The Pretender (16 page)

A maiden sang sweetly

As a bird on a tree,

Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean,

Cro’ Chaillean for me!

 

In the morning they wander

To their pastures afar,

Where the grass grows the greenest

By corrie and scaur.

 

They wander the uplands

Where the soft breezes blow,

And they drink from the fountain

Where the sweet cresses grow.

 

But so far as they wander,

Dappled, dun, brown, and grey,

They return to the milking

At the close of the day.

 

Thus a maiden sang sweetly

As a bird on a tree,

Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean,

Cro’ Chaillean for me.

Elizabeth watched in mute wonder as the milk flowed effortlessly from Eithne’s fingers quickly filling the bottom of the pail.

When she’d finished with the song, Eithne turned to Elizabeth. “Now ’tis your turn to try.”

Elizabeth took an immediate step backward. “Oh, no, I don’t believe I know that song.”

Eithne laughed. “Och, lass, any song will do. ’Tis just the cadence of your voice that will coax her to milkin’ for you. Surely you must know a song. Come, now. You must try it.”

Elizabeth approached the stool tentatively, taking a great deal longer than Eithne to situate herself with her hooped skirts. Eithne cast a curious eye at Elizabeth’s gown, but said nothing. She simply persuaded her to lean her cheek against the cow’s side and reach underneath her belly. Elizabeth soon got past feeling foolish and found the animal’s coat to be soft, not at all wiry as it looked. The beast smelled pleasantly of grass and heather, and her hide was warm against Elizabeth’s cheek.

When she’d found a comfortable position, Elizabeth
closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began an old ditty she’d learned as a child . . .

An outlandish knight came from the northlands;

And he came wooing to me;

He said he would take me to foreign lands

And he would marry me. . . .

When next she opened her eyes, she couldn’t believe what she saw.

“She is doing it! She is giving me the milk.”

Eithne chuckled. “Nae, lass, ’tis you who are milking her. And very well, too! Come, now, once that pail is better filled, we’ll have us a fine breakfast feast.”

A short time later, Elizabeth and Eithne walked together across the pasture, eggs tucked in the basket from the hens, milk sloshing in the pail. They chatted pleasantly as they approached the cottage while the goat trotted along beside them. The sun had climbed high in the sky above them, bathing the glen with its soft light. The birds were trilling. The heather was blooming. Summer had come to the Highlands.

“Ordinarily, many of us women would be away in the shielings at this time of the year.”

“Shielings?” Elizabeth asked.

“Aye, they are small bothy shelters where we live while tending to the flocks in the hills. While we’re away, the crops grow here on the crofts. But with the king’s soldiers prowling these hills in search of the bonnie prince, we must keep close to home for safety’s sake. ’Twill bring us a leaner winter, it will, keeping the stock here in the lowlands.”

“Do you think they will capture the prince?” Elizabeth asked.

Eithne smiled softly. “They’ll not catch him.”

“We heard in some of the places we passed through on our way here that they’ve offered a reward of thirty thousand pounds to any who will reveal him. Thirty thousand pounds is a lot of money. There would be no worries over lean crops and cold winters with a sum like that.”

“Aye, but a true Highlandman’s honor canna be bought or sold, lass. Not for any sum.”

It was much the same thing Douglas had said.

“I would ask you to join me for tea,” Elizabeth said when they’d ducked inside the cottage’s low door, “but I’m afraid the water is long cold by now.”

She gestured to the table where the kettle sat untouched since earlier that morning.

“Och, ’tis easy enough to remedy, child.”

Elizabeth watched as Eithne crossed to the hearth, taking up the tongs to remove a small, flat stone from the fire. She brought it to the table, opened the lid of the teapot, and dropped the stone inside with a soft
clunk
.

“Tha’ should warm the water soon enough. Now let us see if we can make us some porridge.”

Elizabeth looked at her. “I’ve not much experience in the kitchen. I do not know how to make porridge.”

“Och, so the man leaves you to go hungry as well, does he?” Eithne shook her head. “You’d think he’d been raised by dogs. Come, lass, I’ll teach you the way my mither taught me. ’Tis simple, it is, once you get the way of it.”

A half an hour later, there was a pot of tasty porridge bubbling over the fire, and soft round bannocks fresh off
the
gridheal.
Eithne showed Elizabeth how to skim the cream off the milk they’d drawn that morning using a scallop shell with holes pierced through it, then how to form the meal into a heap with a small pool of milk in its center to mix and form the bannocks.

Eithne had brought gooseberry preserves and fresh butter in her basket, and they sat together sharing a pot of tea while Eithne showed Elizabeth the proper “Scots” way to enjoy her porridge.

“You take up your spoonful of hot porridge and dip it into your milk bowl afore taking it to your mouth. ’Tis how you get their best flavor.”

Elizabeth took a spoonful, closing her eyes as the warmth of the oats soothed her hungry stomach. It was delicious, and she even gave a small bit of what was left over to the goat, which was nickering at the door.

The two ladies spent the better part of the day seeing to the various tasks about the croft. Eithne instructed while Elizabeth took it all in. They walked to the burn that ran along the back of the croft near the hills, and Eithne showed Elizabeth how to use sand and branches of heather to scrub out their breakfast dishes. While the bowls and trenchers dried in the sunlight, they collected tall reeds for weaving into baskets and wickerwork, and wildflowers and herbs to freshen the cottage inside. They took potatoes, carrots, kail, and some of the dried haddies Eithne had brought with her to make a thick soup that would simmer over the fire till supper. And all the while, Eithne passed the time with tales about life at Dunakin and Douglas’s childhood.

“Och, a stubborn lad was he,” Eithne said as she sorted the oak apples they had gathered for boiling. They
would make ink, and Eithne had promised to show Elizabeth how to cut a quill from a goose feather so she could write letters. “ ’Twas difficult on him, it was, losing his father and his mither at such a young age.”

Since Eithne seemed so willing to talk, Elizabeth took the opportunity to learn more. “So Douglas was not a Jacobite, whilst his brother Iain was?”

“Aye. ’Tis the way of this rebellion, lass, brother fighting against brother, clan to clan. It has been most troubling to Douglas, though, since the MacKinnons have been loyal to the Scottish kings since time first began.”

“Then why did Douglas not take up arms for the Young Pretender?”

Whether Eithne sought to protect Douglas or simply didn’t know, she only smiled and said in response, “That, lass, would be a question for Douglas himself.”

The sun had moved into the afternoon sky when Eithne finally took up her basket and prepared to leave.

“Must you go?” Elizabeth asked. She had enjoyed their time together and she didn’t relish the idea of being alone.

“Aye, lass, tomorrow I must rise early, for it is the day for the
nigh.
”

“The
nigh
?”

Eithne grinned. “Washing day.”

“Would you. . .” Elizabeth hesitated. “Mind if I joined you?”

“Of course you can come, lass. I’ll be by t’ fetch you after breakfast then.”

And with that, Eithne MacKenzie took her leave.

Kilmarie House, Strathaird, Skye

Douglas strode into the private study of his father’s eldest brother, the twenty-ninth MacKinnon chief, Iain Dubh MacKinnon of Strathaird.

His uncle sat against tall windows that faced out onto the scarred blue basalt face of
Bla Bheinn
mountain. The sun was shining and Iain Dubh was dozing as Douglas entered the room. He had apparently fallen asleep while reading, for his graying head was bent to the open pages of his book, and his chin was at rest against his chest.

This man, more than any other, had been a father to Douglas, taking the place of the one who’d been sent away. He’d taught him to shoot, to wield the broadsword. He’d shown him what it meant to be a chieftain. When Douglas had cried at the loss of his mother and infant sister, Iain Dubh had held him. He’d seen to his education, his upbringing. Most importantly, he’d given him honor.

Douglas cleared his throat and the chief awoke with a start.

“Douglas.” The older man rose from his chair to take his nephew in a heartfelt embrace.

The rebellion had taken its toll on the MacKinnon chief. His face looked older, scored by the past months since Douglas had watched him ride off to join the bonnie prince in Edinburgh. His hair, once peppery, was now gray. His eyes, the bonnie blue of the MacKinnons, now looked dim and deeply tired.

“It is good to see you, nephew.”

“ ’Tis I should be saying that to you, sir.”

In truth, the last time Douglas had seen his uncle, he had thought it would be the last.

“I was sorry to hear of the loss at Culloden. The last word I’d had was that the Jacobites were in Derby and on the verge of victory. I was in London waiting for the prince’s army to march victorious through the city gates. It seems impossible that events should have taken such a decided turn.”

Iain Dubh shook his head. “ ’Twas a different rebellion than the others, Douglas. Far, far different. So much bloodshed. So much loss. We were ill prepared, and ill advised.”

Douglas gave a solemn nod. “There is no hope of another rally?”

The chief returned to his chair, motioning Douglas to the other. “Nae. ’Tis over. ’Twas over afore it began, a doomed venture from the start. Without the French, we could do nothing. I stayed close after the battle, to see if the clans would gather again, but their hearts just weren’t in it. Those that didna die or fall prisoner to that
butcher son of the Hanoverian, fled for the hills with the government troops hot on their heels.”

“Iain?” Douglas asked. “I have heard he was elsewhere on the day of the battle.”

“Aye, he wasn’t at Culloden,” the chief confirmed. “I foresaw the end, so I sent him north into MacKay country afore the battle had begun.”

“He is safe then?”

“Aye.”

“Where?”

“On Skye.” The chief looked at his nephew, easily reading his thoughts. “He was young, Douglas, foolish, his head filled with the romance of the battle. He could not understand your reasons for refusing to join. He saw it only as a betrayal to the clan. He didna mean the words he spoke. He is a far different lad than he was months ago.”

Douglas was seized by the memory of the last time he had seen his younger brother, standing before him in the dusk of morning on the courtyard at Dunakin. He had looked like a lad bent on conquering the world, his sword polished, his eyes determined. He’d asked his brother one last time to join them. Douglas had tried to explain his reasons for refusing, but Iain would hear none of it. Douglas would never forget the bitter words they had exchanged when he’d had to make the most difficult decision in his life, refusing to join his clan and fight for the prince’s cause.

“I’ve another war to fight, brother,” Douglas had told him. “The war to see what is rightfully ours—what is yours and mine, what was our father’s—restored to us.”

He had done it for Dunakin, for the legacy of the clan
and the memory of their father, so that MacKinnons would not become a clan of the past.

But Iain MacKinnon hadn’t understood.

“This place, it is naught but rock and ghosts,” he’d said. “Honor is something a man carries with him no matter where he chooses to lie down at night. Honor lives forever.”

Iain had renounced Douglas as a brother that day, naming him a coward and a disgrace to the clan before turning away to leave for what Douglas had felt certain was the last time. But it hadn’t been the words that struck Douglas so deeply as he’d watched his brother turn away from him that day. It had been the disappointment that had colored the eyes of the lad who had grown up looking on Douglas as his hero.

A sudden knocking on the door behind him pulled Douglas from his thoughts. He turned, hoping for a fleeting moment that it was Iain.

His hopes were dashed, however, when he recognized the unwelcome figure of Malcolm Maclean—chieftain of the Macleans of Carsaig, and his future father-in-law.

Iain Dubh rose from his chair. “Maclean, ’tis good it is to see you. How do things fare at Carsaig?”

The Maclean chieftain strode into the room with all the confidence and swagger of a man who felt his importance in the world—and who felt it more substantially than it warranted. He was a clan chieftain like Douglas, but Maclean ruled his sept with a fist of iron, a merciless sword, and a heart of impermeable rock. The fact that he often settled disputes with his dirk instead of his wits showed in the many scars that marked him, face, hands, and arms. His brown hair hung loose, unkempt
and wild, and his eyes were always narrowed, the eyes of a wolf.

“Come, sit,” Iain Dubh said to Maclean. “Let us get you a brandy. Douglas and I were just catching up on the past months.”

Maclean lowered himself into the chair offered, his hand resting on the basket hilt of his sword. He took a swig of the brandy offered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He fixed Douglas a fierce stare.

“What of your efforts in the south? Were you successful in gaining an audience with the Hanoverian?”

Douglas had to fight from showing his aversion for the man. “In a matter of speaking, aye.”

“What do you mean, MacKinnon? Were you or were you not able to secure your right to Dunakin?” He turned immediately to Iain Dubh without waiting for Douglas’s answer. “There’ll be no wedding, MacKinnon, and with it no alliance of our clans without the assurance of that land.”

“Now, Maclean, ease your temper . . .”

“That was the arrangement!” He pounded his fist on the side table, upsetting his glass. “I’ll not wed my Muirne to a landless whelp without so much as a pissing pot to his name—”

“I did not succeed in gaining an ear at Kensington,” Douglas interrupted, drawing the attention of both men back to himself, “but within two months’ time, I will have recovered Dunakin and the forfeited earldom—without restriction.” He glanced at his uncle. “Through other means.”

Maclean was immediately suspicious. “What do you
mean by ‘other means?’ Why the need for this secrecy if we’re to be kin?”

The thought of the man as kin sickened Douglas to the depths of his stomach.

“A moment, Maclean.” Iain Dubh looked at his nephew, more intrigued than suspicious of this unexpected announcement. “Do you care to say more of what these ‘other means’ are, Douglas?”

Knowing the danger the truth could bring, Douglas decided not to tell his uncle of his arrangement with the duke. If it were somehow discovered and there was to be retribution for it, Douglas wanted it directed at himself and no one else.

“All I can ask is that you trust my word in this. Dunakin will be ours again in two months’ time. The how of it is inconsequential.”

He hated having to mislead him, but there was no helping it.

Iain Dubh nodded. “That is all the assurance I need. If Douglas says he will have Dunakin, then he shall. It will be a winter wedding, Maclean, and your Muirne will be a countess. Now, come, my lovely Janet has prepared a supper feast. Let us break a bannock and have a toast together to celebrate an end to the feud that has rifted the Macleans of Carsaig and the MacKinnons of Strathaird for too long.”

It was dark when Douglas arrived at Eithne’s cottage, the night sky lit by a partial moon that was veiled behind a thin layer of clouds. He ducked his head under the low lintel as he knocked softly upon the door to enter.

He knew she would be waiting up for him, waiting
and expecting explanations. In the letter he’d sent with the packet boat, he’d only told her to prepare the croft and not to come to any conclusions—no matter what she saw—until he had explained everything to her. He owed her the truth and could trust her to keep it, but he had delayed in coming to see her all day. Deep inside he knew what her reaction would be.

“ ’Tis time you returned,” was all she said, rising from her spinning wheel to fetch him a cup of the tea she had simmering over the fire. The cottage smelled of fresh rushes and peat smoke and a savory stew she had prepared for her supper.

Douglas watched as Eithne pressed a hand to the small of her back as she poured to ease the ache from the past hours she’d no doubt spent spinning the wool over the dull light of her cruisie lamp. Her hair was down, falling to her waist, and she wore her nightclothes, a heavy shift beneath a fringed woolen shawl that fell past her hips. Her feet were bare on the dirt floor, and though her face was cast in the shadows of the firelight, Douglas could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was cross.

“I was to Kilmarie,” he said as she handed him the cup, swallowing down a good half of the tea before sinking into his favorite chair by the fire. It soothed the ache that had been throbbing in his head for hours. “My uncle sends his regards.”

“Aye.”

Eithne took up her spinning, feeding the carded wool onto the whirling spindle of the wheel. She waited, saying nothing, nothing at all, just went on with her
spinning, settling into her own easy rhythm while she waited for Douglas to go on.

“He says Iain is safe. He says he is on Skye.”

“Is he now?” Eithne lifted a brow. “So why hasna the lad come to show his face then?”

Douglas frowned. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Och.” She shook her head in disgust. “He is your brother, is he no’? I’ve known that lad since he was a wee thing, always spouting off his mouth afore thinking. His temper is fierce, but his heart is true. He willna bear this bitter grudge against his own blood, especially after all you’ve both been through these months.” She waited, sensing the tension in Douglas. “There is more?”

Douglas nodded. “Maclean was at Kilmarie.”

“Filthy
messan.
” She frowned, looking as if she’d swallowed something foul with her tea. “The man will make you a miserable father-in-law, you know.”

“Aye, ’tis true, but I’ve no choice in the matter. ’Twas arranged an age ago. The feud a’tween our clans will seem like naught but a wee spat in comparison to the certain war that will be waged if I dinna wed his Muirne now.”

“Bah. There has been ill blood a’tween the two clans for nigh on four hundred years, since one of those rummle-skeerie Macleans took the life of a MacKinnon o’er some imagined affront or another. Yet we’ve all of us lived peacefully amongst one another. Let it lie, Douglas. You canno’ change what has been for so long. You should no’ be wedding into that brood. There’s foul blood bred into their bones, those Macleans of Carsaig. Foul blood that will be the blood of your sons.”

Douglas finished his tea. He set the cup on the hearthstone with a frown. “I canna do that, and you know it. If I dinna wed Muirne Maclean, MacKinnon blood will be spilled.”

Eithne’s foot was working furiously on the treadle of her wheel now. “Two wives are one too many, Douglas MacKinnon. E’en for a braw Scotsman like yourself.”

Douglas frowned at the mention of Elizabeth. In truth, thoughts of her had kept him frowning through most of the day. More than once he had found himself stopping in his review of the estate accounts to stare out the window onto the distant hill, picturing the croft that lay tucked away on its other side. And for one of those moments, he’d even allowed himself to imagine Elizabeth staying on past the two months . . . staying on forever.

“Douglas MacKinnon, have you run deaf? Do you no’ hear me talking to you? Roderick told me what happened, how you came to be married to the lass. ’Tis an ill-faur’d thing, this trickery you’ve agreed to with her da. I dinna know what ye’re about agreeing to do such a thing, but I winna lie to the lass.”

“I don’t like having to play this deception any more than you like me playing it. It is her da’s arrangement. I have no choice. It is the only way I’m to recover Dunakin. And I cannot do it without your help. I am not asking you to lie to her. All I ask is that you help me keep her out of sight till her father comes for her. For her own safety, as well as ours.”

Eithne stared at Douglas through the flickering of the fire.

“Aye, you are right. ’Tis better that she doesna know the truth of it. But it still does not sit well with me,
Douglas MacKinnon. She is a good lass, a true lass. She’d be a better wife to you than that Muirne Maclean.”

Douglas looked at Eithne as if she’d just been spinning nonsense along with her wool on that wheel.

“Any thought of us remaining wed after these two months is naught but nonsense. Even she would tell you that.”

“But I am not asking her, Douglas. I am asking you.” Eithne softened her voice. “Look me in the eyes, right now, and tell me truthfully, if you can, that you feel nothing for this lass, nothing at all. Tell me you have no’ thought of her, have no’ looked into her eyes just once and wondered what could be if she were no’ a Sassenach lady, but a simple Scottish lass . . .”

Douglas stared into the eyes of the only true mother he’d ever known and could say nothing, nothing at all.

“ ’Tis as I thought.”

“It doesna matter.” Douglas got up to leave, shrugging on his coat. “None of it matters. She
is
a lady, the daughter of a
Sassenach
duke. She was not intended for a life in the Highlands. She was raised to a life of privilege and ease, with a team of servants standing ready to see to her every wish. Her hands have never known a moment of true work.”