Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [368]
On the one hand, Jamie was a formal emissary from the Stuarts. Whether Lovat’s promises of support for the cause were honest, or mere lip service, chances were that he would feel obliged to welcome the Prince’s representative, if only for the sake of courtesy.
On the other hand, said representative was an illegitimately descended grandson who, if not precisely disowned in his own person, certainly wasn’t a bosom member of the family, either. And I knew enough by now of Highland feuds to know that ill feeling of this sort was unlikely to be diminished by the passage of time.
I ran a wet hand across my closed eyes and back across my temples, smoothing down stray wisps of hair. On the whole, I didn’t think Lord Lovat would leave us standing in the courtyard. He might, however, leave us there long enough to realize fully the dubious nature of our reception.
After that—well, who knew? We would most likely be received by Lady Frances, one of Jamie’s aunts, a widow who—from all we had heard from Tullibardine—managed domestic affairs for her father. Or, if he chose to receive us as a diplomatic ambassage rather than as family connections, I supposed that Lord Lovat himself might appear to receive us, supported by the formal panoply of secretary, guards, and servants.
This last possibility seemed most likely, in view of the time it was taking; after all, you wouldn’t keep a full-dress entourage standing about—it would take some time to assemble the necessary personnel. Envisioning the sudden appearance of a fully equipped earl, I had second thoughts about leaving teasel-heads tangled in my hair, and leaned over the trough again.
At this point, I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the passageway behind the mangers. A squat-bodied elderly man in open shirt and unbuckled breeks stepped out into the courtyard, shoving aside a plump chestnut mare with a sharp elbow and an irritable “Tcha!” Despite his age, he had a back like a ramrod, and shoulders nearly as broad as Jamie’s.
Pausing by the horse trough, he glanced around the courtyard as though looking for someone. His eye passed over me without registering, then suddenly snapped back, clearly startled. He stepped forward and thrust his face pugnaciously forward, an unshaven gray beard bristling like a porcupine’s quills.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“Claire Fraser, er, I mean, Lady Broch Tuarach,” I said, belatedly remembering my dignity. I gathered my self-possession, and wiped a drop of water off my chin. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded.
A firm hand gripped my elbow from behind, and a resigned voice from somewhere above my head said, “That, Sassenach, is my grandsire. My lord, may I present my wife?”
* * *
“Ah?” said Lord Lovat, giving me the benefit of a cold blue eye. “I’d heard you’d married an Englishwoman.” His tone made it clear that this act confirmed all his worst suspicions about the grandson he’d never met.
He raised a thick gray brow in my direction, and shifted the gimlet stare to Jamie. “No more sense than your father, it seems.”
I could see Jamie’s hands twitch slightly, resisting the urge to clench into fists.
“At the least, I had nay need to take a wife by rape or trickery,” he observed evenly.
His grandfather grunted, unfazed by the insult. I thought I saw the corner of his wrinkled mouth twitch, but wasn’t sure.
“Aye, and ye’ve gained little enough by the bargain ye struck,” he observed. “Though at that, this one’s less expensive than that MacKenzie harlot Brian fell prey to. If this sassenach wench brings ye naught, at least she looks as though she costs ye little.” The slanted blue eyes, so much like Jamie’s own, ran over my travel-stained gown, taking in the unstitched hem, the burst seam, and the splashes of mud on the skirt.
I could feel a fine vibration run through Jamie, and wasn’t sure whether it was anger or laughter.
“Thanks,” I said, with a friendly smile at his lordship. “I don’t eat much, either. But I could use a bit of a wash. Just water; don’t bother about the soap,