Jennifer Roberson

by Lady of the Glen

  Behind him, the fire glowed. He lifted her hand from his throat and carried it to his mouth. It was warm against her palm.

  Cat shivered. “Dair,” she said helplessly. “Oh no—dinna do this—” And pulled her hand away, curling her fingers against the palm to shut out the memory of his mouth.

  He smiled. “Ye ken it,” he murmured. “ ’Tis begun, aye?—and all against our wills.”

  “—begun—” she echoed. “No—”

  “I am somewhat more practiced than you,” he said. “And somewhat older, aye?” His smile now was rueful. “And perhaps not wishing so much it might be another way.”

  He was older, and male, and understood such things. But she refused to acknowledge it. “ ’Tis finished. Not begun.” How could it be begun? There was nothing between them, nothing at all but heritage that proscribed such feelings. “I’ve said what I meant to say—”

  “Wait you,” he said. “Dinna run just yet—or stalk with your head held high.” The smile did not die. “I’ve something for you. I meant to look for you—to find you up on the brae—but my father. . . well, wait you. . .” He reached to his sporran and undid the thong doubled around the stag-horn peg. He took something from it. It flashed in firelight, until he turned its face toward the earth. Then he set the object into her hands.

  Cat did not immediately look at it. She looked instead at him, seeing kindness in his eyes, the genesis of hope; hearing diffidence in the tone, and a certain shy hesitance unexpected and oddly appealing.

  “You have lost more than I can repay,” he told her. “A kettle is little enough, I ken, and so is this, but—” He shrugged, a hitch of taut-held shoulders silhouetted against the fire. “ ’Tis all I can offer. . . and pray you will accept it.”

  Now she looked at what he had put into her hands. A mirror, a small silver-backed mirror. The handle was short, much-worn; a hole was pierced through its end for a cord to be strung, so a woman might wear the mirror around her waist, dangling from her girdle. Fashion had changed; this mirror was old, of another century, and made not of Scottish hands.

  She could not help herself; she was yet Campbell, and he MacDonald. “Is this plunder?”

  It was a slap, if noiseless. Color burned in his face. “ ’Twas my mother’s,” he answered eventually, “given her by my father after a visit to Paris. It was purchased. Not lifted.”

  She ached with shame. “ ’Twas undeserved, that.”

  “What Robbie Stewart did to you was undeserved.”

  The moment eased. This she could speak of; it was easier by far to admit the truth, to herself or to him. “They why d’ye makes amends for him, when ’tis his work to do?”

  The line of his mouth was level. “Because Robbie wouldna think of it.”

  That was blatant truth. “He would do what he did, again.”

  It did not please him to know the truth of his friend, but he refused to shirk the admission. “I dinna doubt it.”

  “And will you go to his other victims and offer reparation?”

  His mouth jerked briefly. “And will you speak for another MacDonald with a rope around his neck?”

  It shook her, that he would understand so clearly without an explanation. “God in Heaven,” she said, “you cut as well as a dirk!”

  “I’ve had some practice, aye?—we’ve passed words between us before.” His tone gentled then. “I do it when I am afraid, you ken. Verra much as you do.”

  The bagpipe lament died. Leaping light from behind her painted his face in vivid chiaroscuro. His eyes were shielded in shadow except for the gleam of whites, and the reflection of flame in pupil. In that reflection she saw a man, and a tree, and a rope, and heard herself tell her father, for Dair MacDonald’s life, that she and only she had been the cause of her brother’s death.

  In that admission she knew the truth, clean and sharp as a blade. She gave to him what she would give to no other man, because he deserved it. Because she wanted to.

  But protest was not so easily overcome, nor the restive apprehension. “You are a man,” she said. “What have you to fear?”

  “That I am a man,” he answered. “ ’Tis always a woman’s choice.”

  She thought of Robert Stewart. “Not always.”

  He thought of it too and reconsidered, offering no rebuttal; he knew it as well as she, once reminded of it. “In this there is. With me.”

  He wanted the truth of her. And Cat could not lie, not to him to whom she owed something, nor would she prevaricate; she understood very well—was shocked she knew it so well—what he was asking. “You want me to say it was because of you. Of you, and no one else. But if I do—if I do that. . .” If she did that, he would know. He would know it all.

  Though he seemed to already, far better than she. He understood even her silence, her awkwardness, which frightened her badly. “We have paid the debts of our names,” he declared. “What is left is something else, something new. . . and neither Campbell nor MacDonald. Only you and me.”

  It verged dangerously too close on honesty unfettered by misdirection. Obscurity was easier, dishonesty much safer. “We owe one another naught.”

  His laugher was quiet, but no less telling for its softness. “Dinna lie to me, Cat.”

  Intimacy, and impasse. She stared at him even as he stared back, and found herself counting the silver threads in his hair—many more than there had been, when she was but a lass; marking the creases beside his eyes—carved deeper than before; the oblique slant of cheekbones, the fit of his nose to the arch of his brow, the kindness in his mouth so perfectly balanced with maleness.

  Cat backed away hastily. There was no grace in her movements, only jerky, awkward retreat. It was escape, nothing more, and he could not but see it.

  He did. “Why?” he asked. “Why now?”

  “Because—” She caught her breath, then laughed. Then caught her breath again. “You dinna understand.”

  “Then tell me. You shared a wee bit of your heart with me ten years ago. . . can ye no’ trust me now?”

  “I canna.” It was definitive.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am no more a wee lass, and you—and you—”

  He waited. Smiling. Patient beyond bearing.

  She said it all at once in a tumbling rush of confession. “Because I am trying verra hard not to kiss a MacDonald!”

  His words, though the name was changed, and he knew it. He remembered.

  His grin, in its birth, was dazzling. “Then dinna try so hard, aye?”

  “Oh Christ, ”she said in disgust.

  Dair began to laugh. In its noise was nothing of ridicule, no suggestion of unkindness, but a wild and glorious sound of realization and elation.

  And then the laughter died. He held out his hand and waited.

  Fingertips at first, the merest brush of flesh on flesh. But it was enough, it was always enough; there was no room for denial, no more wish for escape. She put her hand into his.

  “Come with me,” he said. “Come home with me to Glencoe.”

  The knot of men around Robert Stewart of Appin were very young, which told Breadalbane something as he returned from his meeting with Keppoch: Stewart himself was not so much older and would undoubtedly appeal to others of a similar age, who were impressionable and quick to rouse, eagerly giving ear to one of their own who shared the councils of men greater than they.

  He quietly joined the clutch surrounding Stewart, making deprecating motions when a few recognized him and fell away, giving him room to see the complex drawing in the dirt. “Who is who?” Breadalbane asked diffidently as Stewart took up his dirk as if to put it away. “I wasna there, you see. . . I am interested.”

  It was a blatant admission no one expected from him, and therefore proved most effective. They all knew Glenorchy Campbells had stayed out of the conflict at the earl’s behest, and had undoubtedly spoken derisively of cowardice and weak spines, of blood thinned with water, and Williamite politics. But to his face they
offered nothing now but unpracticed masks swept clean of all save wariness, and confusion, and the curiosity of the young. He was Breadalbane, after all, and Glenorchy, and Campbell.

  Stewart indicated with dirk the positions of various clans, and Dundee himself, and succinctly explained how Hugh Mackay had brought his men down through the pass into defeat.

  Breadalbane watched the dirk with half an eye; his true attention was almost entirely taken up in an assessment of Robert Stewart, though he did not divulge it.

  Not a fool, Robbie Stewart . . . But neither a man who understood patience, nor politics, nor the need to accommodate himself in whatever fashion he might that served his personal interests. Pride will cost him, yet.

  When the Appin heir finished his explanation, the earl nodded avuncular approval. “Dundee was a military genius, much as his ancestor Montrose was. I dinna doubt he could hae done as much for the Highlands as Montrose, had he lived.”

  Stewart’s mouth hooked down. “And lost his head, too?”

  Breadalbane met the challenge with a bland smile. “ ’Tis better to die on the field, in honor, than under an executioner’s ax.”

  “Aye, well. . .” Stewart glanced around at the clutch of young clansmen; he had lost their attention. He rose and sheathed his dirk as a few drifted away toward the other fires and other tales. “So, have ye come to tell me you are Jamie’s man?”

  No subtlety in this one. . . The stragglers instantly departed. Breadalbane smiled again. “Will you drink whisky wi’ me?” He gestured elegantly. “I’ve a fire back there, near the ruins, and a gillie to serve us. Or we might walk through Black Duncan’s trees.”

  The firelight gilded Stewart’s hair. He was not tall but compact, and his neck was warded either side by pronounced tendons. Linen-clad shoulders were wide beneath the diagonal swath of plaid. “I’ve a mind to stay here,” he said, “and have you say what you will say without snooving amidst the trees.” He jerked his head toward the scattered fires where lairds and clansmen gathered. “You’ve taken them all aside, one by one; d’ye think I’m blind to it, and why?”

  “Not you. You proved your mettle there.” The earl glanced pointedly down at the map drawn in dirt. “And I’ve a mind to ken you better.”

  “You ken me well enow. You ken what I am. But I dinna ken what you are—save a Williamite.”

  Breadalbane demurred, deflecting the barb easily. “I am a Scot. A Highland Scot. And I love my people.”

  A hint of a curl in the lip. “Enough to inflict a Dutchman upon them.”

  William of Orange was also a Stuart and the grandson of another, but the earl did not remind Appin’s young laird-to-be; such was not the point, and he did not care to split hairs as decisively as James’s reign and subsequent exile had split Scotland. “Such afflictions can be cured.”

  “Ah.” Stewart nodded; the lip’s curl was more pronounced. “Wi’ Jamie’s return, I dinna doubt?”

  The earl did not hesitate. “He is the rightful king.”

  Stewart barked a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve no’ heard you say so before!”

  “A man says many things.”

  “So he does.” Young teeth were bared in a brief, mocking grin. “And what does this man say?”

  “That he would do much to restore his land.”

  “How?”

  “By making a peace.”

  “How?”

  “By giving her lairds such things as they require.”

  Softly Stewart inquired, “Such things as silver?”

  As softly Breadalbane answered, “There is enough for all.”

  One sandy eyebrow lifted. “Even MacDonalds?”

  Breadalbane permitted himself a smile. “Ask Coll of the Cows.”

  Robert Stewart’s humor dissipated instantly. “Keppoch has agreed?”

  It pleased the earl to shrug as if none of it mattered. “Earlier. Keppoch and his tacksmen.” They were straight-worded now, dancing no dances; there were no swords beneath their feet, albeit honed edges under the tones. “And others. Many others.”

  “Glengarry.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Glencoe.”

  “Not yet.”

  The grin came back. “Not ever.”

  It was wholly honest, and clean as a blade. “I came to speak to Appin. Last I kent, he was a Stewart—not a MacDonald.”

  The dirk struck home. A wave of hectic color rose from the coarse-muscled throat to stain the flesh of his face. Blue eyes glittered balefully. “So is he still a Stewart. . . but he is welcome in Glencoe, which isna said of Campbells.”

  Breadalbane waited a beat. It would not do to lose his temper. “In time, the world changes. Old enmities are settled. Shall we settle ours?”

  In the silence between them pipe music skirled more loudly. It was ceol mor, but not a battle pibroch. A lament instead, of old ways treasured, old ways altered, old ways lost.

  Roughly Stewart said, “You do ken ’tis to the Earl of Argyll that Appin owes loyalty. Not to Glenorchy.”

  And so now only two are left. . . “This is not about loyalties within Clan Campbell, and those from older times owed of Stewart to such as I. This is not about Clan Campbell at all. This is about Scotland. There is a fort at Inverlochy with guns on the walls, and soldiers in the foothills, and a patrol boat in Loch Linnhe, and frigates off the Isles. D’ye believe we can win?”

  “What I say is: do you?”

  “I do not. But there is hope for peace. What is required, for now, is no more than a treaty, and your name upon it. No oaths sworn; I’ll no’ ask you to break your honor. A truce only, until such a time as James gives you leave to swear a new oath to William.”

  Stewart’s expression was taut. “Is he a fool, our Jamie, to give over such men as might win him his throne back?”

  “I would ask another question.”

  It provoked, as intended. “Oh, aye?”

  With careful precision the earl said, “I would ask myself if I were a fool, to let my clan be broken in the name of an exiled king who doesna have the faintest notion of Highland ways, or Highland honor.”

  Indolence was banished. The compact body stiffened. “You would ask that?”

  “I would. I have.”

  “Jamie’s man wouldna.”

  “Jamie’s man would do better to ask himself if he might profit more from peace than from war.”

  “Jamie’s man might. So might William’s.”

  Robert Stewart, the earl decided, was too young to know when he was beaten. By dawn, he would see it. But for now there was another whose aid might yet prove invaluable, if Breadalbane could procure it.

  The earl smiled. “I thank you for your time. I’ll no’ press a man for what he willna give willingly.”

  And as he walked away he took care that his shod feet scuffed into disarray Robert Stewart’s detailed map of what might be, all too plainly, the final Jacobite victory.

  The flesh of his hand warmed hers. MacDonald flesh. MacDonald hand. Upon a Campbell woman.

  Let it be so . . . I want it to be so.

  He repeated the words. “Come with me.”

  She wanted it to be so. Needed it.

  “Cat.”

  She gripped his hand. Could I do it? Should I?

  “Come home with me to Glencoe.”

  And then a man came up in the darkness, firelight sparking off brooch. “Would that be your price,” Breadalbane asked, “to bring MacIain to heel?”

  Two

  From a distance it had been innocent enough: MacIain’s second son extending a hand to a woman, his expression in moon- and firelight one of taut expectancy. It was an eloquent tableau with pockets of fire gushing about them and ceol mor haunting the air, and one no man might misunderstand who had ever desired a woman.

  Initially it meant nothing at all to Breadalbane save it was oddly if distantly touching, a reminder of his youth when he bedded a woman for his body’s sake instead of the sake of his house. Until the earl realized w
ho it was MacDonald seduced.

  Anger quickly replaced startlement. Then anger dissipated into preternatural calm. There is something to be gained of this.

  Glenlyon’s daughter broke the handclasp first. She clutched against her skirts an object that flashed briefly, blindingly silver, and said nothing at all, neither in shock nor in explanation; was wise enough, or shamed enough, in this discovery, to hold her silence.

  MacDonald, seduction diverted, grace dismissed, turned at once, abruptly. Color stained flesh, underscoring the symmetry of a face that was, unlike his father’s, innocent of beard. His features, to the earl’s eyes, were unremarkable if cleanly formed, and not so handsome as other men hailed for their appearance; nor was he as overwhelming in presence and personality as Glencoe’s towering laird.

  But he is at peace with his body. . . and was, the earl realized, supremely content with his place in the world. That of itself made him more than an arrant pup meant to be kicked aside by a casual foot.

  Breadalbane’s reassessment was rapid. He needed this lad as much as Robbie Stewart, or John MacDonald. He knew very well that by stirring argument within the sons he might well defeat the fathers.

  The earl flicked a glance at his cousin’s daughter. Her eyes were empty of enmity, too busy with implication. They were both of them stunned by his presence, but MacIain’s youngest son mustered self-control more quickly than she.

  “My father,” he said plainly, “isna a hound, aye?—to be made to come to heel.”

  Breadalbane froze into stillness, but managed a bland smile. This meant something. This was significant. It made Alasdair Og more important than anticipated: he could discern the object beyond obfuscation.

  “Oh, I think he is,” Breadalbane said lightly, “but we are all of us hounds, ye ken, fighting over the bone some men would also call Scotland.”

  “Scotland,” MacDonald affirmed, “but no’ this woman.”