Chapter 8
Dominic walked fast, head down, legs pumping furiously, lost in his own thoughts and his own desire to get to wherever he was going.
In this case, he was heading home.
Home, he thought wryly. It wasn't always home. Once home was home. The Keep. Not anymore.
A light spatter of rain was falling, an occasional cold droplet splashing rudely down the back of his collar, chilling his skin. He'd been in such a rush to leave that he hadn't bothering bringing along a jacket or coat, or even his hat.
He was that keen to walk Paisley home, apparently.
Even the thought of her sent a twinge through Dominic's chest, curling in his gut. He recognized the sharp stab of desire, of course, and fought to push it down. Men who let their lust lead them always came to grief or were simply too stupid to tolerate.
Take Thomas, for example.
Dominic prided himself on being more sensible, more logical about such things. He wasn't about to turn into a tittering girl over a pretty face. He'd ignored distracting women very neatly in the past, and he could so again.
Nay, ye can't, fool, whispered a little voice at the back of his head. Did ye or did ye not spend the whole evening watching Paisley tonight?
Dominic gritted his teeth, angrily pushing aside a branch which hung across the path.
He had been watching her. He'd tracked her progress through the crowds, and watched her smile and laugh with the patrons, chatting easily.
She received all the expected insults on her Englishness with a good grace and a solid sense of humor, and quickly got the hang of moving around the crowded bar floor without knocking into people.
She was bonnie, too. There was no sense in denying it – Dominic found her attractive.
Dangerously so, in fact.
He swallowed hard, trying to focus on the road ahead of him.
Leave her be, he threatened himself. She's running from something, that much is clear. Ye will only find trouble if ye dig around too deep in a person's past. The lass probably has a husband and a flock of children back home in England.
He stopped dead, not quite sure how to handle the sudden wave of anger and jealousy which washed over him at the thought of Paisley being with another man.
Whoa, lad, he told himself. Just nip that in the bud, eh?
He took a few deep breaths, resolutely removing all thoughts of Paisley from his mind. The girl had a life and a mind of her own, and she could do damn well what she liked. It was none of his business, unless she saw fit to make it his business.
Dominic was just the man who paid her wages and gave her orders and considering his abrasive personality and fiery reputation around these parts, it was a fairly safe bet to say that the pretty young English girl wouldn't be falling in love with him anytime soon.
The path widened abruptly near the tree line, and Dominic stepped out of the green darkness into the open air. He drew in a deep breath, enjoying the clear night air, tinged with the delicious scent of wet greenery and fresh rain.
He glanced down the hill to The Sinner. He could see a light glowing in the window of his office. That was a habit he'd picked up lately, so that he didn't come home to a pitch-black place on a night.
But underneath, the main windows of the pub were lit, too. Dominic stiffened. Nobody had been in when he locked the doors earlier, so how...
The thought trailed off when he saw the carriage. Smooth, black, and well-polished enough to glint in the moonlight, he recognized the thing at once.
Sighing to himself, Dominic made his way down the hill.
The coachman glanced up at him as he went by, dropping him a respectful nod.
"Evening, Laird MacLennan."
"Evening, Rob," Dominic replied. "She's in there then, eh?"
"Aye, sir, that she is."
Taking a moment to gather his courage, Dominic stepped over the threshold, pushing open the door.
"Maither," he said lightly. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Oh, I'm sure it is." Catriona Sutherland, also known as Lady MacLennan, huffed. "Here I am – the one woman a man can never escape – his maither. Now, be a good lad and get one of those chairs down from the table. They're too heavy for me to move, and me old bones need a seat."
Dominic felt a pang of unease at his mother having to stand here, in the drafty, dark old building, with nowhere to sit. She was easily sixty, having had him fairly old, compared to other ladies, and looked every inch of her years.
"Ye could have asked Rob to get a seat out for ye." he said lightly, taking down a chair and angling it towards the fireplace. The fire was out, of course, but a few embers still smoldered. She should be warm enough, at least.
Catriona settled down with a sigh. "Rob's business is to drive the coach and mind the horses. I'm not decrepit yet, Dominic."
He said nothing. His mother had never had the best of health. She'd outlived his father, but now her old bones creaked and twinged in the cold weather, and she moved more and more slowly. He worried about her, although of course it would do no good to tell her that.
"So, can I assume this isn't a social call, then?" Dominic asked dryly, pulling up another chair beside her. It would be warmer and cozier up in his study, but Lady McLennan could barely manage stairs these days.
"It is not," she responded curtly. "I'll be blunt, Dominic. Ye are never at the Keep these days, so ye are out of the loop with many important matters."
"Well, ye are there to handle them."
"Do ye ever think that perhaps I don't want to handle yer business?
" she said sharply. "I had enough of that when yer father was alive.
Sittin' in at meetings, pinchin' pennies, and working through endless paperwork while he drank himself to death wasnae me idea of a good time.
I'll nae be here much longer, Dom, and ye will have to manage this business yerself. By yerself."
"Aye, Ma, I hear ye."
She eyed him for a long moment. "I hope ye do.
Well, I'll be blunt. We've had a hard winter.
Some crops have failed, and a great many families are struggling this year.
There's meant to be another difficult winter ahead, along with a wet and miserable spring and summer.
Food is scarce. People are strugglin'. Our people, Dominic. They're scared, and for good reason."
There was an expectant pause. Dominic pursed his lips, eyeing the glowing embers of the dying fire.
"Well, what am I to dae about it?" he said at last. "Take some of me money and get them food. I trust ye to handle that."
This was the wrong thing to say, clearly. Lady McLennan's face reddened.
"Is that yer solution to everythin', Dominic? To throw money at it? Good God, have I taught ye naything?"
"It works!" he argued. "They daenae have food? Buy some. They cannae afford their rent? Give them credit or dae something to lower their rents. Money solves a great many problems, Ma."
"What about morale? Ye cannae throw money at that."
He rolled his eyes, sitting back in his seat. "I thought ye came here to talk about real, tangible problems. Food shortages and debt, and what have ye. Dealing with low morale is nae me problem."
Catriona gave a crisp, harsh laugh. "Oh, nay?
What dae ye think a clan laird does, lad?
Ye are the captain of our ship. Ye have to keep people's spirits up.
Aye, ye need to make sure yer people have food and water, and work, and enough firewood to scrape by a winter, but ye also need to give them confidence and security.
They need to be able to look to ye as a figurehead, as someone to rely on. "
Dominic picked at his cuticles, not wanting to look his mother in the eye. Contrary to what some people thought, he hadn't inherited his iron-gray death stare from his father. Oh, no. It was Catriona who could pin a man to the wall with a glare, from forty paces.
"I'm nay figurehead," Dominic said at last. "I'm just a man. A businessman. So, if there's nay money ye need from me, I'm not sure what it is ye think I can do."
"Oh, for God's sake, lad. The people want to look up to ye. They're trying to admire ye, but ye make it difficult, I must say. The people want stability. That means a laird who seems to care about them, not one that just throws money at them."
"And what, pray tell, is wrong with throwing money?"
Now it was Catriona's turn to roll her eyes.
"Do ye know what the people will feel like when ye just toss money their way? Eh?"
"I'm sure ye about to tell me."
"It makes them feel like a problem. They want to feel loved by their laird. They want a lady."
"They have a lady, Ma. Ye."
She shook her head. "I'm talkin' about a young lass, and ye know it, Dominic.
A wife. A pretty lassie with a good head on her shoulders, somebody the people will like.
They want bairns, to talk with each other about the laird's latest baby, about his wife, about the sort of person she is and how she plans to help them in the future. "
"I'm sure they've got bigger things to talk about than me love life, Ma."
She pursed her lips. "Ye are deliberately misunderstandin'. Ye need to make an effort with these people. The council is talking about removing ye. Here I am, telling everyone who will listen that ye are not like yer da, and here ye are doing yer level best to prove me wrong."
Dominic bit the inside of his cheek. "Let the council remove me. I daenae care."
"Oh, spare me yer whinin'. Listen, ye will be throwin' a Ceilidh soon."
"Oh, I will be doing that, will I?"
"Aye. Ye will attend with a fine young lady on yer arm. Ye will smile and laugh and chat, and dance every dance, or almost every dance, and ye will show yer people and those wretched councilors that ye are Laird MacLennan, and ye value yer position. Do ye understand?"
"Would it make any difference if I say nay?"
Catriona levered herself to her feet, wincing in pain as her tired old joints straightened out.
Dominic's hands itched to help her up, but he kept them firmly on his knees.
He knew that his mother hated to be fussed over, hated to be helped around.
One day, she would need that help, and wouldn't be in a position to refuse it, but that day wasn't today.
He got to his feet too, head pounding. The headache had come from nowhere, landing squarely between his temples and banging insistently there. Any thoughts of a nightcap or a last drink before bed had faded. Dominic wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and lay his head on a soft pillow.
"He's dead, Dominic," Catriona said abruptly, making him flinch.
"Yer da is dead. Gone. Not coming back. Whatever ye felt about him, ye cannot let him ruin your life.
Think of how he'd like that – destroyin' everythin' we've worked for from beyond the grave.
It would be the most impressive thing he's ever done. "
Dominic clenched his teeth, lifting up his chin.
"As ye so nicely put, Ma, I'm nae me faither. So, there's nae need to worry about it."
Catriona held his gaze for a long minute, eyes sharp and unblinking, searching Dominic's face for something. He forced himself to meet her eye and not look away. What was she looking for in her son? Did she find it?
At last, she sighed, shaking her head.
"Right. Well, I'm goin' home. It's late, and cold, and I'm tired. I'm too old to be gallivanting about the countryside at this hour, and so is Rob. Now, Dominic, ye can start by coming back to the Keep more frequently. Ye cannae rule a clan at a distance."
"I think I'm doin' a good enough job so far."
She eyed him tiredly. "Are ye comin' back to sleep in yer room tonight, or are ye dossin' it down in this smelly old pub?"
Dominic winced theatrically. "I'm sleepin' in the smelly old pub, Ma."
She rolled her eyes. "Aye, well, when ye are me age and ye joints are all frozen up and wrecked, daenae come crying to me. Nae that I'll be around, then. Good night, Dominic. Sleep well."
"Same to ye," Dominic replied, the words tasting like cotton in his mouth.
Catriona made her slow, laborious way to the door.
She was supposed to walk with a stick, the healers had recommended it several times, but she had refused.
It made her look like an old woman, she said.
Dominic's heart skipped a beat once or twice when his mother missed a step or rested a gnarled old hand against the wall to balance herself.
I should be there, he thought, guilt clawing its way up his throat.
Rob, faithful as always, was at the door waiting, and offered Catriona his arm. She took it – much to Dominic's surprise – and was soon bundled safely up inside the carriage. He watched the carriage bob and bounce over the hills, a blocky, dark shape on the horizon that soon vanished altogether.
He closed and locked the door, breathing slowly and deeply. His mother's visits always unsettled him, leaving him feeling... well, wanting, somehow.
The fire in the hearth was entirely gray and cold now, the last embers snuffed out. A chill was starting to creep up through the floor. For some reason, the cold seemed worse tonight.