Page 63 of Highland Fire

She saw that her entreaties could not sway him.

Her one hope was that Rand would arrive before any action could be taken.

Rand would not see anything happen to Bocain.

She held onto that thought as Dr. Innes made an effort to fill the silence.

The poor man, Caitlin was thinking, must feel as though he had walked into Bedlam.

This thought put her in mind of Rand’s family.

It was a different kind of bedlam at Cranley, and one she longed to enter into again.

Later, when Caitlin heard the front doors close upon Daroch and the physician, she left her grandfather’s bedside and went in search of her uncle. She found him in the library, nursing a tot glass of whiskey.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” were his first words to her. He rose and poured out another glass of whiskey.

“Daroch?” Wearily she sank into a chair and gratefully accepted the glass he offered.

“I think he is misguided, but I don’t blame him.

He has been a tower of strength these last days.

Sometimes, I have to look at him twice to make sure he is the same reckless boy I knew before I went off to England. ”

“Aye. He may do very well for Fiona, if only Glenshiel will stoop to accept a Gordon into the family.”

“You know how he hates all the Gordons o’ Daroch.”

Donald Randal sighed. “Aye. I’ve tried to persuade him that there is no’ a drop o’ Daroch’s blood in the lad. Glenshiel will no’ listen tae reason. The lad was raised a Gordon. Your grandfather canna see past that.”

Very gently, Caitlin said, “Uncle Donald, you have hardly been in to see grandfather since I got here. I think he would like to see you.”

Tears filled his eyes. “It’s only—”—his voice cracked—“it’s only that I canna bear to see him look so frail. But if ye think—”

“I do, oh, my dear, I do think so!”

They ascended the stairs in silence. When they entered Glenshiel’s chamber, Caitlin said softly, “He’s been so restless that the doctor prescribed a few drops of laudanum to give him a good night’s sleep. If he seems tired, it isn’t your doing.”

Her uncle nodded, and Caitlin turned aside to the little dressing room, where a cot had been set up for her.

She busied herself with trivialities, not wishing to spoil the moment for the two brothers who had been inseparable since they were infants.

Donald Randal’s voice, low and earnest, went on for a long time.

When there was a silence, Caitlin glanced toward the bed.

Her uncle was on his knees crouched over, and Glenshiel’s hand was resting on his brother’s head.

It was the baying of the foxhounds that awakened her.

Caitlin leapt out of bed and moved quickly to the open window.

It was barely light, and in the distance, the hills and mountains were shrouded in mist. Below, a stable boy was holding the reins of two fresh horses.

The only horse at Glenshiel House was her own little pony which she’d had brought from Strathcairn.

All the others had perished in the fire.

Grabbing for her robe, she moved to the bed.

As though aware of her presence, her grandfather opened his eyes.

That look was there again. He labored to speak, and though sounds erupted from his lips, they were unintelligible to Caitlin.

Patting his hand, she said, “I’ll send your gillies to you.

Don’t fret. It will all come back in time. ”

On the gallery, she looked over the banister and saw her uncle with John Murray. That alarmed her, for Murray’s place was a long way from Glenshiel. Someone must have sent for him the night before, or something had occurred at Inverey.

“What is it?” she cried out. “What’s happened?”

Her uncle said something to Murray, and the younger man strode out the front door before Caitlin’s foot had touched the bottom step.

Donald Randal came to meet her. “It’s Serle,” he said, looking very grave. “Last night, they found his body near Murray’s place. It looks as if he has been savaged by a wild beast. Don’t say anything yet to the others. I don’t want Glenshiel to get wind of it.”

All the blood rushed out of Caitlin’s face. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “Bocain would not attack Serle. He doctored her injuries! And she allowed it! Bocain trusts him!”

“Lass, the dog has reverted to her natural state. She is wild and untamable, just as her dam was—a great beast o’ prey. How do you think she has managed to live these last weeks? She hunts deer and game and any stray lamb that comes her way. She’s tasted blood now. She’ll never be the same.”

Caitlin looked up at him with huge, frightened eyes. “But foxhounds! I don’t want her to die that way! Oh God, it’s a horrible death!”

“Aye. If she were my dog…”

“What?” she whispered, knowing what he was going to say.

“I would kill her myself afore I would let that happen to her.”

Her eyes locked on his. “But how?” Her tones were hushed as if she were a conspirator to murder. “How shall I find her?”

“She must have a lair.”

“The old quarry. It’s where I found her as a pup.”

“I must go.” He pried her fingers from his sleeve. “They need every man. Take care. She may turn on ye at the last.”

No sooner had she seen him mount up, than she went tearing back up the stairs.

Bocain lifted her head and sniffed the air.

Rising from her haunches, she took a few restless paces forward, then halted, hackles raised, teeth bared.

The baying of the hounds was coming nearer, but there was something else in the air that the dog seemed to recognize, a scent that made her careless of the approaching pack.

She was whining now, eyes staring straight ahead at Glenshiel House. Suddenly she barked, and her tail began to lash. Panting, ears pricked, she looked expectantly at the house. Then she saw the dogs, and she was off and running.

The dry-stone dikes were no obstacle to her.

Bocain sailed over them with room to spare.

Then, at a safe distance, she would turn back to watch the progress of the foxhounds as they scrambled over them as best they could.

Though she was leaner than she had ever been, she was in the peak of condition.

She was used to hunting for her own game now, and her physique showed it.

Where Donald Randal had erred was in assuming that she ravaged the flocks and herds in the hills.

For a canine, Bocain had a highly developed understanding of right and wrong.

Caitlin had dinned it into her when she was a pup.

“Would you look at that!” John Murray reined in beside Daroch. “If I did not know better, I would say that that dog is thumbing her nose at us.”

They had reined in to give one of the marksmen a clear shot at the deerhound. The gun went off, and dirt and turf were kicked up not a yard from Bocain. Snarling, barking, she showed them her heels.

“What she thinks she is doing,” said Daroch grimly, “is leading us away from Caitlin. She is protecting the girl. That’s what she is doing.”

“Oh, God! I wish we didn’t have to do this!”

“Don’t we all?” Daroch was looking toward the hills.

“What is it?”

“A Highland mist, wouldn’t you know it? If we don’t get her soon, we shall have to call in the dogs.”

The horn sounded, and riders and dogs rejoined the chase.

At the ford leading to Balmoral, near Rand’s boathouse, the leader of the pack caught up with Bocain.

The fight was over in a few seconds. At the sight of those powerful fangs tearing out the foxhound’s throat, men swallowed convulsively, thinking of Haughton’s fate.

Though the river Dee was not yet in full spate, the level of water was rising daily as the snow in the hills melted.

Bocain crossed the ford without mishap. Again, she moved away to a safe distance and waited for her pursuers to catch up with her.

She had a long wait, for both horses and hounds balked at the first attempt to cross the ford.

As the first dogs came out of the water, Bocain took off.

Skirting the old castle, she led the way through bog and pine forest to the higher ground, where the trees thinned out and birse and heather covered the hillsides.

On a grassy knoll, she halted, looking back the way she had come.

When the foxhounds came racing from cover she barked furiously. The hounds sighted her and went wild.

Up she went along a narrow deer track, till the heather gave way more and more to bare rock. From a high rocky promontory, she looked down on the Dee valley.

Below her, pandemonium reigned. The foxhounds had discovered that the grassy knoll from which the deerhound had taunted them was, in effect, a badgers’ set.

Bocain’s scent was forgotten as badgers and foxhounds went at each other in mortal combat.

Horses and riders were milling around in utter confusion.

Men were cursing, and trying to bring order to the chase.

Bocain lifted her great head, her sensitive nostrils quivering as a light froth of mist floated around her. Ears back, she leapt from her rocky lookout and bounded away.

For three miles, she pushed on, keeping close to the bank of the river.

The mist on the hills was sinking lower, blanketing the fields and pastures of Balmoral in a ghostly shroud.

Bocain’s pace never slackened. When she came to the ford at Inver, she sank into a patch of wild rye.

Her tongue was lolling, and she was panting hard, her ribs moving rhythmically with each harsh breath.

Many minutes were to pass before her breathing had evened.

Something caught her attention, a rustle of dead leaves beside a fallen log, and she cocked her head.

An adder slithered across a rock and disappeared into a patch of heather.

More minutes passed, then Bocain rose and shook herself vigorously, untensing the muscles along her back and shoulders.