by Amanda Scott
“We must approach James Mòr first,” Colquhoun insisted. “You know that Arthur agrees with me, Ian, and Lizzie is his daughter. If my approach fails,” he added, “we’ll consider other options. But we must not forget that until recently James Mòr was the reasonable member of the House of Albany.”
Tempted as he was to point out that James Mòr had behaved anything but reasonably when he charged the King on the field and tried to murder him, Ian did not. The only thing that had saved Jamie was Jamie’s own superior skill, but Colquhoun had spoken. The wisest thing for his heir to do was hold his tongue.
“D’ye not agree, Ian?” the laird asked bluntly.
“I cannot agree that James Mòr is reasonable,” Ian said. “But I do know that you can be most persuasive. My concern is the time that tactful haggling takes.”
“With respect, my lord,” Rob said quietly. “I must agree with Ian about that. Two young maidens held prisoner in a castle full of men…”
Colquhoun was shaking his head. “James Mòr knows better than to let anyone harm them. Also, I’ve known Lady Lachina since she was a child. Sithee, since Andrew Dubh never leaves Tùr Meiloach, lest Pharlain seize that land, too, the only way Lady Aubrey and her daughters can leave without drawing Pharlain’s notice is to cross my land. They have often stayed with us.”
“I did know that, aye,” Rob said. “I have met Lady Aubrey and the ladies Andrena and Lachina. But I do not know them well.”
“Aye, well, I can tell ye that Lina is an eminently sensible lass. Sakes, she can handle Dougal and perhaps even James Mòr himself if she has to. So now, Ian lad, if ye mean to tell us more about your visit to Dumbarton…”
“I’d rather not, sir,” Ian said. Smiling ruefully when Colquhoun continued to look steadily at him, he added, “I suspect that that is not an option.”
“It is not,” his father agreed.
“Aye, then.” He described the message he had sent to arrange a meeting with Gorry, their discussion of how Ian might gain access to the tower room where the girls were, and the agreement to do it at once.
“You pretended to be a peat man?” Adam repeated with a chortle. “To think of you carrying a hodful of peat up those tower steps…” He laughed again.
Colquhoun did not. He said, “Ye saw them both, though.”
“I did,” Ian said, nodding.
“Did they see ye?”
“Lina recognized me. Lizzie never saw my face.”
“That’s good,” Adam said. “That lassie has a tongue hinged in the middle.”
Waving Adam to silence, Colquhoun said, “Did no one suspect ye?”
“No, sir,” Ian said. “Patrick arrived whilst Gorry and I were there. But we slipped out, tugging our forelocks in servile respect. So he didn’t see my face.”
Remembering the kiss he had blown then and Lina’s look of astonishment, Ian suppressed a smile. It would not do for Colquhoun to notice and ask about that.
“If your visit was so brief,” Adam said, “why were you so late getting home?”
Suppressing the familiar urge to clout his brother but knowing better than to describe his descent of the rock, Ian said, “It was pitch dark whenever clouds hid the moon. I did not want to draw attention, so I took my time.” All of that was true, he assured himself, returning his attention to his father.
Colquhoun returned his gaze for an unsettling moment before he said, “I’ll send a message straightaway to James Mòr. We’ll see how he responds.”
“I’ll depend on you then,” Ian said. “I did arrange with Gorry to let us know at once if aught about the situation changes.”
Nodding, Colquhoun said. “I’ll send word to Arthur, too.”
“Ask him, too, if he was able to intercept the lady Muriella,” Ian said. “We don’t want her near Dumbarton.”
“I’ll ask, but we can trust Lady Aubrey to stop her,” Colquhoun said. “She usually knows when Murie is up to mischief.”
Lina was beginning to wonder if they would get a midday meal, after all.
Lizzie had complained with increasing frequency about its failure to appear, and Lina was about to demand silence on the issue when Gorry MacCowan entered with a tray of food. His young minion followed, carrying a bulky, drab bundle that looked as if it might contain old, badly folded drab-wool blankets or cloaks.
“Along o’ them old blankets,” MacCowan said, answering the unspoken question, “I’ve brung ye some wee scissors, m’lady, tae cut your thread. I be hoping, if anyone asks ye aboot them, ye’ll say ye’ve had them by ye all along.”
“I will, aye,” Lina said. “But what are we to sew?”
His light-brown eyes twinkled. “Seems ye told MacPharlain that ye craved occupation. So he bethought hisself of a shirt or two ye could mend for him. Then he decided ye could do as much for Lord James Mòr and mayhap some others.”
Lina bit her lip. “I see,” she said. “I will do what I can and be grateful for any task to pass the time. I expect we will be here yet a while.”
Grimacing, but without comment, MacCowan set the tray on the table. Then, to the boy, who was chatting with Lizzie, he said, “Come along now, lad.”
“Soup with just barley and leeks in it,” Lizzie said with a sigh when they had gone. “Servants’ fare here, I expect.”
“They may have trouble getting supplies,” Lina said. “Provisions for a place this big would need frequent replenishing, and local folks may resist coming here.”
“I’m so hungry I don’t care what I eat as long as they feed us. And if we’re to sew, I’m glad we have scissors. But won’t we need needles and thread, too?”
“I always carry two needles and enough thread to sew on buttons or mend a tear,” Lina said. “If Dougal wants us to mend fine linen, we will need finer thread, and in sufficient quantity. If those blankets need mending, I can show you how to pull threads from their hems or mayhap more easily from one of the shirts.”
“Surely, we’ll not need to mend the blankets if we lay them atop our cloaks,” Lizzie protested. “I’m gey glad we had them on when they captured us. Without them, we’d have frozen stiff before that raggedy man built us a fire last night.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Lina said with a light laugh. “We might have been cold. But we would not have frozen.” When Lizzie smiled back and returned to her food, Lina was satisfied that she had diverted her from more talk of the raggedy man.
Certain that she dared not trust Lizzie with Sir Ian’s identity, she also hesitated to share the wild thought she had had at first sight of the blankets—that MacCowan had brought them old cloaks to mend.
Her mind toyed with that thought before providing her with a fresh image of Sir Ian as the shaggy peat carrier. The image alone stirred the odd tingling sensation she had felt when he had entered their room. Although she tried to ignore it, the sensation persisted, making it harder to stop thinking about him.
She had heard that he loved taking risks, because her sister Muriella collected tales to tell at ceilidhs and other events. More than one had included a daring adventure of Sir Ian Colquhoun’s. And Magnus had told them others.
At such times, Lina had found it impossible to imagine Sir Ian Colquhoun playing such roles as a peasant, an innkeeper, or a common soldier, because she had seen him only in fine clothing or warrior’s attire. Seeing him in rags as a peat man, knowing the enormous risks he must have taken to reach their chamber, made those earlier tales more likely to be true. But to be so reckless…
The man was daft. Glancing at the old blankets, she wondered if it was not just as daft to think that cloaks such as she had envisioned could be at all useful to two maidens with cloaks of their own… unless they had to disguise themselves.
Looking at Lizzie, Lina decided that even if her imagination was taking advantage of an aversion to tedium, she could not discuss her thoughts with a prattler like Lizzie, who rarely thought before she spoke. Dougal would return, and Lizzie still wanted to believe he would befriend
them.
As if Lina had conjured Dougal up by thinking about him, a perfunctory rap on the door was their only warning before he walked in.
He, too, carried a bundle, surprising her. She had not thought he was the sort of man who carried things when he had minions to do so. But there he was.
Shutting the door, he said brusquely, “I hope ye meant what ye said, lass. I told James Mòr ye’d requested tasks to do and that I was bringing ye shirts to mend. These others belong to nobles attending his lordship. His manservant sent two needles and a clew of linen thread for ye. He said ye’d need them.”
Rising from the stool where she had sat to drink her soup, Lina said, “Thank you, sir. We are grateful for any useful task to ease our tedium.”
He nodded but remained silent until she wondered if something she’d said had discomfited him.
“Is aught amiss, sir?” Lizzie asked.
Shifting his gaze to her, his expression seemed briefly to soften before his jaw tightened and he looked back at Lina. Raising his chin, so that it seemed to jut at her, he said, “I did once tell ye about a plan that could end your tedium here.”
Realizing that he meant his absurd insinuation that he might marry her, Lina stiffened. She had hoped he’d forgotten that exchange and that she had successfully damped down any other interest he might have taken in her.
Employing the tactic she had used before, she said, “You said that that plan was your father’s notion, sir, not your own.”
“And ye indicated that your reluctance was due to your father’s disapproval and your fear that ye might make me a bad wife.”
“I doubt that I put it so bluntly,” she said with a wary smile.
“It matters not how ye said it,” he retorted. “Such a marriage would reunite our clan. Ye must want that.”
Since she did not believe that Pharlain had any inclination to reunite Clan Farlan under the leadership of its rightful chief, Lina thought it best not to reply to that and said instead, as tactfully as she could, “Whatever I might like, sir, you said certain things when we discussed it before that make it difficult if not impossible for me to consider marriage with you.”
“Ye’d do well to consider the consequences I suggested—”
“Threatened,” Lizzie interjected solemnly.
Shooting her a murderous look, he held her gaze until fiery blushes darkened her cheeks. Then, turning to Lina, he said curtly, “Those threats were not idle ones. If ye’re wise, ye’ll consider what both of ye may suffer if ye remain willful.”
To steady herself, Lina breathed slowly and willed her rapidly pounding heart to slow. Until it had, she gazed at Dougal, wishing she could will calmness into him as easily.
He frowned, but he seemed merely irritable, not angry.
Speaking quietly, she said, “I do not consider myself willful, sir. Nor would I reject friendship if you were to offer it before discussing this further. I do thank you for the mending, in any event. Having a task to do—”
“Breaks the tedium, aye,” he interjected curtly. “But ye do be willful. And if it persists, Lady Lachina, ye’ll endure much more tedium unless your family or the lady Elizabeth’s can persuade James Mòr to return ye to their care.”
“Do our families even know where we are?” Lizzie asked then.
“If they do not, they will,” he replied.
Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door.
Lizzie said to his back, “Perhaps you might send them word of our situation, sir. We would be most grateful if you would.”
Without bothering to look back or reply, he left the room and shut the door with a snap. The grating of his key in the lock followed.
“How rude,” Lizzie said, looking bleakly at Lina. “I fear you were right about him all along. He isn’t going to help us get out of here.”
“Perhaps not,” Lina said. “However, I doubt that we will stay as long as Master Dougal MacPharlain thinks we will.”
“You’ve thought of a plan!” Lizzie exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Oh, Lina, tell me what we must do.”
The image of Sir Ian attired in knightly garb, with flashing sword and glinting brigandine, filled Lina’s mind. She shook her head to banish it.
As reckless and daring as he might be, Ian could not carry the two of them out of the tower room, down the stairs, across the castle yard, and down the steep hill to freedom in a peat hod. Neither could they fly.
The truth was that Ian was as daft in his own way as Dougal was in his. She had no more business expecting Ian to help them than Lizzie had to expect help from Dougal. Nor, Lina told herself firmly, had she any business to be scolding Lizzie for thinking of Dougal while letting her own thoughts dwell on Sir Ian.
Aware that Lizzie’s face had fallen again, Lina said, “Don’t fall into another gloom, Liz. We’ll think of something.”
“Why do you keep looking at those awful blankets?”
“Do I? I suppose I have glanced at them now and now. I keep feeling as if I’ve dreamt all this. Do you not sometimes have such a feeling?”
“I don’t think so. But I rarely remember my dreams.”
“Well, it is as if those blankets have been trying to speak to me, as if they ought to be cloaks like the servants here wear. I expect you think I’m daft.”
Friday afternoon, the clouds that gathered were darker and, unlike the gray ones that had hinted at rain all week, suddenly released a downpour.
Ian, Adam, and Rob MacAulay were crossing the yard from the stables when it descended. They ran into the castle’s keep and up the short flight of steps to the great hall, where a welcome fire roared in the huge fireplace.
Others had gathered there, including Colquhoun, who sat at the high table with a mug of ale and some documents before him.
The three younger men went to join him, and Ian shouted for ale on the way.
Thunder boomed outside as they took their seats. The two greyhounds raced across the hall, onto the dais, and dove under the table.
Ian laughed, but Colquhoun said, “Don’t laugh at them. They’re just showing the good sense to avoid unnecessary danger.”
Eyeing him speculatively, Ian decided his father had meant only what he had said, with no hidden meaning for a reckless son.
“I ken fine that you sent a messenger to Dumbarton yesterday, sir,” he said. “Dare we hope that James Mòr has sent a reply?”
“I know only that our gillie went, returned unmolested, and did deliver my message,” Colquhoun said. “The lad told me James Mòr promised to send a reply by evening today or tomorrow. So, you see, he has not refused to meet with me.”
“I doubt we’ll hear from him in this weather,” Ian said.
“Likely you’re right. But tact and conciliation take patience.”
After a quick glance at Ian, Adam said to Colquhoun, “Did you inquire about the well-being of the lady captives, sir?”
“I did not. I merely requested a meeting with him. In such ticklish matters, Adam lad, the less said, the better. One is less likely to cause friction.”
Ian held his tongue, with effort.
Then he remembered Lina’s startled look that first day and the speed with which she had composed herself. So quickly had her expression altered that he doubted Lizzie had noticed, let alone Patrick Galbraith. It would have been another matter had it been Mag rather than Patrick. Little escaped Mag’s eye.
Just thinking about Lina’s being able to recover so quickly in such a place at such a time calmed him. If she could do that, he could keep his contentious thoughts to himself and avoid unnecessary conflict with his father.
He had great respect for Colquhoun. Like most sons, he wanted to please his father. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint him.
One day, if the Fates willed it so, he would step into his father’s place as Laird of Colquhoun and chief of their clan. The position had long been a lofty one, carrying great power even now when factions divided the Scottish nobility.
<
br /> Clans warred with clans and Highlander fought Lowlander. Both fought Borderers and the English. In the case of Clan Farlan and others, clans divided and fought amongst themselves. Meantime, Colquhoun kept the peace in Clan Colquhoun and with its neighbors. His skill in doing so demanded respect.
Even so, Ian thought as he nodded for a gillie to pour him more ale and watched Colquhoun sign the documents before him, at times only by daring could a man achieve a difficult goal. If one refused to take risks…
Colquhoun glanced up and met his gaze with a lifted eyebrow as if to ask if aught were amiss. When Ian replied a slight shake of his head, Colquhoun’s lips twitched, making Ian wonder if his father had somehow read his thoughts.
Shaking his head again, this time to clear it, he told himself that thinking of Lina MacFarlan must have led him to imagine that his father had magical powers. Many people believed the blethers that Andrew Dubh and others had spewed over the years about Tùr Meiloach being a magical place that protected its rightful residents, even suggesting and some of its residents possessed such powers.
Ian had visited Tùr Meiloach, and he disbelieved most of it. As for knowing what others thought, only the gods and perhaps the Fates could do that. Then he recalled certain events involving Mag’s wife, Andrena…
Rob cleared his throat loudly.
Giving him a look, Ian said, “Did you think I was ignoring you? My thoughts just went a-roving.”
“You said you wanted to discuss how to wrest Dumbarton from James Mòr.”
“In troth, I don’t have a plan yet,” Ian said frankly. “Something will present itself, though. It always does. Recall how it was when Jamie told his cousin Alex Stewart to retake Stirling after the coup failed. Stirling is impregnable, too, after all. But Alex rode in with his lads, claiming that they were allies of the coup. They took Stirling without spilling a drop of blood.”