Page 68 of Highland Fire

The laird’s lady and her factor rode out to inspect the estate, the hound, Bocain, trotting placidly at their heels.

Some months had passed since the tragic misadventure which had taken the life of Donald Randal, months that had seen many changes in the glen.

People shook their heads and said regretfully that it was a pity Glenshiel and his brother had not lived to see this day.

They would have been proud of the offshoot—and that a female!

—who had brought the English Randals back into the Highlands and in so doing had brought the promise of prosperity to the whole of Deeside.

Caitlin listened respectfully to Serle as he explained the superior technology of the new, lighter, iron plough which was to replace the unwieldly monstrosity which required twelve oxen to draw it.

“At these higher altitudes,” he said, “and on the smaller, hill farms, the advantage of a two-horse plough will be enormous.”

Caitlin nodded her agreement and allowed her eyes to roam. From below, came the sounds of foresters at work, felling trees which would be floated downriver to Aberdeen for the shipbuilding industry.

Following the progress of her eyes, Serle commented, “It takes years to grow a tree. Lord Randal knows it. Some foolish lairds have already lost whole forests to greed.”

“That won’t happen here,” said Caitlin quickly.

“It will not! Lord Randal has ordered new forests to be planted. He understands the land. There is no better soil for raising timber that that of Deeside.”

Caitlin sighed. “But it is not so conducive to the cultivation of crops?”

Serle’s look was veiled. “Much can be done to preserve the soil with the rotation of crops, and with manure to fertilize it, the yields will be improved.”

“Yes, I know.”

She was thinking of all the other improvements her husband had instigated with the help of his brothers.

At Glenshiel, Harry was in his element, rebuilding the stables from scratch, setting up a stud with a nucleus of his own prize horses.

The sheep on the hills were no ordinary sheep, but bred for the luster of their coats.

This was Peter’s doing. The wool trade was lucrative, and Robert, with his contacts, had found markets for the cloth that was not only spun and woven by local cotters’ wives, but also dyed with their own recipes which were a closely guarded secret.

There was more work to be had on Deeside than they could find laborers and skilled craftsmen to do it. To Caitlin, it was like a dream come true. Rand was turning his estates into a showplace, a model from which other Highland lairds could learn, just as she had always wanted him to do.

Yet, she had not asked him for any of this.

On the contrary, remembering the words that he had flung at her, that she would go so far as to prostitute herself for the Clan Randal, she had made it a point to show an interest in Rand’s English holdings.

She had resigned herself to making her home in Cranley.

Rand wouldn’t hear of it. There would come a day when they would divide their time between Strathcairn and Cranley, he told her, but for the present, he wanted to make up for lost time.

And he had given her to understand that David, and the debt he felt he owed to him, played no small part in his decision.

“David.” She said the word softly, soundlessly, as if it were a mere breath on her lips.

David would not be surprised to see all the changes Rand had effected.

He had told her how it would be, if only Rand could be induced to take up the challenge.

She should be sublimely happy. Instead, she was bewildered.

There was a change in Rand, a new reserve which she could not understand.

He never teased her, never flirted with her, never shocked her with the ardor of his lovemaking.

She could not even provoke him into quarreling with her.

Life of late had become very tame. He was so gentle and tender that there were occasions when she wanted to run screaming from the room.

She was with child, but that was not the reason for his restraint.

Before she had ever told him he was to be a father, she had sensed the change in him.

Her pregnancy merely gave him an excuse to hold her at arm’s length.

Not that he did not exercise his conjugal rights.

Rand had too passionate a nature to live the life of a celibate, and too many scruples to turn to other women if he had become bored with his wife.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly low, she suspected that that was what had happened.

Theirs was not a love match, but a forced marriage.

More and more of late, the thought had come back to torment her.

She wondered if he had come to repine for all the freedoms he once enjoyed, the many women who had once warmed his bed.

When she thought of Lady Margaret, she ground her teeth together.

Serle said something in passing, and Caitlin gave him her complete attention.

As factors went, Serle was superlative. She knew that now.

Her former prejudice had been based on a misunderstanding of where his loyalties lay.

He was Rand’s man. It was only latterly that she had discovered Serle’s younger brother had served with her husband in the Peninsular Campaign, and that Rand had been instrumental in saving the boy from some serious scrape.

If she had only trusted her dog’s instinct, she would have recognized the man’s sterling worth long before now.

She had made life very uncomfortable for poor Mr. Serle, but that was all in the past. She had come to rely on his judgment as much as Rand did.

Later, as they approached Strathcairn, she turned to Serle with the question which had been hovering at the back of her mind. “My husband is spending a fortune in making his estates into a showplace. When will he see a return on his investment? That’s what I want to know.”

Serle’s reply was more diplomatic than truthful. “He is the chief of Clan Randal. To a chieftain, profit must always be of secondary importance.”

And with that, Caitlin had to be satisfied.

Rand was in the library performing an office that fell to him in his role as chief of the clan. The laird o’ Daroch had this minute asked him for the hand of Miss Fiona Randal in marriage. The stags’ heads looked down upon the scene with mute absorption.

Both gentlemen were ill at ease; Daroch because this was the first time he had ever found himself in such a position, and Rand for much the same reason.

Though it was true that he had two married sisters, both of them had wed without so much as a by your leave.

He was beginning to see how lucky he had been, for the role of guardian was not one he relished.

Clearing his throat, Daroch said, “Those jaunts to Aboyne and Aberdeen? They were nothing at all! You know how people exaggerate! They make mountains out of molehills. If I’d had all the women who are attributed to me, I would be a veritable Turk with a harem.” He laughed, not very convincingly.

“In short,” said Rand, smiling, “your reputation is wholly undeserved? You see, I am familiar with the sophistry. I’ve employed it myself when the occasion demanded it. But it is not to me you should be making these protestations, but to Fiona.”

Daroch straightened in his chair. “Fiona needs no persuasion. She knows that she is the only woman I have ever loved, will ever love. I don’t know what I can say to make you believe that I am not now, nor was I ever, a libertine, upon my word as a gentleman of honor.”

“But I do believe you.”

“You do?” Daroch’s look bordered on incredulity.

“Certainly, for the simple reason that I know the real reason for all those jaunts to Aboyne and Aberdeen.”

It had all been in the reports to Grant from Dr. Innes, not that Innes was finding fault with Daroch.

He took the view that the boy was an idealist. As for himself, he had surprised the young laird red-handed, only he had not known it at the time.

His thoughts shifted to the night Daroch’s carriage had come clattering into the courtyard of The Twa Craws, and he could not help smiling.

Daroch had taken his friend to a physician, all right.

The boy had not lied to him. But Rand doubted if his friend had made a recovery.

If he had, it would be a miracle on a par with Lazarus rising from the dead.

“If you are referring to my smuggling activities,” said Daroch stiffly, “naturally those will come to an end. They already have.”

“Oh, naturally,” replied Rand affably.

Daroch’s look was fierce, but he preserved his silence.

Rand leaned forward in his chair to give his words due emphasis. “Dr. Innes tells me there is an acute shortage of cadavers to be had for the study of anatomy by the medical students at the university in Aberdeen?”

Daroch moistened his lips. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

“And that the members of the Chirurgical Society are not above securing their own specimens?”

“So I’ve heard.” Daroch’s eyes were unblinking.

“Grave-robbing is a criminal offense, no matter how noble the motive.”

Silence.

“But we have digressed. I only mentioned it in passing because I know you to be a man of science. Now, to get back to your jaunts to Aboyne and Aberdeen. Am I to take it that you have decided to settle here on Deeside and make something of your estate?”

Daroch nodded vigorously.

“And there will be no more jaunts to Aboyne and Aberdeen, at least not in the dead of night?”

“You have my word on it!”

“And what about your interest in medicine? Does that go by the board?”

The color was coming back into Daroch’s face. “I never thought of it as my life’s work. It was more in the nature of an avocation. I had friends and I wanted to help them. That is all.”

“Fine,” said Rand, rubbing his hands together. “It seems we have come to an understanding.”