Exercise and fresh air heartened her spirits.
A plan of action began to form in her mind. She would find a way to contact Mr. Tolliver and convince him of Minnie’s love. And Uncle Ned would honor his pledge and send money. She just had to think positively—
The sound of a galloping horse interrupted her thoughts mere seconds before the animal came charging around the bend. A huge, dark beastwith hooves the size of mallets, and it was right upon her.
Portia barely had time to blink, let alone move. Indeed, her feet had suddenly grown roots to the ground.
The rider was a man in a greatcoat, the brim of his hat pulled low over his face as protection against the wind. He rode as if driven by some unseen power. Both he and the horse noticed her at the last possible moment, and there didn’t seem time to save her from being run over.
Chapter Two
Portia threw her hands up in the air to protect herself ... but the accident did not happen. Hard hooves did not strike her.
The rider pulled back with all his might, heaving the giant horse away from her. The steed reared and twisted midair. The flailing of hooves was so close to Portia’s head she could feel their movement in the air and smell the sweat of the beast.
Then, out of sheer athleticism, the horse turned away. It started to slide, losing its balance on the muddy road, but regained his footing.
The man never lost his seat. Indeed, he barely moved. He rode as if he and the horse were one.
She lowered her arms, amazed she was safe.
The horse pranced in place, the white of its eyes rolling. The rider’s scowl was so deep and angry it was more frightening than the near accident.
“Don’t you have sense to stay out of the road?” he demanded in a harsh voice that could have belonged to the devil himself.
He didn’t wait for her defense but put heels to flank and went riding away in a flurry of hooves and dirt, the hem of his greatcoat flying behind him like a cape.
Portia watched him go ... and then came as close as she ever had in her life to fainting.
“Miss Maclean,” she heard a man shout. “Are you all right?”
Dazed, Portia turned toward the sound to see Laird Macdonald’s gardener Robbie running toward her.
“I saw what happened,” Robbie said in his brogue. “I was thinking for certain you were going to be trampled.”
“I was as well,” Portia said. Her legs had begun to shake.
“Here, miss, take me arm.”
Gratefully, Portia did as suggested. He led her toward the stone manse that served as Laird Alexander Macdonald’s seat as well as an inn since the laird proudly honored the Highland custom of an open house.
Laird Macdonald was a young man and had great plans for Glenfinnan. These included the building of a proper inn and a monument to hisancestors who had served the Jacobite call. It appeared almost complete. The tower and building overlooked the loch and could be seen from the house.
Portia thought it rather silly of the laird to build such a tower. Yes, she had Scottish roots but held English loyalties—and the ’45 uprising was not something she thought a prudent man should commemorate. Of course, her opinion was not shared by most of the valley and she kept it to herself.
Then again, no one had ever accused Laird Alexander Macdonald of Glenalladale of being prudent. He was a rake through and through, a man who owed everyone money, including the Bishop of Lismore. Fortunately for Portia’s peace of mind, the laird had been spending the majority of his time in Edinburgh, or else, such was his reputation, they would have had to lock up Minnie.
Mrs. Margaret Macdonald, the laird’s housekeeper, held the door open for them. She was a robust woman with a frizz of strawberry curls beneath her mob cap. “I saw what happened. I was looking out the window and I saw that bounder almost bowl you over. Here, come in, Miss Maclean. A bit of whiskey will make you feel right,” she promised in her lilting accent.
Before Portia could blink, she’d been gently setin a chair before the fire in the sitting room, and a dram of amber whiskey had been pushed into her hand. “Drink,” Mrs. Macdonald ordered. She and Robbie had poured a dram for themselves as well.
Portia took a tentative sip. Whiskey drinking was not a habit she’d cultivated yet. It seemed to her that everyone, man, woman and child across the countryside, indulged in whiskey a wee bit too much. However, this time the whiskey was appreciated. The smoky flavor of it did not put her off, and the warmth that spread to her limbs helped restore her frayed nerves. Her legs stopped shaking and she found breathing easier.
“Who was that man?” she asked the servants.
“AChattan,” Robbie answered, spitting the word out.
“A Chattan?” Portia repeated.
