Jennifer Roberson
Page 34
“What?” The expression disturbed him. “Cat—what is it?”
Her voice was strangled. “Dougal was right.”
“Dougal?” It was preposterous. “What has he to do with anything?”
“He said I’d shrivel it, and I did!”
“Shrivel . . . och, Christ, Cat—”
“With spite,” she explained. “Was I so spiteful?”
It was gey difficult not to whoop in laughter, until he thought of Una. Instead he had to muffle his noise against the pillow.
She was much perturbed. “Are you crying, man?”
When he could breathe again he nodded. “Oh, aye—but not from pain or sadness.” He hitched himself up on an elbow and caught her hand, lacing her fingers with his. “Cat—’tis nothing like spite. I promise. ”
“But—” Her expression was eloquent.
Dair opened his mouth, shut it, began again. “You’ve seen bulls rutting, and stallions—” She nodded. “—well, you ken verra well they dinna always look so large.”
“Well, no,” Cat agreed. “ ’Twould be gey difficult for a bull to walk, like that.”
He caught back a laugh. “Oh, aye . . . and for a man as well.”
She was dubious. “I saw Robbie—my brother Robbie—once. With Mairi. He looked verra much like a bull.”
“Smaller, I should hope, for Mairi’s sake!” Dair kissed one knuckle, then the back of her hand. “You didna shrivel it, Cat. Not with spite, or anything else. ’Tis only resting.”
She was sly despite her innocence, tightening her grasp. “Then wake it up, aye?”
Dair grinned toothily. “ ’Tis for the lass to do.”
“Oh, aye? How?”
“For you,” he said, “just breathe. You see?” He guided her hand beneath the coverlet, across his belly, and lower. “No’ so shrivelled now . . . and if you—”
A banging on the door below drowned out his quiet suggestion. Cat jerked her hand free and sat up rigidly, yanking sheets to her shoulders. The banging repeated itself, resolved into knocking.
“Oh, Christ Jesus,” she hissed, bestirring herself from bedding to search frenziedly for her clothing. “Oh Holy Mary—”
The banging continued unabated.
“Where did you put—? Oh, Christ—where is Una?” Cat knelt to the floor and began to scoop up clothing. “Is this—?—no, yours . . . here . . . oh good Christ—”
Dair sat upright. “Cease your swearing,” he said, “and come back to bed. ’Tis your house, aye?—you’ve a right to answer the door when you choose.”
Cat glared at him as she stuck one long leg into the trews and pulled colorful tartan over her knee. “And let Una see me come out of my father’s room . . . ?” She struggled with the other leg. “Who is at the door this early?”
“Not so early as that.” There was no dissuading her. Resigned, Dair bent and caught a shirt. “Here. You’ve got mine—” He stood, unabashed in nakedness, and put it over her head, pulling hair through. “Give me an arm, Cat—here—” He bent it at the elbow.
“I’ll no’ let you dress me like a bairn,” she said crossly, thrusting an arm through the sleeve without his aid. “Oh, I shouldna had that whisky last night—I smell of it . . .”
“—And of me, and I of you.”
Her face reddened. She yanked the sleeve up so her hand was free of voluminous linen, then put the other arm through as Dair held up the empty sleeve. “My belt—”
And froze as Una’s voice, outside the door, called her name.
Below, the banging continued. A man’s voice shouted loudly for someone to open the door.
Una’s voice was muffled by wood and distance. “Catriona—rouse yourself. I’ll go down to see to the door.”
“Oh,” Cat gasped, “she is at my door . . . wait you—” And whispering urgently, “Where is my belt—?”
“Here. Dinna let your trews fall down, or they’ll ken you’re no lad.” He grinned as she swore. “Now I am well acquainted with the truth of you, but strangers might not see it.”
She buckled the belt over trews and shirt. Coils of brilliant hair tumbled around her shoulders. “My shawl—” she muttered, then bent and caught up the mound of wool that was his plaid and kilt. “ ’Twill do, aye?”
“Cat!” But she threw a fold over her head, swirled the bulk around her body, and went out the door, leaving him with naught to wear but a saffron-dyed shirt, like a Gael going into battle. “Christ,” he muttered. “I might as well be, aye?”
Cat checked at the top of the stairs even as Una, below, opened the front door. There was a male voice, an authoritative voice for all its courtesy. Cat drew in a deep breath, briefly rearranged the mass of Dair’s plaid, and called out to Una to ask what was the matter.
Before Una could answer a man was in the house. A young man in military dress, hat tucked beneath an arm. “I am Major Duncan Forbes,” he said, “from Fort William, at Inverlochy. It is my duty to locate and bring in a man wanted for piracy.”
Una gasped noisily even as Cat drew herself up. “Piracy!” she said sharply, startled into genuine protest. “We are far from the water, Major . . . why d’ye think there would be such a man here?” With aplomb, she descended the stairs slowly. She was wholly aware of his puzzled appraisal; did he see the trews beneath the kilt and plaid? She had tried to hide them in a barrage of tartan, but there had been so little time. “Who are you looking for?”
“A Jacobite,” he said. Then, as if aware he might well be standing in the house of a fellow Jacobite, he mitigated his tone. “A supply ship on its way to Fort William was attacked. The boat was taken, stolen, and all its cargo as well.”
Cat reached the bottom step and paused. Was the accusation true? Or some trumpery excuse because Dair fought at Killiecrankie, where the Jacobites had won?
“And why d’ye think such a man might come here?” she asked contemptuously, playing out the role. “My father is Laird of Glenlyon—you ken him, aye?—and sworn to King William. He is even now in the Earl of Argyll’s new regiment.” All of it perfectly true; let him read it in her eyes. “D’ye think the laird’s own daughter would hide a Jacobite pirate?”
Major Forbes inclined his head slightly. “Indeed, I know the name. It is also known Captain Campbell is with the regiment. But that does not preclude my duty. We have intelligence that this man might have come here. I’m afraid I have orders to search this house as well as the bothies.” His expression softened. “There is no cause for alarm, nor any reason to fear. If you are under duress, we’ll hold nothing against your denials.”
A kind man, withal, and a fool. Good. Cat came down the final step. “We’re hiding no man, Major Forbes, nor are we lying about it. But I canna—”
Una fell back with a shriek of alarm. “Who is that—?”
Cat glanced back. Dair, shadowed in dimness, stood at the head of the stairs wearing her father’s trews. “Major Forbes,” he said evenly, smoothing his Highland accent, “have we met?”
The soldier frowned minutely. “No, sir, we have not. May I ask your name?”
Dair, descending, came down into the daylight, and Una drew in a breath.
“ ’Tis Alasdair—” she began.
“—Campbell, ”Cat finished swiftly, not daring to look at Una. She did not know why Dair had chosen to show himself, but if she thought quickly enough, the harm would be diminished. “He is a cousin of my father’s, and we—I—” She could not help it; her face burned with embarrassment.
Dair stood next to her now. He rested a hand familiarly on her shoulder. “Would you have a lass speak of private matters, Major?”
“Catriona,” Una expelled on a rush. “Catriona Campbell—”
Now was opportunity. Cat turned toward her. “I couldna tell you,” she said. “How could I? He is not a man my father would approve—” —indeed not!—“—nor would my brothers. But I made up my mind to do as I wished, instead of letting everyone else direct my life.” Every word true. “Una,
I am sorry—but if you could understand—”
“Understand!” Una was horrified. “I understand very well, Catriona—but if you think I’ll permit such dishonor in your father’s own house—”
“I mean to marry her,” Dair said. “Would you have us handfast before you? You would make proper witnesses, aye?” His hand squeezed Cat’s shoulder. “Her brothers might be somewhat fashed about it, but the lass and I are set on one another. . . .” His smile was charming as he looked at Una, so very, very bonnie. “Can you not find it in your heart to forgive us, Una?”
Major Forbes smiled politely. “I’m afraid that must wait. I don’t believe the woman would care to forgive a Jacobite liar.” He glanced briefly at Cat, then looked again at Dair even as he motioned soldiers into the house. “Sir, I must place you under arrest. You are charged with piracy, and will be taken to Fort William until transportation to the Tolbooth in Edinburgh, where you will await the king’s pleasure.”
“He’s not a pirate!” Cat cried. “He’s my kinsman, Alasdair—”
“—MacDonald,” the major finished. His smile was kindly. “He may have shared your bed, but he is no kin of yours.” He gestured again, and a man was brought through the door.
Robbie Stewart, in shackles. Iron chimed as he moved. His face, beneath new bruises, was white and taut. His eyes burned avidly, an intense, brilliant blue.
Another time Cat might have rejoiced to see him brought down so low as this. But this moment, in this house, she wanted very much to wish him elsewhere, away where he could not identify Alasdair Og MacDonald.
He gazed at her a moment, a very long moment, expression inscrutable. Then he looked at Dair, standing rigidly near the stair. “You dinna ask why, MacDonald. D’ye think they tortured me for it?”
Even Cat knew better than that.
Robbie’s eyes were defiant as the soldiers closed on Dair. “Oh, a bit of a scuffle—I’ve no liking for iron, aye?—but ’twasn’t so difficult for me to speak to the point when they asked which of MacIain’s sons it was who went a-reiving with me.” Color burned on his cheekbones. “You see, Jean had come home by then.”
Dair’s face blanched into alabaster. “She left of her own will.” “Oh, aye? And am I to name my sister a liar?” Robbie spat at the floor. “I dinna think so!”
“She left,” Dair repeated. “She was gone when I returned.”
“Driven away.”
“She was not.”
“Driven away by a man who would take a Campbell bizzem in his bed instead!” He glared fiercely at Cat. “D’ye think I didna see it when you gave her your bonnet? Good Christ, MacDonald, the whole encampment saw it! And not a one of my Appin men, nor any of Glencoe, who didna ken what that meant!”
“Robbie—”
But Stewart refused to listen when he could act instead. Before anyone could move to check him, he lunged forward through the soldiers and slung shackles and chain at Dair’s unprotected jaw.
Dair’s head snapped back. He rocked on his heels, then fell down against the stairs. His skull struck a riser with an audible crack.
“You bluidy bastard—” Cat, unshackled and much freer to move than Stewart, stiff-armed him back and back, knocking him off his stride until he fetched up against the wall. Folds of tartan fell from her shoulders. “You pawkie, bluidy bastard—”
There were men all around, soldiers in her house. Someone caught her arms and pulled her away from Robbie, who grinned and swore in vulgar admiration, bleeding from a split lip; but she heard naught of it, nothing more than noise, a roaring in her ears and light, too much light, filling up her eyes.
“Devil take you!” she cried, then pulled free of them all to go to Dair, sprawled so gracelessly, to kneel, to touch his bloodied face.
“Catriona—” Una blurted. “You’ll no’—”
But the words were blocked away as hands closed on her arms again. They pulled, they nagged, they dragged her away. “Let me be—”
“Put him in irons,” Forbes said. “We can tie him onto his horse.”
His voice was distant, so distant.
To Robbie he said, distantly, “That was unnecessary.”
“No, oh no, ’twas. ”
Forbes jerked his head to other soldiers. “Have Stewart taken out of here. He’s served his purpose.” He turned to Cat. “I told you, no lies would be held against you. No harm will come to you.”
A hand stayed her when she would have moved. Instead she laughed into his face, and saw him redden. Forbes turned away.
They put shackles on Dair’s wrists, locked them, then heaved him up from the floor. He was slack in unconsciousness and made no protest. Blood stained the saffron linen of his shirt. She saw a smear on the angle of the bottom step, a puddle on the floor.
Where she had stood once, in trews and shirt, confronting Robbie Stewart as he held a sword to her throat.
She could not wish upon him another fate but that he be transported to the Tolbooth and summarily hanged in Edinburgh. Save that Dair would hang with him.
The roaring yet filled her head, and the light her eyes. So much noise and light . . . she wondered if it were anger, were fear, or if something had broken inside her head even as Dair had struck his.
Robbie was gone, and Dair. They were gone, all of them gone: the soldiers, Stewart, MacDonald. Only Forbes remained.
Cat looked at him. Noise faded. The light died out of her eyes. All the weight, the pain, the paralyzing fear came up to close her throat. “Dinna do it,” she said tightly. “He’s already hanged once. ’Tis bad luck to hang a man twice.”
There was no joy in his eyes, only duty and sympathy. “The king’s pleasure,” Forbes said, and took his leave.
Dair roused as they pulled him from the horse. He was aware of war being fought in his belly and the thunder of cannon booming inside his head. For a moment it was Killiecrankie come again, steel blades clashing, until his feet touched the ground. Hands were on him, but it did not matter; he sagged against the garron and felt it shift.
—och, wait—
The motion was enough. Legs collapsed and dumped him unceremoniously onto stony ground, where raw and brutal instinct rolled his body to one side, then hitched it up awkwardly on elbow and hip despite the chains——no’ swords after all——as Dair lost the war. All that he had eaten, all that he had drunk, deserted his belly.
Had he been wholly conscious he would have felt humiliated before the Sassenach soldiers, but he was but barely conscious and therefore did not care a fig for what they thought of him. He did not recall ever having been so ill, so wretchedly ill, with pain crowding his skull and lodging in his jaw. He expelled what was in his belly, then fell to a cramped heaving despite its emptiness. His skull cracked open and let in all the light, the too-bright light of a day he would sooner forget.
Iron chimed as someone came to stand over him. The tone was flat, unfriendly. “They’ve let us stop to piss.”
Dair coughed, and wished he hadn’t.
Iron rang again. The man knelt next to him. “MacDonald.” A hand touched his shoulder. This time the tone was friendlier. “You’ll no’ choke, d’ye hear?”
Scot, not Sassenach. And a familiar voice, withal.
“Dair—” Now there was sharp concern. “Christ, you willna die, aye? And rob them of their hanging?”
Robbie. Robbie Stewart. Who was wholly responsible for his straits.
The heaving died with an intemperate quiver deep in his belly. Dair remained hunched with one leg tucked beneath him, afraid to lift his forehead from the ground. His head might fall off. The jaw, he feared, already had.
“I’ve water,” Robbie said. “Will you wash your face, man?”
He did not care the least about his face. It was all he could do to remain precariously balanced between the day and the night.
Another voice intruded. “We must go on.”
Robbie, with scorching contempt: “D’ye think he’ll run away if we bide a wee bit?”
“He is injured—” Robbie began.
“Then tend him yourself,” the other declared. “ ’Twas you who injured him.”
Dair, in his misery, did not know why Stewart would do other than crack his head again. Yet the hand on his shoulder remained.
“Can you sit?” Robbie asked. “They’ll haul you up again; would you give them the satisfaction?”
He would give them whatever he could manage. Dair shifted against the ground and slowly levered himself upright into a sitting position. The hand fell away with a ringing of iron links. Robbie, squatting close, eyed him critically.
Awkwardly Dair scraped a linen-clad forearm across his mouth, avoiding the heavy shackle at his wrist, then fixed his blurred vision on Robbie’s bruised face. Through the pain in his jaw, he said, “Devil take you, you pawkie bastard.”
Stewart did not choose to accept the insult. “Och, as to that—he already has.” Two-handed, he hoisted a boiled-leather bottle. “Water, not usquabae. Will ye drink?”
Upright did not suit his head. Blackness encroached. “Drink it yourself,” he managed. “And may you choke on it—”
But any retort that might have been offered was lost in the fraying decay of Dair’s consciousness.
Small trunks only, wood with leather tacked over, and tin bits at the corners for strength. Cat would take one garron and thus could not afford to pack more than two small trunks could hold.
Apart from the rest was a short length of fine-woven tartan spread out upon her bed—her bed, not her father’s—and into the center she set three items: a sword-severed length of hempen rope, a silver French-made mirror, and a blue Highland bonnet bearing badge and eagle feather. He was a laird’s son.
Una had, eventually, gone away. Cat ignored her after the first moments of argument, until Una declared her an ill-mannered, foul-mouthed bizzem, to which Cat replied, with manifest eloquence, that until Una was mistress in the laird’s place she had best tend her tongue.