Chapter Four

Having corralled the MacLeod men into Iain’s study and the strong rooms arrayed on either side, Duncan took a deep breath and strode down the tower staircase, the leather soles of his boots scuffing against stone. The MacLeods had grumbled and postured about wanting a swipe at the Campbells, but ’twas bluster. For now. He just needed to keep the two clans separated.

A forceful reminder that this was not MacLeod territory—’twas MacCowan and thus MacDonell land—mollified the warriors. The promise of food and whisky also didn’t hurt.

How he’d have the kitchen staff fulfill that promise without the Campbells seeing them as they came up from the kitchens and continued up the next flight, he didn’t know, but he’d manage it. Somehow.

Curiosity powered his steps as well. The MacLeods appearing was nothing extraordinary. But the Campbells of Strachur?

He descended the last step from the staircase and entered the great hall as the first Campbell crossed the threshold from the main doors, stomping his boots free of mud. Duncan caught Iain’s gaze and signaled that he’d return momentarily, motioning to the kitchens below.

Iain acknowledged with a nod. Duncan calmly circled to the next flight down, but as soon as he was out of sight, he hustled around the last curve and into the kitchens. He stooped, for the ceilings were lower here, though technically not that low. Still, it was dark and dank, and the barrel-vaulted ceilings always felt as if they pressed down on him. Shaking off the oppressive feeling, he crossed to the first main room holding the ovens.

Catching the attention of the head cook, he gave his instructions with an admonition to hide the supplies as they sent servers upstairs.

That accomplished, Duncan rushed back upstairs, legs burning from the strain. He’d wanted to return to full strength, hadn’t he? He crossed the hall to the empty chair next to Gavin and near Iain, noting how none of their clan sat at the tables save for Iain and the other leaders. ’Twas so quiet, the noises of Iain’s favorite hound filled the hall as he cracked and slurped on a bone.

“Ah, there ye are, Duncan.” Iain smiled and swept a hand toward the grave men seated before him. “This is Archibald Campbell and his party. They were relaying their greetings.”

Duncan nodded politely. Despite being Highlanders, these men were dressed in the unmanly fashion favored by some Lowlanders. Lowlanders who, in turn, curried favor by mimicking the dress and habits of the Sasannaich—justacorps with elaborate, ridiculous pockets, and breeches. Their wigs were higher too, powder skittering to the table at any movement. How they could look at each other and not laugh was beyond him. Bunch of kale-eaters. They’d just arrived by horse for pity’s sake. Did they stop prior to their arrival and change for this audience?

Archibald steepled his hands against his chin. “We’ll not be staying long. We must make Invermoriston before nightfall. However, we had more to our purpose than greeting the new chieftain of the MacCowans.” In keeping with his pretensions, he spoke in the Sasannaich tongue, his tone measured and condescending.

Iain simply nodded for him to continue, uncowed by the Campbells’ transparent attempts to overawe and intimidate with their frippery and wealth.

“Your clan was absent at the Battle of Perth, though we are aware you fought under your old chieftain at Killiecrankie and not for King William. Is the absence from Perth a sign you hold different views from your uncle?”

Iain kept his posture relaxed. “What views are we speaking of exactly?”

“Come now.” Archibald set down his wine goblet with a decided thunk, the lace at his cuff catching droplets of red wine. “You’re being unnecessarily coy. Are ye for King William and Queen Mary, or are ye for that deserting Catholic devil? Already I’ve heard Campbell of Glenorchy has proved a traitor and declared for James. Goes with the wind, that man.”

Duncan held back a smirk. No doubt where this Campbell stood, if they’d had any doubts. But the news about Glenorchy had not yet reached them.

Iain would have to tread carefully. There was a reason clan chiefs like the MacDonells of Glengarry, whom they paid manrent to, had their sons at Killiecrankie and Perth while the chief stayed at home. Either way the rebellion went, the clan could claim to be on the winning side and keep their lands intact and thus their people safe.

Iain had no heirs to play the game that way, though.

Iain cleared his throat. “I was only made chieftain a short time ago, as you know. I must tend my clan, not bandy about the countryside. At the moment, I have much to see to.”

Smart answer.

Archibald Campbell narrowed his eyes, no doubt calculating how best to pick apart that equivocal reply. However, Duncan was prevented from seeing Archibald’s response—Lochloinn caught Duncan’s gaze from along the wall, Gille by his side.

Duncan stood, his chair scraping across stone echoing in the quiet hall. “Excuse me. It was a pleasure seeing you. I have some business to attend to elsewhere.” In the new hierarchy, Gavin was Iain’s right-hand man—his presence was necessary, whereas Duncan was free to handle these disturbances.

He strode to Lochloinn’s side and motioned for them to precede him to the doors outside. Once out of earshot, Gille gave his news. “Dundee’s here.”

Shock momentarily rooted Duncan to the stone steps. “Viscount Dundee?”

Gille’s face was set in grim lines. “As I live and breathe.”

Duncan whirled around, facing the shore as if he could see, and shield, the great man. “Holy Mother.”

“With two attendants,” Lochloinn said. Together, they marched across the wooden bridge which led to the shoreside island where they sparred. The rain had ceased. In its place was a sharp wind.

Duncan wrapped the upper folds of his féileadh around his shoulders. “Brave to travel the countryside with such a small escort.”

Lochloinn loaded a lead ball and powder into his pistol as a precaution. Not against Dundee, but in case they were called to his defense. “Well, it is Dundee.”

“And with the Strachur Campbells here.” Like most Campbell clans, this branch was a stout supporter of King William. They’d torch their wigs for a chance to march a traitor—as they viewed Dundee—to London. The loss would cripple King James’s cause. But to find him here? On MacCowan land? The fine hairs on the back of Duncan’s neck pricked as a chill, more biting than the wind, swept up his bones. All of Iain’s neutral posturing would be exposed for the lie it was.

He pointed to Gille. “The three of us are taking his lordship fishing.”

“Fishing?” Gille looked appalled at the suggestion of escorting such a noble man on such a mundane task.

“Aye, fine day for it, is it not?”

Understanding dawned, and Gille winked. “The fish are jumping at that.”

“Can ye run ahead then and ensure the larger of our currachs is ready? We’ll pick up his lordship and his attendants and take them out onto the loch. But we must make haste.” He thumbed behind him. “The Campbells are leaving soon. I need not tell ye that that is a meeting we wish to avoid.”

To be safe, Duncan instructed Gille to row their party round the island farthest into the loch—the one housing the living quarters of the Dungarbh fortifications. From there they could see the causeway and would know when the Campbells departed.

Across from him, gamely holding a fishing rod in his noble hands, was the architect of the rebellion. The morning’s rain had left behind loch waters silver and still, with a rainbow arcing over the eastern end and a backdrop of smoke-gray, agitated clouds promising more rain before the day ended.

Curiosity burned through Duncan, and he risked voicing his thoughts. “We heard tale of your decisive victory at Perth.”

Dundee cast his line and grimaced. “Near thing, that. We barely reached it before MacKay showed with four hundred cavalry. I dared not believe reports of MacKay’s death, and well it is that I did not.” With his line set, he looked to Duncan. “With Campbell of Glenorchy finally declaring for us, we can hold Perth and still advance on Edinburgh. Especially with the promised Irish troops and more clans.”

And if they could hold Edinburgh, they could send for the rightful king.

“The rebellion is fortunate to have such a leader as yourself.” Duncan pulled a corner of his bonnet lower to block the afternoon’s rays.

“Aye.” Lochloinn cast his own line. “Ye manage to keep all the chiefs and chieftains in line instead of exchanging blows, ye do. The only other man who might manage such is Lochiel. But even then, I’m not sure.”

Dundee grunted, while behind him Gille showed himself to be an opportunist—he pulled his lightly checked féileadh around his head and hunkered down for a nap.

“I’ve left Lochiel in charge of the main army while I attend to ancillary affairs. He’ll manage fine. I mean to visit the clans of the Isles who have not joined us. Rumors of the Episcopalians in the Northeast finally committing give me hope as well.”

After that, Dundee remained quiet, and Duncan touched his healing shoulder, rubbing it through the layers of cloth. Not for the first time, he was grateful to have spared this bullet from their leader.

Dundee pulled up his fishing pole and grabbed his line. “I didn’t expect to actually catch anything.” Amusement colored his words. He deftly pulled in the line, revealing the bright pink and silver scales of a fat arctic char, writhing back and forth on its hook. Dundee swiftly detached the fish and tossed it into the wicker basket. He baited his hook and cast his line again.

“What are your chances of securing the loyalty of the island clans?” Duncan refrained from mentioning that Dungarbh housed, even now, one of those clans. That decision, and possible facilitation, was for Iain and the MacLeods to make.

Fish apparently forgotten, Dundee turned his shrewd, penetrating gaze on Duncan. It was no surprise he commanded loyalty from all those he met. His gaze, his posture, his very air exuded confidence and strength. “Better. Our success has finally convinced King James to fulfill his promise of troops. Which will hopefully be the final argument I’ll need for those still hesitating.”

“Will that be enough?”

“Who can say, but can you blame them for not joining sooner when their own king doesn’t fully commit?” He shook his head in disgust. “That small contingent of Irish troops he’d sent for Killiecrankie was not even close to his promised number. And pitiful, unarmed, hungry ones at that.”

Lochloinn pulled in another char, adding it to their catch. “But he’s promised more now, has he? That’s good.”

Dundee nodded and adjusted his line. “After my tour of the Isles, I am to meet a fresh contingent—the full, promised complement. If we can maintain pressure—keep the Williamites on the defense here in the Highlands and subdue them in the Lowlands—we can at least install the king in Scotland.”

As long as that king kept out of Highland affairs and broke up the overreaching power of the Argyll Campbells, Duncan would be happy.

Lochloinn elbowed him. “There’s the Campbells departing.” He pointed.

All turned to the far shore and watched as the over-preened party strode down the causeway and untied their mounts. When they’d disappeared over the hill, Duncan turned to Dundee. “It’s safe for ye now, my lord.” He nodded to Gille, who’d awakened, and together they rowed his lordship to the dock. Duncan was only too glad to turn Dundee over to Iain’s capable hands.

Fiona pushed open the heavy oak door into Iain’s weapons room-study, its hinges creaking and giving her the heebie-jeebies. She’d been exploring the castle when she’d been summoned to appear here. Immediately.

So far, the clan had been welcoming, tolerant of her strange manners, and grateful she knew enough Gàidhlig to act as Traci’s translator. But when her translation skills weren’t required, she took the opportunity to explore. Who wouldn’t? She was in a friggin’ seventeenth-century castle in the seventeenth century—not touring the complex hundreds of years later when it was all crumbly. She took note of the architecture, what rooms were used for what, and avidly watched the various artisans at work. It was like being at a living history center, but better.

Yesterday, she’d even seen an honest-to-God rainbow arcing over the eastern end of the loch. She’d stood on the wooden bridge between two islands and got chills witnessing its perfect beauty, the mountains rising on either side and its colors partially reflected in the loch. She’d never seen a full rainbow before. She’d happened to glance over and see a fishing boat floating idly. So tranquil. So idyllic. Then recognition dawned—one of the fishermen was Duncan. Did he admire the rainbow as well?

Catching glimpses of him in her wanderings happened too often. She’d usually dive into whatever crowd was nearby to avoid him and instead feast on the activities around her. She knew the castle’s inhabitants found her curiosity strange. Surely she hadn’t worn out her welcome, had she? Overhanging her explorations, though, was the knowledge that her time here grew shorter—soon she’d have to shadow Duncan to Urquhart castle and fulfill the legend.

That weighty, heady knowledge—while exciting—had an uncertain, scary edge, because there was one point the legend was unclear about—whether Duncan lived.

Gathering her courage, Fiona stepped into the room. Racks of weapons lined one wall, while along two other walls rose bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound books and ledgers. A stout oak table swallowed one end, and her immediate trepidation eased somewhat seeing Traci next to Iain. Her translation services were required. Duncan, as well as Gavin, Malcolm MacLeod, and the main emissary of the MacLeods, were arrayed around the large table as well.

Her concern creeped back on noticing the MacLeod emissary decked out in formal but odd attire. Seriously, the dude had on one of those powdered wigs, and his “jacket” was made of a bunch of vertical strips, with a crisp, white shirt poofing out between the slats.

Iain stood and motioned her inside, a big smile on his friendly face, but she knew him well enough to note a walking-on-eggshells air about him. “Have a seat. We have something to discuss with you, we do.”

Duncan kept his gaze trained anywhere but on her. Malcolm, however, looked her up and down and gave a small nod of welcome.

Traci mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

Okay then.

Fiona blew out a breath and sat down in the only chair available, a heavily carved oak armchair with no cushions. And? It faced everyone. Like she was on trial. Oh boy.

If she puked from nerves, would she have worn out her welcome then? She straightened her spine and resolved not to look at Duncan. Clearly, he regretted their handfasting, and she’d be damned if she behaved like some lovesick teenager.

Iain clapped a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Malcolm MacLeod approached me with a proposition. You’re unfamiliar with some of our customs, so I wish to make ye aware of what’s expected and what’s in your control.”

Fiona swallowed, her throat tightening. “Thank you.” I think.

She darted her gaze to Traci, who mouthed what looked like, I’ve got your back, but she wasn’t positive. Regardless, Fiona knew she did. She’d proved it. But what the hell was going on?

Iain cleared his throat, the sound filling the room as if it were trying to chase away the palpable tension. “Malcolm is one of the leading tacksmen with the MacLeod of Skye, and he wishes to further strengthen the alliance between our two clans. Specifically by marriage. With you.”