A Slip In Time (36 page)

As he handed it to Lilith, her mouth
curled, her eyes narrowing catlike and shifting to
Julia.

“Pity Mr. Dilcox couldn’t attend. He
carried quite a torch for you, dear cousin. He would have made you
a good match. But, then, he abandoned Dunraven so abruptly.”
Smugly, Lilith sipped her punch.

“Dill-cock? Is that a rooster?” Rae’s
deep voice sounded behind Julia.

She glanced to the reflection in the
window and saw that Rae towered behind her. Oh Lord, this was not
good, not good at all. Looking back, she saw Lord Eaton had paled a
shade or two, and Lilith’s jaw sagged most unbecomingly. Rae
continued, seemingly unaware of their distress.

“Och, Julia, I canna see ye bound tae
a hen yard with a plucky little Dill-cock chasin’ after ye, no’
when ye might soar wi’ eagles. Scotland boasts the verra finest and
most rare. They are golden, if ye remember.”

Julia did remember — the golden eagle
that had soared above them at the Falls of Glendar, the day they
pledged their love to one another. As Rae stepped to stand beside
her, she hoped most sincerely he would keep his sense of
humor.

“Pray tell, who are you?”
Lord Eaton scanned Rae’s full length, taking in his outdated
garments and hair. “Or, rather,
what
are you? Have we
met?”

Rokeby chose that moment to join them
and spoke at Lord Eaton’s ear before turning to the table’s fare.
With a self-satisfied look, Rokeby popped an olive in his mouth and
crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for the entertainment to
continue.

“So, you are one of the
distinguished
Society
members.” Lord Eaton continued to regard Rae as though he
were some oddity, and as if not quite believing his claim. “Unusual
group of men, you fellows — brilliant to the extreme, but, might I
say, a trifle eccentric? But here you’ve gone to great lengths to
play the part of a fifteenth-century Highlander.”

“I dinna play parts,” Rae retorted,
his tone grown cold and edged with warning.

Roger did not take the
hint. “No, of course not. You don’t look the sort to play games.
Rokeby says your garb is authentic to the period. Not terribly
impressive, is it?” He gave a small laugh and looked to those
gathering about them, then back again. “But, where is your
claymore? Surely, you can’t be a
real
Highlander without a claymore
at your hip.”

“I am real, I promise ye,
more than ye’d ever wish. And I dinna wear m’
claidheamh mor as
I didna think tae
hae need o’ it.” His voice dropped low, deadly. “Mayhap, I was
mistaken.”

“Ho! A ready wit, everyone, keen as
his blade, quick for a parry and thrust.” Eaton laughed nervously
and took several steps back.

Rae matched him step for step, advancing
forward.

“A Scotsman’s sword doesna
waste time tae
parry
or
thrust
,
but simply slashes to its mark and cuts it straight
down.”

As Rae backed Lord Eaton against the
table, Eaton drew a finger around his collar, exposing four neat
rows of nail marks there. He took a swallow in the face of Rae’s
menace. Julia hoped he realized at last Rae’s utter seriousness and
that he would deign to keep his tongue in his mouth.

“You know, I don’t recall your
arriving at Dunraven.” Lord Eaton tempered his tone. “Nor did
anyone advise me of it. What did you say your name was?”

“Mackinnon. Rae Mackinnon. Remember
it.”

Blessedly, Lord Muir joined them as did his
colleagues of the Society. Julia prayed they would intervene and
promptly.

Lord Muir cleared his throat. “My
associate arrived during the night, Roger. I’m surprised you didn’t
meet him then. That was you tiptoeing past my door early this morn
was it not?”

“Roger?” Lilith cocked a hand on her
hip, her look darkening.

Lord Muir turned to Rae. “Allow me to
introduce you to my nephew, Roger Dunnington.”

Rae scowled, appearing not at all
happy to learn of Roger’s identity as that of a blood relative to
Lord Muir.

“You are a Mackinnon, you say? Surely,
not from these parts.” Lord Eaton considered Rae with renewed
interest.

“Aye, I grew up in these verra
mountains.”

“How extraordinary. I didn’t know
there were any Mackinnons left in Glendar. Jove, if you truly are
a Mackinnon from round about, then perhaps there is blood between
us.”

“If no’ now, there will be, I promise
ye.”

“What did I tell you?” Rokeby gave a
laugh. “He plays the part of the brusque Highlander to
perfection.”

“I told ye, I dinna play
parts. Especially wi’ a
sassenach
wearin’ a fresh cut on his lip and a woman’s
scratches on his neck.”

The wail of bagpipes sounded that
instant, causing everyone to leap in place, everyone except Rae
Mackinnon who continued to fix Lord Eaton with his fiery
gaze.

To Julia’s enormous relief, Angus
appeared outside the conservatory, visible through the glass and
drawing the attention of all as he intoned a rich lament on his
pipes.

Sir Henry, Mr. Armistead, Mr. Thornsbury,
and Mr. Galbraith surrounded Rae and coaxed him outside onto the
grounds. Julia followed with Lord Muir, anxious that Rae and Lord
Eaton be kept apart.

As she joined Rae, she saw the stark
frustration in his eyes. He wished to right the offense dealt her,
she knew, his sense of justice unappeased. But his was a sense of
Highland justice and retribution embraced long ago, and that
worried her deeply.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Please,
Rae, it’s over and done. Lord Muir is aware of everything and
watches over me when you are not here. Please, let this
lie.”

Rae sighed heavily, his
hands clenching and unclenching. Finally he nodded his head in
agreement. “Ofttimes, a man brings his own destiny down upon his
head. Roger Dunnington will no’ need my help, though I’d giv’ it
tae
him in a trice.”

As the pipes’s mournful strains filled
the night, Julia looked to the star-studded sky and the glowing
moon, nearly but not quite full. Gazing on its frayed and shrinking
edge, her heart shrank a little, too. It reminded her all too
keenly that, like the moon, her time together with Rae continued to
wane each day, dwindling to a fated and uncertain
future.

Julia snuggled deeper into the downy comfort
of the great bed, vaguely aware of Betty tiptoeing into the
chamber.

Cracking open an eye, she discovered
the morning’s pale light softly illumining the room.

“Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to wake
you.” Betty adjusted the curtains, sealing out the sun’s rays.
“Rest as long as you please. Most in the castle are still asleep. I
doubt they’ll be stirring for hours.”

“Mmmm. Thank you, Betty, I think I
will.” Julia hugged the pillow next to her.

She drifted on a thin layer of sleep, then
came hazily awake, sensing a presence. Dragging open her eyes, she
found Rae gazing down on her.

He smiled his wonderful, heart-catching
smile, then held up the key to the chamber door, giving her to know
he had locked it. Without a word, he slipped the key under the
pillow beside her. Unbelting his plaid and removing his shirt, he
joined her, moving atop her as she opened her arms in welcome.

Later, much later, Julia stirred once
more, having fallen asleep after a leisurely morning of loving, and
making love, with Rae.

She smoothed the vacant pillow beside her,
where Rae had rested not long before. The whole of their time
together had been one of appearances and disappearances. Still, she
could not grow accustomed to it.

He had not hurried their intimacies
this morn in any way, but after they had spent their passions in
exquisite ecstasy, he told her he must leave. Concerns embroiled
Dunraven, he would not say what, and there were also details
pertaining to his brother’s upcoming marriage to which he must
attend. He would “need be away” for several days, perhaps
more.

He read her disappointment, gave his
love to her once more, then, sometime after she’d fallen asleep
beside him, took his leave.

The sting of that disappointment pricked
Julia anew. Each day together had grown so precious. She could not
bear to lose even one. They both knew he must go, however. Rae was
laird of Dunraven with responsibilities to his own people, in his
own time.

A quick, light tapping drew Julia’s
attention to the door. At Betty’s voice, Julia realized the door to
still be locked. Pulling on her gown, she searched for the key
beneath the pillow, then, finding it, quickened across the
room.

“Forgive me, miss.” Betty huffed for
breath as though she’d just run up a flight of stairs. “I didn’t
wish to wake you, but Lord Muir asks that you come to the upper
library as soon as possible. Another visitor has arrived. I think
he is a Society man.”

“Thank you, Betty.”

With her maid’s assistance, Julia
freshened herself, changed into a simple frock, and swept up her
hair, all the while thinking it a shame their new guest had missed
last night’s festivities.

Happy of heart, her skin still
tingling with the touch of Rae’s love, she left the chamber and
turned into the Long Gallery. There, Angus waited to escort her
above.

This she deemed odd, but he greeted her
cordially enough, despite his grave look. But when was it not, she
told herself, staving off a sudden unease. Progressing down the
gallery, they mounted the stairs to the upper floor and proceeded
to the library.

An inordinate silence greeted her. The
men rose from their chairs around the table, excepting Lord Muir,
who stood gazing out the window. At first, she thought he did not
realize she’d entered, then wondered if he was simply lost in the
depths of his thoughts.

Angus left her side and went to the marquis.
He spoke quietly at his ear. When Lord Muir brought his gaze from
the window, he appeared to have aged years overnight, his eyes
rimmed with red.

Again, Julia looked to the other men and
found their aspects to be equally sober. The heavy silence
continued to hang over the room like a pall.

Sir Henry broke the tension, coming
forward and ushering her to a place at the table. “Miss Hargrove,
allow me to introduce another of our associates, Mr. Alan
Galbraith. He arrived a little over an hour ago from
Inverness-shire.”

Julia’s gaze shifted to a man she’d
not noticed till now, standing toward the back of the chamber. He
was younger than the rest, perhaps in his fifties, bespeckled and
of modest stature.

“I am pleased to make your
acquaintance, Miss Hargrove.” Mr. Galbraith nodded
courteously.

“We have kept close correspondence
with Mr. Galbraith and apprised him of the unfolding events here at
Dunraven,” Sir Henry continued. “He delayed joining us when word
reached him of new information concerning the Mackinnons of
Glendar. He traveled to Moidart to review it personally and comes
directly to us from there now. Moidart is the ancient seat of the
Clanranald chieftains. But please, my dear, please have a
seat.”

A knot began to form in Julia’s
stomach, for still the others looked long of face and solemn as the
grave. “Clanranald, you say?”

“Yes. Mr. Galbraith has followed up on
the information you provided, that Donald Mackinnon married a young
woman named Mairi Macpherson.”

Julia glanced to Lord Muir, who was
now seating himself across from her with Angus’s help. His hands
shook as though palsied. She transferred her gaze to Sir
Henry.

“But the Clanranalds are actually Clan
Donald are they not — the MacDonalds? I believe I read that in one
of the clan histories here in this room.”

“Yes, my dear, that is true, but there
is a Clanranald connection with the Macphersons. I believe Mr.
Galbraith can best explain it all.”

Mr. Galbraith came forward now and took the
empty chair beside Julia. He spoke softly, setting his full
attention on her.

“As I believe you know, Miss Hargrove,
we’ve been short on original sources to chronicle the lives of the
early lairds of Dunraven. Your information led me to a manuscript
we’d overlooked till now, precisely because we hadn’t realized the
association. You see, the ancient Gaelic name of clan Macpherson
is `MacMhuirich,’ after their name-father, Mhuirich. He was also
the chief of Clan Chattan in the twelfth century, Clan Chattan
being a confederation of many clans. Centuries later, one Niall
MacMhuirich was bard to the MacDonald chief of Clanranald. Are you
following me thus far?”

“Yes, go on.”

“Niall left to us
the
Red Book of Clanranalds.
Mainly, it recorded that clan’s histories both of
Niall’s time and before. But he also entered more — other
histories, snatches of poetry, genealogies and the like. It is said
there existed yet another
Red Book,
written earlier than the one that has come down
to us. It has long disappeared, but a manuscript survives named
the
Black Book,
reputedly duplicating, in part, Niall’s earliest
work.