Jennifer Roberson by Lady of the Glen Page A

begun to pall some time ago, edging from sharp awareness to a wholly unexpected fatigue.
    The moon was halved, but nonetheless shed enough illumination for her to see the countryside, to mark the distant upthrustings of hills and crags. The track she followed in the wake of her brothers skirted the bogs of Rannoch Moor, and would eventually wind through the gorse, heather, and stony outcroppings of the upper slopes. Spring-and rain-fed burns ran full with water, carving wet convolutions of veins through hummocky turf to the black soil beneath.
    Cat tipped her head to stare up at the moon. The adventure had palled, the resolution now wavered; part of her wanted very badly to turn back—her brothers would never know she came, so her desertion could not be thrown in her face—but the other portion of her would not permit such cowardice. She had come to steal—“ recover! ”—a cow, and recover a cow she would.
    It was summer, but Highland nights were cool. She tasted mist, felt its kiss on her cheeks and nose. She was thankful for the plaid, grateful for the bonnet.
    The garron stumbled. Cat reined its head up; then, as it slowed, planted heels again firmly to urge it onward before she might seriously contemplate turning back. “Chruachan, ” she murmured, relying on the magic contained in a single word to reconfirm her intent, reestablish confidence. “Chrua —”
    She broke off, hissing a startled inhalation. Through the darkness, burning brighter than the moon, blazed a small, steady flame.
    Cat shivered convulsively. Where were her brothers? Still ahead—? Or had they turned off the track? —do they see the fire--? Surely they had; she had. Which meant if they claimed any wits at all they would get off their mounts, snoove down through darkness, huddle up in rocks, and brush and peer downslope at the fire to discover who had laid it.
    “Mac Don alds.” A frisson of fear and trepidation twisted her belly inside out. She knew, as her brothers did, that most of the Glencoe men had gone to fight Argyll, leaving behind but a smattering of male protection. But even a single MacDonald provided a threat to Campbell cows.
    She licked dry lips, then rolled the bottom one between her teeth. She need not face MacDonalds, nor did her brothers. They had only to find the nearest herd, gather up what they could, and without excess commotion drive them back to Glen Lyon.
    It could not be difficult. Men did it all the time. And if she and her brothers knew where MacDonalds were, keeping warm by the fire, they could avoid them easily.
    Cat nodded vehemently to herself, finding renewed courage. There was no danger. Only stealth was necessary, and cleverness. She thought neither required a man.
    From ahead a garron whinnied: one of her brothers’. Her own immediately answered it.
    Panic seized her body. She bent down across the garron’s neck, hugging it rigidly. In broad Scots she pleaded for silence. “Och, houd your gab—”
    But it was too late. The fire flared up as wood was added, and she saw man-shapes against it; heard hated MacDonald voices. Dirks and swords glinted.
    Her whole body trembled violently; this was worse, far worse, than anything she had expected. Cat thought instantly of fleeing, of yanking her garron around and going back the way she had come, beating a tattoo against the ribs of her mount. But that was predictable, and instinct insisted that in predictability lay the truest danger.
    — they’ll likely circle around —She heard the scrabble of hooves from up the track, between her mount and the fire. She wanted badly to wait for her brothers, or to ride up to join them, but something beyond fear drove her to serve herself.
    Humming a pibroch in her head to drown out the upsurge of fear, Cat swung her garron from the deer track they had followed and sought shelter among the scree, behind tangled heather and the scrubby oaks huddled against mounded hilltops clustered with time-and rain-broken stone.