Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(73)

“Oh dear,” his mother said, and cast another long look at the Livingstones. “A wretched ordeal for them.”

“Aye, but what of Aulay?” Catriona asked. “They bound him like a dog.”

“For which I cannot forgive them,” his mother said. “But look at them. They are young, these Livingstones. They must have been devastated by the death of their father.”

Catriona leaned forward and whispered, “What is wrong with the big one?”

“A bad birth,” Aulay said.

“What happened then?” Aulay’s father asked.

Aulay told them the rest of his wretched tale. The flight from Aalborg and the decision to return to Scotland. The chase down the Scottish coast into the fog.

“Who?” his father asked.

“I donna know. There was no flag, no markings.”

His father leaned forward. “And the ship? How was it lost?”

Aulay had sailed this coast more times than he could count, but that fog, damn it, had rolled in so quickly, and so thick, that he’d lost his way. He admitted this to his father. He said that had he been at sea, he would have held course, but that he’d been sailing too close to the shore to avoid the other ship, and when the storm blew up, he couldn’t keep her from the rocks.

When he’d finished, his family fell silent. Catriona slowly leaned back in her chair, resting her head against it, staring at the ceiling. His mother reached across her husband for Aulay’s hand and squeezed it.

His father didn’t speak, but stared down at the Livingstones, his jaw working in a clench.

Would he ever have his father’s forgiveness? Aulay wanted desperately to ask for it, to hear his father say that he was forgiven for what he’d done, forgiven for ruining them. But his father did not offer forgiveness. When at last he turned his gaze from the Livingstones, he rapped his knuckles absently on the table. “We’ll discuss what is to be done with Rabbie on the morrow, aye?” he said.

Aye, of course—he’d hear from one of his better sons.

“We’ll hear what the Livingstones have to say for themselves,” he added, and gestured at the lot of them, eating stew as if they’d just crawled out of the desert after forty days and nights. His father looked at Aulay pointedly. “We canna allow this crime to go unanswered, can we, then?”

Aulay’s heart squeezed. It had been so full of fury, but now it felt as if there was nothing left. Not fury, not hope, not acceptance. Nothing. “No. Of course no’.”

“Will you send for a justice of the peace, then, Pappa?” Catriona asked.

“We’ll decide on the morrow,” the laird said. “I want to think on it and have Rabbie’s opinion as well.”

“They’ve been through quite a lot,” Aulay’s mother said, gazing at them below the dais.

“They’re no’ strays, Margot,” his father said curtly. “And they’ve caused us an insurmountable loss, as you must see, aye?”

“I do. But it’s been so very hard for so many in these hills, Arran. People have been forced to do things they would never do.”

“Aye, and we are included in that number, are we no’?” he asked, looking at his wife. She pursed her lips. “Margot, leannan...we’ve lost our best hope to return an income to us with the loss of the ship. We canna let it lie.”

“I understand,” she said. But she didn’t sound as if she did. “Is there enough room for them in the gatehouse?”

“Aye,” his father said. “Aulay, put them under guard.”

“Aye, my lord,” he said as Frang appeared to place a platter of food before him. But he’d lost his appetite. Perhaps because Lottie was in his line of sight, scarcely touching her own food. Aulay felt a little sick—sick at all that he’d lost, sick at what he feared he might lose yet.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

IN A SMALL room with a single window, Lottie was introduced to the most glorious thing she’d ever seen: a bed. A proper bed, with real linens and even a pillow. And what’s more, Lady Mackenzie had insisted a bath be drawn for her.

Lottie had not argued. She was too exhausted and too heartbroken to care about anything other than a bath and a bed.

Servants arrived with a tub, buckets of hot water, and in the company of the young woman who had greeted Aulay at the gates. She was obviously Aulay’s sister—there was a strong family resemblance in the golden hair and blue eyes. She was carrying a basket, which she placed at the foot of the bed. “You’ll need a change of clothing, aye?” she said, gesturing to the basket.

“Ah...aye, thank you,” Lottie said, feeling suddenly ashamed of her appearance. “I canna thank you enough for it.”

“No,” the woman said coolly. “I donna suppose you can.” She folded her arms, leaned insouciantly against the wall as the servants filled the tub, and eyed Lottie closely, like a crow, as if she’d never seen a woman in such a state before.

When the servants had finished the chore, they went out, but Aulay’s sister remained.

“Ah...” Lottie gestured feebly to the tub.

“You donna strike me as bashful,” his sister said. “Go on, then.” She moved to look out the window at the hamlet rooftops as Lottie disrobed. “You’ve no’ asked my name, so I’ll tell you. I’m Miss Catriona Mackenzie, Aulay’s sister, aye? You may call me Catriona if you like. I canna abide all the Miss This and That.”