Page 14

T he wall, though it would be dwarfed by Beinn Urraim, the mountain of Murdo’s homeland, was an extraordinary sight, a vast stone structure that separated Scotland and England, stretching to the horizon in both directions and falling away to the north like a giant cliff edge.

The path wound along the top, where the wind tore at his coat, as if it sought to pull all comers toward the edge until they tumbled over the wall.

Miss Martingale—Clara—skipped ahead, swinging her basket on her arm, like a gamboling fawn in spring, seemingly oblivious of the danger.

Today marked his fourth visit to Pittchester Castle in as many days. Yesterday, his cousin accompanied him, together with his aunt and uncle. In the carriage home, Uncle Adam had slapped Murdo on the back, called Clara a fine filly, told him to “get to it,” then resumed his attention on his paper.

Clara was older than most young women—the duchess had let slip that her daughter was nearing twenty-seven—yet she had a youthful innocence that reminded Murdo of a child, with her wide-eyed enthusiasm of the countryside about her home.

“Careful, lass!” he called, as she neared the edge of the wall.

“Come and see!”

He caught up with her and took her hand. “Do ye want me to die of fright?” he said. “I couldn’t survive if ye fell—yer father would finish me off.”

“I want you to see,” she said, pointing over the wall. “That’s where Mama fell. Papa Harcourt climbed down to rescue her.”

Murdo approached the edge. The wall fell sharply to the ground some twenty or thirty feet below, where a huge rock jutted upward, its jagged edge glinting sharply in the sunlight. He shuddered at the thought of the duchess tumbling over the cliff edge.

“Devil’s ballo—” He checked himself. “I mean, it looks treacherous.”

“I wanted to show you how brave Papa Harcourt is, for all that he’s a duke,” she said. “He climbed down in the middle of a thunderstorm to rescue Mama.”

“What was yer mother thinking going out in a thunderstorm?”

Clara lowered her gaze. “She was looking for me. It happened shortly after I came to live here.”

“Ye’d got lost on the moors?” he said. “Och, lass, that were foolish in a place ye weren’t familiar with. A young lad did the same near Strathburn, went for a walk in the glens and disappeared. Duncan, our ghillie—”

“That’s a gamekeeper, isn’t it?” she said. “I heard you telling Cornelius.”

“Aye,” he said. “Duncan’s as stoic as they come, but even he was reduced to tears. He found the lad’s body two days after he went missing.”

Murdo shuddered, his soul aching at the thought of Clara coming to harm. How had this strange, wild lass weaved her way into his affections such that even the notion of her being in danger sent a spike of fear through him?

Her eyes glistened with tears, and he pulled her close. “Lass, there’s naught to be ashamed of—we’re all a little reckless at times.”

“I wasn’t just reckless,” she said. “I’d run away. I behaved so badly when I first came to live here. I wanted to hurt my mother, and Papa Harcourt. But now I only want to make them proud.”

“What an extraordinarily frank creature ye are!” he said. “Most lasses would conceal their sins to deceive a man into believing them to be perfect. Are ye trying to make me dislike ye?”

“ Do you dislike me?”

“Absolutely not, Clara.”

He curled his tongue around her name, and she parted her lips. Then she colored and looked away.

“I know I say too much,” she said. “Mama said last night after you left that I shouldn’t have told your cousin about the day I let the chickens out by mistake.”

“If I recall, it was yer brother Cornelius who started that story.”

“No, that was Nathaniel ,” she said. Then she let out a giggle. “You called him Cornelius all afternoon! I wanted to point out your mistake, but Nate thought it so funny that he played along with it.”

“How do ye tell them apart?”

She tilted her head to one side. “Corn’s nose is bigger than Nate’s.”

“All well and good if they’re standing next to each other and permit me to measure their noses.”

“Corn’s the sensible one,” she said. “Nate’s more likely to play a trick or say something silly. Corn’s the heir, so he has to be responsible. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re the son of a duke.”

“And when ye’re the daughter of a duke—must ye be sensible also?”

She looked away, gazing over the wall, toward his homeland.

The land where he hoped to take her and claim her as his.

“I-I’m not the daughter of a duke,” she said. “My father—my natural father—was…”

She shook her head, and a tear splashed onto her cheek.

“Do ye miss him?”

She shook her head.

“Was he unkind to ye—to yer mother?”

She closed her eyes, and his heart ached to see her tremble. Then he placed a hand on her cheek and she opened them.

“I-I don’t remember him, but Mama and I each bear the mark…” Her voice trailed away, then she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Did Lord Grey…” he began.

“Lord Grey ?” she replied. “No, he…” She shuddered and let out a sob.

Guilt stabbed at his heart.

“Och, forgive me, lass,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset ye. I’ve said it matters not what happened in yer past, and I meant it. I want more than anything to see ye happy.” He took her basket. “Why don’t we have a bite to eat?”

She nodded.

“Though I’d beg ye to take me to a sheltered spot. I’d hate to yield my luncheon to the wind.”

“That’s where we’re going,” she said. “There’s a cave in the middle of the wall. You have to climb down to it. I’ll show you.”

“It is dangerous?”

“Only if you lose your footing.”

“Then take my hand, lass.”

She reached for him and he took her hand, catching his breath as he did every time their skin touched. She curled her fingers against his—fingers covered in callouses that spoke of a harsh life—then led him toward a deep fissure in the wall, resembling a staircase.

“Careful, lass.”

She let out a laugh. “I know this part of the wall so well now, I could climb it blindfold. It’s where I come when I want to be by myself.”

She stooped to pick up a stone, then stepped onto the staircase.

As they descended, the howling of the wind lessened.

About halfway down, the fissure widened out to the side, forming a dark hollow, the entrance resembling the shape of a giant mouth, with a pile of stones at the entrance.

Clara placed her stone on top of the pile, then led him inside.

After Murdo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out rough shapes—a stack of logs in one corner, a crate in another, with a pile of folded blankets on top.

“Are these yers?” he asked, setting the basket down.

She picked up a blanket and laid it on the floor. “Who else’s would they be?”

“I thought yer brothers…”

“Why, because they’re men?” She shook her head. “I don’t even know if they’re aware of this place. I’ve not shown it to anyone—until today.”

“Then ye do me great honor, Miss Martingale.”

She kneeled on the blanket and set out the contents of the basket—two wedges of pie, the remaining cake from yesterday’s tea, and a stone bottle.

“I think Papa Harcourt knows about it,” she said. “And Mr. Grainger also. But they’ve never said as much.”

“What makes ye think they know?”

“Last autumn I came here after an argument with Corn.”

“Why did ye argue?”

“Because he was being an arse.”

He stifled a laugh.

“I forgot the time,” she continued, “and it was dark when I returned, just before supper. Mama Betty was furious, saying she was worried. I never knew people could get angry when they were worried—I thought they only got angry when I’d been bad and deserved a beating.

When Mama sent me to Papa Harcourt’s study to tell him what I’d done, I thought he was going to beat me. ”

“Did he?” Murdo asked, struggling to imagine the dignified older man taking his hand to anyone.

She shook her head. “Papa Harcourt never shouts when he’s angry. He asked what I’d been doing, then said nobody could have supper until I told him.”

“Did ye tell him the truth?”

Her eyes flared with indignation. “I always tell the truth. I told him I’d found a secret cave in the wall and stayed there all day, and what was the harm in that?”

“The harm was that nobody knew where ye were,” Murdo said. “What if ye had an accident and couldn’t call for help?”

“I know that now ,” she huffed. “It’s just…before I came here, nobody seemed to bother where I was, as long as I wasn’t getting in the way.”

“But now ye have people who love ye, and care whether ye come to harm.”

She wiped her eyes and nodded. “My stepfather said the same thing—that my mother hadn’t sacrificed herself for me so that I could be careless with my own life.”

“Somewhat harsh,” Murdo said.

“But true. Mama did sacrifice herself for me, even if I didn’t know it then.”

She paused, and he waited for her to elaborate.

“Did yer stepfather punish you?” he asked.

“He made me light the fire in my bedchamber myself, every night for a week,” she said. “The first night he sent one of the footmen to show me—but I already knew, because…”

Her voice trailed off, and she picked up the pie plate and held it out. Murdo took a slice and bit into it.

“The next time I came here, I found these.” She gestured toward the corner.

“The logs?”

“And that crate—it contains kindling and a tinderbox.”

“And it mysteriously appeared, shortly after yer stepfather insisted you learn how to light a fire?”

She nodded. “When the pile gets too low, it’s replenished.”

“By whom?”

“I saw our gardener carrying a basket of logs across the moors once,” she said, “but when I asked him about it, he said it wasn’t his place to tell me what his master’s orders were.”

“Let me guess, when ye next came here the pile had been replenished?”

She grinned. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”