “You'd best have something to eat. Dinner will be late.” MacPhaedair acknowledged her advice, then turned back to Maggie. “We're pleased to have you with us, Miss Donnelly.” “It is kind of you to receive me,” she replied. He vouchsafed her another curt nod, then shifted his attention to his brother. “So you decided to return...” Once more Maggie was puzzled by the cynical ring to Stuart MacPhaedair's words, the brusqueness of his tone. Geordie's look, as he returned his brother's gaze, was inimical. Deliberately, he bit off a mouthful of marmaladeladen scone and remained silent. Quickly, Jeannie interjected, “Ach, Stuart! Geordie's tired after his long journey. I'm certain he'll have much to tell us tomorrow.” "Nae dout." The words were a growl deep in MacPhaedair's throat. What a strange sort of greeting between brothers, Maggie thought; as if they did not much care for one another. Still, Geordie had said Stuart was stiff-necked.... Putting aside these thoughts, Maggie sat quietly, trying to concentrate on the conversation of the others. It continued in a desultory vein and she soon found herself listening less to their words than to the sound of their voices. She remembered reading somewhere that English, spoken by a Gaelic-bred Highlander, is a seductive song. Now she 43
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understood what that meant. Both Geordie and Jeannie spoke with a soft burr, but the laird's speech was different: the vowels were broader, the S's more sibilant, the rolled R's were powerful yet soothing, and there was a subtle cadence, a reminder of those fierce Norsemen who had long ago dwelt in this ancient land. How easy, Maggie thought, it would be to fall under the spell of that rich, warm voice. The thought brought a prick of conscience. After all, she reminded herself, I'm here because of Geordie, and she couldn't help glancing at him fondly. But Geordie's attention was focused on his brother who, Maggie suddenly realized, was staring at her. Acutely aware that MacPhaedair could not have missed the cow-eyed look she had bestowed on his brother, Maggie was further embarrassed to feel the crimson tide rising in her cheeks once more. She was blushing like a naive school girl. The man would surely think her an utter fool. However, whatever interpretation Stuart MacPhaedair may have given that glance, his own feelings remained hidden under a bland mask as he addressed himself to Maggie. “Have ye relatives in Scotland, Miss Donnelly? You bear a good Scottish name.” “I believe my father's people came from Glasgow. I suppose I could have relatives there. I've never given it much thought.” “Geordie tells us you'd like to be photographing our Highlands. Won't that be a bit dull for you after your sojourn in Africa?” 44
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“Your countryside is exceedingly beautiful and I look forward to some peace and quiet...” Before Maggie could say more, Geordie intervened. “Americans love this sort of thing, Stuart: ancient castle, family ghost, good Scotch whiskey ... it'll make a marvelous story.” The laird glanced at Geordie, then back at Maggie. He said nothing, but Maggie could read the question in his eyes. “With your permission...” she began. Ignoring her, Geordie continued, “The London papers are clamoring for news of Bruce Donnelly. A story by his daughter: Visit to the Highlands, or some such caption, including photographs, and just a mention of historic Dunphaedair Distillery.... Bewildered, Maggie turned to stare at him. Had she misunderstood his invitation to visit Dunphaedair? Had something other than friendship motivated him? But why else? Still, what he was saying ... as if the real reason was because she was the daughter of a famous man. Was that why he had been so certain Stuart MacPhaedair would be pleased to have her visit? But how would that profit either of them? Annoyed, hurt, Maggie shifted her attention back to the laird just as he rounded on his brother, a blaze of wrath burning in his eyes. But before the laird could speak, Jeannie said mildly, “Don't be crass, Geordie, dear.”
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Then to her older brother, “We can talk about this later, Stuart. Everyone's tired now. Do sit down and have a bite to eat.” MacPhaedair nodded, but judging by his expression, his ire still burned very near the surface, though why, Maggie could not fathom. However, the sudden outburst, the undercurrent of suppressed animosity that followed it, damped her own feelings of disillusion and resentment. In any event, she was too tired by then to care. If they hoped to take advantage of her father's name, well, so be it. She'd do what had to be done when the time came. In the meanwhile, she could photograph the castle, the magnificent country roundabout, and the distillery as well. It might prove an interesting addition to the book she was already assembling in her imagination. While Maggie mulled over the exchange between the brothers, Jeannie passed round a plate of cookies and jam tarts. Then silence fell while everyone devoted their full attention to the food, or at least pretended to do so. And all the while, Maggie could feel MacPhaedair watching her. What was he thinking? Why didn't he say something? At last, she ventured a glance at him only to have her own eyes captured by his, held for a long moment, a moment that left her chilled and empty before she managed to tear her gaze away. It was not that he looked at her in anger, or distaste. In fact, Maggie couldn't determine what that look might mean. 46
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While she sought to regain her composure, he rose abruptly and moved to the fireplace. When Maggie ventured another glance in his direction, he was leaning there, hands braced against the mantelpiece, head bowed, staring moodily into the flames. Now Jeannie put down her cup and sat back. “Geordie's letter said that you had been injured. Are you now quite recovered?” Jeannie's words, innocent though they were, instantly recalled for Maggie the pain and horror she had felt as she and her father crouched amongst the reeds on the shore of Lake Nyasa. She could feel the water swirling cold about her knees, sucking at her skirts; could hear the blast of the Arabs'guns, the hoarse shouts of the ruga ruga, the agonized screams of their victims; and the blood ... everywhere.... Her own voice seemed to come from a great distance when she replied, “Thank you, yes. I am quite recovered.” Jeannie continued, “We do receive the London Times ... Angus, the stable boy, rides into Lairg at least once a week to collect the mail. So the news is sometimes a week old, but we are kept informed. It must have been very exciting, traveling in Africa. But it's so dangerous! All those snakes and bugs and wild animals ... and the savages.” Oblivious to Maggie's distress, Jeannie rattled on; but Maggie was no longer listening. She was lost once more in ghastly memories: her dying father, the mutilated bodies of the Nkonde, the smoke and flames....
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Abruptly, Geordie leaned forward, put his cup on the teacart. “I'm sure Maggie is greatly fatigued, Jeannie. Perhaps she'd like to retire.” “But, of course. How thoughtless of me.” Jeannie jumped to her feet and held out her hand. “You would like to rest, wouldn't you? Come along. I'll see you to your room.” With a grateful, albeit wan, smile at Geordie, Maggie, too, stood up, bade the gentlemen good night, and once more followed Jeannie upstairs. When they reached Maggie's door, Jeannie said, “Dinner is at nine. Can you find...” Maggie reached out her hand, touched Jeannie lightly on the arm. “If I may be excused, I'd like to go straight to bed. I'm very tired.” “You'll not join us for dinner?” “Maggie repeated, “I'm very tired...” “Until morning, then. Iona will bring your tea.” Alone at last, Maggie undressed, donned her nightgown, and climbed into bed, though she feared she should not close her eyes all night, agitated as she was by the dreadful memories Jeannie's thoughtless words had conjured up for her. Maggie was wrong. Scarcely had she laid her head on the pillow than sleep overcame her. But as she drifted off, the faint skirling of a bagpipe reached her ears, and she thought, It must be Geordie's ghostly piper.... **** DAWN STREAKED the sky with mauve and rose, sent fingers of gold to probe the shadows in the corners of 48
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Maggie's bed chamber, and faintly, from afar, came the crowing of a cock. But it was a sharp rap on the door that wakened Maggie. Iona entered, placed the tray she carried on a table beside the bed, and announced that breakfast would be served at seven o'clock. Close on Iona's heels came a much younger woman, plump and rosy, carrying a kettle of steaming water from which she filled the ewer in the dressing room. “This be Kate,” Iona said, and the girl bobbed a curtsy. Maggie thanked them both as they departed, then sat up, glanced at her watch and groaned. It was just after six. This was as bad as the ship. Somehow, she had expected that life in a castle would be more leisurely, that the laird and his family would sleep in of a morning. It had never occurred to her, either, that a castle bed chamber would come equipped with a chamber pot. Ah, well, Maggie thought as she slipped out of bed into the cold, it beats the outhouse we had on the farm. In bed once more, Maggie's thoughts turned to the previous evening. That had not been as she had expected either. And the laird. Maggie scarce knew what to think of him. Obviously, a man of strong will—surely not a man to cross, and altogether lacking in familial feeling for his brother. However, Maggie assured herself, that was not her concern. She would steer clear of Stuart MacPhaedair and go about the task she had set for herself with as little fuss as possible. She was certain she could depend on Geordie; and Jeannie, for all her chattering, was a delight. 49
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Yawning, Maggie poured a cup of tea and was just raising it to her lips when another rap sounded on the door. When she called, “Come in,” it swung open and a petite woman— scarcely five-foot tall and surely no more than ninety pounds—swept across the threshold. Well, Maggie thought, perhaps swept was not the right word, for the woman walked with a cane. But her demeanor was distinctly imperial. She was dressed in a floor-length gown cut from plumcolored velvet and trimmed with yards of Irish lace. Her snow white hair was drawn up and fastened in a knot on the top of her head, but myriad wispy curls had escaped and formed a halo about her face. And her eyes were the eyes of MacPhaedair. Actually, since she was obviously his senior by many years, Maggie supposed it was the other way round. Behind the woman stalked the largest tabby cat Maggie had ever seen. She stared, dumbfounded, at the two. The gown the woman wore would have been fashionable in a Victorian drawing room, which reminded Maggie that she was still in her nightgown. She clutched the coverlet higher under her chin. The woman didn't speak until she stood close beside the bed and had taken time to study Maggie's face with a candid stare. Meantime, the cat jumped upon the bed and began to purr mightily, all the while kneading the counterpane with huge white paws, each made larger still by an extra toe that pointed inward, looking for all the world like thumbs encased in furry mittens. Maggie's astonished gaze traveled back and forth twixt woman and cat, then came to rest on the former's delicate 50
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features. The unlined skin was almost transparent, the bones fragile. It was a haughty face, yet an elfin twinkle lurked in the eyes, revealed itself in a quirk of the lips. Apparently satisfied by what she saw, the woman suddenly smiled and announced, “I am Dhileas McKinnon, grandaunt to MacPhaedair, and,” a nodded indicated the cat, “that great beastie is my companion, Phineas.” The cat promptly stalked forward and presented his chin for scratching. Automatically, Maggie complied. At the same time, though she could only suppose the old woman already knew who she was, Maggie said, “I'm Margaret Donnelly...” Dhileas McKinnon nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis plain to see you're the one they said was to come. I'm glad you are here at last.” Her voice was clear as a silver bell, and she spoke with the same Gaelic lilt as the laird. “I'm pleased to be here,” Maggie replied, thoroughly charmed by the old woman though she didn't quite know what to make of her, or of this early morning visit. “Drink your tea before it gets cold, Maggie. Then we'll go down to breakfast together.” Dhileas chuckled merrily. “That will give them a turn.” It seemed strange to Maggie that Geordie had never mentioned an aunt. And what, Maggie wondered, did Dhileas mean: ‘...give them a turn?’ Nevertheless, Maggie did as she was bid, finishing her tea in a gulp even as she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. The fire that had crackled so cheerily on the hearth the night before had long since burned itself out, and now the 51
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room was freezing. This, too, surprised Maggie for she had thought all castles came complete with vast numbers of servants who saw to it that fires were always lit. Shivering, she hurried into the dressing room to wash her face and hands before putting on her cloths: a skirt of dark blue wool and a matching shirtwaist with a delicate ruche of white lace at the throat. While Maggie was dressing, the old lady chatted on: “Do call me Aunt. Everyone does. Or at least everyone I like ... unless you count family. I can hardly say to family, even those I cannot abide, ‘Don't call me Aunt’ when I allow strangers to do so.” While Maggie brushed her hair, twisted it into a knot and fastened it securely at her nape, she considered this candid statement. Obviously, this forthright old lady didn't care for some of her relatives; but what an odd thing to say to a complete stranger. When Maggie stepped from behind the six-fold screen, Dhileas observed her with another frank stare before remarking, “It's a bonnie lass ye are, Maggie Donnelly.” So saying, Dhileas turned about and started for the door, though there was time to spare before breakfast should be served. Nevertheless, Maggie snatched up her shawl—a length of soft wool in a lovely paisley pattern—and hurried after the old woman, glad to be on the way to what, one could only hope, would be warmer regions. With Phineas at their heels, the woman led Maggie at a rapid pace along the drafty hallway and down the first flight of stairs. All the while, Aunt Dhileas delivered a running 52
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commentary: “Dunphaedair has stood here on the shores of the loch since 1543. It's sheltered many a soul, both the good and the bad, and not a few of the wishy-washy. I came here when my sister's grandchild married Malcolm MacPhaedair. I was widowed at nineteen and never gave thought to marrying again. So I came with Mary, God rest her dear soul, for well I knew she and Stuart would have need of me.” Dhileas paused, expectantly, but Maggie was still too bemused by this sprightly old lady to take careful note of what she said, and, therefore, missed the significance of her words. Dhileas shrugged, sighed, murmured, “Well, then,” and fell silent. They were halfway down the last flight of stairs when she suddenly stopped, grasped Maggie's arm and gazed up at her with those piercing black eyes. “Evil often wears a bonnie smile. It doesn't take the sicht to know that. Be watchful, Maggie Donnelly, and remember that in me you have a friend.” Alarmed by the intensity of Dhileas's speech and look, Maggie could only return the old woman's gaze. Her words seemed to imply some sort of danger. But that was ridiculous. What—or who—Maggie wondered, would wish her harm? Finally, not knowing what else to say, she murmured, “Thank you, Aunt Dhileas.” Dhileas only nodded. Just then, though Maggie had not caught the sound of approaching footsteps, from behind them came the sound of an indrawn breath. Startled, Maggie half turned, glanced over her shoulder. 53
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Jeannie had just started down the stairs. “There you are, Maggie,” she called brightly. “I went to your room to see if you were ready for breakfast. I might have known Aunt Dhileas would be before me.” Dhileas muttered softly in Gaelic. Maggie didn't understand the words, but the tone was clearly one of derision. Taken aback, she missed what Jeannie said next, but Maggie heard Dhileas's reply. “We've been getting acquainted,” she said shortly. By then, Jeannie had reached the step just behind the two. “Good morning,” Maggie said, as they continued their descent, adding, “I'd have waited had I known...” But Jeannie's mind was elsewhere. “I should be cross with you, Aunt,” she was saying. “You know you aren't supposed to climb up and down these stairs.” Then in an aside to Maggie, “It's her heart, you know. ‘No stairs, no excitement,’ that's what Dr. Kilgore says; but Aunt Dhileas will not listen!” Immediately apprehensive, Maggie gave the old woman a hasty, sidelong glance. Her breathing seemed perfectly normal. At least she wasn't out of breath despite the distance they had walked, and there were rosy spots of color in her cheeks. Actually, Maggie learned later that the color came from a pot on Dhileas's dressing table. “Lot of nonsense!” Aunt Dhileas was sputtering. “At my age, I shall do what I want. My time came and went years ago. I'm only waiting round now to see everything set right.”
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Maggie found this statement disconcerting but could think of nothing to say. Indeed, she wasn't certain it was her place to say anything. They had reached the main floor by then and Jeannie moved up to take Dhileas's arm. “Everything is fine Aunt. Dinna fash yersel'." The irritation in Jeannie's tone belied the smile on her lips. They continued onward in strained silence until they entered the breakfast room. Geordie and the laird, who had preceded them, rose from their seats, obviously surprised to see Dhileas. Good-mornings were exchanged and MacPhaedair seated his aunt while Geordie held a chair for Maggie. Jeannie took the place at the foot of the table. Iona was already serving up bowls of steaming oatmeal. Maggie tried not to stare. They ate oatmeal on the farm back in Nebraska. Here, she had expected much more elegant fare: a sideboard with kippers and scrambled eggs served up in antique silver chaffing dishes, or some such thing. Not that it mattered to Maggie. It was just, she told herself, that that is what comes to mind when one thinks of breakfast in a castle. As if she could read Maggie's thoughts, Jeannie said, “I hope you like porridge, Maggie. We eat just like the crofters here.” This, with a pained look at her older brother. What the look meant, Maggie couldn't imagine; but Iona, who was pouring tea, rolled her eyes heavenward and muttered something in Gaelic, whereupon Dhileas grinned and Jeannie glared. Geordie choked and raised a napkin to his mouth. As for MacPhaedair, though his lips twitched, he 55
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continued stoically adding butter, salt, and pepper to his bowl. Butter? Salt? Pepper? Aghast, Maggie suddenly realized thats what they were all doing. It occurred to her then that perhaps sugar was not easily come by in that part of the world. So, with a small shudder, she followed suit. To her surprise—and pleasure—the dish proved to be quite tasty. While those at the table ate their oatmeal, Iona departed only to return with an immense platter stacked with hot griddle scones and thick slices of fried ham. Kate followed with another large pot of tea. It seemed to Maggie a daunting amount of food. She had thought only farmhands ate like that. When everyone was served, Geordie asked, “What would you like to see first, Maggie: the home farm, the distillery, or the rest of Dunphaedair?” “It doesn't matter. I'm anxious to see everything.” “Then perhaps you should start right here ... so you'll be able to find your way about.” Then he turned to his sister. “Jeannie, would you like to take Maggie on the grand tour?” Jeannie, obviously taken unawares, stuttered, “Well, now, Geordie, I had planned ... it is important, you know. Tomorrow would be better ... I'll be free...” Turning to Maggie, she added, “You do understand...” Aunt Dhileas interrupted, “We all understand, Jeannie,” then added in a mocking tone, “Dinna fash yersel'.” Jeannie bristled but said nothing. Beside Maggie, Geordie cleared his throat. Again, MacPhaedair's lips twitched, but he, 56
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too, remained silent. Dhileas, a demure smile lighting her face, slipped Phineas a bit of ham. Discomfited by this exchange, Maggie exclaimed, “It's all right, Jeannie. I have no wish to interrupt your daily routine.” Scarcely had the words left Maggie's mouth than Dhileas, a wicked glint in her eyes, announced, “I'll show Maggie around mysel’ ... recite all the old tales for her...” The moment Dhileas began to speak, Jeannie's lips tightened into a grim line. “You should go back to your room and rest, Aunt.” Then to MacPhaedair, “You know she won't listen to me. You tell her. She shouldn't exert herself.” The laird turned and looked at Dhileas. His expression was stern but there was tenderness in his eyes. “I believe you would be the verrrrry one to recount the old stories for Miss Donnelly; but for now, Jeannie's right. So if you will allow me to escort you upstairs?” As he spoke, the laird rose. Dhileas, obviously crestfallen, finally shrugged, let him help her to her feet. Then, to Maggie's consternation, the old woman announced, “I shall return to my room, but you, Stuart MacPhaedair, must promise to take Maggie with you.” Maggie felt the hot blood begin to rise in her cheeks. Why did Dhileas feel she had to tell Stuart MacPhaedair, to take Maggie anywhere? It was humiliating. After all, was she not quite capable of taking care of herself? “Really,” Maggie began, “it isn't necessary for...” But no one was listening to her. Even as she tried to speak, Stuart MacPhaedair was solemnly declaring, “As you wish, Aunt.” 57
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Then, addressing himself to Maggie, “I'll be back for you shortly, Miss Donnelly.” Maggie should have liked to tell him not to bother. However, that would have been rude; so she only inclined her head in what she hoped was a regal gesture. But the moment Stuart disappeared with the angelically smiling Dhileas, anger took over. Take me with him, indeed, Maggie fumed inwardly. As if I were a child who needed tending. Or perhaps he's planning to show me where to start taking those photographs that he and his brother hope to have published in the London Times. Which reminded Maggie; Geordie, obviously, had misrepresented this visit from the very beginning. Her thoughts seethed: A chance to rest, to meet his family, to do a book on the Highlands. Maggie ground her teeth. Why hadn't he just said that since she was all but destitute, she could spend a few months at his castle working for her supper. She'd have been glad to do it; but he should have been honest with her. After all, they were friends. Or were they? Determined to set matters straight immediately, Maggie turned to face Geordie. These thoughts had flashed through her head in a twinkling, but not fast enough. Geordie was already on his feet and half way to the door. “I, too, must be off, now, Maggie,” he said, jauntily adding, “but the laird will take good care of you. Do have a nice time.” And with that, he was gone. Maggie stared after him, open-mouthed. So intent was she on the departing Geordie, she was startled when Jeannie 58
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spoke. Turning to look at her, Maggie was surprised to note that Jeannie's face wore a most unhappy expression. “Please,” she said. “I must apologize. We all love Aunt Dhileas. It's just that she is very old, and she ... imagines things.” Taken aback, Maggie murmured, “Oh?” Jeannie's expression progressed from pained to embarrassed. “She isn't dangerous, of course. She just ... imagines things. You understand?” “Not exactly...” “Well, I don't know what she may have told you this morning, but you mustn't believe everything she says. She has ... fancies.” Jeannie's words trailed away. Abruptly, she stood up and, in a quick change of subject asked if there was anything Maggie needed. However, even as she spoke, she had one hand on the door. So Maggie shook her head and Jeannie, also, departed. What, Maggie wondered, was that all about? Dhileas had seemed as bright as a new penny. In any event, she was much too old and frail to pose much of a threat. Maggie shook her head, thinking, What a peculiar family. As for Geordie, maybe he had asked her there hoping her name would provide some advantage, but that didn't mean he wasn't fond of her. It rankled that he was not spending this first day with her. Still, she consoled herself, it was quite likely that something unexpected had come up ... just like on the ship. He'd spend tomorrow with her. Then he would explain.... 59
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Somewhere, a clock struck the hour—such a medley of bonging and chiming. Maggie wasn't certain, but she thought it signified eight-thirty. She was tempted to get up and go back to her room before Stuart MacPhaedair returned, but decided that would be childish. With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair, tried to relax. Then, with a startled squeal, she jumped and almost toppled herself onto the floor. Something sharp, needle-like, had hooked her in her derriere! Sputtering, she whipped her head around only to encounter the expectant gaze of Phineas. He sat beside her chair, observing her with round, golden eyes. Maggie started to say something unladylike, then laughed. What a magnificent creature he was. Never one to hold a grudge, Maggie reached down and scratched the top of his head. Instantly, the air reverberated with his purr. “Well, now,” Maggie said. “Are you telling me you want to share what's on the table?” “Share? Ye be lucky if he don't take it away from yer.” Again, Maggie started. She hadn't heard Iona enter. “Go on cat.” Iona flapped a hand at Phineas. “Ye had yer breakfast.” Her expression was dour, but her tone was indulgent. Maggie smiled at her. “Can he have just a bit of ham?” “If yer a mind to give it him.” Phineas was accepting the tidbit from Maggie's fingers when MacPhaedair returned. He stopped just inside the door to watch. “So you, too, are going to spoil him, Miss Donnelly.” The laird's tone, like Iona's, was indulgent. 60
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Mindful that the man had been forced to accept her company, Maggie immediately donned a severe expression and, determined to remain aloof, said cooly, “I love cats. My grandparents always had lots of them on the farm.” “You lived on a farm?” “I spent my summers there when I was a child.” “Then perhaps our first stop should be the home farm. Are you ready?” Maggie replied haughtily, “Please don't feel that you must entertain me, Mr. MacPhaedair. I'm sure you have more important things to do.” He studied Maggie silently for a long moment. “Dhileas would never forgive me if I left you to fend for yourself. Do come along.” The condescension in his tone set Maggie's teeth on edge, but she bit back the sharp reply that sprang to her lips. It would be churlish to argue. “Will I need a wrap?” At that moment, Kate entered carrying a heavy, fleecelined pellise. “Jeannie said I should fetch this fer ye,” she said, handing the garment to Maggie. “Aye, you'll need that,” MacPhaedair nodded. “‘Tis a beautiful, sunny morning, but cold.” They made the trip from Dunphaedair to the home farm in an open buggy. Maggie snuggled gratefully into the voluminous, fur-lined cloak for the air was cold. MacPhaedair himself drove, and as they jounced along the rutted path that passed for a road, he said, “I have long admired Professor Donnelly's work.” “You know my father's books?” 61
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MacPhaedair said solemnly, “Oh, indeed. We Highlanders are not the barbarians some would paint us.” Maggie shot him a quick glance. He wasn't smiling, but the tip of his nose had drawn down and there was a tenseness at the corners of his mouth—an expression she had seen often on her father's face when he was wont to tease her. So this man did have a sense of humor. “Which of my father's works did you most enjoy?” “I particularly admired the volume on the peoples of China. The almond-eyed children, those poor women with their bound feet, the coolies and the mandarins ... fascinating.” As he talked, Maggie's apprehension faded, and she began to glow. This MacPhaedair was not such a bad sort after all. She smiled as she thanked him for his words of praise, adding, “The Chinese are a remarkable people and their land is full of amazing contradictions. We lived amongst them for over a year.” “You were in China with Professor Donnelly?” “Indeed. I took the photographs...” The laird turned a surprised look on Maggie. “You took them?” Then added, “But of course. That's why you were in Africa. Do you have any of your photographs with you?” It was as if a giant hand had suddenly clamped itself about Maggie's chest and she turned her head away lest MacPhaedair see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. Her photographs. All the photographs she had taken of the beautiful Nkonde, of Lake Nyasa and those magnificent mountains—all gone—utterly destroyed—like a piece of her very life.... 62
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Beside her, the laird cleared his throat. “I'm that sorry, Miss Donnelly ... for all that has befallen you. I hope that here you will find some solace...” Mastering her emotions as quickly as she was able, Maggie turned and thanked him, and by the time they had made their way up, out of the glen, they were on a first name basis. It happened so easily, Maggie couldn't believe she had ever thought this man forbidding. They were now driving across a gently rolling plateau where shaggy, wide-horned cattle grazed. In the distance, several low, stone buildings nestled at the foot of a mountain mantled in age-old talus. As they drew near, Maggie saw that beyond the buildings there were a number of areas enclosed by low, dry-stone walls where some sort of crops were growing. And there were horses, heavy draft animals, in a corral off to the side. Stuart brought the buggy to a stop in front of the largest of the buildings. From inside, the ring of metal on metal could be heard. “That will be Ben, shoeing old Nellie.” As he spoke, Stuart jumped down, then came around to Maggie's side of the buggy. “Come,” he said, slipping his hands beneath the pelisse to grasp her about the waist. Even through the layers of wool clothing she wore, where his hands touched her, Maggie's flesh grew warm and a tremor rippled through her. As if she had been a doll, he lifted her, held her, slowly lowered her to the ground and, all the while, his gaze held her's. For a timeless moment she was aware of nothing but the two of them. 63
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**** Somewhere near, a horse whinnied. Maggie started and MacPhaedair released her, suddenly, as if he had been burned. Without a word, they both turned and walked toward the corner of the building. When Stuart did speak, his words were matter-of-fact. “We call this the home farm, though it isn't what it was in my father's day. The land still belongs to the estate, but now it is put to communal use.” Maggie glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was staring straight ahead, his face in profile appeared tranquil. Had it been only her imagination? Was it only her heart that was racing? As they rounded the corner of the building, Stuart continued, “Ben lives here with his wife and son.” Maggie breathed deeply of the crisp cold air before remarking, “He's a crofter?” She was pleased to find her voice was steady, that her heart was fast resuming its normal pace. “Part crofter, part tacksman. He lives here rent free because he sees to the crops and watches over the animals. He also takes a share of the produce, and those crofters who run cattle on the plateau pay him a small fee for this service.” “And you collect rent from the other crofters?” “My grandfather did, but not I. Most of the crofters here about now hold title to their land. The estate's income is derived from the distillery. We buy our barley from the crofters, and we have an arrangement with the fisherman. None of us is rich, but none of us goes hungry, though we 64
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who live in Dunphaedair do fare a bit better than some.” A twisted smile accompanied these last words, and Maggie wondered if it had something to do with Jeannie's small outburst at breakfast about eating just like the crofters. While they talked, they had walked round to the front of the building. Here, wide doors stood open revealing a small smithy. Inside, a barrel-chested man with carrot-red hair was pounding the last nail into a shoe attached to the hoof of a large grey mare. He gave the shoe one last whack, dropped the horses foot, and turned to Stuart and Maggie with a broad smile. Stuart introduced Ben to Maggie and the three chatted for a few minutes. Then Ben said, “Come up to the shieling. My wife will have the kettle on.” Off at a distance atop a grassy knoll stood a low stone cottage with a thatched roof. Rowan bushes, planted at either end, raised gnarled branches skyward. Maggie knew, from her father's descriptions, that in May they would hold masses of creamy white blossoms; but now they held only the brown and tattered remnant of summer's lush green foliage. In the foreground, a flock of chickens clucked and scratched busily in a large dusty spot. Nearby, a small boy was down on his knees engrossed in some pursuit that was not clear to Maggie. As the adults approached, the child stood up, gazed at them warily. Now a woman, despite the cold, came to stand in the open doorway of the shieling, waiting to greet her visitors. How lovely, Maggie thought, how picturesque it was: the sunlight so bright, the air so still and clear. And she had 65
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forgotten her camera. For the first time in years, she had actually come away without her camera. The woman was smiling, one hand resting lightly on the door-frame. But as the others drew near, the welcoming smile faded from her lips, her eyes widened, and a hand flew to her throat. While her gaze remained fastened on Maggie's face, the woman's lips began to move, and her whispered words, carried on the cold, still air, came clear to Maggie's ears. “Sweet baby Jesus!” the woman said. “‘Tis herself come back again.”
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Chapter 4 STARTLED, CONFUSED, Maggie thought, surely, the woman doesn't mean me. Or does she? Chuckling, Ben called to the woman, “‘Tis Stuart, Flora, brought the lady from London to see the farm.” The woman, her composure regained, smiled warmly. “Ye'll be wantin’ tea,” she said, moving back into the cottage. The room they entered was austere but cozy. A fire crackled on the hearth; a hooked rug covered the floor before it. Family pictures hung on the white-washed walls, plants bloomed in clay pots on the window sills. “This is my wife, Flora,” Ben said. Then, smiling at the small boy who had followed them, “And this is my son, Ian.” Ian promptly ducked behind his mother's skirts. Flora reached one hand behind her—Maggie felt certain Flora was patting the child's head; but her words were for Maggie. “‘Tis an honor to meet ye, Miss Donnelly.” “Thank you,” Maggie said. “It's a pleasure to meet you. And, please, call me Maggie. Everyone does.” They continued to exchange pleasantries, but Maggie's thoughts raced. Why had sight of her shocked Flora so, and what had she meant: ... herself come back ... ? It is clear, I remind these people of someone ... and it isn't a pleasant memory. But who ... ? While Flora and Maggie chatted, Ian mustered enough courage to peek round his mother. Fixing his brown-eyed gaze upon Maggie's face, he scrutinized her with an 67
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unblinking stare. She returned his look gravely. Finally, satisfied that she presented no threat, Ian left his mother and came to stand beside Maggie. With a thatch of tousled reddish hair and a smear of freckles across his small pugnacious nose, Maggie thought him a captivating child. His mother, the ghost of a frown puckering her brow, also had been studying Maggie. Each time she glanced in the woman's direction, Maggie noted the troubled expression on Flora's face. What was she thinking? Whatever it was, she kept it to herself, and as Maggie and Stuart were leaving, Flora said warmly, “Come again any time ye like, Miss Donnelly. ‘Twould be a pleasure to see you.” Maggie thanked her, then, as an afterthought, added, “I'd like to photograph Ian...” The look of pride exchanged by Ben and his wife was touching. Without warning, tears welled in Maggie's eyes. She dashed them away with a brusque swipe of her fingers. What was the matter with her? She had never been given to weeping. Was she just more tired, more emotionally bruised by what she had seen and heard there in the Nkonde village than she had realized? Seated in the wagon once more, Stuart glanced at his watch, “Let's have a quick look at the distillery ... there's nae that much to see.” “Do you bottle your own Scotch?” “Scotch?” Stuart gave a disdainful snort. “Not here. We produce good malt liquor. No Highlander worth his salt would be caught drinking anything else.” Maggie looked puzzled. “But I thought...” 68
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“Oh, aye. That's where the money is. We sell as much as we can locally, but most of our output goes to a big export house in Dornoch where it's mixed with grain whiskey. Scotch is really a blend, you see. They tell me the Americans are quite taken with this gallimaufrey, but we Highlanders prefer our spirits pure.” Maggie's mind was only half on what Stuart was saying. Piqued by the skepticism she saw lurking in his eyes if she looked up suddenly and caught him staring at her, troubled by Flora's strange remark “ ... herself come back,” several times Maggie opened her mouth to ask for an explanation; but the words stuck in her throat. Why? she asked herself. It's a reasonable question? While she was trying to think how best to broach the subject, she kept glancing at Stuart. In profile, his resemblance to Geordie was much less pronounced. Where the laird's features were clean-cut and hard muscled, his face etched with lines of maturity, Geordie's visage still displayed the rounded softness of youth—or was it self-indulgence? Now that she stopped to think about it, Maggie had to admit that Geordie was rather childish at times, especially when he didn't get his own way. The realization so astonished her, she lost track, for a moment, of what Stuart was saying. “Maggie?” Hearing his voice, she became aware that the buggy had ceased its jouncing and bumping. They were parked in the shade of a huge Scotch pine. Just below them, perched on the gently sloping hillside was a collection of long, low sheds tied 69
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together by tall chimneys. All in all, it wasn't much to look at and Maggie turned a questioning gaze on Stuart. “The Dunphaedair distillery ... it's stood there for almost two-hundred years.” His expression had undergone a subtle change, and he was staring off into the distance, past the high-rising stacks, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. They sat for a time in companionable silence. A breeze whispered in the needles of the pine. From the distance, carried on the still air, came the lowing of cattle. Stuart broke the silence, speaking softly, as if to himself. “Freedom and whiskey gang t'githe.... “Then he turned to Maggie, smiling broadly. “That distillery down there ... it started as a floating still.” “Floating still?” Grinning, Stuart explained: “A kettle and some copper tubing ... it stood in many places before old MacPhaedair finally obtained a license and agreed to pay the English tax.” Abruptly, Stuart's look hardened, his tone became harsh. “I'll not sell it, give it away, or have it taken from me. I'd burn it to the ground first!” Startled, perhaps a little frightened, Maggie snapped back, “That's fine with me.” “Ach,” he said. “I'm sorry. ‘Tis no concern of yours, after all.” Maggie gave him a forgiving smile, then asked, “Can we go inside?” “Aye. But we'll not do the grand tour, just a quick look see for now.” 70
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As they left the buggy, Maggie's attention was drawn skyward by an unexpected sound. She was astonished to see a flock of seagulls wheeling and shrilling overhead. Stuart must have sensed her surprise for he said, “‘Tis not unusual for the gulls to appear. Especially when there's a storm brewing. We're nae far distant from the sea anywhere in Scotland.” The idea delighted Maggie. “Growing up in Nebraska, I was sixteen years old before I ever saw the ocean.” “Never saw the ocean. Ach. That's too bad. When I was a lad, my mother used to take me to Morar beach every summer. ‘Twas grand ... swimming in the surf and digging in the sand...” A smile played about his lips. Listening, watching him, Maggie remembered something Geordie had said: “...my half-brother the laird, first born of our sire...” So Stuart's mother must have died when he was still quite young. But Maggie knew it would be rude to pursue that subject. For want of anything better to say, she remarked, “I didn't even learn to dog paddle until I was full grown.” As they talked, they followed a well-worn path that led from the area where they had parked the buggy down to an unpainted wooden door in the nearest buildings. Long before they reached it, the pungent smell of fermentation stung Maggie's nostrils. She suddenly feared that the odor would be overpowering within the confines of that windowless building. But it was not. The room they entered was cool and thickly shadowed, and the biting scent was mellowed by the 71
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fragrance of aged wood and the smoky essence of burning peat. “This way,” Stuart said, placing his hand beneath Maggie's elbow to guide her. At his touch, something in Maggie tensed, quivered, and as they moved forward, through the darkness and the silence, the awareness of her own femininity, so fleetingly stirred by Geordie, welled up anew. And though she had no experience to guide her, she was sharply conscious of those womanly desires and frailties suddenly smoldering within her. She tried desperately to fasten her thoughts on something else, anything except this man walking so close beside her. She tried not to notice that her breath had become short, her heart had begun to pound; tried not to wonder if Stuart's heart was pounding, too. They reached another door at last, stepped across the threshold and drew apart. Maggie heard the scratch of a match and light flared up as Stuart held the flame to the wick of a kerosene lantern. Now Maggie could see that they stood in a small room that held a desk, a large cupboard, and a couple of chairs. On all four walls, paper-laden clipboards hung suspended from stout pegs. Stuart motioned her into a chair. “‘Tis here we keep track of all the runs,” he said, adding as he opened the cupboard, “And this is where we keep all the samples. Will ye have a wee dram?” Maggie had had little experience with strong drink, but at that moment it seemed to her a tot of spirits was exactly 72
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what she needed. Nevertheless, she said, “Isn't it a bit early in the day?” Stuart had already selected a bottle and two glasses which he set on the desk. “‘Tis good for the appetite,” he said, at the same time splashing a generous amount into each tumbler. He handed one to Maggie, raised the other, then stood silent, his eyes suddenly stormy. Was it anger or passion? Or something else she could not name? And why was her own heart thundering? Abruptly, Stuart turned away, went to sit behind the desk, leaving Maggie with a racing pulse and a hand that trembled as she raised her drink to her lips. One sip of that potent brew brought tears to her eyes though it ran smoothly down her throat leaving a rich smoky flavor in its wake. The second swallow went even more smoothly, and a sense of euphoria spread through her. Watching Maggie, Stuart seemed amused. “Ye take to the malt like a true Scotsman,” he murmured. Maggie had another swallow of the fiery liquor, and a gentle warmth enfolded her. She sighed deeply as her pulses slowed, her muscles began to relax. She smiled at Stuart. “This is very good,” she said, and lifted the glass to her lips once more. “‘Tis about eighty proof...” The warning came too late. The last drop in Maggie's glass had already joined its predecessors. “That's quite all right,” she said, carefully suppressing a small hiccough. “I don't imbibe.” 73
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For an instant, it seemed that Stuart would laugh, but he did not. Instead, he tossed off the rest of his drink, glanced at his watch, then got abruptly to his feet. “Ach. We're going to be late for lunch.” Maggie, too, stood up, though with less alacrity than had Stuart. He was already holding the door, waiting for her, studying her intently as she approached. And something— could it be wonder?—stirred in the depths of his eyes. The whiskey had done more than relax Maggie's muscles; it had loosened her tongue. She stopped dead still and asked, “What did Flora mean when she said, “‘Tis herself come back again?” Stuart tensed, then replied, “Didnae Geordie tell ye?” “Tell me what?” “Ye look exactly like my wife.” Wife! Stuart was married? Suddenly, Maggie felt cold. She stepped past him, back into the gloom, and she thought, It's no concern of mine.... Stuart pulled the office door shut behind them, and his voice followed Maggie through the shadows. “Her name was Eilean.” Was? That word sounded loud in Maggie's mind. “She drowned ... in the loch.” His tone was flat, expressionless. He wasn't married after all! A surge of elation rose in Maggie only to ebb away on a tide of shame. What was the matter with her? A woman had drowned. “I'm sorry,” Maggie said. “I didn't know.” 74
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Stuart made no reply. In silence, they left the distillery and started up the path toward the parking area, and all the while a throng of feelings fought for place inside Maggie. She had been so shocked by the thought that Stuart was married, so filled with joy to learn that he was not, so horrified by the revelation that his wife had drowned. They had nearly reached the top of the path before Maggie realized there was something she should say. She stopped, looked up at Stuart. “I would never have come if I had known...” He made no reply, only slipped his hand beneath her elbow and urged her onwards. During the trip back to Dunphaedair, he remained withdrawn; and when, from time to time, Maggie ventured a glance in his direction, his gaze was fixed stonily on the road ahead. What was he thinking? I am probably a most unwelcome reminder of his dead wife, Maggie thought; but what can I, what should I, do about it? There was no easy answer, so she, too, remained silent, staring down into the glen where birch and rowan and evergreen lined the shore of the loch; or off into the distance where the mountains, like crouching monsters, were silhouetted against a sky rapidly filling with forbidding dark, grey clouds. The glow induced by the whiskey had been thoroughly quenched by Stuart's revelations and now Maggie felt depressed. And angry. Why hadn't Geordie told her she looked like his brother's drowned wife? It was, at best, a thoughtless thing to do. And Maggie knew from experience that Geordie could be a most thoughtful man. At worst, it was 75
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a very cruel thing—unless Stuart's marriage had been less than happy.... But, regardless of the state of Stuart's marriage, Geordie should have told her how closely she resembled Eilean. Maggie was determined to tell him so at the first opportunity. However, neither Geordie nor Dhileas joined them for lunch, and it would have been a silent meal, indeed, had not Jeannie chattered endlessly, filling the void between the laird and Maggie with trivialities and grievances, not the least of which was the burden imposed on her by the scarcity, poor quality, and cost of all sorts of merchandise. But for all her complaints, there was no lack of food on the table: poached salmon, boiled potatoes, winter vegetables, and home baked bread with strawberry preserves. Neither did the state of Maggie's emotions detract from her appetite. Resolutely, she put all thought of the brothers from her mind and concentrated on eating, thus avoiding the necessity of confronting feelings with which she was not prepared to cope. The meal over, Stuart rose abruptly to his feet, excused himself, and departed without a backward glance. Jeannie glared after him. Then, looking only slightly flustered when she realized Maggie was watching her, Jeannie said, “Perhaps you'd like to spend the afternoon just looking about, or reading ... Stuart is a great one to read, and we do have a rather fine collection of books.” “I think I'll choose a book,” Maggie said. “I am rather tired ... it would be restful to read.” 76
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They left the dining room, walked up the hallway, then through the drawing room where they had had tea the night before. The library lay just beyond. It was an impressive room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to capacity. There was an immense fireplace at either end with large, overstuffed chairs arranged before them. In the center of the room was an ancient, oaken, long table with a set of joined stools beneath it. “Please. Choose anything you like. If there is some subject in particular that interests you, ask Stuart. Shall I have Iona lay a fire? Or would you prefer to read in your room?” She ran out of breath at last and Maggie hastened to say, “Please, don't fuss over me. I'm sure I can find more than enough here to keep me entertained.” “Well, then, I'll leave you to your own devices for the moment.” Jeannie started to leave, hesitated, turned back. “Tea is at four, dinner at nine. We only dress on special occasions.” As the door closed behind Jeannie, Maggie turned her attention to the books. There must be hundreds, she thought. She sighed, suddenly more lonely and depressed than she had been since before she met Geordie; and she was beginning to shiver. The room was like a tomb, cold and musty. Maggie turned on her heel, hurried out of the library, across the drawing room, and back to her own bed chamber. It wasn't much warmer there. The sunlight that had streamed in through those tall mullioned windows that morning had given way to a steadily falling rain. Maggie wondered if 77
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anyone would mind if she started a fire in the hearth, then decided she didn't care. She was cold! Once she had a blaze going, Maggie pulled a big easy chair near, curled up on its cushions to bask in the warmth, and tried to sort out the situation in which she found herself. First of all, there was Geordie. Why hadn't he told her that she looked like Stuart's dead wife? And what, Maggie wondered, had Geordie told Stuart about her? On the other hand, did it really matter? She was there now, and Geordie had been very sweet to her. Dear Geordie. Maggie's eyelids drooped. She stretched, yawned, settled into a more comfortable position. Already the chill had receded leaving her relaxed and drowsy. She had been warned before she left Africa that it would take time for her to regain her strength, that she should rest... Already half asleep, Maggie thought, It would be nice to rest in someone's arms—someone like Geordie; yet, it was Stuart's face that drifted through her dreams, his arms she seemed to feel about her. Maggie wakened with a start to hear someone rapping smartly on her door. It was Iona. “Tea will be served shortly, Miss. Will ye be joining the family in the drawing room?” Maggie was on her feet, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, before Iona finished speaking. “Yes, thank you. I must have dozed...” But Iona didn't wait to exchange pleasantries. “I'll tell ‘em yer coming,” she said brusquely, and departed. Geordie had assured Maggie that the Scots were not a class conscious people like the English. “Man, woman, and 78
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child, we're an independent lot,” he had assured her. And so they are, Maggie thought. It pleased her that Iona so obviously knew her own worth, and Maggie grinned, remembering Iona's asides at the breakfast table. Though spoken in a language foreign to Maggie's ear, they had been delivered in such scathing tones, no one could have failed to understand their meaning. Maggie glanced at her watch: quarter to four. Jeannie had said they wouldn't dress; but Maggie did change her shoes, then washed her face and hands in the water that was left from the morning. It was cold, but, she told herself, invigorating. That done, it took only a moment to rearrange her hair and she was ready. In the drawing room, Jeannie and Geordie sat side by side on the setee where Maggie had sat the previous evening. Stuart stood facing the fire, arms spread wide, palms braced against the mantle. The teacart, heavily laden, was in place. As Maggie entered, Geordie rose to his feet and Stuart turned to face her. “I'm sorry I'm late. Do forgive me,” Maggie said. “Nonsense. You're just in time,” Jeannie assure her. “Come sit down.” Then to her brother, “You, too, Stuart. Don't stand about as if you were preparing to leave.” Maggie took a straight-back chair facing Geordie across the teacart. Stuart, however, continued to lounge against the mantelpiece. Jeannie glanced at him, rolled her eyes heavenward, but said nothing more. 79
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Geordie commented, “Kippered herring tonight, Maggie. No one does herring quite like our Mrs. Allchin.” Jeannie added, “Do help yourself, Maggie; but remember, dinner at nine. We hope you'll join us tonight.” “I'm looking forward to it,” Maggie said, though she couldn't help wondering what they would serve considering the variety and amount of food displayed on the teacart. While plates were being filled and tea poured, the twins carried on a bantering exchange. But as soon as all were settled in their places, Stuart turned to Geordie and asked, “How long will ye be staying?” Geordie replied smoothly, “Long enough...” Stuart's eyes narrowed. “Long enough for what?” A prickle of unease touched Maggie's mind. Something was definitly not as it should be here—but what? Taking a sip of tea, she watched the two men over the rim of her cup. Geordie flashed his brother a brilliant smile. “Why, for a good visit with my family.” After a long pause during which his gaze searched his brother's face, the laird said, “Will your lands be safe with ye away? These are troubled times in the Transvaal.” Startled, Maggie looked from one to the other. Geordie had said he was with the military. Abruptly, Jeannie spoke up, “Ach, Stuart, why must ye always be talking about such unpleasant things. Geordie's home and we've a lovely guest.” She paused and turned to smile at Maggie before continuing. “I think we should be planning a Hogmanay gala ... we can introduce Maggie to all our friends. You'd like that, wouldn't you Maggie?” 80
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Not waiting for a reply, Jeannie began making plans. “It will be Hogmanay before you can blink you eyes, Stuart, and that is such a lovely time for a gala. Mrs. Allchin will have to begin baking immediately ... I'll talk to her right after tea.” Hogmanay? What, Maggie wondered, was that? She didn't ask, however, being reluctant to interrupt Jeannie. While she chattered, Stuart glowered and Geordie grinned. As for Maggie, she sat tense and silent, aware of a treacherous undercurrent of dark emotions. In midsentence, Jeannie abruptly changed direction. “Oh, by the way,” she said, “I heard that one of Macdowell's fishing boats was lost. Three men drowned.” Who the Macdowells might be, Maggie had no idea. Hence, it was only one word that claimed her attention: drowned. And the questions she had refused to face that morning came boiling to the surface of her mind: How had Stuart's wife drowned? In the loch, he had said. But surely, no one ever swam in the loch? The waters, even in summer, would be icy. A boating accident, perhaps? But Maggie had seen no quay, no boats of any kind floating there. She started, belatedly aware that someone had spoken her name. She glanced quickly from face to face trying to determine who. Jeannie clucked. “‘Tis sad. I shouldn't have mentioned it. But try to put it from your thoughts, Maggie. There'll be prayers said for them ... ‘tis all anyone can do now. So, let's set our minds to something else.”
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She paused, screwed up her face in thought, then said, “I know. Do you like to play cards, Maggie? Now there are four of us, we could have a game of whist.” “I've work to do,” Stuart said. “I'll be busy until dinner.” Jeannie sighed loudly, then turned to Maggie. “Well, perhaps you'd rather read ... did you find a book to suit you?” Maggie hesitated, then admitted, “I didn't really look. I went back to my room and took a nap instead.” Before Jeannie could make further comment, Iona entered and addressed herself to Maggie. “Miss Donnelly, Dhileas McKinnon has asked me to say she'd be pleased to receive ye soon as ye've had your tea ... I'm to show you the way.” Maggie felt a surge of pleasure. “I've just finished, Iona, and...” Before Maggie could complete her sentence, Geordie interrupted. “I planned to challenge you to a game of chess this evening, Maggie.” When Maggie hesitated, he added, “Remember what fun we had on the ship? If I'm not mistaken, you won the last game. You owe me a chance to redeem myself.” His tone was earnest, his smile warm and coaxing. Why, Maggie wondered, did she have the feeling that this idea had occurred to Geordie only after Iona extended Dhileas's invitation? Yet, why would he want to keep Maggie away from the old lady? Maggie glanced at Stuart. He had risen, gone to add a fresh log to the blaze in the fireplace. Now he turned, leaned a shoulder against the mantel and crossed his arms over his chest. His expression remained stoic. 82
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Geordie did not wait for Maggie's reply. He turned to Iona. “Tell Aunt Dhileas...” Maggie, angered that Geordie, after abandoning her that morning, should now put his own wishes before those of Dhileas, interrupted him. “Please, Geordie. Don't you think Aunt Dhileas should take precedence over a game of chess?” Dead silence greeted Maggie's words. Stuart had turned back to face the fire, Jeannie sat with her lips compressed in a disapproving line. Geordie was still smiling, but it was a tight-lipped smile, and there were spots of angry color in his cheeks. Gripped by embarrassment, Maggie tried to smooth things over. “I just think that since Dhileas is ... older ... I should ... but I'd love to play a game of chess ... soon ... tomorrow, perhaps, if you have time?” It was Iona who put an end to this uncomfortable exchange. “Dhileas is waiting,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door. As for Maggie, she jumped to her feet and followed Iona, only too glad to leave behind a situation so suddenly grown awkward.
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Chapter 5 AS SHE FOLLOWED Iona from the hall, Maggie could feel hostile eyes trained upon her back. Had she been too forward? Perhaps, but Maggie knew Aunt Dhileas's request should take precedence over any last-minute invitation from Geordie. Being right did nothing to dispel Maggie's feeling of unease as she followed Iona along a series of dark hallways and up four flights of stairs. As they proceeded, the air grew steadily more chill; and Maggie was shivering, from cold as well as nerves, by the time they stopped before a door somewhere on the fifth floor. In response to Iona's rap, Dhileas's voice called, “Come.” With a curt nod, Iona departed leaving Maggie to open the door herself. The room she entered was large, warm, and well-lighted. It was also filled to overflowing with furniture, pictures, and knickknacks. Dhileas, ensconced in a large rocking chair, her feet on a footstool, sat before a fireplace in which a generous bed of coals burned yellow and blue and orange. Across her knees, Phineas the cat had spread himself like a furry lap robe. On a table beside her chair, a lamp burned steadily, giving off a clear golden light. In its soft radiance, Dhileas looked like a young girl, eyes shining, lips parted in a welcoming smile. Just the sight of her eased the tension inside Maggie. The old lady didn't speak, but beckoned Maggie with curling fingers. And when she drew near, Dhileas indicated a chair on 84
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the other side of the fire. “Pull it closer,” she said. “We must talk ... get better acquainted, ye and I.” When Maggie had done as Dhilease bid, she declared without preamble, “Ye know this place is haunted do ye not, Maggie Donnelly?” The question took Maggie totally by surprise and she was hard put to suppress a smile. Was Dhileas serious? Did she, like Geordie, subscribe to a belief in ghosts? Maggie didn't want to offend the old woman, and yet she could not, in good conscience, pretend that she did believe. However, before Maggie could compose a suitable reply, Dhileas continued, “I can see by your expression ye have nae, as yet, met one of our dear departed.” She laughed. “Never mind. One of these nights ye'll encounter Angus the Craven or Lachlan Fitzroy wandering the halls. ‘Tis a rare experience ... one that tends to make a true believer of even the most skeptical.” Now Maggie smiled. I should have known, she reminded herself, with this forthright old woman, there would be no beating about the bush. “Geordie has assured me that there are ghosts to be found all over the Highlands: lurking in the glens, riding their ponies across the moors, and generally disporting themselves in all the old castles.” Maggie chuckled. “Ach! Geordie! He always lays it on a wee bit thick. Nevertheless, ‘tis true. But we'll leave the ghosties for now. When the time is right, we'll talk of them again.” When the time is right? Does that mean she really expects me to meet—who was it—Angus the Craven? With a name 85
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like that, Maggie thought, he would probably be more frightened of me than I of him. With these considerations uppermost in her mind, only vaguely had Maggie been aware that Phineas was still staring at her. The moment she entered, he had raised his head, yawned mightily, then fixed his gaze on her; and slowly, her's had been drawn to meet his own. Now, mesmerized by those unwinking, golden eyes, Maggie started when Dhileas continued, “Tell me about yourself.” Maggie tore her gaze away from the cat's to look enquiringly at his mistress. Dhileas's hand, which had been rhythmically caressing the huge animal's glossy coat missed not a stroke as she added, “Not who ye are, mind. I know that.” Puzzled, Maggie asked uncertainly, “What should I tell you?” “About your mother ... your childhood.” Why my mother? Maggie wondered. Her famous father was the one about whom most people wanted to hear. Thus, it was with great pleasure that Maggie proceeded to describe her beautiful, gentle mother. Dhileas was a good listener, and Maggie quickly warmed to her subject, describing the house she grew up in, her maternal grandparents and their farm which had been Maggie's second home. She was just launching into the story about her cat, Garabaldi, and how upset she was the time he presented her with a small, dead mouse, when Phineas arose, stretched, then in two graceful bounds landed in Maggie's lap. There he 86
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settled himself, staring up into her face as if to say, “We felines only do what comes naturally.” “He's right, ye know,” Dhileas remarked, exactly as if the cat had spoken the words aloud. Maggie looked at her sharply. Read a cat's mind? No! If the old lady was reading anybody's mind, Maggie thought, it's mine; and that, too, was pure nonsense. Dhileas was still speaking. “His kind are born hunters, and though ‘tis not a pleasant thing, ‘tis the way of the world.” “I never held it against Garibaldi,” Maggie assured Phineas as she stroked his head, gave his haunch a gentle pat. Then addressing Dhileas, “But it always makes me sad...” Dhileas nodded, took a deep breath. “‘Tis best not to dwell on the sad side of life, daft to worry about what cannae be changed. Think rather on your blessings. Phineas likes ye and that's a rare blessing, indeed!” “To be sure.” Maggie said, giving the dear old lady a big smile. It was then Maggie noticed that Dhileas was beginning to droop. And though there were many things Maggie should have liked to ask, she knew she must not outstay her welcome. Scooping Phineas into her arms, Maggie gave him a hug, then rose to her feet. “I've enjoyed our visit, but it's growing late. I must go,” she said, at the same time stooping to put Phineas on the floor. Dhileas didn't try to detain her. She stood up, took a candle from the mantle and gave it to Maggie to light her way. At the door, Dhileas did say, “Come back soon. Ye and I 87
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have much in common, and there is much ye should know about Dunphaedair ... about the past.” Her words sent an unexpected shiver down Maggie's spine. If there are things I should know, Maggie asked herself, why did she not tell me immediately? Why did she let me run on about myself? Or was this an example of the fancies to which Jeannie had eluded? After all, why would there be anything Maggie should know about the castle or its past? Maggie's mind was so filled with these questions, it wasn't until the door closed behind her that she remembered she had absolutely no idea how to get back to her own room. She would have returned to Dhileas for directions had she not felt certain the old lady would insist upon showing the way; and Maggie knew Dhileas should not come out into the cold and drafty hallway, let alone traverse a number of flights of stairs. Dhileas's door, Maggie did recall, had been on her right as she approached, so she turned to her left and made her way slowly along, pausing from time to time to listen, to hold the candle high and look about. Nothing appeared familiar; or rather, everything looked the same: a dark paneled hallway with identical doors inset at odd intervals. And the silence was complete. Stone walls do not settle and creak as wooden ones do. As Maggie moved forward through the oppresive silence, her mind suddenly filled with thoughts of the supernatural— all the ghost stories she had ever heard, and she could feel the goosebumps rising on her arms. When the candle flame flickered, Maggie's heart crept up into her throat. She 88
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stopped, looked quickly over her shoulder, then cursed herself for her weakness. Sternly, though silently, she declared, “I do not believe in ghosts.” Then she turned and moved forward once more. When she reached a spot where another hall intersected the one along which she had been progressing, Maggie stopped, at a loss. Had they turned here? Search her memory as she would, she could not remember. Finally, she elected to continue straight on. At least then, Maggie assured herself, I will know where I am, and if worse comes to worst, I can find my way back to Dhileas. However, just as Maggie stepped out into the center of that intersection, a sudden draught of icy air all but extinguished her candle, and out of the blackness that encircled her came the faint, but unmistakable wailing of a bagpipe. She froze in her tracks, frantically seeking to shield the candle flame while that unearthly sound flowed round her, rose to a sudden crescendo, then ceased. The entire incident could not have lasted a full minute, but it left Maggie with a wildly beating heart and trembling hands. She took a deep breath and told herself there had to be a simple explanation. Carefully, she raised the candle high, turned slowly about, her gaze searching the hallways as far as the flickering light allowed. They were empty, save for the encroaching blackness that seemed to ebb and flow, to pulse in the guttering light from the candle. Lowering the candle, Maggie cupped her hand about the flame, and hurried forward. There's nothing to fear! she kept assuring herself, but her nervousness only increased. The 89
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more she told herself that the hallway was empty, that the sound she had heard was undoubtedly a trick of the wind and her imagination, the more often she looked over her shoulder seeking reassurance. Maggie heaved a prodigious sigh of relief when, after what seemed a very long walk, she came upon a stairway. Too narrow and steep to be anything but a service route, it lead straight down to the third floor. Once there, it did not take Maggie long to find her way to the main staircase, and from there, back to her own bedchamber. With yet another sigh of relief, she opened the door and entered. In her absence, a fire had been kindled on the hearth, and the room was gratifyingly warm after her wanderings in the damp and cold of the hallways. She was content, therefore, to sit in front of the fire for a while letting the heat from the flames drive the last of the chill from her bones. She could not be certain how much time had passed since tea; but surely, it would be quite awhile until the dinner hour. Nonetheless, lest it be later than she thought, Maggie washed her face and hands, changed into a fresh blouse, and tidied her hair. That done, she decided to run down to the library and choose a book to pass the time until the evening meal should be announced. The darkness and the silence that had filled the upper floors prevailed on the lower ones as well. This was another source of wonder to Maggie: Why were no lamps or candles burning in the sconces in the hallways? It was eerie, and again she found herself hurrying along, the flame of the 90
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candle she carried guttering in the small breeze raised by the speed of her passing. There was no one in the main hall, nor had any candles or lamps been left burning there. An immense log smoldered in the grate, but what little light it provided served only to deepen the shadows. Maggie didn't pause to look about but hurried on to the library and entered. With a start of surprise, she realized someone was there before her, sunk deep in a large wing-back chair drawn up to the fireplace. At the sound of the door closing behind her, Stuart's head appeared around the side of the chair. The pool of light cast by the reading lamp that burned on the table beside him burnished his cap of thick black hair, shone in the depths of his black eyes. It also revealed the look of incredulity that crossed his face. But it was the tumult in her breast, like that she had felt walking beside him in the dim interior of the distillery that surprised Maggie. It stole away her breath and sent the warm blood racing to her cheeks. Then Stuart was on his feet, his voice warm in greeting. “Come, join me,” he said, indicating another chair drawn close to the fire. His eyes were alight with pleasure and a warm smile had dispelled the air of melancholy that had settled over him that morning as he told Maggie about his wife. She started forward on a surge of feeling akin to elation. He was so handsome ... no ... not handsome. His face was too masculine, too well-etched by life to be simply handsome. Geordie was handsome. 91
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And remembering Geordie, abruptly Maggie was overtaken by a sense of guilt. Well, not guilt, exactly; but it flashed through her mind that only days before she had been feeling something like this whenever Geordie smiled at her. What kind of woman was she, anyway? On the instant, Maggie slowed her step. When Stuart said, “Have a wee dram with me before dinner,” indicating a crystal decanter on the table beside his chair, Maggie shook her head, settled her face into a mask of detached serenity. “Not tonight, thank you,” she said, keeping her tone cool, then added primly, “I've had quite enough strong drink for one day.” As if a curtain had descended, where only a moment before she had read greeting in Stuart's eyes, now there was only indifference. What had she done? She hadn't meant to rebuff him, only ... Maggie swallowed, cleared her throat, tried to think of something to say, something to soften her previous retort. Before she could find the words, Stuart shrugged. “As you wish,” he murmured, his tone distant. The joy that had blossomed in Maggie only moments before shriveled and died. Drawing herself up even more stiffly, she said, “If I might just select a book...?” “Is there one in particular? Perhaps I could direct ye...?” “Thank you, no. If it's all right, I'll just browse.” “Of course,” he said. When he remained standing, Maggie added, “Please, do sit down. I'll try not to disturb you further.” 92
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He inclined his head in an oh-so-formal little bow, then returned to his chair. Maggie felt dreadful. She wanted desperately to say something to ... to ... to what? She couldn't think, and the titles on the spines of the books seemed to waver in the light from her candle, making it impossible for her to read as she blinked back the ridiculous stinging in her eyes. And then, exasperated with her own foolishness, Maggie told herself, If the laird chooses to be affronted simply because I do not wish to have a drink, why should I care? But she knew it wasn't what she had said; it was the better-thanthou way she had said it, and Maggie wished with all her heart that she had never come to the library. Finally, just to escape, she reached up and took down a volume at random. At that moment, Iona poked her head in the door and declared brusquely, “Dinner's on the table.” Maggie tucked the book under her arm and headed for the door. Stuart was there before her, holding it open. Their eyes met for a moment. Maggie's heart thumped against her ribs and she looked quickly away. As she walked passed him, Stuart said, “Shall I take the candle?” As Maggie handed it to him, their eyes met once more. This time it was he who looked away. He did not offer her his arm but walked silently beside her, lighting their way through the dark rooms and hallways to the dining room. And all the while Maggie sought desperately for something to say to bridge the gulf that had opened between them. When they entered the dining room, Maggie stopped in amazement, all else forgotten as she looked about. It was a 93
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long, rather narrow chamber with the same high, beamed ceiling as the great hall. At one end, in an oak-mantled fireplace, logs blazed; at the other, a ponderous oak sideboard held a pair of silver candelabra and an assortment of blown-molded decanters and goblets. The walls were covered by tapestries done in hunting motifs. An oak trestletable that could easily have accommodated twenty or more diners filled the center of the room. Above it hung a large chandelier, its crystal drops glittering and gleaming in the flame of at least a dozen candles. Jeannie was already seated. Geordie was standing near the sideboard, a glass of wine in his hand when Stuart and Maggie entered. They all exchanged greetings and Geordie held Maggie's chair for her. It wasn't until that moment that she remembered the book she had tucked under her arm. It would be awkward to hold, but she didn't want to make a fuss, so she placed it in her lap and spread her napkin over it. They were scarcely settled into their seats before Iona and Kate entered, Iona bearing a large tureen from which a curl of steam arose filling the air with the tantalizing scent of herbs and spices. As they moved from place to place, Kate ladled the thick, aromatic soup into the bowls. As soon as everyone was served, Geordie asked, “How was Aunt Dhileas?” Maggie answered smoothly, “We had a most enjoyable visit. Aunt Dhileas is a charming woman.” Jeannie said, “Humph,” softly, then initiated a change of subject. “I hope you like Scotch broth. It's one of Mrs. 94
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Allchin's specialties. Of course, everything she makes is special. We're very lucky to have her. Aren't we, Stuart?” Stuart, whose eyes were fixed on his bowl, continued to stir his soup about absently. “Well, Stuart?” Jeannie's voice had risen slightly. Stuart started, gave her a blank stare. Now Geordie intervened, his tone mocking. “Can't you see the laird's got important matters on his mind, Jeannie, lass? He's no time for kitchen affairs.” Stuart didn't rise to the baiting, and the soup was finished in silence. Maggie, depressed and mystified, was convinced she would have been better advised to take her chances with Pastor Makepeace. As the bowls were being cleared, she remarked to no one in particular, “The soup was delicious.” Iona said something that sounded like “Numph.” Next, a roast of beef was placed before Stuart for carving, while Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, and a variety of vegetables were offered around. Maggie's appetite had long since flown, but she took a small serving of everything just to avoid comment. Geordie finally broke the silence. “Did you take any photographs today?” Maggie was forced to admit she had forgotten her camera. “However, I did see a great many things ... places ... that would make wonderful pictures.” Suddenly, the conversation began to flow. And by the time Iona appeared with the last course—a serving of tipsy cake— everyone seemed at ease. 95
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As they rose to leave the table, the book Maggie had been holding in her lap slipped to the floor. Kate, who was standing by, ready to begin clearing, quickly stooped and retrieved the volume. She glanced at the cover, emitted a small gasp, and dropped it on the table. At the same instant, Jeannie remarked, “I see you've found a book to your liking.” “Yes,” Maggie said happily. “I like to read myself to sleep with a good book.” “Ah,” Geordie, said. “Let me see what you've chosen. You can tell a lot about a person by what they read ... at least that's what Stuart tells me.” This last with an antagonistic glance at his brother. Stuart ignored him. As he spoke, Geordie retrieved the book. He scanned the title, then raised his glance to Maggie, his expression running the gamut from shock, to interest, to—Maggie wasn't certain what that final expression might be. “This is the kind of book it takes to put you to sleep?” He spoke the words tentatively. Maggie opened her mouth to reply, but something in his expression stilled the words on her lips. When he continued to stare at her, she took a deep breath and said, “Any good book will do.” Abruptly, Geordie began to laugh. “Don't be rude!” Jeannie snapped. “Give me that book.” Geordie handed it to her. She looked at the title, and a wave of crimson rose in her cheeks. She dropped the volume as if it had been a hot coal. Geordie's laugher became a loud guffaw. 96
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Embarrassed yet mystified, Maggie looked from one to the other. Stuart held out his hand. Geordie picked up the tome and handed it to his brother. Stuart glanced at the title, then, lips twitching, handed the book to Maggie. Now she looked at the title, and her cheeks flamed scarlet. The book she had pulled from the shelf was The History of Tom Jones!
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Chapter 6 YEARS LATER Maggie could still recall the utter mortification she felt as she ran from the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber. What unhappy fate had guided her hand to that ribald tale? A chronicle of a young man's sordid, carnal exploits, it was a story that no self-respecting young woman would read. What must Stuart think of her ... Jeannie and Geordie, too, of course? As fast as she could, Maggie got undressed, slipped on her nightgown, and crawled into bed, where she pulled the covers over her head. Curled there in abject misery, she wondered how she could explain that she had chosen the volume at random? But, surely, they must know she would never read such a book. Yet, how would they know? After all, she was a stranger in their midst. How long she lay there, writhing in the memory of that humiliating incident, Maggie didn't know. However, the candle, burning on the mantel that had stood tall when she scuttled into bed, was less than an inch high when she at last lowered the comforter and rose to brush and braid her hair. She washed her face with the last of the water in the ewer and returned to bed. Exhaustion overcame her at last. Her eyelids closed. And as she drifted off to sleep, whether from within or without the castle she could not tell, faintly to her ears came the mournful skirling of a bagpipe. 98
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Were it Iona's rapping, or the whosh of wood across carpet as the door opened that wakened Maggie, she came slowly out of a deep sleep, unable at first to recall where she was. But on the instant she saw Iona's face, memory returned on a renewed flood of embarrassment. Maggie would have ducked her head back under the covers had not Iona fixed her with a stern stare. Despite her dour look, her voice was gentle when she spoke. “I ken what happent, Miss, as does everybody here. But dinnae fash yersel'. The laird, he kens ye didnae mean to chose that book. Nae more will Jeannie, or even that rascal Geordie believe ye really meant to read it. As she was speaking, Iona poured a cup of tea, added plenty of milk and a heaping spoon of sugar, just the way Maggie liked it, then handed it to her. “So sit up, Miss, and drink yer tea. Then put on a bonnie face and come down to breakfast!” Having had her say, Iona clamped her lips together, turned about and marched from the room. If she heard the words of thanks Maggie called after her, Iona made no response; but Maggie felt certain that, as she had hoped, Iona was her friend. Reassured by the thought, Maggie finished her tea, then got out of bed and hurried through her morning ablutions. Iona's assurances had been most comforting and, by the time Maggie was dressed, she had regained her usual good spirits. She left the security of her room with scarcely a qualm and, as she proceeded along the hall, a smile of anticipation 99
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curved her lips. She made her way along the hall, then down the stairs to the breakfast room on feet that fairly danced. There she paused, hand on the doorknob. What if Iona had been wrong? What if everyone did think the worst ... ? Maggie took a deep breath. Well, she told herself, there's only one way to find out. With that, she pulled open the door and entered. Jeannie was seated alone at the table. Relief at not having to face the men warred in Maggie's breast with chagrin at being unable to get that ordeal behind her, and she almost stamped her foot in frustration. Had she been strictly honest with herself, Maggie would have admitted that it wasn't her desire to see last evening's fiasco resolved that had led her pell-mell down the stairs. What's more, it was not the speed of her descent that had quickened the beat of her heart. It had been the anticipation of Stuart's smile. Disappointment is a bitter pill, and as her spirits flagged, Maggie silently vented her pique on Geordie. Could not he, at least, have waited to say good morning? Still, Jeannie's greeting was enthusiastic, and neither by word nor look did she betray any memory of the past evening's humiliation. “There you are,” she called cheerily. “Did you sleep well?” And not waiting for a response she continued, “I thought, if you like, we would undertake our tour of Dunphaedair directly after breakfast.” An hour later, Jeannie, with a lantern in hand, and Maggie, with her camera hung round her neck, entered one of the towers and began to descended a stone staircase that wound round and round inside. Little more than a projection from the 100
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wall, it boasted no rail; and after one glance over the edge into the dizzying depths below, Maggie kept her gaze fixed determinedly upon Jeannie's back. From time to time, they passed narrow apertures through which could be viewed a small bit of sky, a glimpse of dark water, or a stretch of distant shore; and in her imagination Maggie was transported back to a more romantic time when bowmen had stood there, prepared to defend even unto death, castle and fair maiden—a lass who bore a marked resemblance to Maggie. They followed the narrow, worn treads round and round and round until Maggie began to think they would never reach the bottom. At the lower reaches, there were no arrowloops, and as they descended ever lower, the air grew staler. Even in her imagination, Maggie was hard put to find any romance in those odors now rising to meet them. At long last, however, they stepped from the last tread onto a straw-covered surface. Here the gloom was deep and Jeannie now lighted the lantern. After each had caught her breath, Jeannie remarked, “We are at ground level here. The walls of the castle are bedded in solid stone. Built as it is, on this promontory, even in the old days, the need for fortifications was slight. The loch provides a natural barrier, so if an invader had managed to row out here and come ashore, he would have been unable to inflict much damage.” She gestured upward. “I'm sure you noticed, they did include arrowloops.” She giggled as she added, “But I'm 101
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certain little ever came in or went out through them except fresh air.” And very little of that! Maggie thought. Certainly not enough to freshen the air there below. It was heavy with the smell of dust as well as a pungent potpourri of vegetable and animal odors. She also became aware, all too soon, of a skittering and scratching in the straw all around them. Mice, Maggie thought—or maybe rats, and though she wasn't really frightened, she gathered her skirts more closely about her. Jeannie, absorbed in her story, seemed not to notice. She paused, raised the lantern high, and looked about. “There really isn't much to see down here,” she continued as she lead Maggie about the area. Truly, there was very little to see, and Maggie couldn't help thinking it odd that Jeannie had included the place in their tour. Much of the space was given to storage of equipment and food stuffs. “As you can see,” Jeannie remarked, “when the bins were full of potatoes and apples and barley, even a state of siege posed few problems for the castle dwellers.” A stable was also incorporated there, providing shelter for several horses, but the women didn't enter. They were making their way back to the stairway when Jeannie paused before a padlocked door. “This,” she said softly, “is where Eilean kept her little sail boat. Stuart doesnae allow anyone on the loch anymore...” Maggie felt a sudden chill. “Is the loch so dangerous?” Jeannie caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked pensive. “Nae ... not if one is careful.” She sighed. “But 102
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Stuart is a man of strong feelings. He's set his mind against it and there'll be no changing him.” A man of strong feelings. Maggie considered the words. They could mean so many things: one who was high principled? compassionate? unforgiving? passionate in love or hate? A tremor ran through her as she recalled the intensity with which he had said of the distillery: “I'll not sell it, give it away, or have it taken from me. I'd burn it to the ground first.” As they began the long climb back, Maggie considered with awe the hundreds of pairs of feet that must have gone that way before her. Generations of people whose very names were now long forgotten. Nevertheless, in their passing, they had left their communal mark in these stones: a smooth, shallow depression at the center of each rough tread. And no matter what Jeannie said, in Maggie's heart she was certain that some of those people had stood silent and brave before the arrowloops. By the time they regained the first floor, both women were tired and out of breath. However, after only a short pause, they pushed ahead with the tour. “You've seen these chambers before,” Jeannie remarked as they made their way rapidly through the great hall and the library. Concerning what lay behind the many closed doors they passed, she said only, “With the family grown so small, we no longer use many of these rooms.” The kitchen was also located on the first floor, “But,” Jeannie said, “Mrs. Allchin does not welcome visitors.” 103
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Maggie smiled to herself. Obviously, Jeannie was not about to upset that paragon of paragons, her gifted and highly prized cook. On the first floor, as on all the others, there was much of interest on every hand, but Maggie took no photographs. Even by day, the rooms were filled with shadow, and Maggie knew that even with what flash equipment she had, the lighting was inadequate. It would be necessary to devise some method for bringing more illumination indoors. However, she took notes and made sketches of those places and things to which she wished to return, things that had been hidden in darkness when they passed that way before. The dining room and breakfast room, as well as the sewing room and other service areas were located on the second floor. The third level, where Maggie was chambered, also contained the family quarters. They, however, were in what Jeannie called “the family wing,” whereas Maggie was in the wing reserved for guests. What seemed to her miles of dark gloomy hallways and closed doors lay between family and guests. The fourth floor boasted what had once been an elegant salon with a marvelous painted ceiling. “The figures represent the five virtues: Wisdom, Justice, Faith, Hope, and Charity. Stuart says they were painted immediately after the building was completed ... about 1550. Those costumes would have been considered high fashion at the time ... at least, that's what Stuart says. He reads a lot, so I'm sure he's right.”
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Maggie was surprised at the note of pride in Jeannie's tone. It had seemed, until that moment, that she was always irritated with her older brother. There was also a card room where Maggie felt certain the gentlemen had been wont to gather. It, too, had a painted ceiling. Here, however, the figures had obviously been planned to suit the male taste: shepherds and shepherdesses in various degrees of dishabille were depicted, romping over the countryside or met in compromising poses. Both these areas were shrouded in dust covers, grey with grime. Obviously, the MacPhaedair's did little entertaining—at least, these rooms had not been used in many a month. How odd, Maggie thought. She had deduced from things Geordie said, that the family entertained a great deal. Had she misunderstood? Or had Geordie purposely mislead her? But why? What reason could he have had? The whole idea was distressing and Maggie quickly thrust it away. Next they visited the portrait gallery. Here, too, something seemed amiss. Although the room was large and the castle had, or so Maggie had assumed, been occupied by five or six generations of MacPhaedairs, the earliest of the paintings, that of a raven-haired, ebon-eyed man was dated 1748. Dressed in full Highland regalia, he was a most impressive figure, and, Maggie thought, could easily be taken for Stuart. “That's Malcolm Phaedair,” Jeannie offered. Then added musingly, “He's wearing the breacan-feile. ‘Tis not seen much anymore.” “Breacan-feile ... ? “Maggie stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables. 105
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Abruptly, Jeannie's mood changed and she flashed a smile. “Ye dinnae ken our Highland dress,” and she proceeded to explain the costume in detail beginning with the breacanfeile. “‘Tis a twelve-ell length of tartan, one end carefully pleated and belted into a kilt with the remainder fastened to the shoulder with a clan badge. The tail is left to hang down the back or front as the wearer will.” “And what is that he has suspended from the front of his belt?” “That's his sporan. ‘Tis a purse made of goatskin and trimmed with hair or fur. And see, there.” Jeannie gestured toward the lower half of the painting. “That's his sgian dhu, or little dagger, thrust into the top of his hose.” Maggie studied the portrait in silence, then remarked, “He's a very handsome man.” “Aye, the first laird Phaedair was a handsome man.” Jeannie sighed, and a note of bitterness crept into her voice when she added, “The old rogue.” Maggie said nothing, but could not refrain from giving Jeannie a puzzled glance. Jeannie said nothing more and Maggie turned her attention once more to the portrait. If this man were the first laird of Dunphaedair, his likeness would have been painted somewhere in the late 1500's. Maggie glanced quickly at the bottom of the painting, thinking perhaps she had misread the date. No, the numbers were quite clear: 1748. After an awkward pause, Jeannie said, “Didn't Dhileas tell you?” 106
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Being uncertain about what she thought Dhileas may have told her, Maggie only shook her head. Jeannie nodded, let her gaze drift away to wander over the portrait hanging above them. At last she began. “This castle was built in 1543 by Lachlan Fitzroy, the first Duke of Phaedair.” Maggie tensed, remembering Dhileas's words: “Some night you'll encounter the ghost of Lachlan Fitzroy.” Jeannie continued. “His descendants occupied the castle until the early 1700's. Over the years, it was the Fitzroy's who continually refurbished and updated the place. It is thanks to them that we enjoy what few modern conveniences we have here.” As she spoke, a note of discontent crept into Jeannie's voice. She paused, sighed, then added wistfully, “‘Tis said Bonny Prince Charlie once slept in Dunphaedair...” Abruptly she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath. “Then the family fell on hard times. The last Lachlan wasnae very shrewd and in 1742 Malcolm Macnair laid claim to the holding.” Again she fell silent, and finally Maggie asked, “So when did your family, the MacPhaedairs, resume possession?” “My family?” For a moment Jeannie looked puzzled. Then she laughed. “Old Malcolm, there, is my family. Being naught but a tacksman, he couldn't assume the title, of course; but there was no law said he couldn't change his name.” She shrugged, ended her story abruptly with, “And that's how Stuart comes to be laird.” 107
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How, Maggie wondered, had a tacksman managed to lay claim to the estate of a titled family? It was very strange, but good manners forbade that she should press the matter. They did the rest of the tour in record time. On the fifth floor, Dhileas, Iona, and Kate had their rooms. The nursery was also located on that floor. What else might be there behind doors she did not open, Jeannie didn't say. A ballroom took up much of the sixth floor; and an immense banqueting hall still boasting sixteenth century decor was also located there. The old servants quarters, now completely closed, were on the seventh. “Let's leave the towers for another day,” Jeannie suggested. “The view from each of them is braw, indeed. But it's almost time for lunch and I'm tired!” Maggie heartily agreed. So they returned to their respective quarters on the third floor to freshen themselves, then hurried down to the dining room. Maggie was not disappointed this time, for the gentlemen were there, waiting. As embarrassing as the incident with the book had been, it had, Maggie observed, served one good purpose. Stuart appeared to have forgotten the unhappy misunderstanding in the library, and each brother seemed equally pleased to see her, though it was Geordie who again held her chair. When all were seated, Iona and Kate served up the usual hearty meal. For once, everyone maintained an air of amiability and Maggie quite enjoyed herself. It was over a jam trifle that Stuart asked, “Do you ride, Maggie?” 108
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“I spent much of my childhood on a farm,” she reminded him. “I learned to ride before I learned to walk.” “Did you, really?” Jeannie's eyes fairly popped with amazement and for once she had nothing to add. Maggie couldn't help laughing. “Well, perhaps not before I learned to walk. But certainly very soon after. My grandfather used to take me up before him until I was old enough to sit a saddle by myself.” Stuart gave Maggie a speculative look then remarked, “A riding horse would give you much more freedom than a horse and buggy, would it not?” Maggie had been wondering how she was to get about and take the photographs she so longed to take. At the thought of a horse, her spirits leaped. “Indeed it would.” “Did you bring a riding habit?” And Jeannie's question sent Maggie's spirits tumbling. Of course, she didn't have a riding habit. What little money she had had, had been scarcely enough to provide the simplest of wardrobe. “No,” Maggie admitted, crestfallen. “I've not one costume that would be suitable.” “Never mind, Jeannie said. “All the MacPhaedair women have been riders, and we Scots never throw anything away. I'm certain we can find something in one of the trunks.” “Well, why not get on with it?” Geordie demanded, rising to his feet. “The sooner Maggie is outfitted, the sooner we can find her a pony.” The words Maggie spoke next were born of the excitement she felt at the thought of being on a horse once more. “We 109
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are nearly of a height, Geordie. Perhaps you have an old pair of trousers that I could wear...” The moment the words left her mouth, Maggie wished them back. The hot blood that quickly made its way up her throat and stained her face crimson must, Maggie felt sure, be painful to behold. What would these people think of her? How could she be so forward? She knew perfectly well no lady would ever be seen riding astride. But Stuart jumped to his feet, his expression one of delight. “What a braw idea! Jeannie, take Maggie up and get her a pair of Geordie's old breeks.” Then to Maggie, “I'll wait for you in the hall.” Geordie started to object, but Stuart silenced him with a glance. Jeannie looked sharply from one to the other before quickly ushering Maggie out and up the stairs. Maggie could tell by the set of Jeannie's shoulders, her protracted silence, that she was troubled. She did not put voice to her dismay, however, until they were actually standing in the sewing room. She had brought Maggie there because she had insisted on having an old pair of trousers. Now Jeannie said, haltingly, “Will ye really sit astride one of the beasts, Maggie?” “That's the way I learned to ride ... when I was a child. But if it bothers you, Jeannie, I will not do so now.” Jeannie's brow knit in thought as her troubled eyes searched Maggie's face. However, after much soul searching (or so Maggie assumed), Jeannie smiled, a bit wanly, it's true. “Nae, I've no objection. If Stuart thinks it a good plan, than I cannot but agree.” 110
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When they returned to the hall some half-hour later, Maggie was clad in a shirtwaist of her own, a wool jacket that had belonged to one of the late MacPhaedair women, and a pair of Geordie's trousers. In length, they were almost a fit, but they were a bit voluminous for Maggie's slender figure. That had proved a minor problem for Jeannie; she belted them in with a crimson sash from one of her own gowns. Maggie did present a most unusual spectacle and the sight of her brought a chuckle from Stuart. Maggie felt quite comfortable, however. “You may laugh", she said, “but this is not the first time I have worn trousers. My father quite approved.” “You wore trousers when you were with your father?” Once again Maggie had left Jeannie almost speechless. “I did not appear in the drawing room thus attired; but, yes. When we were in the bush, always. They make for much more sensible attire under certain circumstances, and many of the photographs I have taken could not have been managed in a skirt.” “Spirit, imagination, and daring. Qualities much to be admired,” Stuart interjected, adding, “Come. Let's be on our way.” Maggie smiled, surprised and pleased by the unexpected compliment. “I'm ready,” she said, though she was actually rather dreading that long descent to the stable level. To climb that stairway twice in one day seemed a bit much to ask. But she was spared that ordeal. Stuart led the way via an outside staircase. Despite the morning's overcast, it was now clear and very cold. A stable boy already had two horses saddled 111
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and waiting. At sight of Maggie, the lad's eyes grew round as silver quarters—or, she thought, would that be shillings?—but he said not a word, only held the horse's head while Stuart helped her mount. The ride from the castle, out under the portcullis and thence to the shore, was a short one. There, Stuart urged his horse into an easy cantor; it took no urging to get Maggie's mount to follow. It was wonderful. There was no wind, but the air was as sweet and crisp as a freshly picked apple. Maggie leaned forward in the saddle and gloried in the strength of the powerful animal that carried her, in the sound of his flying hoofs, the speed with which they covered the ground. Stuart did not pull his steed to a stop until they were at the top of the hill above the glen. There, he swung his horse about, head to tail with Maggie's, so that they could talk, face to face. “Ye sit a horse well,” he said, the light in his eyes reflecting his words of praise. “I enjoy riding.” But it was more than the exhilaration of the ride that had set Maggie's pulses racing. She felt lighthearted and reckless, and the world suddenly seemed a marvelous place. She could see excitement written in Stuart's face, too; but his tone was almost severe as he cautioned her, “Nevertheless, ye'd do well to stay within sight of the castle whenever you're out alone. The Highlands are wild and treacherous, unforgiving of those who underestimate them.”
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His words did nothing to dampen Maggie's spirits. “I'm used to danger,” she assured him. “My father taught me to take care of myself.” Suddenly, Stuart grinned and an impish gleam sparkled in his eyes. “Of that I've nae dout,” he said. Then, sobering, he added, “But dinnae be too sure of yourself. There are wildcats and wild boar in the woods that could panic your horse; or should ye wander by chance onto the moors, ye could be lost, pony and all, in a matter of minutes.” Maggie felt certain he was exaggerating, but she nodded vigorously, as if she believed every word he spoke. “I'll be very careful.” “Now, shall we ride to the far end the glen? From there ye can look down across Hogarth's moor. And beyond the point, if there's time, we can visit some old ruins you might find interesting.” For a time, they continued along the road they had taken on their return from the distillery. But where it veered off to cross the plateau, they proceeded onward along the crest of the hill following a well-marked trail. On one side, the trees and undergrowth grew thick, but the view down into the glen was unobstructed. How peaceful it looked. Along the shore, the birches with their tatters of dead leaves crowded in amongst the towering evergreens, like ragged children, Maggie thought, seeking shelter where they can. And beyond, shimmering in the afternoon sun, the waters of the loch lay smooth as glass.
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They had ridden in silence for some time when Stuart remarked, “There's a footpath down there along the water's edge. ‘Tis a bonnie place to stroll of a summer's evening.” “Is it not a good place to stroll now?” “Oh, aye, if ye dinnae mind a snap in the air.” “Not I,” Maggie assured him. “Besides, I want to take photographs of the castle from various sites around the loch.” “For this book ye're planning?” Something in his tone made Maggie turn her head, search his face, but his expression gave no hint of anything amiss. “If you have no objection,” she said at last. They had reached the far end of the glen by then, and at that moment, the trail led them round a curve and out from under the trees into a small meadow where a few late blooming flowers made spots of color amidst the yellowed sedge and bracken. In the foreground, a lip of granite provided a place from which a panoramic view of the countryside was visible. “Come,” Stuart said, urging his own horse forward to the very brink of the abyss. From there, to their left they could see the loch. To their right lay a vista of desolation: pools of dead, black water and huge grey boulders strewn across a wasteland where nothing living moved. Just to look at it sent a chill through Maggie. Straight ahead and separating the two areas was a narrow range of low-lying mountains cut by a deep burn through which a torrent of water leapt, frothing and foaming its way over ledges of stone and round the trunks of fallen trees. 114
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Even at this distance, one could hear, though faintly, the roar of those rushing waters. As they sat there, side by side, gazing at that magnificent landscape, the sense of wild elation that had filled Maggie earlier, was supplanted by a feeling of inner content. It was, in some ways, like the sense of security she had always known with her father. Yet, it was something far more than that, for even while on one level she felt safe and secure sitting there beside this ... man, on another level she was assailed by a range of sensation totally new in her experience. She could “feel” his nearness, his glance, though she did not look at him. And happiness fluttered in her breast, like a baby bird, ready to take wing, and yet unsure.... What was happening to her? she wondered. Could she be falling in love? But no one fell in love in just two days. Or did they? Oh, Mama, Maggie found herself thinking, is this how you felt whenever Papa was near? If only you were here to talk to, to confide in.... At that instant, Stuart broke the silence. Swinging his arm in a broad gesture, he said, “Look well at yonder moor. Never, never ride that way alone. Go anywhere ye wish upon the heath, or along the shore of the loch. Ye'd even be safe enough following this trail on down to the burn, though I dare say ye'd find it a difficult ride.” “I will, of course, observe your wishes,” Maggie said, “but is there not some way that I could at least approach the moor? Such wild beauty would make marvelous photographs...” 115
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“Then one day soon, I'll take ye mysel’ but,” and Stuart's voice grew stern, “until then, stay away from Hogarth's moor.” “Of course,” Maggie repeated. “Across the burn, and beyond the far side of the glen, the land belongs to Sir Reginald Fallsworthy. An Englishman, but a guid neighbor.” “An Englishman?” “Aye. During the clearances, his grandfather bought the place from Tarbert Macpherson. ‘Tis land the Macpherson clan had held for three hundred years.” Maggie, detecting a note of sadness in Stuart's tone, glanced quickly in his direction. “Why did Macpherson sell?” As she asked the question, Stuart's face settled itself into sterner lines. “He could nae longer pay the Englishmen's taxes.” Maggie waited for him to explain, but he remained silent, seemingly lost in thought. She was about to pose another question when he suddenly broke the silence. “They run sheep on the land now. There's profit to be made in wool. Sir Fallsworthy also uses the manor house as a hunting lodge ... a place to entertain his English friends.” These latter words were spoken without animosity; rather, with resignation. Again the silence closed in around them, broken only by the far off murmur of the burn. How peaceful it was; it was also cold and an unexpected shiver reminded Maggie that she had lived too long in the warmth of Africa to be comfortable in this frigid clime. 116
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“Ye're cold,” Struart noted, adding, “Here. Take my coat. Then we'd best be turning back. ‘Tis growing late.” At his words, a ripple of disappointment flowed over Maggie. It had been such a pleasant afternoon, and as she accepted his proffered jacket, she couldn't help wondering if it had been an especially pleasant afternoon for Stuart, too. “Come along,” he said, as he wheeled his mount and urged it into a brisk trot precluding further conversation. Maggie welcomed this enforced silence because it gave her time to consider not only her feelings for Stuart, but how she had felt about Geordie. Now, as she thought of him, she had to admit that the feelings he had roused in her bore only a very pale resemblance to the delicious, scary, tantalizing sensations roused by Stuart. If it had seemed to her for a time that Geordie and she shared more than simple friendship, it was, no doubt, because he had helped to ease the loneliness that overwhelmed her after the loss of her father. And, Maggie thought, if I attributed more to his attentions than the situation warranted, if I misinterpreted my own emotional response, it was due to my inexperience. Now, considering, Maggie felt her cheeks flame. Was she doing the same thing with Stuart? She was still trying to analyze her feelings when they reached the stable entrance once more. Stuart leaped down and came quickly to Maggie's side. At the same time, she swung her leg over the horse's neck and as Stuart raised his arms, she slid into them. It was as if time stood still ... but not completely still for Maggie was aware of 117
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each separate moment as his arms closed about her, held her, began to tighten round her; aware that her own arms were locked about him.... Geordie's voice shattered the moment, jarred them apart. “There you are. We feared you were going to miss tea.” Maggie gasped, almost lost her footing as Stuart released her, stepped quickly away. Ignoring his brother, Geordie took Maggie's arm, steadied her. “Come along,” he said. “It's cold out here. You've just time to get out of my trousers...” Abruptly, his face flamed scarlet. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish blowing bubbles. Finally, he managed, “I mean, perhaps ye'd like to change before tea.” An half-hour later, when Maggie entered the great hall, the three MacPhaedairs were already gathered there. They all looked up and smiled. Jeannie called, “Come sit by me, Maggie. Mrs. Allchin has quite outdone herself this evening. I do believe she is showing off for you. Next thing we ken, she'll be inviting you to see her kitchen!” Seated next to Jeannie, Maggie faced the brothers across the tea table. Geordie sat in a wing-back chair, Stuart again stood before the fireplace, his cup in his hand. Jeannie made her usual plea. “Do sit down, Stuart. One cannot tell whether you are coming or going.” Surprisingly, Stuart complied. When their eyes met, Maggie had an almost irresistible desire to lean forward, touch him, run her fingers through his thick, dark hair. She swallowed, looked quickly away. 118
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Jeannie and her twin were engaging in their accustomed banter, and now Maggie made a concerted effort to give her full attention to Geordie—she felt safe with him. Stuart remained quiet for the most part, and when, from time to time, Maggie did cast a glance at him through lowered lashes, she noted that his expression had darkened; his eyes, watching her, had grown stormy. She wondered what he was thinking. Did looking at her remind him of Eilean? Iona came to clear away the tea things and Jeannie said, “Now, what would you like to do? We could have that game of whist...?” Stuart said, “Aye. A game of whist, and Maggie shall be my partner.” In pleased surprise, she raised her eyes to his. But before she could speak, Geordie interjected, “No. Maggie and I are going to have that game of chess ... aren't we, lass?” Maggie hesitated, looking from one to the other, torn between her desire to stay where she was, where she could see Stuart; and her resolve to have it out with Geordie. She was determined to ask him why he had not told her about Eilean, and what his true motives for asking her to Dunphaedair were. After a moment that seemed like an eternity, she said, “Well, I did promise Geordie...” Stuart rose to his feet, his face again a closed and expressionless mask. “As ye like, Maggie,” he said. Then, with just the hint of a bow, he turned and strode from the room.
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Chapter 7 THE STAB OF pain Maggie felt at Stuart's obvious displeasure was replaced by a flash of anger. Does he, she fumed inwardly, expect me to bow to his every whim just as his brother and sister seem to do? Well, not I. My father didn't demand it; no other man shall. Despite her rebellious thoughts, it was Stuart Maggie's gaze followed while a wistful little voice whispered to her heart, was that displeasure or disappointment in Stuart's look? Geordie reappeared carrying a chess board and an inlaid box containing the playing pieces. These he set up on a small table to the left of the fireplace. “Ready?” He flashed Maggie a broad grin. “I'll even grant you the whites. I'm going to win this game. I can feel it in my bones.” “Not so cocky, there, dear brother,” Jeannie admonished him, her eyes alight with sisterly affection. And so the play was joined. Jeannie pulled up a comfortable chair and settled down to watch. As the game dragged on and she continued to sit, Maggie began to fear she'd never get the opportunity to talk to Geordie alone. However, at length Jeannie did excuse herself saying she must check with Mrs. Allchin about dinner. The moment the door closed behind Jeannie, Maggie put down the pawn she had been about to play and said to Geordie, “I think we need to have a serious discussion.” 120
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One of Geordie's eyebrows crooked upward, curling itself into a lazy question mark. Maggie hesitated, uncertain how to begin. But her father had taught her that if you have something to say, no matter how difficult or unpleasant, the only thing to do is say it. So Maggie cleared her throat and began. “Why did you not tell me that I resemble your brother's wife?” Geordie glanced up, abashed, or so Maggie thought. Still, she couldn't be certain, so quickly was that expression replaced by one of surprised innocence. Indeed, she had seen the self-same expression on the face of her cat, Garabaldi, when he had been chastened for stalking a bird. It was a chilling idea, and Maggie thought, I hope the similitude is not more than skin deep! Geordie stared at her, the picture of wide-eyed wonder. “Why,” he said slowly, his tone of voice proclaiming his astonishment, “you do look a bit like Eilean.” “From what others have told me, more than a bit,” Maggie said testily. Geordie studied her countenance for another long moment. “Ye do at that,” he said, sounding incredulous. Then added, “But when one gets to know you, you are not the same at all.” “That makes no sense,” Maggie snapped. “Either I look like her or I don't, and from the way everyone around here has reacted to me, it is obvious that I look very much like her.” Reluctantly, Geordie admitted, “Well, at first glance, yes, I suppose. But you are so different from Eilean ... not that I would ever speak ill of the dead...” 121
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When his voice faded to nothing and the silence between them began to grow, Maggie prompted, “I think you owe me more of an explanation than that.” “Well, for one thing, she was so timid, so obsessed by doubts and fears.” Again he fell silent. Exasperated, again Maggie prodded, “Fear of what?” “I don't know. Everything. Anyway, by the time I got to really know you, I had forgotten that there was any resemblance at all.” Maggie considered this response, not entirely satisfied, yet not sure that she should, or could, push the matter. However, she did not have to confirm his explanation by accepting it. Finally, she said, “And why did you really invite me here to Dunphaedair?” Without batting an eyelash Geordie replied, “Because we are friends. Because I know that with your skill and talent you will create a book that will make you a fortune.” Then, with a mischievous chuckle he added, “And when Stuart throws me out again, perhaps you will take me in.” When Stuart throws him out again. Had Stuart really thrown him out before? If he had, Maggie realized that would explain a lot of the tension she had felt in this place; but it would raise a whole host of new questions to which she had no right to seek an answer. She studied Geordie's face long and hard. He returned her stare with eyes that proclaimed his sincerity. Should she believe him? Maggie wondered. But then, why should she not? And what real difference did it make? For no matter what his reason may have been, she was there, now, 122
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with little opportunity to leave even had she some place to go. And, truly, she could think of no other place that would provide the material for such a beautiful book of photographs. They returned to their game, but Maggie could not keep her mind on it. Geordie, not at all discomfited by the questioning, won quite easily. They were well into a second match when Stuart returned with Dhileas on his arm. She wore a gown of soft, gray wool: high necked, tight waisted, full skirted, with a frill of lace at throat and wrist. A gorgeous paisley shawl was draped about her shoulders and fastened with a large silver pin. Like the other costumes she wore, it would have been high fashion in the days when Maggie was giving tea parties for her dolls. “Maggie, my dear,” Dhileas called from the doorway, “ye and Geordie can finish that game another day. For now, come sit by the fire with me.” Geordie started to protest, but Maggie did not deign to listen. Jumping to her feet, she said, “How good to see you Aunt Dhileas.” As soon as they were seated, Dhileas said to Stuart, “Now fetch us a wee dram, Laddie. Nothing like a tot of good malt whiskey to warm the bones and whet the appetite.” As Stuart, with a lopsided grin moved off to do the old lady's bidding, she turned to Maggie and said with mock severity, “I hear ye have introduced a new fashion in riding attire.” Maggie stiffened, then laughed, noting the twinkle in Dhileas's eyes. They were talking happily of horses and habits when Stuart returned carrying a glass for each of them. 123
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Maggie accepted the proffered drink without comment. But she couldn't help thinking that everything she had heard about the drinking habits of the Scots must be true. Silently, Phineas melted out of the shadows and jumped onto Maggie's lap where he settled himself into a cozy ball. Stuart assumed his usual stance before the fireplace and Geordie flopped into a chair facing the three of them. Thus they sat, and for a while, the conversation moved by fits and starts over a number of subjects. Aunt Dhileas had requested a second “wee dram” and was sipping it happily when Jeannie appeared to announce that dinner was ready. How quickly they had fallen into a pattern. Again, Stuart offered his aunt his arm; Geordie escorted both his sister and Maggie. With Phineas leading the procession, they made their way to the dining room and each took his or her accustomed seat; even Phineas returned to his regular place beside Dhileas's chair. Dinner, too, was much the same except that a roast of mutton had replaced the beef. Over dinner, with Jeannie there to prime the pump, so to speak, conversation flowed freely. It wasn't until she again brought up the idea of a Hogmanay gala that the conversation grew heated. “There's nae time,” Stuart declared. “There's time aplenty if we add another pair of hands.” Jeannie insisted. “And where do ye think to find these hands?” “Why, Ben's wife, Flora, for one; and Mrs. Allchin's sister would be more than glad for a few extra coins in her pocket.” 124
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“Still afraid to spend a shilling, Stuart?” This in a lazy drawl from Geordie. Stuart turned on him, anger written in his face. “Perhaps ye'd like to contribute something to the household coffers?” The words were spoken softly; the tone was ominous. Instantly, Jeannie intervened. “That's enough. There is a guest present at our table. It's not fitting for brothers to address each other so.” The two men subsided into silence: Stuart with a scowl, Geordie with a smirk. Throughout the entire exchange, Dhileas had remained quiet, picking at her food, slipping a tidbit to Phineas from time to time. But she had not missed a word, of that Maggie felt certain. Embarrassed for them, uncomfortable because she was sure her presence was an imposition, Maggie wished that she had missed the entire incident. Into this awkward silence, Kate came to serve the desert: apple roly-poly with custard sauce. Jeannie, clearly determined to salvage what she could of the evening, again praised the talents of Mrs. Allchin. Aunt Dhileas now joined in, asking if Maggie had enjoyed her tour of Dunphaedair? “Ever so much,” Maggie replied. “Especially the salon on the second floor. Those ceilings are exquisite. What marvelous photographs they will make.” Suddenly, another thought occurred to her. “I've been meaning to ask ... is it one of you who plays the bagpipe I hear each ni...?” 125
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Before the final word could leave Maggie's lips, Stuart, his face suddenly gone livid, shoved back his chair and rose to his feet, spilling some of his wine. It splattered across the white table cloth like drops of blood before he dashed glass and all to the floor where it shattered into myriad pieces. “There is nae piper! ‘Tis Geordie's imagination that peoples the halls with ghosts.” These last words the laird flung over his shoulder as he stalked from the room. Dumbfounded, Maggie glanced quickly about the table. Jeannie was clearly upset, Geordie looked amused. Kate, who had entered in time to hear Maggie's remark and witness Stuart's response, stood behind Dhileas's chair, pale and obviously shaken. Only Dhileas remained absolutely serene. As the silence grew, so did Maggie's embarrassment. Why didn't someone say something? she wondered. Why had Stuart been so angry? It was Dhileas who spoke first. “I've had enough excitement for one evening,” she remarked, sounding quite pleased. “I think I shall retire now.” Of course! Maggie thought. She sprang to her feet and hurried to Dhileas's side. “May I see you up the stairs?” Instantly, Geordie and Jeannie were on their feet offering protests, but Dhileas silenced them with a wave of her hand. Then, looking up at Maggie, she said, “Thank ye, Maggie.” With Phineas, tail tall above his back, preceding them, and Dhileas leaning on Maggie's arm, they departed the dining room in dead silence.
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“You'll have to tell me the way,” Maggie reminded Dhileas as they approached the stairs. Then, as they reached each landing, Maggie suggested they stop and catch their breath. Dhileas would have none of it. “Ye are nae breathing hard; nae more am I. Dinnae listen to that Jeannie with all her blether about the state of my health. I'll go when my time comes and not one day sooner.” When they reached the old lady's door, she said, “Bide a wee, Maggie. ‘Tis early and there'll nae be much going on down stairs. Stuart will be brooding in the library, and Jeannie and Geordie will have their heads together in the parlor.” Maggie had been hoping for the invitation, and as soon as they were comfortably settled before the fire, she said, “May I ask you some questions, Aunt Dhileas? I don't want to be rude, but I'm ... confused ... I might even say distressed...” Dhileas laughed. “Of course, ye are; and I promise I'll answer as many of your questions as is meet. But first let me tell ye, Lassie, ye do, indeed, look like Eilean. And Geordie, no matter what kind of fool he may be, was correct when he told ye that there the resemblance ends.” Maggie's jaw grew slack with surprise. How in the world did Dhileas know what Geordie had said? “Now, ask me what ye will.” Astonishment had momentarily blanked all questions from Maggie's mind. With an effort, she gathered her thoughts while Dhileas waited patiently. In the end, putting the latest incident first, Maggie asked, “Why did Stuart react so violently to my mention of a piper?” 127
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Dhileas remained silent for so long, Maggie was beginning to fear the old lady had no intention of answering. But at last, with a quick intake of breath followed by a sigh, she said, “‘Tis a sorry business; but it cannae be hidden forever. And now ye've heard the piper, ye've a right to know.” Dhileas paused, sighed once more. “‘Tis said that when Lachlan plays the pipes, death walks the halls of Dunphaedair.”
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Chapter 8 DISBELIEF WAS written large on Maggie's face as she muttered, “The ghost of Lachlan Fitzroy?” Dhileas underwent a subtle change; the light that usually shone in her eyes dimmed. “I know ye dinnae believe, Lassie. Ye are too lately come to the Highlands, too new to the ways of a Highlander.” She paused, looked deep into Maggie's eyes before adding, “But ye must ken that ours is an ancient land and full of sorrow. When the mists rise thick over bog and fen, or the moon casts shadows in lonely glen, the dead lie not easy in their graves.” Had Maggie heard anyone but Dhileas speak thusly, she'd have laughed. But Dhileas, by the very intensity of her speech, declared how firmly she believed all that she said. So Maggie listened patiently as the old lady continued. “As for the pipes of Lachlan Fitzroy, the last time they were heard, Eilean MacPhaedair drowned.” The fire burned merrily on the hearth, filling the room with warmth and cheer. Yet a chill that started in the marrow of Maggie's bones engulfed her. No wonder Stuart had reacted so violently to her words.... Still unable to credit what Dhileas had said, Maggie asked, “And you believe it was Lachlan Fitzroy I heard...?” Dhileas remained silent, gazing into the flames that danced over the bed of coal in the fireplace, and Maggie feared she would learn no more that evening. However, there was one more question she had to ask. 129
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But before she could speak, Dhileas, with an abrupt shake of her head and a quick indrawn breath, spoke once more. The shadow that had lain upon her face was gone. “Dinnae fash yersel’ Lass. ‘Tis the ghost of Lachlan who pipes death, but he is nae the only piper in the land.” Maggie stared at the old lady, wondering, What does she mean by that? But looking into those clear, bright eyes, Maggie could see that Dhileas had said all that she was going to say. It would be quite useless to probe further. Disappointed though Maggie was, still and all, Dhileas was good company and Maggie stayed for perhaps a half hour longer. They laughed and spoke of inconsequential things until the old lady began trying valiantly to conceal her yawns behind a lace handkerchief. As Maggie prepared to take her leave, Dhileas asked, “Are ye quite certain ye can find your way back?” “Did I not find my way back before?” Reassured, Dhileas produced a candle, bid her guest good night, and opened the door to let Maggie pass. She almost tripped over Phineas who came sauntering in looking wellpleased with himself. Dhileas shook her head resignedly. “I guess we both know what that tom cat's been up to!” The affection in her tone belied the stern look she had given the animal. Then she added, “Ach, well. Lads will be lads.” On that philosophic note, she bid Maggie goodnight and Maggie took her departure. It seemed colder and darker in the hallway than she remembered, and once alone, the sound of her own footsteps echoing behind her was—or were they 130
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hers? She paused and listened. Silence. But now, in the guttering light of the candle, she could see strange shadows wavering to and fro. Suddenly, stories from her childhood rose large and fearsome in her imagination. “...ghosties and ghoulies, and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night...” And when she sought to turn her mind to other things, it was Lachlan Fitzroy who filled her thoughts. Why did he—his ghost—pipe death in the halls of Dunphaedair? Revenge? But I don't believe in ghosts, Maggie reminded herself. Dhileas believes, taunted a little voice inside Maggie's head. She shivered and walked faster, and the whisper of her footsteps was more unnerving than the silence. Fortunately, she did find her way directly to her room, which she entered with a long drawn sigh of relief. On the hearth, flames flickered yellow and green over a bed of glowing coal and the room was warm. Safe within its sheltering walls, Maggie berated herself for having let her imagination run away with her. She changed quickly into a night dress, gave her hair a good brushing, and went to bed without her customary wash. She couldn't face the icy water in the ewer. I'll have an extra good scrub in the morning, she promised herself as she blew out the last candle and climbed into the huge four-poster. How good it felt. The down-filled mattress beneath her, the down-filled quilt snuggled over her. If only her thoughts had been as comforting. In an effort to lure sleep, Maggie set her mind to work on the problem of how best to use her meager supply of flash 131
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equipment. She had only enough to take a limited number of photographs inside the castle. But try as she would, her mind returned unbidden to Dhileas and her talk of Lachlan Fitzroy. Had his piping— someone's piping—really been heard in Dunphaedair shortly before Eilean drowned? Was it Eilean who had heard them? Did she realize they were announcing her death? Was that why she was fearful? Dhileas told me I shouldn't worry even though I have heard the pipes, Maggie reminded herself. Still, it seemed obvious that someone—and Maggie doubted it was a ghost— had wanted her to hear their skirling. Why? And if not her's, then whose death did that bagpipe portend? It was an ugly question, and it sent a shiver down Maggie's spine, especially since it seemed to lead quite easily to contemplation of Geordie and worry over what his real reason had been for inviting her to Dunphaedair. And that sent her thoughts skittering back to Stuart, to the way it had felt to have his arms about her for even that brief moment in the stable, and a warm glow suffused her. With a determined effort, Maggie thrust those memories aside, and still sleep eluded her. She tossed, she turned, she pummeled her pillow. At last, weary with her futile efforts, she arose once more, lighted a candle, and shrugged into her flannel wrapper. The coals in the fireplace were now mere embers and the air was decidedly colder than when she had gone to bed. Nevertheless, Maggie was determined to hurry down to the library and try again to find a suitable book. 132
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As she stepped out into the hall, she was struck once more by the darkness there. Again, she was aware of shadows crouching just beyond the circle of light cast by her candle. Apprehension washed over her. On the verge of panic, she almost let fear send her scuttling back to her room. But that would have been cowardly. Maggie took a deep breath and whispered, “My father did not raise a coward!” Shielding her candle with the palm of her hand, she forced herself to proceed. But she couldn't help wondering, How was it that in that castle, not one lamp, not one candle was left aglow? And almost at the same instant she thought, Can this be another indication that money is in short supply in Dunphaedair? Could the family ill-afford an extra mouth to feed? Maggie was so distressed by this thought, she was half way across the great hall before the sound of angry voices emanating from the library halted her, uncertain whether to go on or retreat. Abruptly, the sounds grew louder and Maggie had no difficulty in recognizing Stuart's voice, or understanding his words. “I've heard enough! If ye dinnae like it, ye can leave.” Without warning, the door to the library crashed open and Geordie charged out. Had not the rush of air created by the opening of the door blown out Maggie's candle, he would most certainly have seen her. Had his vision not been clouded by his fury, he should have seen her anyway in the light streaming through the library door. But he did not, and he shouted over his shoulder as he stormed by, “Ye'll not again be rid of me that easily, Stuart. By gawd, I'll have my due!” 133
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Then he was gone, the door to the library swung shut, and Maggie was alone in the stygian darkness. She almost cried out, but stopped the sound in her throat. Scarcely thinking what she did, she turned and groped her way back across the hall, bumping into tables, tripping over chairs, heart pounding with primeval dread of the blackness that enveloped her, urged on by fear of discovery. She reached the foot of the stairs at last and with the balustrade to guide her, hurried to the floor above. There she paused and reached into the pocket of her wrapper—matches. She relit her candle, then crept back to her room, grateful that she had not been discovered, shocked by what she had inadvertently overheard. Apparently, Stuart really had thrown Geordie out at some time in the past. What could Geordie have done to so anger his brother? And with such bad feeling between the them, why had Geordie invited Maggie to Dunphaedair? Indeed, considering the fact that she looked like the dead Eilean, how had he had the temerity to do so? Maggie was bone-cold by the time she re-entered her bedchamber. Even snuggled under the down comforter again, it was long before the tremors that racked her subsided. But it was not the cold that kept her awake until almost dawn. It was the turmoil raging inside her. It seemed quite obvious that her presence there was not only an imposition, it was undoubtedly painful to the laird, for she must be a constant reminder of his lost wife. By all that was right and holy, Maggie told herself, she should pack up and leave immediately. But how? She had no money and no place to go. More than that, it would be an added imposition 134
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to ask her host to provide transportation back to Lairg. All she could do was finish the projected work as fast as possible, then do what she could to repay Jeannie and Stuart out of whatever earnings the book might bring. So Maggie's thoughts ran as she stared wide-eyed into the darkness until the night had run its course. Slowly, her room began to fill with dim grey light. Then, when it was almost time to rise, her eyes closed at last. When Iona and Kate arrived with Maggie's tea and hot water, she was sound asleep. So deep was her slumber that she was thoroughly muddled upon first waking. Iona came to her bedside and inquired softly, “Are ye all right, Lassie?” Thanked for her concern and assured that Maggie was, indeed, all right, Iona departed, trailing Kate in her wake. Maggie drank her tea slowly, trying to work up the courage to jump out of bed into the cold. It was the same each morning. She would lie abed remembering the balmy mornings in Africa, the birds calling in the trees, the happy shouts of the natives, the laughter of their bright-eyed children. She had forgotten, the night before when she promised herself she'd have her wash in the morning, that there would be no fire. When she could procrastinate no longer, Maggie took a deep breath and threw back the quilt. Actually, the air was not as cold as she had anticipated, though it was far from warm. After giving herself an extra good scrub—not only to make up for her weakness the night before, but as a lesson in selfdiscipline, she donned the same navy blue, wool skirt she had 135
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worn, not only the day she arrived but every day since. With so limited a wardrobe, it was imperative that she make what she had serve well. Again, Jeannie was seated alone at the breakfast table when Maggie entered. Hurriedly seating herself, she asked, “Am I late? I'm so sorry.” “Not at all. Stuart's always up and away with the sun, and Geordie...” A smile flickered across Jeannie's face. “He comes and he goes like the clouds. So sit yourself down. There are griddle cakes this morning. No one makes griddle cakes like Mrs. Allchin.” They were good. Jeannie did not exaggerate with all her talk about the marvelous Mrs. Allchin. Maggie wondered when, if ever, she would get to meet that august lady. Not on that day it seemed for when they had finished eating, Jeannie excused herself saying she had much to do if they were to have the Hogmanay gala. So, Maggie thought, Stuart did give his consent after all. Or was Jeannie simply ignoring her brother's feelings? But that was none of Maggie's affair. Her concern was getting started with her book. Stuart had left orders that Maggie's horse should be saddled for her any time she chose. She had but to speak to the stable boy. And, Maggie thought, there is no time like the present. She spent the better part of that day as well as most of the succeeding few days riding about the glen, along the shore of the loch, selecting those places she wished to photograph, considering the time of day when the light would 136
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cast the most interesting shadows or reveal some special feature of the landscape, and making copious notes. During that week, she saw members of the family only at mealtimes, and often did not see the brothers except at dinner. On those occasions, the conversation was strained but polite; and on those evenings Maggie silently gave thanks for the loquacious Jeannie. Neither did Dhileas put in an appearance for several days. Then, late one afternoon, Iona arrived at Maggie's door with an invitation for her to join the old lady in her quarters for tea. Maggie hadn't realized how lonely and depressed she had become until she felt the surge of pleasure the invitation brought. After sending word that she would not be taking tea in the great hall, Maggie brushed and combed her hair, changed into a fresh shirtwaist, and hurried up to the old lady's room. Dhileas greeted her guest enthusiastically and urged her to take the same seat she had occupied before. Even as Maggie was taking her place, Iona arrived carrying a large tray loaded with the usual assortment of delectable fare, followed by Kate with a silver tea service and kettle of hot water. After arranging everything with her customary economy of movement, Iona and her helper departed. “There, now.” Dhileas beamed at Maggie. “We may be short of some things, here at Dunphaedair, but never food. So, dinnae fash yersel’ Maggie. Ye are here, now. ‘Tis where ye belong.” Maggie stared at the old lady in consternation, thinking, It's as if she can read my thoughts. And what does she mean 137
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‘where I belong'? Finally, Maggie said, “Thank you, Aunt Dhileas. I have been wondering if my presence here is not an imposition...” “‘Tis not the only thing ye be wondering about.” Maggie said nothing, only nodded her head, slowly. “Ach, well. Sometimes ‘tis hard to see one's way in this world.” The roll of the R as Dhileas said worrrld brought a smile to Maggie's lips for it reminded her of Stuart. And she wondered why it was that neither Jeannie nor Geordie spoke with that same mellifluous brogue, for even when they lapsed into a Scottish burr, it had not the same richness as did Stuart's. “Of course,” Dhileas was saying, “I always knew why I was come to Dunphaedair.” “I would love to hear if you would like to tell me,” Maggie said. “Oh, aye, I'm going to tell ye. But first, let's have our tea.” As if these words were a magic incantation, Phineas appeared from under Dhileas's chair, blinking his golden eyes. Dhileas was already spooning a generous portion of poached salmon onto a plate. She then leaned over and placed it on the floor near the cat, declaring stoutly, “He's better company than many another I could name.” Maggie couldn't help laughing. “I always invited Garabaldi to my dolls’ tea parties when I was a child. I ate the cake and he drank the milk.” Dhileas nodded. “We're alike, ye and I, in more ways than one.” 138
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Perhaps we are at that, Maggie thought, and she felt a sudden glow of pride. Dhileas did not pick at her food, but with her small stature it took very little to satisfy her. Maggie, on the other hand, enjoyed not one, but two servings of almost everything. When she realized she was actually reaching for a third currant bun, she blushed and stammered, “It's all the riding about in the cold, getting on and off the horse...” “Oh, aye. Dinnae fash yersel’ Lass. I like to see a body with a good appetite. When first I came to Dunphaedair, and after, while Stuart was still a bairn, for all my size I could eat my share.” Dhileas sighed, and her vision seemed to turn inward. “Is that when you first came to Dunphaedair—when Stuart was a little boy?” “Oh, long before that. I came here when my sister's granddaughter, Mary, wed the laird of Dunphaedair, for I knew she'd have need of me.” Her words echoed in Maggie's mind. “...for I knew she'd have need of me.” That was what Dhileas had said the day they met. How odd. Dhileas was still speaking. “Stuart's father was a good man. He loved Mary. But she was small, like me. Birthing Stuart was an ordeal from which she never fully recovered. I helped her all I could ... saw to the running of the household and gave her time to spend with her husband and her child ... little enough of that was allotted her. She died when Stuart was but a lad ... seven years old, he was.” 139
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Now she fell silent, sat staring dreamily into the fire. Maggie, too, remained silent, taking time to digest what Dhileas had said. If Stuart's mother was Dhileas's sister's grandchild ... after a bit of pondering and counting on her fingers, Maggie determined that Dhileas must be Stuart's great, great aunt. Why, Maggie thought, she must be near ninety years old—perhaps older! Maggie started when Dhileas abruptly resumed her story. “MacPhaedair didnae long remain a widower. He married a Lowlands woman ... came from a moneyed family in Edinburgh. That's how Jeannie comes by all her daft ideas.” “Then Jeannie and Geordie are not really kin to you?” “Nae ... not those two...” Again Dhileas fell silent. Phineas, having finished a thorough grooming of whiskers and paws, jumped into Maggie's lap and spread himself across her knees. Automatically, she began to stroke his glossy coat and he filled the silence with his raspy song. When Dhileas spoke again, it was with head bowed and softly, as if to herself. “I could have told MacPhaedair no good would come of that joining. Still, ‘twould have been breath wasted.” Now she raised her head, looked full at Maggie. “Never misjudge my nephew, Maggie. He comes by his stubborness and hot temper quite honestly. But for all that, he is always fair, always just in his dealings.” At this mention of Stuart, Maggie gave an uncomfortable wriggle. Did the old lady also know how giddy Maggie felt whenever Stuart was near? Dhileas seemed, in some 140
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inexplicable way, to know so much. However, she said nothing more and Maggie did not press her. Initiating a quick change of subject, Dhileas now remarked, “Ye've heard, nae dout, of Kenneth Mackenzie, the Brahan Seer.” “Brahan Seer?” Maggie shook her head. “He was naught but a peasant lad, but the sicht was strong in him. He foretold many an event, not the least of which was the battle of Culloden. Long before Bonnie Prince Charlie was born, the Seer said, ‘Desolate Drummossie moor will run red with the best blood of the Highlands'; and so it did. “‘Twas not the only event that he foresaw. There's a book in the library if ye are interested. I only mention him now because my family name was Mackenzie ... on my mother's side.” “And you, too, have the sight?” If Dhileas heard the doubt in Maggie's tone, she gave no sign. “Aye,” she replied, a bit sadly it seemed to Maggie. As for Maggie, she was not certain how much faith she should put in this declaration. True, she had been startled more than once by Dhileas's seeming knowledge of events to which she had not been privy. And yet, there could be some reasonable explanation. But to see into the future? Surely not. Could this be what Jeannie had meant when she said Aunt Dhileas was given to fancies? But supposing it were true, then why had Dhileas not warned Eilean to stay away from the loch?
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As if Maggie had asked the question aloud, Dhileas said, “The pictures are not always clear, nor can they be summoned at will. But what I know, I know.” To this there seemed no response. By then, the fire was burning low. Maggie asked if she could replenish it before she took her leave. “Aye, thank ye; but not too much coal. I shall retire early tonight.” As Maggie fed the fire, from behind her, she heard Dhileas softly crooning; and when Maggie turned back to say goodnight, she saw that Dhileas was cradling Phineas in her arms like a huge furry baby.
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Chapter 9 THE THIRD WEEK in December, snow began to fall putting an end to Maggie's outside activities. It also became apparent that with time running out, preparations for the party, which was to take place on December thirty-first, were behind schedule. Not only did the ballroom still require cleaning and decorating, as did the banqueting hall, Jeannie was determined to clean and open both the salon and the card room. Add to that the need to provide rooms for those guests who would be staying the night, and even with the addition of two pairs of hands, this represented a monumental task. Now Maggie began to understand why Stuart had said there was scarcely time to prepare for a gala evening. Thus, Jeannie, who the week before had been shocked at the very idea of allowing a guest to participate in the housecleaning, now seemed delighted to make use of Maggie. Attired in apron and mob cap, she was set to work in the salon with instructions to remove dust covers, fold them, and leave them outside in the corridor whence someone would pick them up and deliver them to the laundry. That facility, Maggie had learned during the tour of the castle, was located somewhere on the grounds near the shore of the loch. A couple of women from a nearby croft came in once a week to see to the washing and ironing. Also entrusted to Maggie was the task of dusting the furniture and cleaning all the ornamentals in the salon. Actually, once all was uncovered, she was surprised at the 143
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austerity of the chamber. Furnishings were limited, and except for those magnificent painted ceilings, there was little in the way of decoration. Even so, it took her a good part of the afternoon to complete the assignment for she worked diligently at removing all traces of grime from every surface: first from tables and chairs, then from pictures and the few objet d'arte that stood here and there about the area. Last of all, she polished the huge brass firedogs. It was late by the time Maggie had finished for the day. She was tired and her back ached, but she felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she looked about that magnificent chamber. The honeyed glow of hand-rubbed wood, the pearly luster of fragile china; gleaming metal and sparkling crystal. How elegant it looked. Yes, Maggie was well pleased with her day's work. So thinking, she gathered up the rags and brushes she had used and put them in the empty cinder bucket for return to the kitchen, then headed for the exit. She had her hand on the door when the sound of loud voices from just beyond stayed her. There was no mistaking either one; Jeannie and Stuart were arguing, their angry tones loud and harsh. Maggie had no desire to eavesdrop, neither did she wish to walk out into the hall and confront them. “This is madness!” Stuart shouted. “Who is going to pay for this lavish display?” “‘Twill come out of the household accounts. Ye'll just have to see to it that I get a bit more this month. Goodness knows I make do on little enough the rest of the year!” 144
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“And as ye well know ... or ye should ... there's little enough to go round any time of the year. We're not a rich family, Jeannie.” “Pshaw! There's always plenty and enough when ye want something new for that distillery.” “We've been down that road before. I'll not argue with ye...” “And I need a new gown for the ball. Certainly, I'm as important as that distillery. After all, it was my mother's money that saved this place for ye and your father.” “He was your father, too, and, by damn, ye and Geordie shared your mother's inheritance. ‘Tis nae my fault ye let him squander yours for ye.” “That's nae business of yours, Stuart. I do my share around here, trying to run this place on the pittance you allow me. I'm entitled to a new...” At that point, it occurred to Maggie that by the simple expedient of dropping the cinder bucket, she could create enough noise to make her presence known. She opened her fingers, and bucket and brushes fell with a resounding clatter. The ensuing silence was balm to Maggie's ears. Nonetheless, she lingered yet a while longer, and, as she had hoped, the hallway was empty when she did open the door. Looking neither to left nor right, she made her way to her own room with all speed, her mind seething with renewed worry and self-recrimination. Why had she ever allowed herself to become entangled in her present situation? What perversity of mind had led her to accept Geordie's invitation in the first place? It had been a stupid thing to do—cowardly, 145
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as well. She should have swallowed her pride, gone to that mission school in the slums of London, and undertaken the service offered her. No doubt Pastor Makepeace was a fine man and, Maggie concluded, I could have contributed much to his good works. But no! I had to come here to Dunphaedair and take photographs. And now, with the weather turned so cold ... why did I not think of that before? To arrive in the middle of winter prattling about a book of photographs ... how could I have been so improvident? And what assurance is there that anyone will buy it if I do manage to finish it? It was all wishful thinking, and in the meantime, here I am, imposing upon Stuart and Jeannie, with no assurance that I can ever repay them and no idea what Geordie had in mind when he brought me home with him. In her room once more, she threw herself into a chair drawn up to the fire and concentrated on recalling the argument she had just overheard. Jeannie had said there was always plenty of money for the distillery ... did that mean that the family was not, after all, in such dire financial straights? Was Stuart just a tightwad? But he had been generous enough with Maggie. Or—and the very thought made her squirm with mortification—was he taking from the family to show hospitality to an inconvenient guest? And how had Geordie squandered Jeannie's inheritance? It's none of your business, Maggie told herself. But already another memory was fostering a host of new questions: Dhileas's reference to Stuart's father's second wife who had come from a moneyed family in Edinburgh. “I knew no good 146
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would come of it,” Dhileas had said, and now Jeannie's claim that it had been her mother's money that had saved Dunphaedair. What had prompted that remark? Why should it matter? As Stuart had pointed out, all three children had the same father. Abruptly, another memory filled Maggie's mind. 'I'd burn it down before I'd see it belong to another' ... Remembering those words, the passion in Stuart's tone, Maggie felt goose bumps rise upon her arms. The awful feeling that she had wandered into a dangerous quagmire of family relationships and jealousies where one misstep could be fatal filled her with unease. She jumped to her feet and began to pace. For goodness sake, she told herself, don't be so melodramatic. All families squabble. It doesn't really mean anything. Besides, the affairs of the MacPhaedairs do not concern you. You have troubles enough of your own to work out. And thinking of troubles of her own, Jeannie's demand for a new dress for the gala had brought a most pressing problem to Maggie's mind: she had nothing, absolutely nothing, that would pass for a ball gown. Even the tea costume she had allowed herself, though fashionably cut from grey moiré silk with a small, elegant bustle, was extremely plain. A rap on the door interrupted Maggie's gloomy musings. It was Iona. She entered carrying a steaming kettle. “Ye'll be wanting a good wash after this day's work.”
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“Oh, Iona. At this moment, there is nothing in this world I need or would enjoy more,” Maggie said with heartfelt gratitude. When Iona had filled the pitcher and departed, Maggie removed her outer clothing, then turned to the wash stand, filled the basin to the brim, and scrubbed the dirt not only from her face and hands, but gave her entire person a good wash. By the time she had finished, it was time to dress for tea. A long, gusty sigh escaped Maggie. She would have given almost anything to have avoided going down to join in that ritual. It meant having to face Jeannie and Stuart who must know that she had overheard at least part of their disagreement. Well, there was no changing that. The best she could do was pretend, as she was certain they would, that nothing had occurred. With reluctant fingers, Maggie fastened the last button on her fresh shirtwaist, wrapped her paisley shawl about her shoulders. She wished that she had something warmer to wear, for the halls and stairways were damp and draughty, and with each passing day, she felt the cold more. Nevertheless, on that day despite the cold, the trip Maggie usually made on flying feet was accomplished with lagging step. As she had anticipated, no mention was made of the argument. However, for the first time since Maggie had arrived, Jeannie subsided into a shell, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Neither did Stuart nor Geordie make 148
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any attempt to lighten the atmosphere of gloom. And thus things remained in the household for the next few days. One of the women brought in to help with the cleaning was Flora, the tacksman's wife. She and Maggie worked side by side one day readying bedrooms. Young Ian, Flora said, was helping his father while she was busy at the castle. “He's a handsome child,” Maggie said, and reaffirmed her desire to take his photograph “...when the weather is warmer.” Maggie longed to ask more about Eilean. But neither by look nor word did Flora acknowledge the resemblance that had so shocked her the day they met, and Maggie could think of no way to introduce the subject without sounding like a gossip, which, she thought ruefully, is exactly what such talk would be. **** BY THE END of the week, those rooms which were to be used were ready. But Maggie was not. She still had absolutely no idea what she was going to wear. One morning, with less than a week remaining until Hogmanay, she laid out everything she owned, hoping that with a little imagination she might put together something resembling a ball gown, but it was useless. Even had she been handy with a needle, which she was not, the few things she owned were simple and serviceable. No amount of altering would change that fact. And without money, Maggie could buy nothing. Thoroughly disheartened, Maggie collapsed into a chair near the hearth and gazed glumly into what remained of her 149
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morning fire—a luxury that had been added with the first fall of snow. Into this chimney corner of despond came Dhileas, looking every bit the fairy godmother. As she entered, Maggie rose to her feet, stretched her lips in the semblance of a smile. “How good to see you,” she said. “Come ... sit here beside me and get warm.” “Nae,” Dhileas said briskly. “I'll not be sitting for even a wee moment. We've much to do, ye and I, and we'd best get to it.” Maggie gave the old lady a quizzical glance, wondering what she could mean. “Don't stand there gawking, Lass. ‘Tis a bonny surprise Iona and I have for ye. If ye'd like to know what it is, get your shawl and come along with me right now, and there's to be nae fussing!” Old and fragile Dhileas might be, but she carried within her an unquenchable spirit that defied discouragement and gloom. By the time they reached her door, though Maggie was shivering with cold, she had regained her own good humor and was fairly bursting with curiosity. She could not for the life of her guess what Dhileas had in mind. Then they were inside and Iona was holding up the most beautiful dress Maggie had ever seen. Not even her mother had had a gown to equal this one. Its lines were elegant and the material, a luxurious silk brocade in a marvelous shade of royal peacock blue, shone softly in the lamplight. “We've done the best we can by guess ... now ye must try it on,” Dhileas said proudly. 150
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“Me...?” It was a stupid response, but Maggie's mind had gone blank with astonishment. “Of course, ye! Don't be wasting time with foolish questions. Take off your skirt and ‘waist and lets get on with it.” Impulsively, Maggie turned, threw her arms about Dhileas and gave her a kiss. Maggie would have kissed Iona, too, but it was clear from her stance that she would have none of it. Nonetheless, she actually smiled as Maggie thanked her profusely. Modesty forgotten in the excitement of the moment, it took Maggie only an instant to slip out of her clothes. As Iona lifted the gown to slip it over Maggie's head, Dhileas exclaimed, “Sweet baby Jesus, Lass! Have ye nae flannel petticoats? ‘Tis nae wonder ye be all ashiver!” Seeing the blank expression on Maggie's face, Dhileas continued, “Red flannel petticoats to keep out the cold. In this house, ye'll freeze before spring without them. But never mind. We'll tend to that problem in due time. Right now, ye must get into that dress.” Iona again raised the garment high and Maggie slipped into it. It smelled of camphor, but the fabric felt soft and smooth against her shoulders. And it fit surprisingly well—far better than the dress Jane Doogood had chosen for Maggie at the mission in Blantyre. And thinking of Africa, without warning, the horror of her last days there swept over her. Terror gripped her as the room seemed to recede leaving her alone with the blazing fire.... 151
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Maggie was never certain what happened next; she only remembered someone shaking her, and Dhileas demanding, “What is it, child? Are you ill?” Then it was over. The fear melted away. The flames were, after all, confined to the hearth. Feeling a bit foolish, Maggie assured the two women that she was fine, at the same time apologizing for the incident, though she was at a loss to explain it. When Iona and Dhileas were convinced of Maggie's wellbeing, they turned their attention once more to the dress. Its stiffly-boned bodice, which ended in points both front and back, hugged Maggie's slender waist. It also cupped and raised her small breasts, effecting a cleavage with which nature had failed to endow her. The neckline was cut in a flaring vee that left throat and shoulders bare; it also plunged low to reveal rather more of that cleavage than seemed entirely proper. The skirt, in front, hung straight and slim, but the back was quite full. Over the hips, folds of the same material were draped in deep panniers, then caught up in back and fastened beneath a small bustle, the ends falling away in a short train. “Oh, aye,” Dhileas murmured, her fingers clasped under her chin like a child at Christmas. ‘Tis exactly right.” Maggie's hand rose to the plunging neckline. “Do you not think it a bit too ... decollete?” Dhileas chuckled. “Dinnae be blate, lass. ‘Tis exactly right!” And with that, she produced a sheer, Indian Cashmere shawl which she draped about Maggie's shoulders and 152
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fastened with a large silver brooch. “There, ye see? What is revealed becomes a tempting secret.” “But I am no temptress.” “There is nae woman alive but is a temptress, Lass. How else should the race survive?” Maggie wasn't certain she liked that answer, but she did feel ... beautiful in that dress. She had never before in all her life felt that way. Would Stuart think her beautiful? As the thought flashed unbidden through Maggie's mind, a warm flush suffused her cheeks and she let her head droop lest Dhileas see and make comment. Thus, Maggie stood, silent, unresisting as Iona and the old lady pushed and pulled and pinned, turning her this way and that to observe the effect. All the while, Maggie wondered how she could ever accept so extravagant a gift, knowing full well she could not bring herself to refuse. When both women were satisfied with their handiwork, Maggie changed back into her own clothes, then returned to her own chamber. But not before trying to express her appreciation to Dhileas and Iona for all that they were doing. “Jeannie is right about one thing, a good Scotsman never throws anything away,” Dhileas remarked in an off-hand manner. And there was plenty and enough material in that dress. A week ago the skirt fit over a great, unwieldy hoop.” “You must know,” Maggie said, “I've not a farthing with which...” But Dhileas would not let Maggie finish. “‘Tis payment aplenty to see the cloth put to good use.” She sniffed. “‘Twas 153
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dear enough when ‘twas new and never worn more than once or twice.” Maggie said no more though she couldn't help wondering, Why me? Why had the dress not been given to Jeannie? That question was answered by Jeannie, herself, over lunch. Neither of the men were present, and the moment Maggie entered the dining room she could see that something had pleased her hostess enormously. Gone was the tightlipped, sullen droop that Jeannie's mouth had worn for the week past, and in its place was a dimpled smile. “Just wait ‘til ye see!” she exclaimed. “I knew Aunt Jane could be depended on. She's my mother's sister, ye ken. What a dear she is, and she's sent me the most beautiful gown. In the very latest fashion ... just wait until ye see.” “How wonderful,” Maggie said, adding, “You shall undoubtedly look most beautiful.” Jeannie bridled, but one hand strayed to her thick, auburn curls. “I hope everyone will think so,” she murmured. It didn't occur to Maggie until she was drifting off to sleep that night to wonder to whom the blue, silk brocade that had been turned into a ball gown for her had belonged. Certainly not to tiny Dhileas. Would sight of Maggie, clad in that gown, be the basis for renewed hostility in the family? But surely Dhileas would not have taken something to which she had no claim. Or would she ... ? Maggie did not long lie awake worrying, but her sleep was haunted by a tall figure in a billowing, hoop-skirted dress who pursued her through the dark halls of Dunphaedair to the 154
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tortured wailing of a bagpipe. The sound rose and faded away only to swell again, urging her back to wakefulness. And even after she was awake, Maggie lay for a time listening, uncertain. Was she still dreaming? But no. An honest to goodness winter moon was casting its radiance through her tall, high windows, filling her room with silvery light and black shadow, and the music, too, was real. She would not believe that it was produced by some ghostly piper. And not giving herself time to consider, she slid out of bed, shoved her feet into her slippers and pulled on her wrapper. Then, after hastily lighting a candle, she slipped out into the hall. As the bedroom door closed behind her, apprehension quickened her pulse, and she paused, for a moment undecided. Was she being foolhardy? Perhaps, but what could there be to harm her? In the end, curiosity proved stronger than discretion. The sound of the pipes was louder there in the corridor, and it took only a moment to determine the direction from which it came. Carefully shielding the candle flame, Maggie advanced cautiously, letting the music lead her until she came to an open door. Here, the skirling of the pipe sounded much louder. She was getting close. As she turned to step over the threshold, a gust of icy air extinguished the candle even as she stubbed her toes on something and fell. Maggie landed on stair treads. It hurt and she couldn't suppress a small yelp of pain. The sound of her own voice both startled and frightened Maggie. She froze. Had she been heard? No, there was no pause in the skirling of the pipe. Good, she thought, releasing 155
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a silent sigh of relief. And perhaps it was just as well the candle had gone out—the light would only have announced her presence. Still, Maggie hesitated, wondering if she aught to go on. Why should she care if these Scotsmen believed in ghosts? But curiosity is a keen incentive and Maggie couldn't help wanting to know who would seek to pray upon their superstition in this way. More than that, who wanted her to hear. And why? Eilean MacPhaedair had died the last time the pipes were heard in the halls.... A wave of dread washed over Maggie, but she knew she must go on. It would be childish to allow herself to be deterred by such nonsense. Her determination renewed, Maggie pulled the belt of her robe tighter, then reached out a tentative hand. After a bit of searching with outstretched fingers, she found the handrail, pulled herself up, and began to climb. The blackness, at first, seemed absolute; but her eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom. It was then she realized that she must be in one of the stairwells leading to a turret, for the steps wound their way upward round a central column, and each floor was marked by only a small landing. Maggie was also happy to note that as she threaded her way higher, the blackness through which she moved seemed to lighten, and shortly thereafter she passed a deeply recessed window. And still the wail of the bagpipe lead her upward. Maggie reached the top of the stairs at last and stepped out onto a narrow landing. Straight ahead, another door stood ajar. As she approached, the music abruptly ceased. 156
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Silence, like sheeted ice, encased her. At the same moment, she became aware of the cold, of how thoroughly chilled she was, and a violent tremor set her teeth to chattering. Still she moved forward. At the doorway, she stopped and tried to peek through the crack, but she could see nothing. At that point, Maggie felt an almost overwhelming stab of fear; indeed, her heart was beating wildly and she seriously considered turning herself about and returning to her own chamber with all speed. But Maggie's father had taught her that to give in to unknown terrors is to be a coward all one's life. I am no coward, Maggie assured herself. Grasping the handle of the door, she eased it open and stepped through. Then, even as her gaze swept about the room, something came hurtling toward her. Maggie's muscles, of their own volition, sent her arms up to protect her face, even as she wheeled away. The movement whipped the hem of her wrapper around her legs, tripping her, sending her sprawling. She hit her head in the fall, hard enough to induce unconsciousness. But in that split second before oblivion claimed her, she saw, standing on the far side of the room, a figure, misshapen and grotesque, a horror straight out of nightmare.
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Chapter 10 FORTUNATELY, THE blow barely stunned Maggie, and she regained consciousness only moments later. Limbs stiff with cold, teeth chattering, still groggy from the blow, she pushed herself to a sitting position. As her head cleared and memory returned, so did fear. She gasped, looked wildly about, searching the gloom for that ghastly figure she had glimpsed just before she blacked out. It took only a glance; she was entirely alone in a small, circular room devoid of furniture. Now she ran a trembling hand over her throbbing head. A large and painful goose egg was already rising behind her right ear, and when she touched it, her fingers came away sticky. Slowly, unsteadily, fighting waves of nausea Maggie got to her feet. She was frightfully dizzy; however, neither arms nor legs appeared to be damaged, for which she was sincerely grateful. She knew it was imperative that she make her way back to her room as fast as possible lest she collapse again there in that frigid chamber. She pulled herself to her feet and moved to the door, which now stood wide. On the landing, a faint glimmer of moonlight kept the darkness at bay, but the stairway was lost in impenetrable black. If only, she thought, I had had the sense to drop some matches into my pocket before I left my room. She took a deep breath, fighting the fear that was threatening to become panic. Then she stepped out onto the 158
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landing, felt her way along the wall to the stairway, and, taking a firm grasp of the handrail, began the descent. Twice, she had to stop, sink down upon a step, and cradle her head in her hands as the whole world seemed to tip and revolve around her. However, after what seemed like hours, she reached the door to the third-floor hallway and stepped through. Still fighting off waves of vertigo, she made her way back to her room, lashing herself onward with the thought that she must get back to bed before anyone should discover her. However, it was not to be. Even as she reached her door, she heard Iona and Kate approaching. By then, Maggie's last reserves of strength were spent. Her knees refused to hold her longer and she slid down the wall to the floor. Maggie's next recollection was of Kate's voice wailing, “‘Tis the family curse. She heard the piper and now see what's become of her. There's nae person in the house as is safe. I'll not stay here another night, not I.” “Hush your blether, girl.” That was Iona's voice, trying to silence the half hysterical Kate. However, not until Maggie opened her eyes did the younger woman fall silent. Maggie's head was pounding, but she struggled to sit up. Iona quickly bent over, slipped an arm about her. “Here, Lass, let me help ye. Kate, stop yer sniveling and give us a hand.” Thus, between the two of them, Iona and Kate soon had Maggie in bed. Kate was dispatched to fetch some hot bricks while Iona poured a cup of tea and helped Maggie take a few sips. Then Iona busied herself cleaning the blood from the 159
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wound behind Maggie's ear. It was not deep, but it had bled freely. Not once during her ministrations did Iona question Maggie concerning how it had happened. Jeannie, who arrived within minutes trailing a still babbling Kate, had no such reserve. “Sweet baby Jesus!” she exclaimed at sight of the blood-soaked linens and bowl of blood-stained water. “What happened to ye, Maggie. Kate says ‘twas the piper. Is that what ye told her? Now she's threatening to leave; but that is sheer nonsense ... isn't it? I mean about the piper. Did ye actually see him? Did he attack you? Ye look awful!” Not until she ran out of breath did Jeannie fall silent. Iona, quick to take advantage of the opportunity, declared, “Kate's a fool, Jeannie. Ye ken that. Of course it wasnae any piper. The lass just struck her head on something, and she doesnae need a lot of blether and noise right now. Let her rest. When she feels better, she'll tell us the way of it.” As Iona spoke, she was ushering Jeannie and Kate firmly from the room. Maggie knew she should protest—should tell Jeannie some-thing. But what? That fearful hunched figure in the tower? Surely, she only imagined it ... But of one thing Maggie was certain: that dreadful thing that had come flying across the room was real enough. She had felt the rush of air, heard an odd, muted sort of sound, as it swooped past her head. However, and Maggie breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving, whatever its intention may have been, it had not attacked her after she fell. 160
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All these ideas rushed through Maggie's mind as she considered calling out for Jeannie to wait. In the end, Maggie remained silent, glad of the respite, needing time to collect her thoughts and decide just what she should tell Jeannie— and the others. Kate's theatrics, Maggie realized, would by now have alerted the entire household to her ... accident. And that, Maggie finally decided, was the only course of action open to her: explain it away as an accident. She had no desire to mention the piper again and incur Stuart's wrath; neither did she wish to admit that she had been poking about in something that was really none of her business. And yet, Maggie wondered, did not that goose egg behind her ear make it her business? The very fact that it was she who heard the piper must make it her business. Had someone intended to lure her up to that tower in order to ... what? Scare her? But why would anyone want to scare her? The entire incident made no sense. All the more reason to say nothing. Discretion, Maggie decided, was, indeed, the better part of valor. She would keep her own counsel; but she would, at the first opportunity, return to that tower room and search it thoroughly. What it was she hoped to discover, she hadn't the slightest notion. In the meantime, she vowed, she would watch and listen.... Maggie spent the remainder of the morning in bed, waking only when the doctor arrived. “‘Twas Stuart had insisted he be sent for,” Jeannie said. The good doctor found nothing serious amiss: the wound was superficial and no damage had been done Maggie's skull. 161
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Rest was his only prescription, one Maggie's aching head urged her to follow. It was midafternoon when she finally arose, and then only to sit before the fire. Though she was tired, except for a few sore muscles she seemed to have suffered no lasting ill effects from her adventure. Dhileas, together with her faithful companion, Phineas, joined Maggie in her room for tea. “Ach, now Lass,” the old lady said without preamble, “what have ye gotten yourself into? And never mind telling me ‘twas an accident. ‘Tis a fine story for Jeannie, but I know better. As for that, dinnae tell me anything. Just listen and take heed: Dinnae be walking about Dunphaedair in the dark. In future, when ye go to bed of a night, close your door tight behind ye and stay put until morning light.” “But I...” “Dinnae say ‘but I.’ Heed my words!” Dhileas, her black eyes snapping, fixed Maggie with a stern and steady gaze. “Do ye promise?” “Of course, Aunt Dhileas,” Maggie murmured. What else could she say? But the promise did not include a pledge to stay away from the tower room, and Maggie silently renewed her vow to return there at the first opportunity. What she hoped to find, she still could not say; but something.... The two women then turned their attention to the food. Smoked salmon was the main course. By mutual consent, a dish was first served up for Phineas, then they each helped themself to a heaping plate of goodies. 162
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Maggie's misadventure was not mentioned again until Dhileas was ready to depart. She paused just inside the door and glanced back over her shoulder. “How was it, when ye fell, that ye struck yourself behind your ear?” And then she was gone, not waiting for an answer. Her words sent a shiver down Maggie's back. She had fallen forward. At the memory, she turned her hands over and stared at the palms, at the scratches clearly visible there. She had done that on the rough floor trying to break her fall. So, how had she sustained that wound behind her ear? **** WHEN MAGGIE appeared for breakfast the next morning, both Stuart and Geordie were most solicitous; but she assured them that she was fine. With those niceties out of the way, they turned their attention to the day ahead. It was now the thirtieth of December, the day before the gala, and Maggie still did not understand the full meaning of Hogmanay. She had assumed, since the festivities were held on the last day of the year, that it was akin to her own American New Year's Eve. “Aye, and more than that,” Stuart explained. “‘Tis a time for all things to be made new, all debts paid, all grievances settled and left behind.” Maggie couldn't help wondering if that meant within the family as well as without. No one said. Jeannie, whose mind had obviously been on other things, now remarked, “Kate has agreed to stay for at least one more day. At least, I think she has. With the place full of guests, I 163
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don't see how we could manage without her. So, for goodness sake, don't anyone mention the piper...” The instant the word left her mouth, Jeannie looked stricken, and her wide-eyed gaze fastened itself on Stuart. Though he said nothing, his expression spoke volumes. A shadow moved over his face, darkened his eyes. Slowly, he put down his spoon. His gaze moved from Jeannie to Maggie, then back again. “What has the piper to do with this?” “Nothing, Stuart. Kate's just got this idea in her head ... ye ken how superstitious she is...” “What idea?” “When anything happens ... she thinks ... well...” Stuart stood up. “Send her to me in the library, Jeannie. Now!” With that he strode from the room. Not until that moment did Maggie realize her fingers were gently rubbing that lump behind her ear. With an agonized glance at her, Jeannie jumped to her feet and departed in search of Kate. Geordie smiled. Guests began arriving late that afternoon, and there was a sizeable group around the dining table that night. It included Jeannie's Aunt Jane and her husband, Millard McLeod, a stout, red-faced little man, who had made a fortune in wool; Miss Anne Furguson, an old school chum of Jeannie's, and her brother, Donald, an Edinburgh solicitor; and Mr. and Mrs. James Claymoure, also of Edinburgh. He was in shipping. There were, in addition, four more guests whose presence Maggie found disconcerting: Sir Evelyn and Lady Jane Barnestone, and Sir Dabney and Lady Diane Whitherspoon. When they arrived, late in the afternoon, Maggie was 164
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astounded. She had had no idea Stuart knew these people. And she recalled distinctly that Geordie had been unknown to them the day the gentlemen came to meet her in London, neither was any mention made by either Sir Evelyn or Sir Dabney about knowing any other MacPhaedair. And, oddly, that afternoon when these latter guests first arrived, it had been Geordie who rushed forward to welcome them. Was it possible Stuart did not know these people; that Geordie had presumed, on the basis of that one introduction, to invite them himself? Why would he do such a thing? What did he hope to gain? Then she chided herself: Perhaps ‘gain’ had had nothing to do with it; perhaps Geordie just liked them. Still she felt troubled. However, there was nothing she could do about it—certainly not at the moment. In any event, Maggie decided, it was clearly no concern of hers. The guests were tired after their long journey as were those who had spent the last two weeks in strenuous preparation for their arrival. Hence, everyone retired early. As Maggie climbed the stairs, she noted that on this occasion, at least, hallways and stairwells were brightly lit with steadily burning lengths of what looked like short sticks balanced on the sconces. What they were, she had no idea, but she couldn't help wondering, as she entered her room and closed the door behind her, if they would be allowed to burn all night? Maybe, she thought, with the place so well lighted, this would be a good time to return to the tower. But she dismissed the notion. Better to go by daylight; better to wait until all these guests were gone. 165
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Maggie was just dropping off to sleep when it occurred to her, indeed brought her sharply awake once more, that those burning sticks with their clear, steady light, might be just the thing to provide the additional illumination needed to take indoor photographs. It was, Maggie thought, an inspired idea, and she drifted off to sleep feeling well-pleased with herself. The next day, Hogmanay, the eve of the new year, was devoted to quiet talk and contemplation. Nevertheless, Maggie could sense a mounting tension between Stuart and Geordie, though she could not determine what the basis for this renewed hostility might be. However, Maggie had her own reasons for being annoyed with Geordie. She had been hard put to conceal her dismay when Lady Diane announced that she thought it most charming of Maggie to have requested their presence at this celebration. “Geordie told us that you were feeling a bit homesick and had asked if we could be here to cheer you.” At first, Maggie was certain she had not heard aright. “Geordie said I...?” “Don't be embarrassed, my dear. It's only natural, under the circumstances ... losing your father that way. If our being here is a comfort to you ... and it does make a nice change for us. Hogmanay. Quaint, isn't it?” As Lady Diane prattled on, Maggie nodded and smiled, but her mind was elsewhere. What was Geordie up to? Why had he lured these people to Dunphaedair with such a bald-faced lie? Maggie remembered telling him that day in London that she barely knew these people. 166
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Despite Maggie's agitation, the hours continued to pass at their accustomed pace. Mealtime came: lunch consisted of cold sliced beef and mutton, bread, butter, jam, and tea. Much the same fare was served at tea time, and one and all retired to their respective chambers immediately thereafter. “Until it is time to dress for the evening, we will rest and consider the achievements or failures of the past year,” Jeannie explained, adding, “Festivities will begin at ten o'clock with dinner in the banqueting hall.” Jeannie, much to Maggie's surprise, came to her and asked, “Shall I have Kate bring your dress to my room? We can help each other with our fastenings and our coiffures.” Maggie agreed with pleasure. When she reached Jeannie's chamber, Maggie found her own gown already lying on the bed together with several flannel petticoats. After a perfunctory remark about how pretty the dress was, Jeannie said no more. So Maggie assumed, with a sigh of relief, that her worry over the history of the garment had been unwarranted. Jeannie's gown was nowhere to be seen. “You shall not see it until I have it on,” she said, laughing like a delighted child. She would say not one word more—would not even reveal the color. Thus, the two young women began their preparations for the festivities. Maggie spent considerably more time over her toilette than she had done ever before in her life. And she was, indeed, glad to have help, especially with her hair, for it had a will of its own. In the end, they did the only thing her fine, soft, wavy hair would agree to: they cut a few short 167
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strands about Maggie's face which Jeannie curled with her iron. The rest was brushed back and twisted into a chignon on Maggie's nape. Jeannie's tresses were far easier to coif, and she knew exactly how she wanted it arranged. All Maggie had to do was brush the wiry auburn locks around her finger and anchor these thick curls high on the back of Jeannie's head with a multitude of hairpins and a pair of antique silver combs. “They belonged to my mother's mother,” Jeannie said proudly. Then it was time to help her into her dress. It was as lovely as Jeannie had said. Of deep green velvet and ivory lace, it fit her to perfection, though it did take a bit of tugging on her lacings to get her into it. The low-cut neckline was square with a vee-shaped lace inset and a spray of crimson silk roses to conceal the cleavage—in this area, Jeannie was amply endowed. The skirt, in front, was tiered, velvet and lace. In back, from beneath a large, ruffled bustle, tucked here and there with crimson rosebuds, an elegant train, framed in cascading lace, fanned out on the floor behind her. Maggie had never seen Jeannie look so happy, or so pretty. “You do look lovely,” Maggie said. “The dress is bonnie, isn't it?” “Indeed,” Maggie assured her. Then it was Maggie's turn, and when at last she stood back to view her reflection in the mirror, she felt a small thrill of elation. The gown fit perfectly: its elegant lines accentuated her slim figure; its rich color deepened the blue of her eyes and emphasized the pale gold of her hair. 168
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Suddenly, Maggie felt tears begin to well as she thought of her father, how proud he would have been. “Just like your dear mother,” he would have said. Maggie dried her eyes and clung to that final happy thought as they left the room and made their way up to the salon where everyone was to gather before dinner. Indeed, everyone seemed to be there before them. Jeannie left Maggie, then, to be about her duties as hostess and Maggie moved around the room greeting first one guest and then another. When she reached Miss Ferguson and her brother, Maggie found Jeannie standing between them, her eyes sparkling, bright spots of color in her cheeks. Why, Maggie thought, can it be that Jeannie is in love? It was written clear by the happiness shining in her face; proclaimed by the way she leaned, ever so slightly, toward Donald, listened to his every word with parted lips and bated breath. As for Donald, there was no mistaking the expression in his eyes when he looked at her, either. Maggie smiled. She was happy for Jeannie—Donald seemed such a nice young man. It wasn't until Maggie turned to move on that she saw Stuart. He was in his usual place before the fire, though on this occasion he did not lounge against the mantle, but stood straight and tall, yet perfectly at ease. His flame-red Prince Charlie Coatee with frothy white lace jabot was a perfect foil for his raven black hair. Pinned to one shoulder, he wore a large silver brooch set with three Cairngorms; his sporran, too, was silver mounted, as was the sgian dubh tucked into 169
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one of his checkered hose. He was so handsome! It made Maggie's heart ache just to look at him. All the men present, except for the two Englishmen, were dressed in traditional Highland formal attire, but it did not suit a one of them as it did Stuart. He was taller than anyone else in the room, and Maggie couldn't help noting how the drape of the kilt accentuated his narrow hips, his long legs and powerful thighs. She remembered the first time she saw him: then she had felt like curtsying. Now, she longed to run to him, throw herself into his arms, press her body close to his. So sudden and intense was the longing, so vivid the picture painted by her imagination, it sent a wave of heat coursing through her and an awful, yet wonderful tingling started in her breasts and spread downward to her body's most secret places, filling her with a need she did not comprehend. And still she could not take her gaze from him. Stuart must have felt Maggie's unwavering stare for he suddenly raised his head and looked straight into her eyes. Maggie's heart stopped, then began to race. Her knees felt weak and she had to clasp her hands tightly together in front of her to conceal their shaking. Then he was walking toward her. “Ye look bonnie, indeed,” was all he said, but the message in his eyes was far more eloquent. Indeed, as his gaze swept over her, Maggie felt as if he had actually touched her, sending ever stronger waves of sensation coursing through her. Her pulses raced and she could scarcely control the delighted smile that wanted to spread itself all over her face. Geordie chose that moment to appear at Maggie's side. After 170
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a few words of greeting to the others, he turned to her, offered his arm. “Come along, Maggie. I promised our friends I'd find you. They're anxious to talk with you.” “So now ye count the British nobility amongst your friends, do ye, Geordie?” Stuart spoke the words quietly, almost pleasantly; but Maggie could feel the animosity that flowed through them. “You'd do well, brother, to make them your friends, too,” Geordie replied in the same quiet tone; but as he spoke, his lips twisted in a sardonic smile. Then, with a bow to the others he added, “If you will excuse us.” Maggie would much rather have remained where whe was; but with Geordie's hand awaiting hers, she could hardly refuse to go with him. So she took his proffered arm. Even as she did so, Stuart said, “If I choose to name a man friend, ‘tis on my terms, Geordie. Do ye not forget that.” These last words were spoken softly so that only Geordie and Maggie could hear. Listening, Maggie was chilled by the expression on Stuart's face. And although his gaze was directed not at her but at Geordie, she felt, somehow, that by her very proximity to his brother she was included in that look of contempt—yes, that was it. Stuart was staring at Geordie with utter contempt! Abruptly, Maggie no longer felt like smiling. As Geordie led her away, she tried to convince herself that she had misread the look on Stuart's face; she knew she had not. What could have prompted it? Or, Maggie wondered, had it been jealousy she had seen there? For an instant her spirits lifted, but as quickly drooped once more. No, it had been contempt for 171
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Geordie; but also for the Englishmen and for her. Why? Which brought Maggie back to Geordie's reason for lying to these people, telling them she was homesick. By then they had reached the farther side of the room where the two English couples waited. Sir Evelyn, when he saw Maggie, said, “By Jove, my dear, you look ravishing. Life in the Highlands must agree with you.” The ensuing small talk was cut short by Iona announcing dinner. Again, Geordie offered Maggie his arm and together they made their way to the sixth floor. There, the heavy, double doors to the banqueting hall stood wide, anticipating the guests’ approach. As she walked between them, Maggie was assailed by the most uncanny feeling: as if she had stepped across the threshold into a distant past. Here, iron sconces mounted along the walls held aloft burning torches. Their flames flared and flickered, casting an uneven light upon a long line of shields, as well as the axes and maces and swords that hung between them, weapons as deadly now as on the day they had wielded death upon some bloody battlefield. Many a year had passed, Maggie knew, since some victorious MacPhaedair, now long dead, had taken those shields and weapons from the bodies of the slain to carry back to Dunphaedair. And whether emblazoned with the crest of gallant friend or of valiant foe, it seemed meet that now all should be given the honor befitting a fallen hero. Down the center of the room, heavy chairs with high, hand-carved backs, were drawn up, ten on each side, to an oak, trestle table. Along its length, sprays of evergreen were 172
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interspersed with tall, pewter candelabra in which candles burned steadily producing a mellow glow that was mirrored in gleaming china, silver, and crystal. “All of these things came to Dunphaedair with my mother as part of her dowry,” Jeannie had explained with pride the day they washed and polished each piece. When everyone was seated, Maggie noted that in addition to the guests she had already met, also occupying places at the table were Sir Reginald and Lady Clarrisa Fallsworthy, he was the owner of the neighboring estate; and Morton and Isabelle Macdaniel, he was a jute manufacturer from Dundee. Stuart, with Jeannie on his right and Anne on his left, sat at the head, and Dhileas sat at the foot. With her black eyes snapping, her silver hair shining in the candlelight, she looked more than ever like a fairy godmother. A very flirtatious godmother, Maggie thought as she watched the diminutive lady charm Sir Evelyn who was seated next to her. The dinner, which was lavish beyond Maggie's wildest expectations, consisted of course after course of Mrs. Allchin's perfectly prepared dishes, and each dish was accompanied by the appropriate wine. But everyone, except Dhileas and her admiring Englishmen, seemed oddly subdued, conversing quietly in solemn tones. It wasn't until just before midnight that the final tidbit was eaten, the final toast drunk. Then, at precisely twelve o'clock, Stuart gave the signal. Everyone stood, joined hands, and led by Stuart's rich baritone, sang Auld Lang Syne. All those countenances that only a moment before had worn sober, dignified expressions, suddenly broke into smiles 173
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and the room rang with shouted wishes for a guid New Year! Chairs were pushed back, and Geordie and Maggie, followed by the laughing, cheering guests, led the exodus from the banqueting hall. In the ballroom, fiddlers, two of them, had been installed in the minstrels gallery, and they struck up a lively tune as the guests came through the doors. Geordie turned and swept Maggie a bow, but before he could speak, Stuart interrupted. “I believe Miss Ferguson promised the first dance to you, Geordie,” he said, handing the startled looking Anne over to his brother. Then, giving neither of them time to speak, Stuart turned to Maggie, bowed, and said, “As laird, I claim the first dance with ye, Miss Donnelly.” All hint of his earlier wrath had disappeared. Indeed, his eyes were full of warmth as they looked into Maggie's, and she was content to let it be so. She gathered up her train and entered into the dance with joyous abandon. There is nothing very romantic about a polka, but it is fun. Stuart proved to be a competent dancer, and they were both breathless when the set ended. After that first dance, Stuart circulated amongst the other guests, leading first one lady and then another onto the floor. However, Maggie did not lack for partners, and if her gaze constantly strayed past the shoulder of the gentleman who held her, seeking a glimpse of Stuart, it did not mean that she was bored or lonely. It did mean that for the first time in her life she was tormented by that demon, jealousy. Maggie knew she was being unreasonable, but there it was. 174
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And watching Stuart smile and talk and laugh with first one woman and then another, Maggie couldn't help thinking back on her reasons for being at Dunphaedair. Now, remembering her early interest in Geordie, she was filled with amazement. How could she have thought she might be falling in love with him? Now she realized that it had been his easy charm, his kindness in the face of her loss that had mislead her. How different the two brothers were, and how different her feelings for Stuart. For the ensuing hour or so, everyone joined in the merrymaking. Polkas, jigs, and reels poured from the musicians’ fiddles while the malt liquor flowed. Like children when church is let out, these Scotsmen reveled in the music and the dancing, laughing and talking and drinking. It must have been close to two in the morning when the fiddlers called a rest period for themselves. Immediately, the guests set up a cry for Geordie to do the sword dance. “Ach, now. Ye ken I cannae dance wi'out a piper to raise a tune,” Geordie said, putting on a broad brogue and affecting an air of modesty. And to Maggie's amazement, Ben, the Dunphaedair tacksman, strode into the ballroom. He, too, was dressed in kilts and was carrying not only a bagpipe, but a pair of swords. With feigned surprise, Geordie walked forward and the two men met in the center of the room. Ben presented the swords and Geordie tested them with his thumb to ensure the sharpness of the blades. Then, Ben put them on the floor, one crossed over the other. The two men shook hands before Ben moved well back and prepared to play. 175
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With a moan and a snarl, the bagpipe came to life and Geordie lifted his arms high in the air, held them wide apart and unmoving, like the antlers of the great red stag, which they symbolized. Then, head thrown back, he began to dance, his feet performing the intricate steps, swiftly, nimbly, in and out between the razor-sharp blades of the swords, his patent leather ghillies seeming barely to touch the floor. Not once did he look down. His eyes flashed, his kilt swirled about him; the lace spilling from the sleeves of his coatee floated about his wrists. Maggie was enthralled: her breathing quickened, and her heart beat fast and strong to the call of the pipes. She was swept by the most unreasonable feeling that she, too, could dance between the blades and was tempted to rush forward and join in. The music stopped. Geordie stepped back, bowed deeply from the waist, then rose with a flourish to brandish the two swords overhead. Instantly, everyone in the ballroom burst into cheers and Maggie clapped until her palms stung. When Geordie left the floor, Jeannie was urged to sing. Smiling, Jeannie stepped forward carrying a small harpshaped instrument on which she proceeded to accompany herself. In a clear, sweet soprano she sang a number of folk songs beginning with “Charlie is My Darling,” and ending with “The Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond.” By the time she reached the final chorus, everyone was singing along with her and there was many a misty eye amongst the guests. As Jeannie retired from the floor, Ben began playing a Highland fling and Morton Macdaniel and Donald Ferguson stepped forward, raised their arms aloft and began to dance. 176
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Maggie marveled at the grace of these big men as they moved through the intricate steps. And quite unbidden, a most embarrassing thought entered her mind: What did men wear under those kilts? Instantly, her cheeks flamed scarlet as she realized she was staring at bare knees, at the flash of bare thigh as a kilt swung high. To make matters worse, as she quickly averted her gaze, it encountered Stuart's. She knew, the moment their glances met that he knew what she was thinking! Indeed, she felt certain he was also recalling the incident with Tom Jones, and another wave of heat scalded Maggie's cheeks. The music ceased and Stuart, a wicked gleam in his eye, called, “Ben, why dinnae ye tell our English friends the way of it with a Scotsman and his kilt?” Ben shifted the bagpipe to a more comfortable position beneath his arm and glanced around the hall. “Well, if ye think they'd be interested...” A chorus of “ayes” urged him to speak, and one of the fiddlers came forward to relieve him of the pipes and offer him a dram. When he had downed the malt liquor, Ben cleared his throat and began: “Ach, well, ‘tis known far and wide that we Highlanders have always worn the tartan. ‘Tis what welds the clans together and what sets us apart as valiant fighting men. ‘Tis why the English banned the wearin’ o’ the kilt after Culloden. “In the beginning, o’ course, there was nae elegant coatees or fancified ghillies. Ach, no. Those first clansmen ... big, hairy brutes they were in those days ... made do wi’ a 177
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length of wool spun by their old mother or their wife. A couple of meters wide by perhaps six long. ‘Twas all they needed. At night a man rolled himself up in it to sleep, and in the morning ... ach, now, here the story gets a wee bit complicated.” Ben paused and one of the fiddlers stepped up and offered him a second cup which Ben accepted with a nod and smile. Not a soul moved. All eyes remained fixed on the storyteller as he downed his dram, then continued. “Ye may be thinkin’ that to turn that great fardel of woolen into a kilt would be quite a task. But Highlanders have always been a hardy lot, and Scotsmen come by their reputation as practical, frugal people quite honestly. Oh, aye.” Again Ben paused and swept the crowd with a knowing look—cleared his throat before continuing. “Now, if ye ladies will excuse my speakin’ plain, ‘tis a bit awkward to explain the way of it. These Highlanders of old owned little else but their length of tartan and a leather belt. Most ran barefoot a good part of the year, and nary a one, ‘tis certain, owned a pair of trews." Taken aback, Maggie glanced at the other guests. The English ladies had suddenly flipped open their fans and were holding them high enough to cover the lower half of their faces. The Scots women, however, were openly smiling. Ben continued. “So ye ken, ‘twas quite a feat, getting one's self dressed of a cold winter morning. Once a man unwound himself from that great lot of cloth, he was standin’ there in the freezin’ cold just as God made him. 178
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“O’ course, he didn't stand there long. Ach, no! Quick as a wink, he stretched that leather belt out on the ground, gathered that length of woolen up on top of it, laid himself out right in the middle, then snatched up the ends of the belt and whipped the whole lot over him. “It didnae take a minute, and when he stood up, he was covered, neck to knees, as cozy as ye please. A bit o’ tuggin’ and pinnin’ to make that kilt fast, and off the man would go, striding over the heather or leaping up the rocky side of a glen as unhampered as a mountain goat!” When the laughter died down, the fiddlers began to play a waltz, and Stuart at last returned to Maggie's side. He didn't speak, only held out a hand. Maggie reached back, picked up her train, and then his arms were around her, swinging her out onto the floor. Something smoldered in the depths of his eyes gazing into hers, and again she felt an answering heat rise in her. As they circled round and round the ballroom floor, for Maggie, everyone else seemed to disappear. There was only the music and Stuart's arm encircling her waist, holding her, his fingers clasping her own. A heady sensation, as if the blood had turned to warm wine in her veins, welled up in her, and she thought, If the world were to come to an end right now, I should die happy! The world did not come to an end, but the music did. The night was far spent by then. Eyelids had begun to droop and more and more often a hand was raised to conceal a yawn. It was not surprising, therefore, to see everyone brighten 179
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perceptibly when Kate appeared to announce that breakfast was ready in the dining room. As they left the ballroom and headed for the stairway, Stuart said, “I'll not be staying for breakfast. I must be off to play First Foot. The crofters will be expecting me.” Even as Maggie inquired, “First Foot?” a wave of disappointment washed over her. “Ye dinnae ken First Foot?” Maggie shook her head and Stuart explained as they descended the stairs, “The First Foot is the first person to cross the threshold on New Years Day, and ‘tis said that if it be a dark-haired man bearing gifts of coal and salt, the house won't want for fire or food in the coming year.” Abruptly he stopped, laid a hand on Maggie's arm. “Would ye like to come with me? ‘Tis a fine thing, to see the crofters on this morning, safe and secure in their own shielings. They are my friends and they will be pleased to make ye welcome.” Disappointment was instantly replaced by joy, and Maggie lost no time in accepting his invitation. “Ye'll have to wear something warm. We'll take the sleigh, but ‘tis fair cold this morning. Meet me in the great hall as soon as ye are ready.” Maggie fairly flew along the hall to her room. Was it possible, she wondered, as she slipped out of the blue gown and into her blue wool skirt and jacket, that this invitation held some special meaning? Was it like taking someone home to meet the family? Did it mean that Stuart was feeling about her as she was about him? And try as she would not to, Maggie couldn't help wondering if they were falling in love? 180
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Less than an half hour later Stuart and Maggie were sitting snug in a large sleigh, fleeces at their backs and over their knees. Actually, Maggie's lap robe was pulled up under her chin. At their feet, there was a scuttle of coal and a container of salt. Stuart clucked to the horse, and they were on their way. It was wonderful. The sun was barely risen, the sky still streaked with pink and gold, and the air was so cold it stung Maggie's nose and cheeks. The clip clop of the horse's hooves was muffled in the drifted snow; the runners of the sleigh shushed and whispered while happiness bubbled inside her. “I'm pleased ye came with me,” Stuart said, his gaze fastened on the horizon. “I want ye to know the crofters ... my friends. They're hard working folk, honest and loyal.” Maggie thought she knew why he emphasized “my friends.” Aloud she said, “You don't like the English very well...” Stuart's answer came slowly. “A man should be judged for what he does more than what he is. A good man is a good man be he English, Scottish, or whatever. But I would call no man friend who would try to take my land from me, though that in itself would not make him a bad man, ye ken. ‘Tis the way in which such a thing is done.” As his last word drifted into silence, Stuart's thoughts seemed to turn inward. His face in profile was stern. Maggie wondered if he was thinking about how Malcolm Macnulty had taken Dunphaedair from Lachlan Fitzroy. Indeed, she again wondered how a tacksman could take an estate from a nobleman, but she thought it best not to ask. 181
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Instead, she remarked, “If all the crofters are as nice as Flora and Ben, I shall like them very much.” Stuart turned and looked at Maggie then. The darkness that was pooled in his eyes lightened and a grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. “And they will like you. However, I've a word of warning for ye. They'll be offering a dram each time we stop. ‘Twould be an insult to refuse; but ye'd be well advised to insist on a wee dram. They'll understand, ye being an outlander.” He told Maggie, then, a bit about each family. As they approached a cottage, he would recall the names of the occupants and some small something about them: whose daughter had married whose son, how many grandchildren they had, whose children had left the land to seek their fortune in Glasgow or Edinburgh or America. And at each stop, the ritual was the same. Stuart took a lump of coal and a small scoop of salt to the door. And when the householder had opened it and invited him in, they accepted the gift with much thanks. Then they called for Maggie to join them. The respect and affection in which they held the laird was plain to see. Stuart had been right when he said a dram would be offered at each cottage. Maggie was feeling quite light-headed by the time they returned to Dunphaedair. As they entered the courtyard, the stable boy came running to meet them. He was so upset, his English quite deserted him and, eyes enormous in his face, he conveyed his message in a spate of Gaelic. 182
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Before the boy had finished speaking, Stuart was out of the sleigh, urging Maggie, too, to alight. “‘Tis Dhileas,” he said as he lifted her down then pulled her along up the stairs. “She's had a bad fall.”
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Chapter 11 AT STUART'S words, a pall of dread engulfed Maggie. She gathered up her skirts and flew up the stairs in Stuart's wake. In the great hall, guests were milling about asking each other what had happened, and, in the face of no solid information, were guessing and supposing the worst. Stuart and Maggie did not linger there, however; but continued upward. Jeannie met them on the third landing, where she waited, swaying from side to side and wringing her hands. At sight of Stuart, she let out a little cry and whirled about, beckoning him to follow her. She led the way to a room not far from Maggie's, speaking over her shoulder as they went. “We put her in here. We didnae wish to move her any more than was necessary.” Jeannie paused outside the door and turned to face Stuart and Maggie, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice as she continued. “I dinnae ken how we are going to manage! All the guests to be looked after ... there's so much to be done ... and she in such pain...” “Hasnae the doctor seen her? How badly is she hurt? What happened ... how did she fa...?” As he questioned, Stuart pushed past his sister, pulled open the door, stepped across the threshold. Abruptly, in midsentence, he fell silent, his back rigid with surprise. Quickly, Maggie, too, brushed past Jeannie and hurried to Stuart's side. What she saw left her weak, both with relief and with pity. The head lying on the pillow, the face framed in 184
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thick dark tresses, was Kate's. Her eyes were closed and she was moaning softly. “Geordie's gone for the doctor,” Jeannie whispered. “Donald and Anne helped me get her into bed. I think her leg is broken. We gave her a cup of whiskey. Geordie said ‘twould ease the pain.” “We were told ‘twas Dhileas who fell,” Stuart said. “Ach, no. ‘Twas Dhileas found Kate where she had fallen. The girl was on her way to the kitchen with Aunt's tray and must have tripped ... fell down the stairs. There was broken china all over the place. Thank God the girl didnae break her neck. But that leg is going to keep her abed for goodness knows how long. Whatever are we to do? Iona can't possibly manage by herself.” Jeannie ended her speech on a small wail and when she paused to draw breath, Maggie quickly interjected, “Where is Dhileas? Is she all right? She's fond of Kate, I know. This must have been a shock for her.” Jeannie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Nothing's a shock for that old woman!” Ignoring Jeannie's remark, Maggie continued. “Since there isn't anything I can do for poor Kate, I'd like to look in on Dhileas ... see if there is anything she needs. Is she in her room?” “I told her to go to her room. I hope that's where she is,” Jeannie answered crossly, obviously too upset to be aware, or care, that her tone was sharp and ungracious.
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Stuart shot her an angry glance, then turned to Maggie. “Thank ye for thinking of Aunt Dhileas. When ye find her, tell her I'll be along as soon as I know how Kate is faring.” At that moment they were interrupted by the sound of feet hurrying up the stairs. Seconds later Geordie, followed by a tall, grey-haired man, came dashing up the hall. Stuart and Maggie stepped back to let them pass and the tall man, Dr. Edward Macleod, stopped, beckoned for Jeannie to follow him, and waved the rest away with a peremptory hand. A nonetoo-happy looking Jeannie moved forward and the doctor closed the door firmly behind them, leaving the everyone else in the hallway to wait and worry. Actually, Maggie did not wait, but went directly to Aunt Dhileas. She found the old lady sitting in her rocker cradling Phineas in her arms. The huge cat, his feet, like fat, furry sausages pointed skyward as he lay supine in the arms of the frail appearing woman. Her silvery head was bent toward his tawny one and he gazed soulfully up at her with round, golden eyes while the sound of her soft crooning mingled with his lusty purr. The sight would have been funny had it not been so poignant. When Maggie hesitated, just inside the door, Dhileas called to her without looking up, “Come, Maggie. Sit here by the hearth with us and tell us how it goes with Kate.” When Maggie reached the fireside she asked, “Shall I put some coal on the fire first?” “Aye, thank ye.” As Maggie picked up the scuttle and fed a few lumps onto the glowing embers, she told Dhileas what she could: that the 186
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doctor had arrived, that at that very moment he and Jeannie were ministering to Kate, that Stuart would bring word of Kate's condition as soon as he should hear. When Maggie had finished her recital, Dhileas breathed a long sigh. “The lass will be fine, her leg will mend; but I'm sorry for the pain she must suffer. She's a good girl...” “Do you know how it happened?” Dhileas raised her head and fixed her gaze on Maggie. Yet she had the uncanny feeling the old lady was not looking at her. Then, slowly, sadly, Dhileas shook her head. “All things are made clear in guid time,” she murmured. And with that, she turned back to Phineas and resumed her gentle crooning. Remembering what Jeannie had said, that it was Dhileas who had found Kate and that Dhileas “knew everything,” Maggie found the response, or lack there of, frustrating. But she decided to neither say nor ask anything more ... at least not at the moment. In any event, no one but Kate could say for certain what had happened; and, at the moment, she was in no condition to answer any question. Probably would not be for several days. So the two women sat in silence, listening to the tick of the clock, waiting for Stuart. When he joined them at last, he went straight to his aunt and knelt beside her. “How are ye, Aunty?” he asked. “Dinnae fash yersel’ about me, Laddie. Tell us how it goes with Kate.” “She's nae so comfortable as Phineas, here,” Stuart said, scratching the cat's head. “But Dr. Macleod says the break was a clean one. He set the bone and gave Kate a draught to 187
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calm her and ease the pain. The poor lass will be bedfast for awhile, but she'll recover.” Thus assured, Maggie hurried off to find Jeannie and offer to help with all the tasks usually handled by Kate. For Maggie, for the family MacPhaedair, the rest of that day went by in a blur. Somehow, they got all the visitors fed, packed, and on their way immediately after the noon meal. Then Jeannie, Iona, and Maggie, who asked to be included, met in one of the small parlors to decide what was to be done until Kate should mend. It was clear that Jeannie and Iona, no matter how hard they might try, could not run the household alone—especially with the added burden of fetching and carrying for the bedridden Kate. Neither was any mention made of hiring another servant. This did not surprise Maggie. She had long since decided that whether from innate Scottish frugality or an ongoing lack of ready cash, this household was run on a very strict budget. And this being the case, she was still astounded when she considered the amount Jeannie must have spent on the gala. Be that as it may, Maggie thought, this is my opportunity to repay some of the family's generous hospitality. Not that she would have wished it to come about at poor Kate's expense; but the fact remained, now Maggie was needed. She could do something for these people who had taken her in and treated her so kindly. At first, Jeannie refused to hear of it. “You are our honored guest. We couldnae have you working...” 188
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But Maggie insisted she would be happier being useful than feeling like a burden. And so it was agreed. Maggie would divide her time between Dhileas and Kate, leaving Jeannie and Iona free to carry on with the daily business of running the household. One request Maggie did make: that the salon, the card room, the banqueting hall, and the ballroom be left unshrouded until she had had time to photograph them. To this, Jeannie readily agreed. Maggie also asked if she might have a small supply of Spunks to aid in her efforts. Iona had explained that that was what they called the burning sticks that had illuminated the stairwells and hallways the night of the Hogmanay gala. They had come into use in Edinburgh only recently and were sold in the streets by hawkers. About six inches long and as big around as a lady's finger, they were made from pieces of wood that had been smeared at both ends with brimstone and damped in the middle to retard burning. They were quite inexpensive and provided a clear, steady, long-lasting light. “Take all that are left in the pantry,” Jeannie offered expansively. In the week that followed, their days quickly assumed a comfortable pattern. As the weather grew colder, the days more bleak, Dhileas chose to remain in her room, taking all her meals there. The rest of the family spent more time together. Even Maggie, once Dhileas and Kate were tucked in for the night, would join the others in the great hall where a fire was now kept blazing round the clock. Stuart and Geordie 189
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had assumed an uneasy peace. Jeannie was by turns merry and moody. Is she, Maggie wondered, thinking of Donald? Jeannie had spoken of him only once since the night of the gala. “Did you like him?” she had asked shyly. “I thought him very nice ... and very handsome,” Maggie assured her. “I've known him ... and Anne ... for many years. I lived with my Aunt and went to school in Edinburgh, you know.” Jeannie's tone was so wistful, Maggie couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for her. It was obvious that the trappings of wealth and social position were important to Jeannie. If she and Donald were in love, Maggie hoped they would soon marry and live happily ever after. But, she wondered, could a young solicitor provide the kind of life Jeannie dreamed of? Maggie sighed. Life had been so much simpler when she and her father lived and worked amongst the savages. In the meantime, Maggie had her own problems with love—whatever love might be! Geordie, in his own mercurial fashion, was again paying her court. His advances were too open, too obvious, to be called anything else. At the same time, the closeness she had thought to be developing with Stuart seemed to fade. At least, he made no attempt to be alone with her as Geordie did. And yet, whenever they were in a room together, she could feel his gaze follow her. And if their glance should meet, it was as if something tangible had passed between them. Maggie was invariably left shaken, pulses racing, knees weak. She couldn't help but think that Stuart felt that way too. 190
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Or was he remembering Eilean? Did that look in his eyes mean he was yearning for the wife stolen from him by death? Was Maggie nothing more to him than a painful reminder of the happiness he had known and lost? This constant buffeting of her emotions was exhausting. Thus it was that she threw herself whole-heartedly into the duties she had assumed, for it is true, a fact for which she was exceedingly grateful, that good, honest work is an antidote for all sorts of problems. Although tending Dhileas and Kate had now become her primary concern, Maggie still had her proposed book to complete Hence, at the first opportunity, she announced her intention of photographing the interior of Dunphaedair, starting with the salon and its marvelous painted ceiling. She was astounded at the interest everyone present showed in the project. They all wanted to watch—even Dhileas insisted on bundling up and coming down to observe Maggie at work. Geordie, of course, offered to help. “Just tell me what to do,” he said. “I'm yours to command.” For once, Maggie was glad to take him at his word. “First, you can kindle a blaze in the fireplace, and then you can help me set out the Spunks,” she told him. Turning to the others, she added, “When the room is warm, the rest of you can join us.” Geordie, obviously crestfallen, asked, “Is that all I can do? I thought I could help with the camera.” “Oh, no. Not my camera. But I do have a very important assignment for you. You shall be responsible for the frying 191
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pan.” As Maggie said these final words, she glanced quickly at Geordie. His response was most gratifying. His mouth fell open; his eyebrows shot up. “Frying pan...?” Everyone laughed, though it was plain to see each person there was every bit as puzzled as Geordie. Smiling, Maggie explained, “To hold the flash powder.” Then, noting the general bewilderment, she continued, “It requires a great deal of light to take a photograph. Flash powder consists of a mixture of magnesium and potassium chlorate that burns with a blinding flash.” To her surprise, Stuart said, “I've seen flash powder used; but it was fired from a cartridge pistol.” “That's the way it was intended to be used,” Maggie confirmed, inordinately pleased that Stuart should know something of her craft. “However, Jacob Riis, a friend of my father's, started using a frying pan and loose powder after a man he was trying to photograph mistook his cartridge pistol for the real thing. The fellow actually pulled out a Colt 45, and almost shot Mr. Riis.” It was Jeannie, her eyes wide with incredulity, who broke the ensuing silence. “But surely, ye dinnae think anyone here will try to shoot you?” When the merriment occasioned by her words had subsided, Maggie assured Jeannie that she had no such fear. “It is just that I have found that by judicious use of the powder, I can control the flash somewhat, conserving powder when I need less light, providing more when I need it.” 192
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Immediately after the midday meal, they all repaired to the salon. Geordie, true to his word, did precisely as Maggie asked, and they were soon ready to attempt the first photograph. However, before proceeding Maggie explained, “When the powder is ignited, there will be a blinding flash, so you may want to cover your eyes. I'll count to three to give everyone a chance to prepare.” Then she turned to Geordie. “Brace yourself. If you should jump ... or even start ... you could...” “Don't fash yersel',” Geordie cut in. “I'm used to being under fire ... remember?” At his words, the entire assemblage froze for a split second. Then Geordie laughed and lifted the frying pan. On Maggie's count of three, he put a match to the powder. She was delighted with the resulting brilliant flare; but her audience was quite disenchanted by the ensuing cloud of dark, acrid smoke. Coughing and sputtering, her erstwhile admirers withdrew, leaving the field to Geordie. For once, Geordie remained completely businesslike and the work Maggie had planned was finished in short order. However, all the while, she was aware of a tenseness in the air, the pressures of a past that was not buried as deeply as she had thought. The noise, the flash of burning powder, the smell and the smoke—undoubtedly, they would be triggering painful memories of the Transvaal for Geordie even as they brought back to Maggie those last dreadful days in Africa.... They were both tired by the time the last photograph had been taken. Maggie thanked Geordie for his help and they 193
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went their separate ways to wash and change into fresh garments before tea. This, Maggie accomplished with all haste for it was she who delivered trays, first to Kate and then to Dhileas with whom she usually stayed and had her own tea. Maggie thoroughly enjoyed the elderly woman's company and it also saved a trip up and down the stairs, for the trays had to be returned to the kitchen after the meal was eaten. It was a simple enough task; hence, the accepted theory: that Kate had tripped, thus occasioning her fall, did not satisfy Maggie. After all, the stairs were uncarpeted; there was nothing to trip over. She said nothing. But as soon as she thought Kate sufficiently recovered, Maggie asked the young woman how it was she had fallen down the stairs. Her answer raised goosebumps down Maggie's arms. “I was taking the empties back down, ye ken, and I was almost to the third floor landing when I heard something behind me. I thought maybe ‘twas one of the guests had lost their way, so I just stopped and looked back to see.” Her tone was sullen. “Well,” Maggie prompted, “what did you see?” Kate stared at her questioner morosely before finally replying. “The laird says ‘twas only shadows and I shouldnae let my imagination run away with me.” “Do you believe it was only shadows that you saw? Kate tightened her lips, her stare was defiant. Maggie feared the girl would say no more, but suddenly her selfcontrol snapped and she said, almost crying, “I'll swear ‘twere 194
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no shadow I saw. ‘Twere that big, and all hunched over. Sweet baby Jesus, I was so frightened, I just heaved tray and all over my head and tried to run, but I got all tangled up in my skirts. I swear, Miss, this place is cursed! ‘Twas daft of me to ever come here to work. I should have left yesterday like I wanted. ‘Tis on the laird's head, and a wonder I wasnae killed!” With that, Kate burst into sobs and it took Maggie some time to quieten her. But while Maggie sought to sooth and reassure Kate, those words, “big and all hunched over,” kept running through Maggie's head. That was very like what she had seen in the tower. Surely, Maggie thought, both she and Kate would not have imagined the same thing? Later, Maggie was rethinking this conversation as she freshened herself and changed into a clean shirtwaist. Despite her earlier resolve, she had been putting off a return to the tower room—somehow, she always found an excuse to delay the enterprise. Now, remembering that talk with Kate whetted Maggie's determination. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was earlier than she had thought. She wouldn't be expected in the kitchen to pick up the trays for another hour. Not giving herself time to change her mind, she bundled up in her pelisse and hurried along to the tower door. The climb, in daylight, did not seem as long as it had before. There was nothing to see within the stairwell, though the view from the windows was breathtaking—as was the climb. By the time she reached the final landing, she was overheated and quite out of breath. However, she paused 195
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only a moment before moving forward and opening the tower room door. The air that rushed out to meet her was icy. Though it stung her cheeks, it felt good. Not only was the temperature considerably lower up here, the light was much brighter. Blinking owlishly as her eyes adjusted to the glare she looked about. The room was not, as she had thought, empty. Placed over against the wall, at the point farthest from the door, was a rough, long-legged table or stool. It was absolutely plain and stood waist high. But that was the only thing in the room. There was not even any dust upon the floor to reveal the passage of feet. There was, however, one window that stood open a few inches admitting a steady trickle of frigid air, and what appeared to be bird droppings on the sill and floor beneath. By then, Maggie's teeth were chattering and her nose and cheeks stung with the cold. Nevertheless, she was not about to leave without having at least a quick look at the view. As she stepped away from the door, a sudden gust of wind blew it shut behind her. She hurried straight to the nearest window. Her bodily discomfort instantly forgotten, she gazed, awestruck at the scene spread out before her. Along the shore of the loch, evergreens, their boughs laden with glistening snow, and birch trees, their leafless limbs sheathed in glittering ice, shivered in the breeze. And the light of the sun was turned into myriad tiny rainbows that blazed and flashed all red and blue and yellow and green amongst the frozen branches. 196
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What Maggie would have given to capture that sight on film. She wondered if she should risk one of her precious plates in an attempt? But, no, she decided. Here there was too much light. But if she went outside—no, even that would not do. After all, it was the color that made this such an enchanting sight. If only one could photograph color. A wrenching shudder spilling down her protesting limbs informed her that she was thoroughly chilled. With a small sigh she turned round and crossed to the door, grasped the knob, and turned it. Nothing happened. That is, the knob turned but it did not engage. Maggie shook it, turned it one way and then the other. It moved smoothly, all the way around, all the way back, and the door remained steadfastly latched. Dumbstruck, Maggie gaped at it. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of how cold it was in that tower room. Even dressed as warmly as she was, she knew she could not remain there much longer without danger of frostbite. Having spent one season with her father in Alaska, she was well aware of the dangers of even short exposure to subfreezing temperatures. She had been warned often enough, especially about falling asleep in the snow should she become lost for any length of time. Maggie clawed at the edges of the door, desperately trying to pry it open. This was impossible, of course. Next she sought to remove the handle—another exercise in futility. Then she put her shoulder to the door and pushed until she remembered it opened inward. Now, truly frightened, Maggie began to pound upon it and shout. But her cries were lost in 197
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the moaning of the wind that had steadily grown stronger and now wailed softly over the rough stones of the castle walls. A growing sense of hysteria began to gnaw away inside, knotting its icy fingers about Maggie's chest, squeezing her heart, making breathing difficult. Don't panic! she warned herself. Stay calm. Think. But there was obviously nothing she could do but make as much noise as possible and pray that someone would hear. And if she were to have any hope at all of being heard, she knew she had to make more noise than was possible with her bare hands. So thinking, she rushed over, picked up the stool, or table, or whatever it was, carried it back, and smashed it against the door, again and again, until her arms and shoulders and back ached. Though the exercise was painful, it did help to keep the cold at bay. So she continued her efforts until she was so exhausted she could do no more. When at last she put the stool down, weariness spread over her like a blanket, a warm blanket, she thought dreamily. Slowly, she sank to the floor and leaned back against the wall next to the door. The light there in the tower, made brighter still by the glare reflecting from the snowenshrouded world outside, had begun to pain her eyes. She closed them, wrapped her arms about her shins. She was warmer now. Slowly, her head drooped forward, came to rest upon her knees....
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Chapter 12 A VOICE—Stuart's, Maggie thought—was urgently calling her name while rough hands shook her, chaffed her wrists. She wished, he would leave her alone. The darkness behind her lids was so soft and comforting—her eyelids felt as if they had already been weighted with pennies. At the ghoulish thought, a shudder trembled through her, and her eyes snapped open, eager to prove she was, after all, not yet dead. Her vision was blurred, but again she recognized Stuart's voice. He slipped his arms beneath her, lifted her, shouted, “She's rousing ... I'm bringing her down.” Now, blearily awake, Maggie began to struggle feebly in his arms. “U'm fi...” she kept insisting, her words slurred even in her own ears. “Pu’ me dow’ ... u'mm fi...” In response, Stuart's arms only tightened and he whispered, “There now. Dinnae fash yersel'. I'll soon have ye in your room with Jeannie and Iona to see to you.” Indeed, not only Jeannie and Iona, but Dhileas, too, waited with the bed covers already turned back. Immediately, Stuart put Maggie down, Jeannie ordered her brother and Iona off to fetch hot tea and warm bricks. By then Maggie was fully alert once more; but she was shivering uncontrollably and her fingers, so recently numb with cold, had begun to sting and throb. Jeannie and Dhileas, aware of Maggie's distress, insisted on helping her off with her garments and into a nightdress. 199
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By the time Stuart and Iona returned, Maggie was nestled under the covers. Quickly, efficiently, Iona tucked the warm, flannel-wrapped bricks about Maggie while Jeannie poured the tea, laced it with sugar and brandy, and held the cup to Maggie's lips. Slowly, the pain in her fingers subsided, the shivers ceased, and again her eyelids grew heavy. “We'll leave you now to sleep,” Jeannie said kindly. But it was Dhileas who kissed Maggie on the cheek and whispered, “Sleep well, Lassie ... angels guard ye ‘till the morn.” Maggie wakened sometime later to flickering candlelight, and as memory came flooding in, she felt such a fool. If only she had been content to mind her own business, stick to her photography. But no! She had had to go ghost hunting, thus upsetting the entire household. Indeed, Maggie chided herself, even Kate's broken leg was, in no small part, Maggie's fault. After all, it was fear, spurred on by the talk about a midnight piper, that had caused Kate to fall. At that moment, out of the corner of her eye, Maggie caught the flicker of movement close by her bed. Startled, she gasped and thrust herself up on one elbow. “Ach, now, did I wake ye? I'm sorry.” At the sound of Stuart's voice, all Maggie's troubled thoughts dissolved, washed away in a flood of happiness. Before she could speak, however, Stuart continued, “How are ye feeling?” Maggie settled back into her pillows. “I'm fine ... really.” “Would ye like a bit of supper?” 200
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Supper! With a jerk, Maggie sat up. “I must get up ... take Kate and Dhileas their trays...” Stuart reached out a restraining hand. “Nae ... ‘tis best ye stay abed for now. I dinnae think ye will suffer any ill effects. We found ye in good time. But for tonight, rest. Iona will bring ye a bowl of Scotch broth. By morning ye'll be yoursel’ once more.” As he spoke, Stuart's glance touched Maggie's face. Their eyes met, clung, and that surge of awareness that Maggie had learned to know so well flooded her being. Then—she scarcely knew how it happened—her hands were clasped in his. “Oh, Maggie,” he whispered fiercely. “If aught should happen to ye...” A sudden pounding on the door destroyed the moment, and even as Stuart released her hands and turned away, Geordie came hurrying into the room. “Maggie!” he exclaimed. “Jeannie says you were locked in the tower. Are you all right?” Despite her frustration at his inopportune entrance, Maggie managed a smile. “I'm fine, thank you.” “How did it happen? Those doors are never locked.” As he spoke, Geordie hastened to her bedside. “The handle wouldn't work,” Maggie said slowly, trying for the first time to recall exactly what had happened. Geordie stood looking down at her, his expression grave. “I would never forgive myself if something should happen to you.” 201
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There was an intimacy in his tone that set Maggie's teeth on edge, and as he spoke, she stole a quick glance at Stuart. His eyes, fixed on his brother, were cold and full of surmise. What was he thinking? Maggie wondered. And abruptly she was furious with Geordie for—for just being there. “My God,” Geordie continued, “if Jeannie hadn't seen you up there, you might have frozen to death before anyone found you.” “Jeannie saw me?” “She'd been down to the laundry ... just happened to glance up and glimpsed you standing at the window.” At his words, something began to niggle. The laundry ... But Geordie's gaze was fixed on her and Maggie felt she must make some response. “How very fortunate for me,” she said. “I know how devastating overlong exposure to the cold can be.” “You are very lucky,” Geordie agreed, and his expression darkened as he added softly, as though he were speaking an unexpected thought aloud, “Especially after hearing the piper.” This remark sent a prickle of unease rippling across Maggie's scalp, and her glance flicked once more to Stuart. Anger suffused his face. “Enough. We don't need your superstitious blether making matters worse.” Geordie turned, stared at his brother a long moment, shrugged. Then he asked, his tone oddly accusatory, “Have you made any attempt to find out what happened? Door handles don't just break, you know.” 202
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Stuart, his expression grim, replied, “In the morning, Maggie can tell us what happened. For now, we should let her rest.” Then, as he turned to go, he added in a softer tone, “I'll tell Iona ye are awake, Maggie. She'll bring ye a bit of supper.” He moved to the door, paused, and said to Geordie who still stood beside Maggie's bed, “Shall we go?” Geordie hesitated as if about to refuse, apparently thought better of it, and bid her good night. Then he followed Stuart from the room. Alone once more, Maggie tried to relax, but she couldn't put that remark about the laundry from her thoughts. She kept rerunning Geordie's words until suddenly the reason for her unease flashed to the surface: No one ever went down to the laundry except on Mondays, and this was not Monday. That didn't mean Jeannie hadn't been down there today, but why would she have gone so late in the afternoon, today of all days? The place consisted of nothing more than a large shed and two big tubs set over a stone fire enclosure. Nothing was ever left there over night. On the other hand, why would Geordie make up such a story? Why, if it were untrue, had Stuart said nothing? This puzzle was still absorbing Maggie's attention when Iona arrived with the Scotch broth, a hearty soup made from mutton, barley, dried peas, and other vegetables. Despite Maggie's disquieting thoughts, she ate with a growing appetite and finished the entire bowl as well as a thick slice of 203
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bread and butter. When Iona returned to clear away, Maggie said, “Please thank Mrs. Allchin for me and tell her how much I enjoyed the soup. It was delicious.” As soon as Iona departed, Maggie blew out her candle, then settled back and curled herself into a cozy ball. It had been an unusually stressful day and sleep was not long in coming. But during those last moments of wakefulness, as she drifted between reality and dream, the thin, mournful wail of a bagpipe, crying softly in the blackness of her room, sent a lonely shiver trickling down Maggie's spine. In the morning, however, she dismissed the memory as fantasy. Now, the sun was shining, and it was a joy just to be alive, to be able to be up and about, tending to her responsibilities. She had no time to waste on foolish fantasies. When she arrived with Kate's breakfast tray, Maggie explained her absence the previous evening by saying she had had a headache. It was a half-truth that satisfied the girl. Dhileas, when Maggie arrived with her tray, looked pale and tired; but she smiled cheerfully enough. “‘Tis good to see ye up and about,” she said warmly. But her smile, as she gazed at Maggie, slowly faded. “I should have warned ye about the tower.” She paused, and a look of confusion clouded her eyes. Her thoughts suddenly concentrated inward. Maggie waited, unwilling to interrupt whatever it was that had claimed Dhileas's attention. Then, an abrupt intake of breath and the old lady continued, more to herself than to Maggie, “Of course, ‘twas not a dire occurrence ... this time.” 204
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Maggie understood immediately and her response was given quickly. “No, thank goodness.” Then, to divert the conversation from the serious tone it threatened to take, she added, “The view from up there is breathtaking. I shall remember it far longer than the discomfort of my misadventure.” But she couldn't help wondering, and not for the first time, if Dhileas truly had what she called the sicht. Delivering the trays had taken longer than usual that morning and Maggie had to fly to get to the breakfast room on time. She arrived just as Iona began dishing up the porridge. Everyone greeted Maggie warmly and all agreed that she looked none the worse for her ordeal. She then explained her presence in the tower by saying she had gone there to catch a breath of fresh air and take in the view. “You said it was wonderful,” She reminded Jeannie. “I've been hoping to visit the towers ever since.” Maggie hesitated, then added, “But if I'd known you needed to go to the laundry, I'd have come straight down to help.” Jeannie looked up, then glanced quickly away as a slow flush suffused her cheeks. “‘Twas nothing ... something ... a tablecloth was missing. I thought perhaps it had been left in one of the tubs, or...” “‘Tis more likely one of the washerwomen took a fancy to it,” Geordie remarked scornfully. Jeannie whirled on him and declared hotly, “What a dreadful thing to say. I'd never believe such a thing of those women.” 205
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Geordie shrugged and turned to Stuart. “Have you checked that tower door yet?” Stuart declared that he had been up at first light to examine the faulty handle. “The rod inside that withdraws the bolt when the handle is turned was sheered off,” he said. There followed much conjecture, of course, about why it should have broken; but in the end, it seemed clear that it simply had disintegrated with age. After all, Dunphaedair was very old and even little-used mechanisms do wear out. Thus, the incident was put to rest, though Maggie sometimes wondered, had it really been an accident, or was there someone—something—lurking in that tower room that wished her harm? With her daily routine firmly established, Maggie took advantage of what free time she did have to set up her darkroom tent in the old schoolroom on the fifth floor. When she wasn't busy with her chores, she was able to develop all the photographs she had taken thus far. They proved to be even better than she had hoped—except for the ones taken in the gallery where the painting of Malcolm Macnair cum MacPhaedair hung. Each of those photographs was marred by a strange misty splotch. Maggie could think of absolutely no way to account for this flaw; but she was careful not to mention it to anyone. She had no desire to start the ghost stories all over again, for she was certain that that was the explanation one and all—with the exception of Stuart, perhaps—were bound to affirm. Indeed, when Maggie allowed herself to remember the ghostly skirling of the bagpipe during the midnight hours, 206
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allowed her thoughts to drift back to that figure she had seen in the tower, to the story Kate had told of seeing a similar figure, Maggie found herself questioning her own disbelief. Did she, she wondered, insist on denying the existence of disembodied spirits out of fear? She had seen many strange things in her travels with her father. Was it so impossible that a spirit should linger? A malevolent spirit ... ? Impatient with such thoughts, Maggie shook her head and declared loudly, “There are no ghosts.” There was another question, however, that gave her pause—a question that could not so easily be disposed of. Why had both Geordie and Jeannie lied about her supposed trip to the laundry? For a lie it was, of that Maggie had absolutely no doubt. All these uncertainties, coupled with the tensions in the family, made for a distressing situation. Feeling as Maggie did about Stuart, she could no longer tell herself it was none of her affair. Yet there seemed little she could do about it. All through January, the weather grew increasingly inclement. In all other respects, the ensuing weeks passed without further incident, and Maggie began to relax, to take pleasure in the company of the family. During the long winter evenings, Jeannie, her two brothers, and Maggie often whiled away an hour or two playing whist or mah jongg. There were evenings, however, when Stuart retired to his library to read while Jeannie busied herself with tatting and embroidery, which she seemed to enjoy. On those evening, Geordie, much to Maggie's discomfiture, resumed his shipboard role of gallant, claiming whatever 207
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attention from her he could. For that reason, as well as because it was a pleasure, Maggie spent much time with Dhileas. There were a number of occasions, however, when as if by chance, Stuart and Maggie found themselves alone together. Or perhaps not by chance, for whenever Maggie went into the library, very shortly thereafter Stuart would appear. And on at least one or two occasions, when Maggie was certain he was there, she suddenly discovered she had need of a particular book. Though conversation with Stuart had been surprisingly easy when they first met, now Maggie found herself strangely tongue-tied in his presence. Invariably, her cheeks would grow warm, her mouth would go dry, and she could think of nothing to say except for the usual pleasantries. She soon learned, however, that a question about the distillery was one sure way to set Stuart talking. Though by nature reserved, he became quite animated when discussing the MacPhaedair distillery, both its history and his hopes for its future. He spoke quite freely of the days when his forebearers were only one jump ahead of the Excisemen; indeed, his eyes blazed with righteous indignation when he talked of the inequities in trade and taxes foisted on the Scots by the English in the old days. He spoke with pride when recounting the history of the present day distillery, and with deep conviction when discussing his hopes for the future. Maggie never tired of listening to him, delighting in the richness of his brogue. “Tis the water, ye ken,” he would say. “Ye cannae prrrroduce guid malt liquor without purrre water. 208
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But ‘tis morrre than that. Each burrrn and beck has its own special flavor, and the stream that flows past the MacPhaedairrr distillery is the finest in the Highlands.” In truth, Maggie did not find this bit of information particularly interesting, but just to hear the sound of his voice, to watch the play of expression on his face filled her with contentment. “Of course, ‘tis the smoke from the peat that gives all Highland whiskeys their distinctive flavor. That and the skill of the distiller. A man must know just when to draw the fumes.” This last statement did catch Maggie's attention. “Draw the fumes?” “Aye. During the final distillation. Only those vapors boiled off during the middle of the final run are pure enough to be called real malt liquor. Ye must discard the first and the final vapors, for they carry the impurities from the brew.” “Is that what you do ... draw the fumes?” “Aye. One of the things I see to.” “How do you know when to begin and when to cease drawing the vapors?” Stuart shrugged. “‘Tis a knowing I acquired by being there; by listening and watching. My father took me with him when I was still a bairn ... used to carry me about on his shoulder. Aye.” A far away look came into his eyes, softening his features, giving him the look of a little boy. And watching him, Maggie's heart swelled with tenderness. Thus, they talked, and came to know each other better. And all that she learned about Stuart, she liked. But best of all, was the way she felt when their glances met and, 209
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suddenly, the silence that fell between them seemed fraught with thoughts more eloquent than any words Lord Byron or Elizabeth Barrett Browning ever wrote. Neither did Stuart do all the talking. He seemed as pleased to listen to Maggie as she to him. And because he was such a good listener, she enjoyed telling him about the strange and out-of-the-way places she had been, about her father and his work. **** KATE, WHOSE leg had mended nicely, was up and about again by the first of March. By then, her anger at Stuart for his insistence that she remain on duty for Hogmanay, and her superstitious fear of the supposed curse, had abated. So once again she agreed to stay on at the castle. Maggie liked to think the young woman's decision was based, at least in part, on the attention Maggie had lavished on her along with carefully disguised lectures recounting how good the MacPhaedairs had been to her and how silly it was to believe in curses and ghosts. Despite the harshness of the winter, spring came early that year. But even before the snow had melted completely away, the crofters were at work preparing their fields, and Stuart was again spending long hours at the distillery. As for Maggie, she couldn't wait to get outside and on with her book. By mid-March, the trees were budding and the hills were veiled in green. For her first project, Maggie rode up onto the heath to photograph the Highland cattle while they were still 210
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dressed in their shaggy, winter coats. How handsome they are, Maggie thought, these magnificent beasts with their graceful, wide-spreading horns. There is something so wild and fierce, so haughty in their demeanor. “‘Tis the blood of the great wild ox, still running in their veins,” Stuart said. Maggie's eyes grew misty when he went on to explain sadly that those superb creatures had been hunted to extinction before he was born. With the advent of spring, each day the sun took longer to cross the heavens—or so it seemed—and Maggie could not bear to waste one moment of daylight. She took to spending hours in the field, waiting for an animal to raise its head just so, or for the clouds to form themselves into the perfect pattern above a mountain top. Thus it was that as soon as Kate was on her feet again, Maggie often asked Mrs. Allchin to pack a lunch. During the weeks when Maggie was carrying trays and in other ways making herself useful about the house and in the kitchen, Mrs. Allchin had taken her under her wing. After sizing Maggie up, Mrs. Allchin had announced, “Ye need fattening up.” Now, Mrs. Allchin delighted in preparing a lunch guaranteed to do just that. It is exacting work, capturing the perfect combination of light and shadow to reveal precisely what the heart sees. When Maggie was at work, everything disappeared for her except that upon which her attention was fixed. March gave way to April, buds became bright green leaves, and early spring flowers bloomed in all their pastel loveliness, 211
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raising their fragile heads toward the warming rays of the sun, nodding shyly in the gentle spring air. It was on such a morning that a sudden clatter of hooves startled Maggie from her concentration. With a gasp of surprise, she whirled about just in time to see Geordie rein his horse to a stop and leap from the saddle. The alarm she felt was clearly revealed in her face and he instantly assumed a contrite expression, exclaiming, “I'm sorry if I frightened you. ‘Twas never my intention. I thought surely you would hear me ride up.” “It's not your fault,” Maggie assured him. “I am often both deaf and blind to all about me when I am working.” “And what are you working on now, that has so completely captured your interest?” Maggie gestured toward a cluster of flowers growing beside a large, oddly-shaped boulder. “Those blossoms ... there. I am waiting for the sun to rise just a little higher. I want their shadow to fall back toward the stone.” She went to her camera and looked once more through the lens. “Just a few minutes more...” Geordie moved around behind her, looked over her shoulder. “Bluebells,” he murmured. “There's never a Scotsman but thinks of home when he sees a bluebell.” Maggie thought she detected a note of melancholy in Geordie's tone, and she glanced at him enquiringly. If he had experienced a sense of nostalgia, it had been only momentary, for now his face wore a smile, and when he spoke, his tone was matter-of-fact, “What do you plan to do next?” 212
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“Since the sun will be overhead by then, I propose to sit down on that rock and eat my lunch.” “I've a much better idea,” Geodie said. “Ride over to the distillery with me and we can have our lunch there together.” Maggie didn't particularly want to have lunch with Geordie. Neither did she particularly wish to see the distillery again. To be honest, she did not understand Stuart's devotion to that collection of ramshackle sheds. But the moment Geordie spoke, her heart leapt. Stuart would undoubtedly be there. He seldom returned to the castle at midday—at least on those days she had been present for lunch, he had been absent. So Maggie smiled at Geordie and said, “I should like that very much.” Indeed, the thought of Stuart kept that smile dancing across her face all the way to their destination. When Geordie remarked, “It makes me happy to see you so happy,” Maggie felt a bit guilty because she knew that he assumed her smiles were for him. On the other hand, she reminded herself, he had been less than honest with her on more than one occasion. It still disturbed her that before bringing her to Dunphaedair, he had failed to remark upon her likeness to Eilean. And his outright prevarication to the Barnestones and Witherspoons continued to rankle. Maggie had not yet found the proper time to confront him on that issue, but she vowed that she would. And now, despite his renewed attentions, Maggie could not believe that his feelings for her were very deep or sincere. About as deep as the snow that had kept them house bound, 213
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and, she thought cynically, would surely melt away almost as fast as that same snow. But the nearer they came to the distillery, the higher Maggie's spirits soared; and when the tall stacks came into view, her heart began a light, rapid tattoo against her ribs. Just to look at Stuart had become a joy for her. Was it not Shakespeare who said, “Love feasts its eyes in looking,” or some such thing? Not that Maggie was ready to admit that she was in love with Stuart—and yet, just to be near him, even to see his tall figure in the distance, filled her with happiness. Upon reaching the distillery, Geordie and Maggie dismounted beneath the old Scotch pine and while Geordie saw to the horses, Maggie gazed at the buildings below, searching for sight of Stuart. Nothing moved; all was silent. Suddenly apprehensive, she turned to Geordie. “Where is everyone? The place looks deserted.” “And so it is,” Geordie replied nonchalantly, his smile strangely enigmatic. “Stuart had to go to Dundee this morning, and the men will not begin work here for another week.” “But I thought...” Maggie stopped. It would never do to tell Geordie her only reason for coming with him had been to see his brother. “‘Twill be so ... romantic ... don't ye think? Just the two of us.” As he spoke, Geordie moved closer, put his hands on Maggie's shoulders. “I've wanted to be alone with ye like this for so long.” 214
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For a moment, his words, the look in his eyes, left her speechless. Goodness knew she had no desire to be alone with him. But Maggie didn't want to anger him or hurt his feelings, either. What was one supposed to do in a situation like this? If only, Maggie thought, I had had a woman's guidance and counsel when I was growing up. And no matter what Dhileas said about all women being temptresses, Maggie knew she herself was no such thing. As this final thought flashed through her mind, she almost laughed. What I am, she thought, is straightforward. With the situation once more in perspective, Maggie tipped her head back and, ignoring Geordie's remarks, asked, “Where is your lunch, Geordie? Or did you propose to eat half of mine?” The change of subject momentarily disconcerted him and she easily shrugged her shoulders from his grasp, then quickly moved away from him. Finally, with a wry grin he ventured, “Ye do have enough in that hamper for two, do ye not?” “No,” Maggie declared, and was pleased to see a faint flush mount in his cheeks. Then, relenting, “But, I would not refuse you a slice of bread and a bit of cheese.” He laughed. “I can make do with that.” He paused, then added softly, “Come along, let's go inside.” Why, Maggie wondered, would he suggest going inside on a beautiful day like today? Besides, something in the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes, sent a prickle of unease across her shoulders. Funny, she thought. I had no qualms at all 215
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about entering the distillery alone with Stuart; but I am not about to let Geordie take me there. Aloud she said, “I would prefer to eat my lunch right here in the fresh air.” She glanced around, then pointed down toward the stream that flowed past the distillery. “Down there on those rocks would be a pleasant place.” Before Geordie could object, she started down the hill. “You bring the hamper,” Maggie called over her shoulder. “I'll find a good place to sit.” Actually, the hamper contained more than enough food for two, and Geordie did not again attempt to lead the conversation into personal areas. Instead, he began to regale Maggie with stories about the Highlands and its dour, tightfisted people which she knew were at best only half true; and yet he soon had her laughing, even as he had done on the ship. They were packing the leftovers into the hamper once more when Geordie said, “As long as we are here, why don't you take some photographs of the distillery?” Maggie looked at him askance; then turned her gaze on the rather decrepit collection of buildings. She had not even considered using them in her book—there was nothing beautiful or picturesque about them. Neither could she take any photographs inside; it was too dark, and she knew that to use flash powder in that eighty-proof atmosphere would be suicidal. “I know it's not much to look at,” Geordie was saying, “but it would please Stuart. He's very proud of this place.” 216
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...please Stuart ... Magic words, indeed. Maggie turned to Geordie, once more fairly bubbling with enthusiasm. “Of course! Why didn't I think of that. I'll do it this very afternoon.” “And I'll help.” “No ... I mean, thank you, Geordie; but there will be nothing for you to do. And I work better alone.” He gazed at Maggie searchingly. “Are you sure?” She noticed he had again dropped his brogue. “Absolutely. You take the hamper and run along. I'll be home in time for tea.” As they talked, they had been making their way back up the hill to the horses. Now Geordie turned to face her. “This will be a grand surprise for Stuart. Let's not tell him about the photographs until they are ready.” “I won't tell him if you don't,” Maggie promised. “Ach, what a braw idea.” Geordie looked inordinately pleased with himself and it made Maggie feel good. Perhaps the brothers had patched up their differences after all. She truly hoped so. Geordie mounted his horse, then, and called back as he rode away, “I'll see you at tea time.” Maggie was already unloading her equipment. Photographing the distillery did not take long. There were only a couple of angles from which to approach it. One, from below with the stacks outlined against a sky studded with fleecy clouds; another from above with a thick stand of evergreens beyond; and last, straight on, showing nothing but the line of sheds with the tall stacks between. As Maggie 217
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looked through the camera's lens, she was struck by the distillery's rustic beauty. Why, she wondered, had she not noted it immediately? These photographs might prove to be perfect for her book. In any event, she would most certainly include one just to please Stuart. With these happy imaginings to keep her company, Maggie packed up her equipment and started homeward. Though the sun had dropped behind the mountains, it was still light. In the Highlands, because the area is so far North, a brightness remains late into the evening. As she approached the fork in the road where one branch leads off to become a path above the glen, her reverie was interrupted by the sound of hoof beats. Within moments, horse and rider appeared, headed in her direction. It took only a glance to set Maggie's heart thumping. She would know that broad-shouldered figure anywhere. Stuart! She reined her mount to a stop even as he slowed his, then brought the animal to a halt beside her own. Their eyes met, locked. Maggie's whole being began to glow and she was suddenly too warm. Unconsciously, she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips even as Stuart reached up to adjust his cravat. Then they both began to speak at once, stuttered, then began to apologize at the same time, only to again fall silent. Finally, as if on cue, they both laughed and Stuart gestured for Maggie to speak first. “I only wished to know if you had had a pleasant trip to Dundee?” “A successful trip and that is always a pleasure.” As he replied, Stuart wheeled his horse about and by unspoken 218
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consent they continued onward, taking the branch of the road that overlooks the glen. As the trees locked branches above their heads, they lapsed into silence, but each time Maggie glanced at Stuart, she found his gaze fixed on her; and each time their eyes met it was like physical contact, sending a flood of heat right down to the tips of Maggie's toes. Breathless, filled with those wonderful tingling sensations that Stuart's nearness always seemed to rouse in her, she was aware of her body as never before in all her life. Her hands trembled on the reins and she blushed at the notions that filled her mind. A sort of madness Maggie had never before known overtook her, and all she could think was how wonderful it would feel to have Stuart's lips on her own, his hands caressing her bare flesh, seeking out those intimate places whose insistent throbbing she instinctively knew would be satisfied only by his touch. They reached the end of the path at last and rode out into the small clearing. Where all had been brown and sere in the fall, now the grass was green and soft, and a host of flowers whose names Maggie did not know spread their perfume on the air. As Stuart dismounted, she kicked free of her stirrups, turned in the saddle, and slid into his waiting embrace. Had the hounds of hell been baying at her heels, Maggie could not have torn herself away. Her arms went around his neck as he whispered in a ragged voice, “Maggie, Maggie...” Then his mouth closed over hers in a burning kiss. With no thought for past or future, driven only by the sensation flaming within her, Maggie's lips opened to the gentle 219
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pressure of his tongue and her own tongue sought the sweetness of his mouth, unleashing a tidal wave of desire. Held in each others’ arms, they sank to the grass. With a sigh that was almost a moan, Stuart pulled her body close and closer still, buried his face in her hair, whispered, “Mo ghraidh, m'eudail...” Gaelic words she could not understand, yet she felt certain they were words of love. Then his lips caressed her eyelids, her cheek and she was only dimly aware that he was unfastening the buttons of her shirtwaist. A cry of delight burst from Maggie's lips as his tongue traced tiny whorls of burning sensation down her throat and a shudder of pure pleasure, unlike anything she could ever have imagined, shook her when his lips at last found her breasts. Without warning, the distant pounding of fast approaching hoof beats jarred them back to reality. With an oath, Stuart pulled himself away and sat up. Maggie caught her breath, totally unprepared for the cold torment that abruptly twisted, drew into a knot, inside her, and it took her a moment to gather her wits once more. When she did open her eyes, Stuart, his breathing ragged, was gazing down at her, a multitude of expressions flickering across his face: hunger, wonder, longing, even anger. Abstractedly, he drew the back of one hand across his eyes, then murmured, “I'm sorry...” The hoof beats were much closer now. Abruptly Stuart leaned forward, kissed her again, before together they scrambled to their feet. Then, moving quickly, he pulled one of the horses around to afford Maggie a screen behind which 220
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to shield herself while she refastened her buttons, tried to tidy her hair, even as a rider burst into the clearing.
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Chapter 13 “Ach, now, Geordie, what's your hurry?” Stuart drawled lazily. How could he sound so calm? Maggie wondered. Her fingers shook so she could scarcely push the tiny buttons of her shirtwaist through the buttonholes. In desperation, she finally gave it up, simply pulled her jacket closed, and held it clutched in place praying that once she had spoken to Geordie, an opportunity would afford itself for her to complete the task. Geordie did not answer Stuart immediately, but when he did, there was something in his tone that made Maggie uneasy. “I was worried about our guest. But I see her horse is here. She must be nearby. Undoubtedly, she has been safe with you...?” Perhaps it was that final question in Geordie's voice that disturbed Maggie, or was it the impression he gave that he had been waiting for her. Maggie gave her hair one last pat, clutched her jacket tighter across her bosom, then stepped from behind the horse and said, “Of course, I am safe, Geordie. I should have been safe even had I not encountered Stuart on the way home.” “Ach, there you are.” Geordie broke into a wide smile, his face suffused by a look of delight; it was followed immediately by one of conjecture as his gaze swept over Maggie.
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A flush rose in her cheeks and she breathed a silent behest that the lengthening shadows should mask the disarray of her person and clothes. Geordie was speaking again, slowly, “But I thought you were going to wait for me ... that we were going to ride back to the castle together.” “I recall no such arrangement.” Irritation sharpened Maggie's tone. Geordie shook his head, pursed his lips, and all the while he gazed at her soulfully. “Ach, well, perhaps I misunderstood.” Maggie would have liked to snap, “Obviously, you did,” but she bit back the words. The situation was already untenable; it would be senseless to turn it into a complete fisaco. She glanced at Stuart. He was listening to this exchange, tight-lipped. Suddenly, Maggie realized Geordie was moving toward her. “Let me help you back on your horse,” he was saying. She froze. He must not see the state of dishabille beneath her jacket; and she could not mount, even with help, without releasing her grip on that garment. Dismayed, she threw Stuart a beseeching look. He understood. He leaped across Geordie's path, almost bowling him over, and was at Maggie's side in an instant. Once there, he boosted her quickly into the saddle. What Geordie may have made of this display, Maggie had no idea. She had not the courage to look at him. Neither did she linger to allow one of the men to take the lead. Immediately she was astride her mount, Maggie urged him 223
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onto the path home praying that Stuart would manage to fall in behind her leaving Geordie to bring up the rear. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that Stuart was there, so she made haste to tuck in the tail of her shirtwaist and fasten her jacket buttons, a difficult feat with only one hand free. And all the while, her thoughts were in chaos. After what had transpired between them back there in the clearing, Maggie wanted desperately to talk to Stuart—and yet she had no idea what she should say. Would he consider her behavior wanton—or did he feel as she did? Would he only care that they had shared something that to Maggie was wonderful? Still, maidenly behavior decreed that even a kiss was forbidden. Abruptly, her cheeks blazed as she recalled the touch of Stuart's lips on her bare breasts. And what had he meant when he said, “I'm sorry."? Did he mean that he regretted what had just happened between them? Or was he sorry that it had happened in such an unprotected place—that they had been so rudely interrupted? Or did he only mean that he should have known Geordie would be looking for her? And, Maggie wondered, what would Stuart have done had Geordie not come riding up? It was almost dark by the time they reached Dunphaedair and as she dismounted Maggie said, “I must hurry and get changed or I shall be late for tea. Please, do excuse me gentlemen.” With that, she turned and fled. In her chamber once more, Maggie blushed scarlet when a glanced in the mirror revealed bits of grass sticking out of her hair, which was still in some disarray. Perhaps, she consoled 224
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herself, her disreputable appearance had been softened by the gathering twilight—perhaps Geordie hadn't even noticed. Perhaps... Then, with a lift of her chin, Maggie asked herself defiantly, What if he had? After all, she owed him nothing. It was what Stuart might think that concerned her ... concerned! It was all important. Should she have resisted his kisses? Just remembering them threatened to rekindle the heat that had blazed within her, melting her will like wax in a flame. Surely Stuart had felt the same way. Those words he had whispered so tenderly in her ear, and his touch—so eager and yet so gentle—he does love me, Maggie told herself fiercely, and if two people are in love, to bring such pleasure to one another cannot be wrong. But justify as she would, deep in her heart Maggie knew what her mother would have said—what her father would have done. Some things were meant to be saved for the marriage bed. Suddenly, Maggie leaped to her feet and continued with her toilette. It was growing late and she had yet to dress for tea. Geordie was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs when she went down. “You look lovely, tonight, Maggie,” he said as he fell into step beside her. Then, as he opened the door to the hall and they moved inside, he laid a hand upon her arm and when she glanced up at him he said softly, “You look as if something very nice had happened to you.”
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Startled, she stared up at him. What, exactly, did he mean? But his expression, as he returned her gaze, was all innocence. Why, then, did a slow flush mount in her cheeks? Flustered, Maggie turned from him, only to encounter the eyes of both Stuart and Jeannie watching them. Feeling unaccountably guilty, Maggie said, and even in her own ears her voice sounded breathy and nervous, “Am I late? I am so sorry. Do forgive me. I lost track of the time...” “We both did.” Geordie interjected smoothly. At his words, Jeannie and Stuart exchanged a quick glance. Seeing it, anger boiled up inside Maggie. Now they must think she and Geordie had been together. Maggie was certain that was his intention. But why? What did he hope to gain? Or was he simply piqued at having found her alone with Stuart? After a pause that seemed endless, Jeannie said, “No, no. Dinnae fash yersel. Come ... fill your plates. Mrs. Allchin has made Scotch eggs and ham. ‘Tis one of her specialties.” Maggie helped herself to a small serving but her appetite had fled. She could feel Stuart's gaze upon her as she picked at the food, but each time she looked in his direction he averted his eyes. Geordie, on the other hand, was all smiles as he danced attendance on her every need: “More tea, Maggie? Let me get you another scone ... I'll butter it for you, shall I? How about a bit of strawberry jam? I know it's your favorite...” Maggie should have liked to throw scone, butter, and jam in his face. How superficial he was! How could she ever have thought herself drawn to him? 226
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Why did Stuart not speak? And how, Maggie wondered, was she to survive this interminable tea? However, they did finish the meal at last, and at last Stuart spoke. “That book, ye wanted, Maggie. ‘Tis in the library. If ye wish, I can get if for ye now.” She rose quickly to her feet. “Yes, please ... thank you.” She had not asked for any book, so she knew this meant that Stuart wanted to be alone with her. A shiver of anticipation trembled through Maggie and her pulse quickened. Would he tell her that he loved her? Would he kiss her again? Stuart gestured for her to precede him, and they left the hall together. In the library, he ushered her to one of the chairs before the fire, but he did not sit down. Rather, he went to the fireplace, leaned with both hands on the mantle, and stared down into the flames. Maggie's eagerness was suddenly replaced by unease. Why was Stuart not holding her, not even speaking to her? There was no sound save the pop and sizzle of the burning coal. As she waited in that silence, her nerves drew taut, and she thought, If he does not say something soon, I shall scream. When at last he did turn to face Maggie, his expression was stern. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “Ye are my guest, and I took advantage of ye there in the clearing. I ask your forgiveness and assure ye that it will not happen again.” His words were like an icy breath upon Maggie's heart. He was sorry! For a long moment, she stared at him, dumfounded. Then, mustering all her dignity, she rose to her feet and, chin high, replied, “There is nothing to forgive. The incident is entirely forgotten. And now, if you will excuse 227
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me?” With that, she turned and walked sedately from the library. Once outside, however, Maggie picked up her skirts and fled: across the now deserted great hall, along the corridor, and up the stairs to her own chamber. There, she threw herself into a chair before the fire and cursed herself for a fool. Then she cursed the brothers MacPhaedair. And when she had finished with them, she cursed the fate that had brought them all together. She felt such an idiot. Any dunce would know better than to let a man who had not first declared his love—his intentions—kiss her, touch her, as Stuart had kissed and touched Maggie. But not I! Maggie fumed. I all but threw myself into his arms. Oh God. If only she had the wherewithal to leave this place. But until she finished her photographs, found a publisher, received some money, she was bound to continue accepting the hospitality of these people. It was galling. But, Maggie promised herself, from now on I will work twice as hard, put in even longer hours in the field, and be ready to send off my work by the first of June at the latest. Indeed, Maggie found that decision so comforting, she vowed to go even sooner—indeed, the moment she had enough photographs, she would take her leave, go to Pastor Makepeace's school, and work there until her book was sold. Thus, she consoled herself, refusing to remember how long it had taken her father to find a publisher—even after he had become world famous. At last, both anger and frustration exhausted, Maggie arose, changed into her nightdress, and crawled into bed. 228
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Only then, safe and warm in the dark, did she let memory carry her back to the clearing, allow herself to recall the ardor of Stuart's embrace. Remembering, she thought, No matter what Stuart said there in the library, he wasn't sorry. He had been as filled with longing as had she, and he had been as moved by her kisses as she by his. So why had he denied it? Could he possibly believe that she and Geordie ... certainly, that was the impression Geordie was trying to give. But surely, Stuart must know she could not have responded to him as she had were she in love with his brother. Then another idea surfaced, one that sent a chill through Maggie. When Stuart had held her in his arms, kissed her so passionately, whispered so ardently in her ear, was he seeing Eilean? The thought pierced Maggie like cold metal and she pushed it aside. It doesn't matter, she told herself; but her heart would not be fooled, and she whispered fiercely, “I will make him love me.” Then, acknowledging her own feelings for the first time, Maggie added, “I will make him love me, as much as I love him.” Then, surprisingly, she turned over and went to sleep. The following morning, however, she awoke with the dawn, and the moment she opened her eyes, she knew what she was going to do that day: ride up to the home farm, take some photographs of Ian, and glean every shred of gossip that Flora knew, guessed, or surmised. Maggie supposed she should feel a bit ashamed, but she did not. All's fair in love and war had suddenly become Maggie's favorite axiom. 229
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She was up and had her clothes laid out, ready to dress for the day, before Iona and Kate arrived with the morning tea and hot water. Maggie thanked them, then said, “Please ask Mrs. Allchin to pack me a lunch, and tell her I would very much appreciate something special ... one of her banbury tarts, perhaps ... to give to little Ian. I shall be photographing the home farm today.” Maggie drank her tea while she completed her morning toilette. Then she slipped quickly into her clothes. Jeannie had found a riding habit for Maggie, and this was the costume she had chosen for the day. It was of sturdy worsted in a lovely shade of forest green that brightened the pale gold of Maggie's hair and added a glint of green to her blue eyes. It was trimmed with bands of MacPhaedair tartan, and the matching hat was a traditional Balmoral bonnet banded in the same tartan. It was a costume that became Maggie, and when she surveyed herself in the mirror, she couldn't help hoping that Stuart would still be at the breakfast table. He had seen her so often in the disreputable old trousers. She wanted him to see her in something that would remind him that she was a woman. Though he had not seemed to need reminding on the yesterday! With that thought raising the color in her cheeks, Maggie left her room and hastened downstairs. No one was there. So she hurriedly ate a solitary breakfast, claimed her lunch hamper from the kitchen, and dashed off to the stable. It took the stableboy only a few minutes to saddle her horse. Then he helped her onto the mounting block, and thence to the 230
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animal's back. Maggie seldom rode side-saddle, but she found that it actually provided a more comfortable seat than a man's saddle. **** Ian, hair tousled, face dust-streaked, was playing in the yard as Maggie rode up. At sight of her, he jumped to his feet and ran to the cottage just as Flora opened the door. She greeted Maggie with obvious pleasure. “I'm so glad to see ye. I've been wondering how ye withstood the cold of our Highlands after the blazing sun of Africa. Oh, I did enjoy the tales ye told while we made the castle ready for Hogmanay.” As she spoke, Flora led Maggie's horse to a small boulder that stood just off the path. “Will this do for a mounting block?” She smiled up at Maggie. Thus, she was soon safely on the ground and following Flora into her home. “And will ye have a cup of tea? I just put the kettle on.” Maggie thanked her but declined. “I really want to take some photographs outside before the sun is too high. But in about an hour, a cup of tea would be most welcome. Then I'd like to take some photographs of Ian.” At Maggie's words, Flora's face lit with pride. “I'll have the young rascal scrubbed and polished and waiting for ye,” she promised. The next hour seemed endless. Although Maggie did want to include the home farm in her book, today's visit had only one real purpose: to learn all that she could about the MacPhaedairs. She wondered if her father would have 231
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considered her actions dishonorable? Perhaps, Maggie thought, then soothed her conscience by telling herself that since it was not her intention to use the information to hurt anyone, but only to protect herself, there was no harm. And again she found consolation in the words, All's fair in love.... She returned to the cottage midmorning, and while Flora busied herself with the kettle, Maggie said to Ian, “I do believe Mrs. Allchin put something in my lunch basket especially for you. Would you like to help me look?” He said nothing, but came to stand by her side as she removed the hamper's cover. On the very top, there was a large flat object wrapped in a linen napkin. Maggie knew at once that Mrs. Allchin had meant it for the child. Maggie lifted it out and handed it to him. “Put it on the table and unwrap it carefully,” she suggested. Eyes huge in his solemn, freckled face, he took the package and slowly, carefully, unfolded the napkin. Inside was a plump, molasses-colored, gingerbread man. The child stared at the confection for a long moment, then turned his gaze upon Maggie. “Can I eat him?” he asked. Maggie glanced at his mother and when Flora nodded her head Maggie said, “Indeed, you may.” At her words, a wide smile spread itself across the lad's face and without warning, through the mist that suddenly clouded Maggie's eyes, her imagination replaced Ian's red hair with raven-colored locks and she seemed to see a little boy who looked just like Stuart—the way, Maggie felt certain, their son would look if she and Stuart.... 232
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“Are ye all right?” Flora's words finally penetrated Maggie's reverie. “Oh! I'm sorry. Yes, I am fine. I was just admiring your son ... thinking what a charming photograph he will make. He's a fine-looking little boy.” She was chattering, trying to cover her momentary confusion. “The tea is ready, then. Come join me.” Maggie picked up the hamper and carried it to the table. “Mrs. Allchin also included a treat for us,” she said, taking another linen-wrapped parcel from the basket. “Banbury tarts.” Only when the tea was poured and they were each nibbling on their second tart did Maggie say, “The first time we met, Flora; do you remember what you said?” Flora gave Maggie a startled glance, then took a deep breath. “Aye. I remember.” “Did you know Eilean well?” Maggie asked the question bluntly; she had no talent for subtlety. “Nay. Not well...” “But you think that I am very like her?” Flora did not answer immediately. Finally she vouchsafed, “Ye have the look of her ... but ye are not like her...” “How am I different?” Now Flora dropped her gaze to her hands. They had begun twisting nervously in her lap. “‘Tis hard to put into words,” she said at last. It was clear that Flora found the questions distressing. But Maggie would not be put off—not after coming this far. However, she decided to change her tactics, approach the 233
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subject in a round-about way. To this end, she asked, “Why does everyone think that Lachlan Fitzroy pipes death in the halls of Dunphaedair?” “Sweet Baby Jesus.” Flora's head jerked up and she stared at Maggie. “Have ye heard the piping?” “On several occasions.” Again Flora murmured, “Sweet Baby Jesus...” “So I need to know, Flora. Who was Lachlan Fitzroy and why should anyone think his ghost is still walking the castle halls?” “Has no one told ye?” “Only that Dunphaedair was built by the Fitzroys, and that Lachlan lost it in the early 1700's to a tacksman named Malcolm Macnair, who subsequently changed his name to MacPhaedair.” “So ye don't know how it has all come about?” “No one offered to tell me and it seemed rude to ask a member of the family.” Flora nodded, but her expression remained dubious. Maggie tried again. “Look. If Lachlan's ghost does still walk the halls of Dunphaedair and plays death on his bagpipe, since I have heard the piping, shouldn't I know why?” Flora considered a moment longer before raising her gaze to meet Maggie's. “Indeed, ye should,” Flora said emphatically. “‘Tis a story well-known hereabouts. Aye, I'll tell ye. It began with the clearances. Ye ken the clearances?” “That was when the wealthy ... or at least titled ... landowners dispossessed the crofters, was it not? My father's 234
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father used to talk about it. He was from Glasgow, but he remembered well the misery inflicted on the people.” The fingers that had been twisting in Flora's lap now knotted into fists, and she spoke with growing emotion. “Aye. ‘Twas a time of great tribulation. Many a family had their shieling burned down right over their heads ... driven from the land, they were, like the cattle.” After a moment's silence, Maggie prompted, “I never really understood why...” “For the land! Scotland is a poor country, and once the wars were over, the landowners realized they could make more money herding sheep than running cattle or growing crops. So they cleared the land of crofters by any means that came to hand, the heartless villains.” Her vehemence startled Maggie, though she understood it. Her grandfather had never forgotten or forgiven the sufferings of his people at the hands of the landowners and the English during those terrible years. Now she said softly, “And was that what Lachlan Fitzroy was about ... clearing the people off his lands?” “‘Twas what he had in mind.” Flora uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “But he was a feckless creature ... a gambler and a wastrel, he was. Ran in the family, so they say.” As she spoke, Flora reached for the teapot. “Another cup?” She looked at Maggie enquiringly. “Thank you,” she said. “And another Banbury tart would go nicely, don't you think?” “Aye,” Flora agreed, beginning to relax once more as they smiled companionably at each other. 235
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The fire was dying on the hearth and Flora told Ian to toss on a few more lumps of coal. The lad, who had sat silent and wide-eyed through all the talk, rose with alacrity to do his mother's bidding. “Dinnae get too close to the fire,” Flora cautioned him. Both women watched as he took a lump in each hand and tossed them into the fireplace. “That's a guid lad,” his mother approved. Her praise brought a smile to the boy's dimpled cheeks. Only then did Flora continue. “As I was saying, Lachlan Fitzroy was the end of a long line of gamblers. Now, Malcolm Macnair wasnae pillar of society, either. But he was a Scotsman whose motto was ‘Scotland for the Scots.’ When he learned what Fitzroy was up to, Malcolm got Lachlan into a game of chance and won Dunphaedair fair and square ... well, perhaps nae entirely fair.” Maggie burst into laughter and after a moment, Flora joined in. When they were able to contain their mirth, Maggie asked, “What happened to Lachlan Fitzroy after he lost everything?” “Why, he sent his wife and daughter back to her people in Edinburgh, then he hanged himself in the gallery.” At her words, those photographs with their strange, misty blotches that Maggie had taken in the gallery rose up before her mind's eye and a chill washed over her. “But I don't believe in ghosts.” Maggie didn't realize she had spoken aloud until Flora said, “I'm sorry. I didnae quite hear ye.” 236
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“Oh. I was just thinking,” Maggie said. “That's why the story originated. A man, dead by his own hand, is often at the center of a good ghost story.” Flora shook her head. “Nae. ‘Tis more than that. There's naebody hereabouts but kens that from that time forward, each death in the MacPhaedair clan has been heralded by Lachlan's pipes.” She paused, then added. “A wastrel he may have been, but Lachlan Fitzroy was a braw piper, indeed.” “I'm not sure I understand. Is it the person who is to die who hears the pipes, or can anybody who happens to be in the castle hear them?” Flora's brow knit in concentration. Finally, thoughtfully, she said, “I cannae say for certain. Stories differ...” “Well, how long after the pipes are heard do the deaths occur?” Flora shook her head. “That I cannae say for certain either.” This seemed an odd twist for a ghost story. In the tales Maggie had heard as a child, the spirits always followed a set pattern in their hauntings. Nevertheless, it brought them quite neatly back to the subject that most interested her. “Dhileas told me the pipes were heard shortly before Eilean MacPhaedair drowned.” Flora gave Maggie a long look, then nodded. “Aye ... so the story goes. ‘Twas a terrible thing.” “How did it happen?” Abruptly, Flora's face took on a closed expression. Finally, she said, “Naebody is quite sure.” “But she did drown in the loch?” 237
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“Aye. She had gone out in her little boat. ‘Twas a bricht bonnie day.” As Flora continued speaking, the words came more slowly, almost as if against her will. “They found her little boat near shore ... capsized. The poor lass was trapped beneath it ... her skirt snagged on something.” “But if the weather was fine, what happened? How did the boat turn over?” Now Flora fixed her troubled gaze full on Maggie. “‘Tis a subject I dinnae like,” she said. “But I'll tell ye because I've seen the way ye look at the laird ... the way he looks at ye. The truth is, no one knows for certain, but ‘tis whispered here about that the lass was murdered.”
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Chapter 14 Shocked silence followed Flora's revelation. Maggie couldn't think what to say, what question to put next. If the effect the words had on Maggie were apparent to Flora, she gave no indication. Indeed, she seemed so intent on saying what she obviously had decided must be said, she scarcely paused in her recital. “Charges were never brought ... but the gossip and the rumors flew. Wild rumors, they were, and I never believed a one of them, nae more did Ben. Perhaps it was true that the laird's brother and Eilean ... still and all, even that was mostly hearsay. Besides, the laird is a guid man. He'd never do anyone harm. Least of all his wife.” This final disclosure shocked Maggie's tongue to action. “Do you mean that people thought Stuart MacPhaedair...?” And even as she spoke the words, she remembered something Dhileas had said: ‘...do not misjudge my nephew...' Had she been thinking of this at the time—that sooner or later Maggie would hear the gossip? Flora was still speaking: “Aye. ‘Tis his temper, ye ken. The man wouldnae hurt a fly; but when he's angered, he does make a great deal of noise ... enough to fright the devil himself.” Maggie did understand—she still remembered the night Stuart had smashed his glass of wine to the floor and stalked from the room. Aloud she said, “But that is no reason to accuse a man of murder.” 239
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“Ach, he was never accused. Still, tongues wagged.” During this exchange, the shock Maggie had felt was replaced by anger. “But that's terrible. I don't understand how people can be so cruel.” “Nae more do Ben or mysel'. Especially when ye think on all that Stuart MacPhaedair has done for the crofters ... the fisherfolk as well. There's nae man amongst us who doesnae ken how things have been at Dunphaedair. Why, if that Geordie had had his way, Dunphaedair and the distillery would have been sold long since, and a pretty penny it would have brought. But the laird wouldnae have it.” Abruptly, a great many details fell into place. Now Maggie understood—at least in part—the animosity between Stuart and Geordie—even Jeannie's resentment of her older brother. Money! “Stuart told me once that he'd never sell...” Maggie spoke the words aloud, though softly. Flora took no notice but continued, “The laird knows that the distillery would be torn down and the land cleared to raise sheep, or left to go fallow to provide grouse moors for the titled English to hunt. And then what would become of us? With no market for our barley, no land on which to run our cattle, ‘twould be the clearances all over again.” Another bit of the puzzle fell into place. Undoubtedly, this was what the brothers had been arguing about the night Maggie overheard Stuart tell Geordie that if he didn't like it, he could leave. This could also explain why Geordie had finagled the visit by the titled Englishmen at Hogmanay. Obviously, he hoped 240
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to interest them in Dunphaedair. Though how he expected to get Stuart to sell, even were Geordie to find a buyer, she could not fathom. Nevertheless, were it true, it explained why Stuart viewed Geordie and the Englishmen with such contempt. Perhaps it also explained why Stuart had pretended to be sorry he had kissed Maggie. Perhaps he really believed that bringing the English to Dunphaedair had been her idea. Why, he might even suspect that she was in league with Geordie.... “I hope I've nae said too much. My tongue runs away with me at times.” Suddenly, Maggie became aware of Flora's searching gaze; noted that her usually sunny expression was clouded. “No, Flora,” Maggie hurried to reassure her. “Indeed, you have not said too much. I thank you for being so frank with me. I have been troubled by so many things. I still am; but I do understand a little better, now.” At that moment, Ian, who had become bored with his elders’ conversation and wandered out of doors, returned, his face once more streaked with grime, the knees of his trousers grey with dust. Flora took one horrified look and threw up her hands. “Yer new breeks, laddie! What ever have ye been about?” “It's my fault,” Maggie said quickly. “I've kept you talking and Ian waiting to have his photograph taken for much too long. We'll not put it off another moment.” “Ye cannae take his picture when he looks such a fright!”
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Maggie held out her arms to Ian and spoke over her shoulder to his mother, “Actually, I think he looks the perfect little boy. A photograph of him as he is would be charming.” Much to Maggie's surprise, the youngster went to her, allowed her to embrace him for a long moment. How good it felt to hold him close. He smelled of sunshine and fresh air, of wild clover and newly turned soil, and his breath was warm upon her cheek. How wonderful it would be to have her own child—a little boy with big, black eyes and thick black hair.... Flora's wail of dismay shattered Maggie's daydream. “But his face is dirty!” “If you'll let me take one photograph of him like this,” as Maggie spoke she ruffled Ian's already tousled auburn curls, “I promise, I'll clean his trousers while you wash his face. Then I'll take another ... perhaps one with your son sitting on your lap.” Flora looked doubtful, but she agreed. The rest of the morning Maggie was too deeply engrossed in her work to think about all the things Flora had revealed. The sun was directly overhead before the last photograph was taken, and just as Maggie began packing her equipment away, Ben returned to the cottage for the noon meal. He insisted Maggie share it with them, and when she looked into her hamper, she realized Mrs. Allchin had foreseen that they would do so, for instead of the sandwiches and other tidbits she usally packed, today she had sent along two freshly baked loaves of bread and enough of her smoked salmon to feed a small army. 242
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Before he returned to his work, Ben helped Maggie mount. She had expected to spend the entire day afield, but she had lost her concentration. Indeed, from the moment the word murder had been spoken, a pall had settled upon her spirit, and she could think of nothing except Flora's revelations. Could it be true that Geordie and Eilean had had a liaison? Maggie tried to remember what Geordie had said when she asked him why he had not told her that she resembled his sister-in-law. “You do look a great deal like her,” he had admitted, “but you are so different...” And that was very much what Flora had said. “Ye look like her, but ye are not like her.” So how, Maggie wondered, am I different from Eilean? Then another idea crept into her mind. Was that why Stuart wanted to deny any feelings for her? Did he believe she and Geordie were ... more than friends? That was entirely possible considering the way Geordie had been behaving. Yet, even if, in the beginning, Stuart had thought she and Geordie had an—attachment, how could he continue to believe it now? After the way she had clung to Stuart, kissed him, let him caress her—or did he think that like his wife, Maggie could be involved with two men? If it were true that Eilean had turned to Geordie. Was that, Maggie wondered, exactly what Geordie wanted Stuart to think? Was it all just a game to Geordie? Somehow, she couldn't believe that he had ever been in love with her. And it suddenly occurred to Maggie that Geordie wanted to make Stuart jealous. Was that how it had been with Eilean? 243
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Was it possible that Geordie had set out to stir up gossip? Was Geordie capable of such a despicable act? The burst of anger Maggie felt was slowly displaced by a sense of foreboding. Jealousy, everyone knows, is a powerful motivator. If Stuart had loved his wife—and Maggie did not for a moment doubt that he had—it would have been an allconsuming passion with him. As Jeannie had said, as Maggie had witnessed for herself, Stuart was a man of strong feelings. If Geordie had seduced his brother's wife, it was not impossible that.... No! To think such a thing was ridiculous. Stuart would never have done anything so cowardly, for to drown a helpless woman would be not only a most heinous crime, it would be cowardly as well. Besides, Eilean's death had undoubtedly been an accident. As Flora had assured Maggie, Stuart had never been charged. She should put the entire matter out of her head. Back at Dunphaedair, Maggie changed into her wool skirt and a freshly laundered shirtwaist. Then, knowing how useless it was to let one's thoughts run in circles, she pushed the morning's disclosures to the back of her mind and forced herself to spend some time reviewing the photographs she had accumulated over the months she had been in the Highlands. She was surprised at how many she had and how good—if, Maggie thought, I do say so myself—most of them were. Even the flawed ones from the gallery. She picked one of them up and looked more closely at the strange, misty blotch. If she gazed at it through slitted lids, it did take on the outline of a kilted figure. That bulky object on 244
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one side could be an air-filled bag and those slender projections extending high over the shoulder, were clearly pipes. Without warning, a chill shivered its way down Maggie's spine. Abruptly, she opened her eyes wide and thrust the photographs aside thinking, That only proves what a vivid imagination, given a tragic tale of loss and suicide, can do. And she promised herself she would not be taken in by such nonsense. On the other hand, everyone loves a good ghost story. Should I, Maggie wondered, include those pictures together with the story of the feckless Lachlan Fitzroy in my book? She would have to confirm it first—be certain that it really had happened as Flora had recounted it. Or would the MacPhaedair's object? Other than that, all Maggie really needed to complete her book was a series of photographs along the coastline— perhaps a few of the fisherfolk and their boats. In the meantime, she could begin writing the captions and text. It was also time, Maggie realized, to contact her father's publisher, tell him of her proposed book. She experienced a thrill of trepidation when the thought that he might not be interested popped into her mind; but she brushed it quickly aside. That gentleman, on more than one occasion, had complimented Maggie on her work. Not giving herself a chance to quail, she promptly sat down and penned a letter to the man. Then she took it down and left it on the hall table with the rest of the castle's 245
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outgoing mail. The stable boy would pick it up and take it along to Lairg to mail on his weekly trip there. Feeling well satisfied with her days work, Maggie glanced at her watch. More than an hour remained to be filled before tea, and Maggie drifted off to the library. Though she had known Stuart would not be there at that time of day, still a stab of disappointment pricked when she found the room empty. With a sigh, she began walking along beside the bookshelves, reading titles, from time to time removing a volume and glancing briefly at a few pages. Finally, she selected a work about the Picts written by a well-known archaeologist, and carried it out to Jeannie's rose arbor to read. She secured a cushion on the way and, upon reaching the garden, settled herself comfortably on a bench against the back wall where the rays of the late afternoon sun shone warm. The roses were in bloom, filling the air with their seductive perfume, and the somnolent buzz of industrious bees collecting nectar from the blossoms lulled her. She let the book lie open on her lap and was just drifting off to sleep when the sound of approaching footsteps jarred her back to wakefulness. It was Geordie. “There ye are,” he called cheerfully. “I saw your horse was back. Thought you might like to go for a walk.” He stopped in front of Maggie and offered her his hand. She did not take it, but stared up at him while she marshalled her thoughts. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for ever since Hogmanay: a time when they should be alone with little fear of interruption, and she could 246
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confront him with the untruths he had told Sir Barnestone and Sir Witherspoon to lure them to Dunphaedair. As the silence between them lengthened, Geordie's hand fell to his side and an eyebrow quirked upward enquiringly. What Maggie wanted to say did not come easily. But her father had always declared that it was better to have things out in the open. “Be sure you are right,” he had cautioned her, “then say what you must and let the chips fall where they may.” So now she took a deep breath and began. “You know I am grateful to you for inviting me here; I will always be grateful to you for helping me overcome my grief for my father. I like to think that we are very good friends, Geordie.” “Of course we are friends,” he interrupted. “Now...” Maggie raised a hand to silence him and continued, “But I do not understand why you found it necessary to tell the Barnestones and the Witherspoons that I was homesick, that I wanted them to come to the Hogmanay gala. Why did you use me ... entangle me in your deception?” Geordie's smile vanished, and abruptly he sat down beside her, looked solemnly into her face. “But you were homesick...” “I have never been homesick in my life.” Maggie interjected vehemently. “And I certainly never told you I was homesick.” “Of course, you didn't. You are much too brave a young woman to ever complain. But I could tell. I thought you would be pleased.” As he spoke, he leaned forward and gazed 247
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earnestly into Maggie's eyes, his demeanor one of absolute sincerity. Still she was not satisfied. “But I told you that day in London that I scarcely knew those people ... that they were friends of my father...” “If what I did was wrong, I'm sorry. Do forgive me, Maggie. Just remember, I had only your best interest at heart.” Maggie searched his face looking for some clue. She saw nothing there but candor. And silently she asked herself why she did not believe him. She knew the answer, of course. It lay in the things Flora had revealed that day. The whispers concerning Geordie and Eilean. “Of course you forgive me.” Geordie flashed a dazzling smile. “You know how fond I am of you. So come along. ‘Tis too late now for that stroll along the loch; but I'll walk you in to tea. I'll even carry your book for you.” As he spoke, he retrieved the volume from Maggie's knees and glanced at the cover. “The Picts,” He read the title aloud. “So you are interested in our little blue men.” “I know very little about them,” Maggie admitted. “I would like to know more.” “Then Stuart's your man. He probably knows as much about them as the fellow who wrote this book,” Geordie declared, waving his hand expansively. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “have you developed the photographs of the distillery? How do they look?” 248
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His words set off twinges of disquiet in Maggie's mind. She wondered why, in truth, he had asked her to take those photographs? At last, speaking slowly, she replied, “They are very good, much better than I expected. When do you think we should show them to Stuart?” Geordie stopped, pursed his lips, fixed his gaze on the sky. “Ye know, I have to go to London tomorrow ... why don't I take them along and have them framed.” As he spoke, Maggie watched him, listened to him, with unaccustomed skepticism. How strange, she thought, that the minute the photographs of the distillery are available, he must go to London. Or was she being overly suspicious? After all, what could Geordie do without Stuart's full agreement? Abruptly, Geordie turned his gaze on Maggie and smiled broadly. “We could give them to Stuart for his birthday next week.” “Stuart's birthday is next week?” This information brought a smile of delight to Maggie's lips. And she had to agree with Geordie, the photographs framed would make a wonderful gift for Stuart. So she entrusted them to Geordie, adding, “Does the family have some sort of celebration for the event?” “Ach ... I have no idea. I've been away so long. In the old days ... when we were all bairns together ... there were always special goodies and lots of presents. But after Mama died, Jeannie and I were packed off to Edinburgh. Then the old man died and Stuart became laird...” Geordie took a sudden deep breath. “The world turns. Life goes on.”
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They had reached the house by then and went directly to the great hall where they found Jeannie waiting, the tea cart already at her elbow. There was no sign of Stuart. Jeannie sounded a bit peevish as she said, “Everyone's late today. Of course, ‘twas Geordie detained you, Maggie; but goodness only knows where Stuart has got to. Hurry and sit down. The tea will be cold.” Geordie grinned, but Maggie began apologizing. “I'm so very sorry. We were in the garden. I didn't realize...” Jeannie scarcely listened. “We'll not wait for Stuart,” she continued, quickly filling and passing cups. “And do serve up your plates. I declare. If one cannot eat one's food when it is hot, it hardly seems worth the effort to cook it.” With that, she snapped her lips together and in the silence that followed, Geordie and Maggie meekly did as they were bid. As Maggie helped herself to a thick slice of ham, some scrambled eggs, and a potato scone, she wondered what had upset Jeannie. Maggie had never known Jeannie to be ungracious, though this was not the first occasion on which she had had cause, and Maggie felt justly chastened. After her outburst, Jeannie, too, lapsed into silence and the three had all but finished the meal before Stuart appeared. He looked harried and a lock of thick, dark hair had tumbled over his forehead. “Sorry I am late. There...” “...was trouble at the distillery.” Jeannie finished the sentence for him. “There's always trouble at the distillery,” she added, giving her older brother a look that would have pierced stone. 250
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Again the silence descended while Stuart served himself a heaping plate and Jeannie poured his tea. Feeling guilty and thoroughly wretched, Maggie kept her eyes on her plate as she picked at the food, sipped the last of her tea. She knew, of course, that it wasn't entirely her fault that Jeannie was so upset. Still and all, she was a part of it. If only, Maggie thought fervently, I could pack my things and leave tomorrow. It was Geordie who, at the last moment, salvaged the situation. “Do you know,” he asked, addressing Stuart, “that Maggie is very interested in our little blue forebears?” “The Picts. Are ye, now?” A pleased smile replaced the scowl Jeannie's words had brought to Stuart's countenance. “Why, I know very little about them,” Maggie admitted. “But I do find the subject fascinating.” “Very little is all that anybody knows about them. I have several books by very learned men, full of theories and conjecture; but as for the truth about the Picts...” Stuart shook his head. “No one can say. Still, there are Pictish ruins dotted all over the Highlands. Perhaps ye'd like to visit a burial tunnel or a ring of standing stones someday?” “Could I? I'd like that very much.” Maggie was already planning another small section for her book. “Wait until I return from London,” Geordie said. “We can all go ... take a lunch.” For the first time that afternoon, Jeannie brightened. “We could have an old-fashioned picnic. Wouldn't that be fun? For your birthday, Stuart.” 251
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“In the meantime, I can read some of those theories and conjectures,” Maggie said enthusiastically. “Then, when we are there, perhaps we can come up with some theories of our own ... the way father and I used to do.” Stuart laughed. “‘Tis not likely we can solve a riddle that long has baffled the world's finest scholars. But ‘twill be interesting to try.” And that was enough for Maggie. The misery of the hour past was forgotten in the prospect of a day spent with Stuart, their minds bent upon a single problem ... who knew what might then transpire.
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Chapter 15 During the following week, Maggie busied herself re-doing those few photographs with which she had not been entirely pleased, and writing the material that would accompany the finished product. She also spent at least a little time each day with Dhileas. Now that the weather was fine once more, she liked to venture out into the garden to stroll amongst the flower beds or sit half drowsing in the sun. Jeannie and Geordie had long since given up their efforts to shield Maggie from, as Jeannie put it, the old lady's fancies. Neither did Jeannie attempt to restrain Dhileas's trips up and down the stairs. Maggie still smiled when she recalled the day Jeannie threw up her hands and said to Stuart, “She's your aunt. If she falls down and breaks her neck, be it on your head. Ye know she'll nae listen to me.” With that Jeannie had flounced off and never again did she say one word about the old woman's comings and goings. Neither did Maggie let the unlikely prospect of a disaster befalling the sprightly old lady worry her. Dhileas was, despite her age, in good health and as bright as a copper penny. When she would walk in the garden, Maggie was happy to walk with her. And always, in their wake, came Phineas. Though he, too, was getting on in years, he was not above stalking a fallen leaf; or skittering up a gnarled, old, apple tree to frighten an incautious bird. 253
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The prospect of a birthday picnic for her nephew quite enchanted Dhileas. “‘Tis time the lad had a bit of fun,” she declared. “He has mourned long enough, and worked too hard while he was about it.” Shameful though it may be, at her words, Maggie felt a twinge of jealousy, for they confirmed what she had surmised: Stuart had loved his wife dearly. Why else would Dhileas mention that he had been in mourning? Maggie would, of course, have thought less of the man—would, indeed, have been appalled—had he not mourned his loss. Nevertheless, in some small, dark corner of her being, she envied the woman Stuart had loved so deeply. Maggie sighed. A woman's heart, she was learning, tends to behave in a complicated and not altogether logical way. For that matter, she asked herself, how logical are the workings of a man's heart? And again she wondered, had Stuart kissed her so passionately there in the clearing because by holding her he had been able to believe, if only for a moment, that it was Eilean he held in his arms? “How long were they married?” The question rose unbidden to Maggie's lips, and yet she could not suppress it. “Barely a year.” Dhileas sighed, started to say more, then apparently thought better of it. Maggie hoped that the old lady would speak of the accident; in fact, Maggie had to bite her tongue to withhold the questions boiling in her mind. But Dhileas remained silent. The day before the proposed outing, Geordie returned from London in high, good spirits. However, he did not bring 254
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back the photographs of the distillery. “The framer was very busy. He had several rush orders to fill,” Geordie explained. Maggie was terribly disappointed. Now she had nothing to give Stuart and she said as much to Geordie. Geordie's expression became surly. “‘Tis not my fault the man was busy. Besides, Stuart won't be expecting a lot of presents.” Maggie could only stare at Geordie in irritation. Finally, she asked, “When will they be ready?” “The man promised them before the end of the month. He'll send them along via special messenger.” And with that, Maggie had to be satisfied. She had hoped the gift would help to smooth the way between herself and Stuart. Though all their encounters continued to be amiable, they had not been alone together since the night he apologized for kissing her. Indeed, Maggie was convinced that he was purposely avoiding her; but to what end she could not guess. They planned to have Stuart's birthday picnic near a ring of standing stones located on the opposite side of the glen from Dunphaedair on the estate belonging to Sir Reginald Fallsworthy. Though he was an Englishman and had purchased the place to use as a hunting lodge, he and Stuart had become, if not friends, at least good neighbors. Maggie had danced with Sir Reginald at the Hogmanay ball and found him a congenial fellow who claimed some Scottish blood on the distaff side. Perhaps that was why Stuart found him acceptable. 255
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The fifteenth of May, Stuart's birthday, dawned fine and clear. They set out midmorning with Geordie and Stuart leading the way on horseback; Jeannie, Aunt Dhileas, and Maggie followed in the pony cart. The ladies wore lightweight, summery costumes. Maggie had fashioned hers, with considerable help from Dhileas and Iona, from the skirt and waist Jane Doogood had found at the mission in Blantyre. Those garments, which at the time had seemed a great tribulation, now proved to be a blessing, for having been far too large for Maggie then, they now provided ample material for restyling. By the time the three women had finished the task, Maggie had a costume that was, though not high fashion, quite becoming—or so Dhileas and Iona assured her. In any event, May 15th was a lovely, balmy day: above them, a mellow sun shone down from a cerulean sky; all about them, the heath was a sea of green where wild flowers seemed to drift like bits of colorful flotsam; and in the distance, the stoic mountains with their cloaks of silvery talus waited patiently, marking the ebb and flow of centuries. Lunch time was yet an hour off when they reached their destination, a remarkably well-preserved circle of standing stones atop a knoll surrounded by age-old Scotch pines. In the center there was a large, flat rock on which they would have spread the lunch, but Dhileas said, “Nae. ‘Tis a sacred place. We may call those who worshipped here heathen. Still, ‘tis certain they believed as truly in their deity as we in ours. ‘Tis not meet that we should defile their altar.” “‘Twill be more comfortable in the shade of the trees in any case,” Jeannie observed, and without drawing breath, she 256
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continued, “You men, see to the horses while Maggie and I select a good spot. Aunt Dhileas, you remain in the cart until we have a place for you to sit.” To Maggie's surprise, Dhileas smiled sweetly, adjusted her parasol against the sun's rays, and said, “Ye are quite right, Jeannie. I've nae mind to stroll about on this rough ground without a man's arm to lean on.” Then, to Maggie's—to everyone's—astonishment, she turned to Geordie and said, “Hie yersel', Laddie, then come back here and help me down. I've a mind to walk about in the circle before we dine.” Geordie's mouth fell open. Belatedly, he snapped it closed and said, pointing to himself, “Me?” “Ye have some objection to escorting an old woman?” Regaining his aplomb, Geordie became gallantry itself. “Nae, Aunt. ‘Twould be my pleasure.” Maggie sincerely doubted it would be Geordie's pleasure; but what about Dhileas? She had made it clear, long since, that she considered that young man a popinjay. Therefore, it was certain she had not singled him out for the pleasure of his company. So why? By the time the brothers had the horses unhitched and tethered in the long grass on the far side of the clearing, Jeannie and Maggie had found the perfect spot to spread their blankets and set out the food. Then, while Jeannie, Geordie and Dhileas wandered about inside the stone circle, Stuart and Maggie made their way through the trees to a spot that overlooked Hogarth's moor. Now, in late spring, it looked as desolate and forbidding as it had the previous fall when Stuart had first shown it to her. 257
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“I still want to take some pictures down there,” she reminded him. “Aye. I've not forgotten.” He raised his arm and gestured off to the left. “There ... near that stand of birch. Do ye see the mound?” After a moment's concentration Maggie spotted it. “Yes. I see it.” “‘Tis a Pictish tumulus. On the side facing the bog, there's an opening. Naught remains of the bodies once buried there, but the tunnel is still intact.” Maggie was fascinated. Had the hillside been less rough and rock-strewn, or had she been more suitably attired for the climb, she would have rushed down on the instant for a closer look. Under the circumstances, however, she had to be content with Stuart's promise that they would return within the week. “I'm astonished,” Maggie said. “Is not ritual burial one of the marks of civilization? I thought the Picts were savages.” The moment the words left her mouth, she realized her error. After all, had not she and her father discovered that the so called savages of Africa actually had highly developed civilizations with extremely intricate social systems? She said nothing to correct her mistake, however, for Stuart was explaining with obvious pleasure, “Like so many peoples that we call savages, the little blue men had an efficient and highly organized society. They practiced their own religion ... at least ‘tis what the stone circles indicate, and they buried their dead quite decently in long winding tunnels. They were also fierce fighting men as the Romans 258
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learned to their sorrow.” Now Stuart fell silent, his gaze wandering across the desolate moorland. Maggie, too, remained silent thinking how pleasant it was just to stand next to him. There was no strain between them, as she had feared there might be. The only evidence of anything amiss was the way he scrupulously avoided touching even her hand, the way he quickly averted his gaze if their glances chanced to meet. But Maggie refused to be disheartened. Somehow, she would make him forget the past, make him understand that Geordie was nothing to her. And then, mayhap, the laird of Dunphaedair would give his heart to her. With that happy thought, Maggie forced her attention outward. How tranquil it was, there atop that little knoll. The air so still, the only sound the song of birds in the branches of the trees, the hum of insects in the undergrowth. This was the way it had been when there was no one there but those little blue men. But surely there had been others, and aloud she said, “What about the women? Were they, too, blue?” Stuart threw back his head and laughed. “‘Tis an excellent question, Maggie. I wish I knew the answer!” They turned, then, and made their way slowly back to the spot where the picnic lunch was spread. Dhileas was already ensconced in the chair they had brought for her; Jeannie and Geordie were seated on one of the blankets. “‘Tis about time you returned,” Geordie said. “I was just about ready to come looking for you.” Ignoring him, Stuart and Maggie took their places on the blanket and Jeannie immediately began uncovering the dishes Mrs. Allchin had prepared. As usual, the food was superb: 259
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smoked salmon and ham, hard boiled eggs, freshly baked bread, bannocks and oat cakes, butter and jam. She had even managed to find enough ripe strawberries in the kitchen garden to provide a small serving for each of them. Unfortunately, while they ate, clouds began to gather along the horizon. By the time they had finished the meal, the entire sky was overcast and threatening. As she began gathering things up and packing them back into the baskets, Jeannie, with a sidewise glance at Dhileas, remarked, “I don't need the sicht to predict that we are going to get drenched if we delay longer.” Unruffled by Jeannie's jibe, Dhileas replied, “In that case, Stuart had best help me back to the cart.” Then, with a wink at Maggie, she added, “Ye can fetch the horses, Geordie.” Geordie, his face a study in mixed emotions, stood for a moment staring after his half-brother and the old woman before moving off across the clearing to do as he had been bid. They did not actually get drenched, but the first fat drops were splattering down as they drove under the portcullis and across the courtyard to the castle entrance. Iona and Kate came hurrying out to retrieve blankets and hampers while the picnickers, laughing like children, scurried to get under cover. Once inside the walls of Dunphaedair, however, the laughter quickly faded. A few pleasantries, then they went their separate ways. But the picnic had served a triple purpose for Maggie: it had renewed her interest in photographing Hogarth's moor; it had presented an entirely new subject, the Pictish ruins, for inclusion in her book; and it had allowed her 260
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to spend at least a little time alone with Stuart—time that she was certain had been as pleasant for him as for her. And that, Maggie suddenly realized, was why Aunt Dhileas had chosen Geordie to escort her about the stone circle. Remembering the play of expressions on Geordie's face, first when Dhileas asked him to accompany her, then again when she discarded him in favor of Stuart once they were ready to return home, almost made Maggie laugh. But she could not, for even though she believed Geordie probably deserved what he got, at the same time she felt sorry for him. However, Maggie did not dwell on it for another idea had popped into her mind; an idea that pleased her; indeed, reassured her as she thought about it. An expedition to the moor and the ruins would present a perfect time to make it clear to Stuart that Geordie was not, and never had been, more to her than a friend. It seemed such a good idea that Maggie made up a little scenario about it in her head in which Stuart, upon hearing her declaration, swept her into his arms proclaiming, “I should have known ye could never love Geordie. Forgive me for ever suspecting that there was aught between the two of you.” Then, just before his lips captured hers, he whispered fiercely, “I love ye, Maggie Donnelly.” A rap on the door brought her romantic daydream to an inglorious end, and it took her a moment to focus her thoughts in reality once more before calling, “Come.”
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In response, Kate entered. “‘Tis for ye. It came in the mail,” she announced offering Maggie an official looking envelope. At sight of it, Maggie's heart leapt into her throat. It must be from the publisher. She took the envelope from Kate with trembling fingers and for a long moment she could only stare at it, unable to bring herself to break the seal. Her whole future could be in that envelope. What would she do if the man didn't want her book? At last, Maggie took a deep breath, ripped the envelope open, and withdrew a sheet of paper. The message was so different from what she had expected, at first she couldn't make sense of the words and had to start over. When the meaning came clear, she was astounded. She had money! She was rich! But how was that possible? And she read the letter again. The gist of it was, both her father's publisher and his lawyer had been trying to discover Maggie's whereabouts for some time, but to no avail until her letter to the publisher arrived. Her father's books, following the report of his murder by the Arab slavers, had been selling faster than ever before, royalties were accumulating—a princely sum was named—and would be paid to Maggie upon her request. In closing, the publisher said he would be “pleased” to consider her book and suggested she take it to his firm's London agent at her “earliest” convenience. Maggie had only to write noting when she would be arriving and the money due her from her father's work could be paid to her at that time. 262
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As the first wave of excitement began to recede, Maggie sank into a nearby chair. This changed everything, of course. In the blink of an eye, she had regained her independence. This turn of events, which would have filled her with joy a few short months before, now filled her with bitter regret, for she realized immediately that with her book finished and money in her pocket, she no longer had any excuse to remain near Stuart. She sprang to her feet and began to pace while her mind whirled. Two weeks, perhaps three, and she must leave Dunphaedair—never to see Stuart again. Would he let that happen? Surely, if he loved her—but he had never said he loved her. She had read so much into a glance, a touch, one impassioned kiss—but he had never said he loved her. On the other hand, perhaps the prospect of losing her forever was what it would take to force Stuart to declare himself—if he did love her. In the meantime, Maggie told herself, I can pay for my lodging and anything else I need or desire. But how does one go to one's host and offer to pay for what was given in hospitality? Maggie felt certain such behavior would be offensive to Stuart—to Jeannie and Geordie, too, no doubt. She had to think of some other way to repay them. Of course, this also meant she had a dowry.... Again, a rap on the door interrupted Maggie's thoughts. “Come,” she called. This time it was Dhileas who entered. “I've decided to take tea in the hall,” she said. “Let us go down together.”
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“Aunt Dhileas,” Maggie exclaimed. “You are the very person I wanted to see.” She handed her the letter. “See what astounding news I have just received.” Dhileas took the letter, carried it to a spot where a ray of sunshine fell through the window, and held the paper in the pool of light. Even while she read, Maggie continued to talk excitedly. “I want to do something very special for all of you, but I can't think what it would be. You are so wise. You must tell me what would be best. I didn't think it would be right to offer money; but there must be any number of things...” Maggie's words died away as she became aware of the expression on Dhileas's face. It was not the congratulatory look Maggie had expected. Rather, Dhilease looked disturbed—unhappy. And when she raised her eyes, Maggie thought fear flickered in their depths. “Ye must tell no one about this.” she burst out. “Absolutely no one!” Taken aback, Maggie felt a nervous laugh rise in her throat, but the intensity of the old lady's expression forbade levity. However, Maggie couldn't believe Dhileas really expected her to withhold this wonderful news. Why would she? Or was she playing at that second sight business again? At last, Maggie said gently, “But of course I must tell everyone, Aunt Dhileas. They have all been so good, so generous, while thinking me a pauper. How can I not tell them of my good fortune.” Dhileas did not answer at once; rather, she continued to stare at the younger woman beseechingly. Suddenly she 264
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looked very old and tired. When at last she spoke, it was in a voice so soft, Maggie had to lean near to hear. “‘Tis always the same. They will not take heed. Of what use is a gift if ye cannae give it?” Impulsively, Maggie reached out and took Dhileas's hand. “Please don't be unhappy. If it is so important to you, I'll take your advice ... at least for the time being. I'll tell the others only that my father's publisher has asked me to bring my work to London. That is true.” Dhileas nodded slowly. “What will be, will be,” she muttered. Abruptly she drew herself tall—as tall as five foot can be—and, with an air of resignation that even her smile could not hide, said, “If ye be ready, Maggie, lass, let us go to tea.”
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Chapter 16 Maggie waited until all the plates were served and everyone had been handed a cup of tea before she made her announcement. First she cleared her throat—rather ostentatiously. Then she said, “I've had some good news today.” All eyes turned toward her. She smiled self-consciously. “I wrote to my father's publisher some time ago. Today I received a reply.” She paused, conscious of the growing interest in each face. Again she cleared her throat. “He is most interested in my book and has asked me to contact his London agent at my earliest convenience.” As Maggie made the announcement, she glanced at Stuart hoping to see something in his face that would reveal his feelings for her. His expression revealed only mild interest; but as the others began offering congratulations, he added his voice to theirs. It was Jeannie who asked, “When are you going?” “Why, I am not certain.” Maggie gave her reply haltingly for it suddenly occurred to her that she had no money for the train ticket. However, she realized an instant later that since money from her father's books was due her, no doubt the lawyer would send her, if not a bank draft, at least the required ticket. She could make the request at the same time she contacted the London representative.
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So she added, “I must write first to say when I can come. In the meantime, I still want to photograph some of the coastal areas.” Even as she spoke, she knew how her words must sound: as if she were once more seeking charity. She glanced at Stuart. Though his expression remained unreadable, she felt certain he must be mentally calculating the cost of a ticket to London and an expedition to the coast. It was too humiliating. Dhileas's warnings be hanged! Maggie could not refrain from saying, “The publisher also said my father's books have continued to sell. I do have some money coming and can pay...” Stuart interrupted, “Ye'll need your siller when ye return to your own home. ‘Tis of no interest to the MacPhaedairs.” Again Maggie glanced at him. His faced was closed—told her nothing, but his words were like a slap in the face. When she returned to her own home. Obviously, her departure meant nothing to him. Indeed, Maggie thought, rubbing salt into her own wound, he will probably be glad to see the back of me. Nevertheless, even as the pain of Stuart's words pierced Maggie, she noted the surprise in Jeannie's glance as she turned to look at him. Did she, Maggie wondered, resent his lack of interest in the money? After all, Jeannie had accused him often enough of being overly tight-fisted. No doubt she, too, would be glad to see Maggie go. Not waiting for Jeannie to voice an opinion, Maggie addressed herself to Stuart. “You are too generous,” she said primly. Wounded pride made her add, “My father's lawyer has 267
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assured me that the sum due is entirely sufficient to provide for my travels. The trip to London will be the first lap of my journey home. I wouldn't dream of imposing upon you further.” Jeannie quickly intervened. “Maggie, dear, ye must know what a joy it has been having you with us. Imposition indeed! Why, I cannae help but think of ye as much more than an honored guest. At times ye seem more like a sister...” Maggie knew Jeannie's words were a well-deserved rebuke. Without warning, tears stung Maggie's eyes and she had to swallow hard before she could reply, “That is the nicest thing anyone ever said to me, Jeannie. If I had been blessed with a sister, I should have wanted her to be exactly like you.” Geordie, who had been watching with a bemused expression, now spoke tentatively, “Ye are leaving us? The trip to London ... ye'll not be coming back?” “My book is all but complete. Only the coastal photographs remain. It is time for me to go.” Though her words were addressed to Geordie, Maggie's eyes remained fixed on Stuart, still hoping for some sign. His expression remained stiff, withdrawn. “And a trip to the coast will make a lovely outing for all of us,” Jeannie declared. Turning to Stuart she continued, “What day would be good for you? And dinnae tell me ye are too busy. That distillery can get along without you for at least one day.” Stuart took a deep breath, pursed his lips, stared pensively into space. Finally, he said, “Sunday.” 268
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“Then Sunday it shall be,” Jeannie affirmed. “I'll see to preparations immediately.” Throughout this entire exchange, Dhileas had remained silent, sitting with bowed head, gently stroking Phineas who was nestled in the chair beside her. Maggie glanced at her, hoping for an encouraging smile; but Dhileas did not look up. Shortly thereafter, Iona came to clear away the tea cart, and Dhileas rose to take her departure. Moving quickly to her side, Stuart said, “Let me walk ye to your room, Aunt.” She was smiling up at him, leaning heavily on his arm when they left the great hall. Jeannie then excused herself saying some household duty needed her attention. Maggie, too, would have departed the hall had not Geordie detained her. As she rose to go, he placed a hand on her arm and looked warmly into her eyes. “So ye are an heiress after all,” he murmured. Maggie laughed. “Nothing so grand as all that.” Ignoring her words, he continued, “‘Tis what ye deserve. Your father was fortunate to have such a lovely daughter.” Geordie spoke the words softly and Maggie didn't like the expression in his eyes, the direction in which his remarks seemed headed. “I was fortunate to have such a wonderful man for a father,” she replied, and started to turn away. Again Geordie detained her. “Ye'll need an escort when ye go to London ... someone to protect ye in the big city. Perhaps Jeannie and I will accompany you. It's been a long 269
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time since she has been away. ‘Twould do her good ... a bit of shopping, an evening at the theater.” “If Jeannie would like to go, I should be delighted to have her company; but I need no protection. I am quite capable of looking after myself.” “Two beautiful women alone in that big, wicked city? ‘Twould never do. Ye'll need an escort for dinner and the theater.” Maggie sought desperately for some excuse to put him off. She had decided the moment he mentioned it, that a trip to London would be her thank you gift to Jeannie. But she found the thought of Geordie accompanying them acutely distressing. What would Stuart think? Not that that mattered, Maggie reminded herself. Nonetheless, looking at Geordie, she could have wept with frustration. “So ‘tis all settled,” Geordie persisted. “As soon as we return from our trip to the coast, I'll make the arrangements.” “No!” Maggie's tone was sharper than she had intended, but she didn't care. “When I hear from the publisher's agent, I shall make my own arrangements. I am not a child, Geordie. Neither am I a helpless female.” Then Maggie repeated emphatically, “I shall make my own arrangements.” Geordie laughed. “I knew the first time I saw ye ... disheveled and bedraggled there on the deck of the ship ... that ye were a woman of spirit.” He paused and the caress in his gaze, as in his tone when he continued, was unmistakable “‘Tis one of the things I admired about ye from the very beginning.” 270
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Maggie's lips tightened into a grim line as she bit back an indignant retort. How bold he was. And he had again assumed that broad Scottish brogue she had found so charming on shipboard. How, Maggie asked herself, could I have been so naive? Finally, she said, “Your kindness to me in the face of my great loss was sincerely appreciated. Now, if you will excuse me.” With that, she turned and all but fled the room. In her own chamber once more, she sat down and penned a letter to the London agent. With just a bit of luck, she would have all her photographs developed and the text ready by the time she received a reply. With this thought, the realization that her stay at Dunphaedair was fast coming to an end assumed a new finality. Truly, it was over. When she departed for London, there would be no reason for her to return. Her book was finished and Stuart obviously had no intention of asking her to be his bride. Well, Maggie told herself, salvaging what she could of her pride, I don't need Stuart MacPhaedair or any other man. The royalties from my father's books are more than enough to see me back to the United States, enough to set me up in business once I am there, enough to buy myself a small home and pay the bills for a considerable length of time. Then, just to assure herself she wasn't dreaming, Maggie took out the publisher's letter and read it again. ‘Royalties in the amount of’ ... Abruptly, she laughed; but it was a mirthless sound, even in her own ears. In a way, she realized, Geordie was right. She was an heiress. 271
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Slowly, Maggie sank into the chair in front of the fireplace, gazed into the cold, dead ashes—all that remained of the morning's cheerful blaze. The excitement she had felt, the joy at knowing she was not a pauper after all, now lay in her heart, as cold as those ashes. Oh, Papa, Maggie thought, why did you never warn me that love can be so cruel? However, sitting there, feeling sorry for herself, would, she knew, change nothing. So she stood up, washed her face and straightened her hair, then went in search of Jeannie, which, Maggie told herself, is what I should have done before writing my letter. Now I can only hope that Geordie did not reach her first, has not already broached the subject of a trip to London. Maggie found Jeannie in her own bedchamber and the expression on her face when Maggie said, “Do come with me Jeannie ... you shall be my guest and we will have such fun,” assured Maggie that Geordie had not had time to ruin her surprise. Jeannie's eyes widened, grew round and bright with suppressed excitement before she said, “Truly? Ye would take me to London?” “It is my gift to you for all your kindness these past months. Please say you will come with me.” In answer, Jeannie suddenly grabbed Maggie's hands and whirled her about the room in a wild imitation of a Scottish reel. Not until they were both out of breath and helpless with laughter did Jeannie stop and pull Maggie down beside her as she collapsed onto her fainting couch. They spent the next hour talking of all the things they wanted to do in London. “I've not been there since I was a 272
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school girl. I went with Aunty. She has always spoiled me you know. The stores and boutiques were wonderful. Do you really want to take me with you? Really?” “I shall be devastated if you refuse,” Maggie assured her. **** At dinner that night, before the first course was served, Jeannie announced, “Stuart. Geordie. Maggie is going to take me to London with her when she goes. She says it is her thank you gift to me because she has been made to feel so at home here in Dunphaedair. Isn't it exciting? We are going to shop, and go to the theater, and stay at Claridges.” Having run out of breath, she stopped speaking and Geordie immediately broke in. “Did Maggie tell you I am going with you?” The instant he spoke, Maggie's glance flew to Stuart's face, fixed there in time to see his look of pleased surprise dissolve into cold displeasure before he said, “Is the lady going to pay your way as well?” Shocked, Maggie sent her gaze flashing to Geordie's face. A dull red tide suffused his countenance and fury blazed in his eyes as he leaped to his feet. “Abair baothaireachd!” “Stuart! Geordie! Enough! Please dinnae ruin everything with your quarreling. ‘Twas a terrible thing for ye to say, Stuart.” Then turning to Geordie, she continued, “But ‘tis no excuse for ye to use such vulgar words in the presence of ladies. Now, be quiet, both of ye and pray that Maggie will forgive you.” By the time she had finished this speech, Jeannie was close to tears. 273
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Maggie felt little better, herself. What could have possessed Stuart to say such an awful thing? But distressed as she was, secretly she was a little pleased, too. She couldn't help feeling Geordie deserved it. Actually, she wondered if Geordie did expect her to pay his way. She remembered Stuart's comments before the Hogmanay gala indicating that Geordie paid nothing toward the upkeep of the castle. Maggie also recalled overhearing him remind Jeannie that Geordie had squandered not only his own inheritance, but her's as well. Iona and Kate entered and began serving the soup. Slowly, Geordie sank back into his chair, the ugly color receded from his cheeks and he twisted his lips in a crooked smile. “As long as ye do not have to buy the ticket, how I get to London is none of your affair, brother.” His eyes challenged Stuart. Eyes cold, disdain written clear in his expression, for a long moment Stuart returned Geordie's stare. Then he shrugged dismissively, picked up his spoon, and began to eat. The rest followed suit. No one spoke again until the bowls had been removed and a large roast of beef placed on the table. Jeannie finally broke the silence. “Do you think we could go to Durness on Sunday, or is it a bit far?” After a moment's thought, Stuart replied, “If ye ladies are willing to rise early, we could be there by midmorning.” “Then ‘tis settled,” Jeannie said. “Durness on Sunday it shall be.” The decision had been made, but the last word had not been spoken. That came from Dhileas. Maggie took tea with 274
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her on Saturday. Conversation was fragmentary and Dhileas seemed strangely distracted. Though she made a pretense of eating, exclaiming over the strawberry tarts and spoiling Phineas with an extra helping of thick clotted cream, again and again she would fall silent, her gaze turned inward. Perhaps she is tired, Maggie thought. With this in mind, she prepared to leave as soon as they had finished. However, as she rose to her feet, Dhilease looked at her with growing anxiety. “Ye are leaving the Highlands...?” Maggie nodded, murmured, “Yes...” Dhileas shook her head, her eyes clouded. “Nae. ‘Twas never meant to be so.” Again she shook her head. “‘Tis so dark ... why cannae I see?” Troubled by the old lady's obvious distress, Maggie hurried forward, fell on her knees beside Dhileas's chair, took her hands in her own. “Dhileas, dear, are you all right?” She closed her eyes and began to moan softly. “‘Tis so black ... so cold.” A shiver wracked her small form and again she whispered, “So cold...” “Dhileas,” Maggie exclaimed, now thoroughly frightened. “Whatever is the matter? Look at me. What can I do?” Dhileas's eyes snapped open. She jerked her hands free of Maggie's, reached out, dug her fingers clawlike into Maggie's shoulders. “Oh, Maggie, lass. Promise me, on your dead mother's grave, that ye will stay away from the water!” **** Maggie and the MacPhaedairs were up before the birds Sunday morning and on their way while the deep-violet vault 275
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of the heavens was still dotted here and there with twinkling stars. But dawn was not far off, and with each passing second the sky grew lighter. The stars faded, were replaced by banners of pink and gold heralding the sun. The four of them watched in breathless anticipation, and as that golden orb at last peeped over the horizon, they all cheered. How beautiful the day was. The air so crisp and clean—yet it held a softness that presaged the coming of summer. The heath, all about them, was green with heather and Maggie felt a stab of regret as she remembered she would be gone when its blossoms stained the landscape purple for as far as the eye could see. She would be gone. The phrase recalled what Dhileas had said—utterances that had kept Maggie tossing and turning for much of the night. All her questions had elicited not one word more from Dhileas. Except for her repeated pleas that Maggie stay away from the water, she said only, “Promise me! Promise me...” Could she, Maggie wondered, be confusing me in her mind with Eilean—with the fate that had befallen her? But Maggie couldn't believe that. Dhileas was too bright, too aware. Neither could Maggie believe it was a performance calculated to impress or frighten her. So she had tossed and turned and wondered half the night. It had been a relief to rise and dress, to be on the way at last. They were traveling much as they had on their other outings: the two men on horseback, Jeannie and Maggie in the surrey. When the first furor of departure and then the excitement occasioned by the rising of the sun had abated, 276
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Jeannie's head began to droop and she was soon dozing peacefully. Since she was holding the reins, Maggie was a bit concerned at first. But it soon became apparent that the horse was content to follow the two ahead. Much as Maggie wished to see everything along the way, after her all-but-sleepless night, the swaying of the conveyance together with the cloppety clop of the horse's hooves was too much for her. She, too, was soon drowsing the miles away. Both women wakened with a start when Geordie came galloping back to tell them they were now skirting the Parth. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Maggie gazed awestruck at the landscape spread out about them: a fantastic fastness of mountains and moors. On one side, blasted trees and black, peaty bogs; on the other, towering forests of pine and yew. Jeannie, who had seen it all before, only rubbed the sleep from her eyes and smiled up at her twin brother. “Come, sit with us for awhile and tell Maggie about this area,” she invited. Grinning broadly, Geordie looped his horses reins over the back of the buggy, then climbed in and settled himself between the women. “‘Tis a fearsome place, ye ken,” he began, still using that brogue which Maggie now knew was only assumed. Did not both he and Jeannie speak the king's English most competently when they chose? “More desolate than Hogarth's moor,” Geordie continued, “and in the old days, great packs of wolves roamed here. 277
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Why, even today, ‘tis all a man's life is worth to wander the Parth alone when the shadows begin to creep.” His voice dropped slowly lower as he continued, “Aye, ‘tis a haunted place. When the mists rise and the moon's a mere sliver in the sky, the cries of lost children, devoured by those wolves can be heard...” Maggie laughed. “Oh, come now Geordie! Wolves may roam the area, but ghosts of children eaten by the creatures? What a lot of nonsense!” Geordie, obviously affronted, turned on her and began a sputtering protest. However, one look at Maggie's pursed lips and knitted brows set him to laughing instead. “Aye. Well, perhaps I did embroider the tale a bit.” “But ‘tis true enough about the wolves,” Jeannie volunteered. “Great packs of them were often seen and people did fear them.” “Then they were fools,” Maggie exclaimed hotly. “Anyone with a whit of sense knows wolves live in small, family packs and hunt vermin ... not cattle or people.” Geordie and Jeannie exchanged quizzical glances and Maggie was once again reminded that she had perhaps overstepped the bounds of propriety by so upbraiding her host and hostess. But she didn't care. It angered her when she heard those foolish, old-wives tales; stories with which man salves his conscience while hunting species after species to extinction. The silence was becoming oppressive, so Maggie finally said, “Please forgive my outburst ... it is just that I love animals and I cannot bear to hear them maligned.” 278
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Immediately, Jeannie was all smiles once more. “Of course, Maggie. Think no more about it.” She turned to Geordie. “Is that not so, dear brother.” Geordie smiled his acquiescence. “Thank you,” Maggie said, then added, “Could we stop for awhile? Wolves or no, I would like to take some photographs. This wilderness is magnificent!” “If ‘tis what ye wish.” Geordie picked up the reins and pulled the horse to a stop. Then he helped Jeannie and Maggie from the surrey. Stuart, realizing that they were no longer following, stopped and returned to join them. When Maggie had finished taking her photographs, it was Stuart who climbed into the buggy with the women, sending Geordie off to lead the way. Shortly thereafter they arrived at the head of Loch Eriboll. They took the path that lead along the loch's eastern shore, a desolate, wind-swept area covered with small white boulders. Here and there above them on the rough, steep slope there were a few tiny, white-washed cottages surrounded by broken walls and small patches of plowed land. But the grass—what there was of it—was blackish and sparse, and what trees there were were gnarled and bent. “Look yonder,” Stuart said, gesturing toward the western shore. It could have been a different world over there. There were no houses, no sheep; but the meadows were lush with thick, green grass. Over there, sparkling streams splashed merrily along between low banks dotted with pink and purple lupin, and trees, already in full leaf, grew tall. 279
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“The crofters who dwell here once had shielings over there,” Stuart continued. “This is where the landlords sent them during the worst of the clearances.” Though his words were calm, matter-of-fact, the bitterness in Stuart's tone would have soured milk. “Dinnae be so solemn, Stuart,” Jeannie chided. “Today is supposed to be a bit of a holiday. ‘Tis the last we'll have with Maggie. Let's try to make it pleasant.” Stuart nodded. “Ye are right, Jeannie.” He glanced sidewise at Maggie and added, “‘Tis not much farther now to Durness. We'll stop there. Ye can take your photographs of the fisherfolk and their boats. After lunch, if ye like, we can journey on to Cape Wrath.” “What a romantic name,” Maggie said. “Does it refer to the weather ... is it truly as bad as the name implies?” Both Stuart and Jeannie chuckled. Then Stuart explained, “‘Tis a common enough mistake, ye have made. But the true meaning is ‘turning point.’ It comes from a Norse word. Cape Wrath is where their ships used to turn south for the journey along the coast of Great Britain.” “Oh,” Maggie said, feeling disillusioned. She really liked her own explanation better than the true one. “But if ‘tis fearsome weather ye are wanting,” Stuart continued, as if he could read her thoughts, “Cape Wrath could grant your wish ... though perhaps not today. In winter, the gales along this coast can be fiendish. Many a ship, seeking to take shelter here in the loch, has foundered off the Cape.” 280
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Even as they talked, the wind had risen and blew in gusts that pulled at the women's bonnets and teased wisps of hair across their cheeks. And then they were in Durness with the smell of fish and brine sharp in their noses, the cry of gulls plaintive in their ears. It was a small place; only a few dilapidated cottages and, drawn up along the shore, a number of weathered fishing boats. Quaint, picturesque, heartwrenching. Maggie took her pictures as quickly as she could, and then they were on their way again. “We'll have lunch as soon as we find a pleasant spot,” Jeannie said. Not much farther on they came upon a burbling stream near a cluster of huge boulders. They were grouped in such a way as to afford considerable shelter from the wind within their fold. “‘Tis an ancient cromlech,” Stuart said. “The former tenant has long since crumbled to dust, ye ken. However, I doubt not he would make us welcome were he able.” “Stuart!” Jeannie tapped him smartly on the shoulder. “What a thing to say.” But Maggie laughed. “I'm certain Stuart is right, Jeannie. And it is the most comfortable place we have seen.” So while the men unsaddled the horses and tethered them near the stream to crop what grass there was, Jeannie and Maggie set out the lunch. Mrs. Allchin had packed enough food to have fed an entire congregation, and Jeannie had include several bottles of wine. They were all feeling a bit giddy by the time they had finished. 281
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Nevertheless, Maggie insisted on taking a few photographs and nothing would do but Geordie should “help” her. She was more than a little irritated by his insistence. However, not that she wished him ill, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise for he managed to step in a rabbit hole and give his ankle a severe wrenching. So painful was the injury, he could not walk without assistance. Back at the buggy, Jeannie and Stuart removed Geordie's riding boot. Geordie's face went pale and the perspiration sprang out upon his brow but he bore his pain in silence. After a quick but thorough examination, Stuart declared the ankle unbroken. “But,” he informed Geordie, “ye'll not be walking about for a few days.” Jeannie was distraught. “Ye cannae ride with your ankle like that. We'd best get ye home as soon as possible and call Dr. Macleod.” “There is naught Macleod can do but bind it up, and that we must do right now,” Stuart said. Quickly, Maggie moved to shake out some of the linen used to pack and serve their lunch. “Shall I tear these into strips?” she asked. “Aye, and while ye are about that, Jeannie, ye fetch some cold water from the stream.” Working together, they soon had the ankle wrapped. Then Stuart produced a bottle of malt whiskey and handed it to Geordie. “Drink that,” Stuart instructed. “Ye'll ride easier when ye have enough of it in ye.” Then Stuart turned to Maggie. “Come,” he said. “We'll fix a bed for Geordie in the back of the surrey.” 282
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With Geordie made as comfortable as possible, Stuart said to Maggie, “Now, if ye think ye can manage without a sidesaddle, we could still ride on to the Cape. ‘Twould be a pity for ye to miss it after coming all this way.” “But should we not get Geordie home?” “Stuart is right,” Jeannie said. “Geordie will be as well off here as anywhere for the time being. If ye think ye can ride, dressed as ye are, then go.” Geordie added in a plaintive voice, “Aye. Go. Dinnae fash yersel’ about me.” Maggie was torn between pity for the suffering Geordie and her desire to be off and away with Stuart. In the end, knowing Stuart and Jeannie were absolutely right—there was nothing more anyone could do for Geordie at the moment, she said, “It will be awkward riding in this skirt, but not impossible, and I really would like to see Cape Wrath.” What Maggie did not say was that most of all, she longed to be alone with Stuart again, if only for a little while. The very idea was enough to set memory and imagination off on a dizzying spree. However, with a tremendous effort of will, Maggie collected her crazily straying thoughts and relegated them to the back of her mind. Cherish each moment for whatever it may hold, she told herself sternly. Don't dream dreams that can only lead to disappointment. They set off at an easy canter and in what seemed no time at all had reached Cape Wrath. There they dismounted and walked in silence to a spot as close to the edge of the cliff as seemed safe. 283
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The view was breathtaking, and the mighty roar of the restless water breaking against the rocky shore far below filled Maggie with a strange exhilaration. Farther out, the crests of the waves were whipped to a froth by a freshening gale and along the distant horizon, dark storm clouds were rent by jagged flashes of lightening. A sudden gust of wind flipped her bonnet from her head, left it to dangle by its ribbons down her back. It loosened tendrils of hair, whipped them about, spread them veil-like before her face. And, like the gathering forces of nature, inside Maggie an intractable excitement was building. Awareness of Stuart, standing so close beside her, was sweet anguish. Though he did not touch her, she could feel the warmth, the strength of him, and those memories she had fought so hard to keep at bay suddenly overwhelmed her. A wonderful, terrible yearning blossomed within her, and she thought, If he does not take me in his arms, I shall die. Maggie closed her eyes and pressed her knotted fists hard against her middle, striving to contain the yearning that was threatening to tear her apart. Thus, with all her attention concentrated inward, when Stuart spoke, she thought at first she had imagined it, thought the sound only the moaning of the wind or the far off cry of a gull. Yet in the same moment, she turned and looked up at him. The wind had swept his dark locks across his forehead, giving him a vulnerable look; and his black eyes, gazing down at her, smoldered with longing, with pain, with desire. 284
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How dear he is, Maggie thought, and she reached out her hand, laid her palm against his cheek. He winced as if she had touched him with a flaming coal. Then he grasped her shoulders. His fingers bit into her flesh. “Maggie, Maggie,” came his ragged whisper. “Why do ye torment me so?” “Torment you?” Maggie shook her head. “Never, I...” And before she could stop herself, she whispered, “I love you.” Even as she spoke, his eyes flamed with fury and he shook her. “Dinnae tell me that,” he snarled. “I've had enough of lies.” Maggie wrenched her shoulders free of his grasp, then stepped back. Hurt and angry, she demanded, “Do you accuse me of lying?” He remained silent for a long moment, breathing deeply. Then he said, “Nae. I'd not accuse. But I cannae forget the feel of ye in my arms, the promise in your kisses ... even when I see ye with Geordie, remember that it was Geordie brought ye to Dunphaedair.” Maggie knew in that moment that Stuart did love her, but he would never speak as long as he believed there was anything between her and his brother. Now was the chance she had longed for. Now she could make him understand. Maggie took a deep breath and said in a clear, level tone, “Geordie has never been more to me than a friend.” “He does not act like a friend. He is always with ye...” “That is not my fault.” Maggie said vehemently. “I have never encouraged him. Indeed, never has he proclaimed any love for me. Most assuredly, I do not love him.” Then, tossing 285
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all thought of decorum to the wind, Maggie added, “Only you, Stuart. There has never been anyone else ... there never could be another.” Did she sound unmaidenly? She didn't care. She knew only that she ached for Stuart's touch, his lips on her own, his body pressed close against hers. “You have become my life,” Maggie continued, “my reason for being.” She paused, then added brokenly, “I don't want to leave you.” Stuart stared down at Maggie for what seemed an eternity; silent, unmoving, while the misery in his expression drained away, was slowly replaced by wonder. “Ye love me?” “With all my heart.” A moment longer he hesitated. Maggie held out her arms. He came to her then, gathered her close and buried his face in her hair, whispered those sweet, Gaelic words in her ear. “M'eudail, mo leannan...” Maggie's lips throbbed for the touch of his while he kissed first her temples, her eyelids, her cheeks. Impatient for the taste of him, she buried her fingers in his thick, soft locks and sought his mouth with her own. A moment longer he denied her as his hands moved over her back, urging her body ever closer to his until the wild beating of her heart, the sensations rampant within her, became one with the raging of the wind, the crash and roll of thunder announcing the coming storm. Then, at last, his mouth closed over hers and the silken tip of his tongue caressed her burning lips before thrusting gently within. The thrill of that sweet encounter blazed through Maggie like the lightening that flashed in the sky overhead. She felt it in the swell of her breasts, the tightening of their 286
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rosette crowns, in the throbbing that coalesced in the most intimate parts of her being. Abruptly, Stuart raised his head, reached up and loosened her hands which now were clasped behind his neck. In a voice hoarse with emotion he said, “I promised ye I would not touch ye again as long as ye were a guest in my house.” He paused, drew a deep, shaky breath, then continued. “I will honor my promise. I'll not claim ye until ye are my wife.” Despite the clamoring of her own senses, Maggie could hear the roughness in his voice, understand the effort it cost him to deny his need. And though she longed to tell him it was a promise from which she would gladly release him, she did not. It was better, she knew, to wait—until she was his wife! With Maggie's hands still held tightly in his, Stuart continued, “Will ye be my wife, Maggie?” She could scarcely contain the joy that bubbled up within her. “Oh, yes, my darling,” she said. “Yes, yes.” They did not kiss again. Somehow Maggie understood that any further contact at that moment would have been asking too much of Stuart if he were to keep his promise. She also knew that to break it would, at least in his own eyes, dishonor him. By then, the storm that had threatened had blown off to the east and the sun came out once more as if to offer its blessing. A while longer they viewed the majestic landscape spread out around them while the tides of passion receded. Then they mounted their horses and headed inland. And the 287
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words, ‘...until ye are my wife...’ sang in Maggie's heart all the way back to the cromlech and the twins. Stuart and Maggie had agreed to say nothing to anyone of their decision to marry until they could first tell Dhileas. “Although,” Maggie told him, “I think she already knows. At least, she hinted very strongly at the possibility last night.” “So ye already knew...?” Stuart said accusingly—though without rancor. Sheepishly, Maggie admitted, “I didn't believe her...” Then she proceeded to tell him most of what Dhileas had said, omitting only her warnings, her pleas that Maggie stay away from the water. Because, she silently persuaded herself, it was, in all likelihood, only a strange fancy—Jeannie had been quite right to caution her against believing everything Dhileas might say. Geordie had drunk about half the bottle of whiskey by the time Stuart and Maggie reached the cromlech once more and was sleeping heavily. Jeannie sat cross-legged in the bottom of the buggy cradling his head in her lap. Thus she remained for the entire trip back to Dunphaedair. A full moon shone down on the desolation of the Parth as they again skirted it on their homeward journey. A faintly luminous mist crawled up the shattered stumps of long dead trees; and the mournful howling of a wolf echoed across the bogs, sending a lonely chill down Maggie's spine. But most disturbing to her, close beside the path, the moon's silvery light glinted on the oily surface of dead, black water. However, not until Stuart turned back, came to ride close beside their horse's head lest the beast panic and run away 288
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with the surrey, did Maggie realize how tense she was. And only then did she admit to herself that, try as she would, she could not forget the tinge of hysteria in Dhileas's eyes, her voice, as she entreated, “Promise me ye'll stay away from the water...”
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Chapter 17 Immediately after breakfast, on the day following their trip to Cape Wrath, Stuart and Maggie went to Aunt Dhileas's room to tell her of their betrothal. When they entered, she was sitting in her chair before the fire, hands folded in her lap, an expectant look on her face. They greeted each other warmly and Stuart went to her, bent down and kissed the top of her silvery head. He then returned to Maggie's side and took her hand in his before announcing, “‘Tis wonderful news we have for ye, Aunt.” “Aye,” Dhileas nodded, “‘Tis what I have been waiting to hear.” Then, before Stuart could speak, she opened her hands and held them out to him. There was a small, ornate box on her upturned palms. “I have been saving this in anticipation of the day.” Hesitantly, Stuart took the box from her, glanced at Maggie, then opened it. A quick intake of breath betrayed his surprise. Slowly, softly, as if bewildered, he whispered, “My mother's bridal ring...” “And now it shall belong to your bride.” Dhileas declared. So she had known, Maggie thought, and a shivery sensation slithered over her. Was it possible that Dhileas really could know the future? Abruptly, Stuart's head jerked up and a most peculiar expression flashed across his face as he stared at his aunt. However, he recovered quickly and turned a smiling gaze upon Maggie as he lifted the ring from its resting place, took 290
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her hand, and slipped the heavy band of beaten gold set all around with precious stones onto her finger. Even as she extended her hand, Maggie was wondering what that look had meant. And when Stuart said softly, “My mother would have been proud to see her ring on your hand,” when he kissed Maggie gently on the forehead before adding, “She'd have loved ye, too.” Maggie couldn't help wondering, had he said the same words to Eilean when he placed a ring on her finger? And hard on the heels of that question came another that chilled Maggie through: Was this the very ring? Try as she would to control her dismal thoughts, Maggie could not help wondering, After Eilean drowned, had Stuart taken that band of gold from her lifeless hand and given it to Dhileas for safe keeping? Suddenly, the ring seemed a circlet of ice, so cold on Maggie's finger, and she was hard put to suppress a shudder. Neither Dhileas nor Stuart appeared to notice; they were too busy congratulating each other. And by the time they turned to Maggie once more, she had forced the ugly thoughts away. Dhileas kissed Maggie and told her again how happy the two young people had made her. With her blessing ringing in their ears, Stuart and Maggie at last took their departure. As they descended the stairs, Maggie asked, “Shall we now tell Jeannie and Geordie?” Because Maggie was not at all certain how the twins would take the news, she felt a little relieved when Stuart answered, “Nae, not now, for now I must be off to the distillery.” 291
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With that, he embraced Maggie and kissed her again, a long, lingering kiss. When at last he lifted his lips from hers, his voice was a husky whisper in her ear. “Come with me Maggie. I dinnae think I can bear to be parted from ye for a whole day.” Shaken by the desire his kiss had awakened in her, Maggie wondered, Could he—could I—remember his vow were I to go with him? She drew a deep breath and said with mock severity, “Don't tempt me, Stuart MacPhaedair. I have work of my own that must be finished before I go to London.” Stuart moved back, looked down at her in surprise. “Ye would still go to London?” “Of course. I must take my photographs to the publisher. And there are the royalties for me to collect ... they will be my dowry.” “If I am to have ye to my bed, I'll have no need of a dowry,” he said softly, a wicked gleam in his eye. His words, the way he was looking at her, brought a flush to Maggie's cheeks, turned her knees to jelly. “Could ye not send the photographs by messenger? And the royalties ... surely they could come to ye the same way,” Stuart persisted. Maggie blinked, swallowed, forced herself to reply, “But I have already promised Jeannie a trip to London. I cannot disappoint her.” Stuart drew a long, gusty breath, released it slowly. “Well, if ye must away, ye must,” he said. Then he took Maggie in his arms once more and kissed her tenderly before saying, “Now I must go...” 292
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Standing there in the circle of his arms, with his lips so close to hers, his breath warm and sweet filling the space between them, the tantalizing promise of sensual delights beyond her imagining smoldering in the depths of his black eyes, Maggie wondered how she could bear to be separated from him for even a day, let alone a week, and she whispered softly, “Why don't you come with us?” Stuart's laughter was husky. “Now ‘tis ye who would tempt me, mo ghraidh.” Gently, he loosened her clinging arms, stepped away from her. “But I cannae get away this time of the year. ‘Tis our busiest season.” When he had gone, Maggie hurried back to her room and splashed her face with cold water. She then spent the ensuing hours as planned, developing the photographs she had taken the previous day. It was a task that kept her hands busy, but gave her mind time to wander, and wander it did. One moment filled with thoughts of Stuart, daydreaming about the moments she had spent in his arms, remembering the feel of his hands caressing her body there in the clearing, wondering what it did mean for a man to bed a woman. She trembled at the thought. How would it be—in his—their—bedchamber, alone together? Wearing nothing but night—an unexpected giggle rose to Maggie's lips as she pictured Stuart in a nightshirt, the strong calves of his bare legs exposed to view. Hard on the heels of that consideration, however, a dizzying certainty filled her mind: When she lay next to Stuart in his—their—bed, he would undo her nightdress, just as he had her shirtwaist, and he would kiss her, caress her breasts. She closed her eyes as the memory sent a pleasurable 293
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sensation trembling through her. Yes, she thought, that is the way it will be. Still she pondered. There must be more to sharing a marriage bed than that, of that she was certain. Had not Stuart said he would not claim her until they were wed? But what did that mean? A flush rose in Maggie's cheeks and those fires that only Stuart had ever kindled in her began to burn. Then, like a searing breath of winter wind, came the memory of Eilean. Dead Eilean. Drowned Eilean. The first woman to lie with Stuart in the dark, feel his touch, share his passion. Jealousy rose bitter in Maggie's heart and she tried to put the scene from her mind while she wondered, Why is Eilean so much with me today? Was it the ring so cold and heavy on her finger? But perhaps Eilean had never worn it. Yet why had Stuart looked so ... so dismayed when he first opened the box? A light tapping on the door interrupted Maggie's dismal thoughts. In answer to her summons, Dhileas entered. She stopped just inside the threshold and smiled at Maggie. Maggie didn't feel like smiling, but she tried. “Would you like to see my photographs?” she invited. “Aye, that I would.” Dhileas looked at each one carefully, thoughtfully, commenting from time to time on the ones that seemed to please her most. And when they had looked at them all, she said, “‘Tis a fine gift ye have, Maggie, and ‘tis a fine wife ye'll be.” She paused, then added carefully, “I'll nae speak ill of the dead. Still, ‘tis true, I always knew Eilean wasnae right for 294
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Stuart. But he wouldnae listen.” Again she paused, gave Maggie a sidewise glance, then added. “‘Tis why I hid Mary's ring. ‘Twas always meant for ye.” Maggie's head snapped up and she stared at Dhileas. Had she known the miserable thoughts that—but how could she? And yet ... Suddenly, Maggie threw her arms about the dear old lady and gave her a kiss on each of her pink-painted cheeks. When Dhileas had gone, Maggie forced her attention back to her work; but now it was with a light heart. She was just finishing up when Iona came to tell her that since Geordie was confined to his bed until the swelling in his ankle should subside, Jeannie had decreed tea be served in his chamber. Iona also informed Maggie that Stuart had said he would come for her shortly and they would go in to tea together. A small thrill of trepidation rippled over Maggie as she thought, The time has come. I'll soon know how the twins feel. Actually, it was Geordie she worried about. His attitude toward her had been so changeable. Still, he had never really declared himself ... and, she reminded herself, I wouldn't have believed him if he had. Stuart's firm rap upon the door put an end to Maggie's nervous reflection. Geordie seemed to be resting quite comfortably when they entered his room. Nevertheless, Jeannie was fussing about him like a mother hen, nor did she cease her ministrations when Stuart and Maggie took their places. “Do sit down, Jeannie, and drink your tea,” Stuart said at last. “Maggie and I have something to tell ye.” 295
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Where only a moment before there had been the rustle of skirts, the shush of sheets being smoothed, the chink of cup on saucer, now there was silence. Two pairs of eyes were turned toward Stuart; but the expressions they held were more wary than expectant—or so it seemed to Maggie. “Maggie has consented to be my wife,” Stuart said. “We shall be wed as soon as the bans can be posted.” The twins exchanged a quick, unsmiling glance. Then Jeannie ran to Maggie, pulled her to her feet, hugged her, kissed her on the cheek. “How wonderful! Now we shall truly be sisters.” Jeanie's words were warm but her lips were cold. Was she really glad? Maggie wondered. She knew Jeannie was fond of her—still, there was something in the very air Maggie found unsettling. Her arm still about Maggie's waist, Jeannie turned to Geordie. “Isn't it wonderful? Now Maggie will never leave us.” The words were welcoming, but Maggie thought the tone a bit too bright, too—forced. A slow smile curved Geordie's lips, but his eyes remained shadowed. “Congratulations, brother. So once again ‘tis ye who wins the prize.” Stuart tensed, half rose from his chair; but Jeannie's shocked voice intervened. “Geordie!” Geordie continued smoothly, as if nothing were in the slightest amiss, “and my very best wishes to the bride-to-be.” Again, the words were correct, yet in view of his remark to Stuart, Maggie was not reassured. Indeed, that remark could easily be construed as insulting. 296
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Maggie glanced at Stuart. A muscle twitched in his tightly clamped jaws, but he said nothing. Taking a deep breath, Maggie counseled herself: Be still, smile. Do not borrow trouble. The latter had been one of her father's favorite aphorisms. “Well, then,” Jeannie said. “Let us have our tea before it gets cold. If only I had known, Mrs. Allchin could have prepared something special ... for a little celebration, ye ken. For dinner, then. We'll have something special for dinner.” The two women resumed their seats and Jeannie said, “Now tell me, what are your plans. Shall we have a big, wedding? Or just a quiet, family affair?” Stuart and Maggie looked at each other. He smiled, indicated that she should speak first. “I would prefer a small, simple ceremony,” she said. “I have neither family nor friends of my own here in Scotland with whom to share the occasion; but if Stuart wants a big wedding...” “Ye shall have things as ye like,” Stuart said. “I have only one request. ‘Twould please me to be wed in the family chapel.” The instant the words left his mouth, Maggie wondered where he and Eilean had exchanged their vows. And almost as quickly, she realized it need not concern her. After all, she asked herself, would they not have been wed in the church attended by Eilean's family? For that was the custom. Thus they chatted, made plans, laughed together. Even Geordie, though something dark lurked behind his eyes. When Iona and Kate came to clear away, Stuart said, “Iona, please have Mrs. Allchin and whoever else is about 297
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meet us in the great hall in half an hour. I have an announcement to make.” Iona nodded solemnly, but there was a most un-Ionalike twinkle in her eyes. Seeing it, Maggie had no doubt that everyone in the castle already knew what Stuart had to say. When she and Stuart entered the great hall an half hour later, Mrs. Allchin, Iona and Kate, the two laundresses, and the stable boy were all standing in a line near the fireplace. If they did, indeed, already know what Stuart was about to say, they did not betray it by the blink of an eye. And when the announcement had been made, they all expressed their pleasure and good wishes with suitable enthusiasm. The days that followed were busy: bans were posted and the wedding date was set: June 15. Jeannie and Maggie readied their wardrobe for the trip to London, and Maggie worked feverishly to finish the text for her book. However, the bit about the Picts could not be completed until she had taken some photographs of the stone circle and the burial chamber within the tumulous. But what with one thing and another, Stuart had not found time to take her back there. Still, she was determined to go, determined that the Picts should be included in her book. During those weeks, only one incident marred Maggie's happiness. She had gone out to the rose garden to read and was seated on the bench over against the wall where the sun shines warm in the afternoon. There, Geordie, still hobbling about with a cane, found her.
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“Come,” she invited. “Sit beside me. The sunshine will do you good, and you should rest your ankle a bit before you walk farther. I can see by your expression that it pains you.” Unsmiling, he settled himself at her side, sat staring off into the distance. At last, with a sigh he said, “‘Tis not my ankle pains me so much as my heart.” His words caught Maggie completely unawares. For a moment she could not think how to respond. Surely, he couldn't mean what his words implied. She was affianced to his brother. Abruptly, Geordie turned his gaze full on her. “Have ye any idea what ye have gotten yourself into? Do ye realize that my brother is a driven man, that that distillery will be his undoing ... yours, too, if ye are his wife. He should sell this place. ‘Twould provide a handsome profit.” Maggie found her tongue at last. “But I love it here ... and Stuart would never be happy anywhere else.” “Why should he not be happy? With ye at his side and enough siller to live in comfort the rest of your lives ... some place far from the hardships of Dunphaedair.” “But the distillery is beginning to show a real profit since the new laws were passed. We can begin renovating the castle...” “Is that what he's told ye?” Geordie sneered. “‘Tis what Eilean believed, too. Poor Eilean...” He let the words fade and his eyes took on a haunted look. But Maggie had heard enough and, unwilling to hear more, she jumped to her feet. “I do not think this a fit subject for us 299
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to be discussing,” she said sharply, adding, “If you will excuse me.” Quick as a fox after a hen, Geordie reached out and grasped her wrist. “Nae!” he said. “I'll not have ye leave with anger in your heart. Ye must understand that all I want is your happiness.” He paused, but when Maggie remained tight-lipped and silent, he continued. “Think about what I have said. A buyer for this place could easily be found, and were ye to add your voice to Jeannie's and mine...” “Never! I have told you, both Stuart and I are happy here and that is an end to it.” Again she strove to pull free of him; still his grip remained firm. But the intensity that had animated him began to fade. A great sadness filled his eyes. “Dinnae say never, Maggie. For now ye have chosen the laird. I must accept that. But ye must know how I feel, how I have felt about ye from the first moment I layed eyes upon ye. I cannae bear to see ye hurt as was Eilean.” Abruptly, he fell silent, released his hold on her wrist. Maggie was shaken to the core by his remarks, but she did not by word or look reveal her feelings. “I shall pretend this conversation never occurred,” she said stiffly, turned on her heel and, without a backward glance, left him sitting there. But her emotions were in turmoil. She was angry with Geordie for having spoken to her so, and she swore to herself that she did not believe one word of what he had said. Yet, she found herself wondering: Was the distillery really beginning to prosper? Did Stuart really need to work so hard, 300
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spend such long hours away from her? Had Eilean been unhappy? Was that why she turned to Geordie ... if, indeed she had? And what, Maggie wondered, of Geordie's feelings for her? But surely his declarations were all a ploy on his part. To what end, she could not imagine. Then her traitorous mind asked, but why had people thought Eilean murdered? “Because people love to gossip!” Maggie spoke the words aloud, defiantly, hating herself for having entertained the guilty question for even a split second. But the mind is not easily brought to heel, and in many an unguarded moment, those vexing thoughts came back to plague her. Early the following week, a special messenger from the publisher's agent arrived carrying the requested bank draft and a letter saying that the agent would be pleased to see Maggie at any time. Over tea that afternoon, they held a family consultation, during which it was agreed that Jeannie and Maggie should begin their journey on the next Friday, to arrive in London on the Monday. They would then depart London on the following Saturday, which would give them five full days in London. Much to Maggie's relief, Geordie said no more about accompanying them. However, now that their plans were complete, Maggie had a deadline to meet if she were to include the Pictish photographs in her book. Over dinner that night she said, “Stuart, if I am to finish my book, I must visit the stone circle and the burial tunnel tomorrow. I would not mention it, since 301
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I know how busy you are, but I promised you...” She looked at him pleadingly. Stuart sighed, shook his head, then smiled. “If ye must go back to the circle, ye must, and I'll nae have ye near the moor alone. Will the morning suit ye?” Maggie smiled happily. “That will be wonderful. The morning shadows will create just the sense of otherworldliness I have in mind.” However, in the morning, just as they were mounting their horses, an urgent message arrived from the distillery. As Stuart read it, his expression became grave. Then he turned to Maggie. “I'm sorry, Maggie.” He waved the slip of paper in the air. “This cannae wait.” Even as he spoke, he wheeled his animal around and set off at a gallop followed by the messenger. Maggie sat there on her horse, staring after him. What was she to do? She had to have those photographs. Now, when they suddenly seemed out of reach, she could not bear the thought of omitting them from her book. The stable boy stood watching, waiting to help her down. She stared back at the young man while she considered her options. True, she had promised Stuart never to visit the moors alone—but the tumulus was not actually out on the moor.... She considered no more deeply than that for, to be honest, she did not want a reason to forego the planned trip. It took only a pull on the rein to turn her mount's head toward the exit, and she was on her way. 302
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Excitement bubbled up in her. She felt like a child again, slipping away to pick forbidden fruit—like those green apples from her grandfather's orchard. Of course, that escapade had ended in a stomach ache.... Brushing the memory aside, Maggie dug her heels into the horse's ribs and leaned forward to take the surge of speed as the animal leaped ahead with long smooth strides. The wind raised by their passing whipped cool and fresh in her face, the morning sun shone warm on her shoulders, and she reveled in her freedom. When they reached the stone circle, it was still filled with shadow. Therefore, Maggie decided to take her first photographs at the tumulous below. She had just turned her mount about and headed down the slope when a volley of shots rang out followed by a shout. Then another volley of shots. Blindly, Maggie crouched low over the horses neck and kicked the animal sharply in the ribs, again and again, while the sound of the Arab raiders’ voices seemed to ring in her ears. Escape! She had to escape. Terror clouded her mind, blinded her eyes to the reality before her. Hogarth's moor, to her terrified gaze, had become Lake Nayasa, and all she could think was, Run, hide... Then, abruptly, she was flying through the air, only to come to a jarring stop. For a moment, she lay stunned; but water, cold and reeking of decay began to seep into her clothing, to crawl against her cheek where it lay pressed into the slime. As consciousness returned, Maggie realized that she was lying, sprawled full-length, on the boggy ground at the edge of the moor. 303
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Still half lost in waking nightmare, she struggled to push herself up only to sink to the elbows in putrescent ooze. But, thank God, her knees were still on solid ground and though she was never able to explain exactly how, she did manage to pull herself back and free of the bog before she collapsed again, too shaken by her ordeal to do more. Within moments, however, she roused to the sound of voices, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that she was surrounded by a group of men lead by Sir Reginald Fallsworthy. He dropped to his knees beside her and lifted her to a sitting position. “Miss Donnelly! What happened? Are you all right?” Even as he helped her to sit up, Geordie came into view, hobbling down the bank. It was all too confusing. Maggie shook her head, trying to clear it. Finally, she muttered, “The Arabs ... they were shooting...” Only Geordie understood. He had reached Maggie's side just as she began to speak. “She thinks she's back in Africa,” he said, addressing the group. “Slave traders attacked a village where Miss Donnelly and her father were working. Terrible experience! Hearing the gun shots must have brought it all back. I saw this sort of thing often in the Transvaal. She'll be all right. But I must get her back to Dunphaedair.” It was Sir Reginald who carried Maggie up the hill and sent someone to fetch a buggy to convey her home. By then she was in full command of her senses once more, but she was so cold! They bundled her in several blankets, and still she shivered and shook. It was shock, of course, but more than that it was horror. 304
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Dhileas had warned her. “Stay away from the black water,” she had said. Maggie hadn't listened: not to Dhileas, not to Stuart.... They were perhaps halfway home when the pounding of hooves heralded the approach of a hard-ridden horse. Within seconds horse and rider were upon them. The animal reared, came to a halt in a swirl of dust as its rider leaped to the ground. It was Stuart, face pale, hair blowing wild in the wind. In one stride he was beside the buggy his arms reaching out to Maggie. He grasped her shoulders gazed into her eyes. “My God, Maggie! What happened to ye?” Slowly, his grip on her shoulders loosened and he raised a hand to brush back the locks of hair that lay in muddy strips across her cheek. An unexpected rush of tears clogged Maggie's throat and she could only whisper his name. Geordie promptly intervened. “Just a little accident, Stuart. She's shaken ... nothing more.” Stuart took a step back and his eyes moved warily from Geordie to Maggie and back. “An accident? What kind of accident?” “The horse threw her,” Geordie said smoothly. Stuart's gaze returned to Maggie, studied her. Then he said, “Ye went to the moor.” Maggie's stomach drew into a knot and she couldn't meet his eyes. His lips tightened and his already pale face went livid, “Ye promised me ye would not.” 305
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Maggie took a deep breath, tried to look at him. “I didn't go to the moor ... not exactly...” “Ye promised me,” he repeated, and his voice shook with anger. Seeing his fury, Maggie became defensive. “You promised to take me there, but you went to the distillery instead. Is that not a broken promise?” “‘Tis not the same thing,” he shouted. “I would have taken ye another time.” “Well, another time wouldn't do,” Maggie shouted back, then added in a calmer tone, “I had to get those photographs today.” “And if ye had disappeared into the bog in the getting?” Suddenly Stuart laughed, the sound bitter—cynical. “But ye do have the photographs.” Maggie started to reply, but he was no longer listening. He had wheeled on Geordie. “And how is it ye are here?” A slow smile twisted Geordie's lips as he replied, “Why, as soon as I heard that Maggie had started for the moor alone...” “But I wasn't going to the moor!” Stuart turned on her again, raked his glance over her. “‘Tis clear that is where ye have been.” “And I'm cold and dirty and my head aches.” Emotions stretched to the breaking point, Maggie glared at Stuart a moment longer then turned to Geordie. “Take me home ... please.” With that, she turned her head away from both of them and closed her eyes. 306
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Geordie clucked to the horse, the buggy started to move, and a moment later the pounding of hooves, the sound quickly receding in the distance, marked Stuart's wrathful departure. Maggie's own thoughts and emotions were in such turmoil, she could scarcely think. She knew that she was in the wrong. She had promised Stuart she would not go near the moor alone. But he had no reason to be so angry—and he had broken his promise to her. I'm the one who should be angry, Maggie comforted herself. She wasn't certain when she started to cry. She only knew she was furious with herself when her nose went all stuffy and she tasted the salt tears on her lips. Stuart was waiting at the entrance when they reached Dunphaedair. The moment the buggy rolled to a stop he came forward, motioned Geordie away, then helped Maggie out. “Can ye walk?” he inquired gently. Maggie nodded. Nevertheless, she leaned heavily on his arm as they ascended the stairs to the entry hall. As they climbed, he said, “Iona is preparing a bath for ye. I told her ye had had a fall.” “Thank you,” Maggie said. Neither of them spoke again until they reached Maggie's chamber door. Then they would have spoken, both at the same time. Finally, Stuart said, “When ye are ready, I'll be waiting in the library.” ****
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The hour Maggie spent, soaking in the tub of hot water, washing her hair, drying herself before the cheery fire Iona had set to crackling on the hearth, would have been heavenly had not her mind been in such turmoil. One moment she was feeling guilty—she had broken her promise to Stuart and she had done it quite purposefully. The next she was feeling defiant—if he had taken her as he promised, she wouldn't have had to go alone. And then she would remember the look in his eyes once he realized she was not injured: anger, yes, but there had been hurt there, too. Maggie descended the stairs with dragging steps. What should she say to him? What would he say to her? Surely, he would not let so little a thing come between them? And yet, to break a promise was not after all such a little thing— especially to a man like Stuart. And Maggie had not missed the look he had given Geordie. Her heart quailed as once again, questions surrounding the dead Eilean and Geordie's past rose up to cloud Maggie's future. Stuart was standing before the fireplace, palms braced against the mantel, staring down into the cold grate when she entered the library. Thus he remained until she had crossed the room and stood behind one of the chairs facing him. Then he turned slowly and looked at her, his expression carefully controlled, unreadable. Quickly, Maggie stepped round the chair and moved close to him, stood looking up into his eyes. “Truly,” she whispered, “I meant to go no farther than the tumulus...” The words were barely passed her lips before he gathered her into his arms, buried his face in her hair. “Maggie, 308
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Maggie, m'eudail. Tha gradh agam art.” Then he kissed her, savagely, with all the pent up passion of his anger and fear and love; kisses that bruised her lips, yet filled her with relief as well as desire. And when at last they drew apart she whispered, imitating the sound of the words he had whispered to her, “Tha gradh agam art,” for she felt certain they meant ‘I love you.’ At that moment, when mutual pain and the need for forgiveness had left them both spiritually naked, Maggie should have asked those questions that continued to nag at her. This was one occasion when she should have put her emotions, her fears and doubts, aside and asked Stuart to tell her about Eilean, to tell her if there was any truth to the rumors about his wife and his half-brother, to tell her once and for all that Eilean's death had been neither suicide nor murder. Later, Maggie was to think, how differently our story might have ended had I had the courage to do so. But she did not.
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Chapter 18 On Monday, Jeannie and Maggie, accompanied by Stuart and Dhileas, followed by Kate and Iona, descended to the courtyard. Jeannie bubbled with excitement while Dhileas offered words of advice. Kate and Iona were content to beam. Even Maggie, who would have preferred to remain with Stuart, was caught up in the excitement. Thus, when the door of the brougham opened to reveal Geordie, sitting within, obviously intent on accompanying the two women, it required a great effort of will for Maggie to contain her anger and chagrin. Jeannie, seemingly unaware of Maggie's feelings, was much pleased. “What a wonderful surprise, dear brother,” she said, giving him a warm smile. Stuart, on the other hand, glared quite openly at his halfbrother, making no pretense of his displeasure. Ignoring Stuart, Geordie returned Jeannie's smile. “Didn't I say I would accompany you ... see that no harm comes to you in the big city?” As a beaming Jeannie mounted the coach step and was handed in, Maggie turned to Stuart. She longed to say to the waiting twins, “Go on without me. I want to stay here, close to my beloved.” But she could not, and with Stuart's Aunt, his siblings, two serving women, and the coachman watching, she could not fling herself into Stuart's arms. She could only offer him a peck upon his cheek, content herself with Stuart's chaste kiss upon her forehead. 310
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However, before handing her into the coach, Stuart whispered fervently, “I shall miss ye every minute ye are gone from me.” Then, before she could change her mind, the door of the coach closed between them, the driver cracked his whip high above the horses backs, and they were on their way. **** The trip was a delight. It was a joy for Maggie just to see Jeannie's happiness. She fairly shone with an inner excitement as each moment presented her with some new sight over which to exclaim. And Geordie, despite Maggie's annoyance at his presence, was a charming companion. In London, too, everything went smoothly. Their accommodations were luxurious; Jeannie was beside herself with delight. Maggie's meeting with the publisher's representative was highly successful. After a careful examination of her photographs he offered her a very handsome advance for her manuscript. He also had a letter for her from her father's attorney confirming that all moneys due her had been transferred to a bank in Dundee. Maggie was staggered by the total amount, though she made a great pretense of being dignified and businesslike. Back at the hotel, however, her excitement finally bubbled over. She threw her arms about Jeannie and whirled her round the room chanting, “I'm rich! I'm rich! I'm rich!” Then, halting in midstep, Maggie released Jeannie so abruptly, she almost toppled over. “Quickly,” Maggie said, “get dressed. We're going shopping.” 311
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And they did. At first Jeannie showed some hesitance over spending Maggie's money; but when assured that there was plenty now and reminded that they were—or soon would be— family, Jeannie's resistance crumbled. They each purchased several new costumes as well as gowns for the wedding. Then they selected gifts for Iona, Kate, and Mrs. Allchin. Neither did they forget the laundresses nor the stableboy. Jeannie picked out a gold and pearl stick pin for Geordie, and Maggie selected a silver-headed walking stick for Dhileas. But Maggie could not seem to find exactly the right thing to take to Stuart. She had hoped to carry back to him the photographs Geordie was having framed, but he said they would not be ready for yet another a week. In the end, she settled on a pair of silver cuff links. After all, she told herself, soon all that I have will be Stuart's and he can buy whatever pleases him most. On their final afternoon in London, Geordie contrived to spend time alone with Maggie. She and Jeannie had planned to go for a stroll in Hyde Park, accompanied by Geordie, of course. But at the last minute, Jeannie developed a headache—or so she said. Maggie would have remained with her, but nothing would do but Maggie and Geordie should go without her. “Once we return to the Highlands, goodness knows when ye shall have another opportunity,” Jeannie said. Unable to think of a good reason to insist upon remaining with Jeannie, Maggie went. As they drove through the city streets in a hansom cab, Geordie, charming as always, spoke entertainingly of this and that. All the while, Maggie made 312
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good use of her fan for the day was warm; hence, it was a relief to reach the park, most pleasant to walk the shadowed paths. Geordie now fell silent and after strolling but a short way, began to limp on the ankle he had injured at Cape Wrath. “Do let us sit down and rest for a bit,” he pleaded. And when they were settled, he said, “Ah ... this is much better.” They sat quietly then, watching the young couples saunter by hand in hand, speaking to each other in soft tones, glancing shyly at each other. Abruptly, Geordie said, “Did ye know that Jeannie and Donald Ferguson are in love?” Maggie smiled. “I had guessed it. Do you think they will soon marry?” Geordie sighed. “I fear they shall never wed.” Taken by surprise, Maggie demanded, “Why should you think that? They seem admirably suited.” “He is only beginning his practice. It takes a long time for a solicitor to establish himself, and Jeannie has no dowry.” “But is that so important? If they are in love...” “It takes money to live.” Geordie snapped. Then he laughed apologetically. “I'm sorry. ‘Tis not your fault. But I love my sister, ye ken, and it hurts me that I cannae do anything to help her.” Maggie recalled what she had overheard—that it was Geordie who had squandered his sister's dowry, but she said nothing. Another long silence fell between them. Slowly, the tension that had claimed Maggie the moment she and Geordie left the hotel began to subside. It was so pleasant there in the park. 313
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Sunlight, shining down through the leaves of the oak under which they sat, dappled the grass all about them with gold. Birds twittered and chirruped overhead, a saucy squirrel scampered past, and from a distance came the raucous cry of a peacock. A child in a sailor suit skipped past them, rolling a hoop along the path; a bobby sauntered by whistling softly to himself. Maggie started when Geordie broke the silence. “Of course,” he began, the words coming slowly, tentatively, “there is one way...” Maggie had long since lost the thread of their conversation, and when he hesitated, she looked at him enquiringly. “If Stuart would agree to sell Dunphaedair. ‘Tis the only way out for Jeannie.” “I don't understand.” Maggie's brows drew together in a frown as she turned to look at Geordie. “Were Stuart to sell, a certain portion would go to Jeannie. She would have her dowry.” And to you, too, no doubt, Maggie thought; but she remained silent. Finally, Geordie continued, “As long as Dunphaedair remains in the family, as laird, Stuart is obliged only to provide Jeannie a home.” As Geordie spoke, his voice grew slowly louder, more intense until abruptly he burst out, “And she must work like a bloody tattie-howker for even that!” Appalled that he should dare say such things to her, Maggie started to rise, but Geordie quickly placed a 314
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restraining hand on her arm. “I'm sorry! Forgive me! ‘Twas wrong of me to voice my opinion.” Ignoring his apology, Maggie said, “Remove your hand from my arm, sir. I wish to go,” and she tried to shrug him off. But he held her fast. “No. Now I've said this much, I'll nae be silent about the rest. ‘Tis only fair that ye should know these things.” Maggie didn't want to hear what else he had to say, yet curiosity is a pertinacious taskmaster. To her shame, she let him keep her there—listening. “I know ye love Stuart. It was bound to happen. Remember, I told ye he was a fine figure of a man before ye ever met.” Maggie did remember, but she neither confirmed nor denied it then. Geordie continued. “I blame myself. Knowing what I do, I should never have brought ye to Dunphaedair. Ye must know that Eilean loved him, too; but unlike you, she brought little to the marriage except her beauty. She had neither the training nor the strength to run the household as Jeannie does, and her dowry was small. But nothing would do but Stuart must wed her.” He paused, shook his head sadly. “And how soon he lost interest in her. Almost as fast as her money disappeared into his distillery.” Maggie knew she should refuse to hear one word more, but she sat as one mesmerized. Geordie drew a long breath, let it out slowly and at the same time he slumped dejectedly. 315
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Then ever so softly he said, “Is it any wonder the poor lass committed suicide?” His words hit Maggie like a charging rhinoceros. Shocked, angered, she jerked her arm free of his grasp and declared hotly, “It was an accident. Stuart loved Eilean. He would never have done anything to make her ... unhappy.” Geordie shook his head sadly, started to speak; but Maggie didn't wait to hear more. This time she jumped to her feet and would not let him detain her, though he called out to her as she hurried along the path. He caught up with her while she waited for a cab, and Maggie could not refuse to let him ride with her without creating a scene. Once more she was a captive audience, and Geordie had the last word. Just before they reached the hotel he said, “Our father married once for love: Stuart's mother. His second wife, my mother, he chose for the sake of her money.” A bitter laugh preceded Geordie's final words, and he gave Maggie a pitying look as he said slowly and distinctly: “Like father, like son...” **** Jeannie, her headache miraculously relieved, was sitting at the window, watching the passersby in the street below when Maggie returned. But one glimpse of Maggie's face brought Jeannie to her feet. “Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?” Maggie's first impulse was to demand, “Need you ask?” but she bit back the words. After all, she could not say with certainty that Jeannie had been party to Geordie's 316
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machinations. She had never been anything but the soul of kindness and generosity in her treatment of Maggie. But everyone knows: blood is thicker than water, and Jeannie's love for her twin was strong. It seemed obvious to Maggie that the story about Jeannie's sudden headache had been concocted to allow Geordie time alone with Maggie. But whether Jeannie knew what he planned to say, Maggie could not decide. Finally, seeing the concern in Jeannie's eyes, Maggie said as calmly as she could manage, “Your headache seems to have been catching. I think I shall lie down for a while.” Maggie's opinion that Jeannie's headache had been one of expedience was confirmed by the stricken look that abruptly paled Jeannie's cheeks, hollowed her eyes. That look also told Maggie that Jeannie was not proud of the part she had played in Geordie's venture. What it did not reveal was how much of what Geordie had said was true, or what he hoped to gain by maligning his brother. Abruptly, Maggie's head did begin to throb. In her bedroom, she rang for a maid, asked her to close the drapes, and when she had done so, Maggie said, “And I'd like some tea sent up.” She was reclining on the chaise longue, her hair hanging loose over the shoulders of her new silk peignoir when the maid returned. She put the tray on a low table beside Maggie, then asked, “Will there be anything else, Ma'am?” When answered in the negative, she bobbed a curtsy and withdrew. In the silence that followed, Maggie's thoughts pounded in her brain like native drums: accident, murder, 317
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suicide. What had happened to Eilean? What had prompted Geordie to say suicide if the story had gone round that she was murdered? Certainly not fraternal loyalty. And now, though she abhorred the idea, Maggie couldn't help but believe there was some substance to Flora's story about an illicit liaison between Stuart's wife and his brother. Had Stuart known? If so, what, if anything, had he done about it? Could that have been why Geordie had been forced to leave Dunphaedair? But if Geordie was ejected from Dunphaedair because of the betrayal, why not immediately Stuart found out? Why wait until Eilean was dead? And why allow Geordie to return now? Maggie felt cold and just a little sick. But it was Geordie's closing remark that was tearing her apart. Like father, like son. It wasn't true. She knew it wasn't true. Stuart loved her. And all the while an insidious little voice deep in her psyche kept whispering, “He didn't propose until after you announced that there was money coming...” That's ridiculous, Maggie rationalized. Stuart had no way of knowing how much. Indeed, she had given the impression that it was not a great deal. Or had she? Dhileas had warned her to say nothing at all. Why, Maggie asked herself, didn't I listen to her? Then Maggie felt guilty. To have taken Dhileas's advice would have been tantamount to admitting that she did not trust Stuart. “And I do!” the words burst past Maggie's lips. Then silently she repeated, I do, I do.... 318
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The muted sunlight in her curtained room had deepened into purple dusk when a timid rap sounded on the door. Maggie did not answer immediately, and after a time, the rapping came again. This time, she sat up and called, “Come.” It was Jeannie. She opened the door, stepped across the threshold, then paused. “How are ye?” she asked meekly. Maggie forced herself to remain calm as she answered, “Much better, now.” “Shall I light a lamp?” Jeannie asked, moving toward one of the sconces. “Yes, thank you. I should be dressing. It must be almost time for supper.” Maggie had considered having a meal sent up to her room to avoid facing Geordie, but decided that that was a coward's way. After all, it was he who had spoken out of turn, he who should be shamed to face her. “Are ye certain ye are quite recovered?” The strain Jeannie was feeling revealed itself in her speech. “A bit of rest was all I needed,” Maggie assured her. “Now, we must both hurry and dress. This is our last evening in London and we shall make the most of it. I am going to wear my new silk foulard. We'll dine at the Red Lion. I'm certain Geordie will agree.” And Maggie couldn't stop herself adding, “Since I will be picking up the check.” Jeannie flushed and looked down at the tips of her toes. Instantly, Maggie was filled with remorse; it was wrong to punish Jeannie for her brother's failings, but Maggie did not take back her words. After all, she had spoken only the truth. Geordie had managed to let her pay for everything thus far 319
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except his railway ticket and his accommodations. He claimed he was staying at his club. Maggie doubted that he had one, though where he was staying she could not imagine since he was apparently without funds. She didn't care, as long as he was not next door to her. Finally, Jeannie said, “Ye have been very kind. I am sorry if...” She didn't finish the sentence but turned away and started for the door. “I must hurry and dress,” she mumbled as she left the room. When they descended to the lobby some time later, Jeannie looked lovely, if subdued. Her gown, an emerald green taffeta trimmed with pale green ostrich feathers and golden-yellow silk roses, set off her warm complexion to perfection. Maggie's own gown was of a much simpler design, but she felt that it suited her slender figure and pale coloring. Geordie greeted them, particularly Maggie, with glowing compliments and an enthusiasm that belied the bitterness of their parting that afternoon. “I've a marvelous surprise for the two of ye,” he proclaimed. Jeannie made a valiant attempt at interest; Maggie simply waited in silence for him to continue. “When I returned to my club this afternoon, I found an invitation waiting.” He looked at the women expectantly. Finally Jeannie asked, “An invitation?” “A very special invitation. Sir Dabney and Lady Whiterspoon have arranged a supper party for us.” Stunned, Maggie gaped at him open-mouthed. “But how ... why?” 320
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Not in the least disturbed by her dismay, he continued, “I thought it very gracious of them and accepted, of course.” He pulled out his watch, snapped it open. “We shall be late if we dinnae hurry along.” Only belatedly did Maggie note that Jeannie's head was bowed and she was again staring at the tips of her toes. It was obvious that once more she had been privy to another of her twin's intrigues. But why? Why, why, why? Geordie had stepped between them, offered each an arm. “Come along, ladies,” he urged. “I have a cab waiting.” Once more, Maggie found herself caught in his trap, for so she now considered the afternoon in the park as well as this supper party. Furious though she was, she could hardly refuse to go. It would have been extremely rude since Geordie had already accepted for all of them. However, as soon as they were seated in the cab, she turned on him. “Do not ever again dare to accept an invitation for me,” Maggie said hotly. “I have, thus far, suffered your arrogance for the sake of your former kindness and for the sake of your sister. But no more.” The smile faded from Geordie's lips. “But I thought ye would be pleased...” “And I will thank you to stop presuming to read my mind.” For a moment, anger blazed in Geordie's eyes. However, his tone was conciliatory when he replied, “Do forgive me, Maggie. Once again I have done the wrong thing. But ye must believe, I had only your best interests ... your happiness ... at heart.” 321
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“Please.” The small, soft voice was Jeannie's. Maggie had almost forgotten her. “I'm certain Geordie is sorry, Maggie. He has always been impetuous. Do forgive him, and let us enjoy the evening.” Turning to Jeannie, Maggie tried to smile. “Yes,” she agreed. “We must put this unpleasantness behind us and enjoy the evening.” But she did not say that she forgave Geordie, for, indeed, she could not. In addition to Maggie, Jeannie, and Geordie, the guests included Sir Evelyn and Lady Jane Barnestone and, to Maggie's surprise and Jeannie's delight, Donald Ferguson. Maggie's pleasure, however, was dimmed by an awareness of Geordie's hand in all of this. But why? The question repeated itself in her thoughts. No answer came to mind. Nevertheless, she did enjoy the evening. The Witherspoon home was beautifully appointed, their host and hostess were charming, and the food was delicious—though no more so than the dishes prepared by Dunphaedair's own Mrs. Allchin. Lady Jane again thanked Jeannie for the Hogmanay gala and commented on the charm, the wonderful atmosphere evoked by Dunphaedair. Sir Dabney added jovially, “It would make a bully hunting lodge. Fallsworthy assured us that there are still plenty of deer and grouse in the area. However, I don't know what could be done with that distillery.” His words slid over Maggie like a chill wind. Again, she could see Geordie's hand stirring the pot. But whatever could he have in mind? He knew Stuart would never sell; and he 322
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must, by now, understand that Maggie would never encourage Stuart to do so. While her thoughts were thus engaged, the conversation had turned to Maggie's upcoming wedding. Now, she listened, smiling, as everyone expressed wishes for her happiness and commented that she would surely be a most beautiful bride. Later, catching her alone, Lady Barnestone said, “So you are to be a bride.” Then, looking embarrassed and speaking very softly, she added, “I know you have no mother, my dear. If there is anything you would like to ask...” She couldn't seem to find the words to finish. Maggie understood what she meant, however, and there were a great many questions Maggie would have liked to ask; but she, too, was at a loss for words. So she smiled at Lady Barnestone and said, “That is very kind of you, Lady Barnestone. But...” They left it at that. Maggie was also congratulated on her book. “I'm certain it is something quite extraordinary,” Sir Dabney said, then spoiled his compliment by adding, “But I must say, I don't know about you young women dabbling in business ... always thought a woman's place was in the home.” With a roll of her eyes, his wife chided him gently. “Times are changing, my dear. The world is changing. One must keep step.” “Yes, yes,” her husband agreed with a deep sigh. Then he began to chuckle at himself, at his old-fashioned ideas, and everyone joined in the laughter. As for Jeannie and Donald, it was an evening filled with yearning looks and stolen moments behind a potted palm 323
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where they could hold hands and whisper the words lovers long to hear. They should marry—the sooner the better, Maggie thought, and she determined to speak to Stuart about it immediately she was Mrs. MacPhaedair. Why, if need be, Maggie reminded herself, I could supply Jeannie a comfortable dowry. They took leave of the Witherspoons and the Barnestones shortly after midnight and, accompanied by Geordie and Donald, returned to Claridges where the gentlemen bid the ladies goodnight before proceeding to their own lodgings. Thus ended the sojourn in London. The journey homeward was long and tiring. Jeannie was quite openly depressed, Geordie was moody, and Maggie could not wait to be with her beloved again. She needed the reassurance of his embrace, his eager kisses, to dispel the imps of doubt that Geordie's words, “Like father, like son,” had loosed in her imagination. Try as Maggie would to forget them, or refute them, they nagged incessantly at the fringes of consciousness. To add to the gloom, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Rain squalls fell frequently from leaden skies, and when they detrained in Dingwall, a gusty wind tore at the ladies’ bonnets and skirts. However, Stuart must have guessed that they would return with far more luggage than that with which they had departed, for he had sent the MacPhaedair brougham to meet them. Maggie's spirits lifted considerably when she saw it waiting and realized they would not have to ride the post coach to Lairg—a small but very welcome blessing. 324
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Nevertheless, they were all exhausted by the time they rode under the portcullis and up to the door of Dunphaedair. But Maggie's fatigue was forgotten when the coach door opened and she saw Stuart standing there in the rain, his black hair blowing in the wind, his arms held out for her. Then he was holding her close, and she laced her fingers in his damp locks and pulled his head down until his mouth closed over hers. She was home, back where she belonged, and she didn't care whose eyes were fixed upon them. Apparently, neither did Stuart for right there in the courtyard, with the eyes of family and servants trained upon them, he devoured Maggie with his kisses, his lips so hot on hers, they kindled a flame that even the pelting rain could not drown.
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Chapter 19 On the day after Maggie's return from London, Stuart said, “Come. Let me show you the chapel.” And as they mounted the stairs, hand in hand, he explained, “Because Dunphaedair was erected during the reign of Mary Stuart, the little chapel was dedicated to the practices and beliefs of the Roman Catholic Church. When Mary was beheaded and Scotland came under the control of the Protestant Elizabeth, the chapel was closed and sealed. And so it remained until Malcolm Macnair took possession of the castle. For whatever reason— for certainly he was no Catholic—he reopened it.” When they reached the fourth floor, Stuart lead the way down a long corridor that ended in a pair of heavy oak doors on which were depicted, in bas relief, the twelve stations of the cross. Stuart grasped the handles, twisted, and pulled. Ponderously, with much creaking and squealing, the doors swung open. Together, they stepped across the threshold and while Maggie waited, Stuart moved about, setting flame to the stubs of tapers still standing in tall iron sconces mounted on the pews. As the light flared, then settled to a steady glow, Maggie looked about in awe. The walls were paneled, floor to ceiling, with dark wood that even through the dust of centuries reflected the candles’ gentle glow. The pews, though black with age, were obviously of oak, the backs and sides elaborately hand carved. Facing the seats, an altar and twin pulpits, one on either hand, were 326
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also of oak elaborately decorated with the same scrolls and curlicues as the pews. Two painted panels graced the front of the altar: one depicted the crucifixion, the other the resurrection. The pulpits as well bore painted panels. The one on the left showed Jesus as a boy teaching in the temple; in the one on the right, the baby Jesus was cradled in Mary's arms. Behind and above the altar there was a life-sized cross on which hung a statue of the crucified Christ. When Stuart returned to Maggie's side she asked, “How did your family protect this place during the Reformation? It is so obviously Catholic.” Stuart shrugged. “That I cannae say. ‘Twas the doing of the Fitzroys. I dinnae think Malcolm Macnair was much of a churchgoer.” It was the first time Stuart had ever mentioned his tacksman forebearer, but Maggie did not remark upon it, for a matter of rather more importance had suddenly occurred to her. She did not know to what religion Stuart subscribed. She had not been a regular church goer since she began traveling with her father; hence, it had not seemed strange to her that only the women in this household—and then only irregularly— spent Sunday attending the small, Calvinist church in the village. Now Maggie asked, “Will the local minister be willing to perform the wedding ceremony here? I have heard that the Calvinists do not allow...” She gestured toward the paintings, the statue. 327
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Stuart grinned. “We'll drape altar and pulpits with plain white linen. And if he objects to the cross, well, that we can take down.” Abruptly he turned to Maggie. “Have ye objections to my plan? We havnae discussed religion.” Maggie smiled at him. “I believe in God, but I have seen too much of other peoples beliefs ... in China, in Africa, in the frozen North ... to be caught up in the trappings of any one religion.” Stuart nodded. They left it at that, and he moved once more about the chapel, extinguishing the candles. As they turned to leave, Maggie asked, “Why is it that you wish to be married here rather than in the village church?” Stuart stopped, turned to face her. “Because,” he said slowly, “After my mother died, in my loneliness, I came here to grieve for her. My mother was nae very strong. What strength she had was always devoted to me. I dinnae dout she spoiled me.” This last he admitted with a wry smile. He turned away then to gaze once more about the shadow-filled chapel before continuing, “And after my father remarried, ‘twas a place of refuge ... not that my stepmother was ever cruel. She was a good woman in her way.” Again he paused, drew a deep breath. “But her ways were not the ways of a Highlander.” Again he fell silent. Another deep breath and he turned to put his arms about Maggie. “Enough of the past,” he said and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
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She quite agreed, but she was glad that he had explained why it was such a special place; very glad that they were to be wed there. **** With scarcely a day's rest after their return from London, Jeannie and Maggie had immersed themselves in preparations for the coming nuptials. Now, with less than a week remaining until the wedding, all was in readiness. The chapel had been cleaned, Maggie's wardrobe had been selected, and plans for the honeymoon on the Isle of Skye completed. Stuart was putting in even longer hours than usual at the distillery in order to be away for the entire week following the marriage, and Maggie was left with nothing of any importance to do. However, she was not bored. It was a week of remarkably fine weather and, accompanied by Phineas, she took to strolling the path along the loch each afternoon, her thoughts turned inward. It was a time for introspection, for recalling cherished moments from the life she had known, for considering the fulfillment life promised in the years to come, for cherishing all the joy that was hers. And when her happiness became too great to contain, she would pick up her furry companion and whisper confidences in his ear that she would have blushed to impart to any human friend. If, from time to time as she gazed out across the silent loch, Eilean would rise to the surface of Maggie's mind; if, without warning, a shudder raised goosebumps along her arms as she considered that cold, black water; she did not 329
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dwell upon it. Maggie knew that Stuart loved her deeply, sincerely, and there was no room in her heart for the sorrows of the past. Despite her self-absorption, Maggie could not fail to notice that Dhileas seemed less than happy. She walked with a slower step than was her wont, and her smile, when it came, did not light her eyes. After observing several days of this behavior, Maggie said to Dhileas, “Is something troubling you, Aunt?” Dhileas shook her head, but her glance did not meet Maggie's. She tried again. “Are you feeling poorly?” Again Dhileas shook her head, but she reached out and took Maggie's hand. “Dinnae fash yersel’ Lass. Just keep in mind, the day ye wed my Stuart ... ‘twill be the happiest day of my life.” It was hardly a satisfactory answer, but it was one that warmed Maggie's heart. So she pressed no further. Jeannie, too, seemed to have lost some of her verve. In the midst of one of her breathless communications, she would break off in midsentence, as if she had lost the train of her own thoughts. And when prompted, she would offer some inane excuse and laugh self-consciously. Or of an evening when they all sat in the great hall, if Maggie looked up suddenly, she would catch Jeannie watching her with anxious eyes. After several days of this, Maggie said to her, “Please, Jeannie. Tell me what is troubling you. Perhaps I can help.” 330
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“Ach, now, why should ye think aught troubles me,” Jeannie said, but that Gaelic brogue had slipped into her speech and she kept her eyes averted. It occurred to Maggie then that perhaps watching the wedding preparations reminded Jeannie of Donald and the wedding she longed to plan for herself. And so she shall, Maggie vowed silently. As soon as Stuart and I return from our honeymoon. This thought opened up a whole new series of rosy daydreams for Maggie, and she did not question Jeannie further. Geordie was openly morose. However, he no longer made any attempt to speak to Maggie alone; and for that, she was devoutly grateful. On the morning of the day before her wedding, Maggie dawdled over breakfast. The day stretching out before her seemed endless. Stuart had been on his way, almost at first light, determined to see all in order at the distillery before the morrow. Jeannie, too, was up and away, consumed by last minute details. Of Geordie, there was no sign. But it was a beautiful day, and suddenly Maggie was eager to be out in the sunshine, breathing the fresh air. She left the castle, crossed the kitchen garden, and exited via the back gate. Before she started along the loch-side path, she looked about for Phineas but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he'll join me later, she thought, and continued on her way. With the advent of summer, the trees along the loch had burst into full leaf and now, despite the brightness of the morning, it was dark along the path. Maggie scarcely noticed for her thoughts were intent upon her husband-to-be. She 331
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was only dimly aware of the sounds that followed her: the furtive snap of a twig or swish of a branch marking the passage of some animal. She walked slowly, breathing deeply, relishing the fragrance of warm earth, of ripening vegetation. How wonderful life is, she thought, and she felt certain no other woman in all the world was as blessed as she. Smiling to herself, she continued onward, humming a little tune as she considered what joys marriage might bring. But when, after a time she paused, glanced out across the loch, a subtle change came over her. How black the water looked, how deep and dark and cold. Maggie shivered and moved on, trying to shrug off the unwelcome feeling. But a breeze had risen and it moaned softly in the branches overhead recalling Geordie's tales of “ghostly pipers ‘e the glen,” standing the hair on Maggie's nape on end. What a lot of nonsense! she chided herself; but when another twig snapped, she could not restrain a quick glance over her shoulder. At that precise instant, a hair-raising yowl from somewhere behind her shattered the quiet. With a startled gasp, Maggie spun about. A curve in the path cut off her view, and she was still trying to decide whether she should retrace her steps when that yowl again split the gloom. Somehow, though she had never heard it before, this time she recognized that cry. It was Phineas and he was in trouble. She gathered up her skirt and dashed back along the way she had just come. Beyond the curve, the path ran straight and very near the water. Maggie had just reached that spot when 332
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another yowl drew her gaze outward. There, clinging to a floating branch, drifting ever farther from shore, was Phineas. Paralyzed by shock, Maggie could only stare in disbelief. How in the world had Phineas gotten himself into such a predicament? Abruptly, recognition of the danger in which Phineas now stood, hurtled her into action: shouting for help at the top of her voice; looking wildly about, desperately searching for some means to reach the huge tabby. He was Dhileas's beloved companion, Maggie's own dear friend. She had to rescue him. If only she could swim! She knew her dog-paddle would never suffice to save them both. Maggie continued to yell, screaming as loudly as she could, while she dashed frantically back and forth along the path, seeking some means of effecting a rescue, but she could find nothing. She had almost given up hope, was preparing, in her desperation, to leap into the water and take her chances, when something partially concealed in a particularly dense growth of brush caught her attention: the prow of a boat! Maggie was not much of a swimmer, but she could row a boat. Oblivious to the scratches and jabs of sharp twigs and branches, she grabbed hold of the gunwale, dug in her heels, and pulled. The boat slipped out onto the path with surprising ease. A pair of oars lay in the bottom. Without pause, she slid the vessel half into the water, climbed aboard, then shoved free of the shore. It took less than a minute to get settled, get both oars into the water and begin rowing; all the while, alternately, she 333
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shouted for help at the top of her voice; then, more soothingly, called reassurances to dear Phineas. Maggie was making surprisingly good progress, when she became aware of icy water lapping over the tops of her shoes. Startled, she glanced into the bottom of the boat. It was awash and filling rapidly. A moment of consternation, then a flood of blood-chilling terror as Maggie realized the boat was leaking badly. The oars almost slipped from her hands and the vessel rocked dangerously as she whirled around and gazed frantically back at the shore. Nothing! No one! And it was obvious that at the rate the water was rising about her ankles, it would not be long before the craft sank from under her. But she had to save Phineas, so she took a deep breath and continued rowing, pulling harder than ever on the oars. All the while, in an effort to maintain her self-control, Maggie kept repeating, “Don't panic—don't panic!” She did not again falter. However, as the water level in the boat rose, the drag became greater. In no time at all her back was aching, and each stroke of the oars sent jolts of searing pain up and down her arms. But she was gaining on the tree limb and its precious cargo; indeed, had almost reached it when the boat wallowed beneath her. Flinging the oars aside, Maggie rose to her feet and gave a mighty lunge which carried her free of the doomed craft, only to plunge her into the black deeps of the loch. Fear and horror slid their slimy tentacles about her as the bone-chilling water closed over her head. Again, panic threatened to be her undoing; but now, driven more by instinct than by thought, 334
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once more she forced herself to action, thrashing frantically with arms and legs, this time in an effort to regain the surface. Hampered by her clothing, disoriented, unable to see through the murky water, Maggie was moving through a nightmare, slowly, her tortured lungs shrieking for relief, when miraculously, one of her hands closed on something solid. Coughing and sputtering, she pulled her head above water and gasped in great gulps of air. Only when her breathing slowed was she able to shake the water from her eyes and look about. Maggie felt a small surge of hope when she saw that the object to which she was clinging was the branch that held Phineas. He was huddled at the other end, coat sodden, gazing at her with terror-filled eyes. They were not out of danger, but they were together. At that moment, a violent shudder ran through Maggie, reminding her that if she didn't drown she would undoubtedly freeze. Spurred by that thought, she glanced shoreward. Her courage almost failed her when she noted how far out they now were. But she tried to comfort herself with the fact that they were alive and afloat; that as long as she held on to the branch, she would not sink; and that if she kicked fast enough, paddled hard enough, perhaps she could still get them both back to land. As if to hurry her along, from time to time Phineas, sounding like a soul in torment, lacerated the stillness with a blood-curdling yowl. 335
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Clenching her teeth to stop their chattering, Maggie tried to kick, but her water-logged skirts had wound themselves about her legs. In an effort to free them, she began desperately jerking and twisting the hook that held the waistband tight. But the wet cloth was stiff and unyielding, the hook stubborn, and her fingers clumsy with cold. Despair and hysteria were yet again threatening to overwhelm her when the hook abruptly came loose. With a sob of gratitude, she wriggled out of the skirt, then yanked open the strings that held her petticoat. No longer constrained by those garments, she turned her face to land and began to kick with all her might. However, try as she would, she could not move that unwieldy tree limb any nearer the shore. At best, she had stopped their outward drift; but for how long, she wondered? She was nearing total exhaustion, had not even the strength to call for help. Again, despair threatened to overwhelm her; but something deep inside would not let Maggie give up. Not when she had so much to live for, not when she had just discovered the meaning and wonder of love, not when Stuart needed her. But she had already driven herself beyond the limits of her endurance; could no longer kick, or paddle, or even pray.... It was then that Dhileas's words—pleading, distraught— came back to Maggie, tolling in her mind like bells of doom: “Stay away from the water...”
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Chapter 20 Maggie's first recollection, as consciousness returned, was of Stuart's voice, calling her name, his strong, warm hands holding hers. And when she opened her eyes, he whispered, “Mo leannan,” and kissed her, and his lips were flavored with the salt of his tears. Tears, he told her later, of relief, of thankfulness, of joy.... It was he who had heard Maggie's cries for help, who dove into the loch and swam out to save her and Phineas. “Had your fingers not been rigid with cold and strain, surely ye would have lost your hold on the branch as consciousness ebbed ... oh, Maggie, Maggie...” His voice choked with emotion, and he bent his head. Maggie reached out, softly stroked his hair as she explained how she came to be in the loch. “But,” she pointed out in conclusion, “I do not understand how Phineas could have gotten onto that branch in the first place. He would never have jumped from shore...” “Aye,” agreed her husband. “And how did a boat ... a leaky boat ... suddenly find its way to that very spot?” They gazed at each other in silence, each unwilling to give voice to the ugly suspicion that lay between them. Abruptly, Maggie shook her head as if to clear it of the dreadful idea. When she spoke, it was of something else entirely. “How did you find us?” “‘Tis the sicht, ye ken. Dhileas told me long ago that the sicht was strong in me, as it was in all my mother's family. 337
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But ‘twas a gift I didnae want. So I paid no heed to it, denied it.” He paused, then added ruefully, “And always to my sorrow. ‘Tis a stiff-necked, stubborn Scotsman ye are going to wed, mo leannan.” “It's one of the things about you that I love,” Maggie whispered. “But,” she added, “if you always ignore...?” “Always ... in the past,” he affirmed, then added, “but when I left this morning, a feeling of foreboding came over me. I told myself it was naught but my wish to stay with ye. Still, when I reached the stable, I kept procrastinating while that feeling of impending disaster kept growing stronger. At last, telling myself I was a fool and that the sooner I got to the distillery, the sooner I could return to ye, I mounted my horse and rode off. But just as I crested the heath, I heard ye cry out.” “You heard me? But so far ... surely, you couldn't...” “Twas nae the sound of your voice I heard. ‘Twas more like the echo of it inside my head ... and I felt the cold water...” As Stuart spoke, a shudder ran through him, and his grip on Maggie's hand tightened. “Sweet baby Jesus, Maggie, if I had lost ye ... but, thank God, for once in my life, I took heed...” “And I am fine,” Maggie declared. Though her throat was scratchy and her muscles were tender, no great harm had come to her. Phineas, too, she was assured, was none the worse for his ordeal. Though it had seemed an eternity to Maggie while she struggled in the loch, it had been but a short time after all; and once she and Phineas were dry and warm, Maggie with a bowl of thick, hot, Scotch broth inside her; Phineas replete 338
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with a dish of poached salmon, neither of them, as Iona said, “was the worse for wear.” Maggie did not, however, go down to dinner. Dhileas came to sit with her for a few minutes, assure herself that Maggie had, indeed, escaped the doom Dhileas had so keenly felt, and to thank Maggie for rescuing her beloved pet. “Phineas is very dear to me, too, Aunt,” Maggie reminded her. “And it was Stuart, after all, who saved us both.” “Aye,” Dhileas agreed, smiling at her nephew. “And now, perhaps, nae more will he scorn his gift.” Stuart said nothing, only grinned a lopsided grin. Jeannie, too, as well as Iona, Kate, and even Mrs. Allchin came by to assure themselves that Maggie was fine and to offer their blessings. But of Geordie, there was no sign. **** The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear. Maggie was up with the sun, though the ceremony was not to be held until ten o'clock. By the time Iona arrived with the morning tea, Maggie already had her wedding finery laid out, ready to slip into. “Ach,” Iona admonished. “Ye should still be abed. At this rate, ye'll wear yourself out before ye've even said your vows.” She paused, then added, “‘Twould never do to be too tired...” This she said with her usual dour expression, but Maggie did not miss the gentle humor in her eyes. “Too tired?” “For the marriage bed. Dinnae tell me your mother never explained the way of it to ye?” 339
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Maggie shook her head. “Ach, well. The laird will know what he's about.” The words, something about the way she said them, brought the blood rushing to Maggie's cheeks, ignited that disquieting sensation first wakened in the most womanly part of her by Stuart's kiss. Abruptly, Iona smiled—a lovely, warm smile that imparted an unexpected beauty to her rather plain face. “Bless ye, Lass,” she said softly, “‘tis a happy bride ye'll be.” Then she was gone and Maggie was left wishing she had had the courage to ask what it was her mother had never revealed. But as with Lady Jane, the words failed to come, and Maggie could only sigh in frustration for again she was left to wonder, and her vivid imagination, though what it conjured brought a flush to her cheeks, could not fathom the secrets hidden in the marriage bed. But it would be wonderful. Of that she had no doubt. Maggie was still wandering about her room, filled with tremulous anticipation while the tea grew cold in the pot, when Jeannie came tapping on the door. “I've come to take a bite with you,” she said, depositing a tray laden with porridge and bannocks on the table. Maggie did not realize how nervous she was until, at sight of the food, her stomach clenched itself into a knot. She turned a pleading gaze on Jeannie. “I ... I'm really not hungry...” Jeannie laughed. “Of course, ye are. Sit down and eat your porridge, then I'll help ye dress.” 340
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Maggie's heart rose into her throat. “Is it time?” Suddenly, she wondered if she really wanted to get married, while at the same time she could scarcely wait for the ceremony to begin. It was then that Jeannie said the most unusual thing. In fact, Maggie wasn't certain she had heard her aright and asked her to repeat her words. Her expression grave, Jeannie said again, “Are ye certain this is what ye want to do? ‘Tis not too late to change...” Maggie, not certain she understood what Jeannie meant, could only gape at her. Did she think Maggie no longer wished to marry Stuart? Or was Jeannie trying to tell her she should not marry him? The silence lasted only a moment, though it seemed much longer. Then Jeannie laughed ... not freely, but with an attempt at lightness, and said, “Dinnae pay me any heed, Maggie. ‘Twas a silly thing to say. I know ye would never change your mind, nae more would my brother.” “I love Stuart with all my heart,” Maggie said. Jeannie nodded, then threw her arms about Maggie. “And we all love you,” she whispered. With that, she stepped back and smiled a big smile. “Now, sit ye down and eat,” she ordered, and Maggie did. While the two women ate, Iona and Kate brought in the hip bath, placed it behind the screen in the alcove, and filled it with hot water. When Maggie had eaten what she could, she retired behind the screen, disrobed, and climbed in. The bath was soothing and helped her to relax a bit, but the minutes were passing swiftly now. 341
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“Hurry,” Jeannie urged. “Ye know how long it takes to dress your hair.” And then it was time to slip into the ivory satin wedding gown. Once the tiny pearl buttons that closed the bodice had been fastened, it hugged Maggie's slender figure from throat to floor. Only a long slit in the back allowed her even a mincing step. The high neck was finished with a froth of Irish lace as were the leg-o-mutton sleeves that ended in points over the backs of her hands. All the fullness of the skirt was draped to the back and tucked into place beneath a lavish bustle, from whence shimmering folds of satin and lace fell away to form a short train. Maggie's veil, a cloud of Chantilly lace secured atop her head with a wreath of white, silk roses, was the one Stuart's mother had worn on her wedding day. It was almost time for Maggie to leave her room when Dhileas arrived. At sight of her, tears filled Maggie's eyes. Not tears of sadness—rather the poignant tears of nostalgia. It was as if her own grandmother had come back to her. Maggie realized in that moment how much it would have meant to have her family—her mother and father, with her on that joyous day. Dhileas understood. Maggie saw the answering glisten of tears in the old lady's eyes. Then she reached out her arms to Maggie, and Maggie leaned down to kiss Dhileas's cheek, to receive a kiss from her. As Maggie straightened up, Dhileas said, “My mother gave me this on my wedding day. Now I give it to ye, Maggie Donnelly, for ye are like the daughter I never had,” and she held out a delicate, onyx cameo set in a circlet of gold filigree. 342
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Now the tears did spill over and Maggie whispered, “Dear Aunt Dhileas...” She could say no more for the emotion clogging her throat. Again, Dhileas understood, and they turned together to the mirror and watched Maggie's reflected image as she fastened the lovely pin amidst the lace at her throat. Their glances met in the glass and they both smiled as they dashed away their tears. At that moment, Maggie's happiness would have been complete had she not glanced at Jeannie. The expression on her face was chilling. Anger, fear, pain, disappointment—for an instant they all mingled there, then were gone, so quickly Maggie wondered if her imagination were playing her tricks. And yet, she couldn't help feeling guilty for she attributed the look to the hurt Jeannie must feel at hearing Dhileas say that Maggie was like the daughter she had never had. Or did that look reflect Jeannie's longing to be the bride ... ? These musings were forgotten when Iona arrived, as if on cue, with a nosegay of late-blooming spring blossoms that she pressed into Maggie's hands. “There's forget-me-nots for true love and mugwort for happiness, and though it smells none too good, I put in one small stem of celandine for joys to come,” she whispered. Maggie thanked her with a kiss. Then they were on their way to the chapel, in silence, each woman cherishing her own thoughts. Thoughts that sprang from a deep well of experience common to all women, thoughts that bound them together in a sisterhood as ancient as time. When they reached the chapel door, Jeannie and Maggie paused to let Dhileas and Iona enter. Shortly thereafter the 343
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call of Ben's bagpipe urged them forward. The doors swung open and they stepped across the threshold into a golden cloud of candlelight filled with the perfume of roses. But Maggie had eyes only for Stuart who waited for her before the altar, clad in full Highland regalia. Their glances met and clung, loosing a riot of sweet emotion within her breast: little wavelets of joy, of shy anticipation, of humility and gratitude and fierce pride. Of the walk down the aisle, of the ceremony and exchange of vows, Maggie had no clear recollection. She remembered only the love burning in Stuart's eyes when he lifted her veil and gazed down into her face, the sweetness of his lips on hers before they turned and walked together from the chapel followed by the triumphant howl of Ben's pipes. They went directly to the salon to drink champagne and receive the congratulations of those close friends who had come to bear witness to their happiness. Then down to the dining room to partake of the wedding breakfast. Mrs. Allchin had quite outdone herself. There was cold sliced beef and mutton; there was salmon in a marvelous cream sauce, piping hot from the oven; and sausages still smoking from the grill. There were scones and bannocks and tartlets galore as well as griddle cakes and freshly baked bread, all served with butter and jam, honey and clotted cream. And, of course, there was wine and good malt liquor. But the memories from that sumptuous feast, the laughter and good wishes of those who were gathered at table with them, always remained a rosy blur in Maggie's memory. Her heart was full, her happiness complete. 344
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When the meal was finished, Jeannie went with Maggie to her chamber to help her change into her traveling costume, a lightweight wool suit in a brilliant shade of blue trimmed with scarlet braid and a bonnet with scarlet plumes to match. Maggie's wedding gown had been removed and she was standing in her chemise ready to slip on the skirt when the door to her chamber was shoved open with such force, it flew back and banged against the wall causing both Jeannie and Maggie to whirl about. Stuart was striding across the floor toward them, his face ashen. Before either woman could gather her wits, he said, “‘Tis the distillery. There's been an explosion. I must go.” With that, he took Maggie roughly in his arms, kissed her, then turned and strode from the room. She stared after him, open mouthed, unable, in that first moment, to fully grasp the situation. Slowly, she turned to Jeannie, and Maggie's blood grew cold. Jeannie's eyes, in her death white face, were wide with shock and her hands, balled into fists, were pressed hard against her heart while she moaned, “My God ... no.” As she began to sway, Maggie leaped forward, steadied Jeannie in her arms, helped her to the nearest chair, all the while beseeching, “What is it? What should I do?” In response to Maggie's questions, Jeannie began to weep softly. At that moment Dhileas, supported by Iona, entered. Iona quickly took charge of Jeannie and Maggie turned to Dhileas. Only a slight trembling of her head revealed the strain Dhileas was feeling. “There's been no word as to how bad it 345
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is, but ‘tis certain the honeymoon must be delayed. In the meantime, there is naught we can do but pray.” “No honeymoon...?” Looking back, Maggie realized how selfish that sounded, but at the time she still had not grasped the seriousness of the situation. “Ye'd best get dressed ... here, let me help ye,” Dhileas said. She picked up Maggie's skirt, held it out to her. Iona had retrieved the smelling salts from the drawer where they were kept and was applying the bottle to Jeannie's nose. Jeannie gasped, coughed, and her eyes began to stream; but the color was returning to her cheeks. When she was able to speak, she said, “Thank you, Iona.” Then to all, “I'm sorry. I dinnae ken what came over me.” She paused, then turned to Dhileas. “Who is seeing to our guests, Aunt?” “The men went with Stuart. The women are waiting in the yellow parlor.” “I must go to them there,” Jeannie said, rising unsteadily to her feet. With Iona supporting her, she disappeared through the door even as she spoke. Alone with Dhileas, Maggie quickly donned the skirt and shirtwaist that were to have been her going away costume. Then they, too, descended to the parlor and the other women. Lady Falsworthy, when she glanced up and saw Maggie, came immediately to her side. “‘Tis a most unfortunate circumstance,” she said softly. “I am indeed sorry that your wedding festivities should be cut short by such a lamentable occurrence.” 346
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“Thank you,” Maggie murmured, then asked, “Has there been any further word?” There had not, and a dismal hour dragged by before several of the men, including Sir Falsworthy and Geordie, returned. The news they brought was not good, though not as bad as had at first been feared. Since the workmen had been given the day off in honor of the laird's wedding, no one had been injured, but the entire run had been lost and the distillery would be closed down for at least a week. Another hour dragged by. Iona and Kate cleared away the remains of the wedding breakfast and Maggie would have ridden out to find Stuart, but Aunt Dhileas said, “There is naught ye can do, and Stuart will have no time for aught but work. Ye'd only be in the way.” Though those final words were harsh, they were spoken gently and with love. Maggie knew Dhileas was right. Maggie paced aimlessly about the great hall, then climbed the stairs to her room and paced there until she could stand the sight of the four walls no longer. Then down to the library to walk along the shelves of books, unseeing. This was to have been the most magical night of her life, for so she had imagined it. Now, the waning of the day brought only deepening gloom, and her heart was heavy with dread. What did it augur for their future together that their wedding day should see such tragedy? Nonsense. I don't believe in omens, Maggie told herself. But she was not reassured.
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When Stuart finally returned, his face, his clothing, was streaked with grime and soot. Deep circles underscored his eyes, and his cheeks appeared grey and sunken. Maggie ran to him, threw her arms about him. He smelled of peat smoke, raw alcohol, and sweat. As she clung to him, he patted her back wearily and sighed. When she drew away and looked into his eyes, she saw only bleak pain. “Come,” she whispered, urging him toward the table. “Sit down.” But he did not move, only stared over her shoulder, letting his gaze travel slowly from face to face. Then with a shudder, he said, “We found James Duncan ... his wife says he had forgot his old briar ... went back to fetch it...” In the stunned silence that followed his words, Maggie felt the horror of it creep into her heart, her mind. When Jeannie asked, “Is he...?” Maggie feared the answer. “Nae,” Stuart replied. “But he must have been standing quite near the vat when it went. He was still unconscious when I left...” James Duncan, Maggie thought. She remembered him. They had stopped at his cottage on New Year's Day. A nice old man with snowy hair and a red beard streaked with gray. His wife, a stout, cheerful woman had poured the malt liquor and urged a piece of fruit cake into Maggie's hand. “Take it ... have it with a cup of tea when ye be back t'home,” she had whispered in Maggie's ear. Jeannie's voice shook as she asked, “Where is he...?” “We carried him back to his shieling. Dr. Macleod is with him.” 348
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All the while, Maggie continued to urge Stuart toward a chair. Now, with a deep sigh, he moved forward and slumped into his usual place. Iona stepped forward and set a bowl of steaming soup in front of him. Stuart glanced up at her, smiled wearily. “Is someone with Mrs. Duncan?” Jeannie asked. “Graham and his wife...” Maggie sat down next to Stuart and whispered, “Eat ... while it is hot...” He glanced at her, reached out and touched her cheek, but Maggie knew his thoughts were not on her. Geordie said, “‘Twas bound to happen sooner or later. Ye should have listened to me...” Maggie whirled on Geordie, but before she could speak, Jeannie snapped, “Not now, Geordie. Are things not bad enough?” Geordie shrugged, said no more. Again Maggie urged Stuart to eat and at last he picked up his spoon. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was but her feelings were so tangled: buffeted by pain for the injured man and his wife; anguish for Stuart and his distillery; and, yes, angry that her wedding day should have ended in such grief. It was not fair. Why today of all days? And the guilt these thoughts engendered added to Maggie's misery. After only a few sips of soup, Stuart put his spoon down. “I cannae eat now,” he murmured. Maggie whispered, “I am so sorry, darling...” Stuart patted her hand. 349
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Suddenly remembering their guests, Maggie looked around. Many of the them quietly had departed. Those who remained stood in a group, silent, watching. Into this silence came a clatter of boots and abruptly the doors were thrown wide to admit Dr. Macleod. Hatless, pale, grim of countenance, he glanced about. Stuart started to his feet, but it was Jeannie's strangled voice that asked, “James Duncan...?” “Gone, God rest his soul; but he lived long enough to name his murderer.” Iona gasped, “Sweet baby Jesus,” as Jeannie's knees gave way and she slid unconscious to the floor. Swiftly, Stuart moved forward, picked her up, laid her on the settee. Dr. Macleod was instantly at her side, checking her pulse, chaffing her wrists while Iona went for the smelling salts. Not until Jeannie was revived and sipping a cup of tea laced with brandy did someone address Dr. Macleod and ask, “Who ... ? Dr. Macleod straightened up, turned his gaze on Stuart, then glanced down at Jeannie. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of such ill tidings, but the truth must out. Duncan said ‘twas Geordie.” What little color had returned to Jeannie's cheeks drained away, but she uttered no sound, made no move. The doctor continued, “I've sent for the constable, and until he arrives ... ,” Before the doctor could finish speaking, faint but clear, the call of the pipes, drifted into the room. Maggie knew instantly 350
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who the piper was, from where the music came. Stuart knew, too. She could read it in his eyes. Geordie had taken advantage of the distraction caused by Jeannie's faint to leave, to go to the tower. Someone said, “He must not be allowed to escape...” Another added, “We should go after him...” Stuart interrupted. “I know where he has gone. I'll bring him back.” He strode toward the door. Maggie started to follow but he turned, said, “No, Maggie. I must go alone.” Maggie hesitated, watched him disappear through the door, out into the hall; listened until the sound of his footsteps on the stairs died away. Now she looked round the room, read the dread in the faces of those about her, glimpsed anguish in Jeannie's eyes. Abruptly, fear for Stuart clenched Maggie's heart, sent her dashing toward the door. In the hall, she gathered up her skirts and ran to the stairs. As she climbed, the moan of the bagpipes grew louder, just as it had the night she had followed the sound up to the tower room. She was certain that that was where their skirling was leading Stuart at that very moment. As she reached the tower door, a feeling of great urgency washed over her. Clutching the handrail, she rushed pell-mell up the winding stairs, her breath rasping in her throat. By the time she reached the top, she had a stitch in her side. Now she slowed her mad pace, but she did not stop. Moving warily, she crossed the landing. The door stood slightly ajar, and she peeked through the crack. Only a small portion of the room was visible; that portion that contained the long-legged stool standing over against the far wall. 351
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Sitting atop it was a phonograph partially draped with a large sheet, and from its sounding bell came the skirling of a bagpipe. So that was her hideous, hunched figure. Obviously, it was also the ghost of Lachlan Fitzroy. Relief poured through Maggie. So much for monsters and phantom pipers. “Humph!” she said, and pushed the door open. Though it was late afternoon by then, the room was awash with sunlight. The air pouring in through the now wide-open window was crisp and cool. But Maggie's euphoria was short-lived. Now, with the door standing wide, she could see Stuart. He lay on the floor next to the long-legged stool, a trickle of blood oozing down his forehead from a long gash above the temple. With a cry of dismay, Maggie rushed forward, threw herself down on her knees beside him, calling his name, desperately seeking for some sign of life. “Get up!” Maggie froze. “Get up, I said.” Slowly, Maggie rose to her feet, turned to face her brotherin-law. At sight of him, for a moment she felt pity. Eyes redrimmed, hair matted, clothing rumpled and soiled, he looked awful. But he held a dirk in one hand, a pistol in the other, and the gun was pointed at Maggie. Pity very rapidly became disgust. Contempt for Geordie had grown so strong in Maggie that at that moment, though she could feel pity for him, fear him she did not. “Put down that gun!” she snapped. “You may hurt someone.” 352
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He blinked, the gun wavered, and for an instant he appeared bewildered. Then a snarl twisted his features and he waved the weapon menacingly. “How right ye are, Maggie, lass. ‘Tis what guns are meant to do.” He laughed, an ugly sound. A frisson of apprehension trembled through Maggie, but she was determined Geordie should not see her fear. Assuming a brave front, she said sternly, “Stuart is hurt. He needs attention. Help me get him down...” “Nae! Here he is, and ‘tis here he'll stay.” Again that ugly laugh. A knot began to grow in Maggie's stomach and she asked, “What do you mean?” “Ach! Maggie! Ye ken what stay means. The question ye should ask is ‘why?'.” Maggie stared at Geordie and all she could think was, This is the man who tried to drown me in the loch ... the man who was responsible for the explosion that killed Duncan.... Geordie spoke again, interrupting her thoughts. “Well, then, dinnae fash yersel'. I'll tell ye anyway. The laird's going to stay because he's going to shoot himself.” “Shoot himself! Why, for God's sake?” An upwelling of fear forced the words from Maggie's lips. In a voice strangled with hate came the answer. “Because he's a fool. Because he will nae sell Dunphaedair and make us all rich. Because ‘twas my mother's money paid the taxes and bought the machinery for that damned still. Because by rights, I should be laird. ‘Tis I who am descended from the Fitzroys!” 353
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Struck dumb by this revelation, Maggie could only repeat, “Fitzroy ... you are a Fitzroy?” “My mother. She was a Fitzroy. Didnae ye ken?” With an effort of will, Maggie pulled herself together. “No ... no one ever mentioned her name...” “Aye. Well, Lachlan Fitzroy's son was my mother's great, great grandfather. He had enough sense to marry for money; but my mother would nae marry for aught but love.” Geordie paused, then declared angrily, “Well, she lived to regret it.” Abruptly, Geordie fell silent. His gaze traveled over Maggie, and an insolent sneer curled his lips as he added, “As shall ye. If ye'd played your cards right, things could have been different; but ye are as big a fool as the rest.” It came to Maggie then that Geordie was mad ... insane with jealousy and greed. “‘Tis a pity ... but we're wasting time.” Geordie paused. Looked uncertainly from Stuart to Maggie and back. “Perhaps,” he muttered, “‘Twould be easier if Maggie stayed here...” What instinct, what long forgotten bit of lore, prompted her then, Maggie didn't know. But she suddenly understood that their only hope—her's and Stuart's—lay in keeping Geordie talking. The longer she could distract him from his ultimate purpose, the more likely it was that some opportunity to save her husband and herself would arise. Maggie cleared her throat, then, doing her best to hold her voice steady, she asked, “How did you get Phineas onto that branch in the loch?” 354
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Geordie blinked, gave her a blank look. Then, recovering quickly, he laughed. “Oh, that. It took no great brains. I just grabbed the brute by the scruff and tossed him out there. Anger welled anew in Maggie, smothering fear, sharpening her wits. “You mean to say that tree limb just happened along, so you just tossed the cat onto it?” “Don't ye be daft, Maggie. I chose that branch carefully: not too big for me to heave it well out into the loch, yet big enough to support the weight of the beast. Then, when the time was right, into the loch they went.” “Oh.” She hesitated, then asked, “And what about the boat? Did you put the boat there, too?” “The boat was there for some time ... I hid it in the bushes not long after you began taking your afternoon walks.” With a sneer, he added, “I took care of Eilean with a boating accident ... I thought it poetic justice that the laird's second wife should also meet her fate in the loch.” Maggie went cold to the marrow in her bones and the hair on her nape lifted. Geordie laughed. “I see ye didnae know about Eilean and me. Didnae I tell ye ye were different from Eilean? She was a spineless little creature, and Stuart, with his solemn face and gruff voice terrified the lass; but she found me much to her liking.” Though Maggie had suspected such an affair, still she found Geordie's admission shocking. “You took advantage of her,” Maggie accused hotly. Again Geordie laughed. “Nae. I only ... comforted ... the poor lass.” 355
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Listening to Geordie, Maggie was overcome by a sense of unreality. Surely, this was all some crazy nightmare from which she would soon wake.... But Geordie did not long remain silent. Now that he had begun his tale, he could not wait to continue, relishing every detail in the telling. “She was quite taken with me. In fact, from the first time I bedded her, she couldn't get enough of me. It was great sport for awhile—making a cuckold of Stuart. Geordie fell silent, smiling reminiscently. Maggie felt ill. A quick intake of breath, and Geordie resumed. “We were out on her little boat the day she told me she was with child. ‘It could be Stuart's,’ I reminded her. ‘Nae,’ she said, ‘Stuart's nae touched me.... ‘” “So you killed her? Killed your own child?” Maggie did not recognize her own voice for the horror in her tone. He shrugged. “‘Twas I tipped the boat over ... ‘twas nae my fault she couldnae swim.” Appalled, Maggie shook her head, drew back a step. Suddenly, behind her, Stuart stirred. Geordie seemed not to notice, but it reminded Maggie that she must keep him talking. To that end, she asked the first thing that came to mind. “Why did you bring me to Dunphaedair?” Geordie pondered the question, then replied, “When Witherspoon and Barnestone met you at the ship, I realized that you had connections in high places which might prove useful ... almost did; but you ruined that plan for me. Then, there was always the possibility that your father's books were 356
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still selling, bringing in money you knew nothing about, money which would eventually come to you ... and hence to me. ‘Twas a good gamble...” He paused, sighed, then added, “Ye should have chosen me, Maggie. ‘Twould have saved us all a lot of trouble. A frown creased Geordie's brow, then he shrugged. “But ye didnae. However, when I asked ye to come to Dunphaedair, the one thing I knew for certain, having you about the place, ‘twould be a painful reminder to Stuart. A fine twist of the blade, don't ye think?” He chuckled gleefully and lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “And you were responsible for all the ... the little things that have happened: the ghostly bagpipes...” “Ach ... ye almost caught me that night. Had not a stray pigeon flown in your face giving me a chance to tap ye on the head...” Again the gleeful chuckle. Tap on the head, Maggie thought. Had he struck me much harder, he would have killed me. Geordie's laughter died away and he resumed speaking. “I realized that night what a nosy wench ye are ... I knew ye'd be back. So I draped the sheet over the phonograph and was taking it back to my room for safe keeping when Kate caught a glimpse of me.” Geordie uttered a bark of vicious laughter, then added, “‘Twas unco guid fun, indeed.” “The poor girl broke her leg!” “‘Twas her own fault. Daft, superstitious female. But enough blether. I've got to decide...”
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Time was running out. Goaded by fear and desperation, Maggie said, “The tower door handle ... that was no accident, was it, Geordie? You did something to it.” “Not only nosy, bright as well,” he sneered. “And Jeannie ... had she really been down to the laundry? Or did you intend only to frighten me? Did you arrange for her to see me?” “Aye. ‘Twas all arranged. Created more of a stir than I had expected.” Abruptly, Geordie's expression, which had become quite jovial as he related his successes, grew hard, vindictive. “Stuart should have understood then that this place is dangerous. He should have agreed to sell. Now...” Just then Stuart again stirred, this time groaning loudly. Instantly, Geordie stepped to the side and trained the pistol on his half-brother. At that precise moment, Dhileas appeared in the doorway and as if she had spent hours practicing the maneuver, she lifted her cane high and brought its heavy, silver handle down on Geordie's head. If he made a sound as he crumpled to the floor, it was lost in the reverberations of the shot he had leveled at Stuart.
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Chapter 21 Maggie was on her knees beside Stuart, and Dhileas, cane at the ready, was standing watch over Geordie when the constable appeared in the doorway moments later. Close behind came Dr. Macleod. Geordie soon regained consciousness and the Constable marched him away while Dr. Macleod tended to Stuart. Fortunately, Dhileas's blow had come in time to deflect Geordie's aim, and Stuart had only a large bruise on his temple and a headache from the blow Geordie had delivered earlier. The doctor helped Stuart to his feet, and in silence, Dhileas, Maggie, Stuart and the doctor descended to the hall. Iona was waiting there to tell them Jeannie was gone. “She took the brougham. She'll catch the train in Lairg and go to her aunty in Edinburgh. She asked me to tell ye...” **** After the doctor had gone and Iona had taken Dhileas back to her room, Stuart and Maggie sat long in silence. But at last, Maggie said softly, “I'm certain Jeannie knew...” “Aye.” Stuart agreed sadly. “At heart, Jeannie is a good lass; but she always doted on her twin brother ... he could never keep a secret from her. And she was always there to pick up the pieces whenever he came a cropper...” “Poor Jeannie,” Maggie murmured, thinking how awful it must be to love someone who continually took advantage of that love. 359
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“Dinnae waste your pity on Jeannie,” Stuart snapped. “Had ye drowned in the loch...” At his words, a cold, hard knot formed in Maggie's breast. She said, “I know Geordie tried to kill me, but why?" “Why did my half-brother do any of the cruel and selfish things he did? Perhaps ‘tis the fault of all of us who loved him when he was a lad: his mother, our father, Jeannie, even I. We all made allowances for him then. ‘He's young,’ we said, ‘high spirited. He'll outgrow it.’ Now two people are dead, and I almost lost you...” Abruptly, Stuart turned to face Maggie, pulled her hard against him, kissed her passionately, and Maggie's heart swelled with love—and with a sense of victory because now she knew. Stuart was hers—or almost. Knowing exactly what she must do to make him truly and forever her own, she took a deep breath; then, slowly, stood up and turned to face her husband. Her stomach gave a nervous flutter and she had to swallow hard before she could get the words out. However, at last, gazing deep into his eyes, she said, “Come. You have denied me long enough, Stuart MacPhaedair. Now I will share your bed, belong to you as a wife should, and never again will you doubt my love.” Stuart rose to his feet, drew her into the circle of his arms, and kissed her tenderly. Then, without a word, they left the great hall and mounted the stairs. When they reached the door to the bridal chamber, Stuart picked her up and carried her across the threshold and straight to the bed. He kissed her again before setting her on her feet once more. “My beautiful wife,” he whispered. 360
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His breath, warm on her cheek, fanned the gentle glow his kisses had awakened, sending delicious little tremors through her. He held her close a moment longer, then raised his head and gazed into her eyes as he asked, “Do ye ken how it is between a man and a woman ... the marriage bed?” Maggie shook her head. Her stomach filled with butterflies. Was he going to tell her? “But ye ken how much I love ye, how I have longed to take ye to my bed?” Maggie nodded, silently assuring herself that this was what she wanted, too, even while she wondered, warily, what he was trying to say. “There is something else ye must ken. Though a man is as gentle as may be, there can be a moment of pain for a bride.” Pain! Maggie's heart lurched; but she looked deep into Stuart's eyes, saw the love shining there. The moment of fear passed, and she whispered, “I love you ... I trust you.” “Then wait here for me.” Again she nodded, but as he started to turn away, another thought occurred to her, and before he could take a step she asked, “Should I not change into my nightdress?” He laughed softly, brushed his lips across her ear, and the glow was suddenly warm inside her again. “Nae, mo ghraidh. Wait until my hands and face are clean. I'll help ye.” His words, the look in his eyes, sent a delightful tingle all the way down to Maggie's toes and brought a flush of anticipation to her cheeks. Bright in her memory were the thrills of that afternoon in the clearing; could what awaited her now be any less wonderful? 361
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She watched with bated breath as he moved to the center of the room, stripping off his coat and shirt as he went. At sight of his bare shoulders, his broad back with its ripple of muscle, her pulse quickened, her heart beat faster. At the same time, her mind seemed to slow while her body tensed, became increasingly aware. He disappeared, then, behind the screen, and Maggie could hear the splash of water being poured into the bowl. She stared expectantly at the spot where she knew he must reappear, and each moment was an eternity. She pressed her palms hard against her quivering stomach, wondering if he would remove the rest of his garments before he returned to her? A fleeting vision of naked black bodies she had glimpsed in Africa, despite her father's watchful eye, unexpectedly recalled for her how different was the male anatomy from that of the female, and the muscles drew taut across her stomach, her breasts suddenly felt warm and full. When Stuart stepped from behind the screen, she drew in her breath sharply, at once disappointed and yet relieved to see he still wore his woolen drawers. But they fit snugly and even the quick glance she allowed herself confirmed that, indeed, he had much in common with those other male figures she had glimpsed.... Now he was walking toward her, the desire that smoldered hot in his dark eyes akin to the flame burning in her. How splendid he is, she thought, and her fingers ached to touch him. Indeed, when he stood before her, she lifted her hands, placed them on his bare chest. She thrilled to the feel of him, 362
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the silky smoothness of his beautifully muscled body. He trembled ever so slightly under her touch, but he stood still as she slid her fingers over his broad shoulders, then down his back, reveling in this new sensation. She glanced up at him. He smiled down at her. Slowly, she lowered her gaze and, compelled by a craving she scarce understood, she leaned forward, pressed her mouth against his chest, over one of its dark rosettes. She heard her darling's sharp intake of breath, felt his muscles tense, and a surge of heat enveloped her. It must please him, too, she thought. How wonderful! And she would have done it again, but he grasped her shoulders, moved her back against the bed. “Ye learn quickly, mo leannan,” he murmured, his voice husky. He kissed her deeply, then began unfastening her buttons. Spurred by the yearning to feel his touch once more, she helped. When her shirtwaist was undone, he slipped it from her shoulders, and Maggie quickly shrugged free of her chemise. As it fell away, Stuart looked deep into her eyes, then slowly lowered his gaze to her small, rounded breasts. They stood proud and firm, their rosy crowns puckered to a sensitive point. There was awe and tenderness in his face as he gently caressed them with his finger tips. The sensation this touch aroused in Maggie was so intense, she could not contain a cry of pleasure. Her knees grew weak and, scarcely thinking, she leaned against the bed, head and shoulders thrown back, silently inviting him to continue. He gazed at her, drinking her in with his eyes, before he whispered, “Maggie, Maggie ... how beautiful ye are...” 363
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Then he lowered his head and traced the curve of her neck from ear to shoulder with hungry little kisses that fed the fire smoldering in her veins. Again he raised his head, gazed at her while he unhooked her skirt and eased it down over her hips. Next he unfastened her petticoat and delicates, and as they dropped away, he ran his hands down her bare back, pulling her close. Instinctively, her arms went around his neck and she leaned against him. As her bare breasts touched his chest, she gasped. How marvelous the sensation—flesh against flesh. She moved closer, pressing herself against him, gave herself up to the wonder of this new-found delight. When he drew away, she moaned softly in protest, but he picked her up, lifted her onto the bed. Leaning above her, one arm still holding her, he buried his face in the hollow between her breasts, kissing first one, then the other until his lips reached a throbbing crown. With a deep drawn breath that bespoke his pleasure, he nuzzled gently, teasing the rosette bud with the warm, wet tip of his tongue. Whimpering, Maggie dug her fingernails into his shoulders while that indescribable wanting inside her grew and blazed. And all the while, his hand moved over her body, sliding down its length, probing and caressing each sensitive curve and hollow, driving the need that raged through Maggie until it coalesced in the most private part of her body in an agony of desire. Then, when she felt she could bear no more, he slid his fingers gently, smoothly, caressingly into the heart of that throbbing secret place. At that final touch, a torrent of 364
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
exquisite sensation exploded within her, poured through her, convulsing her, wringing from her a wild cry of exultation. When it was over, she lay back, breathing deeply, utterly relaxed and content. While she rested, eyes closed, trying to comprehend what had just happened to her, Stuart removed the rest of his garments and lay down beside her. She turned her head and looked into his dear face. There was so much she wanted to tell him, but words seemed inadequate. “Are ye happy?” he asked softly. Maggie reached up, laid her hand upon his cheek, whispered, “Completely, my darling...” He covered her hand with his, turned his face and placed a kiss in her palm. “Nae, but there is more, mo leannan. Before ye shared my bed, before I claimed ye, I wanted ye to know how wonderful love can be. ‘Twill be even ... better ... after...” Then he raised up on one elbow, began once more to caress Maggie's body, first cupping her breast with his warm palm, teasing its sensitive tip with his thumb until it hardened and drew to a point, the sensation it elicited so exquisite, her body tensed and arched. Slowly he slid his hand downward, stroking her eager flesh, once more arousing that wonderful, agonizing need, feeding it, driving it, until it became so intense she thought she should tear apart, and she cried out. In answer, he bent his head, covered her mouth with his own. Her lips parted to the ardent probing of his tongue even as he raised himself and slid over her. Of its own volition, her body prepared to receive him. Slowly he began to thrust, his 365
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
manhood now a satin-smooth shaft that caressed that secret place inside her, like a spark to tinder, setting her on fire, and the stab of pain, when it came, was lost in the maelstrom of sensation now overwhelming her. They moved in perfect harmony, riding the crest of a wave of unimaginable delight, their bodies merging, again and again, until the wave broke over them, left them fulfilled and relaxed. They were both soon fast asleep; but before Maggie drifted off, she smiled as she thought, Now my beloved will never, ever again confuse me with the other. The day was far spent when they finally roused themselves. Maggie sat up and stretched. Stuart watched her, his eyes brimming with tenderness. It surprised her that she was not embarrassed, that it filled her with pride to have him gaze at her so admiringly, and she stretched again, preening unabashedly. He laughed, a contented sound full of affection and approval, before he pulled her down across his chest, whispered in her ear, “I see ‘tis a wanton I married.” Her only answer was a satisfied chuckle as she snuggled against him, measuring her body down the length of his, reveling in the touch of his satiny skin, the feel of his broad chest and long legs under hers. And she could feel something else. For a moment, she was puzzled. Then she guessed what it was. She wondered if she dared peek, but there wasn't time because at that moment, a much greater desire overwhelmed her—them. By the time they again drew apart, it was close on tea time, for which Maggie was exceedingly grateful because she 366
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
was famished!
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Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Epilogue Five years have passed since that fateful day. Dhileas explained that it was the sicht that sent her to the tower room in time to divert the bullet intended for Stuart's heart. The cause of Dhileas's dislike for the twins, the reason for her hurtful treatment of Jeannie, her disdain of Geordie, was, in the end, clear to Maggie. She understood what a terrible burden it must have been for Dhileas, being certain in her mind that the two would bring great sorrow to Stuart, yet being powerless to prove or prevent it. She lived long enough to witness the christening of her adored nephew's first born. Then, as she had always maintained that she would do, with everything set right, she departed this life one night as she slept. Soon after, Phineas, too, died in his sleep. They buried him beside his mistress in the family plot. Geordie is still in prison but will undoubtedly hang for the murders he committed. Jeannie is with her aunt in Edinburgh, and, in the near future, will become the bride of Donald Furgeson. Maggie's life is full of satisfaction and contentment. Not only does she claim to have the most wonderful husband in the world and the handsomest son, recently she give birth to twins, two beautiful children of whom she and Stuart are inordinately proud. Maggie's book is enjoying considerable success, and the future is full of promise. The distillery was modernized— 368
Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
Maggie's wedding present to her beloved Stuart. Hence, production has increased, and with the steady rise in the price of malt liquor, they now have the resources to begin renovation of Dunphaedair. And to make Maggie's happiness complete, in honor of their fifth wedding aniversary, Stuart presented her with an enchanting little kitten who is the spitting image of Phineas.
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Evil Wears a Bonny Smile by F. Jacquelyn Hallquist
F. Jacquelyn Hallquist Jackie Hallquist is a resident of the Great Pacific Northwest where she shares her home with six, thoroughly spoiled and completely charming, cats. Although she has done many things in the past: school teacher, fuller brush delivery person, archaeologist, piano teacher, secretary, homemaker and mother; currently she divides her time between writing and computer games. She has traveled widely, both here and abroad; loves good food—especially Sunday brunch; and plans, someday, to take a round-the-world cruise. Everybody needs a dream....
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