Jennifer Roberson

by Lady of the Glen

  The latch clicked. Hastily Glenlyon roused, wiped bloodied, damp fingers on the journey-soiled kilt, and pulled his coat into order. Should have taken more time—A hand passed quickly across his head restored haphazard neatness to his hair; with effort he summoned decorum and dignity to match that of Grey John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane.

  The earl came in and shut the door. He carried under one arm a leather-wrapped casket hinged with beaten bronze. The high arch of his nose displayed the shape of the bone beneath, and the rectitude of a man who trusts himself to be profoundly correct in all things.

  Glenlyon rose, thrust out his jaw, and turned handily so that his plaid swung. In a perfect courtesy he inclined his head to acknowledge the earldom if not the man who held it. “Cousin.”

  The latch rattled again as Breadalbane released it. “We shall be undisturbed,” he said evenly, “so you may speak out honestly with no worry of being overheard. ’Tis family business, this, as well as a clan concern.”

  Glenlyon waited tensely as the earl moved to his desk and sat down. A deft gesture indicated he was to take his seat; after a pause Glenlyon did so. He pointedly eyed the decanter on the sideboard.

  Clearly Breadalbane saw it, yet he extended no offer, no hospitality beyond a chair, his roof—and the honor of his presence. Good Christ—he denies hospitality to a kinsman? Glenlyon clenched his teeth. Or just to me?

  The earl set forth the casket between them, then folded slender fingers atop the wooden desk. His gray eyes were steady, belying no intent beyond a quiet conversation. “Have you spent it all, Robin?”

  Glenlyon began to perspire, though the room was cool. Breadalbane, when he fell back on familiarity, was at his most dangerous. “I paid my debts.”

  The earl registered the belligerence. His answering smile was slight. “Of course. You’re an honorable man, aye?”

  For all it was couched in gentleness, the blade struck keenly. Campbell’s armpits tingled. He knows the silver’s gone—all five thousand—And none of it spent on debts.

  Glenlyon tensed as the earl’s water-colored eyes took on a wholly unanticipated sparkle. “I was thinking of Jean Campbell just before I came in. A redoubtable woman, your mother—and well worth the wake ye hosted for her.”

  Wary of kindness, Glenlyon picked his way with care. “I willna deny it. ”

  “And they still tell the tale of the stone.” Breadalbane’s smile broadened. “How you wouldna let the MacGregors or Appin Stewarts beat a Campbell and sent for that herdsman to defeat them.”

  The remnants of tension vanished. Glenlyon laughed in relief. “Good Christ, no! That pawkie MacGregor thought no one could match his throw!”

  “Through the tree . . .”

  “Through the farthest tree; through the crotch . . . but I sent for MacArthur.”

  “Who came at a run—”

  “—wi’out doffing bonnet or plaid—”

  “—and hurled the stone farther yet.”

  “A brawlie man, MacArthur!”

  Breadalbane laughed. “And in celebration you didna bury your mother that day after all, but broached more whisky and bade them celebrate again.”

  “The feat deserved it!”

  “And so she wasna buried until the day after that.” The earl nodded as the flesh by his eyes creased. “No one went home speaking poorly of your hospitality.”

  “They wouldna.” Pride inflated Glenlyon’s chest. “No wake ever was like it before or since, nor any woman the like of Jean Campbell.”

  “Well mourned by sixteen children.” Breadalbane’s narrow mouth below the prominent nose stretched a fraction more. “A fine woman—a brawlie woman—my aunt. She would have been proud of you then, Robin . . . but no’ so proud now.”

  Tension flooded back. His knife cuts sideways, snooving through my ribs! Glenlyon swallowed down the dry lump in his whiskyless throat and sat more rigidly in his chair. Mutilated fingers pressed new folds into his kilt. “Say your words, John. You ken I’ve come all this way to hear them, aye?”

  “I ken.” Breadalbane undid the hasp on the casket and lifted back the lid. From the interior he took a folded paper. “Not my words. Your words, Robin. The oath you swore yourself.”

  He had anticipated discussion, a hint of sternness, but not abject humiliation. It stung. “Good Christ, John, I’m no bairn to be treated this way—”

  “Comhairl’taigh. ”Breadalbane’s tone was gentle, his precise enunciation lacking in hostility. His Highland dialect faded into more precise speech. “You did confess before the Provosts of Perth and Edinburgh, Robin, that your way of life had brought your estates and family into ruin. And that you alone were incapable of saving them.”

  Pressure built up in Glenlyon’s chest. I’ll burst with it . . . like a bagpipe overfilled, spilling out his anger, his shame, his bitterness in a cry that would shake the rafters of Breadalbane’s fine town house.

  Breadalbane said, “You did confess so, aye?”

  On a hissing breath Glenlyon admitted, “I did so confess.”

  Breadalbane observed him in something akin to grave sympathy. He stroked his narrow top lip, then proceeded to read aloud the words which now burned away the last vestiges of his kinsman’s dignity.

  Glenlyon stared straight ahead. His neck was a cairn of granite mortared into place around the iron of his spine.

  Lengthy moments of the facile reading, condemning stupidity. At last, silence. And then Glenlyon barked a sharp, ironic laugh. “He is dead, is Argyll, and well beyond such oaths be they his own or mine!”

  The earl did not immediately answer. In the rift between them Glenlyon heard the rattle of unexpected rain against mullioned windows. It would be a wet walk back to the tavern.

  Breadalbane’s posture did not alter, nor did his expression. “I am not dead.”

  “Good Christ, John—”

  “Campbell or no, I will pay no more debts.”

  Glenlyon thrust himself from the chair. “Then I’ll see to them myself! D’ye think I want your silver? I’ll tend my own business—”

  Breadalbane, quoting, cut him off. “ ‘—how easy I may be circumvented and deceived in the management of my affairs—’ ”

  “Then I’ll sell all I own in the glen, you pawkie bastard, so that henceforth not a single blade of grass will belong to a Campbell—”

  “ ‘—whose counsel and advice I now resolve to use and by whom I am hereafter to be governed in all my affairs and business. ’ ”

  Tears threatened to wrest away what small portion of dignity remained to him. “Christ, John, you leave me no choice!”

  Breadalbane put down the paper. It crackled in underscore to the pressure of decisive fingers. “Whisky leaves you no choice. Dice leave you no choice. Weakness of character leaves you no choice.”

  “I once led an army for you—”

  “I ken it well, Robin. But you’ve indebted your family since. Getting no satisfaction of you, the men who hold your bonds have come to me. To the head of Clan Campbell. To the man who holds your oath of comhairl’taigh. ”For the first time a trace of contempt edged the earl’s tone. “I’ve paid them so many times, ye ken, with none of it paid back. Well, I will not pay them this time.”

  The redoubled effort to stop tears of bitter frustration made it difficult to breathe. “Then I’ll do as you make me do; blame yourself, John! I’ll sell all but what Helen brought me.” Glenlyon snatched from the chair his fallen bonnet. He yanked it onto his head. “And you’ve no hospitality to deny a man whisky!”

  Breadalbane did not rise. “And you’ve no honor, to deny your family the legacy of Glenlyon. But there may be, there may yet be, a way to restore it . . . if what I work toward comes to fruition.” Then his voice cracked in the room. “Sit down, Robin!”

  Glenlyon’s legs collapsed. His buttocks thumped into the chair. He had always been a man who answered another’s thunder; he claimed none of his own. And whisky, despite his longing, despite his dedication, offered little
also.

  It was farther to MacDonald lands than Cat had anticipated. She rode her shaggy garron—hers more pony than horse—in increasingly tense silence, giving away nothing of her presence to the brothers who rode some distance ahead, praying the pony would keep his footing on the narrow track and make no noise, nor greet his kin ahead. But the excitement had begun to pall some time ago, edging from sharp awareness to a wholly unexpected fatigue.

  The moon was halved, but nonetheless shed enough illumination for her to see the countryside, to mark the distant upthrustings of hills and crags. The track she followed in the wake of her brothers skirted the bogs of Rannoch Moor, and would eventually wind through the gorse, heather, and stony outcroppings of the upper slopes. Spring-and rain-fed burns ran full with water, carving wet convolutions of veins through hummocky turf to the black soil beneath.

  Cat tipped her head to stare up at the moon. The adventure had palled, the resolution now wavered; part of her wanted very badly to turn back—her brothers would never know she came, so her desertion could not be thrown in her face—but the other portion of her would not permit such cowardice. She had come to steal—“recover!”—a cow, and recover a cow she would.

  It was summer, but Highland nights were cool. She tasted mist, felt its kiss on her cheeks and nose. She was thankful for the plaid, grateful for the bonnet.

  The garron stumbled. Cat reined its head up; then, as it slowed, planted heels again firmly to urge it onward before she might seriously contemplate turning back. “Chruachan, ” she murmured, relying on the magic contained in a single word to reconfirm her intent, reestablish confidence. “Chrua—”

  She broke off, hissing a startled inhalation. Through the darkness, burning brighter than the moon, blazed a small, steady flame.

  Cat shivered convulsively. Where were her brothers? Still ahead—? Or had they turned off the track? —do they see the fire--? Surely they had; she had. Which meant if they claimed any wits at all they would get off their mounts, snoove down through darkness, huddle up in rocks, and brush and peer downslope at the fire to discover who had laid it.

  “MacDonalds.” A frisson of fear and trepidation twisted her belly inside out. She knew, as her brothers did, that most of the Glencoe men had gone to fight Argyll, leaving behind but a smattering of male protection. But even a single MacDonald provided a threat to Campbell cows.

  She licked dry lips, then rolled the bottom one between her teeth. She need not face MacDonalds, nor did her brothers. They had only to find the nearest herd, gather up what they could, and without excess commotion drive them back to Glen Lyon.

  It could not be difficult. Men did it all the time. And if she and her brothers knew where MacDonalds were, keeping warm by the fire, they could avoid them easily.

  Cat nodded vehemently to herself, finding renewed courage. There was no danger. Only stealth was necessary, and cleverness. She thought neither required a man.

  From ahead a garron whinnied: one of her brothers’. Her own immediately answered it.

  Panic seized her body. She bent down across the garron’s neck, hugging it rigidly. In broad Scots she pleaded for silence. “Och, houd your gab—”

  But it was too late. The fire flared up as wood was added, and she saw man-shapes against it; heard hated MacDonald voices. Dirks and swords glinted.

  Her whole body trembled violently; this was worse, far worse, than anything she had expected. Cat thought instantly of fleeing, of yanking her garron around and going back the way she had come, beating a tattoo against the ribs of her mount. But that was predictable, and instinct insisted that in predictability lay the truest danger.

  —they’ll likely circle around—She heard the scrabble of hooves from up the track, between her mount and the fire. She wanted badly to wait for her brothers, or to ride up to join them, but something beyond fear drove her to serve herself.

  Humming a pibroch in her head to drown out the upsurge of fear, Cat swung her garron from the deer track they had followed and sought shelter among the scree, behind tangled heather and the scrubby oaks huddled against mounded hilltops clustered with time-and rain-broken stone. There she climbed off her garron and flopped belly-down on the ground, scraping herself to the lip of the slope to peer down toward the fire—

  —and scrambled back, flattened in panic, as bodies backlighted by flames tumbled over the slope. Her garron whinnied again.

  “Cat!” The voice broke; it was Dougal throwing himself over the slope. “Cat—is that you?”With him was Colin, big-eyed in the darkness as they came scrabbling over the scree, dragging ponies at the end of taut reins.

  Her heart surely would burst as it hammered within her chest. Cat lifted her face from the ground. “Where’s Jamie?” It was little more than a wheeze. She spat grit. “Where’s Robbie?” She wanted Robbie. They needed Robbie. He would know what to do. He was always telling them so.

  Dougal stuffed his reins into Colin’s rigid hand and motioned for the youngest boy to get the garrons down behind the slope. He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating the fire. “Back there. He sent us away when the garrons whinnied—Cat, they’re MacDonalds. ”

  Fear made her blurt of laughter harsh. “They should be, aye? We’re on MacDonald land!”

  “No.” It was Colin, smallest of them all, hunkering down rigidly against the slope with two garrons pulling at reins. “No, Robbie said we’re not—”

  Dougal took it over. “—We’re no’ to Glencoe yet, or even near it—we’re still on Rannoch. They’ve come here—”

  Cat was outraged as the full meaning sank in. “They’ve come for our cows!” Fear dissipated abruptly into insulted pride. “Where are Robbie and Jamie?”

  From below they heard a triumphant shout. Silhouettes converged; a body held between two others was escorted toward the fire. Struggles were futile.

  Appalled, Dougal murmured a prayer. Colin dragged the ponies closer; Cat’s garron had wandered off a pace or two to forage.

  She dug her nails into the earth as she watched the captive avidly, trying to identify him. —let it be Jamie . . . let Robbie be free . . . Robbie’ll ken what to do—And felt guilty for it, and shamed, that she should wish upon Jamie that which terrified her.

  Dougal shut a hand around Cat’s upper arm. “Why have you come? What are you doing here? Robbie said naught of you coming!”

  It was easier to be angry. “Would he? Not Robbie! He thinks I’m worthless.” Cat glared downslope, hoping they would not see her tears; was it Robbie they had caught?

  Another thought snooved in. Is Alasdair Og with them?

  It infuriated her that she should think of MacDonalds as anything but enemy, even for an instant. To dilute the guilt, Cat turned an accusing glare on Dougal. “You shouldna come away. You should have stayed wi’ Robbie and Jamie!”

  Dougal scraped a forearm across his face. He was white with apprehension, eyes little more than black sockets in the shadows. After her, his hair was reddest, a yellowish, bloody tangle extruded beneath his bonnet. “Robbie sent us. When they heard the garrons.”

  “You could have stayed—”

  “He sent us—”

  Moonlight and fear leached Colin’s face of angles, of hollows, of the spirit that made him human. “We’re to go home. He said so. He sent us back.”

  “And leave Robbie and Jamie behind?” Cat doubled up a fist and smacked him on the shoulder. “You muckle-mouthed coward, we’re Campbells—” She looked beyond Dougal, beyond the scree, to the fire beyond, where she saw man-shaped shadows and the glint of a bared blade. “Campbells, ye ken—” She let loose the Campbell war cry in her deepest voice. “Chruachan!”

  “Cat—Cat, no . . . dinna let them ken—” Dougal clutched her shoulder, pressing her toward her garron. “Go—”

  “Let them ken!” she spat, twisting away. “Let them think we’ve more men than they . . .” Cat frowned. “How many? How many are they?”

  Colin sucked a scraped thumb. “Ten,” he said
flatly, around the battered thumb.

  “Four,” Dougal declared.

  “Ten, or four?” Scowling, Cat stared toward the fire again. Her scalp prickled annoyingly beneath the bonnet; a grue coursed down her spine. She marked several shapes, but none of them stood still long enough to make her count accurate.

  “Chruachan!” came the hoarse cry from the MacDonald fire, stilling them all in shock.

  She saw a man-shape fall, struck down by another, and then a taunting answer sang out in a deeper voice than she could manage, filling the moonlight and moor with the hated MacDonald slogan. “Fraoch Eilean!”

  Cat was immobile. “Robbie—” she breathed. “ ’Tis Robbie they’ve caught—”

  “Run!” Dougal’s undependable voice broke even as Colin scrambled to mount his garron.

  “Come down from there—” Cat lunged up and caught fistfuls of Colin’s carelessly pinned plaid. She jerked him away from his saddle. “If they’ve got Robbie and Jamie, ’tis for us to get them free!”

  “Us?” Dougal shook his head as Colin, pulled awry by his sister, got up from the ground. Plaid torn free of its brooch fell in coils around his ankles. “We’re but three, and you’re not but a lass—”

  Cat shut her hand over the handle of her father’s dirk. “Even a lass is better than a coward, aye? All we have to do is distract them, make them think there are more of us. Jamie is still out there—will ye come? ’Tis for Robbie!”

  Their faces were taut and white. Dougal and Colin exchanged frightened glances, then looked back at her.

  “Have you broken your lug-holes?” she demanded. “ ’Tis our brother they’ve got—MacDonalds have got!”

  Dougal nodded reluctantly. His voice was a man’s, for once. “We’ll leave the garrons here. We’re quieter on foot.”

  Cat grinned. She was impatient now. She rose to skyline herself against the deeper night; it was time to do the task.

  “Chruachan!” she shouted again, loosing her garron, and turned sharply to pelt down the hill. “Chru—