Lady Of The Glen Part 37

But only now. Only now did the tension show, the attempt and its failure, as a Sa.s.senach soldier looked fixedly, in dawning awareness, at the scar in his throat.

Scots did this . . . Hill tore his gaze from the rumpled, too-pink flesh and looked again at the still expression, the unwavering gaze. And the shame, so subtly displayed, by the minute narrowing of his eyes, the rigidity of his mouth. Iron chimed faintly; the king's governor had at last reached MacIain's son, who did not desire a Sa.s.senach to know the truth of his shame.

Or was it courage, and luck no other might purchase? -to hang, and survive-A man killed once might brave it twice. Might know it, and be unafraid of such small consequences as a king's cast-off governor, sentenced to serve -and die?-in the land of savage barbarians.

But John Hill did not judge a man by barbarism, by savagery, unless he witnessed it. And he had not. Yet. Not here, where he was offered opportunity to bring peace to the Highlands, and was undone by Breadalbane.

"I cannot answer for you," Hill said, "because such punishment as you deserve will be named by the king, or queen . . . but I will tell you this: if MacIain does not come forward for his people and sign the Oath of Allegiance by the first day of the new year, he and all of his kin, all of his clan, will be subject to the utmost discipline as can be devised by two men who would sooner have him slain than forgiven." Hill looked into the unwavering whisky-brown stare. "Do you truly wish to have Glencoe's fate decided by such man as the Master of Stair, a Lowlander, and the Campbell Earl of Breadalbane?"

Iron sang again, softly, yet MacDonald did not move. Not so a man might see it.

"Think on it," Hill said quietly. "Think very hard. And then, should you be given your freedom, share this truth with MacIain, who is not only your father but the father of a clan. It is in his hands, now, the survival of Glencoe." He drew in a painful breath pulled deep into inflamed lungs. "I have failed. I am a laughingstock. I am but a poor jest, a name pa.s.sed among coffeehouses in London and Edinburgh." Hill paused. "Scotland will survive. Scotland will always survive. But men such as MacIain, proud people such as MacDonalds, may not have the same future."

He turned. He moved quietly back to the other side of his table, pausing briefly to collect himself. He had not meant to be so bald in speech, so plain in confession; he had not been so with Robert Stewart. But it was done. It was said.

The voice was quiet, but clear. "I will drink your usquabae now."

Hill turned sharply, setting a steadying hand atop the table. And for the first time saw Alasdair Og smile.

" 'Twas honest, that," MacDonald said, "and deserving of respect." Gratified for the honor, an odd, unexpected honor--they would laugh at me, in London--John Hill poured whisky.

Three.

In the looming grandeur of Glencoe's Pap, Cat stood atop the ma.s.sive pewter-hued stone thrust upward out of the earth. Beneath bare feet she could feel the ridges and pockets, the treacherous tributaries of ancient rock twisted as Celtic knotwork, rumpled and folded upon itself like a plaid beneath a brooch. To the west spread the glen; beyond it Ballachulish and its ferry, the waters of Loch Linnhe. Where Dair and Robbie Stewart had stolen a ship.

Frustration burned within her. "Too long," she said aloud.

John MacDonald, beside her, put a hand upon her shoulder. "For me as well, aye?-but MacIain kens what he is doing."

"He is letting his son rot in a Sa.s.senach gaol," she said bitterly, "that is what he is doing. How many days is it now?" How many days have I lived in MacIain's house, wondering about his son?

"A fortnight," John answered, "but it feels like two months; I ken that, Cat." His hand tightened briefly, fell away. "He canna pursue it so quickly, aye?-or the governor and those he serves will ken they have won. Deliberation is called for."

Wind rustled the trees, the foliage below the rock. She smelled the glen, and freedom, verdant in summer trappings. "And meanwhile Dair is in irons."

"I am no more pleased than you," he said with infuriating mildness, "but I have learned the wisdom in letting MacIain do what he means to do. He is nearly seventy . . . no man lives so long lest he kens the means to do it."

The breeze teased her hair, lifting it from her face. A stronger buffet blew her clothing taut against her body, limned in the lattice of light and shadow. Cat shivered. She was young and newly awakened; she found it tedious to be still. She wanted to run, to leap, to fly from the rock; to share the day with the man who had taught her to live, and to love.

Yet she also felt oddly naked, stripped of everything save desperation. "You are telling me if MacIain went forward too quickly, they would a.s.sume his word has no value. That he intends to break it."

She heard his soft laugh. "You are canny enough yourself, aye? 'Tis the only way, Cat. Alasdair will understand."

"If they free him."

"No one was killed," John replied. "Bruises and blood, no more. They willna hang him for that."

She could not hide the upswell of bitterness. "Only send him to the Tolbooth in Edinburgh, where he may rot at the king's pleasure!"

John was silent a moment, as if the wind took away the means to answer. He set his face into it, folding his arms, and spoke very quietly. "You are afraid, aye? Of what the others think?"

Cat stared down the glen, unable to meet his eyes. "I am a Campbell." It was sufficient, she knew, unto all explanation.

"You are a guest of the laird."

"That doesna alter my name."

John laughed softly. "That might come yet, aye? Catriona Campbell . . . Cat MacDonald."

She turned to him sharply, needing to know. "Would that matter so much?"

"Not to me, no. Nor to most of us, if to any."

"But there was Jean Stewart . . ." She had spoken the name at last. She supposed it would be better discussed between women, but she was easier with men. Four brothers had taught her that. "Six years, I was told-and now supplanted by a Campbell."

" 'Tis no one's concern who shares his bed, Cat."

She smiled lopsidedly. "MacIain said the same."

With eloquent irony and an equally bonnie smile: "Then you've heard it twice, aye?-perhaps you might believe it."

Cat persisted. "But she has friends here . . . people who kent her well."

He shrugged idly, toeing a pebble from under his foot. "No one kent Jean well. She wasna disposed to having any of us so close." He sent the pebble plunging over the edge and down the stony face. "She was hidden in her thoughts. Private in her feelings."

"Except for Dair."

"Aye, well . . ." John sighed. " 'Tis over, Cat. 'Twas over before he saw you again at Achallader."

She took fire at that. "Dinna lie to make me feel better, John MacDonald!"

He laughed. The flesh by his eyes crinkled. "Och no, I am not disposed to do so . . . not even for courtesy's sake." He pulled a stray lock of hair away from his left eye. The silver now boasted strands of white, as if age promised premature solicitation. "We stood up here, he and I, discussing this very thing."

"Discussing me?"

"Not you by yourself, no. But how a man learns he is mistaken, and must set his life to rights," John said quietly. "He kent it already, Cat. I canna say if he kent 'twas you he wanted, but he didna want Jean anymore. He made that plain. And plainer still that he meant to tell her so, once he came back from Achallader."

She crossed her arms and hugged herself, face bared of hair by the wind. "I wondered how he could ask me to his home, with Jean still in it. "

"In his heart, she wasna. Not anymore."

Cat smiled a little, though it hurt. "That means something, aye?-that he wasna intending for two of us to live beneath his roof."

"Or one of you in Glen Lyon, and the other in Appin?" His tone was kind. " 'Tisn't his way, Cat. 'Twas never Alasdair's way."

It welled up suddenly, with no warning. "I wouldna want to be Jean," she blurted. "Nor to be in Jean's place, going away from the house of a man I loved."

"What they had was never love."

It astonished her. "But-"

"You are young, Cat." His eyes-Dair's eyes-were warm. "I dinna mean that as insult-you are a woman grown, aye?-but there are things between men and women you canna envision. Pray G.o.d it remains that way."

She dared it. "You and Eiblin?"

"Eiblin and I kent we were meant for one another when we were wee sprats. There was never another for either of us."

And again: "But-"

"But not everyone is so, Cat. And if there is pleasure, even without love, a man may bide a wee."

"Six years," she said; it mattered.

"But not strung like a necklace, aye?-one bead after the other. As much time apart as together. More time apart as together."

"It matters," she told him.

"I ken that," he answered as steadily.

"And yet I think if he came home from Fort William and asked me to go, I would not. Could not. So how can she?"

"Because Jean is the kind of woman who doesna fight for a man. He fights for her. 'Tis how she wants it. 'Tis how she needs it." John shrugged. "But Dair has never done so, and that, you ken, is why there were six years. Because Jean could not bear that he might turn away. Such things were her doing. Her decision."

"That isna love," Cat declared decisively. "That is war."

Dair's brother smiled. "And she has forfeited the high ground. You hold it, now."

Cat turned, angrily blinking away unbidden, unwanted tears. "Not if he doesna come back."

The Earl of Breadalbane made deep obeisance before the Queen of England and Scotland. It was not his preference to see her on matters of state-that was for the king, save William remained in Flanders-but circ.u.mstances, wholly unexpected, required it. And so he faced her now, in London, in Kensington Palace, trying desperately to muster diplomacy as well as authority.

She motioned him to rise. She was plump of body, round of chin and shoulders, with a proud, straight nose-not humped as was her husband's-and an excessively small mouth nearly devoid of lips. Dark hair was piled up on her head in a myriad of waves and iron-wrought curls. She resembled her brother, the exiled king, and was not particularly attractive. But beauty was not her strength, nor equally her folly. Her strength, just now, was William's absence; the folly a romantic streak coupled with Scots blood. And she had, only today, decided rather incongruously to recollect it.

"Your Majesty," he began, "I have learned of your intent with regard to the Highlanders who stole the Lamb and her supplies near Fort William." Sweat stung in the fleshy hollows beneath his arms, soiling his finery; he wore his best London-made suit to meet with the queen. "If you will forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty-I would wish you might reconsider."

Mary sat very straight in the ma.s.sive chair beneath a draped canopy, as if intimidated by her surroundings and desirous of not showing it. Near her feet was a tangle of silky, parti-color dogs, the spaniels called after her father, Charles I. The earl paid them no mind save to briefly mark their presence; they were not elegant deerhounds and thus did not matter. Not far from her chair, though a conspicuous distance away, gathered a clutch of silk-clad ladies as unremarkable as the dogs.

"Why might you wish it?" Mary asked in a thin, girlish voice.

"I believe it to be in the best interests of England if they were transported to the Tolbooth in Edinburgh, Your Majesty-"

"To wait upon the king's pleasure?" she interrupted. "Well, our royal husband has more important matters to concern himself with than rebellious young Highlanders."

"Yes, Your Majesty-but-"

"He is at war, my lord earl. The future of our country rests upon his beloved head. He need not trouble it with this, we think." The hem of her skirts was abruptly tugged away from slippered feet as one of the young spaniels caught the fabric and pulled. The queen laughed in indulgent amus.e.m.e.nt and bent down to free her skirts, making soft and wholly inefficient reprimands, to which the dogs responded with a marked lack of respect.

Breadalbane chewed the interior of his cheek. He did not know why this woman frustrated him so-he was well versed in dealing with recalcitrance-save he could not use the weapons he was most accustomed to. She was female, innocent of wit and politics, but wielded enough power with William away that she could undo his plans.

Patiently, he began anew. "Your Majesty, these Highlanders are far more than rebellious young men, but warriors-"

"We have ordered them to be set free," she told him firmly. "We have said so to the Council, and the orders have been drawn up. They shall be strictly warned, my lord earl-but one cannot truly blame Highlanders for being Highlanders." She smiled, and her lips all but disappeared. "We who are Scottish-we who are also Scottish!-understand the Scottish temperament."

The palms of his hands were damp. He pressed them against his coat. "They have not come forward to swear the Oath, Your Majesty. They are rebels, no more, and should be punished."

"What month is it, my lord earl?"

The incongruity startled him. "August, Your Majesty."

"We thought so." Mary's lips thinned; her eyes held a glint very nearly malicious. "Then these young men have four more months before they are required to sign the Oath." She cast a secret, sly glance at her women. "Let the young men have their adventures."

He could not conceive that she should be so blind. "But they might have killed the sailors, Your Majesty-"

"And yet they did not; we made certain of that." Dark eyes hardened. "Be certain that had they killed a single Englishman, we would have acceded to your wishes. But they did not. And we should be in great inharmoniousness of mind if we believed the negotiations for peace among the clans were jeopardized by overharsh punishment. Such things call for delicacy."

Breadalbane, who no longer believed in negotiations when he and Stair intended something far more harsh and indelicate, bit into his cheek again. This time he tasted blood.

"We shall forgive them this," she said. "As will you, my lord earl."

It was finality. Royal dismissal. Breadalbane bowed, cursing inwardly, and took his leave.

Robbie Stewart disdained stirrups. Freed of iron, he caught double handfuls of the garron's mane and swung up into the saddle. "Quidder we'll zie, " he said: 'Whither will ye,' in Gaelic, the Stewart motto that was, in this particular instance, wholly appropriate.

Dair knew whither. But when required patience; they had unlocked Robbie first on the Parade Ground before the gate, along with the Appin men and the MacDonalds. Only he remained shackled.

He wondered for a moment if Governor Hill meant to keep him. But no. Major Forbes came with the key and unlocked him with economical efficiency, then stepped away.

Dair's wrists and arms felt curiously weightless after three weeks of iron bracelets. He pressed his elbows against his side lest the Sa.s.senachs see his discomfort.

In Gaelic still, so the soldiers would not know, Robbie said something rude about men wasting time better spent with la.s.ses. Dair agreed mutely and moved to go to his garron, but John Hill stepped into his path.

"You have my words," the governor said. "In the Lord's name, I pray you carry them to MacIain. I would have a binding peace in the Highlands, not everlasting war."

A slight, wasted man, the years ungentle to him as well as the Highland climate. And yet the resolution in Hill's steady eyes told Dair he was not a man who said what he did not mean.

"I will carry them," Dair agreed, "but I canna say what he will do."

John Hill's unexpected smile was very faint. "Who else can predict MacIain save MacIain himself?"

Dair thought that was about as true and d.a.m.ning a statement as any man might make, Sa.s.senach or no. He gifted Hill with an answering smile, then went with haste to his horse. Best we leave Fort William before the king's wife changes her mind.

And home, home to Glencoe. Home to red-haired Cat.