The MacLeans: Sleepless in Scotland

by Karen Hawkins

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to be the only one,” Triona said softly.

  “Ahh. Tha’ could be a problem indeed.”

  “I think about him a lot, and I can’t help but remember how kind he is and how much he loves those girls.” A wistful feeling twisted in her heart. “I just wish he’d share some of that with me.”

  “He will, lassie. He’s just no’ a person to absorb changes quickly.” Mam frowned. “One o’ the problems with the curse is tha’ it teaches those involved to guard their emotions carefully. Think o’ it, child: if getting angry could raise the ocean and sink ships, ye’d be a mite cautious about feeling anything at all.”

  Triona nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “’Tis a terrible responsibility. One tha’ can shape a person, and no’ always in a good way.” Mam patted Triona’s knee. “Before ye decide how to react to MacLean, ye need to walk in his boots.”

  “You’re right. I’ve wanted to ask him about that, and other things, but I keep tiptoeing around, trying to find my place.”

  “Och, that’ll never do! Wha’ did ye do when MacLean lost his temper and tried to blow ye head o’er heels?”

  “I told him I was angry.”

  “Good. And then?”

  “And then…he left.”

  “Wha’? Ye didna make him stay to listen to yer complaints?”

  “I did at first, but then I was angry, too, and I just wanted him gone.”

  “Then tha’ was a good idea, as ye were both mad as hornets. Wha’ are ye goin’ t’ do when he returns and ye’re no’ so mad?”

  Triona thought about this. “I am going to ask—no, demand—that he allow me some say in all parts of our household, including the children.”

  “And if he forgets ye’re the apple o’ his eye and foolishly says no?”

  She smiled. “Oh, I’ve already let him know that he’s not the only one who can shake the house when he’s upset.”

  “Good fer ye, lass! That’s the spirit!” Mam’s grin creased her weathered face. “A fight is no’ always a bad thing.”

  “I’ve never seen my parents fight.”

  “An’ ye never will. Yer mother canna stand fightin’, which is a pity—they’d be happier if they’d clear the air sometimes. Fightin’ lets ye both say wha’ needs to be said. Just be sure ye fight clean, and dinna bring up old hurts or blame one another. That’s never a good thing.”

  “But won’t it make MacLean angry?”

  “Tha’ depends on wha’ sort o’ fight ye have. MacLean has more control over his powers than his brothers.”

  “He does, indeed.” Triona looked curiously at her grandmother. “Do you know how much?”

  “La, lassie, o’ course I do.”

  “How?”

  “There is another MacLean they dinna speak of—Lord Hugh’s younger brother who was killed in cold blood. When he died, the skies shook and roared fer days.” Mam’s gaze darkened at the memory. “The valley flooded, lightning snapped till the air was thick with sulfur, and icy winds roared. A good bit o’ the village was washed away or burned to the ground. The villagers were huddled in their homes, frightened to death. One day, I saw yer man upon the castle roof. He stayed there fer two hours straight, and when he left, the storms were gone.

  “His brothers came fer me to help him. He was too weak to walk, and they almost lost him, so they’d sent for me to tend him. I knew wha’ had happened, but he didna wish me to tell a soul—not even his own kin.”

  Mam frowned. “’Tis the nature of a curse to punish those who find ways around her. So when he puts his will against her, she pushes back. I think it could kill him, if he pushed too hard.”

  Triona found that she couldn’t swallow.

  “Och, dinna look so scared!” Mam patted Triona’s hand. “He’s a good man, and ye need to know it. But dinna look fer a man to tell ye ye’re right. It takes a true love to tell us when we’re in the wrong.”

  A true love. Triona had never thought of herself as a romantic, yet…perhaps she had idealized her parents’ relationship. There had always been some tensions between Mother and Mam, and Father had to have felt caught in the middle. Yet never had she heard him say so. It made Triona wonder what other issues she didn’t know about.

  Perhaps the truth was that there were no perfect marriages, just some really good ones. And that was what she wanted: one of the really, really good ones. Suddenly, Triona realized that somewhere along the way, her goal in this relationship had changed. She no longer wished to leave her mark upon Gilmerton when she left. Now she didn’t wish to leave at all. What she really wanted was a full-fledged, normal relationship with Hugh and his daughters. She didn’t know if she could convince her husband to take such a chance, but she was willing to try.

  “Thank you, Mam.” Triona hugged her grandmother. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “Good. People dinna think as much as they should anymore. Always doin’ this, and doin’ that—if ye never think, how do ye know what ye’re doin’ is what ye ought to be doin’?”

  Triona agreed. It was far too early to tell whether she and Hugh could find love. But by living well day to day, including one another more and having frank—maybe even loud—discussions, they could work their way in that direction.

  Mam grinned widely. “Now, lass, on to more important matters.”

  Triona leaned forward. “What’s that?”

  “If ye’re not goin’ to eat tha’ scone, could ye put it on me plate? I’ve a long drive home, and I dinna wish to starve along the way.”

  Triona laughed and put the last scone on Mam’s plate, smiling as she watched the older woman slather it with marmalade.

  “There she is,” Devon whispered as she peeked in the sitting-room window. “She’s with an old lady.”

  Christina moved beside Devon. Caitriona was sitting beside a woman who had to be over a hundred years old. Her face was a mass of wrinkles and lines, her nose large and crooked, her gray hair wispy. “She looks like a witch!”

  Devon dropped back to her hands and knees. “We need to go to the other side. They’re sitting closer to those windows.”

  Christina nodded and whispered, “Through the rose garden, then. And be careful you don’t tear your dress. Uncle Dougal will be suspicious if we go home all mussed.”

  Devon led the way, bent almost double as she crept through the shrubbery to the window closest to the settee. She took a position on one side, Christina on the other. But they were too late to overhear Caitriona and her guest, for the old woman was leaving.

  They heard Caitriona say good-bye, and then Mrs. Wallis entered the room. “How nice to see yer grandmother!”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Shall we move the furniture now?”

  Devon scowled.

  “Oh, yes!” Caitriona said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “First of all, I have a mind to get Angus and Liam to do the work fer us!”

  Devon peeked over the edge of the window to see the two women talking and laughing. First they moved the escritoire to a place where the sun warmed it, and then the settee so that it faced the fireplace instead of bordering it. From the looks of it, nothing—chairs and tables, candelabra and rugs—was to be left untouched.

  “What’s she doing?” Devon hissed, her lips almost white with fury. She whirled away and angrily scrambled through the bushes.

  Christina hoped the women inside were too busy to hear, for Devon’s movements were far from quiet. Shaking her head, she followed.

  They made their way through the garden and out the gate to the clearing hidden by a stand of trees. There, the horses were tethered to a low limb as Aggie contentedly munched an apple.

  As soon as they reached the trees, Devon wheeled on Christina. “Did you see that? She’s doing just what I said she’d do—she’s changing things!”

  Christina frowned. “She’s only moving furniture.”

/>   “That’s where she’ll begin.” Devon’s hands fisted. “But it’s not where she’ll stop!”

  Christina didn’t answer. She’d agreed to this little jaunt because she’d been curious about what Caitriona had been up to since Papa had been gone. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but hoped they might have seen Caitriona doing something really bad. That would be nice, because then Christina wouldn’t have this sinking feeling that perhaps they weren’t being fair to Papa’s new wife.

  Not that he wanted her—his actions had made that clear. Or had, until he’d gotten so angry with them for laughing at Caitriona’s lack of equestrian skills. Even now, Christina could see Papa’s face. Some small part of her wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, Papa did care for Caitriona, but didn’t want anyone—maybe not even Caitriona—to know.

  Christina hadn’t liked that at all. Worse, Devon had felt humiliated by Papa’s scold and had been burning to get her revenge on Caitriona.

  Christina sighed unhappily and joined Aggie on the ground.

  Devon paced angrily, her skirts swishing with each step. “I can’t believe she’d do such a thing!”

  “What was she doing?” Aggie asked around her apple.

  “She was just moving furniture,” Christina answered.

  Aggie paused. “So?”

  “That’s what I said,” Christina said. “But Devon thinks it’s an act of the devil.”

  “Of a she devil,” Devon retorted. She stopped in front of her sisters. “Perhaps we didn’t find Caitriona doing anything horrible, but we only watched her for a few minutes.”

  Christina sighed. “I don’t know. I get the feeling that maybe we’re making things worse. Maybe we should let Papa handle this. There have been times when I thought he might enjoy being with her. And he did ask us to be polite to her.”

  “Yes, and he’d never asked us that before, had he?” Devon stooped in front of Christina. “Do you see what’s happening? She’s slowly pulling him into her way of thinking and doing things. In her life, there are no children. We’re interlopers and in the way.”

  Christina’s heart sank. Did Caitriona see them that way? Were they just in the way for whatever life Papa and his wife wished to have?

  “She’ll push us away,” Devon continued, her voice raspy. “She’ll make Papa think we’re doing bad things, and then, when they have their own baby, there won’t be room for us any longer.”

  Christina’s chest ached as if someone were sitting on it.

  Aggie blinked. “You…you really think that’s what she wants?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Suddenly unable to sit still, Christina sprang to her feet and turned to look back at Gilmerton Manor. Alone and splendid, it rested on the crest of the hill like a jewel set on the curve of a ring. The sun glistened off the windows and the mellow stone looked warm and inviting, ivy trailing up two sides. It was the only place she’d ever called home. A lump grew in her throat. She didn’t totally believe Devon’s line of reasoning, but one thing had rung true: What would happen when Papa and his new wife had their own child? Would there be room for her and her sisters then?

  She bit her lip hard to fight back the tears. The memories returned of lonely, bad-smelling rooms. And waiting for Mother, who sometimes came home but just as often didn’t. Of a two-week period when Christina, driven to desperation by her sisters’ cries of hunger, had ventured out into the cold streets of Paris to steal some food. It had taken her hours, but she’d managed to scour enough for a few days. She’d returned wet and dirty, her gown torn by a man reeking of liquor who’d tried to drag her into an alleyway. She knew what he wanted, and her desperation had given her the strength to break free and run as fast as she could back to their cold attic home.

  Now she had Gilmerton. She looked down at the house, admiring the way the sun glinted off the mullioned windows, the strong line of the stone walls, and the thick solid doors. This was home, and she would do anything to keep it. She couldn’t leave Gilmerton, couldn’t lose Papa.

  A sob broke through, and immediately Devon’s thin arms pulled her close in a fierce hug. Aggie’s rounder arms followed. They stayed so for a long time, until the memories faded and Christina stopped shaking.

  When Devon released her, Christina wiped her eyes and forced a smile. “We should get back. Uncle Dougal will notice we’re missing.”

  Devon swiped at her own eyes with the back of her hand. “We’ll take the loch path. It’s quicker.”

  The path went around the small loch at the end of the valley before branching off in two directions. One led to Uncle Dougal’s elegant house, the other to MacLean Castle. Papa had said that at one time the path had been a major route to and from the castle, but that now, because parts of it had been washed away and the slope into the loch was so steep, no one used it. He’d warned them to avoid it, but it was such a convenient shortcut that when they were on their own, they’d begun to use it more and more. Christina thought that Papa had overstated the danger. As long as they kept their mounts calm and went slowly through the narrow parts, they were all very comfortable with it.

  “Come, Aggie.” Devon led Aggie’s horse to a low stump and waited for her sister to mount. Then she did the same for Christina. When it came time to mount her own horse, she grabbed a short rope on the saddle and swung herself up.

  Christina watched with envy. Devon was fiercely, hotly independent and refused to need anyone. Christina wished she could absorb some of her sister’s spirit. If they were turned out on their own again, she would need it.

  Heart heavy, she pulled her horse beside Devon’s as they started out. “What do we do?”

  Devon pursed her lips. “We have to keep Caitriona and Papa from growing closer.”

  “How do we do that? So far, everything we’ve done has only done the opposite.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  Christina nodded, guiding her horse down the path while Devon mulled her options.

  As they reached where the path narrowed, Devon pulled her horse level with Christina’s, a sly look on her face. “Ha! I know what we’re going to do.”

  “What’s that?” Christina asked.

  “Papa’s supposed to come home very late tonight. Uncle Dougal sent one of his men to find out exactly when.”

  “So?”

  “So, before he arrives, we’ll slip out and come back to Gilmerton. It will be after dark but we know the way well, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Then we will rearrange the furniture.”

  “How will that help?” Christina asked.

  “You’ll see.” She set off down the narrow path.

  Whatever Devon’s idea was, if it delayed the inevitable for even one hour, Christina would be a part of it.

  Feeling better, she hurried to follow her sister.

  Chapter 17

  “Love is a curious thing, me dearies. At times it gallops up on a white horse and sweeps ye off yer feet like a grand story from times past. Other times, it steals in wit’ th’ quiet o’ a raindrop and whisks awa’ yer heart afore ye even knew ’twas at risk.”

  OLD WOMAN NORA TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ON A COLD WINTER’S NIGHT

  There!” Triona rubbed her back wearily. It had taken almost two hours to arrange the sitting room to their liking. “I like it this way. Much brighter and more cozy.”

  Mrs. Wallis nodded her approval. “So do I, m’lady.” She told Liam and Angus, “Take that extra table to the breakfast room and put it in the corner. It can hold the teapot in the mornings. Och, look at the time! I’ll ask Cook to serve dinner—”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer a tray in my bedchamber.” The last thing Triona wanted was to eat by herself at the long table in the dining room. “I’m rather tired.” Thank goodness. I hope I sleep better.

  “Goin’ to bed early, m’lady? I don’t blame ye.

  Besides, his lordship will be back soon along wi’ the bairns, so yer days of peace are nigh over.”

  Triona l
aughed. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. Maybe I should have a hot bath as well.”

  Mrs. Wallis chuckled. “Right away, m’lady.” She surveyed their work one last time before giving a satisfied nod. “Much better! If his lordship doesna like it, the man’s daft.”

  Triona smiled. Tomorrow things would return to normal. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to enjoy having everyone around until she was alone in this big, magnificent house. She’d come to look forward to the morning trysts that seemed to set the day with a special glow, their solitary breakfasts before Hugh left to see to the horses, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the girls chattering as they came downstairs for their afternoon rides with their father, Hugh’s deep voice answering them with love and laughter, her rides with Ferguson as she increased her skills, and the talks with Mrs. Wallis that usually involved laughter.

  Life was strings of simple moments, and they were weaving together to form a strong strand. Even making the sitting room more homelike increased her sense of belonging.

  After having her tray of cheese and bread, sliced apples, and a large orange, Triona soaked in her bath. Afterward, dressed in her night rail, she relaxed on the settee before the fireplace with a cup of freshly brewed tea. Hugh would be home soon, and she could barely sit still.

  To distract herself she tried reading a book, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her gaze kept wandering to the bed and then to the window, as if Hugh might miraculously appear in the dark, climb through the second-story window, sweep her up, and take her to bed. She shivered at the thought.

  Though Hugh had been upset when he’d left, surely he would be calmer when he came home. After all, she’d gotten over the insults he’d tossed at her.

  Honestly, marriage wasn’t quite what she’d thought it. For one thing, she hadn’t realized how much compromise was involved: between what he wished to do and what she wished to do; about dealing with the girls; about how to run the household; about their places in each other’s lives.

  She’d often had to find compromises to keep the peace among her brothers and sisters, but it seemed that she was the only one compromising now while MacLean stubbornly held to his pre-marriage ways.