Rose In Scotland (35 page)

“And I tell you, MacDouglass, there is no feud. Not against Iain Dunhelm nor any man of Ben Denham,” Hugh responded, doing his best to keep his temper in the face of rising frustration. He’d come into the keep to find MacDouglass and twenty of his men fairly bristling with weapons and the need to make use of them. News of the attack against Caroline had circulated amongst the clans, and now many were choosing sides and lining up for a war Hugh was frantically trying to avoid. Whatever his feelings about Dunhelm’s involvement, he considered the matter a personal one, and was determined to avoid clan warfare at all cost. As Lucien had said, it would take but the hint of such a thing to bring the British army marching back into the Highlands.

“No feud, when the black-hearted bastard
shoots yer wee wife from ambush like the
cladhaire
that he is?” MacDouglass lumbered to his feet, his huge size dwarfing even Hugh. “Christ, man, where are yer balls? Have yer years wi’ the English left ye nae more than a poor
segg
, with nothing a’tween yer legs?”

Hugh flushed a deep red, MacDouglass’s crude barb striking perilously close to home. “If I believed without a doubt that Dunhelm had aught to do this, I would cut his head off and display it to all,” he said, infusing the cold fury he felt into each word. “But I
do
have doubts, and that is why there will be no feud. You honor me with your loyalty, MacDouglass, and I thank you truly for it, but I will not be the one to break the peace between the clans. I’ll not bring war to Loch Haven.”

At first he thought his words in vain, but slowly the fire died in the huge Scot’s eyes, and he lowered himself back onto his chair. “Ye’re a different man from yer father,” he said after a moment, folding his arms across his massive chest and eyeing Hugh with open speculation. “Douglas MacColme would bluster and rage, like me, and go off like a half-grown laddie with nae a thought to the consequences. But ye, ye’re colder, I ken; more watchful-like, and sharp as the blade of a claymore.” A wide grin split his bearded face. “I dinna think I would choose to ride against ye, laird. Ye would make a fearsome enemy.”

“And I would hope, a better friend.” Hugh rose to his feet to offer the other man his hand. “Thank you again, Padruig. It means much to me to know I have your support.”

The laird of the MacDouglasses stood to his full height, his ham-sized fist giving Hugh a thump to the back that all but sent him sprawling. “Aye, that you have, MacColme,” he roared. “Even though ye’ll nae let me and my chieftains have our bit of fun and slay a few of those useless sots. They’re Dunhelms, lad. ’Tis nae as if they’d be missed!”

When Hugh had recovered from the friendly blow he offered MacDouglass and his men some whiskey to ease their parched throats, an offer they welcomed with the same enthusiasm as they would have welcomed a war. Hugh escorted his guests to the great hall, making certain they had all that they required before excusing himself. Clan custom required he stay to drink with his guests, but he disliked the idea of leaving Caroline alone for very long. And, he admitted with a self-deprecating grin, because he much doubted he could keep pace with the amazing quantities of whiskey being drunk. He hadn’t the head or the stomach for such excesses.

He checked to make certain there would be beds for all who drank themselves into stupors, and then quietly slipped away. He was walking up the stairs to return to his room when he heard his name called, and turned to see Lucien Raghnall standing there.

“A moment of your time, MacColme, if I may,” he said, his expression somber. “I have news for you.”

Hugh tensed, a cold feeling of dread settling into the pit of his stomach. He’d assigned Lucien the sensitive task of finding proof if a member of his own clan had shot Caroline, and from the
looks of him, ’Twould seem he had found it.

“In my study,” he said, his blood turning to ice as he silently led the way into the back part of the castle.
Don’t let it be true
, he thought, schooling his own face to show nothing of his raw emotions.
Dear God, don’t let it be true
.

Once they were inside the study, Hugh did a quick search of the small anteroom adjacent to the study to make sure they were truly alone, and only when he was certain did he turn back to Lucien. “Tell me what you have found,” he said, steeling himself.

But instead of answering, Lucien leaned back in his chair. “I see you’ve convinced MacDouglass there’s nae a fight to be had, and still he’s happy,” he said, his eyes looking anywhere but at Hugh. “You’re to be congratulated, laird. I dinna think it possible to placate that great bear once he’d caught a whiff of blood.”

But Hugh would not be diverted. He sensed the other man was stalling, and it only added to the pain he was feeling. “Lucien,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “tell me.”

Lucien looked at him then, and the pity that he saw there gave Hugh the answer he had been fearing … and expecting.

“There’s a young crofter, name of Labhruinn,” he began carefully. “He’s nae a MacColme, although his mother has claims upon the clan. He came to Loch Haven about two years ago, and a surly, disagreeable sort he has been from the first. He hates the English most especially, and I have myself heard him saying some unflattering things about your wife.”

Hugh’s hands clenched into fists. “And you
didna think to tell me of this?” he demanded furiously. “Even when I most specifically charged you to do so?”

“Hugh, you must believe me—had I thought for even one moment that he posed a true danger to you or your wife, I would ha’ told you at once! But I took him for naught but a drunkard and a fool, a
bragoil
who too well liked the sound of his own mewling. I never paid the slightest mind to his threats and his mutterings, but now I wish I had.”

Now that he had a name to go with the hate building inside him, Hugh could let himself relax. “Where is Labhruinn now?” he asked, his voice utterly calm, utterly devoid of the smallest inflection of humanity. In his mind’s eye he was already at the crofter’s rough hut; already killing him.

“That is what convinced me of his guilt,” Lucien said with visible regret. “The lad’s gone.”

“Gone?” Hugh scarcely recognized the sound of his own voice.

“Him and his musket, both gone, and none have seen him in near to a fortnight,” Lucien admitted, eyeing Hugh nervously. “I dinna remark on it at first because the lad’s taken himself off half a dozen times before, and always he has returned. But this time it is different, for ’Tis not just his musket he took, but all his clothes and every scrap of money his poor mother had as well. She said he spoke of going to Glasgow, but who can tell?”

Hugh couldn’t believe it at first. The vengeance he had hungered for, lived for all these endless days, was for naught. If Labhruinn had
indeed taken himself to Glasgow all those days ago, then the chances of his still being there were all but nonexistent. Glasgow welcomed ships from every corner of the globe, and he could be anywhere, anywhere in the world, safely away from Loch Haven and his reach.

“God damn you for a useless fool!” he roared, shaking with the strength of his fury. “Why did you nae tell me of him sooner? You let him get away! The stinking bastard shoots my wife, and you let him get away! You cursed whoreson! I could kill you for this!”

Lucien rose at Hugh’s words. “Then kill me, laird, if ‘twill make you feel better,” he said quietly, meeting Hugh’s molten glare with cool equanimity. “Curse me, strike me, if that is your pleasure. For whatever you do to me, ’Tis no less than I would do to myself for failing you. I am most heartily sorry.”

His soft words defeated Hugh, leaving him even more at a loss. He whirled away, turning to stalk the narrow confines of the room. So many emotions rioted inside of him, he thought he would surely go mad from the cacophony. The only thought to emerge clearly from the chaos was that he had failed Caroline. He had failed to protect her, and now he had failed to find the man who had wounded her so grievously. The bitterness of that knowledge all but broke his pride, and his heart.

He loved her, he thought, amazed he hadn’t realized the truth of that until just this very minute. He loved her, and he had failed her.

“No, Lucien,” he said heavily, turning to face the other man with as much dignity as he could
muster. “Once more, ’Tis I who must apologize to you. I am bitter disappointed I couldna avenge myself on Labhruinn, but the fault is more mine than ’Tis yours. Will you forgive me for my temper and my words?”

Lucien gaped at him before replying. “Aye, Hugh, of course!” he said, his cheeks growing as pink as a schoolboy’s. “But as I said, I blame myself for nae telling you sooner of my suspicions. If I had, mayhap we would have caught the
bleek.”

“And mayhap we would have not,” said Hugh, painfully accepting the truth of the matter. “Do something for me, Raghnall, if you would.”

“Anything, laird.”

“Send a man … no, two men to Glasgow, and have them make inquires to see if any trace of Labhruinn is to be found. Have them check all ships that have set sail in the past two weeks, and order them to report back to me the smallest scrap of information they find.”

“Aye.” Lucien nodded eagerly. “Will there be anything else?”

Hugh thought a long moment. “You said he took all his mother’s money when he left,” he said in a heavy voice. “Have my steward check on her. Be certain she doesna lack for anything. I willna have her suffer for the sins of her son.”

Lucien looked much-struck by his generosity. “I will see to it at once,” he vowed. “And if you dinna mind my saying it, ’Tis a rare kindness you are showing. You are a good laird, Hugh.”

“Am I?” Hugh asked, his shame all but choking
him. “I am glad you think so, Raghnall, for God knows, I do not.”

By late the next evening, Caroline felt well enough to insist she be allowed to take her dinner in the dining hall with the rest of the family. Hugh protested at first, citing her poor health and delicate constitution, but when she persisted he finally acquiesced. With provisos, of course.

“Really, Hugh, you need not carry me down the stairs, you know,” she scolded, wrapping her arms about his neck. “It was my arm that was injured, not my leg.”

“Hush, wife, and mind your wicked tongue,” he ordered, his stem tone belied by the twinkle in his eyes. “I am your husband, and ’Tis my right to carry you when and where I will.”

Caroline pretended to pout, even as she secretly thrilled to the commanding words. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, her hunger for her husband was reaching decidedly unladylike proportions, and she feared that did he not make love to her soon, she would attack him in his sleep. In fact, she mused, her lips curving thoughtfully, that sounded like a most interesting idea. Hugh gave a sudden groan, and her lascivious thoughts were instantly forgotten.

“What is it?” she demanded, horrified to see he had clenched his jaw, and that sweat was beading his brow. “I’m too heavy, aren’t I?” she cried, aware of the weight she had gained, despite her injury. “Put me down, Hugh, before you harm yourself!”

Instead of being touched by her solicitousness,
he seemed to take it greatly amiss. “Will you stop wiggling, blast it!” he roared at her, his grip tightening about her. “You’ll overset me, and then we’ll both end up on our arses!”

Mindful of anything that might bring harm to the babe, Caroline stilled at once, although it was hard.
Impossible brute
, she thought, the pout on her lips now genuine. He was becoming entirely too masterful for her liking.

She was pleased and more than a little relieved to find they would be dining
en famille
tonight. Although she had kept to her rooms last night as befit an invalid, she was well aware of the company they had. Indeed, she would have to have been deaf to have missed the wail of the pipes and the general sounds of merriment coming from the great hall. ’twas the MacDouglasses, a giggling maid had informed her proudly. And there was nothing a MacDouglass liked better than to make merry and make music. She’d met the laird of the MacDouglass this morning when, at his insistence, Hugh presented the behemoth to her. She’d been torn between astonishment and laughter when the huge gentleman, with his great mane and beard of flaming red hair, had bowed over her hand with all the grace of a courtier, pronouncing himself her most ardent protector. He was charming indeed, and she was heartily grateful to be shed of him.

Dinner was pleasant, and if Mairi and Aunt Egidia did tend to watch her like two broody hens fighting over a lone chick, at least they did not nag her to death. Hugh alternated between attentive care and blank disinterest, spending much of the evening scowling off into space. At
the end of the meal they retired to the music room, where Mairi played the pianoforte Hugh had had shipped from Edinburgh as a surprise for his sister. The music was lovely and soothing, and to Caroline’s everlasting embarrassment, it soon had her nodding over her sherry.

“Hugh, you thoughtless brute!” Aunt Egidia was quick to notice her sleepiness, and quicker still to blame Hugh for it. “What can you be thinking to keep the poor lassie up all hours, when she is fresh from the sickbed? Take her up at once before she falls asleep where she sits!”

“I’m all right, Aunt Egidia,” Caroline protested, then spoiled the words by giving a huge yawn. The older woman turned upon her with a fiery scowl.

“And there will be no more impertinence from you this night, young lady,” she said, shaking an admonishing finger at Caroline. “If I say you’re tired, than tired you are, and I’ll nae hear another word about it! Off with you now!”

Bowing to the voice of authority, Caroline allowed Hugh to escort her from the room, and once more he swept her into his arms and began carrying her up the stairs.

“I really wish you would not do this, Hugh,” she reproved, although she was careful to remain perfectly still. “I have eaten so much these past several days that I feel quite the pig. I am afraid I am too heavy for you.”

“Nonsense,
annsachd,”
he assured her, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. “You scarce weigh more than a puff of air. ’Tis no strain to carry you, I promise you.”