The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,14
Glenmoriston, I would have insisted we take him home.”
Janet gave her shoulder a pat. “Perhaps we can convince Robert to buy you a dog when we return.”
“I’d like that.”
“In the meantime, you are performing tonight. You had best go inside and prepare.”
“Now?” Betty balked. “What about the game?”
“She must be a vision of beauty as well,” Janet insisted.
Emma nudged her sister-in-law. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you are as bonny as your music, and I want all of Achnacarry to see it.”
* * *
After the evening meal, servants began moving the furniture to make way for Emma’s harp performance.
“Come, sit beside me, Dunollie,” said Lochiel, beckoning him to the front row of chairs arranged in front of the dais. “We’ve a great many things to discuss.”
Ciar took a seat right in the center. “It seems the kingdom has been in a state of unrest for the past year.”
“’Tis more like the duration of Anne’s reign, if you ask me.”
Chuckling, Ciar watched as footmen turned the dais into a stage with a lone chair and both full-size and Celtic harps.
The old laird pulled out his snuff box. “There will be a meeting of the Highland chiefs in my solar tomorrow morn.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Ciar replied. “Any news of the queen’s health?”
“Only that her illness hasn’t improved. ’Tis just a matter of time now.”
“Who kens.” Shrugging, Ciar continued, “She fell ill one year past, and they all thought she was headed for heaven’s gates then.”
Lochiel sneezed into a lace handkerchief. “True. Though even one’s good fortune eventually runs its course.”
Ciar tuned out the laird’s comment as his attention was drawn away by the hush of the crowd.
From the side door, Emma entered on the arm of her lady’s maid.
“Bonny lass,” whispered Lochiel.
Before they reached the chair, Emma stumbled over a fork the footmen had missed when they cleared the stage. The poor lass blushed scarlet, but she quickly regained her composure, grasped the back of the chair, and sat.
“Thank you, Betty,” she said quietly before she turned her attention to the harps.
Emma seemed unaffected by the crowd while the maid situated the smaller Celtic harp on a footstool. No one made a sound while Emma moved her hands over the strings.
“‘The Selkie,’” she announced right before her fingers began to strike the strings in the happiest rhythm Ciar had ever heard. Both hands plucked multiple strings at once, making the instrument sound as if an entire orchestra were playing.
Even Lochiel tapped his foot.
Though Emma didn’t announce the second tune, every Scotsman west of the divide knew it to be “Blind Mary,” one of the Highland’s most popular folk songs, though a melancholy one.
Ciar had never heard the song performed with such passion before. Her performance was personal and visceral, conveying more feeling than the most heartfelt sonnet. Halfway through, Emma picked up the tempo, turning sad notes into elated music that reminded him very much of the lass herself. She moved with the song as if the harp were an extension of her life, as if she were telling her story to the audience and taking them through the garden on a journey of discovery using every sensation except sight. She slowed the tempo only at the very last, ending on a chord so breathtaking, no one in the entire hall dared breathe.
As the last note rang through the hall, his chest swelled. His mouth went dry.
Please don’t stop.
Suddenly the hall erupted in applause. Ciar stood, sure he was clapping the loudest, until Lochiel rose beside him. “Good Lord.”
“She’s unbelievable,” said Ciar.
Emma carefully set the harp upright and rose. Smiling with her eyes downcast, she curtseyed to the audience. Though her lips moved, not even Ciar could hear her over the ovation.
“They’re standing for you, lass!” hollered Robert, ascending the stairs with Janet on his arm.
Within a minute, the dais was full of people all swarming around Emma. She was laughing and smiling. Ciar waited and watched for a time. But before he could press through the crowd, Betty escorted the beauty away.
Ciar shook Grant’s hand. “Why have you kept your sister’s talent a secret all these years?”
Robert grumbled under his breath. “The Highlands abound with superstitious fools. Who kens what would happen if some lout decided to declare her a witch.”
“Surely you’ve enough influence to put such rumors to rest.”
“Aye, but only after the damage is done. Och, three years past a mob in Inverness put a blind man’s cottage to fire and sword for no other reason but