The Laird of Lochandee by Gwen Kirkwood Page A

thought made her stomach heave. She took off her shawl and shook it, then spread it out to dry on some of the hay. Even that small effort made her feel faint. She plumped up a mound of hay and lay down pulling the hay round her to keep herself warm.
    Her mind was buzzing with the worry of what to do when the mist cleared. She must find her way to a house or farm and plead for shelter. How she would find work she did not know. The little money she had was in her box at Windlebrae.
    Inevitably the memory of Gertrude Maxwell’s fury returned. What had she done to deserve such a cruel beating? She had worked and tried hard to please. What was the sin she had committed? Forni … Forni … Her brow creased in an effort to recall Gertrude Maxwell’s accusations, but she had not understood and could not remember. Why had Meg not come to her aid? Had Ross really run away? Rachel trembled. She had believed Meg and Ross and Willie were true friends. “Friends for ever,” Ross had pledged.
    She must have fallen into a light sleep because she suddenly sat up with a start. She felt disorientated but the pain across her shoulders from the whipping was intense. Memory flooded back and she began to shake.
    The sound which had wakened her was growing louder. It took her some seconds to recognise it was a horse and cart. She jumped to her feet, wincing at the pain, but she grabbed her shawl and threw it round her shoulders as she slithered down the slope towards the road, clasping the pillowcase which contained everything in the world she possessed.
    She was sure it must be Ross with the pony and trap. Or perhaps Willie, with his favourite Clydesdale, Lucy? They were coming to take her back.
    Yet could she ever live in the same house as Gertrude Maxwell again? The thought brought her to a halt almost at the side of the narrow road. A cart was coming round the bend towards her. It was much larger than the trap, higher and covered in. The driver sat up at the front under a small overhanging shelter and the chestnut horse looked plump and well-groomed. Rachel shrank back with a feeling of despondency. The wind had risen, driving the rain away and improving the visibility but the cold penetrated her thin dress and she shivered miserably, tugging at her shawl to hold it closer. She was certain she must look like a vagrant woman and wished she had tidied herself. She wanted to hide but there was nowhere to go. The driver of the vehicle had already seen her and was drawing the horse to a halt.
    â€˜Can I help y …?’ The driver of the horse-drawn van broke off with a startled frown, then uncertainly, ‘It is Miss O’Brian – isn’t it? Rachel O’Brian?’ Rachel nodded mutely. She stared up at the man but her head swam. She sank down onto the wet grass, fighting against the waves of dizziness which threatened to overwhelm her. She recognised Peter Sedgeman as the driver of the cart, and felt deeply ashamed of her appearance. Her hands and face were grubby, her hair straggling and unkempt. He had jumped down and was speaking to her again, his voice low and full of concern.
    â€˜You are miles from Windlebrae, lassie. Why are you heading into the hills? Are you hurt? Are you lost?’ The kindness in his voice was her undoing. Her control snapped and she was sobbing into her shawl like a frightened child. At length she managed to calm herself. She felt Peter Sedgeman’s hand on her shoulder. He tried to help her to her feet but she cried out as the pressure of his arm reopened the wounds on her back.
    â€˜Are you hurt? Look lassie, tell me what ails you. I will help if I can, but I have groceries to deliver and the daylight will soon be gone.’ He eyed her keenly, seeing the way she held her shoulders as though afraid to move. Her face was deathly pale, stained with mud and tears. Her hair was blowing wildly where it had escaped from its braids.
    She bit her lip hard, striving