Page 2 of The Laird's Bride
Cameron took no notice. He was used to his cousin's complaints. They'd stick with him, he knew. He was glad of it. Another few hours to Inverness, and then to find a bride. The whole idea was somewhat . . . daunting.
He'd never given marriage much thought. He liked women well enough, but marriage was a serious business, the sort of thing a man considered in his thirties. But he couldn't let his uncle squander any more of his inheritance.
Cameron's mother and her brother, though of pure Scots blood, had been born and raised in France. Their grandparents were exiles who'd fled with the Prince after the disaster of Culloden. Raised in Parisian luxury, fed on romantic, impossible dreams of Scottish glory, they'd both found Scottish reality, and the poverty that had resulted from the effects of war, sorely disappointing.
Cameron's mother had died of an ague when he was a wee lad, but her brother, Charles, who'd initially come for the wedding, had stayed on, never marrying, seemingly harmless. Cameron's father had tolerated him, and Cameron was inclined to do the same. Blood was blood, after all.
Though to name him as co-trustee . . .
Who would have expected Uncle Ian Fraser to sicken and die of a chill, such a big, hale man he'd been?
But if, after nearly thirty years of sponging off the Frasers, Charles Sinclair thought he could now turn a Scottish castle into a mini Versailles, he had another think coming.
They reached the bog at the southern edge of the estate. A narrow raised road had been built across it in ages past. At the end of the causeway was the wooden bridge that would take him onto the Inverness road.
In ancient times the bog had proved a useful barrier. The estate lay on a promontory, defended on two sides by water, and inland by mountains. The narrow, easily defended causeway was the only way to cross the treacherous, muddy land of the promontory, and the bridge over the burn into which the bog slowly drained gave the only access to it. History had lost count of the number of times Frasers had burned the bridge to keep out invaders.
But those times were long past. The current bridge had been built when his grandfather was a boy. It was time to drain the bog and build a sturdy stone bridge, Cameron thought. His father had planned to do it but he'd died.
God grant Cameron would soon have the power to begin the necessary work. All he needed was a wife. It wouldn't take him long, surely, in a town the size of Inverness.
Chapter Two
His spirits lifting, Cameron urged his horse along the causeway, galloping into the rain.
A herd of sheep suddenly appeared, ghostly in the misty drizzle, bunched thick along the causeway, blocking the road. Cameron hauled his horse to a standstill. It snorted and moved restlessly, misliking the situation.
The sheep eyed Cameron suspiciously and backed away, but, "Get on there!" a voice shouted from behind the herd. "You on the horses, stand still and let the sheep through!"
Cameron squinted into the rain. Dimly he could see a boy in a too-big coat and hat, waving a crook. A dog barked and the sheep bunched and milled and baaaed uncertainly, crowding to the very edge of the causeway.
Behind him Jimmy and Donald's horses plunged to a halt. "Get those beasties out of the way," Jimmy shouted.
"Dinna shout at them, ye fool," the boy snapped. "They're foolish beasts and are like to panic. And if any get into the bog . . ."
Jimmy, being well into the contents of his flask, was inclined to argue—gentlemen on horseback took precedence over sheep—but Cameron held up his hand. "Stay still," he ordered.
The dog barked again and suddenly the first sheep darted past Cameron. The milling herd followed, streaming around and past the men on horseback like a living river, baaing madly, their long sodden woolen skirts swinging as they fled along the causeway. Two little black-faced lambs, however, plunged off the causeway and floundered in the muddy bog. Their mother followed.
"Och, ye fool beasties!" The boy followed them into the bog with a splash. He grabbed the first lamb and set it back on its feet. It stood, bleating plaintively. The boy then began to heave at the mother, both of them floundering in the mud. Jimmy and Donald grinning, watched the show from horseback.
Cameron barely noticed. The rain had eased and he could see the bridge, a few dozen yards away. Or what remained of the bridge. It was impassable, smashed to pieces, looking more like the scattering of a giant's matchsticks than a bridge.
It must have happened during the great storm. Rage slowly filled him. His uncle must have known. And he'd done nothing. This was as bad, or worse than the roofs needing repairs. The bridge gave the estate direct access to the Inverness road.
Uncle Charles, however, only cared about access to France, and that was by boat, not road.
Cameron stared at the devastation. He'd have to return the way he'd come, and leave by the westerly border. It would take hours longer.
"Give it up, Cam." His cousin Donald touched his arm. "We've no choice but to turn back now. It'll be dark before we even get home."
"I'll no' go home wi' my tail between my legs," Cameron muttered, though in truth he could see no other alternative. "And I'll not leave the estate in my uncle's hands a day longer than I must."
"There's naught you can do wi' the bridge in that state, though, is there?" Donald said reasonably. "Ye canna cross it; ye must go back."
"Dammit, I can see that!" Thwarted and furious, Cameron glared at the bridge. Hearing laughter behind him, he turned to see his cousin Jimmy swigging whisky and chuckling at the spectacle of the boy still trying to rescue the wretched ewe. The large, ungainly animal was plunging deeper into the bog, struggling desperately, as if the lad were trying to drown it instead of saving it. From where Cameron stood, the sheep was winning. Both lad and beast were black mud to the eyebrows. And on the far side of the struggle the remaining small lamb was sinking fast.
"Make yourself useful, will ye Jimmy? Give the lad a hand."
