Ordering Chapman to keep his men out of sight, Peter gave instructions to allow the stranger entry through the main gate before heading outside flanked by Malcolm and Brendon.
The next ten minutes felt like hours as the three men waited for the visitor to reach the courtyard. They’d been unable to determine whether the man was wearing MacFarlane colours, though judging by the fracas taking place in the sitting room to the Viscount’s left, the Reverend and Dougal were still fighting over the field glasses.
At length, the man’s mount trotted underneath the archway, finally halting in the middle of the courtyard. Peter’s heart slammed against his ribs as he recognised the MacFarlane colours.
‘I am Viscount Holsworthy, Heir Apparent to the Duke of Blackmore. What brings you to Caerlaverock?’ His voice was self-assured - aloof but not hostile - and Brendon felt a surge of admiration. Truly, Peter Sinclair would be a formidable successor to his father when the time finally came.
In answer, the rider climbed down from his horse and strodetowards them, stopping a full six feet away.
‘Ah hae a message fer the Laird,’ he growled.
Peter felt the sweat form in the centre of his back. ‘I am the Laird’s representative,’ he answered. ‘You may give the message to me.’
A small silence, then, ‘The MacFarlane bids me tell ye it be done.’ He stared pointedly at all three men, before adding, ‘An’ he be lookin’ forrit tae speakin’ wi’ his grace verra soon.’ Without waiting for a response, he returned to his horse and swiftly remounted – no mean feat without a mounting block.
Untying, then dropping the lead rein of the horse standing behind him, the warrior spoke directly to Brendon. ‘The beast be yer da’s. Ah’m tae tell ye, we used the wagon fer firewood.’
And with that, he turned his mount about and seconds later was gone
∞∞∞
That night’s dinner was the most lighthearted since arriving at Caerlaverock.
Peter especially felt as though the weight of the entire world had fallen from his shoulders. As much as part of him had relished the challenge, there was another, admittedly smaller, childish part that longed to lay the burden at his father’s feet. The Viscount gave a dark chuckle and took a sip of his wine. Clearly, his father had not anticipated his son and heir’s first unaccompanied visit to Scotland would be quite such a baptism of fire…
Brendon, Peter and Gifford had been invited for dinner, and despite grumbling that the wee bairns were giein her more trouble than they be worth, Mrs. Darroch had made sure that thecook produced a meal worthy of a king.
‘When do you think Mama and Papa will arrive?’ Jennifer asked Peter, who in turn looked at Malcolm. The Scot gave a wicked grin. ‘Would ye care tae lay a bet on it ladies and gentlemen?’ he demanded, using his best carnival voice. ‘I say their graces will be here in exactly a sennight.’
‘Who’s keeping record?’ laughed Peter, getting into the spirit of things.
‘Being a man of the cloth, I’d better be the one laying the odds,’ Reverend Shackleford declared piously, rummaging around his cassock for the piece of charcoal he and Dougal had used to such effect on Inveruglas.
With much laughter they each declared a date at which they believed the Duke and Duchess would arrive and the wager they were prepared to put on it.
Jennifer surreptitiously watched Brendon as the banter continued. He looked more relaxed and animated than she’d ever seen him. Mayhap worrying about the children had been weighing more heavily on him than she’d realised. Then she thought back to the moment she’d announced her intention to stay in Caerlaverock, to the subtle loosening of his stance as he’d listened to her ideas. Slowly, she felt a sense of rightness, of belonging, which she’d never experienced before. And she knew, without doubt, that she was the reason for his sudden ease.
Getting him to admit it though might be an uphill struggle. Nevertheless, she was up to the challenge…
∞∞∞
Something had been bothering Reverend Shackleford, ever since he’d felt that brief sense of things slotting into place. Hedidn’t know why he should feel quite so surprised. After all, he regularly told his congregation that the Almighty moved in mysterious ways, and he himself had seen evidence of it on more occasions than he could count.
Sitting in front of the fire, his thoughts went to his oldest friend. He hated to say it, but Percy did not possess the resourcefulness of Dougal Galbraith – or the wiliness. Sometimes he thought his curate might well be too good for this world. Though he may never have actually said it, the Reverend was glad Percy had found Lizzy. They were perfect together, and in truth, she was much more a clergyman’s wife than Agnes would ever be.
Then he thought back to the slight sadness he’d often noticed in her eyes when she watched the many children that seemed to be continually visiting Blackmore - toodeuced many of them in the Reverend’s opinion.
Percy and Lizzy had never had any children. It could have been that they’d been too old by the time they wed, but Reverend Shackleford didn’t think it was by choice. In fairness, it wasn’t a subject that ever came up during the times he and Percy spent at the Red Lion.
And, if he was being entirely honest, the Reverend had never really given it a second thought, until now.
What would they do if he turned up at Blackmore with Finn in tow?
Earlier, when he’d taken his customary stroll around the garden, the lad had sought him out again, specifically to be a pain in the arse as far as the Reverend could tell. But just before the boy left, he’d repeated his desire to go to Blackmore.
Was Finn’s wish simply eggs in the moonshine, or could he possibly find a home with Percy and Lizzy?
∞∞∞
