His mouth worked briefly, then relaxed. "You go too far, la.s.s."

She dared the truth again. "With you, one must. Else you wouldna hear me."

"There is that," John agreed, forgotten in his corner. "He is a thick-skulled old king bull, aye? Forgets to listen, forbye."

"She has more right," Lady Glencoe said quietly, "and you ken that, MacIain. You beat him bluidy for it . . . for that, and Breadalbane. Alasdair . . ." She flicked a glance at Cat. "You're a stubborn old fool, but no' a blind one, aye?"

MacIain fingered the rope's weave, examined its ends. Then put it back on the table. His gaze was steady as he looked at Cat. "Has he asked you to his house?"

"He has."

"To his bed?"

"He's already been in mine."

A flicker in blue eyes acknowledged that. "And would you leave Glen Lyon-leave the laird's house-to live in Glencoe?"

"I have. "

He waited, poised as a wolfhound set to bring down the game. He knew there was more. He was not a patient man, MacIain of Glencoe, but in this he would be. In this he had to be.

For his son. For his house. For the honor of his name, that she had cursed so often.

Cat laughed at him then, cognizant of commitment with but a handful of words. "I'll leave a laird's house to live with a laird's son. Seems a fair trade, aye?"

MacIain leaned back in his chair. Wood and leather creaked. "The better end of it, la.s.s, is living in my glen."

"Hah," Cat retorted.

MacIain bared his teeth. "Pour usquabae, Margaret. I'll share a dram wi' the la.s.s."

Cat recalled the result of the first and last time she had drunk usquabae. She blushed hideously.

MacIain saw it. And smiled.

Presented with water, soap, and cloth, Dair washed, ridding his face of grime and crusted blood, his hands of rust and dirt. The bruises remained, and the stubble, but he felt somewhat clean again. Carefully he soaked some of the dried blood out of his hair, inspecting by fingertips the scabbing cut within the lump, but it was nothing that would not heal. His jaw still ached, but improved.

He tongued a molar, testing its seating. I may keep all of my teeth after all, wi' no thanks to Robbie. . . . But he had been wholly, if painfully, honest, despite the ache of head and jaw. He did deserve it, from Jean's brother. And he, in Robbie's place, would have done the same.

Dair set aside the damp cloth. They had left him alone to wash; as well, he knew, to think. Robbie, who had disdained such amenities-and who needed no time to think, save how to frame vulgarities-had been taken off sometime before. Dair was alone in the cell, sitting mutely with his shoulders and spine against the wall. He was aware of a greater sense of self-possession, a renewal of hope; food, drink, the means to wash himself, provided him with a sc.r.a.p of dignity, a chance to recover confidence.

Dair wondered cynically if the treatment had to do with Governor Hill's personal desires to treat his prisoners well, or that he was MacIain's son, and Robbie heir to Appin.

With care he let his head settle against the wall. He drew up knees beneath his kilt and rested forearms upon them, chain dangling, then released a sigh of resignation. There was no profit in debating the intent of a Sa.s.senach, even within his own head; John Hill was governor of Fort William, a king's man, a soldier, and wholly dedicated to the subjugation of the clans.

Instead, he would think of Cat. Cat, who had tried to skelp Robbie; Cat, who had tried to lie for him; Cat who had, despite her innocence, taught his body new things about a woman. To know the companionship of spirit as well as flesh.

Dair shut his eyes. Christ, what if they mean to hang- The latch rattled. He sat upright, swore to deflect the darting lance of pain in his head, and saw the door swing open to admit Robbie Stewart. And also two soldiers, who gestured for him to come out.

Robbie still clattered with shackles. The set of his mouth and the tilt of his head was arrogance personified, as was his swagger; Dair could not help a crooked smile.

"Well," Stewart said grandly, seating himself on his thin pallet, " 'tis worth letting him mewl if only for the whisky."

Dair rose with infinite care. The soldiers made no effort to hurry him, but let him gather himself and exit without haste. The door as he stepped out was closed, bolted, locked.

From behind the heavy wood came the sound of a wandering whistle. Robbie had never been able to make behave the notes required to follow a proper tune.

Then he ceased whistling. Instead he began to bellow out in broad Scots his tuneless version of a song attributed to a Stewart who was once a king: "An' we'll gang nae mair a-rovin',

A-rovin' in the nicht,

An' we'll gang nae mair a-rovin',

Let the mune shine e'er sae bricht."

His legs were pillars, Cat decided, holding up MacIain as Atlas held up the world. And more to the point, she thought, perhaps he was Atlas, for on his ma.s.sive shoulders rested the weight of a clan.

He waded out into the shallows of the river, bare feet finding purchase. He did not go far, but far enough; another man might have sought a rock on which to climb from the water, but MacIain did not. He planted himself in the current, then turned and stared at her.

"Well?" He pitched his challenge over the sound of the river. "D'ye think you should be carried?"

She did not. She glared back at him and traded sh.o.r.e for water, picking her way with care.

They were not in the deeps. They did not truly risk themselves. But it was harsh going all the same, and only undertaken because he wanted her to fail.

Or wanted her to succeed, so he might know her worthy.

"Worthy," Cat muttered. "Like a cow, or a horse . . ."

She wore the trews she had come in two days before, and now the bottoms were soaked. Water crept up the wool toward her knees.

"Aye, test the mare's mettle-test the b.i.t.c.h's temperament . . ." Arms outflung, she maintained a precarious balance. "-escort her to the brink, then step back a pace or two to let her decide if she's man enough to take it. . . ."

A rock rolled. Cat hissed a curse as her foot banged against another, then clamped her mouth shut and recovered her balance. She flicked a glance at MacIain, who waited impa.s.sively. But she spied the glint in his eye. "D'ye mean to be a dam?" she called. "Or a rock to change the river?"

His teeth showed briefly. "I am a rock," he said, "and on me will the Sa.s.senachs be broken."

She wobbled, then kept moving. "D'ye think they mind you, MacIain ? One lone laird in a forgotten glen-?"

"Forgotten?-no, not Glencoe. Look around you, la.s.s-could you forget this place?"

She did not need to look. If she never saw it again, she would remember it.

"A rock, aye," he declared. "Though some say the rocks reside between my ears."

He extended a hand. She felt it close around her own: huge, callused hand, hard as horn; a grasp that could break a man, if MacIain desired it. It closed, gripped, brought her across to stand beside him. The rush of the river, albeit quieter in the shallows, purled against her shins. Tugged at her trews, wool now sagging from the weight.

MacIain flung wide his other hand: elaborate presentation. "Glencoe," he announced, with infinite satisfaction.

She stood in the waters of the River Coe with a man bred of warriors, of the hostility of the land. And knew she was safe. That MacIain, unlike her father, would never permit harm to come to her, or dishonor, or vulgar treatment. Unless MacIain himself metes it out. Cat a.s.sessed him even as he a.s.sessed her. He had not broken the clasp. Neither had she.

" 'Tis a difficult thing," he said at last, "to do your will when others dinna desire you to."

Shocked by the subject, Cat held her tongue.

" 'Tis a gey difficult thing to ken what you want, and take it."

Still she said nothing.

" 'Tis even harder, forbye, to do what others will curse you for, especially a father."

When she could, Cat swallowed tightly. "I have given my father cause to curse me. He never has, to me." She stared hard at rushing water. "Because he doesna care enough."

It was his turn for silence.

She raised her voice. "You skelped Dair for loving me."

"I skelped my son for disobedience, for delay, for weakening my state before Breadalbane. It had naught to do wi' you."

She looked at him sharply. "Naught?"

"Where my son sleeps is no concern of mine."

It was a challenge now. "Not even when the bed is under a Campbell roof?"

He grinned. "Ah, but now the roof is MacDonald-made, aye? And is here in Glencoe."

Cat sighed. "So it is. And so am I. But he is not here."

His hand tightened on hers. "He will be."

She looked at him fiercely. "And if you dinna bring him out-"

Teeth were bared briefly. "What? Will you skelp me?"

Cat eyed his ma.s.sive frame. "If I thought I could reach your lug-holes, I'd box them both."

He shouted aloud. "Both?"

"One after another. Until you yelped for mercy."

He grunted. " 'Twould be gey hard to make me yelp, you ken." "Even a giant has his weakness," Cat reminded. "The story of David and Goliath, you ken."

"And Achilles his heel."

"And Samson his hair." She eyed him critically. "You could do with a shearing yourself."

The snowmelt of his hair curled against ma.s.sive shoulders. MacIain squeezed, then loosed her hand. "You'll do."

Cat snorted. "Because I'm daft enough to walk the river with you?"

"Och, no." MacIain grinned. "Because you like it."

From close proximity, John Hill discovered that the face beneath the graying hair was younger than antic.i.p.ated. Not a lad, Alasdair MacDonald, unlike Cameron of Lochiel's son--closer to thirty than twenty, methinks--but neither a man as old as his hair painted him. The bones of his face were fine and clean, the flesh over them-despite mottled bruising and nearly a week's worth of sooty stubble-taut and youthful. Hill had seen spectacularly handsome men before and did not count this man among them, but even in shackles, even in soiled clothing and lurid bruises, he compelled the eye.

Confidence . . . But not swagger, not arrogance, such as Robert Stewart employed. A wholly different appeal, entirely unremarkable until a man looked, and marked.

Hill marked it now. He watched MacIain's younger son enter, clanking quietly of iron; watched him take a position in the center of the small, lamplit room; watched him settle himself to wait, to listen, to weigh. Not Robert Stewart at all. He gestured to the bench against the wall. "Please-seat yourself. Will you have usquabae?"

"I will not."

Hill paused. A soft, courteous voice, lacking the edged scorn of Stewart's. A calm, quiet voice, offering neither irony or enmity. "Sitting in my presence, drinking my whisky, does not make you mine," the governor told him. "I am quite familiar with your loyalties."

The mouth was mobile and expressive, but barely acknowledged the exquisite dryness in Hill's tone. "If it please you, Governor, you dinna sit inside my skull."

"And from the look of you, it should please me," the Englishman shot back, and was pleased to see the momentary lifting of eyebrows that acknowledged his retort. More equably, he said, "I am given to understand your injuries are none of my soldiers' doing. Is this the truth? I would know if you were maltreated."

"Whoever had the giving of it, aye," MacDonald answered. "But as I was in no fit state to ken what happened on the ride here, I'm no' the one to ask, aye?"

Oh, there is pride after all, and arrogance!

Hill sat down at last. He would not insist that MacDonald do so; let the man decide for himself if he, head-wounded, was capable of standing for so long, or if he, the son of a Highland laird, would deign to sit in the company of a Sa.s.senach.

"It is not my task to punish you," the governor declared. "It is my task only to hold you until I may know the wishes of the king or queen. Nor will I belabor the obvious: that you and Robert Stewart, accompanied by Appin men and MacDonalds, what some name barbaric Highland savages, stole an English ship, and supplies meant for English soldiers."

MacDonald's face was a mask of self-restraint, impa.s.sive and unprovoked.

"And yet you killed no one, nor attempted to," Hill said. "No deaths, no serious injuries, and all the sailors were permitted to escape." He paused. With infinite clarity he said, "You kill more fellow Scots in cattle raids than you did Sa.s.senach sailors supplying a fort you would sooner see burned as stand another day." Hill marked the impa.s.sive expression. "I admire your restraint," he said, "and I thank you for it. It may well save your lives." He suppressed a cough, then rose. In silence he walked around his table to meet the MacDonald on common ground, standing before him so they might view one another face-to-face. MacDonald was taller, but did not use the greater height to advantage in trying to impose. He simply stood, and waited.

The governor marked the dark, dried bloodstains on the collar and right shoulder of the linen shirt. He noted also the collar was torn away from MacDonald's throat, displaying the ruined flesh beneath.

John Hill knew a noose scar when he saw one. He looked more closely yet at Alasdair Og MacDonald, at the still features, the clear-eyed patience; at the tension in the shoulders despite attempts to relax.