There was silence for a long moment while the men shifted again on their benches. Maclean could see they were not pleased with his decision by the way they turned expectantly toward his nephew.
Finally, Evan spoke. "We think ye should go, Uncle. Ye might be able to do us some good." When Maclean did not respond, his nephew swallowed once, then continued, "Don't ye see? We've spent the morning agreeing Argyll must no' be allowed to swallow the Highlands whole, but we can't see where 'tis possible to stop him. Yet here's a chance fallen right in yer lap."
Eyeing his nephew suspiciously, Maclean muttered, "What are ye thinking, Evan? Make yerself clear, man."
"If ye were there, ye might be able to stop the wedding. There's no surer way of ruining Argyll's plans than that."
In an instant, Maclean was out of his chair. "Are ye daft, the whole lot of ye? Stop a Campbell wedding?" He looked at the ring of faces until he had taken in the expression of every man there. They were serious. And they'd obviously talked this over before they came. The idea hadn't sprung into their heads with the arrival of the letter. Well, serious they might be, but that didn't preclude the possibility they'd lost their wits. When Maclean spoke, his voice was barely controlled. "Ye know I'd like nothing better than to hurt the Earl. But he’s no’ a man to let a prize like this one slip through his fingers. 'Tis a dangerous thing ye're asking of me."
"We know what kind of man Argyll is, Uncle. That's why we can't let him grow any stronger. We also know the Earl thinks ye a clever man. I've even heard it said that he's afraid of ye. Surely ye can think of a way to outfox him. Likely he'll be drunk every night anyway, so pleased will he be at his good fortune."
Maclean moved toward the fire, turning his back on the clan members who had gathered from all over the western Highlands to decide what must be done about Argyll. "No’ one of ye, no’ a single one of ye knows the Earl as I do. And I tell ye, he’s no’ a fool. He knows many would give a great deal to stop this marriage. He knows and he'll be ready. He won't be getting drunk till 'tis safe to do so. And he'll have one eye on me, ye can bet on that. That's why I won't be playing yer game this time."
He did not turn to see their reactions. Instead he gazed into the flames and wished his men were right, that there was a way to thwart the Earl through this wedding. The idea of hurting Argyll had long been one of his fondest daydreams. But he was wise enough to know his own limitations—most of the time.
Evan's voice broke into his thoughts. "Have ye forgotten Alex so soon?"
Maclean grasped the mantel so tightly his hands began to ache. "I haven't forgotten my brother. I’ll no' forget." Unknowingly, he used the Earl's own words. He tried to stop the picture from forming in his mind as it always did at the mention of his brother's name, but he was unsuccessful. Against his will, Maclean stood again amidst the carnage on the battlefield five years ago. He remembered with the same bitter self-recrimination that he had sent Alex and the others because it would be safe. But he had not reckoned on Argyll's duplicity. Since the rebellion was nearly over, the rebels nearly destroyed, he thought the Earl would let the Macleans reach home safely. James IV had won, after all; Argyll still held the Lordship of the Isles in his own grasping fist. Alex had led the tail end of a bedraggled and beaten army into that glen without fear, because Maclean had assured him he could do so.
But the Earl had decided the rebels needed one more lesson, and his army had fallen upon them late that night. Not a single Maclean had left that glen walking. They had been slaughtered, every last one—Alex and Evan and David and the others. And Anne.
Maclean knelt before the fire, pushing his hands toward the flames. He must not think of Anne, or he would destroy the Earl and himself along with him, and maybe the whole Clan Maclean as well.
When he saw his uncle's expression, Evan rubbed his hands together nervously. He knew it was not always wise to evoke the past for the Laird. It was a sure way to rouse his anger against the Earl, but that anger was often so intense it threatened to harm others besides. The servants here had told Evan about Argyll's last visit, when Maclean had nearly taunted the Earl into fighting him. Though he had not seen it, Evan knew what the outcome would have been. Argyll was getting old and was no match for his son-in-law's ability with a sword. The Laird of Clan Maclean would have killed his father-in-law.
Evan shook his head. His uncle could be a fool when he lost his temper. Had the Earl died that day, Macleans all over the Highlands would be fighting for their own lives now.
"I assume ye have some kind of plan?" Maclean's voice rose hollowly from where he crouched before the fire.
With a start, Evan sat up. Maclean was wavering now and his nephew had to press his advantage, regardless of the consequences. "It seems to us there's just one way to be certain the marriage never takes place."
Maclean swung around. "Ye're mad if ye think I'll kill the girl. I won't drag myself down to Argyll's level. If that's yer meaning, ye can believe I won't be helping ye."
His nephew stood up, moving to join the laird near the fire. "There are many who would do all in their power to stop this union between the Calders and the Campbells. The Calders themselves are opposed to it. Perhaps there’s one who desires the girl's death more than we do. Someone who could do more harm than we, so the name of Maclean need never be involved at all."
"Ye're speaking of the outlaw, Andrew Calder, aren't ye?"
"Aye. He's already stolen Campbell cattle and horses and a great deal of Campbell gold. And he makes no secret of his intentions. He wants the lass. Once she's gone, Cawdor would be his."
"He won't be getting her. He can harry the Campbells till they snap, kill their men, take their horses, but he’ll no’ be able to get the girl."
"No." Evan smiled slightly. "No’ without yer aid."
"I thought ye were leading to that." Maclean turned to face his nephew. "Do ye really think the Earl would allow it, man?"
"Argyll has a great deal to occupy his mind of late. Besides, he has no wish to antagonize ye just now. What could he do, short of attacking Mull? And ye know as well as I that with Elizabeth here he won't."
Eyes narrowed in concentration, Maclean turned to the men who waited in silence. "I believe supper is ready," he said. "Go fill yer bellies. I must think." He nodded toward the door, indicating his nephew was to follow them.
Before he left, Evan placed a hand on his uncle's shoulder. "'Tis our only chance in a long time. We must take them as they come."
"Aye. I'll remember. But I want ye to leave me now."
Evan went, closing the door behind him.
An intense stillness fell upon the room in the absence of the men. Maclean paced before the fire, trying not to listen to the sound of the silence, trying to think of a way to injure Argyll without any risk to himself. But he found he could not plan the future so long as vivid images of the past continued to flash through his mind. For a long time now, he admitted, the present had meant little to him except as an opportunity for vengeance against the man who had ruined his past. Alex had been so young—only seventeen. The scene of the deserted battlefield rose before his eyes once more.
He did not hear Elizabeth enter and was unaware of her presence until she touched his shoulder from behind. "Lachlan?"
He spun to face her, feeling the revulsion her touch sometimes gave him. Somehow, he always hoped she would be Anne. But no, that was absurd. She was Elizabeth, and Argyll's daughter as well. He stepped back until she withdrew her hand.
"What is it?" He tried to control his voice but could not keep the chill from creeping in.
Elizabeth was not blind; she recognized his distaste for her. She could see by his face that he was falling into one of his moods. Presently he would begin to look through her as if she were not there. He would shudder when she touched him, as he had almost done a moment ago. Last time this had happened, he had locked himself in the library for a week, refusing to see anyone.
That had been after her father's last visit. She wel
l knew her husband's moods were connected with his hatred of the Earl. She looked beyond Maclean, staring into the fire. She would comfort him gladly, she thought, if only he would let her. "Won't ye eat with us?" she asked at last.
"I'm no' hungry and would be alone." Her husband turned his back on her.
"Lachlan—"
"Leave me!"
This time she did not pause. Without another word she fled.
Damn the woman! Maclean thought when he heard the door slam shut. Couldn't she see that he didn't want her? Couldn't she understand that every time he looked at her, he saw Anne's body covered with blood, her face marred beyond all recognition? He leaned heavily against the mantel. Anne. He still remembered her face as it had been before Argyll's men ruined it. He still longed to touch her Highland red hair and watch her green eyes dance. She would have been his wife if it had not been for the Earl.
Maclean himself had sent his betrothed with his brother because he thought Duart Castle might be threatened, despite the uneasy peace. He had sent her away so she would be safe, and by doing so, had sent her to her death. The now-familiar self-loathing began to tie his stomach in knots. Argyll's men had killed her, but Maclean had given them the chance.
When the Earl had offered his daughter as a bond of good faith after the final treaty had been signed, Maclean had laughed. Argyll must be mad, he thought, to first kill a man's betrothed then offer up his daughter as a sacrifice.
Maclean smiled oddly. He had agreed to the arrangement because he believed he could manipulate the Earl through Elizabeth. He had thought the marriage would give him a convenient means of power. It had never occurred to him that Elizabeth would love him. He had not realized that every time she looked at him with softness in her eyes, his stomach would tighten in pain. She ought to hate him; he tried to make her do so, but she persisted in loving him, even when he flaunted his whores before her face.
He found, to his dismay, that because she loved him, he could not hurt her. He could not use her against her father as he had planned, yet he could never forgive her because she was not Anne.
Maclean shook his head wearily. He knew he was only destroying himself and getting nowhere. But what could he do?
A spark leapt into the rushes beside him. He watched it glow, then blacken. Evan had had an idea. What was it he had said? Oh yes—the outlaw, Andrew Calder. Maclean stood up abruptly and headed for the door, shouting, "Evan! Evan, we have plans to make!" When he pulled the door open, he was laughing.
Chapter 8
"The Gypsies! The Gypsies have come!"
Muriella heard the shout above the chatter of the seamstresses who surrounded her. All morning the women had been here, measuring and cutting, pulling her this way and that as they tried one fabric after another against her skin. Through it all, the girl had stared toward the open door, longing to escape.
The seamstresses were puzzled. Muriella was being given a wedding wardrobe that made their own mouths drop open in wonder. Here in the Highlands, the women rarely touched anything more delicate than rough linen and wool. Yet behind them now stood trunks full of velvets, brocades, satins and even French lace.
The Earl had decreed Muriella and his son would have a grand wedding. He had gone down to the sea to meet the ships coming in from France and brought back chests full of splendid lengths of cloth. Then he had gathered seamstresses from all over the Highlands to make Muriella's wedding gown. The women gazed at the rich cloth with reverence, and though ran her fingers over the velvet with reverence, and smiled at the beauty and luxury all around her, she did not speak.
The instant Megan's cry that the Gypsies had come pierced the circle of bustling women, Muriella moved lithely. Before anyone could protest, she hurried toward the door. She found Megan waiting in the hallway. "Where are they?"
The servant could barely contain her excitement. "At the foot of the mountains, in the little valley over the hill. Shall we go see them, miss?"
Grasping Megan's hand, Muriella drew her toward the stairs. "Oh, aye!" she said.
"But don't the seamstresses need ye here?"
Muriella smiled over her shoulder as she started down the stairs. "They'll manage without me." When the girls reached the bottom step, she paused. "I'd begun to think I'd go daft with those women always fluttering about. They remind me of my aunts; they never run out of things to say."
"But—"
"Don't worry. They've had me all morning, and ye know the Earl won't mind."
Megan had to admit that was true. Once he'd become convinced Muriella would not try to flee, the Earl had allowed her more freedom to do as she wished. Each day, following whatever fancy struck her, the two girls walked down by the loch or followed the path of the river or wandered in the garden. Once they had even shared a wild ride along the shore. Duncan and Adam Campbell, their swords at their sides, were never far behind on these daily expeditions outside the keep; at the Earl's suggestion, John had set them to watch over Muriella until the wedding.
As the girls went through the hall, Muriella saw Duncan rise, motioning to Adam across the room. Though she had become accustomed to their presence long since, at first she had wanted to hide from the curious eyes that followed her everywhere. But gradually she had realized the boys were no threat to her. They left her in peace as much as they could but were always nearby in case she should need them.
She forgot about the guards when she and Megan reached the top of a low hill that sheltered the valley from the west. There Muriella stopped to catch her breath, enchanted by what she saw.
The Gypsy camp spread below her, covering the floor of the valley in an uneven circle. The men were raising striped, multicolored tents, and the women were unpacking dilapidated wagons whose sides were painted with faint but still-discernible symbols in black, red, and gold. Many of the dark-haired women circled the fires dotting the landscape, and the air rang with laughter and the jingle of many bracelets. At the far end of the camp, where the river crossed the valley, a deep purple tent was already standing. From inside it, Muriella could hear the song of a harp. She smiled, shrugging away the weight of the endless morning.
Megan tugged at her mistress's elbow, and the two girls, Duncan, and Adam started down the gentle slope toward the camp. "Shall we sit by the fire and listen to the women?" Megan asked. "Mary says last time they came they told some wonderful, strange tales."
Muriella was hardly aware the servant had spoken. She was staring at the purple tent as if hypnotized. The notes of the distant harp had captured her, drawing forward. "We must go," she said. Willingly, she let the music pull her from one end of the camp to the other.
Megan followed at her mistress's heels, intrigued. All at once, Muriella's eyes reminded her of the gray green loch on a day when no breeze stirred its gleaming surface. As they approached the tent, the flap covering the door was thrown back and a man stepped out into the light. In his hands he held an ancient clareschaw—the small Highland harp that minstrels had carried since music first rose from the wild Scottish hills.
Muriella stopped to stare at him, although she was not certain why. What was it that arrested her? His eyes, which were a strange shade of gray that flickered into green when the sunlight struck them? Or was it his thick, silver gray hair that curled down to his shoulders and blended with his full gray beard? His face was weather-beaten; deep lines ran from his nose to his mouth, cutting across his leathery, reddish brown skin. Clearly he was not a stranger to the sun.
While Muriella continued to stand mute, the Gypsy sat cross-legged on a cushion with his harp resting on his knees. When he had settled himself to his satisfaction, he looked up. "So," he said finally, "ye've come."
Megan gaped at him, charmed by his deep, melodic voice, which gave even those simple words a touch of magic.
His gaze locked with Muriella's, the Gypsy smiled and pointed to an embroidered pillow beside him. "I'm Alex," he said. "Will ye sit?"
Megan stood undecided for a moment, then backed aw
ay. The Gypsy's piercing gaze made her uneasy, as did the way he seemed to draw her mistress down to the pillow without a word or touch. The servant shifted from one foot to the other, feeling she did not belong. She looked over her shoulder and caught sight of Duncan hovering by the nearest campfire. With a last concerned look at her mistress, Megan went to join the squire.
Muriella sat on the soft cushion and found it much more comfortable than the hard chairs and benches at the castle. She did not look up at the Gypsy's face; like Megan, she had been disturbed by the power in his eyes. Instead she studied his clareschaw with interest. It was the music that had brought her here, after all, and she wanted to hear more. But Alex did not move to pick up the instrument. With a slight smile playing about his lips, he watched the girl and waited.
"Is there no’ something ye wish to ask me?" he suggested at last.
Muriella considered the question for a moment, then murmured, "Ye seemed to expect me. How did ye know I'd come?"
"I dreamed of ye last night. My dreams speak to me, and I've learned to listen well, for they never lie, as men do."
With a sharp intake of breath, Muriella leaned closer. "Ye have the Sight, then?"
"Aye, since I was a wee bairn." He pushed the hair back from his face as his eyes grew warm with memories. "I recall the very day it first came to me. I was standin' above a river, starin' into a pool of clear water, when I saw the face of a woman I didn't know. At first I thought she'd fallen in, but when I leaned to fetch her out, 'twas no one there at all."
"But ye met her afterwards, didn't ye?"
"That I did. 'Twas no' till many years later, but I knew her just the same." The Gypsy's thoughts were drifting away; he brought himself back to the present with an effort. "And what of ye? When did ye first know ye had the power?"
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 11
