by Amanda Scott
“Aye, well, it be me bounden duty tae look after the Maid o’ Dunsithe—mine and Claud’s, as well—and we ha’ done it right cheerfully, although it required little effort whilst ye lived here at Dunakin. Nae more than aiding ye in learning tae speak the Gaelic and helping wi’ your lessons—and keeping the laird happy by seeing that he always wins at chess.”
“Is that how he does it?”
“Aye,” Maggie said with a long sigh.
“Forgive me for saying so, but you do not appear to be very cheerful now.”
“Nay, then, but ye can lay me dour face at Claud’s door. I’ll grant ye that, like him, I had begun tae fear that Donald the Grim didna mean tae to his duty by ye and see ye suitably wedded. That man be as wicked as a man can be, and nae mistake, but I’d no ha’ taken such a rash step as what Claud did, and he shouldna ha’ done it, either—on anyone’s account. I canna doubt it ha’ vexed ye, too, since ’tis sure ye’ll feel some alarm at leaving the only home ye’ve known for years.”
Despite years of practice at shielding herself and others from her deeper emotions, Molly had felt more than a twinge of alarm about leaving Dunakin, especially at having to leave with Kintail. She said with careful calm, “I would remind you that, altogether, men have uprooted me three times before now—from Dunsithe to Tantallon, then to Dunsgaith, and from Dunsgaith here to Dunakin. Most young women know they must leave home when they marry, of course, but the sudden way this happened does put me forcibly in mind of the night my uncle snatched my sister and me away from Dunsithe.”
“Ye were both too young tae take from your mother,” Maggie said with a grimace. “And Angus were nae man tae look after bairns. ’Twas a pity and all, though, that the wee one were so delicate and failed as quick as she did.”
Not wanting to dwell on thoughts of wee Bessie’s death, which even so many years later had the power to devastate her, Molly said, “But what did Claud do, exactly, that was so rash and annoyed you so?”
“Why, ’twere my Claud who caused that feckless King James tae transfer your writ o’ wardship from Donald tae Kintail. Claud said he thought such an act would move things along and soon see ye married. Tae that same end, it were Claud who revealed ye tae Kintail last night when he and his men were riding past.”
“May God have mercy,” Molly exclaimed. “Why would he do such a thing?”
She spoke to air, however, for Maggie Malloch had vanished and the wildcat had vanished with her. Even the spiral of smoke had disappeared.
Chapter 5
Molly stood gaping at the now vacant bed for several moments and then rubbed her eyes. But the hallucination—for it surely must have been one—failed to reappear. Indeed, no sign whatsoever remained to show that a large furry wildcat and a plump, middle-aged woman two-thirds its size had been resting there only moments before. The coverlet was not even indented.
“Will ye be wantin’ hot water, mistress?”
The maidservant’s voice, sounding from the doorway behind her, startled her into remembering why she had come into her bedchamber in the first place. So intently were her senses fixed upon the bed that she had not heard the door open.
“Aye, Doreen,” she said, struggling to sound normal. “Just have someone fill the ewer, so that I can wash what shows. Then, help me change into another dress for dinner—the embroidered yellow wool, I think.”
The maidservant nodded and hastened to do her bidding. She had no sooner left the chamber, however, than Lady Mackinnon bustled in. Plump and comfortable-looking, she did not attempt to hide her relief at seeing Molly.
“Thank heaven you’re back, my love,” she exclaimed. “I knew that ye’d gone out, but I did not think ye meant to stay away the entire morning!”
“I apologize, madam, if you have been awaiting my return with impatience,” Molly said with a fond smile. “It was such a fine day, you see.”
Lady Mackinnon threw up her hands. “Say nae more! I see exactly how it was. ’Tis ever the same thing when ye fling yourself onto the back of a horse.”
“Come now, madam,” Molly said, moving to kiss the older woman’s soft cheek. “I do not believe that I still fling myself onto horses. You have taught me to behave more properly than that. Once, perhaps, when I was small, but—”
Lady Mackinnon chuckled. “I expect I should allow myself credit when it is due me,” she said. “I have indeed had some influence over ye, I believe.”
“Much influence, madam, and I am grateful for it. You taught me how to go on in many ways. I—I shall miss you.” The little hitch in her voice surprised her, and she strove to regain her customary control.
“I would ha’ done the same for a daughter o’ my own, love, had I been blessed wi’ one,” her ladyship said. “Ye filled that void, and thus ’twas my duty, for heaven kens Donald o’ Sleat wouldna ha’ bothered to teach ye deportment.”
“Nor, I warrant, would he have taught me my letters and numbers.”
“Now, to be truthful, that canna be laid to my account, for I scarcely ken them myself,” Lady Mackinnon said. “Ye did that yourself, for when Mackinnon hired Micheil Love to tutor our three lads and ye insisted on bearing them company during their lessons, there were naught anyone could do to gainsay ye.”
“I was barely seven years old when I came to you, madam. Surely, you will not say that I held sway over your entire household.”
Lady Mackinnon’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “I willna say that,” she replied, “but in the face of the dreadful temper tantrums ye threw when anyone denied ye, it did seem wiser to let ye ha’ your way about the lessons. Many Highland families of rank educate their daughters, after all.”
“Is such education not so common in the Borders, then?”
“As to that, I dinna ken, but when Mackinnon told Donald of Sleat that ye shared our lads’ lessons, Donald didna object.”
“He will object to the present situation, though, will he not?”
“Och, aye,” Lady Mackinnon said, her brow knitting in worry. “That man—nae one kens what to expect from him any day, but it be rarely anything good. One only prays that— What do ye want, lass?” she interjected in a sharper tone when Doreen appeared in the open doorway, carrying a ewer of hot water in one hand and Molly’s yellow dress draped over her free arm.
The maidservant stopped abruptly at the threshold.
“She is to help me change my dress for dinner, madam,” Molly said with a reassuring smile for Doreen.
Lady Mackinnon said briskly, “Come ye in, then, come ye in! But fetch out another dress for your mistress. She willna want to wear such a fine one to dine in today. And be quick about it, lest all the food be gone afore we get to the table.”
Doreen moved swiftly to set the ewer by the basin, but Molly said nothing immediately to contradict her ladyship. She knew Lady Mackinnon exaggerated the need for haste, but it was true that their midday meal was a hastier affair than supper would be. At midday everyone left chores to eat, and everyone knew that dalliance was not allowed. Supper, however, was more leisurely, accompanied by conversation and music from the pipers’ gallery. Afterward, people tended to linger in the hall, and a number of the men slept there each night on the floor.
Diverting her train of thought to a mental list of what remained to do before she could depart for Eilean Donan, she moved toward the basin to wash her hands and face, and saw that Doreen still held the yellow dress. The maidservant was looking uncertainly from her to Lady Mackinnon.
Lady Mackinnon said, “Quickly, lass, fetch a more suitable gown.”
“That one will do,” Molly said. “I told her to fetch it.”
“But ye willna want to wear anything so splendid, my dear, and I ken fine that your ordinary clothing hasna yet been packed into the kists ye’ll take wi’ ye.”
“Aye, madam, but I have good reason for choosing this gown.”
“I canna imagine what it could be,” Lady Mackinnon said, her tone inviting confidence. When none was forthcoming, sh
e frowned and then suddenly smiled. “I see how it is,” she said. “Indeed, I do! The man is handsome, to be sure, but oh, my love, I do hope he willna disappoint ye. To my mind, he is rather brash, rather… Well, no to put too fine a point on it, he is an arrogant laddie and of such great size as to be intimidating. Of course, Highland chiefs—nobbut what Kintail is only a chieftain like Mackinnon, but with a family as powerful as the Mackenzies, it is much the same thing. For all that he is young, he—” She broke off with a comical look. “Faith, but what was I about to say afore I carried on about Kintail?”
Well aware of where her ladyship’s thoughts had been taking her but in no mood to encourage her, Molly said gently, “I chose this gown, madam, because Kintail ordered me to wear blue. He told me in a most authoritarian way that my life will be different from now on, and although I do not doubt the truth of that, he will not choose what I shall wear—not now or ever.”
“Nay, then, of course he canna treat ye so,” Lady Mackinnon agreed. Frowning, she went on in her scattered way, “That is to say, I expect he can, for men do, ye ken—some men, at all events. But he has nae cause for tyranny, and if he were a heartless man, I dinna believe his grace the King would ha’ consigned ye to his care and protection.”
Molly did not know his grace the King, but she did not believe that he had given any thought to her well-being. Had he done so, he would not have given her in ward at the tender age of five to her uncle Angus or at the age of six to any man with “the Grim” appended to his name. Had James had the least care for her, he would have allowed her to grow up in her own home with her own mother and her beloved little sister; and had that been the case, Bessie would still be alive.
She did not point out any of this to her ladyship, however. Not only was it an uncomfortable subject to discuss with anyone, but being fully occupied with taking off her hunting dress and donning the gaily embroidered yellow wool, Molly was content to listen while the others listed tasks that awaited their attention after the meal. Her imagination insisted on presenting one image after another of the powerful Kintail, usually frowning, but she banished each one as it appeared. It was enough that he would control her future. She would not allow him to occupy her mind. Her ladyship offered a stream of orders and advice, but despite her own straying thoughts and these well-intended interruptions, Molly was soon ready.
Leaving Doreen to tidy up the room before she joined the other servants to eat her meal, the two ladies went together to the great hall, where they found men and maids surging in through the main entrance and hurrying to take places at several trestle tables set at right angles to the laird’s table.
Clatter and noisy conversation accompanied this invasion, and the conversation continued unabated while the two ladies wended their way to the high table. Two of Lady Mackinnon’s three sons—one a year younger than Molly, the other several years older—stood at their places. The other places were still empty.
Try as she did to appear calm and disinterested in Kintail’s absence, she could not help glancing around, wondering if he would dare comment publicly on her choice of attire. A flutter of apprehension and the little she had already experienced of the man told her that he might.
When he entered a few moments later with Mackinnon and Mackinnon’s eldest son, Rory, the embroidered collar on the loose smock Kintail wore belted over his russet hose and rawhide boots told Molly the smock was one of Rory’s. Despite its excellent cut, it was too short and fitted too tightly across his big shoulders, making his arms and legs look like those of a boy who had outgrown his clothes. There was nothing boylike about the rest of him, though. He looked formidable, and she knew in a flash that he had seen her, noted the yellow gown and thus her defiance of his request—nay, his command—and that he was displeased.
The flutter of apprehension turned into a shiver that shot up her spine, but that served only to stiffen it. She raised her chin and gave him back look for look.
Mackinnon spoke to him, and when Kintail turned to respond, Molly felt a rush of gratitude to her foster father for diverting that stern look from her. Her gratitude was short-lived, however.
“See ye, Molly lass,” Mackinnon said bluffly, “d’ye take her ladyship’s chair this once and I’ll shift mine wi’ Kintail’s, so ye and he can sit together. He tells me he’s hardly had a moment t’ tell ye aught o’ his Eilean Donan, and I dinna doubt but that ye’ll be yearning t’ hear all about it.”
She could think of no polite way to refuse, but it did not matter, for as soon as those below them in the hall saw that their laird was present, a silence fell and what little opportunity she might have had was gone.
Obediently, she stood behind the chair Mackinnon indicated, trying to ignore mounting tension as Kintail moved to stand beside her. She knew he was watching every move she made, because she could feel his gaze, and his displeasure.
Mackinnon said a few words to serve as grace-before-meat, and the meal officially began with a rumble and scrape of people taking their seats on the long benches at the trestle tables.
Kintail held Molly’s chair for her, deftly sliding it in as she sat down.
Good manners demanded that she thank him, but over-conscious of his daunting presence and determined that he would not know how strongly he affected her, she could not bring herself to do so.
Servers moved among them, plunking down platters of meat and trays of bread trenchers on the tables.
As Molly waited for the laird’s carver to serve her meat, her tension increased. She wished she could turn and engage Lady Mackinnon in conversation, but her ladyship was issuing orders to a gilly setting side dishes on the table. Bereft of aid from that source, Molly signed to another lad to pour her some ale.
“Art color blind, mistress?”
His voice sounded like she imagined the growl of a tiger might sound.
“I believe not, sir,” she replied, avoiding his gaze easily when the gilly reached between them to pick up her goblet.
“I believe you must be,” he said when the gilly stepped back. “That dress is yellow. I cannot deny that it becomes you—better than such a bright color would become most women, in fact—but it is not blue.”
Flattered despite her determination to let nothing he said affect her more than his looming presence already had, she said, “I chose not to wear blue.”
“I see.” He was silent while the gilly set down her goblet again and departed, and for a long moment after that. Indeed, he waited almost long enough to make her look at him. Then he said, “Very well, I will allow the lapse this time, because I can see that you chose well, and because perhaps you did not understand that I meant for you to obey me. You may wear blue to supper tonight instead.”
“I am not accustomed to letting anyone dictate what I shall wear,” Molly said, glowering at her trencher and wishing that his sternness did not incite such a turmoil inside her.
“I am rapidly coming to believe that you are not accustomed to anyone telling you anything,” he retorted. “Such license is not appropriate for a young, unmarried female. You must learn to look to others to guide you.”
“Why?” She did look at him then, astonished.
He stared back steadily. “Because you cannot otherwise know how to go on. Females don’t. They lack the education and experience necessary to make wise decisions on their own.”
Indignant now, she said, “I warrant my education must be the match of most men’s educations.”
“Is it?” He smiled patronizingly. “What university did you attend?”
“You know very well that females do not attend universities, and I think that it is a great misfortune that they do not. Nonetheless, when I took my lessons with Rory Mackinnon and his brothers, I frequently knew the correct answers to our tutor’s questions when they did not.”
“You had a tutor?” He was clearly surprised.
“Aye, I shared Micheil Love with the lads, of course, but he often said that I was his best pupil and that it was a sha
me I could not study Greek and Latin. He believed that I would excel at those subjects, too.”
“Why did you not study them, then?”
“Because Rory and the others did not want to do so, and the laird would not pay Micheil to tutor me alone. I could share only what they were willing to learn.”
“I see.” His brow furrowed, and she expected him to make another acid comment about what females could and could not do, but to her surprise, he did not. Instead, he smiled wryly and said, “I’ll admit that you are not what I expected, mistress. Are you perhaps apt with numbers then, as well?”
“Aye,” she said, seeing nothing to gain with false modesty. She added frankly, “I can do sums and subtractions, at all events, and I can multiply and divide if the numbers are not too great. I do not know more than that, though, for the same reason that I did not learn Greek.”
“That is enough,” he said thoughtfully. “You might prove more useful at Eilean Donan than I had reason to suspect.”
“Indeed?” She would not give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant, although she was dying to know.
He did not tell her, either. He smiled enigmatically, and then, just when she thought he would at last turn his attention to his meal, he added, “First, of course, you must learn obedience. I look forward to seeing that blue dress this evening.”
Molly sighed. Clearly, it would take time to show Kintail that he could not so easily master her. The foolish man seemed to think that he had only to speak and everyone would obey.
Mackinnon diverted Fin’s attention just then to suggest that they enjoy another game of chess later, but although Fin agreed, he did not allow his host to divert him long. He was more interested in taking the opportunity to study his ward.
Her magnificent hair no longer tumbled in a cloud of curls down her back. She had tamed it, confined it in a coil at the nape of her slender neck, where escaping tendrils trailed enticingly. Others escaped her coif, softly caressing her rosy cheeks.