Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (25 page)

“What kind of stories?”

Cathleen was beginning to get a headache and wanted only to
return home. She saw no point in all of this. What, for goodness sake, did the
duke think she could tell him? In spite of his attempts to be somewhat friendly
in his approach, the man made her nervous. She squirmed in her seat. “The usual
kind of stories,” she replied. “He wanted to know what his father was like, the
kinds of things he enjoyed. Who his friends were. Places he had been. People
who knew interesting stories about him. Is it so strange for a body to want to
know something about their past?”

She saw immediately that her obvious irritation did not sit
well with the duke. “I see it was a mistake to think I could talk to you. It is
obvious that you are hiding something. The question is, why?” His look was
cold, hard. “Just what is
your
relationship to the earl?”

Cathleen rose to her feet. “He is my friend. Nothing more.
However, I really don’t think it is any of your business, Your Grace. I think
your interest in the earl has moved beyond the bounds of common courtesy.”

He gave her a cold smile. “I would advise you to have
nothing to do with the Earl of Caithness.”

“I have not for some time now.” She glanced toward the door
and was about to start in that direction when the duke’s voice stopped her
abruptly.

“I have reason to believe the earl is not what he appears to
be. It is rumored that he is involved in seditious activities. To involve
yourself could implicate you in something that could turn quite nasty.”

She gasped, staring at him. “I don’t know what you are
talking about, and in any case, I think your concern is rather like locking the
barn door after the cattle are gone. The earl no longer lives in our crofter’s
hut, and, as I said before, since my grandfather’s death I have seen him hardly
at all.”

“Perhaps I should make myself more clear—”

“And perhaps you are barking up the wrong tree. I have come
here to Glengarry Castle out of concern for the health of your staff. I do not
appreciate having my feet held over the fire and being interrogated. If you
have questions about the Earl of Caithness, I can think of no one better
endowed to answer them than the earl himself.”

The duke’s face turned a dark red. The dark, piercing eyes
flicked over her with no more regard than they would have for a swarm of gnats.
Cathleen felt goose bumps popping out under his intense scrutiny.

She did not like this man. He terrified her. To provoke him
had been foolish. She vowed to keep her mouth shut.

“I had hoped that you would prove to be a sensible lass. I
know your grandfather did not leave a large fortune behind when he died. As
overlord of this area, it is my responsibility to watch over those under my
care. You might say that I believe that one good turn deserves another. Should
you happen to remember anything that might be of interest to me, please feel
free to call here at any time. Give me any information of interest and I will
more than make it worth your while. I am sure you
understand
.”

“Aye. I understand perfectly.”

The Duke of Glengarry rose to his feet and came around the
desk. Taking Cathleen’s arm, he walked her to the door. “I will give you time
to think about what I have said. Perhaps you will feel differently and we can
speak of these things at another time, when your passions have cooled.”

“There is nothing to speak of. Time will not change my mind.
I was taught to tend to my own affairs and let others attend to theirs. I will
tell the earl of your interest. Perhaps he will see fit to call upon you
himself, so that he might answer all your questions.”

That seemed to amuse him. She felt a coldness settle over
her as she watched a slow, curving smile stretch across his face. “You are
welcome to tell him anything you like, lass, but if you have any affections for
him, you might wish to reconsider. I would hate to see the young earl lose his
temper over such a trivial matter. Anger could cause him to do something both
of you might regret.”

For a moment she was so overcome with anger and fear that
she thought she could not move. She realized then what kind of man she was up
against. She had made a grave mistake in thinking that she could place
Fletcher’s stay here in an innocent light. To have tried to do so had only
implicated her, for she knew that Adair knew she was hiding something.

Finding the strength from somewhere deep within her, she
left the study, thinking she could not stay at Glengarry Castle any longer, at
least for today. She needed to get away before the evil in the place
contaminated her. She needed time to think.

As she made her way home, her mind was awash with confusion.
She wanted nothing more than to run to Fletcher and tell him, but she was
afraid.

Afraid for Fletcher.

Afraid for herself.

In the end, she decided that it was best to remain silent.
Adair had been right about one thing. If she told Fletcher, he would want to
confront Adair, and if he did, it would only complicate things further. The
best thing to do was to ignore it, to let Adair think she gave it no more
importance than she would the skip of a flea.

Ignore it and it will go away. It is better to suffer a
great evil than to cause a little one.

There were several times during the coming days when she
felt certain that Angus MacTavish would not win his bout with typhoid, but when
he survived the height of the fever, she knew from experience that by the
fourth week he would be on the mend.

As Angus grew stronger, he grew more inquisitive. One of the
first things he asked her was about the Earl of Caithness.

“Why does he spend so much time here in Glengarry?”

Cathleen felt her heart lurch, for his words sounded
remarkably like Adair’s, but she saw no reason not to be honest. Angus had
already made his dislike of Adair known to her. When she told him about
Fletcher’s father, Angus said he had heard the rumor years ago.

“And did you believe it?” she asked.

“I would believe anything of the Duke of Glengarry. He is a
cunning man and cruel. Tell me, just what it is that the earl is looking for?”

She explained it as best she could, but when she got to the
part about there being no proof that Bride Ramsay was Douglas Ramsay’s wife,
Angus seemed to listen with even more interest.

“There are many Ramsays buried here at Glengarry. Perhaps
the one you are looking for is here.”

“We have searched the cemetery,” she said, then went on to
tell him how they had hidden in the chapel.

“Then you searched only the chapel cemetery?”

“Aye. Are there others?”

“There is one other graveyard, one that is older and
smaller. The duke had it walled in many years ago, so it is overgrown and
almost hidden in a grove of trees. There are only a handful of graves there,
all of them much older than those in the cemetery behind the chapel.”

“How can I find this place?”

Angus gave her directions, then grew too weary to talk any
longer. She sat beside bun until he slept soundly, then she quietly left the
room.

The sound of dogs barking interrupted the Duke of
Glengarry’s train of thought. His pen lost a drop of ink and he watched with
seething anger as it seeped over the letter he was writing. With a violent
curse, he threw the pen down on his desk and came to his feet. Turning toward the
window, he looked out.

He saw a woman run across the lawn, keeping to the edge
where the shrubbery formed a hedge, then darting through the bushes. He knew
instantly who the woman was. The question was, where was she going? The stables
lay in the opposite direction. The only thing that lay in the direction she was
going was the old cemetery.

So, the Earl of Caithness does not confide in you,
hmmmmm? Weel, we will have to see what we can do about that. Perhaps we can
arrange a little something for you, Miss Lindsay…a nice little scare to make
you tell me what you know. It would be a pity for one so pretty and young to
end up like her grandfather.

The wind had come up, whipping the branches of the trees and
blowing Cathleen’s skirts about as she walked toward the grove Angus had
mentioned. Arriving there, she saw nothing that resembled a walled-in
graveyard, but Angus had been right about one thing—the place was terribly
overgrown.

Another blast of wind blew some trailing branches of ivy,
revealing what looked like a stone wall. Upon closer inspection, Cathleen
decided this had to be the fence. Searching through the overgrown ivy, she
followed the fence line until she found a gate. Her heart thumping wildly, she
tore away the clinging vines to clear the gate, then pushed on it. The hinges
were rusty, the gate difficult to open, but in the end her perseverance paid
off and the gate slowly creaked open.

With a quick glance around her to make certain she had not
been seen, she stepped inside the gate.

Just as Angus had said, the graves here were much, much
older than the others. It was obvious that these graves had not been looked
after, for everywhere she looked, the cemetery was terribly overgrown and
showing obvious signs of neglect. She wondered at the high, stone fence that
encircled the small graveyard, for it was not the type of enclosure usually
found around graves. Then she remembered Angus saying that the duke had built
the fence several years ago.

She felt a surge of excitement rush through her body, for
she could not help speculating just why the wall had been built.

What was he trying to hide?

She hoped above all hopes that the proof Fletcher needed was
secreted away behind these walls.

In spite of its overgrown state, the cemetery was as lovely
as a garden. Behind the protection of the high walls and safe from the fierce
winds that blew across the moors, the roses had found a sort of haven, and they
bloomed in profusion, in every delicate color imaginable. Most of them were
climbing roses, and with no one to prune and direct their growth, they had
wound around everything they could cling to. Long tendrils hung down from the
trees, a tangle of swaying color that seemed to leap from one tree to the
other, spreading a fragrant mantle over this hidden family plot.

As she looked about, she began to make out the aged grave
markers among the dense growth. She began to search the graves one by one,
pushing away thick vines, occasionally rubbing moss and lichen from the
inscriptions, in her search for one name: Bride Ramsay.

She was about to give up, for she had read half the stones
in the plot, but a moment later she found her first bit of proof.

It was not the grave of Bride Ramsay she found but that of
Fletcher’s father, Bruce Ramsay. A short while later, she came upon a grave
that she thought might prove to be a connection, for the stone read:

Madeline de
Compiegne Ramsay beloved wife of Alexander Ramsay

Cathleen stood there for a moment staring at the
inscription, a memory stirring in her mind. She remembered that in the church
records they had searched there was proof that Alasdair Ramsay had a son,
Alexander.

Could this Alexander be the brother of Fletcher’s Douglas?

She studied the stone again, wondering if there might be
proof somewhere that this Alexander and Fletcher’s Douglas were brothers, for
it would prove that his Douglas was Alasdair’s son as well.

She searched a few more stones and stopped dead still,
feeling a shiver pass over her as she looked at the stone in front of her.

Douglas Ramsay b.
1715 d. 1765

There was no mention of his wife, nothing to connect Douglas
with Bride, but it did prove that Douglas had lived. Leaving Douglas Ramsay’s
grave, Cathleen continued her search. Three stones later, she found what she
was looking for:

Bride Ramsay b.
1720 d. 1780

It was both exciting and disappointing, for while the stone
bore the name of Bride Ramsay, it did not prove that she had been the wife of
Douglas Ramsay.

Cathleen left the family plot, careful to close the gate and
cover it over again with vines, and rode home. She was saddened that she hadn’t
found all the proof Fletcher needed, but she had part of it. At least it was a
start. Somewhere, she thought, there was proof that Alexander and Douglas were
brothers and the sons of Alasdair Ramsay.

I know it exists.

Back at the cottage, Cathleen bathed and ate a small bowl of
soup, finding she was too exhausted to finish even that. Wearily dragging
herself into bed, she closed her eyes, expecting to fall asleep as quickly as
she always did, but she could not sleep.

Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the stone that marked
Bride Ramsay’s grave.
Won’t Fletcher be elated to hear I’ve found it?

Fletcher. Fletcher. Fletcher
. How that name haunted
her. Would she never know peace?

She punched the pillow. Just the thought of his name sent a
pain shooting through her. Why did she bother to search for graves? Why did she
care anyway? It was his search, not hers. After all, he had abandoned her for
another woman.

“Because it is ever your nature to be helpful, Cathleen,”
she heard her grandfather say, his voice as plain as if he were standing beside
her bed.

The next day there were three new cases of typhoid, and
Cathleen wondered if the sickness would ever end. She tried to keep her mind on
her work, but all she could think about was having found the grave of Bride
Ramsay.

In spite of her pain at the thought of seeing Fletcher with
Annora Fraser, she decided she could not keep quiet about her discovery. She
decided then that she would go to Dunston to see him as soon as she finished
her work today. No matter what he had done to her, no matter how badly she
hurt, she could not keep something so important from him.

Much later she made her way to Dunston. She stopped before
an immense house that curved in a rambling way about a stone court. She climbed
down from the carriage and made her way to the front of the house, where she
rapped upon a huge door made up of oak panels reinforced with great iron bands
and studded with nails.

The moment the butler opened the door, Cathleen saw the
portraits on the wall that seemed to be staring down at her in a way that made
her want to turn and run.

“I’ve come to see the Earl of Caithness,” she said.

“This way, please.” The butler showed her into a salon. “Wait
in here,” he said. “I will find Lady Fraser.” He then departed.

Cathleen ran to the door. “But I want to see the Earl of
Caithness!” she called after him, but if the butler heard her, he did not let
on. With an irritated sigh, she turned back into the salon but did not take a
seat.

A few minutes later, Annora swept into the room, looking
exceptionally beautiful in lavender silk. Cathleen looked down at her homespun
dress, its rose color faded to the lifeless shade of a pale evening sky, and
thought it no wonder that Fletcher preferred this exquisite bird in radiant
plumage to her own coloring that more closely resembled a red grouse.

“Miss Lindsay, this is a pleasant surprise. Duncan tells me
you have come to see Fletcher.”

“Aye. I have discovered something he has been searching for.
I thought he might like to know about it.”

“Oh, I am certain he would. Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll
relay the message for you. It will be dark soon. I’m sure you are anxious to be
on your way.”

“Aye, but I would like to speak with him personally before I
go.”

“That is not possible, I’m afraid.”

“He is not here?”

Annora looked a little uneasy. “He is…he is here, of course,
but we aren’t certain just where. He often disappears like this, only to pop up
again when you’ve about given up on finding him. I am certain you know how he
is.”

“Aye,” Cathleen said, “I know.”

“I did send Duncan to look for him,” Annora said cheerfully,
“but it might be quite some time before he finds him.”

“I will wait.”

Annora’s smile faded. “As you wish.” Then with a swish of
silk similar to the one she entered with, she was gone.

Cathleen waited for over an hour.

There was not much daylight left when she decided she could
not wait any longer. She did not like to be out on the roads after dark.
Leaving the sumptuous room, she hoped above hope that she could slip out
without anyone seeing her.

Fletcher walked into the hallway just in time to catch a
glimpse of Cathleen Lindsay tiptoeing down the hall. It took a moment for his
mind to register the surprise.

She had almost reached the front door when he called out,
“Cathleen! What are you doing here?”

She turned around. “I came to give you some information
you’ve been searching for, but it grows late.”

Fletcher frowned. “Surely Duncan did not leave you standing
here in the entry?”

“No, they graciously left me sitting in the salon. I was
just leaving.”

“You can’t leave now,” he said, looking down into her face.
“You just got here.”

“I have been here for quite some time—over an hour now—but
never mind. I must go. I don’t want to be out on the roads after dark.”

He took her by the arm. “Nor would I want you to be. I’m
sorry you had to wait so long. Come with me.”

“No… Please!” A look of panic froze her face. “I don’t want
to go back in there. I don’t like it here. I shouldn’t have come. Please. I
must go.”

His look softened. “We’ll go outside, then. Come on.” He
took her arm, then opened the door and walked outside with her, ordering the
coach to be brought around.

“That won’t be necessary. I brought my grandfather’s
carriage.”

“Then I’ll have someone drive it over for you. You’ve been
waiting overly long, and I apologize for that. The least I can do is take you
home.”

She opened her mouth, but he interrupted her.

“The least you can do is let me, Cathleen.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. You look exhausted, like you’re
about to drop on your feet. Besides, I want to take you home. Would you deny me
the pleasure?”

She gave him a look that said she would sooner believe that
chickens had teeth than she would believe he wanted to spend more than two
minutes alone with her.

Ah, darling Cathleen, I can see that you don’t
understand…that you no longer trust me.
“I know you probably don’t believe
this, but nothing has changed between us. I wish you could believe me,
Cathleen.”

A dark, wounded look passed over her face. “I don’t believe
you.”

Her reaction left him stunned. He had actually had the gall
to think she would be overjoyed to see him and grateful for his offer to take
her home. He’d thought that his assurance that nothing had changed between them
would make everything right, and that she would forgive him as had always been
her nature. In his arrogance, he had simply assumed that because she had come
to him in the first place, all he would have to do is say a few words—words
that he figured she wanted to hear—and all would be as it had been before.

As he thought more about it, he realized that the love she
had so freely given to him had seemed an ironclad part of his life, something
dependable that would always be there whenever he reached for it. He had taken
it for granted. In the secret part of his being that longed for love, warmth,
and passion, he had kept Cathleen, and on a certain level he had imagined that
she would readily understand, just as he had assumed she would love him
unconditionally.

He contemplated taking her into his confidence, telling her
about his suspicions that Adair was responsible for David’s death, that he
didn’t give two flips for Annora Fraser.

Would she believe him if he told her that this had only been
a ruse because he feared for her life?

One look at her stubborn chin and proud carriage, and he
thought not. Her expression was as murderous as he knew her feelings toward him
were. Soon, perhaps, he could tell her. He could only hope that when he did, it
would not be too late.

In the twilight darkness of the stables, Annora put a
detaining hand on the coachman’s arm. He turned toward her.

“When you drive them to her cottage, do not take the coach.
Take the smaller carriage. I don’t want you sitting too far from them. I want
to know everything they talk about. You must be my eyes and ears, you
understand?”

“Aye. You want me to listen to their conversation.”

She nodded. “Come to me as soon as you return. Do not
forget.”

The coachman nodded. “I willna forget.”

Annora watched him hitch the team to the small carriage. She
smiled as he climbed into the seat and drove the carriage around to the front
of the house. She would not rest until she knew what the bit of news was that
had brought Miss Lindsay clipping over to Dunston, humiliating herself in the
process, knowing she was a spurned lover.

Annora stood in the dark shadows of the stable and watched
as, a few minutes later, the carriage passed in front of the stables and rolled
on down the driveway. She smiled at the sight. Let them talk, she thought.

Knowledge is power.

Once they were in the carriage, Cathleen glanced at
Fletcher. He did not say anything, but sat there, his gaze moving over her,
taking in every detail. She knew he was making a comparison, not between her
and Annora, for, faith, there was little to compare, Annora being such a great
beauty and all. Something Cathleen knew she was not.

No, his comparison was between the Cathleen he remembered
and the Cathleen he now saw. Watching him study her, she felt her heart turn
over with a sad little flutter. How long ago it seemed that she had drawn water
from the well and seen him riding toward her.