Lessons in Loving a Laird (5 page)

“And what exactly is that?”

She winced. “A knave. A villain. A traitor.”

“And are you such things?”

She harrumphed. “It doesna matter what I think. The mark says different.”

“Of course it matters. Who you are, and who people say you are, are not the same thing at all.”

She hesitated. “Ye dinna understand. No one will bother to find out who I truly am. They won’t be able to see past this.” She held up her scarred hand to his face.

Conall fought the urge to flinch. He had seen many injuries far worse, but for some reason, it hurt him that such a disfigurement existed upon Shona’s flesh.

“Ye’ve lived too long away from Scotland. Ye dinna know what this means. This mark makes us unwanted. For work, for wife. Look at Willow. I canna count the suitors who’ve come to call on her. But just as soon as they saw the mark, she never heard from them again. No one is going to love a
slaighteur
.”

Conall nodded slowly, absorbing the injustice of it all. “You’ve made it perfectly clear what others think. But I still have not heard what you think is behind that mark. So I ask again, are you a knave?”

Shona thought about it for a long time. “If I was no’ before, I am now. I could never be kin to that band of brigands that killed my family right before my eyes. Every time I think on it, all I see is blood.”

Conall inhaled deeply, shocked by the revelation. “When did this happen?”

“A long time ago,” Shona said, but knew it to be untrue. No matter how much time passed, it would always be a fresh memory. “We were little, aboot eight years old. Mumma tried to hide us when the men broke down the door. They came for the blood of Thomas and Hamish, but Mumma and Da would never sacrifice their sons to quench their bloodlust. They tried to fight them off, but the men were stronger in number and might. Mumma and Da … Thomas and Hamish … and Malcolm. All of them slaughtered.”

Shona closed her eyes to the vivid picture that splashed before her eyes every time she talked about it. “I’ll never forget the face of the man that slit my mother’s throat. I hate him for killing her. I hate him for hurting Willow. But most of all, I hate him for making me remember him.”

Conall winced at the image of that brutal scene. Five dead, a whole family all at once. God only knew what it must have done to an eight-year-old girl.

The knuckles on her hands turned white as they gripped the crest of the dyke. He reached out and placed a warm palm upon her scarred hand. “I’m sorry, Shona.”

The sensation surprised her. She turned questioning eyes upon his face. There was a look of genuine concern upon his handsome features.

“Are there any more of you? Who survived, I mean?”

Shona blinked, unfamiliar with his extension of understanding. “Our brother Camran. He was five.”

“Why do you suppose you three were spared?”

She shrugged. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think aboot that very question. And try as I might, I canna come up with an answer.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. ’Tis why I wanted our freedom. I must try to find Camran. If he’s still alive.”

Conall heaved a deep sigh. “That means you would have to hunt down the men who did this in order to find out what happened to your brother.”

“Aye. I mean to do just that.”

Emotions battled within him. It was the height of foolishness for Shona to go off in search of murderers. By delivering herself into their hands, they’d probably finish their bloody deed by killing the surviving girls. And yet, Shona had a sound head on her shoulders. He was sure she had considered the risks. He’d give her that at least … she was certainly one of the bravest women he’d ever met. If she were cornered, there seemed nothing and no one she wouldn’t stand up to.

But whether she was willing to accept the danger or not, he couldn’t allow her to put her life at risk. And for the time being at least, he held the authority to protect her from her own headstrong intentions.

“In three years, perhaps. For now, you’ve got a great deal of work to do. You’re responsible for making this estate profitable. And your duty to me comes before everything else.”

“Ye mean, ye still want me to help ye? What aboot what Mr. Hartopp said?”

“Hartopp’s been terminated. After he adamantly refused to follow your advice, which I considered to be quite sage, I found I had no more need of him. So it seems you’ve got your hands full at the moment.”

“I … don’t know what to say.”

“I do. It means that I now have even loftier expectations of you. In addition to being to work
on time
and serving me with diligence and obedience, I also expect results and will hold you accountable for bringing them to me. Above all, I expect absolute honesty always. As your employer, I can teach some things, but I cannot teach character. That you must bring on your own. Is that understood?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Does this mean I’m now yer factor?”

“Yes. And as my factor, I will not pay you to stand about gazing at sheep. So come with me. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

*   *   *

Shona followed Conall numbly to the house. She had no idea what to make of this recent turn of events. She had thought for certain she would be expelled back to the dairy. For a few nerve-racking hours following breakfast, Shona had felt once again imprisoned by her circumstances. Instead, Conall was actually inviting her to remain in his circle of trust. Although they were still under their indentures, Willow could at least continue to serve in the nursery, which she seemed to enjoy, and Shona would get an opportunity to redeem herself from Hartopp’s harmful slander. Relieved, her shoulders began to untense.

Shona climbed the stairs behind Conall, past the floor containing his bedroom, and to an upper level. He opened the door onto a room that burst light upon her eyes. The wallpaper was white and painted with tiny blue and yellow flowers. A long window cast squares of light upon the thick carpeting. A maplewood crib rested against the wooden wainscoting, and two beds were propped against the opposite wall. In the center of the room, a child swayed upon a rocking horse.

“Where’s my soldier?”

“Pa-paa!” Clumsily, the boy climbed off the horse, and ran awkwardly toward Conall. He picked the boy up in his arms.

“Shona, this is my son, Eric.”

“Eric,” she repeated, and the boy smiled at her. “How sweet!” she giggled. “How old is he?”

“He’ll be two a month hence. Eric, go and show Shona your toy soldiers.” He set the boy down on the floor, and Eric spun his stubby legs as he raced to a shelf. Willow came to her feet and helped pull down the box he was jumping for.

“Please sit down,” Conall said, waving her to the settee. He lifted his coattails and sat down beside her. He measured his words carefully as he spoke. “I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. Eric’s mother died just after he was born.”

The boy carried the box to Conall’s lap. Conall slid open the lid, and Eric reached in and pulled out wooden figurines, their little coats painted red.

“He’s not known what it’s like to have a mother. He’s a lot like you two, I expect, having lost a mother at such a young age. But I try to give him much love and attention, to compensate for his missing parent.”

Eric plopped down on the floor and began to stand his soldiers up.

“It’s for him that I’m here. The estate will provide for him, now and when he grows, and I want to make sure that it thrives. This, then, is why you’re here. You are going to make the tenants prosper, not just for their own sake, but so that Eric here will be provided for. Do you understand?”

Shona looked up at Conall. The tenderness toward his child warmed something within her. How fortunate his child was to have such a devoted father. It made her miss her own da all the more.

“I understand.”

“Good. And by the by,” he added, “I have fulfilled my end of our bargain. That bed over there, the one beside Willow’s, is yours. I am, after all, a man of my word.”

She glanced at the beds she had seen when she’d first come in. True enough, the nursery now had two narrow beds, separated by a low night table.

Willow watched Eric from the foot of one of the beds.

But something was wrong with her sister.

Though it was invisible to Conall, Shona could interpret the look on Willow’s face. That glassy expression meant she was lost in unhappy memories.

Shona rose and sat beside her, placing her hands in her sister’s. “Isn’t this wonderful, Willow? We’ll be resting together again tonight.” She hoped to interrupt the stream of Willow’s reminiscence.

Willow swung horrified eyes at Shona. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Look at the bairn. Who do ye see?”

Shona turned her gaze upon the boy. The child sat upon the floor, playing with his wooden king’s men. Instantly, she could see through Willow’s eyes. The two-year-old’s blue velvet gown disappeared, and instead she saw a blue and red woolen kilt. The pale rosy cheeks of a toddler vanished, replaced by the darkened skin of a five-year-old boy who played outside the day long. Gone were the light brown curls of Eric, and instead she saw the soft black hair of Camran.

A sound like rushing water thundered in her ears. Instantly, she was transported to the happy, innocent moments in the kitchen at Ravens Craig—when Camran was a little boy playing with toy soldiers, Willow was shaping the bannocks for dinner, and Shona marveled at the way a spider could move both on the ground and through the air.
That
moment seemed centuries ago.

Shona blinked her eyes, dispelling the memories. Willow, however, remained locked in the nightmare.

The last thing Shona wanted to do was alarm Conall. So she patted Willow’s hands and mustered as much cheer as she could.

“Ye’re right, Willow! Eric
is
very like his father!”

Conall grinned. “You’ll be able to play with him later. For now, there are some ledgers I’d like to show you. Willow, I’ll be back at noon to collect Eric.”

Conall rose, and Shona did, too. She cast a worried glance at Willow, who was talking herself through the panic as Shona had taught her to do.

SEVEN

The house at Ravens Craig had had a library, but it was nowhere near as grand as Conall’s.

A gilt-edged tray ceiling crowned the oaken walls in the cavernous room. Long shelves groaned under the weight of so many books. Red brocade drapes dripped down the long windows, shaping the light that fell upon a long tapestry hanging on the opposite wall. A massive marble mantel arched over a brick fireplace.

The air inside the room smelled heavenly, scented with old pages warmed by the sunshine and seasoned with years. It was all Shona could do to keep from flopping onto one of the upholstered wing chairs that dotted the room and devouring each of the unloved books.

Conall lifted an oversized scroll from a cylindrical basket upon the floor. He unfurled it onto a long table. She came up alongside him, and was met with a new scent … the clean smell of soap upon him. The musky lemon perfume emanated from his hair and his face.

“Right. Here is a map of the estate.”

Her eyes tore all over the surveyor’s map. “Goolies! Is all this land yers?”

“Most of it, yes.”

She traced her hand all over the bird’s-eye view of the estate. “Goolies!” she breathed.

Conall shook his head. “Shona, your language leaves much to be desired.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “What do ye mean? There’s nothing wrong with ‘goolies.’”

A smirk deepened in his cheek. “Not in its literal sense, no. But that is a word that doesn’t sit well upon a woman’s tongue, especially not when you are using it in that context. The anatomical nomenclature is ‘testicles,’ and unless I’m very mistaken, you’re not talking about testicles, are you?”

She shrugged. “Oh, very well. How much land is this?”

“About five thousand acres.”

“Gool—” Shona glanced up at Conall, who pursed his lips. “I mean, ‘Mercy!’ How much of that is arable?”

“Excellent question. About three-quarters of it, I would venture to say. But I can’t be certain—Uncle Macrath’s records are less than precise. The rest of the land—here, here, and here—is nonagricultural. It consists of forest, streams, the house, and so on.”

“How many farms belong to the estate?”

“Forty-three. But I don’t have an accurate representation of them on a map. And we’ll need it if we are going to put some of your ideas for improving the land into practice. Therefore, I want you to take a survey of the land, and outline the farms on this map. I also want you to indicate who the tenants are and what their marketable crops can be, based on the quality of soil and irrigation.”

“Survey the land? I dinna know how to do that.”

He cocked his head. “The word ‘apprentice’ is derived from the French word ‘apprendre,’ which means ‘to learn.’ So that’s what you are to do. Learn.”

Shona grumbled. “When?”

“We can start this very afternoon. Be ready to ride out at half past one. We’ll begin with the farms on the north side of the estate, and work our way down. We certainly won’t be done today, but we’ll try to cover as much terrain as we can before sundown.”

Shona had hoped for some more of those English scones with the raspberry jam at teatime. “We’ll be gone all afternoon? The sky promises rain, ye know.”

“Half past one,” he repeated as he walked out of the library.

She sighed as she rolled up the map. “Bugger.”

He poked his head back in, an eyebrow jutting into his forehead. “And stop swearing, or I shall wash out your mouth with soap.”

*   *   *

At the appointed hour, Shona was sitting astride the horse in the stable yard. She had inspected the bay to make sure he was up for a ride, and then seated him to get a feel for how her mount liked to be guided. The horse’s hooves clattered upon the flagstones as she guided him into a canter.

Within minutes, Conall walked out into the stable yard.

“Punctuality. I admire that in my staff.”

“I canna wait to survey the land,” she said with a sardonic edge. “’Tis all I can think aboot.”