Highland Storms (7 page)

As he’d suspected, Starke had been left in a stall, tethered to the wall with only a token handful of hay to munch on and no water. The horse’s coat was still covered in sweat and grime from the journey and it was obvious no one had even attempted to rub him down. Brice swore under his breath and untied the rope.

‘
Sorry, my friend,’ he murmured, stroking the silky muzzle. ‘I should have insisted on seeing to you myself straight away.’

He turned abruptly to go in search of a currying brush, more fresh hay and some water, and came face to face with a small boy who must have been spying on him. Possibly around nine or ten years of age, with shaggy brown hair and dark eyes, freckles on his nose and skinny legs covered in bruises and dirt, he looked like a proper urchin. His eyes opened wide in alarm when he realised he’d been rumbled. Before he had time to scarper, Brice reached out a hand and grabbed the back of his shirt.

‘
Not so fast, young man,’ he said. ‘I have need of your services.’

The boy was clever enough not to struggle. Instead he lowered his gaze and tried his best to look apologetic. He spread his hands and said in Gaelic, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.’

Brice smiled and replied in the same language, ‘Oh, don’t you? That’s a shame. I could really do with some help.’

Startled, the boy blinked at him. ‘You speak the Gaelic? I thought Mr Seton said you were a –’ There he stopped short, obviously realising he probably shouldn’t have mentioned anything about Mr Seton or his theories.

‘
A what? Sassenach?’

The boy shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like ‘spy’ and Brice chuckled. ‘He may be right, but not in the way he thinks. Now are you going to help me or not? My horse needs seeing to and it will be faster with your assistance. He’s waited long enough, poor beast.’ Without waiting for the boy’s assent, he walked along the stalls until he came to the tack room, where he quickly found the implements he needed. As he turned to go back to Starke, he found the boy right behind him looking unsure.

‘
I, uhm, I’m not supposed to. Mr Seton said not to touch your horse.’

‘
Well, I tell you what, if you take this curry brush and use it you’re not actually touching the animal, just the brush. What do you think?’ He grinned at the boy and watched as an answering smile spread across the tiny features when he understood the subterfuge. The urchin nodded and didn’t waste any more time.

‘
What’s your name?’ Brice asked as they worked together companionably. It was clear the boy had done this kind of work before, although he was still so short he had to stand on an upturned food bucket to reach higher than halfway up the horse’s side.

‘
Archie.’

‘
Pleased to meet you, Archie. I’m Mr Aaron at the moment.’

A startled Archie reverted to Scots for a moment, thus proving that he’d understood Brice well enough earlier. ‘Just the noo?’ Puzzled brown eyes stared at Brice, who smiled again and winked.

‘
I’m a spy, remember? We don’t give our real names.’

‘
Oh, o’ course.’ Another conspiratorial grin, but then Archie grew serious. ‘Ye woan tell Mr Seton though, will yer? Aboot me helpin’, I mean.’

‘
No, but you’ll have to promise to keep a secret in return.’

‘
Aye, onythin’.’

‘
I don’t want anyone here to know that I speak Gaelic, at least not yet, so don’t say anything about that. Agreed?’

‘
Absolutely. I swear on the edge o’ my dirk.’ The boy produced a tiny knife from his pocket which was hardly worthy of the name dirk, and laid his hand on the rusty blade.

‘
Me too.’ Brice put his own hand next to Archie’s on the knife’s edge. He knew that to a Highlander, swearing something on your dirk was the most solemn oath you could take and was more binding than any other. It amused him that someone so young should invoke this, but he wouldn’t dream of laughing out loud at the boy. To Archie, it was serious and Brice had a feeling he was going to need every ally he could find in this place, of whatever age and size.

The boy was a good beginning.

Chapter Six

During the summer before his tenth birthday, Brice had been initiated into a Kinross family secret – the fact that there were hidden doorways and passages built into the thick walls of Rosyth House. His father had taken him on a tour one evening after everyone else went to bed and Brice still remembered the excitement of that night.

‘
You’re old enough to be trusted now,’ Killian told him, ‘but you must swear never to reveal this to a living soul unless you have to. One day, it could save your life or those of the people you love. But not if it’s common knowledge. Understand me?’

‘
Yes, Father.’

‘
I’ll tell Jamie too when he’s old enough, but no one else. It’s a secret only for boys as long as there’s an heir to carry on the name, although when you marry, you may tell your wife too.’

Having made his way back into the house unseen, Brice decided to make use of the hidden passages to try and glean some more information. Luck was with him and he found old Lord Rosyth’s book room, which was at the back of the house, deserted. In one corner, he pushed his finger into a small hole in the wainscoting and opened a secret door. A rush of stale air hit him, but he quickly stepped inside and closed the panel behind him.

I remembered correctly
, he thought, although he’d never really doubted it. Killian had made him memorise every hidden door and the layout of the tunnels behind in minute detail. They’d spent hours criss-crossing the house until he could have done it blindfolded and he’d been exhausted by the time he fell into bed.

He made his way along the narrow space which seemed a lot smaller now he was an adult. Every so often he stopped to listen. There were tiny holes drilled through the walls at intervals in order to provide some air and also the chance to hear your enemies. On the side facing the outer walls of the house, there were grilles which gave some light. Not much, but enough for the tunnels to be navigated without the use of a torch if need be.

He was walking parallel to a corridor that led from the great hall to the kitchen stairs at the back of the house when he heard familiar voices.

‘
Marsaili, a word if you please.’ Colin Seton, Brice thought. There could be no mistaking those abrupt tones although the man was now speaking Gaelic rather than English.

‘
Yes?’

‘
Did you tell the Sassenach to stay in his room? We don’t want him wandering about, looking for the family heirlooms or some such fool’s errand.’

‘
He’d be wasting his time if he did, wouldn’t he. I didn’t exactly order him not to wander around, but last I saw, he was sitting on his bed so I’m assuming he’ll have a nap before supper.’

‘
Never assume anything with those whoresons. They can’t be trusted.’

The vehemence in the man’s voice startled Brice. He knew the English weren’t well liked, but this seemed personal somehow.

‘
Really, I don’t think one man is a danger to any of us. He seemed harmless enough.’

‘
Much you know about it. Well, serve him supper in his room. I’ll be damned if I’ll entertain him all evening.’

‘
As you wish.’

Seton’s voice changed timbre abruptly and he murmured, ‘Actually, I’d rather spend time with you. I hope you’ve given some thought to what I said?’

Brice thought he heard a sharp intake of breath and assumed Seton was taking liberties with the housekeeper. For some reason that bothered him, but he knew it was none of his business. It sounded as though they had an understanding, and she was obviously perfectly willing to help the man in treating their guests badly. It was clear the two were in agreement about that. Perhaps they were colluding in other ways too? Brice pitied the woman’s husband.

‘
Mr Seton –’ she protested, belated guilt perhaps rearing its head.

‘
Call me Colin, when we’re alone.’

Brice heard the proprietary note in the man’s voice and also what sounded like gloating. It was understandable, he supposed. Marsaili was a price worth winning, if you liked tall statuesque women with lissom legs and – He pulled his thoughts up short, but couldn’t blame Seton for wanting her.

Before either of them could say anything else, however, footsteps approached from the direction of the kitchen below and someone called out, ‘Marsaili? Are ye there? Ye’re wanted oot back.’

‘
I’m coming.’

She disappeared quickly, leaving Seton to amble off at a slower pace in the other direction. Brice remained where he was for a while mulling over this exchange. It was plain there was some sort of conspiracy going on with regard to visitors, but quite what they hoped to gain by it he didn’t know.

‘
Interesting though,’ Brice muttered. Seton’s observations regarding the English made him realise he’d have to tread very warily indeed. The man was apparently a loose cannon and quite possibly unhinged in certain respects. Not to mention full of hatred.

A dangerous combination.

Marsaili personally brought Mr Aaron’s meagre supper on a tray to his room. It consisted of a couple of stale bannocks and some mutton broth, together with a glass of the vinegary wine Greine had mentioned earlier. The broth was very watery and had barely any bits of meat in it, only some overcooked kale. She saw the surprise and anger in his face when he glanced at this offering and she couldn’t blame him. He was obviously a gentleman of some means and entitled to better treatment.

But he was also, most likely, the enemy.

‘
I’m sorry to be serving you here,’ she told him, ‘but the Mistress is unwell so she cannot receive you. I’m sure you’d rather not eat with the servants.’

Mr Aaron didn’t reply at first, just gave her one of his penetrating looks which made her want to squirm like a maggot. She turned and headed for the door, but stopped when he suddenly shot a question at her.

‘
So do I gather the crops haven’t been too good in recent years around here?’

Marsaili raised her eyebrows at him, wondering why he was suddenly making small talk about their harvests. And to her, of all people. ‘The crops? No, as far as I know they’ve been fine for the last two years. We had a scarce year in ’51, but since then we’ve done all right.’

‘
I see.’ He glanced at his food and she immediately took his meaning. He was asking why she was serving him such a paltry meal if there were no shortages. She felt her cheeks heat up and cursed herself for not seeing it coming.

‘
You should discuss such matters with Mr Seton,’ she said tartly. ‘As factor, that’s his domain. Now if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I have duties to attend to.’

A slow smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth while his blue eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. ‘I didn’t realise you were offering anything other than food,’ he commented.

Marsaili was so distracted by that smile she didn’t register his words at first. She felt the full force of it wash over her. For some unknown reason it was making her limbs weak and her heart beat faster, but then she realised what he’d said and gasped.

‘
How dare you?’ she spluttered. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a respectable woman.’

His smile widened. ‘Those are usually the best.’

Marsaili wasn’t sure if he was being deliberately provocative or just teasing, since he was still smiling. Either way, she was determined not to let him rile her. She didn’t know what it was about this man that stirred her up so, but she mustn’t let him affect her equanimity. Under cover of her apron she clenched her fists tightly, then headed for the door. There was no point dignifying his comments with an answer. Her silence would speak volumes more.

As she closed the door with a distinct snap, she heard his laughter, low and rich. It rumbled through her stomach, unsettling her even further, but she ignored the feeling and ran down the stairs. Someone else could serve him his breakfast, she’d had enough.

Brice stared after the fiery housekeeper for a moment, before picking up the horn spoon to make a start on his supper. He had enjoyed teasing her and although she probably wasn’t the one responsible for the ill treatment he’d received so far, she wasn’t helping either.
She deserved a little shock
, he told himself.

When he’d first seen her that afternoon, she had been dishevelled and in working clothes, presumably because of helping with the laundry. This evening she had dressed with more care in a skirt and bodice which, although threadbare and not of the latest fashion, showed off her perfect figure and flawless skin. Not to mention a pair of very fine green eyes, outlined with dark lashes. He would have had to be made of stone not to be affected by the sight of her, red hair or not.

He wasn’t interested in finding a wife any longer, but that didn’t mean he intended to live like a monk. He’d spent enough time in his brother’s company to know there were plenty of women who were willing to offer more than flirtatious glances. And he’d been perfectly serious when he told Marsaili the so-called respectable ladies were the best. They were usually starved of real love-making by husbands who only used them as breeding cows. A man who knew how to pleasure them could reap the benefits without risk of being leg-shackled. As long as said husband didn’t find out, of course.