“The Campbells are a powerful clan, and this is just one of their castles,” Alex continued. “The Campbell chieftain can raise hundreds of warriors.”
He glanced at Glynis’s stiff form and decided that a wee bit of jealousy might help his cause. “Glynis, do ye think I should look for a wife among the Campbells? Nothing would please my chieftain more.”
“Nor mine.” She gave him a look that would slice through granite. “I suspect a chieftain’s daughter would appeal to those land-grabbing Campbells.”
“If ye wish to catch a man, I suggest ye work on your charm,” Alex said. “Men like sweet,
Sorcha tapped on his arm, but he shook his head. This was not a conversation for a child.
“Is that what ye will tell your daughter?” Glynis asked. “That she must be sweet and agreeable?”
“If I wanted her to wed, I would,” he lied.
“Hmmph.”
Sorcha was tapping furiously on his arm. Finally, he tore his gaze away from the infuriating woman riding beside him to look at his daughter.
“Why are we arguing, is that what ye want to know?” he asked Sorcha. When she nodded, he said, “Because Mistress Glynis is stubborn as a mule and can’t see what is good for her.”
He repeated it in three languages to be sure Glynis did not miss his meaning.
* * *
Sorcha had fallen asleep with her head in Glynis’s lap long ago, and Bessie was yawning beside her, while the men took turns telling stories. Glynis had steeled herself against Alex attempting to get her alone on this, their last night before reaching Inveraray Castle, but he appeared in no hurry to leave the main campfire.
She should rouse Sorcha and Bessie and go off to bed, but she was enjoying the tales. If she were truthful, she was only waiting to hear Alex. No one could tell a story like he did—and it gave her an excuse to watch him.
When at last it was Alex’s turn, Glynis smiled in anticipation.
“Since we are about to visit the Campbells, I’ll tell ye the true story about how the Campbell chieftain’s brother became the Thane of Cawdor.”
Alex stretched out his legs, settling himself for a long tale. As he told it, his voice carried around the circle, drawing them in and warming Glynis as much as the fire.
“Seventeen years ago, the last Thane of Cawdor died, leaving no heir but a wee red-haired babe. Her name was Muriel, and she was the last of her line, the sole heiress to the ancient seat of Cawdor.
“Chieftains from all over the Highlands started scheming, each set on making a match between young Muriel and his son—for whatever man the wee lass wed would become the next Thane of Cawdor. The lass was but a babe, so they had plenty of time to work their plans, or so they thought.
“But all that land and wealth in the hands of one wee lass proved too great a temptation to the Campbells. One day, when wee Muriel was four years old, her nursemaid took her outside Cawdor Castle to enjoy the fine weather. And that’s when a party of Campbells, who had been waiting for just such an opportunity, burst out of the woods and stole her away.”
Glynis gasped, and Alex’s eyes twinkled at her as he met her gaze across the fire.
“Muriel’s uncles gave chase, of course. The Campbells were far from home, and it looked as though Muriel’s clansmen would catch them. But the Campbells saw them coming and inverted a large iron kettle on the ground. Then one of the Campbell men ordered all seven of his sons to defend the kettle to the death, pretending wee Muriel was inside it.
“The seven sons fought hard, and every one of them died. When Muriel’s clansmen lifted the kettle to rescue her, they found nothing but the green grass on the ground. While they had been fighting the seven brothers, the rest of the Campbell party had escaped with the lass.”
“’Tis a long journey from Cawdor Castle to the Campbell lands,” one of the men around the campfire said. “Did wee Muriel survive?”
“Ye will have to decide that for yourselves,” Alex said. “When one of the Campbell warriors asked what would happen if the child died before she reached marriageable age, the chieftain said…”
Alex paused until someone called out, “Come, Alex, tell us what he said.”
“The chieftain said that the wee heiress would never die so long as a red-haired lass could be found on either side of Loch Awe—which, as ye know, is in the heart of Campbell territory.”
“Conniving bastard,” one man said amidst the laughter around the campfire.
“It was to prevent just such a scheme,” Alex said, lifting his finger, “that Muriel’s nursemaid had the foresight to bite off the end of the wee lass’s finger when she saw the Campbells burst out of the wood.”
“Ach, the poor child!” Bessie murmured beside Glynis.
“Now do ye suppose, that after the trouble the Campbells went through to get their hands on Muriel, they would let a missing joint on one wee finger come between them and all that land and wealth?”Alex let his gaze move slowly around the circle. “Who’s to say that they didn’t find another red-haired lass and bite off the end of her finger?”
There was a long silence around the campfire.
“But Muriel did live?” Glynis could not help asking.
“Most believe she did,” Alex said. “The red-haired lass was raised in the Campbell chieftain’s household, and on her twelfth birthday she was wed to the chieftain’s son John.”
