Just inside the doorway to the Thistle and Crown, Thomas paused for a few moments to let his eyes adjust. The glare of sun against snow made the pub comparatively dim, though its stone walls were whitewashed and the large window facing the street was clean.
He was still blinking away spots when a voice said, “I dinna believe it.”
Eventually, Thomas was able to pick out a man standing behind the bar, his hip propped on a tall stool, his fair hair overlong. He must have been the one who had spoken, as the pub was otherwise empty.
“If it’s no’ Tommy Sutherland, back from the dead.”
Recognition—of that teasing voice, that ready grin—began to dawn, and Thomas responded in kind. “From England, don’t you mean?
“Hell. England.” The man shrugged good-naturedly. “What’s the difference?”
Thomas strode toward the bar, hand outstretched. “Eleazor Ross, is it really you?”
“An’ who else would it be, I’d like to know?” The other man, unsatisfied with the offer of a mere handshake, bounced to his feet, laid aside whatever he had been looking at and crossed the well-scrubbed wooden floor to give his old friend a back-slapping hug. His kilt swung with the energy of his step. “But I’ll thank ye to remember it’s still just Ross.”
The matter of names had been the subject of jokes among them when they’d been lads. Even then, Ross had been determined to leave behind the scourge of Eleazor, insisting on being addressed only by his surname. Now, he had grown into the sort of powerfully built man whom very few people would be brave, or foolish, enough to tease about the matter.
When they broke apart, Thomas said, “What of your family—are they well?”
“Och, well enough. Da’s worn out with the work, but sometimes he comes down in the evening,” Ross explained, jerking his chin upward to indicate the family apartments above. “My sisters are all married and gone, but for Davina.” The youngest sibling, whom Mrs. Ross had died bringing into the world, had been a towheaded girl when Thomas had last visited Balisaig. “An’ what of you?” Ross tilted his head to inspect him. “Ye didna get so brown in England, I ken.”
“I joined the army. They sent me abroad.”
“O’ course they did. None better than a Scotsman when there’s a job to be done.” Ross nodded knowingly as he returned to his stool. “What brings you home now?”
Home. There it was again, that insistence that he belonged to Balisaig, rather than the less-pleasant reality that it, in fact, belonged to him.
Thomas opened his mouth to explain the lost years. His father’s refusal to allow him to return in the winter following his mother’s death, when word had come that his grandmother was ill. The bitter knowledge that Gran had had no member of her family to walk with her on that last journey to the kirk. The unexpected commission. The maddening heat of Dominica. General Scott’s final, unsettling order.
But the words I’m Magnus—perhaps the only true answer to Ross’s question—wouldn’t come. At least, not yet. When they were finally, inevitably, uttered, they seemed certain to drive a wedge between Thomas and the friends of his youth.
He glanced around the empty pub. Though the mugs had been washed and the tables wiped, the scattered chairs still spoke of last night’s conviviality. A larger group had clustered by the fire to discuss something of interest or importance. In the corner, two figures had tucked themselves away from the crowd to huddle over a battered chess set. The misshapen stub of a tallow candle, employed to replace a missing pawn, still decorated the board.
He knew it would be more fitting to describe the kirk as the soul of the village, but it was here folks gathered, day after day, night after night. Here they shared the news, their sadness and their celebrations. Here where they fought and argued, yes, and here where they knitted themselves together again.
This community had welcomed him once. Would it do so again?
In the end he said only, “Got a job to do up at the castle,” and reached for the book Ross had been reading when he arrived, hoping for some distraction.
What he found was indeed distracting, though not at all what he’d sought. The compact duodecimo volume, cheaply bound, contained the first part of a novel. Specifically, The Necromancer’s Bride by Robin Ratliff. The very last name he’d wanted to see.
“Ah, that would be Elspeth’s,” Ross said, snatching the book from his grasp. He laid it behind the bar, out of reach, but not before tucking something between two pages to mark his place. “You remember Elspeth Shaw? She’s the barmaid here now. Her sister Esme’s at Dunnock.”
Thomas nodded, remembering the maid who’d brought his breakfast. He would have had only the vaguest recollection of the Shaws if not for the thick file General Scott had handed him, which had been supplemented by the estate records he’d collected from Mr. Watson. When the long journey, first from London and then from Edinburgh, had grown too tedious for him to bear, Thomas had finally given in and read through those papers, which had revealed at once too much and too little. He knew, for instance, that Mr. Shaw was Dunnock’s most prosperous tenant farmer. But he did not know what it might signify about the state of their affairs that the man’s daughters had put themselves into service.
“She certainly has interesting taste in reading.”
“That Ratliff chap spins a good tale,” Ross defended her—and, evidently, himself.
“So I’ve heard. Tell me,” he said, leaning against the bar, “is there anyone else still here I’d remember? What about Theo?” Theo Campbell had been the third in their mischievous trio, all those years ago.
“He’s the blacksmith, now. Comes in for his pint and his pie, most nights, when he’s not payin’ court to this lassie or that.” Ross paused to pull two foaming mugs of ale and set one in front of Thomas. “Where are ye sleepin’?”
“Dunnock’s gatehouse.”
Ross made an expression, somewhere between surprised and impressed. “So, you’ll have seen Mrs. Higginbotham, then.”
“Mrs. Higginbotham? Aye. I’ve seen her. Spoken with her.”
Nearly kissed her.
He could not quite decide what unsettled him most about that phrase, the kissed or the nearly. He’d been desperate to discover whether her lips tasted as sweet as he remembered. But was she right? Was it unwise to try to pick up where they’d left off?
He’d held onto their first kiss for so long, it had become a perfect, delicate crystallization of the past. A second kiss might melt that precious memory like a snowflake.
Or would those memories, those feelings, those kisses form a powerful, dangerous avalanche that would sweep them both off their feet?
Thomas shook his head to drive off such thoughts, blinking again like a snow-blind man. “Why?” he demanded, when he once more focused on his friend’s amused expression. “Haven’t you seen her?”
“Oh, aye. Comes in regular to fetch the post, she does. Stops in for a chat with Mrs. Abernathy across the way more often than not. Usually makes it down to the kirk on Sundays. She’s got a capital pair of spaniel pups.”
Even her dogs were well liked in Balisaig, it seemed. “Don’t the people hereabouts find her rather...reserved?”
Ross lifted one shoulder. “Well, folks make allowances for a Sassenach, ye ken?”
“Sassenach,” he echoed. Outlander. The word held a world of meaning. Accurate, certainly, in Jane’s case. But might it not also apply to...?
Ross chuckled at something in Thomas’s expression. “P’raps we ought to do the same for you.”
Thomas forced himself to laugh with him. Yet he was afraid. It was impossible not to wonder, again, whether their friendship could survive the revelation that Thomas was now an earl.
He drank deeply from his mug before he could answer with his customary easiness. “Nay, Ross. Balisaig’s known me too long for that.”
The other man gave a self-satisfied nod, evidently willing to wave away the years that might have come between them. “Aye, that we have. So, what’s this job of yourn?”
“Well, now…” Thomas wiped the foam from his lip with the back of his hand and lowered his voice, despite the empty pub. Old habits died hard, and people were usually more ready to help an investigation if they believed they’d been taken into another’s confidence. “What do you know of Dunnock’s tenant?”
Ross’s answer was familiar. “Nowt but that he writes books,” he said, tapping the cover of the volume he’d put under the bar. “Never seen ’im.”
Thomas tried to read the other man’s expression. Interest? Distrust? Surely the people of Balisaig wondered about the mysterious Mr. Ratliff? Unless their own distress made idle curiosity a luxury they could not afford.
“He doesn’t visit the village, then? Never darkens the door of the kirk?”
“Some folks claim he’s ill,” Ross explained. “Though I canna say I ever heard tell of the apothecary being called. Esme told Elspeth he spends more ’n half ’is time abroad.”
Thomas made a noise he hoped would pass for surprise.
“I dinna see that it matters much,” said Ross, after taking another deep drink. “It’s not like we’ve ever clapped eyes on Lord Magnus, either. Folks get on, whether or no’ there’s some great man at Dunnock.”
With sudden energy, Thomas thumped down his own mug and strode toward the window. Most of its panes were filled with rondels of glass, through which little could be seen but colors and the hints of shapes. Nevertheless, he attempted once more to take stock of the street and its handful of passersby. “Do they? Get on, I mean.”
When Ross made no answer, Thomas turned to find himself an object of scrutiny, far more intense than any the man had spared for either Ratliff or Jane. “Aye,” he said at last. “Just like we always have. Maybe ye’ve forgotten.”
Had he forgotten? Or had memory exaggerated the struggles and sacrifices of this rural village? Had he given too much weight to his gran’s complaints about the earl’s indifference?
A fortnight past, he might have latched onto Ross’s words with eagerness, seeing them as his ticket to return to General Scott, report that all was well, and request his new assignment.
Two things now gave him pause.
First, tucked among the stacks of papers, leases, and accounts, he’d found pamphlets of advice about land management. As he’d learned as he rode along, landlords throughout the Highlands were clearing more land for grazing. Displaced tenants had been reduced from farmers to crofters. All was done in the name of improvement, but Thomas could easily see that the change did little to improve the tenants’ lives.
Mr. Watson’s endorsement of the plan would have been enough to fuel Thomas’s doubts about the idea, if not for the concern that Dunnock must remain profitable or all would suffer. He thought of the Shaws. Ross was right—the people here were tough, survivors through many a struggle. Modern agricultural practices could not be ignored, however. If they did not keep up with the times, the people of Balisaig were doomed to be left behind. Change, in other words, was inevitable. But it would go more smoothly with a steady hand to guide it.
And that steady hand ought by rights to belong to the Earl of Magnus. To him.
Damn and blast.
His second point of hesitation was Jane. It had been far easier to imagine leaving Dunnock behind when it had not also involved leaving her. And the notion that he might be leaving her in danger only made matters worse.
How long, though, could he stay at Dunnock without revealing the real reason he’d come?
In three days, Ratliff’s lease expired. Thomas could renew it, of course. He’d brought the necessary paperwork from Edinburgh. A few strokes of the pen and he would be assured of a profitable tenant for at least another year. He could return to London, resume his military duties, and manage Dunnock from afar, as his predecessor had done.
But if, as he was beginning to fear, circumstances demanded that he stay in Balisaig and take up his responsibilities here, then naturally he’d take up residence at Dunnock, sending the writer—and his lovely amanuensis—packing.
His gaze drifted back to the window. He needed to think like a laird. Or an intelligence officer. Not a lover. Because he hadn’t set out on this journey to woo a lass and settle down with her, despite General Scott’s broad hint. And in any case, the lass he’d found was not terribly interested in being wooed.
At least, not if the current set of her shoulders was any indication.
For despite the mottled glass, he had little doubt that hers was the figure striding across the street toward the pub, her skirts swaying with barely contained energy, the dogs dancing at her heels.
The sight surprised him. He’d fully expected to discover that she’d set out for Dunnock without him, merely to prove she could. But she hadn’t, and perhaps that was a positive development?
He bent low enough to peer through one of the occasional clear panes of glass from which the window had been fashioned.
The stern set of Jane’s jaw and her flashing eyes came into sharp focus. Definitely not a good sign.
God, he wished he could believe he was not the object of that fierce look and even fiercer posture. But he could figure the odds quick enough, given her obvious destination. And he was about to find out precisely what had driven her in his direction when the door to the pub would swing open in a half-dozen strides. Five...four...
“How many letters does Robin Ratliff get in a week? Or a month?” he asked, turning swiftly toward Ross.
Ross looked bewildered at the question. “I couldn’t say. Everything that comes for Dunnock is addressed to Mrs. Higginbotham. She told Elspeth that Mr. Ratliff’s publisher sometimes forwards things from London for him, under cover to her.”
Just as the threat had been. Thomas nodded. Even if only a clerk in London and the handful of people in Balisaig knew where to find the famous author, it would not be difficult for the one who’d written the letter to discover it. Years as a secret agent had taught Thomas that someone determined to do harm would find a way to get the necessary information.
If the letter writer succeeded in tracking Robin Ratliff to Balisaig, he’d be frustrated to discover that the author was away. Jane herself could easily become the target of his violence.
“If you notice any changes, anything unusual in the post for Dunnock, tell me,” he demanded, just as the door swung inward, temporarily blocking him from the view of the person who’d opened it.
He expected to hear the dogs charging in, barking. He expected Jane to announce herself with an exclamation. Even an oath.
But she did no such thing.
“Good morning, Mr. Ross.” Her voice was all sugary sweetness, a demeanor that lost some credibility when she snapped, “No, Aphrodite. Sit. Stay with your sister.”
“They’re most welcome, Mrs. Higginbotham,” insisted Ross. “An’ you yourself, of course.”
“I couldn’t possibly. The snow’s begun to melt, and they’re wet from the ends of their noses to the tips of their tails. I won’t stay a moment.” She stepped just beyond the arc of the door’s path and began to close it behind her. “I was only looking for Mr. Sutherland.”
With a merry twinkle, Ross’s eyes directed her to where Thomas stood. She turned abruptly and, despite the honeyed voice she’d used with Ross, looked him up and down disapprovingly. As if he’d been deliberately hiding from her. As if he were the one who’d left muddy paw prints on her skirts.
Her attention snapped back to Ross. “Has Elspeth finished the book I loaned her?”
“I canna say for certain, ma’am, but I don’ believe so,” Ross said, when he’d recovered from his surprise at the abrupt change of subject. His hand moved beneath the bar, and Thomas suspected he’d pushed the book well out of Jane’s sight. “We’d a full house last night, what with the weather turnin’ poorly.”
“Of course. No rush at all. Please tell her I’ll bring down the third volume whenever she’s ready for it.”
Ross dipped his head. “Indeed I will, ma’am.”
She half-turned and glanced over her shoulder at Thomas. “Are you ready to return to Dunnock, sir?” The treacle in her voice almost made him miss this morning’s tartness.
But the square set of her shoulders promised that he’d be treated to the other side of her tongue again as soon as they were alone.
“Aye, Mrs. Higginbotham,” he said, offering a wink and a nod to Ross, who was fighting down laughter. Jane spun on one foot, providing Thomas with an unexpected opportunity to admire the curve of her hips beneath her swaying skirts as she preceded him to the doorway. “Lead the way.”