Chapter One
Scottish Highlands 1721
The relentless swaying of the carriage and the grind of its wheels over rutted roads had become unbearable. Occasionally, it would hit a bump and lurch violently, throwing its occupants around like rag dolls.
Tara choked back nausea and tried to avoid looking at the horrid man sitting opposite her, who had been leering since their last stop at Moy. He stank of whisky and looked unwashed, his greasy black hair stuck to his head. She had named him Lecher in her mind, and he was enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. His gaze travelled over her again, from top to bottom, before coming to rest on her bosoms. When he caught Tara looking his way, Lecher grinned and winked, sending a shudder of revulsion down her spine. Uncle Ralph would deal with him if he was awake, but his grinding snores indicated he was in a deep slumber, and she did not have the heart to wake him. He was always so tired and care-worn these days, his worries often keeping him from sleep.
She pulled her shawl tightly around her, thankful for her seat up against the window. But alas, the view was dreary – misty drizzle turning the landscape to grey and pewter clouds skidding across the sky in a brisk wind. As far as the eye could see, vast russet hills soared up, bleak and lonely, and with not a soul in sight. Tara spotted a herd of deer clinging to the slopes, and it cheered her a little. Still, Scotland was a wild and harsh place after the comforts of Truro and England, and it seemed as though they had been travelling forever to reach Inverness. She was to begin anew in a place full of strangers, and Tara felt ill-equipped for the challenge.
A piercing yap made her flinch. A little dog, shivering in a matron’s lap opposite her, started fussing again. Its owner was a Mistress McGovern, a lady of middle age who had been talkative when they set off from Moy, her lilting Scottish brogue pleasing and comforting. But the woman had fallen into silent resignation as the journey ground on in discomfort. So now there was just the yapping of her cursed dog - a lap-warmer whose sweet face belied a spiteful temperament. It had snapped at Tara when she had tried to pet it.
Tara was suddenly taken with the ungodly urge to snatch the beast up and hurl it out of the window. She chided herself for such a cruel notion, and, as if God judged her for it, the carriage suddenly lurched to a dead halt, flinging her forwards onto her knees before the matron. Tara leapt back up before the dog could sink its teeth into her cheek or Lecher look any further down her cleavage where her shawl gaped.
‘What the devil is going on,’ exclaimed Uncle Ralph, extracting himself from the lap of the leering man into which he had been thrown.
‘We have stopped for some reason,’ snapped Lecher, with astonishing insight.
A curse sounded from the carriage man, and then he cried, ‘Everyone out. Make haste.’
One by one, they rose and climbed out of the carriage. Tara stepped down into ankle-deep mud, sucking at her boots. She glanced around and was appalled to see that the carriage was leering precariously to one side where the road fell away to a wide expanse of black mud. The wind was merciless, coming across the moors, sucking Tara’s skirt into the back of her legs, tugging strands of hair loose from her bun and pasting them across her face.
Mistress McGovern started complaining loudly. ‘Can us ladies not wait inside, for it is fearfully cold, and I have a delicate constitution?’ she whined. But no one paid any heed to her. Her voice rose to a shrill screech. ‘I must insist on getting back inside.’
‘No,’ snapped the carriage man. ‘Can you not see that we are mired in the mud, woman? I need less weight on the wheels, not more, else the horses will never pull us free.’
‘Aye, stand aside and let us fellows get to work,’ huffed another man, a rough fellow, who had been riding atop the carriage with the driver.
‘Well, the cheek of it!’ declared Mistress McGovern, clutching her dog to her ample bosom. The profusion of lace bows in her hair fluttered violently in the wind, and Tara pitied her, for she looked a little ridiculous.
Uncle Ralph seemed unconcerned as he took Tara’s elbow and led her out of range of the woman’s complaining. ‘I doubt we shall be here long. This matter will resolve quickly enough, and does it not provide an opportunity to enjoy the splendour of Scotland? Look at that view, Tara.’
There was nothing splendid about the barren moors – just acres of bleached, dead grass buffeted in a foul wind, with patches of purple heather here and there, sitting like bruises on the landscape.
‘When we get to our lodgings in Inverness, we can warm ourselves before a good fire,’ he continued. ‘And just think on this, Tara. I will soon come into possession of my inheritance and estates here. Then we can settle and become prosperous landowners. Yes, prosperous indeed. I feel our fortunes turning in the wind, Tara.’
‘And it is a strong one, almost blowing me over,’ she said with a smile.
‘A hand with the horses, if you please, Sir,’ shouted the carriage man, and her uncle hurried away. His mood was one of good cheer, yet Tara stared out at the lonely moor with a sinking heart. How she longed to be back with her friends in the softer scenery of Truro, but there was no point to her longing.
While the more gentlemanly among their party, her uncle included, hung back so as not to dirty themselves, the two carriage drivers began to push. Lecher and her uncle took the horses’ bridles in hand and pulled. The carriage heaved forward a little, then fell back again. Lots of shouting ensued, which eventually turned to cursing as the men failed to extract the carriage from its mire. It seemed Uncle Ralph’s optimism was misplaced, and they would not be moving soon.
‘Happen, we might have to spend the bloody night here,’ shouted Lecher with a sly smirk in Tara’s direction. He swayed a little, and she could have sworn he was drunk.
‘Surely that wretch is not in earnest?’ said Mistress McGovern with teary eyes. ‘We will freeze to death, for the day is already darkening, and I don’t like the look of those clouds. And to think of us ladies being alone out here with this lot of ruffians. They might put hands on us whilst we sleep.’
‘Oh, no, I am sure these strong men will get us moving soon,’ said Tara, praying they would not have to sit for many more hours in the cramped confines of the carriage. A glance at the sky revealed slate clouds rolling in over the mountain tops suggesting a storm bearing down. ‘If we stand close together, we will be warmer,’ she suggested, and Mistress McGovern put her shoulder against Tara’s and clutched onto her arm.
Tara cursed the bad luck which had stalked them these last few years since her mother’s passing. Now her uncle was pinning all his hopes on an inheritance he had recently come into – a manor and land. Though it was ill fortune that her uncle’s cousin had died, it was good fortune that he had elected to leave his estates to Uncle Ralph. Back in Truro, they had hardly been able to discharge their debts before leaving, and now this journey into Scotland was to be a fresh start. Yet they had never clapped eyes on their new home and had travelled from the tip of England to the far north of Scotland to reach it. Tara prayed it was situated in a softer place than this desolate moor.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and the little dog whined a warning and began to yap excitedly. ‘Who is that?’ cried Mistress McGovern. ‘Heaven help us. Are we to be murdered by villains this day?’
Tara turned to see a huge horse thundering down the road towards them, ridden by a man of imposing bulk. Mistress McGovern’s fingernails dug painfully into Tara’s arm.
The rider pulled up when he came alongside the carriage and regarded them with narrowed eyes. They widened a little when they lit on her, and Tara’s heart skipped a beat. The man was wild-looking, and everything about him screamed danger, from his black-stubbled, grim face to his rough clothing. The horse pranced as the man looked onward down the road, as if loath to stop, but then he cursed, threw himself off his horse in one fluid movement, and strode over to them with great purpose.
‘Stuck, is it?’ he said in a growl of a voice, his grey eyes flicking to her and away again. He ran a dirty hand through a thicket of unruly hair the colour of peat.
‘Aye, stuck fast,’ shouted the carriage man, who was now caked in mud. ‘Can you lend a hand to push, for we’ve not the strength and have been at this for some time?’