As High as the Heavens (14 page)

Her rescue attempts were rewarded with a sharp yip
and a glancing brush of teeth, before she had the presence of mind to jerk her hand from harm's way. Bemused,
Heather stepped back and glared down at the dog. At
the same time Beth, with a terrified squawk, rushed
from the room and called for help. To further add to
the confusion, the terrier bitch chose that moment to
deliver her first pup.

"By mountain and-" Duncan raced into the room.
When he saw what lay on the bed, he slid to a halt.

"Cuini!" Hands on his hips, he glared down at the
dog. "Did ye have to go and whelp on Heather's gowns?"
Next, he turned to Heather. "I'm verra sorry about this.
She's my mither's dog, actually, but chooses to sleep wi'
me. It's natural for her to whelp where she feels most
comfortable and secure."

"Cuini, eh?" Heather shot the once again straining
animal a disgusted look before glancing back up at Duncan. "And is she queen of yer home, inasmuch as she is
in name then? Ye didn't warn me, atop everything else,
I must share a bed with a dog and her brood."

Duncan managed a lopsided grin. "Och, dinna fash yerself, lass. Once she's done, she'll gladly make her bed
wi' me again-wherever that might be."

"A distinct consolation, to be sure." Heather turned
back to the bed. In a gush of fluid and blood, another pup
emerged. Eagerly, Cuini began to lick and chew at the
sac encasing the pup, until she finally had the membrane
free. Then she commenced to gnaw on the cord.

Nausea welled in Heather. She swallowed hard and
turned away.

"Ye haven't witnessed a birthing afore, have ye?"

Och, Heather thought, must she now also endure his
pity? "Nay, I haven't," she snapped. "What of it?"

He shrugged, unperturbed by her show of temper.
"Naught. But mayhap ye should step into the great room
until it's over. I felt four pups. This could take a while
longer."

Heather shot the terrier a quick look. Her heart sank.
Her green silk gown would never be the same.

"I've work to do, if Beth and I are to have this room
in order before bedtime. In the meanwhile, why don't
ye attend to yer dog?"

"Ye don't mind me in yer bedchamber, then?"

"Aye, I mind, but since yer dog won't let me close
to her . . ." She held up her right hand, which bore a
slightly abraded mark where Cuini had snapped and
briefly met flesh.

Concern in his eyes, Duncan grabbed Heather's hand
in both of his. "Och, did she bite ye?" He leaned down,
examining it, and stroked the pad of one thumb carefully
along the length of the scrape.

His touch, gentle yet stirring, took Heather's breath away. His hands were callused from work, the nails short,
and the first three of his fingertips were stained, most
likely, she mused, from recently rubbing some colored finish into a piece of carved wood. But, as work-roughened
as his hands were, they were still the hands of an artist,
a man born to a finer life than the one in which he had
been inadvertently reared.

His fingers were long, tapering, his hands broad, finely
veined, and covered with a sprinkling of dark hair. His
wrists were strong, powerful, as were his muscled forearms. It was the lined expanse of his palms, however,
as he cradled Heather's far smaller hand in his, that
mesmerized her.

The mounded, muscled flesh bespoke great strength
and courage. Bespoke a man firm in his resolve and vision. A man, Heather realized with a ripple of surprise,
who, though he might achieve his goals in a different
way, shared goals very similar to hers.

The revelation was astonishingly clear, though Heather
was unsure from whence the surety came, or even the
logic of it. So clear that, for an instant, she felt bonded
to him. Felt as if they had melded minds-and that he
had felt that joining just as keenly as she.

With a small gasp, she wrenched her hand free. "A-aye,
she bit me," she replied, nervously looking back to the
bed. "It was only a glancing strike, though, and my fault.
I should have known better. The wee dog was all but
whelping her first pup, and then to have this shrieking
stranger looming over her. . ."

"Ye're kind to say so, lass." Duncan's eyes burned with
a fierce, inner intensity. "Cuini is a fine, wee dog when she's feeling well. Ye'll see. And there's no better ratter
around. I'd wager yell soon be fast friends."

"Aye, I'd imagine so ..."

Distracted, Heather noted the terrier was bearing
down on yet another pup. She hurriedly turned away.

"Go, go to yer dog," she urged, shooing him toward
the bed. "And, if ye can, at least try and prevent her from
tearing my gown. Though the dress might be ruined,
there's still hope of salvaging most of the fabric for some
other garment."

"Och, aye." Duncan grinned shamefacedly. "It's the
least I can do. The verra least."

"Aye, the verra least," Beth Erskine agreed with the utmost distaste, eyeing the scene on the bed from the safety
of the doorway. "Rescue the gown and get that vicious
little dog out of our room, just as soon as ye can."

Cuini soon delivered a fine litter of four pups-one
male and three females. After removing the soiled clothing from the bed and transferring the little dog and her
offspring to a box made soft with clean rags, Duncan
carried the animals from his former room. Heather and
Beth finished their unpacking, and the rest of the day
passed uneventfully.

After a light supper of bread, cheese, and the remainders of the dinner meal, Malcolm and Tavish remained
at the big table to play dice, while Beth joined Fiona at
the hearth to watch the older woman spin wool with
a distaff and spindle. Heather found the process fascinating and lingered with the other women for a time too, watching as Fiona tied the wool to the distaff, then
tucked it beneath her left arm. Next, Duncan's mother
teased some fibers from the wool and fastened them to a
notch on the spindle. Then she twirled the spindle. As it
turned, it twisted the fibers into yarn. From time to time
as she worked, Fiona paused to wind the yarn around
the spindle before repeating the whole process again.

Finally, though, Heather and Duncan took to a smaller
table set in one corner not far from the fire. Three tallow
candlesticks, which stank most foully and dripped grease
into a grease pan beneath the iron tripod candleholder, lit
the area. By its flickering light Heather managed to see
well enough to scribble a few notes on a sheet of paper
as she began questioning Duncan as to his abilities, or
lack thereof, in playing the nobleman.

"Ye must not take offense," Heather explained, her
quill pen poised above her paper, "if I ask ye about things
ye can't do. My questions aren't meant to prick at yer
pride but only to ascertain where ye may be lacking when
it comes to playing the noble. And especially," she added
with a smile to soften what was to come, "in portraying
a dandy such as Colin Stewart."

"A dandy, is he?" Duncan rolled his eyes. "Well, why
should I be surprised? I've yet to meet a nobleman who
wasn't more concerned wi' his clothing than wi' the man
beneath them."

And mayhap that's because so few of them are as manly
as ye, Heather thought, her gaze flitting briefly over Duncan's body before schooling it back to the paper that lay
before her. He wore a loose-fitting shirt of pale homespun,
deeply cut at the throat to expose his strong neck and a swath of dark, densely matted hair on his upper chest.
His long, wide sleeves were rolled up to just above his
elbows, accentuating the sinewy, athletic length of his
lower arms.

His belted plaid was a simple affair, the tartan a
muted one frequently used as camouflage on the hills
and moors, of dark brown, purple, and blue. The full
amount of woolen fabric was loosely pleated, belted,
and the excess plaid flung over the left shoulder and was
fastened with a silver brooch. Duncan wore the garment
well. Indeed, the bulky amount of plaid only added to his
already quite formidable aura of size and strength.

It was an ancient garment whose history harked back
centuries to the first, long saffron shirts and woolen
cloaks worn by the early Scots. Yet, though most Highlanders still clung to the old ways of dress, the more
civilized nobility had chosen to adopt many of the affectations of the English Court. Affectations, she feared,
Duncan might well balk at when the time came.

Those concerns, however, could be dealt with at a later
date. What mattered now was the commencement of his
education, an education that posed challenge enough in
itself. She sighed and laid down her pen.

"As adverse as ye may be to the latest form of fashion,"
Heather began, trying to choose her words with the utmost tact, "ye must learn not only how to dress but also
become intimately familiar with its proper use. Colin has
impeccable taste and style. Even one error in appearance
could alert someone ye're other than him."

Duncan's mouth quirked. "So, have ye made a note
then, of how sadly deficient I am in proper dress?"

Heather shook her head. "Nay. One glance at ye each
day will be sufficient to remind me."

"Och, what a prickly tongued wench ye are!" he said
with a chuckle. "Is there naught about me, then, that ye
find satisfactory?"

Aye, far, far too much, if the truth be told, Heather
thought before firmly quashing that consideration. She
took care, however, to hide any outward response by
lowering her head to scribble a few lines on her paper.

"What did ye scribe there?" Duncan laid a finger on
the paper, pointing to the still damp ink drying on the
page.

"It doesn't matter." Heather looked up and forced what
she hoped was a neutral smile. "And, fortunately for ye,
during yer short stay at Lochleven, there should be scant
occasion for yer lack of reading ability to be tested."

"And did I say I couldn't read?"

She frowned. "Well, one would assume that to be the
case, considering ye asked me what I just scribed."

"Could ye read well in this light and upside down
then?"

Exasperation filled her. "Nay, mayhap not. Are ye saying then that ye can read?"

He arched a dark brow, leaned back, and folded his
arms over his chest. "And is that so hard to believe?
That some crudely raised Highlander might possess a
familiarity wi' books?"

"Nay, it isn't so hard to believe!"

Try as she might, Heather couldn't keep an edge of
exasperation from her voice. Curse the man. Must he
always bait her so unmercifully?

"Leastwise," she added, "of those in the Highlands
more highly born. Now, if ye will, permit me to move
on to other-"

"Ye've a most irritating habit of discounting people, ye
know, a habit which may someday cause ye great grief
if ye haven't a care."

"Fine." She slammed down her pen. "Fine." She shoved
back her chair and rose to her feet.

Duncan eyed her calmly. "And where are ye going
now? I thought we'd work to do."

"Och, we do, my proud, stubborn friend. But first, to
lay the issue of your reading ability to rest, I'm going to
my bedchamber to fetch one of my books."

"Suit yerself," he called after her, laughter rumbling
in his chest. "But ye needn't go even that far, if ye wish.
The chest along the far wall there holds some of my own
books. Books," he added, "I've read many a time."

"Aye, I can just imagine," Heather muttered sarcastically as she changed direction and strode to the big chest.
"Ye owning books, much less being able to read them.
But ye wouldn't let it be, would ye, though I was willing
to overlook that failing. Nay, ye wouldn't let it be," she
said, pausing before the chest and lifting the lid, "and
now yer pride will force me to shame ye before ..."

As the contents of the chest came into view, Heather's
voice faded. She went hot, then cold, then hot again.
There, stacked in carefully arranged rows, were piles
of leather-bound books, old and well-worn, but books
nonetheless.

For a time Heather stared down at them, myriad emotions roiling within. One moment suspicion, tinged with determination to prove Duncan wrong, held sway. Then,
in the next, shame, deep and soul-searing, seized her.

Overlaying it all, though, was fear. Fear that, in testing
him yet again, she'd discover another facet to an already
complex, intriguing, and infinitely compelling man. A
man who, in the short span of days, had beguiled her
like she imagined her father had beguiled her mother.
Like Donald Campbell had beguiled Rose, perhaps even
to the very day of her death.

But fear could be overcome, Heather reminded herself,
if one just found the courage to face it. Indeed, she was
making more of this possibility that Duncan Mackenzie
could read than was necessary. His brother Colin was
literate, prided himself, even, on being an avid student
of the ancient philosophers. But such knowledge had
done little to form his character for the better, or turn
him from the shallow, silly ways of Court.