Elusive (2 page)

Je t’aime
(ghe tem) French; I love
you

Ken
know

Laird
(LAYRD) lord, address used for
the title of Earl; his wife would be addressed as Lady and her
title would be Countess.

Macrath
(mahc RA) son of
prosperity

Mahoun,
(ma WHUUN
)
the
devil

Maigny
(MA nee) French; a location
near Bretagne

Mairi
(mah REE) Mary

Me tenir le plus,
Chéri
(may
ten EAR le plue, SHUR ee) French; Let me hold you, dearest

Meadhbh
(MAEV) she who intoxicates,
Meave, Maeve

Mère
(MARE) French; mother

McDonnough
(Mc DUN nah) the son of
Donnach (Duncan), able to defend

Mon chéri (
MOAN SHUR
ee
)
French; my dearest

Mordag
(MOR dak) sea warrior

Oui
(WE) French; yes

Père
(PEAR) French;
father

Petit ami
(PA teet ah me)
French; sweetheart

Ròs
(ROES) rose flower

Slainte
(SLAW tcheh) health

Sòlas
(SOH lus) joy, comfort,
solace

Taog
(TOOK) poet, philosopher

The McDonnough
would be used when
referring to the Laird of McDonnough. “The” was used with any clan
name to indicate the Laird of that clan.

Viens faire l’amour
(vee en fare
la
mow) French ; Let’s make love.

**************************

For my grandchildren and
great-grandchildren—may you find honor in your past, joy in
learning more about it, and a lifetime of pleasure sharing its
stories with your children.

**************************

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I

And I will luve thee still, my dear

Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Robert Burns

1759-96

**************************

Prologue

Donnach Castle – 1726

They rehearsed this process three times
during Caena’s (KEH Na’s) lying in, and all knew exactly what to do
and when. Finally the day arrived and Caena’s pains began. Once she
was close to giving birth, she drove the rest of the maids from her
rooms, screaming at them, insisting that only her maid, Ròs (ROES),
attend her. Not wishing to anger her and make her pain any worse,
they all scattered hastily and left the pair alone.

Sòlas entered from the rear of the room, just
as she had left her rooms to meet him nine months earlier. He
watched her face as he walked toward her. Ròs guarded the door
while he said his farewell. Despite her growing discomfort, Caena
looked at peace. She smiled up at him, and he saw the beads of
moisture on her forehead and above that pouty mouth he loved so
much. Suddenly the pain ripped through her, and she grabbed for his
hand. He was amazed at her strength and just let her hold his hand
tightly as the pain rolled over her and then faded.

“Sòlas,” she whispered. “Don’t fail me, my
love.”

“Never would I fail you, my dearest lass.
Never,” he said, as he kissed her cheek and felt the tears now
streaming down that creamy skin.

“You had best leave the room in case one of
the others should decide to check in on me,” she smiled up at him
as the next wave hit her.

He so desperately wished he could stay with
her to help her through the pain, but he knew what was at stake.
Instead, he gave in to her wishes and retreated to the chapel
behind her sleeping quarters.

Minutes later Ròs rushed into the chapel
where she found him pacing. She placed the small wriggling blanket
into his arms. “You must go quickly before the child’s cries are
heard,” she urged him. “The sounds will only be muffled by her
blankets for a brief time. She will hunger immediately and then
only her nursing will keep her quiet.”

“A daughter,” he smiled down at the small
babe. Then, looking back up at Ròs, “Your mistress is alright?” he
asked.

“Aye, Sir! She will be fine once you have
taken the child to safety.”

Ròs’s widowed daughter who had given birth a
few months earlier would be traveling with them and was waiting in
a wagon just outside the castle gates.

As Sòlas took the child into his arms Ròs
said, “Here, this is for you to read after you and the babe are
safe,” and she handed him the letter her mistress had given her.
She watched as his face reflected the sorrow of having to leave
Caena behind.

“Go quickly!” Ròs whispered as she gave him a
gentle push toward the door, and he was gone. Returning to her
mistress, she took care of what was needed, and then removed all
the linens, handed them off to her husband, who removed them from
the castle to burn them.

Once everything was handled, Ròs left the
room and went to the Laird’s quarters where she found Macrath
scowling and pacing in front of his father’s fire.

“Well, woman? What news?” he demanded.

“My Lord, the child was stillborn; a wee
girl, my Lord—much too small and early to have lived,” she said.
Her countenance reflected how sadly she really felt while she bowed
before him.

Instead of raving and sobbing in grief as one
would have expected a father to behave at such a time—or expressing
concern for his wife—he simply turned his back on her and quietly
responded as if there had been nothing of importance lost. Her
mistress had judged him accurately, it seemed. Since the child was
just a girl, it was not a loss worthy of his concern.

“Well,” he said, as he poured himself another
goblet of wine on the heavy table before the fire. “Another time
then,” he mumbled drunkenly as he waved Ròs away and almost fell
off his chair.

**************************

Chapter 1: In The Old Tradition

Scotland - 1975

There they sat in front of her. Such a
beautiful sight they were, these children of her children. They
were huddled together on the floor between her and the massive
fireplace with its roaring winter blaze. It was Christmas Eve,
1975, and she was well into her eighth decade.

Each year she had told the story they longed
to hear. Due to their varying ages, she had always adapted it, of
course, in accordance with their ability to understand its meaning.
Though their parents still wished to deny that their babies were
now nearly adults—they were most of them in their teens. This year,
she had decided after much soul searching, she would tell it all.
She would tell of even the harsher moments she had not shared
previously. Yes, it was time it was all told before she was unable
to do so. It was her responsibility to pass it on—even the ugliest
parts of it.

She especially took note of young Fiona, or
Fee as they called her. Fee reminded her of herself at that
age—small but shapely, blonde, and those big gray eyes. She was a
sweet girl who had always loved the castle, hearing the poems, and
learning the traditions of Scotland. Fee and her parents lived in
the United States but, from the time of her first visit to the
castle at age four, Fee’s heart was in Scotland.

She remembered how Fee had begged and begged
her parents, until she was allowed to spend each summer and—once
she had gotten older—more than one Christmas vacation here at the
castle, learning about Scotland and its traditions. She would be
the one—yes, Fee would be the one to inherit this home that they
all loved so much.

They settled down on the floor before her,
wrapped in their thick, tartan plaid, woolen blankets, and fuzzy
warm robes in holiday colors before the fire. Their hot chocolate
was covered with the warm, melted sweetness of as many marshmallows
as each could cram into a mug. Laughing to herself, she wondered
why they bothered with the cocoa at all…but then, how would they
melt all those marshmallows? Their eyes were sparkling with the
reflection of the lights and ornaments on the twenty-foot tree that
stood behind her like a sentry in its dressiest uniform.

The castle with her stone walls could be a
cold, drafty old place, especially in the winter. Her
many
rooms were huge, with outer walls of stone and only its inner walls
showing the modernization each generation of lairds and ladies had
given her. Each had modernized in such a manner that the use of the
old stone walls was not lost in the efforts. Ceilings here on the
first level were so high she still marveled at them. Windows were
tall and many, dispensing light evenly across the expanse despite
the size and height of the rooms. The rooms on this west side of
her walls got the advantage of the setting sun turning them such a
lovely shade of peachy-grey. Her heart sighed at the very thought
of the lovely evenings she and her beloved had shared here.

She had loved the castle from the first
moment she saw it sitting at the base of a high green-forested
hill, nestled in next to the blue-watered loch. The hill behind her
held a stony cliff on its far side that, breaking loose of the
forest, was a stony overlook to the loch. It was her favorite place
in the whole world—and she had seen most of that world over her
many years.

She looked around this, her favorite
room—
the
Great Hall they called it. It had
been thoroughly decorated for the holiday by these children and
their parents the week before. There were branches of evergreen and
holly. Of course there had to be mistletoe—used by each of the
children to cause embarrassment to their parents at will.

There were red satin and velvet ribbons,
paper chains, various lengths of ropes made from popcorn and
berries. Candles as well as bright lights illuminated the huge
room. Santa Clauses of varying sizes in tartan plaid as well as red
velvet and fluffy white fur, miniature sleighs with their
reindeer—more than one of the reindeer had red noses—set in
corners, on the mantle, under the tree.

And then there were the snow globes collected
from around the world. The glass balls—filled with their trapped
snow falling time and time again over village scenes or racing
sleighs pulled by high-stepping horses—brought delight and
fascination to the tinier children that blessed the castle this
season.

It was a sight to see! She grinned looking
around again. Giggling to herself, she admitted that she was lucky
there was no neon flashing—just the blaze of the fire and the
flickering of the candlelight. Their decorating had certainly not
left the room dull! Others might find it gaudy, even inappropriate
for such a holy time of year—she simply adored it and the loving
hearts that lay behind it.

One such heart had seen to it that there was
a tiny tree in her bedroom, decorated with tiny cookies for
ornaments. This, she knew, explained the hushed whispers and
secretive looks between her granddaughter, Mac, and Mac’s little
daughter, Brie. They had forbidden anyone to go into the kitchen
for hours on end.

Poor Mrs. Poole, their cook, had raised a
holy fit. Her husband, their quiet, distinguished butler for the
last thirty years, had been seen escaping from their quarters,
mumbling and looking very distracted, several times that day.

Well, she thought, Mrs. Poole would get over
it…in a month or two. As for Mr. Poole, there wasn’t much she could
do for him other than the little something extra in his stocking
this year. Perhaps a long weekend off in the isles with his
long-suffering wife would earn him some respite. Smiling at the
memory of the tree, it was worth it!

The blazing fire in the fireplace—large
enough to hold a hay wagon—certainly handled the old castle’s
faults well. She giggled once more. She always thought of the
castle as a
‘she’
despite the fact that this blew in the
face of its history, even national tradition. The castle had been
the family home for almost three-hundred years. Many of those years
had been fraught with death from sickness, war, intrigue, even
hatred and jealousy. The women of this castle had known great love,
passion, and pain. There had also been betrayal, degradation, and,
of course, murder. She caught herself shivering.

As she took one more sip of the hot tea
beside her, her hands gripping the mug for warmth shook
slightly—from her advanced age as much as from the memories—and she
became aware that they were all looking up at her in eager
anticipation. It was time to begin what had always been in their
heritage—
like the women of old she would share a
story
.

“Once upon a time, in a land not so very far
away at all, there was a beautiful young Scottish lassie…”

**************************

Chapter 2: The Life of a Scottish Lassie

Donnach, Scotland - 1725

Caena sat looking out of the window of her
rooms in Donnach Castle. The castle had been her home since the day
she was born, almost sixteen years before. As her mind struggled
with her thoughts, her gaze went across the loch of the same name.
The loch’s normally rich blue water was dark and murky this
morning—mirroring her mood as well as the sky.

Under that stormy sky, the land as far as
could be seen in any direction belonged to her father’s estate—the
village where her father’s people lived, loved, raised their
families, worked, and died.

The fields where they raised the food for the
castle and village were just starting to come to life. The pastures
for their herds ranged from flatland to hills—high and beautiful.
Shaggy white sheep with their black faces and the even shaggier
highland cattle were just starting to drop the next generation of
animals prized throughout the country. They would provide food and
clothing for the estate, as well as bringing in the fees for
breeding services that would spread their kind throughout
Scotland.

The Laird
of all this, the Clan
McDonnough, was Caena’s big, burly father, Finnean (FIN yan)
McDonnough. He was known throughout the land as
The
McDonnough
. It was a name uttered with the utmost respect by
all who knew him, except some of his own blood. As the Earl of
Donnach, he was owed respect. But, better yet, his people freely
gave that respect to him for his fairness and generosity, as well
as the good care he showed them.