Chapter Fifteen

By the time the lights of the MacFarlane keep came into sight, Reverend Shackleford was convinced there remained not one inch of him that hadn't been served as either a starter, a main course or a pudding to the midges. Likely all three.

They looked like black dots, until they covered every inch of skin both outside and inside his cassock, resembling an extra black blanket. Fortunately, Dougal had shown him how to cover his nose and mouth lest the beasties start on his insides too.

When they first started to swarm, the Reverend had slapped them away, but he swiftly learned that that simply made them worse. In the end, he tucked his hands under his armpits, bent his head as close to his knees as possible and endured.

As they entered the courtyard in front of the keep, a shadow covered from head to toe in cloth, pointed them towards what looked to be a large, covered area with sheafs of hanging greenery all around the edge emitting an eye wateringly pungent smell. The horse needed no urging to get out of the writhing, biting swarm of darkness and seconds later they were through the hanging sheafs.

Once under cover, the Reverend uncurled himself and began to smack hysterically at his arms and torso until the dark blanket gradually lifted to reveal tiny red welts in its place. Clearly the beasties did not like whatever the greenery was. ‘Bog myrtle,' Dougal explained, picking a few stray midges from his teeth.

‘Wha' business hae ye wi' the MacFarlane?' The voice behind them was like ice. Turning round, Reverend Shackleford felt a first spasm of fear. The man standing in front of them was clearly a warrior. He'd shed his protective covering and was wearing nothing but a kilt and vest, a sword the size of Brendon's wolfhound slung over his back.

Fortunately, Dougal didn't appear particularly fazed by the fearsome sight, and climbing down from the carriage, declared in a jovial voice. ‘Callum MacFarlane, ah haenae seen ye in months. Be ye well?'

The stranger, whose name was evidently Callum, narrowed his eyes and folded his arms.

‘Dougal Galbraith,' he declared coldly. ‘What dae ye want?'

The elderly Scot limped convincingly towards the hard-faced warrior, an ingratiating smile wreathing his face. ‘Ah be lookin' fer an audience wi' the MacFarlane. Ah hae somethin' o' interest tae tell him.'

‘What kind o' interest?' The mountain didn't move so much as an inch. The Reverend felt sweat begin to trickle down his cassock, inflaming the midgie bites. He fought the urge to scratch, knowing that once he started, he'd be unable to stop. Should he say something?

‘Ye ken ah cannae be tellin' ye afore' the Clan Chief,' Dougal went on genially, ‘he'll hae our bawbags fer breakfast if ah dae.' He chuckled at his own joke, but Reverend Shackleford could see persperation begin forming on the old Scot's forehead. Clearly the geniality was purely a fa?ade.

The warrior stared at them for a few seconds longer, then turned on his heel. ‘Abide here,' he ordered, throwing his protective covering over his shoulders and striding back out into the dusk.

‘Dinnae speak ‘til ah tell ye,' Dougal hissed as soon as their welcoming committee of one was out of earshot.

‘Well, he didn't seem to have much faith in what came out of your mouth,' the Reverend hissed back, much more accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them.

‘Haud yer weesht,' Dougal growled. ‘Yer bein' an eejit. The MacFarlane hae no love fer Sassenach God botherers, ye ken that. He willnae harm me wi'oot guid reason, but ah cannae say the same fer ye.'

Augustus Shackleford stifled a sudden flare of panic, but before he had a chance to argue, voices sounded from across the yard. Seconds later, their way out of the barn was blocked by four broad-shouldered Highlanders. The clergyman swallowed and took an instinctive step back.

‘Och, it be guid tae see ye, ma lord.' For the life of him, Reverend Shackleford couldn't tell which one Dougal was speaking to. They all looked exactly the same to him.

‘Save yer flattery fer them as need it. Hoo be tha' son o' yers?'

‘Verra sad ma lord,' Dougal answered ingratiatingly. ‘Twas ma leg pulled him frae yer employ. As ye can see, it still be painin' me.' He did a little hobble for emphasis.

Alistair MacFarlane was possibly the biggest man the Reverend had ever seen. Unlike the others, he hadn't protected himself from the midges as he'd crossed the yard and both arms were covered in black. He didn't appear to notice them at all. He walked towards them and looked in the cart. As he did so, the Reverend caught the overripe scent of freshly killed meat and had to fight a sudden urge to cast up his account.

‘Whose grave be ye diggin'?' he asked nodding towards the tools lying in the bottom of the cart.

‘Nae a grave, ma lord. Tha's what ah wish't tae talk tae ye aboot. Dougal gave a toothless smile. The Chieftain didn't smile back. ‘Me an' ma acquaintance here be on the trail o' buried treasure…'

∞∞∞

They spoke little on the walk back up to the house. Jennifer couldn't help noticing he took care to give her a wide birth. Mayhap he was worried she would throw herself at him again if he came within grabbing distance. In truth, she was content not to force the issue, sensing that to do so would merely drive Brendon further away.

Underneath all the uncertainty, she was bubbling with a deep quiet joy. Despite the shortness of their acquaintance, she felt a deep abiding conviction that Brendon Galbraith was for her. And though he might not have admitted it to himself yet, she believed he felt the same. Currently, however, he could not imagine there was the remotest chance of a happy ending for either of them, and she could almost feel the stubborn Scot withdrawing from her, step by step.

She would simply have to bide her time until the whole dreadful business with Alistair MacFarlane was done with. As soon as the children were safe, she would write to her father.

Once they arrived back at the house, Brendon turned to her and bowed. ‘Ah willnae see ye agin afore this evenin,' he said carefully. ‘Please dinnae worry aboot yer grandda. Ah swear ah'll bring him back tae ye safely.'

Jennifer gazed at him silently for a second. ‘I know you will,' she responded softly at length. ‘Please have a care to your own safety too…' She paused then whispered, ‘I could not bear it if anything should happen to you.' Then, abruptly fighting the urge to cry, she bent to pick up Flossy and almost ran towards the front door.

That evening, once she was certain Gifford had returned, Jennifer informed the housekeeper that her grandfather was feeling under the weather and would not be coming down for dinner. ‘Poor man, I think perhaps he's eaten something that has disagreed with him,' she added. ‘However, it might be pertinent to advise the servants to stay away from his chamber … just in case. I will see that he has water and then tomorrow, I'll take him a little breakfast.'

Mrs Darroch nodded, not entirely able to hide her alarm and Jennifer fought the urge to grin as the housekeeper took a surreptitious step back.

Malcolm and Felicity too elected to have dinner in their room, setting the stage for the fictitious sickness to ‘sweep the house', which left Peter and Jennifer as the only two at the dinner table.

At first, they sat largely in silence, until her brother suddenly put down his knife and fork and asked her if she was missing England and home.

She looked at him in surprise, unsure what had triggered the question. Mayhap he was simply worried about the responsibility that had been so unexpectedly thrust upon him.

‘I love it here,' she replied simply. ‘It's quite different from Blackmore – the scenery is wild and somehow calls to one, don't you think?'

‘It's certainly beautiful,' he answered carefully, ‘but I'm not sure I feel the same affinity as you.' There was a pause before he added, ‘Are you certain your attraction is not due to the presence of a certain newly employed steward?'

Jennifer's face flamed, much to her chagrin. ‘What on earth are you talking about?' she blustered at length.

‘Come sister, we both know you're a terrible liar. Do you have feelings for Galbraith?'

Knowing she owed her brother the truth – if not the whole truth, Jennifer chose her words carefully. ‘I must confess, I feel a certain kinship with him,' she said cautiously. His snort told her he wasn't at all convinced by her explanation.

‘Are your feelings reciprocated? You realise that Father will have a hard time considering his suit. Especially since Caerlaverock is so far away from Blackmore.' He shook his head. ‘And I have no idea what Mother will say.'

Jennifer sagged. ‘He has not said whether he feels anything for me,' she confessed, ‘but his manner indicates he does.' She picked up her glass of wine to give herself time to decide what to say next. ‘I think he believes he's beneath my touch.'

Peter gave another snort. ‘Is he aware that our mother is a vicar's daughter?'

‘It hasn't actually come up,' Jennifer answered drily. ‘And Mama may well be low born, but I think Papa was hoping I would make a good match.'

‘A good match is one that makes you happy,' Peter countered. ‘I said I thought Father would find it difficult, not that he would forbid it.' He paused before adding, ‘We are in Scotland after all and strictly speaking, his consent is not actually needed.'

Jennifer stared wordlessly at her brother, her mind awhirl. ‘Mayhap I should not have mentioned that,' he added ruefully when she did not speak.

‘I would not wish to go against my parents' wishes,' she said finally. ‘It would break both their hearts.' She sighed and took a sip of her wine. ‘We are far from that point anyway. At the moment, I think Brendon is determined to stay away from me for my own good.' She said the last wryly, and Peter grinned.

‘I wish him luck with it. Clearly he does not know you well enough as yet to realise such resistance is futile.' His face turned serious. ‘But, once this unsavoury business is over, I am duty bound to write to Father and tell him the situation. Do not expect me to keep your secret, dearest. You are under my protection, and it would not be honourable for me to do so.'

‘Though you do not balk at informing me I am able to marry in Scotland without my father's consent?' she retorted.

‘I would not see you unhappy, Jenny,' he answered softly.

‘I know.' Jennifer laid her hand over his. ‘I will do nothing without speaking to Mama and Papa. And I do believe that even in Scotland one needs the groom's consent to marry.'

∞∞∞

The inside of the MacFarlane keep was akin to stepping back a hundred years. It had none of the luxuries of Caerlaverock and even though it was the middle of June, the hall was drafty and cold.

‘Oot wi' it then.' Alistair MacFarlane wasted no time in demanding a further explanation. Though he'd allowed them inside, they were offered no refreshments, and both stood in front of the chieftain as though guilty of some heinous crime.

Dougal gave a quick glance at the Reverend before saying carefully, ‘Ma guid friend here hae come intae possession o' a letter…'

‘Wha' letter?' MacFarlane interrupted.

‘I am a descendant of a man named Edward Colman,' Reverend Shackleford intervened before Dougal could say anything more. At this rate they'd be here til deuced Christmas. ‘He died a traitor's death in 1678, but before he died, he sent a letter to his kin in Suffolk, England…'

‘Yer a Sassenach,' MacFarlane declared flatly, ‘An' a God walloper at that. Ye've some nerve tae come intae ma home wi' yer English bloody lies an' tricks.'

‘Nae, he be tellin' the truth, ma lord,' Dougal interjected desperately, raising a conciliatory hand. Both men were sweating now.

There was silence for a second as the clan chief stared at them coldly. ‘Ale!' was all he said at length. From the corner of his eye, the Reverend could see a woman scurry to do his bidding. Once the tankard was in his hand, MacFarlane took a long swallow, then wiped his mouth on his arm. Then he nodded, once, at the Reverend.

‘By all accounts Edward Colman was a wealthy man and had all his coin changed into jewellery and trinkets when he moved up to Edinburgh. Before his arrest, he came to Loch Lomond, and we know he brought the whole of his treasure with him…'

‘Hoo dae ye ken?'

‘The letter.' Reverend Shackleford rummaged around in his cassock for the letter they'd so painstakingly constructed. For one dreadful second he thought he'd lost it and knew his face echoed Dougal's terrified expression. Thankfully, after a full minute, his fingers brushed against the paper's edge. With a flourish, he pulled the missive out of his pocket and held out his hand.

MacFarlane looked at the letter for a second, then waved it away, indicating the clergyman should read it out loud. Clearly the clan chief couldn't read.

With trembling hands, Reverend Shackleford opened the letter and read its contents aloud. His stomach churned, and he fought to keep his voice from wavering. What had seemed so convincing when they wrote it, now sounded a pile of bunkum.

In the letter Colman purportedly wrote that a local man had rowed him over to a small island by the name of Inveruglas. He'd taken with him a large leather satchel containing all of his wealth. Once on the island, he'd asked the oarsman to return and collect him before the sun went down. During the time he spent alone, Edward Colman claimed he buried his entire wealth on the island, using only his bare hands, returning to the Lochside with nothing but an empty satchel.

‘Daed he say where on the island he buried it?' MacFarlane asked, sitting forward in his chair.

‘He did, but there's a splodge of… something… making the words illegible,' Reverend Shackleford answered, holding out the letter for the Chieftain to see.

‘Wha's tae stop me frae takin' the letter and runnin' a sword through yer belly?'

The Reverend swallowed. ‘I have studied Edward Colman extensively,' he answered. ‘I have come to know the way he thought. I don't believe you will find the treasure without my help.'

‘Then why come tae me? Why not gae tae th'island and dig yerelf?'

‘We haed nae wish tae offend ye, ma lord. Inveruglas be MacFarlane land. We cannae dig wi'oot yer permission.'

‘We'll share the treasure with you, naturally,' Augustus Shackleford added, pleased to note that his voice had lost its wobble.

‘Aye, ye will.' There was no suggestion of how the non-existent jewellery would be split and the Reverend realised that Dougal was right. Alistair MacFarlane had no intention of allowing them to leave Inveruglas alive.