https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/
I am
pleased to offer you an excerpt of my historical – Her Scottish Legacy.
Excerpt
Prologue
The painter moved
toward her, adjusting the sleeve of her dress so it slid slightly off her
shoulder. Hunter’s fists clinched. The man had no right to touch her. His paint-stained
fingers lingered and Hunter had the urge to break the window glass and scream
for him to leave her alone.
She didn’t move;
didn’t appear to even notice as he caressed her cheek and tilted her chin just
so before moving back to the easel and picking up a brush. Hunter’s gaze
returned to the woman. Her gaze shifted and for a moment she stared directly at
him, and yet he felt she was not looking at him at all but seeing something
beyond his understanding. Her eyes, a shimmering blue in the light, were
incredibly sad, but as he watched, the corners of her mouth tilted ever so
slightly as her hand flattened for an instant across her stomach.
“Youch!” he
squealed as calloused fingers pinched his ear and dragged him away from the
lighted window.
“Ye know better
than to be peeking through the winders, Hunter boy!” His da continued dragging
him by the ear through the manor gardens. Hunter grabbed his thick wrist with
both small hands to relieve the pain on his ear.
“But she’s so beautiful, and so sad. ‘Tis not
right she’s hurting.”
His da stopped at the far edge of the
garden and finally released his ear. Hunter rubbed the abused lobe.
“She’s a lady,
son, and married to the master of Gilchrist. Don’t be forgetting it.” With a
sigh, he rubbed his big hands over his face. “I’m her man’s gardener and you,
the gardener’s boy so you need to stay away from her, y’hear?”
Hunter stood as
tall as his eight-year-old frame would allow. “She’s not happy, da, but I can
change that. I’m going to marry her when I grow up.”
For the first time
since catching him, his da’s face broke into a smile, then a laugh bellowed
forth. Affectionately tousling his shaggy hair, he pushed him toward home. “Aye,
and I’m the King of Scotland.”
Deflated, Hunter
realized the foolishness of his remark as they had no king in Scotland.
*
* *
Regardless of his da’s orders, Hunter felt
it his duty to watch over the beautiful lady. One day as he scurried through
the garden toward the manor, he came upon her by the rose bushes. He stopped short,
not sure how to approach her. She knelt, trying to dig a hole with a small
spade like his da would use when potting flowers.
He heard a sound
and realized she wept. As he watched, she dropped the spade and cradled her arm
against her chest. He could see where a bruise marred the fair skin of her arm
and a button hung by a thread at the edge of her capped sleeve.
“Who hurt you?” he
demanded as he stepped forward. He didn’t understand why his chest hurt so
badly. “I will find the monster who has made you cry and slay him!”
She lifted her
head and gave him a sad smile but shook her head.
“Perhaps instead
you can do me a great favor and help dig.” Her soft and lyrical voice would
remain a favorite memory of Hunter’s for years to come.
“Da can plant for
you. ‘Tis his job.”
She quickly shook
her head. “No, I cannot bother your father.” She looked over at the chest
sitting next to her skirts as she knelt. “’Tis…’tis only my poor precious cat.
I am being sentimental, and a man would not understand.”
Hunter took the
spade she offered and started to dig. He glanced at her sideways and saw her
watching him.
“Might I ask you a
question?” he almost stuttered.
That brought a
small smile. “Of course you may.”
“That
word…senti…senti? What does it mean?”
“Sentimental?” She
thought for a moment. “It is feelings of tenderness or sadness.”
Hunter thought
about the way it had hurt when his mother had died. “Is it wrong for a man to
be sentimental?” He could feel his cheeks warm and dropped his gaze back to the
hole to continue digging.
“Being sentimental
is one of the best possible traits for a man to have, although it is a hard one
to admit.” He felt her ruffle his hair. “Or for little boys,” she added softly.
“I’m not such a
little boy,” he grumbled. To prove his worth, he stood and grabbed the handles
of the chest to lift it into the hole. He almost stumbled under the weight of
it.
“If you will beg
pardon, your cat feels more like a Scottish wild cat, though the chest is small
to contain such an animal.” He scooped soil over it then sat back on his heels.
“Thank you, Hunter
MacGregor. You have been my Prince Charming this day, but I would ask one more
thing of you.”
He blushed at her
praise and swore silently he would slay dragons if she asked it of him.
At his nod, she
reached up and plucked the silver button from her sleeve and pressed it into
his grubby hand, curling his fingers around it.
“You must promise
not to tell anyone that you saw me today and say naught of what we have done.
Can you do that?”
He nodded
vigorously, clutching his treasure tightly as she gracefully came to her feet
and silently turned and walked away.
The next day, Lady
Alisha disappeared.
Chapter 1
Gilchrist,
Scotland, 1853
Hunter stood on the small porch of the
cottage gazing out upon wet fields. He scraped back his hair with both hands as
he stared up at yet another leaden sky. It had been raining for days, unusual
for Scotland in mid-March. Spring appeared to plan an early arrival to the lowlands.
Who could say why Mother Nature had turned so fickle.
“It appears to have let up for a bit,”
Finley said as he squinted off to the west. Hunter followed his gaze, trying to
ascertain whether they would get drowned if they ventured out.
“There’s no help for it. If the river’s
swollen, as I fear, we can’t afford to have the sheep stranded on the far side,
or worse yet on that small island always jutting up in the middle.”
“Aye, that’s the right of it for sure.” Finley
turned to the door. “Might as well get to it.”
Hunter followed the sheep herder back inside
where they donned their Macintosh and wide brimmed hats. He wound a warm scarf
around his neck for added protection. Finley’s wife, Maggie, met them in the
small sitting room, wiping her hands on her long apron.
“Might you not wait a bit?” She looked worried
and Hunter understood. Andrew Finley wasn’t young anymore, regardless of the
man’s protestations, yet he refused to give up his livelihood. Though two
decades younger than his friend, Hunter felt the same. He had seen too many men
waste away if they no longer had a reason to get up of a morning.
“The rain’s let up for now, wife. Instead
of worrying, put on the kettle so there’ll be hot tea on our return.” Though he
sounded gruff, Hunter saw the look of affection that passed between the
two. He wondered if there would ever be
a woman to look at him that way. Shaking his head, he knew such thoughts were a
waste of time.
They saddled the horses in the small barn
behind the cottage. Rain began again as they rode out, this time a light mist that
didn’t prevent them from moving into a canter over the fields toward the river.
The meadows were already greening and the trees on the west edge of the
property were leafing, most likely due to the abundant rain. A far sight better
than snow, but still, he’d had enough.
Though they came across a small cluster of
sheep in the open meadow, it was by no means the majority of the flock. Hunter
pulled his horse to a walk, scanning the edge of the forest. Normally sheep
stayed in the open, but he could see specks of white at the edge of the trees.
At least they weren’t across the river, or in it.
“MacGregor!” Finley hollered and when
Hunter turned his gaze, the man frantically pointed toward the river. He kicked
his horse into a run.
“There!” Finley pointed just as Hunter heard
a shout in the distance. Up-river, by no more than fifty meters, he could see a
carriage, the back wheels sloping dangerously down the embankment. The horse
dug vigorously at the muddy bank trying to find purchase then reared, hooves
slashing the air, its whinnies near a screech of terror. The driver stood
precariously close, trying to grab the harness each time the horse’s hooves hit
the mud.
“Get back, man!” Hunter hollered as he
jumped from his horse. Even as he assessed the situation, the carriage slid
further down the embankment, dragging the horse backward with it. The driver
stumbled, landing in a muddy heap on the very edge of the bank. Hunter grabbed
his collar to keep him from tumbling down to the water.
Finley, who had an affinity for animals,
approached the horse, talking softly in Gaelic. Withers quivering, the horse
shied sideways, straining at the harness, but did not rear again. “I’ve got
this ferocious beast,” he said in a soothing voice, “if the driver can help
with the harness now.”
The driver had managed to regain his feet
but was turning away as though he meant to get as far away as possible. Hunter
grabbed him by the collar again. “Ye mean to leave yer poor horse to be pulled
into the burn?” he growled, his brogue becoming more pronounced in his anger.
“The lady.” Arms flailing, the man twisted
against Hunter’s hold, his words lost beneath the roll of thunder as the rain
began in earnest.
“What?” He couldn’t have heard right.
The driver pointed behind him and Hunter
turned, seeing nothing but mud and water. The river rushed past, eating away at
the bank and rising even as they stood there. The water, sparkling blue and
placid on a sunny day, was a rapidly churning mass of brown mud, bits of leaves
and tree limbs. The driver scrambled past him, slipping again and again on the
bank. Hunter stayed a bit higher on the grass as he hurried after the man, but
then quickly jumped down when the man crouched beside a brown lump, half in the
water and near to washing away.
“For the love of Saint Andrew.” He would
never have noticed a body, as she was wearing a dark brown coat, brown bonnet,
gloves and boots. He started to lift her, but the embankment was steep enough
he knew he couldn’t carry her up in his arms. The water washed over his knee
boots by now and he knew there might only be minutes before they were swept
downstream.
“Up the bank, quickly man,” he hollered to
the coachman. “I’ll lift her to you.” As soon as the man reached the top and
turned, Hunter lifted the woman. She wasn’t in the least light for her clothes
and coat were soaked through and she remained unconscious to boot. Yet he held
her high enough for the driver to reach down and catch her under the arms,
pulling her up and onto the grass. Hunter scrambled up behind her, but not quickly
enough to avoid a blow to his leg by a tree limb being swept downstream.
He grimaced as he dropped to the ground
beside the woman. A twisted piece of wood stuck out the side of his boot and
when he bent to remove it, searing pain shot up his leg.
He looked around to find that Finley had
managed to get the horse out of its harness and tied it by his own mount. He
shouted but the rain washed away his words.
Turning, he struggled to untie the woman’s
bonnet, tossing it aside. Her face was marred with mud, her eyes closed, but
his heart constricted at what he could see of her features. Pale smooth skin, a
small straight nose and a full mouth led him to think her quite young. Her
chest rose and fell on a cough and he quickly turned her to the side to pat her
back.
“Will she be a right?” asked the coachman.
“I have no idea,” Hunter muttered, tapping
her lightly on a cold, wet cheek. She breathed but did not open her eyes.
Finley joined them. “You’re bleeding,
lad.”
Hunter glanced down at his leg. The pain
had subsided, so he didn’t think it deep. Regardless it was the least of his
concerns at the moment. He hobbled to his feet. “We need to get her back to the
cottage.”
Unbuttoning her coat, he pulled her arms
out as gently as he could manage. At Finley’s cough, he looked up long enough
to say, “She’s dead weight with all this wet on her. Help me get on my horse
then you and the coachman can lift her to me.”
Between the three of them, they hoisted
the unconscious woman onto his horse in front of him. He opened his Macintosh
and pulled it around her, tucking her back against his chest in an effort to
keep her out of the rain. The coachman hitched himself onto the carriage horse
and they took off for home. Hunter kept his horse at a walk, yet they still
bounced along. The woman moaned, which he took as a good sign, but otherwise
she didn’t stir.
Once they reached the cottage, Finley held
the horse and Hunter managed to get down, the woman tilting sideways and then
sliding into his arms. His leg threatened to buckle, pain throbbing in his
calf, but he stalwartly limped up the steps and through the door. He heard
Finley speak to the coachman and knew they would care for the horses.
“Maggie,” he called, glancing around, not
at all sure what to do with the messy bundle in his arms. His housekeeper would
not be happy to see him tracking mud and river water all over her clean floors.
“You’re back, you crazy loons. I told you
not…” She stopped in the middle of the doorway; one hand flying to her mouth.
In the next instant, she bustled across the sitting room, shooing him with her
hands toward the front bedroom. “My stars, what in heaven have you done now?”
Despite the dire situation, Hunter
grinned. Margaret Finley had known him all his life and had taken care of him
on plenty of occasions after his mother had died. He had run wild more often
than not and his father, the Gilchrist gardener, hadn’t known what to do with
him.
He followed her into the bedroom where she
hurriedly shook out an old quilt to cover the bed linens and he deposited his
bundle there with a groan. He started to unbutton her half boots but Maggie
shooed him out of the way. “Go put the kettle water in a basin and bring me
some fresh linen.” It never occurred to her that he was her employer, not
the other way around. He turned to hobble away.
“On top of everything, you managed to get
yourself hurt, too?” She stopped what she was doing and started toward him.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “See to the
woman.”
After bringing Maggie what she needed, he
limped back into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil once again, but he
needed more than tea to take the chill from his bones. Gathering some mugs from
the cupboard, he dug through the pantry for the bottle of whisky he knew Maggie
hid somewhere behind the flour and sugar bags. He poured portions into three
mugs as Finley and the coachman came in the back door, stomping their boots and
hanging up their rain gear on the hooks by the door.
He passed each a mug, drank his down in a
single gulp and finally sagged into a chair at the old, scarred worktable. He
had no luck trying to toe off his wet boots. Seeing him struggle, Finley came
around the table and with a yank or two, pulled them off and dropped them to
the floor. Hunter couldn’t stop the groan from escaping his cold lips and
Finley raised a brow as his gaze went to his leg.
A hole had been torn in his trousers and
when he dragged them up, he could see where the tree branch had left a small,
jagged cut in his calf. Without having to ask, Finley collected materials so
Hunter could clean and bind the wound. As he did, he questioned the carriage
driver.
“What on earth were you doing on the river
road on a day such as this?” Though not uncommon for the mail coach and other
travelers with private coaches to continue their journeys regardless of the
weather, he had recognized the carriage as a public conveyance from Aberdeen.
“It weren’t raining when we started out.”
The driver shrugged. “Been a slow day so I went to the rail station, hoping for
a fare or two to the local establishments. When her ladyship asked me to drive
her and agreed to the fine, fat fee I said it would cost, why would I say nay?”
He grinned, lifting his glass in salute and downing the amber liquid in two
gulps.
“What is her name? Her destination?”
Hunter asked.
“Heading to Gilchrist, though she never
said why. And I hadn’t collected my fare,” the driver grumbled.
“I’ll see you are
paid,” Hunter assured him. “Did she give her name or where in Gilchrist she
meant to be taken?”
The driver shook
his head. “And her trunk’s at the bottom of the demon river, I’d swear.”
At that moment,
Maggie entered the kitchen, dumping the basin of water into the sink and wiping
her hands on her apron.
“Did she wake?”
Hunter asked.
“Nay. She’s got a
lump on her forehead the size of an egg. I’m thinking we might want to get the
physician.” With a sigh, she poured herself a cup of tea. Her husband quickly
stood to give her his seat and he went to lean against the counter. “There’s
something about her,” the housekeeper murmured, shaking her head.
“What do you
mean?” Hunter asked, certainly curious about a lady traveling alone to the
northeastern realms of Scotland.
“I can’t put a
finger to it,” she said, “but she looks familiar.”
Hunter glanced out
the window to see that the rain had let up. “Finley will see you bedded down in
the stables,” he said to the carriage driver. “It’s the best I have to offer
and at least it’s dry.”
To Finley he
added, “If the rain’s stopped, can you ride into the village and fetch
Carmichael?”
“That I can do,
lad, but it does bring up a point,” Finley said. “The missus and me should
probably both head into town. Seeing as how the lady is sleeping in your bed,
you’ll be wanting to find your rest in the other bed.”
“Nonsense,” Hunter
replied. “The back bedroom is yours and Maggie’s, for all the times you stay
out here. I’ll be perfectly comfortable on the couch in the front room.”
The Finleys were
technically employed at the Gilchrist mansion, but the master of the estate,
Donald Gilchrist, had died almost a year ago. Gilchrist had owned the large
textile manufactory that supported the town and had employed Hunter in various
capacities. Now, he kept the employees working as they waited for some distant
relative to come and claim the house and business. To feel useful, Maggie had
become his self-appointed housekeeper and cook while Finley continued on as a
sheepherder. They split their time between the manor house and the outpost
cottage, even with no one in residence at the house in town.
Maggie snorted at
his comment about sleeping arrangements. “You can’t fit that frame of yours
onto that dainty couch.”
“Well, the floor
in front of the fire will do just as well,” Hunter replied and when she started
to protest yet again, he added, “I’ll brook no disagreement.”
Hunter got little
sleep that night. The physician, Carmichael, had come and examined the woman
but proclaimed he could do little as anything dealing with the head was
complicated. He said he would check back with them the next day and they should
keep an eye on her in case a fever developed.
Before he bunked
down on the pile of furs and quilts Maggie had made up for him, he looked in on
the lady occupying his bed. With the mud cleaned from her face and engulfed in
one of his shirts, she looked like a sleeping angel. Her dark blonde hair had
dried and lay spread out around her like a halo and her pale, porcelain skin
glowed in the soft light from the bedside lamp. She appeared quite young as she
lay there unmoving. He couldn’t tell much of her shape as Maggie had piled
several blankets atop her, but he recalled the slim feel of her in his arms.
Now, as he tossed
and turned on his bed, his thoughts remained on the woman. As Maggie had noted,
there was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t put a finger on it
either. Perhaps in the morning, she would awaken and he could question her as
to why she had landed in Gilchrist.
*
* *
Carmichael came
back the next day and seemed encouraged as the woman grew restless under his
examination and grimaced when he probed her forehead. Yet she didn’t wake up as
he would have liked. Maggie stayed at the cottage to watch over her as Hunter
and Finley took off once again to round up his wayward sheep. At least the sun
decided to make an appearance, though the sky remained watery blue and the wind
blew briskly.
The pens they had
for shearing weren’t quite large enough to hold the entire flock, and Hunter
knew he would have to expand them, but for now they managed to contain the
majority. Because of their mentality, the remainder wouldn’t wander far and
Hunter set the dogs on patrol of an evening. Shearing wouldn’t begin for
another month or two, depending on the weather. It had been a rather mild
winter and given their location near the northeast coast, they got less snow
than the highlands. Still, with the unseasonal amount of rain and the cold
temperatures, spring had yet to officially arrive.
The entire process
of raising sheep had grown into more than a full-time job and Hunter couldn’t
do it without Finley’s help. As Hunter rode out that morning, he noticed some
of the tin covering the paddocks clanked in the wind. Another job to manage
before shearing, but one he would have to handle. He didn’t want the older man
climbing onto a slippery slope of a roof.
The textile manufactory
remained yet another task to get to in town. Hunter rubbed a hand over his
face. He had promised he would keep the factory open after Gilchrist’s
unexpected death. The village depended on the wages the factory provided as did
the sheep raisers who needed a market for their wool.
He looked over the
wooly backs of the last group as they herded them homeward, aided as always by
Finn and Molly, his faithful dogs. He inhaled deeply, smelling only fresh, rain
washed air and his frown turned slowly into a smile. He loved this land; loved
being outdoors; loved the smells of every season. As a youngster, he had often
helped his father with the yard and gardens at Gilchrist Manor. He had hated
school and being forced to be inside all day, yet his education had eventually
paid off.
“You done day
dreaming?” Finley asked as he rode up next to him.
Hunter realized he
had been doing just that. “It’s a great day, don’t you think?” He grinned.
Finley shook his
head. “Aye, ‘tis that.”
They stabled the
horses, fed the dogs and headed for the cottage. A small fire burned bright in
the fireplace and fragrant aromas made his stomach rumble the minute he opened
the door. Nothing smelled better than bannock; and nothing he liked better than
smearing a chunk of the hot bread with butter and jam. He kicked off his boots,
tossed his Macintosh and hat at the hook beside the door, and made a beeline to
the kitchen. He stopped short as he pushed the door wide.
Maggie bustled
around the room as always, clanging pots and talking non-stop. But the vision
at the table captured Hunter’s attention. The woman was beautiful; in fact,
more than beautiful, even wrapped in his plaid robe which engulfed her frame.
She had rolled up the sleeves and now lifted graceful hands to pull the open
collar closer across her chest. She had pulled her hair back from her face into
a long braid that fell over one shoulder. She raised her gaze to meet his,
color blooming on her pale cheeks. Black lashes fringed blue eyes as dark as
indigo dye, and they bewitched him. His gut twisted and his heart pounded as
though she were looking into his very soul.
He knew her. Even
without her name; even though he had never seen her before; his heart knew her.
How could that be? He had never been a religious man and though Scottish through
and through, he didn’t hold to the superstitions many of the old timers did;
things like faeries and magic and past lives. Yet perhaps he would have to
revisit his views on such subjects.
“Hello,” she said
softly, her voice as beautiful as the rest of her.
He tilted his
head. “You’re not Scottish.” She had a strange accent; something he had heard
before but couldn’t place. Just like the woman herself.
Her eyes widened.
“I’m not?”
Her question
caught him off guard and he narrowed his gaze.
“Sit down for a
mug of tea, Hunter.” Maggie set the ironstone mug in front of him. “It seems we
have a wee bit of mystery here.”
“What do you know,
Margaret Finley, that you’re not telling me?” Though he spoke to his
housekeeper, his gaze remained on the woman. The sound of his agitated voice
caused the woman’s gaze to widen in fright.
He was immediately
contrite. “I apologize, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
If possible, she
sat up even straighter. “I am not frightened, sir, but do you always speak so
harshly to your servants?”
A bit of sass, he
thought. He liked that.
“Don’t worry,
miss,” Maggie reached across and patted her arm. “All men grumble and gripe if
they think we’re leaving them out. It’s just their way. But now that Hunter’s
here, we’ll get to the bottom of this in no time.”
“The bottom of
what?” Hunter asked, barely managing not to shout. He did not care for mystery
or intrigue. He was always truthful and plainspoken and expected the same from
others. Maggie was right, though and he wasted no time.
“What is the
mystery, Miss…?” he paused. “I apologize. We have not been introduced. My name
is Hunter MacGregor. And you are?”
Her brow creased
and her lovely mouth pouted. “That, I fear, is part of the mystery. I do not
know.”
Hunter’s mug of
tea clunked onto the table; the piece of bannock Maggie had served him
forgotten beside it.
“How can you not
know your name, lass?” Finley had scooted onto the bench beside Hunter and they
both stared across the table.
“Mrs. Finley has
suggested it may be the result of the bump on my head.” She raised a hand and
gingerly fingered her forehead where Hunter could see the purple bruise.
“You must call me
Maggie,” she said. “We don’t stand on formality around here.”
Hunter scowled at
Maggie for they had more important things to consider. “What do you know? Where
are you from and where were you headed? What do you last remember before waking
up here?” The questions poured forth. At her wide eyed stare, Hunter clamped
his mouth shut, willing himself to patience.
Maggie tsked him and waved her hand aimlessly.
“Listen to yourself. Don’t you think we have been asking just such since she
awoke this morning?” She rested her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t mind
him, miss. Just tell him what you told me.”
The woman took a sip
of tea, then gave a sigh as she set her cup back on its saucer. “I have a brief
memory of a large conveyance barreling past us in the opposite direction, then
our horse reared, the carriage slipped sideways and…” she paused, touching her
forehead again. “I must have fallen against the carriage door and hit my head.
Maggie said you found me on the riverbank, but I don’t recall if I fell out of
the carriage or managed to climb out.”
“Before that? Why
were you traveling to Gilchrist?”
“Where?”
“You don’t know
who you are or where you were heading? Do you even know what country you are
in?”
She gave him a
smile that lit up the room. “Scotland,” she replied.
“Well, that’s
something, at least.”
“But I only know
that,” she continued, “because Maggie told me so. Although,” again she paused.
He raised a brow.
“Did I have any
luggage with me; a trunk or purse perchance?”
Finley snorted
beside him and she turned her head in question.
“We barely managed
to save the carriage horse,” Finley said. “The conveyance itself and any contents
slid down the bank. By now, it may have washed all the way to the North Sea.”
She gasped, her
face crumbling.
“It may not be so
bad.” Hunter tossed a look at his friend. “If the river didn’t rise any more,
it may have remained stuck on the embankment. It is something we can certainly
find out.”
The young woman
stood, scooting back her chair. “We should go looking for it immediately.”
“You’re American,”
Hunter said in surprise. He finally recognized her accent, partly because of
her take charge attitude. He had met a number of Americans while at University
in Edinburgh and as a whole they were known for their outspokenness.
“What if I am?”
she questioned, confirming Hunter’s notions.
“I only say that
as it is one thing we know about you, though not of as much importance as other
things.”
“Oh.” She sat down
again, deflated.
The robe she wore
had opened at the throat and the shirt underneath, as it was his and entirely
too large, gapped, exposing her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. Hunter
couldn’t help himself; he devoured her with his gaze. Her blonde braid caressed
that bare skin with every breath she took. He knew absolutely nothing about
her, yet she drew him in. He not only wanted to help her in any way possible,
but he wanted to find out everything about her, which in this case would be the
same thing.
“Well, now.
Regardless of it all, a body’s got to eat. You men need to get yourselves
cleaned up while the young lass and I put supper on the table.”
During supper, the
Finleys and Hunter tried to make their guest comfortable, but he caught her
constantly looking around the small kitchen with a frown, as though everything
was quite unknown to her. She had perfect manners, though, so Hunter added the
fact that she was a well born lady to the few things they knew about her.
“Where exactly in
Scotland have I landed?” she asked.
“We’re part of the
village of Gilchrist, which is about two hours north of Aberdeen inland from
the coast.”
She frowned.
“Have you thought
of something?” he asked.
“No. I’m trying to
understand. I know little of Scotland and truly have no idea why I would have
traveled here. Nothing you have told me about the area rings a bell in my
brain.” Her voice wobbled and when he looked, her eyes were glazed as though
she were about to cry.
“No, no, lassie.”
Hunter reached across the table and clasped her hands. Nothing could be worse
than a lady’s tears, because like most men, he had no idea what to do.
He gently squeezed
her hands. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
“I have no memory.
I have no money; no clothes.” She sniffed as she plucked at the robe she wore.
“I have no idea if I have family worried because I have disappeared.” Her voice
broke on this last.
“You have us,
lass, and we’ll not desert you ‘til we find all there is to know.”
She sniffed,
refusing to look at him. He clutched her hands tightly. “Lass, do you
understand?”
“You cannot keep
calling her lass,” Finley said, and it somewhat broke the tension surrounding
the table.
“Aye, ‘tis true,”
Maggie concurred, tilting her head as she studied the young lady. “Is there a
name you think you might have been called? Mayhap Elizabeth, or Ann? Rebecca?”
She shook her
head. “Those don’t sound like me.”
“Heather,” Hunter
said decisively.
“No, that doesn’t
sound right, either.”
“It wasn’t a
question,” he replied. “Legend has it that heather grows over the final resting place of faeries. Perhaps it was
faeries who brought you to our land.”
“That’s quite poetic,” she said, giving him a dazzling
smile.
“It is at that.” Maggie gave him a sidelong look which
Hunter decided not to try and interpret.
Chapter 2
Heather woke the next morning with a
curious sense of wellbeing regardless of not remembering a thing about herself.
It might be caused by the soft bed in which she had been sleeping, but she felt
it had more to do with the man who had rescued her. Hunter McGregor drew her in
with his deep voice and dark brown eyes. She had no idea why she had come to
Scotland, yet he made her feel safe.
As she rose and washed at the basin, she gazed
at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t recognize herself; didn’t have any
reaction in her head or heart to the name he had given her.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Not to fret, Miss,” Maggie answered as
she bustled into the room carrying a pile of clothes. “I’ve washed and pressed
your dress and petticoats. Though a little the worse for wear, they’ll do you
right for now.”
She laid the garments on the bed. “Shall I
help you dress?”
“No, I can manage as I always do,” she
said, only to hear the woman gasp. She turned toward her.
“What?”
“It may not be of import, but what you
said may mean you are not used to having servants or a maid.”
“I don’t see how that helps to discover
who I am.”
“I don’t know either, but Hunter said we
should take note of every little thing as it might mean more than we know.”
Heather thought that made sense. There had
to be something that could trigger her memory.
She felt more herself once she dressed.
The indigo blue dress with the button up bodice and long puffed sleeves felt
comfortable and she had a feeling it was one of her favorites. She turned again
to the mirror, smoothing the snug bodice and fluffing the full skirt.
“Thank you for seeing to my clothes,” she
told the housekeeper.
“Aye, we can’t have you going into the
village in a robe and a man’s shirt, now can we?” Maggie answered, handing over
Heather’s half boots which had been cleaned and shined like new.
“My, they look better than they did at the
beginning of my travels, even after a dip in the river.”
“That would be my Andy’s doing,” Maggie replied.
“He’s good for many a thing, but don’t tell him I said so,” she said in a half
whisper. “His head will puff right up.” She gave a short laugh.
They exited the room but Heather stopped
in the doorway. Hunter knelt at the fire, adding bricks of peat. The shirt he
wore stretched tight over his back, the tails tucked into dark breeches, his
suspenders crossing broad shoulders. When he stood, she couldn’t help but
admire his height, but it was his face that made her stifle a gasp when he
turned and smiled openly.
He was by far the handsomest man she had
ever seen. She knew this without a doubt even if she couldn’t remember anything
else. His dark brown hair hung a bit long, but the slight curl it contained
caused it to frame his face and gave him a boyish appearance. His eyes held her
captive. With a single glance, he caused her breath to catch and her heart to
quicken. She couldn’t remember her name,
much less why she had traveled to Scotland but innately felt she could rely on
this man’s good graces to help her find her lost life.
“Ah, I see you have awakened and appear
ready to start this adventure,” he said to her now.
“Adventure? I’m not at all sure I would
call it that. Dilemma might be a better choice, and I would much rather end it
than start it.”
“We can’t very well end it before it has
even begun,” he replied.
“Come, lassie,” Maggie said. “We’ll have
some food before venturing into the village.”
She served up steaming bowls of porridge
and set a plate of thick slices of bread on the table. A rather large hunk of
butter was on another plate, along with a side bowl of wild honey. Heather
enjoyed the intimacy of eating in the kitchen and wondered if it was normal for
her to do so. Did she belong to a household somewhere in a serving capacity?
She had told Maggie she never used a maid, yet her clothes were of fine quality.
Another jumble of unrelated bits of information, she thought with a sigh.
She had only just rested her spoon in her
bowl when Maggie brought over clean plates and her husband lifted a platter of
eggs and sausage to the table.
“Eat up, lassie,” he said with a smile.
“I already have,” she protested. “I doubt
I can eat another bite.”
Hunter was helping himself to a huge pile
of eggs and sausage before grabbing another piece of bread and smearing it with
butter and honey.
“Scots eat a hearty breakfast to see them
through the day. There’s usually no time to be stopping for luncheon when
you’re shearing sheep by the dozens.”
“I assure you, I will not be shearing
sheep any time soon.”
“Well, there is always the milking to be
done and cheese to be made,” Finley jumped in, nudging Hunter in the side as he
grinned at her.
Her eyes widened in dismay. She may not
know her name or her origins, but she felt sure she had not been raised on a
farm.
Maggie poured more tea, even as she
punched her husband lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t be listening to these two,”
she said. “They’re just funning you.”
The two men laughed uproariously and she
blushed at her naivety. Then Hunter apologized, the words tumbling forth in a gentle
brogue, and her heart went all soft.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a smile. “I forget
not all have our Scottish sense of humor.”
She tilted her chin and tried to look
haughtily down her nose at him but from his look of amusement, she failed. She
kept her gaze on Hunter as she spoke. “Maggie, is there a Scottish word for
retribution?”
Her taunt only made him laugh harder.
*
* *
Heather insisted on helping clean the
kitchen while the two men went out to see to chores before leaving for the
village. When Heather expressed hesitation about venturing out, the housekeeper
quickly put her fears to rest.
“Hunter is hoping someone from the village
will recognize you,” she said. “There must be a reason you traveled this far, and
as you cannot recall, mayhap a villager is awaiting your arrival.”
Heather didn’t relish the thought of being
put on display; having unknown people gawking at her, but she allowed it seemed
the best way at the moment.
“Ah, I hear the wagon,” the housekeeper
said, removing her apron and donning a bonnet from the peg on the wall by the
door. She looked back at Heather.
“I can’t help with a bonnet, but let me
get you a shawl,” she said, scurrying around the table and into the parlor. She
returned almost immediately with a beautifully woven plaid of green and red.
The weave was tight; the wool thick and soft.
“This is beautiful.” Heather slid a hand
over the soft nap to the fringe that edged the long wrap.
“’Tis the MacGregor plaid,” Maggie said.
“Dates back centuries, it does; though forbidden to be worn during the Royal
Dress Act.”
“Someone forbid people to wear things?”
That seemed too incredible to believe.
“To be sure. The plaids are symbols of the
Scottish clans, though most clans live in the highlands. Long ago, they were
known to fight not only each other for land, but against the king to become a
sovereign state. At one time, the tartans were forbidden to be worn; the king
thinking without that show of unity, the Scots would become obedient. Of course
that did not work.”
“They are not at war now, are they?”
Heather had no desire to be in the middle of armed conflict.
“Not for many a year now, lass, so not to
worry.”
“But Hunter doesn’t wear a kilt.”
“Of course not. They’re not at all
practical for the kind of work he has to do, but I’m sure he has a tartan or
two tucked away for special occasions. Most Scots do, even if lowlanders do not
consider themselves clansmen as do the highlanders.”
Heather’s imagination formed a mental
picture of Hunter as a warrior, wrapped in his plaid, his chest and legs bare. With
a sigh, she sank onto a chair.
“Are you a right, miss?”
Heather took a deep breath, banishing the
image from her mind. It did no good to even think such thoughts. “Yes. Shall we
go?”
They stood on the porch as Finley brought
a small wagon around to the front. Hunter accompanied them on a horse. He had donned
a plain black waistcoat and a jacket of blue wool which made his shoulders
appear even broader than she recalled. A wide brimmed hat shaded his face so
she couldn’t read his expression except for his lips, which were turned up in a
smile as he acknowledged her with a touch to the brim of his hat.
As they rode into the village, Maggie
chatted on. “Andy will take you to the manufactory to meet up with Hunter, then
take me home to Gilchrist Manor. Whilst you two look about, we shall do our
duties there.”
“My, how can you keep up with two
residences?”
“There is nary to do at Gilchrist, seeing
as the master has died, but we keep it clean for the new owner.” She snorted
softly. “If he has a mind to ever make his face known to those here and take
over the business as a good owner should by this time.”
“I don’t understand,” Heather stated in
confusion. Had she been traveling to see the master of Gilchrist, now deceased,
or to see someone else in the town which bore his name? Finley pulled the horse
to a stop in front of a large building and she had no more time to ask
questions.
“Here you are, lass,” he stated.
She gathered her skirts about her and started
to descend when Hunter suddenly appeared, holding out a hand to help her down.
She had no gloves, and the bare contact with his palm sent a surge of heat up
her arm. She looked at him in alarm only to find him smiling at her. She had
the feeling he knew exactly how he affected her and enjoyed her discomfort. Hunter’s
gentle squeeze of her hand confirmed it.
She stumbled but he easily kept her from
falling. When she regained her balance, he tucked her hand in the crook of his
elbow and led her toward the double doors, framed by large, brick building
frontage.
“My, this is quite large,” she said as
they stepped over the threshold into what appeared to be an office. A counter
stretched across the front of the room, with only two benches against the walls
to either side of the front entrance. Beyond the counter Heather could see
several desks, each manned by a busily scribbling person. Though she saw
several glance up at their entrance, they quickly returned to their tasks. Only
one man stood to approach them.
“’Tis the largest textile manufactory of
any on the eastern half of Scotland,” Hunter said as he extended his hand to
the man who had come around the counter to greet them.
“Campbell.” The two men shook hands. Not
as tall as Hunter, the other man appeared to wear a perpetual frown, given the
deep furrows in his brow and the downward slope of his mouth. He glanced only
briefly at Heather, his frown deepening, before turning his attention to the
man at her side.
“MacGregor. I hoped you would come in today.
There’s much that needs to be done, as always.”
“And I am sure you have it well in hand,”
Hunter replied smoothly, seemingly not affected by the man’s abruptness.
Without missing a beat, he turned slightly to Heather. “May I introduce Miss
Heather. Miss Heather, this is Ian Campbell, the office manager of Gilchrist
Textiles.” He watched her closely, but could see the man held no recognition
for her.
Still, she extended her hand in greeting.
He appeared surprised at the use of only her first name, but he didn’t comment
on it and only reluctantly clasped her hand in greeting.
“Shall we get right to payroll, sir?”
Hunter shook his head. “I have only come
to give Miss Heather a look at our facility.”
Heather thought his purpose more the
opposite – to give the people of Gilchrist a look at her.
“But sir, there are issues to be
resolved,” the man continued.
Hunter frowned. “What issues?”
“Anderson has not come to work for the
past three days. Sent a note saying as he has family issues to be cared for,
but it has put a pinch in things on the third floor.”
“Have you sent anyone to check on him?”
“Of course not. It’s not my place to care
for—”
“It is our place to care about the welfare
of not only our employees, but their families as well.” Hunter frowned again,
then gave a sigh. “I will see to it. Give me the payroll list.”
The man produced said list, Hunter read
over it quickly, making a few notes, and handed it back to the manager.
“But sir,” his manager started. “Anderson
hasn’t worked for three days yet you have him the same wage as always for a
week’s work of labor?”
“Aye, and see you
don’t short him even a penny.”
Heather heard the
conviction in Hunter’s voice and though the man showed every indication of
arguing, he finally gave a grudging “aye” and walked away. She knew practically
nothing about this man who had found her, but realized he was compassionate and
caring. She thanked her lucky stars that she had ended up on his land.
They passed
through a door at the end of the counter and walked down a long hall. Sets of doors
ran along the left wall and Heather could hear gears grinding and what sounded
like steam hissing through pipes. At her questioning glance, Hunter smiled and
stopped by one set of doors.
“We recently
installed lifts, to make it easier to move equipment and bolts of fabric from
the weaving floors to the warehouses and to bring raw materials up to the
weavers.”
“I’ve heard of
those, though they are called elevators in New York.” Her eyes widened. “I’m
from New York,” she said softly.
“Well, well. It
seems our trip into the village has not been in vain. Let’s see what else we
can discover.” He turned back down the hall.
“We can’t take the
elevator?”
“I don’t entirely
trust those contraptions.” He gave a grimace. “Bracing yourself inside a small
box without a window and relying on a few ropes to pull you and the box up into
the air?” He shook his head again. “Nay.”
At the end of the
hallway, they took a set of steps up two floors, where the noise level reached
the level of a locomotive barreling down the tracks. Heather covered her ears.
Hunter led her across a small space and up another short set of steps and into
a room which overlooked the floor. Sheets of glass gave a view of the activity
below without the noise.
At this time of
day, the room they entered was deserted, although the remains of someone’s
luncheon still lay on a piece of brown parchment on a small table set against
one wall. He turned her to the window.
Heather gasped at
the site before her. Row after row of looms filled the warehouse floor, each
moving at incredible speed. Large pipes ran along the high ceiling and bent at
vertical angles periodically to large brass machines set strategically among
the looms.
“We weave only
wool products at this site,” Hunter said. “Our wool producers transport their
fleece to a warehouse on the other side of this where it is cleaned, dyed and
spun before being sent here for weaving. Since we converted to steam power,
we’re able to run our looms at a higher speed without losing quality of the
material produced.”
“It’s fascinating.
How is the pattern formed? I have always wondered how my dress lengths came in
such a wide variety of colors and patterns.”
“Weavers at one
time were trained on only one or two patterns. In the case of Scottish woolens,
the patterns were usually tartans, and each clan had its own weavers.
Individual cottage looms produced most linen cloth for the immediate family. It
was a slow process, with a single weaver only able to produce perhaps twenty-four
yards of fabric per week. This factory, with two hundred power looms driven by
steam, can produce over seven hundred pieces per week with two people
simultaneously operating four looms. The end result is that both plain and
patterned textiles can be produced quickly and cheaply, making mass-produced
fabrics for dress and trousers available to a large portion of society.”
“You certainly
know a lot about weaving.”
“That’s because at
the age of five or six, I became a drawboy here.”
She gasped. “Your
parents put you to work when you were only five?”
He smiled at her
outrage. “It’s not uncommon for children to work in the factories at some
menial jobs. In my case, my mother had died when I was five. My da, the
gardener at Gilchrist Manor, didn’t know what to do with a young boy;
especially one who kept getting into trouble. So when Gilchrist offered to put
me to work, Da agreed.”
“Still, that
couldn’t have been good for you.”
“It was far better
than working the mines or one of the tin factories.”
“What is
a…drawboy, you said? What did you do?”
“It’s the weaver’s
assistant who pulled the pattern cords in a conventional draw loom. It was a
simple job, however once Gilchrist started using the Jacquard mechanism, drawboys
were no longer needed. I only worked for a year or so, if that makes you feel
any better.”
“A child shouldn’t
have to work at all,” she said, although she knew it was not always the case.
“And this Jacquard mechanism? What does it have to do with the weaving process,”
she asked, fascinated by the story of weaving, as well as by the man telling
the story.
“It is an attachment for powered fabric looms.
It uses a series of connected punch cards
to instruct the loom on how to make intricate textiles.” He stepped closer and
raised his arm, pointing to draw her attention. “See that mechanism set on top
of the loom? The Jacquard loom can have hundreds of cards with holes in them
that correspond to hooks that can be raised or lowered to make textile brocade.
Others may have cards that correspond to a plaid or other pattern. The Jacquard
mechanism replaced the draw loom system of pattern control, which involved a
very lengthy set-up every time a new pattern was woven. It increases the speed
with which woven designs can be set up on a loom and allows the creation of
complex weave structures previously impractical with the draw loom.”
She could hear the
pride in his voice as he described the workings, again impressed with his
knowledge.
“I do apologize,”
he said as though reading her mind. “I tend to get carried away.”
“You keep calling
it the Gilchrist manufactory, so it is not your company?”
This brought a
laugh. “Nay, and I would not want the responsibility. Give me a thousand
stubborn sheep over this mechanical anarchy any day.”
“But you came in
and discussed payroll with that man.”
“Aye, that I did.
Donald Gilchrist owned this textile factory as well as one in Inverness and yet
another in Elgin, each specializing in a particular type of fabric such as
wool, linen or cotton. In addition, he has the spinning and dying sheds,
basically giving him a monopoly in the Scottish textile industry. However, that
does not answer your question. For whatever reason, he took an interest in me
and once my job as a drawboy no longer existed, he offered to send me to parish
school until I went off to university at fifteen.”
“That seems very
generous of him.”
He gave a gruff
laugh. “Old man Gilchrist was a true bast…” he paused. “Pardon. He was not a
nice man and there were always selfish reasons behind everything he did. He
abused his workforce, demanding long hours at barely a wage to provide food for
the table. He undercut the price of wool and he held a monopoly on the import
of cotton from the Americas.”
“Then why on earth
did you work for him?”
“He paid for my
education and he allowed my father to remain in his small cottage long after he
became unable to work. For that, once I returned from…” he paused and Heather
wondered what secrets he left out. “For that alone, I came to work for him. Perhaps
not so much to repay a debt as in hopes of helping correct some of the
atrocities he continued to perpetrate. I didn’t have to like the man to tend to
the needs of his workers.”
“And now that he
has died, you’re trying even harder to make up for what he neglected.” Every
word he spoke gave her more insight into his character, and she found herself
intrigued.
He seemed
embarrassed by her praise and quickly changed the subject.
“Come, there’s
more to do.” He held out his hand and when she placed hers on his warm palm, he
tucked it in the crook of his elbow and led her out of the room and down the
stairs.
“All four floors
of this factory weave woolens,” he said as they exited to the hallway they had
first entered.
“The factory must
make a decent income,” she said.
“It does all
right,” he replied, “although at one time, perhaps twenty-five years or more
ago, Gilchrist had Queen Victoria’s own custom for her tartan; a very complex
weave that only this factory had ever managed to produce. That and the custom
of some of the queen’s favorites created great wealth for Gilchrist. Then
suddenly, a cut direct from the Queen and no more weaving and so no more very
lucrative income. At that time, Gilchrist became even more of a tyrant.”
“Oh, my. I suppose
that would make anyone unhappy.”
“It was more than
that, but it is irrelevant at this point.” He led her outside, but she paused,
giving a last look at the tall building.
“Does this factory
weave this plaid?” She lifted her shawl closer as a brisk breeze tugged at the
fringe. “It’s very pretty.”
He turned in front
of her, tapping her nose with a finger. “You have much to learn about Scotland,
lass. A plaid is not pretty. It
stands for the blood of all Scots who ever battled to keep their land; for
integrity and honor and the love of their clan.”
“Do you have a
clan?”
“Nay, not in the
sense you mean. The MacGregor name goes back generations, but we’re scattered
across the highlands, lowlands and far away into Ireland and England. Most
lowlanders are Saxon in origin whereas clans still band fiercely together in
the highlands. Regardless, if a man is a Scot, he has a strong pride in his
heritage.” He started to say more, but instead stared at her.
She brushed a hand
self-consciously across her cheek. “Have I dirt on my face?”
“Nay,” he said
softly. “Your eyes are a most unusual shade of blue. They remind me of another,
yet I can’t fathom who.” His gaze shifted to her mouth, then back to her eyes
and she felt her cheeks warm with a blush.
For long minutes
they stood there, neither moving nor speaking and yet she felt something being
communicated between them. He finally gave a shake of his head and turned to
take her down the walk.
“These buildings
contain the dying and spinning workers,” he said as he pointed to other equally
large buildings as the manufactory. “But we shall leave those for another day.”
At the corner he
turned right, and they walked along a small park, deserted in the crisp day. At
the other end of the park lay a square with a fountain in the middle. All around
the four sides were small, two story structures.
“Welcome to the
village of Gilchrist.” Hunter spread his arms wide. “You will find just about
everything you would find in Aberdeen, though perhaps in smaller quantities.”
Along one side
Heather could see signage for a butcher shop, a textile store, apothecary and a
book and paper shop. As they walked along, they passed a pub, a feed supply
store and other shops, the windows of which held treasures Heather longed to
explore. Hunter nodded to people as they passed and acknowledged many by name.
They all gave her a passing glance before hurrying on their way, but none
stopped to converse. Hunter didn’t stop until they arrived at a dress shop.
“I shall leave you
here to find some clothing to replace what you had in the trunk which we have yet
to recover.”
“Oh, I can’t. I
have no money to purchase anything.”
“Lass, you cannot
live in a single dress and petticoat,” he began.
She blushed at his
mention of her undergarment. He grinned.
“I shall return
for you in an hour. If you do not choose a wardrobe, I will be forced to invade
this lady’s sanctum and do it myself.”
He opened the
door, greeted the woman within, and left her.
Misty images
immediately assaulted Heather as the smell of cloth tweaked her nose and a multitude
of colors swirled before her clouded vision. She reached out a hand for balance
and her fingers caressed a bolt of the softest wool. The unique smell of the
dress shop brought forth a hazy image of shopping with a woman; one wearing an
elegant, feathered hat over her blonde hair and smelling faintly of flowers.
Could that have been her mother?
“Good day, lass.”
The accent of the voice greeting her effectively washed away her recollections
of the past.
Heather blinked
and turned to greet the woman.
“I’m Mrs. Murphy,
the owner of this shop. How may I help you this fine day?”
Heather introduced herself and they had a
lively conversation while she showed Heather several day dresses. Though she
knew the lady was curious as to how she came to be with Hunter, she held her
tongue and for that Heather was grateful.
For such a small
village shop, she had many bolts of fabric for anything from sleepwear to ball
gowns and winter coats. There were shelves filled with spools of lace and
baskets containing cards of buttons.
“’Tis not often I have ready-made
dresses,” she said as she wrapped Heather’s purchases. “Most of my customers
are seamstresses in the finer homes so simply purchase fabric and whatnots from
me. Even when I have time with the needle, I am trying to catch up rather than
being ahead of it. These few dresses, however, were made for a miss who never
returned to claim them, so I am happy to sell them to you. It is a marvel that
you are of similar size.”
“I am happy to have them,” Heather
replied. “My trunk ended up in the river, along with the carriage, upon my
arrival here.”
Mrs. Murphy slapped a hand to her chest
with a gasp. “By the grace of Aos SÃth,” she whispered.
“My goodness, what does that mean?” Heather asked of the
lyrical words the woman spoke.
“Aos SÃth are the faery folk,” she
said with a laugh. “They must have been looking out for you. You were not
hurt?”
“A bump on the head,” Heather replied, then added, “and a
slight loss of memory.” More than slight but she couldn’t see belaboring the point.
“You don’t by any chance recognize me, do you?” Why had Hunter not thought to
ask about her from people at the factory?
Mrs. Murphy stared at her more intently but then sadly shook
her head. “You’re a very pretty miss, but not at all familiar. But if Hunter MacGregor
has taken you under his wing, you can be sure he’ll put it to rights.” A
sparkle came to her eyes. “Are you staying with him?”
Heather might have forgotten her history, but somehow
societal rules stuck firmly in her mind and she knew exactly what the woman
asked. “Mrs. Finley and her husband are looking after me,” she replied. Not a
lie, exactly.
To her surprise, the woman’s face fell. “Too bad, that.
Hunter MacGregor is as fine a lad as any in the land and ‘tis a shame he has no
wife and bairns.” Then she grinned again. “Perhaps you will visit me again and
I can design a gown for you to make a man notice.”
The bell over the door tinkled and Heather turned to see
Hunter stride in. He looked quite large and masculine among the bolts of silk
and muslin and spools of lace. She heard Mrs. Murphy give a soft sigh behind
her. She could admit a fluttering of her own heart and a tingle of awareness as
his gaze caught hers. How could she become enamored with a man when she didn’t
even know her own name?
* * *
Heather wore the same dress now as she had donned this
morning, but Hunter noticed she held a wrapped parcel so breathed a sigh of
relief that she had picked out some clothes. Although he had threatened to
choose for her, he was most happy not to do so. As pretty as the fabrics she
stood beside, and it would be far too easy to imagine her undressing and
sliding into a soft silk undergarment. Her beauty and gentle demeanor called to
the male in him. Her uncertainty about her identity made him want to become her
hero.
“’Tis good to see you again, Hunter,” Mrs. Murphy broke the
silence. “Miss Heather has told me of her situation. I sincerely hope you plan
to do something about it.”
There were so many ways he could read her words but decided
not to imagine them as a challenge. The good people of Gilchrist could be quite
opinionated.
“We are doing everything in our power,” he replied, not
elaborating on who we might be. “In
the meantime, this should suffice.” He handed her several coins. “Are you ready,
Miss Heather?” He adjusted the basket he held and reached out and took her
parcel to tuck it under his arm, offering her the other.
Heather remained quiet as they resumed walking down the
street. When he glanced her way, he caught her worrying her lower lip.
“What is on your mind?”
She looked up, startled. “You paid for my purchases. Mrs.
Murphy is going to think—”
“She will think nothing unkind.”
“Yet she expects you to ‘do something about’ my situation.
It’s certainly not your responsibility.”
She was right…and yet she was wrong.
With a sigh, Hunter tried to explain. “As much as I would
like otherwise, I am responsible for the people and problems in Gilchrist. As
Gilchrist’s manager, when he died he left me in charge of the factories. That,
in essence, means I must look after the people who work at the factories and
those who work in the village that the factories support. It is a never-ending
spiral. I would have refused if I had been told before the fact, but it became
known to me only after his passing. By then, the factories were in chaos;
assistant managers stealing from the coffers and workers neglecting their jobs.
Someone had to take charge.”
“But Maggie said there is an heir.”
“Aye, that is thought to be true.”
“Gilchrist was married?”
“Aye. The story is his wife disappeared some five and twenty
years ago and there were no children.”
“Disappeared? How does one simply disappear?”
“Just a lad at the time, I don’t remember the details,”
Hunter said. “I only recall being told to keep a very low profile at the factory
as Gilchrist was on a rampage for months. His verbal and physical abuse of his
workers became legendary.”
“I am beginning to understand what you mean about him. He
doesn’t seem a very likable man.”
“True. I think that is why the workers rebelled at his death.
They dared not do it before.”
“So his wife disappeared and he died with no children,
leaving the factories disheveled. Then who could be the heir?”
“There has been talk
of a disinherited brother who had a child. The solicitors are searching for
said heir but are having no luck. You would think if someone were to inherit
all that is Gilchrist, they would show their face and take charge.”
He stopped outside a small cottage and opened the gate for
Heather to walk through. The people of Gilchrist were not the richest in
Scotland. They had small plots and even smaller homes. Yet they took pride in
keeping them neat. Here, there were a few flowers planted in window boxes
beside the door and the roof looked newly thatched. Two small children played
under a tree and looked up with wide eyes as they passed.
Just as he lifted a hand to knock, the door opened and a
whirlwind nearly knocked him over, followed quickly by a young lad, yelling at
the top of his lungs.
“Give over!” he called, chasing after the laughing sprite as
she dodged behind the tree. As quick as faeries, the two little ones jumped up
and gave chase.
“Toby, keep an eye on the little ones.” A man’s voice yelled
through the open doorway. The door swung forward to shut but Hunter put out a
hand to stop it.
“Damn it, lad.” A wiry, bald headed man appeared in the door
frame, unshaven, shirt untucked and without even his boots. “I told you…” He
choked on any other words he may have intended to utter when he saw Hunter
standing there. His mouth dropped open and his cheeks grew ruddy.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. MacGregor.” He quickly began
stuffing his shirt into his breeches.
“It appears you have your hands full, Anderson,” he said not
unkindly. “Do you not have a wife to tend to your bairns so you can do your
work at the factory?” Campbell had only told him that Anderson had family affairs to look after.
“Aye, but she is…indisposed,” he stammered. Muttering
something Hunter couldn’t understand, the man ducked behind the doorframe and
reemerged stomping into his boots.
“I apologize for calling on you without notice,” Hunter said.
“But it’s not like you to miss work.”
“’Tis I who should be apologizing,” Anderson muttered.
“Please, do come in, though ‘tis a wee bit of a shambles, I fear.”
Hunter took a step forward but felt Heather’s hand on his
arm.
“We shall not intrude, Mr. Anderson,” she said, staring
pointedly at Hunter when she added, “Especially if your wife is ill. Is there
something we might do to help?”
Anderson stared at Heather as though an angel had descended
and Hunter had to admit he was also in awe. Heather’s soft voice soothed and
even though she didn’t know this man, she offered help. She also realized the
embarrassment the family might feel if Hunter, as Anderson’s employer, were to
see them not at their finest. Something he should also have realized.
“Ma’am?” the weaver croaked.
“My name is Heather,” she offered. Taking the basket from
Hunter, she turned. “I know you and Mr. MacGregor have things to discuss so I
will take this basket of treats he has brought, and your children and I shall
have a picnic.”
She gave them a smile and turned to walk over to where all
the small bairns were peeking out from behind the tree. Hunter hadn’t known how
Anderson would react to him bringing the family food for such was a Scot’s
pride, but Heather had simply offered in the way surest to be accepted – for
his children.
Anderson excused himself to grab them cups of ale and Hunter
remained on the porch watching Heather. She had gathered the bairns around and
uncovered the basket of food he had procured. He could hear the children laugh
and giggle when she mispronounced bannock as she broke off pieces for each of
them. He turned back when Anderson reappeared.
“Thanks.” He accepted the tankard of ale as he studied the
man. A master weaver, Hunter didn’t want to lose Anderson, but he couldn’t let
a worker take off whenever he wanted. He expressed his discontent as
diplomatically as he could.
“Aye,” Anderson nodded every time Hunter paused, then
apologized again for not being at work.
“My wife was in the family way and lost the bairn three days
past. The midwife said if she’d not stay in bed, we could lose her as well.” He
gulped down more ale. “My Toby’s too young to take care of the lassies for as
long as I’m gone of a day.”
Hunter looked over at the bairns. The smallest couldn’t be
more than one summer old. While large families were the norm, it would seem it
was not always for the best of all concerned.
“Is there no one to help?” he asked.
“Aye. My wife’s sister has a daughter she’s bringing from the
next village over. They should be here by nightfall.” He glanced at his
children then back at Hunter, his face earnest. “I will be back to work on the
morning shift, I swear.”
“See that you are, Anderson,” Hunter said. “I am sorry about
the bairn,” he added as Heather joined them.
“Mr. Anderson, the children told me what has happened,” she
said. “You have four children and the smallest is but a year old. Perhaps it
would be best if you—”
“We must be going,” Hunter interrupted abruptly, not liking
the suggestion he felt almost certain Heather had for the man.
“Well, I thought to…” Heather stopped in mid-sentence as he
took the basket from her, shoved it into Anderson’s hands and bid the man
farewell.
Taking her by the elbow, he guided her out of the small yard
and down the road, walking fast until she finally balked and dug in her heels.
“Why on earth must we run?” she asked, placing a hand to her
chest as she breathed rapidly.
“Because I feared you were about to say something most
inappropriate to poor Anderson.”
“If by that you mean a suggestion that he limit his amorous
attentions toward his wife, you would certainly be correct,” she replied with
indignation. “The poor woman was hardly out of the birthing bed and he had—”
“This is also a
most inappropriate conversation,” Hunter growled, feeling his face heat.
“Hunter MacGregor, I certainly know how children are beget,
and that man…” she paused, looking at him intently. She then burst into a
delightful laugh. “Have I embarrassed you with my plain speech?”
“Begetting bairns
is not something I speak about with ladies,” he grumbled.
She appeared to ponder that for a moment. He realized
instantly when the actuality of what they were discussing hit her. Her cheeks
flamed and her lips pressed into a tight line.
“I was not referring to the actual…that is…dash it,” she
stammered to a halt.
When he started to laugh, she punched him lightly in the arm
and took off walking down the road ahead of him. Hunter admired the sway of her
backside, his groin growing heavy with desire. There was definitely something
to be said for one lovely, outspoken American woman.
To read the rest of Her Scottish Legacy, click on this link for your choice of booksellers:
Interesting but long
ReplyDeleteI love the prose and the story. Thanks for sharing.
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