“My grandsire,” Jamie observed evenly, “has by all reports got a character that would enable him to hide conveniently behind a spiral staircase. Anyway,” he went on, dismissing his grandfather’s character with a wave of his hand, “then he married Margaret Grant, the Grant o’ Grant’s daughter. It was after she died that he married Primrose Campbell. She was maybe eighteen at the time.”
“Was Old Simon enough of a catch for her family to force her into it?” I asked sympathetically.
“By no means, Sassenach.” He paused to brush the hair out of his face, tucking the stray locks back behind his ears. “He kent well enough that she wouldna have him, no matter if he was rich as Croesus—which he wasn’t—so he had her sent a letter, saying her mother was fallen sick in Edinburgh, and giving the house there she was to go to.”
Hastening to Edinburgh, the young and beautiful Miss Campbell had found not her mother, but the old and ingenious Simon Fraser, who had informed her that she was in a notorious house of pleasure, and that her only hope of preserving her good name was to marry him immediately.
“She must have been a right gump, to fall for that one,” I remarked cynically.
“Well, she was verra young,” Jamie said defensively, “and it wasna an idle threat, either; had she refused him, Old Simon would ha’ ruined her reputation without a second thought. In any event, she married him—and regretted it.”
“Hmph.” I was busy doing sums in my head. The encounter with Primrose Campbell had been only a few years ago, he’d said. Then … “Was it the Dowager Lady Lovat or Margaret Grant who was your grandmother?” I asked curiously.
The high cheekbones were chapped by sun and wind; now they flushed a sudden, painful red.
“Neither one,” he said. He didn’t look at me, but kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, in the direction of Beaufort Castle. His lips were pressed tightly together.
“My father was a bastard,” he said at last. He sat straight as a sword in the saddle, and his knuckles were white, fist clenched on the reins. “Acknowledged, but a bastard. By one of the Castle Downie maids.”
“Oh,” I said. There didn’t seem a lot to add.
He swallowed hard; I could see the ripple in his throat.
“I should ha’ told ye before,” he said stiffly. “I’m sorry.”
I reached out to touch his arm; it was hard as iron.
“It doesn’t matter, Jamie,” I said, knowing even as I spoke that nothing I said could make a difference. “I don’t mind in the slightest.”
“Aye?” he said at last, still staring straight ahead. “Well … I do.”
* * *
The steadily freshening wind off Moray Firth rustled its way through a hillside of dark pines. The country here was an odd combination of mountain slope and seashore. Thick growth of alders, larch, and birch blanketed the ground on both sides of the narrow track we followed, but as we approached the dark bulk of Beaufort Castle, over everything floated the effluvium of mud flats and kelp.
We were in fact expected; the kilted, ax-armed sentries at the gate made no challenge as we rode through. They looked at us curiously enough, but seemingly without enmity. Jamie sat straight as a king in his saddle. He nodded once to the man on his side, and received a similar nod in return. I had the distinct feeling that we entered the castle flying a white flag of truce; how long that state would last was anyone’s guess.
We rode unchallenged into the courtyard of Beaufort Castle, a small edifice as castles went, but sufficiently imposing, for all that, built of the native stone. Not so heavily fortified as some of the castles I had seen to the south, it looked still capable of withstanding a certain amount of abrasion. Wide-mouthed gun-holes gaped at intervals along the base of the outer walls, and the keep still boasted a stable opening onto the courtyard.
Several of the small Highland ponies were housed in this, heads poking over the wooden half-door to whicker in welcome to our own mounts. Near the wall lay a number of packs, recently unloaded from the ponies in the stable.
“Lovat’s summoned a few men to meet us,” Jamie observed grimly, noting the packs. “Relatives, I expect.” He shrugged. “At least they’ll be friendly enough to start with.”
“How do you know?”
He slid to the ground and reached up to help me down.
“They’ve left the broadswords wi’ the luggage.”
Jamie handed over the reins to an ostler who came out of the stables to meet us, dusting his hands on his breeks.
“Er, now what?” I murmured to Jamie under my breath. There was no sign of chatelaine or majordomo; nothing like the cheery, authoritative figure of Mrs. FitzGibbons that had welcomed us to Castle Leoch two years before.
The few ostlers and stable-lads about glanced at us now and then, but continued about their tasks, as did the servants who crossed the courtyard, lugging baskets of laundry, bundles of peat, and all the other cumbrous paraphernalia that living in a stone castle demanded. I looked approvingly after a burly manservant sweating under the burden of two five-gallon copper cans of water. Whatever its shortcomings in the hospitality department, Beaufort Castle at least boasted a bathtub somewhere.
Jamie stood in the center of the courtyard, arms crossed, surveying the place like a prospective buyer of real estate who harbors black doubts about the drains.
“Now we wait, Sassenach,” he said. “The sentries will ha’ sent word that we’re here. Either someone will come down to us … or they won’t.”
“Um,” I said. “Well, I hope they make up their minds about it soon; I’m hungry, and I could do with a wash.”
“Aye, ye could,” Jamie agreed, with a brief smile as he looked me over. “You’ve a smut on your nose, and there’s teasel-heads caught in your hair. No, leave them,” he added, as my hand went to my head in dismay. “It looks bonny, did ye do it on purpose or no.”
Definitely no, but I left them. Still, I sidled over to a nearby watering trough, to inspect my appearance and remedy it so far as was possible using nothing but cold water.
It was something of a delicate situation, so far as old Simon Fraser was concerned, I thought, bending over the trough and trying to make out which blotches on my reflected complexion were actual smudges and which caused by floating bits of hay.
On the one hand, Jamie was a formal emissary from the Stuarts. Whether Lovat’s promises of support for the cause were honest, or mere lip service, chances were that he would feel obliged to welcome the Prince’s representative, if only for the sake of courtesy.
On the other hand, said representative was an illegitimately descended grandson who, if not precisely disowned in his own person, certainly wasn’t a bosom member of the family, either. And I knew enough by now of Highland feuds to know that ill feeling of this sort was unlikely to be diminished by the passage of time.
I ran a wet hand across my closed eyes and back across my temples, smoothing down stray wisps of hair. On the whole, I didn’t think Lord Lovat would leave us standing in the courtyard. He might, however, leave us there long enough to realize fully the dubious nature of our reception.
After that—well, who knew? We would most likely be received by Lady Frances, one of Jamie’s aunts, a widow who—from all we had heard from Tullibardine—managed domestic affairs for her father. Or, if he chose to receive us as a diplomatic ambassage rather than as family connections, I supposed that Lord Lovat himself might appear to receive us, supported by the formal panoply of secretary, guards, and servants.
This last possibility seemed most likely, in view of the time it was taking; after all, you wouldn’t keep a full-dress entourage standing about—it would take some time to assemble the necessary personnel. Envisioning the sudden appearance of a fully equipped earl, I had second thoughts about leaving teasel-heads tangled in my hair, and leaned over the trough again.
At this point, I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the passageway behind the mangers. A squat-bodied elderly man in open shirt and unbuckled
breeks stepped out into the courtyard, shoving aside a plump chestnut mare with a sharp elbow and an irritable “Tcha!” Despite his age, he had a back like a ramrod, and shoulders nearly as broad as Jamie’s.
Pausing by the horse trough, he glanced around the courtyard as though looking for someone. His eye passed over me without registering, then suddenly snapped back, clearly startled. He stepped forward and thrust his face pugnaciously forward, an unshaven gray beard bristling like a porcupine’s quills.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“Claire Fraser, er, I mean, Lady Broch Tuarach,” I said, belatedly remembering my dignity. I gathered my self-possession, and wiped a drop of water off my chin. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded.
A firm hand gripped my elbow from behind, and a resigned voice from somewhere above my head said, “That, Sassenach, is my grandsire. My lord, may I present my wife?”
* * *
“Ah?” said Lord Lovat, giving me the benefit of a cold blue eye. “I’d heard you’d married an Englishwoman.” His tone made it clear that this act confirmed all his worst suspicions about the grandson he’d never met.
He raised a thick gray brow in my direction, and shifted the gimlet stare to Jamie. “No more sense than your father, it seems.”
I could see Jamie’s hands twitch slightly, resisting the urge to clench into fists.
“At the least, I had nay need to take a wife by rape or trickery,” he observed evenly.
His grandfather grunted, unfazed by the insult. I thought I saw the corner of his wrinkled mouth twitch, but wasn’t sure.
“Aye, and ye’ve gained little enough by the bargain ye struck,” he observed. “Though at that, this one’s less expensive than that MacKenzie harlot Brian fell prey to. If this sassenach wench brings ye naught, at least she looks as though she costs ye little.” The slanted blue eyes, so much like Jamie’s own, ran over my travel-stained gown, taking in the unstitched hem, the burst seam, and the splashes of mud on the skirt.
I could feel a fine vibration run through Jamie, and wasn’t sure whether it was anger or laughter.
“Thanks,” I said, with a friendly smile at his lordship. “I don’t eat much, either. But I could use a bit of a wash. Just water; don’t bother about the soap, if it comes too dear.”
This time I was sure about the twitch.
“Aye, I see,” his lordship said. “I shall send a maid to see ye to your rooms, then. And provide ye with soap. We shall see ye in the library before supper … grandson,” he added to Jamie, and turning on his heel, disappeared back under the archway.
“Who’s we?” I asked.
“Young Simon, I suppose,” Jamie answered. “His lordship’s heir. A stray cousin or two, maybe. And some of the tacksmen, I should imagine, judging from the horses in the courtyard. If Lovat’s going to consider sending troops to join the Stuarts, his tacksmen and tenants may have a bit to say about it.”
* * *
“Ever seen a small worm in a barnyard, in the middle of a flock of chickens?” he murmured as we walked down the hall an hour later behind a servant. “That’s me—or us, I should say. Stick close to me, now.”
The various connections of clan Fraser were indeed assembled; when we were shown into the Beaufort Castle library, it was to find more than twenty men seated around the room.
Jamie was formally introduced, and gave a formal statement on behalf of the Stuarts, giving the respects of Prince Charles and King James to Lord Lovat and appealing for Lovat’s help, to which the old man replied briefly, eloquently and noncommittally. Etiquette attended to, I was then brought forward and introduced, and the general atmosphere became more relaxed.
I was surrounded by a number of Highland gentlemen, who took turns exchanging words of welcome with me as Jamie chatted with someone named Graham, who seemed to be Lord Lovat’s cousin. The tacksmen eyed me with a certain amount of reserve, but were all courteous enough—with one exception.
Young Simon, much like his father in squatty outline, but nearly fifty years younger, came forward and bowed over my hand. Straightening up, he looked me over with an attention that seemed just barely this side of rudeness.
“Jamie’s wife, hm?” he asked. He had the slanted eyes of his father and half-nephew, but his were brown, muddy as bogwater. “I suppose that means I may call ye ‘niece,’ does it not?” He was just about Jamie’s age, clearly a few years younger than I.
“Ha-ha,” I said politely, as he chortled at his own wit. I tried to retrieve my hand, but he wasn’t letting go. Instead, he smiled jovially, giving me the once-over again.
“I’d heard of ye, you know,” he said. “You’ve a bit of fame through the Highlands, Mistress.”
“Oh, really? How nice.” I tugged inconspicuously; in response, his hand tightened around mine in a grip that was nearly painful.
“Oh, aye. I’ve heard you’re verra popular with the men of your husband’s command,” he said, smiling so hard his eyes narrowed to dark-brown slits. “They call ye neo-geimnidh meala, I hear. That means ‘Mistress Honeylips,’ ” he translated, seeing my look of bewilderment at the unfamiliar Gaelic.
“Why, thank you …” I began, but got no more than the first words out before Jamie’s fist crashed into Simon Junior’s jaw and sent his half-uncle reeling into a piecrust table, scattering sweetmeats and serving spoons across the polished slates with a terrific clatter.
He dressed like a gentleman, but he had a brawler’s instincts. Young Simon rolled up onto his knees, fists clenched, and froze there. Jamie stood over him, fists doubled but loose, his stillness more menacing than open threat.
“No,” he said evenly, “she doesna have much Gaelic. And now that ye’ve proved it to everyone’s satisfaction, ye’ll kindly apologize to my wife, before I kick your teeth down your throat.” Young Simon glowered up at Jamie, then glanced aside at his father, who nodded imperceptibly, looking impatient at this interruption. The younger Fraser’s shaggy black hair had come loose from its lacing, and hung like tree moss about his face. He eyed Jamie warily, but with a strange tinge of what looked like amusement as well, mingled with respect. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and bowed gravely to me, still on his knees.
“Your pardon, Mistress Fraser, and my apologies for any offense ye may have suffered.”
I could do no more than nod graciously in return, before Jamie was steering me out into the corridor. We had almost reached the door at the end before I spoke, glancing back to see that we were not overheard.
“What on earth does neo-geimnidh meala mean?” I said, jerking on his sleeve to slow him. He glanced down, as though I had just been recalled to his wandering attention.
“Ah? Oh, it means honeylips, all right. More or less.”
“But—”
“It’s no your mouth he was referring to, Sassenach,” Jamie said dryly.
“Why, that—” I made as if to turn back to the study, but Jamie tightened his grip on my arm.
“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” he murmured in my ear. “Dinna worry, Sassenach. They’re only tryin’ me. It will be all right.”
I was left in the care of Lady Frances, Young Simon’s sister, while Jamie returned to the library, shoulders squared for battle. I hoped he wouldn’t hit any more of his relatives; while the Frasers were, on the whole, not as sizable as the MacKenzies, they had a sort of tough watchfulness that boded ill for anyone trying something on in their immediate vicinity.
Lady Frances was young, perhaps twenty-two, and inclined to view me with a sort of terrorized fascination, as though I might spring upon her if not incessantly placated with tea and sweetmeats. I exerted myself to be as pleasant and unthreatening as possible, and after a time, she relaxed sufficiently to confess that she had never met an Englishwoman before. “Englishwoman,” I gathered, was an exotic and dangerous species.
I was careful to make no sudden moves, and after a bit, she grew comfortable enough to introduce me shyly to her son, a sturdy little ch
ap of three or so, maintained in a state of unnatural cleanliness by the constant watchfulness of a stern-faced maidservant.
I was telling Frances and her younger sister Aline about Jenny and her family, whom they had never met, when there was a sudden crash and a cry in the hallway outside. I sprang to my feet, and reached the sitting-room door in time to see a huddled bundle of cloth struggling to rise to its feet in the stone corridor. The heavy door to the library stood open, and the squat figure of Simon Fraser the elder stood framed in it, malevolent as a toad.
“Ye’ll get worse than that, my lass, and ye make no better job of it,” he said. His tone was not particularly menacing; only a statement of fact. The bundled figure raised its head, and I saw an odd, angularly pretty face, dark eyes wide over the red blotch deepening on her cheekbone. She saw me, but made no acknowledgment of my presence, only getting to her feet and hurrying away without a word. She was very tall and extremely thin, and moved with the strange, half-clumsy grace of a crane, her shadow following her down the stones.
I stood staring at Old Simon, silhouetted against the firelight from the library behind him. He felt my eyes upon him, and turned his head to look at me. The old blue eyes rested on me, cold as sapphires.
“Good evening, my dear,” he said, and closed the door.
I stood looking blankly at the dark wooden door.
“What was that all about?” I asked Frances, who had come up behind me.
“Nothing,” she said, licking her lips nervously. “Come away, Cousin.” I let her pull me away, but resolved to ask Jamie later what had happened in the library.
* * *
We had reached the chamber allotted us for the night, and Jamie graciously dismissed our small guide with a pat on the head.
The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 176
