Down the Rabbit Hole

Beth nodded. “They do.”


“And that strange manner of dress when you first arrived, baring your legs as a Highland warrior, but wearing on your feet small bits of calfskin with daggers at the heels? This is also something your kinsmen wear in your country?”

Beth found herself laughing. “The heels aren’t really meant to be daggers, though I suppose they appear that way to someone who’s never seen them before. They’re considered fashionable in New York.”

“Fashion?” Colin frowned. “I’ve heard the women in the English court are consumed by it. Here in the Highlands we’re more concerned with surviving the cold and feeding our young. We are constantly at war, if not with neighboring clans, then with the English, who will never cease until we wear the yoke of oppression. We’ve no time for frivolous pursuits.”

Beth instantly sobered. “I’m truly sorry for your hardship. I hope it will give you some comfort to know that life will be easier for your heirs in generations to come.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Are you one of those who can see the future?”

“I . . .” Unsure how to answer, she merely nodded before looking away.

“Ah.” He drew the word out as he pondered this bit of wondrous news. “And do all your people in New York have this power?”

She swiveled her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“So you are one of the few.” He leaned close to place a hand on hers, lowering his voice so that Jamie wouldn’t overhear. “Have you come here to warn me, or to use your power against me?”

Again she felt the most amazing rush of heat, which sparked up her arm and sizzled along her spine, and wondered if this man had some sort of strange power as well.

“I would never . . .” Her voice caught in her throat, and she struggled to remember why she had come to Stag’s Head. To urge this man to sell that which was most revered by him. To persuade him to offer up his ancestral land for a modern development that would turn this idyllic paradise into a playground for the rich and famous. Her tone lowered. “No matter why I was sent, now that I’m here, my only wish is to help you in any way I can.”

“I wonder . . .” He kept his hand on hers for long moments while he stared into her eyes.

At last, satisfied with what he saw, he straightened and looked across at Jamie. “My guests have had enough time to thin the flock.” He removed his bow and reached into his quiver for an arrow, bearing the distinct eagle feathers adopted by his father and grandfather before him.

He watched the path of a bevy of quail and took aim. Once released, the arrow flew straight and true, and the bird fell to the earth, followed by another, and yet another.

Jamie was out of the saddle to fetch the game, which he tossed into a leather pouch before pulling himself back into the saddle, declaring, “A clean kill every time, m’laird.”

“You’ll see that all the game brought down this day is given to the villagers, Jamie. Enough to satisfy the hunger of every family.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

Colin gave a nod of his head before urging his mount forward, toward the cluster of men in the distance.

While Beth and Jamie watched from a nearby hillside, the hunters scattered across the verdant meadow, calling encouragement to one another and shouting triumphantly with each kill.

Though Beth abhorred the killing, she felt consoled by the fact that this contest would feed the poor villagers.

It was, she realized, another reason to admire Colin Gordon. He gave his guests a fair advantage, and he used the fruits of this contest to see to the needs of his people, who trusted him to look out for them.





CHAPTER FIVE