Chapter 6
6
W hen Mrs. MacIain came into the summer bedchamber carrying a porcelain ewer, Julia opened her eyes. “Good morning, madam.”
“Good morn.” After setting the pitcher on the washstand, the caretaker’s wife stirred the fire. “His Grace suggested ye break your fast with him in the dining hall below stairs at half-past seven.”
“Thank you.” Julia said, retrieving her pocket watch from the bedside table and checking the time. Wonderful. She had been cowering in the dark since the duke left her chamber last eve and hadn’t slept. Now she needed to ready herself for today’s hunt within a half hour. Rolling to her back, she stared at the bed curtains until Mrs. MacIain took her leave.
Bless it, the last thing she wanted to do was traipse around the Highlands with a musket. If hell actually existed this must be what it felt like to be there…a very cold hell, that is. She was so entirely daft. Why had her dreams chosen last night to terrorize her to the point of screaming? Even now, every time she closed her eyes she saw Mr. Skinner’s ghoulish face as he’d threatened Papa with eviction. Why her father had stooped so low as to borrow funds from an insect like that moneylender was beyond Julia’s comprehension.
She’d only met the chap once and he’d acted as acerbic and unpleasant as he looked, as if he’d been born with a cruel frown fixed upon his face. Julia shuddered. The venom in his threats still haunted her.
Yes, she’d told Dunscaby that she hadn’t had a nightmare in years, but that wasn’t exactly the truth. Of late, Julia nearly always awakened to a cold sweat in the dead of night because of Mr. Skinner. Because of his demands she had been forced to don men’s clothing and cast away her dreams of one day falling in love and having a happy family of her own.
But never before had she come awake screaming. She’d been sound asleep and unable to deepen her voice. Worse, Dunscaby had heard her.
I must never, ever cry out in my sleep again!
Realizing her list of never agains was growing rather large, Julia lumbered out of bed, shrugged into her banyan, and hastened to the washstand. After splashing her face, she still felt as if Satan had taken a hammer to the inside of her head. But there was naught to be done but to quickly dress and ready herself for a day of shooting.
Breakfast was enormous—similar to the fare Julia remembered being served at Huntly Manor before her mother had passed away. Mrs. MacIain must have been awake half the night preparing eggs, ham, bannocks, blood pudding, sausages, and more. Over half the food still remained when they headed outside where Mr. MacIain already had the horses waiting.
The caretaker handed Julia a musket, a powder horn, and a pouch heavy with musket balls. “This wee beasty has a bit of a kick, but she shoots straight.”
“Kick?” Julia asked, balancing the weapon in the crooks of her elbows while juggling the shot and power.
“’Tis already charged. Just point and shoot, ye ken?”
She glanced at the trigger. Though she hadn’t fired a musket before, she’d seen it done. Her father even owned a pair of dueling pistols, not that he’d ever used them. “Jolly good,” she said, trying to sound like Papa.
“We’ll ride through the glen,” said Dunscaby, mounting his horse. “MacIain says the deer have been grazing in the moors near the shore of Loch Tulla.”
Julia slid her musket into a sheath affixed to the saddle, shoved her boot into the stirrup and swung onto the horse. Smiling to herself, she’d grown rather adept at mounting and riding astride. It was actually far easier than negotiating a sidesaddle, which was one activity in which she professed to be rather proficient.
Clad in a beaver hat with a woolen scarf wrapped around her ears and tucked into her great coat, she took the reins into her fur-lined gloved hands and looked to the skies. “I say, we may have a spot of fine weather for this outing.”
“For the hunt, Mr. Smallwood,” Dunscaby corrected as he headed into a grove of trees, parted by a narrow path. “Och aye, with luck, we’ll have a fine day of shooting as well.”
Julia said a silent prayer and crossed herself. With luck, she’d survive this excursion without showing her hand.
After an hour of following the trail to the loch, Martin spotted deer droppings. He hopped down from his horse and crouched, stirring the spoor with a stick. “This is fresh.” A low chuckle rumbled in his throat as he cast aside the stick and pulled his musket out of its scabbard. “We’ll walk from here.”
“As you wish.” Smallwood dismounted, retrieved his weapon, and stood holding the barrel with the butt on the ground. He posed an amusing sight—the musket was as long as the man was tall. But he didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “The lake is beautiful.”
“’Tis a Highland loch,” Martin corrected, giving the water a cursory glance. “Aye, the morning’s ice is still rimming the shore.”
“Swimming is out of the question, then?” the steward jested with a shudder.
“Not unless you want your cods floating in your throat.”
Smallwood snorted. “You do have a way with words, Your Grace.”
“What four years at university will do for a man.”
After they hobbled their horses, Martin led the way along the shore. He knew exactly where they’d find a good hide. “No talking from here on out,” he whispered looking to the steward’s boots. “And watch where you plant your feet. A snapped twig will echo across the water like a cannon blast.”
Martin paused. “You’ve a pair of new Hessians.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But they’re distinctly smaller than those enormous shoes you have been wearing.”
“Ah…” Shifting the musket to his shoulder, the wee man shrugged. “The others were borrowed from Brixham’s butler.”
Martin looked to the heavens with a soft chuckle. “Mayhap your dancing will improve.”
Smallwood smirked.
Holding his finger to his lips, the duke led the way, not surprised that the wee man had suddenly become much lighter on his feet. Once they reached the outcropping, he pointed up the crag and turned his lips toward the steward’s ear. “If I’m right, there’ll be a buck or a herd just over those rocks.”
The man tilted his bright red nose upward. “Lead on.”
“I like your spirit.” Martin slung his musket over his shoulder and started the climb. He’d scaled these rocks more times than he could remember and in all seasons. After he reached the top, he crouched behind the craggy rock and peered across the swath of moorland sloping toward the water.
Without a deer in sight, he shifted his gaze beyond the shores of the loch and up the four peaks of Black Mount where their white peaks dominated the crystal-blue sky. By God, no matter how many times he visited this spot, its raw beauty always took his breath away.
Behind him, Smallwood grunted to the tune of a boot slipping on stone. Aye, the man needed a good turn in the wilderness to toughen up. It was eminently clear the steward had spent far too much time with a quill in his hand. True, he’d lost his father when he was but a lad, which was yet another reason why Martin felt the need to take the steward under his wing.
He pulled the spyglass out of his coat as the chap joined him. He waggled his eyebrows before he raised the glass to his eye and panned it from the first peak down to the grasslands, and along the shore of the loch. Detecting a bit of movement, he drew in a sharp breath and held very still. Ever so slowly, he turned the barrel to sharpen the image. “Och, he’s a beauty.”
“You have a deer in your sights already?” Smallwood whispered.
“Eight points, mark me.” Martin snapped the spyglass closed. “And if he’s lived that long, he’ll be skittish. We’ll have to be stealthy for certain.”
Smallwood rubbed his palms together. “And I’ll wager you have a plan.”
“I take hunting verra seriously, sir.” Martin pointed away from the buck. “We’ll climb up the slope, creep around, and come down along that far ridge where we’ll have cover. The beasty will never see us coming.”
“What will we do once we shoot him? Will he not be too heavy to carry?”
“That’s what the horses are for—but only after the hunt.”
Martin took the lead, picking his way up the slope. About a half-mile up, he found a game trail. “I’ll wager the beast uses this path himself.”
The foliage grew thicker and the trail waxed and waned, sometimes appearing to have vanished. When finally Martin was certain they had circumnavigated the buck, he readied his musket and slowed the pace, hunching over as he crept, carefully placing every footfall. Smallwood’s footsteps had grown fainter as well. The man possessed natural hunting instincts for certain. If nothing else, he was a quick learner and what he lacked in skill, he made up for in intelligence.
Ahead, a tree rustled. Raising his palm, Martin immediately stopped.
A low grunt came with the snap of a twig beneath the beast’s hoof.
After raising his musket firmly against his shoulder, Martin caressed the icy trigger with his finger. He inched forward, peering through the foliage, his heart beating a thunderous rhythm in his ears, his senses honed, keen to detect the tiniest sound or movement.
And then his quarry moved, the soft blur of the stag’s tan coat barely discernable from the barren branches surrounding him. Holding his breath, Martin dared to take another step. The snow beneath his feet crackled like fireworks at a fête.
The deer’s head snapped up, his ears shifting forward.
As their gazes met, the buck froze.
With the next explosive beat of his heart, Martin closed his finger on the trigger.
Boom!
Smallwood stepped beside him as the smoke cleared. “Excellent shooting, Your Grace.”
“Bloody beautiful shooting. Right between the eyes. The beast didna ken what hit him.” Together they marched ahead and stood over the stag. “He’ll feed the MacIain’s for months to come.”
“Shall we fetch the horses?”
“Och, nay. You havena taken a shot.” Martin nudged the fellow with his elbow. “Do you not want to find a beast of your own?”
Smallwood glanced to the horizon. A swell of black clouds had risen above the peaks, the grey blur warning that snow was already falling on the hills. “It appears as if we’re in for a squall. Perhaps I’ll have better luck another time.”
“Verra well,” Martin agreed. “We’ll walk along the shore. The going will be easier.”
By God, it felt good to be away from his responsibilities. A day in the Highlands and all the duties of dukedom diminished as if nothing mattered except, perhaps, the next meal.
But they hadn’t walked but a dozen yards when gusts of wind swept down from the mountains, turning the loch from glassy and peaceful to tempestuous, tipped with caps of white. Martin stepped up the pace, hopping across the same rocks where he’d played as a lad. A snowflake landed on his nose as he leaped onto an enormous crag with a sheer drop to the water. “My siblings and I played king of the mountain on this stone.”
“I’ll wager you claimed the royal throne more often than not.”
“Och, Smallwood, you wouldna be insinuating that I might have had an unfair advantage would you now?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Smallwood looked up from the boulder below. “You’re the eldest and the largest, I presume.”
“Such is the way of things.” Martin toed the groove in the stone where he protected his youngest sister. “Though after Modesty came along, I always allowed her to be my chief minister.”
“I can picture it now.” Smallwood fisted his hips, assuming a commanding pose. “‘I’m holding the rock and you’d best not challenge me, else you’ll dunk the wee bairn, and then there’ll be hell to pay!’”
“Your Scottish accent is abominable.” Martin guffawed. “If you believe I’m such an ogre, then you dunna ken how underhanded Gibb, Andrew, and Phillip can be. And Frederick is the most devious of the lot aside from Grace, of course.”
Smallwood climbed up beside him and peered over the edge. “Good heavens, ’tis farther down than I realized.”
Martin eyed him. The poor fellow had never been privy to a bit of brotherly love. Perhaps now was the time to give him a taste of what it was like. Bellowing with a devious laugh, he grabbed the man’s arm as if he were going to toss him into the loch. “Ye’d best watch yourself, else ye’ll be plunging to the icy depths!”
“Not me!” Smallwood squealed as he yanked his arm away, the jolt making him totter toward the water.
As Martin lunged forward to steady the steward, the heel of his boot skidded across the slippery rock. “Whoa!” he bellowed, completely losing his footing, suddenly plunging toward the white-capped swells. With a smack, his toes pierced the surface while the back of his head hit something hard. His ears rang with the same shrill scream from the night before.
Every sinew in Martin’s body tensed with the attack of frigid water enveloping him. The air whooshed from his lungs. And as his head went under, the sky faded into blackness.