Lady of Light (3 page)

Evan retrieved his travel bag at the bottom of the hill, and they soon reentered Culdee. They walked so long in silence, he began to wonder why the pretty girl at his side had seemingly taken such a strong and instant dislike to him. Maybe he just didn’t have the right touch with the ladies. It wouldn’t surprise him much, not after how miserably he had failed with Hannah.

He had hoped coming to Scotland might finally help him get his mind off her. Nothing else had seemed to work. Not leaving the ranch when it became clear what her feelings were for his cousin Devlin, nor a two-month stint driving herds of beef to Kansas, nor the following four months working fishing boats off the coast of Florida. Even the offer to sign on as a ship’s crewman on a transatlantic cruise to England three months ago—a trip he had seen as a grand adventure—had failed to ease the heavy ache in his heart.

He had searched for answers the whole time—turned to God, even. Oh, how he had searched, asking himself repeatedly: What had he done wrong to drive Hannah from him? Why didn’t he seem to be man enough to stay on and tough it out? Why, once again, had he run when things got too hard to bear? Searched and asked … futilely, fruitlessly. If anyone had stormed the gates of heaven for answers, Evan felt certain he had.

Worst of all, he knew he had disappointed his father, failing him yet again. For that he was ashamed and sorry. It seemed, atop all his other deficiencies, he couldn’t even be a good son.

Claire Sutherland, however, didn’t need to know about any of that. Or leastwise, he added grimly, not until he found his own answers, answers that would finally give him the peace he so dearly sought.

“You don’t care much for me, do you, ma’am?”

From the corner of his eye, Evan watched and waited as the auburn-haired girl considered his startling query. Good, he
had
managed to stump her, he thought, when no reply was forthcoming. He could tell she had a quick mind. Those dancing green eyes of hers did little to hide her every thought and inclination.

From the start he had been powerfully attracted to her. What red-blooded man wouldn’t be? She was absolutely breathtaking, even dressed in a plain, dark blue, woolen skirt and long-sleeved white blouse with a tartan plaid of green, blue, and black wool. Worn as a shawl, the plaid crisscrossed her breast and was fastened with a round, flat silver brooch worked with intricate scrolling. Her bare feet and ankles, peeking out beneath the hem of her skirt, only lent an additional endearing air.

He had never seen quite that shade of dark, rich auburn hair either. When the setting sun caught it just right, the long, curly mane, falling unbound to the middle of Claire’s back, seemed afire with glinting shards of copper and gold. Even the term “crowning glory” seemed an inadequate description of her hair, not that she needed much at all to crown that lovely face or form of hers. Gazing at it, he felt a nearly overwhelming compulsion to reach out and run his fingers through the silky, shimmering strands.

Such behavior, though, wasn’t proper in well-bred American society. Evan doubted it would be acceptable here either. On the contrary, he sensed he’d have to step lightly around this particular young lady. She appeared as skittish as a mustang about to be saddled for the first time. If a man wasn’t careful, he could get his teeth kicked in.

“Well, do you or don’t you like me?” Evan prodded when all the response he seemed to stir from her was a narrowing of eyes and a setting of tightly clamped lips. “Don’t hold back your true feelings, ma’am. We’re well out of the padre’s earshot. And I’m man enough to take it.”

With an exasperated exhalation of breath, Claire slid to a halt and turned to glare up at him. “Why do you persist in goading me?” she demanded, her fists rising to settle on her hips. “If you’d any respect for Highland ways, you’d know how hard we strive to treat strangers with respect and cordiality. But I warn you, Mr. MacKay. You’ve nearly gone and pushed me past the point of good manners.”

“So, you
don’t
like me!” To further needle her, Evan grinned in triumph.

“I didn’t say that.” Claire huffed in frustration. “Why, I hardly know you!”

“Then why are you stalking through Culdee so fast and furious? Seems pretty clear to me that you can’t wait to be rid of me.”

She eyed him for so long, Evan was tempted to ask if some horn or other strange growth had suddenly sprouted from the middle of his forehead. Then she sighed.

“I beg pardon if I gave you such an impression. It was neither kind nor Christian to treat you in such a fashion.” A tittering arose from the doorway of a croft house they had just passed. Claire wheeled about and shot the offending pair of girls a quelling look, then turned back to him. “Come. The longer we stand here, the more the tongues will wag.”

“And you don’t particularly like being the subject of gossip and endless speculation.”

As if she was now fighting back a grin, one corner of her mouth twitched. “Nay, not particularly.”

“I can well understand,” Evan said, striding out once more. “Culdee Creek’s a small community in itself, what with my cousin and his family living not a hundred feet from the main house, and a bunkhouse full of ranch hands just down the hill. Then there’s our nearest town of Grand View, which is only a bit larger than this village. Folk in our neck of the woods don’t seem to have much better to do with their time than stick their noses into other folk’s business.”

Scrambling to keep up with him, she shot Evan a curious glance. “You spoke of Culdee Creek being a ranch. Are you a cowboy, then?”

He shrugged. “I reckon, if riding a horse, roping and branding steers, and shooting a revolver makes me a cowboy.” He arched a speculative brow. “Does being a cowboy elevate a man any in your esteem?”

“I can’t say for certain. I’ve heard cowboys are an uncouth, dangerous lot.”

“Kind of like what I’ve heard about Highlanders. Of course,” Evan drawled, “it strains the imagination how any man who runs around in skirts could be all that dangerous.”

“They aren’t skirts, you silly oaf.” Claire shook her head with what Evan could only suppose was a long-suffering forbearance. “They’re kilts.” She shot him a suspicious glance. “Are you quite certain you’re a MacKay? No true Highlander would ever question another Highlander’s courage, you know?”

“Aye, I’m a MacKay, and no mistake,” he replied, mimicking her soft burr. “Just never ask me to wear that skirt … er, kilt.”

“Dinna fash yerself. If you don’t think it an honor to do so, then you don’t deserve to wear one.”

Evan frowned. “What does that mean? ‘Dinna fash yerself’?”

“Och, naught more than don’t let yourself be annoyed or bothered,” she said, leading him across a sturdy, curving stone bridge spanning a small stream. “It’s mayhap an old way of talking, but there are some phrases that just seem to hang on.”

“I suppose every country has its old favorites.”

Claire chuckled. “Right you are. Mayhap you can tell me some of your favorites, when we’ve—”

The sound of childish voices, lifted in excitement, rose on the air. As they drew nearer, sporadic, angry shouts, interspersed by rising cries urging on someone to fight, grew louder. Then, as Evan and Claire moved past a stand of beeches blocking the gathering from view, two boys, slugging away at each other, could be seen.

“Ian,” Claire whispered hoarsely. She broke into a run.

Evan stared after her for an instant longer, then followed swiftly in her wake.

2

Let us search and try our ways, and turn again to the L
ORD
.

Lamentations 3:40

His features contorted in rage, Ian slugged Malcolm MacKay squarely in the face. Blood spurted from the taller boy’s nose. The pain and taste of blood, however, only seemed to spur Malcolm on. With a roar, he flung himself onto Ian, toppling them both to the ground.

Girls squealed in terror. Boys shouted their approval. Then both pushed even closer around the two combatants now battling in the grass. It took all Claire’s strength to elbow her way through the crowd and reach the front. Her stomach clenched in despair at the sight of her brother yet again, in less than a month, engaged in a fight.

“Stop it!” she cried. “Ian. Malcolm. Stop it now, I say!”

Oblivious to her frantic pleas, the two lads fought on. Claire glanced around, gauging which boy, standing about avidly watching, might be strong enough to help her pull them apart and hold them. Just then, a hand settled on her shoulder.

“Let me take care of this.”

She turned and looked up into Evan MacKay’s dark blue eyes. At the compassion she saw there, gratitude filled Claire.

He paused only to set down his canvas traveling bag and remove his hat and jacket before stepping into the fray. First he grasped the back of Ian’s belt and lifted him bodily off Malcolm. As Ian gained his balance and whirled around, fists high in outrage, Evan’s booted foot shot out and neatly tripped him. Malcolm, halfway to his feet by then, apparently decided to seize the advantage.

As he went for Ian, now sprawled flat with the wind knocked out of him, Evan grabbed Malcolm by the collar and jerked him back. Howling in anger, the big, red-haired boy lifted a fist toward Evan.

“Don’t try it, son,” Evan warned, his voice gone hard and low, his gaze narrowed. “You aren’t yet man enough to take on the likes of me.”

His chest heaving, his fair face beet red, Malcolm paused to eye his new opponent. “Let me go,” he finally snarled. “I havena any grudge with you. ‘Tis Ian who’s the thief. And, this time, he’s going to pay.”

“Lying swine!” his opponent countered furiously, scrambling to his feet. “Take it back, I say, before I whip you some more!”

He advanced on Malcolm, but before Evan could make a move to halt him, Claire stepped between them. “It’s over, Ian.” Her steely glance met and locked with her brother’s. “You know I don’t hold with fighting.”

“Then you should’ve been here to smack Malcolm’s smart mouth,” her brother retorted, still flushed with anger and the thrill of battle. “I won’t abide anyone calling me a thief!”

“Mayhap you should stop your thieving then!” the other boy cried. He made no move, however, to escape Evan’s clasp. “Jamie here was to take that money to the seamstress to pay his mither’s debt. He’s sure to get a thrashing now, when his mither learns he was robbed by the likes of you.”

“If he’s lost the money, he deserves a thrashing.” Ian’s lip curled in derision. “That’s no reason to blame it on me, though.”

“It is if you’ve taken the money,” Claire interjected, gripping her brother’s shoulder. “Have you, Ian? Tell me true, lad.”

Suddenly, if almost imperceptibly, Ian couldn’t quite meet Claire’s gaze. Her heart sank. He
had
stolen the money.

She had hoped her brother had finally outgrown his thieving habits in the past year since they had come to Culdee. Though he had continued to engage in periodic brawls with his schoolmates, Ian had always insisted they had been the result of some bully like Malcolm MacKay picking on him, or of some younger child whose aid he had come to. But now … Claire had to wonder how much else of what Ian told her had also been lies.

“I didn’t take Jamie’s money,” her brother muttered, still refusing to look directly at her. “Jamie’s lying, and Malcolm was just looking for an excuse to fight me. That’s all there is to it.”

“Ian …” Claire warned. “Don’t tell me a falsehood.”

“It isn’t a falsehood!” He stepped back, his expression now indignant, accusatory. “It’s a fine day indeed, when your own kin won’t believe you!”

“How much did you lose, son?” Evan turned to Jamie.

The small, towheaded boy dressed in shabby trousers that barely passed his knees, gazed up at the tall American. “A pound sixpence, sir.”

Evan dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of silver and gold coins. “Well, how about I make you a loan until we find the lost money? Just so your mama doesn’t have to whup you, okay?”

Jamie’s head bobbed in eager agreement. “Aye, that’d be fine, sir. Just until we find the lost money.”

“You willna find the money,” Malcolm growled under his breath. “Leastwise not unless you search Ian Sutherland’s person.”

With an obvious show of ignoring the other boy, Evan counted out the money and handed it to Jamie. Then he turned to Malcolm. “Where I come from, son, we take a man at his word until it’s proven otherwise. If the money was stolen, the truth will come out sooner or later. And if it wasn’t, well, I reckon we’ll find that out, too.”

The red-haired boy glared at Evan for a long moment. Then, with a final, quelling look at Ian, he turned on his heel and stalked off. The rest of the children, apparently robbed of their evening’s entertainment, soon followed.

Wordlessly, Claire handed Evan back his hat, jacket, and traveling bag. Then, her hurt and disappointment at her brother’s lie still smarting, she turned and strode away. Evan and Ian stared fleetingly after her, before hurrying to follow. Eventually Evan caught up with her, even as her brother seemingly decided it wise to continue lagging behind.