Rogue of the Isles (25 page)

Effie and Darcy stood glaring at each other, both of them with their hands on their hips while two identical-looking girls with strawberry hair sat on a horsehair sofa watching them with huge, green eyes.

“I’ll not be letting ye take over the care of me mistress,” Darcy proclaimed loudly. “I am doing just fine.”

“Yet Jillian lies ill,” Effie retorted.

“’Tis no’ my fault.”

“I did not say it was,” Effie replied, “but I know how distracted you get when there are men about—”

“Nary a man has distracted me,” Darcy sputtered.

“Ladies.” Mari moved closer, hoping she could interject some sort of peace. “I have just talked with Jillian. While she is weak, the worst seems to be over.” She turned to smile at the twins, who were staring at her. “My sister seems to be well taken of.”

The girls looked at each other and both of them nodded. “Aye,” one of them answered, “the Crone o’ the Hills healed her.”

“Who?” Effie asked.

“Our faerie,” the other twin said.

“Your what?”

“Our faerie,” the second twin repeated earnestly.

“Hmmph!” Effie folded her arms across her chest. “Children should not be told such stories. Faeries do not exist.”

Both twins’ eyes rounded. “But she takes care of the MacLeods when one is in need,” the first twin said.

“Cousin Jillian has seen her,” the other one added. “Ye can ask her.”

“Perhaps we can wait with that,” said a female voice from the doorway. “Our guests are probably quite tired from the journey. Why don’t the two of ye go find Jamie?”

“But—” one of the twins started to say before the other gave her a poke in the ribs with her elbow. The first one frowned, about to return the gesture when the woman in the doorway cleared her throat. Both girls jumped up and hurried out without another word.

The woman who entered the room was about ten years older than Mari, with hair as red as a country sunset. Although she had a smile on her lips, her brown eyes appraised Effie. Mari had a feeling the woman had probably already summed up the potential spat between the maids. Things were not off to a particularly good start.

“I am Jillian’s sister, Mari,” she said.

“Aye. Jamie informed me when ye went up the stairs.” She gave Mari the same appraising look she’d given Effie.

Mari tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. She felt as though she were being considered by the patronesses of Almack’s for the spring voucher, which was ridiculous since she was in the middle of the wild and forsaken Highlands.

The woman extended her hand. “I am Bridget. I bid you welcome to our home.”

“Thank you. That is very kind.” Mari shook her hand, thinking how strange the gesture was considering only men shook hands in London. Bridget’s hold had a strength to it that surprised Mari and reminded her of Jamie. And then she remembered that Jamie had told Highlanders were honor bound to offer hospitality to anyone who arrived at their door. Mari also remembered Jillian saying how the uncles hated the English.

Did Bridget mean those words of welcome or did she harbor her own dislike?

And what had Jillian meant about things getting interesting? Lord, if Bridget could control three MacLeod men who were used to issuing orders, things would be interesting indeed. Perhaps she could even learn a thing or two.

The first thing Mari learned when they were seated for dinner later that evening was the entire family adored Jamie, although it should not have surprised her since both Aunt Agnes and Effie practically gushed at his comments—and neither of those women was accustomed to gushing.

What was amazing, though, was how different each of the family members were from one another. From Jillian, Mari learned that Bridget, out of necessity, had taken over the care of her younger sisters when their stepmother ignored them. Ian and Jamie had supported her, since neither cared for the self-centered woman their father had chosen to marry. Mari wondered if that had something to do with the fact that Jamie did not seem particularly impressed with any of the debutantes in London.

Shauna, the middle sister, was the quiet one with auburn hair more brown than red. She had been polite when Bridget introduced them earlier, but had then retreated to the library in search of a book, reminding Mari a great deal of Abigail.

Fiona, the youngest, was the complete opposite. Her hair was as inky-black as Ian’s, but her eyes were a soft pearl grey that, along with the pale, porcelain perfection of her skin, gave her an ethereal look. However, any notion she was a mystical, otherworldly creature dissolved into mist once she started talking. Mari didn’t think she’d ever met anyone so animated. Fiona had a hundred questions about London and Society, none of which she’d given Mari time to answer.

And then there were the twins. They were twelve, and she’d learned their names were Caitlin and Caylin, although she still didn’t know which was which—a fact that brought sly little smiles to their faces. Mari suspected she’d be the subject of many a jest on their parts. They were actually Shane’s sisters, but since he spent so much of his time at sea, they lived with Ian rather than in Edinburgh.

The whole lot of them sat enthralled, listening to Jamie regale them with stories of training an inept household staff to use weapons. The twins, in particular, thought it hysterically humorous that grown men could not handle swords.

“Even we practice with blunted swords,” Caitlin—or Caylin—said.

“And we practice archery too,” Caylin—or Caitlin—said. “Can the English nae shoot an arrow either?”

The question seemed to dispose both of them to fits of giggles, but it did give Mari some insight into Jamie’s penchant for carrying weapons on various parts of his body. Goodness gracious, if young girls were trained for battle…

“I would rather know if the English lads are good-looking,” Fiona interjected.

Jamie gave her a sharp look. “Ye need nae concern yerself about that, little sister.”

Fiona remained unfazed. “Why nae? My sister-by-marriage is English. I expect to visit the estates there. ’Tis natural I ken what to expect.”

“Ye will expect naught. Besides, since I manage the estates, I will be the one to decide when—or if—ye visit them.”

There was the Jamie MacLeod Mari knew. Bossy, arrogant…

But Fiona just smiled at him. “Ye ken I will, big brother.” Then she turned to Mari. “Mayhap ye can tell me what I want to ken about the lads. Do they like to—”

“Mari will tell ye nothing!”

Bossy man. Mari held back a sharp retort, deciding to take a lesson from his sister, whom she was already feeling might be a kindred spirit. She smiled sweetly at Jamie instead and then turned to Fiona. “I should be happy to answer any questions you wish to ask.”

And she deliberately ignored the glower on Jamie MacLeod’s face.

Chapter Twenty

Heaven help him if Fiona decided to aid and abet Mari in defying him, Jamie thought as he entered the library after dinner and poured a wee dram of the Scot
uisge-beatha
he had missed while in England. The lasses—both of them—had tendencies to blunder into situations from which they needed rescuing, even if they didn’t think they did. Fiona had always been strong-willed with an inquisitive nose for adventure that usually landed her in spots she should not be. Mari was also stubborn and had an equal inclination to head off in directions she should not take.

Unfortunately, he was still in charge of their welfare. Shane had already gone back to Edinburgh for his overdue trip to France, and Ian spent his available time with Jillian in their bedchamber. According to both the physician and the midwife whom Ian paid to stay in the castle, the bairn was due in a fortnight. Once the bairn was born and Jillian truly on the road to recovery, Ian would once again take over ruling the castle—and the lasses.

Surely Jamie could last two weeks with the little vixens. He drained the dram, allowing the smooth, mellow taste to slide down his throat before the fiery contents warmed his stomach, and then poured another. All he had to do was keep Mari and Fiona occupied so they would not have time to hatch any plans—especially not ones that included Fiona travelling to London.

Jamie heard the door open and turned to see his uncle and Broc enter. Neither of them looked pleased, and Jamie was tempted to drain the second whisky as well but held on to the glass instead.

“Ye wish to join me in a dram?”

“Aye,” Broc answered as he opened the bottle to pour two drinks. “And we want to know why we have yet another English bitch in the house.”

Jamie raised a brow. “I dinnae think Ian would care to have ye address his sister-by-marriage in such a manner.”

“All English women are bitches or whores.”

Jamie set down his glass. “Ye will nae call Mari Barclay either of those names.”

Duncan studied him. “Do ye have a fondness for the lass?”

Broc snorted. “A fondness to rut with her if he hasna already.”

“One more word, and ye will be on yer arse with a bloody nose,” Jamie said as he rolled back his sleeve.

“Enough,” Duncan said to Broc. “We didnae come here to squabble.” He turned back to Jamie. “With the early blizzard, our plans were foiled in waylaying the damn countess—”

“’Tis a good thing,” Jamie interrupted. “Ye would be willing to risk the redcoats warring with us again because of Countess Sutherland?”

“She burned hundreds of crofters out of their homes.” Broc practically spat the words out. “All because she wanted to raise sheep for more of the filthy English money.”

“I agree the Clearances are a grievous thing,” Jamie replied, “but taking on a contingent of English soldiers escorting Sutherland would only put Ian’s lands in jeopardy. Old King George is barmy, and the regent lives a grand life, always looking for ways to refill his coffers. Ye ken as well as I that raising taxes has sent many a clan off their ancestral lands. Do ye wish such for us?”

“Nae,” Duncan muttered, “but we thought of a better way to get rid of that bitch who has no right to call herself a Scot.”

“I dinnae wish to hear it.”

“Dinnae tell me ye have taken a fancy for the English?” Broc sneered. “Or maybe ’tis the English bitch—” His words and wind were cut with Jamie’s fist landing in his face and he lurched backward, holding his broken nose.

“Ye want more?” Jamie asked, taking a menacing step toward the man.

“Nae,” his uncle broke in and grabbed Broc by the arm, “but ye would be wise to listen to the plan. Mayhap another time.”

Jamie watched them walk to the door, calmly returning the murderous look Broc was giving him through a rapidly swelling eye. Ian would have to be told about the plot, but for now, Jamie would keep a close eye on both of them.

Mari hurried away from the door before any of the men could come out. She had not meant to eavesdrop, but merely to find a book she could read to Jillian. She managed to slip into the room that served as a parlor just as Duncan and Broc stomped down the hall toward the front door.

Shuana looked up from the book she was reading. “I thought ye had gone to bed.”

Startled, Mari turned. She had not expected to find someone in here. “I was on my way to the library when I overhead loud voices arguing—”

“Our uncle and his half-brother,” Shauna replied. “Something always seems to stir their blood. Pay them nae mind.”

Mary tilted her head to study Shauna. She seemed sensible and less formidable than Bridget. Perhaps it was a godsend she was here. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Nae at all. What is it?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear a bit of the conversation in the library. What are the Clearances? I know it had something to do with clearing the land for sheep, but why?”

Shauna laid the book down and gestured for Mari to sit beside her. “It daesna surprise me my uncle goes on about that. Have ye heard of Culloden?”

“Wasn’t that when old King George defeated the Jacobites?”

“Aye, but ’twas a wee bit more. The English king feared Scotland would continue to rebel in spite of the massacre, so the Crown declared the clan chiefs no longer held power over their people. Playing the pipes and wearing the tartan were outlawed as well.”

Mari hoped the Scots girl would not think her totally stupid. “I do not think I understand.”

“Ye canna be expected to.” Shauna paused and then continued, “With the lairds stripped of their powers, they no longer had need to raise numbers of armed clansmen, nor did they need the tacksmen who had managed the farms and tenants since the lairds now had time to do it themselves. So the first clearances came as the tacksmen left for other parts.”

Mari frowned. “They were not forced to leave?”

“Nae then. Many of them were able to read and write and could find places in the towns of Edinburgh and Glasgow and even farther south. ’Twas when the English
consultants
came, explaining there was much money to be made in grazing sheep that the crofters—who knew nothing about shepherding sheep—were seen as being a burden on the scarce supply of food. ’Tis when the reigning landlords began driving them out.”

“But where did they go?”