A Promise of Love (2 page)

"You would be better served by retiring to a nunnery, Judith," Sally said with an edge to her voice. "You would not have half the difficulty you have now, in either keeping a position or a husband."

"I, for one, do not blame Judith for her troubles. First Poor Peter, and then Anthony." Dorothea shivered. She was glad her own prospective groom was strong and handsome.

"Peter Willoughby was simply Peter Willoughby until Judith married him," Sally said, scathingly. "Now he is forever referred to as Poor Peter."

"Do you blame Judith for his death, sister?" Dorothea asked calmly, as if Judith were not sitting five feet from her.

"No, I suppose not," Sally admitted reluctantly, "but it's said that marriage hastened his demise."

“In all fairness, ‘tis his mother who spreads that tale.” This unexpected defense came from Jane, who glanced at Judith over the skein of wool she was winding. “She blames Judith for Peter succumbing to pneumonia even now.”

“Denton’s mother is near as bad, Judith,” Jane explained, her eyes narrowed at the thought of her own mother-in-law, “but she has not yet taken to carrying a scrap of her son’s counterpane through the village like Mrs. Willoughby, using it to mop up her tears. Everyone knows not to ask how she fares, she will tell them straight out that her life is not worth living since Poor Peter’s death.”

“He had always been a delicate child,” Madelaine contributed. “And her only one. It’s natural she should be feeling grief.”

“Yet, Anthony was not delicate, Mama. He was a soldier.”

“It was a chicken bone which ended his life, Sally. He had as good a chance as losing his life in King George’s War as choking to death.”

“Still, misadventure seems to follow Judith like a lodestone. Tell me, sister, have you brought bad luck to us, now, or are you angling for a husband again?” Sally’s look was narrow eyed. "Surely you do not think there is another man in England who would want you? You have chosen the right road, Judith, in caring for another's children. I might employ you myself, as I am breeding again." Sally preened as she made that announcement, enjoying the cacophony of congratulations and hugs from her mother, Dorothea and Jane.

She was glad there was no child, Judith thought, either from Peter's apologetic coupling, or Anthony's brutality. A child would have bound her to her dead husbands' families with inexorable ties. Now, she had no reason to ever speak to Peter’s mother, who had screamed words of accusation at her over Peter's casket, or glimpse the stern, set face of Anthony's brother. For that fact alone, she was grateful.

Judith looked into the fire, wishing the home to which she’d returned was a haven in fact. Yet, she’d always felt the bite of alienation here. While her sisters should have been the closest of friends to her, they remained as far apart as distant strangers. No, strangers will treat each other with civility. Siblings had a way of tearing at wounds until the flesh was free of the bone. She and her sisters were, however connected by blood, worlds apart in temperament and inclination. Like prisoners housed in a common cell, they shared their accommodations, but little else.

She had the feeling, though, that her father would not allow her much time in this genteel prison.

****

Judith halted before the door to her father's study, wiping her hands nervously down the skirt of her dress before she pushed open the door. This room was where her father conducted his business. Every available surface was filled with open ledgers, yellowed bills of sale, correspondence from the corners of England. It was utilitarian, functional and dreary, a dismal place to be on a sunny morning.

The rain which had greeted her arrival yesterday had dissipated, to be followed by a wonderfully bright spring morning. Her father’s summons, however, chilled any cheer Judith might have felt about the weather.

The squire nodded to Judith, surveyed her in one sweeping look that did little to hide his contempt for her less than fashionable attire and turned his attention to the man standing beside the window.

Judith glanced at the visitor anxiously, seeking an explanation for her summons in his presence.

His face was as dark and scarred as the old oak in the meadow, his nose askew of the center of his face, his hair silvery brown. He was a broad man with a stocky chest and thin short legs that made him appear like the mis-matched halves of two other wholes. He would be more at home, Judith suspected, on the back of a horse or on the deck of a rolling ship then he was here.

Malcolm MacLeod would have been more at home anywhere than here. He watched the Squire with ill concealed impatience. He did not like the squire; he was a mealy mouthed sort of Sassenach who cheated you when your back was turned. But then, he didn't like being in England either. The last time he had been this far south, it had been on the march to Carlisle and the Scots weren’t exactly trading for sheep then.

However, the MacLeod and the clan still came before his own personal preferences. It was his duty to carry sheep home with him, if possible. The fact that the Squire had refused to talk terms for barter had at first irritated Malcolm, not worried him. But the increasing delay led to the distinct, and disagreeable, feeling that he was being played like a salmon on the end of a line.

The squire leaned back in his chair, unable to mask his feeling of triumph. Soon, one of his greatest sources of trouble would disappear. It would cost him dearly, of course, but by his actions, he would rid himself of Judith once and for all.

"Malcolm, my friend," he began jovially, not noticing the sudden tensing of the man to his left. "I have a proposition for you."

Malcolm MacLeod watched his host with shuttered eyes. No Englishman called him friend. Nor, did he doubt that the proposition soon to be offered to him also carried with it a threat. No Englishman had ever played fair with a Scot and hadn’t they a millennium of history to prove that?

"I issue no credit. I have never done so, and will not do so now. Hold man!" the squire said, half-rising in the chair as the other man made to leave.

“An’ why would ye not tell me that in the beginning? Ye think the MacLeods have barrels of gold for yer English sheep?”

"I will
give
you one hundred Leicester sheep," William Cuthbertson continued, forced to look up at the angry Scot. "In exchange for something."

"Name your bargain," Malcolm said curtly. He would play this stupid game to its conclusion, and if it was an Englishman’s trick, Malcolm would just as soon gut the fat pig with the dirk hidden in his boot.

William turned to his daughter, who had remained motionless and mute since her entrance into the room. He noted her sudden pallor with indifference.

"The sheep are free if you take my daughter with you," the Squire said, glancing back at the Scot with a small smile playing around his thin lips.

Malcolm looked at the young woman whose presence he had noted and then dismissed. She was tall, and too thin, with hair the color of old, rich leather. He had seen the squire's family, but this one was as unlikely a relation to the others as a Highland deer was from a sheep. She was not petite with plump rounded curves like her sisters, she was lithe and willowy. Nor did she flutter in the silence as if afraid of it; she’d simply stood and waited silently.

She glanced over at him, as if sensing his look and his curiosity. Her eyes reminded him of the waters of a deep loch at gloaming. And like the deepest lake, they were cold. No, they were blank, as expressionless as the eyes of a corpse.

"I am not much of a prize," she said, calmly, addressing her remarks to Malcolm. "You would do well to look elsewhere for a wife."

Her father stirred in his chair, his eyes trained on her as if to pierce her with his look.

"Damn girl," he growled, "I don't care if he marries you, swives you, or makes you his scullery maid!"

Judith looked down at the oak floor of the room, as if suddenly fascinated with the shape of the boards. She looked up only when Malcolm spoke into the silence.

"I've no wish for a wife, girl. One wife for one life, that's all I need." His words were kind, but it was the softening in his eyes that made her look away again.

"You are married?" she asked quietly.

"I was. Twenty years. I've no wish to repeat the act."

"It's either you, or Elizabeth, girl," the Squire said peremptorily. "Make your choice. My house is full to overflowing as it is."

"Elizabeth?" Judith could not mask her look of horror quick enough. The squire only smiled, a thin lipped smirk of satisfaction.

"It's high time the chit was married, girl. God knows I've tried it with you. If you cannot find a suitable union, then Elizabeth surely can."

Judith thought of her sister, whose sole occupation during the day consisted of wandering from room to room clutching her rag doll. Elizabeth, who could not dress herself, who loved flowers and singing, who flinched when voices were raised either in anger or excitement. Elizabeth, whose mind still remained infantile despite their prayers and their efforts. What would marriage bring to Elizabeth? Judith could not bear to think of it.

"Can you not allow me time to find another position, father?" She clasped her hands tightly in front of her, so that he could not tell they trembled.

"Now, Judith," he said curtly, ignoring her question. "Which of you shall it be?"

"If I go," she said, looking full into his face for the first time, "will you leave Elizabeth in peace? Will you promise not to marry her off?"

"I'll make no promises to you." The squire stood, placed both palms upon the table, and leaned forward, his small eyes riveted upon his daughter. There was no love in those beady black eyes, Malcolm thought. No concern, no compassion, no emotion at all. He almost felt sorry for the girl. "Either you go, or Elizabeth will find a bridegroom within the month."

Judith had known, then, that her father would do anything to rid himself of her. Known, too, there was no welcome in England.

CHAPTER 1

“Tynan.”

It was a benediction of sound uttered from an otherwise silent Scot. He extended one finger and pointed, as if Judith could not see their destination.

It was twilight and the sea and sky darkened together, a perfect backdrop for the giant black behemoth which huddled at the end of the narrow promontory, its back to the sea. The closer they came, the more Judith could discern the outline of the castle from the ebony shadows of the surrounding moor. The Devil's own lair could not have been more intimidating. It stood like a silent sentinel, guarding the cove and the entrance to the sea, one of its twin towers reduced to rubble, the other scraping the sky with crenellated teeth. An arched doorway, like the maw of some ancient beast, stood open. If not welcoming, it at least beckoned.

Judith shivered.

Her companion said nothing more, but the quick jerk of his head was command enough. Judith sat erect, controlling her fears and her mount with the same dogged determination, eased the mare into a trot and followed Malcolm MacLeod single file down the narrow track, around the curve of the inlet and past the gentle waves lapping at the rocky beach.

The sheep grazed in the field behind them, under the watchful guardianship of the twins, David and Daniel. Glancing back, Judith thought the flock looked more like a fog with legs, white clouded shapes in the encroaching darkness, their incessant bleating more annoying than their odor. Truth to tell, Judith did not like sheep much. They were stupid creatures, with a stubborn will, not at all like the sweet faced and fluffy pets people would make them out to be. This long journey had neither changed her opinion nor accustomed her to their eternal stench.

Malcolm watched her out of the corner of his eye. She held herself proud, shoulders straight, hands clutching the reins with a little more force than necessary. She seemed alert to any sound or movement, as if she were a forest creature and scented danger at every tree or corner. She did not speak much, but he was used to, and grateful for, her silence. Instead of whining and whimpering, her stoicism had garnered his reluctant admiration during the long trip north.

It had not been an easy journey following the sheep, sleeping on the chilled ground, rising before the sun tipped the trees, riding until it was too dark to prod the sheep further. It had been difficult traversing the distance between England and the Highlands, the drizzling rain drenching them most days, the oozing mud hampering their steps. Even the sheep had become stolidly accepting of the mire after days of trudging through it.

Not once had Judith complained. She did not fit his idea of an English woman. Even now, when most women would have been swooning or filling their handkerchiefs with tears, she simply looked at him with an impassive stare. It was, Malcolm thought, a Scot’s trait that sat oddly on an English Squire's daughter. As they neared the open courtyard of Tynan Castle, Malcolm marveled at the more than equitable trade he had made. Not only had he managed to acquire a hundred Leicester sheep for his laird, but he had done something much, much more important.

He had gotten them for free.

Judith’s presence did not disturb him much. He had plans for her, too.