Chapter Seventeen
Standing at the bottom of the hill, Catriona stared upward in disbelief. “They look like they’re dressed for church, yet they must be four hundred feet up by now.”
“A plucky but proper bunch,” Evan drawled in agreement.
As she watched, a few climbers perched on a jutting plateau of rock while others scrambled up a slope that was covered in old heather and toothy rocks.
Women in gowns and bonnets and men in tweedy suits and caps carried walking sticks or parasols, and while some lagged on the slope, a few were near the rounded peak of the great hill.
Narrow runnels of water creased the steep, roughened height, and a scattering of disinterested sheep grazed over the hill’s shoulders.
Evan raised his hands to his mouth and called, then waved. A few climbers turned to wave and halloo back to him. He turned to Catriona with a smile.
“Are you too tired, or would you like to go up and meet some of them?”
“I’ll go up a little way.”
He took her elbow, and she winced quietly, realizing that Kenneth Grant’s earlier grip had left a bruise on her arm.
Evan gave her a questioning glance. She smiled and led the way up the easy incline at the lower part of Sgairneach Mhòr.
As the steepness increased, Evan set a hand to her back now and then to help her balance on the rocky surface.
She leaped across a narrow gushing runnel and waited for him.
Coming closer, she saw that Lady Jean and Sir Harry were with the group, as was Arthur Fitzgibbon.
The others seemed mostly of an age with Evan, but for an elderly lady and gentleman in the group gathered halfway up.
All of them seemed fit and energetic as they moved along, calling up and down the hillside as if they merely played golf rather than engaged in a steep climb.
Lady Jean and the other ladies wore neat little bonnets, dark-colored day dresses, and short jackets, and carried folded parasols or walking sticks in gloved hands.
Catriona noticed crinolines and pretty side-button boots as well.
In a tartan shawl, plain brown skirt, linen blouse, and sturdy boots, lacking bonnet and gloves, she felt like a fishwife.
Her bronze-colored hair was slipping loose of its low knot, and her cheeks were no doubt flushed with wind and exertion.
Tucking strands of hair back, she gave it up as futile.
The older lady waved. She was stout but looked strong in a black gown, veiled bonnet, gloves, and a fringed purple parasol that seemed of very fine quality.
“Lord Kildonan! Come up! The weather is perfect for a Highland excursion! Beautiful and pleasant!”
“Not as exciting as the Alps, where Lady Wetherstone and I took our summer holiday!” called the gentleman beside her.
Broadly built and white whiskered in a brown suit and long coat, he extended a hand to Evan as he approached, Catriona following.
“Kildonan! There you are! And who is this pretty girl?”
“Lord Wetherstone, Lady Wetherstone,” Evan said, reaching back to take Catriona’s arm. “Let me introduce my wife, Catrionan MacConn of Glen Shee, now Lady Kildonan.”
She smiled greetings as he introduced others, including a young couple standing with Lady Jean and Sir Harry. “Mrs. Anna Wilkie and her husband, Reverend John Wilkie, from Stirling.”
“Lady Kildonan! A pleasure,” Lady Wetherstone said, taking Catriona’s hand, smiling. “We were surprised to learn of your marriage. Congratulations! Lovely girl, Evan,” she added. He nodded his thanks, keeping a hand on the small of Catriona’s back.
She felt reassured, stable, even on a slope, even in the presence of strangers. Next, Anna Wilkie offered her hand and congratulations. She was a beauty, Catriona thought, a petite porcelain blonde in a pale-gray gown and jacket and pert little bonnet.
For a moment she felt big and gawky, a shy and shaggy red cow with her vivid hair and height beside this exquisite creature. But Mrs. Wilkie smiled kindly and talked about Glen Shee with such delight and appreciation that Catriona felt her self-consciousness fade.
John Wilkie, her husband, was tall, blond, and charming.
Soon discovering that he was a reverend of the Established Church, Catriona told him that her father had the living of the Free Church at Glenachan.
Seeing Lady Wetherstone lift her eyebrows high at that, she sensed the Englishwoman’s disapproval: Earls did not wed minister’s daughters.
But her mother, a minister’s wife, and her tutors too had taught her good manners from early on, and so she expressed gratitude and pleasure and welcome, and then stood back quietly, smiling and nodding, and glad for the firm touch of Evan’s hand now and then as he chatted with his friends.
“Hulloo! Come on up here. What’s keeping you?”
At the shout from above, Catriona looked up to see a woman waving wildly to them from the top of the hill. She stood on a rocky outcrop with the ease of a mountain goat, feet planted, hands on hips. “Come up!”
“Halloo, Jemima! We’ll be up!” Lord Wetherstone looked around. “Who’s for it?”
“Not me,” Lady Jean said, and Sir Harry shook his head too.
“I’ll go up,” John Wilkie said. “Anna, dear?”
“I would love to,” she replied, and took his proffered hand.
“I will stay with Lady Jean,” Lady Wetherstone said. “Lady Kildonan?”
“My dear?” Evan asked, reaching out a hand. Catriona accepted, not wanting to appear weak. His fingers closed firmly over hers and they led the way up the slope in tandem at first, while the young reverend and his wife followed.
“Thank you for another rescue,” Catriona murmured to Evan as they walked up the slant. “I did not want to stay with Lady Wetherstone. I don’t think she likes me.”
He laughed low. “You did look rather pale and in need of a hero.”
“That’s twice today,” she said with a laugh. “Commendable, sir.”
“Anything for my lady,” he said, taking the slope with long steps, then reaching back an assisting hand.
The climb was fairly easy, the incline littered with rocks and ropey heather plants past their color peak, both features providing tough handholds as needed. Catriona clambered upward just behind Evan, the Wilkies below them.
Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, she looked up to see a small group waiting, skirts and coattails lifting in the wind. The same wind buffeted her cheeks and whipped at her skirt as she admired the magnificent view.
In the distance below, Kildonan Castle perched above a shining loch that reflected castle, sky, and mountain peaks.
Glen Shee spread its length for miles, a quilt of colors in green, gold, wine, and gray, with lochs like bits of mirror dropped in the grass.
The high surrounding slopes were dotted blocky stone croft houses here and there, while sheep and goats moved over each hill.
At the far end, massive mountains cradled the glen like proud, fierce guardians. She raised a hand to her brow, studying them. The wind tore at her hair, loosening strands of red-gold that spilled across her cheek.
“Beautiful.” Evan said, waiting for her. “You have courage, Lady Kildonan. I know it is not easy to meet these people when you’ve only just come to Kildonan yourself. But you are settling nicely into the role.”
“Role?” she asked crisply. “The one we have not yet agreed upon?”
“That one, aye.” He reached out to sweep back tendrils of her hair, tucking them behind her ear. Shivers spilled through her, a gentle thrill. “I think about it all the time.”
“So do I.” A yearning plunged through her. “Evan—”
“I know. We will talk, I promise. Ah, the Wilkies!” he said as the couple joined them.
“What a glorious view!” John Wilkie said, turning to regard the glen from one end to the other. “Come, Anna dear, we’re near the top.” He took her hand as they climbed higher.
Catriona moved ahead of Evan as they too made their way up the last shoulder of the great hill.
At the top, holding skirt and plaid against a pummeling blast of wind, she noticed how the curved ridge of the hill dipped and undulated like a dragon’s spine, flowing into the next hill and the next along the line of the glen.
“And here’s Kildonan and his lady! The Wilkies too!” Arthur crowed, coming near.
“Lady?” Two women turned. “Evan, you brought her up!”
“Here she is. My dear, may I present my cousins, Miss Jemima Murray and Miss Emily Murray. And this is Sir Aedan MacBride of Dundrennan, my good friend,” Evan added of the tall, dark-haired, and very handsome man standing between the Murray sisters, who looked similar, one animated, one shrinking back.
“This is Catriona MacConn, now Lady Kildonan.”
Catriona smiled. “I’m so pleased to meet everyone.”
“What excellent news—at last, a countess for Kildonan. And married so recently, without notice to family. Evan, you are a perfect rascal!” Pretty brown-haired Jemima Murray had a wide smile, a rich laugh, a firm handshake, and a fearless quality about her, Catriona sensed immediately.
Her sister Emily Murray was her pale opposite, blonde and tentative, a quiet young woman who looked as healthy and fit as her sister, yet quite shy.
Catriona quickly learned that Jemima and Emily were Evan and Jean’s second cousins, and Jemima was vice president of the climbing club, with Arthur as president. Privately she thought Jemima capable of leading an army, let alone a few climbing enthusiasts.
As for Sir Aedan MacBride, Catriona would have noticed him in any group.
He was singular for his good looks, with the height, black hair, and blue eyes of a true Celt, and his air of simmering intensity and gentlemanly demeanor.
He wore a kilt and jacket and moved with athletic, unpretentious grace.
And like Evan Mackenzie, Aedan MacBride reminded Catriona of a Highland warrior prince.
“Lady Kildonan, good to meet you.” He briefly cupped her hand in his gloved ones. “Evan and I have been friends a long time. He’s a fortunate lad to have found you, I’m sure.”