Amanda Scott (18 page)

Chuckling, he said, “I first encountered the don and his faithful companion, Sancho Panza, when I was a boy. My father’s notion of punishment was to thrash me soundly and lock me in his library for an hour or more, depending on the gravity of my offense. I discovered
Don Quixote
on one of those memorable occasions, and soon came to look upon him as a friend to turn to in uncomfortable circumstances. As a result, I’ve carried a copy for years, to read in times of trial or tribulation.”

A silence fell between them, and just as Diana remembered what had begun the exchange, he said, “What manner of weapon do you carry that you believe is legal, mistress? I can tell you for a fact that your pistol is not.”

“I know the other one is,” she said. “It’s a
skean dhu.”
Watching him, she wondered if a Campbell from Edinburgh would know the weapon. The Highland short dagger, derived in recent years from a skinning knife, was small enough to beat the ban, but she did not know if anyone had tested that fact in a court of law.

Calder said, “I’ve seen one. They are devilish small. I’d not advise trying to defend yourself against anything of size with it, lass. As for that pistol of yours—”

“My father gave it to me,” she said. “It is the last thing I had from him before he died, so don’t expect me to hand it over to you without a fight.”

“I won’t fight you for it. I’d have to be a plutonic hypocrite to do so after you defended me with it, but don’t flaunt it. Others would not be so generous.”

They were in sight of the house now, so she said only, “We are nearly there, sir. I hope you will be as generous to my brother if he is at home and says aught to you that he should not. He is sometimes a bit free-spoken.”

“Unlike the rest of his family?”

Diana grinned at him, but in the event, Neil was not at the house.

Mary greeted her with relief in her voice. “I was beginning to think I should worry, Diana. I never expected you to be away all day. Good evening, my lord.” Then, seeing Calder in better light, she exclaimed, “Faith, what happened to you?”

“A wildcat attacked him,” Diana said. “Sit down, sir. You are still quite unnaturally pale.”

“But no longer weak,” he said, obeying her. “I wish you’d believe that.”

“I’ll fetch some of my remedies,” Mary said, leaving them.

She had not been gone long when a pounding at the kitchen door that they could hear from the front heralded Bardie’s arrival. With Mary close behind him, he lurched into the parlor, carrying a sack that he plumped down on a table. Grinning at Calder, he said, “Good day tae ye, my lord. Had I known ye meant tae wrestle a wildcat, I’d ha’ gone along tae cheer ye on.”

“Well met, Bardie,” his lordship said with his crooked smile. “If I had known what lay in wait for me, I’d have invited you to bear me company.” Catching Diana’s bewildered gaze, he added, “Bardie and I took our midday meal together today. But how did you get here so quickly, sir?”

“Och, I’ve my own ways, I have,” Bardie said, winking at Diana.

Diana had all she could do not to demand to know what they had talked about earlier, and not to send Bardie a warning look. Wondering just how much Calder knew about the group that had attacked him, she forced herself to look at Mary, fearful of giving something away in her expression if she looked elsewhere.

“I brought ye duck’s weed, calf’s plant, and juniper, lass,” Bardie said to Mary. “If they willna serve, Mistress Diana can send one of the lads tae find nettles and another tae fish for eels.”

Mary smiled at him. “First I must see just what must be done, Bardie, but thank you for bringing those things. I’ve got dried mariner’s plant, of course, but the calf’s plant will make a more potent poultice to draw off any infection that might be starting. I’ve already asked Morag to heat water and fetch me some barley.” Turning to Calder, she said, “Will you let me examine your wounds now, my lord?”

“Gladly,” he said, “but you ought to know that James of the Glen sent one of his sons for the smith at Kentallen. I am afraid you will find me much more trouble than my wounds are worth.”

“Oh, no,” she said calmly. “A wildcat’s scratches easily grow corrupted, sir, and men have been known to die from them, so you must not treat them carelessly.”

Diana saw the look he shot her, and knew as if he had spoken that he realized what she had been thinking earlier. He did not argue with Mary, however, sitting where she told him to sit and allowing himself to be divested of James’s waistcoat and his own tattered coat. She heard him gasp once, and she saw him wince.

Mary glanced at her. “Do you think a shirt of Sir Hector’s might fit him? This waistcoat is snug on him. Every move he makes must be painful.”

Diana had not thought of what the scratchy wool must feel like against his wounds, and she sent him a look of apology.

He smiled and shook his head. “You make me sound like a bleating milksop, Mistress Mary.”

“Weak as a cat,” Diana said, “but ‘thou hast seen nothing yet.’ ”

Mary looked surprised. “Thou?”

Calder chuckled. “She is quoting from
Don Quixote,
mistress. I warrant she is hoping your poultice will make me shriek mercy for my sins.”

“Is she, indeed? The shirt, Diana.”

With a speaking look at Calder, Diana went to find him a shirt. He was larger than Sir Hector had been, and Neil had taken most of their father’s remaining shirts, but she found an old one that was baggy enough so that she thought it would do. Taking it back, she found that the smith had arrived, having hurried from Kentallen in the clear expectation that he would find a dying man at Maclean House.

He was a large, muscular fellow of indeterminate years, and he looked a little put out. In Gaelic he said, “The lad did tell us his lordship had been scratched to bits, so I near killed a horse to get here.”

“Thank you for coming,” Diana said. Glancing at Calder in the expectation of seeing an embarrassed smile on his face, she saw instead that he was frowning.

Bardie said with a touch of belligerence, “Speak English in the presence o’ your betters, man. I don’t see why ye came here at all, for we’ve no got any use for ye. Ye must know that Mistress Mary can look after things better nor ye.”

“I’ve healing in me hands,” the smith said, his English awkward but adequate for the purpose.

“Aye, and Mistress Mary’s a seventh daughter, ye auld gowk.”

“Gowk, am I? See here, ye loathsome diddler—”

“That will do, the pair of you,” Diana said. To the smith, she added in Gaelic, “We are much obliged to you for coming so quickly, but I do think you will find that Mistress Mary does not require your assistance.”

“Aye,” Bardie put in gruffly.

Morag MacArthur entered just then with a basin, and Mary, moving toward her, said to the smith in a kindly way, “I mean to use the ribbed side of calf’s plant to draw out any of the remaining poison, and the smooth side to encourage healing. For the deeper scratches on his chest, I shall add calf’s plant to a barley poultice.”

“Aye, that’s good,” the smith said approvingly.

Bardie said, “Ye’ll wash your hands first, lass, and take a sixpence from his lordship tae bless so he can wear it round his neck.”

Mary said to Morag, “Put the basin on the table, please. There is no need for a sixpence, Bardie. That is little more than superstition, and mostly for boils.”

“It canna hurt,” Bardie said stubbornly.

Surprisingly, the smith said, “He is right. Best do it, mistress.”

Diana said with a grin, “Have you got a sixpence, my lord? Mary will put it in the water she’s just washed her hands in. Then you must wear it around your neck till the wee folk take it from you along with any remaining evil in your body.”

“There’s a small purse in that sack John Maccoll carried down the glen for me,” Calder said. “Bring it here, Maccoll. I think I’ve got a sixpence.”

Maccoll handed it to him, and he looked inside.

“Here you are,” he said, handing a coin to Mary. Then, reaching into the sack again, he tossed a shilling to the smith. “That’s for your trouble,” he said. “I am glad to know who you are and where to find you if I ever have need of you.”

Bowing and tugging his forelock, the smith assured him that it would be an honor to serve him. Then he took his leave.

John Maccoll said, “My lord, if you’ll no be needing me more tonight, I’ll walk along with him. It’s time I were getting back up the glen home.”

Calder hesitated, but Diana said, “Thank you, John. Sir Neil will be along soon, so if his lordship decides he must go farther tonight, he’ll look after him.”

Maccoll nodded, frowning, then left with the smith.

When the door had shut behind the two, Diana said, “Why did you taunt the poor smith, Bardie? He means well, and he has an excellent reputation as a healer.”

“No so good as Mistress Mary’s,” Bardie said. “Moreover, he is a fool.”

“So you told him,” Diana said, “but there was no need to take him to task for speaking the Gaelic. We all understood him, after all.”

“Nay then, lass, his lordship doesna speak it, and it’s gey unmannerly tae speak a language your guest canna put his tongue round.”

“But he does too speak it,” Diana said.

At the same time, Calder said to Bardie, “How the devil did you know?”

Diana looked at him in surprise. “You said you had understood us!”

“No, mistress, you assumed that I did because I knew what you and your companions said after they attacked us. But how did you know I don’t, Bardie?”

Smiling, Bardie said, “If a man speaks the Gaelic easily and meets up wi’ a chappie like me in the woods, he’ll no start blathering English like ye did the day, for he’d no think a Highland dwarf could understand him. Either ye thought I would, or ye canna speak the Gaelic. The choice was unco clear, my lord.”

“Yes, I suppose it was,” Calder agreed with a grimace.

Diana said, “I don’t believe you. You must understand some.”

“I do, of course,” he admitted, “but not enough. I was fluent as a child, but I’ve not had to use it much since, you see. My man speaks it, but he is not with me every minute, so I want to gain a better command before I leave here. I find I don’t like being left out when others speak a language I don’t comprehend.”

“That’s how many folks hereabouts feel when the authorities babble English at them,” Diana pointed out.

“Then perhaps they should learn to speak English,” he said gently.

“If that isn’t just like a Campbell, to insist that people give up their native ways, right down to their native tongue, and take up the ways of their conquerors.”

“This will hurt a bit, my lord,” Mary said.

When he gasped at her touch, Diana’s irritation melted and she turned away, glad that Mary knew what she was doing. She was even more glad that she did not have to do it herself. She wanted to snatch him baldheaded sometimes, but the thought of really hurting him made her feel ill.

The calf’s plant stung enough to make him groan, but Mary said, “It will be over quickly, sir, and I promise you, it’s necessary. If the scratches putrefy, they will become far more painful than they are now.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “That stuff is liquid fire.”

“Bear up,” Diana said bluntly, wanting to divert his attention in much the same way she had diverted Neil from childhood pains. She need not have worried, however. A greater diversion came in the person of Ian, striding in from the kitchen.

“Mary, I’m sorry, I couldn’t get here sooner. I—” Seeing Calder, he broke off, clearly at a loss, then blurted, “Sir, I—Are … are you injured, cousin?”

“And here I thought you came rushing in to protect me from an enemy clan,” Calder said smoothly. “Clearly your interest in this household is greater than I had imagined, lad. Perhaps you had better explain it to me.”

The tense silence that fell must, Diana thought, have told him all he wanted to know, and may even have suggested much more.

A
S THE SILENCE LENGTHENED,
becoming almost palpable, Rory watched Ian narrowly. The lad was clearly disconcerted to see him, for he kept glancing awkwardly from one to another of the others in the room as if he hoped one of them would speak for him.

Bardie Gillonie grinned at him. Diana was watching Rory, and Mary had stopped with her hand halfway to his chest, holding the hot poultice she intended to place there. Her sympathetic gaze fixed on Ian, and it was she who recovered first.

“Ian calls here frequently, my lord,” she said matter-of-factly. “We stopped thinking of him as a Campbell long ago, I’m afraid. We have no argument with him.” Gently, she laid the poultice in place.

Rory stifled a groan. The damned thing was hot.

Ian collected himself visibly, enough to ask, “What happened to you?”

Rory began to tell him, but the others chimed in, in a near chorus, and he fell silent, letting them tell it while he watched Ian. Several times the lad looked at Mary, and his expression when his gaze fell upon her lovely countenance told Rory that he had guessed right about the true attraction at Maclean House. Instead of annoyance, he experienced a strange sense of relief, completely at odds with the strong loyalty he felt to his clan.

“Couldn’t handle a wildcat, eh?” Ian said at last, smiling at him.

“Mistress Diana said it was the largest one she had ever seen,” Rory said, breathing more easily as he became used to the poultice and it cooled a little.

“The cat was huge, Ian,” Diana said. Then, looking at Rory, she went on with a touch of acid in her voice, “I don’t know why you keep squirming, my lord. That poultice produces much less heat than a mustard plaster.”

“One does not, in general, lay a mustard plaster upon an open wound, lass.”

Bardie said, “He’s in the right about that, he is.”

Apparently deaf to their exchange, Ian said musingly, “Wildcats attack only when they feel threatened or if one provokes them. Why did you upset him?”

Glaring at him, Rory said, “I do wish people would stop taking sides with that fiendish cat. If it was stupid enough to drag its supper onto the path where a log hid it from anyone approaching, it deserved to get its tail trodden upon.”