He looked at her, half-reassured, but the memory of his grandfather’s and his father’s fate was strong within him. He spoke peevishly.
“Dinna talk so freely o’ these dangerous subjects—I hav’na’ a wish to be traveling to Holland again.”
“Leave plotting alone then,” she answered with flashing eyes; her lord, she thought, not this poltroon, should have been MacCallum More.
“I hav’na’ been plotting,” retorted the Earl angrily. “I was approached by an agent of James—Jerome Caryl—he had some great names—some great names—he spoke....” His voice sank—“Of a rising in the spring—the French have offered troops and Berwick is coming over.”
“And you?”
“Weel, I hedged—I spoke him fair, but I said nothing dangerous—mark ye, nothing dangerous.”
His eyes wandered round the room furtively; he was eager to change the subject, a little afraid of this sharp wife of his cousin’s.
“We’re safe with either government,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard of this rising—Jock will of course wait. There is nae hurry.”
“No,” assented Argyll, eager to reassure himself of the safety of his position. “And I dinna doubt that everybody has a finger in the plot. They say ye can count on one hand the men at Kensington who hav’na’ regular letters from St. Germains.”
“And who are those few, cousin?”