The Laird of Lochandee by Gwen Kirkwood

his situation, his ignorance of his roots. He felt he had no identity. He was like a boat adrift on an endless sea – no anchor to hold him fast, no sails to propel him forward. Was he the son of a whore? Why had Cameron Maxwell taken him in? “ We are not your parents ,” the letter had said. Was she telling the truth? Was it possible Cameron Maxwell had sired him after a night of revelry?
    Again and again his thoughts returned to Rachel. He ached for the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her body against his own, her sweet smile and sparkling eyes. He yearned for the comfort she could give him. He had written her a letter, pouring out his heart, his dismay at finding he had no roots, the sick feeling of isolation, and lastly his love for her. He had promised to write again when he found work. He had given the letter to the postman who called most days at Briarbush, the MacDonalds’ home.
    Each morning he longed for Rachel’s reply. He was desperate to know she still loved him for himself. He needed her reassurance but there were no letters for him. Ross grew despondent, he began to question himself. Was Rachel ashamed of him? He could only interpret her silence as one thing – rejection. She no longer wanted to be his friend, or even acquainted with him.

Chapter Eight
    G ERTRUDE M AXWELL WOULD NOT have admitted that Rachel’s arrival had brought the past vividly alive again, and with it an overwhelming and bitter desire for revenge. Rachel was the only living link to Connor O’Brian and Mhairi and her happiness was linked with Ross. Getting rid of him too suited her well.
    The drizzle which Ross had left behind on the morning of his departure had turned to a persistent rain as Rachel made her way along unfamiliar roads and tracks. She could scarcely bear the touch of her garments against the raw and bleeding lacerations on her back and shoulders. She was completely lost and shivering from shock and cold and the ever-present nausea. Her stomach churned from lack of food.
    The narrow twisting roads all looked the same. There were tracks but whether they lead to fields, or to isolated farms, she could not tell. The mist creeping down from the hills obliterated everything more than twenty yards in front of her. The very silence seemed ghostly, not even the forlorn bleating of a ewe or the cry of a curlew.
    Rachel shivered and huddled beneath her shawl but it was already damp. Droplets of rain clung to the woollen fibres. She plodded on doggedly.
    Her legs began to tremble with weakness. Her bundle was pitifully small but it seemed to weigh more with every step. Rachel had no idea how far she had trudged but she had to be several miles from Windlebrae by now. She was half-afraid she had been walking in circles.
    When a small stone building loomed out of the mist some way up the hill to her left she knew she must take the chance to rest. She leaned against the bank of earth at the base of the hedge, gathering strength to climb the slope. She stared at the building, willing it to show some form of life. There was nothing, not even a lone sheep or cow. The rain was falling faster now. Even the animals would be seeking shelter.
    Wearily she dragged her leaden limbs up towards the barn, slithering on the wet grass. The door was partly open and she shoved at it tentatively. It was dark inside but as her eyes became more accustomed to the gloom she could see it had been used to store hay, probably for winter feed for sheep. There were remains from a small truss of hay against one wall, bristly where it had been cut from the stack. She bent to feel it. At least it was dry. Her stomach churned with hunger. She wished she had thought to find a spring and have a drink of water.
    The more she thought of it the more she craved a drink. She shuddered as she recalled a newspaper cutting she had read about Russian children dying of starvation and people eating twigs and mixing clay with their corn. The