‘Your man is beautiful, in a rough sort of way,’ said Cecily.
Lowri’s first thought was, ‘Don’t take him from me. I know you could, looking the way you do.’ But she bit her tongue and chided herself for her jealousy. Cecily would never do that, but her unease was a testament to how much she loved Cullen. God save her, he had to come back. If he died, what would become of her poor, crushed heart? While she might be loved and cared for at Fellscarp, she could not bear to return to the restlessness and aching loneliness that had dogged her life thus far. Lowri bit back tears.
Cecily gave her a little smile. ‘Cullen looks strong and savage, like Peyton, like you. Not soft, like me. I am sure he will come back to you. And if he does not, you will go on, for the sake of your bairn, and you know you have the strength to do it, for you have Strachan blood.’
Cecily took Lowri’s hand in hers. It was soft and small, like a child’s, but, for some reason, it gave her strength. And Lowri made a silent vow and swore to it on the stones of Fellscarp. If Cullen fell, it would not be Peyton who would avenge him and rain hell down on the Macaulays. It would be her.
Chapter Thirty-One
All was strangely hushed on the approach to Scarcross. Summer had softened the woods around the place, everything leafy and green, but the tower house still looked like an ugly bruise looming over the landscape. ‘There is nothing but pain here,’ thought Cullen, and for an instant, he faltered in his purpose. Scarcross was no great birthright. It was a burden, a misery he would have to fight to the death to obtain. There would be a struggle to hold onto it. And would his Macaulay clansmen even want him as laird? Other challengers could have come forth to claim leadership of the clan, and there could be many men to fight.
Cullen pulled up his horse and let cold calculation take the place of anger. Lowri would never be safe from Allard if he did not end this now. His half-brother would always try to stamp her out, along with the bairn she was carrying. He could not have that. He must put Allard in the ground this day, or die trying.
When he rode into the yard, the hair stood up on Cullen’s neck, and a cold hand dragged a finger down his spine. All the cottages around the house were shuttered, doors closed, windows barred. Chickens still clucked and scuffed at the dirt, and the snort of pigs carried in the wind, along with a whisper from the trees, but silence hung over Scarcross like a foul mist risen from a bog.
Cullen tied up his horse and banged on the main door. Silence. He banged again, and behind him, a door creaked openfrom the nearest cottage, and an old woman peered out. ‘You’ll get no answer from within. Sick, they are.’
‘With what?’ cried Cullen, walking over to her.
She backed away and put a rag over her face. Her eyes were watery slits in her face as she squinted at him. ‘Stay away. Get back, stranger.’
‘I mean you no harm, and I must know what has happened here.’
‘Tis the sweating sickness.’ She spat. ‘The Warden’s English dogs came visiting a while back and carried it with them, like fleas on rats. Burned through us in a week. Many folk are sick or dead of it. Some ran off and stayed clear, but they’ve not come back for fear of it catching them too. You should go. Save yourself.’
‘I cannot. I would know what has become of my father and brother. Are they still living?’
The woman risked peering out. ‘Come a little closer, so I can see you. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.’
Cullen stepped forward. The woman’s mouth fell open. ‘Cullen Macaulay, god be damned. So the bastard is back, eh. This is a nice turn of events.’ She gave a laugh like a death rattle. ‘The Lord is fickle indeed if you are to be the last one standing. Or maybe you are an imposter, and the Devil has sent you to lead us all to hell.’
‘You’ll be getting there soon enough, if you don’t tell me what has become of the laird and his family, old crone.’
Her lip curled. ‘Not much to tell. Laird Macaulay may be all airs and full of himself, but the sickness takes who it pleases, cares nought for rank or riches. As soon as the sickness came,that lump of a wife of his, she ran off with the little ones, back to her family. Probably took the sickness with her, so good luck to them.’
‘And my father?’
She shrugged. ‘Locked himself inside, and locked all of us outside, suffering. We kept it quiet as best we could, so as not to encourage our enemies. Once they sense weakness, they swoop down like crows and pick our bones clean.’
‘I am here to stop that happening,’ said Cullen.
The old woman snorted. ‘By yourself.’
‘Where are all the men?’
‘They went to ground - sweating out the sickness in their beds, or in the fields, or stables, weak as kittens.’
‘They should be guarding the place.’
‘Hard to do that with one foot in the grave. And the stronger ones are lazy without Laird Macaulay putting a boot up their arses.’ The old woman peered up at him. ‘You don’t look that much like the Cullen Macaulay, I remember. He was a sour-faced, miserable whelp, all skin and bones and airing his grievances to anyone who would listen.’
‘Aye, well, I was just out of boyhood when I left Scarcross. But I’m a man now, and back here to take charge.’
The old woman was not impressed. She shrugged. ‘If you want to get into the house, you’ll have to wriggle in through the back door. If you really are Cullen Macaulay, you will know where that is. If not, you can stay out here and rot for all I care.’ She tottered inside and slammed the door on him.
Cullen banged on the main door of the house again, but no one answered. There was no breaking it down either, as it wasinches thick, solid oak. So Cullen made his way to the woods at the back of the house. He fought his way through a tangle of old brambles and ivy cloaking a high stone wall and found the door to the tunnel. It had been dug many decades ago as an escape route by some fearful, and probably cowardly, Macaulay ancestors. What could lead out, could also lead in, and so Cullen crouched down on his hands and knees and began a slow crawl along the fusty tunnel. It was not for the faint-hearted, and only a soul desperate to avoid being murdered when all was lost, would attempt it. All the while, Cullen feared the walls would crumble and bury him alive.
After an age, when he wanted to scream out his fear at the top of his lungs, he emerged through a trap door in the cellar of Scarcross. As he made his way upstairs, the air hung sour and dust-laden, as if the house had been abandoned for generations. It was as quiet as a tomb. Cullen walked through the downstairs chambers, ears straining for danger. In the hall, abandoned food lay on the table, ripening the air as it rotted. The sweating sickness must have hit hard and fast for food to be left uneaten, as the Macaulays were always hungry. He prayed his little blonde half-sisters had escaped in time. The thought of their delicate little bodies lying in the earth was too much to bear, especially Reeva’s.
