Kilts in the Wind Read online

  Thanks to a succession of good harvests, the McDool family fortunes were slowly rebounding. “This year’s crop promises to be a bumper one.”

  He kept his main concern to himself. A successful harvest would put a severe strain on the capacity of the grinding shed built on McDool lands as a replacement for the inaccessible big windmill on the border. Its waterwheel was dependent on a sluggish stream.

  “And ye’ve fewer laborers at yer disposal,” Gough observed. “Famine forced too many to emigrate.”

  Punctuated only by the rattle of Cathal’s breathing, the silence stretched while Spenser contemplated the hundreds who’d fled to the Americas as indentured servants. If he hoped to continue rebuilding the McDool holdings, he had to find a way to make use of the abandoned mill.

  But that was a problem for later—after Cathal’s funeral.

  “At least my brother will lie here in the Highlands alongside his kin,” he murmured, guilt weighing heavily on his conscience. He couldn’t utter the words out loud, but he wished death would come quickly and deliver Cathal from his torment.

  At the Will of the Wind

  Upon becoming mistress of Clanyard, Mona had claimed Jane’s lady’s maid as her own servant. Jane protested to her father that Stella had served her since childhood, but she was deemed selfish and her pleas fell on deaf ears.

  It was something of an advantage to have a friend within Mona’s household, but Jane worried Stella’s hatred of her new mistress might push her to take too many risks.

  There was only one place in Clanyard where Jane and Stella could meet without being seen or overheard. She’d thought long and hard before sending Moses with a message to the one person in Clanyard who would never betray her.

  Two days after being freed from the garret, she waited anxiously behind the giant chimney in the kitchens where Bessie Cook kept a hammock slung between two hooks. It was the refuge where she napped when the kitchen wasn’t busy. Bessie’s resentment of Mona’s unreasonable, demanding threats made her a willing ally. The scullery lads knew enough to stay well away from the cook’s sanctuary and there was never a danger of either Mona or Ignis entering the kitchen. According to Jane’s stepmother, only peasants ventured there.

  She’d spent most of the time since her release playing with Gavin and keeping out of Mona’s way. However, Ignis was sly and she could never be completely sure he wasn’t spying on her.

  Relief surged when her faithful maid appeared with a bundle of clothing tucked under her arm.

  “I dinna ken what ye’re up to, my lass,” Stella admonished as they embraced, “but I’ve brought the things ye requested.”

  Jane sniffled back tears. “I ken I can trust ye, but I’ll nay tell ye my plans, then ye can answer truthfully that ye didna have any knowledge of my comings and goings.”

  Stella glanced over her shoulder before pulling a skirt from the bundle. “’Tis very auld and worn,” she lamented, holding up the garment.

  “Exactly what I need,” Jane replied, stepping into the skirt and pulling it over her hips.

  “’Tis too big,” Stella observed, handing Jane a sash of the sort peasants often wore. “I’m broader in the beam than ye, but this will help.”

  Satisfied the colorful sash would keep the skirt from falling around her ankles, Jane shrugged a large smock over her head. “How do I look?” she asked, twirling about.

  “Like a peasant.”

  “Good.”

  “Except for yer boots.”

  Jane eyed the fine leather footwear—a treasure taken from her mother’s armoire. “But I’ll need them for the ride.”

  Stella frowned. “Ye plan to go riding? Ignis will ken if yer horse is missing.”

  “’Tis why I’m taking one of the ponies.”

  “Surely ye dinna intend to leave forever?” Stella asked, her chin quivering.

  “Nay, I’d ne’er abandon Gavin,” Jane replied. “However, I need ye to distract Ignis.”

  Stella snorted. “Still abed, that lazy slug, and his chamber doesna overlook the stables.”

  Jane embraced her maid once more, knotted a shawl around her shoulders and crept out the rear door of the kitchens. Once in the stables, she mounted the pony she’d saddled and chivvied the animal out into the courtyard.

  *

  The next day, Spenser’s appetite fled as he watched his brother struggle to swallow the watered ale.

  The people of Lagan hadn’t seen their laird for a fortnight and his unexpected appearance in the Great Hall resulted in an eerie silence. Cathal may have recovered sufficiently to leave the sick room to break his fast, but his gaunt features confirmed he was among the walking dead.

  The same thing had happened before. Seemingly at death’s door, Cathal would rally and rise from his bed. Dr. Gough warned the cycle would follow this pattern until the illness finally triumphed, but he couldn’t predict how far in the future that might be.

  Spenser ought to be elated his brother still lived, but the uncertainty left him in limbo. He had shouldered all the responsibilities of the chieftaincy, yet he wasn’t the laird and had no legal right to summon a meeting of the elders, nor to make decisions affecting the clan.

  However, decisions had to be made about the coming harvest or crops would rot in the fields. He’d attempted to discuss these matters with Cathal, but his brother seemed not to understand. The witty, intelligent Highlander had deteriorated into a simpleton, his brain corrupted by a tropical disease.

  The tragedy of his impending loss was eating away at Spenser’s heart and playing havoc with his emotions. It was selfish, but he wanted to get on with the grieving, on with life. As laird, he’d be expected to wed and sire heirs, but he couldn’t bring a bride into the intolerable situation at Lagan. As the second son, he’d never given much thought to marriage. Finding a woman to woo loomed like a daunting task. Certainly, he couldn’t approach the neighboring clan. If the Lockie laird had a daughter of marriageable age, he would likely run Spenser through if he suggested courting her, or laugh in his face.

  After breakfast, he helped servants settle Cathal by the hearty fire in the hall, tucking the blanket around his trembling legs. “Do ye mind if I leave ye for a bit?” he asked his brother. “A few things need attending to.”

  Though the lie stuck in his craw, it was preferable to telling Cathal he couldn’t stand to spend another minute watching him wither away. Drooping eyelids indicated his brother would soon be asleep in any case.

  He hurried to the stables, saddled his horse and galloped out through the gates. The derelict windmill had been on his mind. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. The ride would clear his head and perhaps renew his spirits.

  *

  As Jane expected, the McDool stronghold wasn’t visible from the windmill. Before Mona’s advent, she’d frequently ridden the length and breadth of Lockie lands, though she’d never ventured close to the border. Satisfied no one was about and that she couldn’t be seen, she tethered the pony and walked to the front of the mill.

  Shading her eyes, she squinted way up, awed by the sheer size of the sails turning slowly in the breeze. There wasn’t as much noise as she’d anticipated—just an eerie squeal of wood on wood. It was doubtful any of the machinery inside was working.

  The majestic invention had fallen into ruin because of the feud. Neither the Lockies nor the McDools were profiting from the work that had gone into building it. With the disastrous harvests of the last century, it hadn’t mattered much, but now…

  However, mentioning the possibility of renovating the mill to her father would mean letting on she’d visited it. Mona was sure to find a way to sabotage the plan.

  She removed her shawl, raised her arms and waved them slowly from side to side, one with the wind caressing her skin and the sun warming her face.

  Inhaling deeply and feeling freer than she’d felt in a long while, she eventually retrieved the shawl and wandered around the outside, humming as she searched for a way in.

  As luck would have it, an arched doorway held a door that was hanging off its rusted hinges. A few hefty tugs created a gap wide enough for her to sneak through.

  *

  Hunkered down behind a clump of sedge grass, Spenser rubbed his eyes, not quite sure what he was looking at.

  He’d ridden Cridhe to within a hundred yards of the mill, then dismounted, puzzled when he noticed a pony tethered nearby. He’d expected the place to be deserted.

  But it was the maiden waving her arms as if at the will of the wind who captured his attention. Who was this willowy peasant with the flame red hair whose movements caused his body to sway in tandem? The gnawing worries eased magically from his shoulders.

  When she disappeared around the back of the mill, he was shocked to realize he was drooling, his mouth agape. The tension had drained from his muscles, though watching her sinuous movements had stirred the interest of his manhood.

  He fixed his gaze on the sails turning slowly, suddenly seized with a lunatic urge to reach for the sky and wave his arms back and forth like the lass. Somehow, he’d fallen under her spell.

  He couldn’t risk standing when his long legs cramped. Yawning, he stretched out on his belly to continue his vigil.

  He startled awake sometime later, disappointed to see the pony and the lass were gone.

  He led Cridhe to the windmill, and eventually found a half-open door he could enter. What he saw dismayed him. Broken pieces of machinery looked to have fallen from upper stories through holes in the ceiling above.

  Refurbishing the mill would take time and money, neither of which he had in abundance. The task was bigger and more dangerous than he’d foreseen. Still, he’d never been one to shy away from a challenge, and perhaps the maiden was a good omen.

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; Pondering the steps needed to get the job underway, he mounted Cridhe and rode home.

  Sharing the News

  Upon returning from the ride to the mill, Jane welcomed the comforting warmth emanating from the bricks at her back as she waited in Bessie’s cubby for her maid. A meeting was never guaranteed; it depended on whether or not Stella could get away without rousing suspicion. However, Jane hoped curiosity about the morning’s clandestine ride would push her friend to find an opportunity to come.

  Overheated after a ten-minute wait, Jane removed the shawl and smock, then wriggled out of the skirt. Fully intending to repeat the adventure at the first opportunity, she hung the garments on a hook beside the cook’s collection of grease-spattered aprons, sure Bessie wouldn’t object.

  “Ye made it back safely,” Stella panted as she sidled through the narrow opening into the nook.

  Jane embraced her faithful servant, excitement getting the better of her. “Aye, and I canna keep the secret any longer.”

  Stella leaned back against the bricks. “Go on then.”

  “I rode to the auld windmill.”

  The maid frowned. “That’s yer secret destination?”

  Jane might have expected she’d have to explain her fanciful notions to the down-to-earth Stella. “The mill is a symbol,” she said.

  “Of what? Ruin and futility?”

  “Nay. I ventured inside the lower part. I admit I was too nervous to climb higher, but most of the cogs and gear wheels I saw are broken. Part of the floor above was rotten.”

  “As I said, ruined and useless.”

  “But, the sails keep turning.”

  Stella eyed her, confusion written on her lined brow.

  “Do ye nay see? They move with the wind. They have no purpose, yet they keep going. To me, it means I must keep going, no matter how difficult Mona makes life. I have to believe things will get better.”

  Stella folded her arms across copious breasts. “So, ye think the sails hope the mill will be repaired someday and become useful again?”

  Jane worried her lower lip. “I hadna thought of it that way, and I ken it sounds daft…”

  “Aye, lass, it does. But if it gives ye courage, then ’tis of nay importance if I think ye’re daft.”

  Jane hugged her one true friend. “Thank ye.”

  “I suspect ye’ll ride there again. Just be careful the McDools dinna catch ye. ’Tis rumored their laird is a simpleton.”

  A chill raced up Jane’s spine. “I’m certain no one saw me, but I’ll be careful.”

  *

  Upon his return from the mill, Spenser found his brother still dozing in front of the fire.

  He took the chair opposite and leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs. “I ken ye likely canna hear me,” he began, glancing around to make sure they were alone.

  He didn’t fully comprehend the reason for the spark of optimism ignited by the maiden of the mill, but felt compelled to share it with someone. He had only his brother to confide in. “I rode to the mill,” he began, searching in vain for some sign Cathal was listening.

  He swallowed his disappointment and carried on. “I’ve been thinking of trying to get it working again. We’ll need it if we hope to process this year’s crop.”

  The only reply was the eerie rasp of Cathal’s labored breathing, but voicing his thoughts felt good. “I’d have to get the Lockies to agree to end the feud, or to a truce.”

  Though Cathal seemed not to understand or even hear what he was saying, Spenser found solace in sharing his worries with his stricken brother. It was somehow preferable to fretting over them and treating Cathal as if he were already dead.

  He picked up the poker and prodded the smoldering peat. “I didna venture far inside and the machinery looks to be in need of repair, but can ye believe the sails are still working?”

  Clearly, the news wasn’t inspiring the same hopeful emotions in Cathal.

  He replaced the poker in the andiron and stared hard at the fledging flames, remembering the lass he’d glimpsed. “I saw a beautiful maiden.”

  He nigh on laughed out loud when Cathal opened his eyes. “Mayhap, ye’ve been listening all along,” he chided.

  Elated he had managed to capture his brother’s attention, he continued. “She was tall with long, flaming red hair, and willowy arms.”

  Cathal slowly tapped his chest. “Breasts?” he rasped, a trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Spenser chuckled. He might have known his once lusty brother would want to hear about breasts. Perhaps he wasn’t as close to death as everyone believed. “I only saw her from the back. She was swaying like a sapling, imitating the windmill’s sails.”

  Cathal nodded. “A vision.”

  Spenser pondered the notion as his brother’s eyelids drooped. There was only one way to find out if the redhead was real or if he’d imagined her. “I’ll ride there again on the morrow and get a better look—at the machinery, I mean.”

  Cathal snorted, or perhaps he was simply snoring.

  Strained Atmosphere

  For as long as Jane could remember, Clanyard’s cavernous Great Hall had echoed with jovial voices and camaraderie when the people from the estate gathered for the evening meal.

  Her parents, particularly her mother, were loved and well-respected by the clan members. All were grief-stricken by the Lady of Clanyard’s untimely death in childbirth and grieved alongside Nevin Lockie and his daughter.

  Two years ago, her father had attended a double wedding at the invitation of the lairds of the Drummond and Blair Clans. There he’d met and, to Jane’s utter consternation, married a woman no one seemed to know anything about. She brought with her a son whose name was Ignis FitzJames, claiming he was the son of a nobleman who would have married her had he not been slain at the Battle of the Boyne fighting for James II.

  The advent of Mona changed everything overnight. She constantly lamented what she referred to as the theft of the throne by William of Orange, and woe betide anyone who challenged her opinions. Even Jane’s father, a staunch Protestant, agreed with her assertion the Catholic James should be restored. People now ate in silence and left the hall quickly, lest they draw her censorious eye. Gavin was put to bed well before the evening meal and Jane was thus obliged to sit beside Ignis at the head table. The youth was usually too busy noisily slurping his food to carry on a conversation, not that there was a single topic she wished to discuss with him. Her father seemed not to notice the strained atmosphere and had eyes only for his new wife. It was as if he’d forgotten he had a son and daughter.

  Bessie Cook was regularly summoned from the kitchens and chastised publicly for the poor quality of the food.

  Jane’s father had allowed Mona to take over governance of the estate’s finances and given her access to the treasury kept under lock and key in the undercroft. Bessie complained privately of the drastic reduction in the amount of money Mona provided for the purchase of provisions.

  It became clear to everyone except Nevin Lockie that Mona was embezzling the funds to augment her already extensive wardrobe. Ignis sported new raiment just about every day. However, the smallest hint that such might be the case had resulted in Jane’s first incarceration in the garret.

  It was tempting to forego the evening meal altogether. Mona would find some way to make her pay for her absence and, so, she dutifully took her place at the head table, determined to keep her mouth shut about the mill and her visit there.

  Mona normally concentrated on lavishing sickeningly solicitous endearments on her husband. Jane was therefore taken aback when her stepmother asked, “What did ye do today, Daughter?”

  Bees buzzed in Jane’s ears. Had Mona somehow discovered where she’d gone? She decided to keep as close to the truth as possible. “I went for a short ride.”

  “Yer horse ne’er left the stables,” Ignis accused with his mouth full.

  Clearly, The Brat had looked for her. “I took one of the ponies,” she replied.