Part 31 (1/2)
MacIain's teeth showed briefly in the thicket of beard and moustaches. ”By my body, ye ken? Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, bone of my bone . . . 'tis my seed gave you life.”
Dair waited tensely. He did not know what he would do until his father set him to it.
MacIain reached into his scrip and took from it a crumpled letter. He unfolded it and put it onto the table, spreading the paper flat beneath ma.s.sive hands. ” 'Tis from Dundee's man, Edwards. A word to the wise, ye ken?-that we are not to put trust in Breadalbane.”
Dair's breath stilled.
”I dinna doubt he kens 'tis not a warning Glencoe is in need of, aye?-but 'tis appreciated all the same. Confirmation, Alasdair. There's no good to come of that treaty.” With care and precision, he folded the paper again. ”I fear mischief from no man so much as the Earl of Breadalbane.”
Dair's palms were damp.
One ma.s.sive hand lingered over the chess game, closed upon the queen. ”You are my son,” the deep voice rumbled. ”Blood of my blood, bone of my bone-and you will do whatever is necessary to impede the earl's game.”
Wind blew down the moor, luring hair from leather binding. Beneath Cat the garron shook its head, perplexed by what it viewed as annoying indecision; for her there was no indecision, merely patience, uncharacteristic patience, as the memory overtook her.
-images- And sounds. Smells. The overwhelming fear. Her own as well as his.
Cat let it play out as the wind gusted in her face: images, sounds, and smells, the recollection of fear so great it nearly broke her soul-then at last dismounted and left the garron to wander in its idle pursuit of forage.
She was barefoot in the summer, as most Highlanders. She strode across terrain hazardous to those unaccustomed to its sly hostilities, and climbed the swelling crown to the twisted scepter atop it. Here the wind was braver, whipping at hair and skirts. Cat let it have its way as she studied the tree, marking its wracked shape and naked, barren roots upthrust from pockets of turf, knotted and twined against the soil like an ornate Celt-made brooch.
She moved beneath the tree, stood below one st.u.r.dy branch. Shut her eyes against the daylight, against the insidious sun, and imagined herself Dair MacDonald with a rope around his neck.
The rope that yet hung from the twisted branch, sliced in two by one sweep of her father's claymore.
She let wind and memory take her, lost in conjuration. For her it was not difficult; she had always been able to summon stories within her head, such as the braw and bonnie prince on his way to rescue his la.s.s . . .
-with silver in his hair, and white teeth a'gleaming- Her eyes sprang open. Without thought for the doing of it, with no deference to her skirts, she turned and mounted the tree, then clambered up its branches. When she could reach the knot she drew from her belt the dirk she had brought and, with grim determination, cut the rope from the branch.
It fell. From her perch above the ground, she gazed down upon it. A coil of faded hemp, half-hidden against the turf.
With less grace and nothing of dignity, she climbed down again. Her body betrayed her in womanhood; she had lost the ease of girlhood when she had no b.r.e.a.s.t.s, no hips. Skirts caught, tore. An ankle banged a branch. Hair caught in the twigs. But she was free at last, and jumped to the ground.
Memories crowded afresh. A body, there, spilling blood from an opened throat . . . The knot of Campbell men serving her father's interests, through which she had fought her way shouting the Campbell slogan . . . Another body, more meat on the tree, until it was taken down and replaced with another MacDonald.
No blood now . . . No bodies left to rot. From Glencoe had come MacDonalds to bear home their Campbell-killed men.
Cat sat down upon the turf. From the scrip lifted from her father's things, she took two items and placed them on the ground.
Rope. Mirror. Bonnet. All she had of him.
And the memory of his words: 'Come home with me to Glencoe.'
Dair knew, as he rode across the hills toward the cloud-bound lands of Appin, that courage came in as many coats as cowardice, and only the man wearing one could name the proper cut. But he was not at all certain which he wore as he rode to Jean Stewart, bricked apart on the tiny island playing chatelaine to Castle Stalker, where he would go this time not to offer persuasion that they had not yet spent the spark burning in their bodies, but to explain it was truly extinguished.
”G.o.d save me,” he muttered to the wind, ”but I think I felt less fear as the war-pipes at Killiecrankie called us into battle!”
But that was true battle withal, for the good of Scotland and her true Stuart king. This was a war of words he would survive battered more in spirit than in body, the more so for her bitter comprehension of its cause. He would never have lied to her, but now she would hear him speak his words with her own design in mind, a sett of false imaginings as well as false a.s.sumptions, no matter the truth of them.
Not another woman, not initially. But she would see it as such.
And if she would have of him the truth of his feelings now, she had indeed been supplanted by a woman. But Jean would never believe he had grown apart from her without interference, that he longed for Cat as much for her company as for her body; that he had not in fact already shared a bed with her.
Jean did not understand that the needs of the spirit compounded the needs of the body. Jean would believe her place had been usurped. Jean would believe whatever she felt she must, to reconcile rejection. And Cat will bear the blame. . . .
Preoccupied, Dair reined in his garron. The track wound its way through tumbled rocks, stands of trees, lush-grown heather and gorse, crossing countless burns and trickles of mountain-bred water. He swung a leg over and stepped off the st.u.r.dy pony, giving it rein to drink as he himself knelt to scoop up a handful of water.
Stone and grit bit into bare knees as he bent, and the garron pulled rein against his hand. When it whickered a greeting, Dair glanced up to see mounted men approaching. The tartan's sett, though worn by any, was the Stewart most closely a.s.sociated with those bred of Appin: deep blue and rich forest green, striped alternatingly with narrow black and vivid red.
His mood plunged instantly. Trust Robbie to come for me before I can see Jean.. . . Dair rose, water trickling across his right palm and falling from slack fingers. Sunlight glinted off badge and brooch as the men wound through stones and burns, gleamed more dully on the sandy gold cap of Robbie's hair. He was bonnetless in the day, as if to mock Dair's gift to Cat.
The heir of Appin lifted his voice against the distance. ”Did ye ken it, then? That I would be coming for you?”
But not so soon, so soon. Dair moved to the other side of the garron and stood quietly before the horse. He wore a dirk and sgian dhu, but wanted to use neither against Robbie. He would prefer to settle it with fists, when words would not do. And with him, they would not. Not ever with Robbie Stewart.
”So.” Robbie reined up. With him was a tail of men nearly as impressive as a laird's, though of less ceremony. They were young and hard-faced all, with pistols tucked into kilt belts. ”Are ye ready, then?”
Dair drew in a deep breath. Robbie showed no inclination to dismount; did he intend to ride him down?
”Well?” Stewart's expression was quizzical. ”Has he gone lame, your garron-or d'ye mean to walk to Loch Linnhe?”
”Loch Linnhe?” Dair echoed blankly.
”Aye, where the boats are!” Robbie frowned. ”Surely MacIain was brought word.” He paused, a.s.sessing Dair's expression. ”The boat, man! I thought ye kent what I mean!” He flung out an arm meant to suggest direction. ”A supply boat is on its way up the coast of Lorn, bent on replenis.h.i.+ng the stores at Fort William. We canna let that happen when our own people are hungry.” He grinned, blue eyes alight. ”And great romantic pirates we'll make, aye? Spanish pistols, Scottish dirks-they'll ken they've met their betters, those pawkie Sa.s.senachs!”
”Pirates . . .” Dair took himself in hand. It would be gey easy to leave off responsibilities to play pirate with Robbie Stewart. ”I meant to go to Jean.”
Robbie frowned, then waved an ill.u.s.trative hand. ”Och, no, Jean's not home. She's gone off to visit some old bizzem . . . was gone when I got home from Achallader.” He grinned. ”Bring her back plunder, MacDonald-she'll kiss you for it!”
”When . . .” Dair began again. I canna do this-'tis too easy. . . . He scrubbed a hard hand through his windblown hair. I canna DO this. . . . ”When is she expected back? Jean?”
Stewart whooped a laugh. ”Good Christ, can you no' tame your c.o.c.k, Alasdair Og? You'll be bedding her forbye, once we've English plunder!” The laughter died, though brows arched up. ”D'ye come with us, then? 'Twill be a tale to tell, once we've won the boat.”
Jean not at home.
Jean elsewhere.
Robbie did not know.
-reprieve- Relief was overwhelming. Dair mounted his garron and sent him climbing hastily up to the higher track. He reined in by Robbie, grinning widely.
Jean was not at home . . . and for the moment, the day, perhaps so long as a week, he and her volatile brother could yet be friends, even pirates, bent upon Sa.s.senach booty.
Dair raised eloquent brows in a mirror of Robbie's habit. ”What will Breadalbane say, to have you break the treaty?”
Robbie swore virulently. ”Holy Christ, man, 'tis naught to me what Grey John says. He's no laird of mine!”
Dair laughed. ”No more is any man who stands in Appin's way when he wants to serve himself!”
”Aye, well . . .” Robbie grinned. ”And who will you be serving?”