Page 48 of Highland Fire

Rand’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Where were you, Mr. Serle, when all this was taking place?”

It was a question that Rand was soon to put to several people, none of whom, to his way of thinking, had a satisfactory explanation, and some of whom took exception to the implied accusation. Daroch was one of these last.

“Where was I? Where were you—that’s what I’d like to know!” Daroch’s face was livid.

Having inspected the kennels, they were making their way back to the house.

“You don’t deny that the dogs who attacked Caitlin were yours?” said Rand.

“I don’t deny it. You heard my gamekeeper. The dogs got out. By the time he realized a number were missing, your factor was storming through our gates.”

“And you were not here,” pointed out Rand.

In Daroch’s bookroom, they resumed the conversation. “You didn’t answer my question,” said Rand.

“I was in Aberdeen,” Daroch answered truculently. “My solicitor can confirm it if you like. Good God, man, why the inquisition? It was an accident. I’m willing to apologize or make restitution. What more would you have me do? Here!”

None too gently, he shoved a glass of whiskey into Rand’s hand. “ Slainte mhaith , good health to you,” said Daroch, and bolted his drink.

Rand examined the glass. Satisfied that it was clean, unlike the rest of the house, he raised it to his lips.

In the normal way of things, he would have recoiled from making observations of a personal nature on things which did not concern him, but there was a mystery to Daroch and he was resolved to clear it up.

“How can you bear to live in this squalor?” Rand said, gesturing to the mounds of dirty dishes and the piles of old newspapers stacked at random on tables or on the floor.

The solid oak furniture, of Jacobean design, and the small window panes in the long windows were coated with a film of soot and dust.

“It’s a bachelor establishment. It suits me,” Daroch answered carelessly, without a trace of resentment.

“You are fastidious about your person. Why this laxity in your domicile?”

Daroch’s expression had altered slightly. Shrugging, he said, “I’ve learned to my cost that female domestics are more trouble than they are worth. And my gillies would rather find anything to do than clean up the house.”

A fragment of conversation came back to Rand, something to do with the young laird and the daughter of a former housekeeper. Scandal seemed to dog Daroch’s heels.

“I believe you,” said Rand. “When the master is away, there’s no telling what the servants will get up to.” He brought his glass to his lips and slowly imbibed. Without any ulterior motive, he then asked, “By the way, how does your friend go on, the one I saw you with at The Twa Craws?”

Daroch went as rigid as a bar of iron and the color drained out of his face.

Rand’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “I remember thinking that he was in urgent need of the services of a physician,” he observed casually.

“A physician?” Daroch laughed, a forced sound that he quickly choked off. “Don’t trouble your head about my friend. We got him to a physician, all right. No, really, he’s…eh…in the peak of condition, all things considered.”

No amount of clever talking on Rand’s part could induce him to say more.

The next person Rand put his question to was Mr. Haughton, the younger.

“We were on our way home, descending the rise, when we heard the commotion. It sounded to us as if a couple of lions were having a go at each other.”

“What about the shot that was fired?”

Haughton gave him a long, level look. “It came from above us, but you must know this if you examined the hole made by the bullet.”

Ignoring this moot observation, Rand said, “I had hoped to find your father here, to thank you both for the assistance you rendered to my wife.”

“He went off this morning to keep an appointment somewhere in the neighborhood. He should have returned long since. As you can see, our boxes are all packed and ready. We were due to leave before lunch.”

Sensing that the other man was more annoyed than anxious, Rand made a joke of it. “Ah, parents. They rarely afford their children the same courtesy they demand from us. Or is it that the older we get, the more the tables are turned?”

Haughton laughed. “I’ll tell him you offered your thanks. This is goodbye, then. I don’t know when we shall come into Scotland again.”

“Perhaps we shall meet up in London. Do you take in the season?”

“We may. I say, does this mean that you and Lady Randal are leaving Deeside as well?”

“We leave tomorrow at first light.”

“Good God! Don’t say you think she stands in any danger!”

Rand was quick to nip that notion in the bud. “Not in the least,” he answered emphatically. “I am convinced that the whole thing was an accident. It was always in my mind to go to England to introduce my wife to the members of my family. We shall be back in Deeside before you know it.”

But it wasn’t only to introduce Caitlin to his family which motivated Rand. Having begun to delve into the circumstances of her birth, he was reluctant to give up the investigation.

Investigation was too forceful a word, Rand later amended.

He was merely intrigued by the name the bard of Aboyne had given him.

Ewan Grant. It was possible that his mother knew of the man, and if not his mother, then certainly his uncle ought to be able to give him a clue.

David’s father was as often at Strathcairn as his own father had been.

It wasn’t a serious investigation, Rand decided, wondering if he were trying to convince himself.

Having ascertained that his own father was not involved, he had no driving interest in discovering the identity of Caitlin’s father.

If her sire proved to be a common footman, it would be all the same to him.

He was not like those in his class to whom bloodlines were everything.

As a soldier in Wellington’s army, he had soon learned the value of bloodlines.

They were worthless. In his opinion, some of the most illustrious titles in England belonged to incompetent blockheads who had no business setting foot within a hundred miles of a battlefield. To such as those, he gave a wide berth.

Still, his interest was piqued, that much he would allow. Ewan Grant. Someone somewhere must know what had become of him. He would make a few inquiries and that would be the end of it. Whether or not he would pass along what he discovered to Caitlin remained to be seen.

As for the dog attack upon her, Rand was quite sure in his own mind that the whole thing was unpremeditated—not that that mitigated the offense of the fool who had irresponsibly shot at the dogs.

He was not surprised that the gillie who had done such a thing was too craven to come forward.

If he ever learned the man’s identity, he would stuff his gun down his throat.

The attack had been nothing more sinister than a horrifying misadventure; as the evening progressed, Rand became more and more convinced of it. A premeditated attack required a motive. Who would wish to harm Caitlin or her dog?

The thought circled in his mind as he quietly sipped his glass of whiskey at Glenshiel’s dining table.

Since this was to be their last night in Deeside for some time to come, the ladies had elected to remain at the table when the decanter and glasses were passed round.

There was no port to be had, for Glenshiel eschewed that libation as something uncouth and foreign, fit only for the palates of lowlanders and others of that ilk.

Rand spared a thought for his cellar at Cranley, his place in Sussex, where he had laid down several casks of the finest port to be had in the whole of Portugal.

Though the subject of the dog attack had been thoroughly exhausted, no one seemed ready to relinquish it.

“Daroch’s foxhounds,” disparaged Glenshiel, not for the first time. “I might have known it.”

Answering Fiona’s silent, anguished appeal, Caitlin interposed, “Bocain is in no condition to travel. I wondered, Grandfather, if I might leave her in your care?”

Before Glenshiel had time to consider the question and all that it might entail, Charlotte Randal rushed in.

“No! That is, with you gone, Caitlin, there’s no saying what your dog will do.

I remember the time you ran off to Aberdeen.

Bocain reverted to something untamed and ferocious, like a creature of the wild. ”

“Whisht, woman, you’re exaggerating.” Glenshiel’s brows were down. “The dog made a wee bit o’ a ruckus, as was natural, ’tis all.”

“She practically attacked me!”

“Caitlin,” Rand said, “really there’s no need for this. Serle is perfectly capable of looking after your dog.”

It was Donald Randal who settled the argument. “I understand, lass. Bocain is more like a bairn to ye than a dog. There’s a room in the stables. I’ll take care o’ her for ye. And never fear, Charlotte. The hound will no be allowed tae run tame in the house.”

Bocain paused to sniff the air, then growled deep in her chest before returning to her task.

For the last little while, she had been struggling to remove the muzzle from her powerful jaws, as though sensing an urgency she had not sensed before.

The object of her fear and hatred was still in place, however, and her skin was rubbed raw from her efforts.

When the stable door creaked on its hinges, the dog went rigid.

Her ears pricked to catch the sound of footsteps which crossed the cobbled floor to her stall.

Before the door opened, the hound’s tension had gradually receded, and she was back to pawing at the leather straps which bound her jaws together.

“Oh, you poor dear!” Fiona stood framed in the doorway. Setting down her lantern on the floor behind her, she went down on her knees beside the dog.

“Bocain, this has got to stop. The muzzle is for your own good. If you go on like this, you’ll disfigure your beautiful face. Then where will you be?”