Charlie’s stomach turned to ice. “What?”
“I went back to our old cottage last night,” he admitted. “On MacAllister lands. I went looking for a few keepsakes we were forced to leave behind.” He opened his palm to reveal a tiny, oval-shaped portrait of a man with dark hair and beard. His father?
His swollen mouth twisted into something that might have been a smirk if it weren’t so painful. “I got it, didnae I? They beat me for trespassing but I still managed to get my da’s picture.”
Charlie’s hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms.
MacAllister.
Her mind reeled. Albie, little more than a boy, had been beaten black and blue for no reason at all. It was sickening.
Charlie turned to Samuel’s mother. “Did you tell Niall?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. And we willnae. We just want peace, my lady.”
Peace.
Charlie looked down at Albie—bruised, bloodied, hurting.
This wasn’t peace. And Charlie was damned if she was going to ignore it. Her blood boiled as she surged to her feet, her jaw set.
“Where are ye going?” Samuel’s mother asked, her voice edged with alarm.
“To have a word with our friend MacAllister.” Charlie’s voice was tight with fury.
Samuel stepped in front of her, looking nervous. “Ye canna, Lady Charlotte. Lord Niall willnae like it.”
“Well, Niall isn’t here, is he?” she shot back. “He’s off helping the crofters, and meanwhile, MacAllister’s men are running around terrorizing innocent people.”
“Aye, but—”
“And what if they do it again? What if next time, it’s worse?”
Samuel hesitated, glancing back at his brother. Albie’s bruised and battered face was all the confirmation Charlie needed. She turned on her heel and strode toward the door.
“Lady Charlotte, please!” Samuel’s mother called after her, but Charlie didn’t stop.
She didn’t care if it was reckless. She didn’t care if Niall would be furious. MacAllister thought he could throw his weight around, that he could strike out at the weak and vulnerable did he? Well, she’d see about that!
Fury seethed in her veins as she half-jogged down the track, past Glennoch’s gates and along the road, turned left where it split a couple of miles further on, and took the long, winding drive that led up to MacAllister’s estate.
The manor house appeared ahead, a silent monolith that bore witness to centuries of power and privilege. Its stone façade was hardened by the unforgiving Scottish elements, its darkened windows stared out like hollowed eyes, observing the world with detached indifference. The iron-laced gate creaked open as she pushed through.
She reached the large wooden door and hammered on it. The sound echoed through the stillness but there was no response. She pounded again, harder this time, her anger fuelling her strength.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a shuffle of movement could be heard from within. The door creaked open to reveal a wiry old woman with a kind face and soft white hair who she guessed was MacAllister’s housekeeper.
“Aye?”
“Where is he?” Charlie demanded. “Get him out here right now!”
The old woman blinked. “Ye are referring to Lord MacAllister, I take it?” she asked. “He isnae here.”
“Like hell he isn’t!”
Charlie burst past her into the house, ignoring the woman’s protests as she stormed through the grand foyer and into the heart of the manor. Room after room echoed back at her the silence of emptiness, confirming what the housekeeper had said. In the hall, she found herself facing a large portrait of Boyd MacAllister, his smug face captured perfectly by some skilled artist.
“Damn you,” she muttered under her breath, balling her hands into fists at her sides.
