The Chieftain Without a Heart Read online

  The Chieftain Without a Heart

  The Duke of Strathnarn arrived in Scotland in a furious temper. He had left his home when he was sixteen because of the brutality of his father and had no intention of ever returning. But a letter from his Comptroller relates news which is so serious that he is obliged to go North.

  On arrival at the Castle he discovers his nephew and heir is the prisoner of a neighbouring clan who are the age-old enemies of the McNarns. The Kilcraig Chieftain will only negotiate with the Chieftain of the McNarns and the Duke is forced to visit him at his castle.

  How to avoid humiliation and the public disgrace of his clan, how the Duke has to agree to a bargain which fills him with horror and how it brings violence, drama and finally romance to his castle and to himself, is told in this 225th book by Barbara Cartland.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The word tartan is derived from the French Tartalne and the first written reference to Highland dress occurs in the Saga of Magnus Barefoot in 1093.

  In 1538 James V ordered himself the first Highland suit ever worn by a member of the Royal Family. Until the nineteenth century it was the custom of the women of the house to weave whatever tartan was required by the family.

  When the Dress Act of 1746 made it illegal for Highlanders to wear a kilt or a tartan, to play the pipes or carry arms in place of swords, they carried sticks as a substitute for the dirk, a shorter knife was adopted called a skean dhu. This was small enough to be concealed in a, pocket or stuck in the top of a stocking.

  When in 1822 King George IV decided to visit his Scttish Kingdom, a journey no crowned King had made since Charles I, he wore full Highland regalia, the Royal Stewart tartan.

  All the details of his reception and engagements in Edinburgh are correct and come from A Historical Account of His Majesty’s Visit to Scotland published in 1822.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1822

  “Thank God we are in calm waters!”

  Lord Hinchley poured himself a glass of brandy and drank it in one draught.

  “You have been fortunate,” his companion replied, “I have known the sea to be far worse than it has been on this voyage.”

  “Then the Lord knows that I will not come to this outlandish spot again! As it is, I am fully prepared to believe it is the Devil’s country, peopled only by barbarians!”

  “A popular English misconception about Scotland!” the Duke of Strathnarn said cynically.

  Lord Hinchley threw himself down in a chair which was no longer swinging from side to side in the comfortable Saloon of the ship in which they had been buffeted about in an unpleasantly rough North Sea for the last seven days.

  “If you ask me,” he said confidentially, “you were extremely wise when you shook the soil of Scotland from your feet and came South. You have made a mistake, as I have told you before, Taran, in returning.”

  The Duke’s face darkened and he went to the porthole to stare out at the tree-covered land past which the ship was sailing on its way up the Firth of Tay.

  He had no intention of explaining, even to his closest friend, that every instinct in his body rebelled at the thought of coming back to the land he had left in a fury twelve years earlier.

  He had been only sixteen at the time and the cruelty of his father, which had not only bruised his body, but humiliated his pride, made him swear that for the rest of his life he would never have anything to do with Scotland or its people.

  He remembered how he had crept aboard the first available ship in Perth harbour and, unable to afford more than the poorest passage, had suffered intolerably in the airless stinking hold below decks.

  But his late mother’s relatives in London had welcomed him with open arms.

  They had sent him to a famous public school and afterwards to Oxford University and, as the Marquis of Narn sponsored by his grandfather, who had been in attendance on the Prince Regent, he found life both civilised and enjoyable.

  He had in fact almost forgotten that Scotland even existed.

  When his grandfather died, he left him a large estate and a great deal of money. Basking in the friendship of the Regent, now King George IV, London provided him with everything he wanted and everything he enjoyed.

  It had come like a bombshell three months ago to hear that his father was dead and he was now not only the Duke of Strathnarn but also Chieftain of the Clan McNarn.

  Somehow he had always believed his father to be indestructible.

  When he thought of him, which was seldom, he had seemed ageless and terrifying, like one of the ancient giants described in the ballads he had listened to the bard singing when he was a child.

  He was silent for so long that Lord Hinchley, rising to pour himself another brandy said,

  “You look depressed, Taran, and that glowering expression on your face is grim enough to frighten your Clansmen or whatever you call them.”

  “And a good thing if they are frightened,” the Duke replied, “because in that case they are more likely to obey me.”

  Even as he spoke he knew that he was libelling the McNarns for the Clansmen invariably obeyed their Chiefs. In fact he remembered his father saying once, ‘a Chief stands halfway between his own people and God’.

  Then he told himself, almost by way of reassurance. that the days of such servitude were over and now that a Chief no longer had the power of life and death over his people their feelings for him would obviously not be the same.

  “Well, all I can say,” Lord Hinchley remarked as he sipped his brandy, “is that if I have to travel back in the Royal George with His Majesty I shall lie down in my cabin and drink myself insensible until we reach Tilbury.”

  “It will be calmer on your return,” the Duke said automatically as if he was thinking of something else, “and as the King is a good sailor, he will expect you to be on your feet, telling him how much the Scots appreciated his visit.”

  “The question is – will they?” Lord Hinchley asked. “I blame Walter Scott for inspiring the Monarch with this urgent desire to come to Edinburgh. If the Scots have any sense, they will cut him down with their claymores and stick their dirks into him!”

  The Duke did not speak and Lord Hinchley continued,

  “My grandfather served in the Cumberland Army which took part in the Battle of Culloden. His description of the manner in which the Scots were massacred and the cruelties inflicted on the survivors afterwards should make any Englishman think twice before he braves the vengeance which is undoubtedly still seething in their breasts.”

  “It was a long time ago,” the Duke remarked.

  “I would not mind betting that you they have not forgotten,” Lord Hinchley replied.

  “I think you are right about that.”

  “Of course I am right!” Lord Hinchley said positively. “All barbaric people have their feuds, their vendettas, their curses, which are carried on from generation to generation.”

  “You are very voluble on the subject,” the Duke remarked.

  “When His Majesty told me I was to come here as an advance guard and see that he was properly received when he arrives in Edinburgh, I took the trouble to mug up some of the facts about Scotland and the Scottish.”

  Lord Hinchley paused before he added,

  “I don’t mind telling you, Taran, the English behaved damned badly to the wretched people they conquered, entirely because they were better organised and carried muskets.”

  The Duke did not reply and after a moment Lord Hinchley said,

  “My grandfather used to relate to me when I was a small boy how the Clans were mown down at Culloden as they marched hungry and wet after a night in the open across bad terrain, their Chiefs leading them straig
ht into the gunfire.”

  The Duke rose to his feet with what was an angry gesture.

  “For God’s sake, William, stop trying to make my flesh creep about battles that happened long before we were born. We have both been pressured into coming on this cursed voyage and the quicker we do what we have to do and return home the better!”

  There was so much anger in the Duke’s voice that his friend looked at him curiously.

  Then he said,

  “I had the idea that this, in fact, is your home.”

  He saw the Duke’s fingers clench as if he had touched him on the raw. Then, because he was extremely fond of his friend, he said in a soothing tone,

  “Have another drink. There is nothing like good French brandy to make the world seem a pleasanter place.”

  The Duke filled his glass from the crystal decanter that had a broad flat bottom so that it would not fall off the table with the roll of the ship.

  As he felt the fiery liquid seeping through his body, he knew that instead of soothing him and bringing him some comfort it merely accentuated his anger and apprehension at what lay ahead.

  He had had no intention when his father died of returning to Scotland. He had cut himself off from the McNarns when he had run away with his back crossed and bleeding from the weals inflicted by his father’s whip.

  If they liked to think of him as a renegade they could do so. He did not intend to concern himself with anyone’s feelings but his own.

  After he left University, he had found that with plenty of money to spend and with looks which made women gravitate towards him like moths to a lighted candle, he had no time to think of anything but his own pleasure.

  The Prince Regent liked to have young bucks and beaux around him encouraging them in the extravagances of dress that he affected himself.

  It was a fashion that had been set by his friend Beau Brummell to which he still adhered, even after they had quarrelled and Brummell had died in exile.

  It was with the keen excitement of a child going to its first party that the King was planning now to appear in Scotland in full Highland regalia.

  He had ordered those who were to be in attendance on him in Edinburgh to wear their tartans and finally to lead their Clans at an enormous review that was to take place on the Portobello Sands on Friday 23rd August.

  The Duke had not thought for a moment that he would be expected to be present, but the King had made it quite clear that he must be there and although he wished to refuse he had found it impossible to find a plausible excuse.

  But His Majesty’s command, for it was little else, only came after he was in fact already considering whether or not he should return to Scotland, having received an urgent request to do so from his Comptroller, Mr. Robert Dunblane.

  The communication was brought to him as speedily as possible, although that meant that even by sea it had taken an inordinately long time for it to reach him.

  Robert Dunblane had been Comptroller to his father and the Duke remembered him as being almost the only human person he could talk to when he was a boy.

  It was Robert Dunblane who had informed him three months earlier of his father’s death and made it clear in his letter that he assumed the Duke would be coming to Scotland as soon as it was possible.

  The Duke had read the letter and tossed it to one side. His Clan, his Castle and the land he owned could rot as far as he was concerned!

  He was prepared to use the title that was now his, but otherwise the less he heard of the North the better and he had in fact dismissed Robert Dunblane’s letter from his mind.

  The second letter was different and not only his eyes but his whole expression darkened as he read what it contained.

  Finally he swore aloud,

  “Fool! That damned young fool! How could he do anything so crazy?”

  He could only remember his nephew, Torquil McNarn, as a crying baby who had been born in 1808, two years before he left home, but he remembered his sister Janet with nothing but love and affection.

  She had been much older than he and she had taken the place of his mother who died when he was very young. She had married a cousin, also with the name of McNarn, and had unfortunately left The Castle and him to the merciless tyranny of their father.

  The only happy memories the Duke had of Scotland were of Janet and, when six years ago she too had died, he thought his last link had been severed for ever with those he was forced, however much he loathed them, to call his kith and kin.

  Robert Dunblane’s letter had aroused even if reluctantly a sense of responsibility towards Janet’s son and had made it quite clear to the Duke what he was expected to do.

  “Torquil McNarn is not only Your Grace’s nephew,” he wrote, “but also the Dighre (heir) both to the title and your position as Chief until you have a son.”

  The Duke had forgotten that Scottish inheritance could be in the female as well as the male line.

  He found himself wondering what Janet’s son was like and if in fact he would make a better Chieftain of the Clan than he was himself.

  Then he told himself cynically that if the boy was counting on that it would be a mistake. He supposed that sooner or later he would marry although he had no inclination to do so at the moment.

  There were too many alluring women to keep him amused, when he was not involved with sport, for him to think it necessary to choose one as a permanent companion.

  He was convinced that if he did so he would soon find her a dead bore.

  Women were amusing the Duke had found, as long as they were elusive, as long as they could be pursued and hunted as if they were an animal or a bird or a trophy to be won.

  As soon as they were conquered and there was no more mystery about them, both his interest and his desire faded. Then he was off again after another prey and there was, in his opinion, nothing more time-wasting than a love affair that had lost its dash and its spirit.

  Even the King had remonstrated with him over what the women he left broken-hearted called his ‘callousness and cruelty’.

  “What is the matter with you, Taran?” His Majesty asked. “You have more love affairs in a year than I have horses in my stable.”

  “Like you, Sire, I am looking for a winner!” the Duke had replied.

  The King had chuckled, admitting that he himself was invariably beguiled by a new and pretty face.

  “At the same time, Taran,” he went on, “you must remember that these frail creatures have feelings and in my opinion you leave too many of them weeping.”

  “A woman only weeps when she cannot get what she wants,” the Duke replied cynically. “They must learn to accept the inevitable, Sire, that I am unobtainable.”

  The King had laughed, but nevertheless the Duke was scowling when he related the story to his friend William.

  “What does he expect me to do?” he asked, “marry every woman I make love to?”

  “No, of course not,” Lord Hinchley replied, “but you are savage with them, Taran. Surely one of them must touch your heart?”

  “I have no heart,” the Duke said positively.

  Lord Hinchley smiled.

  “That is a challenge to Fate. One day you will fall in love, then you will understand how agonizing it can be to see someone you adore looking over your shoulder to find someone better than yourself.”

  The Duke smiled sardonically and his friend exclaimed,

  “Dammit, Taran, you are too conceited. You are thinking that is an impossibility because you are the best. All right, go on until retribution catches up with you!”

  “And if it does, which is very unlikely,” the Duke replied, “I shall still have had a good run for my money!”

  Lord Hinchley broke in on the Duke’s thoughts now by asking,

  “What happens when we arrive?”

  “I have not the slightest idea. I sent word to my Comptroller telling him the name of the ship on which we are sailing and the approximate date we should dock in Perth. I presume he
will make arrangements to convey us to The Castle. If not, you may have to walk!”

  Lord Hinchley gave a groan of anguish and the Duke said,

  “It is no more than twenty miles! But the mountains are very steep for those who are not used to them.”

  “I know you are roasting me. At the same time in this benighted land fiction might become an unpleasant fact. For God’s sake, Taran, let’s hope for the best even if we have to expect the worst.”

  The Duke, however, was pleasantly surprised when, after the ship had docked, Robert Dunblane came on board. A tall, good-looking man of over fifty, he certainly looked impressive in a kilt, his bonnet on the side of his greying head and a plaid clasped with a huge Cairngorm brooch over his shoulder.

  The Duke held out his hand.

  “I should have known you anywhere, Dunblane!”

  “Unfortunately, Your Grace, I cannot return the compliment,” Robert Dunblane replied.

  There was, however, a smile on his lips which told the Duke that he was delighted by his appearance.

  It must certainly have been hard for him to recognise the thin boy with wild defiant eyes, whom he had last seen fighting back his tears, in the tall, incredibly handsome man of the world who now stood in front of him.

  The tight-fitting hosepipe pantaloons, the cut-away coat with its long tails, the crisp whiteness of an intricately tied cravat did nothing to detract from the Duke’s broad shoulders and his athletic figure, tapering down to narrow hips.

  Robert Dunblane also noted the McNarn characteristics – the straight aristocratic nose and the firm authoritative mouth which could set in a sharp line.

  “I suppose,” the Duke said after the first courteous pleasantries had been exchanged, “that you have some way of conveying Lord Hinchley and me to The Castle?”

  Robert Dunblane smiled.

  “There are horses, Your Grace, waiting for you or, if you prefer, a carriage. But may I suggest, in case you have forgotten, that the roads are very dusty at this time of the year and far the quickest way is as the crow flies across the moors.”

  “Then we will ride,” the Duke determined. “If that suits you, William?”