Pleasured (11 page)

“Ma . . . says . . . to come.”

“Is she ill? What’s wrong?”

“Nae. No’ that.” He went on in bits and spurts between his gasps. “’Tis the stones. Mardoun’s man means to pull them down.”

“What!” Meg stared at him. “Are you sure?”

“Aye, my uncle Ronald hires out to him now and then. They need the coins something fierce, you ken. MacRae’s man coom by and told Uncle Ronald to coom help. They’re tearing down the circle, and the Troth Stone’s first. Ma said you’d care about the Old Ones.”

“She’d be right,” Meg said grimly. She turned toward her father. “Da, give Tommy a drink and one of the oatcakes.”

Lifting her skirts, she took off at a run for the ring of standing stones.

10

W
ill we pass by the
ring of stones as we go to the beach?” Lynette pulled her mare up beside Damon’s horse as they picked their way down the rocky slope. “I can see them from some of the terraces.”

“We could go that way if you wished. I believe there’s a path from the circle to the sea.” Or they could take another path from the circle, one that led to a snug, brown cottage set among the trees.

But they would not. Damon refused to make a complete cake of himself. He had already laid his plans to see Meg without arriving like a supplicant on her doorstep. With any luck, that would occur tomorrow evening. Anticipation fizzed in him at the thought.

“I would like to see the standing stones,” Lynette went on. “I’ve read about Stonehenge, and they seem much like it. It makes one wonder, doesn’t it, how people raised them so long ago? And why.”

“It does indeed.”

“Miss Pettigrew says they are heathen things.”

“No doubt they were. They have been there since long before Christianity came to these shores. Though I don’t know why that matters.” Damon glanced at Lynette thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s time you had a more educated tutor. Someone who could provide you some challenge.”

Lynette turned to him, her eyes lighting. “Truly? I would like that. There are so many things besides needlework and poetry. I am a very poor poet.” She hesitated, some doubt creeping into her expression. “But what of Miss Pettigrew? Would you send her away? I should hate for her to be without a position.”

“If you wish to, I will keep her as well to teach you comportment and painting and such and add a tutor for the more difficult subjects.”

“She fusses a great deal. But Miss Pettigrew means well. She was most devoted to Mother.”

“Naturally.”

“She writes to my aunt, you know,” Lynette offered.

“What? Who? Miss Pettigrew?”

“Yes.” Lynette nodded. “She corresponds with Aunt Veronica.”

“I see.” He didn’t really. Amibel’s sister Veronica was not so dedicated to having delicate health as his wife had been, but she was equally proud and stiff, narrow in her thinking and utterly without humor. He could not imagine why anyone would wish to write to her, much less have to read her replies. “No doubt Lady Veronica enjoys getting news of you.”

“I think it is more news of you she wants.”

“What? Why on earth would she want news of me?” He turned his head. His daughter was watching him with mischief in her eyes.

“It’s my opinion Aunt Veronica has designs on you.” Lynette giggled as he gaped at her.

“It’s
my
opinion you are trying to cut a sham with me,” Damon retorted.

“No! Truly. When Aunt Veronica called on us before we left, she was dressed very smartly, and whenever you spoke, she was rapt with attention. You probably did not notice because women frequently act that way with you. You’re quite a catch, you know, being a widower.”

“And I thought it was my charm”—he laughed—“when it’s only my marital availability. But I think you must be mistaken about Lady Veronica. I doubt I could meet her standards.”

“We shall see,” his daughter told him airily.

“I believe this path will cut across to the stones.” Damon turned his horse’s head, pushing aside a low-hanging limb.

They passed through a copse of trees to the edge of a broad clearing, and Damon pulled his mount to an abrupt halt. The ring of tall, narrow stones lay before them. Damon felt an odd atavistic tug in his gut at the sight of it.

But a scene nearer to them captured his attention. Another stone stood on this side of the circle, half the height of the others. In the middle of the rock a round hole had been hollowed out—whether natural or man-made, he could not tell. Two men were wrapping a length of rope around this peculiar stone, watched over by Mardoun’s estate manager, who sat nearby on a horse. Several more men stood a few feet away from the stone, shifting on their feet uneasily. The
cause of their unease, Damon assumed, was the crowd of onlookers, sullenly watching and muttering among themselves.

“Papa! What are they doing?” Lynette turned toward him, puzzled.

“I haven’t the faintest notion.” He started to nudge his horse forward, but he stopped as a woman burst into the tableau, bare legs flashing beneath her raised skirts, red hair streaming out behind her.

“Papa! It’s that beautiful lady again!”

“So it is,” Damon murmured.

“No!” Meg Munro planted herself in front of the rock, arms outspread. The beauty and fury blazing out of her face were enough to stop any man in his tracks. “You willna do this!”

“Out of the way, Meg!” Donald MacRae rode forward on his animal. “We’re taking down that rock.”

“I’ll see you dead first,” she tossed back.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Nae. I’m telling you straight out, if you tear down that stone, you’ll rue it the rest of your short, miserable life.”

The estate manager’s face flushed. “You cannot stop us. Move or we’ll pull it down atop you.”

“Are you planning to do the pulling yourself? For if you’re counting on this lot doing it, I’d think again.” She swept her hand across the array of workmen, turning the full force of her blazing gold gaze on them. “Which of you will pull down the Troth Stone, that’s stood here for more years than anyone can tell? This is
our
ring and
our
stone.” She swung around to face the watching crowd behind her. “Will you let them? How many of you pledged your troth here?” As she rolled on, her voice slipped deeper into a rich
burr. “How many of your mithers and faithers? Your grans? Will you let this soothlander, this tool of the English, coom in and tear doon our stane? Is it sae easy for you, then, to gie up your birthright?”

The woman was a natural rabble-rouser, Damon thought, as several of the crowd responded with an angry “No” or “Never” or “Damned Sassenach.”

“Damn it!” MacRae snapped, gesturing at the men in front of the stone. “Take the ropes. Pull it down.”

The men gaped at him, shuffling their feet as they looked from him to Meg to the crowd and then to each other.

“Will you topple it on me, Ewen?” Meg pointed to one of the workers. “Who was it birthed your bairn last winter—that was turned around wrang and your Nell screaming with the pain? John MacKenzie, dinna I gie you salve for your da’s cankered legs? And you”—she swung the other way, singling out another man who was studiously avoiding her gaze—“Colin Grant. Tell me who gaed to your croft when your wee laddie’s lungs were laboring for air. Do you want to cross me? Do you want my blood on this sacred ground and me cursing your name with my last breath?”

The men edged backward, eyeing the ropes as if they were snakes lying on the ground.

“And you—you ootlanders”—Meg turned her fierce gaze on MacRae’s other men—“do you think you can wreck these stanes and not answer for it? Do you think because you’re frae the Lowlands, you willna suffer the consequences? This is where the ancients danced. It has been holy ground since time began, afore there were Gaels or Scots, afore the Norsemen came, and long, long afore the English ever set foot here. The auld ones guard these places still. I would not want
to be the one who disturbs their spirits. Do you think
he
will protect you when they come for you one nicht?” She gestured scornfully toward Donald MacRae. “Nocht can save you frae the Old Ones’ curse.”

It was not, Damon thought, the Old Ones’ wrath that should strike fear into them, but Meg’s. Her gaze was enough to turn a man to ash. God, but she was stunning! Everything inside him rose up in response to her, and instinctively he started forward.

MacRae’s men glanced uneasily toward MacRae and away. The hue of the manager’s face deepened to almost purple. “What the devil are you standing there for? I told you, pull it down!”

“Stop,” Damon’s voice rang out, crisp and clear, as he rode forward. Everyone there, including Meg, turned toward him.

“You!” Meg’s golden eyes narrowed, her voice soaked with scorn. “I might have known you’d come to see your handiwork. No doubt you own this as well.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Amusement tinged Damon’s voice. “We are on my land, after all. However, I did not realize this spot lay under your protection.”

“The Ring belongs to no man.” Meg crossed her arms. “If you destr—”

“No, no, you can hold your curses, delightful as they are.” He raised his hands pacifically. “I have no intention of tearing down the circle.” He turned to his manager. “The stones remain.” Ignoring MacRae’s outraged expression, Damon looked back at Meg, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “There, Miss Munro. Will that do?”

“What about when we leave? When no one is watching?”

“I swear it to you on my honor. I will not tear down this stone or any of the others. Neither I nor anyone who works for me. And anyone who does will have to answer to me.”

“No. Wait.” MacRae urged his horse closer to Damon’s. When Damon turned a cool face to him, eyebrows slightly raised, he added quickly, “Sir. My lord. Please do not be hasty. These stones are a nuisance. They attract the locals and encourage them to trespass on your estate.”

Damon gave him a long look. “I believe I made myself clear.”

“Certainly, my lord.” MacRae swallowed whatever else he might have been about to say and turned, gesturing to his men. “Take the ropes and leave.”

As the men scrambled to unwind the ropes, Damon doffed his hat to Meg. “Good afternoon, Miss Munro.” He nodded a good-bye to the crowd beyond her and went back to rejoin his daughter. “I believe it would be best if we took another route to the beach this time, Lynette.” He turned his mount toward the main road.

MacRae caught up with them. “My lord.”

Damon suppressed a sigh. “Yes, what is it?”

“I beg you to reconsider, sir. You do not understand what the people here are like. How they—”

“I
understand
that I did not give you leave to remove those stones. I
understand
that you did not consult me about it.”

“Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to presume,” the man groveled. “When we discussed turning the crofts from farming to raising sheep, I was under the impression that you did not wish to be bothered with the details of running Duncally.”

“Of course not, but what the devil does raising sheep
have to do with dragging down a monument that has been standing for centuries?”

“They are only rocks, my lord. Primitive superstitions. And it causes the locals to trespass on your land. Couples go there when they plight their troth; they walk through your property to reach the circle. Allowing them to continue to do so encourages them to believe that the land belongs to them.”

“What nonsense. Of course they know that the land belongs to me; it has for generations.”

“Old ways die hard, sir,” MacRae replied portentously. “Giving in to these people will only reinforce their resistance to progress. Highlanders are hardheaded and contentious. Look at what the rabble has already done—stealing, intimidating my workers, burning down the storehouse. Your own life could be in danger. I have spent years trying to control them. You must rule them with an iron fist. If you back down, they will view you as weak and only demand more—”

“Mr. MacRae,” Damon interrupted him sharply. “I am not new to the task of overseeing an estate.”

“But, sir, these are—”

“I feel sure that Scots, underneath it all, are much the same as anyone. I see nothing wrong in their attachment to the standing stones, and I don’t mind that they come onto my land.”

“But we could—”

“Moreover,” Damon plowed on over the other man’s words, “it seems foolish to introduce a new provocation into an already volatile situation. We are trying to eliminate the
local unrest, not increase it. In the future you will bring it to my attention
before
you undertake such drastic action.”

“Of course, my lord. As you wish.” MacRae inclined his head in acquiescence and excused himself, turning back toward the castle.

“I don’t like that man,” Lynette said quietly as she and her father resumed their ride in the opposite direction.

“Neither do I, particularly.”

“Then why do you keep him on?”

“He is the best manager I’ve had for Duncally, the first one who has turned any sort of significant profit.” Damon shrugged. “A pleasant demeanor is not necessary for the job. And, fortunately, we don’t have to be friends with him.”

“Was that true what he said? That you are in danger? Would those people try to harm you?”

“No.” Damon cast a sideways glance at his daughter. “Do not worry about that. He exaggerates to make his point.”

“The storehouse did burn down. I saw the flames from my window.”

“You watched it? Miss Pettigrew assured me you were sound asleep.”

“Miss Pettigrew was,” Lynette answered simply.

“Setting fire to a remote storehouse is a far cry from attacking a British landowner. They know the trouble in which they would find themselves if they attempted to harm me. No doubt it is a small number of malcontents, anyway. I will give you a bit of advice in handling tenants. MacRae’s sort of heavy-handed methods are not the best. It shows fear, which is never advisable, and it can turn indignation or resentment into a veritable storm of opposition. Far better to get along
with one’s tenants. You have seen our Rent Day celebrations, the Christmas tradition of handing out wassail. I have now and then paid a visit to a local wedding or some other sort of village festivity. I am sure your mother visited the sick—” He stopped. “Well, perhaps not that.”

“No. But the housekeeper did. And Mrs. Pennington, the estate agent’s wife.”

“Exactly. Those are the things one does as a landowner; it is part of one’s duty to the estate and the title. It’s a simple enough thing.”

“Then why did Mr. MacRae try to tear down the stone?”

“Shortsightedness.” Damon shrugged. “He is fearful of losing control, so he clutches at it harder.”

“But why are the people angry to begin with? Why would they wish to harm you?”

“MacRae has instituted a number of changes to make the estate more profitable, mostly bringing in sheep instead of farming. Change is hard; many people resist it. And apparently they consider him an outsider even though he is Scottish. And he is working for an Englishman, which would not make him popular.”