Whence Came a Prince (44 page)

As Leana eased onto the well-warmed driver’s seat and grasped the reins, Neda nimbly climbed down, then gave her careful directions to the Buittle kirk—the landmarks to watch for, the signposts that pointed the way. “Ye’ll
foord
the river just past Redcastle. And go at an easy pace, aye?”

“I shall,” Leana promised, her vision blurring.
Dear Neda.
Was it really good-bye?

Neda had a kind word for each of the maidservants, leaving them sniffling, then pressed a kiss to Rose’s brow and laid her hand on Ian’s sleeping form. With Eliza’s help, Neda unloaded her trunk and a small valise, parking both at the gate. “I’ll send ane o’ the lads oot tae fetch them,” she said, returning to Leana’s side. “Dinna fret aboot me, lass. I’ll be fine.”

Leana looked into Neda’s face, her tears flowing in earnest now. “When we parted in March, I knew I’d see you again. But this … this time …”

“Och, dearie!” Neda hung her head. “Please dinna say the wirds, for I canna bear it.”

Undone, Leana leaned over and pressed a kiss to the ruffled white cap that still smelled of starch. “ ’Tis like leaving behind my own mother.”

“Nae, nae.” Neda waved her handkerchief in protest. “Yer ain mither was an angel from
heiven.
I’m a puir hoosekeeper wha’s been honored tae care for ye.”

“You did more than care.” Leana gently lifted her chin. “You loved me when no one else did.”

Neda tried to dry her cheeks, but her hands shook, and the linen was already wet. “Niver did a woman have an easier task than luvin’ Leana McBride.”

They tarried a moment longer by the well-shaded gate—hands clasped tight, hearts in tune, a thousand thoughts unspoken yet shared. When Ian began to stir behind her, Leana was reminded of her duties. And of Jamie, who would be expecting them.

She gazed down at Neda for the last time, memorizing her kind face as she whispered, “Godspeed.”

Neda touched her cheek, then took a step back. “The Lord preserveth a’ them that luve him. And weel ye do, Leana. Weel ye do.”

E
dingham Farm was a mile behind them, yet Jamie’s heart still pounded in his chest.

Thomas Henderson, the new proprietor of Edingham, could not have been more accommodating. “You are here to claim your lambs, you say?” He’d run a meaty hand over his beard while considering the notion. “Since Mr. McBride has already paid a generous rent for the grazing land, I can hardly protest your taking them sooner than expected.” He’d eyed Rab and Davie standing some distance off, collies by their sides. “Looks like you have two able lads to handle things for you.” Then he’d stuck out his hand. “Godspeed, Mr. McKie. And do give your uncle my regards.”

A brief discussion, a matter of minutes, and the lambs were his. Clearly the man did not know Lachlan McBride very well. It did not seem the time or place to educate him.

Jamie and his shepherds wasted little time gathering the sheep and herding them south. They did not take the road to Dalbeaty but skirted round it, driving the flock onto softer ground. Gravel hurt their unshod feet, and passersby made them skittish. Cattle drovers often covered ten or twelve miles a day; Jamie hoped to manage six to eight, a less grueling pace. They were livestock, aye, but dependent on their shepherd’s good care.

He rode well to the rear, while Rab and Davie worked as a team, walking behind the lambs to drive them forward. Their collies trotted along either side of the flock, careful to maintain the proper distance—close enough to establish control, far enough not to frighten the lambs.

“Mr. McKie, we’re comin’ up on the Urr Water.” Rab Murray had
fallen back to consult with him, his brow damp from the afternoon’s efforts. “I’m aimin’ for Buittle Castle. Lady Devorgilla’s place, ye ken.”

Jamie glanced across the river at the ruinous remains of a courtyard. “I don’t believe the woman will be having us in for tea.”

Rab grinned. “She’s been gone five hunder years, nigh tae the day. Mither tae a king, she was. Dochter tae the laird o’ Galloway.”

“And put to rest at Sweetheart Abbey.” A slight tug at his conscience, a fleeting memory, no more. Newabbey parish was part of his past now. “Make certain the lambs don’t reach the Urr before we do, for they’ll not care for the look of that water.”

Rab stared down at the river. “I don’t care for it meself. That plump-shower made the river rise, just as ye said it might.”

Jamie dismounted and loosely tied the reins to a stout clump of broom, letting Hastings feed on the moist grass. As he surveyed the river and the small, flat-bottomed skiff the lads were carrying down to the waterside, Jamie formulated a plan for getting his lambs across the Urr without getting them wet.

Moments later he was seated in the borrowed boat, oars in hand. “Climb aboard, Davie.” He ferried the herd and his collie across to the west bank, rowing upstream against the current. To spare his riding coat and hat, he left them draped across a blackthorn bush, then rowed back to the east bank, where Rab was rounding up a few lambs at a time.

Seated at the square end of the boat, Jamie stretched his legs apart in order to hold the skiff steady and guard the lambs as they were lifted aboard. They bleated pitifully, shaking all over, from their mottled black noses to the stubs of their docked tails. Though the river was not especially wide or fast moving, more than one terrified lamb tried to leap from the boat, nearly capsizing the craft. Jamie rowed as fast and hard as he could, back and forth across the Urr—a dozen times, two dozen times—until his shoulders ached and his shirt was drenched with sweat.

“ ’Tis the last o’ them,” Rab said, relief apparent on his face. His collie paced along the riverbank while the final lamb was loaded into the skiff. “Ane mair trip back tae get the twa o’ us, if ye won’t mind, sir. I’ll be glad tae handle the rowin’.”

Jamie merely nodded, conserving his energy as he started across.
Earlier he’d ruled out driving the lambs several miles north to cross the old Urr Bridge; now he wondered if it might have been the better choice. At least when they traversed the River Dee at Tongland, they’d be herding the lambs over a sturdy bridge, all in a flock.

Lachlan’s warning from months past chided him.
Sheep will not ford moving water.
“Aye, aye,” Jamie grumbled, his gaze fixed on a lamb at the far end of the boat. Its eyes were rolling in its head as a thin yellow stream ran down its leg. “Steady now, lassie.” He kept his voice even. “Don’t be looking at that water.”

As the skiff reached midriver, the lamb suddenly bolted, leaping over the side and landing with a sickening splash.
“Rab!”
Jamie shouted. The shepherd was already wading into the chest-deep water. Both collies started barking, signaling their distress.

Jamie rowed harder than ever. “Can you swim to him, Rab? Can you reach him?” But the lad was better suited to land than to water; his flailing arms did not carry him any faster than the current.

The instant the skiff reached the bank, Jamie vaulted to the grass, ordering Davie to unload the lambs as he shucked his boots. Wading into the Urr, he dove forward, plowing his arms through the water. He finally spotted the lamb just below the surface and grabbed for its leg. Slick from the water and the wool’s natural grease, it slipped from his grasp. When he lunged for it a second time, Jamie got a firmer grip and pulled the lamb to him, struggling to lift it above the water so it could breathe, all the while trying to find a toehold on the uneven river bottom. The water nearly covered his chest, but at least he could breathe, and the lamb was out of danger.

Jamie headed for the east bank of the river, fighting the current and his own exhaustion until he reached the grassy edge. He deposited the weary lamb there first, then dragged himself out of the river, shaking the water from his sleeves and slicking back his hair. Cradling the lamb round his shoulders, he climbed the embankment, grabbing handfuls of weeds and brush to pull himself up, then walked upstream. He found his horse precisely where he’d left him, patiently grazing, oblivious to the drama in the river below. Gripping the lamb’s hind legs to keep it from sliding off his shoulders, Jamie eased onto his mount.

Just as Jamie suspected, the long-legged gelding forded the river without difficulty, his sleek, black head well above water. Hastings charged up the other side, whinnying when they reached level ground. Jamie dismounted, then dropped to his knees and bent forward, lowering the lamb to the ground.

Something was wrong. Its eyes were shut tight and its limbs unresponsive. With a growing uneasiness, Jamie pressed his hand over its chest, feeling for a heartbeat or an intake of breath.

Rab knelt beside him and ran his skilled hands over the animal. “Mr. McKie, I … I fear you’ve lost yer lamb. ’Tis me ain fault. I wasna fast enough—”

“Nae,” Jamie said at once, ashamed of the tightness in his throat. “Do not blame yourself.” He reclaimed his riding coat and hat from the blackthorn’s prickly grasp, pulled on his discarded boots, then gathered the lifeless animal in his arms and hung it round his shoulders. “We’ve ninety-nine other lambs that need our attention, lad. I ken you’ll take good care of them while I’ll ride ahead to Little Knox Farm and make arrangements for the night. This farmer …”

“Mr. Alexander Cameron, by name. Ye’ll find him most agreeable.”

“If he’s a friend of yours, I’m sure I will.” Jamie rode on, aiming toward Buittle kirk, his thoughts scattered all over Galloway—his father in Glentrool, his brother in Wigtownshire, Duncan in Lockerbie, and Leana making her way south. Would the women be waiting at the kirk? Had Ian behaved himself in that open wagon? Jamie touched the hind legs of his lamb, reminded again of how fragile life was and how easily it could end with a single foolish leap.

Jamie caught a glimpse of a stone belfry on the next rise, and his heart quickened its pace. Was the wagon there? Could at least one burden be lifted from his shoulders? He galloped up to the kirk, relieved to find the wagon parked beneath the shade of an oak tree, all four women still aboard. Ian was propped up on Eliza’s lap. Clapping.

“Well done!” Jamie could not hide his pleasure as he rode up, beaming at all of them.

Rose, however, wore a plaintive expression. “Is your lamb hurt, Jamie?”

Och, the lamb.
He touched the animal’s drooping head. “Nae, Rose. I’m …” He looked at Ian, glad his son was too young to understand. “I’m afraid this lamb drowned in the Urr. I thought I might offer it to our host this evening.”

“A good end to a sad beginning, the auld wives say.” Leana still held the reins in her hand. “You’re off to meet with this farmer now?”

Jamie nodded. “Unlike in the Highlands, Galloway farmers charge for the privilege of grazing on their lands and sleeping on their plaids. Whatever hospitality Mr. Cameron offers for my paltry silver will have to suffice. As for the lads and me, we’ll spend the first few nights on the braes, for the sheep are apt to stray in search of home.” He looked fondly at Rose. “What of you, dear wife? Will you be wandering off in the night, trying to return whence you came?”

“Nae,” she said, still eying the lost lamb. “I’ll not walk through Auchengray’s door again.”

T
he gold haunted Rose in the night, then woke her before dawn, parting the curtain of her dreams with the painful light of truth.
What have you done. Rose?
There was no hope of sleep, not when guilt and remorse weighed on her conscience as heavy as the thrifite itself. She dressed in the dark, braided her hair, then tiptoed across the one-room cottage, bound for the cradle full of coins stored in the wagon, determined to think of a solution.

She could not keep the gold. And she could not give it back.

Either possibility required an explanation. She had none.

Because he is a hatesome father. Because he deserved it. Because I could.

Rose unlatched the door, wincing when the sound of scraping metal echoed off the stone walls. Leana did not stir from her sleep, nor did Ian, curled up in the crib at her feet. Annabel’s light snoring went on unabated, and Eliza slept with her face beneath the sheet. None of them would notice her absence.

She stepped into the murk of a Sabbath morn, struck by the chilliness of the air after the cozy warmth of the cottage. Though the women slept two to a mattress, at least they were on beds and not on the hard, earthen floor. Breakfast would surely be porridge and a rasher of bacon, since Little Knox Farm had a sizable number of pigs. Rose heard them grunting not far off and wrinkled her nose at their pungent smell.

Somewhere to the east lay her sleeping husband and two shepherds. She’d missed Jamie’s company last night, the solid warmth of him slumbering beside her. Would they ever have a quiet moment together before reaching Glentrool?

She stared across the steading at the farmhouse window where a candle flickered. Once she reached the cradle, light would not be necessary; simply touching the gold would be a sufficient reminder that she’d truly done this foolish thing and had yet to be found out.

But when Father returned on Tuesday…

Rose shuddered, thinking of the stone fire, remembering too late the words that were meant to be spoken.
Cursed shalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursed shalt thou be when thou goest out.
Her father would indeed consider himself cursed when he discovered his money box missing.

The wagon was parked at the far end of the steading, from which a row of flagstones led to the cottage. If she could find the first stone with her foot, following the rest might keep her skirts out of the muck. She did not intend to begin her seventeenth year sitting in the parish kirk reeking of the midden.

There.
The first stone. A rough-cut square. Then the next. Soon she was able to anticipate each one, arriving at her destination without mishap. Using the sides of the wagon as her guide, Rose made her way round it until she reached the cradle, which Willie had fitted snugly between two baskets of linens.
Poor Willie.
The thought of involving so loyal a servant made her stomach clench. Willie was utterly innocent. And she was utterly at fault.