As High as the Heavens (15 page)

Squatting before the chest, Heather perused a few of
the volumes. Her breath caught in her throat, however,
when her gaze fell on a familiar title. Though the gilt
lettering was faded, even completely obliterated in spots,
she recognized the book nonetheless. The Book of the
City of Ladies by Christine Pisan.

Heather smiled. So, she thought with grim satisfaction, Duncan not only claimed he could read, but he also
claimed that he was familiar with all these books. What
better way to test him than to discover the depth of his
understanding of Christine's work?

Taking up the volume, Heather rose and returned to
the table. Briefly, Fiona looked up from her spinning,
cast her a quizzical look, then resumed her work. The rest of the cottage's occupants, save Duncan, however,
scarce noted her passing.

She sat, laid the book on the table, then shoved it
across to Duncan. He took it up, perused the title, and
began to thumb through it.

"Do ye have a preference which chapter I read?" he
asked, finally glancing up to meet her steady gaze.

"Aye." Heather paused, turning over the book's contents in her mind. "Pray, read chapter 37, where Christine
speaks to Reason concerning the great good accrued to
the world through women. I always find those passages
most inspiring."

Duncan smiled. "Do ye now?" He thumbed through the
pages until he appeared to find the appropriate chapter,
then looked up. "That doesn't surprise me. Somehow, I
imagined ye would."

He began to read. "My lady, I greatly admire what I
have heard ye say, that so much good has come into the
world by virtue of the understanding of women. These
men usually say that women's knowledge is worthless. In
fact, when someone says something foolish, the widely
voiced insult is that this is women's knowledge. In brief,
the typical opinions and comments of men claim that
women have been and are useful in the world only for
bearing children and sewing . . ."

His recitation of Christine Pisan's work was fluent,
his inflections and emotional tone as he read moving
and dramatic. Not only could Duncan Mackenzie read,
Heather quickly realized, but he also seemed to understand and appreciate what he read. Indeed, she could
almost believe he agreed with the great medieval writer's thoughts. But how could that be-a man in sympathy
with the age-old lament of women?

Tears filled her eyes. It wasn't fair. Duncan Mackenzie
was supposed to be some rough, uncultured Highlander,
a man who was hardly a worthy adversary much less
a man she could come to admire, even respect. Yet, at
every turn ...

"That's enough." She finally forced out the words in a
choked whisper. "Ye've made yer point and more. Once
again I was wrong about ye. I-I beg pardon."

He closed the book and lifted his triumphant gaze.
When he saw her tears, though, his smile faded. Confusion darkened his eyes, then regret tinged with compassion.

The consideration of his pity was harder to endure
than his arrogant comments and heated looks, Heather
thought, so bewildered and miserable she could scarce
bear it. Far, far harder. She shoved to her feet.

"I-I'm weary." Fiercely, she blinked back tears. "This
is sufficient for one night."

In a swift move Duncan leaned across the table, grabbing her wrist before she could turn away. "Lass, dinna
fash yerself. Ye didn't know. If it hadn't been for Father
James when I was but a lad, I'd never have had the chance
to learn to read. But ye couldn't have known."

"Nay, I couldn't have known." Heather twisted free of
Duncan's loose clasp. "But it doesn't matter. Once again
I've been a fool to underestimate ye. But I'll not do it
again." She shook her head with a savage determination.
"Nay, never, ever again!"

Duncan rose early the next morning to begin the day's
chores with his father. Preoccupied with thoughts of
Heather, he was taciturn and moody, replying only
when asked a direct question. They worked for several
hours, feeding the cattle, goats, chickens, and pigs,
then cleaning out the manure from the cattle byre
and other animal pens. By that time, Duncan's welter
of emotions over Heather had grown to monumental
proportions.

"Father," he finally said, sinking the tines of his pitchfork into the damp straw and dung of the last stall. He
leaned on its long wooden handle. "Have ye e'er desired
something ye knew ye couldn't have? Desired it more
than ye e'er desired aught afore?"

Malcolm Mackenzie paused in his strewing of fresh
straw in a nearby, already mucked-out stall. His brow
furrowed in thought.

"I can't say I've e'er wasted the effort desiring what I
knew I couldn't have. What purpose would it have served,
save to make me miserable?"

"Och, Father." Duncan exhaled a weary breath. "Must
ye always be so sensible?" He paused, deciding to take
another tack. "And what of Mither? Were ye so certain
she'd wed ye, when ye finally thought to ask her? What
would ye have done if she'd refused ye? Would ye have
so easily moved on to another lass and not given Mither
another thought?"

"Hmmm ... Now that's a hard one," his father said,
frowning. "To be sure, there wasn't a more bonny lass
than yer mither to be found. But though I desired her
more than I'd desired any woman afore or after, I never
thought I couldn't have her."

He chuckled, his brown eyes alight with memories. "Of
course, my bonny Fiona led me a fine race nonetheless,
even as she cast me saucy looks and whispered sweet
encouragement. But surely ye're speaking of things other
than bonny lasses, and-"

As if some sudden thought had struck him, Malcolm's
eyes widened. He went silent. Then he dropped the armful of straw he'd just gathered and walked over to lean
on the wooden poles separating the two stalls.

"Ye haven't gone and lost yer heart to the Gordon
lass, have ye, lad?" A look of rising concern in his eyes,
Malcolm stared up at his son. "Yer mither made some
passing strange comment about ye two last eve, once
we were abed, but I assured her ye were far too sensible
a lad to yearn after some haughty lady. I told her true,
didn't I, Duncan, my lad?"

Duncan gripped the pitchfork handle tightly and stared
off into the distance. If the truth be told, what he felt for
Heather was hardly sensible.

"She's like no other woman I've e'er met, Father," he
finally replied, then sighed again.

"She's bonny enough. I'll give ye that," Malcolm agreed
grudgingly. "But she's betrothed, soon to wed, and would
never spare ye a second look if she didn't have to tutor ye
to aid her father in his plot to rescue the queen. Indeed,
if not for this plot, ye wouldn't e'er have met her."

"True enough," Duncan conceded. "But I have, Father,
and now I want her more than I've e'er wanted any other
woman." He turned, locking gazes with his sire. "Do ye
remember that day we rode to Angus's tower house? That
day we first met Lord Gordon and his daughter?"

"Aye." His father eyed him warily. "What of it?"

"Do ye recall how ye warned me not to play so fast and
loose wi' the lassies, or fate would step in to punish me?"
Duncan gave a rueful laugh. "Well, I think fate brought
Heather Gordon into my life for just that reason. That it
sent me a lass to love, but who won't e'er love me."

"Och, lad, lad." Malcolm reached over the poles to
clasp his son by the shoulder. "Don't do this. Don't let
yerself be tormented in such a way. She isn't worth it.
No lass is!"

"No lass, Father? Ye can say that in good conscience,
knowing how much ye love Mither?"

"It's different wi' Fiona." Malcolm released Duncan's
shoulder and stepped back. "She's a Highlander, born
and bred. We've always shared a common upbringing,
understood each other and what we wanted from life."

"I feel the same wi' Heather." Duncan rested his forehead on the top of the pitchfork handle. "I know it makes
no sense, Father, but I feel I understand her, that we share the same dreams, love so many of the same things.
I think now it's the reason I've never felt the slightest
inclination to wed one of the local lasses. I've always
wanted more from a mate than a warm, fertile body
and a good cook."

"And what else is there to desire in a wife?" Malcolm
paused, then laughed. "Well, that and a companion and
friend, of course."

Frustration filled Duncan. As much as he loved and
respected his father, there were times when he realized
they didn't, and never would, share the same outlook on
life. Realized that his sire, though he tried mightily to
understand, never would-or could.

"What else, indeed?" Duncan shrugged. "A soul mate?
A love which spans the barriers of culture, upbringing,
and social class?"

Malcolm shook his head in puzzlement. "Truly, Duncan, there are times when I don't understand ye, and it
distresses me. Distresses me sorely."

Aye, Duncan thought sadly, it distresses me, too. Though
I've never spoken to ye of these thoughts, Father, there are
times when I feel so isolated, so alone in my hopes and
dreams for the future, so discontent with the life the Lord
has apparently given me. I feel like some traitor, wishing
for more than life here can e'er hope to provide. It's why I
work so hard, burying these thoughts beneath the exhausting burden of back-breaking labor, hoping against hope
the nagging sense of emptiness will someday ease.

But it hasn't helped, leastwise not for long. Indeed, the
thoughts only worsen, until they've finally culminated in
a physical form-the form of Heather Gordon. Yet I can't have her, any more than it seems I'll e'er fulfill my elusive,
unrealistic dreams of a life of something bigger and better. And I feel so guilty, as well, that I can't seem to find a
peace in just doing what the Lord wills.

He lifted his head. "It doesn't matter at any rate. I
won't e'er have Heather Gordon. I must live wi' that and
bear wi' the time I must spend wi' her. It'll be over soon
enough, at any rate."

Malcolm managed a small, uncertain smile. "Aye, that
it will. Three months will be over soon enough." His face
brightened. "In the meanwhile, consider the local lassies
a wee bit more. There'll be a ceilidh in two weeks' time.
If ye let it be known ye'll attend, I'll wager all the lassies
of marriageable age from miles around will come."

"Do ye think so, Father?"

"Och, of course, lad. Of course." Malcolm laughed,
evidently relieved to be done with the discomfiting topic
of Heather Gordon. "And ye know, as well as I, we've
some of the bonniest lasses in all of Kintail."

Mayhap, Father, Duncan thought, the misery welling
once more to drown him in the murky depths of despair.
None, though, will e'er be as bonny as Heather. And none,
I sorely fear, will e'er complete me as I sense she would.

Exhausted from the emotional as well as physical travails of the past day, Heather slept in late. About midmorn she rose and, while Beth and Tavish carried in
several buckets of heated water for her bath, she had
a light breakfast of tangy goat cheese, fresh bannocks,
and a mug of cider. At long last, though, Heather was bathed, dressed, and sufficiently fortified to face Duncan
Mackenzie.

Sweeping majestically from her bedchamber in a
dark blue silk gown lavishly trimmed with lace, Heather
glanced about for Duncan. He was nowhere to be found.
She scowled in annoyance.

"He's out of doors," Fiona offered, noting her reaction,
"helping his father care for the animals."

Heather marched over to one of the leaded glass windows and peered outside. The sky was overcast, the day
gloomy. Though there were footprints in the freshly fallen
snow leading from the cottage, again, Duncan was nowhere to be found.

"Most likely, by now, they're in the cattle byre mucking
out stalls," the older woman once again offered helpfully.

"Well, I've already ruined one dress since my arrival,"
Heather muttered. "I'll not risk another traipsing out
after him."