William of Orange was also a Stuart and the grandson of another, but the earl did not remind Appin's young laird-to-be; such was not the point, and he did not care to split hairs as decisively as James's reign and subsequent exile had split Scotland. "Such afflictions can be cured."

"Ah." Stewart nodded; the lip's curl was more p.r.o.nounced. "Wi' Jamie's return, I dinna doubt?"

The earl did not hesitate. "He is the rightful king."

Stewart barked a disbelieving laugh. "I've no' heard you say so before!"

"A man says many things."

"So he does." Young teeth were bared in a brief, mocking grin. "And what does this man say?"

"That he would do much to restore his land."

"How?"

"By making a peace."

"How?"

"By giving her lairds such things as they require."

Softly Stewart inquired, "Such things as silver?"

As softly Breadalbane answered, "There is enough for all."

One sandy eyebrow lifted. "Even MacDonalds?"

Breadalbane permitted himself a smile. "Ask Coll of the Cows."

Robert Stewart's humor dissipated instantly. "Keppoch has agreed?"

It pleased the earl to shrug as if none of it mattered. "Earlier. Keppoch and his tacksmen." They were straight-worded now, dancing no dances; there were no swords beneath their feet, albeit honed edges under the tones. "And others. Many others."

"Glengarry."

"Not yet."

"Glencoe."

"Not yet."

The grin came back. "Not ever."

It was wholly honest, and clean as a blade. "I came to speak to Appin. Last I kent, he was a Stewart-not a MacDonald."

The dirk struck home. A wave of hectic color rose from the coa.r.s.e-muscled throat to stain the flesh of his face. Blue eyes glittered balefully. "So is he still a Stewart. . . but he is welcome in Glencoe, which isna said of Campbells."

Breadalbane waited a beat. It would not do to lose his temper. "In time, the world changes. Old enmities are settled. Shall we settle ours?"

In the silence between them pipe music skirled more loudly. It was ceol mor, but not a battle pibroch. A lament instead, of old ways treasured, old ways altered, old ways lost.

Roughly Stewart said, "You do ken 'tis to the Earl of Argyll that Appin owes loyalty. Not to Glenorchy."

And so now only two are left. . . "This is not about loyalties within Clan Campbell, and those from older times owed of Stewart to such as I. This is not about Clan Campbell at all. This is about Scotland. There is a fort at Inverlochy with guns on the walls, and soldiers in the foothills, and a patrol boat in Loch Linnhe, and frigates off the Isles. D'ye believe we can win?"

"What I say is: do you?"

"I do not. But there is hope for peace. What is required, for now, is no more than a treaty, and your name upon it. No oaths sworn; I'll no' ask you to break your honor. A truce only, until such a time as James gives you leave to swear a new oath to William."

Stewart's expression was taut. "Is he a fool, our Jamie, to give over such men as might win him his throne back?"

"I would ask another question."

It provoked, as intended. "Oh, aye?"

With careful precision the earl said, "I would ask myself if I were a fool, to let my clan be broken in the name of an exiled king who doesna have the faintest notion of Highland ways, or Highland honor."

Indolence was banished. The compact body stiffened. "You would ask that?"

"I would. I have."

"Jamie's man wouldna."

"Jamie's man would do better to ask himself if he might profit more from peace than from war."

"Jamie's man might. So might William's."

Robert Stewart, the earl decided, was too young to know when he was beaten. By dawn, he would see it. But for now there was another whose aid might yet prove invaluable, if Breadalbane could procure it.

The earl smiled. "I thank you for your time. I'll no' press a man for what he willna give willingly."

And as he walked away he took care that his shod feet scuffed into disarray Robert Stewart's detailed map of what might be, all too plainly, the final Jacobite victory.

The flesh of his hand warmed hers. MacDonald flesh. MacDonald hand. Upon a Campbell woman.

Let it be so . . . I want it to be so.

He repeated the words. "Come with me."

She wanted it to be so. Needed it.

"Cat."

She gripped his hand. Could I do it? Should I?

"Come home with me to Glencoe."

And then a man came up in the darkness, firelight sparking off brooch. "Would that be your price," Breadalbane asked, "to bring MacIain to heel?"

Two.

From a distance it had been innocent enough: MacIain's second son extending a hand to a woman, his expression in moon- and firelight one of taut expectancy. It was an eloquent tableau with pockets of fire gushing about them and ceol mor haunting the air, and one no man might misunderstand who had ever desired a woman.

Initially it meant nothing at all to Breadalbane save it was oddly if distantly touching, a reminder of his youth when he bedded a woman for his body's sake instead of the sake of his house. Until the earl realized who it was MacDonald seduced.

Anger quickly replaced startlement. Then anger dissipated into preternatural calm. There is something to be gained of this.

Glenlyon's daughter broke the handclasp first. She clutched against her skirts an object that flashed briefly, blindingly silver, and said nothing at all, neither in shock nor in explanation; was wise enough, or shamed enough, in this discovery, to hold her silence.

MacDonald, seduction diverted, grace dismissed, turned at once, abruptly. Color stained flesh, underscoring the symmetry of a face that was, unlike his father's, innocent of beard. His features, to the earl's eyes, were unremarkable if cleanly formed, and not so handsome as other men hailed for their appearance; nor was he as overwhelming in presence and personality as Glencoe's towering laird.

But he is at peace with his body. . . and was, the earl realized, supremely content with his place in the world. That of itself made him more than an arrant pup meant to be kicked aside by a casual foot.

Breadalbane's rea.s.sessment was rapid. He needed this lad as much as Robbie Stewart, or John MacDonald. He knew very well that by stirring argument within the sons he might well defeat the fathers.

The earl flicked a glance at his cousin's daughter. Her eyes were empty of enmity, too busy with implication. They were both of them stunned by his presence, but MacIain's youngest son mustered self-control more quickly than she.

"My father," he said plainly, "isna a hound, aye?-to be made to come to heel."

Breadalbane froze into stillness, but managed a bland smile. This meant something. This was significant. It made Alasdair Og more important than antic.i.p.ated: he could discern the object beyond obfuscation.

"Oh, I think he is," Breadalbane said lightly, "but we are all of us hounds, ye ken, fighting over the bone some men would also call Scotland."

"Scotland," MacDonald affirmed, "but no' this woman."

The earl raised his brows. "And why not? Is she not worth it?" He looked pointedly at her. "You risk a treaty for her."

Her face was taut and white, but the eyes were not subdued. He saw her father in her-and perhaps her mother; he did not recall Helen Campbell-save her strength of will was greater.

"You willna do this," she declared. "Not to me."

He smiled, intending her to see it; she was no fool despite her parentage, but she understood nothing of politics. She comprehended only emotions, as all women did, especially those emotions the MacDonald had recently roused. She thought in terms of herself and of newfound appet.i.tes, and now of MacIain's son.

But not in terms of a country, or of the insult she does my son.

Steadily he said, "I will do it to anyone, ye ken, be he man or she a woman. 'Tis for Scotland, aye?-and I am a man who considers his country worth it." It silenced her, as expected; free of the woman, he turned again to MacDonald. "He is gey stubborn, is MacIain. He'll no' take my silver, I ken, and he'll no' take my word that what I do now is done for Scotland."

"Is it?"

"In all I do." He glanced again at Glenlyon's daughter, who lingered yet despite implied dismissal. "Go to Duncan," he told her flatly. "He is expecting you."

Flags of brilliant color suffused her face. MacDonald moved, reaching, even as she turned in rigid retreat. "Cat-"

But she was gone before he could stop her, walking straight-backed into shadow. His hand fell to his side in a futile, eloquent slackness.

"Now," Breadalbane said, "let us speak of Glencoe."

"And Campbells?" It was derisive, but clearly it required effort for MacDonald to forget Cat and speak of other things. "If you will speak of Glencoe," he said plainly, "speak to Glencoe."

The earl offered an inoffensive smile. "So your brother said."

"He is wise, aye?" MacDonald retorted dryly. "And he will be MacIain; you've no need to speak to me."

"I speak to any man who may have a say in Scotland's future."

MacDonald's answering smile was thin. "The future I would speak of is no' a country's at all, just at this moment. This particular moment."

There it was: risk after all, if on a highly personal level. He did not shirk the truth, nor attempt to underplay what the earl had witnessed. It lay between them, bright and sharp, and full of consequences.

Breadalbane did not easily lose his temper, but he thought now of the ramifications that had nothing to do with preferment and even less with politics. "She is bonnie, aye? . . . and as unlike her father as a woman might be. Strong where he is weak. Determined where he is malleable. Fully cognizant of her pride." He waited, sure of his course. "But more: she is a Campbell. And is wholly subject to Campbell authority. My authority, aye?"

MacDonald was, the earl thought, indistinguishable from other men save for the incongruity of prematurely graying hair-and except when he chose to be someone altogether different, even as he did now with a subtle shifting of posture, of a.s.sessment of the enemy.

Breadalbane was instantly alerted. He had seen this in dogs. Such intangibles as these set the pack leader apart from the pack.

"She is not my price," MacDonald declared, "as you would have it, aye? Because there is no price. Not for Scotland. Not for a woman. What I do, I will do. What my father does, he will do. Have you a thing to say of MacIain, say it to MacIain."

"I see the old fox bred true." He paused. "You are more eloquent than your brother."

Teeth were bared briefly. "I am not the heir, aye? It affords me lat.i.tude."

"The lat.i.tude to seduce a woman meant to wed my son?"

If MacDonald had known, he had forgotten. Ruddy color stained his face, then drained slowly away. Even his lips were white.

The earl smiled coolly. "You have lifted our cattle," he said, "with impunity much of the time, though your neck might argue it; oh aye, I heard the tale. But you will no' lift our women."

It roused a tangible anger; the self-control was no longer suppressed, nor its presence overlooked. "Is this how you court MacIain?"

"But you have made it clear I canna do it through his son." The earl paused. "I breed deerhounds. Did you ken it?"

MacDonald clearly did not, and as clearly did not know why it should matter that he did.

Breadalbane said, "The b.i.t.c.h I have in my kennel is meant for a better dog."

MacDonald's hand went to his dirk. "Good Christ, Campbell-" But the taut hand moved away again, albeit the fingers trembled; he was as angry as a man might be, as the earl had intended, but was cognizant of his place, of his name, of the name of the man who baited him, and decidedly disinclined to start a fight that would lead to a war his clan could not win. He would not risk Letters of Fire and Sword, and the breaking of MacDonalds as the MacGregors had been broken.

"There is little to lose," the earl said, "of what is left to win. Glengarry. Glencoe. How will either of you stand against a united Scotland?"

"United under William? Or James?" The fury had pa.s.sed, or was better controlled; MacDonald's eyes were steady. "Or does it matter? To you."

"It matters. But it will not be under kings." The young man's presumption had angered the earl more than he knew; he offered honest emotion in place of diplomacy. "Under the Master of Stair. Under the Earl of Breadalbane."