before she tumbled. She was exhausted from discussing her situation. She felt as if she’d been discussing it for years and years. Poor Catriona Mackenzie, whatever will they do with her? She’s no prospects for marriage, no society, nothing to occupy her but a run-down abbey full of misfits. “I think I should like to dance, then. Is Malcolm Mackenzie about? He’s brought his pipes, I’m certain of it.”
“For the love of God, sit, Cat.” Bernadette caught Catriona’s hand and tried to tug her back into her seat. “You’re pissed—”
“I’ve scarcely had a drop!” Catriona insisted. “That’s the English in you, Bernie,” she said, and wagged a finger at her sister-in-law. “We Scots are far better dancers with a wee bit of wine in us, aye?”
“You could hurt someone,” Bernadette said, and tugged on her hand again.
“You really shouldna drink so,” Vivienne said disapprovingly.
“I shouldna drink, I shouldna dance,” Catriona said irritably. Her few drops of wine were enough to make her feel a wee bit stubborn, and she yanked her hand free of Bernadette’s. But in doing so, she misjudged her balance and stumbled backward into someone. She managed to right herself and turn about and laughed with delight when she saw who had caught her. Rhona MacFarlane was the abbess at Kishorn. Rhona wasn’t really an abbess—she had a heart of gold, but she was no nun. Nevertheless, everyone called her the abbess, as she had been working alongside Zelda for twelve years.
“Aye, look who has come to jig with me, then! Thank you, Rhona, dearest. You’ve saved me from a scolding, and I should verra much like to dance.” Catriona made a flourish with her hand and bowed low, very nearly tipping over.
“There’s no music,” Rhona said.
“A fair point,” Catriona conceded, and grabbed Rhona’s arms and teased her by trying to make her dance. “We donna need music!”
“Miss Catriona!” Rhona said, and pulled her arms free.
“Aye, all right, I’ll find Malcolm,” Catriona said petulantly.
“Miss Catriona, we have visitors,” Rhona said.
Catriona gasped with delight. “Visitors! Who has come?” She whirled around to the door, expecting to see the MacDonalds from Skye, all of whom had known Zelda well. But the men at the door were not MacDonalds—Catriona could tell by their demeanor they were no friends of the Mackenzies or Kishorn. She was suddenly reminded of the two letters Zelda had received in the last months of her life. Letters written on heavy vellum, with an official seal. Letters that Zelda had waved away as nonsense.
Fury swelled in Catriona, her heart calling her to arms and swimming against the tide of wine she’d drunk. How dare they blacken the fèille for Griselda Mackenzie with their presence! If they thought the abbey was easy picking now that Zelda was gone, Catriona would show them that was not the case—she’d die before she’d let these men take the abbey from her and Zelda’s memory.
“What visitors?” her mother asked, rising to her feet.
“Bloody bastards, that’s who,” Catriona said, and began striding for the door before her mother could stop her. As she neared the men, the one in front bowed his head.
“Who are you?” Catriona demanded.
“Ah. You must be Miss Catriona Mackenzie,” the man responded in a crisp English accent. He removed his cocked hat, slinging water onto the floor and one of the Kishorn dogs, who shook it off his coat.
“How do you know my name? How did you get here?”
“It is my occupation to know your name, and a man at Balhaire was kind enough to bring us.” He removed his dripping cloak and handed it to the gentleman beside him. His coat and waistcoat were so damp and heavy that they smelled of wet wool and hung nearly to his knees. “I am Mr. Stephen Whitson, agent of the Crown. Would you do me the courtesy of informing the laird that I have come to present a matter of some urgency to him?”
“My laird?”
That man calmly returned her gaze. “As I said, it is a matter of urgency.”
“Is it the same matter of urgency that compelled you to badger my ailing aunt on her deathbed with your letters, then?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Mackenzie, but this is a matter for men—”
“It’s a matter of bloody decency—” She was startled out of saying more by the firm clamp of a very big hand on her shoulder. Cailean had appeared at her side and squeezed her shoulder as he gave her a look that warned her to hold her tongue.
“I beg your pardon, what’s this about, then?” he asked calmly.
“Milord, Mr. Stephen Whitson at your service,” the man said, bending over his outstretched leg.
“He wants to take the abbey, that’s what,” Catriona said angrily.
“Cat.” Aulay had come around on the other side of her. He took her hand and placed it firmly on his forearm, then covered it with his hand, squeezing so tightly that she winced. “Allow the man to speak, aye?”
“It is true that the abbey is a concern for the Crown,” Whitson said, and casually flipped the tail of his bobbed hair over his shoulder. “I have been sent by the Lord Advocate’s office.”
“The Crown?” Cailean repeated skeptically, and stepped forward, putting himself before Catriona. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we are in the midst of a wake for Miss Griselda Mackenzie.”
“My condolences,” Whitson said. “I regret my arrival is inopportune, but our previous correspondence went unanswered. As I attempted to explain to Miss Mackenzie, I’ve come with an urgent matter for the laird.”
“Aye, bring them forth, Cailean,” Catriona’s father called from the other end of the room.
Whitson did not wait for further invitation. He neatly stepped around Cailean and began to stride across the room, heedless of the others gathered.
The room had grown silent, all ears and narrowed gazes on this man.
Cailean followed Whitson, but when Catriona tried to move, Aulay tugged her back. “Stay here.”
“I’ll no’ stay back, Aulay! That’s my abbey now.”
But Aulay stubbornly tugged her back once more. “Then I would suggest, if you want to keep it, you mind your mouth, Cat. You know how you are, aye? Particularly after a wee bit too much to drink.”
She was not going to debate how much she’d had to drink with him. “What of it?” she snapped. “Zelda is gone and I have drunk my sorrow.” She shook his hand off and hurried after the others.
Her father had come to his feet. He leaned heavily on a cane, but he still cut an imposing figure and was a head taller than Mr. Whitson. Her father was a good judge of character, and he had judged this man’s character quickly, for he did not offer him food or drink. He said curtly, “What is your business, then?”
Mr. Whitson lifted his chin slightly. “As you are
