The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (short books for teens .txt) 📕

thought these long gone,” Duncan said in astonishment. “After Culloden, my grandfather thought it politic to put the plaid aside since he did not wish to stir the memories of our Scots brethren or his English masters.”

“You will wear it then?” Kate asked, watching as he refolded the garment with reverent care. “It is still against the law.”

“Is it you threatening to call the law on me now, Kate?” Duncan asked.

She blushed delightfully at his teasing, but before he could think of something else to make her smile she dove back into the chest and came up with a pouch. “This is likely quite valuable,” Kate said as she opened the ties and handed it to him. “I was surprised to find it, but it seemed that this tower was mostly untouched. It has something written upon it. Maybe it will mean something to you.”

“Fear eil air son Eachainn,” Duncan held the jeweled clasp up to the light as he read and translated. “Another for Hector; the clan’s battle cry. This must be the Laird’s bràiste. You and the bairn could be living right well with the proceeds from this piece.”

“I would have made use of the clothing since that had been left to rot,” Kate said with a shrug. “But that was not mine to sell.”

Once again, Kate had bewildered him. Why was a woman of absolute integrity hiding like a thief? “Likely no one rifled the place because they say Charlie’s tower was rebuilt with Culloden blood in the mortar. The folk hereabouts stayed away from it even when I was a lad.” Duncan commented, his tone rife with irony. “Even a desperate man would not wish to be looting the finery of a traitor and risking the curse.”

“I had thought that I might wear this, Duncan,” Kate said, taking up a garment and holding it up against her bosom. “It is a riding outfit, woefully old-fashioned, I fear. My grandmamma was painted in one much like it, except hers was not a Scots plaid.”

“It accentuates the color of your eyes,” Duncan said, admiring the effect of the deep green against her skin. A grandmother who was the subject for a portrait in riding clothes was added to the list of anomalies that characterized Kate Smith. “You will look magnificent.”

“Do you think so?” Kate asked, feeling another rush of embarrassment as she rose to shake the garment and examine it critically. “I suspect that I will look rather ridiculous.”

It was startling to realize that she actually credited that absurd statement, that mere attire could make her look anything other than beautiful. “Do you dare call The MacLean a liar, Kate?” Duncan put on his most fierce expression. “You are fortunate indeed that there are no wild tides or rocks in Loch Maree.”

“And I take it that you are too lazy to take me to the coast so that you might dispose of me in true MacLean fashion?” Kate asked, laughter in her reply.

She was jesting with him and he responded with a baffling degree of delight.

“Aye, our slothfulness almost outweighs our treachery, milady,” Duncan said, finding himself caught once again like a creature in amber, her smile bathing him in a golden warmth. He had to get himself away before he was trapped forever.

There was a dirty smudge on her cheek that could be wiped away with a fingertip. She was looking up at him, the pulse beating at the base of her throat. Somehow, he had to make her understand her danger, make her see what he could become. He was a MacLean, as his grandfather had often told him, worse than the beasts of the field, for at least those animals had the excuse of lacking reason.

“If we would be at the village and back before the storm, I suggest that we proceed with all due speed.” Duncan hastily grabbed the garments he needed and raced downstairs as if followed by all the hounds of hell.

Chapter 9

Strathkirk no longer resembled the bustling village of his childhood. Duncan reined in Selkie, pausing at the top of the road to scan the tiled roofs that he recalled from long ago, seeing in his mind what had once been, even as his eye denied the reality of now. Silently, they rode on, meeting not a soul on the single lane that led into the valley. The signs and decorations that had once proclaimed the contents of the row of shops were gone. Only part of the vintner’s sign remained. Where the hand of a jolly Bacchus had once squeezed a huge bunch of grapes into a goblet, only the empty cup remained, waiting forever to be filled as it swung mournfully. The smiling, bosky god had disappeared. There was no door on the baker’s shop and the forge before the farrier’s barn was cold.

“Angus Munroe is gone?” Duncan asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

“The blacksmith? He immigrated to Canada before I arrived,” Kate said. “There were no wagons to fix and not many horses to be shod, so he took his anvil and his kin to try his luck there.”

“It would seem that everyone else has gone as well,” Duncan said, listening to the wail of the rising wind. “Used to be, betwixt the animals and the people, there was scarcely room in Strathkirk square on Market day. Anyone who did not wish to make the trip up to Loch Ewe and the coast would come here on a Thursday to sell their wares or buy what they needed. You could barely hear the sound of Angus’ hammer on the iron above the babble of the auld market wives, hawking ‘herring and salmon fresh caught, still twitchin’.” His voice rose to counterfeit the peddler’s cry. “Or ‘uisgebeatha distilled in the glens, aged in oak since the Bonnie Prince was a babe.’ I hope my father is roasting in Hell, for what he has done!”

“There are many others who are responsible as well,” Kate said, moved by