Page 35 of Highland Fire

Caitlin had recovered sufficiently to begin a tearful explanation of the night’s events.

Rand cut her off without a qualm. “Lass, no one gives a damn about what brought you here. Look at you. Look at me.” When she raised her beautiful stricken eyes to his, he nodded.

“Yes. We are compromised. There’s no getting round it.

” He brushed his fingers against her lips, silencing her protests. “Leave everything to me. All right?”

With the inevitability of marriage hanging over their heads, he was sure that she would retract her outrageous assertion about their blood tie. Before Glenshiel carried her off, he contrived a few moments alone with her. “Tell me it isn’t true,” he said.

In a fierce little voice, she replied, “You know we cannot wed. That is my final word on it. Do something before it’s too late.”

It still wasn’t too late. She had only to say the word and the whole thing would blow up in their faces like an exploding artillery shell.

When her fingers closed around his, he chafed them gently to ease their tension. Finally, she raised her eyes to his. They were as cold as her hands.

The last note of the pipes echoed through the hall. Through stiff lips, she whispered, “I was counting on you to find a way out of this impossible fix we are in. You promised me you would take care of everything.”

Equally stiff, Rand hissed. “What would you have had me do? I’ll have no man say I shirked my duty. You were found naked in my bed. Do you suppose anyone will believe we are brother and sister after that?”

Caitlin bit down on her lip. The black-robed cleric looked askance from one to the other. In mounting impatience the guests began to shuffle their feet.

Glenshiel fixed the priest with his eagle eye. “It’s a weddin’ or a hangin’. Take your pick,” he said.

Shuddering, the priest began on the familiar liturgy.

The next few hours were like no wedding reception Rand had ever attended.

Dancing, dining, and drinking on an unprecedented scale—that was the order of the day.

Though he stood up for several dances with Caitlin, the energetic country reels and strathspeys did not lend themselves to conversation, not when the music was provided by Deeside’s finest—three stalwart pipers who tried to outdo themselves in raising the roof by the sheer power of their lungs.

Shaking his head, Rand watched from the stairs as a dozen kilted gentlemen took to the floor. The famous sword dance was about to get under way. No ladies participated, for this was a war dance.

“I hope it’s not prophetic.” Rand’s humorous words were addressed to Glenshiel who had come to stand beside him at the balustrade.

Glenshiel’s answer was drowned out by the skirl of the pipes. Smiling, he made to move away but Rand forestalled him. “And now, Glenshiel, we shall have that conversation you promised me.”

Taking Glenshiel’s elbow in a firm clasp, Rand steered him along the edges of the dance floor till he came to a door he recognized. Pushing it open, he bade Glenshiel enter the little parlor.

Sighing, Glenshiel limped to a brocade sofa and lowered himself onto it. His expression was resigned as he gazed up at the younger man. “I could do with a wee dram,” he said hopefully.

“And you shall have it just as soon you tell me what I wish to know.”

When he had last met with Glenshiel in this very room, there had been solicitors present.

Their time had been fully occupied in arranging marriage settlements, dowries, and the disposal of property.

In passing, when the solicitor’s attention was diverted, Rand had broached the subject of Caitlin’s paternity, and Glenshiel had promised to answer his questions at a more appropriate time.

“Ye’ll be wantin’ to know who Caitlin’s father was.”

“I do.”

“And as I told ye, I would only be guessing. Morag, my daughter, never revealed the name o’ the man who had dishonored her.” He mumbled indistinctly, then continued, “I dinna want any o’ this to get back to Caitlin.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

Glenshiel’s eyes flashed. Rand absorbed the fire in them, but his own will never wavered.

At length, Glenshiel let out a sigh. “I trust ye. God alone knows why, but I trust ye.” Irritably he said, “Well, dinna stand there like a great glowerin’ mountain.

Ye’re givin’ me a crick in the neck. Sit yerself down and I’ll tell ye what ye wish to know. ”

When Rand obliged, Glenshiel said grimly, “Caitlin is a Gordon. Her mother was dark, but no as dark as the Gordons. Ye have only to look at the lass—her gray eyes, her fine bones, the way she moves. Och, I canna explain it. Ye’ll just have tae take my word for it.”

Rand breathed deeply. He felt as though a millstone had been removed from around his neck. “Who?” he gently prompted.

“I was a fool for not seeing it at once. She despised him, ye see, the laird o’ Daroch. When he asked for her hand in marriage, I refused him.”

Rand straightened in his chair. “Are you saying that Daroch’s father is Caitlin’s father?”

“What? No, no, ye misunderstand. Daroch’s uncle was the elder brother.

He was the laird then. But they were all tarred with the same brush.

Profligates. Womanizers. Deeside was scandalized with their goings-on.

Aye, has anything changed? Young Daroch takes after the spear side o’ his family.

He’s mad if he thinks I’ll countenance a match between him and Fiona. ”

Rand fastened on the one thing that held any interest for him. “If she despised him, it hardly seems likely that he is Caitlin’s father.”

“He wanted her. He took her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Leaning back in his chair, Rand absently laced his fingers together. “What exactly did your daughter tell you?”

“She refused to say anything. I suppose she was ashamed. I would have killed him if I had not been spared the trouble. He was killed in a duel before it all came out.”

This was not what Rand had hoped to hear. There was too much conjecture and not enough hard evidence. He could not conceal his frustration. “Dammit, man, I am no nearer to knowing the name of my wife’s father than ever I was. It could be anyone.”

“Who, for instance?”

Rand could not bring himself to mention his own father by name, especially as he considered him innocent of wrongdoing. In a more roundabout way, he referred to the possibility of visitors in the area. Though he broached the subject as diplomatically as possible, Glenshiel took affront.

“My daughter was a good lass. She was proud. If ye had known her, ye would know what I mean. If a man did not like her well enough to put a wedding ring on her finger, she would have none of him. Daroch raped her, I tell ye.”

A period of silence followed as Rand digested Glenshiel’s words. There was such pain in the older man’s eyes that he was almost tempted to give up. If the matter had not been of such crucial significance to himself, he would have stopped right there.

“Surely,” he said diffidently, “later, after the duel, your daughter would have confided in you? What had she to lose? She had nothing to fear from the man who had abused her. What reason was there to preserve her silence?”

“Shame. Pride.” The words were barely audible. Glenshiel stirred and lifted his gaze to meet Rand’s. “Does it really matter? It’s all over and done with. If I had believed, truly believed, that Caitlin’s bloodlines meant a straw to ye, I would not have forced this marriage upon ye.”

“You didn’t force this marriage upon me,” Rand snapped. “No man forces me to do what I don’t wish to do.”

Glenshiel chuckled. “I’m glad I did not misjudge my man. Ye’ll do very nicely.”

Rand folded his arms across his chest and surveyed his companion for a long interval. At length, he said, “You seem very pleased with this turn in events, Glenshiel. Yet, you must be aware that my own reputation is hardly spotless.”

“What are ye saying?”

“You know what I mean. You chose me over Daroch, and I want to know why.”

Glenshiel’s brows met in a frown. “Do ye think, man, that I give a fig for your title and wealth? Is that what ye think?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“Then allow me to put ye straight about a few things. Naturally, I was aware of your reputation—the wild parties at Strathcairn; your jaunt to The Fair Maid. But man, that wasna the stretch o’ your ambitions.

Ye were a soldier. Ye were no idle fop squandering your inheritance in gaming and wenching.

And in the last little while, ye have conducted yourself with all the propriety o’ a man in holy orders.

And I know why. Aye, I think ye will do very well for my wee lass. ”

“It may surprise you to know,” Rand tossed out sarcastically, “that your ‘wee lass’ does not share your opinion.”

Glenshiel stared, then brayed uproariously.

Finally, he got out, “Och, ye have only yourself to blame. Aye, she’ll know about the wenching.

Well, every man and his dog knows about it.

But it’s more than that. Ye turned your tenants out o’ their crofts.

Ye are English bred. Ye scorned the very things she holds dear—the land and our way of living.

Sure the lass would not come to ye willingly, and well I knew it.

It will take her a wee while afore she admits that she wed the right man. ”

Rand raised his eyebrow skeptically. “You think I am the right man?”

“I do. I’ve watched ye since ye returned to Deeside. No, that’s not precisely true. I’ve watched ye since I became aware that your eye was on my wee lass. Now that surprised me, ye being the Randal and having your pick of any woman, so to speak.”

“So to speak,” said Rand dryly.

“It occurred to me that ye had eyes in your head. Ye saw something in the lass that few others have the wit to see. She’s generous. She’s loyal. She’s affectionate—”

“Not to mention rash to a fault, stubborn, and intractable,” Rand threw in, half in earnest, half flippantly.