Amanda Scott (27 page)

Clouds began to gather again before noon, and within an hour a light steady rain began to fall. They took what cover they could in a natural cave formed by huge boulders, and waited for the shower to pass. As a result of such delays, darkness was falling by the time they reached the summit.

The north side of the Corriearrack, being the watershed for the river Tarff as it flowed from its source high in the Monadhliath mountains to Loch Ness, was vastly different from the south side. Though nearly as steep, the hills, valleys, and glens were lushly green and thickly forested, with water rushing through every declivity. Though the clouds overhead had begun to scatter, full darkness came swiftly, and with the increasing canopy of foliage, few stars could be seen. Chelton lighted torches, however, and they soon found the track leading off the main route to Glen Drumin.

For the next hour there was little conversation, because every rider had to concentrate on following the track and not losing sight of the horseman ahead. The road into the glen was only a narrow path, and traveling in darkness was not wise, Maggie knew, for more reasons than one. She kept listening for telltale sounds ahead that might warn of enemies about, or even friends, since her father had surely received word of their coming by now, but the shout when she heard it came from behind.

Looking quickly over her shoulder, she saw a cavalcade hurrying them. At first she could not tell how many there were, or who they were, but she heard Rothwell mutter, “Bandits again? By God, this time I’ll—”

“No,” Maggie said quickly. “Bandits don’t shout first, sir, and they rarely travel with horse carts.”

“Carts? On this sorry excuse for a road? Good God, yes, I can hear the wheels now.”

“Aye, sir, and from the sound they are traveling at a wicked pace. ’Tis amazing the carts don’t fall apart. We’d best move aside and let them pass.”

He agreed, and they drew their mounts off the track, and waited for the carters to pass. As the men approached, however, they slowed their pace, and one shouted, “Who goes there?”

The carters carried no lights, and in the darkness beyond the circle of their own torchlight Maggie could see no faces, but she had suspected their identities the moment she had heard the carts, and the shouting voice was more familiar to her than her own. She cried, “Papa, oh, Papa, it’s Maggie!”

A moment later, she found herself being lifted down and hugged so hard she thought her ribs would snap, and MacDrumin said gleefully, “So, you’ve come back to us, have you, lass? But let the lads pass us by whilst you tell me how you liked London.”

“It was very large, Papa, and very noisy, worse than Edinburgh. Oh,” she added, remembering her companions, “I must present the Earl of Rothwell, Papa, and Mr. James Carsley. They were kind enough to escort me home.”

“What became of Fiona and Mungo?” MacDrumin demanded, making no response than a curt nod to the earl and James.

Tears sprang to her eyes when she said, “Dead, Papa, both of them. Mungo took a wrong turning when we were looking for … that is, when we first got to London,” she amended swiftly, adding, “Horrid men attacked the coach and pulled me and Fiona into the street. I hit my head on something and fell unconscious but I was not otherwise hurt. When I came to my senses again, Fiona and Mungo were gone and I was told they were dead. The coach was gone, too, which is how I came to seek his lordship’s protection,” she added glibly.

“By what I hear, you got more than protection,” MacDrumin said, turning to Rothwell at last and extending a hand. “You ought to have had the banns called like a proper Christian, lad, but I’ll overlook that and bid you welcome to the family.”

Out of the darkness came a mischievous feminine chuckle, and Maggie recognized the voice as Kate MacCain’s.

G
RIMLY ROTHWELL RETURNED MACDRUMIN’S
handshake, but he too had heard Kate’s laughter and knew he had been the victim of a trick. He wondered if Maggie had been party to it, and tried to tell himself it did not matter. In any event, he hoped James had not heard the vixen’s laughter, for they would learn more about MacDrumin of MacDrumin and his followers by keeping their tempers than they would if they alienated him from the outset.

Keeping his voice under rigid control, he said, “The marriage is a matter for further discussion, MacDrumin, but this is neither the time nor place.”

“There is naught to discuss, but under every stone lies a politician,” MacDrumin said with a sigh. “You must know she will have no dowry, lad, and although I’d have driven a hard bargain arranging the settlements, the time for that has fled, thanks to your own impetuousness.”

“Papa,” Maggie said hastily, “it is not so simple as—”

“Whisst,” MacDrumin snapped, cupping a hand to his ear, “I hear hoofbeats!”

When the group fell silent, Rothwell heard them too, coming swiftly from behind, leading him to think that, like MacDrumin, the riders must know the track well, or be singularly foolish.

“These woods are infested tonight,” MacDrumin muttered. “Get those carts moving, lads. I’ll deal with them.”

Rothwell had not considered what might be the contents of the four carts, but he did so as they rattled past him, and when two riders emerged from the darkness a few moments later and declared themselves in solid English tones to be officers of his majesty’s Customs, he was not very much surprised to hear it.

MacDrumin chose to take an indignant tone. “What the devil are a pair of excisemen doing in Glen Drumin, if you please?”

“We are on the king’s business, Lord MacDrumin,” the spokesman replied, “and we mean to examine those carts of yours and the packs on that pony, and any other gear you may have. It will do you no good to protest, I assure you.”

Even in the dim light Rothwell was able to discern the gleam of unholy glee that leapt to MacDrumin’s eyes, but his demeanor was otherwise that of a man wholly unconcerned, even slightly amused, when he said, “The king’s business, is it? Well, lads, you’d do well to make haste with your duty then, for if you are meaning to detain the Earl of Rothwell after his long day’s journey, then you’d best have excellent cause for your impudence, for he won’t thank you for interfering in his honest business.”

“From what I’m told, you would not recognize honest business if you tripped over it, MacDrumin,” the spokesman said with what Rothwell suspected was complete accuracy. “Earls now! What new lies will you dare to spout next? Get down, Foster, and have a look at the goods on that pack horse first.”

Before Rothwell could object, MacDrumin said swiftly, “You’ve forgotten the law, my lads. ’Tis a Scottish one, which would account for it, but still you’re bound to it by your own Parliament. You can confiscate the carts, but you cannot search them except in the presence of a proper magistrate. Not, that is, unless you’ve been granted a commission beyond your ordinary one by the Lord High Constable in Edinburgh.”

The spokesman said quickly, “We’ll take them then, and you along with them, MacDrumin. Go ahead, Foster.”

“Just one moment,” Rothwell said coldly enough to stop Foster with a foot halfway to the ground. “I do not know by what right you have the infernal impertinence to question my identity without so much as asking me to verify it, but I am certainly Rothwell. You will touch nothing belonging to me or my party.”

“That’s telling them, lad,” MacDrumin said approvingly when the two law men glanced at each other. “He’s Rothwell, right enough, and a powerful man in London, not to mention being my son-in-law, so you’d do well not to annoy him. Here he’s come all this way expecting to celebrate his nuptials, only to learn he’s a funeral to attend instead, and now he has to put up with your nonsense as well. Take yourselves off, and leave us be.”

“Begging your pardon, I’m sure, my lord,” the spokesman said, speaking directly to Rothwell and attempting to ignore MacDrumin, “but we’ve had word of an illegal shipment of whisky being moved this very night, and our men have been scouring the hills from Fort Augustus to the Corriearrack in search of it. I’ve no wish to offend you, but my orders are clear—to search every bundle, person, or vehicle I encounter. I am sure I’ve no need to point out that whilst your high estate must be respected, your rank does not preclude my asking permission to search.”

“Very reasonable,” Rothwell said, amused to see MacDrumin grimace and Maggie catch her lower lip between her pretty teeth. He added in the same tone, “If you will just show me this special commission of yours, authorizing you to make such searches …”

“Well, as to that, my lord,” the spokesman said, “we were rousted out rather hastily, you see, so I’ve not got the papers on my person at the present moment. You will understand, I am sure, and give us your permission to—”

“He’ll do no such thing,” MacDrumin said, clearly delighted but affecting outrage. “If that don’t beat all. No papers, you say? Surely, you have your ordinary commissions—Not them, either? Why these fellows are naught but a pair of thieves, Rothwell, for if they were what they claim, they would know the law requires them to carry their commissions at all times to prove their authority. Highway robbers is what they are, and if they don’t take themselves off at once, I’ll set my own lads on them to teach them manners, and not a magistrate in all Scotland will say aught but that they deserved it!”

The excisemen did not linger to see if he would carry out his threat, for one look at Rothwell’s grim countenance told them whose side he would favor. When they had gone, MacDrumin shook his head and said, “Slipshod, that’s what they are these days. There’s no excuse for it.”

Maggie said instantly, “Papa, who died?”

“Och, and isn’t that just what I’ve been wondering myself,” MacDrumin said, “but if we don’t make all haste to the house now, it won’t matter a whit, for if those two fools don’t go straight to Fergus Campbell, I’ll own myself amazed, and once they do, he’ll be down upon us in a twink. Up with you now, lass,” he added, tossing her back into her saddle.

Looking down at him, Maggie said anxiously, “Papa, you won’t take the … the carts to the house!”

Rothwell, himself interested in the reply to that question, noted that MacDrumin avoided his daughter’s eyes when he said hastily, “Whisst now, we won’t stand nattering if you please. Due to delays caused by this feckless weather, certain items were left too long in the kirk, with the result that we were forced to move them with undignified haste. But it will all be for naught if we don’t get to the house well ahead of that rascal Fergus Campbell, so we’ll have none of your prating, lass, nor anyone else’s either,” he added with a darkling look at the others.

Quite unimpressed by the excisemen, but considerably amused by the peppery MacDrumin, Rothwell held his peace until they reached Glen Drumin House. Not until the heavy front door was swung wide, revealing a cavernous hall lighted only by candles and a roaring fire in a fireplace big enough for six men to stand upright and shoulder to shoulder inside, did it occur to him that he was being welcomed—and with singular grace, considering the need for haste—to what was in fact his own house.

With apparently no sense of irony, MacDrumin said, “Make yourself at home, lad. Take him to the fire, Maggie, and these others too, so they can dry out a bit and warm themselves before our little playlet begins. You others,” he shouted, “I want every man, woman, and child you can gather here in the hall before Campbell and his louts arrive. And bring in the oat cakes and whisky you carry with you. A funeral requires food!”

“Papa, please,” Maggie said, trying to catch his arm.

When he shooed her away, his mind clearly on more important matters, she turned to Rothwell and said ruefully, “I do beg your pardon for the uproar, sir, but it will soon be done, I think, and then we can make him understand the situation.”

Having a fair notion that MacDrumin already understood the situation perfectly well and had little wish to face the fact that his scheme was doomed to fail, Rothwell drew her out of the way of a man carrying a keg, and said, “I collect this Fergus Campbell is a more worthy adversary than the pair we met in the woods. It is possible, is it not, that your father will be in no position to discuss anything later.”

“Fergus Campbell is the bailie I told you about,” she said, her distaste for the man clear in every syllable. “He is descended from a clan that murdered a hundred innocent folk in their sleep sixty years ago at Glencoe, but although he inherited much of their wickedness, he is a stupid man. I suppose it is possible he can outwit Papa, but he has never done so yet.”

Rothwell said nothing more, remaining near the fire to warm himself and watching the bustling activity with amusement. A tall clock near the stairs was striking eight when James came to tell him the Cheltons would bring in the boxes from the pack horse, since MacDrumin’s men seemed all to be otherwise occupied.

A number of them were arranging small kegs in a rectangle some six feet by three, and MacDrumin, who had been shouting orders to all and sundry, paused to look at the arrangement and nodded approvingly. “That’s the way, lads, but only two levels, mind, no higher. Now then, someone fetch out the good white linen tablecloth.”

“Papa, no,” Maggie protested. “That was Mama’s, and must be kept only for special occasions.”

“And what, may I ask, could be more special than a funeral? Rory, put those oat cakes and some whisky on the table yonder, lad. Dugald, you can put that lid in place now.”

Rothwell recognized the big man who approached MacDrumin, carrying what appeared to be a coffin lid, as the huge one from the hold-up, and hearing a gasp from James as the man put the lid atop the arrangement of kegs, he knew his brother had also recognized him. James shifted his gaze to search the gathering crowd, and when he suddenly lunged forward, making a path for himself by pushing people aside, Rothwell did not need the feminine shriek of fury that quickly followed to know that he had seen Kate, drawn his own conclusions from her presence, and no doubt meant to wreak his vengeance then and there.

When a number of people stepped hastily back, Rothwell saw that James had grabbed Kate and that she was struggling angrily, attempting to free herself. She froze, however, when a man ran into the hall and shut the big front door with a bang, shouting, “Horsemen, laird! ’Tis Fergus Campbell himself!”