A disturbing image of my father, the proud Robert MacDonald, ailing and lost, darkened my mind and I felt his misery as though it were my own. “Ah poor Da, he must be so confused. I thank ye for tryin’, Duncan, but we canna give up,” I urged, swallowing hard at the tremble in my voice. Duncan pulled me close as I continued, “I ken it was not only his body that was failin’ but his mind too. I dinna think he even understood that he’d married Deirdre. How could he have done it? Did he just forget Mother? Didn’t he even care that his new wife murdered my mother? I’ll never understand.” I shook my head sadly and clucked my tongue. “I dinna ken, but one thing’s certain, he let Hannah down. She needed him so badly after Mother died but he didna seem to care, even though...”
Duncan’s chest rumbled against my ear, “I mean no disrespect to yer Da, Meara, but I have to say, he let ye down too.”
“Nay Duncan, he just...”
“I ken ye love him, Meara, but he didna just lose his wife, you lassies lost yer mother. He was so lost in his own sorrow, he didna see yer pain. Ye needed him too, Meara.”
His words rang true and I remained silent.
“Ye’ve been carryin’ a burden on yer wee shoulders for some time, my Meara, and ye’ve been left to the mercy of that crazy wumman. I willna say any more agin yer father but he’s accountable for a great deal.”
What he said was true but hard for me to accept, hard for me to admit the disappointment I felt for my father. I loved Da so much and, until now, had not allowed myself to admit how much I needed him too. My chest felt hollow and my eyes burned. I shoved away the melancholy, refusing to give in.
Duncan rested his chin atop my head. “Ah lassie, ye smell so good.” He kissed my ear, his warm breath sending shivers through me before burying his face in my hair. “Wildflowers for my wild lass,” he murmured, sending a fluttering through my stomach again.
Lacing my fingers with his, I stared across the moor. Purple heather, infused with yellow gorse, robed the highland hills in velvet colour. Here and there clusters of thistle swayed, dotting the land that sloped up to meet the mist-shrouded rock of the Cuillin. A cacophony of bleating sheep and crooning birds played upon the morning breeze. The scene that lay before me was evocative of days past when Da and I had galloped together through the lush green of the highland.
I squinted down to the thatched roofs of the cottages that dotted the far-off glen. These homes had once belonged to tenants who had lived and worked on the MacDonald lands but they had been abandoned for years after most of our tenants and clansmen had fled Scotland following the defeat of the Jacobite army in Culloden near Inverness in 1746. My grandfather, Da’s father, had served on the frontlines of the army, throwing his support behind Bonnie Prince Charles Stuart and his cause of attempting to overthrow the reigning House of Hanover to restore the House of Stuart as an absolute monarchy to the British throne. The Jacobite army had consisted mainly of Scottish highlanders and some Lowland Scots as well, but the army had lacked trained officers and though the front ranks consisted of heavily armed clan gentlemen like my grandfather, the bulk of the regiment had been made up of poorly armed tenants. Supporters of “The Young Pretender” – so labelled due to the suspicions surrounding his true parentage – had fought through dismal weather, sleet and blizzard and had been forced to slog across boggy ground. Grandfather and the rest of the army had been in bad shape by the time they reached Culloden Moor. Weak, starving and frozen, the battle had been brief and bloody with upwards of two thousand Scottish soldiers killed or wounded. Despite being on the front ranks and facing the superior government army, my grandfather had managed to escape unscathed, though many of his men had not been so fortunate. He had been arrested following the battle and had spent months in the gaols at Inverness before being banished from Scotland and threatened with execution should he return. But as Grandfather liked to brag, he had outfoxed the enemy and returned to the Isle of Skye within the year. The threat had never been enforced and of course Grandfather assumed a trek to northwest regions of the Isle of Skye was far too arduous for the ‘delicate’ British. Lucky for him, they didn’t bother to hunt him down. In 1747, the traditional highland dress for men and boys was outlawed. The plaid, the kilt, the trowse and any other highland garb was banned other than anything worn by the soldiers in the King’s forces. This was another edict for which my grandfather held little regard and, within a few years, the MacDonald tartan made its reappearance at Duntulm.
But scores of crofters and tenants had been killed or injured in the Battle of Culloden and most of those who lived faced persecution and so had fled to the Americas, where the vast wilderness promised to offer them a better life. Grandfather, of course, had stayed but the crofters’ cottages had remained empty.
I smiled as I thought of the fearless and feisty man my grandfather, George Robert MacDonald, had been, dead now ten years.
Duncan shifted and twisted around to look behind us. “Meara, where did ye tether Caulley?” he asked as he strained his neck, peering toward a dense stand of pine and birch.
I shook my head, looking up at him. “Nay, I was so furious with Deirdre I just ran away. I didna stop at the stables, lad.”
Duncan’s mouth crooked on one side and a gleam crept into his eyes. “Och my lady, ye seem to be stranded.” He winked, his eyebrow twitching at a rakish slant. “But for a wee kissy I might be persuaded to give ye a ride back to the castle.” Duncan’s chestnut stallion, Tormod, blew a derisive snort from across the moor as if in protest to the added weight he’d have to bear.
A low whicker sounded in response, from the thick grove of trees behind us, startling us both.
Next, a grey horse lunged from the trees, dragging something large behind and we instinctively ducked.
“What the de’il?” burst Duncan.
Hopping on one foot, the other jammed up in the stirrup, was the unmistakable figure of Uncle Sloan. Evidently he’d been spying on us and it appeared his getaway had been cut short when his mount had spied Tormod.
I recognized the mare as Pearl, a high-strung, unbreakable filly of three years, seldom used for riding. Sloan was as mean as he was ugly and not well liked by the servants. Rabbie, our stable lad, was a kind-hearted soul but I didn’t blame him a bit for choosing Pearl for Sloan.
My uncle’s face crumpled and the situation became outrageous as he hopped across the clearing, trying to stay afoot while struggling to free his trapped boot. Pearl pranced about; heedless of the figure she dragged back and forth. She snorted and whinnied, flirting with Tormod and bobbing her head up and down. Sloan flapped his arms, bringing to mind a hideous vulture, as he skipped about on one thin leg, grappling to keep his balance.
I slipped off Duncan’s lap and he rose to his feet. Dirk drawn, he advanced on the ridiculous twosome. His movement caused the mare to shy and charge back toward the pines. But Duncan blocked her path and she pivoted sharply. The abrupt back and forth action jerked Sloan’s boot free of the stirrup. With sudden freedom, he lost his fight for balance and pitched face-first into a tangled maze of prickly gorse. Pearl galloped past Duncan and back toward Duntulm while Sloan’s fall ended with a girlish shriek from amidst the innocent yellow blossoms.
I tipped my face to the sky and covered my mouth with both hands as I tried to stifle my giggles and snorts.
Duncan ignored me and stomped forward to seize Sloan by the back of his shirt, dragging him to his feet. My uncle tripped and stumbled as Duncan dragged him over to me. His usual pasty complexion was now a mottled blend of purple and red where the rigid, barbed spikes of the gorse stippled his face. I couldn’t help but wince as I noticed the thorns that crowned the top of his head as well.
He halted before me, eyes cast down, back curled like a spiny hedgehog so that I almost expected him to start snuffling and grunting. With ruthless pleasure, I watched his discomfort. The perpetual grin was nowhere to be seen and the corners of his mouth pursed up and down repeatedly. He blinked rapidly and I was stunned
to see the sparkle of tears.
“Och, Master Sloan, looks like ye’ve got yerself into quite a moil,” Duncan barked.
Sloan’s lip tightened over his potholed teeth as he sought to control the quivering.
“Just what have ye got to say for yerself, man? What do ye mean by spyin’ on yer mistress?”
“I m-meant no harm, Laird.” The pitch of Sloan’s voice was such, that had I not been looking directly at his face, I would have mistaken him for a lass. He held his hands before him in pathetic supplication. “We, er that is my sister and me,” he stammered, the tears threatening to overflow, “were verra worrit for Miss Meara. Deirdre sent me to find her. I wasna spyin’ ye ken,” he hastily added. Avoiding Duncan’s eyes, he pointed toward the pines, his hand shaking, “I’d just ridden up and my foot caught in the stirrup as I was dis...”
Sloan jumped as Duncan snorted, “Och, ye dinna expect me to believe that, surely. Not only are ye a sneak but yer a liar as well!”
“Nay, Laird.”
“Enough, man!” Duncan cut off his protestations.
My mouth dropped and I quickly clamped it shut. I had never seen Duncan so angry but it was suddenly clear to me how he commanded respect from his men at such a young age, not only his clansmen but the men who served beneath him in his regiment. I watched him with new interest.
“I place no value on a man with no honour!” He jabbed his finger at Sloan’s chest. “And you, sir, have none! Yer a wretch!” Duncan shook his head, lips curled, “Tell me somethin’, Master Sloan. Have ye ever stepped in and stopped yer sister from beatin’ Miss Meara?”
Sloan fixed his eyes on his boots. With a slight movement, he shook his head.
“So we can add coward to your list of attributes?” Duncan blew another snort.
Sloan hunched his shoulders up around his ears. His chin began to quiver and his eyes darted about, no doubt seeking escape.
Duncan slowly raised his dirk. The sunlight glinted off the blade as Duncan held the honed weapon inches from Sloan’s nose. Beads of sweat popped out on Sloan’s forehead and I could smell the tang of his fear. Duncan studied the blade with exaggerated interest, turning it this way and that. Holding it at just the right angle, the reflected rays stabbed Sloan in the eyes and he squinted pitifully, tears dribbling down his cheeks. With deliberation, Duncan pressed the tip of the dirk to Sloan’s pulsating chest. Sloan’s eyelid twitched but he moved not a muscle and, I’m sure, ceased to breathe.
“Just this mornin’ I whet this blade to perfection.” Duncan withdrew the blade and studied it, eyebrows drawn in mock concentration.
Sloan seized the opportunity to gulp a breath.
“I would prefer to use it on a worthy adversary rather than waste its fine edge on a boggin’ bag o’ shite such as yerself, so,” He glanced up and studied Sloan’s face through narrowed lids. “I’m willin’ to make a deal.”
Sloan nodded eagerly, his head bobbing up and down like a scrawny chicken.
“I willna kill ye the now, but,” He stabbed his dirk through the air and I caught my breath as it stopped just short of Sloan’s chest. I’d been enjoying the show but I wasn’t sure how far Duncan intended to go. “You will tell yer sister ye didna find the Mistress MacDonald. You will tell yer sister that somethin’ spooked yer horse and ye were thrown out of the saddle.”
Duncan sheathed his weapon with care then considered Sloan’s swollen face thoughtfully. “Och, that’s no stretchin’ the truth far.” His lips twitched. “It was verra considerate of ye to throw yerself into the gorse. A face full of thorns is just what ye need to convince that sister of yers.” Duncan’s eyes glinted but Sloan, staring sullenly at his boots, missed the amusement that I knew threatened to take Duncan.
“Now if I find that ye told her anythin’ ye saw today or anythin’ ye heard, anythin’ other than what I told ye to say,” he waited until Sloan looked up again before continuing, “or if I find out Deirdre or yerself has raised a hand to the Mistress or her wee sister agin, well, ye best start sleepin’ with yer lids propped open, ‘cause sooner or later ye’ll feel the cold of this blade between yer ribs.” He patted the hilt. “Do ye understand, Master Sloan?”
Sloan’s bulging eyes looked as though they might fall from his head and I felt my giggles building again as an absurd image of his eyes lying on the ground looking back up at us, filled my head.
“Well, what say ye, man?” Duncan prodded.
Sloan’s head bobbed again, “Aye, Dun... Laird,” he muttered.
Duncan gave a dismissive jerk of his head and without further encouragement Sloan skulked from the clearing. As soon as he passed the pines he took off in a gawky run, arms and legs flailing in all directions.
We stood silent, watching his awkward descent.
A giggle crept up my throat. I tried to hold it in but snorted instead. Beside me a deep rumbling took hold of Duncan. Doubled over, we laughed hysterically until at last Duncan pulled a handkerchief from his sporran and dabbed at the tears that spilled down my cheeks.
He stared at me then, a smile tipping one corner of his mouth.
“What?” I ran my hand self-consciously over my wild hair. “What?” I repeated, beginning to feel annoyed as he continued to stare at me.
He caught hold of my hand, drew it to his lips. “Do ye ken, Meara MacDonald, that yer nose crinkles up verra prettily whenever ye open yer mouth wide to howl?” His generous mouth opened into a full-blown grin.
Horrified, I slapped his hand away. My fingers flew to my mouth. Of course I knew my nose scrunched up when I laughed. It was something that I hated but I certainly didn’t think that I opened my mouth so wide as for Duncan to make mention of it.
“Now, lass, where are yer manners? Can ye no accept a compliment? I think it’s verra commendable that ye’re no afraid to show yer merriment.” Innocence widened his blue eyes, the devil hiding momentarily. “I meant it kindly, my sweet lassie.” He held his hand over his heart to show his honourable intent.
I knew that he mocked me for his mouth slanted further still. Annoyed, I ran my finger over my nose and glared until Duncan, grinning with delight, reached out and trapped my hand and closed his other hand over it.
“Meara, lass, yer easy to tease but I meant it. Yer face lights up when ye smile and I love ye all the more.” His gaze mellowed as he stared into my eyes. “Ye have a verra pretty smile, hiney.”
My annoyance eased and I felt a softening spread through me. He draped his arm around my shoulders and the departing figure of Sloan recaptured our attention.
“Poor excuse for a man... he’s no quite as clarty as yer aunt, mebbe, but just as ugly.”
I smiled but at the same time a seed of worry took root in my belly and I felt a little sick. I tried to remember everything we had discussed while Sloan was eavesdropping. What had he overheard and worse still, what had he seen?
Duncan read my thoughts. “Och, lass, if he heard us, all he knows is we’ve been searchin’ for yer father. Deirdre would expect that, surely.”
I nodded and stared at the distant pocket of mist that hid the spindly figure of my uncle, then traced the swell of my lips with my finger. My skin crawled at the thought of Sloan witnessing the kisses Duncan and I had shared. If Sloan were to tell Deirdre about Duncan and me, I knew she would make it impossible for me to see him. If he chose to follow Duncan’s orders, we would be fortunate indeed. But Duncan had shamed him and I had laughed at him. How soon would he forget his humiliation? Unease stirred in my chest. Perhaps we had underestimated this man whom I called ‘uncle’.
Duncan took my hand and patted it. “Dinna fash now, lass, everythin’ll work out.” We strolled across the moor, our fingers entwined.
“I hope yer right, Duncan.” I wished I was as trusting as my lad but I knew well what my aunt was capable of and I felt Sloan was much the same. It would be easier if I didn’t think and worry a good deal of the time but my nature wouldn’t allow it.
Duncan squeezed my hand
and I turned, admiring the chiselled features, gilded by the morning sunlight. He smiled, his eyes soft as he searched my face. My fears melted and I smiled back. We walked, the silence between us comfortable, words not necessary.
The sun warmed and the lingering pockets of fog evaporated. Around us the highland leapt into focus. Nearby two male wrens noisily vied for the attention of a solitary female, arguing back and forth. She ignored the outrageous pair, preening her feathers with haughty dips of her beak. The babble of the nearby burn captured my attention and a long ago memory came back to me.
I had been ten and Duncan twelve, just a few months before his mother passed away. We had spent the afternoon swimming in the cool water, floating on our backs and basking in the sun. Without warning something grabbed my ankle and I had been pulled under, inhaling a noseful of water. I came up sputtering and choking to stare into the dripping, grinning face of Duncan. Furious, I had splashed water into his face and chased him from the burn. Taller and faster, he had raced like the wind along the stream’s edge and quickly climbed a birch tree. I stood under the tree with my arms crossed, demanding that he come down. He had teased from the high branch, infuriating me even more, until I had picked up a pine cone and thrown it at his head. As he ducked, his wet hands had slid from the branch and he had fallen with a ‘thud’ at my feet. I had poked my toe into his side and then with dread filling my stomach, I realised he wasn’t moving. Falling to my knees I had cradled him in my lap and begged him to wake up. I had stroked his wet hair and kissed his forehead, my tears dripping onto his cheeks. As I pressed my lips to his and whispered ‘Please open your eyes, laddie. I love ye.’ he had indeed opened his eyes, kissed me back hard and started laughing. I had shoved him from my lap and stomped all the way back to Duntulm, ignoring his attempts to apologise. He’d finally given up and I’d run ahead, leaving him behind.
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