Page 26 of Highland Fire

That brutal event explained so much that she had not understood before.

Donald Randal had never married. To her knowledge, there had never been a woman in his life.

Peace and quiet were all that this gentle man required to pursue his scholarly interests.

The highlight of his life was the occasional trip to Aberdeen or Edinburgh or such sundry places, to deliver a paper at one of the historical societies.

He was also a great walker and could often be seen in all kinds of weathers tramping the hills.

As for Glenshiel, he had become the sole support of his little family.

As he grew to manhood, he saw that there was only one way to repair his family’s fortunes.

He took up arms for the crown. In time, he made his way back to Deeside.

Some things, however, he could never reclaim.

Strathcairn and the chieftainship were forever beyond his reach.

If Glenshiel, who feared no man, felt honor bound to accept the dictates of the Randal, Caitlin did not see how her puny will could prevail.

She thought of something else. Donald Randal would be returning to the scene of that tragic episode in his young life.

To her knowledge, he had never set foot in Strathcairn from that day to this. The thought made her vaguely ashamed.

“I’m proud to be a Randal of Glenshiel,” she said, and linking her arm through her uncle’s, she led the way back to the house.

As the carriage took the last turn on the road to Strathcairn, the house came into view.

Every window blazed with lights. In one corner of the coach, Fiona chattered at an alarming rate.

She was staring fixedly out the window, commenting excitedly on the long queue of carriages in the driveway, the groups of elegant ladies and gentlemen who descended from them.

In the other corner of the coach, Caitlin calmly addressed desultory remarks to the other members of their little party.

Beneath her tranquil exterior, however, she was quivering.

Panic fluttered like a moth trapped within her, and her breathing was anything but regular.

It was too late to turn back. She fixed on that thought, trying to get a grip on herself.

The worst thing that could happen was that people would cut her dead—she, an upstart and an interloper—for daring to enter their rarefied world.

Before she could marshal her defenses, another thought, a poisonous barb, slipped into her mind.

Worse by far was the fear that he would mock her and her pathetic attempts to pretty herself up.

On the other hand, he might ignore her altogether.

It was one thing for the Randal to pay her some attention when she was the only woman available, quite another when he was surrounded by beautiful, cultured sophisticates of his own class.

Whether it was better to be mocked or ignored—just thinking about it made her shudder with dread.

That train of thought was mercifully cut short when the coach door was flung open by one of the Randal’s immaculately liveried footmen.

Donald Randal hung back momentarily, and Caitlin felt a twinge of remorse as it came to her that her uncle had far more to fear than she.

He must enter Strathcairn’s great hall and face the ghosts of his boyhood.

Her own fears seemed petty in comparison.

Assuming a confidence she was far from feeling, to distract him, she casually laid her gloved fingers on his arm as she made to descend the carriage steps, then began a series of witty anecdotes on the trials and tribulations she had endured in preparing for her first ball.

At least, she supposed they were amusing.

The white tissue frock she was wearing, she told him, was her own creation, and she was still half-blinded from embroidering the row of tiny white thistles which adorned the edge of her bodice.

Her hair—Mrs. MacGregor had dressed it for her—was a wonder of modern science, namely, paper and hot tongs and a gross of steel hairpins to keep the effects of gravity at bay.

Her glowing complexion owed nothing to nature, but was rather the product of feminine invention—an oatmeal and lemon scrub, followed by a light dusting of corn flour.

It was something of a relief when Charlotte entered the conversation and regaled them with stories of her own girlhood vanities.

Glenshiel soon caught on. Though he offered no comment, he chuckled in all the right places.

In this way, they entered Strathcairn’s great hall.

As they joined the throng of guests who were slowly making their way to the reception line, Glenshiel positioned himself close to his brother.

At the same time, he managed to draw Caitlin to his side.

His eyes swept over her, and for her ears only he whispered, “Lass, I’m proud o’ ye, so proud o’ ye.”

Glenshiel wasn’t given to flattery or flowery compliments.

He was a typical Scot, distrustful of praise in all its manifestations.

Caitlin felt herself swallowing, and her heart seemed to swell inside her chest like a hot-air balloon.

She did not know it, but she held her head a little higher and her eyes shone with a new awareness.

This was as nothing, however, when her unwary gaze was caught and held by Rand’s glittering stare. The worst thing that could happen to her was no longer of any interest. Rand’s eyes told her so.

It was a gathering on the scale and grandeur of a bygone era.

Glenshiel surveyed the crush of people, especially the gentlemen, with an appreciative eye.

Kilts in the tartans of all the northeast clans were liberally represented—Gordon, Fraser, Farquharson, Murray, MacGregor, Forbes, and the Randal.

Especially the Randal. The spectacle brought a small constriction to his chest. He could not remember the last time he had seen so many of the younger generation in their national dress.

Trews and breeches were now a commonplace in the Highlands, so much so that one would never have known that the prohibition against Highland dress had long since been lifted.

Only ancient relics such as himself had returned to the old modes.

But not tonight. Tonight was a gala occasion in the Highland tradition. The Randal had done them all proud.

From his vantage point on the upstairs gallery, Glenshiel allowed his eyes to wander the interior of the great hall.

It wasn’t the same as in his father’s day.

The new lairds had refitted the place. It was grander, more opulent, more…

“English” was the word he wanted. The paneling, the staircase, even the portraits on the walls, were different.

It was just as well. When they had stepped through the door from the foyer, he could feel Donald brace himself for the terrible ordeal.

“I hardly recognize it,” he’d said, and the tension had seemed to flow out of him.

Not so for himself. Glenshiel’s memories were sharper, more vivid.

His eyes were unerringly drawn upward to the massive wooden support that traversed the width of the hall.

A silver chandelier with a thousand candles was suspended from it.

He suppressed a shudder, recalling another time, when three men had been strung up and left to gasp out their dying breaths.

Resolutely putting that image from his mind, he searched the crowd for the figure of his host. The Randal was in conversation with the Duke of Atholl.

Lords Aberdeen and Aboyne wandered over.

Soon, they were joined by Huntly. Never, in Strathcairn’s history, Glenshiel was thinking, had such exalted company graced its hallowed halls at one time.

In the old days, this gathering of the flower of Highland nobility would have been highly suspect.

Treason and rebellion would have been in the air.

The constriction in his chest increased.

It wasn’t pride. It was regret. These days, the chiefs saw their role as landlords and men of business.

Their conversation was all of profit and loss.

The principles which had guided their fathers and their fathers’ fathers were no longer of any interest. They were not guardians entrusted with the care of the land and all its people.

Self-service was the new order of the day.

The land and its people must be made to serve them.

An old era was passing and few seemed to lament its demise.

At the rate these men of influence were going, in very short order, the Highlands would be barren of everything but sheep and game.

The clearances on Atholl’s estates were a scandal to all right-thinking men, and a foretaste of things to come.

Didn’t these men recognize that they, more than the English parliament, were the death knell of their own clans?

Didn’t they care? Highlanders cleared from their ancient lands were taking ship for the New World in droves.

He wished with all his heart that he was thirty years younger.

Then he would think nothing of taking on that coterie of powerful men whose heads were so intimately bent together. He wished he had an heir.

That thought sent his eyes searching the crush for Caitlin.

He knew more regret but overlaid with an undeniable thread of pride.

The lass had a head on her shoulders. She had heart.

There was no one else to whom he cared to entrust the care of Glenshiel and its people.

If things were different, if Strathcairn and its vast holdings still belonged to his branch of the family, if Caitlin were a boy…

His thoughts stopped there. Caitlin was illegitimate. Strathcairn and the chieftainship could never have passed to her, not even if she were a male.

“What are ye thinking?” Donald Randal had joined his brother at the balustrade.