Thorn in My Heart (13 page)

Head held high, crowned with his much-battered hat, Jamie surveyed his hilly surroundings as he walked. It was a mild morning. The sky, a watery shade of blue, was dotted with sharp-edged clouds, as if cut from sailcloth and pasted in place. Ling heather blanketed the autumn moors with dusky purple. Thickets of evergreen whin sprang
up here and there across the rough, grassy hills. Among the whin hopped a flock of chaffinches pecking at the ground for breakfast, each one singing a loud
chwink
as it flew off.

Jamie climbed steadily while his groaning stomach reminded him how many hours had passed since he'd shared the shepherds brose. Heaven alone knew when he would find such hospitality again. Fate had been kind in one respect: Jamie had been tightly wrapped in the shepherds plaid when the highwaymen appeared, so they'd left it behind. He adjusted the fabric over his shoulder, momentarily distracted by the memory of Evan and his musty hunting plaid. This one gave off a similar aroma. At least he'd be dry and warm when nighttime came again.

Flocks of blackface sheep stood about on both sides of the road, heads bent to the ground, horns curved about their ears. They were evenly scattered as though carefully placed by a shepherd making good use of his masters grazing land. Out of habit Jamie weighed and measured them by sight, guessing what they might earn at market, noticing which ones were ready for mutton stew, which ewes looked best for lambing. The landowner would be bringing the
tups
in shordy, breeding his flocks for next Easter's lambs. Poor, innocent ewes knew nothing of what was to come.

Jamie halted in his tracks.
Like his cousins, Leana and Rose
, They, too, waited—unaware that he was headed in their direction. Not knowing that he intended to choose one of them for his wife, to bed her well and breed a son. How else could he be certain that Glentrool would always belong to him and to his seed? Rowena's hastily written letter to her brother, Lachlan, was meant to open the doors of Auchengray and convince his uncle that his daughter's marriage to Jamie came with the McKie blessing…and the McKie lands.

But the letter was gone. Gone with his traveling pouch and all its contents. Why hadn't he remembered it until now?

Furious with himself, Jamie kicked at a clump of heather by the road, sending the tiny flowers flying. What a fool he would look, showing up on his uncles doorstep after all these years, hat in hand. “And a sorry specimen of a hat it is,” Jamie muttered, yanking it off his head.
The thing had been trampled beyond recognition by the thieving brigands who'd stolen his horse. He pressed his fist into all three corners, doing what he could to reshape it, then jammed it back on his head. A gendeman wore a hat, however
dashelt
it might be.

Jamie walked on, his jaw leading the way. No point bemoaning the loss of his mothers letter. He had more than enough time to come up with a plausible story about his unexpected visit to Auchengray. In any case these were his relations. Lachlans nephew—Rowena's favorite son—would surely be welcome anytime for any reason.

Jamie patted at his pockets until he remembered his watch was gone. Without it he could only guess at the time. He tipped his head back to gaze at the sun, gauging its position. Noon perhaps. The dinner hour for common folk. Not far ahead stood the royal burgh of New Galloway, known for its weekly markets and quarterly fairs. The town boasted inns and alehouses enough for any traveler but none that served patrons without penny or purse.

He crested the hill and approached the outskirts of the prosperous village, a stopping place for drovers herding cattle to Dumfries and travelers riding northeast to Edinburgh. Even though it wasn't market day, the High Street, lined with houses, was far from empty. Irish servant girls, their bright hair bound in tidy knots, swept the steps and shook out rugs, calling to one another as they worked, their musical voices like birdsong. A troupe of Gypsies ambled by with all their worldly goods strapped on their backs. Jamie studied their swarthy faces carefully, looking for the man who'd come upon him at the cairn. The tinkler had sworn he was not the one who robbed him. Jamie remained unconvinced. After many minutes he realized that all the tinklers had the man's same luminous dark eyes, yet none matched the Gypsy he'd seen at Glencaird.

“Were ye meanin to catch the noon ferry?”

Jamie turned to find a tall, gangly fellow not much older than he staring at him with an earnest expression on his freckled features. He was a tradesman of some sort. A weaver, judging by the skeins of wool stuffed in the satchel that hung from his bony shoulder.

“Forgive me for speakin
sae
boldly, sir.” The man's cheeks colored,
and he ducked his chin. “But if ye dont mind me sayin', ye look a mite
taigled.”

“Confused, am I?” Jamie chuckled at his honest appraisal. “Aye, I could use a bit of information.”

The tradesman straightened with a firm nod. “Fm yer man, sir. Ben McGills the name. Born in New Galloway, I was.” A shock of auburn hair fell across his forehead, which he flicked aside. “Ye bein a visitor and all, I thocht ye might be needin the ferry to carry ye ‘cross the Ken. She's too deep to ford, even if ye had a horse, which it seems ye don't.”

“Nae,” Jamie agreed, sobered by the reminder. “I don't.” He also didn't have money for the ferry. “Mr. McGill, I'm bound for Newabbey. Will this road—”

“Och!” the man exclaimed, nodding vigorously. “Newabbey is a fine village.”

“So should I—”

“Not sae big as me own nor sae bonny,” he continued, as though Jamie hadn't made a sound. “But friendly enough to gentlemen like yerself. Twa alehouses, ye ken.”

“I see—”

“Now, the abbey's in ruins but an impressive pile o’ rubble even so. Sweetheart, they call it. Meikle history round that parish.” Ben McGill peered at him more closely. “Have ye family there?”

“Aye.” Jamie edged down the street a step. “I'd best be heading south now.”

“Nae, lad!” The weaver took a step as well. “Ye'd be much better off turnin’ north and takin the ferry, like I said. Ye can follow the moor road east through Balmaclellan to Dumfries or head south along this side of the Ken.” He gestured expansively, the satchel of wool forgotten. “ ‘Tis a
loosome
stretch o’ water, Loch Ken. Grand, it is.”

“Yes, I've seen it. I—”

“Spent
mony
a day fishin on that loch. Pike and perch aplenty. The pike are of a monstrous size, mind ye. They've got the head o’ one hangin at Kenmure's casde. Fish weighed fifty-seven pounds, it did.”

Jamie's mouth gaped. “It did?”

“If pikes not yer fancy, the Ken is famous for trout and salmon. Aye, and fresh eel. Me wife refuses to cook it, though there's nothin to fryin up a plateful. A slab o’ butter, a handful o’ salt from the Solway—”

“Sounds delicious, Ben.” Jamie extended his hand, struggling to keep a grin from taking over his features. “I'll be sure to try my hand at catching eel.”

The man's eyes widened. “But ye ve no basket for the task, lad! And no boat!”

Ben McGill was still sputtering as Jamie took off downhill through the center of town, calling over his shoulder, “This road leads to Carlinwark, does it not?”

“ ‘Tis the
langwzy
round,” the weaver warned, his volume climbing. “Are ye sure
aboot
the ferry?”

Jamie lifted a hand in farewell, not daring to turn around. “I'm sure,” he managed to say before swallowing a loud guffaw. For a young man who'd lost everything, Jamie found himself in good spirits that day.

Behold, I am with you.

“Better the Almighty than Ben McGill,” he whispered, allowing his grin free rein. He nodded happily at each person as he passed, no matter their rank, starding more than one servant and causing many a maiden to blush. He was halfway through the village when a sign in the window of one of the town's inns caught his eye:
Post Office.

An idea took shape as he made his way through the josding crowd of patrons gathered inside the open doorway. He sought out the innkeeper, a pordy sort wrapped in a soiled apron handing out pints of ale in a noisy, low-beamed dining hall. “If ye're needin a room, lad, we're frill at the moment.”

Jamie held up his hands, palms out. “Not a room, nor a meal. It's the post I'm after.”

The man turned a weary eye on the clock hanging over the door. “Ye're just in time, if ye've got the thing written. The postboy ought to be ridin up any minute. In fair weather he arrives at noon, four days a week.”

Jamie couldn't believe his good fortune. “Have you a pen? And a sheet of writing paper that I might…well, might borrow?”

“Borrow?”
The innkeeper smirked. “Only if ye have a coin to…urn,
lend me
first.”

Jamie let out a heavy sigh. “In truth, I dont, good fellow. I'll sign a note for it, if you like. Send along the money the minute I arrive—”

“Enough with yer fine words!” The innkeeper reached beneath a desk that was old and battered when George I was crowned. “Ye gentrice are all alike, expectin favors.” He slapped a piece of inferior writing paper on the desktop, staining the edges with his fingers, then shoved an inkwell in Jamie's direction, spilling the contents as he did.

Black ink slowly pooled in a knot in the wood. Jamie took care to keep his sleeve out of it and wrote as quickly as the ill-used pen would allow.

Jamie paused. What to write?
Stolen?
Lachlan would think him a weakling.
Lost?
Inept, if not worse.
Misdirected? A
complete lie. The sound of hoofbeats nearing the door forced him to finish without further contemplation, haste making his bold script nearly illegible.

A bleary-eyed postboy appeared at his elbow. “Time I was leavin, sir. The post waits for no man, not even a gendeman.”

Jamie groaned as any persuasive thoughts flew straight away. “A final word, then its yours to take.”

He signed his name with a flourish, sprinkling a bit of sand on the page to dry the ink, then waved the paper about until he was certain it would not smear. Custom dictated that the recipient pay for the post, though Jamie regretted not having the smallest coin to share with the postboy. He quickly folded the paper, then tipped a candle over the seam, and sealed it with a dollop of wax, pressed down with a grimy thumb.

“If you please, sir.” The postboy held out his hand. “The letter.”

Go, little letter, apace, apace, Fly.

A
LFRED,
L
ORD
T
ENNYSON

R
ose opened the letter, breathless with excitement, nearly tearing the gilt-edged notepaper in the process. Her gaze skimmed over the lines, her pulse quickening with each one.

“Oh, Neda!” She waltzed about the kitchen, fluttering the letter like an elegant fan. “I can't believe it! The most wonderful news I could possibly imagine. Truly it is.”

The older woman put her hands on her hips, the berry juice from her fingers dyeing her worn apron a vibrant hue. “Will ye be sharin’ that
ferlie
news, lass, or makin me guess?”

“Sharing it, of course. I can't bear to keep it to myself.” Rose read the brief missive aloud, adding a bit of drama here, a dash of inflection there. “What do you think, Neda?” she asked when she finished, carefully refolding the letter. “Shall I say yes?”

“What would stop ye, I'd like tae know?”

“Leana, of course.” Rose sighed, her elation fading like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. “It doesn't seem fair for me to enjoy such an outing and leave her behind at Auchengray.”

Neda tugged the letter from her hands. “Mind if I read it again? Mebbe there's a way yer sister could be included.”

Torn between her own delight and Leana's certain disappointment, Rose dropped onto the stool next to the basket of berries. “Read it aloud if you like, but I'm afraid it's hopeless.”

Neda, proud to be one of the few servants at Auchengray who could read and write, jumped at every opportunity to demonstrate her abilities. She cleared her throat and held the paper at arm's length, trying not to squint.

“Tea with Lady Maxwell, is it?” Neda lifted her brows appreciatively. “Young Rose is coming up in the world.”