He supposed not. He knew not; he himself would use whatever lay at hand. Dair's scowl deepened.

"Will you let us go?" she asked.

"I willna. Would you, in my place?" He arched ironic brows.

Her brows were level but equally eloquent; she wrenched them upward even as he had his own, matching his irony, but with a devastatingly effective grasp of condescension far superior to his. He had seen it in Jean as well. -is it a woman's gift?- "As we havena gone lifting cattle in Glencoe for some time, I canna say," Cat declared. "For myself, I havena been in your place, and 'tis likely I'll never be."

He conceded that readily; he did not know a woman who went with men to steal cattle. -though I dinna doubt this one would try!

"Let go of my arm," she said coolly. "-And stop staring at me that way."

Until that moment Dair did not realize he had been staring at her. Now that she had told him he could not look away from the face that had once been plain but now, as plainly, was not. Were it not for the color of her hair and her eyes--and her Campbell tongue!--he'd swear it was another la.s.s entirely.

Her arm was still grasped in his hand. He did not release it yet, wanting something of her. "If you'll swear not to march back into that shieling and give them more words meant to rile them, I'll consider releasing you."

"I willna! Would you? Would any man? Why d'ye think I should?"

Dair felt a bubble of laughter break in his chest, suppressed from escaping his mouth only by an application of immense self-control. He had expected no other answer; she had not in girlhood been willing to do so, and now that she was a woman she proved even less inclined. "Then I'll keep your arm as surety."

The line of her mouth was mutinous. The mouth itself was a wide, proud slash beneath a nose lifted imperiously into the air, the vertical line of it dividing precisely in half the remarkable vitality of her features.

No languid la.s.s, Cat Campbell-Dair scowled. He did not recall ever marking her mouth before, or her nose, or features singly or mutually beheld, but here they were before him and unavoidable. As was the rest of her.

"Cat Campbell," he murmured. "Good Christ, Cat Campbell-" Self-control vanished. The bubble broke free of its constraints and Dair began to laugh.

"You bluidy b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said furiously, and swung her other arm to fetch him a clout on his ear.

He ducked enough to take the blow on the side of the jaw. "Christ, Cat-wait you-" It hurt, but not as much as his ear would have. He caught her arm so she dared not try again, with better result. "What I mean-"

She twisted in his grasp, jerking one arm free at last to sc.r.a.pe from her face the windblown lock of hair curling just beneath one furious, brilliant blue eye. "D'ye think I'll stand here and let you insult me? D'ye think I dinna ken what you're laughing at? Holy Mother, MacDonald, was it in your minds to come hunt up Glenlyon's daughter to see what has become of her now that she's grown?"

He met anger with quietude, knowing how self-control infuriated someone who lacked it; it was a subtle weapon he had learned early in life. "We came for cows." Which he knew she knew; why else would MacDonalds ride to Glen Lyon?

When her anguished scowl deepened he dismissed irony and replaced it with truth. "It wasna meant as an insult. Christ, Cat, how could it be?"

She swallowed visibly. Her voice was none too steady. "You came for cows-and everything else!-last time, aye?-"

"Cat-"

"-but still found the time to tell me what I am." Sudden tears stood in her eyes, prompting fresh anger and a twisted dignity that, despite its battered state, was rebuilt stone by stone out of its wreckage. "I ken what I am, MacDonald. I ken what that Stewart's told me, and what you've undoubtedly said: 'Glenlyon's boy-faced daughter'!"

He was not a man much given to having the speech knocked from his mouth by another's words. But at this moment, at this accusation, he found himself utterly bereft.

The tears spilled over. "Oh good Christ, here it is again-d'ye see?" She was disgusted, and clearly embarra.s.sed; as furious with herself as with him. "There. 'Tis done, aye?-my weakness is uncovered. Put me in the shieling with the others, now, and tell yon sw.a.n.kie of Appin that you've reduced Glenlyon's daughter. Again."

Dair knew then what had been done to her, knew the words that had been said over the long years of a harsh childhood with nothing of softness about it save what she made for herself, and that itself was difficult with so many to gibe at her for it. He could hear the words in her silence, in the anguish of her eyes, the words meant merely to goad, to poke a stick at her pride, but which she had taken seriously because there was little cause and less justification to break a la.s.s's pride in the name of a lad's pranks.

He knew; he was a man who had once been a lad. A quiet, undersized boy often called a changeling by others, and whispered about behind MacIain's back when gossip ranged too far.

Dair looked into her eyes and saw the self-loathing there, the bitter recrimination that she should be made helpless before her direst enemies so that they, too, could hurt her.

He opened his mouth to tell her she was a fool, but shut it again. She would believe he lied no matter what he said.

And yet he could not let her believe it. "There is a pile of granite behind you. I'd have you sit on it." He guided her to it, waited as she sat down rigidly, then stood before her. He slid his hand down her arm until he clasped her wrist, then used his other hand to grasp and extend her fingers, easing the stiffened knuckles into suppleness. He had gentled garrons and puppies; he believed she would be no different. "You've long fingers," he said. "I remember a time there were scabs upon them; I saw so that day when we came wi' MacIain."

She tried to curl the captive hand into a knot; glared when he did not permit it. Her face briefly convulsed, as if his touch sickened her; but there was anguish there as well, and a bittersweet regret.

"But no more," he told her. "Oh, aye, 'twill happen now and again-just like it does to me-but what of it? The flesh beneath is pale and smooth, but for the work a woman does, and that isna something to greet about." He closed one hand more firmly around her wrist. "You've fine bones, good bones, well knit and well grown; they'll not break under the labor you must do, the bairns you must bear." Her elbow was stiff; he gentled it as well, then slowly set one knee against the turf to take his weight, while the other just touched the tented cloth of her tartan skirt. "And as for your face-"

Abruptly he stopped. He had intended a simple recitation of features meant to convince her she need not fear ridicule. But now suddenly he was close, too close, and the features that of themselves were nothing more than features merged to form a whole- -Christ, what am I doing . . . is this for her, or for me-?

Dair released her at once and retreated on stiff legs, striding four long paces away before he could stop himself. There he halted on the lip of crumbling granite and stared fixedly into the distance.

Wind s.n.a.t.c.hed at the loose folds of his kilt and teased bonnetless hair. He welcomed its cool breath, welcomed the promised summer, welcomed the chance to recover himself as he stood on heather-clad hills with an eagle in the sky and the glen below the wind-ruffled wings so lushly verdant and beautiful as to burst the heart in his chest.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "To humiliate me? There is no mud or spilled whisky or horse-p.i.s.s, so you do it instead with words?"

He turned sharply. She had not yet retreated from her own outcrop, as if she understood he was no longer a physical threat.

"Have you used them up?" she persisted. "Are you thinking of new ones?"

It was difficult to speak. She was fierce and proud and bonnie, like the glint of steel in sunlight; like the blade of a deadly claymore, elegant in its simplicity. "I've never been a man for that."

"Oh, aye?" She was patently unimpressed by his avowal. "And will you say you didna laugh when the Appin Stewart called me a boy-faced la.s.s?"

Wind buffeted him again, lifting the swoop of plaid draped from shoulder to hip. The weight of the brooch tamed it, tugging against his shoulder. "You've seen me but three times, and never once have I treated you with anything but honor. And aye, I'll say I didna laugh; he never said it to me."

"And now? What is this, MacDonald?"

"This?" He wanted to laugh, but she would misconstrue it. Even though the laughter was for his own undoing, with none of it hers. "This is a man reconciling himself to a woman's beauty."

She recoiled as if he had slapped her.

In another woman it would have been blatant prevarication and as unamusing; it smacked of Jean Stewart, who was beautiful and knew it, yet teased him for flattery. But this was not Jean . . . "Dinna tell me you've not looked in the gla.s.s."

" 'Tis broken," she retorted. "The day you came two years ago, I broke it then."

"Then I'll give you another." It was small compensation for the other things she had lost, but he had no more to offer.

She sat very straight upon the granite. The wind came from behind her now, working more hair from her loosened, slept-upon braid. It blew around her face, underscoring the clean line of jaw, the belligerence of her chin.

She wasn't truly beautiful . . . not as Jean was, or other women who had, briefly, attracted him; in fact, he knew of no civilized man who would, feature by feature, praise her in poetry, but the bards of Scotland would: she was Gaeldom come alive again upon the heathered braes where great-thewed heroes once strode; a human equivalent of the wild, barbaric Highlands, less a woman than a legacy of those who had gone before them all bearing shields and swords and axes.

He had a Highlander's expert nose; with the wind from behind, Dair could smell the scent of her. Nothing so elaborate as French perfume, which Jean favored and he provided, but peat and smoke and wood, soap and wool and damp turf, and inevitably of woman; of the things he loved most in a Highlander's harsh world.

She scowled. "What are you doing, MacDonald?"

His admission was more than he had intended to offer, but none he did not regret; it was the unadorned truth and therefore honorable. "Trying verra hard not to kiss a Campbell."

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 p.r.o.nounced. "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 la.s.s 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 sw.a.n.kie!"

"Aye, well . . ." Dair sighed. "Robbie isna attracted to boy-faced la.s.ses, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 reb.u.t.tal. "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 sc.r.a.ped 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.

Three.

Jean 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.