by Stobie Piel
Lady MacCallum's hands looked like claws, tentacles that resisted touching each other but had to, under severest pressure. Nathan rose from his knee, still clasping Miren's hand. He bent to brush his lips against her cheek.
"This is war, woman."
Miren beamed like a bride. "I know."
Chapter Seven
A happier sight I've never seen. Every young, strong male at Lady MacCallum's garden party is on his way to the sheep pen for the purpose of shearing. It was the queen's idea. To get the real, firsthand view of Scotland.
Some took the suggestion better than others. The Duke of Argyll ripped off his finery and marched down to the pasture as if he'd dreamt of shearing all his life. His wife clapped and cheered. Nathan seemed happy just to be out of his black coat and back to his loose white shirt.
I noticed that the young females seemed happy for him to be out of his coat, too.
Pale young Brent didn't take it so well. Though he didn't object, it's obvious to a dog that he'd rather be dead than working like a shepherd.
"There's nothing quite so glorious as a man at his most elemental task." Queen Victoria's chair had been carried from the manor and positioned outside the sheep pasture's stonewall. Her dogs sat around the hem of her dress, watching Flip at his task.
The queen's rough collie seemed especially interested in the proceedings, but it remained motionless, well-behaved. The terriers sat with imperious expressions on their scruffy faces, as if convinced they could handle the sheep better but considered the task unworthy.
The queen's two Pomeranians sat alert on her lap, both content to have their ears scratched. Miren wondered if one of these was Skiffy, but neither had Muffin's ferocious disposition. They were actually quite pleasant little dogs, which aroused Miren's suspicions. Perhaps Muffin's ruthless tendencies came not from bloodlines, but from her proximity to Lady MacCallum.
Muffin had been retired to the manor, lest the shearing "disturb" her delicate nerves. Miren took it as a victory. Molly sat beside the queen. Muffin had been sent to her room.
Miren stood beside the queen and the Duchess of Argyll, favored unexpectedly above the other guests. She had attempted to rejoin Simon, but the queen had taken her hand and said the fiancée of a laird must leave such tasks as shearing to her future husband.
"I do so love Scotland. The Highlands in particular. Miss Lindsay, you are a lucky child indeed to call this your home."
Miren gazed across the pasture to Loch Fyne. "Do you know, I have spent most of my life dreaming of leaving, of going to America?"
The queen turned in her chair. She shaded her eyes against the high sun as she inspected Miren's face. "You mustn't leave, child. So many have gone already. The Highland regiments are Great Britain's finest, but they have taken their toll. My predecessors perhaps waged unfair tactics upon the Scots, but I will see the honor restored. I believe much is restored already."
Miren nodded, though a faraway longing infected her heart. "Scotland is within. I do believe that wherever a Highlandergoes, he carries his homeland with him.''
The queen's bright eyes glistened with tears. Miren realized that despite her vast power, Victoria was a tender and sentimental woman, with a well-developed imagination. She could look at the Scots and imagine what it was to have a Scottish heart beating within.
"My dear Albert loved the Highlands so." The queen's voice softened almost to a whisper. Miren's heart stirred. To love so much . . . Miren had endured her own losses with a Scottish practicality. But she had never been in love. Miren's gaze drifted to Nathan.
He stood at the center of the pasture, laughing as the Duke of Argyll pinned a ewe against the fence. He was so handsome, so sure of himself. He was an Indian, a pirate, a Scottish laird. He'd come to Scotland like a detective, to solve a crime and be gone. Miren had no doubt that he would succeed.
And one day she might speak his name the way Queen Victoria spoke of her Albert.
"The young gentlemen are making a pudding of it, aren't they?"
The queen relished the day. Miren suspected she far enjoyed the shearing to Lady MacCallum's garden party. "Yes, but they're entertaining."
The queen chuckled. Irene MacCallum uttered a false laugh, but the Duchess of Argyll cackled in glee as her husband dove after the ewe and missed. "My Louise is happy here."
"Never so happy as today, Mama."
Simon MacTavish stood at the far end of the field, whistling instructions to Flip. Nathan shook his head. His long, dark hair glistened in the sun. "Has anyone considered driving a few of them into the byre and then getting hold of them?"
The Duke of Argyll pondered this, then nodded. Simon puckered his entire face. "That's a fop's solution. A realshepherd takes the task to the pasture."
Nathan took a deliberate step Simon's way. "A 'real shepherd' would be done with the 'task' by now and be on to dinner, wouldn't you say?"
Simon braced at the thinly veiled slur. "If I had better help"
"You don't."
"Hell's bells!" Simon sputtered incoherently for a moment, then held up his shears. "To the byre!"
Miren frowned. "Fegs! We won't see what they're doing in there."
The queen sighed, too. "But we'll see the results, my dear. That should be engaging in itself."
The queen was right. Nathan's plan worked relatively well. Flip separated small pockets of ewes and edged them toward the byre. Nathan and the duke blocked them in, then followed Simon to the hidden shearing task. Brent Edgington floundered around the field but didn't appear to have much use. He looked odd, alone in the field, wearing his kilt, his pale face flushed from the sun. Miren felt sorry for him.
Apparently, Irene MacCallum noticed this, too. "My darling Brent isn't at all suited to such a task. His talents are in the field of diplomacy."
The Duchess of Argyll turned to Irene. "Wasn't Brent studying with a physician for a time? Dr. Patterson, wasn't it?"
Miren pretended indifference to the disclosure, while listening carefully for anything that might benefit Nathan's investigation.
Irene appeared a little tense. "Dr. Patterson was a family friend. His death was a great shock to us all. He and Brent were involved in a business venture. My late husband, Colonel Edgington, and Dr. Patterson were friendly in India."
The queen eyed Brent without admiration, but maybe witha little pity. "The young man does seem better suited to office work."
Two ewes emerged from the byre, shorn to the skin. The queen applauded and the duchess cheered. Simon emerged, too, and held up his shears in victory. Miren smiled. Despite his avowed disrespect for the English monarchy, the old Scotsman reveled in the attention.
"We've got two sets of shears going, Your Eminence! Young duke's trying his hand, got Nathaniel pinning her down. You'll be seeing some fine quality wool in no time!"
The queen waved and nodded. Simon directed Flip after three more ewes. "High-strung little man, isn't he?"
Miren sighed. "You have no idea . . ."
The queen turned her attention to Miren. "You, my dear, have had an interesting engagement party. But I think our fine shepherds might be at this task longer than will prove entertaining for the ladies." She paused and eyed Irene. "Lady MacCallum, you have indeed provided a fascinating diversion. I wonder if you might see fit to arrange proper attendance for this dear child?"
Lady MacCallum blanched, but she affected such a rigorous smile that Miren could only stare in astonishment. "It would be my great pleasure, of course. Dear Miren has been a joy and a delight. I would be ecstatic to assist in any way I can."
"I hoped that was the case."
Miren shifted her weight from foot to foot, wondering what the queen meant by "attendance." "I should be getting back to my flock."
The queen seized her daughter's hand and rose to her feet. The dogs positioned themselves like soldiers around her. "Nonsense. Lady MacCallum will provide proper bathing facilities, and we will locate a fitting gown for your use." She looked around at the young ladie
s. "You, Sarah . . ."
A young blond woman stepped forward and curtsied. She looked apprehensive. Miren recognized the pretty girl whohad hovered at Nathan's side, and sighed when he removed his coat. The same who had dropped her white dog when he announced their engagement. "Yes, Mam."
"Your trunks are in the Spottington coach, are they not?"
"They are, Mam."
"You and Miss Lindsay are of a similar size. See to it that the liveryman deposits your wardrobe trunk into Lady MacCallum's dressing room, and Miss Lindsay will select a suitable gown."
Miren chewed the inside of her lip. She knew it was an excruciating request for Sarah. Miren suspected that the queen chose Sarah for a reason, and it wasn't a favorable one. "I have a dress of my own."
The queen cast a too-knowing glance her way. "Is it clean?"
Miren hesitated. "Not entirely."
"You will wear Lady Sarah's gown. Find a color suitable to the Lindsay plaid."
Queen Victoria might be charming and matronly, but she was still queen. Miren curtsied and bowed at once. "Thank you, Mam."
"Ladies, proceed back to the manor. Lady MacCallum, see that your chef produces suitable drinks for the gentlemen." The queen waited until the other ladies began the trek back to the manor, then seized Miren's arm. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, her eyes twinkling with mischievous delight.
"And you, Miss Lindsay, are to bathe and scrub and decorate yourself in such finery as to make Laird MacCallum consider upholding that proposal of his."
It had all started when sheep had surrounded his coach. No. When he had seen Miren Lindsay's small, tense face and decided she needed his "help."
His shirt was torn. His foot hurt because Blossom had stomped on it, deliberately, in an attempt to dissuade him from his final shearing.
Nathan trudged up the dark road to the manor, silent as he plotted vengeance. He had asked her to marry him. In front of Queen Victoria. He had got down on his knees and begged her. And the little squirrel hadn't blushed and accepted with girlish delight.
No. Her dark blue eyes had narrowed, her stubborn little chin had risen . . . And she'd issued a long series of demands before conceding. She knew exactly what she was doing. Because she was Scottish, and the Scots always know. The woman was practical. Devious, but practical.
The sheep had infiltrated Lady MacCallum's tidy garden party for a reason. Driven there by Miren's fiendish familiar, Molly. Miren Lindsay had him just where she wanted him . . .
"What a day! Not much as tiring as sheepshearing, is there?" The Duke of Argyll sounded happy. His hair was tousled, parts of it stood straight up. His shirt and vest were askew, torn and muddy. Wool stuck to his trousers like burdocks. And he was still smiling.
"Anything like this in America, Nathaniel?"
Despite the nobility and genteel ease, Nathan liked the duke. His enthusiasm was infectious. "Not that I've seen, no." Actually, sheepshearing reminded him of the Iroquois sport lacrosse. More than once, he'd been tempted to hurtle a ewe across the field.
"Ought to add it to our Highland Games. Her Majesty has reinstated the ancient tournaments, you know. Caber tossing, hammer throwing. Fascinating history we have here in Scotland. While the bloody Englishsorry, Brent, didn't mean to offendwere testing their knights in tournamentsand losing half of them to severed limbs and displaced headsour Scots were testing the real strength of manhood in the Games."
Nathan nodded, amazed at the duke's abundant energy and continual enthusiasm. "It seems more sensible to challenge strength and skill rather than annihilate it, yes."
"Thought so myself. Her Majesty finds the Games a worthy pursuit. Got a fine tournament coming up in Oban in a week. Ought to be a sight. Join us, will you, Nathaniel?" The duke glanced back at Brent, who scurried along behind, his pressed kilt in sorry disarray. "You and your mother, too, Brent."
Brent seized a breath and tried to bow while walking. "It would be my great honor and joy, Your Grace"
"Good, good. Bring your young lady, Nathaniel. Scottish lass like that must be a fine one at the fling. Maybe she'll even compete!"
Nathan eyed him doubtfully. "The fling?"
"Och, but you've been born abroad! The Highland fling. A dance, mon." Away from the queen, the Duke of Argyll reverted to a thick, Scottish burr. They're all crazy. Nobles, peasants. Every one. "There'll be pipers, dancing. I've got to say, it's my greatest joy to attend."
Nathan liked the idea of Miren dancing. Yes, he would insist. His vengeance started now. "We will be pleased to attend, Your Grace."
The duke chuckled. "Maybe Brent will try his hand at the caber toss."
A weak moan was the only response.
The doormen were waiting by the entrance to MacCallum Manor. Both repressed grins at the sight of the returning shepherds. They swung open the doors and bowed. Nathan considered it a deliberately exaggerated action.
"Your Grace . . . Laird MacCallum . . ."
The duke stopped and set his hand on a surprised doorman's shoulder. "You gentlemen shouldn't have missed it! The wool we gathered . . ."
Nathan stopped listening. He'd promised her war. He meant to deliver. His proposal had seemed the best solution at the time. He had several good reasons for issuing it in public, before the queen. First, and unexpectedly, it solidified his claim of inheritance. He needed approval from the Englishmonarchy, and thanks to Miren's charm, he got it.
Second, it removed the trouble of putting off young girls in sight of marriage. From the moment the girls arrived, Nathan realized they were there as prospective brides. If he didn't pay court, it might be seen as suspicious. Yet a woman's flirtatious demands could easily get in his way.
He had other motivations, too. If Brent Edgington was behind Kenneth MacCallum's murder, he would certainly act again. Should Nathan marry, his wife, not MacCallum's former heirs, would inherit the estate. So if Edgington planned to act, he would act faster now.
They weren't excuses. They were valid, legitimate reasons for proposing marriage to Miren Lindsay. In public. They both knew it wasn't his real intention. Not for a moment did Miren believe him. He saw that in her eyes. She didn't want to marry him any more than he wanted to marry . . . anyone. She wanted to go to America. He would help her, and they would be equal.
Something else had influenced his rash declaration "Miss Lindsay is my fiancée." She looked so small and so alone, standing in the middle of her sheep, her faithful, slackabout dog at her heels. Facing the queen with all her courage. Mud dripping from her hair, smudging her cheeks. Her sackcloth dress torn from her ankle to her thigh. One glimpse told him those were legs worth closer viewing.
He'd watched her, wreaking havoc as she always did, still innocent. Beguiling. He'd watched her facing the most powerful woman in the world, threatened with imminent scandal because he'd brought her to his estate. He thought of the well-dressed, coiffed, polished young ladies giggling behind their fans because Miren carried half the sheep pasture with her. He saw Brent Edgington's furtive glances at her exposed leg.
And he stepped forward to claim her.
The duke was still chattering to the doormen. Brent was trying to join in, but his face looked strained. Nathan wanteda bath. A hot bath. A benefit of being laird he intended to seize.
He turned his attention to the foyer. Marble floors . . . a ridiculous excess. He heard female laughter. The duke's wife came into the hall and shrieked. Not the mincing tone expected of nobility, but a woman's hearty glee.
"You will walk behind the carriage!"
The duke abandoned the doormen and marched to his wife. "I will ride at the fore, my dearest, in honor of returning to the castle."
She kissed his cheek. He laughed. They were happy, the image of wedded bliss. For an instant, the Duke and Duchess of Argyll reminded Nathan of another couple. His parents, laughing and teasing each other on the Seneca Reservation. In such moods, they often sent him and David outside to play. . . . He began to understand why.
Nathan looked around for Miren. She wasn't there, though Lady MacCallum and the queen entered the foyer. The young ladies huddled together, whispering behind their fans. The scene seemed unreal, as if he viewed it from a great distance. As if a theatrical presentation unfolded, and he sat alone in the audience.
He tried to remember who he really was. A half-breed Seneca, captain of a stolen ship, a man bent on vengeance. A man who couldn't wait to go home, and never see Scotland again.
"Saints! What happened to you?"
That sweet, melodious Scottish voice . . . Miren emerged from a side door, her eyes shining with mischief. She leaned forward, clasping her hands in delight.
Nathan just stared. He knew his mouth hung open, but he couldn't close it. She wore a burgundy dress, cinched tight at the waist, slim over her hips, full over her breasts. Her dark hair had been pinned loosely behind her head, allowing wisps of curling hair to frame her little face.
Her refined appearance hadn't changed her devious glee.
She sauntered across the foyer as if she owned the manor already, and placed her hands on her hips. She reached out to his shirt and removed a blade of grass. She extracted a tuft of wool from his hair.
"Well, well . . . it must have been a battle."
Nathan glared, though his pulse raced suspiciously. His physical reaction to Miren's appealing presence could be contained. "Only the last."
He'd never seen such delight in anyone. "What happened?"
He narrowed his eyes, darkening at the memory. "Blossom."
Miren burst into demonic giggles. "I trust she left you undamaged."
"That I can't say until I have scraped the mud from my body."
The queen made her way across the foyer. "Laird MacCallum, I trust this day has been as enjoyable for you as for Her Majesty?"
Nathan bowed. "It has been eventful indeed."
"I look forward to news of your wedding."
"As do I, Your Majesty."
The duke waved his arms in excitement. "I've invited Laird MacCallum to join us at the Games in Oban, Your Highness."
The queen smiled. "That should prove interesting. We will be there."