Highland Sword Read online

  “Lies,” Morrigan gasped. She thought of the few moments they’d spent in each other’s company in the library a couple of nights ago. “Who’s been saying such things?”

  “If you came down and took a meal or two in the Great Hall, then you’d know.”

  She wasn’t ready to circulate amongst the castle folk. Not yet. A few more days, perhaps, when the bruises were gone.

  “All I can say is,” Fiona continued, flashing a quick grin at Maisie, “a handsome young man has been mooning about.”

  He was handsome … and mildly amusing. Not that she’d admit any such feelings to anyone. She did give him permission to make up a story. But would he go so far?

  “I’ll blacken his other eye if he’s been lying about us.” Morrigan turned to Maisie. “Has he?”

  “Now, that’s not very ladylike, is it?”

  “I’ll cut his tongue out.”

  “Much better,” Maisie replied. “The truth is, he hasn’t said a word. In fact, he’s been very much the gentleman. He says nothing at all in response to the tales Sebastian Grant is weaving at supper every night.”

  “What tales?”

  “That his brother made the mistake of getting too close to you in an alleyway in Inverness. That you thrashed him like a Latin master on examination day.”

  “I’ll never be allowed to go back to town,” Morrigan huffed, walking back to the table. She removed the books from the flyers. Even from the few words she’d shared with Sebastian, though, she could see the man had a sense of humor.

  She’d learned a little more about the Grants since that first day. The brothers had come north to take up the case of the Chattan brothers at the request of Searc. Aidan was quite famous, apparently, in Edinburgh and Glasgow. But this case would help his standing in the Highlands, and it would help him move a few steps closer to a seat in Parliament.

  Morrigan’s thoughts again meandered to their moments in the library. She wished she’d been brave enough to stay longer and continue their sparring. Or go back to that room the next night, knowing that was where he’d be working. The quickening of her pulse was as unwelcome as it was troublesome.

  “Why are you staring at this twaddle again?”

  Fiona’s question shook Morrigan free of her musing about Aidan. The young woman was standing at her shoulder and gazing down at the flyers spread out on the table. She’d seen the sketches the last time she wandered in here. Maisie explained what they’d discovered earlier.

  “It’s a curious thing that he should repeat these suggestions of Catholicism in every one of the etchings we have,” Morrigan added.

  “And you believe this is part of his signature?” Fiona asked, reflecting on it.

  “Other than the nuns,” Morrigan asked, “do either of you see anything else?”

  From the first time Morrigan laid her eyes on these flyers, she’d sensed there was something hidden in them.

  “I wonder if this he might actually be a she,” Fiona suggested suddenly, motioning to the caricatures. “In several of them, you can see a ring of women looking at the central images. We also have the nuns. The children, which appear to be girls. It’s the same thing in several of the others. It’s mostly women.”

  Morrigan leaned over the table again. “It’s a possibility.”

  Maisie nodded. “Particularly if she is somehow connected with nuns or a school for Catholic girls.”

  There was a great deal more to these than immediately struck the viewer. Morrigan tried to justify in her mind why a woman, a talented artist living in the Highlands, would draw these for the enemy. She recalled what Maisie said only a few minutes ago. People were hungry. Jobs were scarce. Perhaps she had children with no roof over their heads and no food to sustain them. Desperation made people do terrible things. And there were thousands upon thousands of struggling war widows throughout Scotland.

  If this was indeed the work of a woman, perhaps she was being forced to do it against her will.

  The three turned as one at the sound of another knock at the door. Morrigan opened it to Auld Jean, John Gordon’s aunt. Though the old woman was afflicted with shaking palsy, nothing slowed her down. She’d taken it on herself to bring up Morrigan’s clean, mended dress from the seamstress. The outfit was the one she’d worn to Inverness.

  Morrigan took the dress and invited her to sit. Jean shuffled across the floor, limping slightly. She hadn’t seen the caricatures on the flyers, and it didn’t make any sense to show them to her now. She was devoted to both Cinaed and Isabella, and there was no point upsetting her.

  Once settled into her chair, she looked suspiciously at the three of them. “What goes on here? Ye look to be a gaggle of witches getting up a brew for Samhain.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Well, ye’ll not be leaving me out. I been doing it since I were a wee lass.”

  Auld Jean was from a village huddled beneath a rugged headland east of Inverness. If not for her involvement with Isabella and Cinaed, she’d still be there. But her old life was gone too, and she now lived at Dalmigavie, where she watched over everyone while her nephew mended.

  “No witch’s brew here,” Maisie assured her.

  “Actually,” Morrigan said, “we could use your knowledge of the area.”

  “What knowledge?” Her old eyes flashed. “I’m no mountain ewe, lassie. Born and bred in the shadow of Duff Head, I was, and I’ve got naught but seawater running in these auld veins. So, if yer thinking of running off through these hills—”

  “No, that’s not it,” Morrigan said, fighting back a laugh. “Inverness. I heard you say your husband sold his fish in town.”

  “Aye, that he did. From the time he was a wee chack, bless his tough hide.”

  “You helped him, didn’t you?”

  “Aye.” Jean nodded cautiously.

  “So you know the area.”

  “Very well. Out with it,” the old woman snapped. “I cannot be sitting about all day with a bunch of cackling hens. What d’ye want?”

  “Do you know of a convent of Catholic nuns who live around Inverness? Or a school that might be run by them?”

  Jean’s gaze moved from one woman to the next and finally came back to Morrigan.

  “Are ye all daft?” she barked. “Does Mistress Isabella know?”

  “What do you mean?” Maisie asked quietly.

  “Are ye thinking of taking up with the papists now? Joining a nunnery?”

  “No,” Morrigan shot back.

  “Damn me if I’ll be responsible for ye leaving off kicking the arse of handsome barrister, and running off to be some nun.”

  Morrigan caught herself gaping. Whether the old woman was teasing or not, she couldn’t believe that Aidan could be happy with this kind of talk. “I’m not interested in running off anywhere!”

  “Who then? This one’s got herself a dashing Highland lad now.” She motioned to Maisie and then to Fiona. “And this one and her sweet lasses are putting a smile back on my John’s face. So don’t come looking to me for help.”

  “We’re trying to find someone,” Morrigan said. “I promise. None of us have any intention of running off.”

  It took a few moments to assure the old woman they weren’t all planning on leaving or becoming nuns. She finally calmed down. “A convent, you say?”

  “Or a school?” Maisie asked. “A place where one might find nuns and girls boarding there.”

  “Aye, I do know a place.” She thought some more. “Barn Hill, away from the river, up past Castle Hill.”

  “Can you tell us anything more about the place?” Morrigan pressed.

  “Aye, it’s all coming back to me. With the exception of a lad or two to help with the farming, they’re all women. Been there a long time, I’m thinking. I went up there more than a few times with my old man. Chatted with a few of ’em. Going back a ways, but the womenfolk living there were mostly widows and spinsters.”

  “And nuns?”

  “Aye. French and Irish amongst them
too, blast ’em. Brought in to teach the young ones, though some lasses were old enough to wed. Waiting, I suppose. Not enough men about, maybe, what with the wars.”

  “Whose children went there?” Morrigan asked.

  She shrugged. “Folk holding on to the auld ways. Unwanted lasses too, I reckon. Been some time since I visited there. Might all be dead or run off by now, for all I know.”

  “That was a great help to us,” Morrigan said, taking her hand.

  If she could convince Searc to let her join him the next time he went to Inverness, perhaps she could find this Barn Hill. If their guess was correct—and if the women were still living there—they might be able to tell her who could have drawn these caricatures. Talent of this kind was rare.

  “Well, ye lasses can sit about all day, jawing and the like, but I’ll be—” Before the old woman could finish her sentence or push to her feet, another knock on the door interrupted her. “Damn me, but it’s busier in here than a harbor in a harrycain.”

  As Morrigan opened the door to find Isabella, she was conscious of the shuffling of paper and books across the room.

  “Why are you all here?” Isabella asked as she came in and eyed the four women.

  “Plotting against yer husband, mistress.” Jean waved a wrinkled claw of a hand. “I tried, but there’s no stopping these ungrateful hussies.”

  “I see. Well, you’re the person I’ve been looking for.” Isabella went to Jean and crouched before her. “Your shoulder is bothering you. Your knees are swollen. You have a sore on your heel. I told you this morning not to climb the stairs until I came back from the village.”

  She tried to reach for her foot, but Jean tucked it under the chair.

  “When’s the ship captain coming back?”

  “Before the end of the month, God willing.”

  “Not soon enough, to my thinking, what with yer sulking and bullyragging.”

  “Bullyragging, is it?” She grabbed the foot and removed Jean’s shoe.

  Morrigan didn’t need to be prompted. She poured water in a basin and carried it over.

  “They’ve moved the dying man into the keep,” Isabella told her in a low voice. “Searc insisted on it. He didn’t think it prudent for me to be going to the cottage twice a day to look in on him.”

  Though the old woman was watching them both, the information was intended only for Morrigan. Their gazes held. After that first day when she’d charged out of the cottage, Isabella had asked no questions. And when it came to have someone accompany her to the village, she took Maisie with her each time. Morrigan was not being pressed to explain.

  “Where have they put him?” she asked, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat.

  “In one of the rooms in the old tower.”

  She passed those rooms frequently when she climbed the stairs to the top of the tower, where the parapets overlooked the gardens and the hills.

  “Searc says, regardless of the man’s past, he poses no danger to anyone here.”

  Wemys was getting closer and closer. Morrigan’s heart began to race. She felt the pressure building in her temples. Anger clawed at her insides. She didn’t want Isabella to see how this news affected her.

  “You need your ointments, don’t you?”

  The doctor turned her attention to Jean.

  “I do.”

  “I’ll fetch them.”

  Morrigan ran out, fighting the bile rising into her throat.

  CHAPTER 10

  AIDAN

  Dalmigavie Castle was untouched by time.

  The fire in the huge open hearth, the tapestries and weapons adorning the walls, the smells of bread wafting in from the kitchens.

  As Aidan descended to the gallery and looked down over the railing into the Great Hall, the thought occurred to him that if he’d come down here three centuries ago, the sensation would be the same. The change sweeping through the Highlands was called progress, but thankfully, not here.

  As other landowners evicted tenants in order to raise sheep, Lachlan Mackintosh kept his people farming the land. Preserving the best of the past was important here. Lady Sutherland and others like her blithely turned families out, ordered their homes burned, gutting traditional clan relationships—all from their mansions in London—but the Mackintosh clan was determined to keep alive the old way of life. Scores of people elsewhere were being driven off to the cities to work in the factories or to the colonies or to unsustainable crofting communities along the coast, but life here was unaffected.

  Aidan had been here nine days, but he was already quite familiar with their ways.

  The day started at sunrise and ended with a late supper in the Great Hall. In between, the domestic staff went about the business of cooking, serving, cleaning, and everything else required to sustain a large community of people, both inside the walls and extending into the village beyond. Clan folk worked the farms and pastures that spread out across brae and glen, adding to the clan coffers.

  The Mackintosh laird also maintained a company of fighters that trained daily and were well prepared to protect the people of Dalmigavie. And then there was the occasional horse and cattle raiding from the English military to keep them active and maintain the herds.

  Decades ago, the fortress had been spared from the carnage following the Battle of Culloden. Its peculiar geographical positioning and the ferocity of its people had made negotiation preferable, albeit unusual, to assault. But the English army was now more confident and entrenched, and their artillery modern and powerful.

  No reasonably intelligent Highlander wanted another war that would ravage their lands and kill their people. And times were changing. Loyalties were now divided, families torn apart. So many Highlanders had been recruited into military regiments over the past few decades. They’d fought side by side with the English soldiers on the Peninsula, in France, and on the fields of Belgium. In spite of it all, however, people were rightfully unhappy.

  Aidan had not yet met the son of Scotland, but from what he was told, the man was selfless and smart. He longed for no personal glory and no crown. According to Henry Brougham, Cinaed Mackintosh only wanted what was best for the people.

  This was why Aidan had come to Dalmigavie. To meet him. And now that he was here, he realized why he and Sebastian felt so at home in the Mackintosh keep. The traditions of this clan brought back memories of their own upbringing.

  They lost their father and brothers in battle the day before Waterloo swept away the threat of Napoleon Bonaparte forever. After that, Carrie House became his responsibility. Their mother had passed away when they were still children, but luckily, their first cousin was attached to the place. He ran the estate well, caring for the tenants as they’d always been cared for. The two brothers were grateful to have him, for they were never intended to inherit Carrie House. And now their law careers—and the affairs of politics—kept them far away. But in truth, Aidan knew that neither he nor Sebastian wanted the daily reminders of the family they’d lost.

  This morning, Aidan was going to join Sebastian in the training yard, but he stopped in to see Wemys first. Since they moved the ill informant up from the village to this old tower room, he made a point of checking on him frequently.

  “Rough night,” his clerk told him. “Better after Mrs. Mackintosh came to see him, though.” Kane Branson was worth his weight in gold. He’d arranged to have someone sit with the miserable cur continually, day and night.

  Aidan looked at the sleeping figure across the room. His breathing was ragged and labored. “Did he say anything overnight? Mention any names?”

  Branson shook his head. Wemys had made many promises to save his hide, but since then, he’d not revealed even an ounce of useful information.

  Aidan went down the tower steps to the courtyard and found Sebastian waiting for him.

  “Not much time left before we go to the trial, but I have no confidence that Wemys will still be alive,” Aidan said as they made their way toward the trai
ning yard.

  “What does the doctor say? Does she have any hope?”

  “She’s giving him some concoction to ease the cough. He spends much of the time sleeping. She doesn’t pretend to be a fortune teller. She can’t say how long he’ll last.”

  “Too bad the trial isn’t sooner.”

  Aidan agreed. But the government wasn’t going to proceed until Lord Ruthven arrived from Edinburgh. The man was firmly in line with what the Crown wanted, and the entire proceeding was designed to cut gaping holes in the sails of reform.

  Sir Rupert Burney was behind it all, directing everything. He’d had them change the trial location, proclaiming that too many people knew the Chattan brothers in Elgin. That illegal protests and violence would occur if the trial went forward there. The truth was that the Home Office preferred Inverness where the outcome was a forgone conclusion.

  “I know they’re intent on waiting to have their own man convene the court,” Sebastian said. “But do you think the authorities have gotten wind that we have Wemys?”

  His brother knew everything that Aidan had learned from Morrigan about the informant.

  “I don’t know. But it would be far better to keep that information hidden until the trial begins.” If the man lived that long.

  “Not much chance of keeping him a secret if his health fails completely and we need to get a deposition from him in the presence of a magistrate.”

  “I agree. But Searc tells me we can’t trust any of the other magistrates to come to Dalmigavie, never mind keep Wemys a secret. And if I were the chief magistrate, I’d find a dozen reasons to disqualify the testimony.”

  Finding the old man had been an unexpected gift, but Aidan knew he was in danger of losing the defector before he showed his usefulness.

  “In the letters Wemys sent you, he claimed to know the person who set up and entrapped the Chattans. Perhaps if we get the name, I can go after him.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Aidan said. “But he’s either sleeping or too sick to talk to me when I visit him.”

  “Convenient,” Sebastian muttered. “I’ll go see him. I’m far more persuasive.”