Page 11 of Highland Fire

When he had arrived in Inverey, his first order of business with his friend, John Murray, had been to make himself conversant with the manners and modes prevailing in the Highlands.

What he had learned had staggered him. It was like turning the clock back to feudal times.

A chief was head of his clan. All other members of the clan were his vassals, owing him their loyalty as though they had sworn fealty to him.

There was nothing in the law that compelled their allegiance.

It was all in their heads, a relic of former times which persisted because of the relative isolation of the Highlands.

Legislation enacted in Westminster counted for nothing here. In these parts, the chief was the law.

“Glenshiel,” he said in greeting, and extended his right hand with the Clan Randal ring on his finger.

Glenshiel looked as though he would die on the spot from a fit of apoplexy.

The buzz of conversation around them came to an abrupt halt as interested spectators waited for the explosion to occur.

Rand never doubted the outcome for one moment.

If Glenshiel insulted his chief here, before witnesses, he would become an outcast in the eyes of all members of Clan Randal. He did not think Glenshiel was so rash.

He was right. Though the old man’s face turned purple with suppressed fury, he dutifully lifted the proffered hand to his lips and kissed the ring, then promptly dropped Rand’s hand as if it were a live coal.

Rand suppressed a smile, but only barely.

Since humbling the old boy, however tempting, played no part in his plans, he made haste to make himself agreeable.

“Sir Alexander,” he murmured, addressing the older man respectfully by his title, “I would be honored if you would make known to me the members of your family.”

The rage in Glenshiel’s eagle eye had faded to be replaced by a gleam of speculation. His glance fell on his beautiful granddaughter, Fiona, then lifted to Rand’s face, and he bared his teeth in a smile. It was another lady he brought forward, however, to be presented first.

“Lord Randal, may I present my daughter-in-law, my late son’s widow, Mistress Charlotte Randal?”

The lady’s eyes were avidly curious. “Lord Randal, this is an unexpected honor. How is your dear mama? I had the pleasure of meeting her when I was last in…”

As the lady rattled on, Rand studied her covertly.

So this is the girl’s mother, he was thinking.

At something over forty, Charlotte Randal was still a good-looking woman, though her figure tended to plumpness.

Behind the girlish facade, he sensed a will of iron.

She was a breed with which he was all too familiar—an ambitious mama who would stop at nothing, short of murder, to advance the interests of her fledgling.

How on earth had David managed to escape her coils?

When the spate of chatter had come to an end, he answered politely and noncommittally, then looked inquiringly at Glenshiel.

“And my brother, Donald.” said Glenshiel.

Behind wire-rimmed spectacles, faded blue eyes focused on Rand. “Is it the Randal I have the honor of addressing?”

“It is,” replied Rand, taking stock of the elderly gentleman who bowed formally. The spectacles were slightly at odds with the impression Rand had taken of a gentleman who liked to be about and doing.

Donald Randal’s smile seemed to be genuine, unlike Glenshiel’s. “Well now, it’s about time, I’m thinking. I never did hold with the feud, you know. Your branch of the family was no responsible for…”

“Not now, Donald, not now,” said Glenshiel testily. His eyes had been scouring the faces around him. He brought his attention back to Rand and said, in the manner of a fisherman baiting his hook, “And this is my granddaughter, Fiona.”

“Lord Randal,” said the girl demurely, and curtsying, she lowered her lashes.

There was only one word to describe the beauty.

She was sublime. During the service, he had noticed that most of the gentlemen could scarcely tear their eyes away.

Her blond hair was a shade darker and curlier than his own, though not much of it could be seen for the flowery confection that he supposed was a lady’s bonnet.

Her lips were…provocative, as were the dimples that lurked in her cheeks.

It didn’t surprise him in the least that David had been drawn to this girl.

“Miss Randal,” he said gravely, “my cousin, David, spoke of you often before his untimely death.”

Her blue eyes widened. “Did he so?” she murmured; then those beautiful blue orbs filled with moisture. “Poor David.”

In these surroundings, there was no opportunity for private speech with Miss Randal. There would be other times, other places, Rand promised himself.

“Glenshiel,” said Rand, his tone clipped and precise, “you will do me the honor of waiting upon me tomorrow morning.”

This was a chief addressing his vassal. Glenshiel managed a stiff-necked bow. His reluctance was very evident.

Satisfied that he had achieved what he had set out to do, Rand turned on his heel and threaded his way through the crowd. He hadn’t forgotten the face that he had never expected to see again.

His hand fell on the shoulder of the young Highlander who was in conversation with the dowdy young woman who had shared Glenshiel’s pew.

Rand had scarcely spared her a glance, nor did he now.

In his mind, he had already summed her up as “the mouse.” He had put her down as a serving woman, or some such thing, and it registered, though only vaguely, that he had seen her from time to time in the streets of Ballater.

“Well met, soldier,” he said.

James MacGregor started; then a huge grin spread across his face. “Ye remembered me,” he said.

“Of course,” said Rand. “How could I forget you? You were the Highlander who latched onto my stirrup leathers in the cavalry charge at Waterloo. I never thought to see you alive again.”

Rand was aware that, as he spoke, the mouse had slipped away, melting into the crowd. He put out his hand. “Randal is the name,” he said.

“MacGregor…Jamie MacGregor,” responded the Highlander as though in a daze. He was not unaware of the great honor in being singled out by so august a personage as the chief of Clan Randal.

“I’d be interested in hearing how you fared during the battle,” said Rand. “I have a coach waiting, if you can spare the time?”

It so happened that MacGregor had all the time in the world.

With every eye upon them, the two young gentlemen strode to his lordship’s carriage.

Caitlin’s eyes, along with the eyes of every lady present, were trained on the swing of his lordship’s kilt.

The breeze ruffled the hem a fraction, and a collective sigh went up.

She could not help wondering…but no, nice girls did not speculate about such things.

The next blast of cold air did more than ruffle the hem of his lordship’s kilt.

“Barefaced and bare-arsed,” was Glenshiel’s biting comment.

It was Meg Duguid, however, who expressed the general consensus. Meg kept the pie shop in Crathie. “Och, the bonnie lad!” she exclaimed. “The Randal is a true Highlander, and no mistaking.”

In his first public appearance as chief of Clan Randal, there was no question that the English laird had made a favorable impression.