Wolf, Joan

PART I

Scotland and England, 1745

He either fear his Fate too much,

Or his Deserts are small,

That puts it not unto the Touch,

To win or lose it all.

—James Graham, Marquis of Montrose

CHAPTER 1

The January day was cold and unusually windless. The brilliant blue Highland sky looked down on two figures riding sturdy hill ponies along the shores of Loch Morar. Suddenly a feminine voice called out, clear as a chime in the thin, cold air, "Can't catch me!" There came a whoop of joy from the other figure and the two ponies exploded into action.

Lady Vanessa MacIan laughed breathlessly as she led her brother on a chase along the hard white sand across pools of ice that glinted between rocks, down to the very edge of the water where the small white-crested waves rolled up onto the frozen shore. Her long black hair streamed out from under her Highland bonnet, the only sign that the slender figure in tartar trews and enveloping plaid was not a boy.

Niall cornered her against some rocks, tagged her, and whirled away, with Van giving chase this time. The dogs who were with them barked and jumped and raced alongside, delighted by the game. The riders finally subsided, both bent over gasping for breath The ponies' breath was steamy vapor in the cold air. The dogs, seeing the fun was over for the minute, went down to the water's edge to sniff around.

"We haven't played that game in years," Niall finally said.

"You haven't been home in years," Van retorted. "You were playing in Paris, not in Morar. And I'll wager you didn't play the same games in France, either, my dear brother."

Niall's face took on a look of exaggerated dignity. "I was in Paris for an education, not to play games, little sister."

Van's fine lips curled in a distinctly sardonic look. "You
were,"
she agreed ironically.

Niall grinned. "I did attend some lectures, you know." The two ponies began to walk side by side along the sand. "Alan was more diligent than I," he added with seeming casualness. He looked at his sister out of the corner of his eye.

"That doesn't surprise me," Van returned serenely.

"Father said this morning that the MacDonalds are coming to Morar tomorrow." Niall gave his sister another look.

"All of them?"

"Well, Lochaber and Lady MacDonald... and Alan." The Chief of Lochaber was a friend of Lord Morar's, and Alan MacDonald, his eldest son, had been at the University of Paris with Niall for the last three years. Niall went on, "We've been home only six weeks, and I've seen as much of Alan as I did in Paris."

"He must miss you," Van said imperturbably.

"It's not Morar's
son
that Alan is interested in," Niall returned mischievously. "For some unfathomable reason, Van dear, Alan is interested in you."

"And whom are you interested in?" Van asked, neatly turning the tables. She did not wish to discuss Alan MacDonald. "Who is this mysterious French lady who keeps sending you letters? Mother is getting worried. Home six weeks and you've already had three letters from Paris—and all in the same feminine handwriting."

Niall looked uncomfortable. "Nobody Mother need concern herself with," he mumbled.

"Oh?" Van gave him a shrewd look. "You're not in trouble, Niall, are you? Or gotten some wretched girl in trouble?"

"No! No, it's nothing like that." His handsome face, reddened with cold, looked more uncomfortable still. "It's just a girl I lived with in Paris," he said in a burst of confidence. "Dash it all, Van, she was a girl off the streets! I took her in and she kept house for me and cooked and... and... well, you know. When I left I gave her all the money I could spare. But she keeps writing how she loves me, and misses me..." His voice trailed off. "I wish she'd just leave me alone," he said after a minute.

Van felt a stab of pity for the poor little French girl "Is she in want of anything?" she asked.

"No. I left her a decent sum of money." He seemed to come to himself. "I shouldn't have told you al this," he said guiltily.

"On the contrary," Van replied, "it's a good thing you did. I'll reassure Mother. And the letters will stop after a while if you don't answer them." She looked at him curiously. "Didn't you care for her at all?"

"Care for her?" He looked surprised. "Well, she was pretty. And nice. And... convenient."

"I see," Van replied dryly. Poor little girl, she thought again. Niall had graced her with his good looks and his careless charm and had hardly even noticed her at all.

"I really
shouldn't
have told you that," Niall said, turning to look at her. "It's not at all the sort of story one should share with one's younger sister. The thing is..."

"Yes?" She looked at him a little haughtily. Van had always felt Niall's equal in everything.

"The thing is... you're not just a younger sister. You're a friend." Van looked up quickly and he grinned at her. Then he glanced at the sky. "Come on," he said. "If we're late to tea, Father will be furious."

Frances MacIan, Countess of Morar, found her husband waiting for her when she came into the drawing room for tea. She paused for a moment on the threshold to watch him as, back to her, he rearranged a log on the fire. Even after twenty-four years, she thought, her heart still caught at the sight of him.

The earl was dressed for evening in his good scarlet tartan kilt and black velvet coat. His dark hair, more gray now than black, was tied neatly back in a queue with a black velvet ribbon. He sensed her presence in the doorway and his head turned.

She smiled and came into the room. "Hello, darling."

He smiled back, his face softening as it did only for her. He answered her and they took their seats, speaking in English, as usual. Frances, although she had learned to speak Gaelic quite well, was more comfortable in her native tongue.

The tea table was laid as customary at a little distance from the fire. One could not sit too close to the drawing-room fire, no matter how cold the day. The fireplace opening was so wide that half a dozen people could stand there easily and the fire that burned in it was blazingly fierce.

Alasdair looked around and frowned. "Where are the children?" he asked. At that moment Niall came around the embroidered screen Frances had placed at the drawing-room door to keep the fire from dragging a huge draft across the room.

"Good evening, Mother," he said. "Good evening, Father."

Frances looked with pride and love at the figure of her son crossing the room toward her. Built like his father, of medium height, slim and strong, he was also dressed in a scarlet kilt and velvet jacket. The hair neatly tied at the nape of his neck was ebony black. He bent to kiss his mother's cheek and she looked up into his dark, fine-boned face. He took his seat and Frances poured him a cup of tea. Alasdair frowned again. "Where is Van?" he demanded.

On cue from the doorway came Van's voice. "Right here, Father." Three dogs came in with her, two Highland deerhounds and a spaniel. The dogs advanced toward the fire with dignity and took up what were obviously their usual places. Van sat down, and the earl and Niall, who had risen at her entrance, resumed their own seats.

Van was dressed for the evening as well in a gold satin evening dress. Her black hair was braided into crown on top of her head, leaving the lines of her jaw and throat and cheekbones clear and uncluttered.

She was so beautiful, Van, Frances thought as she gave her daughter her tea. So beautiful and so unaware of her beauty. Unlike her brother, who was all too conscious of the power of his careless smile.

They were so alike, her children. Both slim and dark, with the same fine bones, the same high-bridged straight nose and light eyes under coal-black brows and lashes. So alike and yet so different.

It was Van she worried for. Niall was comfortably placed in the male Highland society of his father. One day Niall would be chief, and he would be good at it. He had his father's example to follow. But Van... What was Van going to do with her life?

The huge fire crackled and a log fell. Alasdair said gravely, "I received a message today from Lochiel. Murray of Broughton is to be at Achnacarry on Friday."

Niall put his teacup down with a small click. His face was blazing. "Any news of the prince, Father?"

Alasdair's face did not mirror his son's excitement. "We will see on Friday," he replied. "I shall bring Lochaber as well, since he is to be here."

Van's great light eyes were fixed on her father. "Has Murray come from France, Father?"

"Aye," said Alasdair. "He has."

Frances suppressed a sigh. Ever since England had declared war on France over the Austrian succession, the Highland chiefs who were Jacobites had been hopeful of winning French aid to help restore the throne of Britain to the exiled Stuart king. Frances did not think anything would ever come of it, and she hated to see her husband wasting his hopes and his energies on such a futile cause, but she listened to him talk now and, prudently, said nothing.

She had known from the minute she met Alasdair MacIan, Earl of Morar, that he was a Jacobite. When the Stuart king, James II, had been dethroned in favor of James's daughter Mary and her husband, William of Orange, in 1688, the MacIan family, like most of the Highland clans, had declared for the Stuarts.

But England, it seemed, did not want the Catholic Stuarts. Rather than see the Stuarts return after Queen Anne's death, the English Parliament invited the German Elector of Hanover, a Protestant cousin of the Stuarts, to take the throne. The Highlands had risen in protest and, after an indecisive battle at Sheriffmuir, they had been put down ruthlessly by government troops. A number of peers had lost their heads.

Alasdair had fought at Sheriffmuir. Frances watched her husband now as he talked to his children, his dark, arresting head rimmed by the light of the fire, and her heart contracted for him. He had been twenty years old when, after Sheriffmuir, he and his father, the third earl, had been forced to flee to France for safety. The earl had died in France. Two years after Sheriffmuir the government had granted pardon to all exiled rebels and Alasdair had returned to Scotland. He had lived quietly ever since, administering his vast property, dispensing justice and charity to all his clan, the very model of an enlightened Highland chief.

But in his veins throbbed the passionate, vengeful, long-memoried blood of the Celt. He had not forgotten. And he had passed his loyalties and his dedication on to his children. For as long as there were schemes and plans to restore the Stuarts to the throne of Britain, the MacIans would be in them.

Alasdair, Niall, and Van had switched to Gaelic, unconscious most probably that they had changed languages. It was at moments like these that Frances was most conscious of being a stranger. It was not that she could not understand what her husband and children were saying—she understood Gaelic perfectly—but she could not feel what they were feeling. She was English, and the gentler, more moderate blood of the south ran in her veins.