by Susan King
He respected her love for the residents of this glen and for its musical heritage. She preserved and defended both with all the devotion of a mother or an earth goddess. He loved that compassion in her, the strength of mountains.
And he could appreciate the courage and resourcefulness that Finlay—and Catriona, too—had needed to do this.
Still, he stood silent, calming himself, gathering thoughts.
"Just as I suspected," Grant said sanctimoniously. "This is shocking insubordination in your own factor and will undercut the very profit from these lands. He should be arrested for criminal acts. And the reverend—on a Sunday! MacConn should lose his living for this. Distressing," Grant said. "And Lady Kildonan—are you also part of this unsavory situation?"
"Be quiet, Grant," Evan said. He did not turn.
"What the devil! It's a good thing I decided against buying these lands, Kildonan," Wetherstone said. "There's rebellion on your estate. Mr. Grant, I'd advise you to reconsider your offer, as well. Kildonan has no control here—the locals have taken over."
"I would simply have them all evicted again," Grant said smoothly, "and I would hire another factor, since the current one would be in prison. There would be control here, if I were laird."
Evan had heard enough. He turned to look at Finlay.
"MacConn, did you enlist the newest tenants to work on the old bridge?" he asked. "I gave you those orders the other day."
"What? Fix the bridge?" Finlay asked.
"Aye, did you do that? I need a work crew, as I told you, and I expected you to gather the workers from among the new tenants you were authorized to move into these lands."
"Authorized!" Grant sputtered.
"Of course," Evan said, turning with a tight smile. "Did you think Mr. MacConn would do such a thing on his own?"
"Actually, I did think that," Grant snapped. "I still do."
"My father, the previous earl," Evan said carefully, "sent hundreds, even thousands of people away from this glen over a dozen years. He replaced people with sheep. The sheep are flourishing, taking over the glen,"—he waved an arm—"but the people were not flourishing. I thought it was time they came home. We have enough damned sheep and could use the help. Lady Kildonan agrees," he said brusquely, looking at her.
"I do," she said firmly. She looked at Grant, flared her nostrils proudly. "I fully support my husband and kinsmen."
"What is this about, Kildonan?" Wetherstone asked.
"He's lying to protect his wife and her family," Grant said. "The Highlanders were sent away because they were useless. They should not be brought back."
"It was a terrible oversight on my father's part," Evan said. "He did not realize that Highlanders are determined as the dickens," he told Wetherstone. "Hardworking and intelligent, too. When they have a mind to, they can do damn near anything better, faster, more cleverly than men hired up from the South. By the way, I'll need a second crew for another job as well, Finlay." Evan turned back. "The exterior walls of Kildonan Castle must be harled with plaster again. The present coat is in poor condition. The work will take months, and perhaps should be started after the sheep clipping is done in the spring."
"Aye," Finlay said. "Anything else, Lord Kildonan?"
"One thing more," Evan said.
"What is that, sir?" Finlay asked.
"Damn fine job of running the estate in my absence, Finlay," Evan said. He looked past him toward the newcomers.
"Greetings, I am Evan Mackenzie. Kildonan," he added. "Welcome back to Glen Shee. And you are—?"
"Mr. William MacLeod, his wife, Helen, and their children," Catriona said, stirring herself from what seemed plain astonishment. "They've just come up from Inverness... to work on the estate. This is Lord Kildonan. The new Kildonan."
The MacLeods nodded, and William doffed his hat. "Thank you, sir, for... all your help."
"Thank Finlay. MacConn and his father for it," Evan said. "And my wife, of course." He yanked his walking stick out of the ground, then paused. "Mr. MacLeod—are you a relative of Morag MacLeod, or Flora MacLeod, who lives up in the hills?"
"We are, sir," William said. "Mother Flora is my great-grandmother."
"She'll be glad to see you, I'm sure," he said. He glanced at Catriona. "My dear, I had planned to meet you at Glenachan later, but since you are here, do come back with us. We've just been out for a bit of a hillwalk."
She nodded, and turned to hug her brother and give her father a kiss on the cheek, murmuring something that made the tall, burly man blink as if he fought tears. Gathering her skirts, she hurried toward Evan.
He turned abruptly and hardly waited for her, his feelings still in turmoil. Immediately recognizing Finlay's innocent and altruistic motives, however covertly done—the lad could have asked, but then Evan realized that the assumption would be that the new laird would never allow it.
So he had circumvented trouble best he could just now. But the encounter made it clear that Catriona was deeply sincere when she said she would never leave Glen Shee.
He walked ahead of her in silence. Truly, it was not in her nature to be torn away from this place. Beyond a doubt she loved the glen and its people more than imaginable. For some reason, he felt intensely proud, yet disappointed and hurt too, knowing things might have to change for them.
"Evan!" She caught up to him, her stride soon matching his. The others were far ahead of them now, including Mr. Grant, all of them seeming eager to keep their distance from Evan, who still seethed within. "Evan, wait."
He turned to look at her without expression.
"Thank you," she breathed. "I will explain all of it, I promise. But what made you do that?" Her eyes looked bright.
"Loyalty," he growled. "I'm a Highlander too, and I love this place—though you may not think so."
He turned and lengthened his stride, leaving her standing on the slope.
Chapter 25
The next day was cloudy, silvery, very cool. Catriona shivered in another breeze as she walked between Evan and Finlay ahead of the others. They had gathered at the castle, the guests and her brother and Mr. Grant too, to ride in pony carts to the far end of Beinn Alligin, which curved around the head of the glen, its hills and peaks draped in mist. Now they made their way over the upper moorlands toward the mountain.
She drew her plaid shawl closer, glad that she had worn warm, if plain, clothing—a skirt and jacket of thick brown wool, flannel petticoats, sturdy ankle boots, and the Highland shawl. Her humble outfit did not befit a countess, nor was it as fine as the other ladies wore—once again they were had dressed for mountaineering as if attending church services—but her garments were practical and warm.
The men wore comfortable tweed suits, bowler hats, and tough-soled boots. Two or three, including Evan, carried canvas knapsacks. All of them, ladies and men, had sturdy walking sticks. In addition, Catriona knew that Evan, Finlay, and Arthur had stout Manila ropes in their knapsacks, along with hooks and axes, in case equipment was needed on steep slopes or they encountered ice, snow, or slippery inclines.
"This time of year does not offer the best days for climbing," Finlay said, glancing up at the cloudy skies as he walked along with them. "May and June are best. In spring the floods are too risky, in high summer the midges will make you miserable, and in fall and winter the weather becomes unpredictable. Though if you are determined to go up, it cannot be put off until later. We could have poor weather again, perhaps rain or even snow in a day or two."
"Winter weather affords some excellent scenic views," Arthur said as he walked behind them. "The Alps are perpetually covered in snow, and that does not deter climbers."
"Snow and ice on these mountains," Finlay said, "can be treacherous, as Kildonan discovered. Look around you—some parts of the Torridons have a good head of snow and will keep it all year. Though where we are going today, we will not see so much of it, I think."
Ahead, the mountain rose into the pale gray sky, dark and massive, its upper contour
variegated with high broad shoulders and ridges, knobby points and pinnacles. The highest point at the center of the curving mass of the mountain was Beinn Shee, its steep conical peak split down the center eons ago by a landslide. The deep cleft formed two sheer rock cliffs that faced each other above an inclined wedge of rubble and turf.
Frosted white with snow and embeddings of white quartz, the line of peaks undulated along the ridge with a strangely fluid grace despite its massiveness. As the group began the long walk up rock-studded meadow, Catriona slowed to look ahead at the gigantic cleft that dominated the mountain profile.
Her eldest brother had died there, and Evan had fallen too, attempting to scale the vertical rock, sliding down snowy tracks to the hill by the drover's path. But Catriona had promised to climb that same wicked black sheer to find a fairy crystal that old Flora insisted could only be found on Beinn Shee.
She felt like peasant girl in a fairy tale, she thought, sent on a quest for a magical talisman, accompanied by her beloved prince. But the prince was angry and disappointed in her, and for all she knew, would not stay with her for a happy ending to the tale. After all, she had betrayed him in order to help others.
But the quest she had once thought so all-important was not what she most desired—to love the prince and to be loved by him. Without that essential magic, the gift of the fairies, the songs, even those had lost some of their luster.
All morning, Evan's manner was still cool and distant, his words neutral, his hands brief whenever he touched her waist or elbow to help her over the rougher areas. She did not need help, but welcomed his nearness. All the while she wondered what he thought, what he had decided to do.
Last night he had not come to her room, although she had waited for him, had gone to his door, but lost her will to knock. She wanted explain privately why she and Finlay had brought evicted tenants back to the glen without the earl's knowledge or sanction. But somehow she felt he was not ready to listen.
She had let him be, let him have a space to think.
Finlay turned now to face the others who followed behind them. The Wilkies and Wetherstones, the Murray sisters, and Arthur Fitzgibbon and Kenneth Grant came closer.
Catriona avoided Grant's gaze. She had nothing to say to him and prayed he would not bother with her again, for Evan unknowingly had rendered useless the sword Grant held over her head. But she made no show of it. The other climbers seemed unaware of the deeper tensions that tugged like ropes between a few members of their party.
"We'll go this way toward the upper slopes of Beinn Alligin. That high notched peak in the center is Beinn Shee," Finlay explained, pointing. "These lower hills lead to the mountain and the drover's track and cut over to the main ridge."
Reverend Wilkie took a small memorandum book from his coat pocket and made notes and sketches. "Can we follow along the ridge to the other end?"
"We could," Finlay answered. "Beinn Alligin is a crescent several miles along. But we'll go to the center, past the first cluster of peaks to Beinn Shee and Sgurr Mhor, the Great Peak. Then we'll turn and come back this way."
"Finlay suggested that the best route is to turn at Sgurr Mhor and follow the ridge back again," Evan said. "At the other end, the descent ends in a ruined bridge. We've arranged to have the pony carts waiting for us."
"I hoped we might attempt to climb Beinn Shee for some true mountaineering," Jemima said, and Emily nodded.
"We can go up to the peak," Finlay said, "and around it, but it is not advisable to scramble inside the cleft, which is called Eag Dubh—the Black Notch."
"Beinn Shee itself cannot be climbed safely, Miss Murray," Grant said, stepping forward. "Though foolhardy folk have tried."
"Kildonan and I made the attempt," Fitzgibbon said defensively. "Would have scaled it, but for the weather."
"We started our climb from the base of Beinn Shee and worked our way upward," Evan said. "It was a difficult ascent, and the descent—well, I would not recommend it to anyone."
Catriona glanced at him quickly. He did not look at her.
"Our route today is challenging enough," Finlay said. "This is no afternoon hillwalk, up for luncheon and down for tea. And the weather could be unpredictable," he added, glancing up. "If it rains, we'll head down, no matter how far we get."
They began to walk again, making their way up rock-strewn hillsides tough with heather and gorse, and came to a fast-running burn where the water churned white over rocks. Finlay arranged a strong rope, held secure on either bank by Arthur and Grant. Catriona and Evan crossed first to help the others in leaping from stone to stone using the guide rope.
After most everyone had crossed the stream, Lady Wetherstone stopped, like a horse refusing a fence. Her husband and Evan coaxed her, but the hem of her gown was wet and she insisted on turning back. Lord Wetherstone agreed to take her back, though he seemed very disappointed.
"What a savage place, with no proper bridges, nor even good roads or paths—and climbing a mountain means walking all the way up!" Lady Wetherstone complained loudly to her husband after they had said their farewells for the day. "Why, we climbed Alpine mountains twice as high as these Scotch hills, and had an easier time of it! Do you recall, sir? They put us on donkeys at Chamonix, with halters led by adorable little children, and we rode nearly to the top, thousands of feet up! And never a stream to cross without a pretty little bridge!"
Catriona caught Evan's frowning glance and was sure that he shared her own thought—it was best that the Wetherstones had declined to purchase any of the property. The lady especially lacked appreciation for the Scottish Highlands.
Farther up, tall pines soared from rocky inclines, and water slid downhill in surging courses. The slopes became sharply angled stone fields, and tufts of moss, grass, and heather clung to the mountainside. Sheep and occasional wild goats grazed, clinging somehow to impossible inclines, skirting away placidly as the humans came near. Eagles skimmed past, and Catriona glanced down to look upon their shining wings and tails, their feathers outspread like fingers.
She walked just behind Evan and Finlay, followed by the Murray sisters and the Wilkies. Arthur and Grant brought up the rear of the group, moving more leisurely because Arthur stopped frequently to examine varieties of rock, gathering specimens and taking notes in a small journal.
Glancing back, she saw Grant look up at her, his gaze keen and disturbing. He had said little to her or to Evan that morning when he had arrived at Kildonan, having been invited days earlier to join the climb. So far she had managed to avoid him and planned to continue. No one else knew of his threats to her, which had been neatly ended by Evan's actions yesterday. She realized with a sense of relief that she need never tell Evan—or deal with Mr. Grant again.
But she had caught Grant's cold glance directed at her once or twice, and the chill she felt had been deep and real. Now, as she walked up the hill, she sensed his silent presence behind her like a dark shadow.
She could say nothing to Evan, who still did not know of Grant's threats regarding Finlay or his physical advances toward her. The memory of those ugly incidents gave her an urge to shift closer to Evan, and their arms bumped. He took her elbow in silence. Despite the unresolved rift between them, she felt protected and comforted, and she gave him a faint smile.
Catriona climbed slowly and steadily, pausing with the others to admire magnificent mountainous views to the east, Loch Torridon to the west, and a tantalizing glimpse through fog to the far-off sea and the blue isles of the Hebrides. Fragile mists drifted past, but the rain held off.
Finally they reached the knobby ridge that flowed from peak to peak like the curved spine of some great mythic beast, the steep hillsides its sloping back and body. Three thousand feet up—they had climbed that far in three hours—the height was dizzying, the world below misted and lovely beneath the wide sky.
Arthur picked up a few stones and watched them bounce and skid thousands of feet. Laughing, Jemima picked up a rock to do the same.
> "Try not to look down," Grant cautioned her. "It could give you vertigo. Pity if a bonny lass should follow those stones."
He turned to look at Catriona and smiled, flat and humorless. Her heart slammed, and for a terrifying moment she wondered if he was capable of real harm. She could not forget his threats, remembering the awful instant where he had nearly tipped her off the broken bridge.
Ignoring him, she turned away. grateful for Evan's ready hand at her back as they moved along the ridge in single file. Finlay took a rope from his knapsack and tied it around his waist, then helped tie it around Jemima and Emily to reassure them. At first the sisters had been giddy with the exhilaration of the climb, but they grew quiet and serious as the effort became more demanding. Reverend Wilkie took another length of rope and tied it around his waist and his wife's.
When Evan offered to do the same, Catriona shook her head and moved onward. But she was always glad for his strong, familiar grip on her hand or elbow. A lifetime spent in the high hills gave her no fear of heights and inclines, but the strong, cold winds on the exposed ridge and the hint of moisture in the air were disconcerting.
Thin clouds moved in to ring the mountaintop below them, and Finlay urged the others to rest on a level spot between two knobby peaks. They shared lemonade in flasks and a simple meal of oatcakes and cheese, carried inside knapsacks. Anna Wilkie and the Murray sisters made sketches that they tucked away in deep skirt pockets, while Reverend Wilkie made notes in his memorandum book, and Kenneth Grant and Arthur spoke with Evan, then wandered along the ridge to look at the view.
Here the air felt clear, thin, and cold. Catriona sat on a sloping wedge of rock, tucking her booted feet under her skirts while she looked with awe at the stunning vista.
Evan sat down beside her, resting his arms on upraised knees, joining her in companionable silence for a few moments.
She glanced at him, began to speak, and he did, too, both tripping awkwardly over the other's words. A day of helping hands and the bond of the climb had naturally healed some of the rift between them. She wanted to explain, to apologize, and opened her mouth to try—