Iain glanced over at Flora as he finished his breakfast. ‘You don’t have to come, you know.’
She reached for the teapot and topped up his cup. ‘I’m coming with you, Dad, and that’s the end of it. You can’t manage the garron as well as the guns up there with Sir Charles. You know what he’s like; he has his heart set on his Christmas venison. Even if he hadn’t asked you to bring me along to help with the stalking, I’d have wanted to lend you a hand.’
Her father blew the steam from his tea and looked at her over the rim of his cup. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, lass? Not still feeling too wabbit?’
Automatically, Flora laid a hand on the rounding of her belly. She was only four months along, but she’d discovered that she’d not been able to button her trousers that morning. She found a belt in Ruaridh’s drawers, which had still never been emptied – neither of them had had the heart yet – that would do to hold them up. ‘I’ll be fine, Dad, honestly. I’m not so sick these days, and I’ll only be sitting quietly with the garron while you go up to the ridge.’
Neither of them needed the reminder that there was no one else now, in any case, with Alec and Ruaridh gone. The Laverock boys, though they had proven themselves dogged and determined beaters on grouse and pheasant drives, were still on the young side to have the patience and the stamina for stalking.
She stood, clearing the bowls into the sink, and then handed her father a newspaper-wrapped packet of sandwiches for his pocket. She pulled on her jacket and threw her plaid shawl over her shoulders, partly for warmth and partly to help conceal the swell of her stomach from Sir Charles. She didn’t want to add to his rage and grief at the loss of his only son with the news that the gamekeeper’s daughter was carrying his grandchild. She’d been tempted to tell Lady Helen, who might have been glad to know a part of Alec lived on, but the last time she had seen her at a meeting of the Rural, Flora had turned away, unconsciously shielding her belly with a protective arm, worried that the dark purple bruise on her ladyship’s cheekbone might be supplemented with worse if Sir Charles’s anger were to be further compounded.
They set off for the stable and worked in silence, Flora slipping the halter over the pony’s head and buckling the throat strap, while her father lifted the heavy deer saddle on to its back and fastened the girth. Flora led the garron slowly up the track alongside Ardtuath House while Iain went to collect the rifles from the gun safe and let Sir Charles know that they were ready.
His lordship took his double-barrelled Purdey from her father without a word, scarcely acknowledging Flora as he strode ahead up the track. She walked steadily, if a little more slowly than usual, the pony patiently matching its pace to hers as they crossed the hills above the village. They were headed for the lochan, where Flora would wait with the garron while the two men climbed on towards the higher land where the deer would be sheltering from the blustering December wind. When the path steepened, her father turned back and glanced at her anxiously, raising his eyebrows in a question. She was breathing heavily, but gave him a reassuring nod to let him know that she could manage.
An hour later they crossed the burn just below the lochan, swollen with winter rain, and her father extended a hand to help steady her where the stones were slippery with damp moss. She’d been looking down, making sure of her footing, one hand on the leading rein and the other automatically cradling her belly, the shawl slipping back slightly on her shoulders. When she raised her head again, her eyes met those of Sir Charles. He was watching her coldly, appraisingly, from where he stood on the path above her. She froze as she saw his gaze darken and his face flush claret red with anger as realisation dawned. Then he turned abruptly away and strode on ahead, towards the waters of the lochan that were as black as his mood.
When they reached the shelter of the bothy, her father handed his rifle to Flora for safekeeping and then took his binoculars from the leather case slung at his hip, scanning the hillside.
A small group of red deer hinds, foraging for the scant pickings of the winter ground, raised their heads. They were far enough off not to be panicked by the appearance of the three humans and the white pony, but watched warily from the hill. The lead hind grew uneasy and began to walk away, picking her way along the contour line, the others following in single file behind her before she stopped again. The stalking party was concealed from the herd now by the bothy wall, and Flora let the garron crop the bleached tufts of grass that grew alongside the stones, keeping her quiet. The hind’s ears pricked as she waited, unmoving, muscles tensed for flight. But when the humans didn’t re-emerge from behind the ruin she settled again at last, and resumed her search among the woody twigs of a clump of bog myrtle for any last leaves.