Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball
Chapter Two
Three days before the wedding came and went with no sign of Lady Katherine.
Then two.
And now one.
Callum should have felt relieved. Instead he felt downright skittish. And why wouldn’t he be? A month’s worth of effort and he was no closer to determining a way out of his coming vows, and although those vows were just hours away, his bride-to-be was still unknown to him. He had every right to be on edge.
The house was full of wedding guests and gifts, and he was sick to death of sitting through small talk and making excuses for a woman he’d not even met. Surely it was the unending torrent of rain holding her up. The only other plausible explanation was that given her lack of familial escort, the woman had changed her mind and was now on her way to Brighton or Bath or wherever the wealthy English escaped to these days. Was it possible he could be so fortunate?
Unlikely.
He tapped out a rhythm against his thigh as he stared out the library window, where heavy sheets of rain poured over every possible surface. The earth had long since been saturated, turning the grounds into a boggy marshland. Some of the lower land had begun to flood, and Callum had sent out messages to a handful of farmers to bring their flocks up to the estate lands if necessary. He hadn’t heard back, though truthfully, he hadn’t expected to. The men were probably doing all they could to protect their crops and livestock.
A knock sounded at the door. Harkness stepped into the room and gave a slight bow. “My lord, word has just come. There’s a break in the dam near the Stewart property. The entire flock is in danger.”
Callum’s middle tightened. The dam. And his uncle would be right in the thick of things, without a thought for his safety. “Have Rory saddle my horse at once. And have Benson bring me my overcoat, boots, and hat.”
In his hurry down the stairs a few minutes later, Callum almost didn’t see his father on the landing. The man placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re forbidden to go. We’ve guests to entertain.”
“I’m sure you can manage,” Callum said, shrugging off his father’s hand. If he didn’t leave at once, he’d go mad. “They are your friends, after all, not mine.”
His father’s face darkened. “It’s unsafe, and I’ll not have you putting your life in danger. You’re the son of a duke.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Not some tenant’s brat.”
He chafed against the man’s assertion—Callum was the son of a tenant’s daughter, a fact his father continually chose to forget. Callum fisted his hands at his sides. Was it not enough that his father had chosen the very woman he was to marry? Must he have a hand in every decision in Callum’s life?
Truthfully, it didn’t matter. Callum was determined to go, and his father would think twice before making a scene in front of their guests. That simple realization cooled Callum’s temper. Instead of lashing out, he sketched a brief bow. “How grateful I am for your concern, Your Grace.” Then he turned on his heel and headed out the front door.
His father sputtered behind him, but not even the duke’s protests could be heard above the sound of the pouring rain.
Despite his precautions against the weather, Callum was soaked to the bone in seconds. He urged his horse, Bayard, toward the Stewart croft, keeping to the roads instead of taking the faster but more treacherous cross-country route. The roads were thick with mud, but they had purposefully been built at the highest points of land to ensure they wouldn’t wash out in weather like this.
The normally ten-minute ride took Callum nearly half an hour. He could barely see the cottage through the veil of rain. His cousin Olivia approached him, her dress and apron soaked through, her long braid dripping rain. He swung down from his horse and handed her the reins.
“Da’s out that way!” she yelled over the downpour, pointing. “I’ll see tae your horse.”
He gave a brief nod and headed in the direction she’d indicated, around the back of the cottage. He struggled to keep his footing over the uneven and slippery ground. The rain hung like a heavy curtain, obscuring his vision, but he followed the sound of shouting.
“But, Da!”
“Lea’ that one! It isnae safe!”
Callum crested the rise and within a few short seconds took stock of the situation. His uncle, Blair Stewart, stood waist-deep in the overflowing stream, trying to reach the Shetland sheep stranded on the opposite side. Little Ewan, Blair’s tenacious son, struggled against the current as he went after one of the younger lambs. In a few quick strides Callum had reached the rising tide of water. “Listen to your da!” he warned, guiding the lad out of the water. “I’ll assist here. You go help your sister with my horse.”
Ewan was barely eleven, and his narrow shoulders trembled, shivering like a leaf in an autumn wind. But he knew how to labor like a man, and he set his feet in a firm stance. “These sheep are our livelihood. I want tae help.” That spirit, that determination, was precisely why Callum loved this land and its people. No matter how hard life was, they fought for it with everything they had.
“Stay up here and see the sheep tae safety once we get them across,” Callum said, slipping into his brogue. “Your da and I will battle the current.”
Ewan gave a firm nod. “Aye.”
Collies barked from the other side of the overrun stream, trying with all their might to round up the panicking sheep.
Callum waded in, the icy water seeping through his layers in a matter of seconds. He reached the other side, where Blair hefted a heavy ewe.
“Let me take a turn getting them across while ye gather them,” Callum said. “But keep an eye on the water. If it gets much higher, we must leave them and get tae higher ground.” He held out his arms, waiting.
Blair set his mouth in an unforgiving line, yet he nodded and passed the ewe to Callum, then climbed the muddy hill and began wrangling the sheep. As Callum’s muscles strained beneath the weight, he thanked the heavens that Shetlands were smaller than many breeds. Unfortunately, they were also quite a bit more expensive to replace. He did some rough figures in his head, trying to guess at how many they’d be able to save before the water became too high.
Callum grunted as the ewe thrashed about, fearful of the swiftly coursing water. The rain-heavy wool made her a good deal heavier, and it took every ounce of his strength to stagger to the opposite side and deliver the sheep to where Ewan waited.
They worked in a furious race against time. Callum was so waterlogged he could hardly tell which way was up, but he continued to move as fast as he could, carrying sheep to the far bank. The rising water in the stream now hit him midchest.
He’d picked up another stranded ewe and was ankle-deep back in the water, prepared to cross the stream again, when a large cracking sound split the air. He turned and locked eyes with Blair. “The dam!” Callum yelled. “Come now!”
Blair shot a frantic look back at the remaining half of his flock. “Just a few mair!”
“Nae!” Callum shook his head. “We go now!” Any moment a deluge of water would reach them, sweeping away everything in its path. And Callum didn’t intend for them to be swept away with it.
Three hours later, Callum sat near the fire in his uncle’s home. His shoulders ached from carrying sheep. His hands and feet were still numb from the icy water. And his lungs heaved a little, still shuddering from all the water he’d swallowed.
Olivia added another peat brick to the fire. Ewan lay near the hearth, already asleep, hair plastered against his forehead. Callum knew he likely didn’t look much better. He shifted, cupping his hands around his mug of watery ale. It was warm, if not strong.
“Is thar anything mair I can offer ye? After all ye’ve done for us . . .” Aunt Aileen wiped her hands on her apron.
“Actually, yes, there is one thing. Would ye be so good as to retie my neckcloth?” Callum held up the limp linen with a grin. “It wouldn’t do tae show up for dinner in so unfashionable a state.” He winked, hoping to wipe the worrisome look from her face.
Her weak smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “But truly, when I think—” She lifted her apron to cover her mouth, fighting against tears.
“Ye saved my life.” Blair’s voice was still hoarse. “We’ll find a way to repay ye.” Mud splattered Blair’s face, and exhaustion lined the corners of his eyes and mouth. And no wonder, after nearly drowning and losing half his flock as he had. It was these sorts of misfortunes that could knock a man’s feet out from beneath him, making it nearly impossible to get back up.
But Callum would see that he did. This man had been more father to him than the Duke of Edinbane had ever been. It was at his uncle’s side that he’d learned to love and appreciate the inheritance that would one day be his. His uncle had taught him the value of a hard day’s labor. Callum stared at his thumbs, at the calluses there, though they paled in comparison with the calloused hands of the man sitting next to him. Everything about Blair—from the lines of his body to the crude croft where they now warmed themselves—bespoke of a life of labor and hardship.
Yet there was something this home had that Castleton Manor, for all its grandeur, lacked. Aileen placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder, and Blair reached up and grasped her hand with his own, a silent gesture of reassurance. From years of living alongside one another, they’d developed their own language to communicate, making words unnecessary.
A small ache pressed against Callum’s chest as he witnessed this, and he abruptly set down his mug. “I’d best be going.”
Blair gained his feet. “Och, that’s right. Yer bride is due anytime noo, isn’t she?”
He gave a pained smile. “Aye. And my father will not be happy if I am not there tae greet her when she arrives. If the road hasn’t been washed out, that is.”
“Ye’ll be happier married, ye know. With some bairns of your own.” His uncle glanced over at the sleeping Ewan. “As the Book says, ‘’Tis not good for man tae be alone.’”
True, the Bible did say that. But the last thing Callum wanted was to be married. He felt akin to a man headed for the gallows. With each passing minute he could feel the noose tightening around his neck, making it harder and harder to breathe.
Callum’s time was running out. His future hung in the balance on a rope so thin it might unravel at any moment. He clenched his jaw, fighting for control. And then he put on his sopping boots and headed for the door, wondering if there were any chance his bride would arrive in time for their wedding day.
Kate was going to miss her own wedding.
If she waited for the axle on their carriage to be fixed, that was. But she didn’t fancy waiting around so she and Helen could attempt another equally unsuccessful carriage ride in the ubiquitous mud. They were already two days late. And Kate fully intended on making an acquaintance with the man she was going to marry before she walked up the aisle.
With that determination driving her forward, she approached one of the livery boys at the small inn where they’d sought help. “Is there a horse I could ride to Castleton Manor? How far did you say it was—five miles?”
The boy nodded. “Ain’t got nothin’ fancy fer the likes of ye. But I’ve an auld plow horse. He’s steady-footed.”
It was either that or wait for the broken axle to be repaired. “I’ll take him,” she said and nodded, dredging up the last of her courage. At least the rain had softened to a drizzle. Not that it made a great deal of difference when one was already soaking wet. Her half boots made a squelching sound with each step she took toward her maid, who looked decidedly miserable.
“Go inside and warm up, Helen. You can come with the trunks once the axle is repaired. I will go ahead on horse.”
“Alone?” The horror in Helen’s voice was almost laughable.
“I won’t be alone,” Kate replied stoically. “I’ll be on a horse, as I said.”
“But, Lady Katherine, you cannot arrive without an escort. It isn’t done.”
Kate imagined there were a good many things that weren’t done in England that might have to be done in the Highlands, but she refrained from saying so. “If it will set your mind at ease, I’m sure this young man will accompany me.”
His answering lopsided grin indicated he might be willing if she could produce a shilling or two.
“There, you see?”
Helen’s eyebrows rose a fraction. She might be unconvinced, but Kate’s options were truly limited. After seeing Helen settled inside, the livery boy, whose name Kate quickly learned was Jack, helped her mount the sorry steed. His description of an “old plow horse” might have been too complimentary. The creature’s poor mane was white and thinning, his body a nondescript brown with plenty of ribs poking through. Kate could likely walk faster than the horse but chose to ride for propriety’s sake.
Jack led the horse along and kept up a steady stream of conversation. Kate’s mind was too focused on what she’d left behind and what awaited her ahead to hear a word of what he said.
At last the fog cleared and the drizzle slowed and then ceased, giving Kate a clear look at her surroundings. The view was so spectacular it knocked the breath from her lungs. The sky remained a subtle gray, and the long grasses were a wash of greens, but it was the majestic purple that blanketed the hills that made her itch to take a paintbrush in her hands and try to recreate the vision before her.
She took in a deep breath, the smell of Scotland enveloping her. The musky scent of heather with its soft floral undertones, the gentle wind carrying the fragrance of the rain-soaked earth.
Perhaps . . . perhaps she could come to love Scotland. Kate tore her attention away from the beauty, chastising herself. She must be wise. Scotland would wait, but her wedding would not. If she was to marry the Marquess of Rowand tomorrow, she intended to learn all she could about him.
Kate looked to Jack and leaned forward a bit. “And what do you know about the Duke of Edinbane?” She’d start with her betrothed’s father. Perhaps the lad would be forthcoming enough that asking more directly about her husband-to-be would prove unnecessary.
He made a little noise in the back of his throat. “He’s tae be feared, that one. Everyone in town acts different when he’s aroond. Never chuffed with anything.”
“Chuffed?” she echoed.
“Hard tae please.”
Kate’s hands tightened on the reins. What had she gotten herself into? She half-considered turning the horse around and riding straight back toward Grandfather. No, she wouldn’t allow herself to believe the worst. This Jack was likely an exaggerator. A wealthy and powerful duke would intimidate anyone.
Still holding the lead line, he looked back at her. “One time he nearly—umph!” Jack went sprawling down a small embankment. Kate adjusted her skirts and slid down from the horse as quickly as she could. She carefully picked her way down to where he’d fallen.
“Jack, are you hurt?” Kate knelt down and rested a hand on his shoulder.
His face contorted in pain. “Aaaaaye.” He heaved out the word, desperately trying to hold back tears. “Blast this marshy bog. ’Tis my ankle. I turned it.”
After what she’d already been through, Kate couldn’t imagine why she’d expected this last leg of the journey to go smoothly. Sighing resolutely, she met Jack’s eyes. “You’re in no condition to walk. Let me help you up. It looks as though you may have to take a turn riding.”
She helped him stand and awkwardly mount the horse, grunts of effort and heavy hisses through his teeth a testament to the boy’s pain. Once seated, Jack closed his eyes, his face pale. The poor boy.
Kate glanced down at herself, giving him time to catch his breath. Not only was she soaking wet, but two knee-sized mud spots now marred the front of her caped redingote. Heavens, she must look a sight. Not exactly how she had envisioned meeting her betrothed, but there was nothing for it. “Now, where to? How much farther is Castleton Manor?”
Jack pointed the way. “A coople ah miles at most. But we should stop at the Stewarts’, maybe half a mile ahead. ’Tis on the way. They’ll have a horse ye can ride.”
Since Kate highly doubted her ability to trudge two more miles in her sodden clothes and soaking half boots without turning her own ankle, she voiced no protest.
They made slow progress. The plow horse seemed in no hurry, and Kate took tentative steps as they broached the swell of a hill. A small cottage came into view halfway down the slope. Smoke curled up from the chimney, little puffs of white against the gunmetal sky.
“That’s it,” Jack said. He shook his head. “Ewan is sure tae mock me when he sees ye guiding my horse.”
Kate chuckled. “I have no doubt you will bear the indignity with the utmost poise.”
Jack muttered something under his breath.
Kate guided the horse to a low wattle fence not far from the cottage door. “I won’t be long.”
Right before she knocked on the door, it swung wide open. Kate took a step backward. A large masculine figure filled the doorframe. The surprise on his face mirrored her own. He stepped out of the darkened cottage and into the day’s remaining light, closing the door behind him.
“Mr. Stewart?” she asked.
“Nae.” The word was drawn out, almost a question.
At first glance he appeared muddy and disheveled, his once-white shirt plastered to his chest. The wet garment emphasized the width of his shoulders, the musculature of his arms. A man who worked the land. But it didn’t take her long to notice the slight curl of his damp brown hair, his smoky-gray eyes. A color that would be difficult to get just right, were she to try to paint them. There was a rugged charm to this handsome man . . . who likely thought her a dimwitted fool as she stood there, staring.
She blinked, trying to clear her muddled mind. “I’m sorry; it’s only that I’m in need of some assistance.” She gestured back to where Jack sat on the plow horse. “We were on our way to Castleton Manor, and—”
The man looked at her sharply. “Are ye Lady Katherine?”
Her eyes widened. “I am.” It was likely most of the locals knew of her coming but highly unlikely anyone would recognize her on sight. Especially looking as bedraggled as she did.
The man stilled, an intense look of concentration overtaking his features as he studied her so unabashedly that Kate began to blush.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Katherine,” he finally said and bowed. “Ye must excuse me.” His soft Scottish lilt washed over her like warm treacle over a scone. “I’m afraid it has caught me quite off guard meeting ye like this.” He straightened his stance. “I am Callum Darrington, Marquess of Rowand and, if I do not err, your intended.”
Her jaw slowly dropped open before she vaguely remembered to lift her sodden skirts and curtsy.
So this was the man who was to be her husband.