Prologue
Malcolm Mackintosh was not having an easy death. The wasting disease that had eaten him away for the last two years had left him with a face like a skull, with sunken cheeks and blue lips. His dark eyes were buried so deeply in their sockets that they were barely visible, and could only be seen as faint glints in the deep hollows. Once thick and abundant, his hair was now sparse and wispy, and there were only a few thin strands growing out of his wrinkled head.
His body, once as large and muscular as a bull like the rest of the men in his family, was now quite thin, and his veins could be seen as bulging blue lines through his transparent, papery yellow skin. It was noon now, but no one expected Malcolm to survive till the next day.
Malcolm was slowly dictating his will to his priest and confessor, Father Emmanuel Gordon, and his voice was as scratchy and faint as the noise of the scribe’s quill as he wrote on the parchment. Every breath was a tearing agony. He was also half asleep from the amount of milk of the poppy that the wise woman had given him to stifle the pain in his failing lungs.
The room was stiflingly hot since the wood fire was kept well supplied with fuel, and although Malcolm was shivering, everyone else was sweating. There was an overwhelming stench of death in the air.
The writing was taking an age, as Malcolm had to keep pausing to take a wheezing breath or a hacking cough. The priest winced when he did this, for it was a painful sound accompanied by great gouts of blood. Father Gordon had been at many a deathbed, but he never grew accustomed to them. Even though he knew that Malcolm’s spirit was going to a better place, he wondered at the mercy of a God who would make his child suffer so much.
“Father?” Malcolm gasped suddenly, stretching out his claw-like hand to take the priest’s.
“Yes, Malcolm?” Father Gordon asked gently.
“When I get to heaven, will I see my Tessa again?” he asked fearfully, then was seized by a fit of coughing so severe that Malcolm could not speak for a while. Tessa was his English wife, whom he had married in the teeth of his family’s opposition.
Father Gordon tried not to look as the wise woman took away the blood-spattered napkin from under his chin and replaced it with a fresh one. Then his kind eyes smiled at the dying man. “Give yourself peace, Malcolm,” he said gently. “Tessa is waiting. So are your mother, father, and sister. Even your old hounds are there, running around barking and chasing each other like puppies. Be at ease, old friend. Your troubles are almost over, and soon you will see the shining face of God Almighty, which is beyond all earthly beauty.”
Malcolm gave the priest a semblance of a smile. “Then I must finish quickly,” he gasped. “For I do not want to linger on Earth for a moment longer than I must.”
Father Gordon went on with the drafting of the will, which was the kindest and most generous document he had ever seen. The old man had thought of everyone—from his dead wife’s mother and brother to the kitchen maid, the lowliest servant in his employ. No one had been left out.
The biggest bequest of all was his estate near Perth in Scotland, which consisted of a village, farms, moorland, and a tumbledown castle. The property had not been well maintained, for Malcolm had been too sick to do so in the last few years. Even though he had lived in the place for years and had a capable estate manager, the place was slowly sliding into decay.
“Father Gordon, this is my last bequest,” Malcolm wheezed. “The Inverinch Estate in its entirety shall go to my nephew Adam.”
Father Gordon was aghast. “But Malcolm, you cannot do this! Adam is a wastrel who will likely gamble the entire property away in a week! And he is”—he sounded as though he could hardly bear to say the word—“English!”
Malcolm tried to sit up but he did not have the strength. His eyes had not lost their power, however. He had been an intimidating man during his lifetime, and even on his deathbed he still had the same ferocity.
“I do not have long to live,” he croaked, “but I am not dead yet. I am willing the castle to Adam and not to the church, which was what you were hoping for, was it not?”
Father Gordon nodded. It was the truth. He wrote down the request and Malcolm signed it in his spidery hand, then he closed his eyes and began to take in his last few breaths. In another few moments it was over.
Emmamuel Gordon sat by Malcolm’s side for a long time before bidding his friend farewell. The last bequest troubled him. There were many worthy members of the family who could have looked after the property. Adam was not one of them.
1
Adam woke up with a headache from hell. He imagined that this must be what it felt like to be repeatedly struck with hammer blows on the front of his forehead, and he groaned with pain. He raised his hand to his face and his arm brushed against soft, warm flesh. Puzzled, he looked to his left and gave a squeal of fright as a pair of wicked brown eyes stared into his.
They belonged to a young woman of about sixteen who was stretched out beside him on the bed, with one thigh draped over his leg. Her hand was on his chest, stroking and tickling. It was very bony and thin, and so was the rest of her. She smiled at him in what she obviously hoped was an enticing manner, showing a gap where her two front teeth should have been.
Adam removed her hand from his chest and turned over to meet another pair of eyes, this time bluish-gray, much like his. They belonged to a comfortably plump brown-haired woman who looked to be in her forties. She smiled at him too, showing that she had all her teeth, even if they were yellow and crooked. Her hand was stroking his thigh suggestively and her smile was not wicked, it was lewd.
He jerked backward in the bed then looked at each of them frantically. Who were these women and what on God’s earth had he been doing last night? Surely he had not invited them into his home? But yes, there were his red satin curtains, his satin bedspread was draped over him, and there were the familiar mahogany tables and his favorite armchair. There was also a matching whore on each side of him, and neither looked ready to leave without an invitation.
Adam looked at the two women beside him and then pushed each one out of bed. They tumbled onto the floor, squealing in surprise. Adam sat up and glared at them. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And how did you get here?”
The older one, who had hurt her ample backside, glowered at him. “We was invited,” she replied in a growl. “We did some...services for yer good self, sir, if you know what I mean.” She held out her plump hand. “And now we wants payin’.” Her tone was belligerent.
“Payin’,” echoed the other one, nodding. She seemed to have very little to say for herself.
Adam could not remember receiving any “services” from them, but then he could not remember very much of anything that had happened the previous night. He decided that he might as well pay up instead of spending the morning in a pointless argument with two “ladies of a certain kind,” as his mother would say. He reached into his money pouch and drew out a handful of silver without counting, then deposited the coins into the plump hands of the older woman. He did not even know her name and could not be bothered to find out.
They threw on their clothes, then the plump one put the money away in the pocket of her skirt. Both curtsied and smiled at him in their crooked fashion. Adam opened the door for them, gave them a small bow, and they left, suitably flattered by his good manners. Adam sat in his bed and stroked his short black hair. He looked every bit English. But he was much taller and more muscular than the average English man. That was more because he was born this way and less due to physical labor. He had been stronger and bigger than his peers since he was a child, which combined with his good looks and charming character made him famous among ladies.
A few minutes later, as he was sluicing water over his face from his china wash stand, he heard a knock at the door.Damn! They’re back for more money,he thought angrily, and wrenched open the door, his mouth opened in a roar that died on his lips. There was a boy of about twelve standing there, whom he recognized as the housekeeper’s son, looking terrified as he held out a folded piece of parchment. He gave the lad a penny and he beamed at Adam, then ran downstairs to show his mother.
