Chapter Eighteen

Murray MacFarlane stared in horror at the body in front of him. Had he hit her too hard? He crouched down and bent his head towards her face, sagging back in relief seconds later when he heard her soft breathing. Then he stared at her curiously again. She looked familiar. He'd decided to rest in the old croft in part because he really didn't want to arrive back at the Clan home – the thought of the upcoming interview with MacFarlane made him feel physically sick. But in truth, he had nowhere else to go since MacFee, the bampot, caught him with Ailsa.

Fortunately, he had useful information for his Chieftain, else he'd have been running in the opposite direction. Hopefully, the knowledge that the lad had escaped from the mine would be enough to stay the MacFarlane's hand, though the Chief would likely want to know why he hadn't been told sooner. Murray had an excuse for that too. He wasn't about to say he preferred the comfort of Caerlaverock to his drafty home Keep. But waiting had paid off. He now knew the Laird was thinking to rescue the other bairns working in the mine.

He didn't know when, but he'd explain he hadn't dared to stay to find out. All in all, he was confident the MacFarlane wouldn't beat him too hard.

The other reason he'd decided to rest was sheer tiredness. He'd been up since before day-daw and by the time he met with Ailsa, he'd felt as though he'd done more than a full day's work. He gave a dark chuckle. In truth, if MacNee hadn't come upon them when he had, Murray doubted he'd have had the stamina to actually do anything.

He looked back at the still figure in front of him. Bashing her on the head had been an impulse. He'd thought to take her horse and leave her, but then she'd turned round before he hit her. Had she caught sight of him? He gritted his teeth in indecision. He could strangle her now and be done with it. But murder? He would be certain to hang if he was caught – and that was if the MacFarlane didn't string him up first. She looked to be well born too.

He frowned suddenly as another thought occurred to him. What the devil was she doing out alone? The only large house in the area was Caerlaverock. Sudden terror knifed through him. Had she come from there? He leaned forward and turned her face towards him, and shock held him immobile. The woman lying unconscious on the ground in front of him was Jennifer Sinclair.

Groaning, he sat back on his heels and closed his eyes. What a bloody nightmare. He didn't dare kill her. There would be no mercy from the Duke of Blackmore if he did. But he didn't dare leave her here either. He'd have to take her with him.

Panting, he ran back towards the small croft to fetch a length of rope he'd spied earlier, his mind trying to come up with an acceptable excuse for bringing Jennifer Sinclair to his Chieftain. He could say she sought to stop him revealing their intentions. The MacFarlane might even hold her for ransom.

Gradually, his panic eased as he tied her hands and feet together and lifted her onto the horse. She was a wee slip of a thing, and it hardly took any effort. Then, climbing up behind her, he guided the horse away from the well-used track. He had no ready excuse for having an unconscious woman lying across his horse, so he'd have to find another, lesser used route.

By the time he'd directed the horse around the back of the croft and up onto the open heath, Murray had convinced himself that this had been his plan all along. In fact, the MacFarlane might even train him as one of his warriors…

∞∞∞

It wasn't often that Peter swore, but on discovering his sister had taken it into her head to go chasing after the missing servant alone, he let lose a string of expletives, some of which Felicity had never actually heard before. She hadn't the heart to berate him, and once he'd ground to a halt, she simply held out the note Jennifer had penned.

Scanning it quickly, the Viscount ran his fingers through his hair in weary frustration. Why the devil had he decided to go for a ride? Guilt swamped him. It was no good saying that if he'd stayed in the house one moment longer he'd have damaged something. That he needed to be doing something…

But then, anyone else would have stayed put until he'd returned, but not Jennifer. The bloody woman was a menace.

‘I'll have to go after her. With luck she won't have got far. Her note stated she intended to stay on the Lochside track and would not approach her quarry. I suppose we must be thankful for small mercies.'

‘I should have stopped her.' Felicity's face was white and strained, her guilt echoing his.

Peter sighed and shook his head. ‘We both know that when my sister gets an idea into her head, nothing and nobody can sway her. The fault does not lie with you Felicity. You could not have stopped her. In truth she was right. Somebody needed to warn Malcolm and Brendon. I should never have left the house…' He stopped and briefly closed his eyes before adding, ‘Don't worry, I'll find her. When Gifford returns, tell him to get word to Chapman. We may be forced to ask him and his men to get involved after all.'

∞∞∞

It was late afternoon when their guard hailed them. ‘Hae ye foond anythin'?'

‘Should we pretend we hae nae heard him?' Dougal asked the Reverend. ‘Make the bastart row ower here tae look fer himself?'

Reverend Shackleford thought for a second, then shook his head. ‘We don't want to set up his bristles. Much better for us if he doesn't have the chance to view your pathetic excuse for a hole.'

Dougal merely grinned and got to his feet, walking round the ruins until he could see the guard standing on the Lochside. ‘Nae, but ah reckon we be close,' he yelled back. ‘Another day'll be enough.'

‘It had better be. The MacFarlane be nae a patient man.' Dougal didn't see the point in answering that. Instead, he watched as the guard picked up his sword and began his walk back to the keep.

Dougal looked over at the Reverend as the clergyman joined him. ‘The lither bastart's nae even stayin' ‘til gloamin', he growled. ‘He dinnae deserve tae be called a son o' Caledonia.'

‘That's the old name for Scotland?' Reverend Shackleford asked, interested despite himself.

‘It were the one the Romans geid us,' Dougal answered with a shrug. ‘Haed tae put up a bloody great wall tae keep us oot,' he added with a chuckle. Fortunately the Reverend was too tired to rise to the bait.

They watched as the guard disappeared around a bend in the loch. ‘Do you think there's a chance MacFarlane will send another guard to watch us overnight,' the Reverend asked

Dougal shook his head. ‘Nae. This one didnae even finish his time.' He looked over at the tall grass bordering the loch. ‘Ah reckon Bren'll hae seen ‘im gae. Mebbe the guards ower at the mine be jus as bloody lither an' be gaed already.'

The two men hurried back round the ruined keep where the Reverend picked up the field glasses. ‘Dae ye see anythin'?' After a second, the clergyman nodded his head.

‘They're putting what looks like rocks into a cart. Likely the ore the youngens have managed to dig out today.' He paused, then began counting in a low voice. ‘I can see four of ‘em… ahh, there's the fifth. He's just come out of the mine entrance.' He lowered the glasses and look over at Dougal in excitement. ‘It looks like they're leaving.'

‘Let me see.' The old Scot snatched at the glasses and put them to his eyes. ‘Aye ye be right,' he muttered. ‘There be one still there. He dinnae look happy.'

The Reverend snorted. ‘You can't see whether the fellow's happy or not.'

‘Ye wouldnae be happy if ye were bein' left owernight there. Ah wonder if he haes any whisky? Ah'll ask Brendon tae take a look.'

‘You really think your son's going to stop and check whether the mutton-head has a bottle of whisky stashed away?' Reverend Shackleford scoffed, ‘Is there a signal for get me a wee dram?'

Dougal scowled and put the glasses back to his eyes. ‘There be nae sign o' the cart, and the guard be heidin tae the wee bothy.'

‘Only one?' the Reverend asked, itching to snatch the glasses back.

‘Aye. Th'others hae gaed.'

‘Right then, we can signal Malcolm,' the Reverend declared in satisfaction. ‘What did you do with the flint and tender?'

‘Ah thought ye had it?'

‘It should be in your pack.'

‘Nae, it be in yers, ye eejit.'

The Reverend narrowed his eyes before demanding, ‘Who are you calling an idiot, you… you… buffle-headed saucebox.'

‘Ye wispy haired, toom heidit, Sassanach. Gie me yer bag.' Dougal made a grab for the Reverend's satchel, snatching it out of the clergyman's hands and tipping everything onto the ground.

With an indignant, ‘How dare you,' Reverend Shackleford seized the Scotsman's bag and emptied its contents directly on the top of the pile.

They both fell silent, staring at the objects littering the ground. There appeared to be everything but a flint and tinder.

‘Thunder an' turf,' the Reverend muttered at length, ‘they must have fallen into the cart. We'll have to row over.'

‘There be nae time,' Dougal groaned, ‘an we need tae be here tae watch in case any o' the bastarts come back. Ah cannae row there an' back that quick. Can ye?'

The Reverend shook his head despondently. ‘You'll be deuced well carrying me off. Do you know how to light a fire without flint and tinder?'

Dougal shook his head. ‘Dae ye?'

‘Tare an' hounds, we're in the suds.'

‘Tatties be ower the side an' nae mistak.'

Both men sat down on the ground, staring at nothing for the next few minutes. Then abruptly the Reverend squared his shoulders. This lily-livered chucklehead wasn't him - it was just old Nick trying to throw a rub in his way. Augustus Shackleford always came up with a plan.

He looked again at the items scattered on the ground in front of him. Sorting through, he found a stick of charcoal. ‘Are you wearing drawers under your skirt?' he asked his dejected companion.

‘Wha' dae ye mean am ah wearin'… o' course ah be wearin' drawers. Did ye not notice it be bloody drafty in th'Highlands? An' it be a kilt, nae a skirt.'

‘Kilt, skirt – they all look the deuced same to me.'

Dougal drew in his breath at such sacrilege. In fact he was teetering on the verge of ordering the Sassenach bampot to name his seconds, when the Reverend's next words took the wind out of his sails.

‘Right then, take ‘em off.'

Dougal blinked. ‘Ah willnae. What dae ye want ‘em fer?'

‘I'm going to write on them.' The clergyman held up the piece of charcoal triumphantly.

‘Yer bum's oot the windae if yer thinkin' ah'm gaunnae get ma tackle oot jus' fer ye. An anyway, the colour o' ma drawers, ye'll nae see the markins.' He held up his kilt to reveal a pair of drawers the colour of mud. The Reverend stared in disbelief. He was no dandy, but still, he made sure to change his smalls every birthday.

‘Have you never washed them?' he asked, unable to hide his distaste.

The Scot looked at him as though he was addled. ‘What aboot the midges?' He asked at length.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Reverend Shackleford sighed. ‘We'll use my drawers,' he muttered turning his back.

A couple of minutes later, he laid the largely whitish pair of undergarments down on the ground. His birthday had been a month earlier.

For once the elderly Scot refrained from commenting aside from muttering under his breath, ‘Ye could scribe most o' the good book on them.'

‘What are ye gaunnae write?' he asked as the Reverend took up his stick of charcoal.

‘I think "Coast clear1 guard in hut," should do it. Laboriously the clergyman chalked the words across the back of his drawers in letters as large as he could fit down each leg.

‘Right then. I think they should be able to see that if we stand close to the shore. Come on Dougal, there's no time to lose.'

Bemused that the English was using his given name for the second time, Dougal followed in silence, a sudden problem rearing its ugly head.

If he wasnae careful, he might actually get tae like the God walloper. An that wouldnae dae at all…

Five minutes later, the two of them were standing on the edge of the shore, each holding a leg high in the air, shouting and pointing at the improvised sign.

‘It's nae guid, they cannae see it,' Dougal declared after five minutes. ‘Ah'll hae tae climb on yer shoulders.'

‘If you think I'm allowing your drawers anywhere near my person, you're very much mistaken,' the Reverend shuddered.

‘Dae ah complain aboot haein tae look at yer face like a skelped arse?' the Scot answered cheerfully, stepping up onto a boulder. ‘At least ah can take mine off. Right then, bend doon.'

Against his better judgement, the Reverend went over to the boulder and bent down. Oh how he was missing Percy. The curate would never have answered him back like his present unsavoury companion.

It only took Dougal a few seconds to hop up and sling his leg around the Reverend's neck. ‘Jus' like auld times,' he chuckled into the clergyman's ear. Clearly the Scot was much more agile than Percy, and moments later he was sitting triumphantly on his companion's shoulders. Once the Reverend had wobbled to his feet, Dougal rose up, held up the drawers and yelled at the top of his voice.

Within minutes, Malcolm and Brendon appeared on the Lochside. ‘The coast be clear, wi one guard,' Dougal yelled, flapping the drawers up and down for emphasis. Seconds later both men gave the thumbs-up sign and disappeared into the long grass.

‘Well, that were easy,' the Scot crowed, throwing the drawers to the ground and sitting back down on his haunches. Unfortunately, as he sat down, the front of his kilt slid over the Reverend's face like a pungent shroud.

Reverend Shackleford gave a muffled choking sound and wobbled from side to side as Dougal tried to wrestle his kilt back over the Reverend's head, only to hook the sporran over the clergyman's ears in the process. With a panicked yell, Augustus Shackleford slowly tottered forward and despite his passenger's increasingly desperate entreaties, promptly fell headfirst into the loch, Dougal sailing like a flying fish over his head.