MacIain's teeth showed briefly in the thicket of beard and moustaches. "By my body, ye ken? Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, bone of my bone . . . 'tis my seed gave you life."

Dair waited tensely. He did not know what he would do until his father set him to it.

MacIain reached into his scrip and took from it a crumpled letter. He unfolded it and put it onto the table, spreading the paper flat beneath ma.s.sive hands. " 'Tis from Dundee's man, Edwards. A word to the wise, ye ken?-that we are not to put trust in Breadalbane."

Dair's breath stilled.

"I dinna doubt he kens 'tis not a warning Glencoe is in need of, aye?-but 'tis appreciated all the same. Confirmation, Alasdair. There's no good to come of that treaty." With care and precision, he folded the paper again. "I fear mischief from no man so much as the Earl of Breadalbane."

Dair's palms were damp.

One ma.s.sive hand lingered over the chess game, closed upon the queen. "You are my son," the deep voice rumbled. "Blood of my blood, bone of my bone-and you will do whatever is necessary to impede the earl's game."

Wind blew down the moor, luring hair from leather binding. Beneath Cat the garron shook its head, perplexed by what it viewed as annoying indecision; for her there was no indecision, merely patience, uncharacteristic patience, as the memory overtook her.

-images- And sounds. Smells. The overwhelming fear. Her own as well as his.

Cat let it play out as the wind gusted in her face: images, sounds, and smells, the recollection of fear so great it nearly broke her soul-then at last dismounted and left the garron to wander in its idle pursuit of forage.

She was barefoot in the summer, as most Highlanders. She strode across terrain hazardous to those unaccustomed to its sly hostilities, and climbed the swelling crown to the twisted scepter atop it. Here the wind was braver, whipping at hair and skirts. Cat let it have its way as she studied the tree, marking its wracked shape and naked, barren roots upthrust from pockets of turf, knotted and twined against the soil like an ornate Celt-made brooch.

She moved beneath the tree, stood below one st.u.r.dy branch. Shut her eyes against the daylight, against the insidious sun, and imagined herself Dair MacDonald with a rope around his neck.

The rope that yet hung from the twisted branch, sliced in two by one sweep of her father's claymore.

She let wind and memory take her, lost in conjuration. For her it was not difficult; she had always been able to summon stories within her head, such as the braw and bonnie prince on his way to rescue his la.s.s . . .

-with silver in his hair, and white teeth a'gleaming- Her eyes sprang open. Without thought for the doing of it, with no deference to her skirts, she turned and mounted the tree, then clambered up its branches. When she could reach the knot she drew from her belt the dirk she had brought and, with grim determination, cut the rope from the branch.

It fell. From her perch above the ground, she gazed down upon it. A coil of faded hemp, half-hidden against the turf.

With less grace and nothing of dignity, she climbed down again. Her body betrayed her in womanhood; she had lost the ease of girlhood when she had no b.r.e.a.s.t.s, no hips. Skirts caught, tore. An ankle banged a branch. Hair caught in the twigs. But she was free at last, and jumped to the ground.

Memories crowded afresh. A body, there, spilling blood from an opened throat . . . The knot of Campbell men serving her father's interests, through which she had fought her way shouting the Campbell slogan . . . Another body, more meat on the tree, until it was taken down and replaced with another MacDonald.

No blood now . . . No bodies left to rot. From Glencoe had come MacDonalds to bear home their Campbell-killed men.

Cat sat down upon the turf. From the scrip lifted from her father's things, she took two items and placed them on the ground.

Rope. Mirror. Bonnet. All she had of him.

And the memory of his words: 'Come home with me to Glencoe.'

Dair knew, as he rode across the hills toward the cloud-bound lands of Appin, that courage came in as many coats as cowardice, and only the man wearing one could name the proper cut. But he was not at all certain which he wore as he rode to Jean Stewart, bricked apart on the tiny island playing chatelaine to Castle Stalker, where he would go this time not to offer persuasion that they had not yet spent the spark burning in their bodies, but to explain it was truly extinguished.

"G.o.d save me," he muttered to the wind, "but I think I felt less fear as the war-pipes at Killiecrankie called us into battle!"

But that was true battle withal, for the good of Scotland and her true Stuart king. This was a war of words he would survive battered more in spirit than in body, the more so for her bitter comprehension of its cause. He would never have lied to her, but now she would hear him speak his words with her own design in mind, a sett of false imaginings as well as false a.s.sumptions, no matter the truth of them.

Not another woman, not initially. But she would see it as such.

And if she would have of him the truth of his feelings now, she had indeed been supplanted by a woman. But Jean would never believe he had grown apart from her without interference, that he longed for Cat as much for her company as for her body; that he had not in fact already shared a bed with her.

Jean did not understand that the needs of the spirit compounded the needs of the body. Jean would believe her place had been usurped. Jean would believe whatever she felt she must, to reconcile rejection. And Cat will bear the blame. . . .

Preoccupied, Dair reined in his garron. The track wound its way through tumbled rocks, stands of trees, lush-grown heather and gorse, crossing countless burns and trickles of mountain-bred water. He swung a leg over and stepped off the st.u.r.dy pony, giving it rein to drink as he himself knelt to scoop up a handful of water.

Stone and grit bit into bare knees as he bent, and the garron pulled rein against his hand. When it whickered a greeting, Dair glanced up to see mounted men approaching. The tartan's sett, though worn by any, was the Stewart most closely a.s.sociated with those bred of Appin: deep blue and rich forest green, striped alternatingly with narrow black and vivid red.

His mood plunged instantly. Trust Robbie to come for me before I can see Jean.. . . Dair rose, water trickling across his right palm and falling from slack fingers. Sunlight glinted off badge and brooch as the men wound through stones and burns, gleamed more dully on the sandy gold cap of Robbie's hair. He was bonnetless in the day, as if to mock Dair's gift to Cat.

The heir of Appin lifted his voice against the distance. "Did ye ken it, then? That I would be coming for you?"

But not so soon, so soon. Dair moved to the other side of the garron and stood quietly before the horse. He wore a dirk and sgian dhu, but wanted to use neither against Robbie. He would prefer to settle it with fists, when words would not do. And with him, they would not. Not ever with Robbie Stewart.

"So." Robbie reined up. With him was a tail of men nearly as impressive as a laird's, though of less ceremony. They were young and hard-faced all, with pistols tucked into kilt belts. "Are ye ready, then?"

Dair drew in a deep breath. Robbie showed no inclination to dismount; did he intend to ride him down?

"Well?" Stewart's expression was quizzical. "Has he gone lame, your garron-or d'ye mean to walk to Loch Linnhe?"

"Loch Linnhe?" Dair echoed blankly.

"Aye, where the boats are!" Robbie frowned. "Surely MacIain was brought word." He paused, a.s.sessing Dair's expression. "The boat, man! I thought ye kent what I mean!" He flung out an arm meant to suggest direction. "A supply boat is on its way up the coast of Lorn, bent on replenishing the stores at Fort William. We canna let that happen when our own people are hungry." He grinned, blue eyes alight. "And great romantic pirates we'll make, aye? Spanish pistols, Scottish dirks-they'll ken they've met their betters, those pawkie Sa.s.senachs!"

"Pirates . . ." Dair took himself in hand. It would be gey easy to leave off responsibilities to play pirate with Robbie Stewart. "I meant to go to Jean."

Robbie frowned, then waved an ill.u.s.trative hand. "Och, no, Jean's not home. She's gone off to visit some old bizzem . . . was gone when I got home from Achallader." He grinned. "Bring her back plunder, MacDonald-she'll kiss you for it!"

"When . . ." Dair began again. I canna do this-'tis too easy. . . . He scrubbed a hard hand through his windblown hair. I canna DO this. . . . "When is she expected back? Jean?"

Stewart whooped a laugh. "Good Christ, can you no' tame your c.o.c.k, Alasdair Og? You'll be bedding her forbye, once we've English plunder!" The laughter died, though brows arched up. "D'ye come with us, then? 'Twill be a tale to tell, once we've won the boat."

Jean not at home.

Jean elsewhere.

Robbie did not know.

-reprieve- Relief was overwhelming. Dair mounted his garron and sent him climbing hastily up to the higher track. He reined in by Robbie, grinning widely.

Jean was not at home . . . and for the moment, the day, perhaps so long as a week, he and her volatile brother could yet be friends, even pirates, bent upon Sa.s.senach booty.

Dair raised eloquent brows in a mirror of Robbie's habit. "What will Breadalbane say, to have you break the treaty?"

Robbie swore virulently. "Holy Christ, man, 'tis naught to me what Grey John says. He's no laird of mine!"

Dair laughed. "No more is any man who stands in Appin's way when he wants to serve himself!"

"Aye, well . . ." Robbie grinned. "And who will you be serving?"

"MacIain," Dair declared promptly, and knew it for the truth.

Within hours Jean was forgotten. Powder and smoke burned in Dair's eyes, lingered unpleasantly in his nostrils, lent a metallic tang to his mouth. He heard shouting, swearing, muttering in Gaelic, furtive splashing in the water; wooden planks beneath his feet creaked in counterpoint to the motion of the ship as it floated without direction. It was theirs now, the Lamb, and all the supplies meant for Fort William would be parcelled out instead to Appin and Glencoe.

He turned toward the rail to look at the crew members gone over the side in a panicked bid for escape. It did not matter to him if they made good their attempt; it wasn't a fight to the death he was after, just provisions for Glencoe in place of Sa.s.senach soldiers.

"Robbie-no!" Dair lunged and caught the outstretched arm Stewart raised, yanking it aside. "Dinna shoot, Robbie-'tis naught but plunder we've lifted, and a boat . . . if you kill anyone, we'll hang for it! "

Robbie snarled an oath and jerked his arm away, clutching the pistol. "Christ, MacDonald-" He turned hastily, leaning against the rail to steady himself as he searched again for the Englishmen. The Spanish pistol was clutched in one powder-burned hand. "There!"

The pistol came up. Dair saw from the tail of his eye the bedraggled, lake-soaked crewmen scrambling their way onto the sh.o.r.e from the waters of Loch Linnhe, running awkwardly in pursuit of safety. Some were bloodied, he knew, some actually wounded, but no man killed. Not yet.

"d.a.m.n you, Robbie-" This time Dair did not hold back. He struck the pistol away without regard for Robbie's hand, and was satisfied to see the weapon spinning harmlessly toward the water. Better a lost pistol than a lost life. "D'ye want to hang for this?"

"Neither to hang nor be imprisoned!" Robbie shouted back. "Have you lost your spine, MacDonald? They'll bear witness against us!"

"Have you lost your wits?" Dair countered. "Let them go, Robbie-by the time they've made their way to Fort William, we'll have the plunder safe home. No need to compound the crime." He glanced again sh.o.r.eward and was pleased to see the Sa.s.senachs disappear into heather and gorse. "They'll carry the tale, aye, but they dinna ken who we are."

"Scots!"

"Och, aye, Scots," Dair said in disgust, "but have you kent a Sa.s.senach who can tell us apart? 'Tis one advantage, our names-how many MacDonalds and Stewarts are there in the Highlands?"

Robbie was breathing hard. He leaned his spine against the rail and glared at Dair, nursing a finger cut from the blow to his hand. "They'd kill us as soon as find out."

"They didna kill us here, did they?" Dair cast a quick, a.s.sessive glance over the English ship. It had not been difficult to take her with two boats of their own borrowed from Ballachulish along with some helpful MacDonalds, and a quick swarming attack that left them in possession of supply ship and her cargo. Shots fired, dirks unsheathed, a bit of blood and flesh, but no man dead of it. "We're too close to Glencoe-'tis the obvious place . . ." He looked at Robbie. "Appin."

The younger Scot was instantly diverted. His grin, behind the mask of grime, was brilliant. "You'd trust all this plunder to me?"

"Would you risk lifting from me?" Dair grinned back wolfishly. "I dinna think so, Robbie . . . aye, we'll sail her to Appin lands, then parcel out the plunder. The glens have need of such."

"And the pawkie b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the fort can starve." Robbie's anger was forgotten, as well as the wounded finger smearing blood into powder-sooted linen shirt. "Aye, we'll have her into an Appin harbor . . . will you come with us?"

Dair shook his head. "I'll go home to Glencoe-snoove back through the heather before the troops are out. . . . I'll tell MacIain what we've done. These men here from Ballachulish can carry Glencoe's share back home." He glanced sh.o.r.eward. "Put me off a mile or two down the coast, aye?"

Robbie nodded absently, already lost in thought. He turned to his Stewarts and shouted orders to bring the boat around and sail her back toward Appin.

Dair nodded to himself, pleased to see Robbie so distracted. It would serve his purpose to be put ash.o.r.e, where he would not, despite his words, go at once to Glencoe. Troops would likely search there first; it would be best if he were nowhere to be found, and no one in Glencoe to know his whereabouts.

So close to Glencoe, the Sa.s.senach governor Colonel John Hill would make the obvious connection. Ignorant of Highlanders, of Highland clans and ways, he would not think of Robbie or of his Appin Stewarts.

MacDonalds would be blamed.

And to MacDonald lands the Williamite governor would send his Sa.s.senach soldiers.

"Let him," Dair murmured. Robbie and the boat would be safe in Appin lands, and he, being wise, would take himself entirely elsewhere. He suppressed a grin of sheer delight and antic.i.p.ation. They will all of them, even Robbie, least expect me to go where I most want to be.

In his private quarters, John Hill unrolled the map upon the table, arranged it, weighted it down at four corners with inkhorns and books. When he was satisfied with its placement he looked at the man who stood on the other side of the table. "If you please, Captain Fisher, show me where this incident occurred."

Captain Fisher did please. He planted a definitive forefinger on the map. "Here," he said succinctly, eyebrows locked together balefully over the flattened bridge of his misshapen nose. "Out of Ballachulish, from the smaller stem of the loch. Two boats, perhaps two dozen men. Scotch pirates, Governor. b.l.o.o.d.y heathen savages!"

Hill nodded amicably, but forebore to correct the crude terminology. He did not entirely blame London-born, sea-reared Fisher for being so out of sorts; the man had lost his ship, his cargo; had had to swim to sh.o.r.e and skulk for two days through the wild Highland terrain, all the while trying desperately to avoid "heathen Scotch pirates."

In truth, Hill was no happier; Fort William badly needed the supplies now on their way elsewhere. "You are certain no one was killed?"

"No, sir, we all made it to sh.o.r.e safely, and all are here with me. But wounds aplenty, sir, from pistols and those b.l.o.o.d.y Highland short swords-begging your pardon, Governor."

"Dirks," Hill said absently, looking again at the map. His own finger traced a path. "From Ballachulish-here . . . to here, where the Lamb was . . ." he mused. "Yes, I see it-Glencoe is but miles up the glen . . . it would be an obvious target to MacIain's people, more food for their mouths and less for ours, whom they detest. . . ." Hill nodded; it made perfect sense to an old soldier, if not to an old sailor. He glanced from the map to Captain Fisher. "Did you hear any names called out?"

"MacDonald," Fisher answered promptly, "as you said. And Stewart-like their Papist king, the foolish old b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Different clan, I think," Hill said diffidently, but did not explain the details to Fisher of how Stewart became Stuart at the whimsy of a Scots-not Scotch-queen who spoke more French than Gaelic; how a single clan could become more than one in time, so large, so piecemeal, so scattered throughout the country.

It was a simple thing for John Hill to piece the truth together despite the paucity of evidence. He knew the map very well, and the clans who lived by its boundaries. "Think, if you please, Captain. Can you recall who was in command?"

Fisher glowered. "I don't understand their b.l.o.o.d.y heathen tongue!" he declared curtly, then mitigated it as he recalled to whom he spoke. "Sir."

"Ah, no, of course not; why should you?" Hill agreed mildly. "But I must ask you to think again, Captain Fisher. . . was there one man who spoke the 'b.l.o.o.d.y heathen tongue' more than the others? With p.r.o.nounced authority?"

Fisher considered it, and nodded. "Young man, aye, sir. Sandy-haired, wearing the colored wool. Not tall, but well-made. And barefoot, like them all." He grimaced. "b.l.o.o.d.y savages!"

Hill nodded patiently; it served nothing, with men like Fisher, to debate the truth. "Is there anyone else you recall? Another man who might have answered this one back more often than the others?" No MacDonald would take orders from a Stewart; he would command his own clanspeople.

Fisher's expression cleared. "Yes, of course, sir . . . ah, I take your meaning! Indeed, there was this young man who did most of the jabbering in the Scotch tongue, but another had as much to say. I marked him well, sir. Young face, old hair."

Hill's attention sharpened. "Graying early, was he?"

"Yes, sir. He wore no hat, sir. He was nearly gray as myself, Governor, but twenty years or more younger."

"MacDonald . . ." Hill murmured. "MacIain's son-what, John? John, I think . . . perhaps. Indeed, perhaps-the old fox's sons, they say, will be white-headed before they are forty . . ." But more telling yet: "And they've none of them signed the treaty. Nor will. This is their declaration, their defiance." He looked more pointedly at Fisher. "Good captain, I thank you. I believe you have solved their ident.i.ties for me, if it please G.o.d." He moved the weights aside and began to reroll the map. "I do thank you, sir. You have saved me wasted effort."

Fisher was taken aback by the Hill's abrupt decisiveness. "Your pardon, Governor, sir-but what do you mean to do?"

Hill examined the parchment roll, then slid it carefully back into its leather storage tube, taking care not to tear the edges. "Catch them," he said succinctly. "I have troops, Captain Fisher, fine English troops. If it please G.o.d, I will send half of them to Glencoe and half of them to Appin." He smiled. "Despite their heathen tongue, Captain, Scottish foxes are no different than English ones. They will go to ground in territory they know best."

Her brothers had come up from their own dwellings, their own business, to tell Cat hers. That she was back from Kilchurn, back as well from Achallader where the treaty had been signed, took no time to be carried about, and soon enough her brothers came back to the house they had left years before to marry and raise their own bairns, leaving their sister to make her own life.

Until now. Until they heard of Duncan Campbell's elopement-it was a popular coffeehouse story, traded like wagers among Breadalbane's enemies-and the dishonor done their sister. Who was to have been a countess.

She had no choice but to let them in. One day Chesthill would be Jamie's, after all, when their father was dead. And so they came in, drank whisky, gathered themselves to her like kilt-clad chicks around a hen, appraised her closely--like a cow to be bred!--and muttered blackly among themselves that such treatment as she was shown by Breadalbane's son called for harsh words and dirks.

"Oh, aye," Cat said in blatant disgust. "Even the earl canna find his son . . . d'ye think you might do better?"

Jamie paced like a Highland wildcat, noiseless in bare feet. Dougal and Colin, less high-tempered than he, sat decorously in wooden chairs and drank down their father's whisky. She was mildly surprised any was left, but they had found a tun put away beneath the house. Its smoky, powerful tang put her in mind of her father, smelling always of usquabae.

Cat disdained a chair. She sat instead on the bottom step of the staircase near to the front door, where Robbie Stewart had once pressed a sword to her throat. She wore trews, of which they disapproved, but she had never put on skirts when left to her own devices. She folded up her legs and leaned her elbows upon them. "You ken gey well 'tis your honor besmirched," she muttered sourly. "You never cared much for mine."

Jamie stopped pacing and wheeled back, plaid swinging. "And what does the earl mean to do? 'Tis his dishonor as well . . . we are all Campbells, aye?"