Lady Of The Glen Part 21

Duncan did not answer at once. He stared blindly at the gra.s.s cropping up between cobbles worn smooth. "He is the earl."

It was a simple four-word statement, and yet in its stark simplicity lay the weight of power and truth: that no matter what they believed, no matter what they preferred, the man who put the game into play had control over its pieces.

"G.o.d in Heaven," Cat murmured. And then the irony of it struck her. "You ken, it might be worse."

Duncan, bemused, frowned at her. "How could it be worse?"

"It could be that you wanted me, while I didna want you; or it could be that I wanted you, while you didna want me." She smiled at him in an amus.e.m.e.nt no less honest for all its poignancy. "At least this way, whatever becomes of us, we both are unco' certain neither of us wants the other."

After a moment his mouth jerked in reluctant concession. "Fitting, is it no'?"

Cat frowned down at her skirts, tending the folds with every bit of attention. 'He is the earl. 'Duncan's declaration said all that was necessary. And she comprehended gey well.

She sighed and looked at him. "I suppose there are marriages built on worse things than mutual disaffection."

For the first time she witnessed the real Duncan Campbell. The mask of resentment was put aside to reveal the clean face beneath, young and impa.s.sioned and wholly honest as he struggled to say the truth without hurting her. "But I dinna want to marry you."

It hurt. Not because he did not want to marry her, but because he would be made to and would regret it all his life. She had spent so many years with people regretting certain aspects of her presence in the world . . . and now that two men had told her, unsolicited, that she was fair, that she was bonnie, after all the years when she was not and others told her that, she found it did not matter.

Neither wanted her: one could not because to do so abbrogated everything he believed in; the other loved someone else.

Cat stared hard at the wall. "Good," she said. "I dinna want to marry you."

And knew as she declared them the words were wholly true, including their emphasis.

Six.

In his house, Dair gathered together the things he would need for the meeting at Achallader, most of them weaponry. His father was the MacIain; it would not do to offer the laird anything but the finest tail of men, fully equipped with such implements of war as they had borne at Killiecrankie and other victories, accompanying him into Campbell lands with all the pipes ranting.

Many of the men of Glencoe would go, though some could not; it was summer and the cattle were out by the shielings. MacIain's tail would be reduced accordingly, though Dair knew there was also another reason. Killiecrankie, and the loss at Dunkeld.

Glencoe-men had been killed in both battles. It was somewhat easier to think of those dead at Killiecrankie because the battle was clean and the victory glorious-save for Dundee's death-but Dunkeld had been little better than a disaster. Too many MacDonalds had been left lying dead in burning streets--too many of them of Glencoe.

But those who did accompany MacIain would see to it no one doubted their zeal and loyalty. The laird would require a full complement of personal servants: the henchman who would stand behind him at meals; the bladair, his spokesman; the bard; the piper, Big Henderson, and his gillie; the gillie-mhor who would bear the laird's clay more; the gillie-cosfluich, who would carry him across rivers; the baggage gillie; the gillie who led his horse through treacherous terrain; and a.s.sorted gillie-nuithes, who would run alongside his garron.

Dair gathered up a clean shirt, freshly brushed bonnet with eagle feather and heather sprig attached, the most ornate plaid brooch he possessed, his claymore, Spanish musket, Lochaber ax, dirk, targe, sporran, sgian dhu, and set them out where he could dress quickly in the morning.

It was the gloaming, pa.s.sing quickly into evening. He was alone-Jean was yet up the glen at his brother's house-with a peat-fire in the hearth and a single candle burning.

Illumination sparked off pewter, off copper; the detritus of his life, his two visits to France. He was neither a rich man nor a poor one, and able to set himself up with such ease of living as any woman would desire. He would never be chief, but was nonetheless a chiefs son, and would be remembered for it all of his life.

The laying out of his things ordinarily took little thought, save he would be aware of the need for additional dignity at Achallader. But now he did think as he set out each item, because he could not touch brooch or bonnet without thinking of Jean Stewart, who had tended his things for weeks. She had made his house hers as well with spring flowers set out in horn cups throughout, and in the scent she wore: French perfume, brought by him from Paris, which she did not stint.

Dair frowned at the a.s.sortment set on a bench near the fire. By ignoring the issue he dishonored Jean, who deserved better, and so he stopped ignoring it and let it come into his mind unhindered, snooving like a sgian dhu into what he did not know to call save cowardice, an abject reluctance to address with Jean the truth of his feelings, the truth of his desire to end what they had shared, if in markedly intermittent fashion, for six years.

It would be best to tell her before he left. Then she would have time to gather up her things and go back to Castle Stalker without doing it under his eye, or where everyone in Glencoe knew the truth. There was some dignity to be preserved, and he wanted to deny her none of it; she could go home with no one the wiser until she did not return. By then there would be Breadalbane and Achallader to discuss, whatever came of it, and King James in France, whatever came of that, and King William in Flanders with the Master of Stair, Queen Mary in London with the Privy Council, John Hill and his garrison at Inverlochy, Thomas Livingstone and his army in the foothills . . . And pawkie naval cannon at Fort William with gun-weighted patrol boats on Loch Linnhe- He was abruptly and quite unexpectedly a.s.sailed with the feeling of smallness, of insignificance; of a conviction that what he knew of his people and what he knew of Scotland was on the verge of dislocation, if not destruction. The old ways were changing, in fact had already altered; it was possible Breadalbane merely paid lip service to tradition by calling the clans to a meeting to discuss their loyalty to James, but the old ways were all Dair knew. He was a Highlander; the French in Paris had told him repeatedly he was too wild at heart for them despite his quiet manners, and that if he joined Louis's service, or even James's shoddy court, he would require taming.

Dair looked at his weaponry glinting on the bench. He thought again of Killiecrankie and Mackay's Lowland and English troops, supposedly civilized while the Highlanders were called barbarians. He heard the pipes again, heard Dundee's speech, heard his father's shout and the bard's oratory, and felt the hairs on his flesh stir, the groin-deep tingle of antic.i.p.ation.

He was what he was: a Gael committed to Scotland, and to her Highland ways.

There were many more things of which Dair MacDonald might think while he sorted out his life, but it was Jean in his mind. He dreaded telling her the truth as he had dreaded nothing save the need to kill a man the first time he had done so.

"Christ-" he began, and then the latch rattled and the door swung open and Jean came into the house.

And he knew, as he looked at her against the gloaming beyond the door, that he would tell her nothing, nothing at all; that he could tell her nothing, nothing at all, because it was none of it her fault that he had fallen out of love, if indeed he had ever been in anything save her bed, and her body.

After, he promised himself. When the Highlands are settled, I'll settle this with her.

If he could.

If she would let him.

And Robbie, who would be no more pleased than his sister.

Kilchurn Castle sat on a low, stony promontory that swelled into Loch Awe. It boasted a sharp-edged, five-story keep verging on the water, while at its rear bulked a lower, rounded tower house. It was at times cut off from the land, becoming an island; at others was reached by a marshy peninsula. Behind it the time-rumpled slopes of Ben Cruachan were ruddy umber and heather-brilliant, and a frieze of green trees crowded the land between the lower braes and gray-gilt castle.

The Earl of Breadalbane was not a man for soft words, even in his mind, and did not waste time admiring scenery. To him the most beautiful of all things was the accomplishment of a task that added l.u.s.ter to his name, holdings to his legacy, coin to his coffers, and status to his house. But at this moment he was caught unwary and unaware, and when he glanced out of a keep window to look upon the gla.s.sy surface of Loch Awe, well satisfied by his plans for the Achallader meeting a matter of days away, he saw the woman at water's edge and stopped thinking altogether about the clans, about the king, and his own part in Scotland's future.

Scotland's past and her present walked the water's edge. He saw the crimson of her sleeves, the glint of b.u.t.tons and brooch, the brilliance of braided hair. She was not so distant that he could not mark her height, nor the way she carried herself, and he knew it was Glenlyon's daughter who, quite alone, paused and raised a hand to stare across the loch with eyes shielded against the setting sun.

In a moment she lowered her hand. Breadalbane watched her bend and strip off her shoes, setting them aside, then kilt up her skirts around her knees. She was not wearing stockings; a flash of pale leg showed, and then she waded out into the reed-spiked shallows, sending ripples across the surface.

He might otherwise be offended by her informality, by the mud and damp hem such enterprise would incur, but he was not. He smiled. In that moment she was everything that was and everything that could be: a proud, unyielding Campbell born of an ancient heritage that he hoped would bring spirit back into his own line, much as he bred a specific deerhound b.i.t.c.h to a specific dog to fix a temperament.

Duncan has need of such a woman to strengthen his seed.... And the earl was convinced Catriona Campbell might do it. She was everything her father was not in all the ways a man might count; bred to Duncan who was, despite his demeanor, a direct descendant of Black Duncan of the Cowl and might yet possess some modic.u.m of ambition and competence, she could well produce the kind of grandsons of whom the earl could be proud. He desired to die knowing his lands were left to heirs who could properly administer them.

Behind him a deerhound stirred. The earl glanced back briefly, watching the b.i.t.c.h stretch, sneeze, then resettle herself near the bigger dog. He could not help but smile; she was a lovely red fawn with black ears and muzzle, very keen of intelligence. The big storm-colored dog was the finest hunter he had ever bred, and he had high hopes for their get.

He turned to the window again and saw Glenlyon's daughter was no longer entirely alone; a single figure made its way out of the castle toward the woman on the sh.o.r.e. Duncan himself, walking out to speak with her.

At his call she turned, holding up her skirts. She did not leave the water, nor make any indication she would, merely stood quietly in the shallows, straight as a spear or claymore with hair glowing red in the sunset, and waited for him to join her.

It was a subtle tableau few would mark, but Breadalbane was not a man who let such things pa.s.s; they might be important if one knew how to read them.

They had met. They were not strangers, nor enemies. They accepted one another's company without expectations of prescribed behavior, nor made any indication of enmity or false modesty.

Breadalbane smiled. He had seen her earlier, had spoken with her. She was in many ways the young woman he remembered, and in the most important of ways nothing at all as she had been. And she was ideal for his heir, who would surely see her worth as only a man could, even unprepossessing Duncan.

-'Twill do, aye? She would accompany them to Achallader and see Duncan's promise as heir, and by the time they left there would be nothing left to do save escort them to a kirk.

With care Cat waded out through spiky reeds, tending her hem, then stopped as the water lapped above her ankles. It felt inexpressibly good just to stand still, to let the setting sun warm her face, its light glowing red-gold through closed eyelids.

An old tune came into her head, a s.n.a.t.c.h of childhood song.-so bonnie, so bonnie was he . . . with white teeth a'gleaming and silver in his hair-Cat's eyes opened wide as she stopped, shaken. She recalled the tune, recalled the words, recalled the progenitor of them- "Catriona!"

Peace was broken, but it was respite from unexpected memories. Cat turned, saw him; smiled as he approached, content within herself. The pain of his rejection had lost its small sting; she had never expected a man to be won by her features, despite Dair MacDonald's words, any more than by her tongue, and was not disappointed that Duncan Campbell should prefer someone else to her. It simply meant she would go back home to Glen Lyon rather sooner than expected, where she would tend her father's house while he was away at Stirling-or wherever else the army might care to send him-and indulge herself in unfettered freedom, which was all she had ever wanted for as long as she could remember.

Duncan Campbell at last arrived at the water's edge. He eyed her askance, but did not reprove her.

"Come in," Cat invited, knowing he would refuse. " 'Tis cool, but no' like winter."

"I dinna think so."

She smiled to herself. "Would Marjorie come in?"

He scowled faintly. "She would think to ask me."

"How tedious. And would you give her your permission?"

"I dinna ken."

It did not surprise her. She provoked purposely. "A man who prefers the company of turnspits and cooks to those his father believes more acceptable isna put off by the thought of shedding shoes and stockings . . . aye?"

He scowled. It did not improve his features. "I didna come to argue, Catriona."

Cat grinned. "Am I being difficult? As difficult as you?"

After a moment he relaxed, offering a smile and a resolute expression less severe than he had been wont to wear. "Gey difficult; but 'tis me, if you'll recall, and I am master at it . . . can we speak of something else?"

She studied the reeds breaking water near her feet. "Of what, then?"

"Marjorie Campbell."

"Ah. Marjorie." Cat sloshed along the sh.o.r.eline, squishing her toes into the bed of the loch. "What is there left to say?"

"I want you to meet her at Achallader."

There was an undertone of desperate declaration mixed with uncertain hope. Cat stopped sloshing and held her place, intrigued by his suggestion. "Why, Duncan? D'ye want us to be friends? D'ye expect her to like me, when I'm the woman the earl wants you to marry in her place?"

"I expect-I expect . . ." He set both hands into his hair and stripped it back from his face. "I dinna ken what I expect . . . only that perhaps you'll see why I love her, and why I canna love you."

It was a most peculiar hope. Cat stood very still while the water warmed on her ankles. "Does it matter?"

"John said-"

She did not let him finish. "John said; I thought you didna care what your brother did or said."

Duncan sighed and closed his eyes. A trickle of perspiration made its way down one temple, until he wiped it away impatiently. "John said I could say what I would to my father, but I'd no call to be rude to you."

She could not suppress the irony. "Then 'tis no surprise why they prefer him to you; he has sense, does John."

He scowled at her. "I thought you would want to marry me no matter how I was . . . that you would want to be countess. But you say no, and I think perhaps if you met Marjorie you might understand-"

"-and then I wouldna be 'difficult' when you asked the earl for a release from the agreement." She was no longer disposed to laugh, nor to provoke; he was not, she understood, so very different from her. "There is no need. I told you earlier: I dinna mean to marry you."

"But-" His perplexion was manifest. "Then what will you do?"

Cat turned slightly, gazing at the horizon as the sun slid below it. It was clear to her, abruptly, utterly clear, as if G.o.d had cracked open her skull and put a thought into it. This was opportunity if she chose to accept it. Duncan did not know it, but he held out a weapon, or offered her a key; she need only decide which one she wanted, and the manner in which she desired to use it.

A chill breathed across her flesh, until the blood beneath warmed it to burning and chased the chill away. This is how Breadalbane treats with others ... and Argyll also, and any number of other men who aspired to higher places.

It was power and promise. Cat tasted it for the first time and discovered its appeal, the subtle seduction of its traps, the sweet cruelty of its potential. She understood at last. This is what men are. . . This is how some men think. She smiled across the loch. 'Tisn't so large a step, when the man whose back you muddy is deserving of the muck.

Cat slanted a glance at Duncan. "You ken my father has debts . . ."

"I ken."

"You ken he is in the army now, but will still have debts; there are dice with the soldiers, and he'll no' stop now."

His tone was less certain. "I ken that."

"Then you'll ken also that your father can hardly be expected to send me on my way with no payment for my trouble; 'tis an insult you've offered, and there are costs to be paid." She turned to face him squarely, unmindful of splattering water. "I dinna want it for me. I've no need of it. But the earl has ignored Glenlyon's need for two years."

Duncan stared mutely, blind to subtlety. She understood in that moment why his father despaired of him. Her calculated approach was suddenly consumed by emotion: Breadalbane had failed her father, failed her house, failed her.

"We are Campbells, aye?-and deserving of better! He is head of the house of Glenorchy . . . and 'tis time he served those Campbells in need of his aid!"

The color departed Duncan's face. " 'Tis blackmail!"

Ice trickled down Cat's spine, though the flesh of her face burned. "I tend my house," she said tautly. "I tend my father in it. Now I tell you to tend your father, to tend your house, and put Marjorie Campbell in it."

After a lengthy moment of crackling silence, Duncan Campbell laughed. "Christ!" he cried. "You're a match for my father!"

Cat glared at him. 'Twould be easy to scoop up a handful of mud and daub his face with it! But she let the impulse die. She had purposely set out to grasp the earl's methods; the intent was wholly successful.

"Well," she said finally, "that may be taken as insult, or also flattery; dinna tell me which-you're no' a respectable party to tell me unbiased. I suppose what matters is that we will between us sort things out so we both get what we want. If that makes me a match for the earl, then I've no cause to complain."

Duncan, sorting that out, eventually grinned. Cat, turning away, was pleased she could offer him such happiness at so little cost; and Glenlyon's debts paid, also.

He stood slantwise in the doorway, left shoulder set against the jamb, spine hidden beneath linen and tartan plaid, barefoot in summer warmth. Jean Stewart knew Alasdair Og well enough to understand he was not as detached as he seemed; that, in fact, he was acutely aware of the movements she made, as always, but steadfastly refused to acknowledge them.

She supposed it was not necessary that he acknowledge such movements; after six years, no matter how many respites, they knew one another's bodies as well as their thoughts, and the intentions of both.

His intention, at present, was to ignore her; hers was to seduce him from intransigence.

There was Achallader, of course; it was his excuse, offered for days. And it was not wholly untrue, because nearly every man in Glencoe prepared to accompany MacIain to Breadalbane's meeting.

He had taken some time and care laying out his things, leaving her with no task. She had looked on such duties as a private, personal thing, the tasks a woman undertook for her man, who was more often than not pleased to have her tend such things as the shining of his metal, the folding of his clothing. For years, when she was present, he had allowed her to do such things, but this time, this first time, he did them for himself.

She had been up the glen to his brother's house, spending time with Eiblin, but that was no excuse. He would have waited; he always had before. But this time he had not, and she came home from her visit to find herself with nothing to tend but his melancholy.

But there be cures for that, aye? . . . And he as much as most answered to the healing in a woman's body. But she had seen something in his eyes, an unfamiliar taint in the whisky-warmth of them, that kindled her apprehension.