Amanda Scott (3 page)

He could not help but wonder at his fantastic luck. After months of uncertainty and concern over whether he would succeed
in filling his powerful father’s shoes, he had somehow drawn the King’s notice and could now claim a connection to the powerful
Earl of Huntly, chief of the Gordons. Huntly ruled the eastern Highlands and was some sort of cousin to the Maid.

Thus, the heiress had grand connections in Edinburgh and elsewhere, but she belonged now to a Highland baron with few influential
connections outside the Highlands. Fin was uncomfortably aware that it would take a miracle to hold her if other, more powerful
men discovered what James had done and decided to claim her for themselves. He would have to fight to keep her unless those
others, including Donald the Grim, also believed that her fortune was mythical.

Unfortunately, the King was fickle in his choice of friends. He loved pitting his nobles against each other, but if there
was trouble, Fin believed he could hold his own. Even without the improvements the Maid’s fortune could provide, Eilean Donan
was a stronghold worthy of the name, and he was a warrior, able to guard what was his. With the Maid to strengthen his position,
who knew what blessings might follow?

The oarsmen shipped their oars, and the boat scraped on shingle. Atop the steep bank above them reared the lofty curtain walls
and angle towers of Dunakin Castle, stronghold of the Mackinnons of Skye. Below the castle, huddling between the steep bank
and the shore, Fin could make out the dense shadows of the fishing hamlet called Kyleakin. It comprised no more than a row
of cottages, hovels, and tarred shacks used for smoking fish, but here at last the noise of the storm was muted. All was dark
and still, for the village seemed already to be sleeping.

A flutter of eagerness stirred. Mackinnon was unknown to him, but Fin loved a challenge. He did not doubt his ability to take
what was his.

A lone dog barked when Fin jumped out on the shingle, then other dogs joined in, but no one stirred from any of the cottages.

His men followed him, and together they dragged the coble high onto the shingle, where it would be safe until they returned.
Then, savoring the sweetness of winning a hand without his opponent realizing he was even in the game, Fin set his sights
on the towering fortress above and strode forth to claim his prize.

“Wake up, Claud! Drat ye, ye worthless dobby, wake up!”

Shaken rudely from his comfortable doze on the settle by the parlor fire, Brown Claud opened one eye and looked blearily at
his tormentor. Recognizing his mother and deducing at once that something had stirred her ever-volatile temper, he said warily,
“Did ye want summat, Mam?”

“I want ye tae wake up,” snapped Maggie Malloch.

Before he could so much as stir a muscle, two small, plump, but nonetheless amazingly strong hands grasped the front of his
tunic and gave a mighty heave. The next thing he knew he was sailing through the air, but his flight was brief. The full length
of his body hit the stone floor with a bone-jarring thud, leaving him astonished and winded but certainly awake.

Sitting up awkwardly, he rubbed his aching shoulder and tried to gather his wits. His head swam, but it did not ache. He did
not think that it had hit the floor.

His mother stood, arms akimbo, glaring down at him, her plump figure aquiver with anger and some other, less familiar emotion.
“The Circle has met,” she said grimly. “They ha’ decided!”

“What did they say, Mam?” he asked. He had meant to sound casual, but the enormity of his recent actions made it likely that
his entire future depended on what the Circle had decided. Thus, his stomach knotted painfully, and even to his own ears,
he sounded pitifully anxious.

If his mother detected his anxiety, she ignored it, saying crisply, “Ye ha’ only yerself tae blame, Claud, nae one else.”

“Am I tae be broken, then, Mam? Will the clan cast me out?”

“I still carry weight enough in the Circle tae ha’ my say,” she snapped. “For the present, I ha’ prevented the worst, but
I canna prevent it forever, lad, if ye dinna pull your legs under ye and do your proper, bounden duty.”

“But I thought I
were
doing me duty.”

“Bah,” she snapped. Her head bobbed forward to emphasize her next words. “Ye be bound tae look after the Maid, tae protect
her from harm. Instead, ye took on summat well beyond your ability, and grave harm may come of it.”

“I meant tae help! So long as she stayed ward tae Donald the Grim, nowt could happen tae do her good. Ye ken that as well
as I do!”

She shook her head. “What’s come over ye, lad? Ye were always one tae make mischief now and again, but never were ye so feckless
afore this. Is it another woman? Ye never think well when there’s a woman in it.”

He hesitated, but her powers were far greater than his and he could imagine no way to avoid telling her the truth. “Aye,”
he said softly, “but Catriona’s no just any woman, Mam. She’s a wee goddess.”

“Ah, bah,” retorted his mother. She moved nearer, adding grimly, “I thought as much, though. I’ll warrant the whole thing
were her doing.”

“Nay, then, it were not,” Claud protested. “It were my doing, Mam, all of it.” He did not think it wise to admit that he had
wanted to see if he could do the thing, to see if his abilities were great enough to influence even the High King of Scots.
He would not let her spoil the amazing success he had achieved, either, certainly not by suggesting that anyone else had had
the smallest hand in it.

That Catriona might have put the notion into his head in the first place he would never admit to himself, let alone to his
mother.

“Aye, sure, I’ve nae doubt that ye believe that, laddie,” Maggie Malloch said with a sigh. Then her voice grew stern again
when she said, “But ye’ve nae business tae be meddling in the King’s affairs, let alone causing him tae do what he might verra
well no ha’ wanted tae do. Ye mustna do such a thing ever again, for I’ve given my word tae the Circle that ye’ll not.”

“I’ll thank ye, then, for standing by me, Mam.”

“Ye’re my son, Claud, but I’ll no ha’ ye shaming our good name.”

Her bosom swelled with her lingering anger, and that anger gave her greater size, so that she loomed over him. Hastily, he
scrambled to his feet, hoping thereby to ease the fear she stirred in him at such times. “Even them in the Circle canna see
the future, Mam,” he said, striving to sound brave and hearing only desperation in his voice. Blustering on, he added, “I
warrant it’ll all work out for the best. Ye’ll see. And them in the Circle will, too.”

“Ye’d best hope that we do, lad, for the chief himself said that ye’re tae ha’ but one more chance. If ye overstep again,
they mean tae cast ye out, and ye ken fine what will become o’ ye then.”

Cold terror shot up his spine, making it nearly impossible to speak. He tried, but he could manage no more than a whispered,
“Aye, I do.”

“Ye’re frightened, and so ye should be,” she said. “But when ye poke your fingers into a stew o’ King Jamie’s brewing, ye
mustna weep when ye get burnt.”

He was silent for a long moment, striving to calm himself so he could make her understand that he had done the right thing.
However, when he realized that he could not trust his voice, he moved to pass her, to get away.

“Where be ye going?”

“Out,” he muttered.

“Where? Ye’ll no be goin’ tae that wretched lass the noo.”

“Nay, there’s a
ceilidh
,” he blurted. “I like tae hear the stories.”

Pushing past her, he left, feeling her angry gaze upon him like a sharp sword against his back.

Her voice, low-pitched and grim, followed him.

“Remember, Claud—kings, like dragons and clan chiefs, breathe fire when ye poke at them.”

F
ires roared at both ends of the great hall at Dunakin Castle, but the reception of six unexpected late visitors was chilly
at best. The Laird of Mackinnon sat in his armchair on a slightly raised dais at the end opposite the main entrance, his lady
at his right in a chair almost as elaborately carved as his. To his left sat his two burly sons on armless chairs. The chair
at her ladyship’s right was unoccupied.

When Fin and his men were admitted at half-past ten, shortly before the laird’s suppertime, their arrival stirred a buzz of
conversation. But the buzz ended abruptly when the laird’s porter banged his staff of office on the stone floor, demanding
silence before he announced the name of the visiting chieftain.

Then in stentorian tones, he said, “Sir Finlay Mackenzie, Laird o’ Kintail, declares that he has business wi’ Mackinnon o’
Dunakin.”

“Welcome t’ Dunakin, Kintail,” Mackinnon said affably. “We’ll be setting aside any business till ye’ve taken your supper,
though. A man should eat well afore he takes up matters of import. Call in your lads and find places at yon tables.”

Stepping forward instead, Fin said, “I have brought no others with me, sir. An it please you, my business will not take long.”

“Aye, sure, but what will please me most is t’ take my supper first, and in peace,” Mackinnon said less affably than before.
“Sit ye down, Kintail, as I bade ye—ye and your lads—and enjoy your meal whilst I enjoy mine. There be naught ye could say
that can be more important than food, lest ye’ve come t’ beg urgent assistance against a common enemy. Will it be battle,
then?”

“Nay sir, ’tis naught o’ the sort.”

“Then sit down, man, sit down. We’ve salmon and fresh lamb roasted whole on the spit, and I’ve a hunger on me grand enough
to eat it all m’self.”

Left with no other choice, Fin and his men sat down and took supper with the laird and his household. But although Mackinnon’s
servants offered them much food and drink, the six ate sparingly and drank less, speaking civilly when addressed but otherwise
remaining silent.

Fin noted that his grizzled host watched him through narrowed eyes and doubtless noted his impatience, but when the servants
had set fruit and sweets on the tables, instead of permitting him to state his business, Mackinnon called for one of the Dunakin
men to give them a tune on the pipes. When that was done, he called on another to tell them a tale. Then one of her ladyship’s
women took up a small harp and played a tune while servants bustled about, clearing tables and beginning to dismantle the
trestles in the center of the hall. The high table remained as it was.

Fin, sitting on the hard bench and watching the table before him be taken apart, had to exert stern control to suppress his
growing frustration. Only the suspicion that Mackinnon hoped he would press again to have his business heard, and would then
counsel more patience, kept him silent. Exerting patience of any sort was foreign to his nature.

The hour had advanced considerably before at last the laird made a slight gesture and said, “Step forward, Kintail, and state
your business. Ye be Sir Ranald Mackenzie’s lad, be ye not, the one they call Wild Fin?”

“I was called so before my father’s death,” Fin admitted in a commendably calm but carrying voice as he stood up. He saw no
reason to add that many who knew him still referred to him by that appellation.

Mackinnon nodded somberly. “ ’Twas sorry I were t’ learn o’ his passing.”

“It was a sad day,” Fin said curtly. Taking the roll of parchment that Patrick MacRae held out to him, he added, “With respect,
sir, I have come not to speak of past events but to present this document to you and to collect what is mine.”

“What sort o’ document would that be?”

“’Tis a writ of wardship and marriage from King James, sir, vacating an earlier writ of the same nature, granted a dozen years
ago to Donald of Sleat.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye.”

“Then it seems t’ me that it is t’ Sleat that ye should present your document.”

“As to that—”

Cutting him off with a gesture, Mackinnon said, “I expect I can guess the ward named in this writ of yours, Kintail, but ye’d
best tell me all the same.”

“One Mary Gordon, sir, known also as the Maid of Dunsithe.”

A surprised murmuring broke out in the hall, but it stilled quickly when Mackinnon glowered at all and sundry and said gruffly,
“Doubtless yon writ includes her estates and fortune, as well.”

“Aye, it does,” Fin said steadily.

Mackinnon grimaced. “I’d like fine t’ ken how ye persuaded Jamie t’ make ye such a gift, lad. Ha’ ye become one o’ his favorites
o’ late? Because if ye have, I’d counsel ye t’ take special care. In my experience, any man who trusts Jamie’s word takes
a fearful chance.”

“I have no knowledge of how the King came to transfer the writ to me, sir,” Fin said evenly, adding, “A special messenger
brought it only yesterday to Eilean Donan. On that, you have
my
word, and you have no experience that can lead you to mistrust me, because when I give my word, I keep it.”

At Mackinnon’s side, Lady Mackinnon looked troubled. Her hands clutched one another tightly on the table before her.

After a pause, during which Fin could hear angry winds outside hurling themselves against the castle walls, Mackinnon said
gruffly, “I still say that ye be presenting your writ t’ the wrong man, lad. The Maid be ward t’ Donald of Sleat. He be chief
o’ all the Macdonalds, and they dinna call him Donald the Grim wi’out cause. Forbye, ye must appeal t’ him, although I’m thinking
that will do ye nae good at all.”