White Regency 03 - White Knight (27 page)

Grace crossed her arms before her, raising
her chin as she continued to stare at him with all the iciness and arrogance he
had her earlier. “Pray tell me why I should sell the land to your
employer, Mr. Starke. So that you might turn out my tenants from their homes as
you already have at Sunterglen, in order to graze sheep upon the graves of
their ancestors?”

Starke glanced at Christian as if
expecting him to intervene. He blessedly remained a spectator to the exchange.

“I can assure you, madam,”
Starke said, his voice steady, controlled, “any tenants we did wish to
move would be relocated to alternate plots on Sunterglen.”

“Alternate plots? Is that what you
call it, Mr. Starke? Just as you
relocated
Seonag MacLean whilst her
husband Eachann was away and
she
in the eighth month
of her pregnancy?”

Starke’s face turned a shade ashen at the
accusation, one he wisely did not seek to refute.

“Look around you, Mr. Starke.”
Grace gestured to the crowd of Highlanders standing around the courtyard
watching the exchange.
“These people are the very ones who once peopled the estate of your
benevolent employer, those who managed to survive your evictions. Because of
greed, sir—greed for land profit—they have been forced to come here to Skynegal
to seek shelter from the elements. I am the great-granddaughter of the last
laird of Skynegal. This castle and this estate have been a part of my family
for countless generations, as it has been a part of the lives and history of
the people of Wester Ross. Do you honestly believe I would sell off so much as
one ell of this estate so that you might continue your onslaught?”

Starke’s face reddened. “I had
thought since you come from England,” he faltered—

“My great-grandmother, while English,
was a MacRath down to her kirtle. She proudly supported Prince Charles at
Culloden in hopes of preserving her Scottish heritage. As long as I live, sir,
I can assure you I will never disgrace the memory of my ancestors, both English
and Scottish, for a few pounds’ profit.”

Starke simply stared at her, speechless.
His eyes, which had before been deferential, now narrowed on her with a
scarcely concealed hostility. He looked one last time to Christian. “If
you should happen to change your mind,
my lord,
my
employer’s offer is a generous one.”

It had been intended as an affront to
Grace, one that Christian was less than willing to allow. He stepped forward,
forcing Starke back across the courtyard to where he almost stumbled. When
Christian spoke, his voice was hard with warning.

“I caution you, sir, to heed me and
heed me well. I do not take insults against my wife at all lightly. In fact, I
take them quite personally. I believe Lady Knighton has adequately explained
her feelings to you on the matter. You no longer have any business here. I will
therefore direct you to your horse so that you may leave the premises. I would
further suggest that you refrain from ever returning. If I learn of your having
placed one foot on Skynegal soil, I will have you arrested and charged with
criminal trespass. Even a self-appointed magistrate must answer to the Crown.
Do I make myself clear?”

Dubhar reaffirmed Christian’s words with a
low growl that came from deep in his belly.

Starke stared at Christian. “With all
due respect, you are making a mistake, my lord.” He bowed his head
slightly to Christian, then looked at Grace, staring at her with patent
contempt. “Your ladyship.”

Starke turned and started walking to where
his mount awaited with the three soldiers who had accompanied him. He pulled
himself up and settled into the saddle, tugging on his gloves and setting his
heels to the horse’s sides before calling to the soldiers to follow.

As he rode from the courtyard, he was
followed by the jeers of the very people he had himself once maligned—and when
he was gone, the jeers turned to cheers for the laird and lady of Skynegal.

The conversation around the fire in the
great hall that evening was of nothing else but Grace’s swift and just
dismissal of the despicable factor from Sunterglen. Those who had been witness
to the scene earlier that day related the tale time and time again for the
others who had been occupied elsewhere. Each time the story was repeated, the
embellishment grew until, by the time they had finished their supper, it had
taken on ridiculously epic proportions. No, she had not ordered the factor away
at swordpoint, Grace pointed out, nor had she delivered him a blow, or had him
seized and thrown bodily into the loch. The more the
uisgebheatha
flowed,
the more elaborate the tale became. Soon some even began composing ballads in
her honor. Grace, though embarrassed by the attention, was happy to allow the
Highlanders this much-deserved vindication after their recent misfortunes.

When they began making effusive toasts to
her fingers and toes, Grace managed to break away from the raucous trestle
table and crossed the room to join Liza, who sat holding tiny Iain in a
secluded corner. Miraculously the babe was sleeping through the chaos that
surrounded him.

Grace smiled at the maid as she took the
seat beside her near the hearth. To see Liza now, one would never believe that
she had once played the part of the proper English ladies’ maids. Echoing
Grace’s example, Liza had abandoned her prim linen maid’s habit for a loose
chemiselike blouse over full ankle-length skirts, leaving her hair hanging free
and undressed. She looked utterly contented.

” ‘Twas
a good thing,” Liza said, “Your having
ordered that devil away like you did.”

“I did nothing more than anyone else
would have done under the same circumstances.”

“You minimize your efforts. It is not
just what happened today. It is all you have done here in the past
months.”

“We have so much to celebrate,”
Grace said, smoothing a finger over the slumbering Iain’s soft cheek.
“Everyone has worked so hard and the castle looks—”

Grace soon noticed that Liza wasn’t
listening to her. She looked and saw that the maid’s attention was planted
squarely upon a handsome Highlander who was standing across the room on the
outskirts of the assembly. He was a great hulking figure of a man with midnight
black hair and adventure-filled eyes. Those same eyes, Grace noticed, were
fixed keenly upon Liza in return.

He smiled at her, raising his whiskey cup
in silent salute. Liza drew in a quivering breath. She broke away from her
study of him only briefly when Seonag returned to claim the sleeping Iain.
Settling back in her chair, Liza looked once again to where the Highlander
still stood watching her with a gaze that rivaled the heat of the fire beside
them.

“Goodness, my lady, have you ever
seen such a man?” Grace grinned. “Ah, I see you’ve noticed
Andrew.” Liza never took her eyes from him. Had she been a cat, Grace
wouldn’t have been at all surprised to hear her purring.

“Noticed him, aye, I have, indeed,
and more. Why haven’t you told me about him afore now?”

“His name is Andrew MacAlister and he
arrived at Skynegal just yesterday. He fought in one of the Highland regiments
against Napoleon and has just returned to Scotland from the Continent. His
family
emigrated
to America, but he decided to remain
in the Highlands. He’s come seeking work and a place to settle.”

“Have you ever seen legs like
that?” Liza went on, appreciating the fit of his kilt. She actually
sighed, giving Grace a chuckle. “Perhaps I could introduce you…”

Liza turned to stare at Grace in abject
terror. “Oh, no, my lady, I look so disheveled. My hair is…” She
smoothed back an errant curl. “And my clothes are…”

Grace glanced over Liza’s shoulder to see
that Andrew was already approaching them. She grinned. “Well, it looks
like you won’t have any choice in the matter, for he is headed in our direction
as we speak.”

Liza’s eyes went as wide as Alastair’s and
she froze, too anxious to turn or even move. She remained rooted to her chair,
her back to the hall, staring at Grace with an expression of pure panic.

A deep rich brogue sounded from behind
her.

“Gude e’ening, Lady Grace. I hope I’m
no’ disturbin’ you. I was hopin’ I micht beg an introduction to this fine
lassie sittin’ ‘ere aside you.”

Grace smiled, winking at Liza. “Of
course, Andrew, it would be my pleasure.” She stood. “May I present
to you Miss Eliza Stone? Liza, please meet Mr. Andrew MacAlister.”

Liza turned about slowly in her chair to
face the waiting Highlander. The look on her face as she peered up at him was
akin to profound awe. Andrew took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a
gallant kiss upon it. “It is an honour t’ make your acquaintance, Miss
Stone.”

“L-Liza,” the maid murmured.
“You can call me Liza.”

“Aye, but only if you call me
‘Andrew’ in return,” he answered on a grin, the sort of grin that would
make any girl’s knees turn to jelly. It was a good thing, Grace thought to
herself, that Liza was still sitting.

“Andrew,” Liza repeated.

“Aye.” He motioned outward to
the hall. “They’re preparin’ to play a bit o’ the fiddle. Would you care
to partner me in the dance?”

Liza’s face fell. “Oh, but I cannot.
I do not know the steps.

“Och, ‘tis nothin’. I’ll teach it to
you, lass.”

Andrew drew Liza up from her chair and
away with a nod of parting to Grace. Grace stood by and watched as Andrew set
his great arms about Liza’s smaller frame and slowly demonstrated the movements
of the dance. They made an attractive pair, both dark haired, he
standing nearly a head
taller than she. It wasn’t long before Liza had shed her reserve and was
laughing even as she misstepped onto his toes.

Grace wondered what it would be like to
have a man look at her in the way Andrew looked at Liza, the same way Eachann
watched Seonag now with such open and total appreciation in his eyes as she
held their infant son to her breast. This was love, she thought—the beginnings
of it for one man and woman, the perpetuation of it for another—that indefinable
magic that brought two together with the exchange of a glance. It was indeed
the stuff of fairy tales. “Good e’ening, my lady
. ‘
Tis
a fine night, is it no’?” Grace turned to see that Alastair had suddenly
appeared
beside
her, taking up the cup of whiskey one
of the others had brought to him.

“Alastair, good evening. I was
wondering where you had gone to.”

“I was in the office, going over some
figures with Lord Knighton and the Duke of Devonbrook for the proposal they
plan to make to the Lords about the building of the roads. The duke has offered
to help us find passage for some of the evicted tenants to travel to New
Scotland and America and has promised to move others who are willing to his
family’s estates in the south to fine plots of land there. Also, it seems the
duchess’s father, Mr. Angus MacBryan, has a small importing venture that he’s
looking to improve in the coming months and thus will need able hands to help
him.”

Grace smiled, nodding over a sip of her
punch. Robert and Catriona had proven a godsend in their efforts to help the
displaced Highlanders. After viewing firsthand the full scope of the people’s
plight, they had pledged funds and supplies to help see the tenants settled
elsewhere. They had offered temporary housing at their estate Rosmorigh as a
stopping-off point for those wishing to move south toward Glasgow. They had
also given their hand, along with Grace and Christian, to a letter that would
be sent to all the noble landowners in the Highlands, Scottish and English
alike, asking for their support in the road-building venture. With the
signatures of a powerful duke such as Robert, as well as the heir to the
Westover dukedom, they would hold a much better chance of gaining their
support. Grace’s most fervent hope was that they might induce the landowners to
look at the benefits of putting their efforts toward the betterment of their
tenants, so they might put a stop to the clearances all together.
“Alastair, do you know where might I find—” Alastair, however, was no
longer standing anywhere near her. While Grace had been lost to her thoughts,
the Scotsman had stepped away to stand with the others. His attention was
focused at the center of the throng of Highlanders, where it seemed everyone
else’s attentions were focused, too. Grace hadn’t even noticed that the dancing
had stopped. The music still played, only now it was soft and low, with a
timbre that was as misty as the Scottish hills. There was singing with a sweet
lyrical voice unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was the sort of
singing that touched one to the heart, the sort that carried one away. Grace
listened then to the words of the song being sung.

She
on the wings of sacred duty flies

With
shepherd’s care to bless the untended flocks;

And
like an angel missioned from the skies,

They
greet her coming from the old gray rocks;

Like
the healing birds of Cliodna in the tower high

‘Tis
the Lady who loves the Highlands…

Poor
island-dwellers by the lonely sea,

Whom
all forget but God in heaven and she,

Of
English blood, but true to the Celtic she

‘Tis
the Lady who loves the Highlands.

It was an ancient Scottish poem that Grace
remembered having read in one of the old books she had found stored away in the
castle garret, only the words had been slightly changed and were sung to the
soft lilting strains of the Highland pipe and harp.

Grace moved from where she stood, drawing
closer so that she might see who was singing so beautifully. The torch lights
flickered on the stone walls, casting the great hall in an embracing glow. She
came quietly to
stand
beside Alastair. At first, she could not see above the heads of the others, but
then someone moved a bit, affording her a view to where there was a woman
standing in the midst of the circle of Highlanders. When she saw who was
performing, Grace could scarcely believe her eyes.

It was Flora, who rarely spoke above two
words at a time, who had as much strength in her arms as most men, who had
always seemed so rough and solid and robust, but who was singing with the voice
of an earthly angel. Gone was the plain linen kerchief that always covered her
head. Her hair was now loose and hanging down her back in thick rippling waves
of chestnut. Her eyes sparked in the light from the torch fire, and her hands
moved before her as she sang with the gossamer lightness of a swan. With just
her voice, she had transformed herself, captivating the masses with her song—a
siren who had utterly mesmerized Alastair Ogilvy.

The look on the steward’s face was akin to
disbelief. He was spellbound by the sweet sounds Flora was creating. When Flora
finished the song on one high silvery note, everyone standing in that hall
broke into applause. Flora smiled shyly, her cheeks coloring in the light of
the fire, unaccustomed as she was to having so much attention focused upon her.
Grace watched as Alastair stepped forward through the crowd, bowing his head
while asking Flora for the honor of the next dance. The look in her eye as she
nodded to him spoke clearly of the beginnings of something tender between them.
Grace thought of the story Alastair had once told her of his long-ago love and
how he had lost his heart to her after first hearing her sing. She wondered
that he might be given a second chance to find that love again.

All around her the enchantment of the
evening had woven its way into the lives of the people. Seonag and Eachann, who
sat together with Deirdre and the babe Iain, a family so recently threatened,
now safely reunited. Liza and Andrew, who basked in the light of their
discovery of one another, and now Alastair and Flora, having passed each day
over the past months so close to one another, suddenly seeing one another with
new and different eyes.
Deirdre’s words the night of Iain’s birth echoed softly to Grace’s thought.

You must tell it to him… doona wait too
long… there is ne’er a certainty of tomorrow.

Standing as she was, alone on the
outskirts of this scene, Grace suddenly wanted more than anything to feel a
part of the magic that had taken over the night. She wanted to dance in the arms
of the man she loved and thrill to the touch of his hand and the warmth in his
eyes. This wonderful, mysterious light shared only between two—his was all that
mattered. It was as clear and as real as the Highland moon beaming down from
overhead and Grace knew then that the time had come for her to share the truth
of the child that lay nestled within her womb with Christian.

Grace started across the hall, heading for
the walkway that led to the office, hoping she might find Christian yet there.
As she entered the corridor and made the turn for the office door, she nearly
collided with someone who was coming down the passageway in the opposite
direction.

Grace stopped, looking up at the figure
who stood in her path.