The Devil’s Due Read online

  “How can you call her courageous in one breath, then name her coward in the next?” Duncan asked, annoyance patent in every staccato syllable. “She knew that I was safe. Her note said as much.” Why was he babbling on about this? He wondered. He had never before divulged the contents of that last note, forwarded by his grandfather without so much as a phrase of condolence to accompany it. But somehow, the words kept tumbling out. “It was me that was the coward for leaving her. I should have stayed,” he murmured.

  “It was what she wanted, Duncan,” Kate said, but he went on as if he did not hear her.

  “I was so desperate to get away,” he said. “I did not realize how by shielding me, she had put herself in the line of fire. Once I was gone . . .”

  “It is a parent’s sacred obligation to protect a child.” Kate cut him off before he could blame himself any further.

  The vehemence in her voice roused him from his recollections. Her green eyes glittered, fierce and feral as those of an angered tigress.

  “Your mother did what she had to in order to preserve you against evil. As a child, it was not your duty to protect her, but the other way round.” She could not stop the tears from forming and she focused her attention on the distant hills. “I apologize, milord, for I had no right to name her a coward. She likely thought that her job was done once you were out in the world. She had succeeded in her goal and I envy her that.”

  “Why?” Came the soft question from behind her.

  “Because she was able to protect her child and I could not,” Kate whispered, slowly turning round to face him again.

  Her misery roused a long-dormant emotion, something that he had not felt since his mother had died all those years before. He wanted to wipe away that sorrow, to ease that terrible hurt and erase the fear. “Kate, if I can help-” he began.

  “There is nothing that either of us can do to unravel the tangle of the past,” Kate said, with an air of finality. “‘We must deal with today and, if we have the strength, tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” Duncan agreed. “Today, then I must take myself to the village, Kate. My people have just grievances, I know, but I cannot allow poor Fred to take abuse on my behalf.”

  “I will go with you,” Kate said.

  “Dressed like that?” His dark brow arched in question. “Or are they already accustomed to a Lady MacLean who wears the breeches?”

  “No more than a Lord who appears a shirtless tatterdemalion,” Kate retorted. “Unless . . .” A hint of a smile appeared. “I believe that I may have a solution to both our problems, Duncan. However, if it suits, you must agree to allow me to accompany you.”

  “Kate. . .” His tone was a warning.

  But she was not to be put off. “Do we have a bargain?” she insisted.

  “Aye, a bargain,” Duncan agreed warily, “probably as good a one as the last deal that we MacLeans struck with the English. That one led to a curse. I wonder what this will lead to.”

  “I shall show you,” Kate said. In her excitement, she grabbed him by the hand, towing him along behind her like a dinghy hauling a ship of line.

  Bemused by her sudden touch, Duncan allowed himself to be dragged through the kitchen. He noted in passing that Fred and Daisy were nowhere in sight, licking wounds in private no doubt. But before he had time to speculate further, Kate had moved on to the servant’s hall, pausing only long enough to pull a key from the ring at her waist. The great brass lock on the rotting tower door turned with a rusty clatter and Duncan found himself in the cool stone heart of the well room. A battered oak lid at the center of the chamber marked the ancient cistern, one of the primary reasons that the castle of Eilean Kirk had proven well-nigh unconquerable. That source of clear, spring-fed water also provided the unique ingredient that made MacLean’s Gold smooth as liquid silk.

  “Take care where you step,” Kate warned. “The middle floor is somewhat unstable, but largely safe. Do not even attempt to venture to the uppermost story. It appears sound but is extremely dangerous. Daisy nearly went through the floor chasing after Anne before we found the key to lock the door.”

  “A worthless barrier. It should be replaced,” Duncan remarked, pulling a splinter off a board.

  “As should many things, but it suffices to keep Anne out in the meantime,” she said, extending her hand. “Come along and try to follow directly behind me.”

  It was quite disconcerting, those fingers twined with his and he could barely keep from stumbling at that insistent pressure as she climbed up the stone staircase. Light spilled from the south-facing window, illuminating the room. Motes of dust stirred as Kate bustled him along to a darkened corner.

  “There it is,” she said, pointing toward an old leather trunk. Abruptly, she realized that she was still grasping Duncan’s hand. She had never realized how very large it was. As she let his fingers slip from hers, she turned hastily towards the trunk and knelt beside it. “I had meant to keep this till winter, when I had time to ply my needle, but we can make do,” Kate said, talking rapidly to cover her confusion. The warmth of his hand lingered, filling her with an aching regret that she had let that comfort go. Kate opened the chest with the panache of a magician. “Viola!”

  “No moths, at least,” Duncan ventured, his nose wrinkling at the strong scent of camphor, but as Kate moved aside, he saw a verdant green field of fabric. Duncan pulled out the carefully folded tartan. He stood, shaking away dust and time as he released the folds and let the cloth billow. Draping it over his shoulder, Duncan walked to the window, letting the sun highlight the interwoven black and white stripes that distinguished the plaid of the MacLean clan. The faint red lines that designated the Eilean Kirk sept were faded but discernable.

  “I had thought these long gone,” Duncan said in astonishment. “After Culloden, my grandfather thought it politic to put the plaid aside since he did not wish to stir the memories of our Scots brethren or his English masters.”

  “You will wear it then?” Kate asked, watching as he refolded the garment with reverent care. “It is still against the law.”

  “Is it you threatening to call the law on me now, Kate?” Duncan asked.

  She blushed delightfully at his teasing, but before he could think of something else to make her smile she dove back into the chest and came up with a pouch. “This is likely quite valuable,” Kate said as she opened the ties and handed it to him. “I was surprised to find it, but it seemed that this tower was mostly untouched. It has something written upon it. Maybe it will mean something to you.”

  “Fear eil air son Eachainn,” Duncan held the jeweled clasp up to the light as he read and translated. “Another for Hector; the clan’s battle cry. This must be the Laird’s bràiste. You and the bairn could be living right well with the proceeds from this piece.”

  “I would have made use of the clothing since that had been left to rot,” Kate said with a shrug. “But that was not mine to sell.”

  Once again, Kate had bewildered him. Why was a woman of absolute integrity hiding like a thief? “Likely no one rifled the place because they say Charlie’s tower was rebuilt with Culloden blood in the mortar. The folk hereabouts stayed away from it even when I was a lad.” Duncan commented, his tone rife with irony. “Even a desperate man would not wish to be looting the finery of a traitor and risking the curse.”

  “I had thought that I might wear this, Duncan,” Kate said, taking up a garment and holding it up against her bosom. “It is a riding outfit, woefully old-fashioned, I fear. My grandmamma was painted in one much like it, except hers was not a Scots plaid.”

  “It accentuates the color of your eyes,” Duncan said, admiring the effect of the deep green against her skin. A grandmother who was the subject for a portrait in riding clothes was added to the list of anomalies that characterized Kate Smith. “You will look magnificent.”

  “Do you think so?” Kate asked, feeling another rush of embarrassment as she rose to shake the garment and examine it critically. “I suspect that
I will look rather ridiculous.”

  It was startling to realize that she actually credited that absurd statement, that mere attire could make her look anything other than beautiful. “Do you dare call The MacLean a liar, Kate?” Duncan put on his most fierce expression. “You are fortunate indeed that there are no wild tides or rocks in Loch Maree.”

  “And I take it that you are too lazy to take me to the coast so that you might dispose of me in true MacLean fashion?” Kate asked, laughter in her reply.

  She was jesting with him and he responded with a baffling degree of delight.

  “Aye, our slothfulness almost outweighs our treachery, milady,” Duncan said, finding himself caught once again like a creature in amber, her smile bathing him in a golden warmth. He had to get himself away before he was trapped forever.

  There was a dirty smudge on her cheek that could be wiped away with a fingertip. She was looking up at him, the pulse beating at the base of her throat. Somehow, he had to make her understand her danger, make her see what he could become. He was a MacLean, as his grandfather had often told him, worse than the beasts of the field, for at least those animals had the excuse of lacking reason.

  “If we would be at the village and back before the storm, I suggest that we proceed with all due speed.” Duncan hastily grabbed the garments he needed and raced downstairs as if followed by all the hounds of hell.

  Chapter 9

  Strathkirk no longer resembled the bustling village of his childhood. Duncan reined in Selkie, pausing at the top of the road to scan the tiled roofs that he recalled from long ago, seeing in his mind what had once been, even as his eye denied the reality of now. Silently, they rode on, meeting not a soul on the single lane that led into the valley. The signs and decorations that had once proclaimed the contents of the row of shops were gone. Only part of the vintner’s sign remained. Where the hand of a jolly Bacchus had once squeezed a huge bunch of grapes into a goblet, only the empty cup remained, waiting forever to be filled as it swung mournfully. The smiling, bosky god had disappeared. There was no door on the baker’s shop and the forge before the farrier’s barn was cold.

  “Angus Munroe is gone?” Duncan asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “The blacksmith? He immigrated to Canada before I arrived,” Kate said. “There were no wagons to fix and not many horses to be shod, so he took his anvil and his kin to try his luck there.”

  “It would seem that everyone else has gone as well,” Duncan said, listening to the wail of the rising wind. “Used to be, betwixt the animals and the people, there was scarcely room in Strathkirk square on Market day. Anyone who did not wish to make the trip up to Loch Ewe and the coast would come here on a Thursday to sell their wares or buy what they needed. You could barely hear the sound of Angus’ hammer on the iron above the babble of the auld market wives, hawking ‘herring and salmon fresh caught, still twitchin’.” His voice rose to counterfeit the peddler’s cry. “Or ‘uisgebeatha distilled in the glens, aged in oak since the Bonnie Prince was a babe.’ I hope my father is roasting in Hell, for what he has done!”

  “There are many others who are responsible as well,” Kate said, moved by the desolation of his countenance. “At least your father was not as cruel as the Countess of Sutherland. I was told that she hired armed men with dogs and set torch to the crofts of those who would not leave the Strathnaver glens.”

  “Aye,” said a cracking voice, “but men and dogs woulda been costin’ his Da gold an’ the auld Laird was never a one for partin’ wi’ the blunt, milady, could he help it. The MacLean just let his people starve and suffer till they could be takin’ nae mair. Cost him not a penny piece.” A white-haired man dressed in a weather beaten plaid stepped into the lane. “So ‘tis ye comin’ back at last, young MacLean. Knew ye would, sure as the Devil mun return to Hell.”

  “Indeed, Tam, I have returned. But is that just reason to put your fists to my servant?” Duncan dismounted and walked toward the old man. “He did no wrong.”

  “Aye, that sorry cockerel.” Tam spat contemptuously, studious aim bringing the extirpation just short of Duncan’s boots.

  “‘That sorry cockerel,’ as ye name him, is not in the habit of fighting auld men, or you would not be standin’ before me now,” Duncan said, his accent increasing as he spoke. “Besides, your quarrel is nae with him, but with The MacLean. He is here. State your grievance.”

  Slowly, like wisps of a fog, people had begun to trickle outside. Kate remained on Fred’s horse, transfixed as Duncan seemed to transform before her eyes. In the courtyard of the castle, the regalia that Duncan wore had seemed almost outlandish in its brash splendor. The chieftain’s bonnet had appeared somewhat absurd with its full, rich trim; and the hose with its patterns along the bold colors of the plaid itself had seemed an assault upon the eye.

  Now the garb suited Duncan, as fitting and right as the broadening burr in his speech. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, making the rubies in his jeweled brooch flash bloody red against the heavy gold. He had become The MacLean, the Laird, and she could hear the murmur of angry voices as memory stirred up the ghosts of old grievances, ancient wounds and wrongs.

  “Is it to lesson me, ye’ve come then?” Tam mocked, putting up his fists. “’Tis the finery of your grandda’ you are wearin’ this day, our chief’s feileadh-beag with the great bonnet and the sporran. I was but a wee laddie in those troubled days, but seein’ it now, I be recollectin’ muh Da and his pride, a distiller by trade, t’be the piper for his Laird for the True King. Tanden Triumphans, they was cryin’.”

  “Triumphant at last,” Duncan translated the Jacobite motto. “Aye, so you told me, laing time ago.”

  “But I did nae tell ye’ how he came back a shamed man, a broke man, my poor Da? How dare ye to dress in the MacLean sett, laddie? With the dishonor your grandfather and his son heaped on our clan’s name! Takes more than breacan triubhas to make a chieftain.” He nodded at the tartan. “There now, ‘tis said, and ‘tis ready I am to die.”

  Kate could hear the crowd’s murmured undertone of approval at those brave words. There was a collective gasp as Duncan reached down into his patterned trews to pull his sgian dubh loose from its place against his calves. The small deadly blade glittered as Duncan turned the hilt outward silently offering it to Tam.

  The old man’s fists dropped wearily to his sides as he stared at the weapon.

  “Do ye truly have a quarrel with me, auld Tam?” Duncan asked softly, letting the knife fall to the ground. “Should I bare my throat for ye then? Would that undo what my kin hae done? For I canna return ill for good, auld man, for all that I am a bloody MacLean. I recollect a lonely young lad and a kindly man who let him tag by, for all that he was cursed spawn.”

  Tam stared at the weapon in the dust between them and then turned his glistening gaze to Kate. “Why did ye nae come, milady, to see to muh lassie’s lyin’ in? With her man gone to America and only me to give her comfort the laing night through?” he asked, his voice breaking. “The bairn’s for the kirkyard and Maeve’s heart fair to broken. Why did ye nae come? Would he nae let ye come then to tend to the birthin’?”

  “If I would have been summoned, I would have come,” Kate said, pained that he could believe that she would have deliberately stayed away. “And how can you speak such evil of Lord MacLean, Tam, claiming that he would keep me from your daughter in her time of need?”

  “But Robbie himself’ went to fetch ye, milady. Did ye nae Robbie, lad?” Tam motioned to a young boy who stood before the shop. The lad came forward reluctantly and stood before his grandfather. “Tell the lady what ye tol’ me laddie. How ye knocked at the door and were tol’ she would nae come.”

  The boy’s eyes dropped. His voice, when it finally spoke, was a shamed whisper. “There were banshees, Granda, screamin’ and yellin’ like all the hants of hell were loose. An’ then I kenned this fearsome beast, prowlin’ about the dark, the Cu Sith itself. I could nae get past it Grandda, and
then a she-ghoulie started to wailin’ and I was afeard.” The lad began to sob.

  There was a murmur in the crowd, a long silence which was broken finally by Tam. “‘Tis pardon I’m askin’ to ye both,” the old man said, looking at his grandson sadly. “Should hae kenned that ye were not that kind, milady, nor are ye your father, milord.” He bent and retrieved the sgian dubh, cleaning it with the fold of his plaid before holding it out to Duncan. “I wouldna blame ye were ye to use this on my throat, milord, for the insult to yourself and your lady.”

  The old man’s sincerity touched him deeply and the words resonated.

  Nor are ye your father.

  Duncan took the knife and bent to return it to its place within his stocking. As he regarded the old kilt, he thought of the history woven in those threads of black, red, green and white, the MacLean pattern from beyond memory. All of his life he had been told that the sett of his life had been fixed years before he had been born, the warp in a loom with a curse running through the weft of his existence. Perhaps the time had come to become the weaver, to assume control of the thread of his days.

  Duncan looked at the boy, weeping openly now, standing alone before the condemnation of kin and kith. He went and touched him on the shoulder. “Nae laddie,” he said loudly, so that all could hear. “Dinna fash yourself, for in a way, it was myself that kept ye from the door. ‘My own cries ye kenned last night.”

  Only Kate saw the telltale tightening of Duncan’s jaw and understood its source. He was opening his wounds to them, revealing some of the pain and humiliation that he had tried so desperately to hide.

  “‘Tis the dreams,” Duncan told them all, “fearsome dreams that come like the bean sith in the night. After those visions of banshees, I canna sleep, so I walk, prowl about like a deamhan myself in the night. Ye need not be shamed boy that ye were affrighted. At such times, I fear myself in all my bloody blackness. I say ‘tis nae fault in ye, boy.” Duncan encompassed everyone in his gaze demanding forgiveness for the child’s understandable error, but instead of the pity that he had dreaded he saw something entirely unexpected and it gave him the courage to continue.