A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,75
loomed high, and Stuart’s breath quickened as they climbed the steep hill toward it. Were they walking into an ambush? Or would they find an empty and deserted castle?
A gate in the center of the outer wall led, Stuart remembered, to a courtyard and the great hall. The gate was closed, likely bolted for the night.
Fiona nudged Piseag, turning her flank to the gate, which Fiona pounded with her fist.
Stuart squashed his hat down on his head, pulling up the collar of his coat. With any luck, he would still pass for Gair’s lackey. He’d find Padruig’s knife—or convince the man it wasn’t here—and move on to his own house.
After a long wait, Gair moving restlessly, the gate creaked open, and a pale face peered out. “Who’s there?” a hoarse voice asked.
“Marcas?” Fiona sounded astonished. “Why on earth are you answering the door? Where is everyone?”
“Miss Fiona.” The name was exhaled in relief. A thin man with graying red hair pushed open the door, his lined face eerie by the flickering light of his lantern. “They’ve all run off, miss. Well, most have. Terrified they’ll be taken as Jacobites. Or killed by Jacobites.”
“Truly?” Fiona asked in indignation.
Stuart wasn’t very surprised. Broc had never engendered loyalty, the man being so distrusting himself. Stuart wondered, with a qualm, if he’d find the same situation at his home.
“Aye. It’s a sad state of affairs,” Marcas said. “Not long after ye left the last time, they decided they’d had enough, and up and went. Come in—the laird will need to see you.”
Not will want to see you or be happy to see you, but need to. Hmm.
“Then we’ll go to him right away. Tapadh leibh, Marcas.”
She’d merely said thank you, but Marcas peered up at her in worry. “Never speak Erse here, Miss. Ye know the laird doesn’t like us to.”
“Nonsense. Where is he?”
Una had already dismounted, and now Fiona swung her leg over the saddle. Stuart caught her and lifted her to the ground. Fiona glanced at him gratefully and stepped inside the gate, leaving Stuart to handle the horse, as a servant should.
The courtyard was deserted. Even this late, with snow starting, Stuart would expect to see it a hive of activity. Broc was a laird, which meant he was the main landholder in this area. He’d not only have tenants but all the workers who kept the castle running—gamekeeper, farm steward, blacksmith, cooks. Various other servants should be there to make certain the laird and his family had plenty of food and firewood this cold winter’s night.
No one but Marcas, whom Stuart remembered was Broc’s valet, appeared. Marcas ushered them across the silent courtyard. Stuart broke away to take Piseag to a stall inside the walls, quickly stripping off her saddle and bridle, and making sure she had food in her manger.
He caught up to Fiona and party as they entered the new addition of the castle and the empty great hall. His footsteps echoed as they crossed the slates where Fiona had danced with Stuart to the merry tunes of fiddles and the thump of drums.
“Everyone is gone?” Fiona asked.
“All but me and a few others.” Marcas sounded tired. “I tell the laird he should go, to Edinburgh perhaps, or London, but he doesn’t listen. His cousins say the same.”
“Cousins?” Apprehension filled Fiona’s voice.
“Aye. Neilan and Tavin Macdonald have been coming and going some months now. Just yesterday they arrived for Christmas”
“Oh, no.” Fiona turned from Marcas and fled the great hall, hurrying into the dark passageway beyond.
Chapter Six
Fiona hastened through the short corridor that connected the new hall to the old castle, built so the laird would not get wet or too cold traveling from his private chambers to the public area.
She went up another flight of stairs in the old building to the inner hall, which was much smaller than the new one, about twenty feet long and ten wide. The ceiling had been renovated in the last century and now contained dark carved beams that lent some warmth to the gray stones.
Or would lend warmth, if there was any light or heat to the place. A smudge of rushlight glowed at one end of a table, haloing the faces of three men—Broc and next to him, the cousins, Tavin and Neilan, reprobates and parasites. They being here could not bode well.
“Broc?”
At the sound of Fiona’s voice, the man at the head of the table jumped to his feet. He tottered, grabbed a stick next to him, and