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CHAPTER ONE

My marriage was born in hate and despair, for I was a gift from my uncle to the man who could win me. My feelings were not considered, it was as though I had none, as if I were a mere chattel like a hunting hound or a horse, to be turned over to the victor as a sort of reward. No matter if I were of noble blood, if I were intelligent and somewhat attractive—or so my mirror told me. All this had no substance. Only the will of my uncle, the Earl of Finlay, counted in this disposition of my life, my happiness.

I had no inkling of this, naturally, or I might have rebelled sooner than I did. I lived in a fool’s paradise, surrounded by loving relatives and friendly servants, in the big castle which my uncle inhabited on the banks of the River Tweed, in the border country of Scotland. I rode with my cousins out across the meadows. I shared happy meals with them and with the earl and his countess, my aunt, who had raised me almost from babyhood.

I believed myself to be one of them. After all, I was of the same blood. I was daughter to the earl’s sister, who had gone down into Cumberland, in England, to be wed to its marquis. When my father died at Culloden, fighting on the side of the English against the Scots, and my mother soon after, of grief, I was brought north through the ruins of the old Roman wall to the Pentland Hills where Finlay Castle stood.

I was a sassenach, of course, an English girl, even though no mention of this was made, at least to my face. I was also the niece of the Earl himself. His blood flowed in my veins through his sister and, because of this, I took my place at his board and was brought up with his three sons.

Now my uncle was going to give me away to a man who would win me as he might win a prize pig at a clan gathering—through trials of strength and skill.

I had no inkling of his intention on that sunny day when I was at the stables, watching my mare being saddled. I had no notion that anyone wanted to wed me. I was happy, the sun shone down out of a cloudless sky, and I wanted to ride across the peat moor to the foothills I could see from my bedroom window.

It was Mina who brought me word that my uncle wanted to see me at once. She came hurrying across the cobble-stones, skirts fluttering to the wind, mob-cap almost flying off so that she had to catch and hold it, an intent expression on her pretty face.

“Mistress Barbara, Mistress Barbara,” she called. “Master is asking for you. Now, mistress. Now.”

The urgency in her voice should have warned me, perhaps, but there had never been a crisis in my life. I had no reason to believe this was such a moment. I relaxed, I even laughed a little when she came to a stop and stood panting before me.

“Go easy, Mina. You’re all out of breath.”

“He was very stern, was the earl, mistress. I’ve never seen him so, in all the time I’ve been here. There was a man with him, too—a great, dark fellow that sent the chills up and down my spine. He seemed very interested in you.”

“A stranger?”

She nodded eagerly, saving breath by not speaking.

I tapped my quirt against my full-skirted riding habit, frowning. I had no business with any stranger, I wondered idly what business he might have with me. Then I smiled at the worried girl.

“I’ll come, of course. Where are they ?”

“In the earl’s library, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mina. I can find the way.”

I left her staring after me with big eyes, shadowed slightly with foreboding. Mina always was a worrier. An anthill was a mountain, a scratch sometimes a mortal wound to her.

My heels made hollow echoes in the hall as I made my way to the library. My uncle is an avid reader. He snatches at whatever printed page that comes to hand. Often, in the night he ensconces himself in a cushioned chair before a fire, a book in one hand his pipe in the other, and loses himself to the world about him.

The library door was closed. My knuckles rapped on it and I was told to enter. I did so, peeping in so that I might see this dark strangers whom Mina had mentioned. My gaze slid past my uncle who was seated at his desk, and settled on a brawny Highland chieftain in plaid and kilt, a dirk thrust into a scabbard inside his woolen stocking. A Claymore hung at his side, his bonnet in his hand. He stood at the window, staring out at the gardens, and he was scowling.

He turned, finally, as I tiptoed into the room, to hurl that dark scowl at me. Our eyes met—mine questioning, his full of a smoldering anger. Slowly, his frown relaxed while he studied me, and he nodded as if to himself.

My uncle chuckled. “Barbara, this is The Cameron. He finds it in his mind to marry you.”

The earl is a man of few words. He is most direct. He chuckled again when he heard my gasp and shook his head.

“It’s time you were wed, girl. Don’t get that stunned look on your face. I’ve made an excellent choice for you. The Cameron is a man of property. He’s from Ben Nevis country.”

My hands began to tremble. I pressed them together. I turned from my uncle to The Cameron.

“Despite what my uncle says,” I said to him as firmly as I could, though all the while conscious of a quavering in my voice, “and despite the great honor you do to me, I—I cannot marry you.”

The Cameron glowered. There was a fierce pride in this man, and his blue eyes seemed almost to blaze at me. He did not glance once at my uncle, his attention was placed solely on me. Out of long habit, I suppose, he rested his left hand on the hilt of his Claymore Perhaps it steadied him as my clasped hands had steadied me.

“I was given to understand that you had no say in the matter,” he murmured.

My eyes flashed at the earl, who was smiling faintly. “Nor does she,” he stated firmly. “The Lady Barbara is an orphan, she has no family other than mine. She is subject to my wishes, my desires.”

“Have you forgotten Devin Keith?” I flared.

Uncle raised his eyebrows. “The Keith? Why, no, I haven’t forgotten him, but what is The Keith to you?”

I flushed painfully. I could not stop that red tide from moving upward from my throat into my face. Like a ninny-hammer, I stood speechless, trying to find words with which to answer him.

My tongue stumbled over itself. “I—I thought that Devin and I—we like each other so much. That is . . .”

The earl smiled. He is a good man, my uncle, sensitive to the needs of his family. I had always regarded him with awe. He held himself so aloof, so busied with his estates and his tenants, that I had never really come to know him. He had taken me in, as his sister’s child, and made a home for me at Castle Finlay. I was grateful to him, I could not imagine what might have happened to me if he had not offered me protection in my earlier years.

Yet he had no right to dictate the rest of my life!

My chin came up and I heard The Cameron chuckle.

“She has a mind of her own, this one,” he said to no one in particular. “And she’s a fighter. I like that in her.”

“Oh, do you, sir?” I snapped.

The blue eyes were amused. He had lost his scowl, that sullen frown, and his face seemed transfigured in my eyes. It was a handsome enough face, I guess, though somewhat craggy and much browned by the sun. His body must be rock hard, I found myself thinking. His legs were like young oak trees where they showed bare between stockings and kilt, and his shoulders were close to a yard wide. Beside him, I felt dwarfed.

“She’ll make me a good wife,” he went on, head slightly tilted as he stared. “Our children should be braw bairns.”

I am afraid I sneered. He saw it, and stiffened. We confronted each other like duelists, our eyes challenging, trying to beat down the gaze of the other. Through this mutual antagonism, my uncle’s chuckle cut like the edge of a sharp knife.

“Love can come later,” he said, shifting in his chair. “The important thing now is to get you two married.”

I swung on him, drawing my gaze from those burning blue eyes. “Is there any rush? I am only nineteen.”

The Cameron said, “Almost an old maid, to my way of thinking. High time a man held you in his arms of a cold winter’s night.”

I could have hit him with my quirt.

“Now, now,” the earl said soothingly. “No need to fuss so, my mind’s made up. You’ll be wed tomorrow, Barbara, so The Cameron can take you north with him while summer still lies upon the land.”

My heart hammered, I felt nauseous with the realization that I was alone in the world, that I was not strong enough to fight these two men who were so determined to see me married. My eyes went to the bust of Robert Bruce on a marble pedestal, to the rows of books neatly arranged on their shelves, to the ex-hide map of the world which occupied almost all of one wall and was my uncle’s pride. I looked for help, for an idea, for anything that might deliver me from this situation.

The Cameron said softly, “It has been too sudden, this proposal.” As I glanced at him, he came across the room with a jingling of his scabbard chains, and took my hand in his. I wanted to pull it free, but he held it firmly, and he was far stronger than I. “You will need time to think. Please? May I ride with you?”

I shook my head, still staring up into his face. I hated this man. I would willingly have plunged a dirk into his broad chest if one had been at hand. Despair swam inside me as fish swam in the waters of the Tweed.

But, as I gazed upward to his eyes, I was not so filled with hate that I couldn’t notice that he was filled with an inner sadness, a sense of tragedy and perhaps even guilt. Did I imagine all this? My cousins were forever telling me I lived like a heroine out of a Horace Walpole novel. Still, the feeling remained and grew stronger the longer I studied him.

He read my expression, and nodded. “No. You want to be alone. I can understand that, and respect your wishes.” He hesitated, drew a breath. “It isn’t captivity you’re facing, you know. Nor do I expect love from you. As yet, that is. It’s up to me to win that. I hope to do so in the years ahead.”

“If you wish to please me,” I begged, “withdraw your proposal.”

“That I cannot do.” He grinned at me. “Besides, I’ve come to admire you, in a way. My mind’s more than ever made up. I’ll have you for my wife, and nothing can come between us.”

He released my hand. I snatched it back and rubbed it with the other as though his touch contaminated me. Tears were springing into my eyes. The Cameron and the room in which I stood became a blur, but I would have died before lifting my hand to brush them away.

Let him see what the mere sight of him did to me! Let him know how he was breaking my heart. He threatened me with something far worse than captivity. A loveless marriage.

I was a great dreamer in those days. I think he sensed something of the way I felt, for he drew back a step and turned to face my uncle.

It was on the tip of his tongue to withdraw his marriage offer, I felt sure, but the black look on the earl’s face choked the words in this throat. He shrugged, moved across the room to the window and stared out at the gardens.

My uncle growled. “Enough’s been said between us, Barbara. You know my wishes in this matter. You will obey them.”

My numbed mind realized dumbly that I could not disobey him. I was dependent on my uncle for my food, my shelter, my very life. He had been good to me, he had raised me, he had seen to my education. I owed what I was to him. Yet I loved Devin Keith! The Keith had won my heart, I wanted to be wed to no man but him, certainly not to this glowering stranger who stood with his back to me so ungraciously.

I nodded, not daring to speak for fear my voice would break, worrying that the tears now blurring my eyes would trickle down my cheeks and I should make a show of myself. For a moment, I stood there, then whirled and fled. My thoughts were chaotic, tumbling over themselves inside my head, as I ran down that seemingly endless hallway.

When I came to the door and could see the stables and my bay mare waiting, saddled and bridled by this time. I leaned against the lintel and let the tears come. I sobbed softly, so that no one not seeing me should guess at my plight. I had no wish to draw attention to myself, to start up servants’ tongues.

At length, I found the courage to wipe away my tears, to make myself as presentable as possible. My chin lifted, my back straightened, and I walked with as steady a step as I could muster, straight toward the waiting horse.

Edwin, the head groom, was in the stables. He poked his head out and waved a hand to me as I stood on the mounting block and lifted into the saddle. I averted my face but waved back at him. The below-stairs gossip would start soon enough. In a matter of minutes, news that The Cameron had been here to ask for the hand of Mistress Barbara Cumberland would speed from dungeon to battlement.

There would be excitement and much fluttering about of servants to prepare for the wedding. The kitchens would be an eruption of activity, the several cooks both flushed and flustered. My aunt would be gathering together her seamstresses. There would be planning and sewing into the small hours of the morning, until a gown for me and for my aunt had been created and put together. I wanted no part of this, I needed to be alone.

I galloped the bay mare across The Merse, those flat farmlands which are so rich and provide so much of the foodstuffs that reach the tables of the earl, as well as supplying the countryside around us. I went across a narrow riding, seeing the blue bulk of the Cheviot Hills before me and a glint of sunlight on the waters of the Tweed.

I knew no other land than this. Cumberland, the place of my birth, I did not remember at all. My name was English, my heritage on my father’s side was also sassenach, but I was a true Scot like my mother. I loved the purple heather nodding in the breeze, the golden bracken. An east wind was blowing. It cut through my riding habit. I shivered, but I would not go back. There was a flat rock up ahead where I was wont to sit at times and think out my problems. I had been coming here for many years and today was to be no exception.

After a time, I walked the mare, letting my eyes dwell on the clusters of dwarf cornel flowers, all white with a black center, and yellow cow wheat. The green grasses and distant pines added to my sense of pleasure. I came to a little stream set with gray rocks, and walked the mare carefully, here where there had been a ford, long ago when the stream had been larger and deeper. Now its waters were used to irrigate the fields that held potatoes and beans, cabbages and lettuce.

I breathed in the fragrance of these growing things. I pulled rein and sat for a while enjoying a grand view of the Cheviots and, to the north, bathed in purple haze, the Lammermuir Hills. A little of my despair fell from me, it was hard to be saddened when one could look upon such scenes as this. I brightened somewhat, telling myself I was not committed to this marriage which was being forced upon me. There had to be a way out, if only I could find it.

I rode on, up a sloping hillside and toward the great, flat rock which had been my particular seat since first I learned to ride and came here, to be alone with my thoughts. In Scots dialect, it would be known as an aill, but no matter what the name, it was mine.

I reined in, stepped from the stirrup. I walked about to stretch my muscles, then sat on the edge of the stone, looking down at the river.

The east wind, usually so blustery, had died a little and the sunlight warmed my back. I propped my chin on my fist and stared at the Tweed. Sick despair began to give way to resignation.

My thoughts took me back in time, to that first moment I could recall, of being bundled in a wrap and passed up by hand to a tall woman sitting on a horse. There was torch light, it was night, and there was a curious intentness in the hurried breathing of the men about me.

The woman was Marjorie Gillespie, a Scotswoman who had gone down into England with my mother. Upon my mother’s death, Gillespie was taking me north to her homeland.

I was three at the time, I have been told.

My memories of that ride, safe in Gillespie’s arms, are very vague. Once we crossed a river, some water splashed on my face and made me cry and, at another time, we hid in some bushes so as not to be taken by English soldiers. It was right after the battle of Culloden, that fateful conflict which forever sealed the fate of Scotland. My father, cousin to William Augustus the Duke of Cumberland, who had commanded the English force in that fray, died in the battle. When my mother went to her grave a month later, of a broken heart according to Gillespie, Gillie had taken it upon herself to carry me home with her.

The Earl of Finlay gave me shelter, and Gillie employment as my nurse and governess. It was Gillie who raised me from childhood to young womanhood, demanding an equality for me with my three cousins, which my uncle, amusedly enough, was ready to grant. I was a tomboy in those early years. I studied with the boys and rode ponies with them and even fought them, at times, when they roused my temper.

It had been a happy childhood, I had not missed my mother or my father, because I’d had Gillie to care for me. As I thought of her, tears again misted my eyes. She had grown old in my service. About a year ago, the Earl had pensioned her off with a small annuity so she could live out the rest of her life with her sister in Ayr. Gillespie had not wanted to go, but she was neither young nor well.

I thought of her now, and wondered whatever had happened to her, and if she might have some suggestion to help me out of my difficulty. I had been a trial to Gillie, with my tomboyish habits, my ramblings with William, Charles and Robert—the earl’s three sons—and the manner in which I gaily entered into pony races with them.

Oh, those had been the happy years.

I could recall summer days when the heat was at its height, swimming with the boys in the Tweed or racing across The Merse, and autumn with its changing colors, playing in the dry leaves, gathering the apples and the squash. Our Christmases were always times for fun, what with the goose dinner to be looked forward to, and the opening of presents, the caroling. I was a bully at those times, compelling William, Charles and Robert to join with me and some of the village children as we went from house to house and even to the crofters in the hills, singing. Best was the lighting of the Yule log.

I loved this land, its moods and varying hues, its blustery east winds and softer breezes of summer, the first scents of growing things in springtime and that faint decay that was in the air during the long fall days. It would break my heart to leave it, to go north into Cameron country, to the Highlands.

My right hand was balled into a fist, I discovered, when my fingernails cut into my palm. I would not go! I would not marry The Cameron! There must be an escape for me, some argument to offer my uncle . . .

My head lifted. I stared. For the first time, I asked myself a question: Why was my uncle so eager to marry me off to the first comer? Of course, I had assumed, ever since I became a young woman and no longer joined so tumultuously in the sports the boys favored, that I would be wed, some day. Every girl dreams at times of her future husband, and I was no exception. But I had always believed I would marry Devin Keith.

There was no reason for my choice, really, beyond those dreams that young girls have. When the mistletoe hung in the halls, it was always Devin who came to kiss me under it, who held hands with me from time to time. He was handsome, two years older than I, and I do believe he liked me. Nay, more than that, I felt he loved me.

Why then, was the Earl so anxious to wed me to The Cameron?

I had no answer. The Keith was not at all rich, but he had a small holding in the Lammermuir Hills. His family had lost most of its wealth in The Forty-five, when the English had broken the Scots under Bonnie Prince Charles. He was not landless, but I was not interested in his wealth, only in himself.

Yet there was a reason. My uncle never did anything without cause. Perhaps he hoped to ally himself and his house to the Camerons. They had fought at Culloden, but had not suffered as much as those Scots who lived in the Lowlands. Actually, I knew very little about the Cameron clan, other than being vaguely familiar with its tartan.

I rose to my feet and walked through the high grasses, the need for movement burning in me. I felt very much alone, without a friend to run to with my tale. My cousin William would listen sympathetically. He always did. Charles would laugh and assure me that what his father did was for my own best interests. And Robert, who was my own age, would just mock me and tell me I was having a bout of the vapors. No, there was no help there.

My aunt would do as her husband ordered, and chide me for my hesitancy. I had already argued with my uncle, had discovered for myself how determined he was with regard to this match. Oh, if only Gillespie were still at Castle Finlay! She would give me good advice, advice I wanted to hear.

I had to smile at that. I didn’t even know what advice it was I wanted, except possibly some magical formula that would dispel The Cameron as one might a Lowland mist and keep me safe at home. And there was no such thing. I was level-headed enough to understand that much. And so I paced up and down, my head bent, whispering such prayers as Gillie had taught me from time to time. I hoped in my heart that someone would appear like the fabled knight in shining armor of the Morte d’Arthur, who would sweep me up across his saddle-bow and carry me off to happiness ever after.

This was when I heard the hoof-beats.

I turned, saw a rider coming fast, bent low over the neck of his black stallion. My heart thumped eagerly. I knew that horse, that rider. My hands lifted to clasp together and tears misted my eyes once more.

Devin Keith flung himself from his horse, came running to meet me. I hurled myself into his arms that closed about me. They were strong arms, but they held me gently, tenderly.

“Barbie, Barbie,” he whispered into my blonde hair, “whatever have they done to you?”

I laughed, sobbed, clung to him. “They want me to marry The Cameron, Devin. My uncle has told me so. And I—don’t want to!”

“Nor shall you,” he whispered, kissing my forehead. “I heard the bad news when I came to see William. It was he who told me. The whole castle’s overflowing with it.”

He laughed harshly. “Already, cook is readying the marriage feast. But it won’t be for you and Cameron. It will be for us, Barbie—for us!”

I stared up at him, radiant with happiness. “Devin! Oh, Devin, do you mean it?”

He kissed the tip of my nose. “As ever I meant anything at all, dearest Barbara. I’ve been to see the earl. I told him you and I had an understanding, that we had discussed getting married.”

“And what did he say?” I asked breathlessly.

“Told me it didn’t matter, since nobody’d had the courtesy of asking his permission.”

I sagged against him. “Then it’s no use. When his mind’s made up, nothing can change it.”

His laughter rang out. “I told him he was a tyrant, that he couldn’t order a girl’s heart about as if it were his gamekeeper.”

I stared up at him. “And what did he say to that?”

“Said I might be right. He’d need time to talk it over with The Cameron.”

“With—The Cameron?”

“Aye, they’re thick as thieves, those two. It’s almost as though they’d planned this for a long time, as if it were a scheme they’d hatched between them ages ago.”

I shook my head, bewildered. “I never heard any talk of my marriage from my uncle. You’d have thought he would have mentioned it at some time or other.”

I walked to the flat stone, sat down. I looked at Devin Keith, at his fair hair glinting in the late afternoon sunlight, at his handsome face and green eyes, at the supple body encased in tartan jacket, riding breeches and jackboots. The breeze toyed with his hair that he wore wigless, giving him something of the look of a rumpled angel—at least, to my eyes.

He came across to me, sat close beside me, reaching for my hand. “I made a suggestion to the earl,” he murmured, “and asked him to give it some thought. I offered to fight The Cameron for your hand.”

“Devin!” I cried, shocked.

Yet a pleasant chill went through me. It isn’t every girl who is fought over, I suppose, and I enjoyed that momentary excitement. Then my better judgment came to my rescue. I shook my head.

“You can’t do it, Devin. I’ll not take the risk of having you hurt.”

The Keith sneered. “I am an accomplished duelist. You know that to be a fact. I’m taking no risk at all, really.”

I glanced at him fearfully. “But The Cameron? He’s big and strong, he seems like an ox in size to me. How do you know how well he can fence?”

“He’ll be slow. I’m much faster. No big man can defeat a faster, smaller man with a sword.”

“He carried a Claymore,” I muttered, “and he gave the impression that he was familiar with its use.” I tried to smile as bravely as I could. “I cannot imagine a Highland chieftain who cannot use a Claymore”

“Claymores or small swords, it makes no difference, I am his master, as he’ll soon discover if he accepts my challenge.”

“You confronted him?”

“Through your uncle, yes.”

I nodded. “He will run to The Cameron, he will ask him if he can use the steel well enough to meet you in a match.”

“The winner to have you as his bride.”

I sighed. “I don’t like it, Devin. I don’t want you hurt, but I don’t want The Cameron harmed, either.”

“You and your tender heart! I won’t kill him. I’ll do no more than draw his blood, just enough to win you and send him packing back into his hills.”

“You promise me?”

“I vow it.”

For the first time in hours I relaxed. I had faith in this man who sat beside me, I had seen him fence with the earl’s sons, and knew him for a far better swordsman than any man I’d ever watched. In my heart, I had no worry for him, yet I felt a little sorry for The Cameron.

He had come to Finlay Castle for a bride, not a blood-letting. He was an unfriendly, glowering sort of man, not at all the sort a girl could love. Still, it was not my wish to have him harmed, and I wasn’t at all sure that Devin Keith would keep his promise. There was a wild streak in The Keith.

“I mean this, Devin. You must not harm him. I want no marriage based on the death or maiming of any man, even such as he.”

“A cut across his cheek, then,” he laughed.

“His arm. Or possibly, a leg.”

Perhaps it would be so bad. I had heard rumors that my uncle had fought more than once,and he was still hale and hearty on this earth. Gillespie had told me that my father had called out men upon three occasions. They dueled in such fine cities as London and Paris these days, gentlemen did. So why not in a land where the Highland clans still carried on their feuds.

Devin agreed, laughing. “A very minor wound, that won’t inconvenience him on his trip home—alone.”

“You’ve solved my problems for me, Devin,” I whispered. “Until you came, I was sunk in a pall of gloom. I couldn’t see any way out. Now, I have no more worries.”

“If your uncle consents, that is.”

“You think he won’t?” I asked, fearful again.

“No matter if he does or doesn’t. I’ll challenge The Cameron man to man, which he won t dare refuse.”

His face was hard, cold, and I saw death in his green eyes for The Cameron. My hand shook his arm. “You promised. . .”

He looked at me, and for a moment, I do not believe he saw me. He was thinking only of his pride. This was a part of The Keith I did not like, that male arrogance which concerned itself only with his wants. I believed I could sway him, however, as I always had in the past.

“Even if the earl should not consent, and you still manage to fight him, I don’t want him harmed. I will not be a bride and widow in the same day. I would feel—tainted by his blood.”

“Nor shall you be. A wound only, I swear it.”

“Then we’ll go together to get my uncle’s answer,” I said, rising. “Come along, Devin, while my courage holds.”

We mounted and rode back across The Merse to meet my uncle and demand his answer. I will not deny that I was worried, I knew my uncle and his hard-headedness, but I also knew Devin Keith and his pride. There would be a clash, fatal in its consequences, perhaps. And inside me something warned that no matter what they decided, it was I who might be the ultimate loser.

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