Chapter Seven

As the Reverend listened to yet another string of completely incomprehensible words come out of the servant's mouth, he actually began to panic a little. Indeed, he couldn't help wondering at what point the family would realise he was missing. He might not be discovered until supper. Or longer. They might even discover his remains on the same chair, shrivelled and wrinkled like those deuced mummy things from Egypt.

Truly, Augustus Shackleford had never met such a boring, wearisome, longwinded individual. It was taking the chucklehead twenty words for what could be said in three. Or so he assumed, since he couldn't actually understand a word the fellow was saying. How the devil had he managed to pick on the saintliest servant in the house? The Reverend was beginning to think the fellow could well be in the process of quoting the whole of the Bible ad verbatim. Either that or he was talking about the weather.

Nodding benevolently at the impassioned servant for the umpteenth time, Reverend Shackleford happened to glance out of the window and gave a slight frown. An unsavoury individual seemed to be making his way up a narrow path at the very edge of the formal gardens. The man was weaving this way and that, so much so that the Reverend wondered if he might actually be more than a trifle foxed – a sorry state of affairs since it wasn't yet lunchtime. Here indeed was an individual sorely in need of God's benediction. Just what he needed to get him out of his current dire predicament.

Turning back to the gabster who didn't appear to have noticed his audience's attention had wandered, Reverend Shackleford took a deep breath, leaned forward and slapped his right hand on the man's head. Startled, the servant spluttered to a halt. With one eye on the window, the Reverend muttered a quick blessing then clambered to his feet, crossing himself hurriedly as he did so. Then yelling, ‘AMEN,' he tucked the Bible under one arm, lifted his cassock off the floor with the other and bolted.

∞∞∞

By the time Dougal got as far as the house, he'd almost entirely forgotten what he was actually doing there. Bemused, he stared at the inconspicuous door in front of him, then rummaged around in his pocket for his flask, absently removing the stopper and putting the opening to his mouth. It was the realisation that he'd finished its contents some time ago that helped clarify things a little.

He was here tae tell them thievin' bastart Sassenachs … err … what? Dougal frowned in concentration. Somethin aboot his son. Aye, that was it. Somethin' aboot Brendon …

Certain it would come to him eventually, the old Scot tried the door. To his befuddled delight, it was open. With only the slightest hesitation, he stepped through and found himself in a long corridor, black as the Earl o' Hell's waistcoat.

Leaving the door slightly open to let in some light and, of course, on the off chance he needed a hasty escape, Dougal began feeling his way along the narrow passage. Thankfully after a few seconds, the darkness began to retreat until he could see his own hand. Breathing a sigh of relief, he tiptoed further until finally, he could see lights at the end of the passage. Whilst his ideas of what he would do when he got there were vague at best, they did involve refusing to move until he'd had an audience with the Maister o' the hoose.

As he got closer to what looked to be a large hall, Dougal began rehearsing in his mind what he was going to say. A little more sober now, he recognised that accusing the Duke's son of being a thievin' bastart would not only get him thrown out, but likely land him in jail. ‘Noo, haud on a wee minent, Dougal,' he muttered to himself, his footsteps slowing, ‘Ye dinnae ken who yer gaunnie meet.'

Hesitating at the entrance to the large square hall, he scratched his head and tried to sort out his muddled thoughts.

‘Can I help you, my son?' A sudden loud voice behind him had Dougal almost jumping out of his skin. Spinning round, he stared in abject terror as a large black garbed apparition loomed out of the darkness. Lord save him, it was a bogle. Abruptly convinced he was about to be dragged all the way to hell itself, Dougal gave a strangled battle cry and yelled, ‘Ye'll nae be taikin a Galbraith wi'oot a fight, yer devil.' Then with another, even louder whoop, he launched himself at the spectre which appeared on their first connection to be surprisingly solid.

‘Thunder an' turf, what the…' Dougal had time to note that the apparition's voice didn't sound much like a bogle either, before the demon staggered forward into the large hall while the Scot hung limpet like around its neck shouting, ‘Ah'm nae feart o' ye bawcan. Ah'll gie ye a skelpin ye'll nae forget.' They did an almost credible waltz around the room, then just as Dougal was attempting to swing his leg around the demon's neck in an effort to climb onto its shoulders, the doorbell rang. For a few vital seconds, Dougal paused, and a muffled cry for help came from under his elbow. He looked down in surprise, thinking it strange that the denizen of hell should have such a convincing English accent, before the bogle blundered into a large marble pedestal and began to topple backwards. They both crashed slowly to the floor just as the butler, MacNee, staunchly ignoring the fracas, opened the door.

On the threshold stood Brendon Galbraith carrying a small shivering dog in his arms.

Being on the top of the pile of two, Dougal looked up with a frown, rubbed his eyes and commented, ‘What the bloody hell have ye done wi' Fergus?'

∞∞∞

Shivering, Jennifer tucked her knees up onto the bench she was sitting on and covered them with her blankets. To her estimation the would-be steward had been gone at least twenty minutes. Surely she wouldn't have to wait much longer.

With nothing else to occupy her thoughts, she found herself reliving the last half an hour since Brendon Galbraith had fished her out of the loch. Although she'd been barely conscious at the time, she remembered the feel of his strong arms around her and the solid warmth of his chest. She shivered again, this time for a different reason. He truly was a handsome man. Was he married? Engaged? She found it hard to believe that there wasn't a line of willing females camped outside his door.

She remembered what Gifford had said that morning about Galbraith leaving employment with another clan. She frowned trying to remember. MacFarlane, that was it. Had Galbraith been dismissed? Clearly he was trustworthy – well at least he hadn't tried to take advantage of her - though she supposed that didn't mean he wasn't light fingered. But somehow she doubted it. There was something honourable about the Scot. Every action he'd taken since fishing her out of the freezing water had been congruent with someone who had an inherently compassionate nature. And that didn't match her image of a thief or worse. And besides, Gifford had declared the Clan chief dicked in the nob.

Resting her head on her knees, she sighed. Despite her abundance of blankets, the cold was beginning to creep back in. How long had it been now?

Abruptly a small sound caught her attention. She swallowed in sudden fear. Were there rats onboard? She'd heard tales of rodents the size of cats eating people's toes and fingers. Granted, the unfortunates having their extremities removed were dead at the time, but still…

The noise came again, and Jennifer frowned. It sounded like someone sniffing.

‘Who's there?' she called, not entirely able to keep the panic out of her voice. ‘I … I have a weapon,' she lied, while casting desperately around for something she could use to defend herself.

The sniff came again, and this time it sounded suspiciously like a sob. Frowning, she gingerly put her bare feet back onto the deck and stood up. Peering down the stairs into the blackness of the little boat's cabin, she eventually made out a small form, curled up on the floor. It had to be a child. With a slight gasp, she stepped forward, only to watch the shape scuttle backwards into the farthest reaches of the cabin.

∞∞∞

‘Da, what the devil dae ye think yer daein?' Brendon roared, putting Flossy on the floor and hurrying over to drag his father off the prone clergyman. ‘Are ye daft? Can ye nae see, ye be giein a skelpin tae a man o' God?'

Dangling in mid-air on the end of his son's vice like grip, Dougal frowned and looked down at the groaning figure below him. In broad daylight, what had looked to be a shroud was clearly a cassock. ‘Hoo was ah tae ken? The eejit didnae annoonce himself.'

Sighing, Brendon stood his father back onto the floor and bent down to help the Reverend onto his feet. ‘Tare an' hounds, the chawbacon's addled,' Augustus Shackleford muttered, checking that all his extremities remained intact.

‘Ye should ken better, tae sneak up thatwey.'

‘I was not sneaking,' the Reverend retorted, his ire well and truly roused. ‘As I recall, it was you who attacked me, you ... you heathen.'

‘Ah'll gae ye heathen, ye toom-heidit Sassen…

‘What the blazes is going on?' Peter's voice cut into the mêlée, and all three men immediately fell silent.

Brendon stepped forward and bent his head. ‘Ah hope ye'll forgive ma intrusion and that o' ma foolish da, ma lord…'

‘… An' jus who dae ye think ye be callin foolish?' Dougal interrupted.

Brendon gritted his teeth and glared over at his father. ‘Haud yer wheesht,' he growled. ‘If ye open yer mouth agin, ah'll be gaggin' ye.' Unthinkingly, Dougal opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it and subsided with a scowl.

‘Ma lord, ye can dae as ye wish wi' ma da, but first - ah foond this wee dog wanderin' near the loch.' He gestured towards Flossy, now happily ensconced in her master's arms. ‘Ah'm thinkin' ye ken her?' When his audience continued to stare at him blankly, he added desperately, ‘She wernae wi' anyone.'

‘Didn't she go out with Jenny?' Peter asked, abruptly grasping what the Scot was trying to say.

‘Aye,' Malcolm confirmed. ‘Did ye see a lady wi' the dog?' he asked Brendon.

With an internal sigh of relief, Brendon shook his head. ‘There were no lady wi' her.'

‘Thunder an' turf, she could have fallen into the deuced loch.' Reverend Shackleford's face turned pale. Grace would never forgive him if anything happened to her only daughter.

Peter raked his hand through his hair in agitation. ‘Will you show me where you found the dog?' he asked Brendon.

‘Aye, gladly,' the Scot responded. ‘Shall we be takin' a horse for fear the lady may be injured?'

Peter nodded. ‘Excellent idea. Gifford, can you have a horse saddled immediately?'

‘Ah'll wait fer the horse. Ye and the lad get ye gone.' Malcolm waved Peter towards the door.

‘Here, take Flossy. She might help. There's a bit of Freddy in her yet.' The Reverend gave the little dog a quick fuss and handed her back to Brendon.

‘Can you ask Mrs Darroch to have a hot bath taken to my sister's room, Grandpapa?' Peter looked over at his white-faced grandfather. ‘We'll find her. If she's fallen into the loch, she's an excellent swimmer.'

The Reverend gave a worried nod before glaring at his erstwhile opponent who was busy muttering, ‘Tatties ower the side an' nae mistak.

∞∞∞

‘I won't hurt you,' she called, this time as gently as she could. The almost inaudible sniffing continued unabated. Hesitantly Jennifer put a foot down on the first step. ‘Will you let me help you?' she asked, scrutinising the gloom below her and taking another step down.

‘Gonnae no' dae that,' a small voice responded, surprisingly firmly.

‘You want me to stay here?' No response. ‘Please, I want to help you.'

‘Ye gat anythin' tae eat Maistres?'

‘My brother will be here very soon. If you're hungry, I can take you to my home. They'll give you lots to eat there.' Jennifer hoped it was true. She'd certainly have some explaining to do returning half naked with an urchin in tow.

‘Ah'm nae gaun anywhere wi' ye,' the voice returned promptly.

Before she could take another step, there was the sound of footsteps and the door to the boat shed abruptly opened and a voice shouted, ‘Jennifer?'

Sighing with relief, Jennifer hurriedly pulled the blankets tight around her and stepped back up into the small cockpit. ‘I'm here,' she returned fighting tears of her own.

‘Thank God.' Peter's head appeared and behind him was Brendon Galbraith. Absurdly, Jennifer felt her face suffuse with warmth for the second time in as many hours. She was almost alarmed by the feeling of excitement that rushed through her at the sight of the large Scot. Was she imagining the heat of his stare behind her brother's back? An excited bark brought her back to her predicament.

‘Yer dog led us here,' Brendon explained gruffly, clearly uncomfortable with the statement - a half-truth at best.

Peter blinked as he took in her state of undress. ‘I fell into the loch and had to take off my wet clothes as you can see,' Jennifer commented in her most matter-of-fact manner. ‘To avoid catching an ague, naturally.'

Peter sighed and glanced back at Brendon. ‘It's fortunate I listened to your advice about a horse, Galbraith,' he declared ruefully. Jennifer thought she was the only one who caught the wince in Brendon's answering shrug.

‘I take it you're not injured in any way?' Peter continued, turning back towards the boat. Jennifer shook her head. ‘Do you think you can ride and maintain your modesty?' he added drily.

‘I'm certain I can,' she answered determinedly, clutching her blankets. ‘But before we go, there's a slight problem.'

‘I assume we're no longer talking about the problem of getting my naked sister back to the house with no one the wiser aside from the previously unmet gentleman standing beside me?' He clicked his fingers and added, ‘Or of course, controlling a horse whilst holding on to the vast number of garments you appear to have removed?'

Jennifer gave a slight frown, then shrugged and nodded. ‘There's a child in the cabin,' she declared bluntly, ignoring the small cry of protest coming from down the stairs behind her. ‘I think whoever it is has been hiding there for some time, and he or she is very hungry.'

While Peter stared at her as if she'd lost her wits, Brendon frowned and immediately stepped onto the boat. ‘Ah'm thinkin' ye should be takin' yer sister ma lord while I look tae the bairn,' he suggested over his shoulder.

Many members of England's upper echelons might well have bristled at the Scot's authoritative tone, but like his father, Peter didn't have an egotistical bone in his body. He also possessed the Duke's practical streak, so he merely nodded and stepped forward to help his sister out of the boat.

‘Caerlaverock is closest,' Jennifer declared as she took her brother's hand. ‘Bring the child straight to the house.' Then she paused before adding in a low tone, ‘I think it might well be a boy. Please don't frighten him.'

Brendon shook his head. ‘Ah would'nae m'lady. The lad'll be safe wi' me.' He stood and watched as Jennifer Sinclair climbed out of the boat, looking for all the world as though she was acceding to a dance request. He couldn't hold back a sudden grin. Then, shaking his head at the bewildering vagaries of women, he turned and stood at the door to the cabin, blocking it entirely should the child decide to run.

‘Ye cannae stay there foraye, lad. Ye'll starve,' he murmured, his voice calm.

‘Ye cannae stand there foraye naither,' came the impudent response. Clearly the lad wasn't yet that hungry.

‘Ah ken. An' ah'm naegaunnae, but ah'm nae leavin' wi'oot ye.'

‘Gaun jus' bugger aff wid ye.' The response was defiant, but with an undercurrent of fear that spoke volumes.

With a sigh, Brendon ducked his head and went slowly down the steps, giving his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. In the far corner, what looked like a bundle of rags suddenly moved.

‘Ah'll nae hurt ye lad,' holding his hand out in a placating gesture. ‘What be yer name?'

‘There was a pause and a sniff, then, ‘Finn.'

‘If ye come wi' me, Finn, ah'll see yer giein a hot meal. Hoo aboot some mealie puddin? That dae ye?' Brendon thought the child would probably jump on dry bread and water.

For a full minute, the lad didn't move, then slowly, the rags unfolded, and the boy stood up. Brendon had to suppress a groan at the sorry sight the lad presented. He was little more than skin and bone. ‘Can ye walk, Finn?'

‘Course ah can bloody walk.' The impudence was still there, but underneath, Brendon could see the lad was actually trembling. He might even collapse before they reached Caerlaverock. Swearing under his breath, Brendon retreated back to up to the cockpit and waited.

After about five minutes, Finn came slowly up the narrow stairs. In the daylight, the boy looked even worse. He was filthy, his ribs sticking out through the rags he wore. But more than that, the filth was black, covering him from head to toe. Abruptly Brendon realised where the lad had come from.

There was little doubt. Finn had somehow escaped from MacFarlane's mine.