Chapter 3
Clybourne Craig stood atop a rugged mountain about a day’s ride from Calder Castle. It rose up out of the rock like a sentinel, the only structure for miles around, and although much smaller than Calder Castle, it was a small but respectable fort.
Its tall stone towers that were weathered and dark with age—though the tops of the ramparts were stained white from the droppings of the birds that roosted there.
Inside, the place was shabby but clean, the furniture at least a hundred years old but sturdy. The style suited Uncle Callum, anyway, Ewan thought, who was well into his eighties himself.
The man looked frail as he handed Ewan a glass of scotch, the smell of the peat so strong that Ewan could already feel the burn in the back of his throat before he even took a sip.
They were sitting in the drawing room, whose stone walls were draped with tartans in the family colors and portraits of members of their clan going back several hundred years.
Despite the stone, it was warm in the room, as a large fire roared in the grate.
This was accompanied by the occasional sound of wailing as the outside of the house was assaulted with the strong Scottish winds.
Uncle Callum’s had been Ewan’s first thought as to where to look for his brother. Christopher was fond of Uncle Callum, and Claybourne Craig was a short enough distance from Calder Castle that he might have stayed here on his way to wherever he was going.
Alaric, meanwhile, had been sent on to several of the other great houses in the area. They were meant to rendezvous back at Calder Castle in a few days.
“This is the good stuff, lad,” Uncle Callum said, grinning down at Ewan with crooked, yellowed teeth as he held up his own glass of scotch.
His uncle, or really his great uncle, had a shock of white hair on top of his head, a leather face that had been worn by the harsh wind of the Scottish Highlands, and kind brown eyes that were so much like Ewan’s own.
“One of my tenants distills it when he’s not working the fields.
I am always telling him—if he wants to start distilling on a large scale, even selling and exporting, I will help him.
Set him up with a loan. But he is content to keep the operation small, just for friends and friends of friends. ”
Uncle Callum raised his glass high. “Slàinte mhath!”
“Slàinte mhath,” Ewan repeated, and he threw back the scotch. At once, his eyes watered, and his throat burned so fiercely that it took all his willpower not to choke.
But Ewan Dunmore, Duke of Calder, had never once choked on scotch. He was a Scot. And he managed to swallow down the drink with his dignity intact.
Still, when he looked up at his uncle, Callum’s eyes were twinkling.
“Burns, does it not?”
“It is a heavy dose,” Ewan said, setting his glass down on the long wooden table between them. “But the notes of pepper and cherry are impressive.”
“Aye! So you tasted them? Good lad.” Callum reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. “You could always hold your liquid. Unlike that layabout brother of yours.” He shook his head, and Ewan sat forward, his eyes narrowed, the burn of the scotch all but forgotten.
“Uncle,” he said, “that is why I have come to see you. I need to know if you have seen Christopher.”
Uncle Callum sat back in his large, leather armchair, and raised one bushy eyebrows.
“Aye, I have seen him,” he said. He tapped his fingers slowly against the side of the glass. “He asked me not to tell you, mind.”
Ewan felt a flicker of annoyance in his gut. “But you are not going to keep vital information from me, are you?”
Uncle Callum laughed. “No, I am not. And I told the boy that as well. He was not too pleased, but then again, very little could bring down his spirits.”
“When was this?” Ewan asked.
“Oh, not three weeks hence. He was on his way to Inverness, where he hoped to book passage on a ship to Edinburgh, then Amsterdam.”
Ewan grit his teeth so badly that he thought one might actually break.
“And you did not think to write to me and inform me that my brother was on his way to the Continent?”
Uncle Callum frowned. “In truth, I did tell myself to do so, but then I clean forgot until this morning, when you came riding up, demanding to know if I had seen him.”
Ewan looked down at the empty glass on the table and forced himself to take a deep breath. He always forgot that Uncle Callum’s memory was not what it once was. The man was so sharp in so many ways that it was easy to forget that he was as old as he looked.
When he looked back up, his uncle was watching him thoughtfully.
“He was supposed to arrive yesterday at Calder Castle,” Ewan said. “His bride is also arriving today, and they are supposed to be married in a week. What am I supposed to tell her? That her fiance has run off to Amsterdam because he was in need of one last adventure before marriage?”
Uncle Callum considered this. “Perhaps you should, yes,” he said slowly. “It is best the young lady knows the kind of man she is marrying, is it not?”
Ewan sighed and reached for the decanter of scotch, pouring himself another. He was not usually the type to have two, but considering the circumstances, perhaps it was necessary.
“That way, she can decide for sure if she wants to marry him.”
“She has to marry him,” Ewan said sharply. “Everything has been prepared. The marriage contract has been signed. The banns have been read, the—”
“This is Scotland, laddie,” Uncle Callum said, waving a hand through the air. “We do not care about banns and contracts here. A marriage requires only the intention and a witness. It does not need all those fancy bells and whistles.”
“But—”
“Nor does it need them to break the engagement.”
Ewan felt his mouth go dry. “You think that Christopher means to break the engagement?” he asked.
Uncle Callum took a moment to pour himself another drink before responding. “I do not know,” he said at last. “But I do not think it bodes well for a happy marriage that he has run off to the Continent the week before.”
“I have to find him, Uncle Callum,” Ewan insisted, leaning forward. “I have to bring him back.”
“And what do you plan to do? Sail to Amsterdam and explore the brothels?” Uncle Callum shook his head.
“If Christopher wants to come back in time, he will. If he does not, well…” Uncle Callum shrugged.
“She will not be the first lady to be jilted. Although in time, she may come to be grateful that she was.”
“It will destroy her reputation,” Ewan said, but Uncle Callum did not seem to be listening.
“We really ought to be speaking about your marriage, laddie.”
Ewan gaped at his uncle for a full ten seconds.
“My marriage?” he repeated at last. He felt something wet on his hand and looked down to see that it was shaking so badly that some of the scotch had spilled onto it.
He set the glass down quickly. “My wife is dead, Uncle Callum. Do not tell me your memory has eroded so much you have forgotten this?”
“I remember,” Uncle Callum said impatiently. “What I am saying is that you ought to marry again.”
Ewan’s jaw tightened. “I have no wish to marry.”
“I know you do not. You also do not seem to have much of a wish to live.”
“I beg your pardon—”
“You do not accept invitations. You do not attend balls and parties. You ignore every beautiful, bright young woman who bats her eyelashes at you. All you do is pour over the drainage systems of your estate.” Uncle Callum’s eyes were sharp and perceptive—too perceptive.
And when he spoke again, his voice was low but firm.
“You have buried yourself along with Margaret, dear boy. And it is about time that you brought yourself back into the land of the living.”
Ewan felt something hot burn in his throat and eyes that had absolutely nothing to do with the scotch. He looked down, unable to withstand his uncle’s gaze a moment longer.
“I must honor Margaret’s legacy,” he muttered. “I must not forget her. In staying true to her, I keep her alive.”
Uncle Callum tutted loudly. “You might tell yourself that, but I know it is not true. The woman was never a good wife to you. And you deserve better.”
Ewan stiffened, and when he looked back up, his eyes were blazing. “I would beg you not to say another word on the subject, in particular any words that would malign the memory of my late wife.”
Uncle Callum put his hands up, as if in surrender.
“Whatever you say,” he growled. “But I still think it is a better use of your time to concern yourself with your own future, rather than try to control your brother’s. Because that lad…” He shook his head. “He is untameable.”
Ewan was thinking about his uncle’s words the next afternoon as he made his way back toward Calder Castle.
It had been a hard ride, and he had left early in the morning, but despite the dark mood that had settled over him since Christopher’s disappearance, he couldn’t help but enjoy the solitude and beauty of the landscape around him.
The day was mild and blustery, gray and white clouds moving quickly above him in the sky, casting long shadows over the hills and mountains of green and red, the bluffs that rose up into the sky as if longing to touch the heavens, the deep valleys where streams and lochs glittered in the thin sunlight.
This was where he belonged: in the rugged wilds of the Highlands.
He would never be tempted to run away to the Continent for a taste of freedom.
For him, freedom was a long ride through these hills and mountains, a swim in the icy cold depths of the lochs, lying in his shirtsleeves in a field of heather, listening to nothing but the rustle of the wind through the leaves.
He was nearing Calder Castle now, and he knew he should return straight home, but as he approached the turn-off for his tenant O’Murphy’s land, he hesitated. The man had recently put in a new water channel that he had been longing to see.
Ewan reined in his horse, thinking. Really, he ought to get back. Lady Pembury and her daughter may have already arrived at the house, and he needed to get back to greet them.
Then again, a few hours wouldn’t make much difference, and the water channel was supposed to be particularly impressive…
Something I can incorporate into my own designs.
Ewan’s heart kicked in his chest, as it always did when he was confronted by an impressive feat of engineering.
A short detour will not hurt…
With a small, guilty smile, he turned the horse right and headed down the path that would lead to the water channel and the rain-fed loch from which it fed.
At last, he rounded a corner, and the loch came into view.
What caught his eye was not the loch itself, glittering and serene in the afternoon sunlight, nor the newly dug water channel descending toward the village below. It was the woman standing alone at the water’s edge.
The woman was tall and striking-looking, her back very straight and her figure lean and athletic. He had never seen her before, of that he was certain. He would have remembered her. She had auburn hair with copper undertones, which gleamed in the afternoon light.
This hair was pinned up, but he could see that it was starting to fall out of its pins. Locks were curling around her shoulders, which were bare of a pelisse. The pelisse lay on the rocks behind her, as did her shoes and stockings.
Ewan’s heart tightened in his chest, although he wasn’t exactly certain why. The woman was in her bare feet. And she was walking quite determinedly toward the edge of the loch, her feet sinking into the cool, dark mud around the edge.
Now Ewan’s heart leapt, but this time, the feeling was easier to identify.
It was fear.
She was clearly planning to step into the loch, perhaps even to swim.
And while the loch might look still and harmless from the outside, it was famous for its steep drop-off just a few meters in, when the bottom dropped out into a deep stone basin.
The locals knew to avoid this loch for that reason.
Which meant this woman was not a local. And she was about to put herself in danger.
Without thinking, Ewan urged his horse forward, digging his heels into her sides. At the same time, he let out a yell and raised one arm high.
He wasn’t sure if it was his yell, or the horse’s whinny, or the sound of her hoofbeats against the ground, but the woman looked up right at the same moment that she stepped into the loch.
For one moment, her eyes met Ewan’s, and Ewan felt as if all the air had been knocked out of him. Those eyes, they were… fierce. Even from a distance he could feel the intensity of them, the intelligence and determination.
And then the woman slipped on the mossy rocks beneath her. His stomach jolted as she fell forward—it was his fault! He had distracted her!—and disappeared under the water.
He shouted again, fear shooting through him like a bullet. He was only a hundred yards away, but the horse was not going fast enough. He had to get to her, he had to rescue her before she drowned.
But she had vanished. He could not see a single inch of her, not even a hand reaching up out of the water.
His horse clattered across the rocks. The loch was feet away now.
He reined in the horse sharply and jumped down. Without removing his boots or his jacket, Ewan ran forward and dove into the water, before the ripples had even faded.