The Eyes of Love. Barbara Cartland

      AUTHOR’S NOTE

      From boyhood a Highland Chief began to understand, or at least to enjoy, his peculiar position in life. He was of the same blood, name and descent of his people, but he stood halfway between them and God.

      Edward Burt wrote in the eighteenth century,

      “The ordinary Highlanders esteem it the most sublime degree of virtue to love their Chief and pay him a blind obedience although it may be in opposition to the Government, the Laws of the Kingdom or even the Law of God. He is their idol and, as they profess to know no King but him, so will they say they ought to do whatever he commands.”

      A Chief was not distinguished by the degree of his fortune or by the splendour of his dress, although some walked like peacocks in tartan and silver.

      Thus did a Macdonald of Keppoch boast that his rent-roll was five hundred fighting men. In such a climate of pride and sensitive honour the hospitality of the Highlands was more often manifest vanity.

      When this same Keppoch was told by a guest of the great candelabra to be seen in the houses of England, he ringed his table with tall Clansmen, each holding aloft a flaming pine-knot.

      The Keppoch grinned at his guest.

      “Where in England, France or Italy, is there a house with such candlesticks?” he asked.

      A Scot is always a Scot and wherever he goes his instinctive love for ‘Bonnie Scotland’ is always uppermost in his mind and heart.

      CHAPTER ONE – 1883

      Vara looked out over the Bay at the lights on the distant moors and felt a huge thrill go through her.

      It was wonderful to be back in Scotland.

      She told herself over and over again that there was no place in the world like her native land.

      She had been in England looking after her aunt who had sent for her because she thought that she was dying.

      She took a long time about it, but, when she did die, Vara was free to come home to her beloved Scotland.

      Her aunt had kindly left her one thousand pounds in her will.

      “The first thing I will do, Mama,” Vara said to her mother, “is to redecorate the drawing room and it most certainly needs it.”

      “You should keep the money for your trousseau,” her mother replied cautiously.

      Vara laughed.

      “I am not thinking of needing one and I can assure you that there were no men about in Aunt Amy’s house. It was very quiet there and at times a little depressing.”

      “I do know, dearest,” Lady McDorn pointed out. “But it was very kind of you to go and you have always been Amy’s favourite niece.”

      Vara could not help thinking that the months she had been away had seemed a long time in the quiet little village in Gloucestershire.

      It was where her aunt had lived ever since she had become a widow. Her uncle had been a distinguished man, but his family home that he had retired to was in an isolated part of the country.

      Anyway it was now all over and Vara was back home, which to her was a delight beyond words.

      The McDorns’ house was several centuries old and had been in the family for many generations.

      They were always very proud that they were direct descendants of Robert the Bruce, one of the most exciting and powerful Kings of Scotland.

      However, General Sir Alistair McDorn, when he retired from the Army, could boast only his pension and a modest amount of capital left to him by his father.

      This meant that they had to be extremely careful over what they spent.

      General McDorn had, however, been insistent that their only child, Vara, should have a good and varied education.

      She had been educated at home by highly qualified English Governesses until she was sixteen.

      Then she went to England to what was considered one of the very best and most popular Finishing Schools in the country.

      The English pupils were mostly the daughters of aristocrats and were to make their debut into London Society by being presented to Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace and then undertaking the London Season of endless balls, dinner parties, Receptions and Assemblies.

      This was something that was not possible for Vara, but it had not worried her in the least.

      She had enjoyed receiving First Class tuition in every subject that really interested her and she was well aware that her father and mother had to skimp and save every penny to pay for all the fees.

      That she was top of almost every class was their reward and she had worked extremely hard to please them.

      When she was eighteen, she returned home to the Scotland she loved.

      She did not regret for one minute the festivities that her friends would all be enjoying in London.

      However only a few months after her return, her aunt had sent for her.

      That meant that she had been more or less incarcerated in Gloucestershire until now.

      Because she was just so excited to be back home again, she wanted to run to the end of the garden, which led straight onto the beach.

      Golden sand edged the Bay and above it were the gentle slopes of the moors, purple with a canopy of heather.

      The lights that she had missed in England changed hour by hour with each one seeming lovelier than the last.

      ‘There is so much I want to see now that I am home again,’ she murmured to herself.

      Her mother was working on a tapestry that she was making for a chair cover.

      “I am so delighted, my darling,” she enthused, “to have you back. At the same time you may now find it very dull.”

      “I could never be dull here,” Vara replied, “and this afternoon I am going to climb to the top of our moor and watch as the river runs into the sea.”

      It was something that she had always loved doing as a small child and Lady McDorn laughed.

      “You used to make me tell you stories,” she reminded her, “of how you sailed away on the river to discover distant lands.”

      “I have been to them all in my mind,” Vara declared, “but I have decided that I would rather be here at home in Scotland than anywhere else in the whole world.”

      “That is what I want you to say, my darling,” Lady McDorn answered, “but I do so wish that there were a few more people living around here of your own age. Perhaps when the new Earl is better he will give a party.”

      “The Earl?” Vara questioned. “Is he home?”

      “I thought I mentioned it when I last wrote to you,” she replied. “He has come back from India, but his eyes have been badly affected.”

      “Do you mean he was wounded?” Vara asked.

      “I don’t think so, but somebody has told me that his eyes were bandaged when he arrived about seven days ago. We have heard nothing more about him since then.”

      Vara thought that this was rather strange.

      The knowledge that the Earl of Dornoch, the Chieftain of the McDorns, was home would certainly excite and delight the Clan.

      And what made it even more interesting was that he was someone they did not know.

      Vara supposed that there would have been a Gathering to greet him on his arrival at The Castle.

      Soon there would be the traditional Ceremony when the Clansmen, one by one, pledged their feudal allegiance to him.

      “If he is home, Mama,” she suggested, “surely you and Papa should have called