Night of the Highland Dragon (3 page)

The last time that Judith had gone to London, ladies had made their round of calls in carriages, attended by maids. She didn't have the impression there'd been much change in that regard, which was another reason she was glad to be away from the city. She'd neither the patience nor the fleet of servants needed to have another body tagging along with her the whole time, and she would have liked to see the fine carriage that could handle the road out by the Gordons' house.

Instead, she rode astride on a stout dun pony from her own stables, bred over the centuries for hardiness, tractability, and a near insensibility to the smell of large predators. Most animals knew what the MacAlasdairs really were, even in human shape. The elegant horses that the London crowd rode would have shied and bolted if Judith had even put a foot in one of their stirrups.

That reaction had made for a few awkward moments in her youth. More than one officer had seen a vacant spot in his cavalry or the need of a mounted messenger, and thought that “the MacAlasdair boy” had the build and the bearing to fill it. She'd learned to shrug and look down and say that horses never had taken to her, sir. How fast the rumors spread after that had been a matter of chance, though better toward the end of her career when men were less superstitious.

The navy had been easier all around. Other superstitions aside, ships didn't care who sailed on them, or at least they didn't seem to mind the MacAlasdairs.

Hitching Dawn to a convenient oak, Judith remembered the sea for a moment—the smell of salt and brine, the almost unreal pink of sunrise near the Indies—and smiled. Then she straightened her skirt and her hat, secured a package under one arm, and walked up to the cottage's front door.

Her tap brought first small Ronnie—an eight-year-old with his father's black hair and eyes—and then after the child's quick and loud exclamation, his mother. Encumbered as she was by the sixth month of pregnancy and a baby in one arm, Gillian Gordon bobbed respectfully nonetheless and smiled, though wearily. “Good day, your ladyship. You'll be here to see Ross?”

“And the rest of you, aye,” said Judith. “I hope I'm not troubling you.”

“Nay, not a bit of it,” said Gillian. “Come in and sit yourself down.”

The cottage was a large one, with a curtain-covered doorway on each side of the main room and a loft over the fire. Inside, it smelled of peat and baking bread, odors that relaxed Judith as quickly as her own scent would frighten a horse. A smooth wooden table and chairs were tucked against one wall; a rocking chair and a long bench sat by the fire. Elspeth MacDougal occupied the chair, knitting a small garment.

On the bench sat a man, young but not too young, who looked almost as out of place in the cottage as Arundell would have. With the years, Ross MacDougal's unruly blond curls had become light brown and fashionably clipped, and he'd grown a small, neat mustache. When he saw her, he got to his feet smoothly, showing a well-tailored tweed suit, and smiled. “Lady MacAlasdair.” There was little of Loch Arach in his voice, little of Scotland in general. “You've not aged a day.”

Long since, Judith had learned not to flinch at such comments, nor to suspect that they had any ring of actual suspicion in them. This time she hesitated, though she didn't know why. She felt off balance for a second, as if she'd caught her heel on a bump, but the carefully sanded floor had no irregularities.

“Eighteen's a grand charitable age to remember, I see,” she said, recovering herself with a laugh, “or you've learned courtly manners in your time away. It's good to see you back, Ross.” She turned to Mrs. MacDougal, holding out the package. “Mrs. Lennox says she's sure her jam isn't anything to what you used to make, but she'd be obliged if you'd try it. I'll not venture an opinion one way or the other, before you ask.”

“Ha,” said Mrs. MacDougal, her tone familiar in both senses of the word.

She had the right if anyone did. Alone among mortals now, she had been there during the first awkward years after Judith had come home permanently. Judith's mother had been dead, her father increasingly in seclusion, Colin off in France, and Stephen preoccupied with the curse he'd brought upon himself in his own travels. Mrs. MacDougal's advice had been invaluable then, her sympathy even more so.

Had Judith's father revealed the MacAlasdairs' true nature to his housekeeper? Had it been her mother before she'd died? Stephen? It didn't matter. In the end, the senior servants took oaths more powerful than mere words, and if Mrs. MacDougal had ever tried to get around them, the results had never troubled Judith's ears.

“Fiona always did worry about filling your shoes,” said Gillian, who'd grown up with Mrs. Lennox. The two had been maids at the castle together—ten years ago that was, before marriage for both and widowhood for one. Judith had almost gotten used to Mrs. Lennox as a housekeeper. Gillian as a housewife was still odd, and odder still when she referred to the past as if it was so far away.

“Fiona was always a likely girl,” said Mrs. MacDougal diplomatically. “'Twas a shame about her husband, but she's managed fine. Got a chill twa' or three year after ye left,” she added to her son, “and it settled in his lungs. Dr. McKendry still feels it, aye, though he did all a man could.”

“It must be difficult for him up here,” said Ross. “For any doctor. And he was middle-aged ten years ago.”

“He's got life in him yet,” said Mrs. MacDougal. “More of it now with that Mr. Hamilton up to bide wi' him. A nice, homely sort of man that, even if he is used to city ways. But then, we've no shortage of those round here now, do we?”

Judith laughed. “Certainly not.”

“Are your brothers about, then?” Ross asked. “I don't think that I caught more than a glimpse of either when I was a boy.”

“You've just missed them, I'm afraid.
And
their wives.” She had to laugh again at Ross's startled look. “Aye, it was a shock to me too, though a pleasant one. I don't
think
they met and decided it was time, but I could almost believe it.”

He smiled. “It'll be you next then.”

“I shouldn't think so,” said Judith cheerfully. “Everyone's better off with me being an old maid. I doubt I could manage the castle
and
a husband.”

It was the sort of polite deferral that she always used when people asked certain questions. Usually her response got a smile, varying from sympathetic to indulgent depending on the audience. Ross's was definitely on the indulgent end, but before it appeared, Judith thought she saw another look on his face: weary and disappointed.

Well, that made two of them.

“I'd think the right husband would take that burden from your shoulders,” said Ross.

Judith held her smile and searched for a suitable reply.

Luckily, Gillian stepped in, shaking her head at her brother. “Och, leave off, or her ladyship will think you've a man in mind for her.”

“I'd hardly presume that far,” said Ross, his smile more ingratiating now. “I'm sure I don't know anyone suitable.”

“I'll no' believe that,” Mrs. MacDougal said. “Not wi' the letters you've been sending, nor the stories you've been telling us now you're here. He's a great man in London,” she said to Judith. “Dines with lords and bishops and captains of industry.”

“Oh, Mother, don't exaggerate.” Ross looked down and waved a hand, the picture of self-deprecation. “It isn't as though it happens every night, and most of the time there are dozens of other people about. Besides, it was only chance that I struck up an acquaintance with Southbrook. I was as surprised by it as anyone.”

“And the bishops and merchant princes?” Judith asked, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Oh, them,” Ross replied with studied casualness. “Well, that's largely been on parish business. Or on other business. I work on the Exchange, you see, though I won't go into detail about it. I'm sure it would put all three of you to sleep.”

This time, Judith did let herself chuckle, though only partly at the actual joke. Young men writing to their mothers—it was hard to top them for cheek. She wouldn't have been surprised, for that matter, if half of her early letters home had given the impression that she was in the confidence of Admiral Lord Anson himself.

“Stephen does handle all of that, thank God,” she said. “I've a decent head for figures on a small scale, but I've never been much good with the funds.”

“He's gone down to London again, my mother tells me,” said Ross.

“Aye,” said Judith. “And I'll not ask if you've seen him there—country cousin I may be, but I know well enough that London is a bit larger than Loch Arach.”

Ross's face tightened again, just for a moment. “Large,” he said, “and getting larger all the time. Not always in the right ways or with the right…elements. I think you're wise to stay up here, Lady MacAlasdair, since you can manage it.”

He could have managed it too, Judith thought—he hadn't
had
to go chase after being a fine businessman. But the thought passed unsaid as quickly as it had come. She'd been about Ross's age when she'd left Loch Arach, and she'd not
had
to leave either.

“Wise or lazy,” she said. “But Colin's fond of the city, I believe, and even Stephen says it has its advantages.”

Privately, she wondered what had happened to Ross down in London. Men had come back like him before, with bitterness coating every shilling of their new wealth. Girls were behind it usually, or business gone bad. Occasionally the causes were more violent. Judith looked surreptitiously back and forth between Mrs. MacDougal and Gillian, and got blank expressions from them both. If they knew more than she did, they didn't consider it a public matter.

That was fair enough. Mortals didn't have her reasons not to want people prying, but they did have reasons.

“Will you be staying with us for a while then?” she asked.

“At least until the winter, I should think. After that”—he spread his hands—“we'll see.”

“We're hoping to persuade him to stay a year,” Gillian said, “though of course his business may need him back well before then. The telegraph can only do so much, aye?”

“Even once it arrives,” said Mrs. MacDougal.

“But he'll stay at least through the harvest and the fair,” said Gillian, and rumpled her brother's hair. “I've his word on that.”

“I couldn't miss that,” said Ross. “Not now that I'm back. I've too many fond memories.”

“I'd imagine,” said Judith.

As its neighbors did, Loch Arach always celebrated once the harvest was in. In Judith's girlhood, that had meant a meal at the castle with all the tenants. Over the years, it had come to include pony rides and boiled sweets for the children, a few contests of a largely physical and messy nature, and dancing in the evening for as long as the band's fingers and the dancers' feet held out.

“Well, I warn you,” she added, “you're likely to get a fair few questions while you're here. Your family's not the only ones who'll want to hear stories—and as for the fair, lad, I hope you came prepared to dance. New faces are rare around here, as I think you recall, and handsome ones who've lived in London rarer than that. If every girl in the village isn't making eyes at you before the week's out, I'll be very surprised.”

“Aye,” teased Gillian, “but he'll not be the only one, from what I hear.”

“The doctor's friend? Nay, too old by half,” said Mrs. MacDougal. “Or d'ye mean that Englishman who's stopped wi' Mrs. Simon?”

“That's the one,” said Gillian. “Have you seen him, your ladyship?”

“Aye,” said Judith, not changing her expression or the tone of her voice. She'd known since Arundell arrived that he'd make a stir in the village; there was no point in pouting about that. “He's well-looking, I'll say that for him.”

“I've not heard very much,” said Ross. “What can you tell me about my competition?”

“Not much. Mrs. Simon and her daughter could say more by now, I'm certain. He's a bit older than you, and a gentleman by his dress and his manners. He says his doctor's sent him away from the city for his health.” Judith shrugged. “Arundell's his name. I can't say that I know anything else.”

“Arundell?” Another moment of unknown emotion flickered across Ross's face.

“Do you know him?”

Ross frowned and finally shook his head. “I don't know that I can place the name. Perhaps I will when I meet him—but the odds, as you've already observed, are against it.”

“Aye,” said Judith, though she hoped otherwise. Most likely Mr. Arundell was only what he seemed, and she was too inclined to jump at shadows—but she would have felt much better with confirmation.

Remembering his own adolescence, particularly the part connected to Miss Susan Levett and an unfortunate fire in a wastebasket, William steadfastly ignored Claire's tendency to blush and walk into walls when he was around, just as he did with a few other girls her age. A few of the young men had shown tendencies to sulk, which William also pretended not to see. None of it was really about him, after all. He was a new face in a village that didn't see many.

Other young men, and one or two young women, asked questions instead, wanting his opinion on the wider world. They wanted to know what it was like to live in the cities, how long train journeys took and how often the trains broke down, and how hard it was to earn a living. Their younger brothers and sisters just wanted stories of steamships and royalty and battles; while their grandparents asked after politics and war, and told their own stories, as glad of a new audience as of information.

William answered everything as best he could, cultivated who he might without hurting any feelings or incurring the wrath of fathers or brothers, and found some information in his own turn, although not nearly as much as he'd have liked.

Neither Graham Stewart nor his father were among the men who talked with William, and their cow, whatever might have happened to her, was not a great subject of discussion for anyone, even Claire, after the first day or two. Without any plausible way to broach the topic, William let it lie and concentrated on other angles, though those didn't prove much more fruitful.

Lady Judith was at least forty and had come home “about twenty” years ago after her mother died. Popular consensus had her in England or maybe Ireland before then, living with an aunt or maybe her grandmother on her mother's side, or maybe going to school and then taking rooms with a friend, as young women would do these days instead of getting married like sensible creatures, according to one of the old men at the pub.

She had two brothers, and William had just missed seeing them. They were both married and living elsewhere now. On that last, public sentiment was mixed. The young regarded such defection as only natural, while the old said that it was a pity—but that it had always been the MacAlasdairs' way to wander about. Either way, general agreement had them being fine, handsome young men, with a minority (a spotty youth being most vocal among them) voting for “think they're too good for the likes of us, of course” or just taciturn shrugging when the subject came up.

Nobody could recall or had even heard of a time when the MacAlasdairs hadn't been in the castle.

Nobody had heard of any mysterious deaths recently either. Every few years, a man might break his neck hunting, but that was generally due to bad luck or drink. Disappearances were more common, but mostly young people running away to try their luck down the mountain, getting shed of their parents or the girl who'd turned them down, or in at least one winked-at case, the boy who hadn't been turned down and the unfortunate results.

Nobody could say for sure how old Lady Judith's brothers were or how old her parents had been when they'd died. They had to have been close on ninety, William's informants had said, though neither of them had much looked it, and Lord MacAlasdair in particular could have passed for a man of sixty. “Well-preserved” was the term. It made William think of jam and reflect that, generally speaking, preserving was an intentional process.

Nobody knew exactly why the MacAlasdairs didn't want anyone in the forest.

People did keep to themselves, particularly up here. Particularly when the other party was nobility. William tried to remember that and not jump to conclusions.

Then he met Ellen Ruddle. One of Claire's friends, she was short and cheerful, as ready to giggle as any of the other girls. She had a touch more composure though, a sense about her that she wasn't going to lose her head easily. That might have come from being a couple years older than the rest, but William was more interested in the other potential reason: her work at the castle.

“She's got a half holiday today,” said Claire by way of introduction. William had come outside to find the two of them leaning on a fence and talking, a dust rag tucked absently into the waist of Claire's skirt. “Ellen's a housemaid up at the castle. An' not the most junior either.”

“Aye, I'm an old hen,” said Ellen, elbowing the younger girl in the ribs.

William produced a greeting just on the charming side of polite and, after providing the requisite few sentences about himself, added, “I've only seen the castle from a distance. Vast place, from the look of it. And you're in charge of the whole thing?”

“Get out of it, you fooler,” said Ellen, waving a hand at him as if to shoo a fly. “There's a head housemaid and Mrs. Lennox over me, as I've no doubt you know. But Mrs. Lennox did say as how she couldna' do without me,” she added, shaking back her dark curls.

“I've no doubt. It looks like quite a job, even for a whole army of housemaids—or are some of the rooms shut up? I've heard that about some of these old castles.”

“There's the north wing,” Ellen began, “but—”

She stopped, frowned, and shook her head.

“But?” William asked, not sounding eager despite all temptation.

A curious look came over the girl's face then, a mixture of surprise and annoyed resignation. If an expression had words, this one would have said,
Oh,
fine
then. Have it your way!

She shook her head again. “Oh, nothing important. 'Tis shut up, is what I meant to say, and we're not to go into it, but I canna' imagine it's as bad as all that.” She stopped for a second. “They're not the sort to be letting a place fall down, aye? Even if they dinna' use a part of the castle, they'll be keeping it in repair.”

“How industrious,” said William. “And less for you to do, which must be convenient.”

“Oh, aye. I'm glad enough of it,” she said. “Especially these last few months with the whole family up. I thought for a bit that we'd have to take on extra hands.”

“But you didn't?”

“Too hard to find folk we can count on,” she said and then changed the subject.

Looking back, William could only think of that one moment, that brief look that had been anything out of the ordinary. If it hadn't fit the pattern he was starting to perceive, if not understand, he wouldn't even have noticed. Small towns were odd. Everyone knew that.

William knew that. He also knew just how dangerous “odd” could be. He'd tried to find the missing children of an “odd little town” in Ireland and had only succeeded in killing the gnarled man-thing that had sent them
elsewhere
—not the last of its kind, he was sure. He'd infiltrated an “eccentric gentleman's club” in London and discovered the Things to whom its members dedicated themselves and the methods by which their allegiance was bought.

At times, perhaps usually, odd was just odd. But his duty to Queen and Country meant he could never assume that.

When the note arrived from Dr. McKendry, offering dinner and cards “if we can dig up a fourth,” he was glad to go—not just to have mature masculine company for a whole evening, but because McKendry was likely to at least have been educated in a city, and his friend Hamilton came from Aberdeen. William's perspective was skewed one way, while the locals' perspective, and perhaps their loyalties, leaned in the other direction entirely. He wanted to hear a voice from the ground in between.

He was almost on the doctor's doorstep when he heard trotting hooves and looked up to see Lady MacAlasdair.

As he might have expected, she rode astride. When she passed William, he could see the outline of her leg pressed clearly against the yellow flowered cotton of her dress. It was a rather shapely leg too, he noticed, being a man of some experience. Being also a gentleman, he quickly lifted his gaze.

She nodded at him but didn't speak until William went to help her down and she waved him off. “Oh, Lord, no. Thank you,” she added a second later, and she swung down out of the stirrups, apparently not caring about any stray flash of petticoat that resulted. As if he had been one of the horses, she brushed past him, stepped briskly up to the door, and rapped several times.

“Tell Dr. McKendry that I need him up at the castle,” she said when a maid answered. “Jack Shaw's fallen and broken his leg. It looks bad. I'll wait for him here.”

Ave
Caesar
, William said mentally.

Imperious as Lady MacAlasdair sounded, neither her tone nor her posture was that of the typical lady making demands.

William hadn't served under many officers in his life, his position being very irregularly attached to the army, but he knew how they spoke. Make Lady MacAlasdair male and give her a few bars across her chest, and she would have passed nicely on any parade grounds.

As he smiled at the thought, the door closed, leaving the two of them alone together. Quickly, William banished any trace of mirth. “Sounds like a nasty fall, by Jove,” he said, turning to face the lady. “Is there anything I can do?”

She regarded him from under the thick darkness of her braided hair. The excitement made her eyes almost glow, like fireflies on a summer's evening, but William wouldn't have envied the lad who tried to catch them. “Set any broken bones, have ye?”

“Afraid not,” said William. In fact, he knew the theory. He knew a lot of theory, but so far he'd mercifully escaped the need to practice. “I could hold the chap steady though, or fetch water and bandages or whatnot.”

“We're no' so short of servants as ye might think,” said the lady. Her accent was thicker now than it had been in Mrs. Simon's parlor and different from what he'd heard from the locals, though William couldn't say why. Lady MacAlasdair let out a breath and then added, “But 'tis good of you to offer, all the same.”

“Oh, one tries to be helpful. I hope everything turns out well. What happened?”

“He'd been mending the roof,” she said after a moment, during which William could almost read her thoughts:
It'll be all over the village tomorrow. May as well tell him myself.
“The ladder broke. Not while he was at the top, God be thanked.”

“Indeed,” said William. “Not his first day on the job, was it?”

“No,” said Lady MacAlasdair, her eyes narrowing. “They've been mending the walls for five years, Jack and his father, and there's no' been any broken bones before.”

“First time for everything, I suppose,” said William. He looked over the lady again as she stood waiting with her hand on the horse's neck. She was a fine-looking woman, even in a plain dress and with her hair in a hasty braid. Her body rose from the ground like an oak sapling, graceful and yet with the implicit promise of strength and power.

He wished he could have viewed that last as an unqualified positive. “Will you be able to hire other men from the village, or will you send to Belholm?”

“I hadn't thought about it yet,” snapped Lady MacAlasdair, and her horse shied suddenly, though William hadn't seen any movement in the doctor's yard. She took a slow breath. “You'll forgive me, I'm sure.”

“You're worried. It's commendable.”

He wished that he hadn't been sincere when he spoke. Admiration would only make his job harder.

The lady's mouth twisted into a hard smile. “I'm glad you approve, sir.” Before William could protest, she went on. “The repairs aren't as urgent as all that. I'll see if anyone from the village is willing and able. Then maybe Belholm.”

“You don't go often, do you?”

“I wouldn't go this time,” she said. “My steward's better at hiring, and Mr. Shaw knows best who'd be a good partner.”

The doctor came out the door again, thick-bearded and short and grim, gripping a medical bag in one hand. William made a polite answer to his distracted apologies, got out of the way, and noted silently that Lady MacAlasdair had not actually answered his question.