Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (24 page)

Devenish whirled Josie around, and the child's shrill joyous
squeal shattered the spell. Tyndale gasped and jumped quickly to the
ground.

Her breathing very fast and her cheeks very pink, Yolande
called, "Josie, I think we should go inside now and change for
luncheon." Not daring to look at Tyndale, she asked, "Are you gentlemen
coming?"

Devenish was beside her at once. Tyndale declined, however,
saying with a somewhat fixed smile that he would like to know more of
the Clydesdales, if the general would be so kind as to tell him of the
breed.

Sir Andrew was more than willing. "A Dutch stallion was the
founder," he began. "They brought him up here from England, and we've
bred many fine animals since. Molly's one of the larger
specimens—weighs in the neighbourhood of two thousand pounds. Did you
mark her fetlocks, and… ?"

As she walked back towards the house, listening with only half
an ear to Josie's merry chatter. Yolande's eyes were troubled.

Tyndale now found himself in the unenviable position of
longing to be near Yolande, yet dreading each moment he spent in her
company. In an effort to end his misery, he remarked in a casual way
that he would start for the castle after luncheon. Sir Andrew, however,
had taken a liking to the tall young Canadian, and was determined he
should stay on, at least for a few days. In this he was abetted by his
widowed daughter, Mrs. Caroline Fraser. This angular, kind-hearted, but
rather sharp-tongued lady ran the Drummond household with inflexible
efficiency. She mistrusted Devenish and had privately advised Yolande
that no gentleman possessed of such extraordinary good looks could be
expected to be a faithful husband. Mrs. Fraser had no use for
"foreigners" in the general way, but Craig's rather shy smile and
gentle manner had made an impression on her. Sensing that Yolande was
not indifferent to him and aware that Arabella Drummond (whom she
detested) loathed him, she joyously added her own voice to that of her
father in urging that both men make Steep Drummond their temporary
headquarters.

Desperate to escape, but dreading to offend, Craig suggested
that he should go on alone, while Devenish remained. Mrs. Fraser
brushed his hesitancy aside, and the General's eye began to take on a
frosty glare, so that Craig had no recourse but to accept the
hospitality so generously offered. He did so with sufficient grace that
the old gentleman's suspicions were lulled. Delighted, he clapped him
on the shoulder, admonishing,

"Dinna fash ye'sel, laddie, we'll nae demand ye don sporran
and kilts!" this drawing a laugh from almost all those present. The
exception was Yolande. She sensed the real reason behind Craig's
attempt to leave, and directed a sober glance at him that caused his
beleaguered heart to cramp painfully.

Contrary to what others might think, sporran and kilts were
not unknown to Tyndale, but to Josie they were both new and vastly
intriguing. It was the custom at Steep Drummond for the colours to be
taken down with full ceremony each dusk, and when the child's eyes
first rested on one of the General's retainers in all the glory of
kilts, tartan, and bagpipes, she was speechless with awe and
astonishment. They all followed to the roof and the small platform
around the flagpole. The pipes rang out their unique song, the Scot
marched proudly, the cold wind blew, and the kilts swung. A glint of
curiosity grew in Josie's eyes. She edged closer and, her watchfulness
unrewarded, appeared to experience some continuing difficulty with her
shoe. When the flags were down, folded, and being reverently borne
away, the child contrived to head the small procession and was obliged
to pause on the stairs and again attend to her recalcitrant shoe
buckle. Craig, his mind burdened with other matters, did not notice
this behavior. Devenish was both aware of and amused by it. Coming up
with Josie, he gripped her elbow and propelled her along beside him.

Scarlet, she gulped, "I was—only wondering—"

"I know just what you were wondering," he said
sotto
voce
. "And they
do
, so have done,
wretched little elf!"

She saw the laugh in his eyes and knew he was not angered, so
accompanied him cheerfully enough, but at the foot of the stairs was
evidently still fast gripped by curiosity, for she murmured, "Then they
must be awful tiny not to show under that—"

"I beg your pardon, dear?" asked Yolande.

"I said, if that great big man wears—"

"She—ah, said she didn't—er, know about tartans," Devenish
blurted.

His beloved turned an impish smile upon him. "Oh," she said
meekly.

There were many tartans at Steep Drummond that evening. Word
that the General's lovely granddaughter was visiting him had spread
lightning fast through the Scottish hills. Several dinner guests had
found their sons extraordinarily willing to accompany them, and by nine
o'clock a steady stream of chaises and sporting vehicles was bowling up
the drive, well escorted by riders. Yolande, clad in a gown of creamy
crepe, wore also the plaid of her house, held at the shoulder by a
great sapphire pin. The soft blue, green, and rust of the tartan became
her, lending her a dignity that enhanced her beauty. She was hemmed in
by ardent young gentlemen and a few just as ardent but less youthful.
Devenish was as admired by the ladies as his love was worshipped by the
gentlemen. He was impatient with what he described as "doing the
pretty" and parties bored him, but he was much too well mannered to
show it. His pleasant laugh rang out often; he managed to convince all
about him that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and when Mrs. Fraser
sat down at the pianoforte in the music room and an impromptu hop came
into being, he danced politely with Yolande's very good friend, Miss
Hannah Abercrombie, who had red hair and a high-pitched giggle; and
next with Miss Mary Gordon, a dark pretty girl who, harbouring a secret
tendre
for him, trembled so much that she
succeeded in conveying her nervousness to him, so that at the first
decent opportunity he contrived to wend his way to Yolande's side.

With equal determination, Craig stayed as far from his lovely
cousin as manners would allow. Having carefully rehearsed a means of
escape when he should ask her to dance, Yolande was denied the
opportunity to put it to use. She knew perfectly well why he did not
approach her, and told herself she should be grateful for his common
sense. But she was woman enough to be disappointed. She was not alone
in this. Craig fell short of being a handsome man, but no one could
have denied that he was attractive, and many a feminine eye turned to
the corner of the room where his tumbled fair hair could be glimpsed
above the heads of the other gentlemen. He, however, was quite unaware
of this attention, and had anyone told him of it, would have laughed
and decried it as rank flattery. Embroiled in a discussion of the
quarter horses that were gaining much popularity in Canada, he was
asked by a well set-up gentleman with a fine military moustache if he
had as yet seen Scotland's Clydesdales.

"I have," he replied, his eyes kindling. "And they are
magnificent, if I do right to judge by Molly-My-Lass."

"Och, ye do, laddie," said his new acquaintance with
enthusiasm. "Did ye hear that the noo, Drummond? 'Tis a bonnie braw
laddie ye've claimed for a guest. We'll make a good Scot oot o' him
yet, eh?"

The General smiled and rested one hand on Craig's broad
shoulder. "I don't know about that, Donald, but he's a fine soldier,
that I do know. He was at Waterloo. Served with—was it the Forty-Third,
Tyndale?"

An admiring crowd had gathered at these magical words.
Flushing, Tyndale stammered, "Thank you, but—er, that's not quite it,
sir. I was—"

"With a line regiment, perhaps?" asked young Hamish Machines,
who had his own aspirations for the fair Yolande's hand and would have
given his ears to have been at Waterloo.

Tyndale said quietly, "I was with the Union Brigade."

Maclnnes opened his eyes. The General muttered, "Were you, by
God!"

"And—your regiment, sir?" persisted Mr. Walter Donald, eagerly.

"The Scots Greys."

Shouts and cheers arose. Grinding his teeth, Maclnnes
retreated. There was no fighting that! Tyndale was the hero of the
hour. When the uproar eased a trifle, General Drummond drew the
uncomfortable cause of it towards the door. "Tyndale," he murmured.
"There's a wee favour ye can grant me—if ye'll not find it unco'
ghastly!"

Thus it was that, half an hour later, leaving the floor on
Devenish's arm after a country dance, Yolande was surprised by a sudden
quieting in the noisy room, followed by a crashing chord from the
indefatigable Mrs. Fraser.

All eyes turned to the General, who was ushering a newcomer
from the hall—a tall young Scot, with unruly fair hair, but who was
elegant in his kilts and plaid and black velvet jacket, with lace
foaming at throat and wrists. He halted and looked up, and Yolande
stared in disbelief. It was Craig, his grey eyes flashing across that
silenced room to meet her own, a tentative smile trembling at the
corner of his wide mouth. She thought numbly. "Oh, how superb he is!"
and, choked with pride, went to him. Never knowing how her eyes
glistened, nor how fine a sight they were, the two of them, she said
huskily, "My goodness, how grand you are!"

"Aye, he is that!" The General laughed, vastly pleased with
himself. "What d'ye think of our 'good Scot' now, Donald?"

"Why, I think ye're a muckle old fool, Drummond," scoffed his
friend. "Ye've wrapped the boy in the wrong plaid!"

"Lord, what a sight!" Much amused, Devenish came over to them,
his manner earning an irate scowl from the General. Taking Tyndale
aside, he added murmurously, "You've won the Fairs with your boney
knees, coz. But—I give you fair warning—look out for Mistress Josie
Storm!"

Tyndale's answering smile was strained. Looking sharply at
him, Devenish detected a hunted look in the clear eyes. He uttered a
crack of mirth. "Don't care to be the centre of attention, eh? Well—"
He checked to glance around curiously for the cause of a new commotion
that arose in the hall. Two footmen and the butler were remonstrating
with someone. Devenish glimpsed a sleek, blue-black head towering over
the throng, and grinned hugely. "Beastly luck, coz," he commiserated,
"but your glory is about to be considerably eclipsed."

He was right. The footmen were sent reeling back. The butler
chose discretion as the better part of valour and effaced himself.
Through a sudden awed hush, Montelongo strode across the floor, tall,
bronzed, pantherishly graceful, totally out of place, yet ineffably
proud as he made towards his employer.

One swift glance told him that the Major had suffered a few
hard knocks since last they met. He stopped before him. In an oddly
measured way, his dark head bowed very slightly. He said in that deep
rumble of a voice, "You very fine?"

Recovering his own voice, General Drummond stalked over to
demand, "What the deuce is all this? Who is that—fella to come bursting
in here, flinging my servants about?"

Behind him, the ladies were whispering excitedly behind their
fans. The gentlemen, only slightly less intrigued, had missed no part
of the Iroquois's leathern garments, the long knife that hung,
sheathed, at his lean waist, or the beaded moccasins.

Tyndale smiled into his man's keen eyes. "Perfectly fine,
thank you," he answered, before turning to his irate host. "My
apologies, sir. Montelongo is of the Iroquois Nation. He is a chief's
son, but has been so good as to look after me for some years. I ask
your pardon for this intrusion, but I've no doubt he was concerned when
we did not rendezvous as I'd instructed. May I present him to you?"

Sir Andrew's brows bristled alarmingly, and his outraged eyes
shot sparks. Tyndale met those eyes and said in cool challenge, "Monty,
this gentleman is General Sir Andrew Drummond. Sir—Montelongo."

Some small titters arose behind him. The General's jaw set.

He gave a frigid nod. Untroubled by protocol, Montelongo put
out a broad, bronzed hand. To one side, Devenish grinned his delight,
while beside him Yolande wondered if Craig had lost his mind. Slanting
a molten glare at Tyndale, Sir Andrew encountered steady eyes of steel.
A reluctant grin took possession of his strong features. He took the
Indian's hand and wrung it, but could barely refrain from gasping at
the answering pressure that was, he suspected, carefully restrained.

Montelongo's lips parted in the brief, white flash that served
for a smile. "Proud to meet great warrior," he rumbled. And again, his
head nodded in that quaint suggestion of a bow.

"Jove!" chuckled the General. The look in Tyndale's eyes had
softened to a mute "thank you."

"Rogue!" said Sir Andrew. "Off with you. I'm sure the butler
will know where to put him." And turning to his entranced guests, he
remarked, "What a night this has been, eh?"

Making his way through the curious and admiring throng,
Montelongo stalking behind him, Tyndale led the way out. Once they were
in the hall, he said urgently, "Monty, I'll tell you what happened,
later. I cannot guess how you found us, but—have you brought the
horses?"

The Iroquois emitted a grunt, the timbre of which indicated an
affirmative reply. "When you no come, me go back to St. Albans. Desk
man say you leave. Me trail. Find horses with thieves. So take Lazzy."

"Good God!" Tyndale checked his stride. "They must have been
Montclair's people! But—no. That couldn't be, they've not had
sufficient time to get down there as yet." He frowned thoughtfully. "I
wonder who the devil they were."

"Bad men."

Tyndale scrutinized the impassive features. "For Lord's sake!
You never killed them?"

"Bad men," Montelongo repeated. A twinkle lit his dark eyes.
"But very good runners. Me and Lazzy find this place. Have mare of
beautiful man, too."