White Regency 03 - White Knight (26 page)

Seonag moaned as another pain tightened
within her. For several long moments, it grew and swelled, bringing the
bedraggled woman upright on the crude box bed in a shadowed corner of the
castle kitchen. Day had given over to night, leaving them with only the light
from the fire and a scattering of candles set about the snug room.

“Feumaidh tu dean laighe,”
Deirdre murmured, urging Seonag back on the bed.
“You must lie down,
piuthar.”

Seonag’s cheeks were heat flushed, her
hair wet and sticking to the sides of her face. She struggled for a breath,
fighting against the contraction as she threw her head back with a weakened
wail that echoed up to the rafters of the great hall.

Deirdre spoke soothing words to her in
Gaelic, smoothing a cool water cloth over her brow while Flora set to boiling
water, fetching clean cloths, lighting another candle, anything to keep herself
occupied in the midst of the prolonged chaos.

They had removed Seonag’s clothing and
washed the mud and soot from her before dressing her in a large man’s sark. A
sheet covered her from the belly down and a swathe-band had been placed beneath
her back and under her arms so that Flora and one of the other women might lift
her slightly from the bed to ease when it came time for her to bear down.

It grew late, yet no one inside the castle
slept. Upstairs, in the great hall, the people sat upon their sleeping pallets,
murmuring quietly to one another until one of Seonag’s moans would sound from
the kitchen beneath them. They would hush, waiting for that anticipated tiny
cry of an infant while holding close to their own children, stroking them
softly, cherishing them.

And when that cry did not come, they
waited again, whispering prayers of hope in Gaelic.

Seonag was the sister of Deirdre’s
deceased husband, Tom, and the only family Deirdre had left to her. By
Deirdre’s estimate, Seonag was not to have given birth for at least another
month; she had seen Seonag when she had gone to visit several weeks earlier and
all had been well. All would have remained well, too, had the eviction’s agents
not come in the twilight hours two days before.

Seonag had been alone at the small croft
she and her husband, Eachann, worked on the Sunterglen estate, where they had
been tenants for the past seven years. Seonag had already retired for the night
when the soldiers had come. She could have had no idea what lay in store for
her when she was summoned by a sudden and insistent knocking at her door.
Eachann had gone from their croft only the day before to take their stock of
cattle over the brae to where relatives lived on the other side of the vast
Sunterglen estate. He planned to leave them to be tended so that he could keep
close to home after the birth of their first child. Eachann knew he would
return within ample time of the birth, else he would never have left Seonag
alone as he had.

That night, as darkness fell, the
eviction’s agents ordered Seonag, heavy with child, out of her home, giving her
only enough time to gather up the soft woolen blanket she had been knitting for
the babe. She was left to watch in terror as the soldiers set their torches to
the meager cottage’s thatched roof, setting the night sky aglow. When it was
done, they ordered her off the estate. She asked if she might stay among the
smoldering ruins long enough for her husband to return, but was refused. Seonag
had had no choice but to begin the arduous trek to Skynegal, knowing she would
find shelter at the home of her brother’s widow. Eachann would return to find
his home razed to the ground and his wife and unborn child missing.

It was after midnight in the tiny kitchen
at Skynegal when the struggling infant’s cry finally broke the heavy silence. A
relieved cheer went round the great hall and toasts were given over ale around
the grand stone hearth, welcoming the tiny new life that had survived despite
the terrible circumstances its mother had endured. It was a boy, with a mop of
his father’s carroty hair and eyes as blue as the clearest Highland summer sky.
Both he and his mother, despite her exhaustion, were soon resting and doing
well.

Christian and Robert had retired soon
after the birth, for they planned to leave at dawn to return to Sunterglen in
hopes of finding Eachann to bring him to his wife and child at Skynegal. Flora
had collapsed from nervous exhaustion, having fretted her way through the birth
of Seonag’s child. Deirdre was yet with the mother and child, leaving Grace a
few moments to walk out alone in the cool moonlight and confront the emotions
she’d barely managed to hold in check during the past several hours.

Witnessing the birth of Seonag’s son had
given Grace a new reverence for all that life represented—the vulnerability of
its beginnings, the wonder at its continuous renewal. Brought on prematurely by
the ugly deeds of others and despite great odds, that tiny child had overcome
it all. Watching as Deirdre had guided that new life into the world had
astounded Grace and frightened her more than she had ever thought possible.
Deirdre had been remarkable, knowing just what to do, what to say to ease
Seonag’s laboring. At the moment that straggling cry was heard, nothing else
had mattered any longer. The soldiers, the fire—all of it vanished for the
single instant in time. It was truly the most divine moment, an unquestionable
symbol of hope for the future.

Grace lowered to sit on one of the flat
granite slabs that lay at various places about the quiet courtyard. It was a
chill night and she pulled her shawl close about herself while the moon shone
down through the stars overhead. For the first time in many days, the sky was
clear, the clouds that usually hung about at this hour oddly absent. Grace
thought that it must surely be a harbinger of good fortune for the new life
that had just come into the world. She rested the flat of her hand against
where her own belly swelled so slightly beneath the loose skirts of her gown.
She thought to herself that she had never felt the absence of a mother’s
presence more in her life than she did now.

Grace had been raised to such a sheltered
existence, where the things most fundamental to life were never discussed. She
had been stunned by the harsh reality of birth, the unadulterated truth of one
life begetting another. How she wished she could talk to Nonny, ask her the
dozens of questions that were racing pellmell through her mind. How would she
know when it was time for the baby to come? Had anyone ever fainted in the
midst of bearing a child? How would she learn how to feed a babe, bathe it?

She heard the sound of footsteps on the
graveled walkway behind her and turned to see Deirdre coming from the glowing
light of the kitchen. She had removed the kerchief that normally covered her
head, letting her hair fall freely down her back in dark rippling waves well
past her bottom. As she drew near, Grace noticed that without her kerchief in
place, Deirdre looked a much younger woman than she had thought, closer to her
own age, which was remarkable for one so knowing. “You’re feelin’ a bit of
the upset after the birthin’, are you?”

Grace shook her head. And then, “Not
too much, really.”

Deirdre came to sit beside her. “It
frichted you, din’t it, my leddy, seein’ the birthin’ up close like that? Makes
you feared, does it no’, for when ‘tis time for your own bairn to come?”

Grace looked at her. She had thought no
one but Liza knew of the babe she carried, but then she wasn’t really surprised
Deirdre had sensed the truth despite her silence. Deirdre had a mysterious way
of seeing straight through to a person’s innermost thoughts and most heartfelt
feelings. It often left Grace wondering that she didn’t perhaps possess this
“sight” Alastair seemed ever ascribing to her.

“It was a little startling to see. I
didn’t know it would be so… so…”

“So messy?” Deirdre nodded.
“I would imagine all you’ve seen of mithers and bairns is wee bundles
o’sweetness wrapped in soft white blankets, cooing and smelling like the
mornin’ sunshine.”

Grace nodded, suddenly ashamed at her own
ignorance.

“Birthin’s an untidy business, my
leddy, nocht a bit elegant about it. But doona wirry yourself o’er it too much.
Seonag had it worse than most. She was brought to the birthin’ a bit too early
and the bairn wasna yet ready. I had to turn him and—”

Deirdre must have sensed that Grace didn’t
have the faintest idea of what she was talking about. She fell silent and set
her hand gently over Grace’s middle, splaying her fingers outward. Grace could
feel the warmth of the woman’s tender touch through the woolen of her gown and
took comfort in it.

“That bairn you carry now has his
heid nestled up here ‘gainst your belly. A wee bit afore a bairn is to come
from its mither’s womb, nature turns him”—she moved her
hands—“bringin’ his heid doon, to deliver him through the birthin’ the
easiest.”

Grace looked down at herself, wondering at
the child she carried, suddenly able to see the babe as more than a thought, a
prospect, a dream, but as a reality growing within her. Would it be a boy, or
perhaps a girl? Would she be dark or fair? Grace closed her eyes. Would he be
loved by the father who didn’t yet know he existed?

“I’m so scared, Deirdre.”

Awash with emotion, Grace finally gave
over to the tears she had kept at bay for so long. Her shoulders shook and she
wept freely while Deirdre said nothing, simply enfolded her in her arms,
tucking Grace’s head against the warmth of her cheek. Grace leaned into the
woman’s smaller frame and they sat together for some time, neither speaking,
neither feeling the need to. The evening breeze blew gently over them, stirring
up a tiny whirlwind of leaves as Deirdre stroked her fingers lightly over
Grace’s forehead, through her hair, smoothing a stray lock of it behind her
ear. Twice now, when she had most been in need, Deirdre had comforted her with
a mother’s touch. And just as on her first night at Skynegal, her touch had put
Grace at ease.

“You havna told the laird yet about
the bairn, have you?”

Grace shook her head silently. “How
long will you wait?”

“Until I know for certain if he will
try to force me to leave Skynegal.”

Deirdre’s fingers went still against her
forehead. “Do you mean to say that the laird hasna come to Skynegal to
live?”

“No, Deirdre, he has not. In fact, he
has already asked me to leave and return with him to London and the life I left
there. I told him I will not.”

Deirdre was quiet for several moments.
“You think to discover if he loves you by your refusal to go with him back
to London.”

Grace lifted her head. “If only it
were that simple, Deirdre, but it is much more complicated. Christian never
wanted to marry me. He was forced to by his grandfather, the duke. His coming
here to Skynegal was more out of a sense of duty than any concern for me.”

Deirdre shook her head. “I think ‘tis
more than that.”

“Oh, Deirdre, I wish that could be
so.”

Deirdre nudged Grace into looking at her.
She smiled gently, smoothing a tendril from her eyes. “This makes no
sense, my leddy, these words you speak
. ‘
Tis obvious
he has some bit o’ regard for you. You are carrying his bairn, are you
no’?”

Grace drew a deep breath. “Deirdre,
you have never lived the life I had before coming here to Skynegal. It is so
very different. You might find this difficult to believe, especially after the
love you shared with your husband, but in some circles of society, a man and a
woman couple for reasons other than love or even attraction. In London, it is
more often induced by money and the desire for the continuance of that money
through a male heir”—she frowned—“no matter how unappealing a chore
that might prove to the gentleman.”

“Och, my leddy, nature has ensured
that for the man at least, coupling is no’ a chore. I’ve yet to see the man who
didna think on it both nicht and day. ‘Tis in their blood, it is.” Deirdre
looked at her, one brow slightly cocked. “I’m thinking from wha’ you’re
saying ‘tis that the laird cares for you mair than he may like to think.”

Grace shook her head against the thought.

“You love him.”

Grace stilled, staring at Deirdre deeply.
“I do. From the moment I first saw Christian I knew I would love him for
as long as I lived.”

“Then you must tell it to him.”

Grace opened her mouth to give voice to
every reason she had against it, but Deirdre held up a hand, stopping her.
“If you ne’er tell him that you love him, my leddy, then you will ne’er
know if he feels the same for you. Doona wait too long, for there is ne’er a
certainty of tomorrow.”

Grace felt the weight of a single tear
trickle down her cheek. “But I do know his feelings, Deirdre. Christian
left me with no doubt of them. He never wanted me in his life. Don’t you see?
It was for that reason I left him to come to Scotland.”

Deirdre simply smiled, shaking her head
again. “Nae, my leddy, ‘tis you who doesna see. For if he truly didna have
a care for you, he wouldna be here now.”

There exists a tradition in the Highlands
called the
ceilidh,
begun in olden times when neighbors and friends
would gather together for an evening of food and drink, singing, storytelling,
and dancing. It was a celebration built on clan tradition and kinship,
characteristics that sadly had faded away during the past half-century or more
since the Jacobite defeat in 1745. It was an event that had been looked upon
with much anticipation and long after remembered with joy. What better way
could there be, Grace
thought
, than to honor thus the
birth of Seonag’s son?

The warmth and good spirit that had
enveloped Skynegal at the coming of the newly born babe was soon coupled with
the blessing of the safe arrival of Seonag’s husband Eachann at Skynegal two
days later. Christian and Robert had happened upon him soon after he’d returned
to his devastated cottage. The crofter’s very worst fears at discovering his
wife missing vanished behind his joy at hearing that Seonag and his new son
were alive and well and being tended to at Skynegal.

They had ridden through the night to
return to the castle, coming at dusk the night before, road weary and soaked
through from the rain that had showered down upon them during the last leg of
their journey. But Eachann had scarcely noticed the damp. He had gone at once
to where Seonag lay in a small chamber off the kitchen and hadn’t left her side
since. Together they named the babe Iain, ‘a gift from God,’ for indeed he was.

The small family would remain at Skynegal,
a part of them all now for clan tradition embraced the bairn born
on Skynegal soil. A
cottage was being planned for them on an arable plot of farmland in the glen
where they might begin anew without the threat of eviction again. Until the cottage
was built, Eachann and Seonag would share their first precious weeks as a
family in a pair of chambers situated at the far side of the stable, a place
previously put to use by the Skynegal groom, a man who had been known to all in
the castle’s heyday simply as Twig. A Tudor-style cradle had been uncovered in
the castle’s garret for the babe, and the other tenants, those of the Skynegal
estate and those who had come from elsewhere seeking shelter, had all donated
clothing and other household necessaries to help replace those destroyed in the
fire.

The ceilidh was to be held the following
week on the grounds surrounding the castle, giving Flora and Deirdre ample time
to prepare the traditional baked foods while McFee, McGee, and a party of men
went off to the deer forest on a hunt for the feast. It was a perfect time for
a celebration. The renovations at the castle and a good many of the tenant’s
cottages were nearly finished. Summer had come to the Highlands in full regalia
of rich heather and primrose and broom. The Skynegal that Grace had looked on
at her arrival months earlier was but a shadow of what she was now in her
current glory.

Standing atop a heather-swept hillock and
looking on the castle from afar, Grace could only think that Skynegal was very
much a fairytale place. The sunlight glittered on the water of Loch Skynegal
behind her, winking on the newly glazed windows of the castle. In her pastures,
reddish-orange shaggy Highland cattle grazed contently on lush green grass
while the legendary birds soared in abandon about the castle parapets. Never
had Grace felt more at home. She knew now that she had found Skynegal, she
could never leave. She also knew that although he had agreed to the release of
any funds for her to continue her work, Christian had made no indication that
he would stay—but, as Deirdre had pointed out, he wasn’t leaving either.

Grace reached to where Dubhar stood at her
side and scratched him on his grizzled head, gifting him with a nibble of
cheese from her pocket before she turned
toward the small grouping of children and mothers who
awaited on the haughland ahead. It was a delightful, carefree day, the morning
mist having burned off early under the summer sun, the tall grass still damp
beneath her feet. She had dressed plainly in a gray woolen gown, her hair
simply fashioned beneath a kerchief in preparation for an afternoon that would
be spent gathering the blueberries and blackcurrants for the baking they would
do for the ceilidh.

“Failte na maidne ort,”
one of the women, Morag, called out to Grace as she
approached.

Grace returned the greeting and began to
hand out the willow baskets she’d brought with her to the eager hands of the
waiting children, watching on a smile as they bounded off to fill them. A prize
had been promised to the one who gathered the most berries, so they scattered
into the surrounding heath, giggling and hunting amongst the ling and gorse,
snatching a berry every so often for themselves as they began filling their
baskets.

Grace was just starting off with her own
basket when she spotted a figure racing up the hillside toward them, arms
waving haphazardly, calling, “Lady Grace! Lady Grace!”

She shaded her eyes against the sun and
saw that it was one of the boys who tended the ponies in the stables, Micheil.
He was obviously upset, but Grace wasn’t alarmed, for she knew that one of the
mares was due to foal soon and she’d asked to be called when it was her time.
Apparently it now was.

“What is Micheil?” she asked as
he reached her, “Has Jo begun to foal?”

“Nae, my lady…” He came to a
halt before her, heaving from having run so fast and so hard. It took him
several moments, bent over at the waist to calm himself. Finally he gulped.
“You must come right away. The man has come.”

“The man, Micheil? What man?”

” ‘Tis
Donas.”

One of the women standing nearby gasped,
dropping her berry basket to her feet. Grace looked at her and saw that the
woman’s eyes were wide and she started
babbling in rapid Gaelic to the others, but Grace only
caught a few words, her limited knowledge of the language making it impossible
to understand. Over and over she heard the word Micheil had spoken—
donas.
And
then suddenly Grace remembered that
donas
was the Gaelic word for
devil.

She took the lad by the arm.
“Micheil, what is it? Who is this
Donas?”

” ‘Tis
Mr. Starke come from Sunterglen.”

Grace felt a chill run through her that
had nothing to do with a sudden change in the weather.
Starke
was a name
she had heard more times than she cared to count since coming to Skynegal. It
was a name that evoked terror when spoken to anyone familiar with it—and there
were far too many familiar with it. The fact that he was there at Skynegal was
something that could only bode badly.

Grace set her basket on the ground and
started for the castle, walking at first, then hurrying faster down the
hillside, until she was running with her skirts in hand. Any doubt she might
have had as to whether the man had truly come vanished at the sight of the
faces of those standing about the castle courtyard.

When she had departed earlier, there had
been much laughter and singing. Women were hanging out the laundry to dry and
weaving baskets; grooms were mucking out the stalls in the stables. Now no one
spoke or even moved. They stood quietly, staring at where two figures were
conversing a distance away in front of the castle’s barmkin. When they noticed
her approaching, the people began to whisper to one another. They had been
watching for her arrival.

As Grace strode across the courtyard, she
recognized Christian as the taller of the two men, his dark hair and confident
stance so very familiar to her now. The other man was not quite as tall as he,
but in spite of his height, his manner spoke of his belief in his superiority
above everything and most everyone around him.

Grace did not stop for a moment, but
continued boldly forward, stopping only when she stood at Christian’s side.
Dubhar, who had ran with her from the hillside, took his usual place at her
leg. He did not,
however,
sit as was his custom. Instead he remained standing, on guard, sensing the
tension that accompanied the unsavory stranger.

Starke glanced once at Grace when he
noticed her arrival, but briefly, as he might at an annoying midge. It was all
the notice he gave her. Given the fact that she was dressed like any of the
other women about the estate, her hair unkempt now from her run, he no doubt
thought her one of the Highlanders. Grace made use of his inattention to give
the man a thorough study.

From the stories she’d heard of him, she
would have expected someone more formidable, but in truth he lacked most of the
characteristics she would have thought to find in him. His clothing was garish,
his manner more plebian than well born, and his prolonged smirk demonstrated a
somewhat sadistic enjoyment at the atmosphere his coming had brought.

“My lord,” Starke said to
Christian, “might I say what a fine effort you have made in restoring the
Skynegal estate?” He turned his back on Grace purposefully, as if to
regard the castle behind him.
” ‘Tis
amazing what
actually lay hidden beneath all that ivy growth.”

“Thank you, Mr. Starke,”
Christian said, “but the credit should go to Lady Knighton, for it was she
who undertook the castle’s restoration.”

Starke was silent a moment, then turned to
regard Christian again. His eyes seemed almost to narrow when he noticed Grace
was still there.

“Pray tell me, my lord, are you of a
mind to sell the estate?” And before Christian could respond, he added,
“Perhaps you have heard tell of my employers, the Marquess and Marchioness
of Sunterglen? Fine people. They have expressed an interest in purchasing the
estate of Skynegal and have charged me, as their factor, with the honor of
presenting an offer to you.” He stared at Christian. “They are
prepared to pay a handsome sum.”

His words were so honeyed and so
perfidious that Grace had to prevent herself from blurting out that she would
never sell the estate. Christian responded before she could.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Starke, that you are
speaking with the wrong person. The estate of Skynegal came to my
wife through an
inheritance from her grandmother, who was born and raised here. While as her
husband, I might advise her and manage certain affairs of the estate, the
decision of whether or not to sell Skynegal would be entirely hers.”

Grace looked at Christian. He had turned
to her and she was suddenly reminded of the first night when she had fallen
through the wall panel at his feet. A feeling she had spent the past months
pushing aside began to reach for her deep inside once again.

Starke nodded. “Indeed. Well then,
perhaps you might direct me to her ladyship so that I may present my offer to
her personally.” He glanced around, completely ignoring Grace who stood
not four feet from him. “Is Lady Knighton within the castle? Perhaps we
might send someone for her.” He glanced at Grace as if intending to charge
her with the task of summoning herself, but thought the better of it. “Or
perhaps I might just wait awhile for her if she is presently away.”

Christian smiled, obviously enjoying the
man’s oblivion. “No, Mr. Starke, Lady Knighton is not within the castle,
but in fact, she is very close by.”

“Splendid. Shall we go to her then,
my lord?”

Two burly Scotsmen standing closest to
them chuckled softly to one another. Starke threw them a quelling look, one he
no doubt employed often during his misdeeds.

“There is no need to seek Lady
Knighton out, Mr. Starke,” Christian said, “for you see, Lady
Knighton stands before you even now.”

Starke turned to look where Christian had
gestured to Grace at his side. The realization of her identity played visibly
across the factor’s face. She looked no different than she had upon
approaching, a handful of moments earlier, but somehow, now that he knew who
she was, she warranted his full attention—without the smugness he’d worn for
her before. In fact, Starke went so far now as to bow his head reverently.

“Lady Knighton, indeed, it is an
honor to make your acquaintance.”

Grace did not respond in kind. She might
be wearing woolen and her hair might not be properly dressed, but she had been
born and bred the daughter of a nobleman.
She was wife to the grandson of one of England’s most
powerful and wealthy men. Grace had never worn her position in life when
dealing with others, not from her peers to even those who served—until now. Her
mouth remained fixed as she stared at the man hard,
her
only thought for the many Highlanders whose lives had been forever destroyed
because of his actions. It was because of him that Seonag had been evicted from
her home and had very nearly died, her child with her. For months Grace had
seen how the very mention of his name brought terror. Even now, on the
outskirts of the courtyard, the people hung back in fear.

Starke looked to her. “As I was just
saying to his lordship, my employers, the Marquess and Marchioness of
Sunter—”

“I heard you, sir,” Grace said,
abruptly cutting him off. “I decline your offer. Skynegal is not for
sale.”

Starke frowned. “Perhaps, then,
instead of the estate entire, you might consider selling a portion of the lands
to the east, the ones that border on the Sunterglen estate—”