Pleasured (20 page)

“Oh, Coll, have you no care for yourself? What will I do if he sends the magistrate for you?”

“He won’t. Jack asked him, and he said he would not. At least he was man enough to take his lumps without whining.” Coll paused, considering. “And he has a good right jab, as well.”

“Och . . . men!” Meg poured a dark liquid onto a cloth and began to clean the cut on his cheek. “No doubt now that you’ve beat each other about the head, you will become friends.”

Coll snorted. “Thank you, no. One Sassenach is enough for me. Ow!” Coll sucked in his breath. “Have a care, Meg, that stings.”

“You might think of that before you start swinging.” Meg began to grind up herbs with a mortar and pestle.

Coll eyed the mixture suspiciously. “What do you mean to do to me now?”

“Don’t be such a bairn. I’m making a poultice to reduce the swelling. You will thank me tomorrow.” She paused in her work and reached out to stroke her hand lightly across his head. “You’re a good brother, Coll. I dinna like to see you hurt.”

“I feel the same for you.”

“I know. So for my sake, please try not to run afoul of the earl again. You are my family.” She shifted and turned back to her task, briskly crunching up the dried herbs. “Which reminds me . . . I’ve decided to visit Angus McKay.”

“Old Angus? Good Lord, why?”

“It’s my hope he will tell me more about our grandmother—and the man she loved. Da told me I should ask Old Angus about her. I’ll take him some balm for his aching
bones to sweeten him up.”

“Hah! It’d take more than that to sweeten that one. What would Angus know about Faye, anyway—” Coll stopped, an appalled expression crossing his face. “Nae, Meg! You’re not saying Angus MacKay is our grandfather!”

Meg burst into laughter. “No. At least, I hope not. Da told me the other day that our mother suspected her father was David MacLeod.”

Coll frowned, thinking. “I don’t know him.”

“That is because he moved away right after Faye died. His family is all gone. But Old Angus was some sort of cousin to the MacLeods, and he and David were friends. He might know whether David MacLeod was our grandfather. And if he’s still alive, maybe even where he is.”

“Ah, lass, why do you keep poking and prodding at that?”

“I’m just curious.” Meg did not add that the project would help keep her busy—and her mind off the Earl of Mardoun.

“Mayhap you’ll find out something you’d rather not know. The man took off with never a thought to the child he left behind. What sort of man does that make him?”

“But at least I’d know. Right now all I can do is wonder. I would like to know who he was, what he was like. Why he never acknowledged his child. What happened to him? Did he watch his daughter growing up and never say a word? Was it someone Ma knew? Someone we know? Aren’t you curious?”

“Well, I am
now
.” Coll was silent for a moment, tracing a pattern absentmindedly on the tabletop. “I wonder if that was his sgian-dubh.” At Meg’s questioning glance, he
explained, “You know, the sgian-dubh, the knife Ma left me. You remember, she gave you that fancy hair comb and she gave me a knife.” He reached behind him and pulled a small knife from the scabbard at his belt, laying it on the table before him. Old, with the black hilt that gave the knives their name, Scotsmen had long ago worn such a knife at the top of their sock, a smaller, secondary weapon. A symbol was carved into this one’s handle.

“Oh, yes, I remember. Ma said it was Faye’s, like my comb.”

“I always thought it an odd thing for our grandmother to have owned.”

“Aye, it would more likely have been a man’s.” Meg set aside what she was doing and sat down, reaching out to trace the engraving on the hilt. “I wonder how she felt about him, what she thought. To keep something of his like that, she must have treasured it. Wanted the reminder of him. Yet she was so secretive . . . maybe she kept his knife as a reminder of how foolish she had been to care for a man like that.”

Coll studied Meg’s pensive face. After a moment he said quietly, “Mardoun came to Baillannan today to find out where Wes Keith and his family were.”

Meg’s head snapped up, her gaze suddenly piercing. “Why? What did he want with them? Why ask at Baillannan?”

Coll shrugged. “I think he felt more at ease talking to Jack. You know—someone who was his own kind.”

“Did Jack know? Did he tell him?”

“Isobel knew and she told Jack how to get there. Jack took the earl to them.” Coll leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Mardoun gave Keith money, Jack said. I don’t know how much. He said . . .” Coll cleared his throat, then
said a little grudgingly, “Mardoun apologized, and he told Wes he could come back to his croft and rebuild or he’d give him passage if Wes wanted that. He even went inside to speak to Wes’s mother.”

Meg stared at Coll, her thoughts churning so much that for a moment she could not speak. “Did Damon not know?” she burst out at last. “Do you think he really did not know what MacRae was doing?”

“Perhaps.” Coll shrugged. “Jack believes him. He says Mardoun seemed . . . troubled by it all.”

“Oh.”

“Or perhaps the earl just now realized how much he is despised throughout the glen and decided he’d best do something to deflect people’s anger.”

“Och, you’re a cynical man, Coll.”

“Just one who does not want to see you hurt. Mayhap the man is sorry; maybe he was not aware of how much misery he was spreading. Jack says that men so wealthy and high like that don’t really understand what life is like for ordinary folks, of what losing their croft means to someone. I am willing to believe he was shocked at MacRae’s methods. Even surprised to find that evicting his crofters left them with no choices. I’ll take Jack’s word for it, for Jack’s not one to be easily duped.”

“I would be glad to think I was not that wrong about him.”

“Have a care, Meg. Dinna get swept away because the man is probably not a monster. He’ll hire another estate manager, and that one will advise the same thing. It’s happening all over the Highlands, not just here. And when it comes down to the question of his profits, Mardoun will
choose his pocket, not his sympathy.”

“You don’t know that,” Meg insisted.

“I know you canna trust men like him. He is a British earl and he has no reason to love the Highlands. He does not care for any of us; we are here but to serve him. If you put your faith in the Earl of Mardoun, it will only break your heart.”

Indeed, Meg thought, she was afraid it already had.

19

L
ynette returned to Meg’s cottage
often during the days that followed. Meg was careful not to inquire about Mardoun, for she felt it would unfairly be using the man’s daughter. However, Lynette’s conversation was frequently sprinkled with comments about him, so Meg learned that Damon had not yet hired a new estate manager, that he went out riding or walking much of the time, and that Jack Kensington had once come to call.

Meg did not see Damon. That was good, of course. Still, she had to wonder where he rode and walked all those days, for Meg had not caught sight of him when she went to the shore or the stone circle or anywhere along the path from her house to Duncally. Clearly, she thought, he was avoiding the places she was apt to be. And that was a good thing, as well. Coll was right; it was better to forget about Mardoun.

It surprised Meg when Lynette did not come to see her for two afternoons in a row. It felt a bit odd to go about her tasks alone; Meg had grown accustomed to Lynette’s
presence. She thought about putting off her visit to Angus McKay the next day, thinking Lynette might come and she would be gone, but she decided to go early in the morning so that she would be back in plenty of time for Lynette, who never arrived till after noon.

As she neared McKay’s house, Meg was relieved to see that the old man tromped out onto his porch without the musket he sometimes used to greet visitors. “Meg Munro.”

“Angus. How are you?” Meg said cheerfully as she came to the porch steps.

“Well enough.” The old man beetled his brows. “Whit are you doing oot here, bothering an auld man?”

“Autumn’s coming, and the weather will be getting cold soon. I thought you might want a pot of balm to warm your joints.”

“I don’t ken why you’d hae thocht that. Hae I ever asked you for a pot o’ balm?”

“No, you have not.” Meg put her hands on her hips and scowled back at him. “Because you’re a thoroughly thrawn, bull-heided old man, and you wouldna ask for a hand out of the loch if you were drowning.”

“Whisht. I wouldna be fool enough tae fall into it in the first place.”

“I’ve made three pots, and I’m not sure which is best. It’s nae use to test it on myself. If you were to try them all, you could tell me the good and the bad of them all.”

“Sae you want to experiment on me?”

“You wouldna be my first choice,” Meg snapped. “There are many more agreeable.”

“Then why come tae me?”

“Och, for pity’s sake. Because I want you to tell me
something, and I thought I could trade you the cream for information.”

“Weel, why dinna you say so tae begin wi’? Here, gie me those and sit doon.” He gestured toward the two stools on the porch of his cabin. “I suppose you’ll be expecting me tae gie you tea as well.”

Meg had to chuckle. “Nae. I’m not wanting any tea.”

“I do, sae you micht as weel hae it.” He clumped back into the house, and Meg settled down on the stool to enjoy the view.

Before long he returned with two mugs and thrust one at her. Meg took it, trying not to think of how clean any of the old man’s dishes might be, and took a sip. It was hot enough to scald her tongue and far too sweet, but at least the honey countered the bitterly strong brew. From the smell that wafted through the air to her, Meg surmised that Angus had added to his a healthy dose of the whiskey he distilled out back.

He took a deep swig, not seeming to notice the scorching heat of the liquid. “Weel, then, whit hae you coom tae hear?”

“My da told me—”

The old man immediately interrupted, “Och, Alan McGee, noo there’s a will-o’-the-wisp. Whit your ma saw in him, I canna ken. But women are foolish over a pretty face.”

Meg kept a rein on her temper. “He said you knew my grandmother.”

The old man’s face softened, surprising Meg. “Ah, Faye Munro. She was a bonnie, bonnie lass. You favor her, but you’ll never match her, I’ll tell you that. Not that I was fool enough tae try to catch her eye, you ken. There wasna a lad
in the glen that dinna wish she’d choose him. She knew it, of course, but she wasna a tease. She dinna gie anybody false hope.”

“But she must have chosen someone. Who did she love?”

“You’re wanting to learn who was your grandda, then.”

“Yes. Do you know? Da said you were good friends with David MacLeod, and my mother thought he was probably her father.”

“Weel, Davey loved her, that’s a fact.” Angus nodded, gazing pensively off into the distance. “And he would hae liked tae be her man. When she was carrying your ma, he hung aboot up there. He cut peat for them and brocht her meat. I mind he took a goat over, so she would hae the milk. A lot of folk thocht he was the faither, and he was happy tae let them think it. He hoped she would let him act the faither to the bairn, that if he did, she micht tak him tae be her man. But it wasna Davey she loved. She dinna get that look on her face that a woman does, you ken, when she sees the man she loves.”

Who would have thought this testy old man could wax so poetic, Meg thought. “Who do you think she did love? Do you know?”

“She dinna tell me, you ken. But she was sad all that time she was carrying your ma. I’d see her walking, just walking, and she’d hae this look in her eye, this deep, lost darkness. She would sit up on the cliffs and look oot to sea, as if he micht coom back to her.”

“You think he left her, that he sailed away?”

“Nae, not sailed. Just that he was never coming back. I think ’twas Davey’s brother, Jamie, she loved. He was older, and a braw-looking man. All the lasses sighed over him. Faye
was a woman grown, you ken, not just some lass. She would hae wanted an older man, not a stripling like our Davey. But he went off, not to sea but to fight for the prince. No one knew whit happened to him. But he dinna return, and I think that is why Faye Munro was sae sad.”

Meg felt tears well in her eyes for the grandmother she had never known.

“It’s my thocht she was happy to pass on, but it struck poor Davey hard. I thocht he micht stay, just tae look in on the bairn, but he couldna do it. He left, you ken, and he never came back either.” Angus let out a sigh, his rheumy eyes sorrowful.

Meg sat for a moment, absorbing what she had learned. “Where did David MacLeod go? Is he still alive?”

“I dinna ken. I’ve never heard aught else from him. Their mither and faither are both dead these many years, as well as one of their sisters. Mary, though, is still alive; she meritt Tom Fraser. But, och, they say her mind’s no’ richt anymair.”

And that, Meg thought, was that. She thanked Angus for the tea and the conversation. Talk of his old friend seemed to have mellowed him a bit, and he actually tipped his hat to her as she left and said quietly, “Ah, weel, there willna be another as bonnie as Faye, but in truth, you have her eyes, lass.”

It was, Meg reflected, as nice a compliment as one could hope to receive from Old Angus. She returned to her cottage in a wistful mood, thinking about her long-dead grandmother and her ill-fated love, imagining the woman sitting on the cliffs, gazing out at the gray sea and mourning the man who had gone off to war. Poor David MacLeod, as well,
loving the woman who loved only his brother. It appeared Meg was not destined to find out the identity of her grandfather. It made her ache a little.

The sky overhead was a sullen gray, reflecting Meg’s mood, and by the time she got back to her cottage, it had begun to drizzle. Lynette did not come again, and even though it was not surprising, given the gloomy weather, worry tickled at Meg’s mind. Had Damon once again forbidden the girl to see Meg? The drizzle stopped, then started, and by the time night fell, it began to rain in earnest. Banking the fire, Meg went to bed early, and with the comforting noise of the rain falling on the roof, she fell asleep.

Meg awoke with a start. She could hear the rain clattering against the roof and the windows, much harder now. Had thunder awakened her? As she sat up, the
thump-thump-thump
came again. Not thunder, but someone pounding on the door. A voice sounded, but she could not distinguish it in the noise of the rain.

Meg was accustomed to people coming to her in the middle of the night, needing help. She slipped out of bed and pulled on a robe, lit a candle from the glow of the embers in the fireplace, and started toward the door.

“Meg! It’s me. Open up.”

She stopped, her throat going dry. She was close enough to recognize the voice now, even muffled by the rain. Her heart began to pound, and she hurried forward.

“Damon?” She stopped at the door, her hand on the bar, suddenly scared—not of him but of the feeling surging in
her, the mingling of hope and despair and sheer vibrating lust.

“Yes. Please, Meg, open the door. I’m not here to importune you, I swear.”

She broke from her momentary trance and lifted the bar to swing the door open. Damon stood before her. He wore no jacket, his lawn shirt soaked by the rain into transparency, its loose folds clinging to his chest. His eyes were huge and stark, dark blue smudges beneath them like bruises, and his cheeks were hollowed out. His head was bare, and the rain sluiced over him, plastering his hair to his head.

“Damon!” Meg gasped, stunned by his appearance.

“Don’t turn me away. I know that you despise me. But, please, just listen to me.” Desperation was in his eyes and voice. “Lynette is ill. I need your help. Come with me. Please. I am begging you.”