Desire in the Isles

by Roland Graeme

  “You might as well remember that you’ve got a contract with the network. I couldn’t do without you. I count on you to make me look good. Which so far you’ve been doing extremely well. When I review the footage you’ve shot every night and I see how hot I look, I almost fall in love with myself, all over again. Hell, I’m almost tempted to jerk off over myself.”

  “Oh, you silver-tongued devil, you!”

  Stash and Carter were on the deck of the Rock Dove, on the starboard side. It was a warm day, and Carter was once again honing his skills as a volunteer deckhand, adjusting the sails under the supervision of Robert—who had observed Stash’s filming of Carter at work, and who had overheard the two men’s banter, with amusement. All three men were stripped down to bare essentials. Robert wore a pair of red gym shorts and nothing else. Stash was attired in baggy swim trunks, with a particularly gaudy pattern of tropical flowers printed upon them, against a bright yellow background. He did have a pair of boat shoes on his feet, to ensure traction on the wet deck.

  Carter was nude except for a pair of khaki shorts. Bare-chested and barefoot, with his hair being blown about his head and the spray dousing his body, he did look rather primeval as he worked the sails. Replace his shorts with a garment from a previous century, and he might indeed have passed for a Viking explorer, or an Orkney pirate.

  “Take a break, Carter,” Robert invited him. “I’ll take over.”

  Carter and Stash went below, to the galley, where they helped themselves to some strong coffee, from the pot which Niall usually kept brewing, at all hours of the day and night. Returning to the deck, the two men leaned against the railing, drinking their coffee while admiring the view. The boat was sailing south through the waters of the Sea of the Hebrides, and no land was in sight at the moment.

  “Beautiful.” Carter commented. “But then, just about everything I’ve seen here has been beautiful. Oh, sure, some of the places we’ve visited have lost population, and they’ve showed signs of economic hard times. But we haven’t encountered anything which could be called real urban blight.”

  “No, even the places which are depressed still have a certain beauty to them,” Stash agreed. “The Japanese have a term—wabi sabi, which means beautiful decay. It’s their way of acknowledging that some things can’t remain the same indefinitely, but they have to age and deteriorate, in just the way our human bodies do. Which doesn’t mean they’re obsolete or worthless. Just different. And still valuable, in their own right.”

  “You’ve been to Japan, haven’t you, Stash?”

  “Yes, and I loved it. I want to go back, someday soon, for the show. Now it seems only yesterday that I set foot here in Scotland,” Stash remarked. “But in a few days we’ll be back in Portree. We’ll be saying goodbye to the Rock Dove—”

  “Which shouldn’t exactly break your heart,” Carter said, slyly.

  “Hey, be fair! You have to admit, I’ve gotten a little better as a sailor.”

  “I don’t know about better. Less hysterical, maybe.”

  “Thanks for the wholehearted support, you fucker! But I really have enjoyed this trip, on the whole. And I’ll definitely miss the guys—Duncan, Robert, Niall, Martin, and Hamish. They’ve been great.”

  “We can agree to that much, at least.”

  “Anyway, for us it’ll be back to Edinburgh by train, then fly to London, and then back across the Atlantic and home.”

  “And then what?” Carter asked.

  “Well, you’ll be able to take it easy, for a week or so. I’ll have to get busy, helping with the editing of our footage. I like to put in my two cents during the rough cut. And later on, when it’s more or less in its finished form. I have approval of the final edit, you know. I have to make sure I look good, if nothing else.”

  “I flatter myself I’ve done my small part to help you do that.”

  “Oh, you have. For which I’m grateful.”

  “It sounds as though you’ll be very busy, back in New York,” Carter remarked.

  “I will be, but not so much so that I won’t need a little recreation. We can go out for dinner—or something—if you want to.”

  “I’d like that. Especially the something part, which sounds intriguing.”

  Stash grinned at Carter. “Yes, doesn’t it? Don’t bother to unpack completely when we get home, by the way. Before you know it, we’ll be off and running again.”

  “Where to this time?”

  “Poland. I’m excited about that, because I’ve never been to the old country, where my people came from. And Poland isn’t exactly the first place people think of when they plan a European vacation. Maybe we can help to drum up some business for the Poles. I speak the language, which will be a help. We won’t need a translator. You might want to bring along a phrase book.” Stash paused, and then he delivered the punch line. “It could come in handy when you start meeting hot Polish guys with big kielbasas.”

  “You think I’m promiscuous, don’t you?” Carter protested.

  “Not at all. I think you’re like me—you’re opportunistic. In the best sense of the word. Meaning neither of us is the type who likes to pass up a promising chance encounter. With that much said—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Our recent adventures. Especially at Stewart’s bathhouse, on Barra. They’ve changed my way of thinking, Carter.”

  “Changed it? In what way?”

  “I’ve come to realize that sexual freedom—promiscuity, if you will—may have its place.”

  “You think so?” Carter asked.

  “I know so. Accordingly, I have a proposition. On this next junket, why don’t we agree, now, ahead of time, that when it’s a question of sharing accommodations, we’ll just go ahead and room together as a matter of course? Bill and Alonzo can pair up, too, as necessary. They’re used to it. That way, it’ll simplify making reservations ahead of time. As roommates go, you’re tolerable.”

  “So are you. I don’t have any problem with the idea. In fact, I kind of like it.”

  “When it comes to any entertaining of third parties behind closed doors—we can always come up with a system,” Stash suggested. “That old college dorm room signal of a sock placed on the outside door knob, for example.”

  Carter snickered. “Did you actually do that, when you were in college?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you?”

  “The problem never came up. Maybe because I always made damn sure I had gay roommates. Who were always welcome to walk in and catch me in the act and make it a threesome, whenever I had a guy in our dorm room.”

  “Having already assured you that I don’t think you’re a promiscuous slut, I shall refrain from comment,” Stash said.

  “Thanks, Stash. But the expectation is that you and I—?”

  “Will have further opportunities to get to know each other better, when we’re not busy working. That’s all. What’s the matter? Isn’t that enough?”

  Carter looked at the other man. “I know I haven’t said it, not in so many words. But I really do enjoying working with you, Stash. And I’ve enjoyed the rest of it, too. I like you. A lot.”

  “Right back at you, big guy. This assignment has been fun. I want us to have a lot of fun together in Poland, too.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Carter—”

  “What?”

  “I have a sudden urge to kiss you.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “None of the other guys seems to be looking,” Carter pointed out.

  “And even if they were—who gives a fuck?”

  “Not me, that’s for sure. A shipboard romance,” Carter said, lightly. “Perfect! You won’t hear me objecting. Why shouldn’t you go for it?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Stash murmured.

  Their lips met.

  Chapter Eighteen: The Moonlit Broch

  The next stop on their itinerary was the island of Mousa.

  On
ce again, Stash proved to be a walking, talking encyclopedia of knowledge, starting with the fact that “Mousa” meant “the mossy island” in Gaelic. It was a small island, and its main attraction was something called “the broch,” which was supposedly famous—although Carter had never heard of it.

  Stash was excited because they’d been given special permission to pitch tents and camp out overnight in the vicinity of the broch, so they’d be able to film it both during the daylight and at night. The weather forecast promised clear skies and a full moon, ideal conditions for photography.

  “You should be able to get some really nice shots,” Stash told Carter, as the Rock Dove docked on Mousa.

  “Looking forward to it,” Carter said. “But shots of what, exactly? Come on, the suspense is killing me. When are you going to break down and tell me just what the hell is a broch?”

  Stash laughed. “It’s an old building. Very old.”

  “Oh. Another one, huh? That doesn’t sound too exciting. And just what sets this old building apart from the dozens of other ones we’ve already seen?”

  “If your friend Liam was here, he’d be ecstatic. He could fill you in.”

  “But he’s not here,” Carter pointed out. “Sad to say.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I,” Stash asked, mock-humbly. “Am I an adequate or an inadequate substitute for him?”

  “You’ll do in a pinch,” Carter said, airily.

  It was kind of banter he and Stash routinely exchanged, so he was unprepared for the other man’s reaction.

  “Ah, you smug bastard!” Stash exploded. “You son of a bitch! Motherfucker! Prick!”

  “Hey, go easy there,” Carter protested. “What’s set you off, all of a sudden?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. I’m—goddamn it, Carter! I’m kind of hot for you. Which means—yeah—I hate to think of you getting in on with other guys. You, preferring Liam to me. All right, I’ll say it, flat out. I’m jealous. I want you all to myself. Ridiculous, I know. Unrealistic. My bad.”

  “Shit,” Carter muttered.

  “Shit, indeed. I know we agreed—oh, what’s the point of rehashing all that? I admit it. I’m in the wrong. Let’s try to put our personal feelings aside and be professional, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Shall we forget we ever had this conversation?”

  “Sure. It never happened.”

  “The only sensible thing,” Stash insisted.

  The incident left Carter feeling a bit shaken. It was the first time he’d seen Stash lose his temper. His flare-up had lasted for only a moment, but it had been triggered by Stash’s jealousy.

  Just what I wanted to avoid, back when I still thought screwing around with a coworker was a bad idea, Carter lectured himself. But I had to go ahead and have sex with Stash. Real smart move on my part!

  Eager to change the subject, Carter pretended to take an immediate and consuming interest in their upcoming excursion to the broch.

  By way of explanation, Stash shared with Carter some of the background material he’d accessed on his laptop. A photo of the broch revealed it to be a stone structure, shaped like a cylinder which tapered inward as it rose. It resembled a cone with its tip cut off.

  “It looks like a grain silo,” Carter said. It didn’t seem all that extraordinary to him.

  But when the film crew arrived on the site, Carter had to admit that the broch was an impressive sight, standing on a flat stretch of land near the shore and silhouetted starkly against the sky.

  The broch was about two thousand years old, and although it had lost some of its upper levels long ago, it was still a remarkable example of the craft of the ancient builders. Fifteen meters in diameter at ground level, it had double walls which curved gracefully inwards to an upper diameter of about twelve meters. The structure was built of small slate-like stones meticulously laid dry, without mortar, to create a smooth exterior. Stairs between the walls led up through six galleries to a height of thirteen and a half meters. The workmanship was quite remarkable, especially when one remembered that timber was exceptionally scarce in this part of the world and that the curved walls were probably built without templates and they relied entirely on the keen eye and guesswork of the stonemasons. In fact, the quality of the construction was so good that it seemed as though the builders had just packed up their tools and gone home for the night.

  At the time of the Vikings—about nine hundred years ago—the circular internal courtyard of the broach contained a “wheelhouse” which had probably been added in the second or third century. It was still there. A “wheelhouse,” Stash explained to Carter, was an Iron Age dwelling with its rooms arranged like the spokes of a wheel, radiating outward from a central chamber.

  They spent the afternoon filming outside and inside the broch. Then they set up their camp in the designated area nearby. After taking time out to capture the broch from an angle which showed it impressively silhouetted against the setting sun, Carter joined the others for dinner, cooked on their small portable outdoor stove. But then, after the moon rose in the starlit sky, it was back to work.

  Stash wanted to relate two traditional stories, handed down from generation to generation, about romantic events which had taken place on this very spot. He and Carter found a good vantage point, where Stash could pose with the moonlit broch in the background and deliver his spiel to the camera.

  He explained for the viewers’ benefit that Mousa’s first romantic episode took place about AD 900. Over in Norway a young man, Bjorn, fell in love with a girl called Thora Jewel-Hand. Her parents disapproved of the match, so the couple eloped, and Bjorn took her to his parents’ house on the Sogne Fjord, where she stayed throughout the winter—with her virtue intact. In the spring Bjorn’s father made him the gift of a trading ship and suggested that he should travel to what was later called Dublin, Ireland, where business was good. His parents wanted Thora to remain with them until Bjorn’s return, but she would have none of it. She insisted on going with him. A violent storm blew up and they were nearly drowned, but they managed at last to run their damaged ship aground on Mousa. While the crew set about repairing the craft, the young lovers married and they made the best of their situation by turning the ancient broch into their honeymoon abode.

  The following spring, news came that Thora’s parents had persuaded King Harald of Norway to declare Bjorn an outlaw. As their ship was now once again seaworthy, Bjorn and Thora decided they must set sail immediately for Iceland. When they arrived there they were made welcome, and a few months later Thora gave birth to a daughter whom she named Asgerd. And so they all lived happily ever after.

  A couple of centuries later, Mousa once again appeared in the Norse sagas. This time the tale centered around Margaret, the daughter of Earl Haakon, who had been married to the elderly Earl Maddad of Atholl for more than twenty years and who had an adult son—Earl Harald Maddadson. When Earl Maddad died, the mature but still beautiful Margaret shocked her neighbors by immediately moving in with a young man named Gunni Asleifsson. The allegedly shameless and oversexed Margaret soon became pregnant, but she wasn’t interested in raising another family. So, as soon as she had given birth to the child, in 1153, she set Gunni up as a single parent and she transferred her attentions to a handsome young man from Shetland, Earl Erland Ungi, the son of Harald the Fair-Spoken.

  Erland was infatuated with the mature beauty and he carried Margaret off to his private domain—the broch on Mousa. There the couple established their love nest, and although the broch doesn’t look particularly warm or inviting by present-day standards, they apparently made themselves quite comfortable and enjoyed their stay. At least the spot was defensible—which was important because before long Margaret’s twenty-year-old son, Earl Harald Maddadson, besieged it. He was outraged by his mother’s scandalous behavior, but after spending several months encamped on the open land outside the broch, exposed to miserable weather,
he still could not breach its defenses. At last his anger subsided and he agreed to forgive the lovers, provided Earl Erland Ungi made his mother an honest woman by marrying her.

  The couple agreed and they were married, and the saga ends in a manner worthy of a Hollywood screenplay. After the ceremony, Earl Harald Maddadson invited them on board his boat and he sailed them over to his court in Norway, so they could enjoy a legitimate and thoroughly respectable honeymoon. Let tongues wag as they may!

  Stash related these tales while standing on the beach in front of the broch in the dead of night, with the ancient structure and the moon behind him. It was a beautifully atmospheric shot, and Carter took a justifiable pride in it.

  In the tent, he activated his laptop and played back the footage, for Stash’s inspection and approval. Carter and Stash, in acknowledgment of the unusually warm night, had both unceremoniously stripped down to their undershorts, and they were seated comfortably on the thick soft padding provided by their sleeping bags.

  “Personally, I think this looks great. Some of the best stuff we’ve shot on this trip. But my opinion really doesn’t matter. Are you pleased with what we’ve got so far?” Carter asked.

  “Very. Some of these shots are absolutely fucking gorgeous,” Stash said. He paused, then he added, “Oh, and the ones I’m not in aren’t all that bad, either.”

  Carter laughed. “You’re shameless.”

  “Yes, I am. I don’t deny it. And after all, that can come in handy in certain kinds of situations. Hey, all joking aside—if you’re up to it, why don’t I set my wristwatch alarm so we can get up right before dawn? It’s supposed to be a clear day again tomorrow, and you might get some great footage of the sunrise.”

  “With you posed dramatically against it, no doubt. Nude, maybe, after taking an early morning skinny dip.”

  “What a great idea. That would never have occurred to me. I’ll do it, if you’ll defy the cold water with me.”

  “All right.”

  “You don’t mind getting up early?”

  “Of course not. That sort of thing is what we’re here for, remember? But it’s been a long day. If we’re going to get up that early, we’d better start thinking about hitting the sack. That is, if you can tear yourself from the mesmerizing sight of yourself on that screen.”