The Chieftain Without a Heart Read online

  She was being unpleasant, Clola realised, because she had not yet adjusted herself to the thought that they were to have a family relationship with the McNarns.

  She was sure her sister-in-law’s attitude was typical of that of many other women, whose enmity was often deeper and more violent than their menfolk’s.

  Her father and brothers were waiting for her when she came downstairs and then she saw with them a young man she had not seen before and knew that it was Torquil McNarn.

  He was standing apart from her family and when she looked towards him she saw the hate in his eyes and knew that here was one of the McNarns who would not accept her so easily.

  Deliberately she walked across to him.

  “I regret that you and I have been unable to meet until now,” she said in her soft voice, “but I hope that the poor hospitality my family have been able to offer you will not weigh against me in the future.”

  He was embarrassed by her attitude.

  Because she had taken him by surprise, he was only able to mutter something incoherent and Clola turned towards her father.

  “We had better get started,” she said, “for I warn you, father, I shall need quite a long time to wash and change before I set out for Castle Narn.”

  “Women!” The Kilcraig growled.

  But she knew he was in too good a mood today to be disagreeable or forbidding, as he might have been on another occasion.

  The warm weather which had appeared at the beginning of July after a wet and dismal June was most welcome. The sun shone out of a clear blue sky, the bees were busy in the heather and coveys of grouse rose ahead of them as they set off.

  “We are wasting a good shooting day!” one of Clola’s brothers piped up.

  “Grouse or men?” Hamish asked irrepressibly;

  They had been riding for a little over two hours when Castle Narn came in sight.

  Clola had peeped at if often enough from the high hills on the Kilcraig land, but she had never seen it close to, Now she thought it was everything a castle should be, an idealised structure that might have stepped out of a Fairy story.

  The glen beneath it was verdant and had more trees than any glen in the Kilcraig country.

  This was due to the river which ran down the centre of it, fed by burns which cascaded down the sides of the rocks.

  Clola was aware that her brothers were envious as they had no equivalent river on their land and she wondered with a faint smile how often they had been daring enough to poach salmon here at night.

  Certainly she could remember salmon on the menu when she had been a little girl and, although there would always be tales that they were brought in by one of the gillies as a tribute to their Chieftain, Clola now had her doubts.

  As they drew nearer, she saw crowds of men making their way up the drive which led to The Castle and there were great numbers of what were obviously McNarn Clansmen on the skyline blocking the road and climbing down the sides of the cascades.

  The manse stood alone just beyond a small cluster of cottages. Beside it was the white-washed Kirk, but Clola knew that her marriage would take place in The Castle itself.

  As they rode towards the manse, the women and men who stared at them blankly and without greeting were obviously McNarns and it was with a sense of relief that they saw how many hundreds of Kilcraigs were gathered ahead of them.

  They were reclining on the ground, some sleeping or eating while the old men were smoking their white clay pipes.

  As Clola appeared riding beside her father, a great cry went up.

  Then, as the Clansmen scrambled to their feet, there came the roaring yell of the Kilcraig war-chant. Loud and shrill it seemed to echo towards The Castle as they repeated it again and again.

  Then in response the war-chant of the McNarns came back in answer, roar upon roar. It sounded defiant, a war cry – an exhortation to battle.

  For one moment Clola looked apprehensively at her father.

  Supposing instead of the peace he had envisaged the McNarns and the Kilcraigs began to fight each other in the way they had done for generations?

  If this happened, if their fiery temperaments were aroused, then even their Chieftains would find it impossible to pull them apart.

  But Clola had reckoned without her father’s resourcefulness. He made a sign to his piper who rode behind him and instantly the pipes shrilled out and the noise of the war-chants died away.

  It was a marriage tune he played, a tune known to every piper and composed, it was always said, by the McCrimmons, who were the greatest of all pipers in Scotland.

  The Kilcraig’s piper had no sooner started than he was joined by a dozen other pipers amongst the Kilcraigs and finally by those belonging to the McNarns.

  The glen swelled with their music and the hills seemed to throw back the sound so that the whole world was filled with it.

  “That was clever of you, father,” Clola said, as their horses came to a standstill outside the manse door.

  He smiled at her and for a moment she thought that however handsome the Duke might be it would be impossible to admire any man for his strength, his wisdom and his command more than her father.

  The manse door was opened and she walked inside.

  The Minister’s wife, a nervous middle-aged woman, curtseyed politely and offered her food and drink before she led her upstairs to the best bedroom. It was poorly furnished, but spotlessly clean and the roses growing up the manse wall gave the room a welcome fragrance.

  The Minister’s wife brought up the wedding gown that had been carried carefully wrapped across the back of a pony.

  When Clola shook it out and hung it on the outside of the wardrobe, she exclaimed at the beauty of it.

  Alone Clola without hurrying took off her riding habit, washed at the washing stand in the corner of the room and arranged her hair in front of the mirror.

  “How are you going to dress yourself?” her sister-in-law had asked.

  “I will manage,” Clola replied. “I expect there will be someone who will button my gown.”

  “But supposing they have all gone to The Castle for the wedding?” her sister-in-law enquired, who was always ready to make difficulties.

  Clola laughed.

  “In which case father will have to do it up for me, or Hamish.”

  Her sister-in-law had been shocked.

  “Really, Clola, you do say the most preposterous things since you have been in Edinburgh. As though any man could understand the niceties of a lady’s attire!”

  Clola doubted if Andrew and her younger brothers with their preoccupation with the land would notice if she appeared naked or wearing a sack.

  But she was sure, after associating with the great beauties of London and the women who, if rumour was to be believed, spent astronomical sums on their gowns and jewels, that the Duke would be critical.

  She was glad, that whatever he might think of her looks, he would find it difficult to disparage her gown.

  Then she wondered what he would expect her to look like.

  She was aware that there would not have been time for him to learn much about her from her father and perhaps he had not been curious.

  It would have come as an overwhelming shock, she was quite certain, as it had been to her, to be forced into marrying a Kilcraig with such speed and without even a brief acquaintanceship.

  ‘Perhaps he will be pleasantly surprised,’ she told herself optimistically.

  Then she felt the fear that had beset her in the night, ever since she had learnt what was to happen, flow over her insidiously – fear of the unknown, fear of the man she had never met, fear of the Chief of the McNarns.

  The Minister’s wife came timidly back into the room to fasten her gown at the back and exclaimed over and over again with genuine admiration at her appearance.

  “Ye looks real lovely, Mistress Kilcraig,” she cooed. “The bonniest bride I’ve ever seen! A fitting mate for the Laird.”

  “Thank you,”
Clola replied.

  “I wish you every happiness,” the elderly woman went on and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. “You’re so young. So young, lovely as an angel, and you bring with you peace to our people. God will bless you, I know it!”

  “Thank you,” Clola said again.

  Then, on an impulse, she bent and kissed the Minister’s wife.

  “That is to bring you luck,” she said, “and thank you for your kindness.”

  With the tears still on her cheeks, the Minister’s wife escorted Clola downstairs.

  Outside the manse door was a carriage drawn by two horses.

  The hood was down and as Clola stepped in she saw that behind her the procession that was to escort her to The Castle was in place.

  Her brothers rode behind her carriage. After them came the bard, the piper, The Kilcraig’s special bodyguard and the senior members of the Clan, each a Chieftain in his own right on his own land.

  It was impressive, but Clola had the feeling that anything they could produce would be overshadowed by The Castle and the McNarns.

  The manse was not far from The Castle drive and the road was lined with people of every age, the children holding bunches of heather in their hands, some white, some purple.

  From under the fine veil of Brussels lace which covered her face Clola could look about her with curiosity, but those they passed did not cheer and anyway it would have been hard to make themselves heard above the noise of the pipes.

  Now behind her father’s piper there were twelve others, all walking with a swing wearing blackcocks’ tail-feathers in their bonnets and blowing with crimson faces through their bone flutes.

  They played two tunes before they reached the drive which led to The Castle, the carriage and horses moving slowly at the walking pace of the procession.

  Then, as they ascended the incline which led up to The Castle itself, the pipes played the March of the Kilcraigs. It was the tune that had led them into battle for centuries, a tune which had been a challenge to the McNarns since the beginning of time.

  All the way up the drive, the McNarn Clansmen had stood silent and immobile as they passed. There was something a little frightening about them and, almost despite herself, Clola put out her hand and slipped it into her father’s.

  His fingers closed over hers and she knew that, whatever anyone else was feeling, he was elated at the thought that the two Clans would live in peace and the MacAuads get their just deserts.

  ‘I doubt if he even gives me personally a second thought,’ Clola thought to herself.

  She was sure of it as they reached the great iron-studded door of The Castle and there was no response from him as she relinquished his hand.

  Servants in kilts sprang forward to help her alight.

  Then she saw waiting to receive her the tall figure of Mr. Dunblane whom she had peeped at when he visited her father and beside him a small boy.

  It was Jamie who came forward to say in his high childish voice,

  “Welcome on behalf of my uncle and the McNarns, sir.”

  He spoke to The Kilcraig first, bowed and then bowed his small red head in Clola’s direction.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  The Kilcraig nodded perfunctorily and put out his hand to Mr. Dunblane.

  Clola bent down so that her face was on a level with the boy’s.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Jamie.”

  “Then thank you, Jamie, for the nice way you have greeted us. I hope you and I will be friends.”

  “Have you brought Torquil with you?” he asked.

  “He is outside.”

  Jamie gave a whoop of excitement.

  “May I go to him?”

  “Yes, I am sure you may,” she answered.

  He ran out through the front door and they heard him cry excitedly

  “Torquil! Torquil! You’re back!”

  Clola smiled at Mr. Dunblane.

  “He is excited to see his brother,” she said, “and it must be a relief to have Torquil home.”

  As she spoke. Torquil McNarn followed by Jamie came in through the front door.

  “I ought to have been here to greet the bride,” he declared, furiously, “but instead they brought me here tied to their chariot wheels.”

  He was being angry and provocative, Clola thought, but she could understand his feelings in that he had not been allowed to return to The Castle until the Kilcraig went with him.

  It was in fact insulting that her father should be afraid that the Duke would go back on his word and refuse to marry her.

  Her father paid no attention to Torquil’s outburst. He continued to talk to Mr. Dunblane as if nothing had happened.

  “I am sorry,” Clola said to Torquil in a quiet voice, “but now you are here will you tell us what we are to do?”

  Because she seemed to need his help, the angry expression on the boy’s face softened.

  Assuming an air of authority he said to Mr. Dunblane,

  “Should we not press on with the ceremony? I am sure my uncle is waiting upstairs.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Dunblane replied. “Will you and Jamie lead The Kilcraig and the bride to the Chief’s Room? But first you would wish to present her bouquet?”

  Both Torquil and Clola looked round and a servant came forward with a small bouquet of white heather tied with long satin ribbons resting on a silver salver.

  Torquil took it from him and handed it with an awkward little bow to Clola.

  Her father offered her his arm and they started to climb the wide carpeted stairway which led to the first floor. Now there was the skirl of the pipes, this time playing a wedding march, and to the music of it Clola and The Kilcraig entered the Chief’s Room.

  She had a quick glimpse of an enormous and magnificent room filled, it seemed, with men in the McNarn tartan. Then, as she moved slowly between them and, peeping from beneath her long eyelashes, she saw the Duke was waiting for her at the far end and so was the Minister in his black robes.

  After one quick glance to see if he was there, she felt too shy to raise her eyes again.

  Then, as her father drew her nearer and nearer, she was aware of her sister-in-law and her children on the left side of the room and beside them her brothers and senior members of the Clan.

  But her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the Duke.

  He looked even more splendid and more impressive wearing his rightful regalia than he did dressed as an Englishman and she felt her heart beating with shyness and at the same time a strange excitement.

  This was the man she was to marry. This was the Chieftain of a Clan larger than her father’s and a Duke who was admired for his sportsmanship even by the English.

  He was to be her husband and she was to be his wife and there would be no dividing them for they were to be joined by God.

  Now she was at the Duke’s side and she looked up at him wondering if he would be looking at her.

  Then she saw that he was staring straight ahead of him at the Minister waiting for the Marriage Ceremony to begin and there was a dark glowering scowl on his handsome face and his lips were set in a hard sharp line.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Duke had awoken to feel as if some menacing shadow lay over him and his depression was not lightened as he heard the sounds of the Clansmen outside The Castle and the music from half-a-dozen different pipers.

  He realised that for his people it would be a day of excitement and rejoicing even though they might resent their affiliation with the Kilcraigs.

  But for himself, he thought, it was a day when he would walk into a trap and there was no manner in which he could extricate himself.

  He could not prevent himself from continually thinking of the woman he was to marry.

  If ever he had visualised himself as married, it had always been to some sophisticated and beautiful creature who moved in the same world as he did. As his wife, she would be admired and even more he would be envied for his pos
session of her.

  To know that he had no choice but to be linked with a woman of the Kilcraig family with whom he would have nothing in common was a horror which seemed to deepen with every second that passed.

  He was quite certain that she would be barely educated if she had any learning at all and would doubtless be thick-hipped and have the sturdy appearance of her menfolk.

  What was more he was afraid that his own revulsion at being forced into marriage might make it impossible to do as Lord Hinchley had suggested – give her a child and leave her as soon as possible.

  Almost as if he was being taunted, he remembered all too clearly that the English always averred that it was impossible to cross the border unless one held a scented handkerchief to one’s nose!

  The Duke recalled how George IV, when he was Prince of Wales, had found that his bride, Princess Caroline, smelt unpleasantly.

  He had accordingly told one of her Ladies-in-Waiting that she was ‘to wash all over’, but that had not prevented him from being excessively drunk on his wedding night and causing the marriage to founder almost before it was consummated.

  The Duke was extremely fastidious where women were concerned.

  He had, unlike his contemporaries, never been interested in the expensive and alluring Cyprians or ‘bits of muslin’ with which the bucks of St. James’s spent a great deal of their time.

  Instead his love affairs had always been with experienced and beautiful ladies of the Beau Monde and he found it impossible to remember an instance when he had been to bed with a woman who only attracted him physically.

  There had always been something else about the association that had intrigued him, her wit, her sense of humour or perhaps only a fascinating mannerism.

  Whatever it was, it raised their association from the carnal into something different.

  Admittedly such allurements palled rather quickly, while the lady in question invariably fell deeply in love with him, finding him an ardent lover with other qualities which set him apart from the usual run of men.

  This, although the Duke did not realise it, was the imagination and idealism of his Celtic blood, which was an indivisible part of his make-up.