Page 2 of Highlander’s Wrath

Twenty-three years later

“Coira! Miss Coira! Your mother bids me call you down for dinner. Will you make haste? And she asks for you to round up any of your brothers and sisters if you see them on your way down to the dining hall.”

The maidservant tapped on the bedchamber door and waited for the eldest McDonald daughter to respond. The girl was apt to read with such furious concentration, she could remain impervious to sounds and noises, even when they were made in the same room. In the boisterous McDonald household, it was not unheard of for one of Coira’s younger brothers to sneak behind her, sniggering and winking to the ones who watched him, and drop a spider or toad in her lap. She would neither shriek nor toss the creature aside; Coira would simply sigh, gently pick up whichever animal had been plopped over her shoulder, and throw it out of the window. Then she would go back to reading, a tiny smile of amusement on her lips. If her persecutors continued to pester her, she would graciously close the book and then ask them what game they wished to play outdoors. A more tolerant sister could not be found.

Her young brothers teased her that the house could burn down around her ears, and she would look up from her book later, only to find everything in ashes, but their eldest sister would just smile and shoo them out of the room, patiently telling them to go and play spillikins in the nursery until she had finished her reading.

At eight and ten summers, Coira was the eldest of James and Grace McDonald’s numerous progeny. After Coira came Lucan, now a gawky three and ten years old; next came Gawain, not quite twelve, followed in quick succession—each child being only two years apart—by Colin, Malcolm, Elayne, wee Claire, and an infant in the nursery. The five-year gap between Coira and Lucan had been an anxious time for her parents. As joyful as the birth of their beautiful baby daughter had made them, London was still a dangerous place for women to give birth and for children to grow up in. Coira’s birth had been followed by several failed attempts to bring another child to term. These insurmountable parental hardships had made James and Grace McDonald treat their precious daughter even more like a treasure beyond price.

Only when Lucan had been born—a healthy, bonny, bouncing boy—had Coira’s parents been able to let go of their young daughter just a little, allowing her to explore the world around her with all the curiosity of a five-year-old. This was good news for Coira; a silent but observant child, she had taken to following James around the spacious grounds of their West London home, asking him questions and begging her father to take him with her when he next visited the City. When he was away from home, she would spend all her time in the nursery with her brother, teaching him his letters and using her chubby fingers to show him how to count.

It was fortunate for the family fortunes that Laird Gilbert McGill, Coira’s ferocious-looking uncle up in Scotland’s misty Highlands, had insisted on her father, James McDonald, becoming his representative, responsible for selling and exporting the clan’s whisky in England. Coira’s Aunt Kirsty had given the famous whisky receipt to her brother in return for his help in battle. The wealth this golden brew had brought with it had allowed the McDonalds to move into a spacious manor house on the banks of the Thames, far west of the Centre of London.

Coira became aware of the soft tapping at the door.

“Aye, I will be there anon.” She listened to the maid’s footsteps go back down the corridor and then stood up from the comfortable chaise where she had been lying. After giving her voluminous silk skirts a good shake, she deemed her appearance acceptable enough for the family dining table. Her mother kept a casual household, only requiring her children to wash their hands and faces before sitting down to dine. The occasional creased skirt panel or torn jabot was tolerated.

Coira moved to the washstand in the corner of her room and poured a generous amount of water out of the pitcher. Before using the Castile soap to wash her hands, she lifted the fragrant bar up to her face and inhaled. It was the most delightful scent: honey, fresh olives, and rose petals. For one glorious moment, Coira was transported over the seas to the warm Mediterranean valleys from whence came the ingredients.

When I am older, I want to stand in a garden that smells just like this soap. Tall, slender Cyprus trees, purple heavy-headed irises drooping in the heat, maybe a few old stone statues, like the ones I see in the City of London when my father allows me to accompany him there.

If Coira could have but seen herself as she dipped her hands in the water and brought it up to her face, she would have realized she would blend into a Mediterranean scene with the greatest of ease. Her long, brown hair fell down her back, making her look for all the world like a slender nymph brought to life by the splashing liquid. Even though she was only medium height, her slim waist and the sweeping curves of her hips made her look more like a Grecian statue than she would have believed. But it was the dark lashes fringing her pure blue eyes that gave Coira a true otherworldly presence. When she caught and held someone’s gaze with those eyes, they would be haunted by their penetrating quality for many days thereafter.

Unaware of how memorable her face and figure could be for men, Coira remained remarkably innocent when it came to her attractions. Her father was held in great esteem by London society, and his fierce Highlander reputation was enough to hold eager suitors at bay for now. This was a good thing for the suitors because Coira had no intention of settling down to a life of marital bliss and housewifely duties; she wanted to dedicate her life to teaching children how to read and write. Such activities had brought her great pleasure as a young child, and she wanted to share these skills with anyone willing to learn.

After a quick glance in the looking glass and tying her long hair back with a length of lace trim, Coira ran down to the dining room to give her parents the news.

One of the pleasant things about living in such a rambunctious household was that the chances were always better than good that she would not be the last to arrive at the table. And so it did indeed prove today. After Coira sat down next to her mother, Lucan and Colin were still nowhere to be seen. Mistress Grace McDonald, magnificently unperturbed by her sons’ absence, calmly bade the footmen begin serving the food.

When her plate was full, and her brothers finally arrived, Coira made her announcement. The McDonald children were encouraged to hold open discourse with their parents at all times. Grace and James were considered beyond progressive in this stance.

“Mother, do you remember Lady Markham mentioning she had had to give her daughters’ governess notice for doing the unmentionable with the second footman?”

Grace McDonald looked up sharply at this. “I hardly think this is a fit subject to hold in front of yer brithers, Coira! Yer faither an’ I allow ye an unusual amount of permissiveness, but I will nae tolerate ye broaching such a delicate topic over the dinner cups!”

“What’s ‘the unmentionable’?” Colin wanted to know.

“Hold yer tongue or ye’ll be eatin’ yer dinner in the nursery with yer sisters!” Growled James.

Coira leaned over and patted her mother’s hand affectionately. She truly did have the most understanding parents.

“I apologize for my untoward language, Mama. However, I wish to tell you that I have entered into communication with the dear lady over her problem,” Coira continued, “and have made so bold as to offer my services to her. And she has accepted. You are looking at the new Markham household governess!”

Silence greeted this announcement.

Then Grace spoke, “Have ye run mad, Daughter? Lady Markham has two full-grown sons and possibly four more waiting in the wings at Eton and Oxford. No daughter of mine will go willingly to be such a plump pigeon for plucking!”

James placed his knife down on the plate; he had been holding it at a dangerously combative angle after hearing that his daughter wanted to set up as a servant in an English lord’s house.

“Why have ye taken it into yer head to be a governess, Coira? Are ye unhappy at home?”

Dear Papa. I can always count on him to be the voice of reason whenever there is a family debate. But I will not be swayed. Teaching children is what I was born to do.

Coira smiled at her father.

“Truth be told, Papa, if it was not this position, it would have been another. ‘Tis only that I know Lady Markham and her sweet little daughters and think of them so fondly—oh, I forget, the youngest Markham boy will be joining our lessons until he is old enough to warrant his own tutor—and she promises me I will have the east wing of the house entirely to myself; no Markham sons in sight.”

“What is that to say to anything?” Grace said, the effort in keeping her voice normal showing in her face. “Ye’re nae some careworn spinster or penniless breakdown forced to earn her bread an’ butter! Ye’re the niece of Laird Gilbert McGill, for goodness’ sake! Ye should be asking yer faither and yer uncle to be finding ye a nice man to wed ye and starting yer own family o’ bairns—nae looking after somebody else’s!”

Coira was unperturbed. “Aye, aye. I hear you, Mother. But I have taken such joy from teaching my sisters—and my brothers too, when they will sit down long enough to learn!—and I don’t want to stop. Remember when you were taken to bed with your last child? I looked after my brothers and sisters, and you said I was born to care for harum-scarum children. Remember?”

Grace managed to control her voice with great effort. “Ye’re too high-born to be a governess, Coira. Yer faither could be a great laird up in the Highlands if he so chose to be. Even now, his lands are cared for by a steward since the auld McDonald passed away. At any time, we could travel back north to Scotland and be treated like royalty from the moment we crossed over the wall.”

James nodded. “Aye, Daughter, yer mither speaks true. Here, in England, we might be considered to be only wealthy merchants, but in bonny Scotland, we’re gentry of the finest order.”

Coira would not be dissuaded. “You taught me never to be influenced by such shallow trappings of prestige, Papa.”

Grace said sharply, “‘Tis nae to be born, Coira! I would never permit ye to travel or visit anywhere without a lady’s maid by yer side, and it’s simply unheard of for a governess to have her own maid! It would throw Lady Markham’s household in an uproar for a schoolroom teacher to arrive with a retinue of bandboxes and a maid, never mind her own groom to care for her horses. So what ye suggest is out of the question! Ye will write to Lady Markham and refuse her offer.”

Tears sprang to Coira’s eyes. Her father noticed this and wished he was on his daughter’s side of the table to comfort her.

“Let’s turn our thoughts to more cheerful things,” he said, “and although I am the first man to admit that instruction in all things is of vital importance, I would prefer me eldest daughter is no’ the one giving it.”