Lorna disposed of the empty plate and poured the whisky. “Is it not a wee bit early in the morning for this?” Minna asked, looking at the amber liquid doubtfully.
“It is no’ an ordinary day,” Lorna replied, “an’ I think ye need it just this once. Ye look a bit green.”
Minna nodded and took a tiny sip of the fiery liquid. She was not too fond of whisky, but she reasoned that she had upset Lorna enough for one day, and now owed it to her to indulge her for a while.
Lorna led Minna to the couch where they sat by the fire in companionable silence for a while.
“You said somethin’ was terrible,” Lorna asked at last. “What was it?”
Minna gave a loud and angry sigh. “Those poor people in Cairndene, Lorna. I don’t know what to do for them. There is only so much I can find in our food stores before they run out, and I fear I have taken too much already. I am at my wits’ end. Begging Jamie does not work. I may as well bang my head against a brick wall, but I will have to make him hear me somehow.” She took another sip of her drink and moved nervously to the window.
“I stayed out too late and I think I may have been seen by the cook or one of the kitchen maids as I came back in again. You know how much Missus Morrison dislikes me.”
This was true. Their head cook, Emily Morrison, had harbored a deep dislike of Minna since she was fifteen, when she had disliked one of her dishes and made it plain in no uncertain terms. This had earned the cook an extremely stern reprimand from her father in the form of a physical beating, and she had never forgiven Minna. Emily Morrisom was a champion grudge holder.
“I am terrified that one of them will tell my brother.” She took another sip of her whisky as she looked out of the window. Her bedroom overlooked the steep side of the hill and she could see the village and the haunted woods a little way away.
She knew in her sensible mind that there was no demon in the forest, yet something had always kept her away from it. “The villagers had a gift yesterday,” she told Lorna, turning away from the window to look at her friend again. “A deer. Someone had left it in the village for them. They all thanked me for it, but I was not responsible, and I told them so. Now I am wondering if it was a trap set by Jamie - you know how possessive he is about the game.” She paced towards the window again. “Damn, Lorna! I wish I knew how to change Jamie’s mind!”
Lorna folded her arms and gave Minna a thorough top-to-toe inspection. “Maybe ye can think about it while ye are in the bath,” she suggested.
8
“Oh, it is you,” Jamie said scornfully as he looked up at the individual who had just walked cautiously into his study. He had been perusing the account books, a complete waste of time because he had no idea what the columns of numbers meant. “What do you want? Do you have information for me?”
The man in front of him shifted from foot to foot and smiled nervously at him. “Aye, M’Laird,” he replied, then squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “One o’ your deer has been killed an’ eaten. I spoke tae some o’ the village folk an’ they say it was your sister that did it. They said that she didnae want tae take credit for it, though, an’ said it wisnae her that did it.”
Jamie felt a boiling anger well up within him. “My sister is always messing about with those bloody people! But it can't have been her who killed the beast because she has no idea how to use a bow and arrow.”
“Somebody else could have done it, M’Laird,” the man suggested. “On her behalf, like. A lot o’ people like her an’ would be happy tae help her.”
“Damn!” Jamie thumped his fist onto the desk so hard that the loud bang made the man jump. His face was almost purple with rage. “The interfering wench! The game on my estate ismine!”
The man looked at the floor, too afraid to raise his eyes to the Laird. He was beginning to cringe and unconsciously move backwards. Jamie jumped up and moved around the desk so quickly that the man barely had time to move. The Laird pushed him up against the wall and opened his mouth to give the terrified man another tirade when there was a firm rap on the door.
“Listen to me,” Jamie growled, letting go of his spy. “You will not be paid until I get some information about whoever shot that deer. No one is going to steal from me. Now get out!” He wrenched the door open and thrust the man outside and he almost collided with the tall, gaunt figure who stood on the other side.
Jamie glared at the big man from under his lowered brows. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Not a very polite way to greet a guest,” came a deep, dry voice. “My name is Alan Darroch. I am a cousin of your late father, and one of the elders of his clan. I have come to give you some advice.”
Jamie stepped aside to let the big man into the room, then ushered him into a chair in front of the desk, scowling fiercely.
“Jamie Darroch,” he said, doing his best to be polite. He sat down, but Alan Darroch’s presence was very intimidating, and he found himself swallowing nervously as a pair of deep green eyes bored into his. He pasted a smile onto his face. “Would you like a glass of whisky before we talk?”
Alan scowled at him. “Nor at this time of day,M’Laird,” he replied. His sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘Laird’ was not lost on Jamie. “Perhaps later, after I have eaten. That is the proper time for whisky, don’t you think? But this is your castle, so I can't tell you what to do.”
Jamie put the whisky bottle down, feeling about two feet tall. “Of course,” he agreed, then sat down. “What can I do for you?”
“When your father took over this estate it was a jewel,” Alan said, putting his elbows on the desk and leaning forward for emphasis. “It ran well, the tenants were happy, and the land was productive. Look at it now. It is falling to pieces.” He leaned back in his chair again to give Jamie another intimidating stare out of narrowed eyes, and Jamie was reminded of a snake that was about to strike.
At that moment, Alan Darroch’s gaze fell on the account ledgers. Jamie panicked and slammed his hands down on the books, trying to drag them towards himself, but it was too late. Alan’s grip was much stronger than his and he wrested the books out of Jamie’s grasp without much of an effort.
Jamie watched as he scrutinized all the columns of figures minutely, seeing his face reddening and his expression growing more and more thunderous by the second. Eventually he looked up. “Is this your only ledger?” he asked. There was a dangerous throb of barely restrained anger in his voice.
Jamie shook his head. He had assumed a collected, composed posture, seated primly behind the desk with his elbows leaning on it, hands clasped together, head held high. “No, of course not.” He allowed a trace of indignation to creep into his voice.
“May I see the others?” Darroch asked politely.