Jennifer Roberson (17 page)

She scrambled to her feet and lurched two steps away. “Kiss me!”

“Trying
not
to kiss you.” Dair grinned; the admission freed him from denial and brought relief to his soul. “There is a difference, ye ken.”

Color slowly drained, leaving behind in its place a collection of brittle bones now starkly pronounced. “But—why?”

He laughed. “Why should I want to? Or why should I no’want to?” And then relief died, was replaced by immense regret. The lass deserved better . . . far better, he knew, than he could offer: MacDonald to a Campbell.
’Tisn’t born in us, the hatred. . . . ’tis cherished through the years, sung about by bards, played upon the pipes—

Abruptly Dair swore and looked away, squinting down the brae. “Good Christ, I am a fool . . . but a man for all that, aye?—and one with all his parts in good working order. And these parts dinna care
what
our names are!”

She made a small sound, a soft blurt of anguished discovery. Then she said, unevenly, “You’re no’ but a bluidy MacDonald, come to lift our cows.”

He turned, grinning. “Well, aye, we did come for that, but—”

Her tone steadied; there was an edge to it freshly honed. “And whether you use dirk or tongue, you always find ways to hurt me.”

He lost his patience at last. “In Christ’s name, Cat, I havena come to hurt you!”

She glared at him. “You’re a bluidy MacDonald.”

“And you’re a bluidy Campbell.” He scowled. “There. We’ve explained it all gey well, aye?—pointing out to one another what we are. And has it answered anything? D’ye know me better for it?”

“You’re naught but a cattle thief—”

“Christ, Cat!—have you forgotten the times Campbells came a’raiding to Glencoe? I could sing songs of it!”

She was abruptly and utterly white.

“What is it?” he asked sharply. “You’ll no’ swoon, will you?” It seemed entirely unlikely; she was not, he was certain, that kind of woman. She would break the rocks into dust before she showed such weakness to a MacDonald.

“I will not,” she said distantly. “And no, I havena forgotten that Campbells raided Glencoe—or that Campbells
meant
to do so, but lost a man—a lad!—instead, and went back home.”

Dair knew then there was more; that her answer was intended merely as purposely oblique diversion. “What happened, Cat?”

With skin so pale, she could not hide the rush of blood that set her cheeks afire. “You wouldna give it credence!”

“I’ve only to look at you to know something happened, something you regret. I’m asking you to tell me.”

“I will not.”

“Because ’tis easier to shout at me, a MacDonald, than speak to me of truth.”

Cat glared at him. “I’ve naught to say to you.”

He realized she was adamant, fixed on a single thought: that because he was a MacDonald nothing he said could be anything but insult, and certainly not truthful. And he knew if he did not offer redress, some recovery of her pride, she would curse him forever for being what she
thought
him to be, or had made him be in her memories, which was not at all the same as being what he was.

He held out the
sgian dhu.
“Take it.”

Cat stared at him. She did not move.

“Take it. Have it back.” He took the necessary steps and offered her the
sgian dhu
hilt first. He smiled. “Put it behind your skirts, Cat, or tuck it into your plaid. Dinna show it to Robbie unless you must, or he’ll have it of you.”

“He’d have more than
that
of me, the vulgar swankie!”

“Aye, well . . .” Dair sighed. “Robbie isna attracted to boy-faced lasses, Cat. Take that for your truth if you willna believe me.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because we came to lift your cattle, and we hold four of your men in yonder shieling. Dinna you think I’d humiliate you, in such circumstances, instead of offering flattery?”

Irresolute, she stood her ground. He saw the doubt in her eyes, the confusion and the hope; she would hate herself if she realized he saw through the brittle shield of her pride to the uncertainty beneath, the need to believe he told her the truth not solely because she longed to be beautiful, though he supposed a woman yearned for that as a man did potency, but because she was far more after all than what everyone else had told her.

For myself.
I
told her she would grow up for the better. . . .
Dair nearly laughed.
I am all at once both prophet and converted
! And then amusement dissipated, replaced by an intense emotion as abrupt as it was wholly unexpected, especially in a man who was not easily tempted. “Cat,” he said curtly, “go back inside the shieling.”

She took it as rude; and it was. It prompted like rebuttal. “Why?”

“Because if you stay out here a moment longer, I’ll have that kiss of you after all.”

She raised her chin like a targe. “I have a knife.”

He managed to smile. “And it might be worth dying for.”

She jabbed him, but lightly; was pleased to see him flinch. “That for your lying, MacDonald. No man would die for a kiss.”

Softly he said, “Go inside.”

Something moved in her eyes. The mouth loosened as if to open, then reset itself. And then she turned away.

He saw the swing of hair, a brilliant rope of braid dangling down a rigid spine swaddled in twisted plaid. Sun glinted off the blade as she put the knife away into the folds, and then she walked unsteadily to the shieling in which he had found her.

Dair sat down again, all at once and clumsily, upon the granite outcrop. He drew up his knees, planted his elbows upon them, then bent his head and scraped rigid fingers through his hair, murmuring imprecations against himself and his folly as he waited for the ache in his loins to subside.

“Christ,” he murmured aloud, “isna Jean enough for you?”

No. She was not.

Indisputably not.

J
ean Stewart sat quietly in the chair in MacIain’s house, near to Lady Glencoe, darning stockings. She wanted very much to say something but held her tongue; she was a woman, a Stewart, and they men, MacDonalds, save for the sole Campbell.
And of late I have wielded my tongue too frequently.

She had seen Dair’s eyes and knew she cut too deeply. It was not her intent to do so, but she had never been a woman who locked her words away when the man himself handed her the key.

She did not desire the key save to give it back, or to throw it into the deepest loch so it might never be found. But Dair kept finding it. Dair kept fashioning others.

If he would agree to handfast
. . . But he had not, not formally. She had believed it unnecessary; they lived openly together according to handfast tradition when no kirk was near for a proper wedding, nor a proper minister, but there were bindings even upon such agreements. There were intentions to be declared. Irregular marriage was a marriage in fact, so long as the intent was there.

There were three circumstances of such marriage sanctioned by Scottish law: by mutual consent declared sincerely before two witnesses; by promise of marriage followed almost immediately by the bedding, subsequently proved by witnesses; and by living together openly a year and a day as husband and wife.

But they had consented to nothing save their own desires. Dair had made her no promise, nor had she made him one; and their cohabitation had been so intermittent that no one could claim with certainty they had reached a year and a day unless one stitched together all the parts of the years.

According to Scottish law, if they did not mutually consent to a continuation of the relationship after the year and a day, both were free to part. Even if only one of them desired to part.

Jean’s stitches wavered until she steadied them, hoping Lady Glencoe did not see.
I gave him his freedom too long!
She had taken enjoyment of him as he had taken it of her. In the beginning there had been no need for more, no need for promises; he had come back to her always, despite separations, and she had found it enough. Jean knew
she
was enough; no man, sharing her bed, was left unsatisfied.

But Dair MacDonald was unlike other men. His soul was complicated, his needs more complex. He was not a man well contented by nothing beyond the bedding; he wanted more of a woman than Jean was prepared to give. She was not capable of surrendering more than she had, because she did not comprehend what it was he wanted.
What more is there for a man to have than the use of a woman’s body?

He had spoken of spirit, of ideals; of the hidden inner spaces that made a person whole, more than just a body. She had found it incomprehensible, and told him so in the only way she knew: by stopping his mouth with her own; by silencing his questions, his ponderings, turning his mind from such confusing things as these to the issues of the flesh.

One day he stopped asking. One day he stopped sharing. Jean found it both respite and relief; she understood intimately the needs of the human body and did not care to speak of spirit, of ideals, of the hidden inner spaces. Such things were beyond her ken. Such issues made her uneasy.

It was then, only then, that she saw Dair begin to make the keys and to hold them in his hands, demanding that she take them, to unlock and open the door to the multiplicity of incompatibilities she could not understand and dared not acknowledge.

Too often she took the keys. Too often she opened the door. Too often the door, thus opened, spilled out the small desperate fears that fashioned additional keys, until she slammed shut that door and opened instead the one that led to the room housing the well-used bed.

It was the only key
she
could make. But he used it much less often.

Her fingers worked deftly as she listened to the others in MacIain’s house. It was men’s talk, this, and none of it her business; she was Stewart, not MacDonald, with less enmity toward Campbells despite occasional dirkings over stolen cattle. The Appin Stewarts owed feudal fealty to the Earl of Argyll, himself a Campbell, and though time had weakened such bonds, there remained tradition in it, and Highlanders honored tradition. The Appin Stewarts had long been allies of the Glencoe MacDonalds, but there was knowledge between them of the ancient order of things.

As the men spoke she tied a knot in the yarn, then bit it off without taking her eyes from MacIain, his oldest son, and the man who visited them. A Campbell he was, but entering the MacDonald house under the surety of hospitality, a sacred bond no Highlander would dare break. He spoke diffidently, raising between them no spectre of bad blood, courteously accepting the offered whisky and MacIain’s gruff wishes for his health.

Jean watched the eyes. MacIain’s were sheltered in deep sockets beneath bushy ramparts of brows, indistinguishable in lamplight; John’s were, as was his wont, quietly contemplative; while the Campbell messenger, knowing where he was, wore the expression of a man counting the minutes of his life, wondering when he might at last be walked to the door so he might escape the lair.

She wondered what Dair would say, to hear the Campbell speak. He was less constrained than John in saying what he thought, but he was a careful man; she knew he would offer no language that might be construed as offense, though his eyes, masked in their thoughts to all but those who knew him well, would declare without reservation what he thought.

He couldna hide his heart. Not from me.
Jean threaded her needle again and began work on another stocking, while the Campbell man explained the Earl of Breadalbane desired MacIain of Glencoe to come to Achallader. He said nothing at all of how MacIain and his men, on their way home from Killiecrankie, had burned the castle to the ground, but the memory lay between them. Jean could see it clearly.

She expected MacIain to laugh; did the man truly believe he might fall for such a ruse?

But MacIain did not laugh. He listened thoughtfully, then asked the Campbell who else had agreed to come.

“Stewarts,” the man answered promptly, and Jean thought of Robbie; he would be asked next. “And Macleans, and Camerons. Even MacDonald of Glengarry, hosting Major General Thomas Buchan and Sir George Barclay.”

“They’ll come?” John blurted. “They represent King James.”

“They represent the Stuart cause,” the Campbell said, “as does my master, the earl.”

This week,
Jean thought cynically.
What does Breadalbane want that he lies so glibly, and sends gillies out as well to spread the falsehoods?

“So many clans,” MacIain observed, “answering to a Campbell.”

“This isna a Campbell summons,” the earl’s man insisted quietly. “’Tis in the name of Scotland, and the future of King James.”

“Well, then.” MacIain’s smile was measuring in the thicket of his beard. “We’ll no’ stay home, will we, when the realm’s at stake. ’Twas MacDonalds that held it first . . . but you’re no’ to ken that, aye?—when the Campbells came so much later.” As the Campbell bit his lip on a retort, the old man bared his teeth in a ferocious grin. “There’s no man in all of Scotland who has more care for the realm than Alasdair MacDonald, himself a direct descendant of the Lords of the Isles, once kings of Gaeldom. ’Twould hardly be a proper gathering, would it, if
he
stayed home!”

 

Robert Campbell, called Glenlyon, stood upon a hillock not far from Chesthill and stared down the track. From its crown he could look upon part of the glen, marking his house, the outbuildings; the cluster of lesser dwellings nearby; the smoke-blackened huts of peat and wood scattered across undulant, rock-scarped land.

Twenty-five miles of fertile valley, boundaried at either end by Loch Tay and Loch Lyon, called many things by many men made humble by its beauty, among them Glen of the Black Water, and the Glen of Crooked Stones. Rich in fir trees and salmon, it had been coveted by many clans throughout the centuries: MacDairmuids, MacArthurs, MacCallums and MacGregors, and lastly by Stewarts, from whom the first Campbell, Black Colin, took it by right of arms. Eventually that ownership had been ratified by Crown Charter, leaving neighboring clans to raid cattle as they would, but unable to steal back the lands on which the cattle roamed.

It was the current fifth Laird of Glenlyon’s cross that he had sold away for debts what his ancestors had kept and cultivated for two hundred years.

He was summoned now to Stirling, to serve at last the commission given him by the latest Earl of Argyll, Breadalbane’s rival as had been his father before him. At eight shillings a day Glenlyon felt himself poorly paid and his stature ill-used; had anticipated silver for his debts, not a captaincy. But it was done and he was called. There were duties to attend in Argyll’s new regiment.

He said it aloud. “ ‘Captain Robert Campbell.’ ”

A plain, unmelodious sound. But if he were to be a proper laird again, a man of whom bards sang, he must prove himself worthy. He would serve as told to serve, in any enterprise, and let the world see that Robert Campbell, direct descendant of Black Colin Campbell who first took Glen Lyon for his own, was more than merely a drukken man owing silver to every soul.

 

Dair moved quietly, crossing rain-damped turf with no sound in his footsteps. He thought she might be gone, returning inside to her woman—but Cat, too, had lingered. She was unaware of his approach and therefore was free of acrimony for such men as MacDonalds. He found he desired very much to make the moment last, and the innocence of it, so he might look on her without such feud-born folly as would corrupt them otherwise.

He wondered if she wished it; if the thought crossed her mind; or was she too warped by ancient-bred enmity that she could not think for herself?
For that matter, am I? . . .
But men had the greater freedom, to look at a woman and think of things other than blood and battle, and the repercussions of them. A woman must be circumspect, and chaste, disdaining such crudities, while a man could look and think without hiding so much of himself.

It was easier, Dair felt, to divorce such thoughts from a mind when that mind was taken up with other curiosities. A woman was bound by convention in all things, and not the least of them the knowledge of such necessities as names.

Looking at Cat Campbell, Dair wished it otherwise; that for one moment in time they might set aside such things as enmity and heritage to think of themselves instead.

She leaned against the shieling with head tipped back, eyes closed, folded arms in crimson sleeves all atangle in pale plaid, as if she were chilled and sought the warmth of wool—or hugged herself against unexpected incursions in her spirit.

He knew what such things were. It was easier to deny them than to give in to them, the impulses that lured a man or woman into looking aslant at things instead of meeting them frontwise. If one looked aslant at a thing, the certainties of life became uncertainties, such as the need for enmity between Campbells and MacDonalds.

He had looked aslant. He was certain no longer of anything but that he had tangled himself in a skein-knot too complex to undo . . . and that it was far easier to ignore what he wanted to explore, lest he lose himself altogether in an issue too volatile, too impossible to ponder.

But Dair knew very well that even impossibilities found ways of being pondered despite a man’s wishes. It was the curse of imagination that lent a Scot the magic to make the songs and sagas, giving life to voice and pipes; to create of unreality the potential for something more.

He hesitated briefly, then walked on until he paused before the shieling, before the woman there. He had only to put out a hand and touch her sleeve, but he would do no such thing. She would revile him for it, and he would, seeing her afresh—and despite resolution—be hard-pressed to touch no more than cloth.

Her vein-blued lids were fringed with fine, red-gold lashes less vivid than her hair. He was loath to disturb her, but did because he must; when he spoke her name quietly from so near she jumped like a startled hare. He saw an awakening in her face akin to his own regrets, and regretted hers more: a brief, fleeting innocence banished by comprehension, by the realization of who he was, of who
she
was, and how the truths in their nakedness were more painful than kind-meant lies.

There were no secrets in the honesty of the bones underlying duplicitous flesh; she hardened, as he watched, like mortar under the sun.

“Come inside.” He spoke more harshly than intended; but harshness diverted truth, and truth he could not afford. “There will be rain again; will you drown yourself outside merely to spite Robbie?”

She, being Campbell, desired to refuse a MacDonald; he saw it clearly, and grieved. But a quick glance at decaying skies told her he spoke no falsehood. Cat stared at him a moment from the mortared mask of her face
—is she expecting a chisel?—
then turned away abruptly and preceded him into the shieling as he pulled aside the curtain.

Inside, Robbie Stewart prowled restlessly like a Scottish wildcat, ill content to bide his time. “Well?” he asked abruptly, swinging to face them. “Well, Alasdair Og, what becomes of our moonlight ride?”

There was little desire in Dair for conversation. He raised a plaid-draped shoulder in a passive half-shrug; his mind was not on cattle. “We could go back.” Robbie said nothing, waiting. There was more he should say; he said what he could. “And return later.”

It was something, it was enough, though Stewart’s expression was baleful. “ ’Tis not how
I
entertain, sending my guests hither and thither like a clutch of day-old chicks.”