The Skylark's Secret(84)

They set off for the stable and worked in silence, Flora slipping the halter over the pony’s head and buckling the throat strap, while her father lifted the heavy deer saddle on to its back and fastened the girth. Flora led the garron slowly up the track alongside Ardtuath House while Iain went to collect the rifles from the gun safe and let Sir Charles know that they were ready.

His lordship took his double-barrelled Purdey from her father without a word, scarcely acknowledging Flora as he strode ahead up the track. She walked steadily, if a little more slowly than usual, the pony patiently matching its pace to hers as they crossed the hills above the village. They were headed for the lochan, where Flora would wait with the garron while the two men climbed on towards the higher land where the deer would be sheltering from the blustering December wind. When the path steepened, her father turned back and glanced at her anxiously, raising his eyebrows in a question. She was breathing heavily, but gave him a reassuring nod to let him know that she could manage.

An hour later they crossed the burn just below the lochan, swollen with winter rain, and her father extended a hand to help steady her where the stones were slippery with damp moss. She’d been looking down, making sure of her footing, one hand on the leading rein and the other automatically cradling her belly, the shawl slipping back slightly on her shoulders. When she raised her head again, her eyes met those of Sir Charles. He was watching her coldly, appraisingly, from where he stood on the path above her. She froze as she saw his gaze darken and his face flush claret red with anger as realisation dawned. Then he turned abruptly away and strode on ahead, towards the waters of the lochan that were as black as his mood.

When they reached the shelter of the bothy, her father handed his rifle to Flora for safekeeping and then took his binoculars from the leather case slung at his hip, scanning the hillside.

A small group of red deer hinds, foraging for the scant pickings of the winter ground, raised their heads. They were far enough off not to be panicked by the appearance of the three humans and the white pony, but watched warily from the hill. The lead hind grew uneasy and began to walk away, picking her way along the contour line, the others following in single file behind her before she stopped again. The stalking party was concealed from the herd now by the bothy wall, and Flora let the garron crop the bleached tufts of grass that grew alongside the stones, keeping her quiet. The hind’s ears pricked as she waited, unmoving, muscles tensed for flight. But when the humans didn’t re-emerge from behind the ruin she settled again at last, and resumed her search among the woody twigs of a clump of bog myrtle for any last leaves.

Still watching the hinds through his binoculars, her father said quietly, ‘You might get a shot from here. They’re well spaced and you’ve the hill behind them.’ His words were barely more than a murmur.

Flora glanced towards Sir Charles. But he wasn’t watching the deer on the hill. He was watching her. And an icy fear gripped her when she saw the look in his eyes.

His flush of anger had gone, to be replaced by a look of cold calculation. Very deliberately, he reached into the case on his belt and took out two bullets. His eyes still fixed on Flora, he loaded his rifle. Then he stepped away from the bothy, putting space between himself and the Gordons as he raised the gun to his shoulder.

The deer began to move again, edgy now, and her father lowered the binoculars. ‘They’ll climb higher in a minute, I don’t doubt, now they’ve glimpsed us. Most likely they’ll make for the far corrie beyond the ridgeline.’

The garron shifted, stamping a hoof uneasily on the hard ground.

There was a soft click as Sir Charles released the safety, both barrels of his rifle primed.

At the sound, her father turned towards him, raising a hand and saying, ‘You’ll not get a clean chest shot now, the angle’s wrong.’ Then he stopped, his words left hanging, unanswered, on the winter air.

For a moment there was a quietness so profound it seemed that the earth held its breath. The three figures stood frozen in a grotesque tableau, watched only by the red deer and a single skylark that dropped its fluting notes of warning into the silence to break the spell.

And then the air shattered as a shot rang out, echoing off the hills to rebound across the dark waters of the lochan, and in a terrified scramble the deer fled, leaping upwards, away from the kill.



Sure-footed as ever, the garron picked its way down the path. The deer saddle on its back swayed with each step under the weight of the body slung across it, an ooze of blood blooming scarlet against its white flank. As they reached the lochside, the pony’s hooves rang hollowly on the harder surface of the road.

The crofters emerged in silence from their cottages as Iain Gordon and his daughter led the garron through the village, making their way slowly towards the gates of Ardtuath House. As they approached the hall, a group of women emerged, and Iain and Flora stopped.

There were gasps and someone whispered, ‘It’s Sir Charles!’

Then every head turned towards Lady Helen, who stood frozen in the doorway.

It was Moira Carmichael who moved first, hurrying to Flora, who had begun to shiver uncontrollably beneath the folds of her woollen shawl.

Iain pulled the faded deerstalker from his head and stood before her ladyship, his eyes downcast. Then he lifted his face, and it was creased with pain.

His voice was rough with anguish, though his words were clear and firm, loud enough for all to hear. ‘I’m sorry. I did it.’