It was not unusual for Ailsa to practise until darkness was falling over the land, but today she finished early. Nothing to do with her encounter with the Laird of Ardvarrick, she told herself as she strapped the clàrsach to the pony, yet she could not deny that thoughts of him had distracted her. When she reached Contullach it was evident that the Laird and his party were still there, for their horses were in the fold beside the stables.
Simple Rab was in the yard and she asked him to carry the harp into the house for her while she stabled the pony. Only when she had rubbed down the animal and seen him comfortably stalled did she make her way into the house and up to her room. She changed her gown and made her way to the family parlour, where her cousins Màiri and Kirstin and their mother were sitting before the fire, busy with their embroidery.
‘Ah, here she is, the little harper,’ Màiri greeted her with a smirk. ‘I hope you are well practised, Ailsa, for we have guests and Father will want you to play for us after dinner.’
‘Ardvarrick is here,’ Morag Contullach explained. ‘When they finished their business, Fingal persuaded him to stay and we must entertain him.’
‘Not that you will be playing all evening,’ put in Kirstin. ‘Màiri wants to sing for him. She has a mind to be Lady Ardvarrick, even though we have not seen him since he was a wee boy.’
‘And why not?’ Màiri retorted. ‘You cannot have him, you are betrothed to our cousin Ewan. Remember that tonight, Sister, and do not be making sheep’s eyes at the Laird!’
‘I would not stoop so low!’ Kirstin tossed her head. ‘And why should I want to make eyes at Logan Rathmore? Ewan tells me he has become an English fop.’
‘Nothing of the sort. I was watching from the high window as he rode in and I thought him very handsome,’ declared Màiri. ‘Ewan is jealous. As are you, Kirstin, because you are not free to throw your cap at the Laird!’
Morag put up her hand and said sharply, ‘Girls, enough of this foolishness. Logan Rathmore has come here to talk business with your father and you will behave yourselves when he sits down to dinner with us tonight. I will not have either of you putting yourselves forward. For one thing, Màiri, I’ll not have a daughter of mine married at fifteen. And, Kirstin, neither do I want to see you sitting in Ewan’s lap, as if the two of you cannot keep your hands off each other until your wedding day.’
Both daughters cried out at this and, as their protests looked as if they would rage for some time, Ailsa quietly left the room before she could be drawn into the argument. She was very likely to lose her temper and, if she did that, Aunt Morag might banish her to her bedchamber for the evening.
If she could not sit in the parlour with its warm fire, then the next best place was the small solar on the top floor of the tower. It had once been the domain of the ladies of Contullach, but had long ago been abandoned for the larger and more comfortable rooms below. However, its southerly window made a cheerful place to sit and when the sun was shining, as it was today, it stayed comfortably warm into the evening.
Ailsa ran up the stairs and entered the solar, stopping when she saw there was someone already sitting on the stone window seat. The new Laird of Ardvarrick.
Logan heard the click of the latch and jumped to his feet as the young woman came into the room. He recognised her immediately, but before he could speak she stopped and began to back out of the door.
‘Oh. I beg your pardon, I did not think—excuse me!’
‘No, do not go,’ he said quickly. ‘We met at the loch side today. I am Ardvarrick.’
‘I remember.’ She flushed. ‘That is, I was told you were staying here as my uncle’s guest.’
‘That is correct. Perhaps you will tell me your name, now we have met again.’
She eyed him, far more wary here at the castle than she had been at the loch, but at last she seemed to make up her mind.
‘I am Ailsa McInnis.’
Ailsa. Not a local name, but it suited her. He sketched a bow.
‘Then I bid you good day, Mistress McInnis. Is this your room? I will remove—’
She disclaimed and after a heartbeat’s hesitation came a little further into the room.
‘No, no, I use it sometimes.’ A tiny smile tugged at her mouth. ‘When the family are in the parlour.’
‘For a little peace?’ He grinned. ‘My cousin is snoring heartily in our chamber and I was looking for somewhere quiet to read.’
‘To read?’
Logan bit back a laugh. She sounded quite incredulous. Perhaps Contullach and his family were not great readers.
‘Aye.’ He held up the small book. ‘Poetry. Lovelace.’
‘Oh, I see.’
He held it out. ‘Would you like to look at it?’ When she backed away he said, ‘You can read, can you not?’
Her head went up. ‘Of course I can read. And write, too, but mostly letters.’ Her spurt of indignation faded and she gave a little sigh. ‘There are no printed books at Contullach, save for the Bible.’
‘Are all your songs and your music learned by rote, then? They are passed down to you?’
She nodded. ‘Aye. Poems and stories, too, are told around the fire, over and over until one knows them by heart.’
He smiled and glanced at the book in his hands. ‘It is the same for me with these poems. Would you like me to read one to you?’
She nodded and he stood aside, gesturing that she should sit in the window seat. As she made herself comfortable, he thumbed through the pages, looking for a poem she might enjoy. At last he found what he was looking for.
He looked up, smiling. ‘Richard Lovelace was a soldier and a loyal courtier of King Charles I. He died more than fifty years ago, but his poetry might have been written yesterday. This one he wrote after he had fallen foul of Parliament. It is called, “To Althea, from Prison”.’
He knew it so well he did not need to look at the lines. Instead he watched Ailsa. She was gazing out of the window, but he could tell she was concentrating on the poem. He regretted that she had not fixed those deep violet eyes upon him, but at least that left him free to observe her. He liked the way the sun glinted sparks of fire in her red hair. It also highlighted the delightful sprinkling of freckles across her dainty nose.
He finished the poem and for a moment there was silence, then Ailsa sighed.
‘Poor man. I hope he did not die in prison. How dreadful, to be locked up, unable to walk free in the air. Not to feel the wind on your face, or even the rain.’
‘He was freed soon after writing that poem, I think.’ Logan knew he should leave. There was no furniture in this little room and it would not be proper to sit in the window so close to the lady. Then she turned to smile at him and thoughts of withdrawing faded. He said impulsively, ‘Would you like to hear another poem?’
The Laird of Ardvarrick had a smooth, rich voice and Ailsa listened, enraptured, as he read to her. She dare not watch him, because he often looked up from the page and, for some reason, when she met his eyes she could not prevent a blush from heating her cheeks. So instead she gazed out across the glen while in her head she conjured music to accompany the poem. Soft, wistful tunes, but not melancholy. She stored them in her memory to be revived later, perhaps the next time she was at the loch, where she could compose and refine her music.
Time flew on wings. The Laird had just finished reading a sonnet when they heard voices calling from below.
Ailsa scrambled to her feet. ‘It is late, they will be serving dinner. I must go.’ She paused at the door and glanced back. ‘Thank you, sir, for reading to me. I have rarely heard anything so beautiful.’
She spoke on impulse and immediately the fiery blush ignited again. Without another word she turned and fled, her cheeks burning.
Food was served in the hall with the Laird of Ardvarrick sitting with his host and the immediate family on the dais. Ailsa was amused to see how Kirstin and Màiri vied for the Laird’s attention, but she was glad to be eating at the big table in the centre of the room. There was a melody running through her head, distracting her, and her fingers moved restlessly. She was impatient to try out the new tune on the clàrsach, but that could not be until she was alone. Perhaps later, in the privacy of her chamber. It was inspired by the poetry she had heard earlier, but dare she acknowledge that?
She glanced again towards the dais. Ardvarrick was listening to something Fingal was saying and she studied his profile, the smooth, lean cheek, the strong chin and the faint smile playing on his lips. She could not see his eyes, but she guessed they would be smiling, too, as they had earlier, when he had been reading to her. The memory of it sent a little thrill of pleasure skittering through her.
‘So our harper has fallen under the fop’s spell, too.’
Startled, Ailsa looked up, Ewan was sneering at her across the table, ‘Ardvarrick is a charmer, that’s for sure. He has all the lassies at his feet.’
‘He has good manners, Ewan Cowie,’ she flashed back at him. ‘Something you could do well to study!’
Her retort brought laughter from those close enough to hear, but it caused Ewan’s face to darken with rage. Ailsa knew he was smarting because Fingal had not invited him to join the family at the top table and she had no wish to make matters worse, so she turned to speak with her neighbour and left her cousin to mutter angrily into his soup. Kirstin’s coquettish behaviour with the new Laird was making him jealous, but he himself flirted outrageously with every pretty woman he encountered, so she thought it might do him good to be treated to a little of his own medicine.
She fell into a reverie again, working on the melody in her head and by the time the meal was over it was fairly well established. But as for a title? She glanced back at the dark-haired man sitting on the dais. Given the bad feeling between the two families she dare not call it Ardvarrick’s song, but she was sorry for it.
Logan and Tamhas went to the hall to break their fast the next morning and Logan was aware of a momentary relief when he realised Ailsa was not there. He had shown her rather too much attention yesterday and it had not gone unnoticed. After dinner, Fingal had ordered Ailsa to play for them. The tables had been cleared away and the clàrsach brought in. Logan tried to concentrate on the conversation, but he could not prevent his attention wandering back to the dais and Ailsa, watching her slim fingers dance over the strings.
‘Taken a liking to our harper, have you, Rathmore?’
Logan had turned to find Ewan Cowie at his shoulder.
‘She is very proficient,’ he replied cautiously.
‘She is Contullach’s kinswoman,’ Cowie told him. ‘And not to be trifled with, if you value your life.’
Logan stiffened at the other man’s aggressive tone. ‘I am not in the habit of trifling with young ladies.’
‘Just as well. As the clan chief’s harper she is held in special regard. Contullach would not take kindly to losing her.’ Cowie glowered at him. ‘You’d do well to remember that, Ardvarrick, and keep away from the lady.’
Logan had watched him walk away, thinking it a strong warning and for little reason. Why should that be? He had already learned that Cowie was engaged to Contullach’s daughter Kirstin, so he had no right to be jealous.
Logan glanced now across the table to where Ewan Cowie had taken a seat for breakfast. The fellow had objected violently to the suggestion of an agreement and it was clear he did not want to be on better terms with his neighbour. Logan shrugged. Old enmities ran deep, but he could not help that. His time in Edinburgh and England had shown him the prosperity that peace could bring. Prosperity that he wanted for Ardvarrick. As Laird it was his responsibility to do what he could to bring that about.
With peace in mind, when he and Tamhas rose from the table and he had bid farewell to his host, Logan made a point of taking a polite leave of Ewan Cowie.
‘So, you are going.’ The man glowered at him. ‘And when shall we see ye back at Contullach?’
‘That depends. If there are no raids on my lands, I shall return in the spring with the document for signature.’
Cowie scowled as if even that was too soon for him. He said, ‘You’ll not be at the gathering, then?’
‘I have already said I will not.’ He hung on to his temper in the face of the other man’s open hostility. ‘I see no point in returning until Contullach is ready to sign an agreement and for that there needs to be accord between your uncle and his kinsmen.’
‘If it was up to me, that would never happen!’
‘It is as well, then, that the decision is not yours to make.’ Logan gave him a curt nod and went out, joining his cousin on the stairs.
‘The men are all ready to leave, Tamhas?’
‘Aye, they are, Cousin. They should be waiting for us in the yard.’
‘Good. Let us collect our things and get back to Ardvarrick.’
‘Back to a comfortable house,’ murmured Tamhas, flicking him a grin.
‘Back to a friendly one,’ he responded. ‘If Cowie and his friends have their way, there will be no accord between Contullach’s people and our own.’
‘And is that likely, Logan?’
‘That depends on Fingal Contullach. He must overcome old prejudices and persuade his people that co-operation is more profitable. Once they have tried it and can see that it is, I have no doubt they will want to continue.’
It did not take long to pack up their saddlebags and make their way out to the stables, where the Ardvarrick men were already bringing out their horses. Logan climbed into the saddle and as he waited for the others to mount, he noticed two women hurrying across the yard to the house. One of them was Ailsa McInnis.
Her auburn hair was loose and it bounced over the green mantle that covered her shoulders. His spirits lifted at the sight of her. Wherever she had been this morning, the exercise had done her good, for she was positively glowing as she chattered away in an animated fashion to her companion.
Of everyone at Contullach, the only person he would regret not seeing again was the little harper. She had enchanted him with her playing, but he had also found great pleasure in reading to her, sharing with her the poems he loved and relishing her enjoyment of them. It would be a sadness not to see her again.
Logan turned to his cousin, ‘Tamhas, before you get too comfortable in that saddle, will you be so good as to jump down and carry a message for me to Fingal Contullach?’
Ailsa struggled to keep her eyes from the Laird of Ardvarrick as she walked towards the house with Jeanie Barr. She tried to concentrate on what Jeanie was saying, but she heard the footsteps running behind her and for one frightening, exhilarating moment she thought it was the Laird. Her heart leapt alarmingly, as if it was trying to batter a way out of her chest. But it was only his kinsman, dashing past her to go back into the house.
Pride was a sin, she reminded herself. The disappointment she felt that Logan Rathmore had not come running to bid her goodbye was just punishment for such vanity. She must pray for forgiveness and the strength to keep her mind on her music. To keep her thoughts away from the Laird of Ardvarrick.
‘I think I’ll go to the loch today,’ she said to Jeanie. ‘I shall ask Simple Rab to carry the harp out and fasten it to the pony.’
‘You should take him with you, too,’ Jeanie advised her. ‘I know you like being on your own, but the lad won’t be in your way, and you should have someone with you when you are out of doors. You are grown too pretty to be out alone, Ailsa.’
She tossed her head and was about to object when she remembered her meeting at the loch yesterday with Logan Rathmore. She had felt no danger when he was near; no physical danger, that is. But she could not deny that he had had a strange and unsettling affect upon her. A feeling that had not yet passed.
‘Very well,’ she said meekly, ‘I will take Rab with me.’
‘What?’ Jeanie stopped and looked at her in mock amazement. ‘Well, now, that is a surprise! I thought you’d tear up at me for even suggesting such a thing.’
‘No, why should I do that?’ Ailsa flushed. ‘I am not so unreasonable.’
Her companion laughed. ‘That red hair of yours tells a different story, lass. When you believe you have been wronged you have the very devil of a temper!’
That evening Fingal summoned Ailsa to play for him in his private chamber. The days were growing shorter and candlelight already glowed around the room. Her uncle was engaged in writing letters at his table and Ailsa played the soft, soothing tunes that she knew he liked. He said they helped him concentrate on his business. She had been playing thus, and her aunt and mother before her, for so many years that none of the servants or family who came and went paid any heed to the harper in the corner. They spoke freely and Ailsa was accustomed to ignoring their chatter, but tonight her attention was caught when Ewan Cowie came in. He had clearly been drinking, his eyes were bloodshot and the parts of his face not covered by his beard were unnaturally red and his breathing noisy.
‘Uncle, I heard at dinner that Logan Rathmore had changed his mind. He is coming to the ceilidh.’
‘Aye. His man came back to tell me. What of it?’
‘I don’t want him here. The man’s a damned Sassenach. Once he has put his plans in place he’ll be off, back to England. He will leave his factor to bleed the tenants dry and your lands will be tied into it by that damned agreement.’
‘You are talking nonsense, Ewan. I’ll not sign anything that isn’t in my interest.’ Fingal shrugged. ‘It may well be that Rathmore has grown soft with his years in the south, but he is our neighbour and the Laird of Ardvarrick.’
Ewan gave a snort of derision. ‘He’s a fraud!’
Fingal chuckled. ‘I knew him as a boy, Ewan, as did you. I grant you Logan Rathmore speaks and dresses differently now, but he has not changed sufficiently for me to doubt his birth.’
Ewan ignored his uncle’s attempt at humour. He waved a dismissive hand.
‘I am not disputing he is his father’s son, but I cannot like the man. I don’t trust him.’
‘Och, ’tis more that you are jealous of him, I’m thinking.’
A shrewd guess on Fingal’s part, thought Ailsa. Ewan Cowie was not ill looking, but he rarely trimmed his red hair or his thick beard and his face grew blotched when he was angry, which happened frequently. She recalled Logan Rathmore’s countenance, lean and clean-shaven. True, he wore no powdered wig, which she had learned was the fashion among gentlemen, but his long dark hair was brushed until it gleamed and tied back neatly with a ribbon. There was no doubt in her mind which man was the more handsome.
‘Jealous, of that weakling?’ Ewan gave a bark of laughter. ‘You should have let me fight him, one to one. We would then see who is the best man.’
Without breaking the rhythm of her play, Ailsa stole an anxious glance across the room. Ewan was half a head shorter than Logan Rathmore, but his stocky build looked far more powerful. Even so, she thought Ewan underestimated the new Laird of Ardvarrick. He might be lean, but he was no weakling. She had sensed strength and power in the man.
She wondered what he could have done to enrage Ewan so. Perhaps he had shown an interest in Kirstin. Ailsa had not noticed him paying any especial attention to either of her cousins, but as Fingal’s eldest daughter, Kirstin would inherit her father’s estate and Ewan’s hopes of becoming clan chief could be dashed if she broke off her engagement to him in favour of Ardvarrick. It was possible Ewan was worried that Fingal would look favourably upon a match that joined together not only the two families, but the neighbouring lands.
The thought of Kirstin marrying Logan Rathmore did not please Ailsa and she was relieved to hear her uncle give another reason for Ewan’s hatred of the Laird.
‘You never liked each other as children, but it is time to put that behind you, man. Ardvarrick’s plan to combine our cattle for the drive to the southern markets makes some sense. We would all gain more. And my tenants farming the lands bordering Ardvarrick could rest easier in their beds if they were not forever fearing reprisals. Maybe ’tis time we lived peaceably with our neighbour.’
‘And maybe ’tis you are growing soft, Fingal Contullach!’
Ailsa kept playing, her eyes fixed on the clàrsach. Ewan had gone too far and she did not need to look up to know Fingal was angry. She heard his chair scrape back as he jumped to his feet.
‘I’ll not take that from anyone, Ewan Cowie,’ he bellowed. ‘And especially not from a young whelp like you!’
‘I beg your pardon, Uncle. Forgive me. I forgot myself. But all the same—’
‘Enough!’ Fingal interrupted him. ‘We will discuss this with the rest of the clan, when they arrive. Ardvarrick will not be privy to that meeting, I will make sure of that, but he will be welcome at the gathering and to sleep here the night. No harm will come to him while he is under my roof. You understand me, Ewan? I’ll not be shamed by such an abuse of my hospitality.’
There was no doubting the menace in Fingal’s voice. Ailsa had come to the end of her piece and as the final notes died away an awkward silence filled the room. Finally, Ewan gave a reluctant growl of assent before flinging himself out of the room. Fingal sank back on to his chair with a heavy sigh and a muttered curse.
‘Shall I leave you, Uncle?’
‘What?’ For a moment he frowned at Ailsa, as if he had forgotten her presence. Then he shook his head. ‘Nay, lassie, play on. Play that new piece I heard earlier. God knows I need your soothing music to calm me after that. What am I going to do about that damn fool boy, eh?’
She kept silent and began to play again, the new lyrical melody she privately called ‘Ardvarrick’s Air’. Fingal was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He clearly did not want or expect an answer to his question, especially from a woman.