Amanda Scott (16 page)

Ian smiled, and Rory said quickly into the pause that followed, “I aim to take a long walk today. Perhaps I’ll tramp along with you and Duncan, Ian, since you will both be taking the road toward Ballachulish and the Lettermore Woods.”

Both men looked surprised. Duncan recovered first, saying, “I’ll not be going that way, I’m afraid. I’m meeting a friend at the head of Loch Leven first, but doubtless Ian will be glad to have your company.”

“I will, indeed,” Ian said, smiling at Rory. “I’m leaving straightaway though. Do you want to come look at the eagles with us, sir?”

“No, thank you. I aim to walk along the ridge above Glen Creran. I want to get my bearings, so I’ll come home again by way of the shore road, I expect. I just want to spend a day looking about and talking with any folks I might meet.”

“You won’t meet many on the ridge,” Duncan pointed out.

“Well, I’ve got the day and all ahead of me. I’ll leave you now.”

“Perhaps after my cousin Archie comes to stay,” Lady Balcardane said thoughtfully, “I shall ride back to Lochaber with him for a fortnight or so.”

Rory stared at her, uncertain whether he ought to comment or ask who Cousin Archie was. Before he could decide, Ian said, “I’ll meet you in the yard, cousin,” and Balcardane snapped, “You’ll take a horse, my lad.”

“Not today, sir,” Ian said. “We’ll be on the cliffs, you see.”

Balcardane looked as if he would take exception nonetheless, so Rory excused himself with careful civility and fled.

As it happened, Ian accompanied him only to the path leading to the woods, since the shore road would take him to the ferry crossing, but Rory had not really wanted company, so he did not mind. The lad gave him good directions, explaining which glens would lead him by easy paths back to Loch Linnhe from the ridge, and listing the people he might reasonably expect to meet or to call upon.

Parting from Ian, he decided to take the hill pass they had taken before, then follow the ridge top between Glen Creran and Loch Linnhe. At the head of the pass, the summit of Bidean nam Bian loomed to the east, beckoning to him. The highest peak in Argyll boasted dramatic ridges and intriguing, secluded corries. Its gorges cut deep into the rock curtain flanking Glen Creran, dropping with uncompromising steepness and exhibiting a certain alien ferocity. He recalled from his boyhood rambles that turbulent, salmon-filled rivers swept through their deepest recesses.

Bright dazzling sunlight reflecting from the summit snow cap told him the climb would be dangerous now, but the magnificent view recalled his childhood more forcibly than anything else since his arrival. Following the ridge top, he enjoyed a panoramic display of Glen Creran and Loch Linnhe. As his aunt had predicted, the mist had gone, leaving a sunny day in its passing. Small white clouds drifted in the cerulean sky, looking like a scattering of thickly wooled sheep in a vast blue meadow.

The ridge was mostly heather, grass, and granite now, and by climbing one of the nearby granite domes, he could see Lismore and beyond to Mull. To the south he saw a peak he thought might be Ben Cruachan, the ancient meeting place of the Campbells. Then, turning back to look down on Loch Linnhe, he was struck by the spectacle of the tide driving the waters into the Firth of Lorne. Currents eddied like rivers, as if the loch lay on a slope. He could almost feel the pent-up force of water swirling through the maze of black islands, then surging forth, eddying around the narrow length of Lismore, then gushing in a veritable torrent through the Lynn of Lorne into the Firth.

Nearby movement caught his eye. On a flat below, a small group of red deer grazed, but he did not think they had drawn his notice. Overhead, a golden eagle soared on high wind eddies, the deep, leisurely beats and long glides of its powerful flight making it unmistakable. It soared with its wings in a shallow vee held slightly forward, its primaries upheld. When it plunged, then swooped up again, rolling as it did, he wondered if it might be courting. Whatever it was doing, it was enjoying the day, and he thought of Ian. Smiling, he decided that neither the lad nor any friend whose opinion he respected would mistake a buzzard for the king of the skies.

There was movement below again, and this time a flash of red drew his eye to a small person who disappeared just then into a wide, dark gash in a sweeping granite slab to his right. Curious, Rory descended, keeping his eye on what had appeared to be only a black scar on otherwise gray rocks just above the tree line.

As he neared the spot where he had seen the person, he realized it was an opening to a small glen. The song of a bubbling burn competed with that of the birds, and a few moments later, he found himself surrounded by cool greenery. A rutted path followed the burn, and he strode along, amazed to find this pleasant sanctuary in what had looked like a sea of granite boulders, grass, and heather.

He came upon the little house unexpectedly. It looked like any other house with its stone walls and thatched roof, but it was smaller all around, including its low front door. As he approached, a man appeared from the far side, walking with a lurching gait. He stopped when he saw Rory.

The man was no more than forty inches high, with stunted legs and a thick torso. Over shirtsleeves, he wore an old-fashioned crimson waistcoat that came to his knees, with brown leggings and oddly shaped half-boots beneath. His dark hair was tied back in a bag at the nape of his neck. A black cat followed at his heels.

“Good day to you, sir,” Rory said. “I hope I did not startle you. My name is Calder and I’ve come from a morning on the ridge, looking to explore Glen Duror on my way to Loch Linnhe and back to Balcardane.”

“Ye’ve taken a wee wrong turning then, but you’re welcome enough,” the dwarf said. His tone was wary, but Rory could scarcely blame him.

He knew his size intimidated men of ordinary stature and thought he must look like a giant to this one. At least the little man spoke excellent English. “You’ve a fine house there,” Rory said.

“Aye, I built it m’self. That lout Glenure—” He broke off, then grinned, showing uncommonly even teeth. “You being kin tae him, I’d best say no more.”

“You know who I am?”

“Aye, sure, I ken fine that ye be a Campbell, and that’s all I’ve any need tae know. I’ll no give my head tae ye for washing if I can avoid it.”

“I am aware that Glenure has served eviction notices on at least one family hereabouts. Have you received one as well?”

“Nay, then, not this time. He tried that trick when he first took the factorship from James o’ the Glen, but Parson told him I be a ward o’ the kirk, and threatened tae shame him in public for his lack o’ charity.” He grinned again. “Want a look at me garden?”

Amused, Rory followed him around to the back of the house, where a clearing revealed a neatly tended patch of cultivated land. “You must grow enough for an army,” he said.

“Aye, well, I sell enough of it tae keep m’self in snuff,” the dwarf said. “I sell a bit o’ the honey from my bees, too. Would ye care for a bite wi’ some bread?”

“I would indeed. I’ve some mutton in my sack that I’ll be glad to share.”

“Right then, come along. I am Bardie Gillonie, and this here’s Matilda.” He scooped up the cat and put it on his shoulder, lurching ahead to lead the way with the cat swaying but otherwise undisturbed as it clung to its perch.

Rory followed him back around to the front, eyeing the low door with misgiving and wondering if he would offend the dwarf if he suggested that they take their meal outside.

Gillonie looked back as he pushed open the door. “Ye’ll fit, but ye’ll ha’ tae nip doon a bit or ye’ll thwack your pate on the lintel.”

Rory nipped down, finding the inside of the cottage quite clean and tidy, and smelling of freshly baked bread. He had to take care not to bang his head on the cross beams, but Gillonie provided him with a stool, putting a loaf of bread, a knife, and a pot of honey on the low table beside him. While Rory took off his gloves and hat and set them aside, the dwarf turned away, then came back with two mugs. Handing one to Rory, he said, “Tae your good health, my lord.”

“And to yours,” Rory said, raising his mug. Taking a swallow, he had all he could do not to choke, and it was another moment before he could breathe properly. He had expected ale, but the brew inside was some of the strongest whisky he had ever tasted. And the smoothest. He raised his eyebrows. “This is potent stuff.”

“Aye, it is.” The dwarf drew up a second stool and sat opposite him, resting his big hands on his knees. “Now for a bit o’ pleasant discourse,” he said. “Tell me what ye think about the rotation o’ the earth. I’m for it, m’self, but the last chap I asked were clean against it.”

Rory allowed himself to be drawn into what proved to be an absurd conversation, but to his surprise he enjoyed it, and when he saw the dwarf’s dark eyes twinkling with mischief, he had a strong notion that he was being gulled. Abruptly, he said, “Don’t you get lonely, living here all alone?”

“I dinna be alone. I’ve got Matilda, have I not?”

“Still …”

Gillonie made a dismissive gesture. “Got a sister in Peebles, wants tae come live wi’ me and keep me house, but I keep house better nor she does. Worse, the lass lacks a quick mind like me own. She’s soft in the head, is Aggie. We spent our childhood a-quarreling, and I’m no of a mind tae quarrel for the rest o’ me days.”

They talked of many other things, and when it was time for Rory to go, he found he was reluctant to do so. “I’ve enjoyed myself,” he said. “How much for a pot of your honey? I believe my aunt would like it on her morning scones.”

“Aye, she would, that,” Bardie agreed. “’Tis thruppence, the honey.”

Making the exchange and pulling his gloves on again, Rory said, “I’ll come again, if I may.”

“And welcome. Mind now,” Bardie added, “ye mun keep tae the path. Once past James o’ the Glen’s place, there’ll be a fork and ye’ll want the right-hand branch, or ye’ll end up at the south end of Cuil Bay.”

“Aye, I know. The right fork brings me out near Kentallen Inn, does it not?”

“Aye, sure. Ye’ll make the inn fine afore nightfall,” Bardie added with a considering glance at the sky, “but I’m thinking the dark may come upon ye afore ye reach Balcardane, and there’ll no be a moon the nicht.”

“Then I’ll stay at the inn or hire a link boy,” Rory said with a smile as he put on his hat and shook hands in farewell. “I’m glad to have met you, Mr. Gillonie.”

“Call me Bardie,” said the dwarf. “Ye’ll do, for all you’re a Campbell.”

Taking his leave, Rory soon found the main glen. He strode along, thinking that although he had failed to follow through with his primary purpose for the day, he had met someone who might well tell him what went on in Appin country. He would want a few more conversations with Mr. Bardie Gillonie before he would dare trust his word, but his first impression was encouraging.

He passed a sprawling house in a clearing and decided it must be the home of James Stewart, but he did not stop. It was after three, and even if he maintained a fast pace, he knew the dwarf was right about the likelihood that it would be dark, and chilly, before he reached the castle. It was warm now, however, and he opened his coat and unlaced the top of his shirt, enjoying an unfamiliar sense of freedom.

The plain fact was that he had procrastinated like a schoolboy, enjoying the first true day of leisure that he had allowed himself in over a year. He would never have done such a thing at Inveraray. The knowledge that he would face Argyll’s acid tongue upon his return would have dissuaded him. But no one at Balcardane held authority over him anymore. Here, he was wholly his own man.

Lost in thought, and walking silently on the mossy dirt path, he stepped over a fallen log without looking beyond it and trod on the tail of a large cat. Not until it screeched in fury and flew at him, turning, twisting, and apparently propelled by hidden springs, did he see the rabbit’s carcass that had lain beneath it. He realized in the split second before the creature’s claws struck his unprotected throat that he had interrupted a wildcat enjoying the spoils of its hunt, but by then it was too late.

The attack caught him so unaware that he staggered under the weight of the cat, crying out as he caught his heel against the fallen log and fell backward. He carried no weapon other than Bardie’s honey pot in the cloth bag he had carried his mutton in earlier, and he had dropped that in the onslaught.

Thus, with only coat sleeves and gloves to protect his arms and hands, all he could do was to cover his face and try to push the beast away. Its claws were sharp, tearing right through his clothing, shredding his shirt where his coat lay open, and he wondered if the writhing beast could kill him. If he could get a firm grip, he was sure he could fling it away, but it thrashed and twisted ferociously, biting whenever hand or arm got near its mouth, and clawing savagely at any part of him it could reach. He held his arms as best he could across his throat and face, knowing that if the claws reached his eyes, they would blind him.

When the shot rang out, it nearly deafened him, but the cat took off as if it had been scalded. Then two small soft hands were touching his arms, and a voice he would know in full darkness amidst the furor on judgment day said anxiously, “It’s all right now. You can put down your arms. Are you very much hurt?”

Doing as she bade him, he realized that both of his arms and his chest burned like fury. He felt damp, sticky blood everywhere. Nonetheless, looking up at his rescuer, he said grimly, “Mistress Diana, would you like to explain why a well-mannered Highland lass like yourself carries a forbidden weapon on her person?”

S
UPPRESSING A TREMOR OF
fear at Calder’s question, Diana said loudly enough to be heard over the river, “You should have rolled into the water. Those cats can swim but they’d rather not, and certainly not in water rushing as fast as that is.”

“That water’s like ice,” he said.

“So you’d rather have your eyes clawed out, or your throat slashed?”

“Why do you carry a pistol?”

“You’re ungrateful as well. Do you mean to report me to the authorities?”