Page 62 of Highland Fire

“I’m verra pleased with ye, Sir Alexander.

” The physician patted the inert hand which lay upon the counterpane.

“With plenty o’ rest and good food to nourish ye, we’ll soon have ye on your feet.

” He bent over the bed and gave those staring eyes a straight look.

“Ye must have patience, sir. Everything will come back to ye in time. Ye’ll be roaring at these soncy granddaughters o’ yours afore ye know it. ”

Outside the sickroom, Dr. Innes’s prognosis was more restrained. “It could go either way,” he told Caitlin.

“There must be something we can do for him.”

“Aye, it’s hard to let nature take its course, but when the patient has suffered a stroke, it’s the only way. There is no cure but patience.”

She shook her head. “I feel so helpless. I can’t just sit there and stare at him all day.”

“Then talk to him. Make him want to talk to ye.”

“He does, but it’s without form or substance, and he gets so frustrated when I can’t understand him. It’s painful watching him make the effort.”

“That he wants to talk is a hopeful sign.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “With ye here, it will make all the difference in the world.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Daroch was waiting for them.

“He’s doing as well as can be expected,” the physician told Daroch.

Daroch nodded, as though knowing to a nicety what those few noncommittal words might mean. “It’s a slow business,” he told Caitlin, “but there is every hope that your grandfather will recover.”

“I know. I know.” She said the words automatically. Speculation was useless, as Daroch and Innes had been quick to point out in the short while she had been home.

The door to the library opened, and Donald Randal appeared just inside the room. “Ye’ll have a wee dram, Dr. Innes? Daroch? And ye’ll both break bread with us too.”

“Now that is uncommon kind o’ ye, Mr. Randal,” replied Innes. “It’s been too long since you and I sat down and enjoyed a good chin-wag.”

When the three gentlemen entered the library, Caitlin turned on her heel and retraced her steps to her grandfather’s room.

Daroch breaking bread at Glenshiel’s table!

Glenshiel would never have allowed a Gordon o’ Daroch over his threshold!

But then, her grandfather could not know how much they had all come to depend on the young laird.

He was quite literally a godsend. He never made demands, never needed to be entertained.

He was there in the background, a bulwark in a time of trouble.

It was through his good offices that Dr. Innes had been able to consult with an eminent physician from Aberdeen, a certain Dr. Simpson, who was attached to the university.

He was the best to be had, according to Dr. Innes.

How Daroch had persuaded so notable a person to make the long journey to Glenshiel House was a mystery to Caitlin.

There was more to Daroch than she would ever have believed, and one day, she hoped her grandfather would thank him for all he had done for them.

“Oh, Rand,” she cried softly. “Please, please come to me.” For the two days since she had arrived home, she had felt as though all the cares of the world had been thrust upon her shoulders.

The tragedy of the fire as well as her grandfather’s stroke coming so soon upon it seemed to have robbed everyone at Glenshiel of their wits.

Her aunt, Charlotte, went around like a sleepwalker, Fiona had turned into a watering pot, and Donald Randal spent hours staring into the coals in the grate.

That he had bestirred himself to offer hospitality to Daroch and the physician, she counted as a small miracle.

When this was over, if and when her grandfather recovered, she was going to read the riot act if he dared to say one unkind word about Daroch.

It was Daroch who had sent John Murray down to Sussex to fetch her; it was he who had taken charge in the aftermath of the fire, setting men to clear the debris and rubble.

It was he who had organized the search parties that had finally found the remains of poor Mr. Haughton.

A shiver passed over her, and her steps faltered. She was thinking of Bocain. It wasn’t true. She knew it wasn’t true. Bocain would never attack anyone unless provoked past bearing, and from what she remembered of Mr. Haughton, he would not have provoked a fly.

The search for her dog had turned into a witch hunt.

Every day, the men of the glen went out tracking with hunting dogs.

There was more to it now than the death of one man.

If a lamb lost its footing and tumbled into a ditch, it was Bocain’s doing.

If a pony came home lame or with an injury that could not be explained, that, too, was blamed on Bocain.

Gamekeepers, crofters, poachers—no one had a kind word to say for the hound.

Children allowed their imagination free rein.

From as far as Aboyne to the Braes o’ Mar, they swore that they had narrowly escaped an attack made by the vicious deerhound, and everyone believed them.

In men’s minds, Bocain had turned into a monster.

The locals waited in fear for some poor child to be carried off and devoured.

She was terrified to step outside the doors of the house, not for her own sake but for her hound’s. They must think her blind not to see that men were loitering about, waiting and watching for Bocain to find her. Then what would they do? Caitlin shivered when the answer came to her.

“Rand,” she said, and wanted to weep her eyes out. Pinning a smile on her face, she pushed into Glenshiel’s room.

Fiona was sniffling into a handkerchief.

“What is it?” Caitlin asked in alarm, then quickly crossed to the bed. She searched her grandfather’s face for some sign of change.

He returned her look with an expression she was coming to know, something between frustrated rage and fear.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, smiling reassuringly.

“You heard Dr. Innes. Soon you’ll be roaring at Fiona and me in your usual style.

” She knew how hard it must be for a vigorous man like Glenshiel to become as helpless as a babe, depending on others to take care of his most personal needs.

His womenfolk nursed him in shifts, but it took two of the gillies to turn him in bed or lift him to the commode.

Fiona turned her tear-streaked face up to Caitlin. Between sobs she got out, “Grandfather said a word. As clear as day he said ‘fire.’ He blames me for what happened. It’s not true. I didn’t leave the lantern behind me. I took it outside and extinguished it before hanging it on its hook.”

“I’m sure Grandfather isn’t blaming you. Besides, faultfinding serves no useful purpose.”

“But it isn’t true! I didn’t leave the lantern burning inside the stable. I swear I didn’t. One of the stable boys must have lit it again and left it there for Bocain to knock over.”

Caitlin had heard it all before. This wasn’t the time or place to go into it. “Go on downstairs,” she said. “Uncle Donald could do with a little company.” She flashed a silent message with her eyes.

Fiona’s tears gradually dried, and moments later she had exited the room in search of Daroch.

Caitlin pulled her chair close to the bed and stared for a moment into her grandfather’s eyes as if she were a mind reader. Finally, she said, “Well, you gave Fiona a word. I expect no less of you, Grandfather. What word do you have for me?”

His mouth worked, and syllables which made no sense to Caitlin poured out of him.

“Easy,” she said, and covered his hand with one of her own. “Now try again, but this time more slowly. I don’t expect you to talk in sentences, you know. One word will do.”

Without volition, her own lips formed the word with him. She nodded her encouragement. Eyes closed, jaw working, he strained to get the word out. His hand lifted from the bed.

“Go…go!” he said, and opened his eyes to stare at her.

It was the look coupled with the words that wiped the smile from her face. There was anguish there and a fear which bordered on terror.

Dinner that evening was a stilted affair.

Caitlin sensed undercurrents that made the hair on the back of her neck rise.

She tried to tell herself she was being fanciful, that her grandfather’s strange sense of urgency had put her on edge, but when everyone’s eyes seemed to be avoiding her, the suspicion grew that something secret and sinister was afoot.

The conversation had turned to Rand, and how soon he might be expected to put in an appearance.

“I thought he would have been here by now,” she replied in answer to her aunt’s question. Laying aside her cutlery, she asked, “It’s Bocain, isn’t it?” Her eyes were on Daroch, appealing to him. “You are planning something. What is it? I have a right to know.”

When Fiona burst into a fit of weeping and ran from the room, and when Charlotte followed her daughter’s example not moments later, Caitlin felt her nerves stretch taut.

Donald Randal tried to placate her. “Now, now, Caitlin. Nothing has been decided. We were only talking in general, ye know.”

Her eyes never left Daroch’s. “Fine,” she said. “Then tell me what you have not yet decided upon.”

A muscle in Daroch’s cheek twitched. He too, set down his cutlery. “We are debating,” he said, “whether or not my foxhounds could accomplish what our hunting dogs have failed to do.”

Caitlin had a vision of foxhounds tearing their quarry to pieces. She remembered the vicious attack on Bocain which had been halted by Mr. Haughton and his son. There was no point in arguing that Bocain was as gentle as a lamb. She could not convince them.

“If your hounds catch up to her,” she told Daroch, “she will decimate your pack before they can finish her off.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Daroch, don’t do this.”

“As your uncle said, nothing has been decided.”