The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  “The first time we met, ye asked me where my beanstalk was. What did ye mean?”

  She laughed, swaying back into the security of his hand.

  “Ah well, that’s a fairy story. Haven’t you heard the story of Jack and the Beanstalk?”

  Several ears pricked up. Everyone had heard all the stories told tonight many times before; tales of the deeds of the clans, of kelpies and the ban-sidhe. They were comforting, familiar. Nevertheless the chance to hear a new one was a rare treat indeed. There was a clamour for her to tell it, and she thought for a minute, trying to remember the details through the blur of alcohol.

  “Once upon a time there was a young boy and his mother,” she began.

  “What time was that?” Janet asked.

  “Sorry?” said Beth.

  “What time was it upon?” she said.

  “I don’t know, it’s just a way of starting a story,” Beth replied. “It was a long time ago, anyway. Er…a hundred years.”

  Everyone settled down.

  “Anyway, this young boy Jack and his mother lived alone in a little cottage in the woods,” Beth continued, “and they were very poor, because his father had died.”

  “What had they done wrong?” interrupted Simon.

  “Nothing,” said Beth, confused.

  “Why were they living alone, then, instead of wi’ their clan?” he said.

  “They were Sasannachs,” Alex said, coming to her rescue. “They didna have a clan.”

  There was a murmur of sympathy from the assembled crowd.

  “So, they were Sasannachs, and they lived alone,” said Beth. “All they had left was a cow, and one day Jack’s mother told him they’d have to sell the cow because they needed the money, and they’d sold everything else of worth, their furniture and suchlike.”

  “What for’d they dae that?” said Joan. “What the hell use is money? Ye canna eat that. Ye’re no’ poor while ye’ve got a cow. There’s the milk, and ye can always bleed it in the winter if ye’re desperate and mix the blood wi’ a wee bittie oatmeal. And if ye’re really starving, ye can kill it. One cow’d feed a woman and a bairn through to the spring.”

  Even through the alcoholic haze Beth realised that if she was ever going to finish this story, she’d have to adapt it. Once she got to the magical bit she’d be all right, she knew that. They’d accept any amount of giants and talking harps without a murmur. It was the practical stuff they’d query.

  “The cow was diseased, although it didn’t look it,” improvised Beth. “And the woman knew there was a market coming up where lots of her enemies would be. The ones who’d killed her husband. So, not wanting to wait until Jack was old enough to avenge his father’s death, she thought she’d get her revenge early by selling them a diseased cow.”

  There was a murmur of understanding from the listeners. Beth ignored Alex’s amused face and continued.

  “So, Jack was a bit daft in the head, and lazy too,” she said. “And on the way to market, he met this man, and they got into conversation. And the man persuaded him to accept five magic beans for the cow, so he did, because he couldn’t be bothered to walk ten miles to market.”

  “Are ye sure his name wasna Robbie Og instead of Jack?” someone called from the back, and everyone laughed. Beth took a deep draught of whisky, swayed, coughed, and settled down to the rest of the story.

  “That was really interesting,” said Alex an hour later, trying to manage two comatose and remarkably heavy babies, whilst supporting both himself and his extremely inebriated wife on the way home. “I’ve heard the story before, of course, but I had nae idea the giant was a Campbell, or that he spent his evenings counting his bottles of whisky.”

  Beth squinted up at him, somewhat cross-eyed.

  “Oh shut up,” she said. “I’d still have been there now trying to justify why they were selling the cow, if I hadn’t changed things a bit. Anyway, they enjoyed it.”

  “Aye, they did,” he agreed. “So I hope ye’re now aware that ye’ll have tae tell every Sasannach story ye ken, adapted for a MacGregor audience, before we leave.”

  “No problem,” she said with the confidence of the extremely drunk, waving a hand airily around before losing her balance and landing on her bottom on the grass with a thud. She giggled, and Alex left her there for a moment while he delivered the twins safely to their grateful parents, who had spent the time, although they didn’t yet know it, creating the next child.

  When he returned Beth was lying on her back in the wet grass gazing dreamily at the moon.

  “Do you know,” she said, as he approached and squatted down unsteadily beside her. “I can see the hare in the moon. I’ve never been able to see it before. I’ve always seen the man instead. Isn’t that amazing?” Her voice was full of childish wonder and he smiled, enraptured, turning his head up to look skywards and regretting it instantly as the world tilted dizzyingly. He looked back down at her instead, her silver hair and white dress rendering her ethereal in the moonlight. She could have been sidhe or fairy herself, so beautiful was she.

  “Oh, I do love you!” she cried, launching her upper body at him and wrapping her arms round his neck with a suddenness that unbalanced him and sent him toppling forward. He got his elbows down just in time to save his whole weight from crashing down onto her and she laughed, winding her arms tighter round his neck.

  “Make love to me, Alex,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to free her legs from her skirts and wrap them round his waist.

  It was tempting, and his body told him he was capable of complying with her request, in spite of the copious quantity of alcohol he’d consumed. But it was cold and windy and the ground was soaking. What was more, a warm and cosy bed awaited. If they were quiet, they would not disturb the old lady…

  His decision made, he untangled himself from her and managed, with some difficulty, to lift her from the ground, walking somewhat erratically in the direction of his house while she mumbled away dreamily in his arms.

  “Until later,” she said suddenly as they reached the door and he opened it quietly. The room was in darkness, but the fire had been burning all evening and it was pleasantly warm. He placed her carefully on her feet, keeping an arm round her waist.

  “What did you say, mo chridhe?” he asked softly, leading her to the stairs.

  “Until later,” she said loudly and clearly. “You said you wouldn’t forget. I haven’t.”

  Neither had he.

  “Isd,” he said softly. “If we’re quiet we’ll no’ disturb your granny, and we can have our ‘until later’.”

  “Mmm. Oh yes, I forgot. Granny.” She hiccupped and giggled. “Sshh!” she hissed, loud enough to wake those in the next hut.

  He managed to light a candle from the fire and manhandle his wife, alternately giggling and shushing herself, up the stairs and into the bedroom, where she turned immediately into his arms.

  “Oooh, I want you,” she said. “I’ve wanted you all day. You look wonderful in your chieftain’s feil…ah…your…this,” she said, grabbing at the front of his kilt and narrowly missing squashing his left testicle.

  He swerved, and laughed. She was lovely, her hair tangled, her blue eyes soft and unfocussed with whisky and desire. Her back was soaking wet and cold. He put the candle down on the little wooden stool next to the bed.

  “Come, lassie,” he whispered. “Let’s get ye out of these wet clothes first and into bed. We dinna want you to catch your death.”

  “Death,” she echoed. “No. Better with no clothes on anyway.” She laughed as he untied the sash round her waist and tried with great difficulty to pull her dress over her head. It would have been a little easier if the material hadn’t been sodden and clinging, and a lot easier if she wasn’t trying to disrobe him at the same time as he was disrobing her. They weaved around the room, making far more noise than was desirable. If Ealasaid had stayed asleep through this racket it would be a miracle.

  Finally naked she fell backwards on to th
e bed, watching as he unpinned his brooch and unbuckled his belt, bracing himself against the wall with one hand in what he hoped looked like a nonchalant pose, but which was in fact stopping him from sliding down it. Alcohol-induced tiredness washed suddenly over him, and he fought it, hard.

  “Hurry up,” she said impatiently from the bed. “This is our third wedding night, and I want my marital rights this time! It’s a husband’s duty to satisfy his wife!”

  A snort of laughter came from the adjoining room, quickly stifled. He was both disappointed and relieved in equal measure. He was very tired, and so drunk he was not sure he’d be able to complete the act if he started it. Better to wait until tomorrow, when they’d both slept off some of the whisky. He attempted to fold his plaid, gave up, dropped it on the floor and climbed into bed.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “We’ve woken your granny. Go to sleep, a ghràidh.”

  “Have we?” she said. “Sorry, Granny. Are you all right?”

  “Ah…aye, thank ye for asking,” came the voice from the other side of the partition, bubbling with suppressed laughter. “Goodnight,”

  “Goodnight,” said Beth, turning happily back to Alex. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it?” she continued. “It’s natural. Everyone does it, everywhere. You said so yourself that day on the hill when you…”

  He kissed her, desperately, cutting off the rest of what she’d been about to say, his face burning. A peal of remarkably youthful laughter floated from the next room and was not suppressed this time.

  “Gie her what she wants, laddie,” Ealasaid said shakily. “Ye’ll get no peace until ye do.”

  If he’d been unsure before, he wasn’t now. He couldn’t. Under no circumstances. He ended the kiss, and pushed his wife gently back onto the pillows, hoping she’d close her eyes and go to sleep.

  She closed her eyes, and was silent for a moment. Then she opened them again and made a sudden grab for the mattress.

  “Oooh,” she said in quite a different tone of voice. “I think I’m going to…”

  He leapt from the bed, tripping over the discarded plaid and grabbing at the basin as he fell. He twisted round and managed to get it in place just in time. Shuffling forward, he knelt at the side of the bed and held her until she had finished retching. Then he wet a cloth and wiped her mouth and face, before easing her gently back into bed. He toyed with the idea of taking the bowl back downstairs, made a realistic assessment of the capability of his legs to get down and back up again, then abandoned the idea, placing it in the farthest corner of the room instead.

  He returned to the bed, gathering his now shivering, clammy and far from amorous wife in close to his side, crooning softly to her as though she was a child until the shivers ceased and she slept. Only then did he relax himself. His eyes started to close.

  “Is she all right, laddie?” said the old lady softly.

  “Aye,” he said. “Just verra, verra drunk. She’ll regret it in the morning, I’m sure. She drank an awfu’ lot of whisky verra quickly.”

  “She did you proud tonight. It’s a fine woman you’re married to, MacGregor, even if she is my granddaughter.”

  “I ken that well, a sheanmhair.”

  “And it’s a fine man she’s got herself, too. Ye’ll cherish her and protect her, I’ve nae doubt of that.”

  “With my life,” he said. “Thank ye.”

  “It’s no more than the truth. I’ll let ye get your sleep. Ye’ve performed your husbandly duty for tonight, even if it’s no’ the one she was hoping for. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” he said.

  Pause.

  “Ealasaid?” he said.

  “Aye?”

  “It’s a fine grandmother she’s got, too. Your daughter would have understood what ye did, and been proud of ye, I’m certain. I’m sure she is, if she can see ye now.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Thank ye, laddie. Goodnight,” the old lady said, her voice shaky again, but not with laughter this time.

  He closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alex’s prophecy was correct, and Beth did indeed deeply regret her overindulgence the following morning. While the rest of the MacGregor and MacDonald clans enjoyed a communal breakfast before settling down to a serious political discussion, Beth remained in bed wishing she was dead, and for a time believing she was about to be so.

  By mid-morning however, it was clear she was not about to shuffle off the mortal coil and she managed, with much wincing and holding of her head, to dress and make her way downstairs, where she settled herself in a chair by the fire with a cool damp cloth on her forehead. After a time she heard the door open and lifted the cloth from her eyes.

  “Go away,” she said, when she’d identified the intruder. “The last thing I need right now is a visit from someone who is completely unaffected by alcohol.”

  She replaced the cloth over her eyes and clenched her stomach, waiting for the joke about greasy breakfasts, delivered with head-splitting loudness.

  “I’m sorry,” said Angus softly. “I’ll leave ye in peace, then.”

  She lifted the cloth from her face again. He was indeed going away, quietly.

  “Angus,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing important,” he replied unconvincingly. “I’ll come back later, when ye’re feeling better.”

  “No, come in,” she said, sitting up and then immediately wishing she hadn’t. “I am better. Or I will be, soon. It’s all right.”

  He moved further into the room.

  “Ye look terrible,” he said.

  “Thank you, that makes me feel a lot better,” she answered sarcastically.

  “Have ye eaten yet?”

  “No,” she replied firmly, hoping to close the topic.

  “Ye should have a wee bit of bread or something, to get your stomach working. And drink as much water as ye can,” he said. “Wait a minute, I’ll get you some.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

  There really was something wrong. Not that Angus could not be sympathetic when someone was really ailing. But nobody was sympathetic over hangovers. They were common, self-induced, and always a cause for leg-pulling.

  He returned with a cup of water and a slightly stale bannock. She took a few sips, and bit off a tiny corner of the bread. He sat down on the edge of the chair.

  “What’s the matter, Angus?” she asked when he showed no sign of volunteering the information. To her surprise, her stomach had not rebelled at the introduction of the morsel of bread. She took a larger bite.

  “I…er…I’ve come to thank ye, for last night. And to apologise,” he said. He looked very boyish this morning, his dark gold hair flopping untidily over his forehead, his blue eyes anxious.

  “Well, that’s very kind of you, but it’s not me you should be thanking,” she replied. “Janet, Moira and Peigi did the food, and Sir Anthony provided the drink, or most of it. And if you did anything you should be apologising for, you must have done it late on in the night when I was too drunk to remember it, so I’d forget it, if I were you.” She smiled palely at him and took another sip of water.

  He looked at her intently.

  “Duncan hasna told ye, has he?” he said.

  “Duncan hasn’t told me what?”

  He sighed, sat back, contemplated for a moment, then told her what had happened the previous night.

  “I thought he’d have tellt ye about it. I said sorry to him this morning, and I thought I’d get my apology to you over wi’ at the same time,” he finished.

  “I see. Well you can thank me if you want, but there’s no need to apologise. After all, I can understand why you were angry, even if, as you say, you’ve got no claim on her, but you didn’t act on it, so there’s no harm done.”

  Angus took a deep breath.

  “You walked in on them,” he said. “Had he….was he…emm…?”

  “No,” she said. “He wasn’t, and he hadn’t. Th
ey’d had a kiss, that was all, and she was already telling him she didn’t want to go further.” She pushed the image of Morag’s young breasts, pink from Robert’s attentions, firmly to the back of her mind. “You like her, don’t you?”

  “Aye,” he said, reddening slightly. “Aye, I do.”

  “Why don’t you tell her, then?” Beth asked. “Make a claim on her, if you think that much of her.”

  “Christ, I couldna do that!” he said. “She’s just a bairn. Anyway, she kens well enough that I like her.”

  “You weren’t thinking of her as a wee bairn when you were fantasising about her pulling thorns out of your backside,” said Beth.

  Angus blushed to the roots of his hair.

  “Aye, well, I was only jesting about that,” he muttered. “I was forgetting how young she was.”

  “You weren’t joking, Angus, and you were right,” said Beth gently. She had finished the bannock and the water, and her stomach was settling, although her head still pounded. “She’s a woman now. Robert saw that, he wouldn’t have been interested otherwise. And she doesn’t know that you like her.”

  Angus looked at his sister-in-law, incredulous.

  “She must do!” he protested. “We’ve been friends for years, since we were both tiny wee things. I used to gie her piggy backs everywhere, when she got too tired to walk. We had a secret hideout away up the glen. I taught her to swim!”

  “Yes, she said you’d be more likely to dunk her in the loch than invite her to the stables.” Beth smiled. “She also said you’d changed towards her recently, and were more distant now.”

  “Aye well, it’s difficult,” he said, looking very uncomfortable. “She’s different. Maybe you’re right. She is becoming a woman. And I canna throw a woman in the loch, or play fight wi’ her. That’s what we used tae do. And then when we were tired, we’d sit and talk.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t,” said Beth. “You play fight with me. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. And you’d throw me in the loch without a second thought, if the mood took you.”

  “I would, if ye could swim,” he said, grinning mischievously for a moment. “But that’s different. You’re no’ a woman. Well, ye are,” he amended immediately. “But you’re more like a sister than a woman. There’s a difference.”