Rogue of the Isles (17 page)

Jillian felt her eyes widen in shock. “How terrible. Why would their own clansmen do that?”

“They had little choice. After the defeat at Culloden, the English imposed high rents. To keep their lands, the lairds had to raise the money. Sheep were the answer, but they need grass and crofters used the ground for planting. Land means everything to a Highlander.”

Jillian knew that. Ian had accepted the English title of earl for that very reason—to be able to support and hold his Scottish land near Loch Shiel. “But did this not happen a long time ago?”

“The first stage did,” Shauna answered, “but the second stage took place just last year.”

“Last year?”

“Aye. ’Twas the Countess of Sutherland who ordered the burnings herself.”

“As far north as it is, I always thought Sutherland was one of the strongest Scottish holdings,” Jillian said.

“’It was. The Gordons and Mackays were loyal Scots. The present countess, though, dinnae even speak Gaelic. She and her husband, the Marquess of Stafford, reside in London and pay Sutherland no mind except to collect rents.”

Jillian furrowed her brows in puzzlement. “Then why would she order anything to be burned?”

Bridget grimaced. “Greed. But they didnae dirty their own hands. They hired two factors—I think ye call them solicitors?—to take care of the
problem
, as they called it. Both men hated the Gaels.”

“Two hundred and fifty homes were torched in one day,” Shauna added. “An elderly lady, Margaret Mackay, died in the fire. The rest of the people had nowhere to go.”

“How many people were affected?”

“In all, around fifteen thousand,” Bridget said.

“Fifteen thousand. No wonder Duncan and Broc are still upset. I had no idea,” Jillian replied.

“’Tis only part of the reason they are angry,” Shauna said.

Bridget sent her a warning look. “’Tis nothing to worry Jillian about.”

“I want to know,” Jillian countered.

“Verra well.” Bridget took a deep breath as if deciding how much to say. “The mon who brought Ian’s letter told Duncan the Sutherlands were on their way north for a rare visit. Some of the men have been blethering about…confronting them.”

“What good would that do?”

“It wouldna do any good. ’Twould just make matters worse.”

“I wish Ian were here. He could talk sense into his uncle,” Jillian said.

“Mayhap. Duncan and Broc are hot-headed though.”

“But are they stupid? Surely they can see nothing can be gained by opposing nobility.”

The sisters looked at each other.

Bridget shrugged. “They are men.”

The news still bothered Jillian later that afternoon as she stood inside one of the stable stalls grooming Gunnar. Besides Ian, she was the only person the Andalusian stallion tolerated brushing him. The boy assigned to feed and water the animal had been only too glad to turn over grooming duties after he’d been kicked and nipped. Jillian had tried to explain that Gunnar had been mistreated while being broken to saddle, but the lad had looked skeptical. Since she could not ride this late in her pregnancy, she enjoyed the contact with the horse.

She took a chunk of apple from the sporran she’d borrowed and held it out for Gunnar, about to tell him what a fantastic animal he was when she heard male voices talking in low, conspiratorial tones. Shrinking back against the wall as the men neared her stall, she could tell Duncan was speaking.

“Did ye get the word out?”

“Aye,” Broc answered in a near whisper. “The men will meet ye at midnight at the deserted croft just past the cairn.”

“’Tis a fittin’ place to meet. The old mon who lived there was a fool to believe the damn redcoats about money to be made in Dundee.”

“His widow said he caught his death of cold halfway there.”

Duncan snorted. “The English are the devil’s own spawn.”

“Mayhap the world will be less two of the devils if our plan works.”

“It will work.”

The men moved on to the tack room. Jillian slipped out of the stall and hurried to the house. If Duncan and Broc were gathering men to try to intercept the Countess of Sutherland’s entourage, they needed to be stopped. The English guards would be armed with muskets as well as bayonets and sabers. There probably would be a large retinue from Ft. William as well, since this far north in Scotland was still considered somewhat uncivilized by Prinny’s set. Duncan and his group would be massacred.

Should they happen to kill—or even injure—the countess or her husband, there would be hell to pay. Retribution would be swift. Jillian had no doubt the Prince Regent would raise the rents at Loch Shiel to astronomical numbers and probably revoke the titles to both Cantford and Newburn as well.

Jillian had to tell someone, but whom? With Jamie gone and Shane not back from his trip to Ireland, Duncan was in charge. She could hardly go to
him
. Even if she thought he would listen to reason, there was no way he would listen to her. She was one of the hated Sassenachs.

Should she go to Bridget? Unfortunately, Bridget’s husband had gone to Arisaig the day before to deliver a pair of breeding mares. Brodie would not be back until tomorrow.

Perhaps it would be better if she followed Duncan and Broc herself to find out what the details of the plan were before she involved anyone else. She knew where the cairn of stones marked a crossroad, and she thought she remembered an abandoned croft when she had been out riding. It was not far from the castle, and the walk would do her good. Everyone fussed over Jillian’s need to rest, but what she really wanted was to move about.

She would be back well before dawn with no one the wiser. When Brodie returned tomorrow she would tell him she overheard everything in the barn. A little white lie, but better than being lectured by well-meaning MacLeods about leaving the castle unescorted.

Much later that night, Jillian was sure she had made the right decision. Duncan and Broc had been unusually quiet at the evening meal, but she had noticed the looks they exchanged. Now, near midnight, she huddled behind some bushes close to the postern gate. She doubted Duncan would try to leave by the main entrance since the old portcullis that Ian maintained in working order was down for the night with guards posted on the battlements above. She wrapped the dark blue and green MacLeod tartan more closely around her, glad the dark wool plaid both hid her and held in her body’s warmth.

Thankfully, Jillian did not have long to wait. She heard stealthy footsteps approach, then the turn of a key in the iron lock. She held her breath, listening for the sound of the key being turned from the other side, but since there was no real danger of attack, they left it unlocked. She counted to ten and then slipped through the hedge that hid the door.

The path was steep and uneven with only a sliver of new moon to light the way, but she had explored this area when she’d first arrived, thrilled to live in an actual medieval castle. With her unwieldy stomach affecting her balance, Jillian made her way carefully down, sometimes holding on to the long, grassy weeds to avoid slipping.

The ground leveled as she neared the road. Up ahead, she could just make out the forms of Duncan and Broc in the near-total darkness. If they were speaking, she could not hear them.

Once they passed the cairn, the road narrowed to little more than a deer trail, nearly hidden by bracken, and edged its way along a ravine that served as a gully wash when the snows melted in the spring. Now only bramble bushes stuck out from its sloping sides, the bottom littered with broken branches and rocks from downstream.

Careful not to loosen a stone on the rutted path that might give her presence away, Jillian exhaled a relieved breath when she saw the small cottage with its thatched roof gone. Inside, she could hear male voices. She paused, waiting for Duncan and Broc to enter. A little lean-to shed looked like it might offer a good place of concealment. Cautiously, she crept closer and then slipped inside, hoping she was not sharing a rat or badger’s home.

The tiny room cut the chill of the air, and light from an oil lamp flickered through a crack in the mud-and-wattle wall, allowing sound to filter through as well. The conversation was muted though, and Jillian only heard bits of phrases like “Sutherland bitch”, “spotted nearing Ft. William” “need to…” The speaker’s voice lowered and Jillian brushed cobwebs away, stepping closer to the wall to hear. Her ankle turned on a jagged rock and she reached out, catching herself on the sharp edge of a hand plough stashed against the wall. The tin slashed her hand, and she stifled a scream.

Talking ceased inside the cottage.

Jillian dashed outside the shed, running clumsily for the cover of the bracken. She heard cursing and the sound of heavy boots behind her. Not daring to slow down, she followed the winding, twisting path, praying there would be some spot where she could turn off the trail and hide. Her side was beginning to ache, and she clutched her stomach to keep the baby from kicking. She had to get off the path and glancedin both directions. The brush seemed denser and better to hide in to her left. She turned, pushing though—and stepped into open space.

The ravine rose up to meet her as she landed with a hard thump on her side, rolling and tumbling down the craggy side until she landed in a huddled heap atop dead branches.

Above her, she heard the men continue on.

Chapter Fourteen

Mari still felt a little sore after the fall from the horse nearly a week ago and was grateful tonight’s entertainment was whist instead of a dance. She was seated at one of several card tables in Lady Castlereagh’s elegant ballroom-turned-card parlor. Hundreds of beeswax candles glowed from crystal chandeliers, reflecting light off the highly polished floor. Ornate brocaded chairs that normally lined the walls of the ballroom now were placed in fours around linen-covered tables graced with out-of-season hot-house flowers. Lady Castlereagh and her foreign-minister husband had recently returned from the Congress of Vienna and the viscountess wasted no time in letting the
ton
know she was back.

Mari gave Jamie a sidelong glance as he took the seat to her right. She had informed him before they left the townhouse that Lady Castlereagh was a stickler for propriety and he had to be on his best behavior. Jamie just grinned and told he was
always
on his best behavior. Mari started to challenge him on that point, but since her fall from the horse—and the kiss—Jamie had been a model of decorum, exhibiting only perfect manners.

She couldn’t decide if she liked him that way or not.

The kiss—how could a man’s lips be so firm and soft at the same time? And so warm and dexterous? Her face warmed as she recalled how slowly he had moved them over her mouth, brushing lightly, teasing, coaxing, enticing her to want more…and then his velvety tongue slipping inside, completely overwhelming her with sensation as she reveled in the taste and fullness of him. Her body flamed suddenly as she remembered her response. She had practically thrown herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck, digging her fingers through his silky hair and moaning like a brazen hussy. Was that why Jamie had reverted to respectable behavior? Because she had acted like a street doxy? How totally embarrassing. She would simply have to control her behavior from this point forward.

Trying not to squirm in her chair, Mari made a pretense of smoothing the silk of her lavender evening gown. Jamie confused her. He was arrogant and bossy, expecting her to follow his
orders
, yet he could be amazingly gentle as well. When Nevin had returned with the carriage that day, Jamie had treated her as though she were a piece of fragile china, making sure she was seated securely on the seat, tucked into blankets even though the weather was mild. Was that the behavior of a man who probably now considered her somewhat of a lightskirt?

Once back at the townhouse, he had hovered over the physician’s shoulder, no doubt annoying the old man with countless questions until Aunt Agnes had firmly told Jamie he would
not
be staying in the room while the doctor examined Mari. The elderly gentleman had nearly been flattened, though, as Jamie bounded back through the door as soon as it opened. Would Jamie be so concerned if he did not still respect her?

Or perhaps, since she had shown such unrestrained emotion, he wanted to make sure she was well enough to continue what had been started? Not that Mari was clear about what would have happened next, but she was sure it would not meet with Aunt Agnes’s approval. But if Jamie wanted
more—
not that she should even be entertaining any idea of what
more
might be—then why would he be so politely distant?

Jamie truly was a man of contradictions.

“Are we ready to play?” Maddie asked, breaking into Mari’s reverie.

“Play?” For a moment, Mari thought her friend had somehow deduced her naughty thoughts, then she realized Maddie was referring to whist.

Nicholas eyed her intently across the table, and she hoped her face was not as hotly red as it felt. Mari managed a smile. “Of course. Forgive me for woolgathering.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my sweet. You look quite lovely when you woolgather. I must remember that for your portrait.” Nicholas glanced at Jamie. “I will deal. The rules say you shuffle the cards, Highlander.”