Beloyn Castle, the Scottish Lowlands
He was nurtured on the legend. Before he could walk, he knew the story by heart. His first words had been Black Douglas.
But that was a long time ago. He was older now, and wiser.
Robert Douglas did not believe in miracles. His hopes had been dashed too many times for that. He was tired of waiting for an old story, a legend to prove itself. This was not Camelot. He was no Merlin. He could not perform magic. God knows, if he could, he would have done so long before now. To his mind, in the dark, unfathomed past, the ghost of an ancestor who promised much and delivered naught offered no salvation and little hope—save to leave him brooding in sullen contemplation far into the night.
His had not been an easy lot. Born into strife, life had only gotten worse. He was restless now, filled with anger and bitter words, unable to sleep on his bed of sorrows, and he cursed the cause of it: England, a ravenous beast driven to dominate and destroy. England, who would not rest until the last living Scot was dead.
He damned the English for their reprehensible arrogance and secret deeds, for centuries of criminal behavior and for being at the root of all of Scotland’s woes. He damned his father for dying too soon, for shifting the burden of tyranny to the shoulders of a son too young to understand or to assume the title of Earl of Douglas. Most of all, he damned the ghost of Black Douglas for giving his descendants hope for three hundred years, then abandoning them to an old enemy who would stop at nothing short of their complete elimination.
Driven to inhuman lengths, Robert was bowed by the weight of centuries, a man who faced the impossible task of making a choice between staying true to his beliefs, and the equal folly of becoming free of them. His heart swelled with sadness, regret and far too much cynicism for a man his age. He needed something to believe in, something to warm hopes grown cold, something to help him face a future so bleak that it closed around his throat, tight as gallows.
He wanted more belief than doubt, more hope than despair, more faith than distrust, more room in his heart for love than revenge. He needed a purpose, a reason to go on. Yet, there were times when he wondered if he was too far gone to believe in anything again.
Alone in the library, he waited for the day to end, for a time when darkness would envelop him. He was becoming a creature of the night, a man who found solace in the quiet, late hours, when everyone else was asleep.
During the day, his mind was occupied with the trials and tribulations of the present. It was only at night, when words faded and thoughts came alive, that he could put the misery of the day behind him. Only then, could he collect the fragments of his person and sit in still contemplation, as silent as a tree. Night pressed against him like a woman’s breasts, soft and heavy with perfume, the hours marked by an unquiet soul always searching to find himself again.
When morning came, he would lift his head from beneath the thick tresses of darkness, to greet an old taste for vengeance that still lingered, warm and stirring, aromatic as wine. He did not know why the longing was always with him, why the thirst for revenge grew stronger now, or why it had been tormenting him so much of late. He only knew it gripped him and would not let go.
A noise in the hallway ended his silent contemplation, and he soon recognized the rustle of silk. His grandmother approached. Even before she entered the room, he had a vision of a chocolate silk gown. He saw each detail, from ruffles edged with Mechlin lace and gray hair combed back and rolled, to the cap of spotless cambric that closed around a beloved countenance. The cap was not the fashion of 1785, but a style peculiar to Gram.
In the thirty years since his birth, little had changed about her. She still sat before her wheel, other times knitting a stocking by the fire in winter or by the window during the warmer months. On occasion, she would venture as far as the garden, if it was late in summer and the evening was particularly fine. Her body, like some perfectly assembled piece of applied mathematics, still enabled her to accomplish her chores as she had always done. He found that both painful and pleasing. Painful to see the briskness and agility he remembered gradually diminish. Pleasing to see no indication that it would soon cease.
Of late, she wanted to speak of little save the days of Douglas glory, long past. He saw no purpose in this, for it had little relation to either the present or future. Not that it mattered. Gram had never been an easy sort to deter from a course of action, by either persuasion or exhortation. He had a feeling tonight would be no different.
“Ha!” she said upon entering the room and catching sight of him. “I thought I would find you in here, lurking in the gloom. Why don’t you light the lamp?”
Her presence always warmed him, but tonight nothing could fill his voice with cheer. “All men should be entitled to an eclipse, now and then.”
“If it doesn’t become endless night. Daybreak and resurrection are kin, you know. The arrival of light each morning assures survival.”
“Morning will come whether I light the lamp or not. As for tonight, I prefer it this way.”
She lit the lamp on the desk and turned it low. “Weel, it’s time to humor an old lady. I cannot talk to you if I can’t see your face, now can I?”
She wanted to talk. He did not. He did not want to discuss the past. He did not want her to know the old torment was back. “You are always a welcome sight, Gram, although I fear I won’t be very good company tonight.”
“Aye, I suspected such. You have been distracted of late. What torments you?”
“It is nothing I want to worry you about.” He was reminded that she had had more than her share of suffering and recalled those dark and terrifying days after his parents were robbed and murdered in London. Two years before their deaths, her husband was killed by a bolt of lightning. Robert’s sister, Sorcha, had been the next to die, and then came his uncle Iain’s wife, who died giving birth to twins.
So many losses. So much sorrow.
Yet, Gram remained steadfast. “Whatever it is, put it behind you. No good comes from pulling up old, painful memories.”
“Now, that’s a peculiar comment coming from someone who does a great deal of just that. I could as easily ask you to talk about that which is to come, or the here and now.”
“Why would I want to talk about the future when mine is shrinking? We have so few pleasant things in our lives; I prefer not to think upon the present at all. Why should I, when we must concern ourselves with nothing but fallen fortunes and the declining importance of our family?”
She took a seat across from him and settled the chocolate silk about her. “The present and the future belong to you. The past suits me, I think. At my age, it is ever so much nicer to relive the glorious hours when we were abounding with wealth and prosperity, or to reflect upon times when our name was the mightiest in all of Scotland.”
Cynicism gripped him. “I cannot relive something I have never known. The present is nothing but strife and woe, but that is, at least, familiar. Unlike you, I have no past abounding with wealth and prosperity to recall, or any hopes of such for the future. And that includes any thoughts of deliverance from an antiquated ghost.”
“Hout! For the life of me, I cannot fathom where you have so recently come upon such derision. Of late, everything you say is delivered with mockery or sarcasm. You have no right to ridicule those of us who hold to the belief. The miserable have no balm but hope.”
“My hope is that you will someday find someone else to quote besides that English bard.”
She fluffed her skirts about her. “I did my best to disguise it.”
“Next time, you should try harder, although a disguise cannot mask the words of that cursed Englishman.”
“Shakespeare transcends England and the English. He belongs to everyone. Besides, he was right. You cannot take away a person’s hope. It is all they have. A man without hope is nothing more than a beast.”
“Ah, hope. Where would we be without it?” Suddenly his tone turned bitter. “Hope is for fools, for entertaining illusions. It is for the spiritually pompous. If hope is all you have, you are already lost.”
“When you were a wee babe, I rocked you to sleep to the lullaby of Black Douglas. You were weaned on stories of his deeds. I never thought I would see the day you would turn against your upbringing and everything you were taught. It is a good thing your father is dead. To see you like this would break his heart. You are becoming a cold man, Robbie, and full of hate, although I know it is not your true nature to be so.”
“I hate only the English, and you of all people know why.” He came to his feet and turned away, not wanting her to see his pain.
She followed his lead and rose to her feet, as well. “You are bitter, and your hatred runs deeper than bone. You will never be happy until you learn to put it behind you.”
“I have tried, but I cannot.”
“I pray each night that it is only frustration and disappointment that shakes your faith. If all hope is truly lost, then I pity you, Robbie Douglas. I pity us all.”
Frustration and disappointment? Aye, he had plenty of that. He was not yet thirty, and born into strife. The Battle of Culloden was history when he entered this world. Not that it mattered. As head of the family, he suffered the consequences as surely as if he had been there that fateful day.
He felt Gram’s hand upon his shoulder. “All is not lost,” she said, then kissed his cheek and walked quietly from the room.
He thought about what she said. Was all lost? Truly, he did not know. It had been so long since he felt anything that resembled faith, trust or conviction that he no longer knew what it felt like. If any hope remained, it was nothing more than a dying ember in a fire grown cold. It was not enough to restore trust in the ghost of Black Douglas, or the steadfast belief that he would return and be their salvation.
He leaned back wearily in his chair to stretch his long legs and gazed out the window. The sun was going down. Already the darkness that would soon settle over the ancient walls of Beloyn Castle was closing in. He made no effort to turn up the lamp. The light of a thousand lamps would not brighten his mood. Despair clung to him as tightly as his breeches. The castle was falling down around them. He barely had enough money to support them, or to pay the servants—even after he’d cut the staff to a fraction of what it had been, or what a castle this size required. He needed money, and soon. Money, or lose the only home the Douglases had known for centuries.
Born into the crushing grip of his own destiny, he was doomed to fail before he could start. Stamina, principles, moral convictions, even his resolve were of no consequence. He felt as if he were rolling, out of control, down a steep embankment. The only way he could go was down. With a ragged curse, he slammed his fist against the paneled wall.
If only he had Gram’s optimism—and her belief that a long-dead ancestor would save them.
Was she right? Was he here, lurking in the shadows of the crumbling castle, silently waiting, patiently watching for the right moment to appear? Or had the ghost of Black Douglas truly abandoned them, after all?
Robert was running out of time. Already that English swine, the Earl of Drummond, had in his possession a note that would initiate the Douglas downfall. Drummond, long referred to as the greediest man in all of England, was on the verge of enlarging that claim to include Scotland. Robert cursed his name to perdition, unable to understand how such a man managed to wrest the Douglases’ note from the bank in Edinburgh. Not only that of Beloyn Castle, but those of half a dozen farms and castles belonging to other Lowlanders, as well. If things continued along this vein, the deeds to half of the Border Country would be in Drummond’s parsimonious hands by Christmas.
On the opposite wall, the faint glow of a lamp warmed the brooding portraits of his ancestors. He watched the light grow stronger, waiting to see who approached. With somber resignation and moody impatience, he watched his deerhounds, Corrie and Dram, amble into the room, circle and lie down at his feet. He gave them a pat and wondered how long he could afford to feed even them.
The dogs gave a whimper of recognition when his uncle, Iain Douglas, walked into the room. Of medium stature, he had iron-gray hair and lead-colored eyes that belied his amiable disposition. He was Robert’s closest confidant, and his father’s only living sibling. It was Iain who kept him from giving up, kept him from deep despair.
“God’s bones! It’s darker than a stack of black cats in here. Why are you sitting in the dark? You should light more lamps to chase away the gloom.”
“Cheerful wretch! Penniless, yet happy, he speaks with music in his voice. I prefer the gloom.”
“Och, lad. You have the look of a sacrificed sheep upon your face.”
“Sacrificed…an exemplary way to describe the way I’m feeling right now. Any more rain and the crops will rot in the fields. A few more expenses and we are out of money. We have debt up to our eyebrows and servants to pay. Beloyn has fallen into utter ruin.”
“You mean we don’t have the coin to sustain us much longer?”
“Aye, if we are frugal, we’ve only enough to last until the end of the month. Everything I try seems cursed from the start.” With closed eyes, he tilted back his head and kneaded the tightness in his shoulders. “I’m tired, Iain. My bones are weary. My heart is heavy. I feel like an old man.”
“I wish I had the means, but like most Scots, I haven’t two coins to rub together. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I often wondered what drove a man to ruin, what pushed him to seek consolation in whisky or opium. Did he seek the comfort to escape, or to simply live in a state of ecstasy? Perhaps both. In either case, it serves to free him from despair.”
“You know what they say…the shortest way out of Edinburgh is a bottle of whisky. You could try turning to your faith for strength.”
Robert leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk, then folded his hands behind his head. “Aye, I could. A good dose of John Knox is better than any opiate. What else would keep the beasts of burden so patient, while a few more weights are added to their load?”
Iain took a seat in the hard wooden chair across from him. “I know it isn’t easy to be the head of such a family when you are so young.”
“Careful, you are starting to sound like Gram.”
He smiled. “Where do you think I got it?”
Robert pulled his feet from the desk and pressed his fingers against his eyes, as if he could rub away all his weariness. He heard Iain chuckle and could not resist asking, “What amuses you?”
“’Tis the odd look on your face. If I were a king, I would be worried about treason.”
Robert gave him a half grin. “You are damnably close. I was thinking about the Chinese proverb that says, ‘Of all the thirty-six alternatives, running away is best.’” His expression softened and he spoke with a tone of uplifting assurance. “Not to worry, Uncle. I doubt anything will change. I have neither the heart to stay, nor the wit to run away.”
He gave the globe standing nearby a spin. “My father saw to that with his persistent indoctrination, wanting me to be prepared for the burden of inheriting his title. It is all rather ironic, is it not? In the end, he has beaten me with noble blood. A lifetime of wants and desires drowned out by an aristocratic code, and the memory of my father’s lectures on noble behavior.” He shook his head sadly. “My defiance is brought to its knees by the discipline of optimism, hope and blind acceptance. All that I have turned my back on, everything I wanted to run away from, everything I denied, despised or ridiculed, has served to defeat me in the end. Being the Earl of Douglas is too firmly rooted within me.” He looked at Iain. “‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.’”
Iain laughed. “Snared by proverbs, are you? Weel, if it makes you feel any better, your father and I had that one shoved down our throats along with our oatmeal from the time we were born. It does not surprise me that my brother fed you liberal doses of it, as well. You are not the first to question the role inheritance plays in the way we live. Most men struggle all their lives against the limits they are born to. The poor seek the wealth of the rich. The rich seek the freedom of the poor. The important thing is, do they learn something of the value of those limits?”
Robert shrugged. “I am learning to starve like a gentleman. It is part of the poetic training, I believe.”
“There are always stultifying effects from being educated. What is it that you really want?”
“To be free as a fish.”
Iain stepped toward him and clapped him on the back. “Weel now, don’t look so dejected, lad. It could always be worse.”
Worse? Robert looked around him and wondered how that could be. He saw the worn and threadbare appearance of a room that little resembled the finely furnished library he had seen in paintings of the castle—paintings dating back to the times before tragedy brought the Douglases to their knees. “I am backed into the corner, Iain. We need money and I have no idea where to get it.”
“If you are meant to find it, you will. Faith and trust are all you have left, like it or not.”
“Troth! That sounds remarkably like the way my life has been heretofore.”
Iain chuckled. “Careful, or we’ll end up back at proverbs again.”
This time, Robert’s full smile was followed by a soft chuckle.
“Now that you’ve stopped looking like the bleakest rock on the loneliest heath, I have something for you.” Iain reached inside his doublet and pulled out a bit of parchment, which he handed to Robert. “This just came, delivered by the king’s messenger.”
Robert looked down at the parchment bearing the king’s seal and felt the gnawing of dread.
“Go ahead and open it. Whatever it says, standing there staring at it won’t change it.”
“No, but it might delay the agony.”
“Agony? Are you gifted with the sight? You know the contents before you open it? Perhaps it contains good news.”
“Nothing from England is good, including news. If it comes from the king, it can only mean more suffering.” He broke open the seal and began to read.
“Then take the suffering and learn from it.”
Absorbed in the king’s missive, Robert grunted, but said nothing until he finished. “Apparently the Douglases haven’t paid enough, in spite of all we have endured or that we bleed from a dozen wounds.”
“Then use the wounds to your advantage. Little by little they will make you receptive to wisdom, in spite of yourself.”
“By all that’s holy, you sound so much like my father—and knowing who educated the two of you, I think it is my grandfather I should be angry with.”
“It would serve you better than being at odds with your king.”
Robert snorted. “He is not my king, nor will he ever be.”
“Tell me of the letter.”
Robert thrust it toward him and turned toward the window. He clenched his jaw and thought over the king’s decree.
“So he orders you to marry,” Iain said after he had read the letter.
“Aye, marry an English witch, when I would sooner sup with the devil.”
“It could have been worse.”
“Every time you say that, things get worse, not that I see how that could happen.”
“He could have picked the woman for you to marry. At least he has left that up to you.”
“Surely you see through that bit of fake generosity. Three weeks to find a suitable wife among the daughters of the English aristocracy? Ha!”
“I admit three weeks isn’t a very long time, but…”
“An impossible task and the king knows it. Why do you think he added that he would choose a wife for me, if I fail? We both know he won’t go searching for the fairest flower in all of England, considering I am nothing but a lowly Scot who has been anything but a loyal subject.”
“Yet, why go to such pains, when he could have ordered you to marry the woman he chose from the beginning?”
“Because this way, he will avoid any criticism. I may be a worrisome Scot, but I am still a peer of the realm, and as such, it would behoove him to at least appear to give me an opportunity to find my own wife.”
“Like King Eurystheus and the twelve labors he set before Hercules…”
“He gives me an impossible task to perform.”
Iain’s laugh was gently teasing. “Hercules managed.”
“I am not Hercules. I cannot fulfill this task in the allotted time, therefore I see no reason to waste my time with it.”
“You mean to give up without a struggle?”
“It is what my head tells me to do, but my accursed Scots heart will not allow it. I have entered a fool’s race, knowing I will be racing Atalanta.”
“Then I pray you will be as fortunate as the suitor who tricked her and won the race.”
“Not so much fortune as trickery. He knew she would stop to retrieve the apples he dropped. Unfortunately, I don’t have three golden apples.”
“I am confident you can work around that. First, you must ferret out a lass that you find suitable.”
“If she is English, she is unsuitable. You, of all people, should know I would never find an English woman to my liking.”
“Well, let’s suppose for a moment that you did, then all you would need is something she desired enough to marry you for it.”
“And what would that be? My wealth?”
“There are other things besides wealth that would appeal to a woman.”
“Don’t start preaching to me. It’s as impossible as raising the dead, and you know it. The king has handed us a Gordian knot and no one can untie it. No one!”
“They said the same thing to Alexander the Great.”
“Where do you get it, Uncle, that I am on equal footing with Hercules and Alexander the Great?”
Iain laughed. “Where do you get it that you are not? Cheer up, lad, you are disillusioned, but that will change. You were born to believe. It is in your bones as well as your blood.”
Robert thought of his sister, Sorcha, and how he had believed in only one thing since her death. “Hating the English has replaced all of that.”
“Have caution, Robbie. You cannot hate and be wise. Deal with the problem at hand. The king has ordered you to marry. Don’t go complicating things by digging up ghosts from the past to stumble over.”
“If it were only so easy.”
“Sorcha’s death hurt us all, but you it changed. I know you have always blamed yourself for her death, at least partly. I told you then, and I tell you now—there was nothing you could have done. You were a mere lad of sixteen and no match for the four men who held you.”
“Held me and made me watch what they did to her.”
He nodded and put his hand on his arm. “I know, lad, I know. It has long grieved me to know they made you watch. I know what that did to you.”
Robert felt a stabbing pain to his heart as the guilt he carried for so many years gripped him. “I am at war with myself. Contrary to what you might think, I am capable of remorse. There are times I feel ashamed at what I feel in my heart. I take pride in the deeds done for those I care for. I feel with each sheep I shear, with each cattle I slaughter, that I am contributing something to Scotland, to the world. Yet, there are times when things happen that take us beyond what we once were. You cannot always offer the other cheek or turn and walk away.”
“Your sister deserves a better memorial than that.”
Aye, Robert thought, Sorcha did deserve more than being raped by an Englishman on English soil. He cursed the day his sister went to visit a friend’s aunt who lived just over the English border. He cursed the day he went to bring her home, too young and foolish to take an escort. But, most of all, he cursed the day he let his grandmother and uncle persuade him to remain silent, when he wanted to bring charges against the bastard who caused her death.
“She was my sister, my twin, a part of me and dearer than life. I would have gladly died in her place. Tell me how does a man get over being forced to watch the rape of his sister? What will rid his mind of the memory of carrying her lifeless body from the loch after she drowned herself? How can he stop hating a man with such a capacity for dehumanizing another—one of his own kind? Dear God, she was the daughter of an earl and not fair game for anyone…not even an English lord.”
“I know, lad, I know, but you cannot do justice to the dead. Sorcha is beyond all of that now, and at more peace than either of us. I know if she were here right now, she would tell you the same thing.”
Bitterness filled him. “But she is not here and I will hate in my own way.”
“Aye, and the king will intervene in his. Checkmate. No escape. No defense. The battle is over. You have lost.”
“The battle has yet to be fought.”
“You’re wrong. It was over the moment the king entered into it. What better way to rid himself of an annoying dissenter and suppress all contradiction? Kings will be tyrants when subjects are rebels.”
“I am a minor pestilence—insignificant as an ant bite, and nothing the mighty English king should be concerned with.”
“He, obviously, does not see it that way. A rivulet, however small, is capable of becoming a river. You have crossed the king and his authority at every turn. I warned you before that it was only a matter of time until he found a way to bend you to submission.”
“If he thinks taking an English wife will make me forget, or kiss his bloody boots…”
“It is my guess that the king, by forcing you to marry, is showing you he is in control. If you continue to challenge him, the next punishment will be worse.”
“There is nothing worse than forcing me to wed an English whelp.”
“Have a care, lad. You must avoid challenges that could further embroil us with the English. Look at it as a way to gain peace and equity between us. You must try to be fair.”
“I am fair. I don’t speak well of any Englishman.”
Iain smiled. “Ah, Robbie, ’tis a pity sure enough that you were not fighting at Culloden. With such a stubborn lad about, the outcome might have been different. Try,” he said. “The king expects…no, demands obedience.”
“I would be a fool to obey a king who fights not with a sword, but by shuffling papers. He amuses himself by playing a game of human chess.”
“Use this as an opportunity. Look at it as a fortuitous circumstance that shaped your destiny.”
Robert thought about what Iain said as he lowered himself into a worn leather chair. He had to find a way to obey the king and have his revenge, too. “Worry not, Uncle. I shall do what is best for all of us,” he said, his words drifting away as his mind began to flirt with the germ of an idea.
Iain studied him with a gaze that was eagle sharp with scrutiny. “You are up to something.”
Robert gave him an innocent look. “Why, Uncle, I don’t know what you mean.”
“The devil you don’t! Whenever you get that gleam in your eye, it bodes ill for the rest of us. You cannot disregard an order from the king. It is treason even to think it.”
“You are in Glasgow and I am in Edinburgh. I was not thinking about disobeying at all. To the contrary, I have just come upon a most suitable reason for complying.”
“You know I would not expect you to adhere to the doctrine of full obedience and total submission without reason. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you find a lassie in Scotland to marry, someone you had feeling for.”
“Aye, a Scottish lass without a boddle in her purse. When it comes to marriage, I must put responsibility first. Even if the king had not intervened, I could not marry a lass I fancied, unless she possessed a large dowry. Fate decrees I marry for money. The king stipulates an English wench for subjugation.” He came to his feet and began to pace the room.
Iain spoke with loud conviction. “It would be a good time for the old earl’s ghost to return.”
“In spite of the volume, I doubt he heard you. In any case, I will not hang my hopes on that moldering legend. If my namesake did not wish us to be delivered into the hands of the English, he would have shown himself ere now.”
Iain’s entire countenance brightened. “Unless…unless that is exactly what he wants to happen. Not even God always gives what we ask for. Sometimes we are given what we need.”
Robert stared at him in amazement. “I need an English wife? Are you daft?”
Iain smiled. “Perhaps, if her dowry was large enough.”
“I have no need of English money.”
“All right, be stubborn, then. Do nothing and let the king solve the problem for you. Why waste your time going to England on such a fool’s errand? Why bother with trying to find a wife in three weeks? Call the king’s bluff and see if he follows through.”
“Call his bluff? Not with my life at stake!”
Iain did his best to hide a smile. “Out of optimism as well as gunpowder! Then obey the king and take the easy way out.”
“You forget that I am a good Presbie. If it is predestined that the dowry of an English lass will save our family, it will happen. As for me, I will do everything I can to rub salt in the king’s wounds. Have no fear, Uncle. I will find my own English wife, and I’ll do it in less than three weeks.”
Iain groaned. “Shot with my own gun! I hoped to rally you to the cause, not send you off half-cocked. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll have it figured out by the time I get there. Don’t worry. I can always find a lass even if I have to kidnap one.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. A young, dark-haired lad entered and handed Robert an envelope. “This just came for you.”
“Another letter from Drummond. More bad news,” Robert said as he removed the letter and read as far as Drummond’s signature. “Three must be a magic number for the English. The king gives me three weeks to marry; Drummond, three months to redeem the note.”
“You won’t need three months. You’ll be married before then.”
You’ll be married before then…
Sudden understanding hit Robert so swiftly he felt a gripping pain in his chest. Married in three weeks and he had yet to meet the unfortunate wench.
“I expect Drummond will mellow when he hears you’ve taken the daughter of an English lord to wife. When will you leave?”
“On the morrow. I’ll take Hugh with me.”
“Aye, your brother would be good company.”
Robert scowled. “Are we speaking of the same Hugh?”
Iain laughed heartily. “Aye, Hugh, the instigator of mischief, the teller of jokes, the man with no worries, who thinks all the lassies were put on this earth for his sole pleasure.” He paused to see how Robert was taking all of this, then said, “Cheer up, lad. Things are going to get better.”
“When you are on the bottom, the only way is up.”
Iain clapped him on the back. “’Tis a sad one ye are, Robbie Douglas. Thou art wedded to calamity.”
“Aye, but not for a few more days,” Robert said so morosely that Iain laughed.