Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Dougal was in the solar a week after Angus’s murder, polishing the blade of the claymore he’d found mysteriously stuffed beneath the Egyptian settee, when his wife stormed in, slamming the door behind her with enough force to waver the candle flames.

She blew a coppery tendril out of her eyes. “I do hope you’re sharpening that blade to use on Morgan MacDonnell’s thick neck.”

Dougal lifted an eyebrow, half wishing his clansmen could see her now. As their mistress, she was the very model of genteel decorum. Her soft-spoken commands brooked no disobedience, yet only in his presence did all of her fire leap to the surface. Dougal delighted in it, for with that fire came the bright, burning passions of a woman, not a lady.

He removed a gilded mirror from above the mantel and hung the sword in its place, admiring the addition of its clean masculine lines to this feminine domain. “Is there something you wish to discuss, dear?” he asked mildly.

With a wordless exclamation of rage, Elizabeth whirled to pace the room, her pagoda sleeves rippling with each step. Her hands darted out, caressing her delicate treasures as if to derive comfort from them.

She had beautiful hands, their tapered lines broken only by his ruby betrothal ring. They were an artist’s hands, God-designed not for painting or sculpting, but for nursing the living things in her garden. Dougal would have sworn he’d seen roses unfurl their petals toward the sun at the faintest brush of her fingertips. After twenty-three years of marriage, her touch still had the same effect on him.

She spun around. “It’s been seven days and you’ve done nothing. A hundred years ago you might have been master and king of these lands, but we are under English law now. Why haven’t you summoned the soldiers and had him taken away?”

Dougal wished he were a king. He needed the wisdom of a Solomon to make the decision confronting him. Some stubborn ancestral spirit recoiled at the image of English redcoats invading his home. “On what charge, Beth? Grief? Helpless rage at watching his own da cut down before his eyes? Those are transgressions in neither the eyes of the king nor the Lord.”

“What about the transgression he committed against your daughter? She’s hardly touched her food since. I hear her pacing her chamber at all hours of the night. Why, she may never recover!”

Dougal suspected his wife was right, although his reasons differed drastically from her own. “What would you have me do? Flog him publicly? Hang him?”

Her smooth brow furrowed. “My brother William has connections. I’m sure the British Navy would be delighted to accept such a strapping creature into their service.”

Dougal rarely raised his voice to his wife; his even tone conveyed his disappointment much more effectively. “So you propose I have him impressed into the navy against his will. As I recall, you were always the first to champion the lad. ‘Starved for a mother’s touch,’ you’d say, ‘but too stiff-necked with pride to accept it.’ Why this sudden vindictiveness?”

Elizabeth dropped her gaze. They both knew her proposal had less to do with vengeance than fear. Fear of the way Morgan had looked at her daughter. The way he had touched her.

“Free him, then. Send him home,” she whispered.

Dougal’s own frustrations erupted in a hoarse oath. His burr thickened as he rose, dragging a hand through his hair. “Then what, Beth? Morgan believes we committed ‘Murder under trust,’ the most heinous crime known to any Highlander. His men think we’re no better than those wretched Campbells who massacred the poor MacDonalds in their beds at Glencoe. Do you think he’ll just trot home with his tail tucked betwixt his legs?”

Elizabeth shook her head mutely. Tears shimmered on her lashes.

Fearful of being swayed by them, Dougal paced to the window. The bonfire raging on the opposite hill brought the hellish stench of smoke and ashes wafting into the chamber, chased by the ceaseless wail of the bagpipes. Angus’s plaid-shrouded corpse presided over their dark merriment.

“Barbarians,” Elizabeth whispered. “They won’t let us bury him, yet they had the nerve to steal a barrel of brine and vinegar to soak his wrappings.” She shuddered. “Why, if the days weren’t getting cooler…”

“From the looks of him, I suspect Angus was already well pickled before the blade found its mark.” Dougal jerked the window shut hard enough to rattle the beveled panes. “The rest of the MacDonnells might be more concerned with revelry than revenge, but Morgan’s a Highlander through blood and bone. He won’t rest until he’s had retribution. Not on the tidy confines of a battlefield, but in a moonlit glade when Alex is riding home from a stag hunt or in a deserted alley when Brian is sneaking out the bedroom window of that milkmaid he’s been courting.” He faced his wife. “I’m not willing to shed the blood of Morgan or my sons for the sake of stubborn pride. Not Cameron pride or MacDonnell pride.”

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders with visible effort. “Very well. If we don’t convince the MacDonnells we’re not murderers, I’ll be setting an empty table for my fancy suppers. I doubt Lady Fraser or the MacPhersons would care to dine with us if they fear we might poison their pudding or skewer them with the poultry pick.”

Dougal would never have belittled her civilized fripperies. They were the very interests that made her so feminine—so essentially his Elizabeth.

He reached for her hand, but she allowed him only the briefest squeeze before withdrawing it. “I concede to your wisdom. Do what you must, Dougal, to preserve your precious peace.” She lifted her skirts in a regal curtsy, then left him, closing the door softly behind her.

Dougal sank against the windowsill, rubbing his beard. Whoever had struck this blow against both Cameron and MacDonnell had struck well and deep. All of his inquiries had turned up nothing. In the chaos following the stabbing, the villain had fled without leaving a single clue to his identity.

Surely even Elizabeth would understand that Angus’s assassination had forced Dougal’s hand. If he wanted to hold up his head in the Highlands and safeguard the future of his clan as well as the future of his children, he had only one choice. He must give the chieftain of the MacDonnells an irrevocable emblem of his trust—a treasure of such exquisite value that Morgan could never again doubt his goodwill. A treasure Dougal had been holding in trust for the lad for twelve sweet years.

He gazed at the closed door, praying his decision wouldn’t cost him his wife as well. God might forgive him for his scheming, but he wasn’t sure Elizabeth ever would. Behind him, the wild, haunting notes of the pipes pierced the Florentine glass as if to taunt him about what the morrow would bring.

···

Frantic to escape the maddening skirl of the bagpipes, Sabrina dragged the comforter over her head and burrowed beneath her pillow. From the foot of her half-testered bed, Pugsley lifted his head and growled deep in his throat. Still the pipes played on, their untamed melody luring Sabrina far beyond the sturdy walls of the manor that had enclosed her all her life. Ignoring Pugsley’s snarl of protest, she threw back the blankets and padded barefoot to the window.

She drew it open. A frosted pearl of a moon dipped low over the foothills. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight silhouetted against its luminous backdrop.

Tongues of flame from a roaring bonfire licked at the night. Sparks shot skyward only to be caught by the wind and tossed like a handful of rebellious stars back into their heavenly fold. Shadowy figures cavorted and danced within its halo of light, their tartans flapping behind them like wings.

Sabrina knew that had she stood among them, the scene would have lost its romance. She would have heard the profanity, seen the drunken stumbling and recoiled in horror from Angus’s shrouded corpse laid out like a pagan sacrifice in their midst. But from the cozy distance of her second-story window, their revelry wove its own dark enchantment.

The Highlanders danced wild and free, unfettered by the manners and conventions so prized by her mother. All of her life Sabrina had been lovingly snipped and pruned like one of Elizabeth’s blooms, groomed to someday travel to England and take her rightful place in the illustrious Belmont family. But sometimes when the thunder came down from the mountains in mighty drumrolls, her soul yearned to ramble like the wild Highland roses that tangled their thorny briers through fern-choked glens and stony rills.

The song of the pipes made her ache to flee the staid silence of the manor in these wee hours of night. Her feet itched to caper across the dew-drenched meadow. To dance and leap across the fire and risk being engulfed in its ravenous flames to win a taste of its heat and magic.

She sank down on the window seat. Morgan should be among his own kind, not buried beneath the same stones that sheltered her. For a week he’d been deprived of the crisp autumn breezes and the precious warmth of the sun that spent the shortening days baking the heather to vibrant purple.

Several times since she’d visited him she had found herself teetering on the edge of those steep stairs as if on the brink of some momentous decision. Once she had awakened as if from a daze to find Morgan’s pistol hidden in the folds of her skirt.

His last words still haunted her. He had known her mother’s gun was a bluff, yet he had allowed himself to be taken, to be caged like an animal at her father’s mercy. Why? she wondered. Then she would remember the leering faces of his clansmen. They had been whipped to a lust-crazed frenzy even Morgan might have been hard pressed to dampen. But why would Morgan make a sacrifice as dear as his freedom for a girl he could hardly tolerate—a Cameron no less? Guilt and doubt plagued her, poisoning her dreams until she feared to sleep.

She laid her cheek against the cool wood of the timbered frame. A lone figure stood silhouetted on the crest of the hill, coaxing a plaintive wail from the ponderous pipes. A cloud gusted across the horizon, then raced on. The moon poured its liquid beams over the player.

Sabrina blinked in astonishment. She would have almost sworn it was not a man, but the slender figure of a woman playing the pipes, her unbound hair whipping molten silver in the wind.

The tune was no longer the discordant wheeze that had tormented them for days, but a raw and melodious plea to a goddess older than time itself. Sabrina drew the window shut, but still the song wept on, crying for Angus, crying for Morgan, as only the heart of a woman could.

She clambered back into bed, surprised to find her own cheeks bathed in tears.

The next morning a polite tap sounded on Sabrina’s door. She moaned a protest and nestled deeper into the mattress. The sky had melted from black to gray before she had finally cried herself into an exhausted slumber. Pugsley aided in the efforts to rouse her by snagging the comforter with his tooth and dragging it off her upturned rump.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Before the knocking commenced again, another sound assailed her.

Silence. Pure, blessed silence. Fear and excitement tightened her chest. She plunged from the bed and ran to the window.

The hillside was deserted. Ribbons of smoke curled from a mass of charred firewood to mingle with the morning mist.

Her mother poked her head around the door. “Dress with haste, darling. Your father is convening court and he requests your presence.”

“Court? But why?”

Elizabeth frowned. “I honestly cannot say. But we should all be there to support him if that is his wish.”

Sabrina knew better than to disobey that dulcet note of command. Terrified she might miss something of interest, she wasted no time ringing for a maid, but instead buckled the tapes of her own paniers and left off her corset altogether. After sliding a gown of deep lavender silk over her starched petticoats and struggling with the tiny buttons of the bodice, she twisted her hair into a severe knot. Her reflection in the mirror gave her pause. With her dark gown and the matching shadows beneath her eyes, she looked as if she was already in mourning.

A shiver touched her spine. Her father had never before convened an old-fashioned Highland court of justice. It was surely a slap in the face to the MacDonnells to remind them that as long as they trespassed upon Cameron lands, her father was both lord and master of their fates, his word more sacrosanct than any English magistrate’s could ever hope to be. She could not help but envision her papa accused of murdering Angus and tossed on the mercy of a MacDonnell court. She suspected most of their justice would be meted out by the honed blade of an ax. Her heartbeat quickened. Was her papa about to condemn Morgan to some fate even more terrible than imprisonment?

“Don’t forget the time the rascal poured honey in all of your slippers,” she reminded her worried reflection. “Hanging would be no better than he deserved.”

She jerked out a sprinkling of saucy tendrils before sailing from the room with Pugsley huffing and puffing at her satin-clad heels.

After leaving Pugsley in the kitchen to gum a saucer of gruel, Sabrina entered the hall to find its face transformed yet again. Her mother’s graceful furniture had been shoved aside to make room for rows of crude benches and a raised dais crowned with a single carved chair. The hall was thronged with the elders of the clan and several ancient villagers. In their dour, wrinkled visages she read memories of other Cameron courts and judgments. Sabrina wondered if her father was breaking the English laws by daring to convene a court that boldly placed his authority as laird of Clan Cameron over the king’s.

One of Sabrina’s uncles twisted around to give her a fond wink as she slid onto a bench next to Enid. “Have I missed anything?” she whispered.

Enid shook her head, her face flushed with excitement. “Not a word. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for something.”

Sabrina had no further opportunity to question her cousin. At her father’s signal, the main door was flung open.

Sabrina’s heart fluttered like the fragile wings of one of her mother’s finches. Morgan stood in the doorway, proud and free, his plaid draped in folds across his mighty shoulders like the mantle of a king. The morning sunlight slanted behind him, wreathing his hair in gold and sheening the blade of the ax hanging from his belt to dull copper.

Enid leaned over to whisper, “From what I can gather, Uncle Dougal freed him at dawn and commanded he appear before the court with his kin. There was a terrible row when your brothers tried to convince your papa the MacDonnell would take his clansmen and flee to the mountains for reinforcements.”

No, Sabrina thought. Morgan was one MacDonnell who would run from nothing. And she was the only Cameron who knew that there were no reinforcements waiting in the mountains.

Morgan’s clansmen clustered in a protective knot around him, their hands resting on the hilts and butts of their weapons. Some were obviously still suffering ill effects from the night’s revelry. One pale lad stumbled over the stoop and would have fallen flat had his nearest companion not righted and cuffed him in the same clumsy motion.

Morgan stepped forward. Sabrina had never seen a man surrounded by so many look so alone. She squelched a pang of empathy.

For an elusive instant before he spoke, Sabrina would have sworn she felt her father’s gaze brush her. Then his lilting burr filled the hall, unwittingly echoing the words she had spoken to Morgan twelve years earlier. “Welcome to Cameron, Morgan MacDonnell.”

The greeting was given as if the man hadn’t spent the previous week imprisoned beneath this very hall. There was a long pause, then an audible sigh of relief from the benches when Morgan curtly inclined his head in acceptance. Brian and Alex stepped forward from the crowd to escort him to the dais. Escort or guard? Sabrina wondered, noting the way Morgan dwarfed her lean brothers. The crowd gave way like water before their path. Morgan’s gaze passed over her without so much as a flicker of recognition.

Sabrina squirmed on the bench, ignoring Enid’s puzzled look. Morgan was obviously going to be judged for daring to accost the laird’s daughter.

How could she allow Morgan to march so stoically to his fate without speaking even a word in his defense? Perhaps if her father knew the true circumstances of his surrender, he might soften his judgment. As Morgan had so unkindly but truthfully pointed out, Dougal Cameron had yet to deny his only daughter anything.

Before she realized she was going to do it, Sabrina jumped to her feet and cried out, “Wait!” Instead of the forceful command she’d envisioned, her voice came out as a mere yelp.

Morgan pivoted on the stairs to the dais. His green eyes blazed, warning her that he cared for nothing she had to say, be it condemnation or defense. Surely he would scorn her pity even more than her rancor. Could she blame him? How could he ever hope to lead a group of rogues such as these if they realized he had surrendered himself to an unarmed woman? He would become a laughingstock, all of his hard-earned respect lost.

She cleared her throat, feeling as if she’d swallowed a mouse. “Pardon me. I sat on a splinter.”

“I’ve got somethin’ the lass can sit on!” came a cry from the back of the hall.

“Aye, Fergus, but ’tis smaller than any splinter!” yelled another, eliciting a burst of ugly sniggers from the MacDonnells.

Sabrina sank down on the bench, wishing she could crawl beneath it. Her cheeks burned beneath the heat of her mother’s disapproving gaze.

As Morgan sat in the chair on the dais, Dougal swept out a hand toward an empty bench near the front of the hall. “I’ve cleared a bench for the MacDonnell elders. Their wisdom and opinions are welcome in my court.”

There was a flurry of pushing and scrabbling of feet along the back wall. A thin, graying man stumbled from the MacDonnell ranks, propelled forward by his clansmen. He shuffled to the front of the court and took a seat, only to be dwarfed by the long, empty bench. Morgan ignored the embarrassing display. The MacDonnell way of life must not be conducive to longevity, Sabrina deduced. Had Angus been their only elder?

Dougal locked his hands at the small of his back, commanding the court’s attention. “As laird of Clan Cameron, I have convened this court today to see that justice is served.”

An approving murmur rose from Sabrina’s clansmen. Justice, they believed, would surely mean the downfall of the heathen MacDonnells.

Dougal continued. “We are here today to arbitrate a fine to compensate the chieftain of the MacDonnells for the shameful and untimely slaying of his father.”

A shocked buzz rippled through the room. Sabrina’s mouth fell open. It was not Morgan, but her father who had come to be sentenced by his own court. His request for arbitration was tantamount to a confession of guilt. Her mother looked as stunned as she; Brian and Alex both paled until their freckles stood out in sharp relief.

The Cameron lifted his hand. The resulting silence was immediate and fraught with tension. “I maintain my innocence in the murder of Angus MacDonnell. ’Twas not my doing nor that of any of my kin. But since the MacDonnell was under the sacred protection of Cameron hospitality when his death occurred, I will pay the fine required by our ancient and revered laws.”

Sabrina could almost read her mother’s mind. Gaelic laws. Not English laws.

An anonymous cry came from the benches. “Aye, and if the ol’ villain had stayed home, where he belonged, he might yet be alive!”

A MacDonnell sword flashed, but Morgan’s warning glance stayed it.

“’Twas by my invitation that Angus MacDonnell came to Cameron,” Dougal replied. He turned to Morgan. “Morgan Thayer MacDonnell, are you prepared to accept the judgment of this court for the slaying of your father?”

Morgan leaned back in the chair, resting his ankle on his opposite knee with arrogant grace. “What choice do I have?”

I would have crawled for them. They’re all I have. All I am .

As Morgan’s words rushed back through her mind, Sabrina twisted to see the men scattered along the back wall. What did Morgan see when he looked into their jaded eyes? A shadow of remembered pride? A shred of former glory?

Dougal faced the lone old man trembling on the bench. “And the MacDonnell elders?” he said with respect as if the man’s opinion bore the weight of emperors’ and kings’.

“Aye,” he whispered timidly, then broke into a toothless grin as a cheer went up from his clansmen.

An irreverent smile played around Morgan’s lips. “Go on, Cameron. Do your worst. I’ll get two goats, you’ll get a slap on the hand, and we can all go home.”

Sabrina’s great-uncle Robert climbed the steps to join them. Sabrina was surprised that her father did not intend to pronounce the judgment himself. Robert stood before his nephew. “Do you in turn agree to abide by the judgment of this court, Dougal Cameron?”

“I do.”

Her father left the dais and went to sit beside his wife. As he gripped her hand, his knuckles went white with tension.

Robert unrolled a sheet of vellum even longer than his snowy beard and adjusted his gold spectacles. “Very well. All listen carefully to this judgment. It will stand with the authority granted it by these two chieftains. The following is paid by the Cameron and awarded to the MacDonnell—two hundred sheep, a hundred head of cattle…”

As her uncle’s quavering voice droned on, Sabrina studied Morgan. He yawned, then drew out a menacing dirk and began to pare his fingernails. His affectation of boredom did not fool her. His eyes glittered behind his curtain of hair.

“… two hundred chickens, three cases of fine Scotch whisky…” This drew a cheer from the flagging MacDonnells. “… his ceremonial claymore, the Cameron betrothal ring…”

Sabrina flinched in sympathy. She’d never in her memory seen that ring leave her mother’s hand.

“… and his daughter, Sabrina, in holy matrimony.”

Morgan’s dirk clattered to the dais. A deathly pall of silence fell over the hall. The sole MacDonnell elder went blue around the lips. Sabrina lifted her head, not even daring to breathe as Morgan came out of the chair, his hands still braced on the carved arms as if for support. Their gazes met across the sea of people between them.

A staccato burst of laughter escaped him. His words were for Dougal, but his eyes were all for Sabrina.

“For God’s sake, man, show me a wee bit of mercy! Can’t you give me four hundred chickens and spare me the bloody daughter?”