Her husband had the right of it, though. It had been her father who proposed an alliance with the McKendricks, and it still stood despite the swapping of names of the bride. Since very early in life, she realised daughters assumed the roles not of leaders, but of cards to be played in clan politics. Never did she have any objection about that until Papa determined she must marry Tremaine. The daunting task got her questioning the alliance-making role she had in her family. Little room did she find for contestation, though, with her father constantly travelling between London and the Highlands.
The McTavish was the least who could claim a usual lifestyle. Angus and Marie did not build an exactly conventional marriage. Her mother had obtained his permission to educate the girls in England when they became old enough for such. This implied a marriage where he spent part of the year in Scotland and part with his family in town. Not that her parents did n
ot love each other; they did, in their own way. Theirs had no doubt been an arranged match, where her mother’s family took a stand in a clan of vast lands, and his a foot in English nobility. But it grew clear that Marie McTavish did not relish her husband’s birthplace that much as she had not tried to come back here in years. The result was Catriona’s unfulfilling life in a city she did not care for, distance from the land she cherished and from her father. He had determined which husband she would take without her having the possibility of discussing it at length with him as they did not live in the same house all year round.
Her eyes lifted to the overcast sky, her cheeks registering the damp air forecasting rain for later.
Catriona had tried to accommodate her duties, but after meeting Fingal, it seemed much more difficult to do so. Particularly when she returned from the Highlands a few weeks ago. What would have happened if she met him after he married Anna? The speed at which her heart careened at the thought gave a good measure of it. If her reaction at seeing him for the first time was anything to go by, the inner struggle not to overstep the boundaries would have been herculean. Had the match gone forward, she would have needed to marry Tremaine post-haste and stay away from her brother-in-law, forever. She did not believe these messy reactions would have gone away at all. Even if she did not fathom his feelings for her or hers for him, the present situation proved to be much less anguishing than the alternative.
And the alternative was unthinkable.
Catriona stepped into the McKendrick manor on Fingal’s arm as Baxter, the butler, led them into the drawing room where their meeting would take place. Inside, the first person she saw was a hulking man with black hair and green eyes, holding a toddler of about two. He wore the McDougal black, white, and red tartan, so she assumed he was the Laird McDougal. By his side, stood a woman who bore resemblance with the McKendricks and must be his wife Aileen. With a stunning beauty, she dressed in an underdress and a spencer in her husband’s plaid.
“I remember you,” the latter said. “We met at several festivals,” she completed.
Catriona could not decide if not meeting with Aileen when she arrived earlier this summer should be counted as lucky or not. Lady McDougal would have given her away in a trice. The disclosure would have been unlucky, she mused, for it would have rendered it impossible to work with Fiadhaich.
Although Lady McDougal must be at least three years her senior, Catriona also held memories of her. “My Lady McDougal.” Approaching, she curtsied. Her own attire displayed the same pattern she wore at her wedding, with an underdress and Fingal’s plaid draped around her waist and up to her shoulders. The other women looked at her with approval.
Aileen smiled. “You must be Catriona,” she ventured. “We are family now,” she continued. “It’s Aileen. I don’t think it practical to keep all these titles.”
“I remember you, too, Aileen,” she agreed.
“Come meet my son, Rory.” Aileen took him from her husband, and the boy hugged his mother, already sleepy. The mother had no choice but to send for the nanny to take him for a nap.
“He’s so sweet,” Catriona commented.
“We need no reinforcements,” taunted Fingal to his brother-in-law.
“You got yourself in a bit of a tangle, I hear,” the chief said by way of greeting.
“Nothing that the McKendricks cannot easily kick out of the way,” her husband boasted.
Farther in the room, Catriona saw Wallace and Lachlan talking to Freya. Drostan stood by the fireplace. Her father seemed to be late.
All the McKendrick men dressed formally in crisp shirts and their tartan. Freya wore an underdress, an outer black bodice, and an ample skirt in her husband’s plaid. The composition flattered the lady.
Footmen served the guests with whisky or tea.
“We’re taking no chances,” the McKendrick warned.
“My father isn’t the monster you’re painting,” she defended.
“Surely not!” Freya neared with the diplomatic quip. “But he was fairly displeased the last Drostan saw him.”
“This is no reinforcement at all,” Aileen countered her brother. “We planned to visit before summer’s end.”
“But Drostan suggested they take part, anyway,” Lachlan added. “Just in case.”
“Well, Mrs McKendrick,” Wallace intervened sarcastically, “you certainly caused a spin in the plans.”
“I assure you it wasn’t my intention,” Catriona devolved.
“Hell is full of the proverbial good intentions,” he mocked lightly. The patriarch did not seem too worried with this new development.
Catriona had no time to answer because the butler announced her father.
The man who emerged through the threshold made Catriona’s heart constrict. In the McTavish black and white plaid, he seemed to have aged several years since she last saw him in late spring. He had never been very tall, but the man before her with his fallen shoulders gave the impression to have shrunk. The tired look in his dark eyes, which she had inherited, denounced a man taking too much on those shoulders. His expression, though, evinced distaste for the episode they were here to discuss.