The Highlander's Return. Marguerite Kaye

the rush?’

      Shona’s brow furrowed. ‘It is a good match for the clan, Ailsa. Donald McNair is a rich man, the marriage will secure us a good ally. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of throwing him o’er?’

      ‘Of course not. I’m perfectly well aware of how good a match it is. My father would not have made it otherwise.’

      ‘And you, lass. What do you think of it all?’

      ‘What does it matter what I think?’ Ailsa said dismissively. Seeing the shocked look on old Shona’s face, she realised she had been indiscreet. One thing to think such things, quite another to share them with her father’s—brother’s—tenants. She touched the old woman’s arm. ‘I like him well enough. As well as he likes me, any road. Donald and I have an understanding, Shona.’ Ailsa stooped to give her a quick hug. ‘Don’t fash yourself over me, for there’s no need. I can take care of myself.’

      ‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ Shona agreed sadly. ‘Your mother—’

      But at this point they were interrupted by the blacksmith’s wife wanting Shona’s opinion on the best way to treat her husband’s aching joints. Ailsa wandered off, staring abstractedly down at the winding coffin track. Shona was right, it was high time she was wed. She had agreed to the betrothal eventually. Donald, her father’s choice, was handsome enough, in a stern way. Why not? she’d thought at the time. What other fate was there in store for her save spinsterhood and dependence? At least this way she would have a home of her own.

      Yet, once the papers were signed, she had found herself curiously reluctant to act. She had procrastinated and pleaded the mitigating circumstances of her father’s illness. Now his death meant she had run out of excuses and her fate loomed dishearteningly ahead of her. She’d persuaded herself that her father’s death would be liberating, but instead of feeling free she felt even more trapped and constrained.

      She’d also hoped that his death would be the catalyst for the thawing in her relationship with her mother, but Lady Munro had, if anything, retreated even further behind the invisible barrier that separated her from her daughter. Ailsa had thought herself too inured to her mother’s coldness to be hurt by it. She discovered that she was not.

      What she needed was a different sort of change, though she had no idea what that could possibly be. Marriage to Donald McNair did not feel like the answer, though deep in her heart she knew it was her fate. There was no avoiding duty, another hard-learned lesson. The carefree lass she had once been was long gone. Her future, which for a few magical hours six years ago had seemed such a glittering place, now loomed, lacking lustre and faintly intimidating.

      Ailsa wandered over to the cemetery gate. Calumn was still speaking, the attention of all the men fixed firmly on him. Turning back to rejoin Shona, she was startled by a tall, black-clad figure.

      He seemed to appear from nowhere. One minute the coffin track was empty, the next minute there he was. Ailsa jumped out of his way, but he barely seemed to notice her, so intent was he on reaching the ceremony at the graveside. She had an impression of a strikingly handsome face, a fall of black hair, and then he was through the gate, standing at the back of the male mourners with his hat in his hand.

      Her curiosity well and truly roused, Ailsa leaned over the crumbling dry-stone dyke that formed the graveyard’s boundary. Something about the man’s stance seemed familiar. Something about the way he held his head, the way he stood, his hands, holding his hat and gloves, clasped behind his back. He was a tall man, taller even than Calumn. His curtain of hair, which she saw now was not black, but the blue-black of a raven’s wing, brushed a pair of exceedingly broad shoulders.

      Her heart began to thump heavily. It could not be! A passing resemblance merely, that was all.

      The stranger wore riding boots, highly polished under the dust of travel. Black breeches clung to his long legs. A black coat of expensive cut with full skirts and heavy cuffs accentuated his well-built frame. White lace ruffles on his shirtsleeves covered tanned hands. In comparison to the other men, he had an air of sophistication, of foreignness even, yet he stood there for all the world as if he belonged. The agility with which he had climbed the hill was impressive, too. His dress might proclaim him the wealthy city gentleman, but his body was that of a Highlander.

      It could not possibly be him, yet part of her was absolutely certain it could be no one else.

       But Alasdhair Ross was banished!

      Six years ago he had left and not a word since. It could not be him, it made no sense. Why would he come back after all this time? And though he looked like him, this stranger was far too self-assured and far too sophisticated to be Alasdhair. If it was him, he had not just changed, he had been transformed.

      It could not be him, Ailsa told herself. It couldn’t be.

      She had just about persuaded herself when he moved, turning fractionally to the side so that she could see his profile. Her heart, encased in ice since the day he left, gave a sickening lurch, like an animal woken too soon from hibernation, and in that instant she knew.

      Just a fleeting glance she caught before he turned away again, but it was enough. He was clean shaven. A strong jaw, with a mouth held in an austere line, but it was the same mouth that always used to quirk up in a half-smile. Fine lines around his eyes, grooves running from mouth to nose, his face deeply tanned. But they were the same eyes, dark brown, peat-smoked, under brows heavy and black, almost meeting in the middle. A forbiddingly handsome face, harder and more defined than the good-looking young man she remembered, who had not had this mature man’s air of authority. But it was still the same face.

      Though she had never in her life fainted, Ailsa thought she was about to do just that. Her vision swam. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dry. She clutched at the mossy top of the cemetery wall, closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

      ‘Tell me my old eyes are deceiving me.’

      Ailsa looked up, startled.

      ‘It is him, isn’t it?’ Shona said, nodding at the man in black. ‘Alasdhair Ross, a ghost from the past, come to join all the others in the graveyard.’ She chuckled. ‘He was banished for challenging the laird’s authority, but your father never did say why.’

      ‘No,’ Ailsa replied shortly. ‘The laird was never one to explain himself.’

      ‘You had aye time for him, did you not?’ Shona probed. ‘I mind now, you used to follow Ross about like a wee puppy.’

      ‘It was a long time ago. I was very young.’ Ailsa tried desperately to hold back a tear she could feel welling up. ‘But, yes, I was …’ She paused. ‘I was very fond of him.’

      ‘I can’t blame you,’ Shona said. ‘He was always good looking in his own wild way, but he’s turned into a right handsome devil. Made something of himself, too, judging by those clothes. Who’d have thought that Factor Ross’s son would do so well? Do you think he’s come back to rub our noses in it?’

      ‘How would I know? What has it to do with me?’ Ailsa said tersely. What was he doing here?

      ‘Whatever he’s doing, it’s stirring up a few ashes.’ The fey wife’s low laugh was more like the cackle worthy of the witch she was sometimes called by the village bairns. ‘Would you look at him, all in black, hovering over your father’s corpse like Auld Clootie himself. I’m surprised we canna hear the laird spinning in his coffin.’

      ‘Shush, Shona,’ Ailsa whispered urgently, ‘they’ll hear us.’

      Sure enough, some of the men had turned towards the disturbance, and in turning they began to take notice of the stranger. Ailsa watched as they shuffled away from Alasdhair, as if his very presence would contaminate them. She saw some of the shock she herself was feeling reflected in Calumn’s face when he recognised his friend. Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed through a wringer. Her emotions were a maelstrom of anger and hurt and regret and bitterness, so that she could only clutch the stone dyke for support and watch as the man whom