∞∞∞
Reverend Shackleford popped the last piece of shortbread into his mouth and chewed appreciatively. Whatever other oddities there were in Highland cooking, the shortbread was truly manna from Heaven. Then he finished off his dish of tea and climbed to his feet. Time for a bit of exploring. He’d given hisgrandson a goodly head start, so providing he was careful, it was a big enough house to ensure they didn’t cross paths. Not that he was up to anything havey-cavey. He just preferred to do his nosing around with Percy, but as the curate sadly wasn’t present, alone.
He thought mayhap he’d start at the top of the house and work his way down. If it was anything like Blackmore, the servants’ quarters would be located under the roof. While he suspected most of the domestics would be hard at work, there might just be an opportune moment to have a quick chat about the good book – if nothing else, it was always a good excuse for being where he shouldn’t. And that reminded him – no point in talking about the Bible if he hadn’t got the deuced thing with him.
With a chuckle and quick muttered apology upstairs for the expletive, the Reverend returned to his bedchamber and picked up his well-used copy of the Bible – St. James’s Edition, naturally. He assumed that the Godly amongst the servants would be familiar with the text.
So, he’d have a good look around and if he bumped into any unfortunates who’d strayed from the path, he would simply offer a gentle reminder. Not that he could blame them for straying - being forced to live with the deuced midges up here would turn anybody into an atheist. Of all God’s creatures, the little beasties as Gifford referred to them had to be the most unpleasant. Why some of the locals wore skirts, he had no idea. Likely they were possessed of either a deeply troubled nature or baubles like leather. Still, he could definitely help with the former.
Armed with his bible, Reverend Shackleford went in search of the back stairs…
∞∞∞
As Dougal came closer to Caerlaverock, his steps slowed. The fresh air had helped to clear his whisky addled head and what had seemed like a good idea an hour ago, now seemed nothing more than flumgummery. He sat down on a convenient rock and pulled out his flask. Then he scratched his chin and looked towards Caerlaverock while he sipped on the fiery liquid.
Gradually his ire returned as his thoughts regurgitated old grievances. By rights that hoose should ah belonged tae the Galbraiths (sip). No matter which way ye looked at it, the bloody Sinclairs were naethin but thievin’ peratts (sip). It wa’ high time the laithsome sassenach maggots gaed back tae England (sip). And what’s more, Dougal Galbraith was aboot tae tell ‘em so.
He tossed back the last of the whisky, then pushed the stopper back in and wobbled to his feet. There was a small gate in the wall surrounding Caerlaverock he knew Gifford kept unlocked. Dougal guessed it was to save the old steward’s legs when he left of an evening since he lived in Banalan and the gate being where it was almost halved the distance. He himself only knew about it after watching the old bampot come and go a few times.
Determinedly the old Scot weaved his way towards the gate which he knew was positioned in a slight fold in the hill to hide it from prying eyes. While he walked, he tried to assemble his scattered thoughts, but in the end, all he kept muttering to himself was, ‘The bastarts’ll nae mak a bawheid o’ ma son.’ Ten minutes later, he let himself through the veiled gate and followed the footpath towards the house.
Chapter Seven
As the Reverend listened to yet another string of completely incomprehensible words come out of the servant’s mouth, he actually began to panic a little. Indeed, he couldn’t help wondering at what point the family would realise he was missing. He might not be discovered until supper. Or longer. They might even discover his remains on the same chair, shrivelled and wrinkled like those deuced mummy things from Egypt.
Truly, Augustus Shackleford had never met such a boring, wearisome,longwindedindividual. It was taking the chucklehead twenty words for what could be said in three. Or so he assumed, since he couldn’t actually understand a word the fellow was saying. How the devil had he managed to pick on the saintliest servant in the house? The Reverend was beginning to think the fellow could well be in the process of quoting the whole of the Bible ad verbatim. Either that or he was talking about the weather.
Nodding benevolently at the impassioned servant for the umpteenth time, Reverend Shackleford happened to glance out of the window and gave a slight frown. An unsavoury individual seemed to be making his way up a narrow path at the very edge of the formal gardens. The man was weaving this way and that, so much so that the Reverend wondered if he might actually be more than a trifle foxed – a sorry state of affairs since it wasn’tyet lunchtime. Here indeed was an individual sorely in need of God’s benediction. Just what he needed to get him out of his current dire predicament.
Turning back to the gabster who didn’t appear to have noticed his audience’s attention had wandered, Reverend Shackleford took a deep breath, leaned forward and slapped his right hand on the man’s head. Startled, the servant spluttered to a halt. With one eye on the window, the Reverend muttered a quick blessing then clambered to his feet, crossing himself hurriedly as he did so. Then yelling, ‘AMEN,’ he tucked the Bible under one arm, lifted his cassock off the floor with the other and bolted.
∞∞∞
By the time Dougal got as far as the house, he’d almost entirely forgotten what he was actually doing there. Bemused, he stared at the inconspicuous door in front of him, then rummaged around in his pocket for his flask, absently removing the stopper and putting the opening to his mouth. It was the realisation that he’d finished its contents some time ago that helped clarify things a little.
He was here tae tell them thievin’ bastart Sassenachs … err … what? Dougal frowned in concentration. Somethin aboot his son. Aye, that was it. Somethin’ aboot Brendon …
Certain it would come to him eventually, the old Scot tried the door. To his befuddled delight, it was open. With only the slightest hesitation, he stepped through and found himself in a long corridor, black as the Earl o’ Hell’s waistcoat.
Leaving the door slightly open to let in some light and, of course, on the off chance he needed a hasty escape, Dougal began feeling his way along the narrow passage. Thankfully after a few seconds, the darkness began to retreat until he could see his own hand. Breathing a sigh of relief, he tiptoed further until finally,he could see lights at the end of the passage. Whilst his ideas of what he would do when he got there were vague at best, they did involve refusing to move until he’d had an audience with the Maister o’ the hoose.
As he got closer to what looked to be a large hall, Dougal began rehearsing in his mind what he was going to say. A little more sober now, he recognised that accusing the Duke’s son of being a thievin’ bastart would not only get him thrown out, but likely land him in jail. ‘Noo, haud on a wee minent, Dougal,’ he muttered to himself, his footsteps slowing, ‘Ye dinnae ken who yer gaunnie meet.’
Hesitating at the entrance to the large square hall, he scratched his head and tried to sort out his muddled thoughts.
‘Can I help you, my son?’ A sudden loud voice behind him had Dougal almost jumping out of his skin. Spinning round, he stared in abject terror as a large black garbed apparition loomed out of the darkness. Lord save him, it was a bogle. Abruptly convinced he was about to be dragged all the way to hell itself, Dougal gave a strangled battle cry and yelled, ‘Ye’ll nae be taikin a Galbraith wi’oot a fight, yer devil.’ Then with another, even louder whoop, he launched himself at the spectre which appeared on their first connection to be surprisingly solid.
‘Thunder an’ turf, what the…’ Dougal had time to note that the apparition’s voice didn’t sound much like a bogle either, before the demon staggered forward into the large hall while the Scot hung limpet like around its neck shouting, ‘Ah’m nae feart o’ ye bawcan. Ah’ll gie ye a skelpin ye’ll nae forget.’ They did an almost credible waltz around the room, then just as Dougal was attempting to swing his leg around the demon’s neck in an effort to climb onto its shoulders, the doorbell rang. For a few vital seconds, Dougal paused, and a muffled cry for help came from under his elbow. He looked down in surprise, thinking it strange that the denizen of hell should have such a convincing English accent, before the bogle blundered into a large marble pedestal and began to topple backwards. They both crashed slowly to the floor just as the butler, MacNee, staunchly ignoring the fracas, opened the door.
On the threshold stood Brendon Galbraith carrying a small shivering dog in his arms.
Being on the top of the pile of two, Dougal looked up with a frown, rubbed his eyes and commented, ‘What the bloody hell have ye done wi’ Fergus?’
∞∞∞
Shivering, Jennifer tucked her knees up onto the bench she was sitting on and covered them with her blankets. To her estimation the would-be steward had been gone at least twenty minutes. Surely she wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
With nothing else to occupy her thoughts, she found herself reliving the last half an hour since Brendon Galbraith had fished her out of the loch. Although she’d been barely conscious at the time, she remembered the feel of his strong arms around her and the solid warmth of his chest. She shivered again, this time for a different reason. He truly was a handsome man. Was he married? Engaged? She found it hard to believe that there wasn’t a line of willing females camped outside his door.
