The Chevalier by Jacqueline Seewald Page A

aristocratic life was that it was impoverished in comparison to England or France. But the old man was so chivalrous that it more than made up for the gloom of his meager home.
    They ate with the laird that evening, a plain meal of grouse and salmon, served in one course with Scottish ale. The talk was all of Prince Charles and the Jacobites.
    “They might have a chance this time around,” the old man said, excitement showing in the glimmer of his eye. “My daughter thinks I’m an old fool in that regard. She prefers her dead mother’s English relatives to her family in Scotland and takes the English side in political matters. She went and married herself a titled Englishman much against my wishes. But she’s a strong-willed lass and I would not fight her. She’d ne’er have forgiven me. What will your lassie do? Will she marry a Scot?”
    Maman smiled with an inner radiance. “A Highlander if I have any say in the matter. She’ll marry her cousin, the MacCarnan.”
    “The MacCarnan, is it?” the old man smiled roguishly. “Perhaps then you will be able to get him to stop coming down to filch my cattle each year.”
    “The clansmen steal your cattle?” Madeline asked, truly appalled.
    The laird nodded at her. “‘Tis the way of the Highlanders, lass. They’re a wild lot. We lowlanders have suffered their incursions for centuries. ‘Tis nothing new, I do assure ye.”
    He and her mother seemed to just accept the fact that the Highlanders were cattle thieves, but she found the information quite disturbing. What other disagreeable things did she not know about the nature of the clansmen?
    As if he were reading her mind, the laird continued to speak. “They’re a damn sight better than the English anyway. Our neighbors to the south are purse-proud and overbearing, you may be quite sure. Why there’s hardly a place in the kingdom but its inhabitants could tell how the English had burnt it, and we’re still unavenged.”
    “Perhaps that will change when Prince Charles rules.”
    “Aye, let’s drink to the Stuarts!”
    They lifted their glasses and drank.
    “Will you be seeing Constance before I do?” the old laird asked them, blinking through watery eyes.
    “I think not, sir. We are going on to the Highlands. I believe your daughter intends to visit you in the spring. But she will, in any case, be sending word to you,” Maman responded.
    The old man looked pleased. “Perhaps by then there will be word of a bairn,” he said. “It’s high time.”
    At the Baronet’s insistence, they remained several days before resuming their journey. These were days that her mother desperately needed to rest and Madeline was glad for them as well. She did not sleep well at night. Her nights were tortured by dreams from which she would awaken with remembrance all too vivid. Usually, she was held in Gareth Eriksen’s powerful arms and he was kissing her, his hands moving sensuously along her body. She would wake up yearning, wanting, she knew not what. But always, the dreams were so real. Sometimes her nigh-trail was soaked with perspiration.
    If only she could put the man completely out of her mind. He was interested in adulterous affairs with married women. Even if she were a married woman, she would never consider such a relationship. When she married, it must be with a man she loved and respected completely, the way Maman had regarded Papa. And this man must love her just as totally in return. Gareth Eriksen could never be that man. What did he know of love or commitment or honor? She must stop desiring him so; it was sinful. If only she could make herself dream of Andrew MacCarnan instead. He was truly a magnificent man, like a knight of chivalry. Whenever thoughts of Gareth Eriksen entered her mind, she must force them away and think of her cousin instead.
    The trip north-west continued slowly through rough terrain. Maman was very brave, but Madeline was all too aware of her suffering. She determined that she