Ailsa coaxed the pony into the stable, where a lamp was burning and in its dim light she noticed someone sleeping just inside the doorway.
‘Rab! What are you doing here?’
The young man sat up and stretched. ‘I was waitin’ for ye, mistress.’
‘Has anyone been asking for me?’
She looked about her anxiously and was relieved when he shook his head.
‘I knew you’d need my help when you got back,’ he told her with simple pride.
‘That was very clever of you, Rab, thank you.’
Once the pony had been settled in its stall, she watched Rab pick up the harp and asked him to carry it to her room. They met no one on the stairs and Ailsa was hopeful that her long absence would have gone unnoticed. She had told Ardvarrick that no one would miss her and that was true: when Fingal was away, she was left very much to her own devices, her aunt and cousins having little interest in music. They were content for her to keep to her room, or to join the women servants who gathered in the warm kitchens on winter nights.
Her thoughts returned to the dinner she had shared at Ardvarrick. She knew the two men were only being polite because they were grateful for her warning, but they had made her feel welcome, not merely useful. It was a short step from the dinner to thinking about Logan escorting her back to Contullach. Riding through the dark with the moon rising over the trees had been strange enough, but when the Laird had accompanied her on the final part of their journey and they had walked alone towards Contullach, Ailsa had been beset by unfamiliar and disturbing emotions.
She had wanted Logan Rathmore to think her strong and capable, but then she had been foolish enough to trip up. She would never forget how he had caught her, his grip firm yet gentle. She remembered the scent that had assailed her as she leaned against him. Not just the familiar mix of soap and leather and wool, but something specific to the man himself. It had assaulted her senses and rocked her even more off balance. She had found herself wound tighter than a harp string, breathless as she tried to steady her nerves and regain her composure.
She quickly shed her clothes and slipped into her night shift. How right her aunt was to say she must be wary of all men. She had liked Logan Rathmore’s company from the first. She had thought they could be friends, but she knew now that was not possible. One moment she was enjoying his teasing banter then, without warning, a look or a touch would leave her breathless and she would feel an almost overwhelming desire to throw herself into his arms.
Just the thought of it made Ailsa feel hot. She went over to the window and opened it, resting her chin on her arms as she stared out. Sailing high above in the clear sky, the moon cast harsh black shadows across the blue-grey landscape. Somewhere in the far distance Logan and his men would be making their way back to Ardvarrick, but everything within her view was still and silent.
A new tune began to form in her head, soft and sweet. A lullaby, perhaps. A soothing melody inspired by the night. Smiling, she shut the window and tried to hum a few bars as she slipped into her bed, but it was as yet too imprecise. She needed to relax, to let the music form in her head as she went over her journey back to Contullach tonight. Of walking beside a tall and handsome man, whose eyes glowed in the moonlight and whose touch made the blood sing in her veins. Smiling to herself, she cradled her cheek against her hand and closed her eyes.
Not a lullaby, a love song.
In the morning, no one mentioned Ailsa’s prolonged absence. She breathed a sigh of relief over that, but her more pressing concern now was to discover if Ewan meant to carry out his plan to plunder Ardvarrick. To this end she made sure she was in the parlour with the ladies to await her uncle’s return.
‘Come and sit you down by the fire, Husband. You are looking exhausted.’
Morag fussed about him and Kirstin added another cushion to his chair while Màiri brought him a tankard of ale.
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘Tired as a dog.’
‘I think ’tis time you left these journeyings to the younger men,’ Morag suggested.
‘Aye, Father, Ewan could have done it on his own,’ said Kirstin. ‘After all, this time next year we will be married and he will be your son and heir.’
Ailsa said nothing, but she was watching Fingal carefully and saw the tightening of his jaw.
‘I know he is to be your husband, lass. ’Tis why I take him with me when I make my visits, but I vow he shows little interest in the running of Contullach. I wanted him to come back and go through the rents with me tonight, but he has gone off on his own business.’
‘Oh.’ Kirstin looked up, surprised. ‘He did not return with you?’
‘Some tale of Castle Creag needing his attention.’ His scowl deepened. ‘Lord knows what it can be, the last time I saw it the place was almost a ruin!’
‘Aye, Husband, and you have been pressing him to refurbish his old home in readiness for his taking a bride.’ Morag shook her head at him. ‘Fie on you, sir, sometimes I think there’s no pleasing you! There is time yet for him to learn your ways.’
‘And he’ll have ideas of his own for what he wishes to do here,’ muttered Kirstin, but Fingal was talking to his wife and did not hear her.
Sitting quietly in one corner, Ailsa listened and grew anxious. She had no doubt that Ewan and his friends were going to Ardvarrick. She wondered now if she had been foolish to warn the Laird. A sudden and unexpected raid would result in the loss of a few cattle, but if Logan Rathmore was lying in wait, then there could be bloodshed. She shivered at the thought, but it was too late to do anything now. She could only sit and wait.
Two days later Ailsa was wakened by a hasty banging on her door.
‘Up you get, Ailsa, I need you to help me in the kitchen!’ She opened her eyes to find Jeanie Barr standing over her. ‘The mistress has given leave for Peggy to go and stay with her sister, who has been brought to bed of a baby girl. Which would be all very well if Ilene had not slipped on the stairs and cut her head last night. It is that sore this morning the girl is fit for nothing save the simplest of tasks.’
‘I will help you by all means.’ Ailsa jumped out of bed and reached for her clothes. ‘Although you know I have had little practice in the kitchen.’
‘You have a quick mind and will soon pick it up. Another pair of hands is what I shall need most today.’
Ailsa dressed quickly and made her way to the kitchens, glad of the distraction. Keeping busy might give her something to think about other than Ewan stealing Ardvarrick cattle.
It was late morning and she was making girdle scones when she heard Jeanie exclaim sharply, ‘Mercy me, what in heaven’s name has happened to ye, Ewan Cowie?’
She looked round quickly. Kirstin was guiding a rain-soaked Ewan through the doorway. His two friends followed, looking equally dishevelled.
‘They were attacked on their way to Castle Creag,’ Kirstin explained, tearfully. ‘We need to clean them up and then we must find something for their cuts and bruises, Jeanie.’
The older woman was already inspecting Ewan’s bloodied brow.
‘Tincture of yarrow will do it,’ she declared, wiping her hands. ‘Now sit ye down over there, the three of you, and Mistress Kirstin can find a cloth for you to dry your faces while I fetch the jar.’
‘Ailsa can help me,’ said Kirstin.
‘That she will not,’ retorted Jeanie. ‘She is watching the scones for me and, if I am not mistaken, that first batch needs to come off now, before they burn!’
Ailsa quickly turned back to the fire and busied herself with moving the scones from the girdle on to a rack to cool. From her brief glance, all three men looked to be badly bruised. Consistent with a beating, she thought, but at least none of them was seriously hurt. She listened intently as Kirstin demanded why they had not returned yesterday.
‘We would have done so,’ muttered Donal, one of the three, ‘only they turned our horses loose. It took us most of the day to catch them.’
‘Aye,’ added Ewan, ‘and then it came on to rain, so it was as black as pitch. It took us all the night to get back.’
‘Villains!’ exclaimed Kirstin. ‘What a trick to play, with you all so beaten and sore.’
‘Whisht, lassie, you should be thankful they escaped so lightly,’ retorted Jeanie, coming back in at that moment with a small stone jar in her hands. ‘It surprises me they did not take the horses to sell.’
‘And you have no idea who did this, Ewan?’ Kirstin persisted. ‘Did you not recognise any of them?’
‘I’ve already told ye, no.’
‘It must have been Ardvarrick’s men,’ she continued. ‘Who else would do such a thing? Father will have something to say about it—’
Ewan stopped her, saying hastily, ‘No, no, there is no need to trouble Fingal with this.’
‘But he must be told of it!’
‘And I say he does not!’ snapped Ewan. ‘I forbid any of you to mention it to Fingal. Coll and Donal will be leaving as soon as Mrs Barr has applied her lotions so Fingal won’t see them. And I shall say my horse threw me.’
‘But, Ewan—’
‘Do not fuss me, woman. It was not so very serious.’ He glared around the kitchen. ‘You are none of ye to mention this, is that understood?’
‘Well now, I wonder what mischief those boys have been up to?’ mused Jeanie, when she and Ailsa were alone again in the kitchen.
‘Did you not believe them?’
‘If those three were attacked, I’d wager they deserved it,’ retorted the older woman. ‘If I am honest with you, Ailsa, I would not trust any one of them out of my sight and so I tell you!’
Secretly Ailsa agreed with her. She was convinced they had tried to lift cattle from Ardvarrick. Their temper suggested they had failed and taken a beating, but at what cost to those on guard at Ardvarrick? Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. Had Logan been hurt? The questions rolled around in her head, causing Jeanie to scold her when she allowed the next batch of scones to scorch.
‘Heaven knows but you are in a dream today, madam! Head full of music, I don’t doubt. Och, away with you, girlie, out of my way now. I shall do better without ye!’
She flapped her hands and Ailsa went away, as she was bid. It was raining too hard to go out of doors so she took her harp up to the little solar to practise, but even then she could not concentrate. Her mind kept wandering to the day she had found Logan in this very room. She remembered how he had read to her from his book. And it was not only the poems, she had enjoyed the way Logan read the words, his voice smooth and melodic, wrapping around her like a warm cloak. Her mind kept wandering back over that encounter even while her fingers plucked at the strings and by the time hunger drove her back to the hall for dinner, she realised she had played only old, familiar tunes and worked at none of the newer pieces at all.
When everyone was gathered for the meal, Ailsa held her breath when Fingal drew attention to Ewan’s battered face, but he accepted his nephew’s explanation that he had taken a tumble from his horse on the way home from Castle Creag. Ewan responded in vague terms when Morag asked him about the work to be done there and Kirstin, anxious to deflect attention away from her betrothed, quickly changed the subject. Nothing else was said of it and Ailsa thought it was unlikely she would ever know the truth.
When the meal was over the family went into the parlour, but they had barely closed the door when it opened again and a servant came in.
‘A messenger from Ardvarrick has delivered this.’
Ailsa did not miss Ewan’s sudden wariness. He moved towards the fire, his eyes regularly darting towards Fingal as he took the letter and read it.
At last Fingal grunted and handed the paper to his wife. ‘Here. He addresses both of us, but you may have it, Morag. Damned fop, to be fussing over trifles, I’d not have sent a man out to spend a full day riding in this weather merely to thank us for our hospitality.’
Morag smiled. ‘Do not be so hard on the new Laird, Fingal. It was a fine, gentlemanly thing to do.’
‘Nay, I agree with my uncle,’ cried Ewan. ‘No real man has time for such niceties. That’s for his wife, when he has one.’
Fingal chuckled. ‘Now he is Laird, I’ve no doubt Logan Rathmore may well be taking a wife before too long.’
‘She will not be anyone we know,’ said Morag. ‘Ardvarrick is not a poor man and, with his upbringing he will want a bride from the first circles of society.’
Ailsa felt her aunt’s eyes upon her. She knew Morag would be thinking of the ceilidh and Ailsa’s dance on the terrace with the new Laird. If her aunt was trying to warn her that nothing could come of such a brief encounter, it was unnecessary. Ailsa was well aware that she was no fit bride for Rathmore of Ardvarrick.
‘Mayhap he will take an Englishwoman, like his mother,’ put in Ewan, his lip curling in contempt. ‘Rathmore has grown soft with his southern living. He’ll not stay long in the north and good riddance to him, I say.’
He was smiling, his confidence clearly restored, and conversation moved on. Ewan was so much at his ease, teasing Kirstin and laughing with Fingal, that Ailsa began to wonder if she could have been mistaken in him. Perhaps he had not ridden to Ardvarrick and had been telling the truth about being attacked. After all, young men were prone to exaggerate, weren’t they? It was possible what she had overheard had been nothing more than bluff and bluster. However, she could not quite bring herself to believe that and was still trying to decide upon the matter when she retired to bed.
Ailsa went quickly to her room, but it was not until she crossed to the bed that the light of her candle fell on the small folded paper lying on her pillow. She snatched it up, noting the single letter A on the front before she broke the plain seal. At first the words danced before her eyes and she had to read it again to make sense.
Mischief makers sent away with nothing but bruises to show for their trouble. I doubt they will try again. No harm done here and nothing taken. A thousand thanks.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, staring at the writing. There was no signature, nothing to indicate the sender, but it could only be from Logan. Relief flooded through her, together with a sudden elation and she wanted to laugh out loud. The polite message to her aunt and uncle had been a ruse to send a man to Contullach and let her know what had happened. She closed her eyes and pressed the paper to her breast.
The note must be destroyed, of course. She dared not keep it, any more than she dared think too much about the writer. She did not need Morag’s warning to tell her the Laird of Ardvarrick was not the man for her. Why, she could not even ride a horse properly. She had seen the look of surprise on his face when she had refused to use the lady’s saddle and how he had turned away after throwing her up on to the horse. She had no accomplishments, save her harp-playing, and she would not even have that if she married.
No, at Contullach she was valued. She had a purpose. Much better that she concentrate on her music and forget all about Logan Rathmore.
The last flush of autumn gave way to bitter winter. The ladies of Contullach remained indoors for the most part, wrapped up warmly against the cold draughts and the icy chill that lingered in every corner of the stone building. They spent their days and the long dark evenings in the parlour, while the menfolk preferred the hall, where they did not need to mind their language and might enjoy more boisterous entertainments.
Whenever Ewan was present Kirstin kept to his side like a leech, glaring at Ailsa as if daring her to come between them. For her part, Ailsa was glad Ewan had little opportunity to speak to her. She misliked the way he stared when she was entertaining the family with her music and she was at pains to avoid his company.
Winter tightened its hold. Snow covered the mountains and gradually moved down to the lower slopes until even the most sheltered glens were white with frost. Ailsa threw herself into her music. She could no longer take her harp to the loch and the old solar was too cold so she played in her room, practising old favourites and working on new ones, such as the lilting tune that she thought of secretly as ‘Ardvarrick’s Air’.
She heard no mention of Logan Rathmore, but she could not forget him. His voice and his handsome face haunted her dreams, even more so as spring approached and she remembered he had promised to call again upon her uncle. There had been no news of a marriage at Ardvarrick and she thought they would have heard if the Laird had taken a bride. Not that she had any hopes in that direction, of course, but she had liked the man and wanted to see him again.
As the days warmed and lengthened, Ailsa’s spirits lifted. She hummed merry tunes as she went about her business in the castle and there were occasional April days when it was fine enough for her to take her harp to Loch nan Clàrsairean. There she could allow the calm beauty of the hills and the water to inspire her music. Her aunt insisted again she should not venture out alone and Ailsa agreed to take Rab, aware that Ewan Cowie was still casting resentful looks in her direction.
She hoped, when Logan Rathmore called again, Fingal would allow her to play for the company. Even though she must keep her distance from the Laird, she remembered how much he had enjoyed her music and she wanted to play for him, to see the warm light of approval in his eyes. She knew her uncle too well to mention the matter, but as the time approached for Ardvarrick’s visit she found her hopes growing, only to have them dashed when Fingal told her she would not be at the castle for the Laird’s visit.
‘Not be here?’ Ailsa frowned at him. ‘I do not understand.’
‘The village women are off to the shieling at Beltane and you are going with them,’ Fingal told her. ‘No need to look so down-hearted, lass, it is a chance for you to spend time in the hills and enjoy the fine weather.’
‘But...but what of my music?’
‘It will do you no harm to practise other skills for a few weeks,’ said her aunt, smiling. ‘You will return to us, and to your harp, refreshed.’
‘Who will play for you, while I am away?’ She looked at her uncle. ‘How will you amuse your visitors?’
‘Old Iain will be here. He can entertain us with his fiddling.’
It was only then that Ailsa realised how much she had been looking forward to seeing Logan Rathmore again.
She said, recklessly, ‘I could remain, at least until Ardvarrick has been here to see you. I could join the women once he has gone.’
She knew immediately she had made a mistake. Fingal’s face darkened.
‘I will not have you here, flaunting yourself before young Rathmore, and that is final! Now get ye to bed, girl, and let us hear no more about it.’
Her cheeks on fire, Ailsa fled to her room, where she paced the floor, her hands clenching and unclenching in anger and bitter disappointment. She wanted to scream and rant. In frustration she swept up the pewter cup beside her bed and hurled it at the wall, where, apart from splattering water on the floor and denting the rim, it did little damage. However, it did relieve her feelings and she threw herself down on her bed, burying her face in the pillow to stifle her angry muttering.
Her initial rage had calmed by the time someone entered the room. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and heard her aunt’s voice.
‘Do not take it so hard, my dear. Your uncle is concerned for your well-being.’
‘How could he say such things?’ Ailsa whirled. ‘I would never flaunt myself! I only want to play for the Laird.’
‘Are you sure that is all you want? Be warned, Ailsa, Fingal had it from the man himself that he does not want a wife.’ Morag sighed. ‘But it is not merely Logan Rathmore we must consider. You have grown into a very pretty young woman, Ailsa. Other men have noticed you, including my nephew. That, in turn, has distressed Kirstin.’
Ailsa sat up. She said stiffly, ‘I am sorry for that, Aunt, but I cannot help it. I avoid Ewan whenever I can.’
‘I know, my dear, but we must face facts. You are nineteen now. A woman. Many men will be tempted by you. That is of great concern to your uncle. He is anxious for you.’
‘He should not be! I know my duty. I know full well what will befall me if I—if I succumb to any man’s attentions. You may be sure I have no intention of doing so.’
Smiling, her aunt sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Alas, my dear, sometimes one’s feelings can be far stronger than any duty. In the spring it’s not only the animals who are moved to find a mate. Believe me, you will be safer at the shieling with the womenfolk.’
Her temper cooling, Ailsa acknowledged the truth of her aunt’s words with a sigh. ‘Must I go?’
‘Yes, you must. Not merely for your own sake, but Kirstin’s.’ Her aunt stopped and folded her hands together in her lap. ‘She has set her heart upon marrying Ewan and will not rest until she is his wife. Your uncle wants it, too. He has always regarded Ewan almost as a son.’
‘And you do not?’ Ailsa had not missed the heartbeat’s hesitation.
Morag would not meet her eyes and appeared to choose her next words with care.
‘I grant you he is a little wild, but it is a good match for Kirstin. Ewan has land of his own, even if Castle Creag is in need of some repair. With that, and what he will inherit from Fingal, his lands will be second only to Ardvarrick in this area. As his wife, Kirstin will want for nothing. And once they are married, Ewan will settle down.’
Ailsa did not believe that and she guessed her aunt felt the same, but neither of them could say so. Morag continued.
‘Fingal and I are agreed that if you are away at the shieling for the summer, it will give Kirstin and Ewan time to grow closer.’
Ailsa nodded miserably. She did not want to go away, but neither did she want to come between Kirstin and her betrothed.
‘When do I leave?’
‘Beltane. The first day of May. When the women take the cattle up to the higher ground for the summer grazing you will go with them. You must leave your music behind, but I think you will have little time to miss it. You will be busy with making butter and cheese, spinning, looking after the children—oh, there are so many things for you to learn, Ailsa. Fingal is convinced that a period away from your harp will have you pining to return to it.’
‘He is right,’ muttered Ailsa, already growing cold at the prospect.
‘And perhaps,’ continued her aunt, ‘when you see how hard they work, you will realise how you have been blessed by this gift for music. Harpers are much respected. It means you can lead a life of comfort and ease.’ She reached out and touched Ailsa’s face. ‘And a little more sunshine will put the colour back in your cheeks, my dear. You have grown very pale this winter.’ She rose. ‘Now. You must get some sleep. Tomorrow Rab will escort you to the shieling with the other women. Jeanie Barr will take care of you while you are there.’
Ailsa nodded and resigned herself to her fate. It would not be so very bad if she was with Jeanie Barr—the widow had proved herself a good friend in the years since Ailsa had lost her mother.
I must make the best of it, she thought as she prepared to go to bed. I will work hard and enjoy the novelty of being with the women, doing things other than music.
As she settled down to sleep she uttered up a final hope that she would be too busy to think about the Laird of Ardvarrick.