The Taming of a Scottish Princess

  “Who will care for the horses during their crossing?” Jane asked.

  “Turner and two footmen will stay with them and make sure they are well cared for. The other footmen will come with us.”

  “Well done, Ammon,” Jane said. “I believe we’ll wait until it’s closer to the time to leave before we come to the pier. A few hours of rest will do us all some good. I hope everyone has eaten?”

  “Yes, miss. We’ve all had stew. It was well made.” He inclined his head toward Mrs. Farquhar, who started as if someone had goosed her.

  “Och, did ye? I’m pleased ye enjoyed— That is, ’tis an old recipe and I— Not that yer people dinna have guid recipes, too, fer I’m sure they do, not that I’ve ever had any food from yer land, but my family is known fer makin’ the best stew providin’ we have a bit o’ mutton to—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Farquhar,” Jane said in a soothing tone, patting the landlady’s arm, as that lady seemed well on her way to getting lost trying to find the right words.

  Ammon bowed. “Miss Jane, I shall return for Mr. Hurst and yourself in an hour and a half.” As if relieved to be away from them all, he spun on his heel and left.

  Mrs. Farquhar let out her breath as the inn door closed behind him. “Gor’, ye dinna tell me ye was travelin’ with a heathen. I aboot jumped from me skin when I saw him in the yard.”

  “That’s because we aren’t traveling with a heathen,” Michael said, his gaze hooded.

  Mrs. Farquhar was impervious to the sharp note in his voice. “La, tha’ giant scared me witless, he did!”

  “Which wouldn’t take mu—” Michael started to say.

  “Of course!” Jane quickly spoke across him. “Mrs. Farquhar, there used to be an inn on Barra. You wouldn’t happen to know if it’s still in existence?”

  “Och, the old MacDougal place. They’ve but three rooms, ye know, but it should be enou’ fer ye. The inn has been held by the MacDougals nigh on a hundred years, passed hand to hand from oldest daughter to oldest daughter. The sons all fish and harvest kelp, as do most o’ the menfolk thereaboot, so they canna be expected to run the place like the women.”

  “I hope those rooms aren’t taken.”

  “I daresay they aren’t, no’ at this time o’ the year. ’Tis no’ the best weather fer the gentry t’ come fer neither fishin’ nor huntin’, and tha’ is how they make their way on Barra.”

  “Aye,” Jane agreed. “That and the kelp.” She caught Michael’s curious look and added, “Kelp grows in the shallow ocean waters around the island, and when burned, the ash can be used for soap and glass and all sorts of things, so there is quite a market for it.”

  Mrs. Farquhar nodded vigorously. “True, though the demand is droppin’ off a bit now, which is worrisome.” She eyed Jane with a new appreciation. “Fergive me, miss, but ye seem to know a bit about Barra.”

  “A little.”

  “Aye?” The landlady’s bright gaze gleamed with curiosity. “If ye dinna mind me asking, why are ye so wishful of goin’ to the isle?”

  Jane realized that whatever she said next was doomed to be repeated to the entire village before nightfall. She cast about in her mind, trying to think of a good reason to visit the isolated island at one of the worst possible times of the year.

  She cringed when Michael filled the silence by saying abruptly, “My assistant and I have come to see if we can locate some of her distant relatives.”

  Blast it, why did he have to say that?

  The landlady turned a surprised gaze on Jane. “Och, now, wha’ be the names o’ yer relatives?”

  “Oh. Ah . . . the ah, the MacKinnons.”

  “Yer relatives are fra’ the village o’ Balnabodach, then. They’ll know ye, then, when they see—”

  “No, no. These are distant relatives from long, long, long ago. I’ve been tracing my lineage. It’s a . . . a . . . a sort of hobby for me.”

  “Jane, please,” Michael said from where he sat, his voice an almost evil purr. “They will know you. After all, you did live there as a child.”

  Jane glared at him and wished she had something she could throw at him to wipe his smug grin off his face. “No, I didn’t live there as a child,” she said firmly. “You are mistaken.”

  “I distinctly remember you saying that you’d lived there for—what was it? Several years, I believe.” Michael smiled at the housekeeper. “My friend is shy about her past and seems to have forgotten a good bit about the island. But you, madam, seem to know a lot about it. What more can you tell us?”

  If there was anything more powerful than Michael Hurst when he decided to be charming, Jane didn’t know what it was. And Mrs. Farquhar was no match for that blindingly handsome grin or the way his blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Mrs. Farquhar blushed a lovely shade of pink and immediately embarked on a disjointed outpouring of information. “Och, now, I do know a bit, as me cousin Rory Johnston lives there now and he comes through when he brings his kelp t’ sell. ’Tis a lovely isle, lush and green, with lovely lochs and white sands upon the beaches. It’s a wet land, though, and some say it rains more than it shines.”

  “That can be depressing.”

  “Aye, the people are oft given to fits o’ the sullens fer thet.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Aye, but ye’d best take care whilst there, fer me cousin says there be dark magicks upon the isle, too—powerful forces at work. Barra is filled with mysteries the likes o’ which have ne’er been seen.” The landlady’s voice lowered. “’Tis inhabited by fairies, witches, selkies, and ghosties as yell in the night.”

  “Ghosties, eh?” Michael asked, amusement in his voice.

  Mrs. Farquhar nodded, but looked disappointed. “Well . . . only one ghostie, though me cousin says she’s a wild one, she is.”

  Michael smirked. “I suppose this ghostie was once a beautiful woman who died a horrible death.”

  “She was barely a woman, but aye, she was a beauty. She’s the lost daughter of the MacNeil clan who died fourteen years ago when Kisimul Castle burned to the ground—”

  “No.” The word was torn from Jane’s lips. Through the haze that spread through her shocked mind, she heard the words echo and she shut her eyes. Not Kisimul. Please, not my home.

  CHAPTER 6

  From the diary of Michael Hurst:

  I’ve been an explorer and an adventurer for well over two decades. In the last fifteen years I’ve seen it all—amazing treasures revealed, lost tombs uncovered, ancient cities discovered, and centuries-old mysteries answered. Yet none of this has been as bone-shocking as what I discovered today: the plain brown wren that I hired four long years ago to be my assistant is actually a Scottish princess . . . and a dead one at that.

  Michael paused in lifting his whiskey glass to his lips. Jane stood stock-still, her hands fisted at her sides, her face white, her lips parted in shock, her eyes squeezed closed, as if to ward off a horrible sight.

  He put down his glass. “Jane?”

  She opened her eyes but didn’t move, her gaze locked on the landlady.

  Mrs. Farquhar looked concerned. “Lassie, are ye well? Ye’re so white ye look like a ghostie ye’self—”

  “The castle,” Jane managed to gasp out, her voice raspy and harsh. “It burned?”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Farquhar said, looking confused. “’Twas a horrible accident, to be sure, fer it killed poor Lady MacNeil the verrah night o’ her—”

  “But the castle—I don’t understand. It’s been there for centuries.”

  “Och, lass, so ’twas, and a more beauteous castle ne’er stood. I can see it now, rising proud in the middle o’ Castle Bay, pennant flyin’ in the wind.” Mrs. Farquhar tsked. “’Twas a horrible loss.”

  “It . . . it burned to the ground?”

  “Nay, no’ all the way, fer the outer walls were of stone. Still, the fire was so fierce tha’ the main beams, which were thicker than my body, turned to ash. Once they were gone, there was
naught to hold up the outer walls; one wall crumbled before the fire had cooled, whilst another is leanin’. ’Tis dangerous to even walk near it, fer one day ’twill all crash down, one wall upon t’other.”

  Jane swallowed, a hand pressed to her temple. “What caused the fire?”

  “Tha’ is something we’d all like t’ know, miss,” the landlady said ominously. “Ye’ll have t’ ask the new laird aboot tha’.”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “The new laird? Wait . . . you think the laird set the castle afire?”

  “Who else stood to gain so much?” Mrs. Farquhar looked over her shoulder and then leaned in to say in a dark voice, “We all know ’twas no’ an accident, and many ha’ no’ been quiet aboot it, neither, fer it put an end to any talk o’ marriage, it did, and left him wi’ all o’ his cousin’s fortune, too.”

  Jane slapped a hand over her eyes. “Oh, no!”

  “Aye, we were all just as shocked as ye are now,” Mrs. Farquhar said, tsking loudly. “Puir, puir bairn, t’ die so. She was a bonny lassie, she was, lively as the mornin’ and with a smile like a ray of sunshine. She had her father’s disposition, she did, always laughin’. I saw her once’t, ridin’ through the glen on Barra.” Mrs. Farquhar sighed. “’Twas a tragic death.”

  Jane dropped her hand from her eyes and Michael perceived the intense note in her voice as she leaned forward, “Mrs. Farquhar, I’m sure this fire—whatever caused it—must have seemed convenient for the new laird, but I know him, and he would never do such a thing.”

  The innkeeper’s face grew dark with suspicion. “Ye know him, miss?”

  “Not well, of course—I haven’t been on the island for years and years—but . . . I can’t imagine him doing such a thing.”

  “Then imagine a bit harder, miss, fer ’tis as plain as the nose upon yer face wha’ the new laird wished. He got it, too—freedom to wed someone other than his own cousin, whom he dinna like, and he got away from the watchful eye of his da as well.”

  “Pardon me,” Michael said, unable to hold his tongue a moment more. “The new laird was engaged to wed Lady MacNeil, then?”

  “Aye. He was her cousin and they were nearly raised together, the two o’ them.”

  “So you think he killed her to get out of the marriage?”

  “Ye dinna know his father. He’s a dire man, he is. Full of dark plots and evil ways. He was determined to wed his son to the miss and thus make his son the laird.”

  “So the new laird didn’t wish to marry.”

  “He opposed it as much as the lass, tho’ ’twas a brilliant match fer him.”

  “Thus far, he sounds like an honorable man,” Michael said.

  “Except for killin’ the lassie—who was like a sister to him!—just t’ get out o’ his promise t’ wed her!” Mrs. Farquhar huffed. “’Tis well known tha’ he had his eye upon another well before the weddin’. No’ two weeks had passed after the puir lassie had died tha’ he was upon the doorstep o’ another woman, beggin’ fer her hand.”

  Jane gasped. “Two weeks?”

  “If that!” Mrs. Farquhar nodded vigorously, apparently glad to have elicited some proper indignation.

  “That fool! What a blockheaded, chuckle-nubbed—Oh!” Jane’s jaw was tight with anger, and she actually began to pace the floor. “No wonder people think— And after I went to so much trouble to— By Ra, I’ll kill that man the next time I see him. Kill him until he begs for mercy!” Her lips thinned, and Michael had the impression that she was trying hard not to say much, much more.

  Mrs. Farquhar nodded in sympathy. “We all felt th’ same way, miss. And now ye see how ’tis tha’ we all know the truth o’ it, though the new laird’s ne’er spoken his cousin’s name in well over fourteen years.”

  “I do, indeed,” Jane said grimly. “It looks damning, I admit it. Still, say what you will about Jaimie MacNeil, he is not capable of injuring another. Why, he’s as mild mannered as a mouse. Perhaps more so.”

  “Ye’re right aboot tha’. The new laird’s a weak maw worm of a man, and we all know it. Tha’ is why he got his father, David MacNeil, who’s as evil as the day is long, to do his dirty work fer him.”

  “But you said Jaimie had the MacNeil lass murdered because his father was demanding they wed. So how could Jaimie include his father in his plans?”

  Mrs. Farquhar pursed her lips. “I dinna know, fer no one has ever asked me tha’ particular question, but . . .” She frowned, her brows knit. After a moment, she brightened. “Perhaps the laird won his da o’er to his way o’ thinkin’ before the murder, sayin’ they’d share the winnin’s.”

  “No, no, no. If Jaimie wasn’t afraid of his father, then there was nothing stopping him from just setting the MacNeil lass aside and marrying whomever he wished.”

  “He wouldn’t be the laird, though. The lass had to die, fer th’ title rested in her hands.”

  “Yes, but she could have ceded the title to him directly and then just”—she waved a hand—“left.”

  Michael’s brows rose. Is that what you did, my mysterious Scottish princess?

  Mrs. Farquhar frowned. “Can ye do tha’, miss, just cede o’er a title? I’ve ne’er heard o’ such a thing in all me life.”

  Jane’s eyes widened. She looked at Michael.

  He shrugged. “Neither have I.”

  Jane pressed a hand to her cheek. For a moment, it didn’t look as if she could speak. But then she let out a long breath and said in a panic-filled voice, “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.”

  Michael added, “So all we really know is that there’s a new laird, a burned-down castle, and a missing young lady who is now a ghostie.”

  “Aye!” Mrs. Farquhar beamed that Michael had followed her story so closely, though she managed to look melancholy when she added, “So there ye have it: the puir lassie is dead in her ashy grave, the castle burnt to the ground, and then, wi’in a fortnight the new laird engages with a new bride, whom he brings home the day he finishes building her a manor house fit fer the court o’ Edinburgh . . .” The innkeeper shook her head, her iron curls swaying. “Wha’ more proof o’ murder do ye need?”

  Jane’s shoulders sank, as if she were suddenly carrying a heavy weight on them. “What a bloody, foolish mess. When I get to Barra, I’ll—” She folded her lips, as if she didn’t trust herself to say another word.

  Michael sipped his whiskey, watching every expression on Jane’s face. You’ll do what, Jane? Fix things more to your liking?

  “’Tis a sad, sad story,” Mrs. Farquhar said. “The laird can claim his innocence all he wishes, but we all know wha’ is wha’ and who’s to blame fer the lass’s death, especially after the new laird married tha’ woman.”

  “Elspeth MacQuarrie,” Jane said almost tiredly.

  The landlady looked suspicious. “Ye know her?”

  “I’ve never met her, no.”

  “She’s a demon, she is, wi’ all her fancy English ways, though she’s as much a Scot as I am. She wouldna’ allow the laird to rebuild the castle and instead forced him to build her a huge house on the best piece o’ property on the northern end o’ the isle.”

  “Ah, yes,” Michael said. “We saw that house marked on a map and wondered about it.”

  “Eoligary House, ’tis called. ’Tis a monstrosity tha’ sneers down upon the crofters’ huts tha’ dot the land aboot it. In a way, ’tis a guid thing tha’ the auld castle burned, fer no one would be happy seein’ the likes o’ her at the long table in the Great Hall, sittin’ beside the laird in a seat as belonged to Lady J—”

  “Please!” Jane threw up a hand. “Mrs. Farquhar, I-I’m sure you’re right, but there’s no need to— We don’t need to hear every scrap of gossip—”

  “Actually,” Michael said, coming to stand near Jane so that he could better see both her and the landlady, “we do need to hear every scrap of gossip about the Isle of Barra. Local rumors often lead to intriguing finds.”

  “No,” Jane said stubbornly, her
eyes snapping fire at him from behind her spectacles. “We don’t need to hear more.”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “We do. Though you may chase poor Mrs. Farquhar out of the room, nothing—and I mean nothing—will keep me from following her to the kitchen and hearing the rest of this fascinating tale.”

  Jane glowered before she stomped to the table and snatched up her glass of whiskey, turning her shoulder in his direction.

  Michael bowed to the landlady, who’d been watching the exchange with a wide, interested gaze. “Mrs. Farquhar, pray continue with your tale about the lost daughter of the MacNeils. Her father was the laird, correct?”

  “Aye, t’ the rest o’ the clan, she was a princess.”

  “A princess? How interesting.”

  “Oh, please,” Jane said, huffing her outrage between words. “I would hardly call a laird’s daughter a princess. There’s no crown, no royal standing, no—”

  “I say she was a princess,” Mrs. Farquhar said, her fists resting on her hips. “I dinna know who ye are, miss, but no Sassenach can tell me aboot me own history.”

  Jane opened her mouth, then closed it, then whirled on her heel and faced the window, where she crossed her arms, her back as stiff as a board.

  Michael smiled at the landlady. “Forgive my assistant. She’s a factual sort and not given to legends.”

  “Why, ’tis no legend, but fact!”

  “Indeed, it is,” Michael said soothingly. “Mrs. Farquhar, what was poor Lady MacNeil’s Christian name?”

  “Och, ’twas Jennet. Jennet MacNeil, she were.”

  Jane had to fight the urge to close her eyes. It had been so long since she’d heard that name. Years.

  “Jennet.” Michael’s deep voice wrapped about the word and caressed it. “Jane, did you hear that? The poor ghost’s name is Jennet. That’s a Scottish version of your own name, isn’t it?”

  Jane sent him a cold look. “I heard. I’m only a few paces away.”

  “I thought you might be. Mrs. Farquhar, tell me more of the mysterious princess of Barra, the tragically dead Jennet MacNeil.”

  “Puir Lady MacNeil was barely sixteen when she died, she were. She was raised by her father, the old laird, after her mither died. Though an English woman, her mither adopted our ways and raised her daughter t’ understand what was due her name. I fear it took a firm hand, fer the lass was high-spirited.”