He gaped at her, but she merely bent and took up the flask of whisky at his feet, took a small sip for courage, and then, her eyes never leaving his face, replaced it by his side. That was it, he suddenly realised.
‘You’ve nae been at yer mother's whisky? Strong liquor takes some lasses like that, but it’s nae fer bairns, it –’
‘Do I look like a bairn? Do I feel like one?’
Looking at her now, full-lipped and seductive and with that translucent skin and ripe body, he could scarcely imagine anyone less child-like. She looked more like some fiendish siren sent to vex him. Yet she could be sixteen at the most; little more than a bairn.
‘Ye look as lovely as ever,’ he said stiffly. ‘But beggin’ yer pardon cousin, if ye’ve had yer prank wi’ me, is it nae time ye were minding yer reputation?’
Stung by his words, she realised he still thought her little more than a badly-behaved child. A tease at best. Her cheeks flamed. Did he nae understand how much she needed him to love her?
‘D’ye think I care fer childish games?’ she countered. ‘I'd have thought ye’d be able to see plainly enough that I'm full-grown. Far from the bairn ye seem to imagine me.’ She wet her lips. ‘Or is it ye believe I’ve nae been touched afore? That I ken nothing o’ the art o’ love, is that it?’
She doubted the fumble in Donald Gordon’s byre with young Angus would, in all honesty, count here, when he’d lifted her skirts, she’d taken fright and clouted him about the ears, but this was a matter of pride.
A muscle flexed along the sweep of his jaw, and he turned away to belt on his plaid. ‘If ye have, then I wish to know the lad’s name, and he’ll answer to me.’
‘How verra gallant o’ ye!’ She laughed delightedly. ‘But there's been many lads wanted me.’ The sun caught the glint in her eye. ‘Will I tell ye what I’ve let some do? Or do ye want me to show ye?’
What he wanted was to give her a swift icy dunk in the river, that would cool her down, but with some effort, he mastered his vexation. In a way, he admired her boldness, but without a father the lass clearly lacked instruction in the ways o’ the world. ’Twas his duty to guide her, not condemn her.
‘I’ve no wish to know more, I wish only …’ Frowning, he picked up his sporran. ‘I can see ye’ve become a beautiful young woman, Sarah. Astonishingly lovely. But I'd not like to think ye’d hold yer reputation in such little regard. Many lads will want ye, I dinna doubt that, only ye should have more self-respect, cousin.’
‘And you?’ She held her breath. ‘Do you want me?’
He hesitated before answering, but took her hand and regarded her as tenderly as his bleak humour would permit. ‘I want ye as my kinswoman and my friend, I hope, but I’d not wish ye to dishonour yourself in this way.’ In a deliberate gesture, he released her hand and began to retie her bodice. ‘If ye wish to ruin yerself, cousin, dinna look to me to help ye with that, for I’ll not do it.’
Her eyes stung, her cheeks flamed. She’d thought a display of maturity, of willing womanliness, would be difficult for him to resist. To no other man would she offer herself in this way, yet Sarah was aware that almost without exception every other man in the glen would take her without a moment’s hesitation. Jamie, however, had chosen to humiliate her.
He tied the last lace and looked up into her hot face. ‘I’d only wish ye to be yer mother’s daughter.’ He squeezed her shoulder a little apologetically, hoping he’d shown as much compassion as his dark mood would allow.
She recoiled as though he’d slapped her. ‘My mother’s daughter! Does she even mind she has one? Does she care? Or is she too busy worrying ower her precious Morven and plotting wi’ you?’ With a stab of triumph, she saw him rear back in astonishment.
‘Aye,’ she said viciously. ‘I saw ye. I heard it all.’ She gestured skyward. ‘From the tree. The one wi’ all the rags tied to it.’
‘What? What did ye hear?’
‘Yer wee plan wi’ my mother. Verra useful it was too.’
‘Useful? What d’ye mean?’ Jamie's heart stalled. Did the minx nae realise what was at stake here?
‘Useful fer misleading Morven. Ye see, I told her ye'd gone back to Inverness on account of being too feart to stay here in the glen. She didna believe it at first, but I can be persuasive. It didna take much to make her believe ye’d abandoned us all, and she was fair riled at that.’
Jamie exhaled in disbelief. ‘Why, Sarah? Fer God's sake, why would ye do such a thing?’
She had his attention now. The dark eyes were stricken, the sensitive mouth drawn in dismay. In her moment of fury, she'd thought only of striking out at him. He didna want her either, he wished her to be more like her mother! But his obvious pain brought Sarah little satisfaction. She faltered.
‘Morven didna need ye.’
Whereas … you did?’
She nodded, her gaze sliding to her feet.
‘And ye heard everything? Everything your mother said about yer da’s death?’
‘Aye, I heard it.’
‘Have ye told anyone about this, Sarah? Spoken of what ye learned to yer mother or … or, anyone?’
She shook her head, jaws clamped together.
He looked at her in bewilderment. A breath of wind stirred her hair, and it floated momentarily about her, then settled again as fluid and silken as a child’s. Even in the face of her spitefulness, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her, she looked so very young. And to listen to the details of her father’s killing like that, with no-one to comfort her. He should’ve questioned her strange behaviour before, Rowena mentioned it often enough. He should’ve seen it stemmed from loneliness and confusion, a lass lost wi’out her da.
‘Yer mam loves ye,’ he said gruffly.
‘She prefers Morven – you do too.’
‘Ye’re wrong.’ How to make her see that though? He stared at her for a moment, and she lifted her chin and stubbornly returned the look. ‘If only ye knew how hard yer mam works to give ye all yer father did. She’s lost wi’out him too. Her only wish is to keep ye safe.’
Sarah's brows puckered. ‘She chose Morven over me – she always has.’
‘Only to pass on her learning to. Did ye wish to learn the healing properties o’ plants, cousin, and to tend the sick?’
She shrugged without enthusiasm.
‘I didna think so. But why would ye wish to hurt Morven? Or me?’
Her face was burning again, a curse of her pale skin. She clenched her teeth, willing away the tears of shame she felt gathering.
‘I thought … I thought if Morven didna want ye, couldna abide ye, then mebbe … mebbe ye’d come to noticing me.’
She daren't look at him, could scarcely breathe while she waited for his reaction to this. He loved Morven. What would he be thinking now, knowing she’d made Morven despise him? Would he hate her? Rage at her? Never had she been more conscious of another person’s silence, never more aware of their assessment of her. Every fibre cried out to him to see past her foolishness and understand, but when he did nothing but stare at her in dismay, Sarah blurted, ‘Damn it, I love ye! I wanted to make ye love me back. But ye dinna care fer me at all. ’Tis only her ye want!’
He made a bewildered sound as her words struck home, stepping back, his expression stricken. What had he done to make her think that? To believe herself in love wi’ him? A child. Or was this part of the bane that followed him? Wi’out meaning to, had he encouraged her to think that way? He didn’t know. But if so, it did end here.
‘Ye mightna be so keen to love me, cousin, when ye learn I’ve let ye down. Ye dinna ken yet, but I’ve failed ye. Failed all o’ ye.’
‘It doesna matter.’
‘Ye dinna understand. I swore to yer mother I’d see yer da’s killer hanged. I put my faith in the law, in the justice o’ the land. I thought ’twas there to protect us but …’ he faltered. ‘I was mistaken. He's still free to … to do whatever it is he plans to do. I’ve done nothing but bring a scourge to
all who put their faith in me.’
Sarah blinked at the undertone of desolation in his voice. He was only spouting this haiver about a scourge so it wouldna hurt so much when he told her he didna want her. So, he did despise her. Only, why did he look so maimed?
‘Are ye not riled at me, then?’
Jamie struggled to regard his cousin dispassionately. Tears filled her eyes, bitter, childish tears he knew she was too proud to let fall and her mouth trembled as she fought to keep herself together. He shook his head.
‘I'm only sorry I canna give ye what ye so plainly need, cousin – the love of a father. But I’d have ye know ye’re precious to me. You are my blood, my kin, and I’d protect ye wi’ my life, dinna doubt it. Only I’ll not misuse ye. ’Twould be wrong of me, and I’ll not do it, no matter how ye tempt me. Anyhow,’ his face darkened, ‘ye're better wi’out me. I'd bring ye only misery.’
‘I’d take that chance.’
‘But I would not. D’ye take me fer a scoundrel, cousin?’ He glanced away and slipped his sgian dhu into his hose. Frowning, he turned back to her. ‘I pray yer pardon if I’ve been blunt with ye.’ He inhaled strongly through his nose. ‘But I’m thinking ’twould be better fer you and the folk o’ this glen if I took myself someplace else.’
Aghast, she stared at him, but he only bent and brushed his lips respectfully against her brow, then, with a tiny bow to her, hoist the loose end of his plaid up over his shoulder and turned away to cross the shingle.
‘Only I’ll see justice done first.’
***
It was peaceful and quiet in Strathavon chapelyard. The grass was knee-high and lush, sheltered from cruel north winds by a circle of dark and stately pines and the shoulder of An Sgòran, into which the oldest grave tablets were set. The gravestones rose silent and weathered from this swaddling, and Morven's footfalls were absorbed by the lushness in the same way she imagined the little soul they’d laid here only four days ago would be.
She found her father easily enough; he was where she’d hoped he’d be, standing before the small mound of newly turned earth. But it was what he held in his hand that surprised her. She’d never seen him gather wild flowers, but it was a crude posy of daisies and willow-herb he clutched in his hand, and when he turned to look at her, she saw that his eyes, though dry, were reddened and raw-looking.
He nodded curtly to her and knelt to place his posy by the simple wooden cross.
‘I'll hew her a right gravestone,’ he said gruffly. ‘Wi’ her name on, have it set here. And fer the others too.’ He nodded toward the twin little crosses nearby.
‘Aye, Mam would like that.’
He squinted up at her, and she reflected that even in grief, her father’s face seemed unable to soften in any way and he looked every bit the stern stranger he’d become to her.
‘The lads said ye called her Faith.’ He turned a little toward her. ‘A fitting-enough name, I would say.’
She said nothing but offered her hand, and he rose, grunting, to his feet. Shoulder to shoulder they stood in the thick grass, gazing upon the letters Rory had painstakingly cut into the wooden cross. Under the keen eye of Father Ranald, Rory had faithfully copied the marks the old priest had written out for him in the dust of Delnabreck’s yard. Knowing her father could no more read than she could, Morven recited the words to him from memory.
‘Faith MacRae. Born 29th Aug. 1780,
Died also 29th Aug. 1780.
Unto thee, Lord, we entrust her.’
Malcolm made a choked sound, then cleared his throat and turned to look at her.
‘Ye blame me fer this, don’t ye?’
‘Does it matter now?’
‘To me it does.’
‘Then aye, if ye must know, aye, I do.’
Nodding, he exhaled fiercely. ‘You and me both.’
She looked quizzically at him, but beneath the mask of weather-toughened skin, his face was as unfathomable as ever. If he was looking for pity, he’d get none from her. It seemed her mother would live, but ‘twas little thanks to him. He couldn’t even have spent much time with Grace, for on her return from the shieling, Morven had found Rory and Donald unloading the trail of ponies, but only Alec wept at her mother's bedside. Her father, she supposed, no sooner returned had felt his customary need to get away. With an effort, she suppressed her resentment; she’d still to do what she’d come here for, and her stomach churned at the thought.
‘There's something I must tell ye,’ she said.
‘And what’s that?’
‘I must tell ye what happened whilst ye were away.’
She’d carefully planned what she would say, had rehearsed over and over how she’d tell him of the bothy’s discovery and McBeath's attack, but when the moment came, she found herself struggling to find the right words. A habitual desire to keep from him anything of an intensely private nature saw her searching for ways to somehow lessen the horror, found her using less explicit words regarding McBeath’s intentions. At the core of it, was the insinuating belief she was to blame, a deep discomfort that it was her own misguided trust in Jamie that led to the raid in the first place.
She struggled through her account, her face flaming, then ended abruptly and cast around for something to sit down on before her trembling legs gave way. Her father stared hard at her, his breath whistling fiercely through his nose. The colour drained from his face, and his jaw hardened, seemed set in stone, the sinews standing like cords upon his neck.
‘Are ye violated?’ His voice shook with fury. ‘By God, I’ll kill the bastard!’
‘No.’ She swallowed. ‘He was stopped before he could …’
He breathed in again and blinked as though only now seeing his daughter's distress. ‘Here,’ he took her by the elbow and steered her toward a raised tombstone. ‘Sit yerself down here.’
She sat on the cold stone and, to escape the look on her father’s face, hid her own in her hands.
‘There now, dinna weep.’
To her amazement, he put his arms around her and held her against his bulk with an awkward tenderness. ‘Were ye harmed? I mean … beaten badly?’
‘Nothing that hasna healed. The bothy though … we'll never be able to use it again.’
‘Dinna fash yerself ower that. We’ll find another place fer that.’
‘I have this though.’ Without looking up, she fumbled in her arisaid revealing a strange shape knotted in its depths. She unwrapped the copper cooling worm and offered it to him. ‘And I have the malt. After they fled, I managed to take away all six sacks and I hid them under a rock at the foot o’ the falls.’
‘Ye did well.’ There was a note of what sounded like respect in his voice. He took the copper coil almost reverently from her. ‘We'll get back the malt, dinna worry yerself ower that.’
Incredibly, he seemed not to care about the bothy. She lifted her head a fraction and found the courage to look him in the eye. His colour had returned, deepened if anything to a mottled purple, and his features seemed stiff and unnatural.
‘Ye’re nae angry, then?’
‘Angry?’ He looked a mite incredulously at her, then drew her head in toward him again. ‘Child, I’m most mightily riled.’ He lifted a hand to smooth down her hair, and she saw that it shook. ‘But nae at you Morven, never at you.’ His grip on her tightened, and he drew a shuddering breath. ‘Only at that scum!’
‘But I thought … what I mean is … had I nae taken Jamie to the bothy, shown him what we do there, none of this would’ve happened.’
‘If I mind it right, ’twas Rowena asked ye to show the Innes lad the whisky-making.’
‘Well, aye, but Rowena wasna to know he’d –’
‘I ken that, but you werena to know it either.’ He shifted position, easing her away from his chest where his heart had thumped loud in her ears and looked her squarely in the eyes. ‘I’m nae concerned ower who’s to blame, I ken well who that is. I’m only concerned that ye’re safe.’ He blinked and cleared
his throat. ‘All I've ever wanted is to keep ye safe – only ye’ve aye fought me.’
She gaped at him. Fought him? He’d aye thwarted her!
‘I’d have liked it well had ye chosen to stay home more wi’ yer mother. Ye’re nae made that way though, I know, ye’ve told me often enough. And I ken ye think me unjust to treat ye so different than Alec.’ He frowned, and his expression hardened again. ‘But ye see, I know what’s in men’s hearts, Morven. What it is that drives them – the needs, the urges. I ken it all too well, fer I’m driven by them too. And kenning that, I’ve aye wished to keep ye away from such harm.’ He glanced away as though the feel of her gaze upon him pained him, and followed the line of An Sgòran. ‘’Tis all I've ever wanted, though I ken I’ve been a fool.’
She let her breath out with a little hiccupping sound. ‘What are ye saying, Da? That ye’re no better than McBeath?’
‘Little better, no.’
‘So ye’re saying yer resistance to me learning the whisky-making. And the healing, anything I’ve ever wanted to do has been ower yer knowledge o’ what's in men's hearts?’ She drew back a little, the better to assess the candour of his words. ‘Yer anger at Rowena fer sharing her skills with me, all that bad feeling, has been about keeping me from harm?’
He squeezed his eyes shut, and a muscle twitched at his jaw. ‘Partly, aye.’
‘And the other part?’
‘Guilt! Guilt ower what I’ve caused!’
‘But, what’ve ye caused?’ She slipped down from the tombstone, and when he turned away, she followed him, peering up at his louring face. ‘What’ve ye caused, Da? I dinna understand.’
‘Duncan’s death!’ he said savagely. ‘Duncan's death, that’s what! Ye see, yer guilt ower the gauger finding our bothy is as naught when compared wi’ my guilt.’ He gave a choked little laugh. ‘Mine is more damning, I think!’
She stared at him, a cold shadow crossing her soul. What had Jamie said? That Rowena believed her da was in league wi’ McBeath, party to Duncan’s death. But she couldn’t believe that. ‘What d’ye mean?’ she whispered.
The Blood And The Barley Page 26