That was how it was supposed to be. Anyone staying more than a few days in a clan’s territory was supposed to present themselves to a chieftain and state their intentions and reason for trespassing. And then the chieftain would decide whether the strangers would be allowed to stay or not, and whether the clan chief needed to be notified.
The power of the clan chiefs and chieftains had waned considerably since the bloody disaster at Culloden. Chiefs burned out their own cotters to make room for sheep in a desperate effort to keep from having to sell off their ancestral, hard-won land. And men like him, who disagreed too vocally with their chiefs and didn’t have the resources to break away completely, fought tooth and nail to keep what they had.
And now his lunatic brothers had piled this on his head. If the British army became involved, he could lose not only his status with the clan, but his ability to help and protect his tenants. He could lose Garaidh nan Leòmhann, the Lion’s Den, as they called it, named by fierce Highlands warriors and by their enemies who feared to tread there.
“Laird Maxton,” the innkeeper said, inclining his head as the stout, gray-haired woman glided up behind him, “Mrs. Giswell. Mrs. Giswell, this territory’s chieftain of clan Maxwell, Graeme, Viscount Maxton.”
She sank into a deep, graceful curtsy, one of such perfection that it immediately reminded him of his sharp-witted would-be bride. “Lord Maxton,” she said, in a supremely cultured accent. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I require your assistance, my lord. Have you been informed that my niece is missing?”
“Aye. I heard aboot it yesterday afternoon,” he said, oddly glad that that, at least, was the truth. “That’s why I’m here this morning. Sit and have breakfast with me, Mrs. Giswell, and we’ll see what can be done to help ye.”
Hortensia Giswell sat as gracefully as she could on the bench opposite the very fine-looking, if wild-haired, Viscount Maxton. Finally, someone who might be able to do more than recite how young English lasses shouldn’t go wandering about the Highlands alone. She knew that. More importantly, Lady Marjorie knew that.
The sympathetic but supremely unhelpful innkeeper brought her hardboiled eggs and toasted bread, her usual breakfast, so she held in her impatience, kept her criticisms about Highlanders and the Highlands to herself, and dined with the Scottish chieftain.
“What’s yer niece’s name?” he asked, apparently finding something amusing about the way she ate. Perhaps he wasn’t accustomed to someone who knew how to use utensils.
“Marjorie,” she returned. “Marjorie Giswell.” Whatever last name she gave, Marjorie would certainly recognize that she was the one being sought, which was all any of them required. “She’s one-and-twenty, of medium height, and has blue eyes and very dark brown hair. She’s not an heiress, by any means, but I am offering one hundred pounds for her safe return.”
“That’s very generous,” he commented. “Tell me, does this lass have a beau? They could marry here in Scotland withoot residence or parental consent.”
“You’re suggesting she eloped? Ridiculous. Aside from the fact that it would surround her with scandal, she has no beau.” After two months spent in the young lady’s company, she would certainly know if there was a particular gentleman. And there hadn’t been, the poor lonely girl. Hortensia had actually begun to wish there had been someone for her. Someone who wasn’t a blasted fortune hunter. But then again, men were trouble. All of them.
“What brings ye to the Highlands, then?” he pursued, continuing to gaze at her as he downed a good portion of the steaming, cinnamon-scented ale in his mug. “Ye’ve nae sent fer help, Ranald tells me, so I reckon ye dunnae have relations hereaboots.”
That charming accent of his didn’t fool her for a moment. He’d likely been told about the Lattimer coat of arms on the coach, and he was fishing for more information. Well, she wasn’t about to declare to the world that an heiress, an English duke’s sister, had gone missing. If someone had the young lady, a hundred pounds would sound like a fair, generous offer. If they learned the truth about her, getting Lady Marjorie back would involve politics, a great deal more money, quite possibly the military, and would likely end with her being sacked.
“My late husband served with the Duke of Lattimer,” she lied slowly, hoping the tale made as much sense aloud as it did in her head. “His Grace very kindly invited me to visit, even offered me the use of his London coach. But I don’t care to travel alone, so Marjorie volunteered to accompany me.”
He finished off a thick slice of ham. “My cotters are fairly well scattered, but I’ll make certain word gets oot that ye’ve a missing niece and she’s to be found and returned to ye safely,” he said, washing down the remains of his breakfast.
At least he seemed to believe her story. If her keeping the truth about Lady Marjorie’s identity from everyone somehow caused her harm, though… Hortensia would never forgive herself. Oh, she was adept at social machinations, but she’d utterly failed with her last charge when Sophia had disappeared, and this looked to be even worse.
She reached out to touch the back of Maxton’s hand. “My niece is very dear to me, sir,” she said, not trying to hide her concern. “You know the Highlands better than I could ever hope to. What do you think has happened to her?”
“This land has more sheep than it does people,” he returned, looking down to fiddle with his fork. “And neither is likely to be especially kind to a Sassenach. An ootsider, that is. But a lass alone—it wouldnae be our custom to turn away someone who needs help. She could well be at some shepherd’s cottage waiting fer ye to find her, or fer the shepherd to find the time to walk her back here.”
“Oh, I do hope that’s what’s happened,” she said, releasing his hand and trying not to imagine how unfriendly the sheep must be if they warranted such a warning. “I’ll keep searching and be as patient as I can. But if I haven’t recovered her in the next few days, I’ll have to send to His Grace for more assistance.”
A muscle in Maxton’s jaw jumped. “Bringing in a Sassenach soldier and his men wouldnae be wise.”
Hortensia hadn’t thought that idea would go over well. It would provide a little more incentive for this “laird” to aid her, however. “I understand, Lord Maxton. I must consider the safety of my niece before everything else, though. I hopeyouunderstand that.”
“What I understand, Mrs. Giswell, is that ye shouldnae have let the lass oot of yer sight in the first place,” he stated, then took a breath that lifted his shoulders. “Ye keep looking, and I’ll do what I’m able. If she’s nae fallen into a loch or a ravine somewhere, we’ve a chance of finding her.” He climbed to his feet, tall and fit and imposing. “Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’ve some cotters to see, and a few trackers to put on the lass’s trail.”
She remained seated on the long bench for several minutes after he left. If anyone in this blasted tangle of trees and moors and lakes and ravines and impossible mountains could help find Lady Marjorie, Graeme Maxton seemed to be the one to do it. The poor young woman wasn’t at all foolish, so whatever these Highlanders thought or said, Hortensia would have been willing to wager—if ladies wagered—that someone had taken her. The question was who’d done it, and where they’d taken her. And why, of course.
“I see Laird Maxton rode doon to see ye this morning, lass,” a low, thick brogue commented from behind her, and she gave a quickly stifled smile. “That’s an honor, seein’ how much that lad carries on his shoulders these days.” Robert Polk, the big, bearded blacksmith, circled around to take the seat Maxton had vacated.
“I am honored, of course,” she said, nodding. “But Marjorie is still missing.”
“Ye’ve the right of it, Mrs. Giswell. To ye, Graeme Maxton’s a way to find yer niece, and nae a thing more than that. Is he calling men together fer a search? I can tell him where we’ve already been, if ye like.”
“He said his tenants were scattered far and wide, but he would see to it that they knew to look for her, and that she was to be returned safely.” Hortensia frowned. “Should he have organized a search party?”
The blacksmith rubbed his dark brown beard. “The winter fair’s in less than a fortnight, and we’ll all gather fer that. Pulling clan Maxwell together before then, what with everyone working to bring the flocks doon from the hills and harvesting the last of the crops before they freeze—nae, I reckon he did as he should.”
That made sense, little as she liked hearing it. “Then I’ll continue my search. I cannot sit and do nothing.”
