The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (17 page)

“I’d have made sure they did,” agreed Duncan.

“But you were the chieftain. Isn’t your word law?” Beth said.

“Aye. It is, now. But ye’ve got the wrong idea about chieftainship, Beth. The chieftain isna God. Nor is he the king. When the king dies, his eldest son takes the throne, no matter what kind of dribbling idiot he is. When my da died, I had the right to take his place – but I had to prove myself worthy of it. If I hadna, the clan would have found someone else more suitable. It was made harder for me by the fact that I’d been away in France for two years. There were those that thought I might have gone soft while I was there, and I’d no’ been the chieftain long enough to prove I hadna, when all this happened.” Alex paused, searching for the right words to try to justify his action. “We’re a violent clan, Beth,” he said finally. “All the clans are violent when they have tae be, but the MacGregors are more so, being proscribed, because we have no recourse to law. Often, when I’m faced wi’ a problem, the first solution I think of is the violent one. It’s second nature. Then I think again and often I’ll come up wi’ another way. And sometimes I won’t.”

“Like with Henri,” Beth said.

“Aye. I had to kill him. And I had to make sure that there was no point in Duncan following me. And the only way I could do that was to make sure he couldna fight the MacDonald, and wouldna be able to for quite a while.”

“He was right, Beth,” said Duncan. “I’d have done the same in his position.”

“Go on then,” said Beth. “What happened next?”

“I went to MacDonald,” said Alex, “and I tellt him everything, including what I’d done to Duncan, so that he wouldna think Duncan didna have the courage to meet him. He agreed to the single combat, but said that if I didna take it amiss he’d no’ fight me himself, lately having been ill, but get one of his clansmen to do it instead. I didna take it amiss, as I couldna think of any member of the clan I’d be afraid to fight, excepting the chief himself.”

“But you would have fought him, if you’d had to,” Beth said.

“Aye, of course I would. It isna cowardly to be afraid. It isna cowardly to run away either, if you’re faced wi’ impossible odds. It’s common sense. Unless you’re betraying others by doing so. Of course now I realise that Glencoe hadna been ill at all, but admired my courage and understood why Duncan had acted as he had. He didna want a blood feud either, which could have escalated tae include other branches of the MacGregors and MacDonalds in time. So he chose a man who was well-matched to me in size and strength, and we fought. He was a bonny fighter. Malcolm, his name was.” Alex stopped and looked at Duncan. A look of such intensity passed between them that Beth had to turn away.

“Needless to say, Alex killed Malcolm, and there has been mutual respect between Glencoe and us ever since,” Duncan took up the story. “And I’m alive, although for a long time I didna thank my brother for that blessing. And your clan and mine are no’ embroiled in a bloody and pointless feud, but instead are going to enjoy a great celebration of the joining of a MacGregor and a MacDonald.”

“I’m so sorry, Duncan,” Beth said helplessly.

“Dinna be sorry, lassie. Just love each other, like Mairi and I did. Ye do, I can see that. And treasure every day as though it’ll be your last. If I’d have…” he stopped, and his face contorted for a moment, then he stood.

“I’ll be taking my plaid, then,” he said. “And I’ll wish ye a good night.” He moved across the room to the chest where all their clothes were kept and which doubled as a seat, and busied himself, his back turned to them. Beth opened her mouth to speak, her eyes brimming, but Alex folded his hand over hers and she remained silent. Duncan closed the lid of the chest and walked to the door, a bundle tucked under his arm. He nodded once and was gone.

Alex’s eyes remained on the door, dark with a multitude of emotions Beth could not even begin to identify.

“I’ll no’ speak of it again, if it’s all the same to you,” he said, “unless ye’ve any questions?”

She had no questions, and when they went to bed they did not make love, by mutual consent, being too emotionally distressed to do so, although the reasons for their distress were not entirely the same. Instead they curled up together wrapped in each others’ arms and silently waited for sleep to come.

It was a long time coming, particularly for Beth, whose head was reeling, not just with the news of Duncan’s tragic marriage and the knowledge that the wound it had inflicted on him had not even begun to heal after eight years, but also with the awareness that she had betrayed her husband’s trust in her, and broken her own vow not to lie to him. She felt justified in doing so; much as she hated Richard, she would not be directly responsible for his death, as she would be if she told Alex what he had done to her. That Alex would succeed in killing Richard if he wished to, she did not doubt for one moment. But she could not live with the death of her brother on her conscience. After all, he had come off worst in the encounter between them. They were even, in her view, although Alex, with the pride of the Highlander, would not see it that way, she knew.

No, she reasoned, she could not have done other than she did. The thought should have comforted her, but it did not.

Alex had been breathing softly and regularly for a long time before tiredness overwhelmed Beth’s conscience and allowed her to join him in sleep.

When Beth awoke in the morning Alex was kneeling down near the side of the bed, clad only in his shirt. She watched him for a while through half-open eyes as he prepared his
feileadh mhor,
laying the long piece of faded green and brown material on the ground over his belt, then deftly pleating the long length of it, leaving a small amount at each end unpleated. He was unaware that he was being observed, and moved quickly and gracefully, performing the habitual actions automatically and expertly. She felt a small thrill of pleasure, seeing the heavy muscles of his shoulders and arms perfectly defined through the thin material of his shirt as he bent over his task, the strong wrists and long capable fingers, remembering the heavy, comforting warmth of him in the bed during the night as he had held her close to him.

The material prepared, Alex lay down on top of it, folded the unpleated material over his stomach, and buckled his belt tightly round his waist. When he got to his feet the lower width of the material had become a kilt, reaching to his knees, the upper part trailing over the belt almost to the floor. He reached behind, gathering the surplus material in loose folds, drawing it over his left shoulder and pinning it in place with an ornate silver brooch. It was a remarkable garment, she realised. A simple length of woollen material could become a kilt, a cloak, a blanket, even a shelter. This clothing, coupled with an imperviousness to hunger and even the most extreme weather made the Highlander a formidable foe; armed with pistol, broadsword, dirk, targe and bag of oatmeal, he could travel all day across country, unimpeded by the cumbersome baggage wagons containing tents and other provisions considered so essential to the average soldier. He could sleep anywhere, wrapped in his plaid, perfectly camouflaged, and materialise from the heather as if by magic at a moment’s notice to hurl himself at his unsuspecting, terrified enemy.

She had once been terrified of him, she remembered, in a disused room in a Manchester alleyway. She continued to watch him as he sat down on a wooden stool near the bed to pull on his hose. She was not afraid of him any more, although she respected him; it was impossible not to. He radiated confidence, authority and a carefully leashed power that could erupt into violence when challenged. Not against her; she knew that he would never raise his hand to her. But against anyone who threatened him or those he loved. It was a powerful aphrodisiac, having such a formidable man on your side, protecting you, loving you.

It was also the reason she had been compelled to lie to him last night. He would never intentionally hurt her; but what he would do to Richard if she told him the truth did not bear thinking about. She did not need Alex to fight this battle for her. She had fought Richard and got the better of him. They had made an agreement; she would marry the foppish Sir Anthony, and he would obtain his military commission and disappear from her life. They had both kept to the bargain, and as far as she was concerned she had got the better of that, too. Looking at her magnificent husband as he finished pulling up his hose and looked around for his shoes, she was sure of her victory. She put Richard and her deception firmly to the back of her mind. This was her wedding day, in a manner of speaking, for the third time. She intended to enjoy it.

“They’re under the bed,” she said.

He looked at her and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and she lifted her arms to him. He came willingly, folding her to his chest, and she snuggled into him, inhaling the scents of linen, wool, and healthy young male. His brooch was cool against her cheek and she shifted her head slightly.

“You’re not wearing that for the celebrations, are you?” she said, fingering the soft worn wool of his kilt.

“God, no,” he replied. “The clan would disown me if I did. It’s the full garb of the chieftain for me tonight. I have the MacDonalds to impress, ye ken. No, I thought I’d away off for a wee walk, leave ye to talk to your kin in peace. They’re all downstairs, having breakfast.”

Beth, intoxicated by the part of his scent that was young and male, had been about to suggest some dual activity rather more enjoyable than ‘a wee walk’, but now shot up in bed.

“What?” she cried. “They’re all downstairs now? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Relax,” he said soothingly, maintaining his hold on her. “A few minutes more’ll make nae difference. Duncan is looking after them.”

“But shouldn’t I be making breakfast for them?” she asked. “What sort of a chieftain’s wife will they think me if I leave my guests to fend for themselves?”

“One that doesna burn the porridge, or make it too thin,” Alex said wryly. Beth’s repeated failure to successfully prepare a dish as simple as porridge was a cause for hilarity throughout the clan. It was ridiculous; she could make oatcakes and bannocks, could, now that Duncan had taught her, skin and prepare a rabbit and make various other dishes to perfection. But porridge, a simple dish of oatmeal and water, escaped her. It was either thin and runny, or cement. She had accepted the jokes about slices of porridge and filler for the gaps in walls with good humour, and given up. The three men she shared a house with were all excellent cooks anyway. Highlanders did not consider cooking women’s work, as the English did. And she could not be good at everything, as Alex had said. Even so…

“At the very least I should be down there entertaining them instead of making love to you,” she said, breaking free of him and swinging her legs out of bed.

“Who said anything about making love?” Alex asked, accepting his shoes as she bent down and pulled them out from where he’d kicked them the night before.

“Ah, well…” she said, colouring prettily. “I had thought…but that was before I knew there were half a dozen MacDonalds sitting directly underneath the bedroom.” She dodged neatly out of his way as he made a grab for her.

“You’re a hard woman, Beth,” he said mournfully, “raising a man’s hopes like that.”

“Well, I’ve heard it called a lot of things, but never a ‘hope’. You’ll just have to lower it again until later. Have a cold swim in the loch. That should do the trick.”

She emerged from donning her shift to find him a lot closer to her than she’d thought. Too close to dodge. He grabbed her, pinning her arms, and kissed her long and deep, smiling as he felt her body respond automatically to him. His hand slid smoothly up under her shift, caressing the inside of her thighs. She sighed, her legs turning to water, the MacDonalds forgotten.

“Until later, then,” he said, releasing her suddenly with a mischievous grin. “I’ll no’ forget.”

Neither would she. It took her five minutes after he’d gone to compose herself before she could go down to her family.

Duncan had done them proud. The porridge had been cooked to perfection, the oatcakes were warm and dripping with butter and honey, and he had even brewed coffee for them, two of them never having tasted it before. Judging by the grimaces on their faces, they wouldn’t want to taste it again.

“I tellt ye that ye wouldna like it,” Ealasaid said. “We drank it all the time in America. It’s an acquired taste.”

“Euch,” said Meg. “I’ll leave it to the Americans and the Sasannachs tae acquire it, then.”

They had repaired to the lounge once breakfast was over, and once Beth’s grandmother was comfortably settled in the chair by the fire, her young relatives scattered themselves casually around her.

“The Sasannachs drink tea mainly, now,” Beth said. “At least the rich ones do. It’s very expensive, so you have to pretend to enjoy it even if you don’t, if you’re not to be thought of as ill-bred.”

“D’ye miss it?” asked Joan. Meg and Joan were nineteen and twins. Allan, at twenty-one, was their eldest surviving brother, and Robert at sixteen, the youngest. They were Beth’s cousins, the grandchildren of Ealasaid’s older sister, long dead.

“I’ve brought some with me. I quite like tea,” Beth said, misunderstanding.

“I didna mean the tea, I meant the rich life, the fancy dresses and suchlike,” Joan clarified.

Beth had to tread carefully. None of the MacDonalds knew about Sir Anthony. They only knew that Alex had met her in London, and that her English cousin was a lord.

“No,” she said firmly. “I hate that life. The fancy dresses are itchy and uncomfortable, and all the people are horrible and false.”

That was unfair.

“Well, not all the people,” she amended. “I’ve got a few friends and they’re wonderful, but in general you have to watch everything you do or say, and even then rumours spread round London like wildfire. You can’t make a wrong move without everyone knowing about it within an hour.”

“It’s no’ so different here,” said Robert, looking at his great-aunt sourly. “I hadna so much as exchanged two words wi’ Morag afore ye knew it and were thrashing me within an inch of my life.”