Straightening, he refolded the note and slipped it back into his pocket before he swung up on the gray gelding. “I’m off to the Cracked Hearth for breakfast, and then to see to Pòl Maxwell’s deer troubles,” he told the head groom, stuffing his rifle into the scabbard on the saddle.
“I heard the pesky things ate all his wife’s cabbages,” Johnny returned, slapping Clootie on the rump as Graeme trotted out of the stable.
He had at least three other things to attend to this morning, and that was before he dragged his brothers out to help clear the irrigation ditches with the rest of the local cotters. Aye, they’d be frozen in a month, but the last thing he wanted was for some old tree branches to get caught in one of the gates and smash it to the devil when the ice twisted them around.
As he rode away, he couldn’t help glancing up at the line of dark windows along the house’s upper floor. With the shackle on her leg she couldn’t be watching even if she was awake, but even in the dark, even asleep, he felt her presence. And even with the way she’d put him behind in his duties, he wanted to go watch her eat breakfast, wanted to hear what insult she would aim at him this morning—even if it did include reasons she wouldn’t marry him.
The last thing he wanted her to know was that she had him hesitating—not because of her pretty, biting words, but because he didn’t quite feel the… satisfaction he’d expected at bringing a spoiled Sassenach lass to heel. She could indeed bring him wealth, and with that, power, but beneath all that he didn’t like the idea that she would be sad and miserable here. He was a Highlander; he valued his freedom, and he didn’t like having to chain her, even if that was to protect his family.
No, he didn’t require love, and didn’t want it, actually, but she seemed a lass made for it. Made for long, sweaty nights of sex, too, judging from that pair of kisses, but would she want him? Or would she consider it her wifely duty, which would make any physical contact considerably less interesting?
Trying to shake himself loose of her, he rode parallel to the river Douchary for a good mile and a half and then took the bridge where the rutted road crossed over it. At least Brendan had thought to drive about in circles before he brought her home—if she knew she was only three miles from the inn she might be trying harder to escape.
After another mile or so he reached the scattering of cottages and other buildings that marked the wee village of Sheiling. His village. Even with the sun barely a glow behind the mountains to the east, smoke already rose from most of the chimneys, and he could hear metal ringing against metal from the direction of Robert the blacksmith’s.
As he swung down in the inn’s stableyard one of the stable boys ran up, pulling on a wool cap as he came. “Good morning, Will,” Graeme said with a smile, handing over the reins. “He’s been fed, but if ye could find him an apple and a blanket to throw over him while he waits, I’d appreciate it.”
The boy tugged on the front of his cap. “I’ll see to the old devil, Laird Graeme. Dunnae ye worry over him.”
Ree—Marjorie—did address him by his proper title, but she thought of him as just that and no more—a viscount, a minor noble in an uncivilized country, a lord last-name. He already had ample evidence that she didn’t understand Highlanders or their ways. Because he wasn’t just a lord. Here, he was the laird, the clan Maxwell chieftain responsible for keeping the people around him safe, for relaying the thoughts and wishes and rules that came from the Maxwell, for collecting clan tithes, settling disputes, and for maintaining the security of the clan and its interests in this part of the Highlands.
He pitched a penny to Will, then made his way through the fading snow flurries to the inn’s front door. Coming here today could be a risk; on seeing him, someone might recall to Lady Marjorie’s friends that his brothers had been about a few days earlier, just when she’d gone missing. But he needed to learn what they did know, what they’d said, and when he could expect the Duke of Lattimer on his doorstep.
In fact, as he walked into the warm common room he was surprised not to find the inn filled with her brother’s men. And why weren’t they here, looking for the missing sister of their lord and master?
“Good morning to ye, m’laird,” the innkeeper called from across the room. “Maddie’s just made some fresh bread, and the roasted ham is very fine this morning.”
Sending the rotund man a nod and a grin, Graeme sat at one end of the nearest of the long tables. “And some mulled ale, if ye care aboot me at all.”
“Aye. It is a mite temperate this morning.”
A minute or so later the innkeeper set the hot mug on the table, then sat on the bench opposite. “I reckon I know why ye’re here this morning,” he said, uncharacteristically lowering his voice.
Alarm bells began ringing in Graeme’s skull, but he kept his expression still. “I heard ye have some English visitors here, and a missing lass. What can ye tell me?”
“It’s a bad business, m’laird. Pretty young lass, went oot fer a breath of air, and vanished.” He leaned his elbows on the rough-hewn table. “Odd, though, that the woman here, Mrs. Giswell, says this lass is her niece, but the coach standing out of sight behind the inn bears the Lattimer crest.”
Graeme didn’t have to feign his frown. “Thatisodd,” he agreed. “What’s the missing lass’s name?”
“Marjorie Giswell, or so they say. I saw her, ye ken. Pretty young lass, black hair and blue eyes, and nae resembling her so-called aunt even in the dark. On the other hand, Mrs. Giswell and the two men with her seem genuinely worried over the lass.”
“Are they offering a reward?”
“Aye. A hundred quid—which makes her a princess, I reckon. It doesnae quite make sense, but she’s definitely gone missing, and we definitely dunnae want Sassenach redcoats tromping aboot the moors looking fer her.”
He agreed with all of that. As for no one in her party admitting that she was Lattimer’s sister, it made sense when he considered it. But if they knew how dangerous it was for her to be in Maxwell territory, why had they allowed her to come in the first place, and much less to wander about on her own? And why hadn’tsheknown about the risk she was taking?
“That’s her now,” the innkeeper said, angling his chin toward the stairs that led to the half-dozen rooms for let upstairs. “Mrs. Giswell. I reckon she’ll be headed up toward Garaidh nan Leòmhann in the next day or so; she and the two fellas and Robert Polk have been south and west the past two days.”
“Robert Polk?” Graeme repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “They’ve hired our blacksmith?”
“Nae. I think he’s sweet on the old lass. She called him ‘sir,’ and now his head’s so big I’ll have to widen my doors.”
“His skull’s big enough, already.” With a grin, Graeme took a blessedly warm swallow of the spicy mulled ale. “I’ll go talk to her, then, and offer my help.”
“Ye stay here, m’laird. I’ll bring her to ye, as is proper.” The innkeeper stood.
“Thank ye, Ranald.”
