Amanda Scott (41 page)

MacDonald had already told him as much, but it was with heartfelt sincerity that he said, “Sweetheart, no power that I ever wield can compete with yours.” Pulling back the coverlet, he dropped his robe to the floor, and climbed in beside her. “You wield more power over men with a smile than I could wield with a thousand galleys at my command.”

She held out her arms. “Be quiet now, and kiss me.”

Readily he complied. Her body was warm against his, and soft, her skin like silk. He sighed, thinking of the years ahead of them together, and as he stroked her and bent to taste her breasts and belly, he slid a hand beneath her to cup one soft cheek of her bottom. She was delicious, and he savored his delight until the thought of Niall Mackinnon turning up her skirts and smacking her intruded on his pleasure.

“I’m glad Mackinnon’s dead,” he murmured. “I did not mean to kill h—”

With two fingers on his lips, she silenced him. “Niall wanted to die, my love,” she said. “He stepped into your blade. He knew he would lose all and he could not bear it. Put him out of your head now, for I would be your wife in all ways.”

His body ached for her, and hers was ready for him. Their coupling was swift, fierce, and powerful.

Afterward, they lay quietly for several minutes before she turned onto one side and kissed him lightly. Then, with her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and her body molding itself against his, she said, “It is very strange, is it not, that love makes one look at the world and all who inhabit it as utterly delightful. You make me feel wonderful. Faith, I like everyone right now. I can even forgive Fingon for all he did—aye, and Niall, too—and perhaps even offer a prayer for their souls.”

“You are kinder than I am, sweetheart, but I have little worry that your prayers will make any difference where Niall is now.”

“That’s sacrilege,” she said, tapping his nose with one finger. “For that you must pay a penance, I think.”

“Willingly,” he said, grabbing her by both arms and pulling her close. “I shall begin my penance by kissing every inch of your beautiful body.”

Laughing, she rolled to her back. As he began his penance, she said with a chuckle, “I’ve decided that submission to one’s husband is occasionally acceptable.”

He murmured a response, but his kisses had reached a spot by then that rendered further sensible conversation impossible.

Epilogue

Loch Gruinart, Isle of Isla, July 1367

T
he tide had turned, but still he did not come to her, although he had sent word promising to be at the loch early if she would meet him to watch the sunrise. Already they were going to be late getting back, and considering her present moodiness and uncertain temper, it would be as much as his life was worth if he did not show himself soon.

She walked barefoot along the sand toward the north shore cliffs, dangling her boots by their rawhide laces and thinking about Elma MacCoun and what her last moments must have been like, focusing on Elma so that her impatience for him would not be the first thing he would see. As always, just thinking of him brought his twinkling image to mind, and jolts of desire shot through her at the knowledge that his impatience would match her own.

He would come soon. He would be aching for her and for the bairn, too, but she had moved to Kilchoman days ago, wanting to enjoy his homecoming with him alone. He had promised to meet her, to watch the dawn break through the twilight here, and he kept his promises. Still, things did happen, unexpected events that altered the course of one’s life in a heartbeat. But no such thing had happened today. She would know if it had, and her mind was at peace, her world safe for now.

As the sky continued to lighten in the east, she stood facing the sea, letting her body relax, delighting in the way the changing light brought the water’s colors to life. Fluffy white clouds floated overhead and would soon bloom with roses as the sun began to touch them directly.

Hoofbeats sounded at last on the hillside behind her, and she whirled, filled with eager anticipation that swelled to joy when she saw the galloping horse and its rider. Dropping her boots, she snatched up her skirts and ran laughing to meet him.

Just as he had the last time they had met at the loch, he reined his steed in sharply before it reached her, then leaped from the saddle and ran to meet her, catching her up in his arms and whirling about, holding her close.

“You’re really here!” Mairi said happily, hugging him.

“Aye, sweetheart,” Lachlan agreed, “I’m here, and I’ve missed you sorely.”

“Did you get it?”

“I’ve the document in a bag on my saddle,” he said. “You can see it when we reach Kilchoman, and although ’tis written in Latin, I’ll tell you what every word means. But first I want you all to myself for a while.”

“We are to be alone at Kilchoman for a fortnight, are we not?”

“Aye, for your lady mother promised as much, but ‘alone’ in a splendid summer palace with servants all around . . .” Clearly seeing no need to finish the thought, he added abruptly, “Kiss me, lass. I’m fair parched for the taste of you.”

She obeyed with alacrity, and the kiss was long and deep. A second one followed, and his hands moved over her body in their strong, possessive way, stirring deep contentment within her.

When he held her a little away and looked into her eyes as if to reassure himself that the reality matched his memory of her, she said with satisfaction, “So we are legally married now even in the eyes of the Roman Kirk.”

“Aye, and his holiness was kind enough to mention our wee Hector in his dispensation, to protect him from any threat of bastardizing or excommunication. In fact,” he added, grinning, “the document protects the ‘children’ conceived of our union before the dispensation’s date, so he allowed for more than one, just in case.”

“The Pope is a wise man,” she said archly.

“What?” He gripped her shoulders. “Do you mean to tell me—”

When she nodded, a huge smile split his handsome face. “Art sure, sweetheart?” he asked foolishly.

“You’ve been gone two months, sir. I’m very sure. And I’m thinking ’tis another rowdy lad, for mornings I’m sick as a cat, just as I was with wee Hector.”

“Faith, you didn’t ride out here alone, retching all the way, I hope!”

She raised her eyebrows. “And if I did?”

He struggled visibly with himself, then said with a twinkle, “If you did, you’ll have to pay a wee penance for your foolishness, my love, but if you are well enough, we can celebrate your excellent health instead.”

“And what would be the difference betwixt the two, sir?”

“Why, none, lass, none at all,” he said. “’Tis a rare bargain, you’ll agree.”

She laughed, and he hugged her tight. And then he was kissing her again, and soon he spread his cloak on the grass nearby for them to lie on, and she reached for him. Their clothing quickly discarded, she squealed and he chuckled when the cool morning breeze from the sea kissed their naked skin, but they quickly forgot the breeze in the heat that consumed them both.

Gulls prattled overhead, and birdsong erupted in the heather, but the two of them were oblivious, their bodies too hungry for each other to care about anything else. Behind them, to the east, the sun peeked between the Paps of Jura, spilling warm golden rays across the landscape.

Their new day had dawned.

Dear Reader,

The idea to write a book about the first Lord of the Isles stirred when I came across the story of Mairi of the Isles and Lachlan Lubanach Maclean in a collection of bards’ tales [
West Highland Tales
by Fitzroy Maclean, Edinburgh, 1985]. Needless to say, Clan Mackinnon’s view of the events described in
Highland Princess
differs dramatically from the Maclean version. However, in general, the Maclean version seems to have more supporters among historians, and truthfully, it was more romantic and more fun to write.

There was in the fourteenth century, as there is in my book, only one Mac Donald (sic), and he was the Lord of the Isles. Mac Donald was not a surname but a title, meaning the son of Donald, and there could be only one at a time. Eventually, the name evolved into the various spellings used today, but in 1367, it was still written as two words on official documents. I used the modern spelling, MacDonald, to avoid both reader and proofreader confusion.

Few surnames, as such, were used in the Highlands or Isles until much later, but I chose to use some, sparingly, to help us all keep track of who is allied with whom in the story. One never appreciates surnames more, however, than when one tries to write without them. For example, a proper fourteenth-century introduction of the hero of
Highland Princess
would have been “Lachlan Lubanach, son of Ian Dubh, son of Gille Coluim, son of Maol Iosa, son of Gille eoin, son of MacRath, son of Maol suthan, son of Niall, son of Cu duiligh, son of Ceallach, son of Rangce, son of Old Dubhghall of Scone”—in other words, his entire known genealogy.

When characters in
Highland Princess
refer to the Macleans as upstarts, they do so because of an unfortunate four-hundred-year gap that separates the Macleans’ known (confirmable) history from the seventh-century brother of a king of Dalriada that they claim as progenitor of the clan. Clan Donald, on the other hand, claims a pedigree confirmed to Somerled and Colla Uais, legendary High King of Ireland and one of three traditional founders of the fourth-century Irish Kingdom of Oriel.

Fingon Mackinnon, the Green Abbot, had to wait forty years from the date he proclaimed himself Abbot of Iona before a friendly Pope finally came along in 1397 and agreed to let him style himself the Mitered Abbot of Iona. And experts disagree about the actual death of Niall Mackinnon. Some say he lived long after the battle with the Macleans (an “ambush,” according to Mackinnons, and they may be right). Other experts insist that Niall died at Craignure Bay.

Those of you who have visited the nearly treeless Western Isles of Scotland may be wondering about all the forests in
Highland Princess
. Let me reassure you, sadly, that the fourteenth-century Isles were lush with forestlands. Until the sixteenth century, Mull and the other western isles boasted more than forty thousand acres of trees. The trees vanished there, as elsewhere throughout the British Isles, through an unfortunate habit of denuding forests to provide fuel and building materials.

For readers interested in pursuing the history of the Lords of the Isles, I suggest the following books:
House of Islay
by Donald Grumach (Argyll, 1967);
The Clan Donald
by Reverend A. MacDonald, (Inverness, 1896);
History of the Macdonalds and Lords of the Isles
(with genealogies) by Alexander Mackenzie, (Inverness, 1881);
Warriors & Priests
by Nicholas Maclean-Bristol (Tuckwell, 1995);
The Lords of the Isles
by Raymond Campbell Paterson (Edinburgh, 2001); and
Lord of the Isles
by Nigel Tranter (London, 1983).

For those of you interested specifically in Maclean history, Lachlan the Wily is the progenitor of the Macleans of Duart, Hector the Ferocious that of the Maclaines of Lochbuie. The change in spelling did not occur until after 1745, and according to the present Chief of the Maclaines of Lochbuie, the traditionally accepted split between the two houses never occurred but was simply a device the Macleans used, in common with other extended clans, to establish “openly” that elements of the clan were “not out” (i.e. not Jacobite supporters of Bonnie Prince Charlie). When the inevitable defeat occurred, vengeful Hanoverians and their non-Jacobite Scottish allies could not take lands from clans that had refused to join the rebellion, so by claiming publicly that one line was “out” while the other was not, all Macleans were able to retain most of their holdings.

Aside from documents such as land grants and papal dispensations, little written evidence exists of fourteenth- century Isles’ history, so one’s imagination can run free. However, once again, I’ve had lots of help from the amazing Donald R. MacRae, for one, and to him, again, I extend many, many thanks.

I also want to thank Duncan Staffa Maclean, FSA (Scot) of the California/Nevada Clan Maclean Association; Rob Goodson, Webmaster of Gillean.com and his wife Elena; Linda MacArthur of the Finlaggan Trust (and other members of the committee who took an interest); Nicky Pendry of the British Ordnance Survey; Brian Palmer, who connected me with the folks at the Finlaggan Trust; and last but very much not least, Alasdair White, whose extraordinary knowledge of twelfth- through fourteenth-century Scotland has been particularly helpful.

And, as always, I thank my wonderful editor Beth de Guzman, my long-suffering and indispensable agents Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs, and Lisa Vance, and everyone else in my life who does so much to ease the writer’s angst.

If you’ve enjoyed
Highland Princess
, please look for
Lord of the Isles
, the story of Hector Reaganach Maclean and Cristina Macleod at your favorite bookstore in May 2005. In the meantime,
Suas Alba!

Sincerely,