Lady of Light (2 page)

At the mention of the biggest, loudest, most arrogant Highlander between Loch Naver and the towering heights of Ben Loyal, Claire rolled her eyes. “Och, and that day will be a long time in coming, if
I
have any say in it! I can’t bear the man. He’s ruthless, crude, and I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

She shivered at the memory of the last time Dougal had waylaid her at the market. He’d had the audacity to grab her arm when she had made a move to evade him. His rough, possessive touch had made her skin crawl.

“Then if you won’t wed the most well-to-do farmer in all of Culdee, mayhap it’d be best you finish your own schooling.” As he spoke, Ian pulled on a pair of threadbare, brown trousers and tucked in his nightshirt. “Nowadays, a lass can attend university same as the lads.”

“
If
I was ever to further my education,” Claire retorted tartly, “it wouldn’t just be for some token certificate. I’d instead hie myself to America, where a woman can study
and
win the same degree as a man.” She paused to shovel another bite of porridge into her mouth. “But it doesn’t matter, at any rate. We both can’t afford to attend university, and so it must be you.”

“Nay, it doesn’t
have
to be me.” Her brother walked over to gaze solemnly down at her. “You can’t go on the rest of your life sacrificing for me, Claire. It won’t make what happened go away, or atone for what we did. Besides, I’m nearly a man now. It’s past time I stop wasting my life with useless things like conjugating Latin verbs and plowing through Virgil and Horace. What’s needed nowadays is a strong back and stout pair of arms, not a mess of useless tales and fancy words.”

His sister slammed down her spoon and turned to glare at him. Enough was enough, she thought, her always volatile temper brimming to the breaking point. She didn’t need to be reminded yet again of that horrible night just a year past now, or the miserable years leading up to it. They had come to Culdee to forget and start anew.

“What’s needed, Ian Sutherland,” she hissed, “is that you finish your porridge before it gets cold, then hie yourself to school. Father MacLaren and St. Columba’s are waiting on me. Meantime, I’m the only family you’ve left, and as the eldest, I mean to be obeyed. The time will come when you’ll make your own decisions about your life. When it does, I want you to make them with all the information at hand. So, until that day arrives, it’s off to school with you.”

He shot her a disgruntled look. Then, with a huge exhalation of martyred resignation, Ian plopped down onto his stool. “Och, and haven’t
we
become the harridan this morn?” he grumbled.

“Aye, mayhap I have.” Claire sighed. Ah, she thought, how swiftly the regrets could rush back to drown one in a floodtide of broken dreams, if only one let them! “Still, someone has to put her shoulder to the plow and finish what she so boldly if foolishly set out to do five years ago. But I make my vow, before you and the Lord above, that I won’t have you ruining your life, as well, in the bargain.”

Even before he opened his mouth, Claire could tell the tall, dark-haired stranger with the unusually widebrimmed, black hat wasn’t a Scotsman. Something about him had caught her eye as she swept the parish church steps later that afternoon. Something she noted even halfway down the hill, as she watched him climb the winding road leading through Culdee to where the old, dry stone church had perched for the past seven hundred years.

Perhaps it was his fine, dark suit, dust-coated after the long walk from the coach stop just outside the village—and how well that suit accentuated his broad shoulders and long, lithe legs. Then again, perhaps it was the way he moved, his stride smooth, effortless, powerful. Or perhaps, just perhaps, Claire thought as the stranger finally reached the base of the church steps and paused to squint up at her, it was his sheer masculine beauty, from his tanned face and strong jaw to his straight nose and striking, smoky blue eyes.

One thing was certain. She had never seen a more handsome, physically impressive man.

“Do ye think, lass,” a rusty, old voice rose unexpectedly from behind her, “ye might do well to greet our guest? ’Twouldna speak well o’ our fine village to gape and stare overlong at every stranger who comes our way.”

“Och, Father MacLaren! I didn’t hear you come up,” Claire cried, losing her grip on the broom as she wheeled about to face him. In that same instant, she realized her error. With a gasp, she spun back around and grabbed for the broom, just missing the wooden, wheat straw implement. End over end, the broom tumbled down the long course of steps to land at the stranger’s feet.

With a grin he set down his canvas travel bag, stooped, and picked up the broom. Climbing halfway to meet Claire, he offered it back to her. “Have a care, ma’am, or you might be the next thing landing at my feet.”

She could feel the heat flood her face. This was daft, the way she was acting, Claire scolded herself. It wasn’t as if she had never met a fine-looking man before. It wasn’t as if she had never seen a masculine glint of admiration directed at her, either.

Claire managed a taut smile. “You’re from America, aren’t you? I can tell by your accent.”

His gaze never wavered from her face. “Yes, I’m from America. Colorado to be exact. Funny thing is, though, where I come from it’s you who’d be branded with having the accent.”

Claire laughed. Despite the stranger’s attempt at bravado, she could now see a deeper glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. Her strange unease dissipated. She felt confident and in control again.

“Well, you’re in the Highlands now, my braw lad, and you’re the foreigner, not I.” She glanced over her shoulder at the old priest. “If you haven’t further chores for me, Father, I’ll be on my way. Ian should be heading home soon. I’ve a fine pot of colcannon simmering and a loaf of bread yet to bake for supper.”

“And havena ye a wee moment more to spare for our new friend, lass?” The gray-haired cleric cocked his head and arched a shaggy brow. “Dinna ye wish to hear what his needs might be?”

If the truth were told, Claire wished she were as fast and far away from the tall American as she could get. Pleasant and well mannered as he seemed, there was just something about him … something disturbing that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But she couldn’t very well admit that to his face now, could she?

“I didn’t wish to pry,” she forced herself to reply. “It appears he came to see—”

“Reckon you might as well stay, ma’am,” the stranger interrupted just then. “In fact, you may be as much help as the padre here. I’m looking for some kinfolk, and I haven’t any idea where to begin.”

Reluctantly, Claire turned back to face him. He
was
a stranger in their land, after all, and no true Highlander would deny anyone hospitality. “Well, if you could tell us the names of your kin, mayhap that would be the best way to begin. It would be nigh impossible, even for a man as knowledgeable as Father MacLaren, to help you without names.”

The American pulled off his hat and ran a hand roughly through what Claire now realized was black, wavy hair in dire need of a trim. “That’s just the problem, ma’am. The last kin of mine who lived in Culdee left here in 1825. His name was Sean MacKay, and he was my great grandfather.”

“That was seventy-four years ago, lad.” The priest’s glance skittered off Claire’s. He scratched his jaw. “’Twill be a challenge to find yer true kin, though if ye be a MacKay, in a sense these hills are filled with yer kin, for these are MacKay lands.”

“I’ve got time,” the American muttered cryptically, and with what Claire almost imagined was an edge of bitterness. “It’s why I came all this way north from Glasgow.”

“Did ye, now?” Father MacLaren grasped his cane and climbed awkwardly down the steps to stand beside Claire. “And who be ye, then?”

“I’m Evan MacKay, son of Conor MacKay, the owner of Culdee Creek Ranch, east of Colorado Springs, Colorado.” He held out his hand.

“Well, I’ve heard o’ Colorado, but not o’ this Colorado Springs.” The priest accepted the American’s proffered hand, and gave it a hearty shake. “I’m Father William MacLaren of St. Columba’s Kirk. And this bonnie lassie,” he added, turning to Claire, “is Claire Sutherland, my wee housekeeper.”

The man named Evan rendered her a quick nod. It wasn’t quick enough, though, Claire realized with a twinge of irritation, to hide a freshened gleam of ap—preciation.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He shoved his hat back on his head, lifted his face to the sun that was even now dipping toward the distant mountains, then frowned. “Well, as you say, the search for my kin might be a challenge. And it certainly isn’t one I care to take on today.”

“Nay, I’d imagine not,” the priest agreed amiably. “The morrow will be soon enough. If ye wish, ye can then begin with our church records. Mayhap a wee look into the baptismal and wedding register will provide ye with additional clues to solve yer mystery.”

“I’d be much obliged, Padre.”

Father MacLaren stroked his chin and eyed him speculatively. “Have ye lodging then, already arranged for the night?”

“No.” Evan MacKay gave a swift shake of his head. “But if you could direct me to an inn or boarding house …”

“There’s no inn, leastwise not in Culdee.” The old priest’s brow furrowed in thought. “Indeed, the closest inn’s in Tongue, a good sixty miles north o’ here.

He turned to Claire. “Doesna yer landlord have another small croft to let?”

“Aye,” she replied slowly, not liking where the conversation seemed suddenly to be heading. “But the dwelling is shabby indeed, and no fit place for such a fine man as Mr. MacKay.”

“It’s Evan. Please, call me Evan.” He gave a low, husky laugh. “And believe me, Miss Sutherland. I’m not all that fine. I can handle just about anything that provides me with a roof over my head.”

“This isn’t America, you know,” Claire protested, not at all pleased with the idea of the tall man residing so near to her. “The winds blow bitter off the sea and when it rains, the chill can sink deep into your bones.”

Once more, Evan laughed. “And you, pretty lady, haven’t lived through a Colorado winter. As bad as your Highland weather might be, it’s no worse in comparison.”

“Ye see, lass?” Father MacLaren offered just a little too eagerly. “’Tis the perfect solution. If Mr. MacKay … Evan … lives nearby, he might even be willing to earn a bit o’ his board by helping ye and Ian in the garden plot and caring for Angus’s sheep and chickens. ’Twould take a load from yer shoulders, wouldna it?”

“Aye, I suppose so,” Claire admitted. “Just as long as Angus doesn’t raise our rent in the doing.”

“Och, dinna fash yerself. I’ll have a talk with the mon. He’s a MacKay, after all. ’Twouldna hurt him to extend a wee bit o’ hospitality to kin, now wouldna it?”

“Nay,” she muttered. Angus MacKay was as tightfisted as any Scotsman could get. Odds were, though, he just might lower the rent for one of his blood, even if he surely had never seen fit to do so for her and Ian. But then they were Sutherlands, she reminded herself with a twinge of resentment, and not even from these parts.

“Then get on with ye, lass. Escort Evan here to Angus’s.” The old priest gave her a gentle nudge. “As ye said, ye’d best be on yer way. There’s that pot simmering, and the bread ye’ve yet to bake.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Did he really expect her to lead this stranger—this
American
—through Culdee and all the way home? Why, she’d be the talk of the village for weeks to come!

Yet what else could she do? It wouldn’t be polite to refuse. Indeed, what plausible excuse could she give?

She exhaled a frustrated breath, then turned to the American. “Well, shall we be on our way, Mr. MacKay?”

He grinned at her. “Evan. Please, call me Evan.”

“I prefer Mr. MacKay, if you don’t mind.” Claire rendered the priest a curt nod. “I’ll see you on the morrow then, Father.”

“Och, nay.” The priest held up a silencing hand. “Take the next day or two off. Assist Evan in discerning who his true blood kin are. ’Tis the hospitable thing to do.”

Once more the heat warmed Claire’s cheeks, but this time it was fueled by rising irritation. She’d swear Father MacLaren was playing the matchmaker. Well, his wellmeant efforts would fail yet again. She didn’t want a man in her life. Not now, and not ever.

“As you wish, Father,” she gritted out her reply. Someday soon she’d have to have a wee talk with the priest about his marital interference. But not just now. Her first priority must be for her totally unexpected and unwanted guest. The sooner she helped him ascertain who his true kin in Culdee were, the sooner she could be rid of him.

If all went well, she wouldn’t have to endure him for long. And it wasn’t as if she had to spend time alone with the American or worry about him causing problems. There were neighbors aplenty about, and Ian would be near at night.

Aye, Claire reassured herself. One way or another, the ordeal would soon be over.