Suppressing a shudder, Graeme walked into the morning room. The priest sat by the fire, tea at his elbow and his Bible and well-worn, much-marked plan for the fair in his lap. “Father Michael,” he said, offering his hand as the priest rose.
“Graeme. I apologize fer being late. Morag Moss finally lost her cat Tabby, and asked me to pray over him, and then she insisted on baking some shortbread fer me.”
“That was kind of ye,” Graeme noted, taking the seat opposite. Privately he thought Morag Moss had simply wanted to keep the white-haired, distinguished-looking priest about—especially since today was wash day and half the village would note who’d called at her cottage.
“She’s a very pious lass. And all alone, with her husband and now her Tabby gone.”
“Aye.”
The priest sipped his tea, eyeing Graeme over the rim of the old cup. “Well, lad? Are ye going to tell me who’s finally caught yer heart?”
Graeme snorted. “Nae a lass has caught my heart, Father. But I have decided it’s time to marry.”
“But lad, ye—”
“I’ve nae agreed with ye yet on the topic of love, so dunnae expect me to do it today.” If that was harsh, the priest should expect it by now. For eight years they’d been having the same conversation.
Father Michael cleared his throat. “Ye’re wrong, but I’ll respect yer opinion. Who is she, then? And does she ken she doesnae have yer heart?”
“I’ve nae a particular lass in mind yet,” he said slowly, wondering if there was a worse sin than lying to a man of God. “But I mean to marry soon, and I want nae delays when it’s decided. Did ye send the request?” If he hadn’t been a viscount he wouldn’t have bothered with a license; handfasting was more respected than a piece of paper in the Highlands, anyway. But with a title involved, the Crown had to make certain things were official.
“Aye. With the mail coach. It’ll be a few days before we hear back from Canterbury, but with ye being a viscount I dunnae see any difficulties. When yedofind a lass, though, Graeme, I hope ye can—”
“Nae more aboot marriage,” Graeme interrupted. “Ye’re here to speak against dancing at Samhain, I reckon.”
Father Michael sighed. “Have it yer way, lad. Ye’re more stubborn than a mountain. Aye. I object to the dancing, though I dunnae expect to sway ye this year any more than I did last year.” The father dropped another lump of sugar into his tea. “By the way, ye ken I dunnae hold with gossip, but as the Maxwell chieftain hereaboots yeareaware of the English who took rooms at the Cracked Hearth, aye?”
Graeme kept his expression neutral despite his internal leap to attention. “Nae,” he drawled, drawing out the word. “Should I be? They do travel across my land, from time to time.”
“Of course they do. But these three, two men in livery and an older woman, claim the woman’s niece has gone missing. I thought someone might’ve informed ye, so ye could have the folk hereaboots keep an eye oot fer the lass.”
Someone damned well should have informed him. News about Lady Marjorie was to be kept secret from everyone outside the household. Not from him. Bloody hell. If Taog had returned from the inn and declined to tell him what was afoot there, the lad would be polishing bannisters for a fortnight. “I’ll ride doon in the morning and talk to this woman myself,” he said aloud. “I’ve nae fondness fer any Sassenach, but if we can help find this lass, we’ll do it, of course.”
Father Michael nodded. “That’s good of ye. Aside from the blessings due any Samaritan, having the news get oot that an English lass has gone missing in the area willnae serve anyone.” With a brief smile he returned the teacup to its saucer. “Now. I ken all the lads favor a drinking contest at the fair, but dunnae ye think it a trifle… sinful? Perhaps we could substitute a good pie-eating competition in its stead.”
He didn’t want to talk about beer drinking or pie eating, or the brawl that would likely ensue if he canceled one in favor of the other. He wanted to gallop down to the end of the wide, curved valley, across the river Douchary, and see for himself who was looking for Lady Marjorie and why they were describing her as “an English lass” instead of the sister of the Duke of Lattimer.
That didn’t make sense. However Highlanders felt about the English, naming the missing woman and thereby the amount of the reward for her safe recovery would have provided more than enough incentive for the local residents to scour the area clean looking for her. Her companions, though, hadn’t done that. Not yet, anyway. But why not?
“… agree that the dancing is far too provocative,” Father Michael went on, and Graeme blinked, not certain how long the priest had been droning on. “I suggest a group reading of appropriate scripture regarding fall harvest and the inevitable onset of winter.”
“Perhaps we should all lie doon in the graveyard in the spot where we mean to be buried.”
The priest’s cheeks reddened. “I’m trying to shepherd a flock of hot-tempered sinners, lad, ye among them. I’d appreciate if ye’d nae jest aboot it, or the calling to which I’ve dedicated my life.”
Graeme drew a hard breath in through his nose. “I apologize, Father Michael. God knows I dunnae envy ye yer task.”
“Thank ye, lad.”
“But I reckon yer sinners will be more likely to listen to yer good words if they’ve a bit of beer and dancing to reflect on.”
The old man sighed. “I find it helpful to remind myself that if we had nae sinners we’d have nae need fer sermons.”
After some negotiation both beer drinking and pie eating stayed on the list, and mainly out of pity Graeme allowed for a religious embroidery display beneath one of the canopies. It would be a long day of mayhem, but a last bit of fun before the heavy snow set in at least made the winter seem shorter.
As the topic shifted back to a suggestion of local lasses of good character and family and how important it was for a clan chieftain to ensure the continuation of his line, Cowen barged into the room. “Laird Maxton, the… ye… there’s someaught wrong with one of the upstairs windows,” he panted.
“Surely ye dunnae need to trouble the master of the hoose aboot a window,” Father Michael said.
