Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (50 page)

Musicians surged past. "Let's move, Shawn!"

Dana touched his arm, clutching her golden horn against her black blouse. Her short hair jutted in wild angles from her head. "Come on! It's your big day!" She hurried on.

"Amy!" Niall bellowed over the heads moving past him.

A couple of people looked at him. "Don't get her mad," someone said. "She'll punch you again." Niall rubbed his jaw, grimacing. A woman had tried to cover the bruise with something called
make-up
, but it had not stopped the ribbing and stares. Several of them shouted for Amy. He saw her, far ahead, pushing back against the flow of musicians, holding her violin high above her head.

"What do you want?" she asked, when she reached him. "We're going on."

He wanted to laugh! He wanted to kiss her. He'd miss her, and he couldn't wait to see Allene. If he could just get this playing thing over with, then she was taking him—hopefully—home! "Get these things off me." He gestured at the tie and cummerbund. "I can't play with my arms all bound up and a corset and a noose around my neck."

"You can't change now," she said.

"I'll get it done faster if you help me," he replied. "I'm not playing like this."

"Same old Shawn," Amy muttered. But the words sounded affectionate. She yanked at the tie and cummerbund and they fell off.

"The sleeves." He held out his arms. She worked the cuff links loose, and helped him with the buttons running down the shirt. He laughed, freed, and grasped her face, kissing her.

She gasped. Then her face lit up, and she kissed him back. No laird to care! He was crazy to go back, he thought, but he wanted Allene.

He pulled back, studying her face, her cobalt eyes. "Thank you, Amy," he whispered. "You'll never know how much you've done for me! Go now!" She nodded, gave him a tight hug, and hurried to catch up with the orchestra.

A glow from the kiss hung all around him. He grinned, a crazy, unstoppable grin. It felt good, as good as slipping back into the linen shirt and tunic. He took a deep breath, swearing he could smell fresher air and heather and bluebells already. He pulled on his leather boots, elated to have his feet free at last of the confining dress shoes. Lastly, he pulled his dirk out of the bag and pushed it into the top of his right boot. It was time to be himself, not the man they expected him to be.

He took a moment to revel in the freedom of his own clothing, stretching his arms and grinning like a boy just before he got caught behind the oven kissing the chieftain's daughter. He saw himself playing Celine's magnificent harp as he'd played at Glenmirril. It was not just the discomfort of the tuxedo he'd shed, but Shawn's persona. He was leaving tonight. He wanted, just once, to be himself with these people.

He took a deep breath, left the bathroom, and crossed the short hall to the stage door. One of the servants grabbed him with a shout of Mr. Kleiner, your microphone! and clipped something to his shirt.

With a last glance at the white-washed brick walls, Niall opened the door and stepped through, from the dismal monochrome of backstage into blinding, glaring color. Edging the stage, blue velvet curtains soared as high as his beloved heathered hills; white walls rose behind the musicians, all of them seated and waiting for him. Even their black clothes blazed with vibrant life and rich textures.

A barrage of thunder greeted him. A girl screamed. He jumped. "Shawn! Shawn, I love you!" Something hit his knee. A rose fell at his feet. He stared, dumbstruck, into the stage lights. They blinded him. He blinked hard, shielded his eyes, and looked again. Hundreds, thousands, of faces filled the seats of the hall, seats climbing all the way to the ceiling, every one filled with people clapping and beaming. They stopped clapping, one by one, and stared, waiting expectantly.

"Shawn." Conrad spoke dryly, from the podium. "Thank you for joining us." His words boomed out from giant boxes around the hall. The audience laughed. Niall started at the sound, but bowed low before Conrad. This set the audience off again. Niall's mind raced. Thousands! It could be the whole of the Bruce's army!

"You changed," Conrad said. "You didn't approve of the tuxedo?"

"Aye," Niall agreed. His own voice boomed back from the boxes, startling him again. The audience cheered as if he'd flung forth a pearl of great witticism. Where were the tables and servants? "I thought I'd be more comfortable in this." Again, the applause, as if he'd spoken quite cleverly. He found it annoying, and wondered what they'd do if he flipped his tunic up at them, as he'd done to MacDougall. Their unnerving adulation made him almost grateful MacDougall had merely shot an arrow in his arse, rather than laugh, clap, and cheer. Bampots, the lot o' them!

"Well, it's appropriate," Conrad mused. "Wish I'd thought of it. Where's your trombone?" This part, they'd planned.

"I thought..." Niall's knees shook, as the realization took root that these people intended to do absolutely nothing but stare at him the entire time he played. "I thought..." He couldn't remember his line. At Glenmirril, they'd supped and clapped for servants and tossed bones to dogs and talked to each other and listened to him now and again as they chose. These people, this force the size of an army, they were going to just sit. And stare. At him. His stomach quelled. "I thought I'd play harp tonight." It wasn't the clever line he'd been given. He had a sudden fear this would stop him carrying out his plan, that he'd ruined the concert by giving the wrong line. "I hear it's a traditional Scottish instrument." His voice echoed around the hall.

Silence fell. Then someone laughed. The laughter swept across the auditorium, up into the balcony seats, and applause broke out again. They didn't believe him, of course. And suddenly, the performer in him took over, eager to spring the surprise.

He turned, searching the orchestra. "Where's the harp?" He strolled to examine a cello. The cellist shook his head, smiling. Niall shrugged, and stood on tiptoe to scan the percussion at the back. "Is there a harp there?" he shouted.

"No harps here," Aaron called back. "Try that, at the front." Niall turned and started, deliberately exaggerating his reaction, at the size of the harp. It was easy, remembering his first sight of it. The crowd roared with laughter again. He played it up. He strolled to the harp and tried playing from the wrong side, his arms wrapped around the front pillar, and his back to the audience. "'Tis not yer faither's clairsach," he said, letting his own natural accent creep back into his voice. The musicians and audience laughed. He had no idea why the orchestra found this line so funny, but Conrad had insisted. An old car ad, he'd explained, whatever that meant.

"No, no, no,
no!
" Conrad shouted, parodying himself. People chuckled. "You told me you could do this. Are you sure you don't want to play trombone?"

"Is this wrong?" Niall asked innocently. "No, I want to play the traditional Scottish tunes on a traditional Scottish instrument. They deserve it." The crowd roared their approval, hands pounding together. "Just give me a minute to get the hang of it."

Conrad tapped his foot while Niall played an ill-sounding melody laden with sour notes. He tapped his baton against the podium. He glared at his watch. The crowd chuckled.

"Celine," Conrad finally called over the heads of the orchestra. "We could use some help."

Celine appeared, her white-blonde hair flowing down the back of her black blouse, and made a show of placing Niall in the correct position.

"And what would the red strings be for?" Niall asked. His voice ricocheted around the hall. He plucked another few, drawing more laughter. Whatever else Shawn had been, Niall thought, he'd convinced these people he was inerrantly funny. They'd laugh at anything. He rather appreciated that in the man. But it was time to end the joke. His performer's soul relished the moment. He struck a particularly bad combination of notes and nodded approvingly. "I think I've got it!"

He stood, faced the audience, and became serious. "This concert and this night are momentous occasions for me. I love Scotland."

Applause broke out, whistles, and cheers. No laughter for this solemn profession of love that the audience shared. He waited, his natural command of a crowd shining through. They hung on his next words.

"Tonight, I am not Shawn Kleiner." To his left, Conrad gave a start. Niall drew himself to his full height. His chin lifted as it did when he spoke with the lords or instructed his men before a raid. "I am Lord Niall Campbell, born in Glenmirril Castle on the shores of beautiful Loch Ness in the year of our Lord, 1290."

He saw the loch in his mind, surrounded by hills and groves, the castle rising strong beside it, and missed it so fiercely, that, for a moment, his heart clenched in his chest. "I am wearing what I wore in 1314: trews, shirt, and tunic. My boots," he slid a foot forward for inspection, "are made by our cordwainer Owen MacDonald. I am a soldier, a patriot, and the next laird of the castle. It is a much harder life than you lead. And I have long loved to bring joy to my people with my harp, of an evening."

Whispers rose behind him. He could sense heads turning as the musicians wondered at this unplanned speech. Several in the audience chuckled. Others shushed them. He could see them, beyond the glare of the stage lights, straining forward to listen.

He turned to meet Amy's eyes, and in turn, Aaron's. "This is who I am." Aaron frowned, looking thoughtful. Amy tilted her head, unsure what the joke was.

He turned back to the audience. "And how I come to play harp. Tonight, I take you on a musical tour of Scotland's history and people."

Massive applause broke out. People pounded their hands together. He smiled, bowed low, and seated himself behind the harp, lifting his hands into position with the drooping fingers Celine had helped him perfect over the past days. He glanced around the hall. Maybe having everyone stare at him wasn't so bad. He might miss this, too.

The applause died as people saw he was ready. Conrad lifted his arms. The slightest rustle behind Niall told him instruments were being lifted. Conrad's eyes met his. Niall nodded. Conrad's arms flashed down, and Niall pulled a rich chord from the now-familiar strings of the harp leaning on his shoulder.

He sang of love and outlaws and wars. He recounted histories and stories, as Conrad stood back in surprise. He played with singers, bagpipes and uilleann pipes. He finished the first half with
Blue Bells of Scotland.
The audience clapped its approval of each piece, twice as loud after
Blue Bells
, though it was simpler than Shawn's signature version.

The orchestra took a brief intermission, in which Conrad quizzed him in the green room. "How do you know all this?"

"My father, the reenactor," Niall said, drawing on his knowledge of Shawn. He hoped Conrad wouldn't ask him to elaborate. Forestalling the possibility, he winked suddenly, grinning. But he spoke solemnly, shedding their accent he'd copied. "D' ye no believe I am Lord Niall Campbell, heir to Glenmirril?" He exaggerated the roll of his R’s.

Doubt flashed across Conrad's face. Then he laughed, though uneasily. "A story only you would think up, Shawn! It's hard enough to believe what I saw out there." He studied Niall's garb. "Although I must say, you do look as if you stepped out of the fourteenth century."

Niall laid his hand on the man's shoulder. He did not smile. "I read something on the internet. I believe 'tis a common saying among your people. Truth is stranger than fiction."

"But not that strange." Conrad cleared his throat, coughed, and put a smile on his face. "They love you even more than they did. I didn't think that was possible! Let's finish this up." He raised his baton, marshaling his troops, and the musicians flowed back onstage.

Niall took his place behind the harp, flexing his fingers. He'd mostly forgotten the audience, and when he remembered them, enjoyed their rapt attention. He played ballads, dances, and battle tunes. The auburn-haired woman sang of young Ian's betrayal in his swirling, crimson cloak.

After the last piece, after the applause, the bowing of the orchestra behind him, Niall announced he had one more. Conrad, smiling, stood back. The crowd fell silent. The musicians behind him fell silent. He touched the harp, paused with his head bowed alongside the strings, summoning all the emotions the song drew forth; then ran his fingers up a graceful arpeggio. He played a verse, and opened his mouth to sing the piece commemorating Falkirk, in the rich bass that so pleased the laird. He wished Iohn were here to sing with him. He sang in English, played a verse on its own, and sang again in his native highlands Gaelic. When he finished, the crowd roared with approval.

Conrad gestured frantically, and he came to stand at the front of the stage and bow, again and again. Hands clapped. Men whistled. A girl screamed. "Shawn! I love you! Shawn!" Bluebells landed onstage.

A commotion arose at the side of the stage, as a girl with wild blonde hair burst from the wings, skipped around the cellos, kissed Niall on the lips, and clung to him in a tight hug, screeching in his ear and stamping her feet in the most ludicrous fashion. Niall struggled to breathe, pushing at her. No doubt the real Shawn would love it. Two guards rushed the stage and pulled her off, kicking and still screaming "I love you, Shawn! I love you!"

He gathered his dignity and bowed to the audience. The cheers continued, so that Conrad had to push him back onstage several times. Curtain calls, he said. Niall flushed with victory. Who would turn their back on such adoration! He didn't have to go.

Backstage, with musicians and well-wishers pressing everywhere, Amy wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, long and clinging.
It would be too late, anyway.
Excitement caught him in its grip. He kissed her back, his hands pressed on either side of her face. His pulse raced. He couldn't change history. He came up from the kiss with a grin.

Men hooted, and clapped his shoulder. "Won her back, Shawn?" Allene and Shawn could never have made it. He separated from Amy, their eyes locked. He could stay here, care for her and her child. Play the harp.