DARE THE WILD WIND (12 page)

But she couldn't avoid another encounter with the Earl.  The following  morning a party of men rode through the gate, the Earl at their head, and Malcolm's presence forced her to greet him.        

Astride his gray stallion, Drake Seton made no move to dismount.  His bright hair glinted like minted gold in the sun, and his hawkish visage looked even more arrogant and predatory in the harsh morning light.  As Brenna descended the steps to the courtyard, his tawny eyes swept over her. 

"You appear a touch pale, Lady Brenna."  His tone was faintly mocking, but he scanned her face.  "Have you suffered some malady in my absence?"

"Only a lack of air and exercise," Brenna answered tartly.

He responded with a provoking laugh.  "I thought perhaps you'd languished for want of diversion."

Brenna bristled at the suggestion she found
Lochmarnoch Castle dull once he and his men were gone.  She met the challenge in his look.  "We've had more than enough diversion of late."

The corners of his mouth tightened.  "Then you don't find the spectacle on the moor instructive?"  His voice had a taunting edge.  "Four battalions are Loyalist Scots, not to mention the militia."

"Lowland Scots," Brenna shot back.  "And Clan
Campbell."   Her scorn for the first was in her voice, and not even an Englishman could be ignorant of the infamy of the Campbells.  The most powerful clan in Scotland, the Campbells had a bloody history, and they were cordially hated by all but their own.     

The Earl let out a short breath and turned to Malcolm.  "The Scots are so bent on fighting among themselves, the wonder is they have energy to spare to war with the Crown."

"A habit the King wisely does little to discourage," Malcolm fawned with a laugh. 

Brenna's face burned with anger.  Malcolm disgraced their father's memory.  Gordon  Dalmoral had been proud to be a Scot. 

A wooden cart rumbled and clattered into the courtyard, followed by a small escort of men.

The Earl twisted in his saddle.  "As you can see, Lord Dalmoral, the Duke was quick to accept your generous offer.  The stores you contribute will keep bellies full when we march."

"It's small sacrifice when my leg keeps me from active duty in service of the King," Malcolm said in a tone of pious regret.

Half a dozen clansmen jumped to load the cart, hefting sacks of oats and sides of cured beef from the castle's granary and larder.  Malcolm would leave their own rations lean.  New spring calves couldn't be butchered until first frost next fall, and it would be a long wait until harvest.  Huntsmen in the clan would be hard pressed to bring down enough venison to tide the villagers through the coming  months.  Sick and furious, Brenna wheeled to start back up the steps.  Drake Seton's voice stopped her.

"Perhaps Lady Brenna's temper would benefit from a brief outing."  She whirled back to face him.  "A horsewoman of your mettle must chafe at confinement inside castle walls."

It goaded Brenna that he could read her so well.  She couldn't in honesty deny it.  She did find the stone walls a prison when she couldn't ride out across the moors.  "Malcolm has forbidden it."

"These are dangerous times," Malcolm broke in defensively.  "Since the Rebel raid, I've doubled the guard at my gates and made certain my sister remains out of harm's way."

The Earl swung back to Malcolm.  "Lady Brenna should be safe enough in my company," he said smoothly.  "Unless you doubt the ability of my men to protect her?"

Malcolm had no choice but to consent.  "With your good right arm to defend her, my lord, I'm content."  He paused.  "If Brenna has any wish to go, I'll trust her to your care."

Clearly, Malcolm expected her to decline.  Even the Earl's expression told her it would be no surprise if she scorned his offer.  Then abruptly she knew a refusal would be a mistake.

"I'll accept your invitation, my lord," she said, though the words nearly stuck in her throat.  "Only tell a groom to saddle my horse, and give me time to change."

Before the Earl had a chance to gloat, Brenna ran up the steps and inside.  When she reached her chamber, she called out for Morag.  "Quick.  Bring my riding habit."   Morag's face betrayed her surprise.  Till now it had hung all but unused in her clothespress.  Brenna pulled at the laces of her gown.  "And my quilted petticoat.  The wadded silk."

Though her father had insisted Brenna be fitted for a riding habit on their last visit to
Inverness, she found it more confining than a simple gown and tartan on horseback.  But today Brenna would ride out of Lochmarnoch Castle in dress suited to her rank.  The Earl had won his point, but she wouldn't let him sneer at her rustic ways. 

Brenna was grateful that Morag helped her change without her usual grumbling and advice.  Hastily, she surveyed her reflection in the tall pier glass mirror by her bed.

Below the filmy lawn of the cravat at her throat, the closely
fitted waistcoat of the habit molded to the high swell of her breasts and emphasized her slender erect carriage.  A forest green velvet, the full skirt fell in soft folds over wide panniers.  At the dressmaker's, Brenna had laughed at the idea of hooped skirts on the back of a horse, but they did little to hinder her, even when propriety forced her to ride sidesaddle.

Brenna set a small tricorne hat atop her loosely
bound hair. Then she turned to embrace Morag.  "The Earl is waiting."

Morag's angular face was flinty and resigned.  "Take good care, my lady.  Show the Englishman how a true Dalmoral rides."

In the courtyard, she saw the Earl still sat astride his gray.  The groom had saddled Gypsy, and allowing the boy to help her mount, she gathered up the reins.  The Earl took in her costume and graceful seat in the sidesaddle with an approving glance. 

"You have a fine horse," he said.  "An Irish hunter?"

"A gift from
my father on my fifteenth birthday."

"And far too much of a pet," Malcolm interjected in an acid tone.  "A poor choice for a lightheaded young girl."

From the first, Malcolm had resented their father's gift.  His injury prevented him from sitting a spirited horse
, and it ate at him to see her manage Gypsy with such skill.

The Earl ignored her brother's sour remark.  "We should be off, now that Lady Brenna has joined us." 

He waved the first riders in their small procession toward the bailey's outer gate.  Then, leaving the laden wooden cart behind, they urged their mounts through the gatehouse and across the bridge over the moat, a guard of two more horsemen bringing up the rear.

Passing the huddle of thatched roofs below the castle, she greeted the villagers who called out to her, but made no effort to amuse the Earl.  Half a league separated the castle from the encampment on the moor, and the cart kept their pace slow.  Beneath her, Brenna could feel Gypsy restive and eager to run.  A week
and more without exercise had filled the mare with pent up energy, forcing Brenna to keep her under a tight rein. 

Why had he asked her to ride out with him?  Beside him, civil but distant, she answered only when he spoke.  Let him think her deadly dull.  As long as they didn't dispute over
Cam or the Prince, she could tolerate his company for an hour.

Though the first thaw of April had bared the moors, snow still swept in great white swaths across the distant peaks, and the soaring summit of Ben Rinnes towered to the south and east, crowning the Grampians.  Yesterday's rain had washed the sky of clouds, and a golden eagle soared high above in a brilliant blue sky.  In their path, Brenna picked out a family of black grouse scattering before them through the faded winter cover of grass and sedge tufting the wind
scoured plateau. 

The spring air was sharp with the scent of pine.  To her surprise, the Earl pointed out a
red deer darting from the birches that fringed the forest.  Starting at the sight of the camp on the open stretch of land below the castle, the doe plunged back through the birches and into the dark, dense cover of the pines.

Brenna broke her self
  imposed silence.  "Do you hunt, my lord?"

His smile twisted faintly with regret.  "When I have the leisure."

"And you're not making war?" she countered.

"When there are too many deer to forage through the winter on my estates," he corrected her.  "Do I have to remind you it was Charles Stuart who raised the clans against the King?"

Brenna knew it was pointless to debate the Stuart claim to the throne with the Earl. 

"Do you want me to deny it?" she said, reining Gypsy around a boggy patch directly ahead of them.  "Your king is a German, and Scots are loyal to their own."

She expected some new thrust, but he said nothing more until their horses found solid footing again.

"Did you speak the truth in the courtyard?"  Brenna shot him a surprised look.  "How have you fared with your brother since my men and I left Lochmarnoch?"

"Well enough," she answered, caught off guard by the question.  "He hasn't yet thought to put a bar on the door to my chamber."

"Or taken other measures?"  Despite his offhand tone, he glanced closely at her face.

"Do you think I'd lie for him if he had?" she asked.  "He's content to make threats and plan how he'll profit from his service to the Crown."    

The Earl let out a short laugh.  "He'll profit by keeping his title and his land."

More likely he'd lose both, if Charles Stuart exacted George
the Second's brand of justice.

"Malcolm has always been a fool.  He'll bring Lochmarnoch to ruin with all his schemes."

Drake Seton dismissed the idea with a derisive twitch of his mouth.  "Your brother's imagination is too limited for that."

They breasted the last rise above the Duke's camp, and all thought of Malcolm fled from Brenna's mind. 

The camp sprawled across the moor, acres of grass already trampled and churned to mud by hundreds of horses and the wheels of wagons and caissons bearing huge ugly guns.  The dark tartans of the Black Watch stood out in somber contrast to the scarlet of the British regulars, and men wearing the ordinary dress of Lowlanders squatted around cookfires or lay rolled in their half
  sodden blankets, snatching at sleep.  Through the smoke, Brenna already caught the stench of latrines hastily dug in the damp earth, and she looked away from a foot soldier who relieved himself in the open, careless of the approach of a woman on a horse.  But it wasn't the distant man's failed modesty that caused a stone to settle in the pit of her stomach. 

There were too many of them, a plague, a Biblical host.  Rumor had it that Charles Stuart commanded six thousand men.  Half again that number must be gathered on the moor.  At close quarters, no enemy could stand against the
Highland cry of Claymore and the scything path of a Scot's great sword.  But could even the valiant men Brenna loved prevail against so many?

The Earl had caught her expression.  "I take it you've never seen an army in the field.  Not the most beguiling of sights."

Brenna refused to admit her reaction.  "The Duke's men look wet and cold."

Drake Seton's answer was a tight grimace.  "One reason we're forced to pay regulars in the service of the King."

They had reached the outskirts of the camp, and the cart behind them broke off in the direction of the quartermaster's tent.  Picking their way toward a large, brightly
  awninged pavilion set apart from the rest on the moor, they left some of the rank scent of the camp behind them.  The Duke might pride himself on sharing his army's hardships, but he pitched his tent upwind of its more unpleasant smells.

They reined in before the royal pavilion just as a knot of officers emerged, a grossly corpulent man at their head.  In a uniform that marked his high rank, the enormous double
chinned man had a thick, brutish face and an over full mouth with a drooping lower lip.  With a shock, Brenna realized despite his obscene girth, he could only be in his middle twenties.  He had the commonplace look of a German burgher, but she knew he was the Duke of Cumberland.

"
Stratford," he boomed.  "What have you brought?"

Brenna felt his eyes measuring her like a calf at auction.  Sickening tales about him rushed back to her.  Had Drake Seton's show of kindness been a sh
am?  Had he acted the procurer in bringing her here?

The Earl quickly dismounted.  "Your Highness, allow me to present Lady Brenna, sister to your loyal baron, Lord Dalmoral.."

He reached up to help Brenna from her saddle, a warning in his eyes.  Stiffly, she allowed him to swing her down to the ground, her throat clogged with a sudden and cowardly lump of fear.

"Damn  me, Drake, but she's a pretty piece." 
Cumberland strode toward them, agile despite his bulk. 

Brenna dropped a wooden curtsy in front of him, longing to back away from the sight of him.        

"Well, miss, do you have a tongue to speak?" he asked, regarding her with startling, sharply intelligent eyes. 

Brenna swallowed.  "Right enough, Your Highness, when I have something to say."  The words had tumbled out, too swiftly for recall.  To her mixed relief and apprehension, the Duke's head rolled back and he bawled out with laughte
r.