Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series)

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Climbing up to the highest point of the warm, fragrant field he could see the winding glen road far below. On it was the unmistakable figure of Shona going in the direction of Portcull. She was pushing a pram and hanging on to her hand was the tiny doll-like figure of Lorna. He realized that his sister must recently have come from his house after collecting the children in order to relieve Rachel for an hour or two. He hesitated, shading his eyes as he watched his sister’s progress along the road. There was really no need for him to carry on, Shona had the children, it would be pointless for him to go home now – yet he knew that his father wouldn’t take kindly to this careless attitude. He would expect a complete report – how the children were faring without their mother – how Rachel was managing. It wouldn’t do to just tell him that Shona was seeing to things. He would expect his son to at least have the manners to see how a guest of his was faring. He walked on feeling slightly unreal. The whisky lay like a fire in his belly, making him unsteady on his feet, dulling his wits slightly. His thoughts turned to Bob and the hilarious banter they had all shared for the last hour. The old man had been on top mettle, and, unconscious comedian that he was, had come away with one funny revelation after another so that they had all exhausted themselves laughing. He smiled to himself. It was a good feeling that, to laugh in such sheer abandon over the small trivialities of life, though ten thousand pounds was certainly not to be taken so lightly. Every so often Bob had stopped in the middle of a sentence to say in a dazed voice, ‘I’m buggered, I really am buggered. I canny yet take in the fact that I’ve won all that money. By jove! Pour me another drink, Fergus, till I get the facts right in my head.’

  It was a wide, blue, glorious day with light and life all around. The lambs were gambolling in the fields; peewits were tossing and tumbling in the sky in their nuptial flight; big fat bumblebees were prodding busily into the wildflowers growing along the banks of the burn, and all along the way the first spikes of the bluebells were poking their heads through the green tangle of uncurling ferns. He was distracted by the delights of the bursting hedgerows, by the beauty of the island lit by sunlight, by the sensing of Lewis’ presence which came to him as if borne on the breeze wafting up from the sea. He had the notion that his brother was walking right beside him, marking his own pathway through the sweet grasses of the field. His defences were down and he wasn’t prepared for the sight that met his eyes as he topped the knoll. His heart, so peaceful and relaxed only moments before, began to beat a familiar, rapid tattoo inside his breast. Rachel was lying in a sun-drenched hollow almost directly below him and although she was half-hidden by tender young ferns, from his vantage point he was able to see her as clearly as day. She lay spreadeagled in the warm suntrap, her eyes closed, her face to the sky, her body naked from the waist up. Lorn’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, the world spun, his entire being was consumed by a fire that he knew could never be extinguished . . .

  Almost stealthily he made his way downwards. Rachel didn’t stir at his approach and he saw she was fast asleep. He stood there in the hot sun staring at her, drinking in every aspect of her face in repose, the dark lashes fanning the smooth cheeks, her glorious hair tumbled about her naked shoulders. Her breasts were rising and falling rhythmically, full and white against the surrounding flesh of shoulders and arms which were a smooth golden brown; her waist was diminutive plunging down to secrets hidden from him by the cotton material of her skirt. Sweat broke on his brow. Every one of his senses was alert now and he knew he had to flee from this spot, get right away from her before it was too late. He moved clumsily, his foot clattered against a stone, the sound of it like thunder in his ears, competing with the rushing of his heart. She awoke, her black eyes momentarily dazed, but in seconds growing big with shock as she took in the sight of him looming upwards against the sky.

  Abruptly she sat up and as she did so her breasts stood out, firm, perfect, yet fragile in all their in all their feminine vulnerability. Anger and desire tore him apart. He wanted to reach down, grab her clothes and throw them disdainfully at her before turning on his heel and walking away. But every shred of his will had dissipated like smoke before the wind. He was powerless to do anything that commanded strength and sanity. The sight of her lying innocently asleep had already robbed him of self-command, now the sight of her warm, flushed limbs, moving, struggling to make sense of the little bundle that was her blouse and cardigan, drove him to the brink of madness.

  ‘Rachel.’ Her name came out in a husky sigh. She looked up, frozen into immobility by the passion in his voice. The shreds of her own reason fell away. She wanted nothing else but to feel his arms around her, his lips on hers . . . His figure filled her being with its tense sensuality. Jon, Ruth, everyone she cared for, slipped off into obscurity. Lorn, and only Lorn, was in her world that warm, breathless spring day. He took a step nearer, a step that was to lead him to his undoing. His eyes burned into her face. They stared at one another for eternal moments – and then he was beside her, falling hungrily into her waiting arms. He tore off his shirt, trembled with excitement as he pressed his hard chest against her soft breasts. His mouth came down to meet hers, hard and demanding. She opened her lips to the bruising, crushing pressure, willingly, wantonly. He was awash with passion and could think of nothing but her silken body beneath him – no wonder Lewis had lost his head over her – she was the epitome of warm, desirable young womanhood. He had to know what it was like with her – he – had to – possess her – Lewis was all at once overpoweringly near – goading him on, making him taste what he had tasted – Ruth – Ruth was a million miles away – the world was here – in the clinging passionate circle of Rachel’s arms . . . The sun beat down hotly on their naked bodies; the insects buzzed among the flowers; the linnet sang, higher and higher, reached a crescendo that went on and on . . . And down below the little house known as Fàilte slumbered peacefully in the afternoon sun – as if nothing had changed – as if the two young people who had loved within its walls still reposed within, happy and contented in their lives together – and in the lives of their children.

  Jon walked briskly along the winding Glen Fallan road towards the cottage by Sliach. He had come on a late boat and had gone at once to Croft na Ard to let Babbie and Anton know that he had arrived. They had been surprised to see him and he had smiled at the look on their faces. He had explained that his mother was much better and rather than waste time contacting everyone he had decided to come to Rhanna as quickly as he could.

  ‘Rachel will be surprised to see you,’ Babbie told him warmly, smiling at the eagerness in his eyes at mention of his wife’s name. She had told him how Ruth had been taken ill six days ago and how Rachel had volunteered to look after the children. Jon had looked slightly puzzled. ‘She didn’t write to tell me this.’

  ‘Oh, it only happened recently, Jon, my friend,’ Anton said. ‘Everything was rushed. No doubt she hasn’t had the time to spare to pick up a pen. Two young children can be quite a handful, you know – well of course you don’t, like my Babbie and I, we have no real idea what it is to cope with babies.’

  He had gone on to tell Jon how he had flown the Beagle to Barra because the laird’s friend had been too drunk to take the controls, and they had laughed together over Anton’s description of his feelings inside the strange cockpit. But Jon had been impatient to get over the glen though he had refused Babbie’s offer of the car, preferring to walk on such a perfect evening.

  He braced his shoulders and breathed deeply of the clean hill air. The sounds of the open places were music in his ears after the rush of city life. Corncrakes were muttering in the long grasses; the bleating of lambs floated downward; a dog barked; a cow lowed. The hills were a hazy purple, merging into the deep dark blue of the evening sky. He smiled, a little smile of pleasure. How good it was to be back on Rhanna. No matter how far he travelled he remembered this island with affection and gratitude. For him life had truly begun here, begun with the meeting of a raven-haired child who had
fascinated him from the start and whom he had never forgotten. Now she was his wife and often he couldn’t believe his good luck. She could have had anyone she chose but she had married him. The thought of her kindled anew his anticipation at seeing her again. He was lost in happy thought as he traversed the hilly track and there was a spring in his step as he approached the house sitting so peacefully in the lee of the knoll. On soundless feet he drew nearer, his heart beating a little faster as he pictured Rachel’s surprise at seeing him.

  Closer to hand the house was deserted looking though the door at the back lay open. Tiptoeing inside he went into each room but no one was there, only the children fast asleep in the small bedroom opposite the kitchen. Going down the passageway he peered into the parlour but it too was empty and he stood at the window, nonplussed and somewhat deflated. A movement in the woods caught his eye. He saw two indistinct figures walking very close, disappearing among the trees. Letting himself out of the front door he crossed the green and opened the wooden gate into rougher pastures. Treading carefully, for the ground was pitted with rabbit burrows and splattered with cow dung, he reached the belt of trees and plunged into them. A thick canopy of green blotted out the sky. It was very still, dim and mysterious. Something warned him to tread carefully, his footsteps were hushed as he wound his way over a thickly carpeted path of pine needles till finally he stopped in the shadows that fringed the wild shores of Sliach. The sight that met his eyes was as unexpected as it was earthshattering. He drew back a little, the cold fingers of horror clutching at his heart. Lorn and Rachel were sitting on the sandy shore of the loch and they were talking, at least Lorn was talking, telling her that something had to stop before it was too late. His voice, harsh with misery, floated quite clearly to Jon in the still air. And they were kissing, passionately, over and over, and Jon put a hand over his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to see any more.

  Down by the loch Lorn and Rachel were oblivious to everything but the poignancy of this last time they had together. They had both known it would be a brief affair but now that the time had come to say goodbye they recognized only too plainly the pain of such a bittersweet parting. They had had such a short time together yet at the time each day had seemed endless, each kiss only the one preceding the next, each fiery, secretive laughing glance a breathless prelude to the next burning touch, the next ecstasy – and the next . . . They had never thought that anything so intense, so deep, could end so soon – but it had to – they both knew that, and when Lorn had come to the cottage that evening looking solemn and serious she had known that he was going to tell her it was over. And so they had come to this their favourite place, their haunt for the last few unreal, glorious days. The shapes of their bodies were imprinted into the hollow of sand under the high tussocky bank.

  He was talking again, telling her that it was Ruth that he loved and that what had happened between them had been brought about by sheer infatuation. His eyes were black with shame and misery. Her hands were on his arms, he could feel the heat of them burning through his thin shirt. He could feel her pain as he spoke to her. Her head was thrown slightly back, he could see the pulse of her life beating in the creamy skin of her neck. He had discovered why his brother had been so fascinated with her. She was exciting to be with, so vibrant and alive he could imagine her life to be like a fountain, continually being replenished from within, bubbling up and out to meet life force with life force. No wonder her eyes were like turbulent, liquid pools – she had so much life in her, this beautiful creature – it was as well, perhaps, that she was able to channel her energies into the demanding career she had set herself – life like that had to have an outlet, like a volcano erupting when inside pressures became too much. Yet she could be as peaceful as the waters of the loch on a summer’s day, there had been something divine in the silence of her presence. Very often he had had no need to communicate with her verbally, a kind of telepathy had taken the place of words. Looking into her eyes now he saw his own misery reflected – but there was something deeper than that and for the first time he wondered if she had felt something more for him than purely physical attraction.

  If he could have looked into her heart he would have seen this to be true. For Rachel the affair had been charged with all the emotions she had felt for Lewis and much much more. She had always known that Lewis’ feelings for her weren’t born of love, but of need, but she had accepted that selfish part that was in him. Lorn was different. He had wanted her, certainly, but through it all there had been a tenderness, a regard for how she was feeling, thinking.

  He didn’t love her. She knew that. Ruth was his first and only love, but she knew her feelings for him would always remain with her. It hurt her to hear him dismissing her so easily, but then she saw how unhappy he was and tears filled her eyes.

  He had never seen her cry before and a great surge of remorse tore him apart. ‘Rachel, Rachel,’ he murmured brokenly, ‘I’m sorry, if I’ve hurt you I don’t think I can bear it. I didn’t mean it to happen that way – oh God!’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I didn’t want any of it to happen but it has, Rachel, and I can only pray that we are the only ones ever to be hurt by what we have done!’

  Jon leaned against the bole of a tree, utterly stricken. He felt as if his world had been turned upside down and didn’t know which way to turn. With a shaking hand he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. The glasses fell from his nerveless fingers and in a panic he moved his foot only to hear an ominous crunching under his shoe. With a cry of anguish he turned and stumbled away, unable to see where he was going for the tears that blinded his already shortsighted eyes.

  At the sound of snapping twigs Rachel jerked up her head to look rather fearfully at the pines standing like sentinels over the loch. She saw a blurred shape moving through the trees – a shape that was somehow familiar to her . . . But it couldn’t be! Oh, God, it mustn’t be . . . Her face was ashen beneath its tan, a strong sense of unease niggled at her. Getting up she ran to the path between the trees and almost at once saw the pitiful little pile of crushed glass and metal that had been Jon’s specs. Slowly she retrieved the fragments and laid them on the palm of her hand.

  ‘Jon, oh no, not Jon,’ she thought in horror. Lorn came up at her back and saw what she held in her hand.

  ‘They – could be anybody’s,’ he tried to sound reassuring. ‘Maybe they’ve been lying there for ages.’

  Vehemently she shook her dark head and he put a comforting arm across her shoulders. ‘Come on, we’ll get your things. I’ll take you over to Croft na Ard to find out if he is home – though surely he would have warned you.’

  She smiled, a half smile as she thought about her husband, how he enjoyed doing things to please her, how he loved surprising her when she least expected it. Swiftly she conveyed to Lorn that he must stay with the children. She would walk to the croft and didn’t know if she would be back that night. He watched her walk away and turned to make his way back to the house, a cold finger of dread clutching at his heart as he thought about the enormity of the thing he and Rachel had started – and where it would all end.

  Babbie was wrapped in a green dressing gown that matched her odd, amber-flecked eyes. They had a bemused expression in them as she ushered Rachel into the house. ‘Isn’t Jon with you?’ she asked puzzled. ‘He came home unexpectedly and went over to Fàilte to surprise you. I wonder why you didn’t see him.’

  Rachel turned white. So – it had, after all, been Jon she had heard in the woods. He must have seen – heard everything that had passed between her and Lorn. She pulled herself together. It would never do to let anyone see how upset she was – she must wait for Jon – to face what she had to when the dreadful moment of truth came to pass. Raising her head she smiled at Babbie who wasn’t taken in for a moment. She had had too much experience of people to be in the least taken in by the girl’s forced brightness and she sighed a little as she wondered just what had happened over at Fàilte to make Rachel appear without Jon at her
side.

  Jon walked unseeingly over the cliffs, his thoughts in a turmoil. Somehow he had always known that one day something like this might happen. Rachel was so young, so full of life – while he was dull, settled in comparison, old enough to be her father. All along he had known that that was one of her reasons for marrying him. She had needed the security only a father figure could give yet by pledging herself to him she had had to crush down a lot of youthful desires and impulses. He had given her the security she needed, but he had never been able to return the passion of such a girl – and this was the result of all that – when faced with a temperament as youthful and as hungry as her own she hadn’t been able to resist the temptation – and with a McKenzie too – always it had been with a McKenzie. He had expected it with Lewis, that carefree, vigorous young McKenzie who always won the hearts of women – but he hadn’t expected it to happen with Lorn – who was married to Ruth, the child with the sweet face and golden hair. But perhaps she was like him, not passionate enough, too gentle and uncertain to be able to fully satisfy vital, strong people like Lorn and Rachel.

  He turned his face towards the sea. The cool air of night seeped into him, making him shiver. A mist blurred his vision. He put out his tongue and tasted salt – salt from the sea or from his own tears? A shudder went through him. He stumbled down a sheep track and came to the wide white stretch of Aosdana Bay, Bay of the Poet. His feet whispered over the sand, the wind from the sea ruffled his hair. He didn’t know how long he walked, it could have been minutes, hours, he was too confused to know or care. Finally he sat down on a rock to huddle into his jacket and clasp his hands together. He sat like that for a long time. Idly he picked up pebbles and threw them into the waves. The sea lapped his feet, he watched it, stared fascinated at the tangle of seaweed swaying in the silken water. The ocean sighed, the great empty reaches of it stretching far into the infinite loneliness of night. Time drifted rather than passed. He felt small, insignificant. It was a good place to get things into their proper perspective. Perhaps, now, Rachel might have got rid of some of her restlessness. He had sensed it for years, that unrest which filled her eyes with a turbulence he had felt could never be stilled. This was perhaps a phase in her life which she’d had to pass through – which they had to pass through before she was finally and completely – his.