Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (6 page)

“And why have I come?” he asked, his voice harsher than he’d
intended.

She gave him a coy smile, pressing closer than was
considered acceptable. “Why, to inherit your uncle’s title, of course.”

“Of course.”

She tightened her grasp on his arm. “Now do come along. I’ve
dozens and dozens of people to introduce you to.”

“All males, I’ll wager.”

Annora gave him an appraising look, then threw back her head
with a throaty laugh, the emeralds and diamonds riding the crests of her
breasts glinting in his eyes. “We shall get on,” she said. “I’m glad we
understand each other.”

“Do we?”

“Aye. Tell me, did you not know that you would bed me even
before we spoke?” She led him through a set of double doors and onto a small,
private balcony.

“I knew,” he said. “Hell, the whole room knew.”

She laughed at that, and he found himself liking that
throaty pitch. The sound of it was as arousing as her forwardness. He had never
met a woman like her.

“Then we shall be careful not to disappoint them. You will
stay the night, won’t you?”

Something within Fletcher prevented him from saying that he
would, despite the interest his body was showing. “Perhaps,” he said.

She smiled, coming up on her toes to kiss his mouth. Her
lips were soft and warm, coaxing. He was tempted to open his mouth to her kiss,
but something stopped him.

Annora drew back. “A man who plays hard to get?” she teased.
“I am intrigued and find myself challenged. Come along then. It’s time to make
all the women in the room jealous.”

At that, Fletcher threw back his head and laughed.

A few minutes later, he stood with Annora in a circle of
people as she introduced him. There were probably twelve men clustered around
them, all of them about his age or older.

“I would like to present Scotland’s newest acquisition,
straight off the boat from America. Gentlemen, this is the Earl of Caithness.
Most of you knew his uncle, Ian, and the tragedy that took his life. And now
the new earl is here, and it is up to us to make him feel welcome.”

The men didn’t exactly jump at the chance to welcome him. A
couple of months ago, Fletcher might have been worried, but not now. In the
short time he’d been in the country, he had learned that it was the Scots’ way
not to form instant opinions. Yet, a few of them did smile weakly, and one or
two went so far as to act mildly polite.

“What part of America are you from?” asked a man who called
himself Fergus McAlpin.

“California,” Fletcher replied, noticing that the reply
seemed to be acceptable.

“You are the late earl’s nephew, so that must make you a
Sinclair, but I wasna aware any of the Sinclairs went to America,” Colin
Ferguson remarked.

“My mother was a Sinclair. She married an American after my
father died.”

That comment sparked new interest, especially from a short,
stout man he remembered as Gavin MacPhail. “Your name wouldna be—”

“Ramsay. Fletcher Ramsay.” He noticed how Gavin’s eyes
seemed to dart across the room, but when Fletcher looked in that direction he
saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Ramsay,” Colin Ferguson said. “Your father was…”

“The Duke of Glengarry.”

A hush fell around them.

Tension was evident now in every person present. Even Annora
seemed to be at a loss for words. Fletcher thought it was simply because none
of them wanted to become involved in an old feud, and he couldn’t blame them.

As he expected, one by one the gentlemen made their excuses
and turned away.

It was only after they had gone that he had time to think
about their reactions upon learning who he was. A few minutes later, none of
them stood out in his mind—except one man.

Gavin MacPhail.

After quickly glancing around the room, Fletcher saw Gavin
just as he was disappearing through the doors that led outside, his head bent,
as if deep in conversation with the man beside him, a man of small stature and
gray hair.

Suddenly Fletcher felt as if a cold draft had swept into the
room.

He watched until the two men were out of sight, wondering
what it was about Gavin MacPhail that bothered him. The eyes, he thought. The
shifty, not-to-be-trusted eyes. Yes, it was the eyes, he reminded himself, as
Annora led him around the room like a prize stallion she had just won. The
pale-blue, ice-cold eyes.

“Who was that man?” Fletcher asked Annora.

“What man?” she asked, turning toward him, her hands on his
arms.

“The one who just went outside with Gavin MacPhail.”

The color faded from Annora’s face. Her gaze flicked away,
then quickly came back to him. She recovered herself well, he noted, as she
said smoothly, “Why, I don’t know. What did he look like?”

“Never mind,” Fletcher said. “I’ll find out later.”

Later came half an hour afterward, when Annora excused
herself, leaving Fletcher to talk to a small group of men and women.

Before long, the conversation died down, and one by one they
began to drift away, all save an older woman who spoke quite fondly of
Fletcher’s aunt. It was at that point that he noticed the gray-haired man he
had seen go outside with Gavin MacPhail; but MacPhail was nowhere in sight. The
gray-haired man was talking to Annora. Once or twice they glanced his way.

Fletcher felt the same cold chill he had felt before. This
time, when Fletcher asked who the man was, he got an answer.

The woman who spoke so fondly of his aunt looked across the
room. “The man talking to Annora?”

Fletcher nodded.

“Why, that is Adair Ramsay, the Duke of Glengarry.”

The day after Annora Fraser’s ball, Adair Ramsay sat behind
his desk in the massive library of Glengarry Castle.

The library, although beautifully appointed with priceless
antiques and rugs, had a heavy, gloomy appearance. Even the narrow windows
behind the desk—set deep into the castle wall—seemed to exclude rather than to
admit the sunlight.

Adair twirled a silver-handled letter opener in his hands.
The oil lamp on his desk threw a deep golden glow across the room, casting his
shadow upon the wall behind him. He was a small man, with dark, penetrating
eyes, stooped shoulders, thinning gray hair, and a thin, weasel-like face. His
countenance was both shrewd and sinister. He was a man who graced those in
disfavor with a full portion of his hatred.

Using the letter opener to clean his fingernails, he leaned
back in his leather chair and waited.

A few minutes later, the door to the library opened and
Gavin MacPhail entered, a man of middle years, with graying red hair and a
stocky build that suggested his Gaelic heritage. He made his way across the
highly polished floors to one of two massive, carved chairs before the desk. In
the Scottish tradition, the chairs’ legs had been lathed to resemble sticks of
barley sugar.

Looking like a man relieved to have his journey over with,
he dropped into the chair. “I ken you want to know what I’ve found out,” he
said.

“Blithering fool! I haven’t been waiting all this time to
hear about your wife’s health. Where is he? Have you learned why he’s here?”

“He is on his way to Glengarry. Word has it he’s come here
to pay his respects to David MacDonald.”

“His respects to the retired minister? Why would he do
that?”

Gavin shrugged. “Nostalgia, from what I hear. It seems his
mother has always spoken fondly of the good minister and wished him to pay her
respects.”

Adair scowled. “A good alibi. But not, I think, the real
reason for his coming.”

“Perhaps you are wrong. After all, it is my understanding
that MacDonald did baptize the boy and his sisters, and he married his
parents.”

“He also performed Bruce Ramsay’s funeral, and he was here
at Glengarry the day Maggie Ramsay packed the last of her belongings and left
for good. I would not be surprised if the minister has kept in touch with her
all these years.”

“The earl’s going to visit MacDonald doesna prove anything.”

“Why is he in Scotland?”

“I ken it is because he is the Earl of Caithness.”

Adair rose to his feet and slammed his hands on the desk,
the sharp point of the letter opener jabbing into the pad of his finger.
“Idiot! That is not an important title, nor a wealthy one. Fletcher Ramsay’s
stepfather is a millionaire, and Fletcher was reared in America. That would
make him more American than Scottish. Titles don’t appeal to Americans. I dinna
ken for one minute that it was that measly title that brought him scampering
over here.”

“What then?”

“Revenge. Justice. My destruction. Regaining his father’s
title.” Adair regained his composure and lowered himself into his chair, where
he sat for a moment staring at the scarlet drop of blood that welled on his
finger. “He is the avenger of blood come to retaliate for the death of a
kinsman.”

“His father?”

“Aye, you fool, and what better way to avenge his untimely
demise than by reclaiming his title?”

“I thought you said titles weren’t important to Americans.”

“
This
title would be important, you imbecile.”

Gavin said nothing, but his discomfort was obvious. A moment
later, he rose to his feet. “Whatever the reason, there is little we can do
about it. He is here, and he is the Earl of Caithness, like it or no. We have
no proof that he has come for any other reason. If that is all he’s after, then
all our worries will not come to a muckle. There is no point in muddying a
river you dinna intend to cross.”

“As long as he is content to be the Earl of Caithness—and
that means keeping his nose out of Glengarry and my business—then I won’t have
to do anything about it. But if he becomes greedy, if he starts setting his
sights on bigger fish—Glengarry Castle, for one thing—then I will do something
about it. I won’t see everything I’ve worked for taken from me.”

“What are you saying?”

“That it would be a pity for him to end up like his father.”

“You mean, losing his title?”

“I mean, dead.”

It is said that memory is the treasury of the mind, and
perhaps it is, for Cathleen was in the kitchen sweeping the floor when she
suddenly realized that she wasn’t sweeping at all; she was standing in the
middle of the kitchen floor, her hands folded over the top of the broom, her
chin resting on her hands, her gaze fixed on the big rowan tree in the yard,
her thoughts a million miles away…perhaps as far away as America. Well, not
America, perhaps, but upon a certain American—the one she had met in Drummond’s
hay field when he had ridden up, out of the blue, and she had given him a drink
of water.

Just like the woman at the well in the Bible.

She thought about that day, wondering why her mind had
chosen to build a monument to that particular memory. Was it because a monument
in her memory was all she would ever have?

She gave herself a mental shake, telling herself that the
likes of him were not for her and that it did precious little good to covet
something she could never have. A normal life, a husband, children…these things
would never be for her. Yet that strange-talking American had disturbed her
thoughts and caused her to be just a little dissatisfied with her life.

Picking up the broom, she admonished herself as she began
sweeping furiously. “
Fais toujours aucune chose de bien, que le diable ne te
trouve oyseux
Do always some good deed that the devil may not find you
idle,” she said. “Saint Jerome, Epistles, 125.”

She quoted Saint Jerome in French because she felt entitled
at least to this little bit of extravagance in her life.

She swept the dust out the door, pausing in the doorway to
gaze down the road toward the village of Glengarry. She was remembering the way
he
had ridden into the hay field that day, looking as bonny as a
Highland regiment, then found herself imagining what it would be like to see
him riding down the road and into her yard. What would it feel to have a man
like him come courting?

“Aye,” she said, “what would it be like to have
any
man come courting?” She shook the rug and placed it back on the stoop. “You
know, the trouble with you, Cathleen, is that you want it all—even when you
know you canna have it. ‘
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth,
where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.
But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth
corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal. For where your
treasure is, there will your heart be also,’
” she said. “Matthew.”

“Did you say something, Cathleen?”

Cathleen turned around to see her grandfather, David, walk
into the room. “I was just quoting Saint Jerome, Grandpa.”

“Ahhh, ‘
I have revered always not crude verbosity, but
holy simplicity
.’”

Cathleen blushed and looked down at her toes. “That isna the
one I was quoting.”

With that, David MacDonald threw back his head and laughed.

The journey to Glengarry was not a difficult one, for
Glengarry lay not more than half a day’s ride from Annora Fraser’s grand house.

For Fletcher, it was so pleasing to take such a journey, for
it put him out of doors and in touch with a part of his heritage he had never
known. Riding to the village of Glengarry, he crossed fragrant, heather-covered
moors and passed dark, mysterious lochs where uneasy winds stirred pine trees
that looked black against the gray sky, while even in the distance rose the
moorland ridges and tors, wreathed in mist and majestic silence.

He rode over rocks dappled with lichen, scattered between
puffy tufts of heather, passing very few villages and not minding that in the
least. Having spent most of his life in the timber forests of Northern
California, he preferred the mirrored lochs and silent hills to the clamor of
village life.

It was late afternoon when he reached Glengarry, a hamlet of
cottages that he thought of as Presbyterian gray and white, nestled between
Glengarry Castle and an excitable burn that tumbled over smooth, round rocks on
its way to the loch below. A short distance away lay the sea, and the smell of
it lingered in the air.

He pulled his horse to a stop.

The village was quiet as he looked across to the fragmented
ruins of a cross at least two hundred years old. A few yards farther he saw a
group of ornate gravestones resplendent with carvings of armed lairds and clan
shields. Beyond, down the street, the steeple of a church rose above it all,
while across from that a pub advertised fresh salmon and venison pie. And
towering over it all was the place of his heritage, Glengarry Castle, riding
the high ridges that separated the town from the pine forests.

Something about the place reached out to him. The spirit of
the Highlands was an almost tangible thing. He’d been born here, and his father
and a legion of other Ramsay ancestors were buried in that castle.

Yet he was a stranger here.

He made his way through the main street of town, thinking
that Glengarry wasn’t much bigger than its name. He rode toward the steeple
until he drew even with St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, where he stopped.

Going inside, he saw a man in somber clothing working near
the pulpit. “Hello,” he said.

Fletcher had never before encountered anyone who managed to
exude annoyance at fifty yards.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he added. “My name is Fletcher
Ramsay. Do you work here?”

“I am the minister, Robert Cameron.”

“I am looking for Reverend MacDonald.”

“David MacDonald?”

Fletcher shook his head. “Yes, I believe he used to be the
minister here.”

“Aye, he was, but David MacDonald has retired. He doesna
preach the gospel anymore.”

“Do you know where I might find him? Does he live nearby?”

“Aye. He lives on a small farm at the edge of town. Lives
there with his granddaughter.”

“I would like to pay him a visit. How might I get there?”

“And what business would you be having with him?”

“He is a longtime family friend. He married my parents and
baptized me and my sisters. He also buried my father. My mother asked me to
stop by when I came here.”

Apparently satisfied, Robert Cameron gave him directions to
David MacDonald’s farm.

After thanking Robert for his help, Fletcher left Glengarry,
riding back the way he had come, following Reverend Cameron’s directions.

A curlew gave a dismal warning that soon faded, leaving only
chirping of meadow pipits and greenshanks. He continued on down the
well-traveled road, riding across a bridge that spanned the river Garry,
turning right at the waterfall. The road narrowed somewhat before it continued
along a straight, tree-lined course, where it passed a small, partly hidden
loch that he noticed only when distracted by the sudden flight of waterfowl.

Wild, grim, and black, the clouds began to swirl and churn
overhead, bringing close the smell of heather and newly cut hay. He thought of
the girl he had met that day in the field and wondered if she was out in this
weather now, carrying water to those working in the fields and finding herself
caught in this sudden downpour.

Wrapped in a whirl of wind and splattered with rain, he
tried to turn his thoughts away from her, but it was no use. By the time the
rain began to come down harder, he could not stop wondering if she, like him,
was soaked to the skin.

He remembered how her white bodice filled out nicely. He
imagined it wet and clinging to her skin. Realizing that he had better stop
thinking about such things, he shifted his weight uncomfortably in the saddle,
shifting his thoughts as well.

Passing a crumbling stone wall, black in the rain, he turned
in at the gate, and, just as Robert Cameron had said, there stood a thatched
cottage, its windows warm from the glow of a light inside.

He dismounted and a moment later knocked at the door.

Fletcher would never know who was more surprised, himself
when the door opened and there stood the woman from the well, or the woman the
moment she recognized him.

“Good morning—that is, good afternoon. Is your husband…er—father…
Is anyone at home?”

She smiled. “Aye, I am.”

He felt like an idiot.

He cleared his throat, forcing a gruffness into his tone. “I
came to see David MacDonald. Is he in?”

She smiled. “Aye, my grandfather is here. Is he expecting
you?”

“No.”

She frowned and glanced behind her, and Fletcher saw that
she was very protective of her grandfather.

Fletcher did not wait for her to turn down his request. “He
was a friend of my mother and father. I have traveled a long way to see him—all
the way from America. If you would tell him that Fletcher Ramsay is here, I am
certain he would see me.”

She stepped back from the door, opening it wider. “Come in,
please.”

He entered, removing his hat and apologizing for his wet
clothing.

She took his hat. “It is of no consequence,” she said. “Rain
is something we’ve learned to live with. Wait here. I’ll get something to dry
you off a wee bit, then I’ll tell Grandfather you are here.”

She left the room for only a moment, returning with a length
of clean, dry cloth. While he dried himself, she left the room again.

A few minutes later, a man of small stature entered the
room. His back was slightly stooped and his hair was quite gray, but his face
was remarkably unlined. Fletcher noticed all these things, but it was David
MacDonald’s eyes that struck him most. Never had he seen eyes that reflected
such peace. For a moment he was envious.

“Cathleen said your name was Fletcher Ramsay.”

“Yes, my father was—”

“Bruce Ramsay,” David said with a smile. He offered Fletcher
his hand. “It is a real pleasure to see you again after all these years. You
were no bigger than a bull calf the last time I saw you.”

Fletcher smiled. “I feel I should warn you…you’re shaking
hands with a sinner.”

Amusement danced in David’s eyes. “Something I do quite regularly.”

“My mother has told me much about you.”

“All good, I hope.”

“Of course. She said you were known for being the best
minister in the Highlands.”

“I fear I was known for being long on sermons and short on
patience.”

Fletcher laughed. “I see she was also right about something
else.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“She said you were quite modest.”

David looked as if he was lost in recollections, then he
said, “Ahhh, Maggie… Some of the brightness was gone out of the Highlands after
she left.” He paused. “Forgive an old man’s ruminations. Maggie is where she
should be, and happy as a clam, I understand.”

“Yes. Very happy.”

“And now you are here and I canna believe you are Bruce and
Maggie’s son. Of course I would have known who you were even if you hadn’t
given your name. You are your father’s double, but I ken this is not the first
time you have heard that.”

Before Fletcher could reply, David said, “Come sit down,
lad, and tell me all about your mother. She doesna write as often now as she
once did, and I find myself wondering from time to time just how Maggie is
doing.”

They started to walk into the other room when Cathleen
reached for the wet towel Fletcher had used. Giving her a quick glance, David
said, “Would you bring tea and some of your shortbread into the parlor,
Cathleen?”

Cathleen did not answer, and when he looked at her, Fletcher
saw that she was staring at him.

David MacDonald looked at his granddaughter. Then he looked
at Fletcher.

Fletcher and Cathleen seemed locked in their gaze.

Somewhat bewildered, David said, “Do forgive me for not
introducing you. This is my granddaughter, Mary Cathleen Lindsay.”

She gave a quick nod, then darted through the door before
Fletcher could say anything.

David, looking a bit puzzled, said, “You’ve met before?”

“Yes. I saw your granddaughter a few weeks ago. She was in a
hay field drawing water from a well as I rode by.”

“Barefoot and covered with dust, no doubt,” David said, then
glanced toward the door.

Fletcher could not help seeing the wealth of emotion in that
look.

“Cathleen has ever been a helpful lass. When she isn’t
helping me, she is attending to others. Everyone in the village has come to
depend upon her in one way or another. An angel of mercy, they call her.” David
paused, then drew his gaze from the door to look at Fletcher. “Well, enough of
that. I ken you didna come all this way to hear me expound upon the virtues of
my granddaughter. Besides, I am eager to hear of Maggie. Let’s go to the
parlor, shall we?”

Fletcher followed him into a small parlor and saw
immediately that the reverend had been working on something, for papers were
scattered across the library table and sheets of music lay stacked upon the
piano bench.

David seated himself in a worn, comfortable-looking chair
beside the fireplace and indicated for Fletcher to take the one across from
him.

“Now then, tell me about Maggie and your sisters.”

In the kitchen, Cathleen put on a pot of water to heat, then
took down a small plate and the best teacups, placing several pieces of
shortbread on the plate, then arranging everything on a tray that had belonged
to the grandmother she never knew. While she waited for the water to boil, she
listened to her grandfather talking with Fletcher Ramsay but catching only bits
and pieces of their conversation.

When the tea was ready, she put the pot on the tray with the
cups and shortbread and carried it into the parlor.

David glanced up as she entered. “Ah, things will seem ever
so much better after a nice cup of hot tea and a bite of Cathleen’s
shortbread,” he said to Fletcher, shoving papers aside and clearing a place for
the tray on a low table next to a small chair, which Cathleen lowered herself
into as gracefully as possible, considering that she was feeling a bit
self-conscious because Fletcher Ramsay was watching her every move.

“How do you take your tea, Mr. Ramsay?” she asked, not
looking at him.

“No cream, no sugar.”

“Fletcher is the Earl of Caithness, Cathleen, so you must
address him properly,” David said.

Cathleen glanced quickly at Fletcher, then back down. She
felt a burst of flame cross her cheeks and knew they would be red enough for
the Earl of Caithness to notice, which only added to her discomfort.

Before she could ask his pardon, Fletcher said, “Please,
just call me Fletcher.”

Her eyes went quickly to her grandfather, then she nodded,
but said nothing, giving her attention to pouring the tea, hating the way the
cup rattled when she handed it to Fletcher.

As if trying to put her at ease, he smiled warmly and said,
“Thank you, Cathleen.”

She loved the sound of her name on his tongue, but she gave
no hint as she nodded and cast a quick glance in her grandfather’s direction,
noticing the merry twinkle in his eyes as he looked speculatively from her to
Fletcher and back to her.

Her grandfather was ever a perceptive man.

More from embarrassment than anything else, she rose and
crossed the room, intending to return to the kitchen, but her grandfather
stopped her, saying, “Please join us, Cathleen.”

She took a seat at the piano bench, a place where she spent
a good amount of time, and consequently felt more comfortable—comfort being
something she had felt precious little of since Fletcher Ramsay’s coming.

Once she was seated, her grandfather went on to tell her
briefly about Fletcher and his family.

“I am sure the gaining of your uncle’s title grieved your
mother doubly,” Cathleen said.

“How so?” asked Fletcher, giving her a curious look.

Cathleen felt a chill sweep over her and she drew her shawl
up over her shoulders. “For the loss of a brother and a son,” she said. “It is
difficult to lose your children, even when they are grown, and Scotland and
America are a long way apart.”

“You have children, then?”

Cathleen’s heart skittered, then seemed to plummet to her
feet. Her face grew warm. “No, I have never married,” she said softly.

She felt his gaze upon her and knew he stared at her
over-long. At last he looked off, as if sensing that this was a painful subject
for her. Cathleen rose quickly to her feet. “If you will excuse me, I’ve some
things to attend to in the kitchen. I will join you when I finish.”

David and Fletcher watched her go before resuming their
conversation.

“You were saying you came to Scotland because of your
uncle’s death,” David prompted.

“Partly, but I would have returned to Scotland even without
my uncle’s title. I have a title of my own…the one that belonged to my father.”