Part 9 (1/2)
Brigham thought of those words as they neared Glenfinnan.
The waters of Lochnan Uamh were a dark, violent blue. As they arrived at the great stone fortress, the snow was just beginning. Overhead the sky had turned to a thick steel gray, and the wind whipped the waters of the lake into fury.
Their coming had been heralded by the playing of pipes, and the high, eerie music lifted into the thin air. Such music was used to celebrate, to mourn and to lead soldiers to battle. As he stood with the snow swirling about his feet, Brigham understood how a man could weep, or fight, to the sound of such notes.
Inside, servants were dispatched with what luggage had been carried on the journey west, fires blazed high and whiskey was pressed into every waiting hand.
”Welcome to Glenfinnan.” Donald MacDonald held up his cup of whiskey. ”Your health, Ian MacGregor.”
Ian drank, and his eyes approved the caliber of MacDonald's whiskey.
”And to yours.”
”Lord Ashburn.” MacDonald signaled for more whiskey to be poured. ”I trust my old friend has made you comfortable?”
”Very. Thank you.”
”To your successful stay at Glenfinnan.” MacDonald toasted and drank again. Not for the first time, Brigham was grateful for his head for whiskey. When he noted how easily it was downed by his companions, he decided that he had inherited it from his grandmother. ”So you're kin to Mary MacDonald of Sleat in Skye.”
”Her grandson.”
MacDonald was then compelled to offer a toast to her. ”I remember her.
She was a bonny la.s.s, though I was hardly whelped when I visited her family. She reared you?”
”From the time my parents died. I would have been nearly ten.”
”Since you're here, I can't doubt but she did a good job of it. You'll be wanting food, gentlemen. We have a late supper for you.”
”And the others?” Ian asked. ”Expected tomorrow.” MacDonald glanced at the doorway, and his rather doughy face creased into a smile. ”Ah, my daughter. Ian, you remember my Margaret.”
Brigham turned and saw a small, dark-haired woman of about eighteen.
She was dressed in a wide hooped gown of midnight blue that matched her eyes. She dropped into a curtsy, then came forward, hands extended to Ian, with a smile that brought out dimples in her cheeks.
”Why, here's a la.s.s.” With a great laugh, he kissed both of her cheeks.
”You've grown up, Maggie.”
”It has been two years.” Her voice was soft, with a lilt.
”She's the image of her mother, Donald. Thank the Lord she didn't take her looks from you.”
”Have a care when you insult me in my own home.” But there was a ring of pride in MacDonald's warning. ”Lord Ashburn, may I present my daughter Margaret.”
Maggie dropped another curtsy and extended her fingertips to Brigham.
”My lord.”
”Miss MacDonald. It's a pleasure to see a flower on such a bitter night.”
She giggled, spoiling the elegant curtsy. ”Thank you, my lord. It's not often I hear flattery. You are a great friend of Coll's, are you not?”
”Yes, I am.”
”I had thought...” She glanced from Brigham to Ian. ”He did not accompany you, Lord MacGregor?”
”Not for lack of wanting, Maggie. And not so many years ago it was Uncle Ian.”
She dimpled and kissed his bearded cheek. ”It's still Uncle Ian.” He patted her hand as he turned to MacDonald. ”Coll and Brigham ran into a bit of trouble on the road from London. Campbells.”
”Coll?” Maggie spoke quickly, revealing more than she had intended.
”Was he hurt?”
Ian's brows rose as her fingers curled into his. ”He's on the mend now, la.s.sie, but Gwen put her foot down and said be wasn't to travel.”
”Please, ten me what happened. How badly was he wounded? Was he- ”
”Maggie.” With a little laugh, MacDonald cut off his daughter's rapid questions. ”I'm sue Ian and Lord Ashburn will ten us the whole of it.
Now I imagine they'd like to refresh themselves before dinner.”
Though obviously impatient, she pulled herself back. ”Of course.
Forgive me. I'll show you to your rooms.”
Gracefully she swept her skirts aside and led her father's guests out of the drawing room and up the staircase. ”You've only to ask if there's anything you need. We dine in an hour, if it suits you.”
”Nothing would suit me better,” Ian told her, and pinched her cheek.
”You've grown up nicely, Maggie. Your mother would be proud of you.”
”Uncle Ian... was Coll badly hurt?”
”He's mending well, la.s.s, I promise you.”
Forced to be content with that, she left the men alone.
They dined leisurely and with elegance in the great dining hall. There were oysters bigger than any Brigham could recall seeing anywhere before, and salmon in a delicate sauce, removed with roast duck. There were wild fowls and gooseberry sauce and joints of roast mutton. The claret was tine and plentiful. Their host pressed sweets upon them.
Mince pie, tarts, stewed pears and sweetmeats.
Throughout, Maggie handled her duties as hostess with an ease and liveliness that became her well. By the time she had risen to leave the men to their port, she had charmed the entire table, from Ian down to his humblest retainer.