A little later in the evening, 16th December
The portrait dominated the far wall—a devastatingly attractive man in full kilted regalia, complete with cascading lace ruffles on his shirt and glinting broadsword in hand. He’d the same dark, curling hair and chiselled jaw as Dunrannoch’s newly arrived lord. The same air of sensual promise. The same dangerous mischief in his eyes.
Sipping from her sweet sherry, Ursula peered at the plaque on the frame: Dougray Dalreagh, thirteenth Earl of Dunrannoch. It had been painted in 1683.
Clan blood clearly ran strong.
“Ah, Miss Abernathy! ’Tis a pleasure to welcome you to the castle. I trust we’re making you comfortable.” The voice behind her was a little rasping but there was no doubting it as that of Dunrannoch’s laird.
Ursula caught her breath. Finlay Dalreagh lacked the strength to hold himself fully upright in his wheeled chair but he bore the same piercing look as the portrait. Even in his weakened state, she recognized the bearing of a man who was accustomed to being master of those around him.
“Forgive me for nae meeting you afore tonight.” He fastened his pale eyes upon her—the same grey as Rye Dalreagh’s. “Age is both a privilege and a curse.” He smiled weakly. “I hadnae thought to see another Yule season, but here we are.”
Ursula curtseyed low, managing with scarcely a wobble.
“I must give ye my thanks for taking on my grandson at such short notice.” The laird gave a rascallish half-smile. “I’ve nae doubt he’s a handful, being woven from Dunrannoch yarn. Ye have only to look at him to ken that!”
The countess, hovering not far away, kissed her husband’s forehead. “No woman minds a handful when it’s so handsomely packaged, my love.”
Ursula averted her eyes as the earl gave his wife’s behind a playful pat. “’Tis your sweet heart that keeps mine young, Lavinia.”
“Flirting with all the pretty ones, sir?” The unmistakable Texan drawl of Lord Balmore carried towards them.
“Ha! There’s the young scallywag, seeing well to the Dalreagh tartan, too.”
The laird spoke nothing but the truth. It was the first time Ursula had seen Rye in much else but his shirtsleeves. Now, he wore a full kilt of dark russet accented with green, and a sporran of beaver, his broad torso encased in an evening jacket, its buttons gleaming.
Though the hair still curled at his neck, his jaw was clean and smooth. Without his stubble, he looked almost a different man, though the glint in his eyes spoke of his wild streak, regardless of the shaving.
Until now, she’d hardly believed Rye might manage what he intended. Not that his accent mattered, nor whether he remembered to butter his bread on his plate. It had simply seemed that he was too much of the outdoors to be polished up and put on display.
As it turned out, he was proving her wrong—and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it.
Throughout dinner, Ursula had ample opportunity to admire Rye further, and to observe the fluttering lashes of Fiona and Bonnie, placed either side. A stream of inanities floated across the table, the girls exclaiming at tales of lassoing steers and cooking rattlesnakes over a campfire.
“Did you really converse with Indian savages?” Lady Bonnie gasped. They seemed surprised that Lord Balmore hadn’t been scalped on the spot.
Ursula heard him reply. “The indigenous people prefer to be called by their tribal names.” She wanted to listen more but, with the dowager countess on her left and Lady Iona on her right, Ursula was drawn into a conversation on the most effective remedies for chilblains.
They slurped their way through Cullen skink, followed by some rather grey-looking mutton. Ursula pushed it round her plate but it continued to lie apathetic, congealing snugly between two boiled potatoes. Even the clootie dumpling, rich with dried fruit and spices, failed to rouse her appetite.
Rye, meanwhile, asked for a second helping.
At last, the interminable meal was over and the ladies rose.
“They’ll only be a few minutes behind us, Bonnie dear.” Ursula heard Lady Balmore chivvying her daughter as they entered the drawing room. “Now, don’t be afraid to—you know…” She tugged a little at Lady Bonnie’s neckline, pulling the yoke to the edge of her shoulders.
“Do you think he’s interested, Mama? I can’t tell. He seems to look just as much at Fiona as at me, as if he can’t decide.”
“Of course he likes you.” Lady Balmore sniffed. “Now, get yourself seated at the piano and play something melodious—none of your doaty dirges!”
Close behind, the other Lady Balmore—Arabella, wasn’t it?—seemed to be taking a different tack with her own daughter. “You’re being far too obvious, Fiona. Less smiling if you please. Men like to hunt rather than be chased. In fact, a certain aloofness can work wonders; ignore him all together if you like.”
Fiona looked bewildered and wandered over to turn the pages for Bonnie.
With a sigh, Ursula helped herself to the coffee that had been put out on the side.
No sooner had she poured than Lady Balmore was at her elbow. “How thoughtful of you, Miss Abernathy. If you might bring us each a cup that would be most kind.” With a curt nod, she lifted the saucer from Ursula’s fingers and went to take a seat.
Pursing her lips, Ursula did as she was told.
The laird it seemed, was weary, requiring Lady Dunrannoch to retire with him, leaving Cameron and Rye to join the would-be harem.
“How are ye getting along?” asked Cameron, coming to sit alongside Ursula. “Surviving the vipers’ pit?” He chuckled to himself. “I dinnae envy my cousin, being thrown in with these fighting o’er him.”
Ursula buried a smile beneath the rim of her cup.
She was more than happy to let Cameron cheer her up a bit. He was a little on the skinny side for her taste, but he might do to make Rye jealous. Despite heading towards her, Lord Balmore had veered away as soon as Cameron sat down, taking an armchair by the fire instead, next to the dowager.
“You’re a saint and no mistake, choosing to spend your Hogmany up here in the wilds of Rannoch—in this dreich weather, and all for the sake of this crabbit lot. They’re ne’er happy unless they’ve something to moan about.”
Ursula couldn’t help laughing. It was nice to have an ally—even though Cameron was a mite younger than her and didn’t seem to hold sway over anyone. Since being introduced, he’d been nothing but friendly.
“They’ve not been so very crabbit—and I don’t mind the weather when we’re warm inside.”
“You’re too polite by half, Miss Abernathy. I only hope your good manners rub off on these tumshie cousins o’ mine.”
“Tumshie?” Ursula raised an eyebrow.
“Like turnips o’course. Although, to be fair, sometimes, they’re more like plain tatties.”
“That’s a dreadful thing to say!” Ursula laughed again. “On behalf of my gender, I must protest.”
“In that case, I shall shut ma blethering and offer ye a wee dram. Grandfather keeps the best locked away in his library, but I know where the key is. I’ll be back in two ticks with something to warm ye better than coffee.”
No sooner had he departed than Ursula noticed Lady Arabella Balmore staring at her with marked dislike. Ursula fought the urge to poke out her tongue.
Rye was also looking over, and with a wistful expression. No doubt, it was exhausting having a bevy of women tussling over one. She’d overheard his two younger cousins vying to guess his favourite song, only to discover that he’d never heard of any of the ballads they suggested.
He rose from his seat and wandered over, the wolfhound following. It put its head in his lap when he sat down again, gazing up with devoted eyes.
Even the dog is enamoured with him!
Ursula rolled her eyes. “A new friend?”
“You miss your master, don’t you, big lug.” Rye rubbed behind the wolfhound’s ears. “I’ve been letting Murdo sleep on my bed.” He grinned in his usual way. “I don’t see why anyone should mind if I don’t.”
“Well, if it’s the best company you can find…” Ursula smiled sweetly and opened up her reticule to extract her pot of salve.
Only too late did she remember.
The little mouse had sat inside cosily all through dinner, so still and quiet that she’d quite forgotten him. Now, he made a leap for the carpet.
With a squeal, Lady Iona jumped onto a chair.
The piano lid crashed—as the tiny varmint skittered up and across the keys.
Murdo began to howl and, from two rooms away, McTavish caught the scent and barrelled in to join the fun.
Both cat and mouse shot at high speed, scampering between petticoats and slippered feet. Cups and saucers went flying and, as Cameron entered the room, so did the whisky. The screaming had reached a fever pitch when Rye made a dive for McTavish.
Ursula, meanwhile, opened her reticule wide and the mouse, sensing its best interests, bounded back in.
Nothing more needed to be said. Ursula whisked from the room, with Rye in pursuit.
“Don’t let it out again until I’ve locked this one away!” Held unceremoniously aloft, McTavish spat and wriggled.
Having witnessed the commotion, the butler had presented himself and, with a nod at the main doors, opened them in readiness. A cold blast of air wafted into the hallway.
“I’m sorry but you’re far too much trouble,” chided Ursula, whispering into her bag through the cracked clasp. She took three steps outside and gave the mouse its freedom, sending it scuttling through the snow.
It was at that moment that she heard them—bagpipes!
Was someone on the roof?
She craned her head upward. It was impossible to tell, but it sounded as if the music were coming from above.
It was certainly too cold to be standing about outside—either listening or playing.
Darting back into the hall, she near collided with Lord Balmore.
From the open door of the drawing room, the dowager’s voice carried out, full-laden with doom. “’Beware! Beware! ’Tis Camdyn, playing on the ramparts.”
Staggering to her feet, she outstretched her gnarled finger, pointing into the hall, directly at Rye. “’Tis the Dunrannoch curse, come to claim the next heir!”