The Cursed Highlander Page 16

  Dougal's uncle was a tall man with white hair and a lined face. He smiled at him fondly, arms squashing him in a bear hug.

  “How is my favorite nephew? Going up in the world.” His uncle chuckled. “An earl, now, soon to be duke and Heaven knows where next! You'll be looking down at your poor uncle soon.”

  Dougal smiled fondly at the old man. He was a fearsome warrior, a scar bisecting one cheek where a sword cut had almost taken his eye. He was an earl himself, ruling at his home in Albraith.

  “I never could,” he protested, and the old man chuckled.

  “You wouldn't, nephew, though maybe one day you could if you were so inclined.” He lowered himself into a seat, wincing as his back hurt. Dougal sat down opposite him.

  “Father is out riding?”

  “Aye,” Uncle Fergal nodded, smiling. “Your father's always off somewhere. Busy with some schemes. The place is never quiet,” he said, wincing as if his ears still suffered from the sound of many people.

  Dougal grinned sympathetically. “I know.”

  “All these people, all fancy, all showing off like so many roosters,” his uncle laughed. “And your father, lording it over the lot of 'em.”

  Dougal nodded. “That's him,” he said.

  They both chuckled fondly. His father's ambitious nature was something they both regarded with some fondness. He was a good man, if a determined one, and neither of them had ever seen his ambition make him harmful.

  “That brother of yours, now, he's another like him.”

  “Yes,” Dougal said quietly. Alexander was ambitious, it was true. He was far more like their father, which made him outgoing, always after admiration, sparkling at gatherings, and trying to draw the eye.

  “An' not too fussy about who he offends, either,” Uncle commented. Douglas nodded.

  “Yes,” he said again, more softly.

  Alexander was not like their father in temperament – volatile and flippant, he had seen him thrash a servant for splashing mud on his cloak, and he knew his uncle had probably come in for Alexander's blunt manners on occasion.

  “I don't know where he'll end up. Brilliant boy, awful character,” his uncle mused. “Could go any direction at all. Throne or vagabond's cavern. No idea which one'll be his home.” he laughed.

  Dougal nodded. He ran a hand down his face, feeling tired. He loved his brother, but had never really understood him. Thinking about his future made him suddenly feel weary.

  “Has it rained here?” he asked after a long pause between the two of them. He was pleased to be able to change the subject.

  “Not more than it always does,” his uncle said, taking a swig of his ale. He noticed his nephew had no tankard, and gestured to a servant to bring one.

  “I should go and rest, uncle,” Dougal demurred. “I need to see Father and I want to be fresh when I do.”

  “No harm in sitting a while,” his uncle said hopefully. “I've missed good company. What with all the people who've been in and out, you'd think I'd have plenty of people to have a good old talk to. But not bloody likely,” he grumbled.

  Dougal laughed. “What sort of people?” he asked, intrigued. A man appeared with his ale and he took it, deciding a single tankard with his uncle would do no real harm.

  “Oh, the usual, mostly. Alexander had his lot around as well,” he commented. “All swaggering about in velvet, lordling's sons the lot of them. Though he had some tatty fellows with him, too, I recall. Unusual for him,” he sniffed.

  “Tatty in what way?” Dougal was interested.

  “Oh, odd sorts. I recall one,” his uncle said, taking another drink of ale before carrying on, “tall fellow. Black eyes. Curly hair. Looked about as if he owned the place. I didn't like him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes! He looked like a knight, or some thane's younger son. Dangerous sort of fellow, a bit like your brother. Ambition and anger mixed and curdled up inside him. Spoke good French, mind. That I remember. Not so many nowadays as do.”

  “What?” Dougal spluttered. His heart suddenly pulsed in his chest. “Sorry, uncle,” he demurred.

  His uncle looked affronted. “I said he spoke French,” he retorted. “Why're you looking at me like that? I didn't say he was Satan on two legs, now, did I?”

  Dougal would have laughed, except that the news was so grave. The description had sounded familiar at first. Now he was almost certain.

  “This fellow,” he asked slowly. “When was he here?”

  “Oh, about ten days ago. Left after a day or so here. So did a lot of them, mind. That's the trouble with parties. No one stays about to get to know anyone properly, or have a decent chat.” He smiled at his nephew.

  “True,” Dougal said quietly. His thoughts raced.

  Could it be...?

  The man sounded exactly like the minstrel who had arrived at the castle a week ago, on the day of the wake. The timing was right. The description was right. He spoke French as well.

  Alexander. My brother. What have you gone and done?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MEETING AT THE INN

  MEETING AT THE INN

  Joanna woke up unsure of where she was. She opened her eyes, half-thinking she was in Dunkeld, to find herself staring at a paneled ceiling she did not recognize.

  The inn! Of course. They were in Buccleigh, the small town that hugged the foot of the slope where stood the castle. Lying there, she could hear the sound of people shouting, wheels rolling as the coal was delivered to the kitchens, and smell the scent of bread, fresh baked. She could also hear the rhythm of her mother's steady breathing. She was still asleep.

  Joanna slit her eyes, looking across at her mother where she lay on her back, red hair spread out on the pillow, chest rising and falling slowly. She looked like a girl, her fine wrinkles smoothed to nothing as she slept, her expression tranquil.

  Joanna rolled back to looking up at the ceiling, the bed creaking as she did so. She heard her mother draw a deep breath in, coming to wakefulness. She heard her yawn.

  The bed creaked as she sat up, then the rustle as she rearranged the covers and threw a robe around her shoulders.

  Joanna sat up in bed as she walked to the nightstand, rinsing her face.

  “Mother.”

  “Mm.” She grinned at Joanna, her face dripping water, drips sparkling in her hair in the early morning sunshine. Awake, the lines were more visible, and the gray hair, but she was also more vital, warmly alive.

  “Did you sleep well?” Joanna asked, slipping out of her bed and drawing on her own night robe.

  “Very well!” Amabel smiled, rolling her shoulders. It was strange for Joanna to share such a close moment with her mother, who seemed very vulnerable just woken. A strange and precious moment. “So, ready for breakfast?” she asked.

  Joanna smiled. “Indeed.”

  Her mother ducked behind a screen to change, and Joanna waited before she emerged, her long maroon dress trailing from her shoulders.

  “Could you do my buttons, dear?” she asked, a frustrated grin on her face. Joanna guessed she had been trying to do her own buttons, and smiled, then nodded.

  “Of course.” She did her mother's buttons, and then her mother did hers, and, after a good minute or two brushing their hair, they were ready for breakfast.

  The inn's dining room was crowded. People of all description sat on the benches, the place a hubbub of talk and raised voices, laughter, and the clink of cutlery. Joanna and her mother grinned at the innkeeper's wife, whose face went from irritable to horrified and then to genial as she saw her two most genteel customers standing, stranded, by the door.

  “Oh! My ladies...please! This way.”

  They were given a table by the window to themselves, and they sat, looking out through linen-curtained windows, onto the coach yard.

  Joanna smiled at her mother. It was a prosperous inn and she had no idea how much her mother had paid for their stay, but she knew she was the sort of person who liked everyth
ing to be the best it could be.

  “I hope they have eggs for breakfast – I'm starving!”

  Joanna grinned as her mother glanced around the dining room. She felt her own stomach rumble and was pleased when their host reappeared with a vast platter of bread, ham and cheeses, and some eggs.

  As they helped themselves to slices of dark bread and some of the cheese, a jug of fresh milk appeared, and tankards to drink it from.

  Joanna leaned back in her chair and watched as a carter unloaded sacks of meal and another drove geese out of the yard.

  “I could get used to this place.”

  Amabel laughed. “With a breakfast like this, yes, I could come here often, I think.”

  Joanna chuckled. She had to admit it was pleasant, the bread cooked to excellent quality, soft and warm.

  “We should ask her to work at Dunkeld,” Amabel smiled.

  Joanna laughed and let all the tension of the last days drain from her. She had not realized how much the problems of the last few weeks had weighed on her, draining her of anything but concern. Here, with an idea of what was happening, and a firm ally to help her, she felt more positive.

  A minor disturbance in the room distracted her for a moment.

  “Here, what do you think yer' doin'?” the innkeeper, red-faced, swore at a customer, who had evidently been trying to steal a stone tankard from the table.

  Joanna and her mother smiled as the rest of the guests at the table rounded on the man, most of them amused. He put it back and left shortly thereafter.

  Amabel shook her head, a weary smile on her lips. “Trust someone to try their luck.” She raised her own beaker, looking at it with a frown. “I suppose they're rather good ones, but still! The poor innkeepers.”

  Joanna nodded.

  They sat for a while, drinking the milk and letting the genial atmosphere soothe their ragged nerves. After the long journey, it was pleasant to be able to take some time. They were planning to stay at the inn for three days, to gather the proof they needed.

  Joanna let her mind wander to the thoughts of the previous day. She had known there was a piece missing in the story and yesterday she had finally recalled what it was. The priest. Their priest. Father Mallory, who had baptized her and all her cousins. Why had he gone? And where? No one had given an adequate explanation for it.

  If he was going to leave Lochlann, he would have come to us. I know it.

  He had simply disappeared.

  If they could find Father Mallory, she was sure he would have something to say. Something lingered in the recesses of her mind that told her he had been in danger. Someone had threatened him, made him leave, so that they could stir up dissent in the valley. She knew it.

  They just had to find the priest.

  A movement in the yard beyond the window caught her eye. The carts were moving backwards, a sudden scuffle at the gates.

  “Back ye go!” the meal-cart man shouted. “Back! For Heaven's sake! Clear the gate.”

  As she watched, the man with the geese came into the yard, shouting with consternation. All the traders seemed angry and confused, and they all cleared a path.

  They were too late.

  The black horse burst through them like a bowshot. He was lathered with sweat, as if he had run far and quickly. The rider on his back was tall, and impatient, stopping him the moment they were through the blockage at the gate, frowning.

  Joanna felt her heart stop.

  The rider was dark-haired, a long, lean face beneath the hair. He was dressed in black, with a long black cloak trailing from broad shoulders. He held his one shoulder hunched as if suffering from a recent injury on his right side.

  It couldn't possibly...

  It was.

  “Dougal!”

  She breathed it out in wonder, and the rest of the guests turned to stare at her. She flushed.

  “Sweetling?” Amabel asked, concerned.

  “Sorry,” she dismissed her outburst. “But it's him! Look!”

  Amabel, too, had been watching the scene out of the window. Her eyes widened as she took in the imposing figure on the horse.

  “Dougal? The man at Lochlann? The one you told me about...?”

  “Yes!” Joanna said. She was already on her feet. Amabel frowned at her, looking confused, but said nothing to prevent her walking briskly to the door.

  I have to see him. I have to. He needs to know. Why did he come here, where the danger is so great?

  She ran to the oak door of the inn and threw herself into running, dashing around the side of the inn and narrowly avoiding a collision with a man with two buckets of milk, one in either hand.

  “Sorry!”

  “Whist! Watch where yer running!”

  Joanna grinned, sure he had no idea he just shouted at Joanna, Lady of Dunkeld, but it made for a nice change. She could not stop. She had to reach Dougal now!

  She threw herself into the courtyard, running to the stables. She ran straight in front of his horse, who reared, then brought his front feet down.

  “Joanna?”

  Dougal sounded amazed. He stared down at her, face a picture of disbelief. Joanna looked into his eyes.

  “Dougal!”

  He swung down from his horse and in front of the astonished traders, put his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close. He draped his cloak about her, shielding her from the cold and then kissed her cheek. She felt her heart flame with happiness.

  “Joanna.”

  “Dougal!” she smiled, squeezing his hand. The carter looked at them in astonishment, seeming to wonder how the tall, angry lord knew such a harmless lass.

  “How did you...what are you doing here?” Dougal asked, sounding amazed. Joanna giggled.

  “I came to find out what is going on. I think I know. I have to tell you.”

  The initial delight gave way to worry as she remembered the gravity of her mission. Dougal saw her frown and drew her close.

  “What is it, Joanna. Tell me! Are you hurt?”

  Joanna looked up with a wan smile on her lips. “No, dear. I'm well. It's not that. It's you. You're in danger. Come. We shouldn't talk about it out here. Come inside. It's warm, too,” she added, shivering. Despite his coat and his warm arm around her, the wind cut like a knife, her velvet dress thin and light compared to the strength of the cold.

  “Of course. Come on. Let's get you inside.”

  They walked together into the hallway, and Dougal looked at the astonished proprietor.

  “Your best room, please,” Dougal said briefly.

  The man seemed incapable of speech at first. Joanna grinned to see it.

  “Y...yes, my lord. Welcome. I hadn't thought...”

  “You weren't expecting me to be here. I know.”

  Joanna watched, delighted, as the innkeeper and his wife made much of Dougal, sending the maids up to prepare the best room, fussing and rushing to do whatever they could to make his stay pleasant.

  “Has my lord broken his fast? We have the best table still open in the dining hall, if you would care to...?”

  Dougal looked at Joanna, who shrugged, though her heart glowed at his deferring to her.

  “Well, then. The best table. Have you a party with you?” he asked Joanna.

  “One person.” Joanna confirmed.

  “Well, then. Make a place for three people. And your finest small ale, please. It's freezing out there.”

  Joanna smiled as they were waved through to a parlor, the oaken furniture gleaming in the pale sunlight. Screened from the main dining hall, the place was a cozy haven and Joanna sighed contentedly as she settled down on the cushioned seat.

  “So,” she said as he lowered himself to the seat opposite, “I have to tell you what we found out. But, first, you must meet my mother.”

  Amabel, tall and red-haired, appeared bemusedly on the threshold, shown in by a silent, grim-faced innkeeper. He was evidently terrified of the backlash of having put two of the duke's son's friends in a less than perfect b
edchamber for the night. Joanna smiled reassuringly at him, and then stood.

  “Mother, may I introduce Dougal, Lord Blackheath, son of the duke of Buccleigh?”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Amabel said in a strangely muted voice.

  “My lady,” Dougal said, and kissed her hand. The gesture made both Amabel and Joanna smile. Amabel blushed.

  “Dougal, may I introduce my mother, Lady Amabel, mistress of Dunkeld?”

  “Enchanted, my lady,” Dougal said.

  Amabel smiled. “Well. I am pleased to meet you. I might sit and take a scone with you,” she added, noticing the innkeeper's wife appearing with a vast plate of scones, freshly baked, and cheese, “and then I'll retire upstairs. I have a mind to set some things in order.”

  Joanna smiled at her mother, biting her lip. Her mother had sensed she wished to be alone with Dougal, she was sure. She had decided to give them some privacy together.

  “My lady,” Dougal said, turning to her respectfully. “Did you have a good journey?”

  “Wonderful, yes!” Amabel said, enthused. She was buttering a scone, biting into it with relish.

  Joanna smiled. “Mother says the cook here is good enough for us to steal for Dunkeld.”

  “Oh, daughter!” Amabel grinned at her. “Though, yes. I did have intent to steal their cook. Do you stay here often?”

  “It breaks the journey, sometimes,” Dougal said. “When I've been north I often stay here – particularly if I'm arriving back late.”

  “A wise notion,” Amabel said sagely, chewing her scone.

  Joanna and Dougal sat quietly, the atmosphere tranquil and relaxed as Amabel finished her scone in silence. It was somehow surreal to Joanna to have Dougal and her mother, together, at this table in the inn parlor, eating scones, cheese, and jam as if they had traveled together for weeks. It was nice.

  “I'll retire now,” Amabel said, lifting a glass of ale and taking a sip to wash down her meal. “I've a lot to settle before we move on. And the innkeeper needs to be paid, as well.” She pulled a face, smiled, and headed upstairs.

  Joanna and Dougal were left alone together.

  Dougal cleared his throat.