Just in Time for a Highlander (5 page)

“Aye, but not to the degree you think.” Abby felt like weeping. She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Perhaps, if you were able to convince Rosston, he might be able to help you convince the rest. I understand his side of Kerrs carries quite a bit of influence and, dare I say, with their investment, you may not need me and my bank at all.”

“Thank you,” she said, though she felt no gratitude at all. “I appreciate your advice.”

He nodded. “’Tis the least I could do for a young lassie like yourself.”

Abby reached for her goblet and drank.

Duncan ambled down the seemingly endless corridor of doors, candle in hand, searching for his room. The dinner had proceeded, though after Rosston left, no one seemed to enjoy it. Abby managed to convince Sir Alan to delay his departure until morning but not to reopen a discussion of the canal until she had what he termed “the unshakable support of the Kerr men.”

Abby had carried on stoically, even keeping the evening’s conversation afloat with something akin to cheer, but Duncan had seen the distress in those eyes. He’d wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but such a thing would have been both condescending and disrespectful, not to mention unlikely to be true, and he suspected she’d had enough condescension and disrespect to last a lifetime. Nonetheless, it had taken more than a little willpower to keep his mouth shut, just as it had taken more than a little willpower to keep from running after Rosston and introducing his bulk to one of the tapestry-covered walls. As well-intended as the acts might have been, neither would have served his hostess well.

Night had fallen during dinner, and rain had come, pounding the walls of the castle before moving on to the west just as the first guests rose from the table. And now, the strange, sometimes off-putting, Scottish mists were rising like walls of ghostly fire over the river. The sight sent a wave of homesickness through Duncan. His grandfather’s house, situated not far from Langholm, had often been enveloped in odd and fascinating weather, and his visits there as a child, far from the city streets of Edinburgh, had formed in him a deep and unchanging love for the majesty of the Lowland hills.

Homesick
when
you’re in the middle of Scotland?
A
fine
fool
you
are.
And yet home—and his grand-da—seemed more remote to him now than when he was in New York, half a world away.

Outside a wolf howled, and Grendel appeared in one of the doorways, ears raised.

“Do you hear your pack?”

Grendel made an agitated noise, and Duncan scratched the dog’s ears. Duncan didn’t know how he had come to be here, more than three hundred years in his past, and wondered for an instant if he, like Grendel, had been responding to some ancient and unknowable call. But while finding out how he got here would be interesting, Duncan knew he needed to concentrate on discovering something more useful—namely, how to return.

Grendel made another noise, in sympathy with his wild brethren, and leaned reluctantly against Duncan.

“Poor fellow. I’m afraid we must both be resigned to stay awhile.”

His heart cramped.
What
day
was
it? Still Sunday?
He had been intentionally vague with grandfather about his arrival, protecting his options in case an emergency arose at work, but at some point his grand-da would begin to worry.

The muffled sound of a man’s voice—deep, gruff, filled with anger—rose behind a door at the end of the hall. With Grendel at his heels, Duncan padded to the door at the cross section of two halls. Duncan looked left, right, and behind him. No one in sight. He leaned closer. A woman was speaking now, her voice as agitated as the man’s but quieter and appeasing. Duncan couldn’t make out the words, though the disagreement was heated.

He jerked away when he heard footsteps approaching on the other side, and thank goodness he did. The door banged open, barely missing him, and slowed to a stop far enough forward to block him from view. Abby, stiff with upset and clutching her skirts, ran down the hall, pulling Grendel into her wake. She disappeared into a room and slammed the door behind her, stranding the dog, who flopped down sadly.

Duncan moved around the open door and gazed in. It was not a room but a tight, round stone stairway rising higher into the castle. He stepped inside cautiously.

The walls were bare save for narrow slits cut through the rock at eye level every four steps or so. A chill went through him despite the evening’s warmth. The slits were for arrows. He was standing in a battle-ready turret.

With whom had Abby quarreled, though? Whose room was at the top of these stairs? He felt certain he could guess.

He heard a noise and slipped back into the hall, closing the door with a
click
. He was halfway to the door into which Abby had disappeared when Nab ambushed him from the other direction.

“There you are.”

“Where is everyone?” Duncan asked.

“
Och
, there’s a fiddler playing in the upper bailey and a quite decent game of dice. A lot of men are watching. I think Murgo’s going to lose his goat, though. I passed Sir Alan outside the Great Hall. He was looking for you.”

“Was he?” Duncan said, still looking abstractedly at the turret door. “Say, I might take a walk, possibly until quite late. If I wanted to swing by after that to chat with Rosston, where exactly in the castle do you think might I find him?”

Nab considered this for a moment. “Well, he’s usually up with the owls. I think no matter how long you walk, you’ll find him with his men, so probably in the bailey.”

“Right,” Duncan said, disappointed. “But let’s say my walk were to take me as far as, say—”

“I cannot recommend walking much beyond the castle walls,” said a man holding an armload of papers who was cresting the stairs. “Not tonight. Between the wolves and the soldiers, ’tis not a night for a lone stroller.” The man, of middle years, had thinning hair, bright eyes, and the face of a kindly, curious bird. He held out his hand. “I’m Jock Kerr, Lady Kerr’s steward. Though if you’re ever looking for a companion, I do enjoy watching the stars.”

“I’m Duncan MacHarg. I’m, er, Mrs. Fallon’s adviser. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kerr.”

“I saw you at dinner,” he said, taking Duncan’s outstretched hand. “Call me Jock.”

“Oh, aye. I can see it’s not going to be too hard memorizing last names around here.”

Jock laughed, his eyes wrinkling with pleasure. “No. Though it does make knowing who to trust a wee bit trickier. Even the bad ones are called ‘Kerr.’”

Duncan smiled. “Are you involved in her ladyship’s canal?”

Jock looked down at the paper in his hands, spotted the two-inch-tall “Kerr Canal Plan” calligraphed on one of the top sheets, and grinned. “
Och
. Just a bit. Lady Kerr is still hoping for a discussion with Sir Alan tomorrow. I’m trying to get the key issues laid out on paper for him.”

“The idea of a canal is not universally embraced, I take it?”

“You noticed that, did you? Well, it
is
a financial risk. Then there are those in the clan who feel the canal will attract an unwelcome element.”

“The English?”

Jock’s snort was all the answer he needed.

Duncan knew enough about business to know that building a canal could make you fantastically wealthy. But if you built one in the wrong place, or at the wrong time, or without the right support, you could also be wiped out, as easy as snapping your fingers. Scotland’s Darien scheme, a forerunner to the scheme that built the Panama Canal almost two hundred years later, had brought Scotland to its knees financially at the end of the 1600s, and would, in many ways, be the driving force behind the country’s submission to England’s demand that they join them in a union called Great Britain.

He also knew that no canal of any magnitude existed today, even in disuse, near Langholm. If Abby’s canal had been built—which he doubted—it had failed.

Jock gathered his papers to carry on, but Duncan had one more question. It was essentially the same question he’d asked Nab earlier, but he knew Jock would have a more informed point of view. “Lady Kerr’s rise to the chieftainship has not been an easy one, has it?”

Jock’s gaze traveled to the hall’s far window, as if remembering a time long ago. “Her father, Lachlan Kerr, was a devil of a man. Caesar couldna hold a candle to him. He ruled the clan with an iron hand, and they loved him—those who didn’t feel the sting of his lash, that is. When his health started to fail, and Abby was his only surviving heir, the clan had the choice of supporting her, a wee lass who’d never lifted a sword, or Rosston, her cousin from the estranged side of the family. Many were surprised the clan wanted Abby. Being a direct descendant of Lachlan was more important to them than experience leading men. In truth, I think there were those who thought they’d be able to control her. But I knew she would never stand for it—she was a wicked bowwoman with a mind of her own even then. Once she was chosen, I knew she would lead even if it meant fighting them one at a time to prove she could.”

“Her father must have been proud. They wanted his daughter, his blood.”

Jock scratched his chin. “Her father refused to approve the line of succession. ‘No girl will run my clan,’ he said. ‘Not as long as I draw breath.’ He threw his support behind Rosston. Banished Abby from the castle until the matter was settled. She lived for a year with a friend in Cumbria. Lachlan wouldn’t even let her into Scotland.”

“Her mother allowed this?”

“Dead when Abby was just a girl. Not that it would have mattered. Lachlan didn’t temper his opinions to please his wife.”

“What happened? She’s obviously the chieftess.”

“The clan overruled him. Halfway through the year away, Abby survived an attack. There were some among the clan who thought Lachlan had sent the man to kill his own daughter. I suppose the truth will never be known. But that was enough to turn the tide in her favor. Lachlan saw his last great effort thwarted by his own men. He was furious. He used his last shreds of power to negotiate a compromise between Rosston’s sept and his men. Abby has their support, but the alliance has not been an easy one.”

Duncan could imagine. With Rosston looking over her shoulder, ready to take over at a moment’s notice? He wouldn’t want to be in her boots.

“One more thing,” Duncan said. “You mentioned Lady Kerr was Lachlan’s only surviving heir. I take it she had brothers?”

“Oh, aye. Two. One younger. He survived only a day or two after birth. And her older brother, Bran. Bran was six years older and the apple of his father’s eye. Handsome, brave, a true warrior. He was killed in battle when Abby was fifteen. You’re wearing his sword.”

Duncan winced. No wonder Abby had been so upset.

“I must excuse myself,” Jock said. “Lady Kerr and I are meeting before dawn on this. She never gives up, I’ll give her that.”

Each man bowed, and when Jock was out of earshot, Duncan said to Nab, “What a tough position to be in.”

Grendel, who still lay curled at Abby’s door, let out a long, canine sigh.

“You know what?” Duncan said. “Let’s take the dog for a run, shall we? We can do that much for her.”

Nab whistled for Grendel and headed for the stairs. Duncan left his candle on a table to light his way on his return, but what he heard when he passed Abby’s door brought him to a dead stop.

Nab was halfway down the stairs when he noticed Duncan wasn’t behind him. “What is it?”

Duncan pointed to the door and whispered, “She’s crying.”

Nab rolled his eyes. “What about the walk?”

Duncan shrugged, helpless. “I’m sorry.”

“C’mon, Grendel,” Nab said. “We don’t need anybody else to have fun.”

“Stay within sight of the castle now,” Duncan called.

Nab, who was already running through the entry hall, laughed. “Jock might be afraid of the wolves, but I’m not.”

Duncan hesitated before knocking. The sobs were quiet but steady.

“Lady Kerr?”

“Not now.” It was a plea, not an order.

“Lady Kerr, please.”

She didn’t respond, but he heard steps and, after a long moment, the door opened. Her eyes were as red as cherries, but it was clear in the moment before answering, she’d wiped her face dry and was determined to keep further tears at bay. She gave him no greeting and shut the door quickly once he’d entered.

The space was much more than a bedroom. It was an apartment of sorts, three times the size of the room she’d put him in. The main space, covered in thick wool rugs, held shelves of books, a settee and chairs in front of a hearth, and a large desk scattered with ledgers and papers. To the side, in a wing off the room, was a four-poster bed draped in plum satin, and a large wardrobe. On either side of the bed were doors, which led, Duncan assumed, to a bathing area.

“You cannot stay long,” she said, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. “I have a reputation to uphold, and my clerk is not here.”

“I won’t. No one saw me enter, in any case.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

She looked so unhappy. “I am sorry, Lady Kerr.”

“For what? You had nothing to do with these tears.”

“But I am sorry for them, nonetheless. More important, though, I am sorry for this.” He pulled the sword from his sheath and laid it on her desk.

She closed her eyes. “Who told you?”

“Your steward. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m deeply sorry for taking the sword without your permission and reminding you of it.”

A fresh tear striped her cheek, but she gave him a wan smile. “If you were hoping to keep me from crying, I’m afraid you have said entirely the wrong thing.”

“You’ll find I have a knack for that. It seems to be my trademark.”

Her shoulders hitched. “I miss Bran. I miss having someone to talk to, someone who would understand. Sometimes it’s just so…”

She covered her face.

“I came here to apologize,” Duncan said, feeling his own throat tighten, “and I’ve upset you. I’ll go.”

“No…no. Please. Stay. I feel as if I could just talk to someone for a bit—about anything other than the clan—it would help.”

Duncan stepped closer. He was not an inexperienced seducer, and many late nights in bars, empty offices, and hotel rooms had taught him that in this moment, he could take her in his arms and kiss her and that she would likely kiss back. But he dared not attempt such a thing. He knew one false word, one false move, would instantly destroy the tiny bit of trust he’d built here with her.

“I would be happy to stay, Lady Kerr. I will do whatever you wish.”