Winnifred tugged at the bit of plaid fabric that hemmed her new kid gloves. New bits and bobs seemed to appear in her wardrobe almost daily, and almost all with the Dunkeld tartan on them. Another way to mark her as his, she supposed. Another way to make her feel as though she belonged.
“Lovely day for a festival.” Lady Margaret pulled a hamper towards her and rooted through the wicker. She, Winnifred, Deirdre, and Lady Abercairn sat on a wide blanket spread on a hill overlooking the loch. The rocky shore was to be the central grounds for the games, and it seemed as though everyone in the whole county had come out to watch or participate.
Horatio inched toward Lady Margaret on his belly, sniffing the air. “Do ye know I’ve never actually seen any of these games,” she said. “Unless ye count the summer my brother and his friends decided to attempt a caber toss on their own. It didnae go well.” She bit into an apple.
Lady Abercairn wrinkled her nose. “If you consider freezing on this hill a nice day then I don’t wonder what you consider a bad one. And please, use a knife. You look like a horse eating an apple in that manner.” Banquo flopped down next to her and rolled to his back, offering his belly up for a hopeful rub. Lady Abercairn pulled her cloak more tightly about her.
Lady Margaret paused, apple poised at her lips, then slowly lowered the fruit to her lap, looking downcast.
Winnifred exchanged a look with Deirdre. Her mother-in-law rolled her eyes before picking out her own apple and taking a large, noisy bite.
Winnifred turned towards the loch, pressing her lips together to hide her smile. She leaned back on her palms and surveyed the mass of burly men thronging the beach. The Dunkeld colors encircled the waist of most men, but some reds and blues dotted the field of play, the guests from other clans. Winnifred had never seen so many bare knees and hairy thighs before in her life.
She scooched forward on the blanket, searching for a familiar pair of knees. Sin had dressed and left Kenmore before she’d awoken, and the thought of seeing her own burly Scot in a kilt did something queer to her insides.
Two familiar faces strolled toward their blanket. Unfortunately, Montague and Rothchild wore trousers, the duke in a pair of fine, black wool breeches and the earl in a worn pair of buckskins.
Winnifred wasn’t the only woman disappointed. “Had our host no kilts to lend you gentlemen?” Lady Abercairn asked. She looked the men up and down. “Even though neither of you are Scottish, I’m certain no one would object to wearing our uniform while you play in the games.”
Banquo flipped to his feet and bounded up to the newcomers. He raised on to his back legs, poised to jump, when Montague held up a hand and stared down at the dog. Caught mid-leap, Banquo whined and flopped to the side, stumbling. With a grumble, he lowered to his belly and stared up at the duke, watchful.
Montague knelt and gave the dog quiet words of praise. Rubbing the animal’s back, he said to the women, “I am not participating in the games.”
A chorus of protestations erupted from their blanket.
The handsome duke gave them a small smile. “Rothchild is, however.” He cocked his head at his friend. “Yes, why are you not wearing the appropriate uniform for the games?”
“I’m not showing my knees like a schoolboy!” The earl’s nostrils flared. “I borrowed these clothes from my groom, and they will serve me well enough.”
“Good luck to you,” Winnifred said. If Sin didn’t win everything, it would be nice to see England represented as a champion.
Montague rose and held out his hand. “Yes, don’t let our northern neighbors pummel you too badly.”
Rothchild merely glared at the offered hand and with a nod to the ladies, stomped away.
Montague chuckled. “Might I watch the games with you ladies?”
“Of course.” Winnifred spread her hand over the wide blanket. “Anywhere you can find a spot.”
Banquo popped to his feet and trotted over to her. He flopped across her legs, stretching out to his full length and pinning her to the ground.
She gently tapped the dog’s head. “This isn’t a spot.”
The dog sighed, and settled deeper, and Winnifred couldn’t help but scratch behind his ears.
Montague gracefully lowered himself on a patch of blanket slightly behind her and to her left. “You shouldn’t allow the animals to countermand your authority. If you’d like, I can show you some training techniques that will help to keep them in order.”
Banquo twitched an eyebrow and gave her an appraising look. She patted his side. “It’s all right, your grace. I don’t mind a bit of disorder now and then. Besides, they’re good dogs.”
Banquo huffed out a breath before closing his eyes for a nap.
“Filthy, flea-ridden creatures.” Lady Abercairn took a small bowl of strawberries Lady Margaret handed to her and picked out the largest berry. “I don’t understand why anyone keeps them.” She bit into the red flesh, just below the stem, her white teeth flashing.
Horatio crept toward the new food source, keeping his eyes pinned on the bowl of fruit. His paw left a bit of dirt on Lady Abercairn’s skirts.
Deirdre patted the ground beside her hip. “Horatio, come here. Ye wouldn’t like that anyways.”
Winnifred didn’t know if she meant the strawberries or the woman. Both were accurate, she supposed.
Montague stretched out his legs. “What am I to expect? Dunkeld said that in the past his clan has met with others for a gathering that included games, but didn’t mention much else.”
Winnifred stroked Banquo’s ear. “I’m not certain. I believe there is a log toss—”
“Caber toss,” Deirdre corrected.
“And the men throw rocks—”
“A stone put.” Deirdre sighed. “Truly, I’d hoped my son would have taught ye some of our customs.”
Winnifred shrugged. “I will learn about your gatherings by observing today. Besides, he has taught me much of your history.”
“Has he?” Lady Abercairn drawled. “I wonder. Which version of history have you learned?”
Winnifred drew her brows together. “There is only one version. History is a set of facts, immutable.”
The woman chuckled. “In your history books, I assume the Jacobites were merely a bunch of rebels, hung for treason.”
Winnifred slowly nodded. According to the Treaty of Union, in point of fact they were. The Scottish politicians had signed an accord to form the United Kingdom, and it would take another treaty to sever that union.
“To your new family, the Jacobites were martyrs to the cause. Freedom fighters.” Lady Abercairn leaned forward, her gaze so intense it made Winnifred recoil. “That is the version that we live and breathe by. Your husband has spent too much time with the English if he teaches you any different.”
Had Winnifred wondered if Lady Abercairn held the convictions to assist her husband with a rebellion? That answered seemed to fall definitively in the positive.
“The cause of freedom is indeed a worthy fight.” Montague rolled back to his elbows. His posture was relaxed, his voice easy, but Winnifred wasn’t deceived. The duke paid close attention to the words of Lady Abercairn. “But the manner of fighting is always in question. The past fifty years are proof enough that more is gained through negotiation than battles between two peoples who should be as brothers.”
Lady Abercairn laughed, a light tinkle. “My husband would agree with you. I am most proud of the influence he’s wielded in your House of Lords, and how he has served our country. I trust his influence continues long into the future.”
A cheerful wail sounded through the air, and everyone turned to look where a young man stood in the middle of the beach, bagpipes under one arm, calling the games to a start. Winnifred bobbed her foot to the melody. The crowd’s excitement was a palpable thing. Every crofter, farmer, and baker felt it just as Winnifred did. Pride warmed her heart. Sin’s decision to hold the festival was the right one. Everyone needed this diversion to uplift their spirits from such a hard summer.
“What a skirl.” Lady Abercairn shook her head. “Who is killing that poor goat a second time?”
Deirdre clenched her fist in the blanket, her knuckles going white. “Young Hamish, our assistant gamekeeper, plays our bagpipes. He plays for services every Sunday, too, and a verra fine job he does of it.”
Winnifred nodded. Truly, Lady Abercairn’s tongue was poison-dipped and she was growing tired of it. She opened her mouth, preparing a set-down, when a flash of auburn hair tied back in a neat queue caught her eye. Her gaze dropped to the broad back crossed with a strip of blue and green checked wool that exposed as much as it covered. The fabric continued down to wrap about narrow hips and drape over a muscular arse.
She snapped her jaw shut, her lower belly tingling. Even in an unfamiliar kilt, she knew that arse. She’d bitten it just the other night.
Sin turned, his eyes locking with hers. His nostrils flared as though he scented the air. There was no chance he could smell her scent, not through the throngs of sweaty men, but her nipples drew tight and tingled just the same. The crowd grew muted, the edges of their bodies indistinct until only her and Sin remained.
He possessed her. Made her feel when for her whole life she’d locked her emotions away. He’d brought her joy and pleasure, smiles and moans.
He loved her.
And she … Her chest constricted. Why couldn’t she love him back? Was she so broken that love was lost to her forever? She’d always believed her sensibility to be a strength. A protection against her mother’s wildness. She’d never thought of all that she was missing by excising those emotions.
A man slapped Sin on the shoulder, and her husband turned to speak with him. The connection snapped, like a worn thread. She stared at her hands, breathing deeply and fighting against the burn in her eyes. Now wasn’t the time for such maudlin thoughts. It would hardly do for the marchioness and hostess of the gathering to be sniffling into her handkerchief at what was supposed to be a joyous festival.
When she raised her head, her smile was back in place. “What is the first event?” she asked Deirdre.
“A foot race.” Her mother-in-law waved at a young boy selling chestnuts and gave him a shilling for a small bag of them. “I believe Sin has designated that old oak tree on the far side of the loch as the turnaround point.”
A foot race seemed … normal. Winnifred had expected something a bit more exotic. She tried not to let her disappointment show. She clapped her hands along with the rest as around thirty men lined up along the shore. Bare shoulders jostled. Booted feet scuffed the earth as they dug in.
The thin crack of a gunshot sounded, and the men were off.
And Winnifred realized that this foot race wasn’t at all as she expected.
The first blow occurred before the leaders even reached the first curve of the lake. A young man with a shock of pitch-black hair threw his elbow into the jaw of the man next to him. He leapt over the man when he stumbled to the ground.
A man old enough to know better stuck his leg in front of the runner next to him, shouting in triumph when the racer went down.
“What on earth …?” Winnifred gaped at the spectacle.
“Ye didn’t think Scotsmen would merely run peaceably around a loch, did ye?” Deirdre smirked. “Our men want to win and will do most anything to accomplish that.”
The first men reached the oak tree. There was a blur of arms and swinging kilts and a man was heaved into the lake.
Montague shifted. “My decision to remain a spectator looks better and better.”
Lady Abercairn tilted her head. “You don’t appreciate physical exertion then, your grace?”
Winnifred couldn’t determine if the silky threads in her voice were meant as a seduction or an insult. With Lady Abercairn, those were most like one and the same.
Whichever bait the lady dangled, Montague didn’t rise to it. “Not of this type,” he said mildly. He winced, and Winnifred turned to follow his gaze. The one man wearing trousers tumbled forward as he was pushed from behind.
Rothchild took his forward momentum and made a neat roll before rising back to his feet and charging back toward the finish line. He closed the distance between his assailant and himself and with a quick turn of his hand, pulled the man to the ground by his hair.
“I do believe the earl might win.” Deirdre held a hand over her eyes. The leaders were pounding around the final curve of the lake, rounding on their target. Sin was back near the middle of the pack. He wasn’t a man built for speed, but there was nothing wrong with how he looked while running. Leg muscles bunching and flexing. Arms bulging as he pistoned them back and forth. Sweat dampening his chest ….
Well, Winnifred couldn’t actually see that last bit, but she could envision it. She dug her teeth into her lower lip. Her mouth watered to lick every last bead of sweat from his body.
Montague sighed. “Rothchild will be unbearable with this win.”
A victorious grin stretched Rothchild’s face. He glanced back over his left shoulder … and missed the swinging hammer fist that struck his jaw from the right. He staggered, off-balance, and a young man wearing the Dunkeld tartan flew past him to cross the finish line.
Montague rubbed his hands together. “These games are delightful. You really should hold them every summer.”
Winnifred blew out her cheeks. Entertaining this much every year would kill them. If it hadn’t been for Sin’s investigation, she might have holed up in her room this past week pleading illness. Although seeing Sin in a kilt every year would be a fair recompense.
She rounded her shoulders. She truly made a poor marchioness. But she clapped along with everyone else as the winner was handed a small casket of whisky and a new dirk as his reward.
The games progressed, each one less violent than the race but showcasing the men’s brawn to better effect. Sin came in second for the stone put, losing only to the village blacksmith. He sat out what looked like a seated tug-of-war to Winnifred but which Deirdre said was called Maide-leisg. Aside from Sin, none of the other noblemen had the brawn to compete with men who worked with their hands all day long.
The log for the caber toss was carried to the center of the field by two men. Lord Abercairn called out. “Forfeiting this game, as well, Dunkeld? Starting to feel the ache in your bones that age brings?”
The exposed skin on her husband’s shoulders pulled taut, and he turned to his fellow peer. His eyebrow twitched, but otherwise he appeared calm. “I thought to leave the fun to the other men.” He slapped one of his tenants on the back.
Abercairn barked in laughter. “Oh, don’t let womanly fears get in the way of a spirited competition. But mayhap ye’ve been in England for so long the virility has been sapped out of ye.”
Winnifred couldn’t hear what her husband said, but she saw his response. His spine slowly straightened, his shoulders hardened to boulders, and the look he shot Abercairn …. Only in the most technical sense could it be considered a smile. Many teeth were exposed and his lips were twisted up, but friendliness had no part in it. A delicious shiver rolled over her skin at the ferociousness in his expression.
Abercairn didn’t have the same pleasant response. He took a hasty step back, away from the threat. But his purpose was accomplished.
Sin joined the line of men waiting to participate.
“Oh good.” Lady Abercairn clapped her gloved hands together. “All the lairds are going to join in the last game. Even your father,” she said to Lady Margaret.
“Yes ….” A worried frown crossed the young woman’s face.
Winnifred pushed Banquo off of her lap. Ignoring the pins and needles in her legs, she scooted to the edge of the blanket and peered forward. The first man, their stablemaster if she wasn’t mistaken, stepped forward. A group of men helped him position the log against his shoulder and neck. With a nod from the competitor, the other men stepped back and the stablemaster crouched, sliding his hands down the wood until he could dig his fingers underneath the base. He screwed his face in concentration then stood, cupping the caber in his hands.
He swayed, the massive log weaving in the air. The other competitors roared with laughter as they hopped out of its path. But before it could fall, the man took two running steps and heaved the pole the tendons on his neck bulging with the effort. The other end of the caber hit the ground and the whole thing crashed into stillness.
A disappointed groan swept over the spectators.
“What was he supposed to do with it?” Winnifred asked Deirdre.
“Toss it head over tail so the end he was holding falls pointing away from him. If the field were a clock, the caber should be landing at the twelve ‘o clock position.”
Winnifred blinked. “That tree trunk must be at least twenty feet long.”
“Close to,” Deirdre agreed.
“Depending on the density of the wood, it could weigh two hundred pounds or more!”
“Aye, so not too bad.” Deirdre smiled.
“Not so bad ….” Winnifred shook her head.
The next man stepped forward, a look of grim determination on his face.
Winnifred glanced at Lady Margaret, wincing. Her father had to be in his fifties and although still had a fine figure, had nowhere near the muscle mass of the younger men.
Lady Abercairn adjusted the brim of her bonnet. “If it were easy, anyone could do it. Even the English.”
The caber crashed before Lord Brandon could even stand upright. He kicked the dirt in disgust and moved on for the next man to give it a try.
Man after man squatted and heaved, faces growing red, faint Gaelic words that could only be curses drifting up the hill to the spectators.
Lord Abercairn made a decent throw. The caber didn’t revolve fully but fell at about a three o’clock position to the earl. Rothchild’s throw was next, and there was much debate about whether his caber was nearer to the 2:30 position than Abercairn’s or not. The consensus fell to Rothchild’s toss being superior, and the crowd groaned good-naturedly at the Sassenach’s victory. Until a good Scottish farmer beat him by tossing his log at a solid two o’clock position.
Sin stepped to the caber. Montague made a comment, but his voice was merely the buzz of a fly for all the attention Winnifred paid him. A bruise darkened her husband’s cheekbone and his right eye was red and swollen. His green and blue plaid flapped in the breeze, exposing the bottom of his thick thighs. He unwrapped the portion of his tartan that crossed his chest and tossed it aside.
Her breath caught. No barriers between Sin and his goal. Winnifred recognized the focus in his face. The determination. She’d seen it directed at her often enough.
Her shoulders relaxed. Sin wanted to win this competition and so he would. He didn’t know how to do anything less.
The log was nestled into a hollow he carved in his shoulder and neck. He squatted low, grasped the base of the caber, and smoothly stood upright. The other end of the caber wavered an inch before Sin brought it under control. He took three running steps and flung the pole into the air.
A hush fell over the crowd as the head of the pole hit the ground. The tail end rolled after it, the caber looking like a metronome as it fell directly away from Sin. He planted his hands on his kilt covered hips, his wide chest heaving and gave a decisive nod.
A roar went up. Men crowded her husband, slapping him on the back
“Is that it?” Winnifred rolled to her knees, wanting a better look at her husband. He stood a head taller than everyone else and Winnifred was thankful for his massive size. She would never lose him in a crowd. “Did he win?”
“That he did.” Deirdre gave a triumphant tilt of her chin Lady Abercairn, and Winnifred couldn’t help the burst of laughter that escaped her lips. She clapped and hooted along with everyone else.
Montague offered her a hand and pulled her to standing. “Is it safe to say you enjoy the Scottish traditions then?”
“Very much so.” She turned to the crofter’s wife and accepted her congratulations. “Living with my father in Ludgate, I could never have imagined such a life, and now I can’t imagine how I could go without. The Scottish are free.”
The duke strolled with her down to the playing fields. “That is an unusual sentiment, what with their gripes about the Union. In what way?”
“Free with their expression, with their excitement, with their lo—laughter.” Her throat tightened but she cleared that dark emotion away. She wouldn’t allow her deficiencies to ruin the moment. “I never realized how constricted the English are, always trying to conform to society’s expectations, until I came here.”
Montague turned soft grey eyes down on her. “I am glad for my friend that you are content. Glad for you. It amazes me that some of the best matches come about in surprising ways.”
Her cheeks heated at the reminder of her marriage’s origin. At how fortunate she was that Sin was the sort of man who let honor guide his actions. That he was the sort of man who stove to make her life as good as possible. Her heart burned. If that wasn’t deserving of love, nothing was. So why couldn’t she feel it?
Lady Abercairn also wasn’t feeling the love. She and her husband stood by the shore of the loch, her finger poking into his chest, her heated words bringing angry or shamed blotches of red to her husband’s face.
“Lady Abercairn doesn’t appear content with her husband’s performance at the games,” Montague said mildly.
Winnifred cocked her head. By the ugly twist to the lady’s lips, that seemed a great understatement. Winnifred pursed her lips. Why did her husband merely stand there and take the abuse? How much control did Lady Abercairn have over her husband? Winnifred had thought the woman passionate enough of the cause of Scottish independence to support her husband in treason. But perhaps there was more to it.
Lady Abercairn grabbed her husband’s elbow and pulled him away, stalking back toward the castle.
Perhaps Lady Abercairn was the ringleader.
***
Sin strode into Rothchild’s bedchambers, Montague a step behind him. Rothchild lay spread-eagle on top of his bed, a soft snore puffing from his lips.
Sin cuffed his friend’s boot. “Get up. Good lord it’s only five in the afternoon. Are you getting to the age where you need to nap?”
Rothchild jerked awake. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was only resting my eyes.” He stretched, groaning. “And other parts of my body.”
Montague straddled the bench at the foot of the bed. “In future, perhaps you should remember that Scottish games aren’t for you.”
Rothchild raised his head and turned his narrow-eyed glare on the duke. “I only needed some preparation. I’ve never thrown a bloody log before or run a foot race that involved deadly assaults. Next time Dunkeld holds these games, I’ll be ready and I’ll win one of them.”
“Next time I hold a Highland gathering, you and I will be in our dotage.” He pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket. “A courier just arrived. This letter is dated three days past. I don’t know why it took so long to arrive from Glasgow, but judging by the stains, it has had a difficult journey.” He tossed the missive on Rothchild’s stomach and paced the room.
Rothchild sat up to read it. “Is Summerset certain? If this were to take place …”
“Then the British economy would collapse.” Montague gripped the back of his neck. “A disruption of this size on our currency at a time when crops are already struggling would be devastating.”
Sin rested his hands on the top of a window and stared into the fading afternoon. From this room, he could see the corner of Loch Munro, the heather-strewn hill where Winnifred had sat and watched him in his kilt. Mountains rose in the distance, purpling in the approaching night, blunt and beautiful. Just like Scotland.
“You think the rebels intend to destroy Scotland’s supply of currency, not merely steal it?” Rothchild asked.
“I’m sure a couple of them will try to sneak a few bills into their pockets.” Montague huffed. “They’d be saints not to. But Summerset indicates the intent of the attack is to destroy, and the number of explosives he discovered was purchased would seem to confirm that.”
“If his information is accurate.”
“When have you known Summerset to be wrong?” Sin clenched the stone sill, the chill of the rock doing nothing to cool his ire. Scotland was a strong country with strong people. But this would devastate them. “No, the attack is planned. The only question is for when. We need to leave for Edinburgh right away.”
“You have a house full of guests.” Montague arched a golden eyebrow. “A ball tonight. And a man who needs questioning. Have you forgotten the other part of Summerset’s letter?”
No. Sin dug his fingers into the stone until they ached. He hadn’t forgotten. “Abercairn is now Liverpool’s business. Enough information has been gathered against him to warrant his detention until he answers some questions.”
“Still …” Rothchild rolled stiffly from the bed and paced over to Sin. “It will be days until he would be taken to London. Days we might not have. He might be able to tell us when the attack is planned. Montague and I will ride ahead to warn the treasury. Your place is here.”
Sin pounded the side of his fist against the wall. Damn it, they were right. But simpering through a ball and attempting to flatter intelligence out of Abercairn didn’t sit right, not when a fight was brewing in the capital.
“Summerset and Sutton are probably riding here now,” Montague said. “Wait and join us after your guests have departed. Besides, as you said, there is now enough evidence against Abercairn where you no longer need to use kid gloves when you question him.”
Sin brightened. “That’s true.” Of course, he couldn’t just bloody the man in front of all his guests. Some proprieties would need to be observed. He rubbed his hands together. But other than that, the bastard was fair game for his fists.
“Fine,” he said. “I agree. Expect me to join you tomorrow night, hopefully with Sutton and Summerset.” All his guests should have left by mid-afternoon. Any stragglers could be left to Winnifred to get rid of. She would do so with efficiency and courtesy, as she handled all obstacles. He closed his eyes and exhaled, his body sagging. Including unwanted declarations from husbands.
Rothchild clapped his back and chuckled. “You don’t have time to daydream about all the rebels you’ll get to beat.”
Sin turned, forcing his heartache from his features. He attempted a smile, until his friend’s next words.
“You have a ball to get ready for.”
Sin couldn’t fake cheer for that. He dropped his head back and groaned.