Chapter Ten
Glenlorne Castle looked just as it had when he’d left home eight years ago, as if time did indeed stand still in the Highlands.
The new castle waited for him at the head of a long valley that overlooked the loch, surrounded by hills and sky, and as the cart he’d hired at the coaching inn carried him nearer, Alec felt a swell of pride, of longing for things to indeed be the way they were once.
He remembered standing on the craggy slope above the loch with his grandfather, breathing in the scent of heather and peat fires, and listening to the tales of what it had been like, before Culloden and the English, before the Clan MacNabb had lost everything good, the pride and hope of the clan gone with Angus’s seven brothers, all killed at Culloden, or in the brutal reprisals that had followed Prince Charlie’s final battle until Angus MacNabb was the only son left.
He’d been away at sea, and had come back to find a handful of ragged, broken MacNabbs who expected him to be their laird, to fix everything, to turn back the clock and give them back what they’d lost, as if one man could perform such a feat.
Alec remembered the pain in Angus’s eyes when he spoke of those days.
He’d made Alec promise that someday, when he was earl, Glenlorne would rise again, be a home again, filled with pride and prosperity.
Alec clenched his fists and stared at the castle.
If his grandfather could see him now, the old man would surely hang his head in disappointment.
Alec felt the ache of guilt at the memory of that promise.
He wasn’t a leader, or a miracle worker.
He was a thief, and he’d even failed at that.
He wouldn’t be surprised if his clansmen ran him out of Glenlorne for good.
He looked at the little burial ground on the edge of the village, the markers sticking up through the grass like rotting teeth.
The little kirk stood beside it. His grandfather was buried there, and now his father as well.
Would he lie there in his turn? A cloud passed by, leaving the kirk in shadow while letting the sun gleam off the yellow and gray stones of the castle, riming it with light, making it appear to glow.
The cart pulled up at the door. “There you are, Laird,” the carter said, jumping down to fetch Alec’s boxes from the back.
“And may I say it’s grand to have ye home again.
” He grinned as if Alec was indeed the savior, come again.
Alec nodded and gave him a coin. He’d sold his meager furnishings and his books and borrowed from Westlake to get enough money to make this trip, to buy a few trinkets for his sisters, so they wouldn’t know what he really was when he arrived home.
Home. Was he home? At least for the time being.
He wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t. He renewed his vow to sell, tried looking at the place as a buyer might.
He ran his fingertips over the carving by the front door, a wolf’s face.
Part of the jaw was missing, shot away during the reprisals after Culloden, and the proud creature looked more like a mongrel dog.
“Just one of the sins the English have to answer for,” his grandfather had grumbled each and every time he passed the carving. Alec glared into the eyes of the wounded beast. The castle would require a good deal of repairs before he could sell it.
“Alec lad!”
He turned to find old Muira coming around the side of the building, bearing baskets filled with herbs and flowers.
The servant had been old when he was a lad, and she was old now, yet unchanged, as untouched by time as the rest of Glenlorne.
He smiled as she hurried toward him, her eyes shining, still blue as the sky.
“It is you, isn’t it?” She shifted the baskets on her hip and reached out a hand to touch his cheek, as if making certain he wasn’t a ghost.
“Aye, it’s me, Muira,” he said, slipping back into Gaelic.
She stepped back and cackled. “I knew ye’d come! She’s been saying ye must be dead, but I’d know if you were—I’d feel it in my bones. The castle would feel it. It’s been waiting for you, all these years, and here ye are.”
Alec watched her eyes fill with sentimental tears.
Muira had been at Glenlorne for as long as Alec could recall.
She was Glenlorne’s cook, housekeeper, healer, and midwife.
She knew the clan legends and old stories as well as his grandfather had.
She’d also served as Alec’s nurse when his mother had died before his father married Devorguilla.
Devorguilla made the mistake of trying to send Muira away, saying Muira was a witch.
It was her knowledge of herbs and spells that saved her.
She’d brought Devorguilla through a hard labor with Megan, saved her life and the child’s, and though the two women never spoke of it, an uneasy truce existed between them, and Muira had stayed.
Muira refused to speak Devorguilla’s name or call her countess, and Devorguilla referred to Muira as “the cook.”
Alec opened his arms, but Muira shook her head. “Come away in, lad. ’Tis the Midsummer herbs I have here, and I dare not let them touch the ground.”
He’d forgotten the charms and spells and superstitions. “Let me,” he said, and tried to take the baskets. Muira hung on with a grip that belied her frail bones.
“Don’t be daft. Ye’re the laird—ye can’t be doing women’s work.”
She pointed to the front door. “In you go, through the front as is proper. I’ll take these round through the kitchen and fetch a dram to welcome ye home.”
She scurried away round the corner, and Alec climbed the steps and stared at the massive oak door, scarred by battle and years of use.
He touched the deep scuffs left by English rifle butts, and pulled his hand away.
This wasn’t the time for sentiment. The door needed a coat of paint, perhaps, to make it look less like a medieval fortress and more like a home, so potential buyers weren’t frightened off before they even got inside.
He took a deep breath as he opened the door, wondering what he’d find.
He stood on the broad step that led down to the castle’s great hall.
It was cool inside after the heat of the June day.
He took note of the familiar room. It was the hall of a laird—a powerful man, in favor with Scotland’s king, his confidant and friend.
He looked at the dais at the end, which his grandfather said had once held a massive chair for the laird’s use.
Alec had never seen it. It had been broken apart, used by the English soldiers to fuel the two massive fireplaces designed to heat the vast space on frigid Highland nights.
A plain chair sat there now, a placeholder, waiting for glory of the MacNabbs to return.
The walls were barren of decor, save the smashed stone carving of the clan crest above the laird’s chair.
His grandfather told tales of the days when the hall was hung with tapestries, weapons, and shields, but those were gone, and with the passing of the old folk like Muira, they would soon even be lost to memory.
Alec could imagine his grandfather pointing out the place on the wall where each weapon had once hung .
. . The targe of Malcolm; a banner blessed by St. Margaret;the dirk and claymore of Alec MacNabb, the first of that name, and the laird who’d built this tower for his bride, a delicate creature who could not abide the icy drafts that whistled through the old tower on the crag.
He crossed to the window, and opened the shutters and stared across the valley to the old tower. It was still standing sentinel.
“Here y’are.” he heard Muira’s voice and turned.
She carried in a brimming chalice on a tray covered with a scrap of plaid.
“ ’Tis the laird’s cup,” Muira said proudly.
“Carved from the horn of the great mountain goat that tried to kill the first Alec MacNabb, and trimmed with silver given him by the poorer, weaker clans who came on bended knee to take our name and join the great MacNabbs.”
Alec stared into the depths of the whisky that filled the cup to the brim. Whisky, at least, appeared to be in plentiful supply at Glenlorne.
“Drink!” Muira encouraged him. “It comes from the cask that was hidden deep in a cave by yer great-great-grandsire, for an occasion just such as this.”
Alec wondered if it that was true. “Is there a spell on it?” he teased, raising the cup to his lips.
Muira waited until he drank before answering.
“Just a wee one, perhaps, and just for good fortune, a bright new future, and strong and healthy heirs, o’ course.
We hardly need a spell for any of that now ye’re here.
You’ll set things right at last. The Clan MacNabb just needs a leader again, and all will be well. ”
Sixty thousand pounds would also go a long way toward setting things right, he thought.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about Sophie, his bride and the potential mother of those strong and healthy heirs, but he stayed silent.
What if he didn’t marry Sophie, what if he sold Glenlorne?
His sons, if he had any, would never see Glenlorne.
He sipped the whisky, savoring the rich, smoky taste of it.
Muira was yet another soul he was about to disappoint.
He already felt as if his grandfather was frowning at him from the chieftain’s chair.
He glanced behind him to make sure it was empty.
“Where are the girls?” Alec asked.
Muira grinned. “It’s Midsummer! They’re out in the hills, o’ course, gathering what’s needed for the celebration.” She pursed her lips, and her skin folded into deep lines and creases. “At least, I hope they are. I’m not their nurse any longer. She’s hired a new governess, and—”