Page 6 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

SIX

The problem with not sleeping at night? You really want to sleep in the morning. All morning if possible. Since I’m here as Isla’s companion, and she said she wouldn’t need me until later, I beg off breakfast to get more shut-eye. But then, of course, everyone starts wondering whether I’m unwell or maybe just having such a shitty time that I’d rather stay in bed. First it’s Isla checking on me in person. Then it’s Alice coming up on Gray’s behalf, and finally, McCreadie sneaks up to rap on my attic door.

Apparently, “I didn’t sleep well and I’m just tired” isn’t a valid excuse, at least not with friends who worry that the “not sleeping well” part means you’re either sick or unhappy.

So I drag my ass out of bed after about three hours of sleep. The truth is that I’m not sure how much of it is that I’m tired, and how much is that I’m kinda dreading the day. I’d envisioned a fun trip to the Highlands with friends, and I’ve been thrown into far more interpersonal drama than I like. Except that drama involves my friends—as the targets, not the instigators—and so I really shouldn’t be hiding in bed, hoping the day goes by faster. Nope, I need to bear witness, while unable to run interference because it’s not my place to do so.

My first thought is maybe we can go for a walk. Then I remember the traps. But if the road is clear, we could walk along it. Would it be rude to tell our hosts we’re slipping out in the coach for a tour of the countryside?

I arrive downstairs just as Gray walks out of the dining room. Seeing me, he fairly exhales with relief, and guilt darts through me.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to throw you to the wolves.”

He frowns. Then his gaze swings back to the dining room, where Cranston’s voice booms. “Ah. No.” He lowers his voice. “Archie fancies himself a wolf, but he has more in common with the smaller canines, the sort who yap and bite at ankles.”

Gray smiles when he says it, and I’m supposed to laugh, but I think of the Cranston I saw last night, who’d actually seemed like a decent guy.

Gray continues, “I was concerned about you. Isla said you are quartered in the attic, with the servants, which is—”

“Fine,” I say. “It is fine. I just didn’t sleep well after napping on the drive, which means I didn’t want to get up this morning. But now I have and—”

“Duncan,” a voice says. It’s Sinclair, leaning out from the dining room. “You would like to join us for a walk, yes? You and Miss Mitchell.”

“No one is going for any walks,” Cranston booms from the dining room. “Stop that nonsense or—”

“Help me out, Gray,” Sinclair mock whispers. “Tell Archie that Miss Mitchell is unwell and needs fresh air.”

“We are going out, Archie.” It’s Fiona’s voice. “I understand you are concerned, but you cannot keep us indoors in such fine weather. We will stay on the road, and you may remain behind if you like. But we are going for a walk.”

Cranston grumbles something I can’t make out. Then he says, “Fine. We shall all go for a walk. I know where Müller laid the bloody traps, and we can avoid them.”

“Does that mean we get to leave the road?” Fiona says. “I would love to see the lochs. I could spot one from my window, and it looked lovely.”

“Fine, fine. Yes, you shall see a loch, ma’am.”

“Ezra mentioned a rowboat.” she says. “I would dearly like to go out in a rowboat.”

“Anything else, m’lady?” Cranston says with a low grumble.

“Perhaps. I shall let you know.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Like with any large group walk, we gradually diverge into smaller parties. Cranston insists on being up front to scout the way. He’s on his own, marching along like he’s leading us into battle. Sinclair walks behind with Fiona, the two of them deep in conversation. Violet stayed behind at the house, along with James Frye and his as-yet-unseen wife. McCreadie and Isla start off with us, but then they get into a conversation about mushrooms, and Gray and I ease back into the rear.

“It really is a beautiful day,” I say. “I was thinking earlier that I’d like to walk along the roads. This is even better.”

“We can certainly walk along the roads later,” Gray says. “I suspect we will need regular escapes—I mean outings. The gardens, the roads, possibly a coach ride to see the countryside.”

I smile. “I was thinking exactly that. I just wasn’t sure whether it’d be rude to leave the estate.”

“Oh, it certainly is rude, but I believe we could manage it. I…” He trails off, frowning as he looks to our left. “Do you hear that?”

I hadn’t until he stopped talking. Ahead of us, everyone is hiking along, immersed in their various conversations. No one notices when we stop to listen.

I’m not sure what I’m hearing at first. It’s faint, and I need to concentrate to pick it up.

“Whining?” I say. “Some kind of animal?”

“Hmm.” Gray strides off the path to the left.

“Duncan…” I warn.

“I have seen the traps, and I know what to watch for. Wait there.”

I snort. “Yeah, no.” I hurry after him while scanning the ground. The grass here is short, and a crumbling cow patty suggests it’s used for grazing. The shorter grass means we can see there aren’t any traps.

We’re skirting the edge of the largest of three lakes I’d spotted yesterday. In the distance, there’s a dock and a rowboat, which I presume is our eventual destination.

The whining gets louder for the first few steps. Then it stops altogether, as if whatever is out there heard us coming. Gray slows, one hand out to warn me back. I ignore the hand. I’m following in his footsteps, as any smart person would do when traversing a field covered in bear traps.

When something moves in the grass, I’m the one grabbing his coat and holding him back… and the one getting the dirty look that says he wasn’t going to rush forward. I still hold on to his coat as he resumes a slow walk, scanning the grass until he stops short.

Gray mutters an oath under his breath. When I go to peek around him, his hand shoots up. Then he thinks better of it and lowers his arm, letting me inch forward until I’m echoing his curse and pairing it with an exhale of disappointment.

Ahead is a trap. And caught in that trap? A wildcat, very clearly dead.

I know we’d heard whining, but looking at the poor beast, with the tip of its tongue protruding, I can’t imagine it was alive ten seconds ago.

The grass whispers again. Something’s moving on the other side of the cat. A tiny head pops up.

“Shi—” I stop myself before finishing the profanity. After a year, I no longer slip up in front of outsiders, but my next goal is not to do it when I’m startled.

I step forward. Gray’s arm shoots out again, but only hovers there before he fists his hand, as if he was just stretching. I take another step, being more careful than I need to be, considering that the trap has been sprung.

I bend before the kitten. It glances about uncertainly, as if ready to take off. Then I see why it doesn’t. One of its back legs is bloody and bent, badly broken. Seeing that, I do let out a full stream of twenty-first-century profanity under my breath.

A hiss sounds to my left, and I glance to see two other kittens watching me from the long grass. When I inch in their direction, they tumble over themselves to get away, and I stop.

“They seem fine,” I say. “But this one…”

“Yes,” Gray says, his expression grim, anger flashing in his eyes. “I told Archie—”

“Told me what?” a voice says, and we both look over to see Cranston striding through the long grass. Fiona is right behind him. Seeing that, I leap forward with, “Don’t—”

“Oh!” she says.

She doesn’t fall back or let out a shriek. Just that one startled word, and then she’s hurrying forward. Cranston grabs her arm so fast she practically slingshots back.

“Apologies,” he says, quickly releasing her. “But there is a trap.”

“Which has already sprung,” I grind out. “Robbing three kittens of their mother.”

“Good lord.” Sinclair comes up behind Fiona. He pales, and then reaches as if to lead her away from the grisly sight, but she ducks his grasp.

“Where are the kittens?” she says. Then she sees the one nearest me and sucks in a breath. “It has been injured.”

“These damnable traps were not my idea,” Cranston says. “Müller promised they would only frighten off poachers and the animals were clever enough to avoid them.”

“If animals are clever enough to avoid them,” I snap, “then please explain the purpose of traps.”

I expect Cranston to snap something back. Instead, he just says “I…” and trails off, his cheeks coloring.

“This is unconscionable,” Sinclair says, his face hard with anger. “I am so sorry, Fiona. Your groom really must do something about this. If he does not, I will.”

“You’re the one who recommended hiring—” Cranston begins. Then he spots someone out in the field. “Müller! Over here! Now!”

I turn to see a figure out past McCreadie and Isla, who hang back as if they saw enough to know what’s going on… and don’t need to see more. McCreadie is whispering something to Isla, who looks as upset as I feel. Then he starts leading Isla back in the direction of the house. She doesn’t argue. She knows she has a weak stomach, as much as that annoys her.

The other figure watches them leave as he trudges over. He’s a man of about forty, dressed in a heavy coat and thick boots, with a long, lean, and weathered face that turns our way with such a look of contempt that I blink, taken aback. His features rearrange themselves into an empty mask, though his eyes still ooze disdain.

The man says something I don’t understand—it sounds Germanic.

“Speak English, man,” Cranston snaps. He points at the trap. “Explain that.”

The man—Müller, the gamekeeper—ambles over, and I swear he moves even slower after his employer’s irritated snap.

When Müller speaks, his English is perfect, though heavily accented. “It is a wildcat.”

“I mean what happened here?”

“It appears that the trap caught it about the neck, which caused—”

“Stop.” Cranston seems ready to start foaming at the mouth, but the person he snaps at next is Sinclair. “Tell me again why I let you talk me into hiring this impertinent wretch.”

“Mr. Müller,” Sinclair says, his tone conciliatory. “The ladies are obviously distraught at coming upon this, and that has upset Mr. Cranston. You apparently told him this could not happen.”

Müller gives an insolent shrug. “The cats should have known better. Apparently, they are not as intelligent as those in my country. Which comes as no surprise.” His look says that’s aimed at all inhabitants of this country, animal and human. “I am sorry the ladies are distraught.”

Müller doesn’t even try to sound apologetic. In fact, there’s a sneer in those words and in the look he aims at Fiona and me. I think I’m imagining it until Gray rocks forward, his mouth opening.

“The ladies are not distraught,” I cut in. “The ladies—and the men—are upset to find such a thing. This is a nursing mother. She has kittens.” I wave at the two hiding in the grass and then at the third. “One of which was injured badly by the trap. Now we have a dead wildcat and three kittens too young to survive on their own. That is what the ladies are concerned about.”

Müller doesn’t even look my way. “Four cats caught with one trap. That is not a tragedy. It is efficiency.”

“See here—” Cranston says, stepping forward.

“You did not intend to trap the cat,” Müller says. “But you were concerned about it eating the eggs, and now you do not have to be. As for the kittens…” He gives an exaggerated bow in the direction of me and Fiona, without bothering to look at us. “The ladies need not worry about that. I will handle them.”

“You will not,” Fiona says. “The kittens are mine.”

Now he does look at her, his lip curling. “They are not pets, girl.”

“Girl?” Cranston bears down on Müller, who has the sense to back up. “That is my bride and your future employer. You may speak to me however you wish, but you will show her respect.”

Sinclair clears his throat. “If Fiona wants the kittens, she should have them, Archie. She is experienced at—”

“They are hers,” Cranston says, and Sinclair stops, midstep, mouth open as if he’d expected Cranston to argue.

“Good,” Sinclair says finally, collecting himself. “I will help her—”

“I will ensure Fiona has everything she needs.” Cranston turns to Gray. “How badly is the little one injured? Can it be helped?”

Gray murmurs that he has not taken a good look, and he does that now, bending before the kitten. When it shrinks back, hissing, Fiona expertly lowers herself to the ground and holds the kitten in a firm grip, ignoring its protests.

“The leg is badly broken and that gash is deep,” Gray says.

“Can you fix it?” Cranston says. Then before Gray can answer, he waves a hand. “ Will you fix it? That is what I mean. Can it be done and will you do it?”

“I… can try.” Gray glances my way, and I know what he’s thinking. He’s not a veterinarian, and this is a wild animal. As much as he might want to help, it’s a very unusual request.

When Fiona speaks, her voice is soft. “I would appreciate it if you tried, Duncan, but I will understand if you would rather not. I can care for these kittens and return them to the wild. At least, I can for the other two, and I will do my best for this one.”

“Return them to the wild?” Müller says.

“Yes,” Fiona says evenly. “Scottish wildcats are at risk of extinction, and we must do what we can to save them.”

“Save pests?” Müller throws up his hands. “Your groom has been complaining about one cat stealing his eggs, and now he is going to allow three more to grow up and do the same?”

“I only grumbled,” Cranston says. “If I were truly angry, I would have asked for the cats to be relocated.”

“Relocated?” Müller shakes his head and then stomps off, muttering in his own language.

When he’s gone, Cranston spins on Sinclair. “I agreed to six months with him, and I will keep my word, but when it is done, he is gone.”

“He seems very unpleasant,” Fiona says. “I know you recommended him, Ezra, but…”

Sinclair sighs. “I recommended him for his skill as a gamekeeper, and he is very good at that, but there is evidently a conflict of personalities. You do bring that out in some people, Archie.”

Sinclair says it lightly, but this is obviously awkward for him. He suggested Müller, and yes, there’s a serious personality—and ideology—clash. That isn’t Sinclair’s fault, but he’ll feel bad about it.

“It will be resolved,” Fiona says. “For now…” She looks down at the dead wildcat, and her shoulders fall.

“I will handle this,” Sinclair says. “I take full responsibility for this tragedy, and I will deal with the mother and help you with the kittens.”

“You deal with the mother,” Cranston says. “Bury her, please. Fiona and I will gather the uninjured kittens and take them to the house. Duncan? Can you and Miss Mitchell bring the injured one?”

“We will,” Gray says. “When you reach the house, could you ask Hugh to deliver my bag? I will need to medicate the kitten before it can be moved, and I do not dare leave it.” He peers into the sky. “It seems we already have a very interested hawk watching us.”

“I will have Hugh bring your things,” Sinclair says. “And I will return myself with a shovel to bury the cat.”

He hurries off, and then Gray and I help Cranston and Fiona capture the two uninjured kittens. Fiona does most of the work. When McCreadie said she helped animals, I presumed it was… well, like the average well-to-do Victorian woman helps the poor. Charitable hobbyist work.

I had pictured Fiona instructing her maid on how to feed motherless kittens and then popping in now and then to give them a cuddle. I should have known better. She may be as kindhearted as her brother, but she’s obviously as competent as him, too. She spoke of returning animals to the wild, and I’m not sure how much of a thing wildlife rehabilitation is in this world, but she captures those kittens like a seasoned pro. There are no cuddles or baby talk. She firmly scoops them up and then speaks to them in a reassuring tone before plunking one into Cranston’s big hands and telling him how to hold it properly so it won’t escape or shred him. And the whole time, he does as he’s told and watches her work, looking a little awestruck.

Then they are off, kittens in hand. I wait until they’re out of earshot before turning to Gray, who is hunkered down, examining his future patient as the injured kitten spits and hisses.

“Duncan?” I say.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look over, just keeps trying to get a better view of the kitten’s injured leg without touching it.

“About the wildcat…” I say. “I think we need to discuss how it died.”

“Hmm?” He looks up now, gaze still unfocused, trying to show me the respect of giving me his attention… but not really able to give it.

“That trap isn’t what killed it.”

Now those dark eyes focus on me as he frowns. “The trap…” He looks at the dead mother wildcat. Really looks at it. And then he lets out a curse.