no help for it. He needed assistance. He shook his head wearily as he put on his cape.
In the courtyard of the castle, his stallion was waiting, saddled. The great gray beast pawed the ground eagerly, anxious to be off. Half a dozen of his clansmen were mounted and waiting to accompany him. The duke swung himself up into the saddle, pulling on his riding gloves, his cloak spreading across the gray’s dappled flanks. They clattered across the heavy oaken drawbridge and into the forest, the dogs yapping with excitement. Because there was no wind, the mist still hung among the bens and in the trees.
Here and there a flash of tired color remained, startling amid the dark green of the fir trees. By mid-morning they had managed to flush a large stag from amid the wooded copse. The well-antlered creature fled through the trees, twisting and turning with a great skill born out of long experience, the baying dogs in quick pursuit. Leading them through the forest, the stag finally reached a small loch and, leaping into the water, swam away into the fog, successfully evading its pursuers. The belling of the dogs could be clearly heard, echoing through the air ahead of their riders. Then came the whines of their defeat and frustration.
The hunting party arrived, their horses coming to a nervous stop, dancing about while the dogs milled about their legs whimpering. The stag’s trail through the water could be faintly seen in the still loch, but the beast was quite lost to their sight.
“Damn!” the duke swore lightly. “Half a morning wasted finding it, and the other half wasted chasing it only to lose it.” He dismounted. “We might as well stop here and eat before we go on, laddies. I’m quite ravenous, but we’ve only oatcakes and cheese.”
“We’ve caught some rabbits along the way, m’lord,” his head huntsman, Colin More-Leslie, Donal’s brother, replied. “We’ll skin ’em and cook ’em up now.”
When they had eaten the more substantial meal, the duke looked about him. “Where are we?” he asked of no one in particular.
“ ’Tis Loch Brae, m’lord,” Colin More-Leslie said. “Look over there. Ye can just make out the old castle on its island, in the mist. ’Tis deserted. The last Gordon heiress of Brae married a Brodie many years back. She went to live in Killiecairn wi’ her husband.”
“These lands abut Glenkirk lands,” Patrick Leslie said thoughtfully. “If nae one lives here any longer, and the castle is a ruin, mayhap I should purchase it from the Brodie of Killiecairn. I dinna like the idea of untended lands next to mine.”
“Hae ye ever met the Brodie of Killiecairn, m’lord?” Colin inquired. “He’s a wicked old bugger, and verra canny. Still, he hae six sons and is always happy for good coin, or so I am told.”
“Why hasna he given Brae to one of his lads?” the duke wondered.
“ ’Twas nae their mother who was the Gordon, m’lord. The Gordon was his second wife. He was much her senior. She died about ten years ago. Old Brodie must be well over eighty now. His lads are all older than ye are, m’lord, but his Gordon wife did birth him a daughter. I imagine Brae is her dower portion.”
“The lass would be better off wi’ a bag of gold coins than this old tumbled-down pile of stones and its lands,” the duke observed. “Come on, then, and let’s hae a wee look around at old Brae Castle.”
They rode around the lake to where a rotting wooden bridge connected the small island to the mainland shore. Leaving the horses, for they deemed the bridge too chancy, Patrick Leslie and his men carefully picked their way across the rotting span to reach the island. It was a rocky place with few trees. The mists had finally lifted and were being blown away by a light breeze. A weak sun was trying to make itself seen through the leaden autumn skies.
The island was not particularly welcoming. There was no sandy shore of any kind, the shoreline being craggy. The land between the bridge and the castle was once an open field and had obviously been kept that way as a first line of defense. Now it was filled with trees. The castle itself was built of dark gray stone with several towers, both square and rounded. The peaked roof over the living quarters was of slate, and there were several chimneys. On closer inspection, the castle did not seem to be in irreclaimable condition. Still, Patrick Leslie thought, it was the lands belonging to Brae that interested him. Not this little castle.
“What the hell!” He jumped back suddenly as an arrow buried itself in the ground by his feet.
“Ye’re trespassing, sir,” a voice said. Then from the open door of the castle a young woman stepped forth, a longbow notched with another arrow at the ready in her hands.
“As are ye, I suspect,” the duke said coldly, not in the least intimidated. His green-gold eyes swept over the girl. She was the tallest female he had ever seen, unsuitably garbed in boots and breeches. She wore a white shirt with a doeskin jerkin, a red, black, and yellow plaid slung carelessly over her shoulder, and a small, blue velvet cap upon her head with an eagle’s feather jutting jauntily from it. But it was her hair that caused him and his men to stare. It was red. But a red such as he had never seen but once. Bright red-gold that tumbled about her shoulders and down her back in a great mass of curls. “Who are ye?” he finally asked her.
“Ye first, sir,” she pertly answered him.
“Patrick Leslie, Duke of Glenkirk,” he said, wondering as he spoke if her hair was soft. He made her a small bow.
“Flanna Brodie, heiress of Brae,” she responded. She did not curtsy, but rather looked him over quite boldly. “What are ye doing on my lands, my lord? Ye hae nae the right to be here.”
“And ye do?” She was an impertinent wench, he thought.
“These are my lands, my lord. I hae told ye that,” Flanna Brodie answered him implacably.
“I want to buy them,” he told her.
“Brae is nae for sale,” she said quietly.
“Yer lands abut mine, lady. They are, if I am nae mistaken, yer dowry. Unless ye wed a landless man, which I am certain yer father and brothers would nae allow, Brae will be as useless to yer husband as it was to yer da. Gold, however, makes ye a far more desirable bride. Name yer price, and I will nae niggle wi’ ye over it,” the duke told her.
She stood, legs apart, glaring furiously at him. “I hae told ye, my lord, that Brae is nae for sale! I dinna intend to marry at all. I plan to make my home here. Now, take yer men and get off my lands! Ye are nae welcome here!”
Patrick Leslie stepped toward Flanna Brodie, who moving back a pace sent a second arrow into the ground at his feet then reached back into her quiver for a third. Before she could rearm herself, however, he leapt forward, pulling the bow from her hands and tossing it aside. Then, roughly shoving the girl beneath his arm, he smacked her bottom hard several times. “Ye hae bad manners, wench!” he growled at her. “I am surprised yer father hae nae taught ye better.”
The duke’s men howled with laughter as, outraged, Flanna squirmed from his grip. “Ye arrogant bastard,” she roared, then hit him a blow that actually staggered him. “How dare ye lay yer filthy hands on me?” She hit him an even harder blow, reaching for her dirk as she took up a defensive position.
The laughter ceased. The duke’s men stared, surprised, quite uncertain what to do. Then they decided to do nothing. The duke could defend himself.
“Why ye little she-devil!” he yelped, grabbing her wrists in a single hand, while disarming her with the other. Then he held
