Authors: Highland Fling
“’Tis not wicked at all. Haven’t I just been telling you you’re rightfully married to the man? ’Tis no more than your bounden duty, lass, that’s what it is.”
“It is not, and I won’t!”
“‘There is nothing worse in the world than a shameless woman, save some
other
woman.’ You will!”
“Good God, Papa,” she demanded, employing Rothwell’s favorite epithet, “would you have me behave like a strumpet?”
“Don’t take that tone to me, lassie mine, or you’ll soon find I haven’t forgotten how to put you right across my knee!”
“Aye, and isn’t that just the first thing a man thinks to do when he cannot command a woman?” she demanded icily. “I’ll have you know, ’tis just what put us in the fix we’re in today!”
“And what the devil do you mean by that?”
“Didn’t Kate tell you the whole then?” Maggie snapped. “When she spat in Mr. Carsley’s eye, he smacked her until she screeched so loud you ought to have heard her from here. Then he dropped her into the river, to cool her off, he said.”
MacDrumin’s angry look vanished, replaced by amusement. He chuckled, then laughed until his cheeks were red. When he caught his breath, he said, “That daft lad dared to thrash our Kate?”
“He did,” Maggie said with a sigh. She could understand his impulse to laugh, but the results were anything but funny.
“The poor English lad knew no better, I vow, but no wonder she tried to shoot him. She cannot think marrying Rothwell off to you was satisfactory retribution.”
“Very likely not, but the damage is done, sir, and as you can see, there was no cleverness involved. So, unless you do expect me to behave like a strumpet, I fail to understand how you mean for me to entice Rothwell to my bed.”
“You must think of a way, that’s all.”
She would have argued longer, but he silenced her, saying he had to speak to his men since there was every likelihood Fergus Campbell was plotting more mischief. “We’ve those barrels to move to a safe place, and more to get out within the sennight. ’Tis our busy time of year, lass, so I’ve no time to dawdle about, talking. ’Tis action now, for the pair of us.”
His dismissal angered her, and so did his casual assumption that she would now try to entice her so-called husband to her bed. She was determined to do no such thing, but she could not deny MacDrumin was right in that it would do them no good for Rothwell to return at once to London. It would not be in the best interest of the people of Glen Drumin to let him go back before he had seen their troubles for himself.
She was afraid her father had made one bad mistake, letting Rothwell and James know about the whisky. Rothwell was hand in glove, after all, with England’s Attorney General, and would no doubt delight in carrying information about the illegal activity straight to him. Then what would become of them? Before the earl returned she would have to show him plainly the desperate shifts to which his tenants had been reduced in order to survive. But no matter what happened, she would not entice him to her bed.
So perverse was her imagination, however, that no sooner did her head touch her pillow that night than she began to wonder what it would be like to share a bed with him. No matter what else she tried to think about, her mind kept shifting back to the thought of his hands on her body, and hers on his. She could almost feel the flesh of his shoulders as she had at Laggan when Conach MacLeod entered her room, holding his branch of candles. She remembered the way the candlelight had flickered and danced, creating golden lights and mysterious shadows. Turning over, she buried her face in her pillow and forced herself to think about Kate and what she had done, and James, and the pistol shot—one more thing the earl could report to the authorities. Kate could be arrested for such an act. The woman was daft.
The clock in the great hall had struck three before Maggie fell asleep, and the last thought she had then and the first she had when she awoke to find sunlight streaming into her room, was Rothwell. Was he up yet? Had he already ordered his baggage packed, intending to depart? Or, worst of all, had he gone?
Getting up at once, she snatched clothing from her wardrobe, dressed hurriedly, as much by guess as by habit, without bothering to shout for a maid or Maria. There were no bells to tug at MacDrumin House, but there were servants aplenty, though she had never felt the need to have one all to herself.
Twisting her hair into a knot, she pulled a mobcap on over it and glanced at the result in the small glass, deciding the soft creamy lace edging was becoming and that the narrow red ribbon threaded through the inner edge of the lace was a cheerful addition. She had not thought much about such things before her visit to London, not even at school in Edinburgh, but now as she smoothed her bodice and shook out her skirt—one of her own old gowns but of a pleasing shade of chestnut—she was glad she had some pretty things to wear. Hastening down to the hall, she found the earl and James already enjoying a large breakfast at a table set before the cheerful fire.
Besides hot porridge and fresh cream, there were mutton collops, fresh-caught grilled trout, bannocks, and manchet loaves. When she entered, James, dressed casually as usual, was liberally spreading butter and quince marmalade on a chunk of wheat bread torn from the manchet. She noted at once and with some relief that Rothwell, attired with his customary elegance—though the rest of their baggage could not have arrived yet—was not wearing riding dress. Both men got to their feet, and when a servant moved to hold her chair, she sat down, bidding them good-morning and waving them back to their seats.
“Papa has not come down yet, I see,” she said, striving to sound calm, which under the circumstances was no easy task.
“On the contrary,” Rothwell said, smiling with more warmth than she had expected to see. “I’m told he was up hours ago and has gone to call upon someone or other. No doubt, that is merely the explanation he ordered given to me, however, and he has actually gone out to dispose of last night’s cargo.”
“Faith, ma’am,” James said with a chuckle, “were all those little kegs full of illicit whisky?”
Determined that they would get no information out of her to use against her father, she said with feigned innocence, “I know little about such things, sir. You will have to ask Papa.” Signing to a hovering servant to serve her from the dish of collops, and helping herself to a chunk of the manchet loaf as he did, she avoided looking at either Rothwell or James, and hoped they would leave that subject for a new one. When the silence lengthened, she dared to look at them again, and saw that Rothwell was peering through his eyeglass at a dish of conserved myrtle. James was thoughtfully chewing bread and marmalade.
With a sigh of relief she turned her attention to her own breakfast, whereupon James said, “I own, Miss MacDrumin—Egad, I need not call you that any longer! You’re my sister now, same as Lydia, so I’ll call you Maggie.”
Involuntarily she looked at Rothwell, but what he was thinking she could not tell. Quietly, she said, “You may certainly call me Maggie, sir, but your puzzlement reminds me that difficulties may arise as to how others should address me.”
She had not heard the front door open, but she heard it bang shut and, turning, saw that her father had returned. Evidently he had heard the exchange, for he said briskly, “There’s no question at all, lass. You are the Countess of Rothwell and must properly be addressed as ‘Lady Rothwell’ or ‘my lady.’ Is that not so, lad?” His look challenged Rothwell to argue.
The earl signed to a servant to clear away his dishes, and said smoothly, “Certainly, MacDrumin, for the present. I have already instructed my servants to do so.”
MacDrumin strode nearer the table and peered into the mug by Rothwell’s right hand. “That’s ale,” he said accusingly.
“It is perfectly customary to take ale with one’s breakfast,” Rothwell said.
“Not in Scotland,” MacDrumin retorted. “Were you not offered good whisky?”
James laughed and said, “Forsooth, sir, ’tis rather strong stuff with which to break one’s fast.”
“Bah, infants drink it from birth here in the Highlands.”
Maggie choked on her porridge and sputtered, “Papa, really!”
“They do!”
“Only a teaspoon as part of the christening ceremony,” she told Rothwell and James. “It is said to test their strength.”
“No doubt it kills off the weak ones,” Rothwell replied. He seemed relaxed, and she was glad but a bit wary.
James said, “Egad, I’ll have some of that whisky. ’Tis the best I’ve tasted anywhere. I’d like to know how it’s made.”
His attitude was so ingenuous that Maggie acquitted him of all evil intent, and MacDrumin, pouring him a chopin of the potent stuff with his own hands, said with a smile, “Thinking to make some up yourself back home in England, lad?”
“Why, I believe I could, you know, once I see how it’s done. I like learning new things.”
MacDrumin snorted. “You’ll never match ours. You need pure mountain water for distilling, peat for your fires, and the best malted barley. Only then could you try to match the excellence of Glen Drumin whisky.”
“Excellent stuff,” James said, sipping appreciatively.
“Aye, ’tis said that with Glen Drumin whisky, a man could make sea-water into a passable toddy,” MacDrumin said. He paused thoughtfully, then added, “If you’ve really a wish to see how we make it, I could take you to see a working bothy.”
“Papa!”
“Whisst now, lassie, where’s the harm? ’Tis perfectly legal for a man to distill whisky for his own use, which is all we do, after all,” he added with a look of bland innocence.
“If a bothy is a still, I’d very much like to see one,” James said earnestly.
“I, too,” Rothwell agreed, not much to Maggie’s surprise.
She looked warningly at her father, but MacDrumin nodded and said, “You want to see the whole estate, lad. I’ll be right glad to take you round myself, and I believe Maggie will want to ride with us, too, won’t you, lass?”
She agreed reluctantly, and James said, “Will we be riding near the MacCains?” When the others looked at him in surprise, he added, “We’d do well to carry arms if there’s a chance we might encounter that wench today. Someone ought to take her in hand. Where are her parents, that they let her behave so?”
“Kate’s father died ten years ago, and two of her brothers fell at Culloden,” Maggie said evenly. “Her mother does naught but sit in her rocking chair and rock all day, and though her granny tries to help, she is getting on in years, so the burden falls on Kate to look after the others.”
“What about her large cousin, Dugald?” Rothwell asked.
“He does what Kate asks him to do, but although he is her cousin, he is first a MacDrumin, and Kate has never really forgiven the MacDrumins for condemning Rose MacCain’s marriage to a man from a rival clan. Kate hates to be beholden to anyone. After her brothers fell at Culloden, she declared she would never depend upon any man again, and would look after her own by herself. And so she has done ever since, for the most part.”
“That’s right,” MacDrumin said with a sigh. “The lass acknowledges no master, not even myself, though as the MacDrumin, I have every right to command her obedience. From time to time she does obey me, but only when it suits her.”
Just then the big front door swung wide, and a boy appeared in the opening, the sunlight outlining him from behind, creating a halo effect where it touched his golden hair. He stepped into the hall and said urgently, “Laird, the Abershiel worm be failing, and Dugald said—” Stopping short, he let the door swing to behind him and looked warily at Rothwell and James, who still sat at the table. Maggie knew the blue-eyed, freckle-faced towhead recognized them from the holdup, for he was Ian MacCain, the same lad who had stopped the coach by lying as one dead in the roadway. She saw, too, that the men recognized Ian.
“What worm was that, laddie?” MacDrumin asked casually.
Ian looked from him to the others and back again, then said glibly, “Why, ’tis the worms ye gi’e me fer fishing, Laird. They be right faulty, them last ones. The ones ye gi’e me afore when I weren’t having any luck, they worked like ye’d cast a spell on ’em.” He grinned at Rothwell and James. “Niver seen the like. His lairdship soaked them worms in whusky, and not ten seconds after me first cast, me reel began tae screech like a banshee.”
“You’d caught one that quick?” James exclaimed.
“Not me, the worm,” Ian said with a flashing grin. “He’d got a salmon right by the throat and wouldna let it go!”
The men roared with laughter, and MacDrumin rumpled the boy’s hair, saying, “You’re a right one, Ian, my lad.”
“He is that,” Rothwell said, his eyes still alight with laughter, “and he thinks quickly on his feet, too, but suppose you explain what he really meant, for I don’t believe that his first reference was to a fishing worm. He would not call such a thing the ‘Abershiel’ worm, now, would he?”
Maggie grimaced, and young Ian’s expression changed from triumph to dismay, but the unflappable MacDrumin said only, “‘Even if I persuade you, I won’t persuade you.’ You’re right quick yourself, lad.”
With almost an apologetic air, Rothwell said, “I live with a stepmother who frequently exploits double meanings, MacDrumin. A man exercises the art he knows. But do explain the boy’s urgency and understand that I mean to discover precisely what sort of business is being run on my estates.”
“Aye, you’ve the right,” MacDrumin said, avoiding Maggie’s gaze. “You’ve said you want to see a bothy, and like as not, Abershiel will do as well as any. We’ll ride part way, so you’ll be wanting to change your clothes. And, Maggie lass, you change too, and you’re married now, lass: You must wear a kertch.”
Flushing, not trusting herself to reply civilly, Maggie arose and walked quickly toward the stairway, but Rothwell caught up with her before she reached it. “What is a kertch?” he asked.
“Only a three-cornered kerchief,” she said. “Married ladies in Scotland wear them to show their status, whilst maidens wear caps or let their hair hang down their backs.”
“I see.” He was silent for a moment, then said ruefully, “I tend to forget you are as much a victim of Kate’s prank as I am.”