Jennifer Roberson by Lady of the Glen

his precise enunciation lacking in hostility. His Highland dialect faded into more precise speech. “You did confess before the Provosts of Perth and Edinburgh, Robin, that your way of life had brought your estates and family into ruin. And that you alone were incapable of saving them.”
    Pressure built up in Glenlyon’s chest. I’ll burst with it . . . like a bagpipe overfilled, spilling out his anger, his shame, his bitterness in a cry that would shake the rafters of Breadalbane’s fine town house.
    Breadalbane said, “You did confess so, aye?”
    On a hissing breath Glenlyon admitted, “I did so confess.”
    Breadalbane observed him in something akin to grave sympathy. He stroked his narrow top lip, then proceeded to read aloud the words which now burned away the last vestiges of his kinsman’s dignity.
    Glenlyon stared straight ahead. His neck was a cairn of granite mortared into place around the iron of his spine.
    Lengthy moments of the facile reading, condemning stupidity. At last, silence. And then Glenlyon barked a sharp, ironic laugh. “He is dead, is Argyll, and well beyond such oaths be they his own or mine!”
    The earl did not immediately answer. In the rift between them Glenlyon heard the rattle of unexpected rain against mullioned windows. It would be a wet walk back to the tavern.
    Breadalbane’s posture did not alter, nor did his expression. “I am not dead.”
    “Good Christ, John—”
    “Campbell or no, I will pay no more debts.”
    Glenlyon thrust himself from the chair. “Then I’ll see to them myself! D’ye think I want your silver? I’ll tend my own business—”
    Breadalbane, quoting, cut him off. “ ‘— how easy I may be circumvented and deceived in the management of my affairs—’ ”
    “Then I’ll sell all I own in the glen, you pawkie bastard, so that henceforth not a single blade of grass will belong to a Campbell—”
    “ ‘—whose counsel and advice I now resolve to use and by whom I am hereafter to be governed in all my affairs and business. ’ ”
    Tears threatened to wrest away what small portion of dignity remained to him. “Christ, John, you leave me no choice!”
    Breadalbane put down the paper. It crackled in underscore to the pressure of decisive fingers. “Whisky leaves you no choice. Dice leave you no choice. Weakness of character leaves you no choice.”
    “I once led an army for you—”
    “I ken it well, Robin. But you’ve indebted your family since. Getting no satisfaction of you, the men who hold your bonds have come to me. To the head of Clan Campbell. To the man who holds your oath of comhairl’taigh. ”For the first time a trace of contempt edged the earl’s tone. “I’ve paid them so many times, ye ken, with none of it paid back. Well, I will not pay them this time.”
    The redoubled effort to stop tears of bitter frustration made it difficult to breathe. “Then I’ll do as you make me do; blame yourself, John! I’ll sell all but what Helen brought me.” Glenlyon snatched from the chair his fallen bonnet. He yanked it onto his head. “And you’ve no hospitality to deny a man whisky!”
    Breadalbane did not rise. “And you’ve no honor, to deny your family the legacy of Glenlyon. But there may be, there may yet be, a way to restore it . . . if what I work toward comes to fruition.” Then his voice cracked in the room. “Sit down, Robin!”
    Glenlyon’s legs collapsed. His buttocks thumped into the chair. He had always been a man who answered another’s thunder; he claimed none of his own. And whisky, despite his longing, despite his dedication, offered little also.
     
    It was farther to MacDonald lands than Cat had anticipated. She rode her shaggy garron—hers more pony than horse—in increasingly tense silence, giving away nothing of her presence to the brothers who rode some distance ahead, praying the pony would keep his footing on the narrow track and make no noise, nor greet his kin ahead. But the excitement had