Argyll drew closer to the fire, balancing his tea-cup with the anxiety of a man to whom a slop in the saucer would be a disaster.
“I’m weary of the name of Macdonald, cousin,” he said. “I marvel Breadalbane hath let them gain such an upper hand; they should be hanged and done with.”
“My lord—that consummation approaches,” she answered, hardening, through her smile, at his implied slight to her husband. “’Tis no’ the lack o’ power but policy has held Jock’s hand.”
The Earl of Argyll lifted his eyes fretfully.
“Policy! Always this talk of policy! If it had na been for my father’s ‘policy’ in joining Monmouth in ’85, he would na have lost his head or the Campbells the Hielands....”
She interrupted.
“But the triumph o’ your return, cousin, made full amends for your father’s downfall.”
He shrugged his shoulders, sipping his tea; he had the manner of a man with a grievance.
“Certainly I return to the Hielands, but what do I find?” he complained. “The Macdonalds overrunning everything, Campbells hanged at sight, my houses gone to ruin—long arrears of rent due and the Stewarts o’ Appin, the Camerons, the Macnaughtens, and these cursed Macdonalds refusing to pay a farthing.”
The Countess Peggy gave him a bright glance. “We have our chance noo,” she said. “Our chance, Cousin Archibald, for our revenge.” She offered him as she spoke a little glass dish of macaroons, and he carefully selected one not too sugared before he answered.