Chapter Six

‘Dear God, woman, are ye a complete eejit? What dae ye think ye be doin?'

Jennifer surfaced spluttering as a hand unceremoniously grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her clear of the murky water. For a second, she was actually dangling in mid-air, then before she could protest, the man hoicked her up to his shoulder and she was enveloped in strong arms, one of which was supporting her in the most scandalous position. She could scarce take in the fact that he was striding along the side of the loch, conveying her who knew where. Awareness dimmed until her whole being was focused on the cold which was swiftly seeping into her very bones. Right now he could have been taking her to hell itself and she would not have complained provided it was warm.

Minutes or it could have been seconds later, she had no idea of the passage of time, she heard him swear softly and felt the vibration of his boot kick against something hard. Abruptly they were inside. She heard the soft lapping of water, then felt him climb something, only to jump down again. Seconds later she was put down surprisingly gently and several blankets draped over her shoulders. Her eyes tightly shut, she snuggled down into their fetid warmth gratefully.

‘Ye'll need tae take off yer wet claes if ye dinnae want tae catch yer death.' The deep masculine voice was matter of fact, and harsh reality began to encroach into her hazy dreamlike state. Nevertheless, Jennifer determinedly buried her head in the blankets until suddenly a small bark intruded. Flossy!

Her eyes flew open, and she flung off the blankets, jumping to her feet, only to stumbleas the sodden mass of her skirt wrapped itself around her ankles. Gazing round wildly, she abruptly realised that she was on a boat. Reeling in shock, she sank back down again with a whispered, ‘What have you done with my dog?'

‘Dinnae worry, she be here.' Jennifer watched as the man leaned to the side and plucked the little dog from where she was nestled in between the front paws of an Irish wolfhound. Had the beast been about to have her for dinner? With a gasp, Jennifer snatched Flossy out of the stranger's hands and cuddling her close, glared at her erstwhile rescuer.

‘Where are you taking me?' she demanded, frustrated to hear the wobble in her voice. The stranger raised his eyebrows at her tone.

‘Home, ah hope, once ye've stripped off all yer wet claes.'

‘If by claes, you mean clothes, I will certainly not remove anything in front of you.' Jennifer was proud that this time there was no wobble in her voice. ‘It is ungentlemanly of you to even ask, sir.'

‘They be drookin – soaking wet,' Brendon pointed out wearily. ‘An if ye insist on sittin' in ‘em, you'll likely be deid o' an ague wi'in a week.' He shrugged. ‘Still, it be your funeral.'

Jennifer opened her mouth to utter a scathing retort, but could think of nothing at all, so closed it again. Embarrassingly, her teeth clattered together noisily. And to make matters worse, Flossy, clearly not enjoying being pressed against wet clothing, wriggled out of her arms and promptly seated herself back with the man's brute of a dog.

Swallowing, Jennifer hugged the blankets closer to her and took a good look at her companion for the first time. Slowly her face suffused with colour. He was by far the most arresting man she'd ever seen. His eyes were a startling cerulean blue in an almost harshly beautiful face. His nose was slightly crooked as though he'd broken it once upon a time and his face bronzed from too much time outdoors. Full lips and wavy midnight black hair worn longer than was the fashion amongst the dandies of London completed the picture. Shockingly, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by those full lips.

‘So are ye gaunnae take off yer claes or stay starin' at me as though ye're expectin' ma heid tae fall off?'

Jennifer pursed her lips at his brusque tone. ‘I thank you for your assistance, but I think I'm perfectly capable of walking back up to the house without any more help.'

‘Ah ken ye'll not get ten yards wi' the weight o' that skirt flappin' round yer ankles,' he responded bluntly. ‘That's why ah brought ye here since you was too heavy fer me tae carry all the way up tae the hoose.'

How dare he insinuate she was too heavy to carry. Why, she had the tiniest waist span of all her acquaintances. Vexingly, Jennifer felt tears gather in the back of her eyes. Furiously, she blinked them away, refusing to give him the impression she was nothing but a ninnyhammer.

‘Would you please turn your back,' she managed at length, her voice husky with unshed tears. Unexpected sympathy shone briefly in his eyes, before he obligingly swivelled to face the other way. His sudden compassion was nearly her undoing, and she found herself sniffing as she cast off the blankets.

As she fumbled with the buttons of her pelisse, her hands began to shake with the cold. Indeed, her whole body felt as though it was caked in ice. Clumsily, she tossed the cloak onto the floor and started on the buttons of her blouse. Thank goodness she'd decided against wearing a dress. To have had to ask him to undo the buttons down the back would have been too humiliating.

By the time she'd stripped off her skirt and petticoat, she was simply too cold to even think, and she could have wept in gratitude when he passed a dry blanket back to her as she sat shivering in her chemise. How he'd known she'd finished undressing, Jennifer had no idea.

Two more blankets followed and finally she uttered a small, ‘You can turn round now.'

He turned back and eyed the mound of clothes on the bottom of the boat.

‘Fer cryin' oot lood, it's nae wonder it were like carryin' a coo wi' all that coverin' ye,' he commented, shaking his head. ‘We'll nae be able tae dry it in a month o' Sundays. Ah'll have tae carry ye up.'

Jennifer reddened in mortification, assuming by coo he meant cow. ‘I wouldn't wish you to strain anything,' she declared stiffly. ‘After all, a man of your advancing years must take extra care when indulging in any kind of physical labour.'

She was satisfied to see his eyes narrow but, ‘Ah reckon ye'll be as light as a feather wi'oot that ton o' claes ower yer,' was all he said.

Feeling somewhat mollified, Jennifer hunched down into her blankets. ‘Let me ken when ye're guid an' warm and we'll start back up tae the hoose,' he added.

‘Would it be acceptable for me to ask your name?' Jennifer asked after a moment.

‘Ah dinnae ken – would it?' he grinned at her, and her stomach did a sudden flip. His smile was truly devastating. Just as she was thinking how to reply to such a flippant response, he waved his hand and shrugged. ‘Dinnae fret, ah'm teasin' yer. Brendon Galbraith at yer service, ma lady.' He stood up and bowed with a flourish.

‘You're the one applying for the position of Caerlaverock's steward?' Jennifer questioned in surprise.

‘Aye,' he answered, sitting back down. ‘Well, I was. I dinnae ken whether turnin' up wi' the daughter o' the Duke naur naked is gaunnae help wi' it.'

‘How do you know I'm the Duke's daughter?' Jennifer quizzed, ignoring the bit about her being nearly naked.

‘Yer a Sassenach,' he shrugged. ‘Ah dinnae ken who else ye can be.'

Jennifer frowned. Now he mentioned it, it wasn't only his reputation at risk, but hers too. Even if it was his deuced fault for startling her in the first place. Biting her lip, she thought quickly. ‘Gifford said he was expecting you at two this afternoon. Do you have any idea what the time is now?'

‘There's nae sun, but ah reckon it's nae yet twalhoures.' He saw Jennifer's puzzled frown and added, ‘midday.'

‘So you still have at least two hours before you're expected up at the house?' Jennifer clarified. He nodded cautiously.

‘Then I suggest you take Flossy and walk up to the house. Once there you can ask whether anyone knows who she belongs to. Make sure you speak with my brother or my grandfather…'

‘Yer grandda's here too?'

Jennifer frowned at the interruption. ‘Flossy belongs to him,' she explained. ‘Please don't interrupt.' She thought for a second before continuing, ‘Tell them you found her wandering on her own.

‘Obviously they know Flossy came out with me this morning. Once they realise I'm missing, they'll send out a search party.' She paused and tapped her fingers on the gunwale pensively. ‘I'll say I slipped into the loch, managed to climb out, and realising I could not traverse the distance back to Caerlaverock while soaking wet, I discovered this boathouse, found it unlocked and came inside to remove my wet clothing and wait to be rescued. All eminently sensible.

‘Nobody will know we've been alone together, and you will be lauded a hero for drawing attention to my plight.' She gave a satisfied chuckle. ‘Likely you'll be offered the post of steward on the spot.'

‘Ah dinnae think ah can leave ye here alone,' Brendon protested with a frown.

‘I'll be perfectly fine,' she answered firmly. ‘It will not take long for you to reach the house, and I'm entirely certain they'll send a search party for me immediately.'

‘But ye'll be here alone,' he repeated patiently as if to a child.

‘I will be perfectly safe,' she reiterated in the same slow tone. ‘Nobody but you knows I'm here.'

He stared at her in silence for a second, his face impassive. Then, ‘Are ye always this buckle-horned?'

She stared back, her lips quirking. ‘I've never heard the term buckle-horned, but I've been described as shockingly loose in the haft and I'm guessing that means the same thing.'

∞∞∞

Reverend Shackleford popped the last piece of shortbread into his mouth and chewed appreciatively. Whatever other oddities there were in Highland cooking, the shortbread was truly manna from Heaven. Then he finished off his dish of tea and climbed to his feet. Time for a bit of exploring. He'd given his grandson a goodly head start, so providing he was careful, it was a big enough house to ensure they didn't cross paths. Not that he was up to anything havey-cavey. He just preferred to do his nosing around with Percy, but as the curate sadly wasn't present, alone.

He thought mayhap he'd start at the top of the house and work his way down. If it was anything like Blackmore, the servants' quarters would be located under the roof. While he suspected most of the domestics would be hard at work, there might just be an opportune moment to have a quick chat about the good book – if nothing else, it was always a good excuse for being where he shouldn't. And that reminded him – no point in talking about the Bible if he hadn't got the deuced thing with him.

With a chuckle and quick muttered apology upstairs for the expletive, the Reverend returned to his bedchamber and picked up his well-used copy of the Bible – St. James's Edition, naturally. He assumed that the Godly amongst the servants would be familiar with the text.

So, he'd have a good look around and if he bumped into any unfortunates who'd strayed from the path, he would simply offer a gentle reminder. Not that he could blame them for straying - being forced to live with the deuced midges up here would turn anybody into an atheist. Of all God's creatures, the little beasties as Gifford referred to them had to be the most unpleasant. Why some of the locals wore skirts, he had no idea. Likely they were possessed of either a deeply troubled nature or baubles like leather. Still, he could definitely help with the former.

Armed with his bible, Reverend Shackleford went in search of the back stairs…

∞∞∞

As Dougal came closer to Caerlaverock, his steps slowed. The fresh air had helped to clear his whisky addled head and what had seemed like a good idea an hour ago, now seemed nothing more than flumgummery. He sat down on a convenient rock and pulled out his flask. Then he scratched his chin and looked towards Caerlaverock while he sipped on the fiery liquid.

Gradually his ire returned as his thoughts regurgitated old grievances. By rights that hoose should ah belonged tae the Galbraiths (sip). No matter which way ye looked at it, the bloody Sinclairs were naethin but thievin' peratts (sip). It wa' high time the laithsome sassenach maggots gaed back tae England (sip). And what's more, Dougal Galbraith was aboot tae tell ‘em so.

He tossed back the last of the whisky, then pushed the stopper back in and wobbled to his feet. There was a small gate in the wall surrounding Caerlaverock he knew Gifford kept unlocked. Dougal guessed it was to save the old steward's legs when he left of an evening since he lived in Banalan and the gate being where it was almost halved the distance. He himself only knew about it after watching the old bampot come and go a few times.

Determinedly the old Scot weaved his way towards the gate which he knew was positioned in a slight fold in the hill to hide it from prying eyes. While he walked, he tried to assemble his scattered thoughts, but in the end, all he kept muttering to himself was, ‘The bastarts'll nae mak a bawheid o' ma son.' Ten minutes later, he let himself through the veiled gate and followed the footpath towards the house.