Lady of Light
Authors: Kathleen Morgan
Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Historical, #General, #Romance, #ebook
L
ADY
of
L
IGHT
Other books by Kathleen Morgan
Brides of Culdee Creek Series
Daughter of Joy
Woman of Grace
Lady of Light
Child of Promise
Guardians of Gadiel Series
Giver of Roses
These Highland Hills Series
Child of the Mist
Wings of Morning
L
ADY
of
LIGHT
BRIDES OF CULDEE CREEK • BOOK THREE
KATHLEEN
MORGAN
© 2001, 2007 by Kathleen Morgan
Published by Fleming H. Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
New paperback edition published 2007
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morgan, Kathleen, 1950—
Lady of light / Kathleen Morgan.
p. cm.—(Brides of Culdee Creek : bk. 3)
ISBN 10: 0-8007-5755-6
ISBN 978-0-8007-5755-7
1. Scottish-Americans—Fiction. 2. Women pioneers—Fiction.
3. Married women—Fiction. 4. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.08647 L3 2001
813.54—dc21 00-067351
Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
For my mother
Table of Contents
Discussion Questions for Lady of Light
CLAIRE
“Bright, illustrious, source of light”
No man, when he hath lighted a candle, putteth it in a secret place … but on a candlestick, that they which come in may see the light.
Luke 11:33
Highlands of Sutherland,
Scotland, March 1898
He fell after the second blow, to lie in an ever widening pool of blood.
Clutching her torn blouse to her, Claire Sutherland stared down at her uncle for the longest time, then glanced up to meet her brother’s angry gaze. “Mother of God, Ian,” she whispered, nearly retching from the renewed swell of stark, vivid fear, and stench of whiskey and sweat that engulfed her yet again. “What have you done? Och, what have you done?”
“Naught that you wouldn’t have done, if I was the one being attacked,” the fourteen-year-old muttered. He lifted the bloody, stout wooden stick, stared at it as if seeing it for the first time, then flung it aside. “Fergus is a foul-hearted drunk and lecher. He went too far this time, though, in laying a hand on you.”
As a fierce spring wind howled in from the ocean, shaking the wooden rafters and battering the stone house, Claire hesitantly walked to where her uncle lay, squatted, and turned him over. After a horrified moment, she looked up. “Och, Ian. There’s so much blood. Did you have to hit him so hard?”
“And what would you’ve had me do?” Ian’s face mottled in his fear and frustration. “Politely ask him to stop ravishing my sister?” He laughed harshly. “Och, aye. As drunk as he was, Fergus would’ve made short work of tossing me out the window, or worse.”
Claire’s gaze lowered to her blouse. At the sight of the shredded fabric and marks of grubby hands, an image of her uncle attacking her but a few minutes before filled her.
Once more she saw his beard-stubbled face lowering to hers, felt his fat, thick lips slobbering over her neck and cheeks before claiming her mouth. Then there were his filthy hands, touching her, tearing at her clothes as he pressed her backward onto the rough-hewn table.
A freshened panic flooded Claire, as it had during those horrible, panic-stricken moments when she had fought frantically to protect herself. Her breath came again in short, painful gulps. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
“Still, I don’t know who’ll believe us, when we tell them what Uncle Fergus tried to do,” Claire finally forced herself to reply. “After all, we aren’t from these parts, and he was born and raised here.”
“He isn’t thought verra highly of. Mayhap the constable—”
“Fergus Ross has kin aplenty!” A little too sharply, Claire cut him off. “They’ll stand by him, and the constable will soon be gone at any rate. Then who’ll protect us? Nay”—she shook her head in fierce denial—“we can’t risk it. We’ll have to devise some other plan.”
“The blame is mine, not yours,” her brother protested. “They wouldn’t harm you.”
Claire straightened. “And do you think I’d let them lay one hand on you, brother? Nay, not while I draw breath.”
“Then what shall we do?”
Almost of its own accord, Claire’s gaze swung back to their uncle. “There’s no way around it. We’ll have to leave, find sanctuary elsewhere. After tonight, it’ll only go the worse for us.”
Ian chewed on his lower lip, his youthful brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he nodded. “Aye, it’s the best plan. And it’ll suit me fine. I never cared much for this place at any rate.”
Mayhap not, his sister thought as she hurried to her small, enclosed boxbed in the single-roomed croft house to change. What lay ahead, though, might not be any better.
She crawled inside, pulled the shabby, woolen curtains to, and shivering in revulsion, quickly stripped off her ruined blouse. As much as she hated to face it, Ian was right. They’d never be able to return to this house. It was tainted beyond hope of ever being clean again.
Tainted, Claire thought with a sudden swell of despair. As were she and Ian … and their vain dream of ever finding a safe haven, or a place to call home again.
The Village of Culdee,
Highlands of Strathnaver,
Scotland, May 1899
For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known….
Luke 8:17
“Hie yourself out of bed this instant, Ian Sutherland, or your teacher won’t be the only one who’ll lay the tawse across your hands this day!”
Claire sent one final, narrow-eyed look across the crofter’s cottage toward the boxbed holding her fifteen-year-old brother, then turned back to the rough-hewn table and the two carved, wooden bowls filled with uncooked oatmeal. She poured a portion of boiling water from the kettle into each bowl, then set the kettle aside. Without further ado, Claire pulled up a small stool and sat. After sprinkling some salt over the now rapidly softening porridge and stirring it in, she poured a generous serving of milk atop it all.
Behind her, Ian groaned, kicked off his feather tick comforter, and shoved from bed. “I don’t see what it matters if I’m late to school or not,” the lanky, chestnut-haired boy grumbled as he padded barefoot across the packed dirt floor to the pitcher and wash basin. “Old man Cromartie will find some excuse before the day’s out to lay the strap to me. He always does.”
“Then mayhap you should devote a bit more time each eve to your studies.” Claire stirred the milk into her oatmeal, then scooped up a helping of the Scots’ staple food in a horn spoon. “He means only to encourage you to excel, after all.”
“Och, aye.” Her brother gave a snort of disgust. “The day Archibald Cromartie cares a whit for my success will be the day I choke down an entire haggis without complaint!”
Claire smiled at Ian’s scathing reference to the traditional dish of ground ox or sheep organ meats mixed with oatmeal, suet, onions, and seasonings that was then stuffed in the animal’s scraped stomach and boiled. “Well,
I
care, and that’s all that matters. One of us must make it out of this village and accomplish something with his life. I can always wed, if need be. You, though, my fine lad, will need schooling to make your way in the world.”
“Aye,” Ian agreed with yet another disdainful snort.
“As if
you’re
of a mind ever to wed. I can’t see you as a fishwife, or working the fields beside a big lout of a husband for some master.” He paused to splash water onto his face and wash his hands, before glancing back up at her. “But then, mayhap you won’t even have a choice, if Dougal MacKay has any say in it. He means to make you his wife, you know.”