Pride of the Clan (2 page)

Davey repeated to anyone who would listen that on his deathbed Duncan Ogilvie had made him swear an oath to deliver Margaret to Blair Castle, seat of the Earl of Atholl. She surmised it must have been on one of the rare occasions she hadn’t been keeping vigil in his chamber, helplessly watching him succumb to his grief.

“I am anxious to see Blair Castle,” Edythe gushed for the hundredth time as the wagon was slowly righted, no doubt thanks to Joss’s stout shoulder. Margaret pushed aside an unkind thought. Righting the wagon would have been an easier task without her aunt in it.

She hoped her obnoxious relative wouldn’t make too much of a spectacle in front of the titled folks of Atholl. There was Robert’s position as Master to consider. He was the grandson of an Earl, great-grandson of a king. She was determined to be a good wife, despite her betrothed’s apparent lack of interest. Whatever role the spouse of the Master of Atholl was expected to fulfill, she would learn it and make her husband proud.

“’Twill be good to see people again,” Edythe complained as the repaired wagon lurched slowly along the icy shores of what Uncle Davey had announced was Loch Tay. “We havna set eyes on a single soul since leaving Oban.”

Margaret stared out at the grey water through the front opening, refraining from pointing out that most sensible people likely deemed it lunacy to traverse the Scottish highlands in winter. She silently agreed it would be a relief to have someone else to talk to. Hopefully, Robert was a good conversationalist. She didn’t remember him as talkative, but then no one expected a grown man to converse with a bairn.

BLAIR CASTLE

Near Pitlochry, Perthshire, Scotland

Blair Castle seemed deserted when the men from clan Robertson arrived, steam rising from their steeds in the frigid air. Rheade was relieved. Protestations of innocence weren’t likely to convince his chieftain that anyone who lingered there wasn’t complicit in the murders.

The two hundred clansmen hastily mustered by his brother had travelled on foot behind them. They shifted booted feet and blew on fingertips, their collective breath haunting the eerily silent air shrouding the castle.

At a signal from Tannoch, the horde swarmed like ants in search of the Earl of Atholl and his grandson. Rheade was of the opinion they’d be better off heading north into the mountains, though he didn’t relish the prospect. He was already feeling the cold now he’d dismounted from Dubh. He missed the heat of his trusty stallion. With frozen hands shoved into the folds of his plaid, he made his way through one empty chamber after another, relieved to be out of the incessant sleet.

In time Tannoch returned from stomping around Comyn’s Tower, broadsword drawn. “Cowards have fled,” he spat, shoving his weapon back in its scabbard, his face thunderous.

“Thank God,” Rheade whispered to Logan, “else we’d have the bodies of all the servants to deal with.”

Logan stifled a guffaw, which earned him a glare from Tannoch. “Think this is funny, do ye?” their chieftain growled. “Organize a search party. I want every nook and cranny of this cursed place ransacked. If Walter Stewart is hiding in this castle with his
fyking
grandson, I want them rooted out.”

Rheade deemed it highly unlikely the killers would have remained at Blair Atholl given their failure to rally fellow Scots to their cause. The castle would be the first place pursuers would look.

As Logan gathered men, Tannoch’s demeanor softened slightly. “Be wary, Logan. The Earl might be auld, but he’s got nothing to lose. He must be aware by now he’s a hunted man since he’s failed to gather widespread support for the assassination. I dinna want the blood of my youngest brother on his hands, too.”

Logan exchanged a glance with Rheade, smiled weakly, then strode off with his men.

Rheade wondered what task he’d be assigned and if Tannoch cared a whit about his blood being spilled. They’d never gotten along. Rheade didn’t understand why.

“Rheade,” Tannoch bellowed, brandishing the axe he gripped in his right hand. “Take men and search down to Loch Tummel. I’ll go north, into the Grampians. And remember, they’re to be captured alive. Fire the castle before ye leave.”

Rheade glanced back at the imposing edifice. “Might we not want to keep it intact? It will make a fine headquarters, and once the Earl is caught and executed, his lands will go to someone.”

Tannoch’s greedy mind quickly grasped his meaning. “Aye,” he replied gruffly, before turning his horse north.

As he watched his chieftain ride off towards the mountains, Rheade shrugged. No use expecting his brother to utter the words
ye’re right
.
 

It was typical of Tannoch to want the glory of tracking down the assassins. It was the reason he’d sent Logan on a fruitless search of a castle he’d already established was empty, and ordered Rheade down to Loch Tummel, alongside which ran a main road they’d just traversed. “Atholl must have a death wish if he’s hiding there,” he murmured under his breath, then chuckled at his own remark. “Of course, only a man driven by a death wish would murder a king.”

Rheade was as anxious as Tannoch for the regicides to be captured and executed. He had no great love for James Stewart, a cruel and greedy monarch. But a king was a king, and murder was murder. There had to be some rule of law.

Logan reappeared from the Tower and gazed forlornly at the line of men snaking its way into the Grampians. “Yonder’s where he’s more likely to track them down,” he said.

“Aye,” Rheade replied. “Sooner him than us. February isn’t a time to be trekking in the mountains. The Earl and his cronies might freeze to death. Come on, let’s away to Loch Tummel, although I expect only fools will be abroad on the road in these dangerous times.”

~~~

Gripping the side of the wooden cart, Margaret poked her head out of the front of the stiff canvas shelter. “Don’t ye consider it surprising there’s no one on this road?” she shouted to her uncle over Shaon’s shoulder.

Davey turned around in the saddle, and she almost laughed out loud. The incessant sleet had let up, but the frigid air had turned her uncle’s hair, moustache and bushy eyebrows white. He looked like a mountain hermit. Trying her best not to let her amusement show, she rushed on. “This seems to be a main road along the loch, and I believe I espy the castle up in the foothills.”

Her uncle glowered, but it was Shaon who spoke. “Aye. Joss remarked some time ago there’s few travelling. He’s got a strange feeling something’s not right.”

“Poppycock,” Uncle Davey shrieked. “The man canna speak more than two words. How could he tell ye such a thing?”

Margaret shivered and not only from the cold. Her late father had respected what he called Joss’s
sixth sense
. The man had hinted at dire tidings before news came of her brothers’ drowning.

“How much further?” Aunty Edythe whined. “I am frozen to the bone.”

Margaret looked to Shaon, but wished she hadn’t. The usual half smile was gone. He brought the wagon to a stop. Joss gripped his brother’s arm, his face ashen. Uncle Davey ambled on, until he seemed to realize the wagon had halted.

Everyone looked down the rutted road. In the near distance, a horde of men marched in formation toward them. Two mounted warriors led them.

“Highlanders,” Shaon said. “Don’t seem to be in no hurry.”

Uncle Davey wheeled his mount and came level with the wagon. “Remain hidden,” he growled to the women. “I’ll deal with this. Probably the Earl’s men patrolling the environs.”

Butterflies took wing in Margaret’s belly. For a sennight they’d met no one. Now with Blair Castle in sight—

She rolled the bottom of the canvas up far enough to allow her to crouch down in the wagon and spy on what was transpiring. As the newcomers came closer, she grew more nervous. The stern set of every jaw and the quantity of weapons each man carried spoke of an army on a mission. “They seem heavily armed,” she whispered to Aunty Edythe. “And angry.”

Her aunt pulled her away from the canvas. “Keep out of sight,” she urged.

Margaret sensed remaining hidden would be impossible.

One of the leaders of the approaching column was a youth. Abruptly, the other man called a halt, as if he’d just noticed them.

Her heart careened around her ribcage. The men-at-arms who’d worked for her father were mostly strong and rugged, many of them mercenaries. But they had proven to be men with no loyalty who’d quickly abandoned the Ogilvie estate after Duncan’s death.
 

None had ever taken her breath away. The tall man studying their wagon had a mischievous face, but in her imaginings devils were dark. This Highlander’s long, sandy hair cascaded over his broad shoulders. His stubbled chin suggested he hadn’t shaved for a day or two.

She wriggled out of the blanket, suddenly overheated.
 

Edythe scowled. “Wheest!” she hissed, gathering more of the wrappings around her legs.

Margaret had no notion of how many minutes went by. It was as if they were opposing sides frozen in some peculiar game of chess on a rocky landscape. A rickety wagon, driven by two auld men and escorted by an elderly knight mounted on a tired gelding, faced off against a heavily armed band of warriors led by a tall, well-muscled Highlander on a black warhorse.
 

Cold
seemed to be a word he was unfamiliar with, though his saffron
léine
had ridden up over his knees. His feet were shod in leather boots, his calves sheathed in woollen socks. She soon regretted noticing his knees as every drop of saliva mysteriously disappeared from her mouth.

She should look away as he separated from the pack, but her gaze seemed to be locked on the long, powerful legs hugging the horse’s flanks.

A warm-looking woollen brown plaid draped over one shoulder was held in place at his breast by a distinctive brooch, the like of which she’d never seen before. Gold by the look of it, clover shaped.

Surprisingly, her uncle didn’t flinch as the warrior approached, followed closely by the younger man. The youth had similar features and coloring. Possibly brothers.

Edythe whimpered, her face buried in the blanket.

“Greetings,” Uncle Davey rasped when the Highlander reined his impressive stallion to a halt in front of him.

The devil narrowed his eyes at Davey, then turned his attention to the wagon. “
Fàilte
,” he finally responded in the welcome of the Gaels, but there was no warmth in his words.

Margaret closed her eyes tight shut as his husky voice wafted into her ears, melting her rigid spine. She blinked them open quickly when a peculiar twinge caused muscles in a private place to clench. She had a lunatic urge to stretch like a contented cat.

As the Highlander moved to the other side of the wagon she lost sight of him and came dangerously close to shrieking with exasperation.

“Who are ye, and what is yer business here?” he asked. Her belly lurched. His tone had gone from suspicious to belligerent. She suddenly wished she hadn’t thrown off the blanket, but didn’t dare try to retrieve it.

“I am Sir David Ogilvie, bound for Blair Castle.”

Her uncle’s steady and calm voice had her believing for a moment her father had joined them.

The sound of metal hissing on metal caught her unawares. Someone had drawn a sword.

“A conspirator,” another voice yelled.

Rumbling grunts echoed in the mob of men only yards away.

Her aunt raised her head and they frowned at each other, neither understanding what was going on. Margaret dug her fingernails into the wood of the wagon.

“Put up yer broadsword, Logan,” her devil commanded, a hint of amused disdain in his voice. “Do these auld men look like assassins?”

“Why else would they be headed for Blair Castle?” Logan asked.

Margaret peeked again under the edge of the canvas as the warrior inched his horse closer to Davey. Her uncle’s gelding shied nervously. “Indeed. What have ye in the wagon?”

“Ye have yet to reveal yer identity, sir,” her uncle replied. Edythe stopped whimpering. She too must have heard the note of fear in her husband’s voice as he struggled to control his horse.

“I am Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson, brother of Tannoch, chief of Clan Robertson of Dunalastair, direct descendants of the first King Duncan,” the Highlander replied, his proud words startling into flight the winged creatures that had begun to settle in Margaret’s belly. “I am charged with the apprehension of the regicides who murdered King James Stewart.”

The butterflies metamorphosed into a hissing adder coiled around her innards.

“The King is dead?” Davey exclaimed, making the sign of his Savior across his body.

Joss lurched to his feet and wailed like a wolf baying at the moon, his arms rigid at his sides. Shaon tried unsuccessfully to calm him. The carthorse grew nervous and pulled the wagon forward. Margaret attempted to stand but lost her balance and fell against her aunt who let out a loud shriek.

Someone regained control of the horse, bringing the wagon to a halt.

“Ye have passengers,” Rheade Robertson said, his voice once again edged with annoyance. “Show yourselves,” he shouted.

“I must protest,” Davey spluttered. “This is outrageous. We are not assassins. We have travelled from Oban. My wife and I are escorting my niece, Margaret, to her betrothed.”