When the Laird Returns Page 2

  But it no longer mattered that the two secrets had been discovered. Every MacRae knew of the existence of both the cove and the staircase, having been either part of the exodus from this place thirty years ago or a descendant of those who had fled Scotland.

  The priory seemed more suited to shadows than the bright sunlight. But there was no roof, no walls, and little more remaining of the structure than the slate floor beneath his feet. The atmosphere, however, was one of serene sadness, as if the death of Gilmuir had been expected but not unmourned.

  A series of arches had once stretched across the back of the priory, facing Loch Euliss. Only part of one arch remained, framing the view. Loch Euliss stretched out before him, gradually narrowing until it flowed into Coneagh Firth and from there to the sea. On either side of the lake were thickly forested glens, the trees appearing more black than green.

  Turning, he entered a hallway that had been described to him numerous times. The fortress had originally been built in the shape of an H, with the priory and castle connected by a covered corridor. But there were few signs remaining of what Gilmuir had once been. There were no tall chimneys, steeply pitched roofs, or towering walls aged by the passage of centuries. Instead, he viewed a crumbling ruin.

  His father had spent years of his youth at Gilmuir, and later his mother had been held hostage within these walls, before becoming a rebel and then a wife to an English colonel engaged in treason. Here, his great-grandfather had ruled as laird and tragedy had swept over the clan, beginning with his grandmother’s death.

  Reasons enough for feeling an affinity toward the old castle. Or it could be that the answer lay in his great-uncle Hamish’s words to him as a boy. “It doesn’t matter where you’re born, lad. If there’s a drop of MacRae blood in you, you’ll always be from Gilmuir.”

  Unexpectedly, Alisdair heard a soft, keening cry, as if Gilmuir’s ghosts rose up to greet him. He shook his head, amused at himself and the fact that he’d momentarily allowed tales from his boyhood to overshadow reason.

  Striding through an opening in the corridor, he found himself standing beside mounds of rubble and one weak-looking wall leaning precariously over a pit. He heard the sound again, but this time, instead of inciting his curiosity, the plaintive cry irritated him.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said loudly, staring down into the opening. But the skin on the back of his neck tightened when something moved in the shadows.

  “I am very happy to hear that,” a female voice said weakly.

  He frowned, studying the darkness.

  “Show yourself,” he said.

  She stepped out of the shadows into the afternoon light, glancing up at him, a solemn expression on her face.

  He wondered for a fleeting moment if it was true, after all, that there were spirits at Gilmuir. The intruder was the image of Ionis’s love, the woman painstakingly crafted in the cave portraits.

  Not a ghost, but human.

  Her long black hair seemed part of the shadows, her eyes as delicately green as the stem of a flower. Her mouth was solemn but seemed to hint at smiles. An arresting face, square in shape.

  Smudges of dirt marked her cheek as well as her pale blue striped petticoat. Her soiled white kerchief was hanging loose, held at the ends by a double brooch pinned to her yellow jacket. Her long black hair was tied at her nape with a ribbon of dark blue, the same shade that bound the hem of her skirt.

  “Well?” he asked finally. “If you’re not haunting Gilmuir, then who are you and why are you here?”

  Slowly, her gaze traveled up from his black boots with their tops folded down at the knees of his buff breeches. His short waistcoat of plaid wool was topped with a buff cutaway jacket, the cuffs and lapels wide and folded back to reveal crimson facings. His brown hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, the high collar of his coat framing a heavily bearded face, thick brows, and eyes a shade of blue so light that looking at them was like viewing a dawn sky.

  An imposing rescuer.

  Iseabal took one step back.

  “Are you a soldier?” she asked, having never seen the tartan worn by anyone other than the military. Once, in Inverness, she had watched as a troop of men assembled in strict formation, their attire no less resplendent than this man’s. A regiment of Highland soldiers, off to fight for the English king.

  “No,” he said shortly. “And you? Who are you?”

  “I am no ghost,” she said, bending carefully to retrieve her leather sling. “But I might well be one if left here.” Looping the ties over her shoulder, she looked up at him again. “Will you help me?” she asked.

  Unfolding his arms, he knelt on one knee, studying the distance before lying flat on the ground. Reaching down with both hands, he waited until she stretched upward, then gripped her wrists. Rising first to his knees and then to his feet, he began pulling her free.

  As he lifted her, Iseabal willed the pain away, but found that it was better simply to pray for the ability to bear it. Her knees bumped against the smooth stone of the wall and a moment later she felt the solid earth beneath her feet, the warming sunlight like a benediction against her face.

  Taking a cautionary step away from the edge of the foundation, she glanced up at him. His size dwarfed her, and she was a tall woman. There was an air of command to this stranger, especially standing as he was with feet planted apart and the fingers of one hand wound around the wrist of another.

  Only one other person in her life had demonstrated such force of presence—her father. Magnus Drummond was a short, bandy-legged man who nevertheless carried himself as if he were king.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “A MacRae,” he said, his frown not easing.

  “There are no more MacRaes,” she said, placing one hand against her chest.

  “You are looking at one,” he said. His voice sounded almost Scot, but there was a tinge of accent that flattened his words. “And you?” he asked again, taking a step closer. “Who are you?” He reached out one hand as if to touch her and she jerked away, the sudden twisting movement resulting in a spear of pain in her side.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, his fingers brushing against hers, sliding to the back of her hand where it rested at her waist.

  “I’m fine,” she said, taking another step back. He followed her, implacable in his kindness.

  A miscreant would be hesitant to have him as judge. But her lie had been a small one, Iseabal thought as his eyes, soft disks of pale blue light, seemed to bore through her.

  Taking one more step away from him, Iseabal hoped he would not follow.

  “How did you come to be in the pit?” he asked. “Why do you trespass at Gilmuir?” Once again he closed the distance between them.

  Again she moved away from him, and this time he seemed to understand. Another step and he remained where he was.

  Reaching her horse, Iseabal untied the reins, knowing that riding would not be wise with her side hurting so badly. Resigned to walking back home, she turned, heading for the land bridge.

  “Why are you on MacRae land?” he asked again.

  Iseabal faced him, answering him finally.

  “It’s no longer MacRae land,” she said, wishing that it were not true. “There haven’t been MacRaes here for years. It’s owned by Magnus Drummond,” she added, before leaving both Gilmuir and the man.

  Chapter 2

  T wice she turned and looked back at him, her face flushed and deepening in color as he watched. Her eyes, green and solemn, looked away before returning to him as quickly. Almost, Alisdair thought, as if she could not believe he were real.

  They’d not exchanged names, but they’d touched as intimately as man and wife. He could still feel her pressed tightly against his body in that last second before her feet had touched the ground.

  Her slender figure was framed against the whitish blue of the summer sky, her hair flowing against her back in a delicate fan. She crossed the land bridge keeping the horse at a wa
lk, making him wonder again at the state of her injury.

  Despite her claims, he’d seen pain in her eyes.

  Who was she? A cautious woman, evidenced by that slight change of expression from curiosity to wariness. A lovely woman, an enigma who spoke troubling words.

  He raised a hand and scratched his beard with his knuckles. Now, that was probably why she’d run from him. But it was a tradition of his not to shave until he had finished his voyage and was home once more.

  What did she mean that this was Drummond’s land?

  He glanced to the side, distracted by a blur of color. An ocean of sheep filled the glen, their lean bodies showing pink through their sparse tan fleece.

  Frowning, he took a few steps forward, only to be called back by a voice.

  “It’s a fine place,” Daniel said. “For all that it’s nearly gone.”

  Turning, Alisdair faced his first mate. Most of the crew had followed him and were now roaming through the ruins. They, like him, were descendants of the people of Gilmuir, and the sights they saw today would be told in a hundred tales back home.

  “The fort’s not there,” Daniel said abruptly, his voice tinged with amazement.

  Alisdair spun around to discover that Daniel was right. He’d been so distracted by the woman that he’d never realized that Fort William had vanished. Built after Culloden, the fort had been an English stronghold for this part of the Highlands.

  “It’s an ugly thing,” his mother had said. “A blight on the landscape.”

  “A fortification built in the style of English forts,” his father had contributed with a smile. “We used the design in our first settlement here.”

  With Daniel at his side, Alisdair walked across the barren earth that separated the two structures. An outline of bricks marked where the building had once stood, but there were no walls remaining, no doors, only a few wooden supports where he imagined the stable might have been.

  “It looks to have simply disappeared,” Alisdair said, startled to feel a surge of satisfaction.

  Daniel nodded, studying the layout of the fort. “I wonder why they left?”

  “Why stay?” Alisdair asked with a small smile. “They had already accomplished their aim.” His own dislike of the English was due more to their encroachment in Nova Scotia and their paternalistic attitudes in the Orient than to the Crown’s behavior in Scotland. His father was half English, a fact that most of the MacRaes of Cape Gilmuir conveniently ignored.

  “What do you know of the Drummonds?”

  “A thieving bunch, I’ve heard,” his first mate said. “They were forever stealing our horses and our livestock.”

  Alisdair stifled a smile. The MacRaes had claimed this land centuries ago, had fought to keep it, had built from stone a fortress that commanded the surrounding countryside. People with such determination would have been as fierce as the Drummonds and no doubt as guilty of their own reiving.

  Turning, Alisdair walked across the land bridge, leaving Daniel behind. The land was no longer a lush green; the voracious sheep had transformed the grass beneath his feet to dusty earth.

  “Get off MacRae land,” Alisdair said, reaching the shepherd of this damnable flock.

  The man was dressed in brown breeches, a tan shirt, and boots that looked worn enough at the seams to fall apart with each step. His hair was a muted blond, his face not yet formed with character, and his brown eyes shone with a cool arrogance, betraying his youth as nothing else could.

  “You’d be Magnus Drummond, then?” the shepherd asked, his gaze traveling from Alisdair’s boots to the top of his head. “You’ll not be looking like him.”

  “I’m a MacRae,” Alisdair said, capable of his own arrogance.

  “And why should I care?”

  “Because this is MacRae land,” he said, his irritation growing.

  “There haven’t been MacRaes here since the old times,” the young man said. “Or are you thinking I should go back to Drummond and tell him that I’ve seen a ghost?”

  “I’m thinking,” Alisdair said carefully, “that you should get off my land.”

  He glanced around, searching the flock. There, on the periphery, was a belled ewe. Sheep were not stubborn as much as stupid, an entire flock following a leader unquestioningly, even occasionally to their death. Sheep were raised at home, not only for food but to supply his mother and the other women with wool for their looms.

  Striding now to the edge of the flock, Alisdair gripped the ewe’s bell collar and began walking her toward the southwestern corner of the glen.

  “You can’t do that,” the shepherd said, coming up behind him and waving his staff.

  “Get them off my land,” Alisdair replied calmly. The sheep followed in an arrow shape behind him, drowning the shepherd’s protests with their bleating.

  The young man grabbed Alisdair’s sleeve, pulling on his coat. Alisdair brushed the dirty hand away and continued walking.

  “Drummond’s not going to like this,” the shepherd shouted.

  One eyebrow rose, Alisdair’s disregard for Drummond’s opinion implicit in the gesture. He stopped, facing the shepherd. “Where is this Drummond of yours?” he asked.

  “You mean to tell him it’s your land?” the other man asked incredulously.

  “I do,” Alisdair said tightly.

  The young man studied Alisdair for a moment, as if measuring the breadth of his resolve. “That’s one meeting I’d like to see,” he said. “I’ll gladly give you directions to Fernleigh.”

  “And take your sheep from here,” Alisdair added.

  He nodded, hooking the curved end of his staff in the ewe’s collar. Smiling broadly, he led the sheep away.

  Alisdair watched him for a few moments before beginning the walk back to Gilmuir. The sun tinted the old ruins gold, and for a second Alisdair could almost believe the place whole again. The crew of the Fortitude still milled about, or stood transfixed on the headland, gazing down at the loch. Their presence gave the castle life, summoning a vision of what it might have been like to live here before the English bombarded Gilmuir.

  His home in Nova Scotia had begun as a settlement of clustered wooden huts, gathered together in the shadows of a fortress. Over the years, the huts had been replaced by stone cottages offering more protection against the severe winter winds. Homes were adorned with animal skins and the bright wool of newly woven tartans. There was a smell of newness to each house, filled as it was with recently hewn wood crafted into beds and chairs and tables.

  There was nothing about Nova Scotia that was old and revered or hinted at timelessness like this old castle. Yet the MacRaes who lived there had willingly given up their past to guarantee a future not only for themselves but for their children.

  Perhaps it was foolish to care about Gilmuir, to want it left sacrosanct and untouched. He didn’t live here, nor did he plan to, his home being either aboard ship or on an island named for this somber and deserted ruin. But Alisdair couldn’t shake the notion that this land and its fortress belonged to the MacRaes, whether absent or not.

  Her home was only a few miles away, perched upon the highest hill on Drummond land. Originally, Iseabal had been told, Fernleigh had been nothing more than a mound of earth encircled by a deep trench. Over the centuries, the Drummonds had added a wooden fortress, then framed it with stone. That structure had stood until her father had rebuilt the outside walls with brick taken from the English fort.

  Fernleigh towered over the landscape, a square red sandstone box. Her home was not a cheerful place, or a happy one. While laughter rang within the stone walls, it was a response to a drunken jest, or an uneasy chuckle at her father’s wit. Most commonly heard through the narrow hallways and drafty rooms of Fernleigh were her father’s shouts of anger.

  “I’m an important man,” he’d told her once. “A man feared and respected throughout Scotland.” Not an idle boast, she suspected, since many a visitor from Edinburgh or Inverness came to their home, spending days in
conversation with Magnus Drummond.

  Life at Fernleigh was not wholly dour. There was luxury in their garments and their choice of meals. But such sparse pleasures never made up for the fear.

  Iseabal couldn’t remember a time when she’d not been cautious of her father in a visceral way, one that dampened her palms and set her stomach to churning. For the most part she remained out of sight, having discovered that the fewer times he saw her, the less she was punished.

  He was a man who sought out his enemy’s weaknesses and used them to his advantage. Such cunning had kept the Drummonds safe over the years. But her father extended his wariness to his family, and saw a foe even in her mother and herself.

  As she grew, Iseabal realized that her father would never soften and she could never be a daughter who pleased him. They would never come to understand one another. With that realization came a curious freedom. She was released from the obligation of trying to love her father.

  She gave the reins to Robbie, and the stableboy took them, not questioning why she’d returned home walking her mount. Robbie was her companion in misadventure, never speaking of her secret visits to Gilmuir. Nor did he tell anyone of the stones he hid away for her or of the many times he’d reported her father’s movements.

  “He’s back early,” Robbie whispered, glancing around.

  Forcing a reassuring smile to her face, Iseabal nodded. “Keep these for me,” she whispered, handing him her leather sling holding her tools.

  He ducked his head in agreement, having done so often enough in the past.

  Iseabal headed for the kitchen entrance. Neither the cook nor her helpers acknowledged Iseabal’s presence as she passed through the large chamber. A sign, she noted, and not a good one.

  All the corridors of Fernleigh led to a small, round room, probably the original keep. Now it acted like the hub of the structure, connecting corridors. Built into the curved wall was a staircase winding up to the second and third floors, the steps rounded and worn.