Mena nodded, her heart pinching for the poor women left in the late Laird Mackenzie’s wake. “I heard as much. So this Earl of Thorne, he’s one of these—illegitimate children?”
“Nay, he’s the firstborn of the late Laird Mackenzie’s second wife, ’tis why he was bequeathed the lesser title and a drafty keep.”
“And … what happened to young Hamish?” If it was anything as terrible as Dorian Blackwell’s fate, she’d almost rather not know.
“He was raised with Liam, mostly. They were close after a fashion, went off to war together, only…”
“Only what?”
“Only Liam returned. Hamish died at sea.”
“Oh, dear, how very sad.” They walked on in silence for a while. Mena gathered a few more late sprigs of heather, some wild lavender, and a small white flower that had fluffy, fernlike leaves. It occurred to her that her bouquet was rather like something someone would place at a grave. “This family has certainly seen its fair share of tragedy. Hamish the elder and younger, the laird’s mother, and then his wife, all gone.”
“Aye, well … Colleen, Liam’s wife, was different,” Gavin murmured, his eyes still far away.
Mena’s eyes drew together at the liberty the Highlander took with the laird’s first name. “How so?” she queried.
He took a long time to answer, so long Mena thought he must be lost in a faraway memory. “She just was.”
Feeling as though she trod on a clan secret, a sense of unease around the death of two young Mackenzie marchionesses brought another dark fear to mind. “Mr. St. James,” Mena began.
“Call me Gavin, please, there’s no need to stand on ceremony out here, English.” And just like that, his amiable mood and mischievous smirk had returned.
It struck Mena again how handsome he was, so incredibly virile, and she had to fix her gaze firmly on the forest in front of her.
“I wondered if you might tell me, that is, if you’ve ever heard of … or are familiar with…” Mena squeezed her eyes shut, feeling utterly foolish. “With the brollachan.”
Gavin tossed his head back and laughed so heartily, Mena couldn’t help but notice how the sinew of his masculine throat and collarbones were exposed to the dancing shade of the late afternoon. “Been listening to clan gossip about the laird, have ye?”
Mena glanced back down with a sheepish smile. “It’s not just clan gossip; he’s known as the Demon Highlander even in London. I was just … wondering if you, if the locals, gave the myth any credence.”
The corner of his sensual mouth tilted roguishly. “The Brollachan was around before the Christians brought the fear of demons to this land, but the idea is the same, I suppose. It is said he’s a wicked cast of Fae that has no shape but for fearsome red eyes. If ye look for him on a deserted road and ye make him a deal, he’ll possess ye for a time, gift ye the speed and strength of the Fae. But then he’ll drag ye down to perdition when he’s finished with ye.”
A shadow with red eyes?
“Is he dangerous to … to anyone else?” Mena stuttered.
“Only if ye meet him on the road, but not if he’s inside a dwelling. A Brollachan is said to be good luck if they haunt yer home … or yer keep. Grateful spirits, they, and not fond of the chill.”
Though Mena felt ridiculous, the information allowed her to peel her tense shoulders away from her ears. “Oh, well, that’s good news, I suppose.”
“Ye’re most likely to see them around this time of year.” He studied her again for a moment with that strange, intent expression, before bending down to pluck her another sprig of lavender and add it to her arrangement as they meandered through the forest thick with songbirds and equally boisterous creatures. “Do ye believe in demons, English?”
Mena couldn’t stop picturing the horrible red-eyed shadow she’d seen earlier today. She’d like to believe it had been a dream, but would much rather it be real than a hallucination.
“I—I think I’m beginning to,” she confessed with a diffident grimace.
“Was it the Mackenzie?” he queried, his tone hardening. “Does he frighten ye, lass?”
“Not at all.” He terrified her.
Hiding her features in her bouquet of blooms, she glanced up at her companion. Large and strong as he was, he didn’t carry the daunting menace Ravencroft did. His demeanor tended more toward charisma than hostility. In fact, she felt a sense of ease next to him, as though he posed her no threat, whereas the laird was nothing if not intimidating.
“I must admit the Marquess Ravencroft isn’t what I anticipated when I accepted the position. He tends to be a bit…” Mena stalled, searching her extensive vocabulary for the right word.
Gavin ticked off on his fingers. “Formidable, grim, disagreeable, imperious, overbearing, high-handed, authoritarian…”
As the red stones of Ravencroft came into view, Mena found herself laughing, enjoying the answering chuckle of amusement that produced a charming dimple, a surprising and attractive change in the Highlander’s chiseled face.
“He’s not as bad as all that.” She surprised herself by defending the laird.
“Aye. He is.”
Mena’s eyebrows lifted, as the sudden and serious vehemence in his voice caught her unawares. It was as though Gavin St. James were attempting to warn her, somehow, against her enigmatic employer.