Twenty-three

The voyage home was as different from Michael's passage to New South Wales as could be imagined.

Seven years earlier, he'd been confined belowdecks, shackled in irons and only allowed up for air every few days. He'd spent his hours in the dark, crammed up against a hundred other angry, miserable men, playing whist with Davey or lying in his hammock, staring at the low beams of the ceiling and feeling sorry for himself. The food had been meager and tasteless—weevil-infested bread and rotten meat. Stale ale. He'd felt wretched. And he'd been young. So young.

The return trip was far less crowded—with people, that was. Instead of soldiers and men in chains, the stores were packed full of bales of compressed sheep's wool.

And he was a free man. Michael and Caitlin ate their fill with the ship's officers in the gunroom, food that, while neither fresh nor tasteful, was at least sound. There was a daily ration of wine and spirits which Caitlin took gladly, though Michael knew better than to touch. He spent the days at her side, reading or playing chess; on deck when the weather was fine and belowdecks when it wasn't. Though technically, as a manservant accompanying a widow, he claimed a hammock slung between two beams in the forecastle, the captain was a practical and understanding fellow, and he looked the other way when Michael slipped into Caitlin's tiny cabin each night.

The nights were the best of it, rocking gently in the belly of the boat with Caitlin sleeping in his arms, the soft puff of her breath on his neck. He dreaded showing his face in Scotland, but that ordeal was a long way off. Here, in this in-between, he was content.

They sailed west into the sunset, past the Auklands and through the icy seas around Cape Horn. The sailors dreaded the passage around the Cape, predicting all kinds of terror, but besides the bitter cold, no harm came to them. Their only port of call was Perambuco in Brazil, where the captain gave Caitlin and Michael leave to go ashore. Though they were glad to get off the ship, the place turned out to be distasteful—hot and full of the same kind of drunken sailors that infested Sydney, and slave traders, too. After eating at a dirty pub full of rowdy men, Caitlin and Michael strolled the streets arm and arm. They came across a square where people were being put up for sale. Michael's urge was to keep going, not to look, but Caitlin seemed rooted to the spot, her eyes wide as she took in the horrible scene. They watched as a man of Michael's age was auctioned off, followed by a woman with a crying babe in her arms. It was only after they climbed down from the platform and were led away by their new masters that Michael noticed the tortured looks that passed between the adults. The way the child reached toward the man as his mother was dragged through the crowd.

"Sweet heaven. They're a family." Caitlin had drawn the same conclusion. She shuddered, then looked down, blinking away tears.

In a few hours, they were back on the ship.

They reached the equator not long after, and the weather slowly turned cooler. Liverpool was only a week away. Sea birds appeared in the sky, and finally, the call of land rent the air.

The sailors' moods turned joyful as they anticipated all the pleasures of shore while readying the ship for the dock. Caitlin stood at the rail, gazing at the approaching city with wide, expectant eyes, but as the tangle of ships' masts and brown stone warehouses of the Liverpool quay drew closer, all Michael could feel was a looming sense of foreboding.

He shouldn't have come. He didn't belong here.

Once ashore, Caitlin's excitement soon dimmed. She seemed lost in the bustle of the English port city, clinging to his sleeve, and Michael was glad to take on the responsibility of directing their route. Indeed, the distraction and the warmth that came from caring for her were the only two things standing between him and the dread that roiled more and more insistently in his gut. He found the bank Mr. James had directed them to, and she collected the rest of her allowance. Then, ignoring the raised brow of the ticket-seller, Michael booked them passage on a steamer to Port Glasgow. They stayed the night at an inn there—in separate rooms—then took a crowded stage to Edinburgh and finally, a clipper over the choppy North Sea to Inverness.

It was here, on the cold deck of that small ship, after the bustle of travel had subsided and he'd tucked Caitlin into her tiny berth for a much-needed rest, that Michael finally came face to face with the terror that had been stalking him ever since they'd left Sydney.

Her new estate was only a day's ride from Darnalay. He'd known that. He had .

So why the devil had he agreed to this? Why was he here?

He gripped the rail, staring into the vast expanse of frigid water. His stomach churned. His head pounded. The wind roared in his ears.

He'd come because she'd asked him to. Because she needed him.

He closed his eyes. Forced a breath.

She needed him.

The ship pitched, and he stumbled, losing his grip.

With each turn of the wheel, each snap of the sail, they were getting closer.

Closer.

His vision blurred, and he heaved, retching into the sea.

They arrived in Inverness in the early afternoon of a chill, windy March day, spring here, though there was no sign of it. Michael had despised the heat of New South Wales, but disembarking in this cold northern city, he found himself longing for the sun and the press of hot air.

It didn't help that he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see someone from Darnalay staring back at him. It was foolish, really. He'd barely known anyone there, and even those who had known him would hardly recognize the man he'd become. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of being exposed. At risk.

Caitlin shivered and pulled her thin cloak tighter around her. "I suppose we'll need warmer clothes," she murmured.

So they spent the afternoon shopping, spending out of the purse she'd been given at the bank in Liverpool. A greatcoat for Michael and a hat; a woolen cloak and muff for Caitlin, along with a pair of sturdy half boots; stockings and warm gloves for them both.

The shopkeep at the haberdashery studied them curiously, and as they were settling up, he casually asked where they were from.

Michael hesitated. It was a shameful thing to come from New South Wales.

But Caitlin answered straight away. "We've just arrived from Australia, and we're bound for an estate near Croachafearn."

The man's eyes widened at the mention of Australia. Then they narrowed. He knew they were convicts. Michael braced himself for the insult.

But it didn't come.

"Croachafearn you say? In the Monadhliath Hills? Is it Glenoch House, by chance?"

Caitlin nodded. "You know of it?"

"I've a niece works there, in the kitchens." He turned away and continued packing their things, then looked up. "If you don't mind me askin', what will you do there?"

"I—I'm a widow." Caitlin stumbled a bit on her words. "The estate belonged to me husband, and it's been granted to me as a dower."

"Ah." The man's eyes slid to Michael.

"Mr. Dunn is me secretary," Caitlin quickly added, her cheeks turning pink.

If the shopkeep suspected anything, he didn't let on. He only nodded and returned to his work.

Caitlin glanced at Michael, her lips pursed, then she turned her gaze back to the man in front of them. "What do you know of Glenoch House?"

He looked up. "‘Tis . . ." He hesitated. "Remote. ‘Twas meant for a huntin' lodge, I believe." He shrugged. "I dinna ken. Some fool bought it in recent years, thinkin' to use the land for sheep, but—" He broke off, his eyes widening as he realized what he'd just said about Caitlin's husband. "I mean no offense, ma'am. I'm—"

"It's quite all right." A smile tugged at Caitlin's lips. "You said your niece works there. Are there many servants?"

He shook his head, clearly relieved. "Na." He shrugged. "No one to serve, really. Or—not ‘til now, I s'pose."

"I see. And the land?"

"Sir!" Another customer was peering at something on the counter.

"Just a minute now!" the shopkeep barked at the man. Then he looked back to Michael and Caitlin and pushed their package across the counter into Michael's waiting hands. "Good luck to ye. I'm sure you'll be happy at Glenoch. ‘Tis a grand house." He smiled politely and strode toward the next customer.

They stepped out into the cold and began walking.

"What do you suppose he meant by remote ?" Caitlin asked.

Michael tried to sound reassuring, though he felt anything but. "Everywhere here is remote. I'm sure it'll be fine."

Once again, they slept in separate rooms at the inn for the sake of propriety. If it were just her, Caitlin wouldn't have cared a fig for what anyone thought, but Michael kept reminding her that it would do no good for word of her immorality to get back to Mr. James Sr. and his employer.

He'd been like that of late—wary and critical. She'd wanted to argue. Of course she'd lose her dower if she were to marry again, but a widow wasn't at any risk from an affair. What did it matter if Mr. James thought her a lightskirt? But she'd thought better of it. Just being here was difficult enough for Michael, and provoking him further would do neither of them any good. Things would improve when they arrived at the estate and had some privacy.

Or so she hoped.

Weary beyond belief, Caitlin crawled beneath the cold sheets, but try as she might, sleep wouldn't come. Her thoughts were pulled to that shopkeep—the surprised look on his face when he'd realized where they were going.

What was the estate like? Why had John's brother been a fool to buy it? And what did he mean by remote?

She wracked her mind to remember what Mr. James had said about Glenoch. Not very much. Only that it was a large estate that had recently been acquired by the family. The terms of the dower stated that there was a staff in place, to be paid for out of the allowance she'd been given, but it hadn't specified how many servants, or how big the house was. Certainly nothing about the grounds.

If John's brother had bought it for sheep, surely there must be pasture enough for cows to graze?

Another thought flashed through her mind, bringing with it an unexpected sting. If it had been bought for sheep, did that mean the tenants had been burned out like in so many other places? If that was the case, had John's brother done it, or had the evictions been carried out before he'd owned it? Were there tenants there, still?

Melia murder . These questions had no answers, and she'd find out tomorrow anyway. But even still, it was long past midnight when she finally drifted off.

It seemed only a minute later that Michael was knocking on her door. She glanced at the window. Surely it was still night . . . but true enough, the dull glow of dawn lit up the sky.

After a quick bite in the bar room, Caitlin waited as Michael loaded their battered trunk and the parcels from yesterday's shopping into the dog cart he'd arranged for their transport. The boy driving it, the innkeeper's son, sat on the perch and watched as Michael hoisted himself up, then turned to give her his hand. She gripped him tight, climbed in, and they settled themselves on the trunk. The lad clucked to the nag, and they were off.

They drove south along a winding river. Michael didn't seem to want to talk. He was lost in his own brooding thoughts, and Caitlin wondered suddenly just how close they were to Darnalay. She turned to him to ask, but something about the way he gazed into the distance, that haunted, vacant look . . . the tight set of his jaw . . . She thought better of it.

In the silence, she allowed her attention to be drawn to the passing countryside. The weather was fine, and the fields that lined the glen were newly plowed with rich brown soil. Though she couldn't tell what crops would be planted, it was clearly good farmland. Sheep and cattle dotted the lush pastures that covered the vast slopes rising up from the valley. There were farmers out plowing or planting, and she caught sight of a few thatched cottages tucked into the hillside, all with fenced gardens and laundry flapping in the wind. Children played in the yards. It wasn't Ireland—it was grander somehow, the sky wider, the hills taller—but it was beautiful. She could live here.

Then they left the fields behind and entered a landscape that was the same, yet different. A huge herd of sheep, hundreds or thousands of them, spread across the valley, hungrily devouring the rich grass. A house came into view. No, not a house, the shell of one. Blackened stone and gaping roof. Caitlin's heart hurt at the sight.

They passed by several such houses. Just after midday, the clouds thickened into a cold, spitting drizzle the likes of which Caitlin hadn't known since she was a girl. The cart track diverted from the river they'd been following and led up out of the glen into what must be the Monadhliath Hills the shopkeep had spoken of. The ground turned rocky, covered only by a sparse stubble of heather. The slopes that rose above them were now steep, barren, and craggy. She could see snow speckling the mountains in the distance. There were no fields here, no grass, no livestock, no cottages even. No sign of life at all.

Remote. Was this what the man had meant? Surely, no one would build a grand house up here? As if to emphasize the point, a gust of wind cut right through her and blew the biting rain into her eyes. She shivered, pulling her cloak closer, but it did no good. She was already wet through and chilled to the bone.

Michael put his arm around her, and they huddled together in the back of the cart. His warmth offered some small comfort, though it didn't stop the ominous worry. Caitlin's eyes searched ahead for some kind of change. Surely they'd descend into another green glen. Nothing would grow here. Cows wouldn't find enough to eat. Perhaps sheep or goats, but even they would be hungry.

Just before nightfall, a weathered stone facade swam into view, isolated and alone in the barren landscape.

That couldn't be the place. It couldn't. Caitlin turned to Michael. "You don't think—"

"This here's the place," the boy called over his shoulder.

Caitlin's heart sank. It was a grand house, that was true. Two stories tall, it was a rambling affair made of dingy brown stone with a roof tiled in dark slate. Caitlin counted ten chimneys. If it had been built as a hunting lodge, the hunter in question must have been a wealthy one.

The front entrance protruded like the snout of a dog, with white columns on both sides like its bared teeth. A lantern hung over the door, unlit. All the windows were dark.

The cart came to a stop, and the lad looked back at them expectantly. The rain pelted them harder, and a drop slid from Caitlin's hair down her forehead, dripped from her nose. She wiped it away.

Michael's hand slipped into hers. He squeezed, and her heart warmed just a bit. Brooding or not, she was glad he was here.

She swallowed. "I suppose we should knock."