by Amanda Scott
“Do you? And how do you spend your days when you are at home?”
“I do as I please, of course.”
“But surely you have duties to perform. Everyone does.”
“Yes, but my burdens are light, because our servants are efficient and capable. I ride and I hunt. I visit friends, and they visit us. If I were at home now, I would doubtless be overseeing the preparation of oatmeal bannocks for the Beltane festivities tomorrow, but your cook and his minions are attending to that.”
“But you must do as you please here, too,” he said amiably. “I hope I have not distressed you by suggesting that you must be an excellent companion for my mother. That was not my intention.”
“Of course, you have not distressed me,” she said, wondering how she could feel guilty and at the same time feel like throwing something at him. It was not the first time he had made her feel so, either. Somehow, whenever they were together, he managed to turn the tables like this, to make her feel as if she had put a foot wrong when she had done nothing of the kind.
“I adore your mother,” she added firmly. “She is one of the kindest people I know, and I am grateful for her hospitality. I merely wanted to make clear to you that I prefer to be out doing things and not just sitting quietly, stitching seams. I was wondering, in fact, if it might be possible to send someone to Ardintoul to fetch one or two of my horses to ride whilst I am here. Since we traveled to Dumbarton by sea, I have ridden only borrowed horses since I left home.”
“We can mount you perfectly well here, mistress. There is no need to send someone so far merely to fetch a horse or two.”
“But—”
“Perhaps you would care to explain to my father that you do not find any of his mounts suitable for you,” he murmured with a twinkling look. “Since he takes great pride in his stable, I would not want to do that myself. I find his temper tantrums utterly exhausting.”
Lord and Lady Chisholm entered the hall together just then, and her ladyship hurried forward to greet Sir Alex, sparing Bab the need to reply, which was just as well. Since the thought of Chisholm in a temper was not one she wanted to contemplate, she decided she would be wise to see what choice of horseflesh the Chisholm stables could provide. The horses she had ridden since leaving Stirling had not impressed her, but horses employed for long journeys were chosen for their strength, stamina, and good manners, not for their speed or spirit.
If she did find a suitable mount, she could ride out and see for herself what was happening in Glen Affric and perhaps even venture into Glen Mor. And if she should chance to meet the Fox again…
That delicious thought brought a smile to her lips.
Sir Alex, although enveloped in his mother’s fond embrace, did not fail to note Mistress MacRae’s secret smile or to wonder what she was thinking. That she was angry with him was clear, but he never seemed able to please her, so that did not distress him. Her anger heightened the roses in her cheeks and added sparkle to her beautiful dark blue eyes, which must always be accounted to her credit.
When Sir Patrick MacRae had decided to send her home to the Highlands and had asked him to arrange for her to accompany his parents to Dundreggan and to remain there until Patrick could fetch her home to Ardintoul, Alex had agreed with alacrity. Until the previous summer, when he had returned to Scotland after two years spent roaming the Continent, he had not seen Mistress MacRae since she was a thin, gawky twelve- or thirteen-year old. Despite the tragedy that had brought him home and the grief that still engulfed his parents, the change in her had staggered him, and he had wondered how he might get to know her better.
Recently, at Stirling, he had learned that she had a volatile temper and that she had little in common with the more predictable ladies of the court. Her intelligence and quick tongue set her apart, as did her way of saying exactly what she thought when she thought it. He had found her entertaining and a bit of a puzzle, and for some reason, it amused him to stir that temper.
She was clearly a lass who enjoyed life. Just being in her presence gave one a fresh look at the world through her eyes. He had thought himself jaded beyond redemption by all he had seen before, during, and after his travels on the Continent and his visits to various royal courts. He had even journeyed to the Vatican and had learned to his astonishment that it was nothing more than one more court, with the same protocols, political games, and poisonous mischief that typified all the others. He had not been to London, for the English court was no safe place for a Scotsman these days, but he had heard enough about Henry the Eighth and his court, and he had visited others at Paris, Rome, Brussels, Amsterdam, and Stirling. With steadily increasing cynicism, he had found them all tediously boring.
Life was not boring now, however, and he doubted that it would become so again as long as Mistress Barbara MacRae remained a part of it.
The members of the High Circle gathered in the Great Chamber, and when Maggie Malloch took her customary place, no other member greeted her. When the chief entered, they straightened into a line, flanking him—four on one side, five on the other—leaving her to face them all.
It was not the first time they had done such a thing, for great power stirred jealousy and resentment in its wake, but the rearrangement irritated her.
Although their usual number was twelve, only the ten others were present, for they had done nothing to replace Jonah Bonewits, the powerful, shape-shifting wizard who had nearly defeated her more than once. His most recent attempt had resulted in his banishment, but she was certain he would not remain quietly in exile.
The only light in the Great Chamber was the golden-orange glow in the center that illuminated the members, but movement in the blackness beyond it told her that other members of the Clan were entering, witnesses perhaps, as Claud would be, and watchers. Knowing that her son might be called to bear witness against her stirred the coals of her temper nearly to ignition point, but she knew she would be wise to reserve her energy until she could identify exactly what she faced.
The hushed, shuffling movements behind her ceased at last, and for a long moment, the air was thick with the silence. Then the chief declared abruptly, “There be business afore the Circle. Who will speak first?”
“I will,” said one of the dark-cloaked ten. Maggie recognized the reed thin voice of Red Annis, who represented the Jolly Gentry, a Highland pixie tribe allied with the mischievous Merry Folk.
“Maggie Malloch broke our rules,” Red Annis said shrilly. “She must be banished. I vote therefore to hand her over to the Evil Host!”
A chill washed over Claud at these words, for he feared the Host above all things, and the thought that the Circle might give his mother to them terrified him. He could see nothing of Red Annis’s face or tiny figure inside the voluminous cloak, although he could see the chief’s face and the other members flanking him.
A man with a fringe of green beard immediately to the chief’s right declared gruffly, “She ha’ caused strife, and more, I say. We o’ the Circle set ye a task, Maggie Malloch, tae make peace betwixt certain warring tribes. Ye ha’ done nowt that I can see tae achieve it.”
Claud saw Maggie tense and knew she had clamped a lid on her temper.
She said icily, “If I ha’ failed tae make peace betwixt your Merry Folk and our Helping Hands, ’twere the fault o’ the Merry Folk. The plain fact be that the Helping Hands see their duties clear and attend tae them, whilst the Merry Folk make mischief for the fun o’ it and shirk every duty they can manage tae shirk. ’Tis a scandal, and did I ha’ my way, I’d demand punishment for the whole tribe.”
Several members tried to talk, but the chief silenced them with a gesture and said, “Fir Darrig, chieftain o’ the Merry Folk, be ye present as I commanded?”
“Aye,” declared a voice near Claud as a little old man stepped into the golden glow. He had long gray hair streaked with red, a wrinkled face, and he wore a scarlet sugar-loaf hat and a long scarlet coat that reached to the floor.
“How d’y
e answer the charge Maggie Malloch makes against your tribe?” the chief asked.
“I’ll tell ye how,” Fir Darrig said. “I challenge the fashious woman to name any member who has shirked any duty.”
“The challenge would be tae name one who has not,” Maggie muttered.
“Give us a name, then, Maggie,” the chief commanded.
“The sly, wanton lass called Catriona,” she snapped, shooting a memory into Claud’s mind that instantly stirred his libido. “Her duty,” Maggie said, “be tae serve mortals o’ the Mackenzie clan, tae keep them safe and watch over their lands and goods. Instead, the parlous slut seduced a lad o’me own Good Neighbor tribe and cozened him into conjuring things he had nae business conjuring, tae serve her.”
The chief said, “How d’ye respond, Fir Darrig?”
The chieftain of the Merry Folk had no response.
“Verra well, then,” the chief said. “Ye’ll hail forth the lass, Catriona, tae answer for herself, and we’ll adjourn this meeting until ye do. And ye’ll none o’ ye here speak a word o’ this matter in the meantime, or ye’ll answer tae me.”
As Bab watched Sir Alex that afternoon with his parents, she wondered what it was about him that so quickly stirred her temper when she did nothing to stir his.
Then, bowing to honesty again, she realized that she had tried to do just that by poking at him as she had. Still, the thought of him confronting the sheriff or his son was ludicrous. Like most gentlemen of fashion, he wore a short sword at his side, but she doubted that he had any notion how to use it and feared he would cut himself rather than his opponent if he tried to defend himself with it.
Conversation over supper was good-natured at first but not stimulating. When asked about events at Stirling after their departure, Sir Alex said only that he believed Patrick had finished his business in good form and had headed south with his bride so that he could look into some matter or other at Dunsithe, the Border stronghold owned by Mackenzie of Kintail, where Patrick served as constable.
“Pray, sir,” Bab said at last, goaded, “why did he go to Dunsithe when he said he would be coming here as soon as possible?”
“You’d do better to ask him about it when he arrives to take you home,” he said, gesturing casually to a gilly to refill his goblet with claret. Then, without waiting for her to respond, he said to his father, “You are looking better than you did in Stirling, sir. I collect you are not sorry to have returned home.”
“Nay, not in the least,” Chisholm said. “All that political bustle and stew, and like as not over matters having naught to do with us here in the Highlands. It becomes increasingly difficult to identify the players in each new game.”
“Are there so many players then?” Sir Alex asked blandly.
“You should know that there are,” his father said, his tone hardening. “The people of the glen are your people, Alex, and one day you will have to lead them. That is to say, you will have the duty to do so, and to protect them, too. If you do not understand the fundamental changes taking place both here and in Stirling, you will be of little use to the House of Chisholm.”
“I am doubtless, in my own way, as great a villain as Dalcross, sir, but I am persuaded that the ladies cannot wish to be subjected to a dreary discussion of royal or even local politics at the supper table.”
“I do not mind,” Bab said sweetly. “I like to know what is happening around me. Indeed, I found the intrigue at court fascinating. Such a lot of scheming and plotting, even at balls and festivals!”
Chisholm smiled cynically, displaying more of his customary nature than he had since leaving Stirling. “Especially at balls and festivals,” he said. Turning back to his son, he added, “I do not count you a villain, lad, but our entire Highland way of life is weakening, our Gaelic ways dying, and something must be done. Whilst the Lords of the Isles held sway, they encouraged high standards in the Gaelic arts, but Sheriff Dalcross had a man flogged not long since for no greater crime than carving his mother’s grave slab in the Celtic fashion.”
“The King is now Lord of the Isles,” Sir Alex said. “You are not suggesting that the Islemen should attempt to take back their lordship, I hope.”
“I do not,” Chisholm said with asperity. “I say that Dalcross and his even more villainous son overstep their authority in trying to influence fundamental matters and stir chaos in their wake.”
Sir Alex’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Does not every generation complain about the old ways dying out, sir?” he said. “New customs have always replaced old ones just as new fashions do, so surely this is only more of that sort of thing. I promise you, I heard complaints of much the same nature from my various hosts wherever I traveled.”
“Doubtless that is true, my dear,” Lady Chisholm said, “but surely the French and Italians have not taken to destroying their ancient artworks to make way for newer ones. Sheriff Dalcross and his men exert their authority in just that way. You must have heard tales of such travesties yourself.”
“Those rumors may well have been put about by malcontents,” he said. “Change always brings complaint, but without change there can be no progress.”
“Is it true that your sheriff flogs priests, too, my lord?” Bab asked. “I have heard it said that he does, but I could scarcely credit the truth of such talk.”
“It is certainly true,” Chisholm said. “Dalcross and his supporters want to reform the Scottish Kirk to conform with demands from Rome, although in my opinion and that of many others, such reforms do not suit our people. Young Dalcross says that Cardinal Beaton supports them. To that I say, let Beaton tidy up his own corrupt house before he imposes unnecessary alterations in mine.”
“You make a good point, my lord,” Sir Alex sipped his claret and then said to Bab, “Would it amuse you, mistress, to see more of Glen Affric tomorrow?”
Surprised, she could not help saying, “Faith, sir, would you exert yourself so soon after your long and tedious journey?”
“I had thought rather of arranging for an escort to show you some of the countryside,” he drawled, meeting her gaze with a mocking look.
“You will do no such thing, sir,” Chisholm said sharply. “Simple good manners dictate that you should take Mistress MacRae about yourself. I only wish that my present state of health permitted me to do so.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Bab said, smiling demurely. “I am persuaded that you could tell me much more about the history and people here than Sir Alex will, but I confess, I am more interested in visiting your mews. I hope you will be well enough soon to show them to me. Patrick said you have some famous hunting birds.”
“I do, indeed.”
“Patrick has taught me much of hawking and falconry,” she said. “After so many days of plodding along, I am eager for more stimulating exercise. Indeed, sir, I wonder if you would be so kind as to permit me to hunt.”
Chisholm nodded thoughtfully. “Your brother is renowned for his skill with birds of prey, mistress. If he has taught you, I am certain you must know what you are about. My chief falconer, Alasdair Mackinnon, is a skilled man, too. He and Alex shall take you out tomorrow if you like.”
Shooting a glance at Sir Alex, Bab was pleased to see a muscle jump in his cheek. Although she suspected that he did not much like having his day planned for him, she thought it would be good for him to have to exert himself a bit. “Thank you, my lord,” she said happily. “I will enjoy that very much.”
Sir Alex said, “With respect, sir, I had forgotten that tomorrow is the feast of Beltane. I’d not be surprised should Francis Dalcross and his men decide to make mischief with the revelers. Do you think it is safe for her to ride outside our wall?”
“Faith, Alex, you were just saying they mean no harm, and they will hardly disturb you whilst you are hunting. Show some backbone for once in your life!”
Sir Alex fell silent, his expression wooden, and Bab felt sorry that she had ever raised the subject of hunting. Conversation languished afte
r that, and after supper, she found herself in Lady Chisholm’s bower with only her ladyship, Giorsal, and Clarice for company.
Chapter 4
To Claud, the time between the adjournment and the reconvening of the High Circle was so brief as to be nonexistent. One moment everyone was leaving and he heard the music outside; the next moment he was back in the blackness surrounding the golden-orange glow, watching the Circle straighten into a line again. The only difference was that Maggie no longer faced them alone, because the lovely, golden-haired Catriona stood beside her, albeit at a discreet distance.
Claud’s memories of Catriona had dimmed, but they flooded back when he saw her. She was as beautiful as ever, standing regally before the hooded figures, the panels of her gilt-trimmed green gown flowing like rivers of soft gauze over the enticing curves of her body. Like all her gowns, it was cut low to reveal her plump, beautiful breasts. He remembered how soft they were, and how easily her gowns slipped off. He remembered, too, the wonderful things she had done to him, and with him, and he felt his body stir in anticipation of enjoying her charms again.
He realized that Maggie had come to the end of her catalogue of Catriona’s crimes only when the chief demanded that the lass respond.
Catriona’s stubborn little chin lifted defiantly. “Maggie Malloch hates me because her son adores me. That’s all there be to the matter.”
“Indeed,” the chief said. To Fir Darrig, he said, “As ye see, the lass doesna deny the charge, so Maggie has answered your challenge. What say ye now?”
The wrinkles in his face deepening into a grimace, Fir Darrig said, “I’ll agree that Catriona were in the wrong, but her actions ha’ naught to do wi’ the strife betwixt our tribe and the Helping Hands. ’Tis but an unfair diversion, that.”
“How d’ye identify the cause, then?” the chief asked.
“We say that hill folk shouldna ha’ to look after mortals like the Gordons, the Chisholms, and their ilk, wha’ ha’ their roots in the Borders. Such clans, and any that mix or marry wi’ them should be seen to by them wha’ guard their roots.”
