Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) by May McGoldrick, Nicole Cody, Jan Coffey, Nikoo McGoldrick, James McGoldrick Page A
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shocked those who
knew him well, though, he’d finally gotten them down to business. Aye, the earl
had spent a great deal of time, in the old days, at the little hunting lodge
he’d kept there. They both recalled the hunting parties with Duncan, the laird
of Ironcross Castle, and his family as well, joining in the festivities. Aye,
the earl was a lusty, great-hearted man, that they agreed on wholeheartedly. But when it came to the rumors of the laird keeping a mistress there, they’d been vehement in
their response. Nay, he’d kept no mistresses at Knockandhu. The earl was not
that kind of man.
And then later, in the hovel
nestled snugly against the eastern slope of Corryhabbie Hill, Athol had spoken
with a blind old woman who’d kept sheep there for longer than anyone
remembered. It was she who’d supposedly cared for the earl after a boar had
torn a hole in his side large enough to put your fist in. She’d smiled when
Athol had delicately mentioned that there were still rumors abroad that she’d
cared for more than just his wounds. Alas, nay, she’d said. He was a good and
handsome man, and a generous laird, but he’d never been more than a friend to
her...though she was as handsome a lass as any in those days, if she did say so
herself.
The keeper of the Inn at
Dalnoshaugh had no more to offer than the others, though he did recall the lass
asked about, the one who’d drowned herself there in the river all those years
back. That incident had nothing to do with the earl, though. In fact, the
bridge keeper knew for a fact that the lass had been carrying the bairn of a
godless, murdering outlaw whom the earl had subsequently searched out, caught,
and hanged from the bridge there, bless his heart.
The mists rolling in around Cairn
Uish were just beginning to blanket the descending sun when the miller turned
to Athol and pointed ahead. There, beneath a great old oak overhanging the
stream, an older, frailer version of the miller himself sat sleeping, fishing
pole across his knee, a basket of trout beside him.
“Hullo, Wink,” the miller shouted
as they neared. “Wake up, old man.”
The older miller raised his head
and turned his head only slightly, picking up the end of his line and baiting
the hook before tossing the line back in the water.
“Up, Wink, you’ve got folk here
that want to be speaking with you.”
“Quiet down, you fool,” the old man
spat out of the side of his mouth. “D’ye want to be scaring off yer supper?”
“Never mind that,” his son said as
they came alongside of him. “The Laird of Balvenie himself has been traipsing
all over the countryside looking for you, so get your carcass up.”
Wink, who’d probably been the
miller at Rothes when John Stewart’s father was a bairn, turned his bristly
face toward the visitors, and gave Athol an appraising look.
“Aye,” he said without rising.
“Ye’ve got the face of old King Jamie, rest his soul, but ye’ve got your
father’s height, too. Come and sit, m’lord, if ye’ll not mind yer own soil for
a place to be restin’ yer arse.”
Waving away Tosh and the miller,
Athol took a seat on the grass, resting his back against one of the thick,
gnarly roots that protruded from the ground.
“Ye’ve come to ask me about my
daughter and yer father, have ye not?”
Stunned by the directness of the
old man’s question, Athol nodded. “Aye, Wink. I’ve heard some things...”
“Well, none of them are true, and
you can all go to the devil!”
Wink’s son shouted from the
distance. “Watch your tongue, old man.”
“I’m not saying anything against
your kin, miller.”
“I told him, I’m telling you, and
I’ll tell anyone else who comes to call. My daughter was a good lass, a bit
bold perhaps, but a good lass.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“Aye, ‘tis simple enough.” The old
man yanked in his line and dropped the fishing pole on the ground between them.
“Yer good father came up to
knew him well, though, he’d finally gotten them down to business. Aye, the earl
had spent a great deal of time, in the old days, at the little hunting lodge
he’d kept there. They both recalled the hunting parties with Duncan, the laird
of Ironcross Castle, and his family as well, joining in the festivities. Aye,
the earl was a lusty, great-hearted man, that they agreed on wholeheartedly. But when it came to the rumors of the laird keeping a mistress there, they’d been vehement in
their response. Nay, he’d kept no mistresses at Knockandhu. The earl was not
that kind of man.
And then later, in the hovel
nestled snugly against the eastern slope of Corryhabbie Hill, Athol had spoken
with a blind old woman who’d kept sheep there for longer than anyone
remembered. It was she who’d supposedly cared for the earl after a boar had
torn a hole in his side large enough to put your fist in. She’d smiled when
Athol had delicately mentioned that there were still rumors abroad that she’d
cared for more than just his wounds. Alas, nay, she’d said. He was a good and
handsome man, and a generous laird, but he’d never been more than a friend to
her...though she was as handsome a lass as any in those days, if she did say so
herself.
The keeper of the Inn at
Dalnoshaugh had no more to offer than the others, though he did recall the lass
asked about, the one who’d drowned herself there in the river all those years
back. That incident had nothing to do with the earl, though. In fact, the
bridge keeper knew for a fact that the lass had been carrying the bairn of a
godless, murdering outlaw whom the earl had subsequently searched out, caught,
and hanged from the bridge there, bless his heart.
The mists rolling in around Cairn
Uish were just beginning to blanket the descending sun when the miller turned
to Athol and pointed ahead. There, beneath a great old oak overhanging the
stream, an older, frailer version of the miller himself sat sleeping, fishing
pole across his knee, a basket of trout beside him.
“Hullo, Wink,” the miller shouted
as they neared. “Wake up, old man.”
The older miller raised his head
and turned his head only slightly, picking up the end of his line and baiting
the hook before tossing the line back in the water.
“Up, Wink, you’ve got folk here
that want to be speaking with you.”
“Quiet down, you fool,” the old man
spat out of the side of his mouth. “D’ye want to be scaring off yer supper?”
“Never mind that,” his son said as
they came alongside of him. “The Laird of Balvenie himself has been traipsing
all over the countryside looking for you, so get your carcass up.”
Wink, who’d probably been the
miller at Rothes when John Stewart’s father was a bairn, turned his bristly
face toward the visitors, and gave Athol an appraising look.
“Aye,” he said without rising.
“Ye’ve got the face of old King Jamie, rest his soul, but ye’ve got your
father’s height, too. Come and sit, m’lord, if ye’ll not mind yer own soil for
a place to be restin’ yer arse.”
Waving away Tosh and the miller,
Athol took a seat on the grass, resting his back against one of the thick,
gnarly roots that protruded from the ground.
“Ye’ve come to ask me about my
daughter and yer father, have ye not?”
Stunned by the directness of the
old man’s question, Athol nodded. “Aye, Wink. I’ve heard some things...”
“Well, none of them are true, and
you can all go to the devil!”
Wink’s son shouted from the
distance. “Watch your tongue, old man.”
“I’m not saying anything against
your kin, miller.”
“I told him, I’m telling you, and
I’ll tell anyone else who comes to call. My daughter was a good lass, a bit
bold perhaps, but a good lass.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“Aye, ‘tis simple enough.” The old
man yanked in his line and dropped the fishing pole on the ground between them.
“Yer good father came up to
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