Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (3 page)

"I'll think about it." Shawn spared a glance after Amy and turned back to the conductor. "You coming to my party? Lots of good Scottish ale!"

"I need my sleep," Conrad answered. "Have fun. Keep the orchestra's reputation in mind this time, will you?"

Rob guffawed. "Like the fox will watch the hens!" Several men laughed.

Conrad shot Shawn a stern look. "I'd like to be welcome back."

Shawn held up a placating hand. "Just a little unwinding. I promise!"

"You promised in Edinburgh." Conrad did not look amused.

"I really, really promise this time." Shawn put on his most innocent face. His friends laughed. Conrad gave him a last, hard look, and turned to the concertmaster, giving a sharp nod toward the door.

Near Loch Ness, Scotland, 1314

Dark clouds scudded across the pale sliver of moon. But even a full moon would hardly have pierced the thick pine boughs sheltering the small clearing. A stiff wind sloughed through the branches high above, rustling over the night sounds of insects and loch.

He called himself Fearchar when he met MacDougall. Whether they knew better, he did not guess or care. His friend, he called Tearlach. He smiled at his own joke.
Tearlach
: instigator. His friend, not convinced of the wisdom of the plan, backed against the biggest pine, his shoulders hunched, hand on sword, peering this way and that.

Tearlach jumped suddenly, yelping. A large shadow hovered behind him, hand on his shoulder. A gruff laugh echoed from the wood, and MacDougall stepped into the clearing. Little more than his shape showed, a tall, bulky silhouette of flowing, fur-edged cloak and a full beard. Another, larger, shadow, emerged beside him. Tearlach made a sound somewhere between a sigh and drawn-out grunt. It might have been fear or pain. Fearchar ignored him.

"Waitin' long, were ye?" MacDougall asked.

"Not verra," Fearchar answered. These men did not scare him. He alone could provide the information they wanted. They'd scarce hurt him. And if they offered too little in exchange, he'd slide back under the protection of Glenmirril, no one the wiser. He couldn't lose.

He glanced at Tearlach. The man was a rabbit. He wouldn't tell. Fearchar stretched out a leather-booted toe to crack a twig. Tearlach jumped, with a sharp intake of breath. Fearchar laughed. "'Tis but a twig, Tearlach." He turned to MacDougall. "The Laird knows someone is taking word out."

"He doona ken who," said Tearlach.

"'Tis bad enough he knows," snapped Fearchar. "If MacDonald learns I am here, if aught should happen to me, there are those who know where to look." Dark eyebrows tightened over fierce eyes. He stared from one man to another. Tearlach fidgeted, but did not look away.

"If the MacDonald hears of it and comes after us, there are also those who know who gave him that information," said MacDougall's companion. A breeze lifted the shadow of heavy fur collar around his cloak. Tearlach looked over his shoulder at the rustle of tree limbs.

"'Tis but the wind," Fearchar said. He turned to MacDougall. "You say you can protect me, if MacDonald finds out. How do I know you're as good as your word?"

MacDougall's accomplice growled deep in his throat. Tearlach twitched and stepped backward, brushing a low-hanging tree branch. He jumped at its touch on his shoulder. "MacDougalls doona lie," MacDougall ground out. "How I can trust you? How do I know you speak the truth?"

The lord from the castle spread his hands. "My word, my Lord. You will see, the day after tomorrow...."

"You could be gone from the castle and I, dead with a knife in my back by then!" MacDougall's hand clenched on his sword hilt. "I want a token of confidence now."

"I've naught to give!"

MacDougall jerked his head at his companion, whose cloak rustled in response. From it, he pulled a squat, round shadow, which he set on the ground amidst the four men.

MacDougall reached inside his cloak, tearing a heavy chain from his neck. He released it over the shadow; it clanked against the sides of the pot, shattering the quiet of the night. This time, even Fearchar jumped. "Careful!" he hissed. "You'll wake them!"

"An I do?" said MacDougall. He laughed. The large man beside him pulled a ring off his finger, and dropped it. It clattered, rolled, and settled. "I'm already risking all, being here on your land. Put your marker in the pot."

Fearchar glowered. "You dinna tell us this was part of the deal." Leaving proof of his complicity here ended his ability to walk away.

"Put a token in the pot," said MacDougall, "or this night may yet end in bloodshed. I must know I can trust you. We bury the pot, and we're all protected. If anyone tells, he'll be cutting his own throat, too, as the proof of this night's doing is here."

Still, Fearchar hesitated. MacDougall's hand tightened on his hilt. Eyeing the sword, Fearchar reluctantly pulled a ring from his own finger and dropped it in. He nodded to Tearlach, who fumbled at the brooch on his cloak, and tossed it in. It rolled around and around on the bottom of the pot. MacDougall stared until the brooch stopped rattling. He nodded to the other man, who produced a lid. Stooping there, just outside the circle, he began scraping at the dirt with his dagger.

"To business, then," said MacDougall, with the soft sounds of digging at his feet. "What is MacDonald's decision? My castle, my clan—I've hundreds of lives at stake."

"MacDonald supports the Bruce," Fearchar said.

MacDougall muttered an oath, and spit. "Fool! He gambles hundreds of lives. Thousands."

"He has decided," Tearlach whispered. He eyed the larger man, scraping at the dirt by the pot. "Naught we say will change his mind."

"O' course not." MacDougall's voice dripped with sarcasm. "But I wager his support means little without his men."

"And how are we to stop MacDonald's men joining Bruce? What's more, he is sending for Hugh."

MacDougall spun, wrenching his sword from its sheath. He flailed the flat against a tree. Then he stabbed it into the ground, where it quivered. "'Tis a dangerous game MacDonald plays! Can we no find Hugh?"

Fearchar eyed the quivering sword. He spoke calmly. "He's well-hidden, he and his men. We think to the east. The Trossachs or mayhap Ettrick Forest."

From where he dug in the dirt, MacDougall's companion scoffed. "'Tis half the lowlands, that is. Even if the rumors are true. Can ye tell us no more?"

"He has trusted few with his secret, perhaps only Niall."

"Och, young Niall Campbell." The large man chuckled. "And how is his arse?"

"Well enough to go for Hugh," Tearlach replied stiffly.

"Then Niall must be stopped," said MacDougall.

"You mean to kill him." Fearchar spoke flatly.

Heavy silence settled in the clearing. "What is one man's life to the good of a nation?" spoke MacDougall. "But stopping him from reaching Hugh will do." A strong wind pushed through the trees. It rustled the leaves, cracking two branches together, and lifted the smell of cow dung from the earth.

Fearchar lifted the back of his hand to his nostrils. His face gave nothing away. "You seek revenge for the death of your kinsmen, John Comyn," he said, lowering his hand. "I'll say naught to MacDonald of this meeting." He couldn't help a glance at the pot being lowered into a deep hole by MacDougall's companion. "But why should I gamble on Edward rather than on my own laird and people?"

"To save yourself!" MacDougall leaned forward, his eyes dark. "To save your people. Edward's reward to you will be great, an you serve him."

"I am already highly placed. What more can Edward give me?"

"Land. Your own castle. Look how he once lavished favor on my Lord Gaveston for naught."

His companion pushed the last of the dirt over the pot, and stood up, coughing loudly. "'Twas hardly for naught, my lord."

"I'd wager," said MacDougall, with a lewd wink, "that his name means more to him even than Lord Gaveston's company. Will he no do as much for those who restore Scotland and his name?"

"Who's to say Edward will conquer Scotland?" asked Fearchar. He bristled, moving a step forward. The clouds scuttled across the moon, and dropped a beam of silvery light through the trees, lighting his face.

MacDougall's companion laughed. "Edward's luck will turn."

"He is gathering troops from far and wide," said MacDougall. "He has cast all on this venture."

"He has raised thousands," said the larger man. "The army will stretch for miles. The earth will shake as they march."

"The Bruce cannot stand against him," said MacDougall. "You gamble nothing," he told the men from the castle, "because you cannot lose. Edward will take Stirling, and from there, all of Scotland, with or without your help. Those who oppose him will bring suffering on themselves and their families."

The man from the castle considered. The silence stretched between them. An owl hooted and glided onto a tree branch above.

"You cannot lose," MacDougall said again, softly, "unless you cast your lot with those who are ill-equipped and outnumbered."

"What is it you want from me?" Fearchar asked. He stared at the ground. His ring was in the pot. The die had been cast, the hand dealt.

MacDougall's lips curved into a smile. He had his accomplice. "When does Campbell leave and what route does he take?"

"That has not yet been told us."

MacDougall stared pointedly at the spot where the pot had been buried. Clouds slipped back over the moon, and the copse darkened again. "Find out and send word. My men will be waiting in the forest, when Niall leaves."

Inverness, Scotland, Present

The orchestra's steering committee gathered in the conductor's suite. Apart from Shawn's own, it was the nicest the castle had to offer. Muted rose hues colored the wallpaper, carpet, and paintings. A spray of roses in a crystal vase adorned the sideboard, beside lattes and gourmet cookies. They sat on upholstered chairs around a mahogany table.

"Shawn's become a real problem." Dan, the principal French horn, spoke bluntly. His coffee sat untouched before him, his bow tie thrown beside it. "More women have complained about his leering and suggestive comments. We all know about that."

"Everyone except poor Amy," the elderly string bass player said. Muttered assents went around the table.

"We were barely able to smooth it over with the hotel in Edinburgh," Dan continued. "Sooner or later, he's going to pull something we can't handle. A lawsuit over sexual harassment or property damage."

Aaron, the young percussionist, spoke up. "With any luck, he'll get himself shot by the next husband who walks in on him." He took a forceful gulp of his black coffee and stared fiercely around the table.

"Shawn tends to be the one with the luck," Dan said dryly.

Conrad raked a hand through his wild, white hair before speaking. "I've already done everything short of firing him. Here's the problem." He pushed a sheet of paper, with computer-generated bar graphs, to the center of the table. They all leaned in. "If we keep him, we have growing dissatisfaction from one group. If we fire him, we have mutiny from another." His finger pinned the first bar on the graph. "We were barely holding on, financially, before he came. In fact, we weren't. Now," his finger moved to the second bar, soaring high above the first. "We are the most financially successful orchestra in the United States. Maybe the world. He's reached huge audiences, with his music, his arrangements, the big names he brings in. His on-stage persona. We have crowds. We have young people at our concerts. We're the only classical musicians with groupies! The audience loves him. Let me be clear on that: they love him. Have you heard the girls screaming when Shawn comes onstage?"

"Who could miss it?" Aaron glared at the polished tabletop.

Dan clapped his shoulder. "Celine will come to her senses."

"It's their money paying for all this." Conrad looked around the suite, the deep pile carpet, crystal, and mahogany, and noted the irony. "It's their money, thanks to him, paying for the room we're sitting in and the coffee we drink while we talk about how to get rid of him. When he goes, they go, and so does the money."

The men leaned back in their seats. Bill, the bassoonist, shook his head. "We're victims of his success. Our salaries have doubled since he started, plus bonuses. Do you know someone on the internet has made trading cards of our members, and Shawn's negotiated for royalties? How do we tell them," he asked Dan, "we're taking it all away?"

Dan sighed. "I understand. Likewise, how do we tell the women there's nothing we can do about his groping and grabbing? How do we tell the hotels they can expect damage when we're here? How do we handle the lawsuit that's coming any day? He's out of control. Something has to be done."

"I agree," said Conrad. The others, too, nodded.

"But the orchestra," said Bill. "Can we fire him without destroying what he's created? Is there someone else who can take his place and do what he does?"

"Amy does a lot of the work on those arrangements," Aaron said. "We'd still have her."

Conrad and Peter nodded thoughtfully. "She's good," Peter said.

"And I've done some scouting." Dan pulled a folder from his briefcase and dropped it on Conrad's charts. "These trumpet players are real possibilities. This Zach Tyler."

The men leaned back in, scanning the dossiers of two prominent musicians, pointing, questioning and talking. "We have leverage," Bill said, "if he understands he's replaceable." Nods went around the circle.

"One way or another," Conrad assured them, "this situation is going to be resolved. He's approaching his last misstep."

* * *

Shawn met Amy in the castle's hall, still in her concert black, and pulled her through his suite, to the bedroom. "I can't get over it," she said, surveying the chamber. It could hold several of the smaller rooms. A mahogany four poster dominated everything. A bas-relief carving of a hunting scene adorned its foot board. Deep blue velvet curtains hung all around it, with a matching bedspread. Wallpaper and carpet echoed a palette of blues, a gentle contrast to the dark furniture. An intricately carved mantelpiece framed the fireplace opposite the bed. Evening sunlight poured through diamond-paned windows.