Chapter Three

Brendon Galbraith stared at his father in exasperation. ‘Ah ken ye're not best happy wi' the situation,' he growled, ‘but if we're to have a say in the matter o' the land hereabouts, it"ll be best done workin' wi' the laird, not agin him.'

Dougal Galbraith drained his whisky. ‘I'll nae be workin' wi' no bloody Sassenachs,' he muttered.

‘Nobody's askin' ye tae, Da. But like it or no, the Sinclair's own this land. And they have done since well before Culloden, however much ye might want tae pretend otherwise. An' it were your great, great, grandfather who bloody sold it to ‘em.'

‘Aye, well, I dinnae hae tae like it,' Dougal muttered, pouring himself another drink. ‘Ahh ye takin' a wee dram afore ye go tae grovel tae the likes o' Gifford?'

‘Ah'll nae be grovellin' as well ye know,' Brendon grated in frustration, snatching the whisky bottle from his father's hand. ‘An' if ye spent less time wi' yer head in this bottle, ye might see the truth o' the matter. Gifford has spoken wi' the laird and his son's gaunae meet wi' me. An' if ye cannae haud yer weesht, ah'll thank ye to bide here.'

Brendon shook his head and strode out of his father's small sitting room and out into the draughty hall. ‘Ah'll nae be bowin to no Sassanach either,' his father yelled after him. ‘So dinnae ask.'

Brendon gritted his teeth but didn't reply. In truth, if he'd stayed one more minute he might have actually been tempted to wring the old bampot's scrawny neck. Instead, he whistled to Fergus, his Irish wolfhound and strode outside the crumbling keep. He loved his da, but there were times he could bloody swing for the dafty.

The weather outside was warm and dry. On the one hand, it made a nice change from the wet chilly weather early June usually brought, but on the other, it meant the midges would be out in force. Glancing up at the sky, he reckoned he had about two hours until the sun started to lower, and the little bastards came out for blood. Enough time to walk up to Caerlaverock and speak with Gifford before he needed to be back and inside.

Fergus came up beside him and nudged at his hand. In spite of his fearsome appearance, the wolfhound was a complete bairn. Soft as butter and twice as daft. Brendon picked up a stick and threw it as hard as he could. With a loud bark, Fergus loped after it. In the distance, he could see the shores of Loch Lomond, and on a large bluff beside it, Caerlaverock, the Duke of Blackmore's seat in Scotland.

It had been an age since the Duke himself had travelled the five hundred miles from Blackmore. Brendon couldn't blame him – it was a hell of a journey. He thought back to the last time Nicholas Sinclair had honoured them with a visit. It was nearly four years ago. He'd brought his wife and his eldest son and heir with him then. Peter Sinclair had been nigh on a man, though possessed of the recklessness that gripped most boys on the verge of manhood. Brendon wondered what changes the intervening years had wrought.

The Scot doubted if he'd ever possessed such foolhardiness. His ma's death had robbed him of his childhood well before he was ready, and as the only son, the only oats he'd ever sown were in the ground while his da lost himself in the bottom of a whisky bottle.

Sighing, he brought himself back to the present. Like it or no, Dougal was his responsibility and the possibility of becoming steward to Caerlaverock was no small thing. It would provide a previously undreamt-of security for both him and his da. And if it meant locking the old bampot up for the whole of Peter Sinclair's visit, then so be it.

In truth, though, financial security wasn't the main reason he was desperate for an audience with the Viscount. The terrible incident he'd witnessed at the MacFarlane's mine three months earlier had been keeping him awake at night, and he urgently needed Sinclair's help. He'd been in the process of writing a letter to Blackmore requesting aid when he heard about the impending Ducal visit and decided that a face-to-face meeting would be much more beneficial.

In retrospect, he should have sent the missive anyway, but until only a few days ago, he'd been under the impression that Nicholas Sinclair himself would be making the journey. However, after speaking with Gifford, his hopes had been dashed. The Duke was sending his son and heir in his place.

Since it was far too late now to send a request for help to his grace, the young Viscount would have to do.

∞∞∞

‘Well, I cannae say I'm overjoyed at the prospect of keeping an eye on the Reverend for the next month, but if it's yer wish he travel with us lad…' Malcolm gave a philosophical shrug.

‘Believe me, the last thing I want is to saddle you with my father-in-law,' Nicholas retorted. ‘If you feel it's too much for you and Felicity, simply say the word, and I'll make an excuse.'

‘Aye, I know ye would, lad. But it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Augustus is nae as young as he used to be. It's an open secret that Percy's dealing wi' most everything now. Taking the Reverend away from Blackmore will let ye know whether the lad can step into Augustus's shoes when the time comes.'

Nicholas frowned, then gave a short laugh. ‘Trust you to focus on the practical my friend. I must confess the thought of Augustus retiring has been on my mind recently. We both know he won't take it well. And you're right, this could be an excellent opportunity to encourage him to step back. Do you think Felicity will be able to tolerate a month with the old rascal?'

Malcolm gave a pained wince. ‘I dinnae doubt she'll have something to say about it, but hopefully, she'll get o'er her Friday face afore we're all confined together in the carriage.'

‘Don't worry, I'll send you with two carriages,' Nicholas chuckled. ‘That way you can take it in turns…'

‘Have ye told Peter and Jennifer?'

Nicholas winced. ‘Not yet. I thought I'd save that for the night before you leave.'

Malcolm laughed out loud and slapped his thigh. ‘Now that I cannae wait to witness,' he chuckled.

‘Then perhaps you and Felicity had better join us for dinner,' Nicholas responded dryly.

‘I would'nae miss it fer the world, lad, would'nae miss it fer the world...'

∞∞∞

Pulling on her gloves, Jennifer took a last look around her bedchamber. Her luggage had already been taken out to the carriage. Stifling a sudden excitement, she pulled open the door and made her way down the large staircase. This trip was going to be the first real adventure of her life - not least due to the fact she'd have no lady's maid to assist her during the weeklong journey.

And then there would be the presence of her grandfather. Chuckling, she thought back to dinner the evening before. Peter had definitely not been happy to discover the Reverend would be accompanying them. In fact, in a rare show of pique, he'd stomped from the table at one point, only to return sheepishly half an hour later. Her brother was generally easygoing, sometimes even impetuous, but he was no sulker. Deep inside he possessed their father's serious nature though he mostly went to great lengths to hide it – especially from his Corinthian friends.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Jennifer smothered a grin. Undoubtedly, the time away from the table had given him time to think. Plus of course, he hadn't yet had pudding…

The carriages were waiting near the main entrance at the foot of the steps. She'd already said her goodbyes to her mother and father, but that didn't stop the fierce hugs and last list of instructions pushed into her hand. Malcolm, Felicity and Peter were already in the first carriage. Jennifer had elected to join the Reverend in the second carriage for the first part of the journey. In truth, she was quite looking forward to it. Her grandfather could be very entertaining when he put his mind to it.

They were to pick the Reverend up from the vicarage en route, and as Jennifer climbed into the carriage, she made sure to be facing the front. Despite the clement weather, she was furnished with a hot brick in case her feet became chilled, and a blanket should she decide to take a nap. As the carriage door was shut, she cast a last look at her mother's anxious face and leaned out of the open window. ‘I will only be away for a month, Mama,' she laughed. ‘You need not look as though you're never going to see me again.'

‘Please do not tempt fate,' Grace countered, gripping her daughter's hand.

‘Truly, we are well protected,' Jennifer protested, leaning out to give her mother one last kiss.

In fact, the main reason they were travelling without servants was the Duke's conclusion that the provision of sufficient protection was more important than someone adept in the use of curling irons. Especially since there would be a full complement at Caerlaverock.

In addition to the four coach drivers, there were six footmen. In reality, the men were all retired sailors whom the Duke had personally trained to provide added protection for his family. On arrival at Caerlaverock, they would be accommodated in the nearby village of Banalan under the watchful eye of Chapman, their leader.

As well as the bogus footmen, both Malcolm and Peter were more than proficient swordsmen and marksmen and Jennifer herself was sufficiently skilled to hit a moving target. The drivers had been instructed to keep to the busy main roads and under no circumstances to travel outside of daylight hours.

In all honesty, as Peter muttered to Malcolm, the biggest danger to their health was sharing a carriage with the Reverend for five hundred miles…

‘Give Nicholas a hug from me when he gets back from Eton,' Jennifer called out as the carriage pulled away. She watched in the small rear window as her parents grew ever smaller until the carriage turned a bend, and they were finally out of sight. Swivelling forward, Jennifer unexpectedly found herself blinking back tears. And they hadn't even left Blackmore land yet.

Taking a kerchief from her reticule, she firmly dried her eyes, determined not to behave like a foolish little girl. In a few minutes, her grandfather would be joining her in the carriage, and she was entirely certain he'd waste no time before swiftly coaxing her out of her blue devils.

∞∞∞

Sitting on his trunk, watching the Blackmore carriages coming down the lane, the Reverend had the uncomfortable feeling that his life was about to change forever. Despite his bluff manner, Augustus Shackleford was no fool. He was well aware that the Duke of Blackmore would be watching Percy carefully during his absence.

He knew also that the time was fast approaching when he'd have to hang up his cassock for good. He didn't know which was worse – the thought of spending all day every day with only Agnes for company or being consigned to the family pew for every service with no opportunity for a quick nap halfway through the sermon.

He could hear the faint sound of chanting coming from the church. They were halfway through the week of Whitsuntide and one or two of the faithful would be in the church every day. It meant that Percy wasn't able to see him off. In some ways, the Reverend was relieved. He was only going away for a month after all, and the curate had already promised faithfully to keep him informed via a weekly letter.

Agnes of course had not yet risen from her bed, which just left Flossy.

He looked down at the little dog who wagged her tail encouragingly, reminding him that it wouldn't just be him and Agnes... As the carriages approached, he bent down to pick her up, shrugging off his mawkish reverie. All was well. He'd already had a quick word with the Almighty and despite his feelings of disquiet, the Reverend was confident he was taking the right path.

Leaving his trunk to two of the burly footmen, he climbed through the open door of the second carriage, seating himself opposite the only other occupant.

‘Good morning, Grandfather,' Jennifer murmured, with a small polite bend of her head.

As the carriage moved off, the Reverend regarded her with a pained sigh. ‘Tare an' hounds, lass, it's going to be a deuced long journey as it is without you sitting the whole way with a poker up your arse.' And with that, he relinquished a wriggling Flossy who promptly threw herself ecstatically into his granddaughter's arms.

With Flossy clambering all over her, Jennifer abandoned her attempts at graciousness and after finally managing to settle the little dog on her lap, gave a wicked grin. ‘Can you remember when you let slip about old Queen Charlotte's mishap with the duck pond at Aunt Hope's wedding?' she recalled. ‘You said you'd tell me the truth of what happened when I became old enough.'

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, dearest Grandpapa, I think that time has finally come. However, feel free to take your time, after all, we have five hundred miles together. I can wait...'