The House on the Shore (34 page)

Luke groaned.
“What if I said I had nothing to wear?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.
And what’s more, Morag would insist on lending you one of Lachlan’s kilts.”

“Me?
Wear a skirt?
No way!”

“But Luke, darling, you have all the right attributes, especially those required t
o wear it the traditional way
.
”

“What traditional way?”

Anna grinned.
“Nothing underneath.”

“Nothing?
Are you shitting me?
So you expect me not to dress for the party?”

“Of course,” she
said
laugh
ing
,
and then
ran towards the croft.
Luke caught up with her in seven strides.

“Right attributes, huh?”
He pulled her to the ground and kissed her until she was breathless.

“Mm,” she replied
as her body squirmed beneath his.

Luke’s brown eyes smouldered with fire.
“And what might those attributes be?”
He planted a kiss in the hollow of her neck.

“
Y
ou’ve broad shoulders
for one thing, great legs, and—
”
H
er fingers slid between them to his zipper.

Luke’s hand caught hers and halted its progress.
“The thought of being seduced by you is delicious, my love, but I have no desire to get my butt bitten off out here by the local wildlife.”

“Local wildlife?
Oh, you mean the midges
,
the mosquitoes.
Now that you mention it, they are a bit fierce today.”

“Besides,” he said, kissing the top of her nose.
“My days of making love in the open are long over.”
He helped her to her feet.
“Let’s be sen
sible.”

She stood on
tiptoe
and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Perhaps I should call you Mr
.
Sense and Sensibility
…”

Luke laughed and squeezed her.

“I’m going to make some iced tea,” she said.
“Would you like a glass?”

“No thanks.
I
’ll
finish my painting before I lose the light.”

“
Okay
.
I’ll put my feet up for half an hour and then work on my manuscript for a while.
The
c
eilidh starts at eight, and there’s a buffet too.
I said we’d pick Morag up on our way.”

Once in the kitchen, Anna switched on her laptop, opened the file containing her manuscript and started typing.

The town, I learnt, was Ullapool, a small
, bustling
fishing port on Loch Broom, many miles from my native Knoydart.
Here, my husband secured passage for us on a ship known as ‘Hector’, bound for the Americas.

We sold our ponies
and purchased supplies for the journey—salt beef, ale, tea, coffee, flour
,
and biscuits, which were to be delivered to the quayside, along with our few possessions, in time for our departure.
I had new clothes too
,
a travelling dress of heavy cotton, as well as two others and a heavy coat.
Stockings, under garments and shoes filled my trunk, along with linen and a bolt of tartan cloth.

Three days later, we stood on the quayside waiting to board.
As a three-masted, wooden sailing ship, ‘Hector’ had seen better days.
Even I could tell her timbers were rotten and see her sails were tattered.

The Captain himself showed us to our cabin.
It was tiny, but afforded us privacy, unlike many of my clansmen who I’d seen herded into the hold like cattle.
An oil lamp hung from the ceiling on a hook, and there were two beds, one atop another.

I stood on the deck that evening, my plaid wrapped tightly
a
round my shoulders, as we waited for the tide to turn

“One day, m’eudail
,
my darling, we will return.”

I smiled at my husband’s use of my tongue.
He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.
I knew he spoke the truth, for the ‘Sight’ had shown me that it would be our sons and daughters who returned, not us.

Two hundred souls bade farewell to our native land that day in July 1773.
A lone piper stood on deck and played a lament as we sailed out of the loch.
When the coast of Scotland disappeared from view we retired to our cabin.

That first night I lay in my husband’s arms and wept.
I cried for our families, for their future and ours.
He kissed away my tears
,
and I became his wife in every way.

Anna took her time getting ready.
First, she pinned her long tresses into a neat chignon, being careful to leave some loose tendrils around her face.
Her face was tanned and only needed the lightest touch of blusher.
She accentuated her brigh
t green eyes with bronze shadow
and then
applied a light coating of mascara.
A little
lip-gloss
and…yes, she would do.

She took the plain white, cr
ê
pe
de Chine
dress from its hanger and stepped into it.
The sleeveless, scooped-necked bodice fitted her figure to perfection.
The full skirt fell almost to her ankles, and she couldn’t resist standing on
tiptoe
and twirling round.

A parcel of tissue paper lay on the dressing table.
In
side was her grandmother’s sash
in
the MacDonald clan
colours
,
soft black, white, green, red and blue, which shouldn't have blended well into a heathery plaid, but did
.
She opened it and touched the soft fabric to her cheek.
Her grandmother’s favourite perfume st
ill lingered on the fine tweed.

“I miss you, nana,” she whispered.

Suddenly a fine breeze shook the curtains.

“Nana?” she said, almost unconsciously.
The breeze stopped.
Could it be?
Could Nana be giving her some sort of sign, perhaps a blessing?
She blew a kiss toward the window, just in case.
Nan
a had always blown them to her.

The curtain moved once again.

I’m getting like Morag, she thought.
She shrugged off the silly idea and carefully folded the tartan in two.
She pinned the top of the fold to the right shoulder of her dress with the large Cairngorm and silver brooch that had bee
n in her family for generations. She
had inherited it on her eighteenth bir
thday.

With one final look in the mirror, and her dancing pumps in her hand, she p
ranced her way down the stairs.

Luke stepped into the hallway as she reached the bottom tread.
The warmth she saw in his dark eyes made her heart skip a beat.

“You look
stunning.”
He pulled her into his arms.

“Why, thank you, kind sir.
You don’t scrub up so badly yourself.”
She kissed his cheek.
The scent of his dark, musky cologne intoxicated her.
She shook her head to bring herself back to reality, and
resting a hand on his arm, bent to
put on her shoes.

“I hope this is
okay
.
When I packed for my trip, I didn’t think I’d need a tux or a suit.”

Anna admired his smart dark slacks,
and
crisp white shirt.
“Trust me.
Once the whisky and wine start flowing, no one will pay attention to what anyone else is wearing.
If you’re ready
,
we should be making a move.
Morag will be wondering where we are.”

It was a little after eight when Luke steered the Land Rover through the rusting iron gates of Killilan House.
The Georgian mansion looked sad and forlorn.
Once an architectural jewel, it was now a testament to years of neglect.
Grass sprouted from the gutters.
Masonry crumbled.
Paintwork peeled.
T
he darkness was kind—in the night, it was still majestic, still proud of its heritage and the family that had inhabited its land for six generations.

“My, my, Mr
.
Alistair has pushed the boat out,” Morag declared as her gaze took in the floodlit façade.
“Judging by the number of cars, I’d say the whole village and half of Scotland is here to see what he’s up to, but then it’s not often the
c
eilidh is held in the big house.”

“
I
sn’t that old Dougal?”
Anna pointed to a gentleman almost bent double with age.

“Aye, it is.
And there’s Mrs
.
McCloud and the Fraser twins.”

A lone piper, in full Highland dress, stood on the steps of the west wing playing a liv
ely reel to welcome the guests.

“Ah, the pipes.
Don’t you just love them?”
Morag wiped a tear from her eye.
“My
Lachlan is such a bonny player. W
hat a pity he can’t be here.”
She spied Luke cringing.
“Do you no like the bagpipes, then?”

Anna squeezed his arm in warning.

He cleared his throat.
“They’re sorta like classical music and opera
,
an acquired taste.”

“Aye, maybe you’re right.
You have to be a native of Scotland to truly appreciate them.
You’ll hear a lot of pipe music tonight, and I daresay some
puirt-a-beul
, too.”

“You’ve totally lost me, Morag.
Poor-a-beel…?”

“‘Poorsht-a-beel’,” Anna enunciated.
“Highland mouth music.”

The large drawing room, which ran the entire length of the west wing, had been transformed into a ballroom.
Two wide bay windows, draped with faded gold silk curtains, lay on either side of full height glass doors,
and
overlooked the sweeping front lawn.
The hardwood floor once a deep red, had faded to a soft pink.
Damp patches showed on the ornate stuccoed ceiling, and
the
chandeliers appeared to be missing some of their crystals.
Tapestries, threadbare and faded like the curtains, hung on the walls. Tables had been placed at one end, leaving the res
t of the room free for dancing.

The room was two-thirds full when they entered.
Raucous laughter filled the air.

“Wow!”
Luke glanced around the room and gestured at the portraits.
“Get a load of all those ugly mugs.
Must be his ancestors.”

“
You’re
not here to admire the antiques,” Anna said as the band, specially hired from Glasgow, started tuning up at the far end of the room.
She took Luke’s hand, and pulled him along behind her as the first chords of an eightsome ree
l filled the room.

“Come on,” she said
,
taking her place among the dancers already forming a circle on the floor.

“Hey, wait a minute!
I said nothing about dancing.
”

“
D
on’t be such a bore.
A reel is easy.
Any idiot can do it.”

“Not
this
idiot.
Anna!”
H
is refusal fell on deaf ears.
Anna tugged him to the left, then to the right in time to the music.
With her shouts of ‘right,’ ‘left,’ ‘give me your hand,’ and general words of encouragement, she ensured he fumb
led his way through to the end.

As the last notes died away, a breathless and flush
ed Anna slipped her arm in his.

“There, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“It depends on your definition of bad.
I think I’m going to have a heart attack.
I n
eed a drink.
A great big one.”

Anna laughed as he snagged two glasses of wine from a passing
waiter, and handed one to her.