Lady Of The Glen Part 26

The fine mouth curved. "The Earl of Argyll might have something to say of that, aye?"

"He is not here. I am. It is I who make this treaty." The earl paused delicately. "Which all the chiefs have signed, as promise of an oath, save Glengarry and Glencoe."

"Appin," MacDonald blurted, and Breadalbane knew he had won.

"Ask," he suggested, in perfect courtesy.

She sat under the light of a bloated moon, surrounded by the ruins of Achallader Castle. Time had softened the edges; gra.s.s overtook fallen bricks, lichen cloaked the cobbles, strangers had carried off anything of value so that only the bones remained. The flesh had fallen away in the aftermath of the raid. All that remained standing were three of four corners.

Her seat was a pile of brickwork, tilting slope-shouldered to one side. It was not a comfortable seat, but Cat did not want comfort; she was angry, very angry, wishing she were a man who might say what she thought, who might, in fact, challenge the man who injured her so.

-that pawkie b.a.s.t.a.r.d. . . that G.o.d-cursed, pawkie b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

She wanted very much to shout at the earl and tell him what she thought of men who used women, who relied upon a woman's presence to manipulate other men. She had seen his eyes, heard the steel beneath the tone. Within his words, ostensibly of Scotland and of loyalty to his king-whichever king it might be-was a wholly separate conversation intended mostly for Dair MacDonald with a little left over for her, enough to punish her for presumption, to remind her of her place. She was angry for herself, but angrier for Dair.

And cognizant of a loss far greater than there should be, for something just begun.

Just begun? No. Indeed, it had existed in her girlhood, in her childish dreams; in the memories of kindness, of gentleness and compa.s.sion, freely offered the enemy. In even the dismay that he had seen her as Robert Stewart presented her, sodden with mud and horse-p.i.s.s, with the smell of whisky about her from that which she had spilled so she need not serve MacDonald.

Need not serve him; but had she known it was he, she would have served him gladly. He was deserving of that, even as MacDonald, for being honest with the la.s.s.

And now? Loss. The ending of something not so newly begun, though perhaps it was new in his eyes; he was a man, and grown, and with la.s.ses aplenty, no doubt; he had said something of that, of experience. And that experience had seen she was different that day before the shieling, when he had wanted to kiss a Campbell.

An ending, before a proper beginning. An ending to girlhood dreams and the beginning of adulthood, now stolen from her in the blade of Breadalbane's words.

Dair knew, or had once known. She had told them in the shieling, Alasdair Og and Robert Stewart: that she was on her way to Kilchurn to visit Breadalbane. It had been Stewart who pieced it together, who declared she must be meant to marry one of the earl's sons. Not John, he had said, because John was already wed. Therefore Duncan, whom Breadalbane detested despite his pedigree; but then it had not mattered what Dair MacDonald thought. There was nothing between them then but an enmity shaped of tradition, except what they overlooked. What they chose to overlook, because it was easier.

And overlooked it they had, choosing to do so, in spirit if not in words, though neither of them would acknowledge it to themselves or to one another.

It made a cruel sense, the ending. There was no future in it, no purpose to the madness. There could never be anything more than what their clans had sown, and the crop of acrimony was what she and Dair must reap.

I dinna want to.

There. It was said. Her loyalty declared.

Cat yet held the mirror. She raised it, turned it, looked into its gla.s.sy surface. The night behind her was dark; there was little illumination save the diffused glow of distant campfires and the moon overhead. The woman in the mirror was nothing more than a collection of blurred features leached stark and pale by tension, and the false brilliance of unshed tears.

It had not just begun, what Breadalbane ended, and was not easily reconciled. She could count the days, the years, all the meetings between them, and knew in no way did their infrequency influence significance.

She lowered the mirror and stared blindly at the encampment as tears ran down her face. "You pawkie b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said. "I am pleased they razed your castle."

Dair wanted to go to Cat at once, to find her and tend her chancy temper as well as explain himself; he had invited her home to Glencoe without thought, without preparation, reacting to his heart and the tension of the moment. In this it was his thought, his will, not Jean's, who wanted him then as he came first to Castle Stalker. . . as he wanted Cat now, in the ruins of Achallader, if for different reasons. For deeper, more honest reasons as well as requirements; companionship of the spirit as well as of the body.

But he knew he must not go to Cat. Not now, not so soon after the earl's interruption. It was what Breadalbane no doubt expected, what Breadalbane probably planned for, and was therefore far too dangerous for Dair in his present mood. He did not anger easily, but the fire burned hot as Robbie Stewart's once fully kindled.

But there was yet another thing for him to discuss, and with another man. Dair set out to broach it.

He wound his way through clansmen cl.u.s.tered around fires in tartan-clad companionship and went directly to the Appin Stewarts. They were snugged against the slope, content to pa.s.s the evening in talk and usquabae. Ceol mor had at last given way to subtle music, piping down the night.

Dair came to a halt at the fire. "Did you agree?" he demanded without preliminaries; without an invitation to bide a wee with them. "Good Christ, Robbie-did you agree?"

Robert Stewart, sprawled inelegantly across battered turf with his head propped on a braced elbow, offered detached consternation. "You are shaking, MacDonald . . . and verra black in the face."

It took effort not to shout. And that made him shake all the more. "I dinna care what color my face is, and I am shaking because I'd as lief put a dirk in Breadalbane as spend another night on his land."

"Fletcher land, once," Robbie observed mildly. "A Campbell stole it from them. . . but I wouldna say now 'tis so much to claim; there is no more roof, or walls against the wind." He swung a boiled-leather bottle in the general direction of the castle ruins. "He's no cause to thank you, has the pawkie earl."

"To thank MacIain, " Dair clarified. "You and I were in Glen Lyon when they burned Achallader."

"Aye, so we were, collecting cows and other plunder." Stewart hoisted the leather bottle. "Usquabae," he explained. "By your face, you need it."

"I dinna want whisky, "Dair said plainly, "I want the truth of you. Did you agree to sign the treaty?"

Robbie sat up. In firelight his hair shone gold. " 'Tis a Stewart concern," he said. "I thought you were MacDonald."

Dair spared a glance for Robbie's men. They looked at him briefly, then away to the fire, to their whisky, to their comrades, avoiding his eyes entirely. He knew most of them; they had gone on raids with their laird's son, gone to war with their laird's son. They would defend his life, but they knew Dair MacDonald; they would let him say what he meant to say and keep themselves out of it.

"MacDonald," Dair said. "So I am, aye? Robbie-" He sat down abruptly, too angry to stand without taking action, and accepted the proffered whisky. With some violence he tilted the bottle to his mouth, drank much of the contents, then glared at his friend. "How could you, man? He is of two tongues, is Breadalbane, promising a thing to one man, and a second thing to another."

"I havena sworn for him yet."

Dair looked at him sharply. "He said you had."

Robbie muttered an imprecation and gestured; one of his gillies tossed over another boiled-leather bottle. " 'Tis precipitate of him-but aye, I think I will put my name to this treaty. D'ye see a way out of it?"

"Aye-dinna do it!"

Robbie drank deeply, then wiped a glistening smear of liquor from his upper lip. " 'Tisn't so easy as that."

Dair swallowed whisky, welcoming the burn. "No? You dinna sign, Robbie; that doesna seem gey hard."

Stewart eyed him a.s.sessively. "Have more. Dinna spill it, now; you're still shaking, man." He grinned in delight. " 'Twas always you telling me no' to be so angry. . . Christ, MacDonald, 'tis a shame we're no' in battle! You'd hew down a hundred men!"

"Fifty," Dair said darkly. "Dinna exaggerate." Then the anger boiled up again. "Christ, the bluidy Campbell. . ." He wanted badly to speak of Cat, of Breadalbane's deliberate insults, to share his rage and the true reason for it. But he did not because he knew better, even in his anger: Jean's brother would hold no sympathy for a man who was upset because of another woman. "I'm unfit for company. . ." He held the bottle out. "Here, have it back, aye?-I'll go."

"Sit," Robbie said. "What will MacIain do?"

"MacIain?" It distracted him. He relaxed muscles tensed to rise, settling back onto his b.u.t.tocks. "He isna pleased by this meeting."

"Well, no, I wouldna think so," Robbie agreed mildly. "Not MacIain, aye?-he's no love of Grey John Campbell."

"Have you?" He had drunk too quickly with no food to mitigate it; the fire in his belly now threatened his head. "Has any man here cause to love Breadalbane?"

"Och, the Campbells might. . ." Robbie grinned and made a placating gesture to ward off sputtered protest. "But it isna a question of love. 'Tis survival." Humor dissipated; his expression was pensive as he set aside his bottle. "There is that fort at Inverlochy. . . and an army in the hills-"

With withering disdain, "I have eyes, ye ken, and I live in Glencoe; I've seen it for myself."

Stewart judiciously chose to overlook it. "Then ye ken what we'd face, were we to go against William's forces."

Dair raised his bottle. With deliberate derision he said, "Those are no' the words of the man who was at Killiecrankie."

Robbie brightened. "You want to fight me-!"

"Not you specifically. But someone, aye; you seem the most fit for it . . . and G.o.d in Heaven kens I've wanted to before! 'Tis time we learned who is the better man."

Stewart was delighted. Blue eyes kindled. "You would lose."

"I dinna think so."

"Fou or sober, you'd lose."

Dair smiled with careful condescension. "I dinna think so."

" 'Tis the usquabae."

"Does it matter?"

"Och, but it lies, does usquabae . . . it convinces a man of his own superiority." Robbie laughed at him. "I'd prefer you sober. I'd want you to remember the beating I gave you."

Dair set down the bottle. His thighs tingled with tension. He trembled again, but no longer from anger. His body demanded release; if it was through a fistfight rather than lovemaking, he'd not debate the issue. "Well?"

"Tempting as it may be"-blue eyes were speculative-"no." Robbie sighed and settled back on his elbow. "We are here for the purpose of peace."

In deep disgust, Dair said, "Dinna sound so pious; you havena the makings of a priest, or a kirk minister either."

Stewart grinned briefly, but it died away. "Killiecrankie is over. 'Twas two years ago. There is a fort now, near to Glencoe-and Appin isna so far from it, either. Think, man; which clans would see Livingstone and his army first? Which clans would meet with Governor John Hill first?"

"Robbie-"

"Let be," Stewart said briefly. "Whatever the earl said, 'twas said of a purpose. Would you let him win? 'Twould be something of which to boast, to rouse Alasdair Og."

Dair glared at him blackly. "Will you sign, then? For Appin?"

Robbie's expression was solemn. "Before you shout at me-aye, I can see 'tis in your mind-you'd best ask your father what he intends to do. Then you may be shouting at us both."

Dair shook his head. "He willna sign."

"He has said so?"

"Breadalbane hasna spoken to him yet."

"He told you he wouldna sign."

"He told me he will hear what William's lapdog has to say; 'tis why he came, after all."

"Ah." Robbie considered it. "Then by this time tomorrow night you may be telling me how sorry you are for your words."

It provoked, as Stewart intended. "Glengarry isna so quick to agree, either, aye?"

"He told me that. The earl." Robbie frowned, taking up his bottle again. "Appin isna so large-"

"Neither is Glencoe! D'ye think that would keep MacIain from following his conscience?"

Robbie sighed. "MacIain does as MacIain wants. . . I ken that, aye?"

Dair's tone was deadly. "I never thought you were a sheep."

The Appin Stewarts stilled; this promised a fight. But Robbie, notorious for his temper, remained unprovoked. He grinned. "You are surly when you are fou."

"Christ, Robbie. . ." The anger had died; his temper never lasted. In its aftermath was a certain laxity of limb he attributed to whisky. Dair sighed and let himself go slack, stretching out on cool turf. "I canna believe him. Breadalbane. I canna believe his promises." He gazed up at whisky-blurred stars. "I think MacIain is right: he is Willie's man in Edinburgh, and Jamie's in the Highlands."

Robbie laughed. "MacIain says that?"

"He does."

"Aye, well-his tongue has always been sharp as his dirk." Robbie uprooted turf idly. "What d'ye mean to do with Jean?"

It was wholly unexpected. Slackness fled, replaced once more by tension. "Jean?"

"My sister," Robbie reminded with elaborate precision. "The one you left in Glencoe."

Dair shut his eyes. There were things he meant to say, but he could say none of them. His brain was muddled with whisky, his tongue too thick; what he needed to say, the explanation he wanted to make, required clarity. Robbie Stewart was not a man another man faced full of whisky. "Naught," he said at last, knowing himself a coward.

Robbie grunted. "Aye, well. . ." He heaved himself to his feet. As Dair moved an elbow preparatory to rising, Stewart waved him back down. "No, no-dinna go. I'm only meaning to p.i.s.s." He poked a toe at Dair's bottle. "Have more usquabae; your temper's improving."

Dair sat up as Robbie departed, intending to rise and go despite the invitation, but the world moved slowly around him in ways it was not meant. "No' fit," he muttered, as one of the Stewarts laughed.

Not fit at all. And Cat deserved better than a man in his cups swearing himself to her; she had seen that in her father. He would not offer the same.

Dair lay down again and draped a crooked arm across his face, shutting out the Highland moon. "Christ," he murmured, thinking of Breadalbane; of Glenlyon, and a tree, and a rope around his neck.

Thinking also of Jean, and of Glenlyon's daughter.

With cordial greetings dispersed like alms as he walked, and with only a few stops along the way to clap shoulders, grasp forearms, or to pa.s.s along a warm word, the Earl of Breadalbane moved steadily among his gathering to the fire in the lee of the hill. There he found the ragged remains of a beef haunch hanging lopsidedly on the wooden spit, and his son, but not his cousin's daughter.

He paused at the edge of light. "Where is she?"

Duncan Campbell of Breadalbane, plaid stippled shiny with dollops of grease, was perched atop stone and turf with a horn cup clasped in equally greasy hands. He smiled blandly around a mouthful of meat. "Up there."

The earl waited patiently; this was Duncan's game.

"In the ruins." Eventually Duncan swallowed and waved in casual indication toward the hill behind them. "She said she was of a mind to see the handiwork of a man who defeated you."

Breadalbane sighed inwardly. In the midst of negotiations for a new Scotland, the ill-mannered daughter of an insignificant drunkard cousin, little more now than a bonnet-laird with so much of his lands owned by Murrays, was proving more troublesome than she had any right to be. "She was to remain here. I sent her to you."

"She wasna of a mind to remain here." Duncan, redepositing grease across one cheek by scratching at a midge bite, was clearly amused by the whole matter. "She arrived, scowled at me-she has a verra fierce scowl, ye ken, near as black as yours!-then went promptly away to the castle." He glanced over his shoulder at the charred, skeletal remains looming atop the hill. "I never liked this castle. The MacDonalds did well by it."

Breadalbane surpressed a comment that would mark him undignified. "Was there anything else she said?"