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But what of her father? Had he been here? “Da!” she screamed again, hoping—praying—he was sleeping off the night somewhere in an Aberdeen tavern.
Fresh dread
prickled through her, choking her with nausea, as she realized who had been home. Home, and quite likely helpless. Achilles.
“No, God,” she cried, wondering how she could have forgotten her puppy. She bolted from the cottage, scanning all around her. “Achilles!” she called, racing across the glen, shouting over and over for her dog, but she was greeted only by silence.
The silence grew louder. It was unsettling and surreal, and only then did it strike her that the farm had never been silent. Always there’d been sound, always the incessant bleating of sheep that’d driven her mad. But now there was nothing.
Girding her courage, she made her way to the paddock.
A gruesome scene slowly came into focus. She saw the sheep, and her gorge rose. They lay slaughtered, littering their pen. Someone had tried to burn them alive. But wool didn’t burn, and their bodies stank of charred fleece and butchered flesh.
She clapped a hand to her mouth, swallowing convulsively, refusing to be sick. She’d bear this. She’d been the cause of it, and she’d bear it.
This was no accident. Somebody had done this, somebody had intentionally destroyed their farm.
Forcing herself to cling to reason, she took in the scene, trying to make sense of it. The scorch marks ended several feet from the cottage, then began again near the paddock. And though nothing had burned in the field, the fence had been toppled in places.
Who would do such a thing? Who had they angered? Who did they even know outside their small community?
Fraser. Her blood froze in her veins. The answer was Fraser.
It was her fault. She’d enraged the old merchant, and he’d retaliated by destroying her home.
“You hussy,” a familiar voice shouted.
She turned to see her father stumbling toward her. Relief surged through her, seeing him alive. And then dread mingled with her relief, seeing the fury in his eyes.
He stood before her, swaying, and the sour smell of ale amid the acrid cinders sickened her. The morning light was unforgiving, and he looked like he’d aged twenty years in one night.
“You dare come back here,” he said slowly. “This is your fault. If you’d been here, I’d have been here. But instead I had to search all over Aberdeen for your fool hide. If we’d been here, the farm would’ve been fine. ”
“I … I was at Dunnottar. ”
“Don’t lie to me,” he spat. “You were with him. And now we’ve nothing left because of it. ”
She glanced behind her to the cottage, fueled by desperation. “We can rebuild—”
“Can’t build nothing from nothing. ” He shook his head, disgust curling his lip. “He sullied you, didn’t he?”
“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, grateful to feel ire replacing her despair.
He looked incredulous. “Don’t you get it, girl? It is my business. You’d best hope Fraser will still take you, because if he don’t marry you, both of us is off to the poorhouse. ”
The thought of marrying Fraser was a worse nightmare even than the sight of their smoldering farm. Her father had the right to force her into wedlock, but she was a pirate wench now and she would dig in her heels. “I can’t marry him,” she cried. “I will not. ”
“Ye can and will. ” He stalked toward her, for a moment looking like a younger man again, and it sent a shiver of foreboding up her spine.
She took a step back. “I won’t. I’m to marry Aidan. He’s strong and able. He’ll help us rebuild. ”
“Can Aidan repay our debts?”
“Your debts,” she snapped. “Your choices, your vices. These are your debts I’m paying for. ”
“Don’t be a fool. They’re yours too. That money filled your belly too. Put a roof over your head. If you’d been a lad, you could’ve helped more—”
“How could I have helped more?” Sadness swamped her, a dull ache in her chest. Her father was eager to throw her to the wolves in order to save his own hide, sacrificing her for financial gain.
