Page 10 of Highland Fire

Her mood had lightened considerably since the night before.

She was thinking of the Randal sitting down to breakfast. What would he be wearing?

Her imagination ran riot, picturing him wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket or outfitted in ill-fitting garments he had borrowed from his valet or perhaps one of his coachmen.

A far cry from his usual skintight breeches and impeccable London tailoring.

She very much doubted if the dandy would dare show his face in church that morning.

He would be sulking in his manse, wondering what had become of his factor.

They had sent Serle off to Aberdeen on a wild-goose chase—detestable man!

She was humming as she braided her hair, and giggling quietly to herself as she did her morning chores.

There was little to do on the Sabbath, for it was regarded as a day of rest. There would be no cooking, no cleaning, no harvesting or any labor that was not absolutely essential, and that suited Caitlin fine.

Having eaten a breakfast of homemade bread and jam, washed down with two cups of Glenshiel milk, she banked up the fire and took a last look around before preparing to set out.

There was nothing luxurious in any of the furnishings, unless one counted the rugs which covered the flagstoned floors, adding a touch of color to what was essentially a Spartan interior.

Caitlin and her mother had idled away the long winter evenings making those rugs from scraps of old plaids.

There were no pictures on the walls, and no ornaments of any description.

It was neat and clean and homely, and behind the doors of the presses were equally neat rows of jams, jellies, and chutneys; homemade potted meats and oatmeal puddings.

In her cellar, there were apples from her own apple tree laid down for the winter, stone crocks filled with flour and oats, and vegetables culled from her own garden.

This year, the harvest had been a good one.

Outside the cottage, off to the side, was a stack of peat, protected from the elements by a canvas tarpaulin. In the lean-to was fresh-mown hay and a barrel of oats to feed her pony. Water from her own mountain-fed spring filled the water troughs.

A woman on her own could never have managed all this.

Caitlin was indebted to her grandfather for his care.

Not that she wanted to be. Sometimes she wished she were more like her mother.

Morag Randal would have starved before she would accept a helping hand from the father who had cast her out.

There were occasions when they had come close to it.

On the death of her mother, Glenshiel had petitioned the courts to appoint him Caitlin’s legal guardian.

In an act of defiance, she had run off to Aberdeen.

With no money of her own, no skills and no training, she had been reduced to finding employment as a menial.

She had gone into service with a rich fish merchant’s family and had found herself at the beck and call of every domestic in the house, from the tyrannical, stern-faced butler on down the ranks to the pudding-faced scullery maid.

From dawn till dusk, she seemed to spend all her time either filling up coal scuttles or emptying chamber pots.

By the time her grandfather’s agents had found her and had dragged her back to the Highlands of Deeside, some of the defiance had been knocked out of her.

It wasn’t so much the drudgery she objected to.

She missed the scents and sights of the Highlands, especially the spectacle of its awesome mountain ranges.

Still, Glenshiel did not have everything his own way.

She had learned a thing or two in her sojurn in Aberdeen: she had a powerful ally in Scots’ Law, and she could name her own guardian, supposing she could find anyone to accept that burden.

Unwilling to take that chance, Glenshiel had allowed her some say in the ordering of her own life.

She was permitted to remain in her mother’s house.

At the same time, she was obliged to spend some part of each day with her grandfather, as a member of the family.

Having by now reached her majority, Caitlin was free to choose her own course.

The old rules no longer applied. It was only force of habit, she told herself, that made her continue as she was.

At the church door, mistress and hound parted company.

Bocain made for her usual spot beside the stone dike, and Caitlin entered the narthex.

The family pew was at the front of the sanctuary, facing Lord Randal’s pew, with the pulpit and the communion table between them.

Even in church, there was never any question of which families took pride of place in the valley.

At one time, Caitlin and her mother had hidden themselves away behind one of the pillars at the rear.

This was something that Glenshiel would no longer tolerate.

As she passed the rows of solemn-faced, silent worshipers, she could not help shaking her head in wonder.

On the Sabbath, in their Sunday best, they were all decorum, herself included, as though the sermon on the mount was the rule by which they lived out their lives.

On the morrow, religion would be forgotten as if it had never existed.

In the Highlands of Scotland, feuding was a way of life.

One quick glance from beneath her lashes ascertained that all the members of her family were there before her.

Her cousin, Fiona, and Aunt Charlotte looked as if they had just stepped out of the pages of Ackerman’s Repository.

Old Uncle Donald, with his faintly puzzled expression, nodded an absentminded greeting.

Her grandfather’s expression was as friendly as an eagle’s.

Caitlin returned his glower. Carefully, slowly, she lowered herself into place.

When her eyes came to rest on the Randal’s empty pew, she smiled a slow smile.

The beadle entered bearing the Bible and the congregation rose as one, standing respectfully at attention, eyes downcast. A few yards to the rear, sauntering down the aisle on the minister’s right hand, came a latecomer, a young gentleman in full Highland dress.

Without raising her head, Caitlin stole a quick look.

Her first thought was that his kilt must have cost a fortune.

She’d never seen better, and that was saying something.

Only one kiltmaker could have tailored that one—George Hunter of Edinburgh’s Lawnmarket.

Her next thought was that the man was built to wear the kilt.

His lean hips rolled, giving the pleats just the right swing to reveal a glimpse of bare knee.

Caitlin swallowed. Feeling herself blushing, she forced her eyes to move higher.

There was no respite to be found there, for his short superfine jacket with its horn buttons hugged his manly form like a second skin.

As he passed the pulpit, where he parted company with the minister, her eyes took in the whole of him.

Golden, he was, like a tawny lion, or a Viking warrior.

Sudden comprehension brought her teeth snapping together. The feminine flutter in the pit of her stomach evaporated like flaming whiskey on a cloutie dumpling. The Randal had deliberately made a grand entrance, and they’d been caught gawking like a crowd of silly schoolboys.

As if to add insult to injury, on reaching his pew, the Randal raised one languid hand and said affably, addressing the congregation, “Please, don’t stand on ceremony, not on my account. You may be seated,” and thereupon, he seated himself.

Since the minister at that very moment had opened the Bible which had been set on the lectern, the Randal’s suggestion was superfluous. Everyone sat down, and as though they had complied with his wishes, he smiled benevolently, allowing his eyes to roam over the sea of expectant faces.

Caitlin was almost sure he was mocking them all, showing his contempt for them. Or he was looking for someone. A frisson of apprehension brought a tremble to the fingers curled around her Bible.

When the service ended, the congregation filed out silently.

It was on the steps of the church that neighbor greeted neighbor.

Rand was well aware that no man would dream of absenting himself before the foremost person present, namely himself, had given him leave to do so, and knowing this, he took his time in studying each and every face.

There was no sign of the boy, but there was one face he recognized, though he had never thought to see it again.

It belonged to a redheaded young Highlander. He would get to that later.

Glenshiel was fidgeting, not knowing what to expect. When Rand attended church services, which he did rarely, he never lingered afterward, but left directly for Strathcairn. This time, things were different. This time, he had a duty to perform, and nothing on God’s earth would make him shirk it.

Rand knew exactly what he was doing when he made directly for Glenshiel. In the past, he had avoided him as if the man had the plague. Now he knew a thing or two that gave him an advantage.