Jennifer Roberson

by Lady of the Glen

  Shadow stirred, blocking out the sun. “There’s naught to catch, in there.”

  Cat ceased singing and clamped her teeth together. “There is.”

  “Och, no—you’ve scairt them all away with your noise, aye?” Robbie, the eldest, threw himself down beside her, stretching out full length to examine the stream, and her arm in it. “You’ve done naught but soak yourself.”

  The speckled trout darted away beneath an outcrop of sedge-sheltered granite. Cat cast a black scowl at Robbie, who seemed disinclined to explain his presence. Pointedly she asked, “Has Mairi run off wi’ a man in place of the lad?”

  Unprovoked, Robbie laughed and displayed his missing eyetooth, then rubbed a rough-knuckled hand through his red hair. “Och, no—not from me, aye? She’d do no better than the laird’s own son. And I’ve no complaint of her that I am lad in place of man.”

  Still Cat sought provocation; better to sting him before he stung her. “And have you told her you’d handfast with her?”

  Level brows twitched; he, of them all, shared more of Cat’s features, though on him, a male, they were more comfortable. “I dinna mean to handfast with her. Why would I tell her so?” He paused. “And what do you ken of Mairi and me?”

  Cat held her tongue. She would not admit she had spied upon them.

  Robbie did not seem perturbed that she knew. “ ’Tis her time now,” he said briefly, explaining away Mairi’s absence. “She isna a woman who wants a man when her courses are upon her.”

  Cat felt the blush engulf her face until she burned with it. She was not a fool, nor blind; she knew what courses were, and she knew how bairns were made. But she did not know how to discuss either with her brother, who had teased her all too often about such things as breasts unbudded.

  Robbie rolled over in extravagant abandon onto his spine, settling shoulder blades into the turf. He flung an arm across his eyes to block the sun. “So, he is gone, and I am left to be laird in our father’s place.”

  Cat, out of habit, was moved to protest. “Not yet. He isna dead, aye?”

  “Gone,” he repeated succinctly. Then, thoughtfully, “D’ye think Breadalbane will give him silver again?”

  She stared into the water until her eyes burned. “He isna a fool, the earl. He must ken Glenlyon would only wager and lose it again.”

  “Aye, well—he is head of the clan, aye? He will do what he will do.” Robbie’s tone hardened. “But ’twill be my misfortune Father leaves naught to me to spend by the time he is in the ground, and pastures empty of cattle.”

  “Dinna count the silver and cows beforehand,” she said sharply. “You are not Glenlyon yet.”

  Robbie dug his buttocks more snuggly into turf. “He said so, Cat: while our father is gone, I am laird in his place.”

  She made a rude sound. “And what d’ye get of it?”

  Robbie’s soft laughter was muffled by his shirtsleeve. “The chance to be a man.”

  “Mairi would say you are, aye?”

  “No, not just because of Mairi. Because of—other things.”

  It was highly suspicious. “Other things?”

  “Things that dinna concern you, as you’re naught but a lass. Men’s things, Cat.”

  “You mean to drink his whisky.”

  Robbie grinned. “Och, we’ve done that, already.”

  “Then what? You’ve bedded Mairi, drunk the laird’s whisky—though that he left any for you is a shock, aye?—so what is there left to do?”

  “Men’s things,” he answered, still grinning.

  Cat sat up. The day now was ruined. Robbie had come to tease her after all, to remind her yet again she could do nothing they, as males, would do. “ ’Tisn’t fair,” she muttered.

  “What?” Robbie rolled over yet again, this time shifting onto a hip and elbow. He peered at her out of brilliant blue-green eyes. Her own eyes. “That you’re naught but a lass?”

  And a plain-faced one, at that. She waited for him to say it. But this time, unaccountably, Robbie did not.

  “Och, Cat . . .” He grinned and slapped one of her knobby knees with the flat of a callused hand. A man’s hand, broad and strong, but the slap was not so heavy as to harm her. “ ’Tis the way of the world, lassie—men do what men do, and women—well. . .” Robbie laughed. “Women please their men.”

  “As Mairi pleases you.”

  He lay back again and shut his eyes. “For now, aye?”

  For now. And then he would turn to another. He was the laird’s son; would be laird himself, one day. There were lasses aplenty for Robbie. Who for me? she wondered, and then was shamed by the question. And even more shamed by the male face manifesting before her eyes, hiding within her head: with white teeth a’gleaming and silver in his hair.

  “D’ye mean to catch us supper, then?” Robbie asked idly.

  Cat hitched a shoulder, though he could not see it. “Canna.”

  Robbie laughed softly. “Not singing to fish, no. I dinna think they have ears.”

  She stared hard at the ground, hating to admit it. “I lost my hook.”

  “Again?”

  She made no answer. Hooks were dear in the Highlands.

  After a moment Robbie sat up, eyed her, marked her shame, her sullenness, then smiled crookedly. “Aye, well—come along, then.” He rose, bent down and caught her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll fetch you one of mine.”

  This once, this first time, he was not teasing. Cat could tell the difference. It astonished her.

  She decided perhaps Mairi Campbell was good for her brother after all, if she softened his temperament.

  MacIain of Glencoe gathered his sons together at a tiny table in the common room of a prosperous Inveraray tavern. Tonight they would sleep on the beaten floor, wrapped in their plaids, because there were no rooms to be had. Quarters had run out, rented or usurped in robust fashion by thousands of jubilant Highlanders heading home from victory.

  Dair squatted on his low stool, guarding his wine cup from spillage by establishing an elbow as ward on either side, then wrapping his hands around the dented pewter. He leaned forward, shoulders hunched, and inspected the common room with a single sweeping glance as he raised the cup to his mouth. The wine was sweeter than he preferred, but the ale casks were empty. His father and brother drank whisky.

  Inveraray was much larger than Inchinnan. The army amassed by the Marquis of Atholl to defeat Argyll and subdue other malcontents who might support someone other than King James—though now it appeared potential pretenders were dead—no longer was required to take the field of a battle already won, its leader executed, but to reap the rewards. Atholl had promised that clans joining his own men would be paid in more than coin, but in plunder.

  Dair glanced at his father. Atholl in fact promised Argyllshire, which would please MacIain.

  Scattered throughout the tavern were clutches of men Dair recognized, tacksmen and gillies clustered as chicks around the hens who were their lairds: MacDonalds from Keppoch and Glencoe, Stewarts from nearby Appin. He knew none of the Stewarts personally, though his father did; MacIain knew everyone. Dair met bright, laughing glances, nodded at shouted greetings, smiled and raised his cup to answer or initiate repeated salutes to victory over the Campbells, and to MacIain via his son. They were most of them fou, drunk on liquor and sheer elation, which promised fast friendships and a fight or two.

  “Alasdair!” He was never Dair to his father. “I’ll have your ears, if ye please—have ye no’ heard a word I said?”

  The MacDonald clansmen clustered behind his father fell silent one by one. Dair, abruptly the focus of MacIain’s fierce attention, was preternaturally aware of their movements: they elbowed one another carefully, arched anticipatory eyebrows, doffed or resettled bonnets, scratched heads and beards, rearranged plaid folds, smiled sideways into smothering hands, into mugs and cups.

  “Well?” MacIain thundered.

  “D’ye want them?” Dair was not in the least embarrassed; in fac
t, his spirits sang with the same elation that infected others. Archibald Campbell was dead. His power was ended. The greatest threat to such men as MacDonalds, Macleans, and Stewarts was disarmed. This night, he could meet his father on common ground.

  The hedgerow of white eyebrows lowered over piercing eyes. “Want what?”

  “My ears.” Dair swept off his bonnet, ruffling tangled hair. “You bred them, aye?—they’re yours.”

  The hedgerow swept up in astonishment. “By God, I should snatch them off your head, you whelp!”

  Dair tugged an earlobe in elaborate acknowledgment. “I heard that. A good pair of ears, then; d’ye want them, or no?”

  MacIain clapped a huge hand across one of the offending ears, though he took care not to break the eardrum. “You deserve a skelping for that! Aye, I bred them—I bred more than ears, ye glaikit boy!” MacIain caught Dair’s bonnet out of slack fingers and threw it back at him. “Did ye hear naught o’ it?”

  “Enough.” Dair grinned and let the bonnet fall free; his ears, for the moment, were safe. “We’re reivers to go a’raiding.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Campbell lands. Argyllshire.” Dair could not help himself; his attention was snared by a distracting glint of lamplight off a piece of metal in a far corner. A man was moving, taking a seat given up by another clansman, and the badge on his bonnet sparkled silver. “As for where specifically—”

  The huge hand swung again. Dair ducked part of the blow, but the remainder of it was nonetheless powerful; MacIain clouted him hard enough across the side of his head to rock him on his stool. “I did say so, you ken! Specifically!”

  “Christ—” Wine looped out of Dair’s carefully warded cup and splashed in an arc across his shirtfront. His plaid shed most of it; beneath the wool, the saffron-dyed shirt took on the color of old blood.

  John MacDonald, nursing whisky, laughed. “Aye, you appear to have worked a day after all. A man too clean after battle has no’ done his share!” He plucked at a stained sleeve. His own small wounds were healing cleanly, but the shirt needed washing.

  Dair reached down and scooped his bonnet off the floor. “I am clean because I bathe . . . and because I’m quicker than you”—laughing, he ducked John’s swooping hand—“but if ye want honest blood, I’ll let you bloody my nose—providing you can reach it!”

  John shoved aside his cup and leaned to rise, but MacIain’s huge hand imprisoned his nearest wrist. “Not now. Leave his nose be; he needs it for the women, who like a pretty lad.” A glint in the giant’s eye belied the harsh derision in his tone. “Argyllshire,” he said heavily. “I’ve portioned it out. D’ye care which you get?”

  “I get?” Dair was startled. “You’re giving Argyllshire to me?”

  “‘Specifically’ ”—MacIain’s eyes were bright—“Kilbride. D’ye ken where it is?”

  Dair grinned briefly. “I ken.”

  “Go home, then,” MacIain ordered. “Through Kilbride. And bring its cows to Glencoe.”

  Dair considered it as he drained what remained of his wine. “Who is with me? John?”

  MacIain hawked and leaned to spit, barely missing the leather brogan of a clansman. “John is bound across Loch Fyne to Cowal, then to Ardintennie. He says he’s heard John Campbell has some new books.”

  Dair laughed, glancing at his brother. “And cows?”

  John shrugged indifferently over his cup. “I shall bring the cows for MacIain. I want the books for myself.”

  MacIain’s toothy grin was brief and ferocious. “There is plenty for us all, aye?”

  Dair glanced at the others, marking this man and that, the eager eyes bright with anticipation and usquabae, called whisky. “Who is with me?”

  His father was matter-of-fact. “Some o’ the Appin men.” MacIain waved a huge hand across a shoulder weighted with a massive brooch. “That lad there, in back. The sandy-haired lad—d’ye see him?”

  Dair looked. The man his father indicated was the one whose badge had caught his eye before. The Appin Stewart was fully aware of the abrupt and pointed scrutiny by a cluster of armed MacDonalds and answered in kind, displaying even teeth in a broad, overfriendly smile below the glint of shrewd blue eyes.

  Dair turned back. “I see him.”

  MacIain nodded. “Robert Stewart. He’s laird in all but name; his father’s an old man, and dying. They look to the son.”

  Dair’s brows arched. “Robbie Stewart of Appin?”

  “He holds Castle Stalker. A wee bairn yet”—MacIain bared big teeth in a ferocious grin—“but he’s killed his share of men.”

  “And lifted his share of cows?” Grinning back, Dair nodded. “Let John bring home the books. The Stewart lad and I will bring home the cattle . . . and whatever else we find.” He rose slightly, leaned across to steal John’s whisky, then raised the cup in Stewart of Appin’s direction. “A near-laird, and a laird’s son—we’ll do ye honor, MacIain.”

  MacIain grunted. “You’d best. Or I’ll have those ears skelped off and presented to the flames.”

  John reached across and recovered his whisky. “And then the lasses will look to me!”

  “You’re married,” Dair said dryly. “Eiblin would skelp your ears.”

  John fingered a lobe half-hidden in hoarfrosted hair, sighing ruefully. “Aye, so she would. But depending on the lass, it might be worth it.”

  Dair knew better. John loved his wife and she returned the favor. His brother would no more think of bedding another woman than Eiblin would consider removing his ears.

  He cast a sidelong glance at his father, then looked across to Robert Stewart. The heir of Appin, smiling faintly, stared back with a hard, speculative look in clear blue eyes. Then slowly, with measured movements, the new-named compatriot lifted his cup to Dair and tipped his bonneted head in a quiet, respectful salute that was nonetheless as much a challenge as acknowledgment.

  The Glen Lyon Campbells, despite their name, despite their father’s title, were not a wealthy clan. Well-worn wool trews were passed down from Robbie to a succession of brothers: first to Jamie, then to Dougal, lastly to Colin. To Cat he left nothing; she was a lass, and he a lad.

  Therefore Cat stole an old pair of threadbare trews nearly worn through in the seat, cut off the ragged hems, and snugged a belt around her waist to keep them up. She was taller than Dougal and Colin, respectively sixteen and fifteen, and exactly the same as Jamie at seventeen, who was himself nearly as tall as eighteen-year-old Robbie. She added soiled shirt, mud-stained plaid, a bonnet to hide her hair, and one of her father’s old nicked dirks tucked through the leather belt wrapped twice around her waist.

  “Go without me, will you?” She stuffed tightly plaited braids into the bonnet, from which she had removed the badge. She knew enough for that; in the moonlight the silver would glint and betray her presence. “Plan all you like, aye?—but you willna leave me behind! ”

  The laird was gone but three days, and already they planned a raid. Cat approved of that well enough “—’tis time Glen Lyon cows are retrieved from MacDonald lands!—” but she disapproved of her brothers leaving her out. She was a Campbell, too.

  The lone candle in its clay cup guttered, shedding wan and fitful light in the tiny room that was not much more than a closet, containing a narrow bed, a chest with hasps and hinges verdigrised with age, a three-legged table (once there had been a fourth) wedged into a corner, and a single rickety stool.

  It was nearly time to go. Cat studied her face critically in the small mirror she retrieved from the chest. The glass was cracked through the middle, but its grime-etched ivory frame held the halves together. Helen Campbell had bequeathed few things Cat wanted, since she preferred her father’s pipes, dirks, and claymores, but the mirror occasionally came in handy.

  Cat laughed softly. “Even though ’twas was meant for a lady, and not a cattle-lifter!”

  She stilled abruptly, twisting her head to listen. From downstairs she heard a sound she could no
t identify, then muffled conversation. She could decipher none of the words, but recognized two of her brothers by the breaking of their voices. Jamie and Dougal would sound like men in a matter of weeks, but for now they were caught somewhere between boyhood and adulthood.

  She scowled, knowing full well what they were about. They believed her innocent of their intent, but only a deaf man could miss their whisperings, and a blind fool the furtive, excited glances Dougal and Colin had exchanged all day. Robbie and Jamie were better at it, but she could read them also.

  She heard the rattle of the latch on the front door, the throttled exclamation of someone who had, apparently, put a foot where he shouldn’t, and the brief cuff of remonstration undoubtedly from Robbie, who knew better than any of them what risks they undertook. For all she detested her eldest brother—usually—Robbie was not completely witless.

  Usually.

  Cat grinned fiercely at her distorted reflection and hissed the ancient battle cry of her clan. “Chruachan!” She was above all a Campbell. “With brothers or no, I’ll bring home to Glen Lyon a cow!”

  In Edinburgh, Robert Campbell of Glen Lyon sat rigidly in the chair, waiting for the Earl of Breadalbane. The room was small, dark, sparsely furnished. Much like my cousin’s soul!

  No whisky. No pipes. No dice. Nothing with which to content himself, to occupy his thoughts, his restless hands and spirit, while he waited on the man who had assumed Clan Campbell in the executed Earl of Argyll’s permanent absence.

  He pressed fingertips deeply into his fleshy sockets. The eyes beneath wrinkled lids were overweary, protesting the journey from Glen Lyon; the hours without sleep; the smutty atmosphere of the earl’s room illuminated by a single sooted lamp.

  “Christ Jesus, will he keep me all night?” Glenlyon slid more deeply into the chair and chewed obsessively at a ragged fingernail until the nail itself was vanquished, and the flesh around it bled. When that finger grew too painful he began on another. It was not the nail or cuticle he desired so much to destroy, but the tension in his soul that so blatantly defied the calmness of demeanor he wished to display before the man, before this man of all men, to whom he had, in his desperation, in despair and helplessness, sworn the oath of comhairl’taigh.