Once Upon a Highland Autumn (4 page)

Kit wondered where the key might be. Had old Nathaniel taken it to his grave? He was buried here at Turnstone where he’d lived the last years of his life.

A loud thump shook the plaster above his head, and Kit flinched and glanced up at the ceiling. He had arrived late last night, and the local inn was filled to capacity with the men working on the renovations. He had had no choice but to spend the night in his coach, or to make the best of it and find shelter amid the drop cloths and scaffolding inside the abbey. He’d chosen the latter, taken the blanket, and sent his coachman and valet off to search for a more pleasant place to stay.

Kit wondered how often Nathaniel had found himself sleeping rough, waiting for battle to begin, or exhausted after the fighting ended. He shut his eyes. The pounding of hammers could easily have been the pounding of drums. The calls of the workmen might have been officers bellowing orders. That—the army, not the renovations—might have been his life . . .

Kit tilted his head and studied the box from the side, then the back. The chances of finding the key, even if it was exactly where Nathaniel had last left it, were remote indeed. Kit had never broken into anything before, or picked a lock. He’d never had reason to, though he had read of such things. It took something sharp—or so he understood—and thin.

He opened the drawer in the nearest sideboard, searching for something narrow and pointed, such as a letter opener. Only a candlesnuffer came to hand. He put it back and turned to the desk—the most logical place to find a letter opener—but the drawers were barricaded by a pile of other things, including a painting of a small angel, who gazed at him with parsimonious horror at Kit the would-be lock-pick. He found a box filled with lady’s cloaks, crumpled and musty, and several bonnets, their once-proud feathers limp. He tossed them aside, but a forgotten hatpin, long and sharp as a dagger, caught his hand, and despite the beads of blood that welled up along the stinging scratch, he drew it out of the bonnet in triumph, and turned back to the trunk.

He fidgeted with the lock as the sun rose and filled the room with summer heat. He wiped the sweat from his brow, felt the grit of plaster and dust on his skin. He jiggled the hatpin one last time, and with a click, the lock gave at last.

Kit opened the lid.

The first thing he saw was a long dagger with a thin blade and a jeweled handle. Now that, Kit thought as he held it up, would have made short work of the lock. He set it aside.

Under the knife was a uniform coat, carefully folded, scarlet wool faced with blue, the brass buttons black for want of polish. The cuffs showed hard wear, a few battle scars, and a black-edged bullet hole in the sleeve. Kit poked his finger through it. If it had been inches to the left, Nathaniel would have died on the field, instead of here, in a comfortable bed. The box also contained a few other ordinary remnants of the captain’s life—a leather-bound book as scuffed as the footlocker itself, a silver flask engraved with the Linwood family crest, and a small bag containing a few coins, some cuff links and a watch chain.

He picked up the book, and looked at it. It was bound shut with a length of pale blue ribbon.

Kit untied the ribbon, and several items fell into his lap. There was a pressed flower—a sprig of heather, if he guessed aright—and a tattered bit of plaid too, orange-red, blue, and green. There was also a letter, yellowed by age, still sealed, the address blurred with damp, but still readable. “Connor MacIntosh, Inverness Gaol,” Kit read aloud. He frowned. Now why would Nathaniel have kept a letter addressed to another man, a Scot by the looks of it, yet never read it?

After a moment’s hesitation, Kit broke the seal, and unfolded it. The ink was smeared in places, perhaps by tears, or age, and the script shook a little, as if the writer had been overwhelmed by emotion. He read the name at the end—Mairi—and frowned. There was no Mairi in family lore, he was sure of that. He took the letter back to the settee and began to read.

Glen Dorian, May 1746

My love,

I pray this finds you well, and you will be home soon again. Captain Linwood was able to learn that you were taken to Inverness Gaol with the other prisoners after the battle at Culloden Moor. Ruairidh is with me, safe. The captain brought him back to me, regretful that he could save only one of you in the terrible moments after the battle. They would not tell me how you were captured, or what you are enduring in prison, so I can only imagine and fear. I hear there are many wounded men dying for lack of care—word of that has reached us even here in Glen Dorian. Linwood has promised me that he will see you are freed, and bring you home again to me, since you are innocent, and he will willingly attest that you took no part in the battle.

I hope you will forgive Ruairidh—my brother is a foolish child. He thought it would be a grand adventure to watch a battle. He knows now he was wrong, and knows that if not for him, you would not have been near Culloden Moor, but here with me at Glen Dorian, safe. I do not know what Ruairidh saw as he lay on the edge of the battlefield, for he will not or cannot speak of it, or perhaps the captain warned him not to tell me, but to spare me. It makes it worse, not knowing. Nor will Linwood give me details of the battle, except to say the Jacobites lost, and will not rise again. Charles Stuart has fled, and they will hunt him down if they can. The government soldiers are coming into the villages and the glens, searching everywhere for him, or for any Highlander, to punish us.

Captain Linwood has come to say that we must flee. We are in danger, even here in Glen Dorian. I will take what kin will follow me and hide. Linwood says I dare not name the place here, but you will know it well enough.

The captain is waiting while I write this letter to you, and promises to see it delivered. How I wish I could place it in your hands myself, kiss those hands, and see you and know that you are well.

I know you will come home to me, Connor. You must. I have our treasure safe, hidden where the English thieves will not think to look for it. Again, you will know the place.

I will wait for you, watch for you to come back to me every day, and keep safe all that you and I hold dear until you are in my arms again.

Mairi

Kit stared at the letter. Nathaniel had obviously not delivered it. Kit frowned. Had Connor MacIntosh returned to Mairi? If not, there was a treasure hidden at Glen Dorian, a place Kit had never heard of. Mairi—whomever she had been, had done as women did after a losing battle—hidden the family valuables and fled. Had Nathaniel known about the treasure? He obviously hadn’t read the letter, but he’d been waiting as she wrote it, and he pictured his great-uncle standing behind her, reading over her shoulder, hurrying her along. “But you were a cavalry officer, and English. Why were you delivering letters for a Scotswoman, addressed to a Jacobite prisoner?” he murmured to the air. He wondered if old Nathaniel had been a traitor. Would he have been welcomed home, been allowed to live here at Turnstone if he were?

Kit turned to the journal, looked at the scrap of plaid and the dried sprig of heather, held it to his nose, smelled paper and age, and the faintest, sweetest echo of the flower itself.

“Did she get away?” he murmured to the book.

“Pardon, my lord?” Kit looked up to see his valet, Leslie, in the doorway, a hamper in his hands. “Forgive me, there is no door upon which to knock. Were you speaking to me?” Leslie set the hamper down and opened it to reveal a flask of ale, a loaf of bread, and some cheese and fruit.

Kit folded the letter and put it back into the book and rose. “Ah, Leslie, just in time. I feared I would starve in the ruins of this place. What news have you? Is there another inn nearby, or a house I can rent?”

“I came as soon as I could, but I’m afraid the news is not good, sir. I have been unable to find suitable lodgings in the neighborhood. Everyone is here in the country for the summer months, and there is nothing left to rent. I can search farther afield, but—” He looked dubiously at the disheveled surroundings. “Is there a bedroom in order, a kitchen, water, any servants in residence?” he asked.

Kit got to his feet and brushed at the plaster dust on his breeches and grinned. Leslie’s jaw dropped in horror at his master’s filthy state. Kit could imagine what the valet saw—the Earl of Rossington, as he’d never been seen before, disheveled, needing a shave, a bath, and clean clothes. His hair was probably standing up in unruly, sleep-raddled spikes. He grinned at his manservant. “It doesn’t matter, Leslie. We’re going to Scotland.”

The valet’s hands faltered and the ale he was pouring out spilled, soaking into the dust on the floor. “
Scotland
, my lord?” he squeaked.

“Yes, Scotland. A place called Glen Dorian, somewhere in the Highlands. I believe it is near Inverness.” He watched as his valet’s merely worried expression dissolved into a look of horror. Kit crossed and broke off a chunk of cheese and bit into it.

“You needn’t look so grim. It’s an adventure.” A treasure hunt, to be precise.

Leslie ran a nervous finger under his cravat. “I’ve never had an adventure, my lord. I’m not the adventurous sort. I had hoped to grow old and die in a comfortable bed, right here in England, with my limbs intact.”

Kit picked up Nathaniel’s journal and put it back into the box and shut the lid. “I understand Scotland is very pleasant—and it’s bound to be cooler than London. Think of the tales you’ll have to tell your grandchildren.” He strode toward the door with Nathaniel’s footlocker under his arm.

Leslie blinked after him for a moment, then hurried to catch up. “Grandchildren, my lord? But I’m not even married!”

M
egan climbed the crest of a hill, and felt the wind lift her hair and her cloak, and for an instant she felt as if she were flying. The air was sweet with the scent of heather, and she shut her eyes, glad to escape the endless fittings and lectures and lessons. She’d slipped out after breakfast, while the seamstress was busy with Alanna, and Sorcha was having her English lesson, and Mama was still abed.

Megan was certain even if she did go to England she would not remember half of what had been crammed into her head in the past week, nor would she recall which dress she was expected to wear at each time of day, or how she was to address a baroness as opposed to a bishop’s wife. What if she got it all wrong? Isn’t that what her mother feared most, that her girls would make themselves—and her—look foolish by using the wrong fork at dinner, or failing to be pretty or witty enough amid their English competition?

Megan was certain they’d laugh at her, the fine lords and ladies of England, make fun of the Scottish burr in her voice, the awkward way she walked, as if she’d spent her life roaming over hills and glens. Which she had. She looked down at her feet now, clad in sturdy boots made for walking over rough ground, knowing her stride was too long, her pace too rapid. Would she ever get used to taking the dainty steps of an English lady?

She reached the top of the sheep path, and overlooked Glen Dorian, the vale of the otters, and she let the wind buffet her, blow away the fear and uncertainty. She lifted her arms, felt the wind fill her lungs, and imagined flying away over the hills and mountains. What would she seek? Eachann, or something bigger still?

“Och, ye gave me a turn, lass,” a voice said, and she opened her eyes and saw an elderly man reclining in the heather, smoking a pipe.

Megan came to earth with a jolt, and wrapped her cloak around her body. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there,” she said, regaining her composure. “It’s a fine day, is it not?”

He squinted at the sky. “We’ll have rain before the afternoon is out. There are clouds on the horizon. I’ve been watching them move up the glen.”

Megan set a hand to her eyes and stared out across the landscape, watching the placid white clouds scudding toward them. They looked harmless to her.

“What brings you out? Shouldn’t you be home helping your mother?” he asked sharply. “Is there no wool to card or bannocks to bake?”

Megan lifted her chin at his presumption, but felt instant guilt as well. She was supposed to be enduring a lesson in English conversation. Alanna was probably finished with the seamstress, and Sorcha was no doubt simmering with annoyance that Megan had had managed to slip away to walk in the hills while she was kept prisoner indoors. The old man’s sharp gaze reminded her that she was shirking her duty, even if that duty was far more complicated than carding wool.

She raised her chin and gave the old man what she hoped was a proper English lady-of–the-manor look. “My mother has servants to do that.”

He wasn’t impressed. He simply puffed his pipe, held her gaze, and waited. Megan lowered her eyes. “I came out for a walk, if you must know. Can a body not enjoy the hills on a fine afternoon?”

He squinted at the clouds once again. “What are you hoping to find here? True love, four leaf clovers, gems, treasure?” he asked. “You have the look of a lass who’s searching for something.”

Megan sat down beside him on the hillside. “I suppose I am. I collect tales—write them down to keep them from being lost. Have you one to tell?”

The white eyebrow shot upward. “Tales? Aye, I know a lot of tales. What kind do you want?”

She scanned the valley, noted the ruined castle below. It stood on a rocky island in the loch, held from floating away by the tenuous scrap of a causeway, a narrow path of rock and rubble. “True ones—the history of places and people. Like that castle—what can you tell me of it?”

He regarded her sharply. “Glen Dorian? ’Tis cursed, or so they say. I could tell you a dozen tales about it. Heroes once roamed those halls, ladies sang as they wove, and the MacIntoshes of Glen Dorian were a mighty clan.”

“Are you a MacIntosh?” she asked.

“Aye. One of the last of the MacIntoshes of Glen Dorian.”

“What happened to the rest of the clan?” Megan asked, looking at the castle’s crumbling walls, gray and cold against the verdant green and purple of the valley.