The Legend of Lady MacLaoch

by Becky Banks

  “There is one thing that I’m not sure I understand—and it doesn’t have to do with the Gathering next week,” I plunged in. “Why did you really offer me that money? Were you serious?”

  “Aye, tha’,” he said. He considered his response for a while, then answered, “I’ll repeat what I said earlier, it was no’ a payoff. The fact tha’ ye dinnae take it tells me something of ye. Ye are a prideful woman, Ms. Baker, and I’ll no’ fault ye for it.” He said it seriously, as if he were commending me.

  “Why that amount? That cannot be a coincidence—it is the same amount as my, well, of what I owe to various places.”

  MacLaoch raised is eyebrows at me. “Ms. Baker, I assure ye it isnae based on anything other than what I assumed ye paid for your plane ticket here, the cost of your rented car, and how much your stay with Will and Carol is costing ye. No more than tha’.”

  I looked at him with my own questioning brow lift. “You obviously pay too much for things—it didn’t cost me nearly that much. Do you do that for everyone Kelly manhandles?”

  “Ms. Baker, as I have said before, if someone raises an issue with one of my clansmen, I rise to meet it. I dinnae hand out money to everyone who has a complaint, but would I do it for a woman whose ancestor is Iain Eliphlet Minory? The descendant of the man my ancestor loved? Who cursed me—and all the chieftains before me—because of what we’d done tae him? Oh aye, I’d do everything I could to make sure she’s happy.”

  CHAPTER 19

  MacLaoch smiled, a little curve at one corner of his mouth, and stood. “We still have some light left, Ms. Baker—will ye permit me to show ye the castle gardens?”

  I looked out the window then back to him. “Ah, yes. That’d be nice,” I said, feeling the formality of his request.

  I followed the MacLaoch chieftain, who still carried his whisky in one hand, out to the many gardens that took up the rear of the estate. Lush forestland blended into the symmetry of the gardens, the distinction between them made soft and subtle in the profusion of flowers and the rigid structure of bordering hedges. We entered the first garden by walking along a low stone bridge over a narrow river.

  The river reminded me of the placard that I’d read the day I’d met him. “Where is the river that Lady MacLaoch supposedly filled with her tears of joy?” I asked.

  MacLaoch smirked, pointing down with his whisky hand. “This one.” He leaned against the railing.

  “All this water from one person, huh?” I asked, my sarcasm meeting his smirk.

  “Aye, well, it was carved by her tears but is fed now by the rains.”

  “Yes, but I think the question is not how it was formed but rather by what kind of tears.”

  “And what are your thoughts on it?” he asked and took a small sip of whisky, watching me closely.

  I was quiet for a moment. Had he been anyone else, I would have simply let him know the plaque was full of bull. But instead I employed my manners. “Well, for starters, I’m curious to know who wrote the story on that plaque you display here, in your home.”

  MacLaoch watched me for a moment longer and then said, “No, I think ye should tell me yer opinion first. I can see tha’ ye think one thing yet ye say something else. I’d prefer ye to be frank.”

  “I appreciate that, but I was raised to act like a lady, and what I was going to say was not very ladylike.” I added, looking down at the running water below us, “My mother would drop in a dead faint if she heard me say that. So, who were they?”

  “But your mother is no’ here,” he said encouragingly.

  “And yet, I will not give in.” I said, leaning on the rail as well.

  “Would ye believe it was just a bunch of little old ladies who made tha’ plaque?”

  I laughed out loud. “No, I wouldn’t. It seems to have too much of an ulterior motive for it to be from innocent little old ladies.”

  “Och, come now. I dinnae say they were innocent.”

  “You’re serious? They were little old ladies? Who was feeding them the information? Because someone must have.”

  “Ye dinnae believe the story? It’s from little old ladies, though, who would ne’er lie.”

  “You,” I said and shook my head, “are trying to goad me into saying what I almost said earlier. Which was, I don’t believe that the plaque was made with the full truth in mind. Rather, it was made to make the MacLaochs look good.”

  “Och, ye pain me,” MacLaoch said, lifting his free hand to his chest in mock consternation. “Created to make us look good? As the laird of the MacLaochs, I’m deeply offended by your words, Ms. Baker. How could ye?”

  “Ha ha,” I said, looking over at him. “You should be offended. Mock me, but those tears Lady MacLaoch cried were in joy? Right, and my name is Queen Elizabeth.”

  “All right, your majesty, and why would they not be? She was extremely grateful her family came to her rescue. Joyous even.”

  “Keep it up,” I said, “and I’ll have to put on my muck boots.”

  I came to the first of the gardens, which was creatively named Circular Garden. Low box hedges outlined the garden’s curved edges, inside a maze of brightly colored annuals. The path followed the arching perimeter.

  The gravel crunched behind me as the chieftain caught up. “Muck boots?” he asked. “Oh aye, ye think I’m full of . . . well now, that wasn’t very ladylike of ye.”

  “You don’t believe the plaque any more than I do, admit it.”

  “Now, ye know I cannae confirm or deny tha’.”

  “But what I’m wondering is why, when it’s obvious that you don’t believe the version of the story that’s written on it, you keep it up.”

  “The three old ladies that made it are still alive, and out of respect to them, I keep it up,” he said sincerely.

  I looked at him as we neared the exit to the garden. “Noble,” I said. “So you aren’t completely heartless.” I smiled, thoroughly enjoying the ease that settled between us.

  “No,” he said, quietly looking from my smile to my eyes. “No, not completely heartless.”

  “Yes, well,” I said to no one and about nothing; my heart squeezed as I walked out of the garden and into an open field. The path curved upward. The view was breathtaking; reddish greens meandered down to distant cliffs and the moody color of the sea beyond.

  “This way, Ms. Baker,” MacLaoch said, behind me.

  I turned to find him a few paces up the gravel trail. “Wait, what garden is this?” I asked.

  “Garden?” he said, coming to stand next to me. “What garden?”

  “This area here—is this not one of the gardens?”

  MacLaoch’s eyes scanned the area. “This bit of land here? It’s soon to be another garden, but the head gardener hasn’t gotten to it yet. How’d ye know of it?”

  “You mean this right here, this wilderness area? Are you saying that this isn’t a managed natural area?” I asked in disbelief. “There must be hundreds of native species in here.”

  MacLaoch watched me. “How do ye know what are native?”

  “School. I did a piece in undergrad for my botany course on the native species of the British Isles. There,” I said, and pointed.

  “Aye, Scots thistle, I know that one, and heather,” he said. “But they are only two. They don’t make an entire wilderness, Ms. Baker.”

  “Right, but,” I said, stepping off the trail and into the open space. It was filled with many plants I could not identify, but those I could, I called out: “A type of wood sedge,” I said, pointing, “and . . . Primula veris, cowslip . . . and yarrow. Oh! Odezia atrata, a chimney sweeper.” I crouched down to get a better look at the charcoal colored moth motionless on a blade of sedge several paces in. The white blush on the tips of its wings confirmed my identification.

  I felt the MacLaoch chieftain come up behind me. “If ye had this space, if this land was all yours, what would ye do with it?”

  I looked up over my shoulder at him. A sea breeze had pushed its way
over the land. It moved through the low-lying greenery and tossed my hair gently about.

  “Hypothetically?” I asked.

  “Aye. Hypothetically.”

  Without pause I said, “Preserve it. Study it.” I looked over the land again—it seemed pristine and untouched by humans. The forest stopped in the distance, the thickly girthed, ancient trees giving way to the dense undergrowth of shrubs and low-lying bushes, deep green and ruby with lush spring growth. “It looks like this land has never been cleared for grazing, which means that the ecosystem here must be the closest thing to native. Meaning, you probably have some very rare and possibly endangered species in here. It’s just amazing,” I said, and stood.

  “Then tha’ is what I’ll do with it,” MacLaoch said.

  “What?” I said, surprised. “I thought that was a hypothetical question you asked me.”

  “So ye don’t think that’s what should be done with this land?” he asked.

  “No, it is, but . . . ” I said, momentarily at a loss for words. I remembered the original plans. “What about your gardener? He has plans for this land—you can’t be serious about taking my advice!”

  MacLaoch simply shrugged one shoulder. “Ye have the education and have studied the natural plants of Scotland—why would I argue with ye?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ms. Baker, if my head gardener looked at a piece of land as ye just did, I’d let him do as he pleased as well. Ye have a passion for this land, so why should I deny ye? Now, there is the walled garden I think ye should see, and then my driver will escort ye back to the inn.”

  He surprised me with his generosity. The authoritarian way he had said it, I had no doubt that that piece of land would indeed be saved for study.

  “Who will you have study it? Will you have it open to a local university?” I asked as we walked along, and then, just because I couldn’t resist, I added, “Or will it be open to only those of MacLaoch bloodlines?”

  “Ah, good question. I think it’ll be open to everyone,” he said honestly, and then added, “except for Minorys.”

  “That seems reasonable,” I mocked.

  “Aye, and Minarys, even though they dinnae exist.”

  “Ha ha,” I said dryly, coming around to that line of argument once more. “Then how do you explain me?”

  “Oh,” he said, as a low rumble of a laugh escaped him, “that, Ms. Baker, is a loaded question.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked. “And how is that? And you can’t use the line of argument you used earlier, about Iain Eliphlet getting on a ship and—”

  “Ms. Baker,” the chieftain interrupted. He lifted the latch on the next garden, letting us into another breathtaking place.

  The garden’s walls rose up, creating a private oasis. Walks covered in climbing roses anchored the central area—the outer areas were filled with splashing fountains and lush plantings.

  I temporarily forgot about our conversation. “If your head gardener made this, maybe you should let him do what he wants with the wilderness area.”

  “Come now, Ms. Baker, are ye having second thoughts?” he said as his eyes seemed to find a not-so-secret joy in my awe.

  “No. I just think that he’s incredibly talented.” Forgetting myself, I wondered aloud, “He’s not single, is he?”

  MacLaoch stopped suddenly and turned, laughing. “Ye know, he is. Shall I introduce ye to him?”

  “I was just kidding,” I said, catching up to him and walking past, my cheeks warm. My eyes fixated on anything but the chieftain’s smiling face.

  “Aye,” he said, following. “Ye know what Freud said about jokes?”

  “No,” I called over my shoulder and came to rest by a man-made bubbling brook, the bench invitingly open next to it.

  “I dinnae know either, but it has to do with jokes being versions of the truth.” He took a seat on the bench, one arm stretched across the back. “Though I should warn ye, he’s not been with a woman for some time—since his wife died. I think he’s fairly lonely, so he’ll not object to meetin’ ye.”

  “Very funny,” I said. “Sounds like he’s over twice my age, so no thanks.”

  “Aye, so now ye discriminate against age?”

  “Only when death is an immediate concern.”

  “Aye, so ye are looking for someone younger.”

  “I—” I caught myself. “Wow. You’re good, you nearly had me distracted enough to forget that we were arguing about the Minory-Minary scenario. I still think you are wrong.” I continued walking.

  Entering the quiet and deep shade of a rose-entwined walkway, MacLaoch caught up to me. “Your Iain Eliphlet changed his name by a simple letter either by mistake or by purposeful intent to avoid the law.”

  I turned to face him as he approached, closing the distance between us, his whisky gone, in the shadowy dusk, the roses fragrant and blooming above us, dangling lazily from their perch. “Mr. MacLaoch—”

  “Rowan,” he said softly.

  “Rowan,” I said, feeling the pleasant weight of his first name, very aware of his broad warmth filling the air directly in front of me, “if it was as simple as you say it was, then why didn’t your clan find him?”

  “Luck or chance. A simple oversight.”

  “Or perhaps,” I said, making my point, “that single letter makes all the difference in the world. A single letter changes things like the words read into reed, the action of understanding the written word into a plant. Or in this case, two different families.”

  “Let me ask ye this, how is the research on Minary going? Finding much?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Because it doesn’t exist beyond Iain Eliphlet, does it?” he said, cutting me off again.

  “That’s not true. I haven’t explored all the avenues yet,” I said, not wanting to divulge that it was indeed going nowhere.

  “Stubborn, aren’t ye?”

  “Not as stubborn as you.”

  “I’ve had a few more years of practice than ye,” he said, good-naturedly.

  “More like a decade more,” I mumbled, thinking he sorely misinterpreted my age.

  “Decade? Ye think I’m a decade older than ye?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, “is it more like two?” It had gotten so dark I could barely see the outline of his face.

  “Och! Two? Now ye really ha’ wounded me. Unless ye are just on the other side of eighteen.”

  “I’m much older than eighteen—add ten years and you have my age. Which makes you what I thought you were, thirty-eight.“

  “Aye, ’tis close. But no, I’m—”

  “Older?” I asked.

  MacLaoch just laughed, a low chuckle in the darkness that told me I was wrong, that he was indeed younger. But how much younger, I didn’t know—he acted and moved like a man who had experienced the world, who had seen the underbelly of life and knew how to deal with it. He carried the responsibilities of a man twice his years, and no doubt had the stories to prove them. The MacDonagh brothers would agree, I thought.

  “Come.” I felt his hand slide down my arm until it clasped my own. As it had been the night before, the chieftain’s hand was warm and strong, and it steered me left and right along the pitch-black path back to the castle. We barely spoke, each of us no doubt concentrating on not tripping. Really, I was mostly occupied by the skin-to-skin contact I had with the chieftain. My body hummed with a light energy, excitement induced by the simple touch of clasped hands.

  We emerged from the darkness of the gardens and crossed the river of tears. A car idled on the road opposite us. MacLaoch released my hand, but not before his fingers trailed along my palm. At the car, he opened the back door for me. “Have a good evening, Ms. Baker. Until Monday.”

  “Thank you,” I said and settled into the backseat.

  On the drive out, I noticed the research documents that MacLaoch had given me earlier sat on the seat next to me, as did the invitation. I placed them on m
y lap and replayed the later portion of the evening with him, the wilderness area, and the playful banter that seemed such a contrast to the man I had first met. I thought of him holding my hand once more—to feel the heat against my skin made me light-headed. The car turned out onto the main road and sporadic street lamps cast a sulfuric orange glow against the night. Suddenly, a large wall broke the forest up to my left. A wall that looked just like that of the garden we’d last been in.

  “Excuse me?” I said to the driver. “Is there more than one walled garden here?”

  “Aye, no, miss. Jus’ the Walled Garden there.”

  “Oh,” I said, “and is it accessible to this road?”

  “Aye, yes, miss. Tha’ is how the head gardener gets supplies to an’ from tha’ garden.”

  My mind rolled over the simple fact that the garden was easily accessible to the main and well-lit road.

  I smiled to myself. Of course, if the MacLaoch chieftain had asked his driver to meet us here, he wouldn’t have had an excuse to hold my hand all the way back to the castle.

  CHAPTER 20

  The next day at breakfast, Carol presented me, with a squeal, with invitations from two high-end dress stores to come in and “sample” their dress collections. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I knew I didn’t have the money for whatever it was.

  “What I really need is a good secondhand store or something like that,” I told her.

  You’d think I had said pigs could fly by the look Carol gave me.

  “Och, do ye really think he’d have you buy your own dress? For gosh sakes, child, those two stores have credit with the MacLaoch estate, I’m sure o’ it. Ye will not be needing tae spend a dime.” She beamed with pride. It seemed that this gala was just as big a deal as I had assumed.

  Even though I needed dresses, jewels, and the lot, I couldn’t—not with my gigantic pride—allow the MacLaoch to drop that kind of cash on me, someone he’d just met. But I had only one alternative.

  The call, I knew, was not going to be short if my mother answered the phone. It was late in South Carolina and the gods were with me when my father answered the phone. Sighing with relief, I dove into the standard pleasantries about my trip and how things were going back home before I sprung my money question on him.