Mr. Dewey waited his answer. No matter that the invitation was probably due to contemplation of the restored MacLean fortune. Duncan forced himself to swallow his rage and make a civil reply. Never burn a bridge you may yet have to cross again was another hard won lesson learned in confinement.
“I am not anyone of note, despite what the papers may say. I merely survived. A cow’s byre will do quite nicely, provided the cow has no objections. Notify me at Eilean Kirk when my affairs are in order,” he said, rising to leave, “or when you have had a reply from Lord Steele so that I may retrieve the bequest. I want my return kept quiet for now. If there is any Lazarus talk about me, I will know that you are the source, Dewey. Now give me a pen and paper so that I might write my missive to Steele and I will be on my way.”
“Aye, milaird,” Dewey agreed, almost weak with relief when that steely eye turned away. He took a relieved breath, realization dawning that, had the laird chosen to guest in his home, Mrs. Dewey’s wrath would have rivaled MacLean’s. Despite young MacLean’s heroism, he was still a man subject to a powerful curse.
All of Scotland knew the tale of the MacLeans of Eilean Kirk. The MacLean Robert and his sons had turned their coats at Culloden. For English gold and the Hanover George, Robert had betrayed comrades and True King by secretly pledging his family’s allegiance to Cumberland, England’s bloody Butcher. It was well known that the bonny Prince himself had put his malediction upon The MacLeans’ heads.
Of course, like most such condemnations, Charlie’s curse had held out one tantalizing hope of deliverance, as much to frustrate the MacLeans as to offer salvation, the legend told. The breaking of MacLeans’ bane entailed sacrifices that no man of their clan had ever been willing to make. Perhaps the English Crown would not get the Culloden blood money back immediately, Dewey reflected as the last of the traitor’s line walked out the door, but it would soon enough. The earl’s tall frame was gaunt, with flesh of an unhealthy grey-tinged pallor hugging far too tightly to the bone, the appearance of a man with the Cu Sith barking at his back, the dogs of hell in pursuit for to take his soul.
. . .
Duncan paused at the foot of the stairs, looking at his waiting companion thoughtfully before taking up the silently offered reins.
“What news, Major?” Alfred Best asked at last, unable to read his master’s brooding countenance.
“It seems that we have come to the parting of the ways, sergeant,” Duncan said with a rueful grimace.
Alfred Best looked at him reproachfully. “‘Tis the third time today, Sir and it ain’t but eleven of the morning. I’d thought that we agreed that you can’t fire me but three times a day. It ain’t like you to break your word and that means the whole rest of the afternoon without your threatnin’ to turn me off. ‘Twill like as not be more than you can bear.”
“No, Fred,” Duncan said, putting a hand on his former sergeant’s shoulder. “It seems that the Crown has gotten hold of my inheritance and it will take some time to wrest my family’s gold from the Treasury’s greedy fingers. So it is not yet to be the soft life that I promised you, my friend. The only thing left to me is an ancestral heap of stones that is more of a hovel than any decent crofter’s cottage.” He opened the purse that Dewey had given him and began to count out half the coins.
Tears began to form in Fred’s rheumy eyes. “Just like that? Just fare thee well, been fine knowin’ you?”
“I did not say that it had been fine, Fred,” Duncan said, his expression taking the sting from his words. “In fact, you are the most insubordinate, loutish excuse for a batman that I have ever known. I swear you nearly cut my throat every time you shave me. Sometimes I believe that it was actually your razor that put this scar on my face and you merely placed the blame on some innocent French guardsman.”
“Your face is like a ruddy mountain, Sir. Any other man with less of a steady hand would ‘ave killed you long ago,” Fred said, falling into the familiar banter.
“Why I ever agreed to take you on as my valet, heaven alone knows,” Duncan grumbled.
“Punishment for your sins,” Fred said.
“You are a good man, Fred,” Duncan said, counting out the fiftieth coin and putting the rest into his own purse.
Fred’s mouth flew open. “That ain’t what you’re supposed to say, Major.”
“I am afraid that I must deviate from our usual script,” Duncan said, proffering Dewey’s pouch. “Your half of a hundred pounds should be enough to help you get a decent start. As soon as I get my hands on the rest of my money, I swear that you will have enough for the tavern you have always been blathering about. You deserve a good bed, Sergeant, preferably one with a woman to soften it.”
“You think I’d leave you for a skirt and a down tickin’? Are you to let in the loft, Sir?” Fred ventured, eying the pouch as one would a serpent on the verge of striking. “I’m goin’ where you go, Major. If you be sleepin’ on a stone bed, I’m for the rocks as well.”
“‘And thy people shall be my people,’” Duncan quoted, his eye rolling upwards. “A Cockney Ruth the Moabite, heaven help us all.”
“Aye, a bite might do us both some good,” Fred said cheerfully, tightening the girth on his saddle. “Just show us the way to this Cockney Ruth’s place and we’ll get us a bit of tucker. Never the worse for a bite of food, I
