love left between father and daughter, or husband and wife—much less between unacquainted siblings.
Still, it seemed vaguely shameful that she felt so little grief at their passing when she had mourned so long the loss of her mother. However, the sad fact was that she felt much closer to this young cousin, who had also been orphaned at an early age and raised away from his home, than she ever had to her own brothers. She and George shared more than a love of games. They had an intimate understanding of loss, as well as an appreciation for the expensive fluctuations of Scottish politics and war.
As penitence for her lack of filial piety, she began listing her brothers’ names, but reached a dead end at sibling twenty-four. Disappointed but unsurprised at her lack of recollection, she sighed and said: “King James even outlawed the game, you know, because it distracted men from serious things.”
They both knew that she was speaking of the fourth James of Scotland and not the recently deceased king, the father to the infant queen.
“Nice shot,” George complimented, preparing to address his own ball. “You are still a good club length from the cliff, too. Mayhap the birds will leave your ball alone this time. They must be very stupid creatures to not know the difference between a ball and an egg.”
Frances nodded, watching anxiously as George began his swing. He had a tendency to throw his head up at the last moment and many of his balls went astray. It was her hope that the new Master of the Gowff would be able to cure him of this habit. As a female, it was not her place to correct his form.
Actually, though he needed a great deal of help and guidance, there was only so much that she could do to aid her young cousin in any aspect of life. She had no more experience at leading a clan than he did, and as little inclination for the job. All she had was money—and even that, only so she was told. She had not actually seen any of it. Had George been older they might have married, thus giving him the money needed to hire men to defend the tower. But as it was, he was too young to wed, and he would not take any money from her even if he had been confident of being able to control a band of mercenaries.
Also, it was an unfortunate fact that her dowry might be needed to bribe a suitable husband into defending their home, provided that one could be found. Supposedly they were under the regent’s protection, but the seat of power was a long way away, with Mary de Guise probably very busy holding the throne for the infant Mary, and the MacKays, Keiths, Gunns,and MacLeods were very near. As long as the prize of her hand and fortune was still a possibility, Frances’s rapacious neighbors seemed content to woo and not war. But that would all change when her time of mourning was up and she still refused them entrance to the castle, or if she were to become betrothed to someone else.
Unfortunately, it would also change if someone got impatient with her excuses. The most likely candidate for this dangerous irritation was the new MacLeod. Alasdair was ruthless and quite anxious to consolidate his power at this time when the new Scottish government was distracted by affairs in the South, and consequently he was pressing her hard.
Her unease had grown daily since the laird’s last visit, and she was now often awake in the dark hours pondering their situation, and how she might escape marriage. So often was she awake in the dark hours that she had developed a routine of opening her shutters and watching the moon track across the sky. It was after she had started doing this that she had noticed some poor hound howling in the night, disturbing her lonely vigil at her bedchamber window. It began every night after the moon set and continued until dawn. It was not a comforting sound, bringing to mind as it did the tale of the spectral hound that was supposed to live in the dark hole beneath the main staircase. The Bokey hound, as it