The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (18 page)

“Ye’ll become accustomed to Robbie’s exaggerations soon enough, Beth,” Ealasaid said, unperturbed by the allegation of unwarranted brutality. “What he means is that he was caught halfway to imperilling his immortal soul wi’ the lassie, and I gave him a good thrashing wi’ my tongue. And if you do it again, laddie, ye’ll have cause to regret it. I’ll use more than words next time.”

Robert’s blue eyes glittered with rebellion. Both the brothers, although of only average height and slender build, were wiry and powerful. And strikingly handsome. In spite of possessing Beth’s silver-blond hair and cornflower blue eyes, there was nothing feminine or fragile about the brothers. Their features were strong and masculine, and they could both clearly handle themselves, although Robert was not as self-possessed as his older brother. Ealasaid was clearly concerned that there would be trouble later, if Robert attempted another seduction. His expression made it clear he had every intention of doing so. Her expression made it clear that she considered him a troublemaker, was regretting having allowed him to come, and would not normally have done so, had she not wanted Beth to meet her family.

“Have you met Angus yet?” Beth said casually. “You’d probably get on well with him. You seem to have a lot in common.”

Robert’s face creased with concentration.

“I’m no’ sure,” he said. “What does he look like?”

“He looks like Alex,” she said. “They’re brothers. He’s got the height and build of Alex, but his hair is more the colour of Joan’s. I’ll introduce you later, if you like. He’s a vicious fighter,” she added, as though that was one of the things she thought they would have in common. “And he’s very fond of Morag, too.”

It was clear from his sudden pallor that Robert now remembered who Angus was. He glanced hopefully at Allan, and was greeted with an implacable glare that told him he could expect no help from that quarter if he antagonised the MacGregor chieftain’s brother. Ealasaid hid her smile behind a handkerchief, and Beth continued talking as though she had not noticed the youth’s reaction.

“What was life like in America,
sheanmhair
?” she asked.

“Hard, at first,” her grandmother said. “But not as hard as the crossing. Nothing could be as bad as that. Nearly half of us died before we ever saw the land. And then your quality of life depended on who hired ye, ye ken. They tellt ye ye were sentenced to life as an indentured servant. But there isna any difference between that and being a slave. It’s just a fancy word tae make it sound better.”

She settled back in her chair, and her family gathered eagerly round her. The others, Beth excepted, had heard the story before, but it lost nothing in the retelling.

“When I was arrested, I thought they’d hang me. I wanted them to. I did shoot the Dragoon, after all, and I never tried to deny it. I was a wee bit crazy, I think. Once I knew that Ann would be well-cared for by my sister, I had nothing left to live for. I couldna believe it when they tellt me I was to be transported. Of course, there was such a fuss caused over the massacre, even in England, that they didna dare to hang a woman for revenging herself on the soldiers who’d murdered her kin. I was verra beautiful then, ye ken, like yourself,” she said, smiling at her granddaughter, “and I had my last speech all prepared. There’d hae been a riot, and the authorities knew it. So they shuffled me quietly off to America. Well, the crossing might have weakened my body, but it didna hurt my spirit, and I’d decided I’d be no man’s slave. I spent the first two years being beaten by my first master, before he gave up on me and put me up for hire again.”

“Ye should see the scars, Beth,” said Joan, shuddering.

“No, she shouldna,” replied the old lady before one of her great-nieces suggested she bare her back for her granddaughter. “I’m no’ proud of them. I was stupid. I couldna win, and I should have given up and accepted the life God had planned for me. He wasna such a bad man, that first one. Summerville, his name was. If I’d have accepted that I was to be a servant, I think I’d have had a far better life. He’d probably have released me, in time. But I was impossible. I tried to kill him three times before he gave me up for lost, and even then he didna give me up to the authorities as he should have done. It wasna his fault that the next man who bought me was an animal. Most of my scars are from him. He enjoyed wielding power, and the whip. He saw me as a challenge and he won, in time, in a way. He broke me, although I never let him see it.”

She passed a hand over her face.

“Aye, well, I dinna talk about it. After he died, I was put up for hire again, and a sorry sight I was, too, all skin and bones and crawling wi’ lice. It was a Campbell, of all things, who bought me after that.”

“A Campbell?” said Beth. “God, that must have been terrible!”

It was the Campbells who had massacred the MacDonalds at Glencoe.

Ealasaid leaned forward in her seat.

“I’ll tell ye something, lassie,” she said earnestly. “For ye’ve the same spirit as myself. I can see it in ye. You need to ken when you’re beaten, when the only person you’re hurting by resisting is yourself. I should have stayed at home, brought my daughter up myself. I’ll always regret no’ doing that. Ye need to learn when it’s wise to compromise. And ye need to learn that there’s good and bad in everyone. Including the Campbells. Ye must judge each man as ye find him, no’ by his name or his nationality. Archibald Campbell and his wife Annie were the best thing that ever happened to me. They were kind, they nursed me back to health, they put up with my insults, and then they gave me the offer of my freedom and a small farm on their land, at a very reasonable rent. I’ve never met such good people in my life. They shamed me into thinking about my behaviour. For the next thirty years or more I lived on the farm and was content, in my way. But I didna want to die in America. It wasna home. So when I thought my time was coming, I took my savings and booked my passage home. That was in ’38 and here I am still waiting to die.” She laughed. “I got that wrong, too. Ye never ken when your time’s coming, only the good Lord knows that. Ye see, I’m still arrogant, in spite of it all.”

“I’m glad you got it wrong,” Beth said fervently. “At least I’ve had the chance to meet you. I wish my mother was still alive. She thought you were dead. We all did. Why didn’t you write to us, tell us you were alive?”

“I was ashamed, for a long time. And by the time I wasna, there seemed no point, somehow. Most of those I’d loved were dead, killed in the massacre.” The old lady’s voice sunk to a whisper, and Beth, who was sitting at her feet, was the only one who heard the next sentence. “And I didna have the courage to face my daughter, knowing I’d abandoned her for a pointless revenge.”

She reached down, stroked her granddaughter’s cheek.

“It makes my heart proud to see what ye’ve come to. Married to a chieftain in front of the prince himself, and a fine man ye’ve got for yourself too, if my instincts are still true.”

“They are,” said Beth firmly. “He’s wonderful, and I love him.”

“He’s awfu’ handsome,” said Meg wistfully.

“His brothers are awfu’ handsome too,” said Joan, “and they’re available,” she added practically. “Ye said Angus favours Morag, did ye?”

“Aye, well, she canna favour him that much, if she’d let Robbie…” Meg cast a quick glance at her great-aunt’s face and subsided, blushing.

But Duncan’s no’ courting, is he?” persisted Joan, starry-eyed.

“No,” said Beth. “Duncan isn’t courting.” Duncan could look after himself, she knew that. He was a born diplomat.

Angus was another matter altogether. In spite of his comments about not being ready to marry and seeing what the MacDonalds had to offer, he
was
sweet on Morag. That was obvious by the way his face lit up every time they met. The beautiful blonde blue-eyed MacDonald twins had been batting their eyelashes at him for two days and he’d done no more than give them an appreciative look and a few friendly words. She could only hope that Robert had taken her warning to heart, and would leave Morag alone.

The wedding celebration got off to a good start, with everyone eating their fill and chatting merrily in small groups. The original intention to hold the feast outdoors had been defeated by the inclement weather, and the barn, which was large enough to comfortably accommodate the guests, had been appropriated instead. Benches, stools and tables had been brought from every house for those who needed to sit, and piles of hay had been left in the corners for those who wanted to sprawl; later they would make a bed for the children too young to stay awake, and possibly for some of the adults too.

At the moment the children were almost sick with excitement and good food, and after having repeatedly got under the feet of every adult present, were taken outside by Iain and Angus in spite of the intermittent rain, to play a boisterous game which would no doubt result in several scraped knees and elbows and not a few tears, but which would at least deplete their energy a little.

Alex, as he had promised, was clad in the full garb of the chieftain; tall, broad and magnificent in red and black
feileadh mhor
and hose, armed with basket-hilted broadsword, dirk and
sgian dubh,
which weaponry, tonight worn only for show, he would abandon later when the dancing started. His blue bonnet was adorned with the pine sprig of his clan and two eagle feathers denoting his status as chieftain, and he wore his hair loose, falling to his shoulders in rich chestnut waves. The right sleeve of his white linen shirt was rolled up in preparation for the impromptu arm-wrestling contest that was about to take place. A crowd of impressively-clad clansmen had gathered round and a cheer arose from the assembly as Simon took his place opposite his chieftain. The two men locked arms, shifting elbows on the table to achieve the best position, and at a mutual nod the contest began. The men closed around, obscuring Beth’s view, but she had no fears that Alex would lose this bout.

There was only one man here who could best his chieftain, and she looked around the room for him, finally locating him in another corner, armed with a large hunk of beef and a pewter cup of wine, his tree-trunk legs stretched out in front of him. He looked in no rush to join the proceedings and was instead watching the musicians of both clans, who were choosing a suitable spot to sit and were chatting amiably, getting to know each other. He sensed Beth’s gaze on him and looked up, smiling appreciatively at her beauty which was enhanced by the simplicity of the white dress she wore, belted with a sash of the same red and black pattern that her husband was wearing. Her hair was also loose tonight and floated around her hips in a silver cloud. She walked across to join him and he moved to one side to make a place for her on the bench.

“Do you think he’ll win?” she asked.

Kenneth swallowed his mouthful of beef and nodded.

“Aye,” he said. “Simon’s a bonny fighter, but he’s no’ got the strength of Alex.” He scanned the assembly quickly. “There’s no’ a man here that’ll take him, I’m thinking, although one or two would gie him a challenge.”

He caught her surreptitious glance at his enormous arms, as thick as her thighs, and smiled sadly.

“It’s an awfu’ shame that I canna challenge him mysel’,” he said. “But I’m too long in the arm, ye ken.”

She looked up at him.

“And if you weren’t too long in the arm, you’d no doubt have strained a muscle this very day, unfortunately rendering you unable to participate,” Beth commented.

Kenneth laughed, a deep rich giant’s boom.

“Aye, something of that nature. At least while the MacDonalds are here. But even so, it’s still the truth that ye do need to be somewhere close tae each other in arm length. There’s no’ many men alive I can wrestle with.”

That had to be true. She had never met anyone who came even close to his stature.
He must be near seven feet in height,
she estimated. She normally avoided standing close to him. Accustomed as she was to looking up at people, especially her husband, who topped her by a full foot, she still felt somewhat ridiculous talking to somebody whose belt buckle was approximately on a level with her eyes. She wondered how tall Jeannie had been and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this mountain of a man who had almost been destroyed by his wife’s stupidity. Duncan had told her the details of the story of her death and Kenneth’s subsequent distress and had warned her not to speak to him of it. Kenneth didn’t notice her changes of expression as these thoughts crossed her mind, being too busy scrutinising the other occupants of the room.

“Now take yon wee gomerel there for example, yon’s the sort of idiot that’d insist on taking Alex on, although he’s too short in the arm for a fair contest. Then he’d take it badly when he lost,” he said scathingly.

Beth followed Kenneth’s gaze across the room to where Robert MacDonald was sitting, chatting enthusiastically and seemingly innocently with an enraptured Morag. Beth wondered whether it was a blessing or not that he was too preoccupied to entertain challenging Alex, in view of what that preoccupation was.

“Sorry,” said Kenneth belatedly and insincerely. “He’s your kinsman.”

“He is,” replied Beth, resolving to keep an eye on her cousin. “But you’re still right. He’s got all the rebelliousness of the family without the sense. He’s very young though, in fairness, only just turned sixteen.”

“Let’s hope he finds the sense quickly, then, or he’ll no’ grow much older,” said Kenneth roughly, reminding her of Graeme in his bluntness.

A somewhat damp Iain and Angus re-entered the barn, pied-piper-like, trailing a line of rather subdued and dishevelled but grinning children, just as a roar arose from the table and Simon emerged, red-faced but smiling, rolling down his sleeve.

Angus, who had been about to make his way over to the food along with all his small companions, instead veered away and joined his brother, just as one of the MacDonald visitors, Alasdair, took the place of the defeated Simon.

“Now there’s one who’d gie Alex a contest,” said Kenneth, burrowing his enormous paw into the hay at his side and producing a bottle of the finest claret, provided courtesy of Sir Anthony Peters and his mysterious benefactor. He uncorked it with his teeth and took a deep swig before passing it to Beth.