The Lancaster Men

“I Am Not Your Brother!”

His voice was husky with his effort to keep its volume down. “What is it going to take to get it through your head that we are not related?”

“But—” How could he say that?

Whit read her thoughts before she could speak them.

“It means nothing that my father married your mother. There’s no blood tie between us. You aren’t my sister. You’re a woman, and a damned beautiful woman at that!”

She couldn’t deal with this kind of talk—not from Whit. She tried to push away from him, but he simply tightened his hold to bring her closer to the bare wall of his chest.

Books by Janet Daily

Calder Born, Calder Bred

Stands a Calder Man

This Calder Range

This Calder Sky

The Best Way to Lose

Touch The Wind

The Glory Game

The Pride of Hannah Wade

Silver Wings, Santiago Blue

For the Love of God

Foxfire Light

The Hostage Bride

The Lancaster Men

Leftover Love

Mistletoe & Holly

The Second Time

Separate Cabins

Terms of Surrender

Western Man

Nightway

Ride the Thunder

The Rogue

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 1981 by Janet Dailey
Cover art copyright © 1984 Bob Maguire

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
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Originally published by Silhouette Books,
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ISBN 978-1-391-8917-7

First Pocket Books printing December 1984

10 9 8 7 6

Map by Tony Ferrara

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Printed in the U.S.A.

THE LANCASTER MEN

When a family of tourists drifted on to view other contests of the Highland Games, a space was left on the inside ring of spectators. Shari Sutherland quickly slipped into the vacated area, drawing her two friends with her. Her hair glistened blackly in the afternoon sun, thick and full-bodied as its loose waves brushed her shoulders.

Her attire differed slightly from that of her female companions. Her slacks were camel tan, topped with a silk blouse in the palest shade of cream. Around her neck, she wore the tartan scarf of the Sutherland clan.

The brown-haired Beth Daniels wore snug-fitting gold-colored jeans and a matching checked blouse with the tails knotted at the waist while her chic, blonde counterpart, Doré Evans, was dressed in white slacks and a shimmering striped blouse in
variegated shades of turquoise and lavender. Neither of Shari’s friends displayed the distinctive plaid of a Scottish clan.

The Grandfather Mountain Highland Games were held each summer in MacRae Meadows located high on the slopes of the mountain which gave the annual event its name. The festivities attracted a throng of spectators and participants alike to this North Carolina area that so resembled the rugged terrain of Scotland.

The proud, boisterous wail of the bagpipe filled the air, issuing forth its wild cry that sang through the blood. Shari felt the power of its music and her green eyes were alive with the heady strength of it as she watched the competing dancers.

Without taking her eyes from the contestants, she leaned toward her two friends to whisper an explanation. “This is the
Ghillie Callum,
the Sword Dance.”

“You could have fooled me,” Doré murmured dryly, a little aloof and unmoved by the spectacle. Shari was used to the faintly patronizing attitude of her friend and smiled away the remark without taking offense.

“Malcolm Canmore of Scotland is the one who is usually given credit for originating the dance,” Shari continued in the same low voice. “After a battle in 1054 in which he killed one of Macbeth’s chiefs near Dunsinane, he took his dead enemy’s sword and laid his own over the top of it to form a cross. Then he danced over the symbol to celebrate his triumph.”

“It’s kinda like a war dance, isn’t it?” A trace of irony slanted Beth’s mouth. “Society accepted this,
but thought the dances of the American Indian were strange and heathen.”

“You’re right. This was essentially a war dance.” Shari addressed her remarks to Beth who seemed to be more in tune with the imagery of the dance than Doré. “Like the Indian war dances, it was performed on the eve of a battle. It was a way of relieving tension and displaying self-control as well as a means of foretelling the outcome of a battle.”

Beth pulled her glance away from the competition long enough to cast a puzzled frown at her friend and guide. “How could a dance predict the outcome?”

“The warrior would dance over his sword and scabbard, arranged in the shape of a cross. If his feet didn’t touch the sword or scabbard, they would be victorious in battle. But if he misstepped and disturbed the position of the sword or scabbard, it was considered an omen of defeat,” Shari explained.

“These dancers aren’t doing it right,” Doré pointed out. “They aren’t using a sword and a scabbard. Those crosses are formed by two swords.” Which proved she had been listening despite her expression of disinterest in the proceedings and Shari’s explanation of the dance’s origin.

“For the purposes of modern dance, two swords are used.” Shari assured her friend that it was being performed correctly. “The displacement of the swords with a missed step is now a means of eliminating contestants from the competition, so, in a sense, it is still a bad omen.”

“It certainly is for the dancer,” Beth agreed, a smile of amusement flashing across her face.

A responding smile curved Shari’s bow-shaped mouth as she lapsed into silence, her explanation concluded, leaving her free to watch the intricate pattern of precise footwork. The dance demanded grace and energy, the arms arched above the head, the quick action of pointed toes flirting close to the crossed blades.

In the background, the bagpipe established the fevered pitch, sending tongues of excitement through Shari’s veins with its battle song. Her own feet ached to take part in the ancient ritual, but she held them still. When the last note of the song faded to a wheezing sound, she turned from the scene with a trace of regret.

“Where can we get something cold to drink?” Doré’s glance swept the horde of spectators with a look of long-suffering patience. “Isn’t anybody else as thirsty as I am?”

“I wouldn’t mind a cold drink,” Beth appeared to feel obligated by friendship to agree with the blonde. “There were some vendors by the entrance, weren’t there, Shari?”

“I believe so, yes. We’ll work our way in that direction and see,” she suggested.

She knew better than to suggest that Doré might satisfy her thirst at one of the water fountains located conveniently nearby. Doré had an almost continental aversion to water as a drink.

Their place on the inside ring of spectators was quickly taken by other tourists as they moved away. The crowd that had gathered for the Highland Games was a colorful mixture. Male and female alike were garbed in the individual tartan plaid of
their particular clan, the men in kilts and the women in pleated skirts.

Since the public was invited to attend the festivities, there was a bright array of summerwear along with the traditional dress of the Scots. Athletic competitions were being held in addition to the dance and piping contests.

“I don’t know when I’ve seen so many men with knobby knees,” Doré remarked after they had passed a particularly portly gentleman with his kilt flapping about his knees. “What are those funny little leather pouches hanging from their waists?”

“They are called ‘
sporrans.
’ The
sporran
is a kind of belt purse,” Shari explained. “You have to remember when these costumes were common attire, pockets were not in vogue, and men needed to carry their small possessions in something. A more ornamental
sporran,
made from fur, is used with eveningwear and the plain leather is considered proper for daytime.”

“It’s really quite unusual and decorative.” Doré was always the first to wear new fashion trends. “I’m surprised it hasn’t caught on.”

“You could always start a new fad,” Beth suggested.

“I might do that.” It was a shrugging reply that seemed to indicate the suggestion would be forgotten tomorrow.

They circled a small group of people all wearing the same tartan plaid. Beth slowed to glance back at them, then turned to Shari with a thoughtful frown. “None of those people look like they’re related to one another. I know this is known as the Gathering
of the Scottish Clan, but I’m not sure that I know exactly what a ‘clan’ is? Do they just share the same last name?”

“
Clan
is Gaelic for family. Essentially this is a series of family reunions to which the public is invited,” Shari explained. “While they may not be directly related, they’ve traced their family genealogy and learned that they share a common ancestor. This celebration is really a means of preserving our Scottish heritage.”

“But why here in this particular place in North Carolina?” Doré swept the locale with a surveying glance, not overly impressed. “It’s very picturesque, but …”

“Do you have the feeling, Shari, that our city friend is more comfortable surrounded by concrete than trees?” Beth teased.

Shari laughed briefly, but let that question pass. “Probably the most basic reason for this site is because the originators of the celebration were raised here in Linville. But there were other contributing factors as well. When North Carolina was being colonized, a lot of Scottish families settled here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Plus the area bears a very strong resemblance to the Highlands in Scotland. In that sense, this was a natural choice.”