Page 57 of Highland Fire

When she fumbled for an answer, Peter, recognizing the look in Rand’s eyes, rushed in to defend her.

“We are all of us Scottish Randals whether we acknowledge it or not. Where does our name come from? Where is our clan? Where is your barony, Rand? Scotland, that’s where.

Do you know, Caitlin has given me the notion to visit the land of our forefathers? ”

Rand’s smile conveyed amused tolerance if not a little boredom. “Caitlin would. But I think not. You did not ask yourself the most crucial question, Peter.”

“Which is?”

“Where does our wealth come from? And of course, it comes from Cranley. No, we’ll not go to Scotland for a long time to come. There’s more than enough to do here.”

He waited momentarily, as though anticipating further argument. When there was none, he signaled to the footmen, and the glass doors were duly opened to admit their guests.

The dowager was in a nostalgic humor. “I met your father at a ball, you know,” she told her eldest son. What she refrained from telling him was that she was betrothed to someone else at the time.

“I know,” said Rand gently as he led his mother to the edges of the dance floor. The next set had yet to be called, and people were promenading about as the musicians tuned their instruments. He held a gilt-edged chair for her as she sank into it, then he seated himself beside her.

“It was love at first sight.” Her thoughts slipped away to another time, another place. Coming to herself, she sighed and looked at Rand curiously. “Was it like that for you?”

In the act of straightening one shirt cuff, Rand’s fingers stilled. He glanced up sharply, with such a look that the dowager cried out, “Rand, what is it? What have I said?”

The look faded, and he was able to smile. “It’s of no consequence. You asked me a question, but I wasn’t paying attention. I beg your pardon. What was it you wished to know?”

The dowager shook her head. “I don’t remember. Something to do with Caitlin. She is a delightful girl and not unlike her mother in looks.”

This was more the sort of thing Rand wanted to hear. “Did you know her mother? I understood that you hardly ever went into Scotland.”

“I went when I could, which was not often when I was a young married woman. Then, I seemed to be in a perpetual state of breeding. Traveling was out of the question.”

“What was she like?”

“Morag Randal? It’s so long ago. She was very beautiful, in a Celtic way.

I remember thinking that she was very proud.

” The dowager played with the slats of her fan as the recollection came back to her.

“Robert Gordon, yes, that was the young man’s name.

But they didn’t call him Gordon, they called him… ” She shook her head.

“Would it be Daroch?”

“Yes! The laird o’ Daroch. He was smitten with the girl. Nothing could come of it, of course, because of the feud.”

Carefully edging the conversation along, Rand said, “I never did understand the nature of that feud.”

The dowager shivered and carefully adjusted the tissue scarf at her shoulders. “It was horrible! After Culloden, Cumberland’s forces came into Deeside hunting down rebels.”

Very gently Rand said, “I’m aware that Glenshiel’s mother was raped by redcoats who were afterward hanged from the rafters of Strathcairn’s great hall.”

“Yes, well, what you may not know is that those same redcoats were of the Clan Gordon. Their commander was the old laird o’ Daroch.”

“Are you saying that the laird o’ Daroch was one of the rapists?”

The dowager looked as if she would prefer to discuss a less harrowing subject, but answered with composure, “Certainly not. The laird had died at Culloden. These men were rabble.”

“Ah.” Taking pity on his mother’s pained look, Rand changed direction. “What about the young laird o’ Daroch, the one who was smitten with Morag Randal? Did he find favor with her?”

“It seemed to me that he did. In fact, it would not have surprised me if he had carried her off and married her in spite of her grandfather’s opposition.

They can do that in Scotland, you know. The laws are very different from the ones we have here.

” She gave a little laugh. “But your father said that it was all in my head. And it seemed that he was right. The following year, Daroch was killed in a duel over another lady.”

“By Ewan Grant.”

“Who?”

“The gentleman to whom my father rented Strathcairn for the season when we went to Brighton.”

“Yes, so we did.”

The conversation was interrupted when the dowager turned aside to compliment her daughter, Emily, on the gown she was wearing. This led to a general discussion on the qualities of various muslins. Rand patiently bided his time.

When Emily moved away, he said, “I’m sure my father must have reproached himself a hundred times over for renting Strathcairn to a stranger.”

The dowager’s eyes took a moment to focus on her son’s face. “You may be sure that he did. But that was as nothing to the regret your uncle experienced.”

“My uncle?” Rand had only one uncle, and that was David’s father. “What would my uncle have to regret?”

“Mmm?” The dowager’s roving gaze had come to rest on her son, Peter. The boy’s face was animated, and his eyes were vivid with admiration. Her eyes moved to his partner. Caitlin was no less animated. The two of them seemed to be oblivious to the people around them.

“Mama!”

Rand’s impatient tone brought her head round. “Ewan Grant,” she said, “was your uncle’s particular friend.”

Rand made no comment. His gaze was riveted on the couple on the dance floor who had eyes for no one but themselves.

Caitlin felt just the tiniest bit guilty for slipping away from the ball. She was, after all, the hostess, and her first duty was to her guests. She remembered another time and another ball, and how graciously her husband had presided there.

As though reading her thoughts, Peter Randal said, “They can spare you for five minutes or so. That’s all it will take.”

Reassured, she passed through the door to his office.

While Peter went to the bookcase behind the massive flat-topped desk, Caitlin looked about her with interest. There was no elegant furnishings here.

The room was all leather and parquet flooring, very masculine and businesslike, and surprisingly neat.

She wandered around idly, taking cautious sips from the long-stemmed glass in her hand.

According to Peter, this was really Rand’s domain.

He was the one who had developed what their father had started and had made the estate what it was today.

Even his stint with the Scots Greys had hardly deflected his interest. Long letters had passed back and forth from Cranley to British lines in Spain.

As Peter told it, the job was an easy one.

In Rand’s absence, he and his brothers were merely trustees of an estate that practically ran itself.

“Rand a farmer!” She laughed softly to herself. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Oh? Well, what did you think he did with his time when he wasn’t away soldiering?”

“I thought he spent it…in London.” That was as much as she would permit herself to say.

Peter’s fingers had found the folder for which he was searching.

Tossing it down on the flat of the desk, he gave her a roguish look, very much in the manner of his oldest brother.

“That too,” he said. “Well, it stands to reason. London is only a few hours away.” When her lips tightened, he laughed.

“Haven’t you heard? The Randal men are boringly reformed once they finally settle on one female. ”

“Are they indeed?” Observing Peter’s uncertain look, she forgave his thoughtless jest. “What about your brothers, Harry and Robert? Are they farmers too?”

“If either of them wanted to, he could make a living as an estate manager. Their interests lie elsewhere.”

“Oh?”

He was flipping through the folder, searching for something particular.

“With Harry, it’s horses. His stud farm is making quite a name for itself.

As for Robert, he is our business manager.

There’s not much he doesn’t know about markets and investments.

Ah, here it is.” He smoothed out the folds of a newspaper cutting and then stepped back, inviting Caitlin to read it.

“What about you, Peter? Do your interests lie elsewhere, or are you content to remain at Cranley?”

“I love it here. However, I can’t help feeling, sometimes, that it lacks challenge. Everything has already been developed. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Rand went off to war. When all one’s ambitions are met, one looks around for something else to do.”

Caitlin snorted. “If it’s a challenge you want, I could tell you where to go.”

“Scotland?” He was smiling.

“The Highlands! It would break your heart…Oh, never mind that now.”

Positioning the candle to get the best light, she began to read. It was exactly as Peter had described it. In England, there was a Board of Agriculture which promoted farming of an experimental nature.

“So you see, Caitlin, there is nothing new about crop rotation or improving the fertility of the soil by adding manure.”

“What’s this word here?” she asked, and pointed.

Peter bent his head close to hers. “Where?”

This was how Rand found them when he finally tracked them down.

Rand did not speculate, did not weigh consequences, did not hesitate.

He pounced. At the sound of that quick tread, Caitlin jerked back in time to see Peter go sprawling across the desk with Rand on top of him.

In a clutter of loose papers, pens, and ink pots, the two went rolling to the floor.

“Rand! Peter!” Caitlin dived for an ink pot and caught it before its contents spilled. “Stop this at once, do you hear?”

She was answered by a Serles of grunts as each men strained to lock the other in position. Peter’s elbow connected with Rand’s eye, and in the next instant they had separated and were springing lightly to the balls of their feet.