Awakening His Highland Soul (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Read online

  “Aye. I’ve business with me faither, but I thought I’d make sure that ye were doin’ alright. I hope ye were nae tae tired after our late night last night?”

  Beatrice rested her head back against the back of her chair and regarded him through her long lashes.

  “I think that you just might be fishing for a compliment, Mr. Abernathy,” she said. “I think you know full well that last night was one of the chief experiences of my life.”

  Jeames smiled guiltily. “Well,” he said, “I’ll nae lie, I daenae think that I could ever get bored hearin’ ye say that. Dae ye really mean it?”

  “What? That it was one of the most beautiful and memorable things that I have ever witnessed? Absolutely.”

  Jeames’s beaming smile widened. “Aye, along with me ride at dawn, I think those words should enable me tae get through a mornin’ spent neck-deep in paperwork.”

  “I’m glad I can be of some use,” Beatrice replied. “What is it, specifically, that will keep you tied up in your father’s offices this morning?”

  Jeames sighed, clearly quite unenthused with what lay ahead of him that day.

  “It’s just the monthly work concernin’ the runnin’ of our lands; the day-to-day tasks that must be done. There’ll be a meetin’ with me faither’s advisors, military reports tae go through–that sort o’ thing. Then, after all that type o’ business has been waded through we convene the criminal tribunal and got through any grievances that are bought before us.”

  Beatrice’s ears picked up at this.

  A criminal tribunal? I hadn’t really given much thought to that side of being a Laird. I wonder how harsh the punishments are for certain crimes on this side of the English-Scottish border?

  “Does that–does that take long?” she asked, casually.

  “Long? Nay, nae tae long, lass.”

  “Your people are good mostly, are they?”

  “Those that follow the MacKenzie clan are a fairly law-abidin’ bunch, aye. We might get disputes over cattle or sheep or the like, but seldom anythin’ worse. O’ course, on occasion, someone might be killed, and justice will be done upon them that committed the crime, but that is rare.”

  Beatrice considered this as she took a long swallow of the lovely spiced cider that she was nursing.

  “This is the perfect drink for a day like today,” she told Jeames, as she licked her lips.

  Jeames nodded. “It’s one of our cook’s specialties. She’ll nae tell a soul what’s in it.”

  “I feel an absolute nuisance having to ring for someone every time I’d like another cup, and today all I feel like doing is sitting by this fire, dozing, resting, and reading.”

  Jeames nodded. “Aye, that does nae sound half bad,” he acknowledged with a rueful smile. “I’ll make things easier fer ye in that regard at least. I’ll have someone bring ye up a wee pot o’ the stuff that ye can hang over the fire tae heat.”

  “That would be amazing and leave me deep in your debt,” Beatrice said, graciously.

  Jeames chuckled. “Well, in that case, perhaps ye can repay this debt by allowin’ me tae come and see ye after I have finished with me duties?”

  “Do you know,” Beatrice said. “I think that should be fine.”

  * * *

  Ye surely made an amateur’s mistake, there, lad. Ye shouldnae have made any plans concernin’ Beatrice, nae if ye didn’t want tae make an already interminable mornin’ seem even longer.

  It could not be denied, now that Jeames had time with the injured English equestrienne to look forward to, the five or six hours that he was to spend overseeing matters of lairdly concerns now seemed to stretch far, far into his future.

  Upon entering his father’s airy and comfortably cluttered offices, the Laird looked up from the stack of papers that he was already immersed in, winked and said, “Ye look distracted, me lad.”

  How in God’s name does he dae it? One glance is all it takes.

  “Ah, it’s nothin’, Faither,” he replied. “I just went fer a wee ride this mornin’ tae blow the cobwebs away and, instead o’ makin’ me feel better about a mornin’ spent with quill in hand, it seems to have made me even more restless.”

  The Laird licked his fingers and thumbed through his papers. He quickly divided the stack in half and placed a thick sheaf in front of where his son’s seat was.

  “Well, get stuck into these, and I daenae doubt that the time will simply fly by,” he said.

  Jeames sighed. He knew that he was lucky to have the sort of relationship with his father that he enjoyed. He was aware that many of the other Lairds of the Highland clans drove their heirs like slaves, dictating what they should do, how they should do it, and when.

  They rule over their children as they always have done, usin’ fear and an iron hand. On the other hand, me faither has always tried to cultivate a healthy respect in me by bein’ polite, trustin’ me and treatin’ me as an equal.

  They worked away in silence for a while. The only sounds were the steady drum of the rain outside and the scratching of their quills inside.

  Jeames was tabulating the cattle numbers that had been gathered and sent in by Laird Abernathy’s stock agents, when he heard his father pop his knuckles and sigh.

  “So, how is the English lass?” he asked.

  Jeames scribbled an annotation in the margin of his notes, so that he would not forget his count, then looked up. The Laird was regarding him with those cool gray eyes of his. They were eyes that saw both deep and far, Jeames had always thought.

  “She’s fine, Faither,” he said. “I checked on her this mornin’ and she is spendin’ the day restin’.”

  The Laird nodded and started cutting a fresh nib for his quill. “Aye, good,” he said.

  Jeames watched him for a few moments. Then, when nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, he leaned back down to his work.

  “Did the lass enjoy the minstrels last night?” the Laird asked, quietly.

  How in the world does he dae that? The man kens everythin’!

  “Faither, I must ask ye, how in the devil dae ye ken all that goes on around here? It’s nae that I mind ye kenning my business, it was nay secret after all, but I genuinely daenae how ye dae it! I did nae tell a solitary soul o’ what we were doin’.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did ye nae tell anyone what ye were doin’, if it was nae a secret business?”

  Jeames looked at his faither. The older man’s eyes were twinkling.

  “It was nae secret,” Jeames persisted. “I just did nae want any unsavory rumors tae reach the ears of Lady Margery…”

  “Ah,” the Laird said. “That was mighty astute of ye, lad. Best tae keep everyone happy if ye can.”

  Jeames nodded. He took a good look at his father, trying to do what the old man was apparently so good at doing–reading people.

  “So, how d’ye ken all that goes on around here, Faither?” he asked.

  “Ah, ye’ll learn in time, lad,” the Laird said, flashing a wink at his son. “I ken the ins and outs of this here castle, I ken every creak and every groan in it. It talks tae me. So, how did she find the minstrels?”

  “She thought they were one of the wonders of her life, by her account.”

  “It is certainly hard nae tae be moved by ‘em.”

  The Laird winced. “And at the coin they cost me tae get ‘em out here, ye’d hope the least they could dae would be tae move their audience.”

  “Aye, well, I think it was the first taste of Gaelic music that she ever had. She was well impressed. She said somethin’ that I thought was quite interestin’: that the music made her feel homesick fer a place that she had never really been–or somethin’ like that.”

  The Laird considered this. “Hm, well, I think that there’s probably nae higher praise than that, dae ye nae think?”

  Jeames considered this. “How dae ye mean, Faither?”

  The Laird raised a bushy black eyebrow at him. “W
hat she’s sayin’ tae ye there, is that the music of the Highlands spoke to her soul and resonated in her bones and blood. That is what all things are meant tae dae when their pinnacle is reached; art, music, love.”

  “Is that right, ye old romantic,” Jeames teased.

  His father grinned. “I tell ye, it’s the truth, lad,” he said. “I’m tellin’ ye, the purer somethin’ is, the easier it slips right past a person’s brain and goes straight tae their heart. Tis often the way; when someone thinks tae much they often struggle tae feel enough.”

  Jeames rolled his eyes. “Let’s get this over and done with, eh, Faither?” he said.

  But, as he bent back over his work and began to carry on compiling figures from where he had left off, his father’s words seemed to echo in his head.

  …when someone thinks tae much they often struggle tae feel enough.

  * * *

  “Gentlemen,” Laird Abernathy said, speaking in calm and measured tones as he surveyed the two farmers that stood in front of his carved oak chair. “Tell me again where this disagreement lies. I ken that it concerns a cow, but I’ve me suspicions that it might actually contain a heap o’ bullshite too.”

  The first farmer, a burly old fellow with only one ear and a whisky blush across the nose and cheeks stepped forward and said, “It’s like this, yer Lairdship; me heavily pregnant cow went missin’ a few days ago. Then, when she finally comes strollin’ back home, lo and behold, a miracle! The bleedin’ calf has magically disappeared into thin air.”

  “I see, Master Ewing,” the Laird said, wagging his head backwards and forwards as if pondering a great riddle. “And ye think that Mr. Gow here abducted yer cow, waited fer her tae calf, and then stole the offspring?”

  “Aye, that’s right, yer Lairdship,” acknowledged the aggrieved Ewing. “Ye’ve summed it up beautiful like.”

  Jeames groaned inwardly and fought to keep his mind from wandering. His father had told him on numerous occasions that one of the hardest jobs for a Laird was affecting an air of great interest in every single matter brought before him, no matter how trivial.

  “It doesnae matter if ye aren’t interested, so long as ye seem interested, lad,” his father had said to him. “Intentions count fer very little in the harshness of the real world. Perception–how a Laird appears tae his people–counts fer far more amongst the populace than good intent.”

  So Jeames tried his hardest to appear interested in this ridiculous matter, even though he was well aware that his father had already made his decision concerning the case.

  “Dae ye nae think that, perhaps, the calf was stillborn, and the cow left it?”

  “Nay, sir, I daenae think that would be the case,” Ewing replied. “That cow is me pride and joy–the best in me small herd. I take good care of all me stock, but she’s me chief breeder. There was nothin’ wrong wi’ her.”

  “And why is that ye think Mr. Gow here is tae blame?” Jeames interjected. It was always good for him to throw in a question now and again. His father approved of it, as he thought it would lessen the shock when he finally stepped aside and made way for Jeames to become Laird of the MacKenzies.

  “Because Mr. Gow is a thievin’ sack of sh–”

  “Thank ye, Mr. Ewing,” the Laird said, firmly.

  Ewing, even redder than in the face than could be accounted for by the whisky blush, stopped talking and looked angrily at the man next to him.

  “Now, Mr. Gow,” the Laird said, turning his focus on the other man. “Dae ye have anythin’ tae say tae this?”

  Jeames regarded the other man. He was a knock-kneed little fellow with a scruffy ginger beard and bald head. He was looking miserably at the Laird and wringing his bonnet in his hands.

  “Yer Lairdship,” he said, in a cringing and fretful voice, “I’ve nay idea what the man is talkin’ about. I havenae done anythin’ wi’ his cow! I havenae even seen it!”

  “Is that the truth?” the Laird asked, his tone gave nothing away.

  Jeames, being a man who habitually wore his emotions on full display, often struggled doing this himself.

  “Aye, Laird,” the miserable Gow said. “I daenae ken why Ewing has it in fer me so. I’ve been the man’s neighbor fer goin’ on twenty-five years!”

  “Have ye nae thought that’s bloody why I’ve had enough of ye, ye thief?” Ewing retorted.

  The Laird raised his hand to stop any argument before it got going.

  “Yer Lairdship, what would I even dae with a new calf?” Gow asked.

  Laird Abernathy sighed and leaned forward in his chair. “Well,” he said, “I suppose, Gow, that ye could nurse it off the calfless cow that ye found about a week ago, could ye nae?”

  Gow froze in mid-cringe. His eyes, which had been creased with the wounded of offense of one who had been wrongly persecuted, widened.

  “Aye, Gow,” the Laird said, evenly. “I ken all about the missin’ cow–the farmer ye took it from is a personal friend o’ mine, came straight tae me about it. I allowed him tae sneak about yer property until he found the alder thicket in which ye were keepin’ his cow and where, I daenae doubt, this calf is now.”

  Gow swallowed and started twisting the bonnet in his hands in earnest. Meanwhile, Ewing looked across at him with gleaming eyes.

  “Ye’ll return the calf to Mr. Ewing here and ye’ll return the cow to the other man ye stole from,” Jeames’s father said in a matter-of-fact tone that brooked no argument. “And once ye have done that, ye shall let each man pick out a calf from yer latest batch of calves. If ye daenae comply with this, ye’ll be dragged back here.”

  “Yer Lairdship,” Gow squeaked. “I was nae stealin’ the beasts fer meself, I was asked tae steal ‘em by–”

  “I daenae want tae hear anymore of yer codswallop, Gow,” the Laird said. “Just get out o’ me sight, and Lord protect ye if I find ye afore me again.”

  Gow scuttled out, escorted by one of the guardsmen.

  “Are ye happy wi’ that Mr. Ewing?”

  “Aye, me Laird,” Ewing said.

  “Wonderful. We’ll call that settled then.”

  The Laird and Jeames rose. Jeames was barely able to keep the sigh of relief from bursting out of him.

  As Jeames and his father left the hall and Jeames made ready to go and look in on Beatrice, his father took him by the elbow and drew him aside.

  “There were a lot o’ cases of theft tae be judged today, did ye notice that, Jeames?” he asked thoughtfully.

  Jeames nodded. “Aye, I did.”

  “What dae ye make of it?”

  Jeames shrugged. “Crime, like men, is unpredictable, Faither. I s’pose it was just a bad week fer it.”

  The Laird looked at him in a way that told Jeames that he was unconvinced.

  “Aye,” he said, thoughtfully. “Aye, a bad time fer it…”

  9

  Beatrice laughed lightly when Jeames had regaled her with the story of Gow and Ewing and the missing cow. She was laughing more at the exasperation that Jeames showed at the small-mindedness of Gow than the actual thieving itself.

  “Honestly,” Jeames said, pouring himself another cup of mulled cider and slumping tiredly back in his chair. “Ye’d think that the fool would ken better than ta steal his own neighbor’s cow.”

  “And you say that your father knew he was guilty of the crime the whole time? How?”

  “The MacKenzie clan has dominion over a fair swathe of land, Beatrice, and the villages are spread far and wide. The list of complaints is compiled throughout the week and me faither goes through ‘em on the night before we hold the open criminal court. He is a methodical man, and he does his research on each complaint, because nothin’ is more important tae him than meetin’ out justice rightly.”

  Beatrice nodded. “And this research yielded the truth in the case of Mr. Gow?”

  Jeames nodded and took another fortifying drink. “Aye,” he said. “If ye plan on getting’ away with a crime in these parts. It’s probably b
est nae tae go blabbin’ about it at yer local tavern.”

  Beatrice laughed and poured them both another measure of warming cider. The rain had gotten heavier and the roar of it on the stone outside made Beatrice’s chambers seem even cozier.

  “So, all is well that ends well?” she said.

  “Aye, I s’pose…” Jeames said.

  Beatrice thought that the Highlander looked pensive and she said as much.