Chapter Twenty-Two #2
She had to stop her husband, but her attempt at negotiating for his prisoners had gone so far astray, it hadn’t been Langston that should have declared himself the loser.
It was her, and that beautiful ballgown.
Lisle felt the blush, lying flat on a beam stories above the chapel floor which kept filling with men and emptying of them, until there couldn’t possibly be any room beneath the castle for more armament. And more just kept coming.
Monteith was insane. He was going to ruin everything he’d worked for.
He was going to reap the same punishment, and all these men were going to be the same as those at Culloden…
dead and rotting beneath the sod. All of them.
The dread was like a blanket, holding her down, punishing her with the future, frightening her more than a walk across any number of beams, and still men kept coming in.
She was going to be up there forever. She was going to fall asleep and roll and then she was going to fall off, and they’d find her body on the chapel floor, with her petticoat and skirts in a bundle of material about her waist and covered in dust. Worse…
she was going to be found years from now, her skeleton still clinging to the beams, dead of starvation.
She told her own mind to hush, but there wasn’t anything else to pass the time except the litany of troops filing in, disarming, filing back out.
She was being ridiculous. She knew she was, but it didn’t help.
She could curse her imagination. That never helped, either.
She could curse Langston. He should be hungry by now.
He should be exhausted again. He’d stayed out almost all night again.
He’d been standing and accepting their honor and recognition for hours.
She’d been in the same position for hours.
Her legs were cramped. Her belly was cramped. Her mind was cramped.
She peered over the edge again. The splash of color from the stained glass window had barely moved.
Such a thing wasn’t possible. Time was passing with a slowness she hadn’t felt since she’d been sent to the Mother Superior’s office and made to sit in the corner, fingering her rosary and saying her prayers, all of which had happened too often to recall the times individually.
The names changed after ruby. They started on the elements: storm, blizzom—for the winter holocaust, fury, and rain. Lisle’s lips twitched. Rain? That wasn’t very original.
It didn’t occur to her that the process of disarmament was complete until a span had passed with no new names said and no words of “very good” by Monteith, either. Lisle tilted her head back upright so she could look down. There was only Langston left. There wasn’t even a clergyman with him.
Of course there wasn’t a clergy fellow available to assist anyone.
They weren’t going to be able to do a proper sermon, either.
They were probably going to be busy for the next fortnight trying to get all that weaponry put back away, Lisle thought, and then everything went still as Langston looked up toward the organ, and grimaced a bit as he moved his left arm.
And then he whispered her name.
“Well! You are one for scrapes and such, aren’t you, my lady?”
Lisle took back everything she’d thought about Mary MacGreggor being even remotely closemouthed.
The woman hadn’t stopped, except for breath, ever since Lisle had come running up the stairs and been caught even before she got to her door.
There was no way to explain attire such as hers, nor how it got there, so she didn’t try.
She let Mary come up with the explanations, and left it to Betsy to either agree or disagree.
She almost choked with laughter when Mary came up with digging a tunnel with which to find her own gold, and why Laird Monteith’s wasn’t good enough for her.
Betsy nodded to that, like it made sense.
Lisle didn’t say anything. Her mind was elsewhere.
She had to shove as much food in her as she could fit, since it was almost noon by the time she gained her chamber; she had to get a bath, luxuriate in any fragrance and oil they brought, except one with opiate; and she had to decide which of her various nightgowns and chemises were going to be enough to get him to negotiate.
He’d gained so much! To toss it away was the height of idiocy. She had to save him from ruin. She had to save everyone who relied on him from ruin. She had to do whatever it took to get him to bargain for dropping his plans. She only hoped he’d stay true to his word once he gave it.
He was going to give it, all right. She was doing everything in her power to get him to. He wasn’t going to get Lisle Monteith into his bed without negotiating first, and striking a bargain second, and she prayed for the fortitude to make certain he didn’t.
And he’d almost caught her, too! That part was the most frightening.
After whispering her name, he started looking along the pipe organ and to the wrong beam, all of which gave Lisle time to roll onto her side, making the smallest image possible, and try to keep her own breathing from giving her away.
She’d had to resort to breathing out her mouth, shoving the breath through a ring of space with her lips to mute it, and then suck in another one.
Anything else would have been too loud. Her heartbeat certainly was.
Then, she heard him sigh, call himself a fool, and walk out.
He was the fool? she wondered. At least he got to eat breakfast. She got to wait for the trembling to die down enough she could inch her way back to the library, and hope the entire time that the army of men hadn’t eaten everything involved with breakfast before she got there.
Then, Angus MacHugh arrived.
The morning stalled when they announced that the Laird MacHugh was awaiting her below.
Monteith could have spoken to him, but he’d disappeared—along with thousands of other fellows—and Lisle had to rush through the rest of her toiletry to see to Angus.
Mary wouldn’t let her out without her hair properly braided and everything perfectly in place, making it feel like another hour had passed.
Lisle ground the frustration with her teeth.
If she said anything, they’d double their efforts to delay her, and Angus was probably getting more and more angered at being kept waiting by what was, in essence, a Monteith.
Angus wasn’t angered. He was fidgeting and going from foot to foot and he wasn’t looking up at anything or anyone when she entered the salon.
Any other visitor would have chanced to look up at where furniture still dangled haphazardly, although it didn’t appear as cramped as before.
Lisle frowned for a moment as she wondered what Langston was doing with the tables, chairs, bedsteads, and other items. He wouldn’t be paying good gold to dismantle them as firewood, would he?
Surely he wasn’t that wasteful…was he?
Angus had a dejected air about him that went straight to Lisle’s heart, like a skean-thrust. She had to suck in the gasp so he wouldn’t hear it, instinctively knowing what he’d think if he did.
Angus MacHugh looked like a shadow of himself; a saddened, wizened, diminished shadow.
Lisle swallowed. It didn’t work. Her eyes still filled with tears.
“Angus?” she asked.
He looked up at her, and the red-rimmed eyes told their own story, as did the ashen color of his skin and the tremble of his lips.
“What’s happened to you?” she asked.
“’Tis very good whiskey that gold buys, lassie. Very good.”
“You’re drinking?”
“It takes the sharpness from women’s tongues away,” he answered. “Makes other things…nice, too.”
“Oh, Angus. I’m so sorry,” Lisle said.
“Now, lassie—” he began.
The door swung open with such force it slammed against the wall support at its side, and Langston strode in, dressed in full Highland attire, covered in a sheen of sweat and grime, dripping blood down his left arm, and there was a very large claymore pointing straight at Angus.
There wasn’t a hint of tremble anywhere along him.
There were two other green-and-gold-plaide-wearing Highlanders with him, equally attired, and equally frightening.
Langston took in the man standing in front of him, and his broadsword dipped until it touched the stone floor with a thud of noise. It was followed by the other two. He turned his head and glared at her for a moment before turning what was probably the same look at Angus.
“They told me a MacHugh was here!” Langston thundered.
“Aye,” Angus whispered.
“This is na’ the MacHugh I requested!” Langston replied.
“I am Angus MacHugh.”
“You canna’ be. Angus MacHugh is a man!”
Lisle couldn’t defend him. She was in shock.
Her entire body seemed filled with water colder than a loch-emptying burn, and there wasn’t anything on her that could move…
except her eyes. They were wide and watched as Angus actually straightened, and then his eyes narrowed, and he gave Langston back a look that was probably as good as the one he was getting.
“I am Angus MacHugh, you black bastard!”
Monteith handed the sword to one of his men and then crossed his arms.
“You the MacHugh that plays the pipes?” he asked, still in the aggressive tone he’d been using since he first strode into the room.
“Aye.”
“You any good?”
“Angus MacHugh is one of the best, Monteith. Always was.”
“Good. You make pipes, then?”
“None said anything about making pipes.”
“The best pipers always make their own bagpipes. I ask again. You make pipes?”
“I’ve been known to craft a set or two,” Angus replied, and there wasn’t a hint of a warble to his voice or his frame.
“Good. Craft me a set or two. Fifty gold pieces per set.”
“Fifty?” Angus asked, and his eyes were wide.
“You having trouble hearing, auld man?” Langston replied.
Angus’s expression changed to a sneer. “You’re mad.
Any man can buy a set of bagpipes for shillings.
Less. ’Tis a bane of this Sassenach law.
Pipes are so much baggage, anymore. Nae pipes can be played, and owning pipes can get a man imprisoned.
They certainly canna’ feed a family. Pipes sell for a pittance, and you want them made for a fortune. ”
“Let me tell you a little secret, MacHugh. I am a black bastard, and I am mad. I’m also a devil when it comes to getting my way.
I always get it. Always. I put my Monteith mark on pipes, they’ll be the best money can buy, or I’ll na’ do it.
I craft pipes, I expect the best. I expect the best pipers to make them.
I expect to pay for the best. I ask again, and I pay fifty gold pieces per set. ”
“Very well,” Angus replied. “You’ve got your set or two.”
“Good. Now, see to cleaning the whiskey drunk smell from yourself. I doona’ allow a man of mine to smell.”
“You black—!”
“We already went through the names, MacHugh. I’m na’ interested in what you call me. I’m only interested in your skills.”
“You show nae respect for your elders,” Angus replied. He sounded like he was in the same shock Lisle still was.
“You want respect from me, auld man? Earn it.”
Angus sucked in the reaction. He went straighter still.
“Good. We see eye to eye, finally. I hire a man, I expect to get a man,” Langston said, loudly.
“I’ll na’ work for you,” Angus replied.
“Oh. You’re going to do more than work for me.
You’re going to wash that smell from yourself; you’re going to get a healthy meal, and a clean place of your own.
You’re going to doff that Sassenach attire and get good Monteith plaide on.
You’re going to craft me some pipes, and you’re going to make certain they’re good, because you’re going to test each and every one of them with a good, solid, lung full of air.
You’re going to get some self-respect back.
That’s what you’re going to do. Were you na’ at Culloden? ”
“Doona’ let the name cross your black lips!”
“You were, weren’t you?”
“Aye!” Angus was yelling, bulging the cords out of his neck.
“Good! I expect my men clean. I expect my men sober. I expect my men prompt. I request a man, I expect him to report immediately, na’ the next day, wandering into my house, soused in whiskey!”
“Why—you young braggart!”
Angus was still yelling. They were both yelling. Lisle looked from one to the other. Angus no longer looked like he needed a champion, or anything other than his own claymore, so he could challenge the other.
“I expect my men to act like a man, and na’ a sniveling lad. I’ll ask it one more time—and I would na’ waste words with me further, if I were you. Were you at Culloden?”
“Aye!” Angus replied.
“And were you injured?”
“I took a cleaving or two.”
Langston absorbed that information. Then, he strode across the floor to stand directly in front of Angus.
“Allow me to shake your hand, MacHugh.” He said it quietly, with a reverence better suited to the chapel. Then, he put his hand out and waited.
Angus eyed him a bit. Then he put his own hand out.
“Welcome back to the Highlands,” Langston said. “Etheridge? See that he’s put with the others. Get him a horse. Fit him.”
Angus’s look was priceless at that information. His mouth had dropped open. Then he was following one of them, who didn’t resemble the man who was Langston’s personal valet at all, out the door.
Langston turned to her and shook his head. “I was just in time,” he said softly.
“You yelled at him.”
“I had to. You were doing worse.”
“I was na’!”
“You doona’ understand. You canna’ coddle an auld warrior, Lisle. You’ll ruin him.”
“I was na’ coddling him…much,” she replied.
He sighed, and lifted his left shoulder with a grimace. “Come. ’Tis time for my own bath. I believe you owe me one of those.”
Lisle’s eyes were huge. She was very afraid her mouth made the same motion. “’Tis midday,” she replied finally.
He grinned, bringing those laugh lines into play about his eyes. A thunderbolt struck her in place, and Lisle felt the reaction clear to her toes.
“Aye. So ’tis.” He was striding toward her and wrapping his right arm about her, and pulling her close to the healthy, sweaty, raw smell of him. “Saves a bit on torchlight this way,” he whispered. “And you ken how I feel about such waste.”
“Langston—”
“Save it for the chamber, sweet.”
The endearment twisted her tongue into knots, and then he made it worse when he dropped a kiss to her temple.