by Jenn Lees
“Aye?” said a woman’s voice. “Is this oor unexpected guests?”
“This is Siobhan Campbell. Would you help me, please?”
“What’re you doin’?” The splosh of water escaping over the side of the bath and onto the floor, came from the bathroom. Rory stood naked in the doorway; clusters of bubbles slid down his torso powerless to hide his masculinity. Her mouth tugged at the corners.
“Could you send up some clothes for my husband? He doesn’t have a thing to wear to the wedding,” she asked the woman on the internal phone.
“Och, aye, of course, hen. I can do that for ye.”
“Siobhan,” Rory wrapped a towel around his waist. “I have—”
“Buckskins,” Siobhan interrupted, “are not wedding attire.”
“I’ll be right up,” the woman on the line said. “I have just the thing.”
Siobhan hung up.
Rory dried himself and shaved with the razor that sat on the shelf above the sink. There was a tap on the door and Siobhan opened it to an older woman who stooped over a clothing bag.
“There ye are, hen.” The woman’s head held a tremor all the while she handed the bag to Siobhan. “He’ll look dashing it that, will he no’?”
The clear window in the cloth bag exposed a square of tartan, a vivid blue, which was almost purple, and dark-green check.
“Wonderful, thank you,” Siobhan said.
The woman left and Siobhan turned to Rory, who now stood in the bathroom doorway, a fresh shaving nick oozing on his chin. “What have you got?”
Siobhan undid the clothing bag. Inside was a full gentleman’s kilt and a white shirt. She held the shirt up to Rory.
“That will fit.”
“Och, it’s Clan Murray.” Rory stepped over to smooth his hands over the finely woven wool cloth. “At least I will nae have to concern myself with clean jocks.”
Chapter 21
Tummel House Community
Shaking away the fatigue of the long day’s ride, Rory stepped down the broad, curved wooden staircase with Siobhan by his side. Tired lines under her eyes and all, she had dressed and made herself very presentable. Despite her weariness, she was indeed a beauty. He sniffed deep—flowers again. Her scent swirled in his mind as surely as did the desire in his body. This elegant woman was his wife, except he hadn’t made her so—yet. He recalled she had hinted that in the future he had made love to her all the day they were together. His gut clenched and this twinge of jealousy for his future self caught him by surprise.
“Mrs Campbell!” Mr Donaldson stood at the foot of the stairs; admiration oozing from his voice. “And Mr Campbell. Och, you look grand in that kilt.”
Rory tore his eyes away from Siobhan in her deep-blue dress. He pushed the image of her just-as-deep-blue eyes out of his thoughts and faced their host.
“I must thank whoever has loaned it to me, for giving me a chance to wear the tartan of ma mither’s clan.”
“Och, son, we kenned you’d wear it with pride.” There was fondness in Mr Donaldson’s tone. “Now you must come and meet my wife.” He offered his arm to Siobhan. “She’s the boss around here. None of us would have survived the turmoil after the stock market crash if not for her.”
Mr Donaldson led them past the entrance to the large room from which the music of drums, piano-accordion, fiddle and bagpipes blared. Inside, couples with linked arms spun around and around each other. Rory paused to watch as Micah swung a young woman off her feet, his dreads flying out behind him. The men in his crew danced and spun with other women in the room.
“Aye, your companions have dined and are enjoying themselves at our cèilidh,” Mr Donaldson said. “But you must come and eat. We have kept some venison back for you both.” The gold rims of his spectacles glinted in the light of the candles that rested in the holders along the wall of the corridor. He led them to a room as large as the one in which the cèilidh was taking place. Long trestle tables lined the walls, covered in white tablecloths and sprigs of purple heather sat around yet more candles as a centre-piece.
Most of the tables were empty, the guests now participating in the cèilidh. An older woman, grey hair piled on top of her head and wearing a neatly tailored dress with a tartan sash over her shoulder, fixed her gaze on them as they followed Mr Donaldson to where she sat at the top table. The woman’s eyes raked Siobhan from head to foot, then Rory, her gaze settling on his face. He could have been an item in one of the glass cases in the Bunker’s archives. Her stern expression gave way to a smile as they approached.
“My dear, may I present Mr and Mrs Campbell of the Invercharing Community.” Donaldson ushered them toward the trestle table behind which his wife sat.
“Welcome. Please come sit beside me and eat.” Mrs Donaldson waved in a come-here gesture.
“Thank you for allowing us to join the wedding celebrations.” Rory held Siobhan’s cool hand, allowing her to go in front of him and sit next to Mrs Donaldson, then he made to sit beside Siobhan.
“No, no, you come the other side of me, Mr Campbell,” Mrs Donaldson said. “I want a close look at you both.”
Rory sat to her right. A young man placed a platter of hot roast venison and vegetables in front of them. Oat cakes and cheese were set next to the centre-piece and a decanter of whisky and glasses were beside them. An older woman set clean plates before Rory and Siobhan. Then a serving woman poured gravy over the meat Rory had placed on his own plate. A strong gamey scent of venison wafted into Rory’s nostrils.
Rory’s stomach hurt with hunger and his palate moistened to receive the forkful of venison dripping in gravy. It had been a while since Rory had had roasted venison. Their time of confinement in the compound, waiting out the nuclear fallout cloud, had offered little variety in the food department, and jerky was the nearest thing to meat he’d had in a while. Succulent, gamey meat melted on his tongue; there was a hint of port in the gravy.
“Eat all you wish,” Mrs Donaldson’s expression was one of warm and genuine friendliness. “Tell me where ye lived in Edinburgh, Mrs Campbell.” Mrs Donaldson spooned generous helpings of roasted parsnip and potatoes onto their plates.
“I lived in the Government Bunker, Mrs Donaldson,” Siobhan answered. “But I am eager to find out how this Community came to be. Wasn’t this once a stately home run by the National Trust of Scotland?” Siobhan held her fork loosely.
“Oh, aye, that’s true,” Mrs Donaldson began. “When vandals began raiding the stately homes, we barricaded ourselves in and defended this grand old place.” Her emphatic nod set her topknot bobbing. “The other staff who worked here brought their families, and those who belonged to our mock army also joined us with their families.”
“Staff?” Siobhan had watched Mrs Donaldson throughout her explanation, her food untouched. “Your family didn’t own this estate?”
“No, we did nae. I was the manager and worked for the National Trust o’ Scotland. I was determined the opportunistic rabble, who were making the most of a dark time in our history, would not destroy this beautiful castle that had been a significant part of Scotland’s past. No, this estate had survived the Jacobite rebellion, and it would endure an economic crisis if we had anything to do with it.”
“And it did, my dear,” Mr Donaldson said.
“You had a mock army?” Rory cut a slice of cheese and placed it on an oatcake.
“Aye, it was part of the day out in the grounds, ye see? We’d have mock battles. The men were all kitted out in kilts and full Highland regalia. They’d march to the pipes and drum. Och, it was a grand sight.”
“Aye, a grand sight.” Mr Donaldson poured whisky into each glass and handed one to Siobhan. “Single malt from the Highlands.” He winked at Rory and handed a glass filled with a generous dram.
“They were a real army when push came tae shove. We had armaments, alright. And we defended this place with all we were worth. It’s oor castle the noo,” Mrs Donaldson leaned forward, squinting in the candlelight. �
�And nae body’s goin’ tae tak it frae us, ken?”
“Aye. Ma wife runs a tight ship. Or should I say castle?” Mr Donaldson said. “We have our chores, and everyone must attend to their assigned tasks to ensure the Community runs smoothly. There are nae favourites. We, all o’ us, work hard to provide food, care for the animals, keep the buildings maintained, our members clothed, and the army trained and supplied to defend us—for, unfortunately, that is still required.”
Siobhan stared at the glass Donaldson handed her. Her face was pale.
Just as pale as on the way to Derrick Lloyd’s place.
“Are ye okay, lass?” Mrs Donaldson asked Siobhan. “Ye are looking a wee bitty peely-wally.”
“We’ve travelled a long way these past two days.” Rory stood and stepped away from the table.
“I must admit, I feel a little lightheaded.” Siobhan let go of her glass and blinked over her untouched meal.
“Ye must eat something, Mrs Campbell,” Mr Donaldson said.
“It’s lovely. But I don’t think I could.”
Rory stepped behind Mrs Donaldson’s chair and reached for Siobhan. “Perhaps I’d better get my wife upstairs.”
“Aye, do,” Mrs Donaldson said.
“Come, Siobhan.” Rory placed his hand under her elbow and helped her to stand.
Siobhan got paler by the moment. Rory assisted her out of the grand hall, and they crept to the staircase.
“You okay?” Rory’s shoulders tensed.
Siobhan answered with a slight nod; her eyes were half closed and the muscles around her neck and collarbones, clearly seen in the low-cut evening dress, stood out with each breath. Halfway up the stairs all her weight leaned into his hand supporting her, and her head sagged.
“Siobhan!” Rory scooped her up in his arms and raced up the staircase to their room.
“Are ye all right, Mrs Campbell?” The woman who’d run the bath, Moira, stood on the staircase. “Och, let me help ye.” She followed him into the bedroom, and he placed Siobhan on the large bed.
“Loosen her clothing.” Moira rolled her and made to unzip her dress.
“Oh, I’m okay,” Siobhan mumbled.
“You sure, Siobhan?” Rory asked. “You just passed oot!” Rory rubbed the back of his neck.
“Her colour’s improving,” Moira said.
“I’m fine now, Moira. Thank you,” Siobhan said to Moira now standing behind him.
“Och, okay, I’ll leave ye. I’ll tell Mrs Donaldson you are all right the noo.” Moira left, closing the door behind her.
“Siobhan? What’s wrong? Are they someone to worry about in the future? You seemed pale for a while back there. Ye have nae eaten a thing. I’ll get them to send something up.” He stood still, waiting for her to answer.
A knock came at the door and Moira burst in carrying a tray full of food.
“Mrs Donaldson insists Mrs Campbell has some food when she’s feeling up to it.” Moira placed the tray on the coffee table at the foot of the bed. “A good night’s sleep is what ye require, young lady,” she said to Siobhan, then she turned to Rory. “You let your wife have an undisturbed night, so she recovers, aye?”
“Aye,” Rory’s forehead tightened. He followed Moira to the door, shut it behind her and paced back to Siobhan. She lay with her eyes closed, barely stirring. Her cheeks were pale, but a shade of pink had reappeared on her lips. She put her hand to her forehead, her breathing seemed much easier.
“What’s goin’ on, lass?” He pushed down a tempest of concern. He needed to focus.
“I don’t know. I just came over all funny. Lightheaded.” She indicated with her chin to the tray on the coffee table. “I couldn’t face food.”
“You must eat.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’d bring it up.”
“Just no’ feeling well? Not bad people in the future?”
She nodded; her cleavage rose with a deep breath. “I think Moira’s right. I need sleep.”
Rory pursed his lips. Her colour was returning. “Dinnae scare me like that.” He kissed her cheek. It was cool and salty. “Sleep then. I love you. Get better, aye?”
She didn’t answer; the rise and fall of her chest steadying and slowing with her slumber.
“Don’t be sick,” Rory whispered. “We need to get home, and soon.”
Chapter 22
Tummel House Community
Faint tapping brought Rory out from sleep and the smell of leftover food going off wafted up from the tray of scraps of last evening’s meal. Siobhan had slept and Rory had eaten the lot but had fallen asleep late. The music thumping through the floor had continued to the wee hours. Rory rolled over and reached out for Siobhan, but the bed was empty. He got up. Tapping came from the door but retching came from the bathroom.
“Siobhan?” Rory hurried to the bathroom. Siobhan wore a dressing gown and was kneeling over the toilet, gagging into the bowl.
“You’re being sick? But you haven’t eaten?”
Siobhan sat back, gasping and holding her hair away from her face. “Tell me about it.”
The tapping grew louder.
“You’ll be okay?”
“Yes.” She let go of her hair. “They’ve been knocking for a while.”
Rory walked to the door.
“Rory!” Xian hissed through the door.
“Aye.” Rory opened it. “What’s wrong?”
“Your presence is wanted at the breakfast table.”
“We’re being summoned again?”
“Yeah,” Xian whispered. “Man, the missus seems to rule with an iron fist. You’d better get down there. She keeps asking me questions I’d rather you answered.”
Rory glanced at the bathroom. It was empty and Siobhan had moved to the bed and sat on its edge.
“You go, Rory.” She pulled the dressing gown closer around her.
“I’ll see you down there shortly, okay?” Xian said.
Rory’s forehead tightened. He shut the door, strode to the bed, and knelt in front of Siobhan. Her colour had returned to her pale beauty, not the pale-unwell of last evening. She seemed herself again, apart from dark circles under her eyes.
“You look better. Ahh...breakfast?”
“No, I’ll get ready to leave. Be back as soon as you can.” She leaned in close. “Just take me home, please.”
“Aye, lass.” He caressed her cheek; it was cool. “Are you up to a day on the road?”
“Yes. I feel better now I’ve got rid of whatever bothered my tummy.”
Rory dressed and left her and met Xian in the passage downstairs. Breakfast was in the same hall as last evening’s wedding feast where people of all ages sat along the tables still arranged from the wedding breakfast. As Rory entered, a baby in a highchair cried as its mother wiped its face. A young child ran past Rory out of the hall, followed by two others who grabbed a ball and a bat that leaned against the wall beside the door. A fire roared in the fireplace at the top end of the room. The aroma of fried bacon, porridge and coffee, which had wafted into Rory’s face while he walked the corridor with Xian, now hit him full-on and his mouth watered.
Mrs Donaldson sat in the same place as the previous evening and beckoned to him. “Come, sit next to me.”
Mr Donaldson sat to her left, peering over his spectacles at Rory. “How is your wee wifey this morning?”
“Siobhan is feeling a bit better, thank you, and anxious to be going home.” Rory sat on the seat beside Mrs Donaldson.
A youth placed a plate of bacon and bannocks before Rory. “Coffee, sir?” he asked.
“Och, please. Have nae had coffee for a wee while, ken.”
The lad poured the coffee and Rory took a sip of the scalding bitterness.
“When you say home, you mean the Invercharing Community, don’t you?” Mrs Donaldson asked.
“Aye.”
“But your wife said she is from the Government Bunker.”
“Aye, and we are now married, so I’m taking her h
ome.” Rory forked a mouthful of the succulent bacon.
“So, the Scottish Government is coming out of its bunker?” Her gaze followed his hands while he continued eating. “About time.” There was a touch of derision in Mrs Donaldson’s tone.
“So it is.” Mr Donaldson pushed a butter dish across to Rory.
“Siobhan and I are to spread the word for any who would be interested in holding conversations with the Government as they endeavour to lead once more.”
“So, there will be elections?” Mrs Donaldson asked.
“Och, there’s a Prime Minister. Bethany Watts.” Rory bit into his bannock.
“And how was she elected?”
“Those who live in the Bunker voted her in.”
Mrs Donaldson pulled her tartan shawl tighter around herself and straightened in her chair while Mr Donaldson stirred his tea with lips pursed.
“So, if the Scottish Government is to govern once more, will we get a chance to have representatives and vote in whomever we wish to represent us?” Mrs Donaldson asked. “Or is it to be a government elected by the chosen few?”
Good points, Mrs.
“And will we—nae, when will we be taxed?” she asked.
Rory finished his bacon, its saltiness lingering on his tongue. Siobhan should be here. She had the answers to the questions Mrs Donaldson asked.
“And will we be allowed to keep oor army?” She leaned into him. “Until law and order is truly established? They’ll no’ take my army.”
“This is true.” Mr Donaldson lifted his gaze from his hot drink and set it on Rory.
“These are the sort o’ subjects you need to talk about with the Government. I take it you would be interested in such discussions.”
“Ye are right there, laddie.” Mrs Donaldson glanced at her husband. “We’re in. You just name the time and place.”