The portraits were of no great quality, although the artist had done a fair job depicting the luxurious clothing. The sitters’ features, however, conveyed little animation. As the Mackinnon said, they looked like wooden mannequins, particularly that grotesque baby.
“It was the fashion to paint them like that,” she said, wandering down the wall and noting the way fashions changed through the ages. She paused in front of a painting of a woman wearing a dark blue gown with an elaborate lace collar. If she’d added up the generations right, this was the picture she was looking for. “Is this Mhaire?”
“Aye, that’s her. She doesnae look like she led such an adventurous life, does she?”
This artist had been even more ham-fisted than the earlier one. The woman’s features showed no personality at all. Generic blonde was the best description Marina could come up with. “What a pity.”
“You cannae tell she was as beautiful as her reputation says, although the family legend is that my great-great grandfather fell in love with her the moment he saw her.”
“I wonder how much actual kidnapping was involved.”
The Mackinnon gave a grunt of laughter. “For the sake of Drummond pride, we’ve always agreed that she was stolen away.” He gestured to the next painting, depicting a tall, lean man with marked brows and a mane of gray-streaked ebony hair. “This is her husband, Black Dougal Mackinnon.”
Black Dougal’s portrait had a little more life
than Fair Mhaire’s. Not much.
“He was a handsome man, although he doesn’t look much like you.” Except perhaps for the commanding nose and haughty expression.
“Most Mackinnons have red hair and gray eyes. He was one of the few exceptions.”
The varied quality of the portraits couldn’t hide the way good looks ran through the line. Good looks, and a certain arrogance of bearing that she knew too well from her dealings with the current laird.
Marina paused in front of a pair of paintings that, in terms of artistic merit, were by far the best in the collection. The man was another long, lean Mackinnon and had a look of the laird she knew. His hair was powdered to a soft gray and tied back with a black silk ribbon in the mode of last century. The woman was soft and blonde and looked like she’d never had an opinion to call her own. Wearing a loose white gown that emphasized her voluptuous bosom, she reclined in a brocade chair.
“Your parents?”
“Aye.”
“Is your mother alive?” She’d been a pretty woman.
“No, she passed away five years ago. She and my father met in Edinburgh, and he paid Allan Ramsay to commemorate their betrothal with these portraits. They were among the last paintings he finished.”
“I’ve never heard of him, but he’s a marvelous artist. See how he’s captured their personalities with a few brushstrokes. Is this what they were like?”
“He’s caught my father’s devil-may-care attitude. My father died in an accident at a race in Inverness. He was riding a horse that was reputed to be unbreakable.”
Shocked, she met the Mackinnon’s gaze. “You take your role as laird so seriously, I’d imagined your father must have been a stern taskmaster, all duty and hard work.”
He released a dismissive huff of breath. “Anything but, lassie.”
When she returned her attention to that handsome, painted face, she looked more closely. At first, she’d only noticed the resemblance to the man beside her. The imperial nose and clever gray eyes were familiar, but the mouth hinted at self-indulgence. The current Mackinnon’s mouth was all firm self-confidence. She should know; she’d spent enough time staring at it and wondering how it would feel if he kissed her.
She turned to study the Mackinnon the way she’d studied the beautiful portrait. “So where did you get your sense of responsibility? It’s obvious that your people love and admire you, so you must be a good master.”
What a revelation it had been, walking around the castle in the laird’s company. She’d wondered if Jock had exaggerated the level of fealty the Mackinnon inspired. She’d soon realized the brawny Scotsman had, if anything, played down the respect the people here gave their chieftain. She’d started to feel like she was on a tour of heaven, with the Almighty as her personal escort.
No wonder Fergus Mackinnon believed he was omnipotent.
“I try to be.” He regarded his father’s picture with a faintly troubled expression. “When I grew up, the estate wasnae well managed, and everyone here suffered as a consequence. My father was more interested in his own pleasures than in seeing his clansmen prosperous and settled. I swore that when I was in charge, things at Achnasheen would be different.”
She couldn’t criticize his intentions, but that air of omniscience niggled. “And does nobody ever offer a contrary opinion, a better way to go on?”
With a shrug, he returned his gaze to her. “An army marches best when there’s one general in command.”
“And you’re that general?”
“Aye. Who else?”