The Revelation is Love Page 2

  They were in the kitchen with a small fire burning in the grate.

  Duncan slapped a horn mug on the table and poured amber liquid into it from a leather bottle.

  “Get yersel outside that, Master Rupert.”

  “Duncan, it’s good to see you again,” said Rupert, sampling the surprisingly good whisky.

  Though why was it a surprise? He remembered his father first introducing him to the delights of single malt.

  “It’s a blessing to have ye here,” Duncan exclaimed fervently, taking a large swig from the bottle.

  “Why were you threatening me with that ancient firearm?” asked Rupert curiously.

  “Ach, I thought it would be those devils – the MacLeans!”

  “The MacLeans?”

  “The Laird and young Hamish, his son.”

  “Why should they call?”

  Clutching his whisky, Duncan sat down in the other chair.

  “The Laird told me that there was some matter of a treasure, an heirloom the MacLean claimed was his. When he first came round here demandin’ it, the Laird sent him off like a wee fieldmouse from a fierce cat. No one could put terror into a soul like the Laird!”

  Rupert thought about the tall towering figure of his grandfather and of the times he had seen him in a rage over some transgression or other. He could well understand his power over other men.

  “After that, while the Laird was still alive, MacLean kept his distance. The instant the Laird died, MacLean was hammering at the door again.”

  Duncan quaffed more whisky.

  “He’ll no rest until that treasure is his – ”

  “What is this heirloom?”

  Duncan shook his head.

  “I dinna ken, anymore than did the Laird. Twas enough for him that MacLean shouldna have it.”

  Rupert rose, ignoring his stiffening muscles.

  “Can you give me a tour of the Castle, Duncan?”

  The old man jumped up immediately.

  “Ay, that I can, Master Rupert.”

  As the tour progressed, Rupert became more and more depressed. The air of dilapidation in the courtyard of Castle Fitzalan continued throughout the building.

  There was little furniture or any items of value on display, the curtains were in shreds and there was dust and cobwebs everywhere.

  On the walls were portraits so blackened with age it was almost impossible to make out whether they were of males or females.

  Except for one.

  Rupert stopped in front of a full-length portrait in the main reception room.

  “I remember this one. It’s my grandmother, isn’t it, Duncan?”

  “Aye, it is. That’s Lady Stella all right.”

  “As a young boy, I didn’t realise quite how lovely she was.”

  Lady Fitzalan stood tall and straight with one hand on the head of a wolfhound, abundant dark hair drawn on to the top of her head. Dark eyes laughed at the viewer and a generous mouth curved deliciously.

  She wore a green gown with a tartan scarf arranged diagonally across her breast and fastened over one shoulder with a large cairngorm brooch.

  “Aye, she was that lovely,” agreed Duncan, staring at the portrait.

  Then he gave himself a shake.

  “Well, you’ll be wantin’ to see the rest of the Castle no doubt – ”

  By the end of the tour Rupert recognised that he had a huge task ahead of him to bring Castle Fitzalan back to its former greatness.

  For food that evening, Duncan produced a venison stew. It had been a long time since Rupert had been served such simple fare, but not only had his journey given him a hearty appetite, the dish tasted delicious.

  They ate in the kitchen, for Rupert had no wish to suggest he be given his meal alone in the huge and echoing dining room.

  After finishing his meal, he sat back feeling deeply satisfied.

  “Duncan, my thanks. You’re a splendid cook. You also seem to have handled everything at the Castle since my grandfather’s death – and probably before that as well – with great efficiency.”

  He paused, looking to reassure the old retainer.

  “My father and I built a very successful business in America and now I can afford to staff and restore the place – bring it back to its old glory.”

  Duncan rose and removed the remains of the stew.

  “I’ll just be taking this out to the lad,” he muttered.

  Rupert waited for him to return and wondered if he should have put things differently.

  Once back Duncan placed the bottle of whisky on the table and sat down.

  “Aye, Master Rupert, this place needs a might of money spent on it. The fabric’s sound enough, but I doubt it’ll be that easy to find staff, but I can see ye need to try.”

  “I hope you will remain in charge, Duncan,” Rupert suggested and the ancient retainer seemed reassured that he was not going to be pensioned off.

  “I’ll go back to Pitlochry tomorrow,’ he continued. “There’s a man there looking out a decent horse for me and I can see I will need one.”

  He needed to ride every day.

  The horsemanship skills he had developed in California, building up the railroad company, were very rusty. His move back to New York on his father’s death meant he walked or travelled in carriages and cabs.

  “Aye,” muttered Duncan, poker-faced.

  When Rupert asked Duncan about Castle Fitzalan’s neighbours, he shrugged off any idea of social life.

  “The Laird wouldna have had dealings with any of those MacLeans or the others around here – ‘a mean, close lot’ was what he called them.”

  Gradually Rupert came to the realisation that his grandfather had done little with the last fifteen or so years of his life.

  “I do wish my father and I had come back to visit before this,” he stated at last.

  Duncan gave him a slightly bleary look.

  “And the Laird wished that too. He didna say it, but as his three sons, one by one, fell by the wayside, I knew he felt it.”

  Rupert felt deeply ashamed.

  He and his father should have just turned up, not waited for an invitation.

  Duncan refilled the mugs.

  “Right auld sod the Laird could be,” he mumbled and then rose, picking up the blunderbuss from where it had been resting beside the window.

  “I’ll be awa to ma bed, now, Master Rupert, and you’ll be wantin’ yours, too, I reckon. Ye’ve no need to concern yersel with safety, I’ll be sleeping with this!”

  Rupert made his way to the room that Duncan had earlier indicated was where he would be sleeping.

  The large four-poster bed had been well supplied with fresh linen and a heavy coverlet. A series of prods indicated a horsehair mattress in reasonable condition.

  He placed the jug of hot water he had brought for his ablutions on a rickety table and took his weary limbs to bed.

  *

  Rupert occupied himself on the long ride back to Pitlochry the next morning planning how he could restore the Castle. It would, he decided, be an enjoyable experience.

  He had been impressed with the Castle’s situation on the banks of a lake that he must learn to call a ‘loch’, and the wild beauty of the surrounding countryside.

  Despite Duncan’s words Rupert was sure there had to be possibilities for a social life and that the MacLeans, whoever they might be, would prove at the very least to be interesting or even hospitable.

  A life building up the railroad business had taught him never to judge a person by background or reputation. Once you were able to talk directly to them, it was possible to find something stimulating about almost everyone.

  Having inspected the horses that had been found for his consideration, Rupert finally settled on a stallion with a coat that was almost all white. With his proud head, combined with natural grace and strength, he more than justified his name, ‘Prince’.

  “Excellent choice, my Lord,” said the Agent. “He’s a wee bit on the pric
ey side, but worth every penny.”

  Rupert managed to bring the asking price down a little and reckoned that the deal was not a bad one.

  Having returned his hired horse, Rupert presented himself at the offices of James Cunningham, the lawyer who had been handling all the legal matters surrounding his grandfather’s death.

  “Lord Fitzalan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Cunningham came forward to shake Rupert’s hand.

  Solid walnut furniture and bookshelves full of legal volumes supported the view Rupert had already made from their correspondence that this was a man well able to cope with his affairs.

  Once all the necessary papers had been signed and decisions taken on necessary legal questions, Rupert raised the matter of Castle Fitzalan and its condition.

  Mr. Cunningham shook his head.

  “It’s been a real tragedy, my Lord. Lord Fitzalan’s income over the last ten years or so came almost entirely from selling off anything of value. There’s been nothing coming in from the land, you understand? And against all my advice your grandfather made some bad investments.”

  The lawyer tapped his fingers on the wooden desk in a gesture of frustration.

  “If only he had asked my father,” said Rupert sadly.

  “Too proud for all that. And your uncles, who died abroad within a few months of each other, left debts he felt duty bound to honour.”

  “My father did write to my grandfather at the time offering to come over, but all he received back was a curt message not to bother.”

  Mr. Cunningham sighed.

  “There’s no feud pursued with such endless passion as a Highland feud and Lord Fitzalan held that all three of his sons had betrayed him.”

  Rupert sat in silence for a little, thinking about his grandfather’s difficult life.

  Then he enquired,

  “Speaking about Highland feuds, Mr. Cunningham, what can you tell me about the MacLeans? According to Duncan, my grandfather’s retainer, they have been trying to gain entry into Castle Fitzalan. Some sort of story of a stolen heirloom.”

  “Ah!”

  Mr. Cunningham straightened his papers.

  “I know nothing about any heirloom. Given Lord Fitzalan’s parlous financial state, any such treasure would almost certainly have been sold. However, there is a story that Lord MacLean felt that your grandfather had stolen the affections of the woman he intended to be his wife.”

  “Would that be my grandmother, Stella?”

  “I believe so. It all happened a very long time ago and who is to know the truth? However, there has been bad blood between the MacLeans and the Fitzalans for as long as I have known them.”

  “You know the MacLeans?”

  “My Lord, it’s a small world here in the Highlands. The MacLean estate borders the Fitzalans. I believe there was a time the two clans were friendly – but they are no more.”

  He shot a keen glance at Rupert and added,

  “I would listen carefully to your retainer and watch your step. Lord MacLean is as stubborn and proud as your grandfather was and has a reputation for ruthlessness that is matched only by that of his son, Hamish.”

  *

  Rupert rode back to Castle Fitzalan enjoying the strength and liveliness of Prince.

  He tried to dismiss the details of the MacLean family.

  He had experienced enough business feuds to know the lengths that men could go to when money and power were at stake.

  But his grandfather had had neither.

  And there was no sign at all of an heirloom in that rundown Castle.

  Could it be the portrait of his grandmother?

  Rupert considered this possibility for no more than a moment before dismissing it. The head of the MacLean clan was hardly likely to risk his life for the portrait of a woman who had refused him.

  Perhaps, he contemplated as dusk deepened and he neared the end of his journey, he could suggest a meeting to Lord MacLean to try and sort the matter out?

  Now in the failing light of day the empty beauty of the moors acquired a sinister aura.

  Strange shapes seemed to loom in front of him and he longed to reach the Castle and to know that Duncan was watching out for him.

  Suddenly straight out of the gloom came a posse of horsemen, shrieking and wielding staves.

  They fell upon Rupert and dragged him off Prince.

  His head received a massive blow and he knew no more.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The red squirrel leapt from tree to tree.

  As it settled on a branch, Celina Stirling, her bright hair as red as the squirrel’s, raised her shotgun and took careful aim.

  She took in its frothy tail, its delicate paws and its enquiring face and then lowered the gun for just a moment before bringing it up again and pulling the trigger.

  The animal swiftly leapt from its branch to one on a neighbouring tree.

  Celina looked up with satisfaction at the centre of a large knot on the tree, now riddled with her shot.

  There, that would prove it to Hamish MacLean her accuracy with a gun and there was no need to slaughter a poor squirrel.

  Unconsciously she glanced again at the citrine set in a gold ring on her engagement finger.

  Two weeks ago now Hamish had asked her to be his wife.

  She picked up the empty game bag and set off back towards Beaumarche Castle, remembering the visit she had paid this morning to her mother’s old friend, Lady Bruce.

  “Celina, my dearest girl, do you really intend to go through with this match?” Lady Bruce had asked bluntly, once she was sitting by a blazing fire in her salon.

  Though the sun was shining, it was dark and chilly inside Beaumarche Castle, the MacLean ancestral home.

  Over the past two weeks Celina had fantasised over how she would transform this old place once she became Lady MacLean.

  Nothing could be changed whilst her uncle, Lord MacLean, was still alive and it looked as though he would survive a great many more years yet.

  “What sort of a question is that, Aunt Margaret?”

  “You are cousins, my dear. It has never seemed to me a suitable union.”

  Celina tossed back her flowing hair.

  “It is one that seems very suitable to me.”

  She poured coffee and handed a cup to Lady Bruce.

  “Thank you, my dear. I do so wish that when your dear mother and father died in that dreadful accident, you could have come to me. At twelve years old to be brought up in an all-male household did not seem at all right. I did try to persuade your uncle, but alas without success.”

  The light in Celina’s eyes softened for a moment.

  “You have kept a close eye on me and the MacLean household, Aunt Margaret,” she replied lovingly. “I have always known I could come to you if I was worried about anything.”

  Lady Bruce smiled at her.

  “Your mother was my closest friend and nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have the care and upbringing of her daughter.

  “You are in a rather delicate position, Celina. You are a very lovely girl and heiress to a sizeable fortune when your Trust fund matures on your thirtieth birthday.”

  Celina rose abruptly and stalked around the room.

  “Hamish and I have always been the best of friends. I have never met a more exciting man. He is always doing something most unexpected. There are so many activities we both enjoy – he has taught me to shoot and fish and we love riding together. I am proud to be a member of the MacLean family.”

  “Oh, how like your mother you are,” Lady Bruce exclaimed. “When she first met your father, she could not wait to be wed and they were so very happy together. Then you came along and life seemed perfect. You must be as proud to be a Stirling as you are a MacLean.”

  Celina came and knelt before her.

  “I am indeed, dear Aunt Margaret. I apologise for my outburst. It’s just that anyone suggesting Hamish and I are not a perfect couple makes me upset.”

  Sh
e looked pleadingly into Lady Bruce’s eyes.

  “My dear,” her Godmother placed her hand on her shoulder, “I did not mean to upset you and I hope that you will both be very happy. Now, where are Hamish and Lord MacLean?”

  “They are out – ”

  Lady Bruce had hit upon a sore point. Hamish had promised to take her fishing that morning, but instead, after breakfast he had told her to go and practise her shooting.

  When she had asked to go with him, he had told her off for answering him back and instructed her to bring him back a squirrel.

  Celina had taken a deep breath, prepared to tell him he should not speak to her like that, but Lord MacLean had shouted at Hamish to come at once.

  She had watched them leave, the harnesses of their horses jingling as they rode off together with several of the MacLean retainers, for all the world as though they were back in the sixteenth century and about to take on a party of English warriors.

  “Out?” queried Lady Bruce.

  Celina said nothing.

  “The news is all over the area this morning that the new Lord Fitzalan has arrived from America,” she added conversationally. “I hope that your uncle has no thought of maintaining that stupid vendetta he had with the old Laird. Apparently Castle Fitzalan has been quite stripped of all its valuables. It’s a bare inheritance that young man has come into.”

  “I just don’t care, Aunt Margaret, the Fitzalans are a bad lot – they have harried and cheated the MacLean’s since time immemorial. I expect that the new Laird will be every bit as bad as the old.”

  “My dear!”

  Lady Bruce looked scandalised.

  “There are no grounds for carrying on this feud.”

  Because Celina was so fond of her Godmother, she turned the conversation into other areas.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Celina was able to take out her shotgun to provide proof of what an excellent marksman she had become.

  Remembering Lady Bruce’s reservations about her engagement, Celina could not help recalling Hamish’s curt rejoinder to her when she had dared to tell him that she did not need to practise her shooting.

  It had indeed been a stupid thing to say – shooting always needed practice, but his tone and the supercilious way he had looked at her had been quite unacceptable.