Jennifer Roberson (4 page)

Acknowledgment pinched; he had sired handsome boys, and one unhandsome daughter.
What will I do with this lass? What man will have her?

Barefoot, Cat came into the room and stopped but two paces from the open door, as if wary of his mood. She left herself escape; Glenlyon’s smile was warped as he recognized the foresight, the care with which she approached the man who had sired her.

He was not so
fou
, so drunk as to be blind to her resolution. He saw it in her eyes, in her jutting chin, in the stubborn set of her mouth. “Tomorrow,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed; there was no need to elaborate.

Blue-green eyes held steady. “Can I come?”

“You canna.”

The wide mouth—too wide for her face, he thought absently—tightened fractionally. “You promised me I could go to Edinburgh.”

“You will go—but not tomorrow.”

She raised her chin. “I’m thirteen, now.”

He smiled. As he lifted the cup to his mouth the welcome tang of whisky filled his nostrils, begging to be swallowed. Saliva flowed into his mouth. He savored the peat smell, anticipating the bite, the taste, the warmth, the empowerment—and the escape. “So old?”

It was challenge, not question. “No longer a wee bairn.”

He swirled liquor in his cup. The pungency of the whisky, reinforced by the motion, made his eyes water.

“Why can I not go tomorrow?” The plaid slipped off a shoulder; she dragged it up again. In the brief, impatient motion he saw the texture of prominent knuckles newly scraped raw, glistening wetly in lamplight. “You’ll be taking Robbie—”

“I willna.”

It stopped her in full spate. Straight but eloquent eyebrows slid closer to her hairline. “You
willna
be taking Robbie . . .”

“I said so.” The waiting was done. He drank, gulping steadily. He saw the sharpness of her attention center briefly on the cup, as if she blamed whisky for his intransigence, and then her gaze slid aside. “I’m taking no one, Cat. No one but me was summoned.”

“Summoned!” Astonishment was plain.
“Who
can summon you? You’re Laird of Glenlyon!”

His hand shook. Whisky slopped over the rim of the cup, trickled between clenched fingers, dripped to his kilted thigh where it beaded briefly on wool, then soaked in slowly. The addition of his other hand temporarily stilled the trembling, but Glenlyon was aware of it nonetheless. The tremors, he knew, were merely outward manifestations of the soul shriveling within.

“Who?” she repeated.

“Breadalbane himself.”

The mutinous set of her mouth slackened. “Oh.”

She knew. They all knew. With Argyll’s recent execution, the Earl of Breadalbane—and half a dozen other lesser titles—had stepped into the void. Clan Campbell was his now, because he had assumed control before anyone else could suggest another man. In disarray, it was far simpler to let the earl assume control. Until—and
if
—he disproved his ability, they would answer to him.

As for Glenlyon of Glen Lyon, such answering was required. He and Breadalbane were cousins, but there was more. Far more linked them than the natural fealty owed to an earl, or kinsman. There was also the small matter of
comhairl’taigh,
the oath Glenlyon had sworn—and signed—giving over to Argyll and Breadalbane jointly the guidance of his house.

Because he could not guide it himself.

“Why?” Cat asked sharply. “Why does he summon you?”

He drank. She asked out of wariness, of anticipation; out of a desire to protect him, not to accuse. But he could not tell her. He could tell no one. He could not form the words that would adequately explain what he had done.

“Why?” she repeated.

Harshly he said, “Go to bed.”

It shocked her. “
Fa
ther—”

Protest, or plea for an answer. He did not know which. He had never struck her, to cause her to flinch; he rarely shouted at her, though her brothers were more deserving. He tolerated her with something akin to bemused if distant affection, though he was not a demonstrative man, because she was so unlike other girls, and he was not a man who understood women of any age. He dealt with his daughter as he dealt with his sons; it was far less taxing than to recall there were manners a woman should be trained to. His wife would be appalled, but Helen was dead. It was his task to do; he had raised all five of them in his offhand, wary manner, finding it far simpler to let Cat mimic her brothers than to look for another wife.

There were women to sleep with. He need not marry them. No more than his heir would wed with Mairi Campbell.

Steadily he said, “There will be Robbie to answer to. He’s a man grown.” Cat’s mouth twisted. He cut her off before she could frame a retort. “And the others, as well.”

Cat set her teeth. “I’ll answer to myself.”

He took his mouth from the cup. “Whose blood is that on your chin? Yours?”

Startled by the incongruity, Cat touched her chin and found the crusted smear. Her mouth twisted briefly. “Colin’s.” She saw his expression and fired up in abrupt defiance. Her Scots broadened perceptibly. “He said I’d a face like a moudiwort, then called me a muckle-headed, pawkie bizzem—so I skelped
his
for him!” She picked the crust away, satisfied. “I mashed his nose.”

Abrupt depression commingled with disgust. He thumped down his cup with a crack. “Go to bed, Cat—and wash your face. I’ve enough of this foolishness. You prove you’re no’ but a child with behavior such as this.”

It cut her, he saw, but she did not permit herself to bleed. She flashed him a glance of purest scorn, then turned sharply and marched out of the room, jerking the door shut behind her. It rattled on its hinges.

Glenlyon waited. A moment later he heard the echoing thump as her own door was closed, and the click of its latch. She did not cry easily, except from anger or frustration; if she meant to now, if the cause were enough, she would take precautions so no one could see it, least of all her brothers.

Glenlyon’s mouth twisted. “Least of all her father.”

The room was cool, but he sweated, staining the linen shirt beneath his plaid. Robert Campbell ignored his physical discomfort and stared at the door. Cat was gone, but he saw her. He saw her face before him, the rigid body beneath as she asked, but did not beg.

A thin, plain, awkward girl too tall for her age, with prominent knees and elbows, feet and hands nigh as large as a boy’s “—and an unfettered, unmannered, overbusy tongue!—” and an unwavering predeliction for acquiring layers of blood, scabs, and grime—some her own, some not—that did her no other service but to hide the corpse pallor of her flesh, where the blood surfaced like bruised grapes in eyelids and elbows, in wrists, and the backs of her knees.

He was Glenlyon. A man
might
marry her—if the dowry were enough. But he had gambled away her dowry. He had gambled away everything. He had even gambled away the coin paid him by Breadalbane to make good on his debts.
And now I owe more . . .

And Breadalbane summoning him.

Despair engulfed him. A shaking hand recaptured the cup and carried it to his mouth. He gulped down the rest of the whisky in hopes it would dull the fire, but the coals burned steadily in the wreckage of his spirit. They would reduce him completely to ash, leaving him vulnerable to the cold winter’s blast of Breadalbane’s wrath.

He had signed away his oath. He would sign away his daughter was there a man who might accept her, dowry or no.

But Cat, being Cat, was safe.

C
at lay belly down in the streamside turf, transfixed by water. That the earth was damp and her clothing soiled because of it did not discomfit her; she trailed one sleeve of her threadbare shirt into the water itself, soaked now to her elbow, and attempted to sing the speckled trout into her hand.

Such blandishments did not impress the trout. Cat thought of tickling it, but she had neither the patience nor the skill; a hook worked best of all, but she had lost her only one in a stubborn snag. Now she used her body as the pole and her song as the bait.

Shadow stirred, blocking out the sun. “There’s naught to catch, in there.”

Cat ceased singing and clamped her teeth together. “There is.”

“Och, no—you’ve scairt them all away with your noise, aye?” Robbie, the eldest, threw himself down beside her, stretching out full length to examine the stream, and her arm in it. “You’ve done naught but soak yourself.”

The speckled trout darted away beneath an outcrop of sedge-sheltered granite. Cat cast a black scowl at Robbie, who seemed disinclined to explain his presence. Pointedly she asked, “Has Mairi run off wi’ a man in place of the lad?”

Unprovoked, Robbie laughed and displayed his missing eyetooth, then rubbed a rough-knuckled hand through his red hair. “Och, no—not from me, aye? She’d do no better than the laird’s own son. And I’ve no complaint of her that I am lad in place of man.”

Still Cat sought provocation; better to sting him before he stung her. “And have you told her you’d handfast with her?”

Level brows twitched; he, of them all, shared more of Cat’s features, though on him, a male, they were more comfortable. “I dinna mean to handfast with her. Why would I tell her so?” He paused. “And what do
you
ken of Mairi and me?”

Cat held her tongue. She would not admit she had spied upon them.

Robbie did not seem perturbed that she knew. “ ’Tis her time now,” he said briefly, explaining away Mairi’s absence. “She isna a woman who wants a man when her courses are upon her.”

Cat felt the blush engulf her face until she burned with it. She was not a fool, nor blind; she knew what courses were, and she knew how bairns were made. But she did not know how to discuss either with her brother, who had teased her all too often about such things as breasts unbudded.

Robbie rolled over in extravagant abandon onto his spine, settling shoulder blades into the turf. He flung an arm across his eyes to block the sun. “So, he is gone, and I am left to be laird in our father’s place.”

Cat, out of habit, was moved to protest. “Not yet. He isna dead, aye?”

“Gone,” he repeated succinctly. Then, thoughtfully, “D’ye think Breadalbane will give him silver again?”

She stared into the water until her eyes burned. “He isna a fool, the earl. He must ken Glenlyon would only wager and lose it again.”

“Aye, well—he is head of the clan, aye? He will do what he will do.” Robbie’s tone hardened. “But ’twill be my misfortune Father leaves naught to me to spend by the time he is in the ground, and pastures empty of cattle.”

“Dinna count the silver and cows beforehand,” she said sharply. “You are not Glenlyon yet.”

Robbie dug his buttocks more snuggly into turf. “He said so, Cat: while our father is gone, I am laird in his place.”

She made a rude sound. “And what d’ye get of it?”

Robbie’s soft laughter was muffled by his shirtsleeve. “The chance to be a man.”

“
Mairi
would say you are, aye?”

“No, not just because of Mairi. Because of—other things.”

It was highly suspicious. “Other things?”

“Things that dinna concern you, as you’re naught but a lass. Men’s things, Cat.”

“You mean to drink his whisky.”

Robbie grinned. “Och, we’ve done that, already.”

“Then what? You’ve bedded Mairi, drunk the laird’s whisky—though that he left any for you is a shock, aye?—so what is there left to do?”

“Men’s things,” he answered, still grinning.

Cat sat up. The day now was ruined. Robbie had come to tease her after all, to remind her yet again she could do nothing they, as males, would do. “ ’Tisn’t fair,” she muttered.

“What?” Robbie rolled over yet again, this time shifting onto a hip and elbow. He peered at her out of brilliant blue-green eyes. Her own eyes. “That you’re naught but a lass?”

And a plain-faced one, at that.
She waited for him to say it. But this time, unaccountably, Robbie did not.

“Och, Cat . . .” He grinned and slapped one of her knobby knees with the flat of a callused hand. A man’s hand, broad and strong, but the slap was not so heavy as to harm her. “ ’Tis the way of the world, lassie—men do what men do, and women—well. . .” Robbie laughed. “Women please their men.”

“As Mairi pleases you.”

He lay back again and shut his eyes. “For now, aye?”

For now. And then he would turn to another. He was the laird’s son; would be laird himself, one day. There were lasses aplenty for Robbie.
Who for me?
she wondered, and then was shamed by the question. And even more shamed by the male face manifesting before her eyes, hiding within her head: with white teeth a’gleaming and silver in his hair.

“D’ye mean to catch us supper, then?” Robbie asked idly.

Cat hitched a shoulder, though he could not see it. “Canna.”

Robbie laughed softly. “Not singing to fish, no. I dinna think they have ears.”

She stared hard at the ground, hating to admit it. “I lost my hook.”

She made no answer. Hooks were dear in the Highlands.

After a moment Robbie sat up, eyed her, marked her shame, her sullenness, then smiled crookedly. “Aye, well—come along, then.” He rose, bent down and caught her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll fetch you one of mine.”

This once, this first time, he was not teasing. Cat could tell the difference. It astonished her.

She decided perhaps Mairi Campbell was good for her brother after all, if she softened his temperament.

 

MacIain of Glencoe gathered his sons together at a tiny table in the common room of a prosperous Inveraray tavern. Tonight they would sleep on the beaten floor, wrapped in their plaids, because there were no rooms to be had. Quarters had run out, rented or usurped in robust fashion by thousands of jubilant Highlanders heading home from victory.

Dair squatted on his low stool, guarding his wine cup from spillage by establishing an elbow as ward on either side, then wrapping his hands around the dented pewter. He leaned forward, shoulders hunched, and inspected the common room with a single sweeping glance as he raised the cup to his mouth. The wine was sweeter than he preferred, but the ale casks were empty. His father and brother drank whisky.

Inveraray was much larger than Inchinnan. The army amassed by the Marquis of Atholl to defeat Argyll and subdue other malcontents who might support someone other than King James—though now it appeared potential pretenders were dead—no longer was required to take the field of a battle already won, its leader executed, but to reap the rewards. Atholl had promised that clans joining his own men would be paid in more than coin, but in plunder.

Dair glanced at his father. Atholl in fact promised Argyllshire, which would please MacIain.

Scattered throughout the tavern were clutches of men Dair recognized, tacksmen and gillies clustered as chicks around the hens who were their lairds: MacDonalds from Keppoch and Glencoe, Stewarts from nearby Appin. He knew none of the Stewarts personally, though his father did; MacIain knew everyone. Dair met bright, laughing glances, nodded at shouted greetings, smiled and raised his cup to answer or initiate repeated salutes to victory over the Campbells, and to MacIain via his son. They were most of them
fou
, drunk on liquor and sheer elation, which promised fast friendships and a fight or two.

“Alasdair!” He was never Dair to his father. “I’ll have your ears, if ye please—have ye no’ heard a word I said?”

The MacDonald clansmen clustered behind his father fell silent one by one. Dair, abruptly the focus of MacIain’s fierce attention, was preternaturally aware of their movements: they elbowed one another carefully, arched anticipatory eyebrows, doffed or resettled bonnets, scratched heads and beards, rearranged plaid folds, smiled sideways into smothering hands, into mugs and cups.

“Well?” MacIain thundered.

“D’ye want them?” Dair was not in the least embarrassed; in fact, his spirits sang with the same elation that infected others. Archibald Campbell was dead. His power was ended. The greatest threat to such men as MacDonalds, Macleans, and Stewarts was disarmed. This night, he could meet his father on common ground.

The hedgerow of white eyebrows lowered over piercing eyes. “Want what?”

“My ears.” Dair swept off his bonnet, ruffling tangled hair. “You bred them, aye?—they’re yours.”

The hedgerow swept up in astonishment. “By God, I should snatch them off your head, you whelp!”

Dair tugged an earlobe in elaborate acknowledgment. “I heard
that.
A good pair of ears, then; d’ye want them, or no?”

MacIain clapped a huge hand across one of the offending ears, though he took care not to break the eardrum. “You deserve a skelping for that! Aye, I bred them—I bred more than
ears,
ye glaikit boy!” MacIain caught Dair’s bonnet out of slack fingers and threw it back at him. “Did ye hear naught o’ it?”

“Enough.” Dair grinned and let the bonnet fall free; his ears, for the moment, were safe. “We’re reivers to go a’raiding.”

“And where is that?”

“Campbell lands. Argyllshire.” Dair could not help himself; his attention was snared by a distracting glint of lamplight off a piece of metal in a far corner. A man was moving, taking a seat given up by another clansman, and the badge on his bonnet sparkled silver. “As for where
specifically
—”

The huge hand swung again. Dair ducked part of the blow, but the remainder of it was nonetheless powerful; MacIain clouted him hard enough across the side of his head to rock him on his stool. “I did say so, you ken! Specifically!”

“Christ—” Wine looped out of Dair’s carefully warded cup and splashed in an arc across his shirtfront. His plaid shed most of it; beneath the wool, the saffron-dyed shirt took on the color of old blood.

John MacDonald, nursing whisky, laughed. “Aye, you appear to have worked a day after all. A man too clean after battle has no’ done his share!” He plucked at a stained sleeve. His own small wounds were healing cleanly, but the shirt needed washing.

Dair reached down and scooped his bonnet off the floor. “I am clean because I bathe . . . and because I’m quicker than you”—laughing, he ducked John’s swooping hand—“but if ye want honest blood, I’ll let you bloody my nose—providing you can reach it!”

John shoved aside his cup and leaned to rise, but MacIain’s huge hand imprisoned his nearest wrist. “Not now. Leave his nose be; he needs it for the women, who like a pretty lad.” A glint in the giant’s eye belied the harsh derision in his tone. “Argyllshire,” he said heavily. “I’ve portioned it out. D’ye care which you get?”

“
I
get?” Dair was startled. “You’re giving Argyllshire to me?”

“‘
Specifically
’ ”—MacIain’s eyes were bright—“Kilbride. D’ye ken where it is?”

Dair grinned briefly. “I ken.”

“Go home, then,” MacIain ordered. “Through Kilbride. And bring its cows to Glencoe.”

Dair considered it as he drained what remained of his wine. “Who is with me? John?”

MacIain hawked and leaned to spit, barely missing the leather brogan of a clansman. “John is bound across Loch Fyne to Cowal, then to Ardintennie. He says he’s heard John Campbell has some new books.”

Dair laughed, glancing at his brother. “
And
cows?”

John shrugged indifferently over his cup. “I shall bring the cows for MacIain. I want the books for myself.”

MacIain’s toothy grin was brief and ferocious. “There is plenty for us all, aye?”

Dair glanced at the others, marking this man and that, the eager eyes bright with anticipation and usquabae, called whisky. “Who is with me?”

His father was matter-of-fact. “Some o’ the Appin men.” MacIain waved a huge hand across a shoulder weighted with a massive brooch. “That lad there, in back. The sandy-haired lad—d’ye see him?”

Dair looked. The man his father indicated was the one whose badge had caught his eye before. The Appin Stewart was fully aware of the abrupt and pointed scrutiny by a cluster of armed MacDonalds and answered in kind, displaying even teeth in a broad, overfriendly smile below the glint of shrewd blue eyes.

Dair turned back. “I see him.”

MacIain nodded. “Robert Stewart. He’s laird in all but name; his father’s an old man, and dying. They look to the son.”

Dair’s brows arched. “Robbie Stewart of Appin?”

“He holds Castle Stalker. A wee bairn yet”—MacIain bared big teeth in a ferocious grin—“but he’s killed his share of men.”

“And lifted his share of cows?” Grinning back, Dair nodded. “Let John bring home the books. The Stewart lad and I will bring home the cattle . . . and whatever else we find.” He rose slightly, leaned across to steal John’s whisky, then raised the cup in Stewart of Appin’s direction. “A near-laird, and a laird’s son—we’ll do ye honor, MacIain.”

MacIain grunted. “You’d best. Or I’ll have those ears skelped off and presented to the flames.”

John reached across and recovered his whisky. “And then the lasses will look to
me!”

“You’re married,” Dair said dryly. “Eiblin would skelp
your
ears.”

John fingered a lobe half-hidden in hoarfrosted hair, sighing ruefully. “Aye, so she would. But depending on the lass, it might be worth it.”