Page 43 of Highland Fire

Her thoughts were interrupted by the low whimper that came from deep within her hound’s throat.

“Be still!” Caitlin commanded, but Bocain ignored the order and halted in the middle of the path, legs stiff, hackles raised, her lips pulled back in a feral snarl.

A flock of crows rose as one from their perches in the topmost branches of the bare oaks and shrilled a raucous warning.

As of one accord, their cries were cut off, and an unnatural stillness descended.

The fine hairs on the back of Caitlin’s neck rose.

They came to her so quickly, that she could never afterward say from which direction they had sprung. Four sinister, snarling foxhounds, their powerful muscles bunched for attack, suddenly tore out of the woods and launched themselves upon her. They had not reckoned on Caitlin’s deerhound.

One hundred and fifty pounds of unbridled, tooth-and-claw fury leapt to her mistress’s defense. The foxhounds checked, but only momentarily. They were bred for courage and would have pitted themselves against a bear if the command had been given.

The leader of the pack was dealt with swiftly.

With little more than a shake of her head, Bocain broke its neck and tossed the corpse over her shoulder.

Then three dogs rushed upon the deerhound simultaneously.

Caitlin had recovered her wits sufficiently to reach for something to use as a weapon.

Brandishing a stout oak branch above her head, she went after them.

“Call off your dogs! Call off your dogs!” Her words were automatic.

Though she could not see who had charge of the dogs, she knew they would not be unescorted.

These were not pets or strays, but prime specimens, highly bred and worth a king’s ransom.

There was only one pack of hounds in the whole area, only one master of hounds and that was the laird o’ Daroch.

She wasn’t surprised when she heard the whistle.

By this time, however, the dogs were past heeding commands.

They were in a state of frenzy, circling, feinting, gauging a weak spot into which they might clamp their powerful jaws.

Bocain charged like a lion bringing down its prey.

There was a hideous shriek and another foxhound went flying, its jugular severed by deerhound’s ferocious fangs.

Only two foxhounds remained. Before Bocain could recover her position, they were on her, clamping their jaws into her back and neck.

“Call off your dogs!” Caitlin was sobbing in sheer terror.

The spectacle was awful. A trail of blood and fur followed the dogs from the path into the edge of the wood.

Stumbling in her haste to launch herself upon them, she fell headlong.

At the same instant, something ripped into the trunk of one of the oaks not inches from where she had been standing.

Dazed, she stared blindly at the tree before it registered that she had been narrowly missed by a bullet.

A man’s shout brought her head round and she looked back along the path she had descended to see two figures approaching her at a run.

Across their arms, they carried hunting guns.

There was a moment when Caitlin was sure that her last moment had come; then one of the men yelled out, “Keep your head down!” and even as he called out the words, his companion stopped in his tracks and got off a shot, as though to warn off a watcher on the rise above them.

The report of the second shot startled the canine combatants sufficiently for human intervention to make itself felt.

Another shrill whistle rent the air and the foxhounds retreated, growling and barking, then turned tail and loped off into the woods.

Bocain would have gone after them if Caitlin had not dived for her dog and secured her by the collar.

The first wave of terror had ebbed, and fury rushed in to replace it. Even so, her teeth were chattering so hard by the time her rescuers came up to her that she could do no more than stutter incoherently.

As she dragged herself to her knees, the older gentleman, whom she recognized as Mr. Haughton, the tenant of Balmoral Castle, quickly crossed to her and offered her the support of his arm.

“My son and I were drawn by the commotion,” he said.

He paused to catch his breath. “Those were Daroch’s dogs, were they not? A most curious business.”

“A most criminal business!” retorted Haughton’s companion.

He was scanning the woods and surrounding area.

Not a thing stirred. “Some lunatic gamekeeper is going to find himself with a lot of explaining to do.” He looked at Caitlin.

“Before we came over the rise, we were sure we heard the report of a shot.”

She gestured weakly toward the oak tree with the bullet in it, and the younger Haughton went to investigate. “Now that is what I call a close call,” he said, tapping the tree with the flat of his hand, then belatedly, “I say, are you all right?”

Bocain was licking Caitlin’s hand. “I’m fine,” she said. “Truly, I’m fine.” And she covered her face with both hands and began to cry.

An hour later, in her own drawing room, Caitlin was once again in command of herself.

In large part, this was due to the necessity of playing hostess not only to the two gentlemen who had escorted her home but also to Fiona.

Hearing that Rand had gone off to Aboyne on some business or other, Fiona had dropped by to keep her cousin company.

On reflection, and after consuming a large fortifying glass of whiskey, Caitlin had decided that the poor gamekeeper who had charge of Daroch’s prize foxhounds was, in all probability, in a worse case than herself.

“You are letting him off too lightly,” protested Fiona.

“He did try to call his dogs off,” reasoned Caitlin, more to persuade herself than from any firm conviction, “and though at the time I was furious when he let fly with that shot, I presume he did it as a last resort.” It was not fury she had experienced when the shot was fired, but a terror so profound just thinking about it made her skin come out in goose bumps.

The younger Mr. Haughton addressed his father.

“What I can’t understand is what he hopes to gain by slinking off like that.

Two foxhounds lie dead. Daroch is bound to miss them.

His gillie dare not concoct a story to the effect that Lady Randal’s hound is responsible for the attack, for we were witnesses to the whole thing. ”

“The man panicked,” answered his father. “There is no other explanation.”

“You are sure they were Daroch’s dogs?” asked Fiona.

Caitlin suppressed a shudder. “It would seem so. At any rate, Mr. Serle has sent one of the gillies to examine the corpses.” She laughed nervously. “Anyone overhearing us would think a murder had been committed.”

Fiona’s eyes, usually so demure, were flashing. “If Bocain had not been with you, I shudder to think what might have happened.” In an altered tone, she went on, “I suppose some will lay the whole thing at Daroch’s door?”

“Why do you say that?” The older Haughton drained his glass and laid it aside before studying Fiona’s bent head.

She shrugged, then looked appealingly into the eyes that were regarding her with a kindly light.

“You know,” she said, “it’s a case of giving a dog a bad name.

In these parts, the Gordons of Daroch are held to be responsible for all our misfortunes, from the cream curdling to… to…the Jacobite Rebellion.”

“Daroch is not responsible,” said Caitlin forcefully. “Nor can I believe that any of his gamekeepers was so craven as to leave Bocain to the mercy of those dogs.”

Observing the tremor in Caitlin’s hand, Mr. Haughton said reassuringly, “Your deerhound is in a class by itself. Are you worried about her? I shouldn’t be. Mr. Serle seems skilled in what he is doing. Do you know, this episode brings to mind a dog I once owned? When I was in India, I was invited…”

As Mr. Haughton’s voice droned on, Caitlin’s thoughts wandered to the interview she had had with Rand’s factor.

There was no doubt in her mind that Serle held her culpable for the whole sorry incident.

In his mind, she had no business to be running around without an escort.

And it was evident Serle did not approve of dogs as pets, a deerhound least of all.

Not that he had said as much to her. Nor had he displayed a shade of sympathy or regret for the harrowing ordeal she had endured. Fortunately, her dog had fared better.

One glance at Bocain’s injuries had softened the man’s tight-lipped, razor-sharp expression and made him look almost human.

Clucking his tongue, ignoring Bocain’s bared fangs as though they were useless ornaments, he had gone down on his knees to examine her wounds.

After one, half-hearted growl, Bocain had lapsed into pathetic whimpers as Serle’s sure hands assessed the damage.

“A few stitches should do the trick,” he’d told Caitlin crisply, and had called for two of his gillies to assist him.

The elder Mr. Haughton had intervened at this point, drawing Caitlin away, suggesting that her presence might distract Mr. Serle from the work at hand.

In Rand’s absence, and in the face of his factor’s coldness, Mr. Haughton’s support, his gentleness and concern were doubly gratifying.

He was not an old man, far from it; in his late forties by Caitlin’s reckoning.

Somehow, his soft eyes and benevolent manner seemed almost grandfatherly.

The thought of her own acerbic-tongued grandfather, so different from this quiet-spoken gentleman, made her want to laugh.

Caitlin came to herself with a start when her guests rose to take their leave.

“My husband will wish to thank you in person for your assistance,” she told them warmly.

That was no lie. Rand might want to blister her ears in private for wandering far and wide with only her dog for protection, but he was unfailingly punctilious in taking care of his obligations, and any service to his wife, however small, would undoubtedly be considered as such.

That awareness put Caitlin in mind of her obligation to Mr. Serle for his care of her dog.

She was aware of a keen scrutiny from pale blue eyes before the elder Mr. Haughton shook his head regretfully. “This is goodbye,” he said. “My business in Deeside is concluded. As soon as we may, we aim to take advantage of the thaw and return home.”

She was still thinking of that curious scrutiny when she returned to the drawing room. Fiona was idly turning the pages of a back copy of The Edinburgh Review .

“I think he is a nabob,” she said.

“Who?”

Fiona threw her magazine aside. “Mr. Haughton.”

“What makes you say so?”

“He’s lived in India for years. He rents Balmoral Castle, and”—her brow puckered—“I heard Daroch say as much. I wonder what business brought him into Deeside?”

Caitlin absently shook her head. Truth to tell, her mind was still preoccupied with this awful business of the dogs.

Rand would be incensed, not only at Daroch’s gamekeeper, but also because, against his express wishes, she had wandered off unattended.

She did not see how, in this instance, the virtues of tact and diplomacy could help her evade her husband’s wrath.

“ Is your business concluded, Father?” The younger Haughton slanted his father a keen look.

Though the old man had kept him very much in the dark respecting his business in Scotland, he had a general idea of what was afoot.

The specifics of this affair, however, remained a mystery to him, and he found that irksome.

“I thought it was,” replied his parent. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“The attack on Lady Randal? Is that what is bothering you?”

“You must admit, it’s a strange business.”

The younger man frowned when his father made no further comment. “Don’t you think it was an accident?” he prompted.

“One hopes so.”

“Surely, it must be. What motive could anyone have for doing away with the girl?”

The elder Haughton shook his head. “It’s too farfetched to be credible.”

Young Haughton was fast losing patience. “What is?”

“Oh, the thought that just occurred to me. Look, I don’t care to deal in speculation and conjecture. I did so, once, a long time ago, and we both know I lived to regret it. This time, I want to make quite sure of my facts before I act.”

They trudged on in silence for some few minutes, then the younger man offered tentatively, “That young man who came to see you—David Randal? When you read his name among the lists of those killed in action at Waterloo, you said you owed it to him to come into Scotland to right a great wrong?”

The elder Haughton assumed a less guarded expression. “And so I would have if it had been necessary. The thing is, my boy, the fates or Providence got here before me. If I had been the Deity, himself, I could not have arranged things for better effect.”

Young Mr. Haughton snorted derisively. “What cant!” he exclaimed. “Since when did you believe that the powers that be interest themselves in the affairs of lesser mortals?”

“This could almost convert me to that persuasion,” answered the older man mildly.

“What? The marriage of Caitlin Randal to the chief of Clan Randal?”

“The same. All things considered, things have worked out rather well.”

“Ah, but not perfectly, else you would know for a certainty that your business here is concluded.”

His ploy to draw out his father, as ever, was not successful. “That reminds me,” observed the elder Mr. Haughton, “we have a number of courtesy calls to make in the district before we can take our leave. If we divide them between the two of us, we should get through them in short order.”

The younger Haughton had to laugh. “In other words, you want me out of the way when you do whatever it is you feel you must.”

“Your understanding is acute,” allowed the older man, and neatly turned the subject into speculation about the gamekeeper who had charge of Daroch’s dogs.