Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Wha’ has happened?” Annista repeated the question several times, though no one answered. “Is it Bonnie?”
That made young Jock shake his head. He would not look directly at her—too embarrassed, perhaps. He stared instead at the floor.
“The Master requires ye, Master Alan.”
“Verra well.” Alan shot a look at the men. “Wait outside.”
Even as they obediently filed out into the rain, he turned to Annista and seized her by the wrists.
“Get yersel’ dressed,” he said. “Here.” He snatched up her cloak, which had fallen away when he—Och, but she could not think of that. Why had she allowed it? Just as she’d always been a victim to her anger and indignation, had she fallen prey to her passion?
Her hands shook as she refastened her gown and her cloak. What had the men seen? Whom would they tell?
Shocking for her and Alan to be found in this remote, ruined place at such a pursuit. And yet—he was right—they were husband and wife. All right and legal.
They could presumably have each other any time they chose.
She thought about that as they left the building and fetched Chieftain from out back. Poor Jock and Archie would have to return on foot. Alan directed the horse off ahead of them.
Annista clung to his back, thinking ferociously. Why did his father require him? Was this good news or ill?
Ill, she could not help but imagine. Nought of good had happened recently.
To be sure, she and Alan had, by an odd accord, broken the promise they’d initially made, not to touch one another save by necessity.
With her cheek pressed against his broad back and her arms wrapped tight around him, she weighed the fact that, in an odd way, touching him now did feel like a necessity, though not in any way she’d ever anticipated.
Her fingers tingled from the texture of his skin, and the need to feel his lips against hers rivaled that for breathing.
As for what it had felt like having his mouth at her breast—well, there were no words. None. Could she henceforth live without that?
All this she contemplated as they raced back to the manor. Old Billy met them in the paved circle at the front of the house, to lead Chieftain away, and Lady MacKallan greeted them at the door.
“At last! Alan, hurry. Ye are required in the hall.”
“Why?” Alan asked, his face guarded. “Wha’ has happened?”
She shook her head. “The earls ha’ requested to see ye.”
“Me?” Alan stood, clearly flummoxed.
“Aye.”
“Well, then, let me go along and change my clothing.”
“Nay time for that. Go ye straight in.”
Lady MacKallan seized Annista’s hand. “Ye, come wi’ me.”
She towed Annista up the stairs to the solar. Though Annista strained to look back at Alan, he did not so much as glance at her before entering the hall.
****
Rarely had Alan felt less prepared for an encounter. Aye, his father held regular meetings with locals or, indeed, men such as these two who turned their heads to regard him as he entered the lofty chamber. Most often—barring holidays—he was excluded.
Evan was the one, always, to be summoned to the exalted company.
Now, however, Evan was nowhere to be found.
Och, but that did not explain the request for his presence. Or why the footmen had been sent out through the rain to find him.
Feeling very ill at ease, he faced the men, both dressed in grave, dark clothing and with somber, careful expressions. He recognized them as Erskine—Earl of Mar—and Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, both very high up and both rampantly Protestant.
Schemers against the Queen? Without a doubt.
Father sprang to his feet as Alan entered. “Ah, here he is now. My son—Alan.”
Alan shot a measuring look at his father, catching something in his eye that asked—ordered—compliance.
“Alan, ye will remember Earl Alexander Cunningham and Earl John Erskine, to be sure.”
Alan did not think—being a second son—he’d ever been formally introduced to the two men. But he said, “Aye.”
“Come, Laird Alan, pray,” said Glencairn, “and sit. We discuss matters o’ the most grave importance and wish to include ye in the talk.”
“Me?” Alan could not help but question.
Father avoided his gaze when he said, “In your brother’s stead, ye understand.”
“Ah.”
Alan removed his sopping cloak and laid it over the bench by the fire. There was not much he could do about the drenched clothing beneath, or his dripping hair.
“Excuse my appearance, gentlemen. I was awa’ when my father’s message reached me.”
Erskine cleared his throat. “By all means.”
“I ha’ explained to the gentlemen your brother’s illness,” said Father, still avoiding Alan’s gaze as Alan joined the men at the table. “And my conviction that he will no’ be able to fulfill his familial duties in the future.”
“Eh?” Alan said.
“Ye,” said Cunningham, fixing him with a hard stare, “are now to all intents and purposes your father’s heir.”
Alan froze in the act of reaching for the flask that stood at the center of the table. Was he? Och, nay—that must be but a tale Father fed these two, in a panic to save face.
An act of desperation and a lie.
He struggled to keep his expression blank as he finished reaching for the flask and poured himself a draught.
Wine, not the ale he would have preferred. But nay, plain brown ale would not do for these illustrious guests.
Father sent him another pleading look.
John Erskine spoke. “We need to be careful, ye see, Laird MacKallan. These are desperate and dangerous times. Ones during which we must be certain—verra certain—o’ our allies.”
Alan inspected both the men in turn. Of a type they were, keen-willed and well-fed, confident in their positions and not easily led.
Aye, well, if they schemed against the crown and chose what ultimately proved to be the wrong side, they could pay with their heads—and with the confiscation of their estates, which might almost prove the more important to them.
Why would Father involve himself in such risky business? For the same reason he’d sought a marriage alliance with a family of Catholics. ’Twas wise to keep a foot in either camp when one did not know which way the wind might blow.
“We need,” Cunningham took it up, “to be very certain wi’ whom we deal. And of the man who will follow him. We mak’ a bargain, now, for the ages.”
“I see,” said Alan, not at all sure he did.
“If Kallan makes a vow and a promise to these men and their cause,” Father said, keeping his voice low, “we maun be sure ’twill hold—even if somewhat happens to me.”
More promises, then. Those Alan had made so far had not held up very well.
Erskine leaned across the table toward him. “We require yer vow as well as yer Father’s. We stand all together or no’ at all.”
Ah, Alan thought. So once again he was being volunteered and pushed into a situation he did not want. Just like with his marriage.
But Annista—
Was he glad now that he’d been forced to wed with her? Glad might not be the correct term.
He desired her with a hunger the likes of which he’d never suspected he might harbor. No woman—and very few other things—made him lose his head the way he had there in the lodge.
The sweetness of her breasts, though, still lingered on his tongue. The way she had cradled his head to the warmth of her, welcoming him. Eager for his caress. Och, aye, they would lie together.
“Son?” Father interrupted his rampant thoughts. “Will ye gi’ these men your answer?”
Alan blinked away thoughts of Annista and eyed the visitors again. “Ye ask me to gi’ my pledge to a cause when I do no’ ken even wha’ that will require. I am no’ certain I can do so.”
“Surely yer father has explained it all to ye?”
Surely he had not.
“Gentlemen, my vow is my sound word and no’ to be broken. I will know, before giving it, all it entails.”
“I respect that,” said Alexander Cunningham. “Erskine, ye tell him.”
The Earl of Mar did so, in a tight and low-voiced manner, speaking plans that likely should never be uttered aloud. The deposal of the Queen. Her son in her place. A Protestant council.
“And—wha’ o’ our countrymen, our friends and neighbors who hold to their Catholic faith?” Alan asked when the earl was done. “May they no’ rise up in protest?”
“We shall subdue them—” Erskine’s eyes glowed with fervor, “those who will no’ relent.”
“Or,” Father put in almost gently with a hard look for Alan, “those no’ under our protection.”
So that was it. The true meaning of his marriage. Alan could only admire his father’s tendency to shield and protect an old friend. For he risked himself in doing so. Himself and his estates.
Alan supposed by agreeing to participate in this dangerous scheme, he could himself further protect Annista and her family. Because those in the inner circle—and those for whom they spoke—should be off-limits.
Did he want to protect his wife? Aye. Did he want to plunge into intrigue so deep he could not see the bottom? Nay.
He told himself it was all a farce anyway. At best, a ruse. He was not his father’s heir. He stood in only—as ever—as a substitute for Evan.
That being so—if all of it were a lie—what value his promise?