The Heart Queen (9 page)

She fumed with helpless indignation.

It had been more than a week since she’d sent her letter to the Marquis of Braemoor, and she had heard nothing. She didn’t know whether she felt disappointment or relief. Certainly, she had been right in her assessment of his concern.

But she had not found a way to get around Reginald’s refusal to acknowledge her rights to Lochaene. He had even gone so far as to tell the grooms that they were not to accept orders from her. If she did not acquiesce, he implied he would press murder charges against her.

The bairns—except for Grace, who was in the kitchen— were down for the afternoon. Janet knew she had to get away from the tower, from its cold, gray stone walls and the bleakness of the rooms.

She went to the stable and chose a mare. Kevin was not there, but a rough-looking man came up to her. “The master said ye were not to ride alone.”

“I will do as I wish.”

“Nay, mi’lady. I ‘ave my orders.”

She could only surmise that the solicitor had reported her visit and Reginald wanted no more interference. “Then you may ride with me,” she said.

“I got work ‘ere,” he said rudely.

“Where is Kevin?”

“I donna know who ye mean.”

“He worked here yesterday.”

The man shrugged.

“Your name?”

“Bain.”

“Have you tended horses before?”

“Aye.”

“Then let me see you saddle this horse,” she said.

He started to walk off.

“You take one more step, and you will leave Lochaene.”

“Ye ‘ave no authority.”

“I do not know what the
Honorable
Reginald Campbell told you, but I am the Countess of Lochaene. My brother-in-law has no authority to forbid anything. My son is earl.”

She did not know whether or not it was the anger in her voice, but he hesitated. She saw sudden indecision in his eyes. “You do not have to saddle the horse,” she said, “but I would advise you to consult with my brother-in-law again before denying me my own property.”

That did it. He obviously thought her incapable of saddling her own horse. He shot her an angry look, then lumbered toward the tower. As soon as he was out of sight, she found the lightest gear and quickly saddled one of the two mares. She’d done it often as a young girl; her father had thought she should learn everything in handling a mount.

With the help of a mounting stone, she settled into saddle, hooking her knee around the saddlebow. She walked the mare through the stable doors only to see Bain coming toward her. He started to run toward her. A shout spooked the mare who broke into a trot, then a wild gallop.

Janet allowed her rein. It suited her purposes that Bain believed the horse was spooked. She would blame everything on him.

She allowed the mare to run until they were out of sight, then she slowly but firmly reined her in and slowed her to a walk. Then she headed toward the mountains. One afternoon. Just one afternoon. She felt the tears welling behind her eyes. She told herself it was frustration. She’d never believed in self-pity.

Janet rode into the mountains, toward a waterfall that fell into a pool below. A mist fell over the gray-green mountains, and it washed out some of the anger. Her hair fell from its knot and lay damp across her face. It had been so long since she had felt this kind of freedom.

She rode for another hour, until she was drenched through and through. The air had turned cold and slashed through her wet clothes. Janet shivered and turned back. It was time, more than time to return.

Halfway back, she saw smoke curling from the chimney of a croft. Neatly plowed rows in front looked empty, unplanted.

She rode the mare up to the croft, slipped from the mount and knocked on the door.

It opened, and a man who looked to be in his late middle years stared at her blankly.

“I... am Janet Campbell,” she said, uncertain about either her welcome or even her own intent.

“The countess,” the man sneered. “I know rightly who ye are,” he said coldly.

A woman pushed beside him. “And she be soaked an‘ shiverin’, Angus.” She pushed him aside. “Come in and warm yerself.”

The inside of the croft was dark, the sides blackened by peat fires. The smell of peat permeated the interior. She looked at the table. It was full of bowls. Her gaze went around to four small, thin children.

“Will ye ‘ave some hot soup?” the woman said.

Janet heard a grunt of protest from a corner. An older boy leaned against a wall. “Ain’t enough fer us now,” he said.

“Hush,” said the woman.

“Nay,” Janet said. “I just saw your fire, and the fields outside. They are not planted.”

“There is no seed,” the boy said. The older man, apparently the father, said nothing.

Janet swallowed a bitter breath. It was the lord’s responsibility to provide the seed. She wondered how many other crofters had not received their allotment. Without seed, they could not pay rent. Without rent, they would be evicted.

She had heard of the clearances, knew that many landlords were clearing their land to raise cattle and sheep. She’d even heard her husband speak of plans to purchase more livestock. She had not realized, though, that he was starving out the tenants.

And yet the woman had offered her what had to be sorely inadequate for her family. They all looked starved.

“I thank you,” she said, “but I am not hungry.”

“No‘ for our poor offerings,” the boy muttered.

She wanted to reassure them that she would take care of their needs, that she
would
provide seed, but how could she promise anything? How could she give them help when she could not help herself, when she had to steal a horse to take even a ride? Anger fermented inside her. No wonder Reginald hadn’t wanted her to explore the holdings.

“Are the other crofters ... not getting seed?” she asked.

“Do ye not even know?” the boy said contemptuously.

“John!” The woman said in rebuke.

“Why? Wha‘ are they goin’ tae do tae us tha‘ they ha’ no‘ already done?” He moved closer to her. He was a tall lad of eighteen or nineteen years with a hank of black hair falling over his forehead. “As fer yer question, many have already left. The ones tha’ ain’t are starvin‘. My mither and her mither willna leave. So we stay and starve until the sheriff comes.”

She felt his hatred radiate through her.

Janet wanted to back up, straight out the door. But she had been cowardly enough these past few years. She did not know if she could have done something, but she could have tried.
It would only have made him angrier, more determined to do what he planned to do
. But mayhap she may have been able to slip some food to the tenants.

I will do something. I have to do something. For Colin’s heritage, his inheritance.

She straightened her back. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said.

“But ye are still wet,” the woman protested.

Janet heard a snort from the boy. “She will soon be warm an‘ well fed.”

She turned to face him. “You are right,” she said softly. “I wish ... I could do the same ...” She felt the too-familiar tears coming to her eyes, and she backed away, going out the door and nearly running to her horse. With the help of a stump, she managed to mount, then looked back. Six thin faces stared at her from the doorway. Thin and resentful. All but the woman, who merely looked weary beyond her years.

She turned the mare away. In some way, she would regain control of Lochaene. And then no man would ever control her, or her actions, again.

She swore it.

Neil rode hard. The lad, Tim, was riding one of Braemoor’s horses; the lad’s own decrepit beast was stabled at Braemoor until it had been well fed and rested.

The vicar apparently had given Tim a sovereign to deliver the letter. Neil intended to add several more, and mayhap give him employment. The lad had told him his father could not find work, and there were three small brothers to feed.

Neil could not help but realize the changes that had overtaken Scotland since Culloden. He was fully aware, of course, of Cumberland’s rampage across the land, killing every Jacobite he could find and burning both crofts and manors. He remembered the ceilidhs that he had attended as Donald’s aide and bodyguard. He could almost hear the plaintive sounds of the pipes and spirited fiddles, see the Highlanders in their plaids and women in their clan tartans. They were all banned now.

The hills and mountains seemed ghostly reminders as the mist closed around them. Many of the Highland clans—all of those which were Jacobites—had been decimated. He closed his eyes, seeing them as they were earlier at Culloden. Proud and brave and stubborn. They had been the best of Scotland. To the day he died, he would regret his part in it.
He would try to make his own kind of atonement, just as Rory had
.

He reached Lochaene in late afternoon, finding it an uproar.

An angry Reginald Campbell was berating someone outside the doors. He looked up as a dusty, damp Neil rode up.

Neil had left the lad with his family in the small village a few miles distant. He did not want anyone to know that Janet had written him. He came, though, with an order from Cumberland.

Campbell regarded him balefully, obviously not remembering him from his brother’s funeral. But Campbell had been drunk then, Neil remembered. Neil’s travel-stained clothes obviously did nothing to assist the man’s assessment of his visitor.

Neil dismounted. “Campbell,” he said, not even granting him the “honorable” title.

The man bristled, his gaze flickering contemptuously over Neil. “It’s ‘my lord’.”

“I think not,” Neil said. “I understand the new earl is but a bairn.”

“ ‘Tis none of your concern,” Campbell said as he turned away.

“Aye, but it is,” Neil said with equanimity. “I have been appointed guardian of the young earl. I believe it was at your urging that the Duke of Cumberland decided a woman could not competently manage such an estate. I owe you a debt of thanks.”

Color drained from Campbell’s face. Then, just as rapidly, color flushed back into it. “You lie.”

“You will take back that word, Campbell. No one calls me a liar without consequences.”

Campbell’s face turned even paler. “
Who
are you?”

“Oh, did I forget to introduce myself? So sorry. I am the Marquis of Braemoor. You can call
me
‘my lord.’ And I have not heard your apology.”

Neil knew he should not take such pleasure in tormenting the man, but it seemed little enough for the misery he’d obviously caused Janet. A taste of his own medicine should be instructional.

“
His Grace
would ... would not... it cannot be ...” Campbell blustered.

“It is,” Neil said with no little sense of satisfaction. He did not think it would last and so he enjoyed this moment. He suspected that despite his good intent, Janet was not going to be delighted with what had just happened. She had asked for assistance, but he was sure she had not intended to trade Reginald for him as her child’s guardian.

His stomach knotted as he even thought about it. “Where is the countess?”

“We are looking for her. She went riding hours ago.”

“That is unusual?”

Reginald muttered something to himself.

“I did not hear you,” Neil said sharply, sensing something he did not like at all. Janet had merely said Reginald had been trying to gain guardianship, nothing more. Had he also made her a prisoner in her own home?

“Some of the tenants could be ... dangerous,” Reginald said. “They are lazy, resentful. My brother had evicted some of them.”

Anger coursed through Neil. He could barely contain it.

Yet he suspected he needed to be careful. Reginald Campbell came from a clan held in high esteem by the duke. If this particular branch did not share in that regard, ‘twas not to say they could not gain support if he overplayed his hand. He was walking a very thin rope.

“I’ll go with you to look for her,” he offered.

Reginald frowned as recognition finally dawned in his eyes. “You were here for my brother’s burial.”

“You are a little late in remembering, but aye, I was here.”

“You know the countess?”

“Aye, our fathers were friends.”

“And now you believe you deserve these lands.
My
lands.” Indignation shaded the charge.

“I believe the rightful earl deserves these lands. I am merely here to assure he will get them. Now I believe I need a fresh horse to look for the countess.”

Neil noticed Reginald’s fingers were bunched in fists.

A shout distracted him. He turned and watched a figure on a horse trot toward him. A groom ran toward her. She leaned down and said something, and the servant moved aside. Then she saw him.

Her eyes widened. Her cloak was sodden, her hair clinging loose to her cheek. He went over to her side, and held out his hand to her.

She hesitated for a moment, then took it. She was cold, shivering. Her blue eyes were uncertain. He quickly released her. “You are cold, my lady.”

She ignored his observation as she pushed hair away from her face. “My lord. I did not expect you.”

“Did you not, my lady?” he said in a voice too low for Campbell to hear.

“Nay.”

That comment pierced, too. Despite her request, she obviously had expected him to refuse. But then why should she not? Hadn’t he abandoned her before?

Shivers ran through her body again. “You should warm yourself,” he said. “We can talk later.”

“You are staying?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Reginald?”

“Reginald has no say in the matter.”

Her eyes widened at his tone. He saw her glance over toward Reginald, who was glowering.

Then she turned toward the manor house.

He watched her go, the sodden clothes wrapped around her like a castle wall, her back stiff with pride, her hair wet and tangled under a drooping bonnet. Even so, there was a graceful dignity about her even now.

Neil watched her go through the door and knew that he’d not tamed the wild, burning yearning inside him.

Janet was shaking. Shivering, really. And not from the cold.