Chapter 3

Muriella was taking her place beside her mother at the high table when Andrew stepped through the archway from the privy stairs at the northeast corner of the great hall, just beyond the ladies' end of the dais.

Robert MacAulay followed Andrew, and to her surprise, Ansuz padded at MacAulay's heels. Glancing at Scáthach, who lay on the sprawling hearth near the crackling fire, Murie saw the big dog rise to its feet and begin to approach.

Ansuz stopped to glower at it, but the dog continued undaunted, so the little cat arched high with its fur on end and hissed.

Scáthach cocked her head and looked at Robert MacAulay, as if seeking his advice. Looking from one animal to the other, MacAulay made a small gesture, and Scáthach moved warily around the cat and lay down near the archway.

"Ansuz rarely comes into the hall," Lady Aubrey observed mildly. "He spends most of his time in the solar."

"That fool cat stays upstairs because it dislikes dogs, and there are nearly always some here," Andrew said. "He must have taken a strong liking to ye, Rob."

"But not to Scáthach," Murie said, noting that although the little cat had relaxed, it stayed right where it was and eyed the dog with disapproval.

Lady Aubrey said to MacAulay, "Is that your dog's name, sir?"

"Aye, my lady," he said as Andrew motioned him to the place at his right.

Lady Aubrey's eyes twinkled. Glancing at Murie, she said, "Then I suspect you have an interest in Highland folklore."

"Perhaps someone else named the dog," Murie said lightly.

Whether MacAulay might have risen to the lure, she'd never know, because Andrew held up a hand, silencing everyone before he said the grace before meat.

Afterward, gesturing for all to sit, he took his seat and said to Lady Aubrey, "As ye see, my lady, I've invited the lad to dine with us. I told ye he'd be staying in Mag's cottage, and I ken fine that ye'll recall him from Lina and Ian's wedding."

"I do, aye," Lady Aubrey said, smiling across him at their guest. "I hope your parents are well, sir. It has been some time since last I saw them."

"They are both in excellent health and spirits, my lady," he said. "My mother commanded me to extend her greetings and affection to you."

Murie kept her eyes on her trencher, trying to ignore the effect that MacAulay's presence was having on her.

When he was not annoyed with a person, he certainly had a pleasant voice, calming and melodious. She would have liked to hear him recite poetry or tell a story. Since he knew about the female warriors, he might know some of the other great tales of Scottish folklore and heroics. But it was more than just his voice that stirred her senses. She would be wiser to ignore him.

Andrew's carver had finished his carving, and the gillie Peter Wylie held the platter of sliced meat for Andrew to make his selection. After he had put two juicy-looking slices on Lady Aubrey's trencher and chosen several for himself, Peter moved to serve their guest and then, at last, came to Muriella.

As she selected her usual two slices, she heard Andrew say abruptly to Lady Aubrey, "Your daughter has been exploring farther from home than I would wish, madam. That displeases me."

Murie froze with a slice of meat dangling from the point of her knife. Over the platter, her gaze met Peter's, but the gillie displayed his usual stolid expression.

Whether he was aware that MacAulay must have betrayed her to Andrew or not, she knew that Peter was unlikely to sympathize with her.

Recalling then that Pluff had also known where she'd gone, she looked at the boy, seated beside burly MacNur, whom he aided with the animals inside the wall.

Pluff was interested only in his dinner, though, and experience reminded her that he did not carry tales to Andrew or to MacNur about anything she did.

The traitor had to have been MacAulay. She would like to have seen how he reacted to Andrew's words. But to see him at all she would have to lean forward and look past both of her parents. She decided it would be wiser to pretend she was unaffected by her father's comments and could easily explain herself.

"I have learned that this morning she went near the northeast pass," Andrew went on. He chewed as he talked, but Murie understood him perfectly and sensed her mother's stiffening annoyance beside her just as easily.

The first question was which one of them would scold her? Then, how soon afterward would she be able to murder Robert MacAulay?

Rob also heard Andrew's comments to his lady. He might have been happier had the older man held his tongue at least until the meal was over, but what Andrew Dubh chose to do in his own house with his own family, or when he chose to do it, was no concern of Rob's.

He therefore kept his attention on his food. It was plain fare but cooked and roasted well. Although it lacked some of the variety that attended meals at Ardincaple or the royal strongholds with which he was familiar, Rob had a practical nature and was a good trencherman wherever he ate. Food supplied the energy a warrior needed to do his job properly. Therefore, one ate whatever one's servers or hosts offered and did so without complaint.

Rob also habitually studied his surroundings, so he looked up now and then to scan Andrew's people at the trestles in the lower hall. He did so then, caught a glimpse of Lady Muriella's beautiful profile, and knew in a blink that she was angry. He had no doubt that he was the focus of her anger and wondered if she would tell him so. From what he had seen of her so far, he decided she would not hesitate to tell him exactly what she thought, little good though it would do her.

He returned his attention to his food only to note minutes later that gillies were putting up a privacy screen.

"I want to talk with my lassie for a minute or two afore we talk, lad," Andrew said quietly to him then.

"Then, doubtless, you will excuse me, sir," Rob said, reaching for the cloth provided to clean off his eating knife.

"Nay, nay, lad," Andrew said. "Finish your meal and pay me nae heed. Sithee, I needna say much. We'll take our leave together when ye're done."

Much as Rob would have liked to insist, he still needed advice from the man and did not want to offend him. So he turned back to his meal.

No sooner had he done so than Andrew dismissed the gillies and said sternly to his daughter, "Ye've disobeyed me, Muriella, as I think ye ken fine. Ye should have told me where ye'd been and that ye'd seen Dougal MacPharlain for yourself."

"But I didn't!"

"Whisst now," Andrew said. "I'll hear nae backchat. Forbye, ye should ken fine that any argle-bargle will gain ye nobbut grief. Ye've gone your limit this time, lass, by wandering dangerously near that pass, and I mean to put a stop to such behavior. Ye'll bide inside our gates now for a fortnight."

Rob heard Lady Muriella gasp and decided that such a punishment had likely not come her way before. She well-deserved it, though, and he felt not an ounce of pity for her.

Glancing at her, he saw that words of protest hovered on her tongue.

She looked at her mother, saw that no help would come from her, and then caught her lower lip in her teeth as if to lock the perilous words inside.

Andrew evidently saw the same things. He said grimly, "Ye're wise to hold your tongue, lass. I ken fine how much ye love your wanderings, so it should take only a few days of such confinement to bring ye to your senses."

Rob growled under his breath, thinking that Andrew had yielded to her ladyship's distress. Still, it was no business of his.

"Thank you, sir," Muriella said on a note of profound relief.

"Dinna be thanking me yet. Ye'll take Peter Wylie with ye wherever ye go. I mean to give him strict instructions regarding your boundaries, too. Ye'll go nae farther than Peter allows. Nor will ye plague him to give ye more freedom," he added sternly. "If ye do, it will go much worse for ye. D'ye hear me, lass?"

"Aye, but to put a gillie in charge of me, even Peter! To shame me so…" Tears welled in her eyes, and one trickled down a smooth, now pale cheek.

" 'Tis harsh punishment, I'll grant ye," Andrew said. "I expect I could do summat a wee bit more palatable. If ye agree… and," he added when her tears ceased as if she had turned a tap and a tiny smile touched her lips, "… if he does."

Her eyes widened. "Peter?"

"Nay, nay," Andrew said. "I was thinking of Rob MacAulay here." He turned to Rob with a guileless smile. "Since ye'll likely bide with us here at Tùr Meiloach for several days more, until we sort out what ye mean to do, I've nae doot ye'll agree to escort the lass now and now, will ye no? Sithee, ye've shown that ye can persuade her to mind what ye say, so she'll give ye nae trouble at all."

Rob's jaw dropped, and he stared aghast at his host.

Muriella's outrage ebbed when she saw the stricken look on MacAulay's face, but it flooded back when he recovered enough to say evenly, "I am wholly at your service whilst I remain here, my lord."

"Good o' ye! My lass will stay in the solar this afternoon and contemplate her sins whilst we continue our own discussion. I'm hoping ye'll sup with us, and mayhap, if she behaves herself, ye'll take her out for a wee stroll after supper. Ye've shown interest in the landscape here, and I'd have ye see as much as ye like. If ye take her with ye, she can answer any questions ye may have."

Seething with anger but aware of her mother sitting stiffly beside her and uncertain whether Lady Aubrey's anger matched hers or Andrew's, Murie kept quiet. Since her father had practically made her punishment public knowledge, protest would be useless anyway. It was possible that no one at the trestle tables in the lower hall had heard all that he had said. Still, in sending the gillies away as he had, he might as well have announced that his intent was to scold her.

The worst thing, though, was that Robert MacAulay had carried tales of her to her father. Her first inclination when Andrew had said that MacAulay could escort her was to ignore the so-called easing of her punishment and stay inside, but walking with Peter was too humiliating to contemplate, and she knew that Andrew had meant it to be. He was truly angry with her.

As always, though, her wily father had put his goals first. His primary aim was the same as it had been the year before, to marry her to MacAulay and thereby gain a third well-connected warrior as a good-son to help him win back the estates that his cousin Pharlain had usurped from him when Andrena was a newborn babe.

She would go for that stroll with MacAulay, Murie decided. If she could not charm him into being sorry for rejecting her father's offer the year before, she could at least tell him exactly what she thought of him for carrying tales to Andrew.

Rob felt as if Andrew had drawn him into a maelstrom, and he could think of no civil way to swim out of it. For his host to involve him in what should have been a private matter of parental discipline was unconscionable, but Rob had heard enough about Andrew Dubh MacFarlan and seen enough of the man to know that Andrew's conscience rarely interceded when he wanted something.

Rob's position was such that he'd have liked to excuse himself, not only from the high table but also from Tùr Meiloach. Nevertheless, having requested Andrew's advice, he could hardly leave before learning what the man could tell him, at least about Pharlain. In truth, Rob admitted—if only to himself—he would welcome almost any plan that the crafty Andrew helped him devise.

Rob's own nature was forthright. However, his two best friends had warned him separately that trying to talk sense into Pharlain over something as lucrative as he and Campbell of Lorne believed collecting passage fees at Ardincaple would be, would prove futile at best.

"Get yourself up to the ladies' solar now, Muriella, and dinna show your face below stairs again until I send someone to fetch ye, unless ye would suffer my strongest displeasure," Andrew said then, diverting Rob from his reverie.

He stood when Andrew did but did not watch her ladyship's departure. As the two men ascended the stairs after her, Rob was tempted to point out to his host that including him in her punishment was no treat for him.

He held his tongue, though, and soon realized that courtesy was not what stopped the words on his tongue. Nor had the concern that someone, even the lady herself, might overhear him if he raised such a subject in the stairwell. The fact was that his irritation was gone, replaced by intriguing conjectures of how her ladyship might react when next they met.

That thought struck him as illogical. His first reaction had been the realistic one or should have been, because it had been reasonable. He should be anticipating nothing save the sort of trouble that Andrew had assured him the lass would not create. Sakes, since Ian and Mag had warned him that talking to Pharlain without learning how to protect himself against the man would be sheer lunacy, what would they say to this?

"Sit ye doon, lad," Andrew said as they entered his chamber and he stepped around the table to his chair. "I've had some notions since we talked afore. Nowt that I'd recommend from the outset, mind ye, but some that do warrant discussion."

Rob nodded, took the back-stool again, and warned himself not to let his mind wander from the subject at hand. He had a feeling that if it did, his host would notice. And, rather than being offended, Andrew would be delighted.

Muriella went obediently to the ladies' solar and felt no surprise when her mother failed to join her there. Not only would Lady Aubrey doubtless believe that Murie deserved solitude, but rarely did she spend any afternoon in the solar.

She was more likely to visit people or make her presence felt in the tower, supervising the turning out of a chamber to clean it or another such wifely task.

Murie took her customary seat with her back to the southeast-facing window, unshuttered now to let in the light and the crisp spring air. Preparing her leader, she attached it to her spindle. Then, with her left hand, she plucked a handful of lamb's wool from the large basket beside her, overlapped it with her leader, and began gently turning her wheel with her right hand.

Soon she was working with her usual rhythm and letting her imagination soar far from the solar into a flight of fancy. Robert MacAulay somehow became the central figure, a foolish one who suffered well-deserved trials and tribulations.

The door opening after what seemed to be only minutes startled her so that she nearly snapped her thread.

Seeing Tibby in the doorway, Muriella stopped the wheel.

"What is it, Tib? You nearly startled me witless."

"The laird said ye should put on your cloak and take your walk now," Tibby said, her tone carefully neutral. Nevertheless, Murie easily sensed the maidservant's curiosity straining for satisfaction.

Refusing to reveal more information than Tibby had doubtless gleaned since the midday meal, Murie said lightly, "I have not missed supper, have I?"

"Nay, nay, though Himself did say ye might wonder," Tibby admitted. "It be so cloudy that he feared it might begin tae rain, and he kent fine that ye'd no want tae miss your walk. Forbye, he said that they had nowt more tae discuss today."

"Thank you," Muriella said absently, her thoughts speeding ahead to all that she still had to say to MacAulay. The imaginary punishments she had inflicted on him had eased her fury, but she could not allow him to imagine that Andrew expected him to control her every movement.

"Ye'll no be going out in that yellow kirtle without a cloak, m'lady," Tibby said. "Ye should put on a cap, too. We'll fetch them from your bedchamber."

Muriella went meekly, deciding to save her arguments for MacAulay.

Ten minutes later, she found him patiently waiting by the fireplace in the great hall with Scáthach.

Greeting MacAulay with a nod and the dog with a friendly pat on the head, she led the way silently to the stairs, outside, and across the yard to the postern gate.

Pluff dashed to open it for them, earning himself thanks from MacAulay.

Passing through the gateway, Murie hurried across the clearing and into the woods. When they were amid the trees, beyond view from the wall, she continued to stride ahead of him but said bluntly, "This is all your fault."

"Is that so?"

The note of amusement in his voice swept her fury back again. She whirled to face him, determined to tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Seeing the color flood her ladyship's cheeks, Rob waited to hear what she would say next, although he might have guessed. She did not disappoint him.

"It is your fault," she insisted. "Did you not tell my father that I had gone too near the pass? Had you not done that—"

"Even if I did, how does that make your father's reaction my fault?"

She rolled her eyes. "Faith, but you try to turn a simple fact into a puzzle. Had you not told him, he would have had no reaction."

"What happened was a natural consequence of your own actions," he replied calmly. "I warned you to tell Andrew before I, or Pluff, or anyone else did."

"But why carry tales to my father at all? That was a vile thing to do. Pluff would not have done it."

Still maddeningly calm, he said, "I did not carry that tale, lass. You did what you did. Then you told your father only that Pluff and I had said we'd seen Dougal. Because apparently you did not describe any of your own actions, Andrew asked me some pointed, quite logical questions. Would you have had me lie to him?"

He could tell from her expression that that was exactly what she had hoped. But when she looked angrily into his eyes and he continued to gaze steadily back at her, she expelled a frustrated breath and said, "I suppose you would not do that."

"You are right; I could not. I don't hold with lying in any event, and I came to Tùr Meiloach a-purpose to seek his advice. A fine turn I'd have served him, had I given him a lie in place of the honest information he requested."

With a thoughtful frown, she looked searchingly at him. "He asked you where I had gone walking? That seems most unusual for him."

"He was more specific than that," Rob said. "He asked me where you were when I first saw you. Sithee, you evidently told him that we'd met near the northeast slope. You also told him that Pluff and I had both seen Dougal. Do you not think your father is canny enough to draw his own conclusions after that?"

She grimaced and turned away, heading toward the cliffs that overlooked the Loch of the Long Boats.

Andrew had said nowt to him about setting boundaries for her. Moreover, no matter how angry she was with them both, Rob doubted that she would fling herself into the icy water far below, so he followed without comment.

Scáthach glanced at him. Then, Rob having given no other command, she loped past her ladyship and began to range back and forth ahead of them.

Lady Muriella's silence continued until they emerged from the woods near the clifftops. Then she turned, gave him a rueful smile, and said, "You do know that my father has done this because he still hopes you will agree to marry me."

"There is no danger of that," he said, taken aback by her candor.

Her fading smile turned sadly winsome, "I know," she said. "But he hopes you will, even so."

Discerning the likely implication of her phrasing with a sense of shock, and only after she had repeated the word "hopes," he eyed her more warily. "Do you mean to say Andrew told you that he had suggested such a union to me?"

"Aye, sure," she said with a shrug. "He offered me to you last year when you were here with Sir Ian, did he not?"

Rob hesitated, wondering how much more she knew about the day her sister Lachina had married Sir Ian Colquhoun.

Murie hoped she had put MacAulay on the defensive for once. If she had not, perhaps she had at least diverted his thoughts from what he called the consequences of her actions. His silence was encouraging.

Pressing further, she said sweetly, "You did say you don't lie, did you not?"

"I was not tempted to lie to you, my lady," he said, meeting her gaze with apparent ease. "I just wondered how Andrew came to tell you about that day. Did he tell you about it then or more recently?"

Uncertain if the truth would aid her or not, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and tried to think. He was harder for her to read than most men were.

"When did he tell you, lass?"

Sensing no annoyance in him, only determination, Murie shrugged again and said, "If you must know, he told me this morning. He also said that you informed him last year that you would not inflict yourself on any woman. Why is that?"

"If I were wooing you, I might be obliged to explain. But I am not wooing you, nor will I, Andrew's hopes notwithstanding. Do you mean to stand talking, or would you liefer walk farther? Your father invited me to sup with him, so I'm in no hurry. However, I did not think to ask him what time your people serve supper."

"We have an hour before we need return," she said.

"Are you so certain of the time?"

"Aye, sure. Should I not be?"

"You did not even glance toward the sun, although with those clouds in the west, one cannot be sure of its exact location."

"I don't need the sun to tell me what time it is," she said with a smile. "I just know. Lina always knows, too. We were born that way."

He made no comment on that statement, making her hope he would accept that she spoke the truth. He would test her again, though, because people did that whenever she or Lina displayed their gifts for knowing the time and the tides.

"I have heard that the MacFarlan sisters have some unusual gifts," he said. "Ian swears that your sister Andrena knows what men are thinking and that Lina can even foretell the future. I should perhaps tell you that I don't believe in such abilities."

"That is your right, sir, but I should perhaps tell you that they are real."

"I do know that some people have a strong sense of time," he went on as if she had not spoken. "Such people usually explain their ability by noting things that aid them, such as changing light or animal behavior. In troth, most people know by the extent of their own hunger that a mealtime is drawing near."

"I expect that is all it is, then," she said, although she knew it was not. To return him to the more interesting subject of his objection to marriage, she said wistfully, "Is it just that you think you would make any woman a dreadful husband or is it something wrong with me in particular?"

The flash of anger she sensed in him surprised her. She had seen nothing in his expression that she could describe as warning that such fury might ignite.

As surprised by the strength of his anger as he could see that her ladyship was, Rob quickly controlled it. He was not angry with her but with himself for making her think that he believed she had something wrong with her.

However, he also suspected that she was seeking change to a topic that might be more comfortable for her. Accordingly, he said, "I am not ready yet to marry, lass. That is all. I don't intend to discuss my past with you or to bandy words on such subjects. You have two good-brothers who are warriors. I think you would agree with me that any man whose liege lord may summon him to battle at any moment is unlikely to make you a satisfactory husband."

"Aye, well," she said, looking thoughtful, "I would not have married Ian or Mag. They are both too bossy to suit me. Come to that, I have yet to meet a man who is not domineering. Men are all much too apt to debate one's decisions."

"I can easily believe that the men in your life object to some of yours," he said. "Having witnessed the result of one of them, I think you'd do better to consider the wisdom of your decisions before blaming Mag, Ian, or your father for objecting to them. These cliffs provide a fine view," he added. "I saw that from your north river boundary this morning. But, from here, one sees nearly the full length of the loch."

"The clouds are thinning, so the view will soon be better, and we'll see a splendid sunset. But you are just trying to change the subject, are you not?"

"Nay, I thought you were."

She shot him a wry smile. "I was," she said. "I do not want to talk more about consequences."

"Something tells me you don't even like to think about consequences."

"I don't."

"You should not only think about what they might be but also learn from them when they occur," he said. "Experience comes more from consequences than from anything else. It is not only foolish but foolhardy to ignore them."

"But, see you, I know what I want to do, so I dislike things—and men—that get in my way."

"And now I am in your way," he said, nodding.

"Now you are trying to make me feel guilty," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I do not dislike you. In troth, I am grateful that my father's hope for our future stirred him to ask you to come with me. That saved me from days of confinement in my bedchamber or the ladies' solar."

"If that is all that Andrew had in store for you, you have reason to be even more grateful that I did not accept his offer of a marriage to you," Rob said with more feeling than he had intended.

"Why?"

"Because if you were my wife and did aught as dangerous as what you did this morning, you would be feeling much less cheerful now and less able to sit."