Amanda Scott (15 page)

“I did ask Ian,” Mary said with a sigh. “The thought of our being evicted distresses him dreadfully. You know he cannot bear even an animal to want for warmth or food, but he does not know what we can do.”

Diana sighed. “I know you love Ian, but even you must admit that he is not a man one goes to when one is in trouble. He is too young, for one thing.”

“He is older than I am,” Mary pointed out.

“Less than a year.” Diana realized that she rarely thought of Mary being younger than herself, let alone younger than Ian. She smiled. “You seem older than anyone except perhaps old Granny Jameson. I expect that is because you are wiser than most folks. I do wish you could see into our future though. It would be a great comfort to me if you could manage to see us warm and dry in six weeks’ time.”

“But you know I cannot do that. I felt as if Calder would help us. You saw how wrong I was about that.”

Not wanting to tell her she had been wrong about more than that where his lordship was concerned, and knowing that Mary would read the truth in her face if she did not divert her, Diana said, “He won’t help us with the eviction. However, he did say he would see what he can do to make all safe again for Mam.”

“Did he? That must explain why I had that good feeling about him. I do like him, Diana, even if he is a Campbell.”

“Fiddle-faddle. You love Ian, and he is a Campbell.”

“Yes, but you said yourself that even you do not think of him as one. He is by far the kindest, most caring man I have ever known. Folks don’t call him Gentle Ian for naught, after all.”

“They call him that in contrast to Black Duncan and most other men in their clan, that’s all. Ian is too good-hearted even to
be
an infernal Campbell, but if you are hoping that you and he can ever be more than friends, you are more addled than even Allan thinks you are. Neither clan would allow the pair of you to marry.”

“We’ll see,” Mary said, but she looked worried, reminding Diana yet again that, while she could occasionally catch a glimpse of another person’s fate, Mary knew no more than anyone else did about her own.

It was soon time to prepare supper, and Neil came in while Morag MacArthur was helping Diana put food on the table in the little dining parlor off the kitchen. Frowning, Neil said, “Is it true that Glenure wants to evict us?”

“It is. You should have been here to see it. What a dreadful man he is!”

He shrugged. “I was helping Katherine drive some cows in for milking.”

“I hope John Maccoll did not catch you making sheep’s eyes at her,” Diana said with a teasing smile.

“He never saw us, and I don’t want to hear your thoughts on that, if you please. There is little enough for me to do here.”

“Oh, Neil, you could find things to do if you but looked.”

“Aye, well, tomorrow some of the lads and I are sailing to Mull for the day to climb Dun da Ghaoithe, though I doubt that’s the sort of thing you mean, but tell me about Glenure’s visit. Someone at the alehouse in Inshaig said he was passing out evictions again, that he had been here and at Kentallen Inn, amongst other places.”

“It’s true enough, I’m afraid,” Diana said. “I mean to speak to James of the Glen tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?”

“Why should I?”

“Neil, you are our chieftain now. You have responsibilities.”

“I’m a chieftain without land, Diana. That’s nothing at all, and a fine fool I’d look if I went about pretending to be worth something. Moreover, if you think James would pay more heed to me than to you, you are all about in your head.”

She did not press him, for she knew that he took his losses hard and did not blame him for feeling bitter. He had not fought in the rising, their father was dead, and yet the land that had belonged to their family for centuries was gone. In time Neil would come to see that his responsibility to his clan had not ended on the field at Culloden, but until that day came, she could do little to persuade him.

Thus it was that the following, misty morning she set out on her own for Glen Duror. She was not afraid to walk alone, but she took the precaution of slipping into a pocket beneath her skirt the small pistol her father had given her before leaving to follow the prince. She also tucked a
skean dhu
into her garter. It was all fine and well for foreigners to demand that Highlanders go unarmed, but if she met a wildcat, a boar, or a Campbell, she wanted to be prepared.

She had high hopes of getting excellent advice from James of the Glen, for his authority, although derived initially from the factorship and his kinship to the Laird of Ardsheal, had long since been fortified by his indisputable competence.

She knew his story well. Educated at Ardsheal’s expense, he had seen service during the rising as captain of a local company. After the rebellion crumbled, when Ardsheal and others fled to France, James had come home to make peace with the government and to look after Ardsheal’s wife and children. Then, when the Barons of the Exchequer took away the factorship and gave it to Glenure, Lady Ardsheal had fled to France without a word of thanks, to be reunited with her husband.

Diana did not hurry, enjoying the spring day and the cool solitude of the glen. She avoided the path by the turbulent river, keeping to deer trails instead to avoid meeting anyone who might take advantage of her solitary state. The walk took the best part of two hours, but by the time she arrived, sunlight danced on greenery wherever its rays penetrated the dense woodland. It felt warm on her face when she crossed the clearing to the house.

She had known that James might be away, looking after his various enterprises, and had been prepared to await his return, but she found him at home with his wife.

He greeted her warmly, saying, “Come you in, lass, come you in! Margaret, love, fetch out scones and jam for Mistress Diana.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Margaret,” Diana said, smiling at the plump, motherly woman, “but if you could ask someone to fetch me some water to drink, that would be grand. I’ve come to seek your advice, James.”

“Aye, and didn’t I expect you to come to me? I have turned my mind inside out, and I think I’ve got a plan. But sit ye down, and we’ll talk a bit first.”

His wife soon left them alone, and Diana said, “I am at my wits’ end, James. Where will we go? Mam will be distraught when she learns of this.”

“Now, now, didn’t I say I’d got an idea? What I mean to do is to set off for the capital tomorrow at first light.”

“But what can you do in Edinburgh?”

“Yesterday Colin Glenure served preliminary eviction notices, not just to you but to four other Ardsheal tenants,” James said. “All are residents I introduced before he took the factorship. I tell ye, he selected them with care.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not one has a standing lease or right of long-term occupation that would entitle them to stay, Diana. Even your mother’s peppercorn lease is tenuous, since Ardsheal was not here when we drew it up, to make all tidy.”

“That means Red Colin expects to meet few legal obstacles, does it not?”

“Aye, and he thinks any that exist will be negotiable. But each one of the five tenants has paid his quarter’s rent and, as far as I know, most are willing to take the oath of allegiance. As I see it, we ought to be able to stop him.”

“Why these five families, James?”

“They each bear some connection to a known rebel, Diana. Therefore, his motive for ousting them can only be to silence once and for all those voices that accuse him of secretly sympathizing with enemies of the Crown.”

“It’s still unfair to pick only Ardsheal families.”

“He didn’t,” James said with a wry smile. “He chose five on Ardsheal land, but there are others, lass, including the landlord at the Kentallen Inn and at least one that I know about in Morven, a Cameron family that’s kin to his mother.”

“How horrid, but I still don’t understand what you can do in Edinburgh.”

“I mean to apply to the Exchequer for an order confirming our tenants in their holdings. A single baron can do nothing, unfortunately, but the court can help us, and once they hear what Glenure is up to, I am sure they will do what is right.”

“Oh, James, if only you can succeed!”

“I’ll likely be gone at least a fortnight,” he said with a smile. “Don’t do anything rash before you hear from me, lass, and don’t, on any account, let Glenure force you from Maclean House before Term Day.”

“I won’t. Just let him dare try to make us leave!”

She stayed chatting until it was time for James and his family to eat their midday meal, and although she had planned to walk to the head of the glen to call on Bardie, she allowed them to persuade her to stay. Thus, it was after three o’clock before she was on her way again. Although the April dusk lingered until nearly half past six, it was still too late to travel farther if she was to get home before dark.

Retracing the route she had taken before, she made better time moving downhill, but the thick undergrowth and narrow track made speed impossible, and she knew she had plenty of time. She had been walking half an hour when she heard a wildcat scream a short distance ahead.

When she paused to listen, wondering what had startled the generally shy but dangerous animal, she heard another, distinctly human cry, followed by yet another. Snatching up her skirt so that she could move faster, she took her pistol from its pocket and hurried as fast as the shrubbery would allow her toward the river path.

By the time Rory had finished breaking his fast at Balcardane that morning, he had had a surfeit of his relatives. Ian seemed incapable of opening his mouth without drawing fire from his surly brother, and Balcardane apparently cared only for counting his groats. Through it all, Lady Balcardane, who had chosen to join them in the breakfast parlor that day, maintained an amiable flow of chatter about the weather and whatever else chanced to attract her notice.

“That mist will clear off by noon, you mark my words,” she said as a footman served her from a platter of cold sliced beef. “Some bread, too, if you please,” she added in exactly the same amiable tone.

Ian said, “I mean to ride into Lochaber this morning, Father. May I take any messages or serve you in any other way?”

“Why Lochaber?” Duncan demanded, as if his younger brother had just announced something of a criminal nature. “You cannot have business there.”

“One of the lads told me he’d heard of a golden eagle’s aerie a few miles northeast of Onich. We are going to take a look.”

“There may even be sunlight by ten, I daresay,” Lady Balcardane said.

“Nonsense,” Duncan snapped, clearly startling her, but he kept his eyes fixed on Ian, and it was clear that he had not heard his mother’s remark, let alone meant his response to contradict her. Oblivious, he went on, “Your friends probably saw a buzzard, that’s all. There is no eagle’s nest within hours of Onich. They nest higher in the mountains, on cliffs, not near the water.”

“There are cliffs near the sea, too,” Ian said quietly.

“Not near Onich, there aren’t.”

“Perhaps not, but eagles also nest in pine forests, Duncan, and you cannot deny that there is a large forest northeast of Onich.”

“A wind from the northeast can chap one’s skin prodigiously, my dear,” his mother said. “Pray, take heed.”

Balcardane said, “You can take a letter to MacLachlan at Coruanan and have a look at that horse he wants to sell. I’ve put off going myself to save the expense of the journey until I’d other business to take me there. It’s a bit out of your way”—he ignored Duncan’s snort of laughter—“but you won’t let that trouble you, I warrant.”

Ian glanced at his brother but said only, “No, I don’t mind. Keppenach is only a couple of miles above Onich, after all.”

“In the exact opposite direction from your precious aerie, if the damned thing even exists,” Duncan pointed out.

Ian smiled at him. “That might distress you, but it can make little difference to me, you know. I’ll take the ferry at Ballachulish in any event, and I’ve got nothing else to do today.”

“I’ll be at the Kentallen Inn,” Duncan said.

“Spending your groats again,” Balcardane said.

Lady Balcardane said, “I have not been across to Lochaber in months. I daresay the weather will be pleasant there today, too.”

Duncan had not replied to his father’s comment, but Balcardane was not content to let the matter rest. He went on to deliver a homily to his elder son on the errors of squandering money, insisting that there must be far less expensive ways to spend his time than drinking whisky with his friends at the Kentallen Inn.

Rory continued to eat his breakfast. His aunt seemed never to stop talking, and the others seemed so oblivious of her chatter that the entire spectacle became almost entertaining. Almost, but not quite.

Duncan swallowed the last of his ale and said abruptly, “I know you won’t think it necessary to take a pistol with you, Ian, so for God’s sake don’t turn your back on any of the charming citizens of Lochaber who don’t enjoy kinship with us.”

Ian smiled. “I do not need to guard my back, brother. I don’t count as many enemies amongst my acquaintance as you do.”

“If a man is not a Campbell in these parts, little brother, he is an enemy, but if you are such a fool as to trust everyone, be it on your own head when you are struck down unaware.”

“If I am unaware, I daresay even that will not trouble me. Will you attend my funeral, Duncan, and play a pibroch on the pipes?”

“Funeral?” Lady Balcardane blinked at him. “Funerals are to bury the dead, my dear. One does not enjoy a funeral until one dies, I’m afraid.”

“The devil of it is that you don’t believe me,” Duncan snapped, pouring himself another mug of ale. “You think that smiling at people and being gentle and kind to them is enough to protect you, but it isn’t, my lad, not by a long chalk. Your own clan can’t protect you if you continue to approach our enemies like a damned playful puppy. You’ll get kicked one of these days, and by God, you’ll deserve it.”

“That’s enough, Duncan,” Balcardane snapped. “Not but what he ain’t right, Ian, lad. You stay away from them as ain’t our own kind, you hear me?”