Chapter Sixteen

Though Brendon did his best to put what happened with Jennifer Sinclair out of his mind, every last detail remained indelibly printed on his brain. Her softness, her curves, the way she'd responded to his touch, his mouth. He gritted his teeth. Just thinking about it had him hard and aching. It had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to stop when he had. He'd been so close to simply lifting her skirts and making her his completely.

But then what? The Duke of Blackmore would never consider him as a husband for his only daughter. A penniless Scotsman without even so much as a clan? It was laughable.

Except it wasn't. Sitting down on the side of the track, Brendon drew up his knees and laid his arms across them. He'd been ten ways a fool to allow himself to fall under Jennifer Sinclair's spell, but from the moment he'd laid eyes on her, he'd known she was different. Everything about her entranced him. From her impudence to her humour to her compassion. Her hair the colour of autumn chestnuts and her oh so warm brown eyes.

He"d swiftly realised she cared nothing for what people thought of her, unlike the few ladies he'd met who thought themselves so high in the instep. He laid his head on his arms with a sigh. The truth was, he'd give her the moon should she ask it of him. Just the thought of seeing her with another tore him in two.

He pictured her laughing, beautiful face again in his mind, committing it to memory. She would be gone in less than a month. And God willing, he'd never see her again.

∞∞∞

Both Felicity and Jennifer were abed when Malcolm left to meet up with Brendon. The husband and wife had said their goodbyes over dinner earlier. The Scot was exiting through the same door as Dougal, but before he stepped through, Peter clasped his hand. ‘Don't do anything foolish old friend. My father would never forgive me if I allowed anything to happen to you.'

‘Dinnae ye worry, lad,' Malcolm answered gruffly. ‘I'll be gone no more ‘an two days. And when me and Brendon return, we'll have the bairns with us.'

‘If you're not back by the day after the morrow, I'll be coming to find you, Sinclair or not,' Peter vowed hoarsely.

Malcolm simply nodded and disappeared into the gloom. Peter waited to make sure they hadn't been overheard, then with a sigh, he headed upstairs to bed.

Malcolm kept to the edge of the formal gardens as he weaved his way down towards the gate in the wall. Brendon would be waiting on the track down to the loch. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the Scot was in good spirits. It had been a while since he'd been involved in any smoky business, and in truth he'd missed it, though he was certain Felicity hadn't. Stepping through the gate, he looked briefly back towards the house but could discern no movement. While he couldn't be entirely sure, Malcolm was as confident as he could be that his departure had gone unobserved.

Stepping onto the track he hefted his bag higher onto his back and strode to where Brendon and Fergus were already waiting.

∞∞∞

‘Ye'll stay in here whan the MacFarlane decides what tae dae.'

The Reverend stared in trepidation at the cold austere room they were shown into. A bed and an old chest with a chair placed directly in front of it were the only three pieces of furniture in the room. A bottle of whisky stood on the chest.

Their guard threw their two bags into the room before adding, ‘An' dinnae ye be touchin' that.' He pointed to the whisky bottle. ‘That holds the remains o' ma lord's mother.' All three of them stared silently at the bottle in question.

‘There doesn't appear to be much of her,' the Reverend commented, perhaps unwisely.

‘She wa' a wee lass,' their guard retorted, glaring at the clergyman. ‘A blessed saint she wa'. The MacFarlane speaks wi' her when he be troubled.' He pointed to the chair which they realised now was facing the chest.

‘Ah'll see ye in the morn.' And with that, the door slammed shut, followed by the ominous sound of a key turning in the lock.

‘Dae ye reckon it be really the MacFarlane's mother?' Dougal peered at the bottle. ‘Ah could dae wi' a wee dram.'

‘Why don't you give it a shake and see,' retorted the Reverend, picking up his bag and breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that the bread and cheese were still in there. Giving silent thanks to the Almighty, he lifted out the cloth bundle, and tearing off a hunk of bread, chewed it disconsolately.

With a sniff, Dougal left the bottle where it was and picked up his own bag.

‘Do you think they believed our story?' Reverend Shackleford queried.

‘Aye, else we'd be pushing up thistles by noo.' He nibbled on a piece of cheese. ‘Ah wonder why they didnae put his mother in the groond?'

‘You heard the guard. MacFarlane likes to talk with her.'

‘Aye, but a grave be the place fer chattin' wi yer relatives.'

‘Only the dead ones I hope.'

‘Mebbe she haed Norse blood in her.'

The Reverend nodded, but didn't answer, instead going over to the narrow window which was set in a deep embrasure. After hesitating a second, he climbed into the aperture and pressed forward on his knees until he could see out of the opening. There was no glass in the window, and he shivered as he peered out into the night. Beyond the courtyard below he could see nothing.

‘Ye dae ken we be two stories off the groond?'

‘I'm fully aware of that, thank you. That's why I'm trying to get back in.'

‘Dae ye hae a likin' fer climbin' oot o' windows, or intae ‘em mebbe?'

‘I very much doubt I have as much experience as you do since you clearly don't think twice about entering a property uninvited.'

‘That be through a door, nae a window.'

‘And that makes it acceptable?' The Reverend was beginning to sweat a little. He hadn't realised the aperture was quite so narrow, and the drop quite so high. ‘Perhaps you could stop talking and give me a hand.'

‘Mebbe ah'll leave ye be,' Dougal chuckled. ‘Ye be blocking the draft.'

The Reverend gritted his teeth. If the mutton-head thought he'd resort to begging… He looked down and gave a small moan. He'd only thought to investigate the possibility of them escaping should they need to – and failing that, to see if he could spot either Malcolm or Brendon.

‘The MacFarlane be nae aboot tae let us gae, that be why he left us all the way up here. Though should he see ye, crouchin' there like an owergrown bat, he might be tempted tae push ye oot himself.'

‘Have you always been such a deuced gabster?'

‘Aye. It's nae jus' th'Irish wi' the gift o' the gab.'

An almost inaudible, ‘hmph,' was all the Reverend could manage while trying again to force himself backwards into the room. Unfortunately his upper arms were trapped by his side. In the end he gave up and muttered between his teeth, ‘I'd be extremely obliged if you would assist me in removing myself from this deuced aperture.'

With a sigh, Dougal walked over and stared at the Reverend's back. ‘Ye be stuck guid an' proper,' he muttered, adding an eejit under his breath. Climbing up behind the clergyman, he managed to slide his hand either side of the large man's thighs.

‘Watch me baubles,' the Reverend growled.

‘Hoo can ye be thinkin' o' yer baubles at a time like this?'

‘I'd like "em to remain intact if it's all the same with you,' the Reverend grated, abruptly recalling all the other times his trinkets had been put in harm's way. Truly, it was a wonder he hadn't ended up a deuced eunuch. The risks he took for the Almighty.

He held his breath as Dougal's hands slid round his hips. ‘Can ye suck in ye belly so ah can slide ma hands up a wee bit more?' he muttered over the Reverend's shoulder. ‘Otherwise I'll be usin' yer bloody baubles tae hang on tae. I didnae ken ye be such a jollocks.'

Deuced cheek of the man. Gritting his teeth, the clergyman obligingly sucked in his stomach and felt the Scot link his fingers together, fortunately just above the imperilled trinkets.

Dougal rose up slightly and lifted one knee, bracing it against the clergyman's back. ‘Right then, ah'm gonnae coont tae three, then ah'm gonnae pull.'

Resisting the urge to ask if the Scot could actually count to three, since he didn't want Dougal to be tempted to push instead of pull, Reverend Shackleford nodded.

‘Wan, twa, three.'

For a second nothing happened, then abruptly the Reverend shot free of the embrasure like a cork from a bottle, taking the smaller Dougal with him. After skidding along the stone floor they crashed headfirst into the large chest where they stared up in horror as the whisky bottle teetered perilously, before falling directly onto the Reverend's head, breaking in half and spilling the MacFarlane's saintly mother all over the pair of them.

∞∞∞

It was the early hours of the morning by the time Brendon and Malcolm arrived within hailing distance of the MacFarlane's keep. ‘Do ye think yer father managed to convince them?' Malcolm asked as they crouched in the bracken to watch the keep in the predawn shadows.

‘Aye. The MacFarlane'll want tae believe him,' Brendon answered. ‘Ah reckon he willnae waste any time either. Wi' a bit o' luck he'll be marchin' the Reverend an' ma da oot afore day-daw tae get ‘em diggin'.'

Sure enough, dawn was just touching the sky as they spied a flurry of activity outside the keep, and minutes later, the Reverend and Dougal appeared, driving the same horse and cart they'd brought with them. Behind them were half a dozen of MacFarlane's warriors.

Both men watched the procession with relief. Clearly the chief had believed the fabrication.

Climbing to their feet, the two men followed at a distance, taking care to keep out of sight.

Within minutes they could see Inveruglas, wreathed in the early morning mist. Crouching behind a large clump of heather, they watched the Reverend and Dougal unload the cart while their guards lounged about, laughing and joking. Brendon gritted his teeth. The men knew about the bairns in the mine. Truly the bastards deserved to lose their clan. They had no honour.

It took less than half an hour to load the MacFarlane boat tied up against the shore. Bigger than the boat Brendon had hidden on the island, it took two men to row it across to Inveruglas. Once there, obviously eager to be gone, they helped the Reverend and Dougal unload the supplies, then, leaving everything on the narrow shore, they pushed off and returned to the Lochside. Minutes later, all but one of them had left, taking the horse and cart with them.

∞∞∞

‘De ye reckon the MacFarlane'll be wantin tae talk tae his mother afore we're awa'?' Dougal speculated, carrying the large spade towards the ruins of the tower that dominated the island.

‘Does it matter?' the Reverend muttered. ‘The varmint's not going to let us leave here anyway.'

‘Aye it matters,' Dougal contradicted morosely. ‘It could mean the difference twixt drownin' and bein' boiled alive.'

‘We'd best be away before he has to decide then,' Reverend Shackleford declared, dropping the blanket he'd been carrying. ‘I suggest we start digging round where the chucklehead watching us can't see.'

‘Aye, that be perfect. The best place tae see the mine is aback the tower. The numpy cannae see what we're up tae.'

‘Malcolm and Brendon should be in position by now,' the Reverend added, ‘so hopefully, we'll be home and dry before MacFarlane realises his mother's had her last tot of whisky.'

The two men sat with their backs propped against the ruined fortress, well out of sight of the lone guard tasked with keeping watch on the shoreline.

The Reverend brought out his field glasses. From their position he could see the entrance to the mine and set just back, a ramshackle bothy that looked as though it might once have served as an office. The only activity he could see was around the entrance and inside the almost derelict building. He turned to Dougal. ‘I count four guards. Three in that building, and one sitting near to the entrance. Have a look to see if you can spot any more of ‘em.'

Dougal obligingly took the glasses and peered through them. ‘There be another one jus' comin' up,' he pointed out. ‘He be carryin' a lairge bag. More rocks the poor wee bairns hae dug oot ah reckon.'

They sat in silence for a while, taking it in turns to look through the field glasses, but didn't spot any additional guards. At length, the Reverend looked over at the shovel and spade lying on the ground and gave a sigh. ‘I suppose we'd better do a spot of digging, just in case the blackguard comes to check on us.'

‘Aye, ye'd best g"oan wi it.'

‘What do you mean me?' Reverend Shackleford spluttered. ‘What the deuce are you going to be doing?'

Dougal sighed and pointed to his bandaged lower limb. ‘Ye ken ah cannae dae a thing wi' ma bad leg, so ah thought mebbe ah'd hae a wee nap.'