Auld Bertha’s Notions
Auld Bertha’s Notions
Alec strode through a flock of geese, sending them honking in all directions as he headed for the stables down the lane. Dark clouds rolled in the sky above. The rain had returned, but he hardly noticed the cold drops trickling down the back of his neck.
His thoughts were on Sorcha.
Meeting her would have been an outright pleasant turn of affairs—if she hadn’t been a Cunningham.
And he was angry. By all that was holy, he was angry. But not for her insolent slandering of the good Montgomery name. Nay, but for precisely the opposite, for the fact that for the first time in his life, it hadn’t truly bothered him.
Why?
Why hadn’t he cared a whit what insults she’d spewed or what clan she hailed from? Rather, he found himself admiring her pluck as visions of devouring her lying, pouting lips with his own danced in his head.
He shivered.
It had to be Auld Bertha. The old hag had planted the notion in his head.
“Mayhap you’re ill, ye fool,” he muttered, running a quick hand over his forehead. Nay, he felt well enough. He scowled. “She’s a Cunningham. Just another lass.”
Aye, just another lass.
He took a long, calming breath.
In any case, he excelled at forgetting women. Certainly, it wouldn’t take long to forget this one as well.
Smoothing his brow, he squared his shoulders and made for the lichen-covered stables.
A gust of chill wind blasted his face along the way, carrying with it the scent of horse and damp leaves.
He inhaled deeply. He couldn’t wait to get back on the road, and by all that was holy, he couldn’t wait to leave this accursed village far behind.
The stable master met him at the door, and the haggling began, but Alec drove a hard bargain—and with his current state of mind, a quick one.
Soon, he’d hired a cart, horse, and a stern, crag-faced driver by the name of Seamus, along with stable lads to aid in the moving of the goods and the removal of Tinker’s cart.
“Lainshaw,” the stable master greeted Seamus as he arrived.
“Lainshaw?” the driver grunted, running a hand over his iron-gray hair.
Lainshaw.
Once again, Alec found himself wincing at the word.
Again, the fault of Auld Bertha. He’d allowed the hag’s dire warnings to set him on edge, even though logic dictated she’d most likely overheard Robert’s travel plans and had twisted the knowledge to her own benefit.
And this talk of true love, of meeting a Cunningham lass?
Again, simple logic. With his penchant for feminine beauty, the odds that he’d find at least one of Margaret’s clan bonny enough—and there were a fair number of them clucking after the woman like hens wherever she went— were quite good.
Truly, it had nothing to do with Sorcha.
The stable master and the driver still conversed in the background, but he paid them little heed—not until he heard the words, “Aye, but ‘twill lengthen the journey to Lainshaw. The river crossing’s flooded …”
It was as if Auld Bertha stood beside him, whispering in his ear, “Have a care in Lainshaw, lad. ‘Tis there the river of blood ‘twill begin.”
He snapped his head back, making his mind up all at once.
He wasn’t one to believe in fairies and the like, but he wasn’t a thick-headed fool either.
Turning to the stable master, he ordered, “Fetch me a lad with a fast horse. I’ve a message for the earl, and it must be sent with haste. Great haste.”
* * *
The disposing of Tinker’s old cart had been a miserably tiresome task, even with the help of two strong stable lads, but at last, it was done.
Alec glanced at the drizzling, dark skies above, knowing somewhere above them, the midday sun had already begun its descent.
It was late to embark upon a journey, but he’d rather sleep on the road than spend another night in Seton’s territory.
Tossing the lads a coin for their trouble—and wincing at his near-empty purse—he mounted his gray mare and cantered over the moorland to the winding cow-path leading to the peatcutter’s cottage.
The warning bark of a dog announced his arrival, and two more stable lads glanced up from their business of tying oilskins over a cart piled high with Lady Margaret’s belongings.
The thing was filled near to bursting, with several wooden crates stashed up front as well, leaving barely enough room for the driver to sit.
With an acidic snort of a laugh, Alec dismounted as Taran stepped out from behind the cart to greet him.
“I’ve sent your wee brother, Andrew, out for additional horses,” the highlander said, giving the oilskin-covered cart a hearty slap.
“Margaret’s a hoarder, and there’s no place for the chambermaids.
They’ll have to ride.” He cocked his head at a nearby clump of maples where Sorcha and another lass with raven hair, waited under a canopy of flame-red leaves.
Alec caught his breath, at first, seeing only Sorcha’s deliciously tempting curves.
Aye, and the red Cunningham plaid draped over her shoulders.
His mood soured and a chill rippled down his back.
‘Twas truly a plaid he didn’t favor. With Auld Bertha’s voice threatening to return, he announced brusquely, “I’ll pay my respects to Tinker afore we leave. ”
He didn’t wait for Taran to respond. Striding to the door, he stooped under the lintel and entered the humble home.
The old man’s body lay on the bed, a sprig of thistle resting on the clan tartan covering him.
Moving to stand by the foot of the bed, Alec bowed his head.
Aye, he’d miss the old man. His soft mannerisms and clever jests had placed more than one smile upon Alec’s lips over the years.
It took some doing to convince the peatcutter to accept a coin for the burial, but at last, it was done, and with a final farewell, Alec left.
The peatcutter followed him outside.
“Then ye’ll see him buried proper?” the dark-haired chambermaid accosted them the moment they’d stepped over the threshold. “Not in some ancient kirkyard with long-forgotten graves?” Her eyes were red, swollen with tears.
“Aye, Gellie, I’ll see him done proper,” the peatcutter promised, patting her fondly on the shoulder.
His gaze fell upon Sorcha standing uneasily by the cart, and his aged face softened.
“Dinna fret over the leech, lass. I know ye didna cause Tinker harm, and I thank ye for what ease ye could provide him.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened as if trying to stem the flow of tears. “Thank ye kindly, sir,” she whispered gruffly and then dipping her chin, covered her head with her plaid.
“Aye,” Gellie agreed, looping her arm through Sorcha’s. “I knew ye were nae witch.” There was a decided thread of apology in her tone. It stood out in contrast to the words.
Alec arched a brow. Skewering the lass with stern disapproval, he found himself responding, “Truly, only a complete halfwit would believe such a thing.”
Gellie looked up, disconcerted. “Aye,” she was quick to agree, even as her cheeks colored a mortified shade of pink. “Aye.”
Oddly vexed on Sorcha’s behalf, Alec strode to his horse and swung into the saddle, finding his mood uncharacteristically darkening once again.
In an ever-deteriorating state of annoyance, he oversaw the last preparations, ignoring Sorcha outright as she huddled under the cottage eaves next to Gellie in a vain attempt to stay out of the rain.
The dog barked again.
A shrill whistle followed, and recognizing the sound, Alec leaned back in the saddle to see his young brother on the cow-path, pulling two squat mountain ponies behind him.
Taran graced the animals with a withering glance. “Our two-day journey will now take at least a sennight,” he observed in even tones. “If not more.”
Alec thinned his lips in disapproval. But it wasn’t the fat ponies that concerned him. It was the week—a week or more of Sorcha. Digging his heel into his horse’s flank, he gave the order to ride, and without waiting, cantered down the cow-path and back onto the main road.
It took some time for the others to join him. He’d trotted up and down the road a dozen times or more before he finally heard the groaning cart and jingle of harnesses. And it was with great relief, that he directed his horse’s nose away from the village at last.
The going was slow.
They took a highroad east towards Glasgow, to the only bridge to carry them across the swollen river. It would add a day to their journey, but with the heavy rains, there was little choice.
The cart creaked, grinding under the weight of Lady Margaret’s bed, but the horse was a strong one, a beast of a gelding. He plodded relentlessly through the mud with muscles bulging and clouds of steam blasting from his nose—but at a turtle’s pace.
Alec sighed.
Their sluggish progress gave him plenty of time to think—not that he needed more than an hour or two. Not where Sorcha was concerned.
In the short time they’d been on the road, he’d already noticed a pattern.
When the lass plodded at the back of the party, he sought any excuse to glance over his shoulder.
When the fat mountain pony decided to trot to the front, taking Sorcha along for the ride, he found his eyes glued straight ahead, locked on the bemusing sway of her hips and the cascade of wet, auburn curls tumbling over that accursedly-bedamned, red Cunningham plaid.
Aye, that plaid.
He clenched his teeth, but he was man enough to admit the truth.
For whatever ill-fated reason, be it Auld Bertha or some other such thing—aye, even destiny itself—he was undeniably drawn to the lass—aye, a Cunningham lass.
He bowed his head.
Now that he found himself bitten, mayhap his best path would be to experience her charms. Aye, the more he thought on the matter, the more the idea caught hold until he’d convinced himself it was a downright good plan.
He’d trifle with the lass. And as it always was with women, he’d soon tire of her. He certainly would never wed her.
The thought of it made him laugh aloud.
At his side, Taran regarded him with an inquiring tilt of the head. “So, has your good humor returned?” the highlander asked. “By my faith, I’ve never seen ye in so sullen a mood, cousin.”
Alec chuckled, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders, but he didn’t reply.
Night was falling and he’d just caught sight of lights piercing the gloom up ahead.
“We’ll not make it near Glasgow this night,” he said, pointing with his chin.
“There’s a decent inn yonder, I recall. We’ll stop there, no? ”
It must have been an hour later before they finally rolled into the tiny village of Hawick.
The river running alongside the road had overrun its banks in more than one place, requiring agonizing detours through the thistle and gorse-covered heath.
Once even, the cart had nearly tipped. By the end of it, mud covered all four men, and Alec had nearly pitched Lady Margaret’s bed into the rain-swollen river out of spite.
“I fear I am the loser in this venture,” Alec groused. “Any suffering Margaret endures having to thank me canna be more than the pain of this day—and we’ve miles yet to go.”
Taran responded with a dark look. It was enough.
The village watchman rode out to greet them as they arrived and even provided them a friendly escort to ‘The Queen’s Arms’, a small building, and one of only three that made up the entirety of the village. But even as small as it was, it offered a warm, welcome shelter out of the cold rain.
“A bath and a hot meal, ‘tis all I ask afore I die,” Alec groaned, swinging wearily down from the saddle as a stable lad ran out to help the watchman take care of the horses.
Glancing over his shoulder, he spied Sorcha on her shaggy pony, struggling to dismount. Aye, the lass looked like a drowned rat. He watched, somewhat bemused, but he was there as her knees buckled and caught her in his arms as she fell.
“Have ye never ridden a horse?” he asked with a grin.
She gripped his forearms hard, steadying herself, and then found her footing. “Nay, never,” she admitted, the edge of her mouth turning up into a sheepish grin.
The unguarded beauty of her smile evoked an unexpectedly fiery response. Allowing excitement to sweep him away, Alec bundled her into his arms and, ignoring her protests, carried her inside, into the welcoming scent of mutton and ale.
The place was crowded, filled with boisterous laughter and song, and as Taran and the others filed in, a woman hailed them from the bar.
“The tub’s in the kitchen if ye want it,” she shouted, waving at a door in the corner. “And there’s no beds left, lads. Ye’ll have to sleep on the floor, aye?”
“As long as ‘tis dry.” Alec tossed the woman a smile.
Laughter circled around him as Sorcha squirmed in his arms. “Set me down, aye?” she requested, pushing against his broad chest.
Quite liking the feel of her, he was reluctant to let her go. The surging crowd around him faded away, and he saw only her exquisitely expressive eyes, downy-white skin, and mass of thick red curls.
Her pronounced frown swam into his vision. “Down,” she repeated firmly.
His lip crooked into a smile and he obliged—albeit slowly.
But as she moved away, he caught her by the waist and twirled her back into his arms. “Ye’ll be sure to speak well of me to your unordinary Alec of Lainshaw?
” he teased, nearly shouting into her ear as a group of men broke into song.
“How I’m delivering ye safe into his loving arms now? ”
Regarding him scornfully, she shouted back, “Ye’ll have your reward, Montgomery.”
He tightened his grip about her slim waist, enjoying the deliciously unsettling effects of her presence. “Aye, and I will,” he promised, looking deep into her eyes. “I most certainly will.”
She hesitated, staying there in the circle of his arms, cheeks ablaze, but then placing her hands on his chest once again, she firmly pushed back.
Reluctantly, he let her go, watching her disappear into the kitchen with Gellie at her heels.
One day, he’d see those stunning, blue-ringed eyes spark with passion. One day.
Soon.