But then what? The Duke of Blackmore would never consider him as a husband for his only daughter. A penniless Scotsman without even so much as a clan? It was laughable.
Except it wasn’t. Sitting down on the side of the track, Brendon drew up his knees and laid his arms across them. He’d been ten ways a fool to allow himself to fall under Jennifer Sinclair’s spell, but from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d known she was different. Everything about her entranced him. From her impudence to her humour to her compassion. Her hair the colour of autumn chestnuts and her oh so warm brown eyes.
He'd swiftly realised she cared nothing for what people thought of her, unlike the few ladies he’d met who thought themselves so high in the instep. He laid his head on his arms with a sigh. The truth was, he’d give her the moon should she ask it of him. Just the thought of seeing her with another tore him in two.
He pictured her laughing, beautiful face again in his mind, committing it to memory. She would be gone in less than a month. And God willing, he’d never see her again.
∞∞∞
Both Felicity and Jennifer were abed when Malcolm left to meet up with Brendon. The husband and wife had said their goodbyes over dinner earlier. The Scot was exiting through the same door as Dougal, but before he stepped through, Peter clasped his hand. ‘Don’t do anything foolish old friend. My father would never forgive me if I allowed anything to happen to you.’
‘Dinnae ye worry, lad,’ Malcolm answered gruffly. ‘I’ll be gone no more ‘an two days. And when me and Brendon return, we’ll have the bairns with us.’
‘If you’re not back by the day after the morrow, I’ll be coming to find you, Sinclair or not,’ Peter vowed hoarsely.
Malcolm simply nodded and disappeared into the gloom. Peter waited to make sure they hadn’t been overheard, then with a sigh, he headed upstairs to bed.
Malcolm kept to the edge of the formal gardens as he weaved his way down towards the gate in the wall. Brendon would be waiting on the track down to the loch. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the Scot was in good spirits. It had been a while since he’d been involved in any smoky business, and in truth he’d missed it, though he was certain Felicity hadn’t. Stepping through the gate, he looked briefly back towards the house but could discern no movement. While he couldn’t be entirely sure, Malcolm was as confident as he could be that his departure had gone unobserved.
Stepping onto the track he hefted his bag higher onto his backand strode to where Brendon and Fergus were already waiting.
∞∞∞
‘Ye’ll stay in here whan the MacFarlane decides what tae dae.’
The Reverend stared in trepidation at the cold austere room they were shown into. A bed and an old chest with a chair placed directly in front of it were the only three pieces of furniture in the room. A bottle of whisky stood on the chest.
Their guard threw their two bags into the room before adding, ‘An’ dinnae ye be touchin’ that.’ He pointed to the whisky bottle. ‘That holds the remains o’ ma lord’s mother.’ All three of them stared silently at the bottle in question.
‘There doesn’t appear to be much of her,’ the Reverend commented, perhaps unwisely.
‘She wa’ a wee lass,’ their guard retorted, glaring at the clergyman. ‘A blessed saint she wa’. The MacFarlane speaks wi’ her when he be troubled.’ He pointed to the chair which they realised now was facing the chest.
‘Ah’ll see ye in the morn.’ And with that, the door slammed shut, followed by the ominous sound of a key turning in the lock.
‘Dae ye reckon it be really the MacFarlane’s mother?’ Dougal peered at the bottle. ‘Ah could dae wi’ a wee dram.’
‘Why don’t you give it a shake and see,’ retorted the Reverend, picking up his bag and breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that the bread and cheese were still in there. Giving silent thanks to the Almighty, he lifted out the cloth bundle, and tearing off a hunk of bread, chewed it disconsolately.
With a sniff, Dougal left the bottle where it was and picked up his own bag.
‘Do you think they believed our story?’ Reverend Shackleford queried.
‘Aye, else we’d be pushing up thistles by noo.’ He nibbled on a piece of cheese. ‘Ah wonder why they didnae put his mother in the groond?’
‘You heard the guard. MacFarlane likes to talk with her.’
‘Aye, but a grave be the place fer chattin’ wi yer relatives.’
‘Only the dead ones I hope.’
‘Mebbe she haed Norse blood in her.’
The Reverend nodded, but didn’t answer, instead going over to the narrow window which was set in a deep embrasure. After hesitating a second, he climbed into the aperture and pressed forward on his knees until he could see out of the opening. There was no glass in the window, and he shivered as he peered out into the night. Beyond the courtyard below he could see nothing.
‘Ye dae ken we be two stories off the groond?’
‘I’m fully aware of that, thank you. That’s why I’m trying to get back in.’
