‘Does it matter?’ the Reverend muttered. ‘The varmint’s not going to let us leave here anyway.’
‘Aye it matters,’ Dougal contradicted morosely. ‘It could mean the difference twixt drownin’ and bein’ boiled alive.’
‘We’d best be away before he has to decide then,’ Reverend Shackleford declared, dropping the blanket he’d been carrying. ‘I suggest we startdigginground where the chucklehead watching us can’t see.’
‘Aye, that be perfect. The best place tae see the mine is aback the tower. The numpy cannae see what we’re up tae.’
‘Malcolm and Brendon should be in position by now,’ the Reverend added, ‘so hopefully, we’ll be home and dry before MacFarlane realises his mother’s had her last tot of whisky.’
The two men sat with their backs propped against the ruined fortress, well out of sight of the lone guard tasked with keeping watch on the shoreline.
The Reverend brought out his field glasses. From their position he could see the entrance to the mine and set just back, a ramshackle bothy that looked as though it might once have served as an office. The only activity he could see was around the entrance and inside the almost derelict building. He turned to Dougal. ‘I count four guards. Three in that building, and one sitting near to the entrance. Have a look to see if you can spot any more of ‘em.’
Dougal obligingly took the glasses and peered through them. ‘There be another one jus’ comin’ up,’ he pointed out. ‘He be carryin’ a lairge bag. More rocks the poor wee bairns hae dug oot ah reckon.’
They sat in silence for a while, taking it in turns to look through the field glasses, but didn’t spot any additional guards. At length, the Reverend looked over at the shovel and spade lying on theground and gave a sigh. ‘I suppose we’d better do a spot of digging, just in case the blackguard comes to check on us.’
‘Aye, ye’d best g'oan wi it.’
‘What do you mean me?’ Reverend Shackleford spluttered. ‘What the deuce are you going to be doing?’
Dougal sighed and pointed to his bandaged lower limb. ‘Ye ken ah cannae dae a thing wi’ ma bad leg, so ah thought mebbe ah’d hae a wee nap.’
Chapter Seventeen
Jennifer was up and seated at the window, Flossy snuggled on her lap, by the time Jenet arrived the following morning. ‘Ye’ll catch ye death wi’oot yer claes,’ the maid admonished her, putting down the tray and hurrying over to cover her mistress with a robe.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Jennifer defended, submitting to Jenet’s ministrations with a smile.
‘Well, that will ne’er dae,’ Jenet clucked, handing the young woman a cup of hot chocolate. ‘Daed the kerfuffle wake ye, ma lady?’
Jennifer frowned. ‘What kerfuffle?’
The maid was busy stoking up the fire. At her mistress’s question, she swivelled round and waved her hand. ‘Och, it be nothin’ tae bother yer heid wi, ma lady. The new footman be a surly lad an’ ah kenned he wouldnae last long.’
Jennifer frowned and climbed off the window seat, much to Flossy’s chagrin. ‘What did he do?’
Always ready to share a bit of gossip, Jenet got to her feet. ‘Well, Murray – that be the footman, ma lady – telled MacNee he be naithin but an auld woman.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘MacNee haes a fearsome temper, ma lady and ah’ve ne’er seen him so angry. They were oot in the courtyard, jus’ below yerwindow, an’ they be shoutin’ lood enough tae wake the deid, so ah’d nae be surprised if it were the yellyhooin that woke ye.’ She shook her head and turned back to the fire.
Jennifer felt her stomach contract with dread. ‘Where is Murray now?’
‘Gaun ma lady. Not half an hour back, an’ guid riddance ah say.’
Jennifer placed her cup back on the tray. ‘I’d like to get dressed now,’ she told the maid, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice.
‘It be early yet, ma lady.’
Jennifer gritted her teeth at Jenet’s obtuseness. ‘I believe Flossy wishes for a walk,’ she said firmly, waving towards the little dog who’d wasted no time in burrowing back under the blankets on the bed. Jenet opened her mouth to point out the fact that the animal was in fact snoring, but one look at her mistress’s resolute face made her close it again. Instead she nodded and climbed back to her feet.
Twenty minutes later, Jennifer went in search of her brother, her earlier anxiety replaced by a feeling of dread. Unfortunately, it seemed her brother was also no longer abed. Biting her lip, she hurried down to the breakfast room, only to be told the Viscount had gone for an early morning ride.
Jennifer fought the urge to scream. Was Peter aware of the altercation between the footman and butler? Clearly this Murray was on his way back to MacFarlane. If he should speak with the Chieftain, their whole plan could unravel. What the deuce had happened to Gifford’s vow to keep the two interlopers busy?
After conveying her wish to be informed immediately on her brother’s return, Jennifer took Flossy out into the garden, her thoughts racing. Perhaps the footman had deliberately planned the argument as an excuse for him to leave. She shook herhead. That made no sense. He would have been much better simply slipping away, telling no one. So, if the argument was unplanned, Murray – if that was the footman’s real name – may have felt he had no choice. How long would it take him to walk to his Clan home?
After watching Flossy finish her business, Jennifer hastened back towards the house, only to be told that the Viscount had not yet returned. An enquiry about Gifford’s whereabouts revealed the steward was picking up supplies from Banalan this morning. When the housekeeper asked if her ladyship would like to speak with Mr. Mackenzie, Jennifer fought the urge to laugh hysterically.
‘Mr. Mackenzie is unfortunately suffering with the same sickness that has beset my grandfather,’ she explained, holding out a placating hand at Mrs. Darroch’s alarmed expression. ‘I’m certain it’s nothing to worry about, but Mrs. Mackenzie will ensure they both keep to their room as a precaution and will ring if they need anything.’ When the housekeeper seemed about to ask another question, Jennifer forestalled her by asking for a pot of tea.
