Bella glanced again at his profile, stern and aloof, and knew with an aching heart that although his emotions were held in check, he was grieving for the past.
"I don't believe life at Loch Fasail was ever easy, was it?" she said gently. "You were such a good chief, MacLean, that you kept your people alive and well when others failed. But even you, or your descendants, would have found it difficult to continue on as conditions deteriorated. It's possible that Loch Fasail wouldn't have been populated today even if the massacre hadn't happened."
He turned to look at her and his expression was deadly serious. "If I had been here to protect them, I would have found a way to get my people through the hard times, Bella. I would no' have let them starve or die from sickness."
"You may not have been able to help it, MacLean," she whispered, tears in her eyes.
He shook his head angrily. "No, you're wrong. I could have kept them safe, and though mabbe some of them might have left in the years between then and now, I dinna believe Loch Fasail would be empty as it is. People would have stayed and lived on. My people."
Bella knew she shouldn't believe in him, not when Scottish history so obviously told a different story, but she did. She did believe he really could have made a difference through the sheer force of his powerful will.
Perhaps that was part of the reason for his success as a chief and as a man. Bella knew that, like the Clan MacLean, she would have followed the Black MacLean anywhere.
Inverness was unrecognizable, although now and again MacLean thought he saw a stretch of the river or a curve of landscape that stirred in him an elusive memory from the past. Bella parked the car and led him firmly through the pedestrians who turned to gawk, to a shop that she said sold clothing, while MacLean tried to pretend he was above such curiosity, his back stiff and his face aloof.
The place they entered had a sign upon the window that read outfitters for the complete gentleman. It was wee, and there was very little light. The people who worked here spoke in hushed voices, as if it were a church, and they would not meet his eyes, which he did not know whether to be glad of or to worry about. After Bella had explained their business, they were led through to the back, which was far bigger, with clothing everywhere and in varying stages of completion.
MacLean was outfitted with long black trews and a shirt not unlike the one he already owned and a black jacket that clung to his shoulders without a crease. There were shoes, too, black and shiny. Bella knelt down to help him tie them, and he took the opportunity to whisper in her ear that he preferred his plaid.
He earned an exasperated look and a sigh.
"Excuse me, sir." One of the laddies who worked in the shop was holding MacLean’s black velvet jacket. "I wondered if you'd tell me where this garment was made, sir. The workmanship is very interesting indeed."
MacLean, fearing he meant to steal it, snatched the jacket from him. Bella gave him a sharp look and turned to the laddie with a smile, blathering about MacLean having been overseas and only lately returned and the jacket being made in foreign parts. MacLean himself said nothing.
"You are a frustrating man," she murmured when they were alone again. Then she turned him to the long mirror and, smiling, said, "But a very impressive one, MacLean."
The dark trousers and jacket made him look bigger, somehow. Although he had shaved this morning, there was already a dark shadow on his jaw, making him look like a wild reiver, while his pale eyes stared challengingly back.
"Very nice, sir," one of the laddies was simpering. "Do you no' agree?"
He frowned and opened his mouth to tell him what he thought of such arse-licking, just as Bella hastened into the fray. "He looks perfect, thank you so much."
Then she went about the business of paying with the piece of plastic, as she called it. As he watched her standing there in her baggy jeans and woolen coat, MacLean had made a decision of his own, and found one of the laddies to ask his own question. He had his answer, and a short time later they were out on the street.
Although he was no longer in his plaid, MacLean noticed that people still stared at him. He reached down for the comforting grip of his claidheamh mor and then remembered he wasn't wearing it. Bella had told him he had to leave it at home, but he had insisted on bringing it, so she had made him leave it in the trunk of the car.
"If you carry it around Inverness, we'll be arrested," she informed him sternly when he tried to argue.
"Arrested?" he snorted, but he knew what the word meant. "Verra well, woman, I'll leave it in the car. For now," he muttered, as she turned away, but Bella chose to ignore him.
"I've something else I wish to do," he said now, firmly.
Bella gave him a nervous glance. "Oh?"
"There is another shop I wish to visit."
"Oh?"
His mouth twitched. "The name of it is Siren, and it is in Bridge Street."
Bella's eyes widened. "Oh no, you don't, MacLean!"
"Oh, aye, Bella. I have suffered at your hands, and 'tis your turn now."
"MacLean, places like this Siren only cater to skinny teenagers. Believe me, I know." And when he gave her a blank look, "Wee girls, MacLean! I'm not made for those slinky numbers. You don't understand."
"No, Bella, you dinna understand. I am no' asking you, I am telling you."
She opened her mouth and he could see the words waiting there to pour out, and then she met his eyes and closed it again. With a shrug, she turned and led the way, but he sensed a new emotion in her, a painful acceptance. Aye, it was as he had always thought: She believed herself unattractive, she had been told so by Brian and maybe her mother, and although Bella was strong, the words had lodged deep.
Like a thorn.
If he did one last thing before the Fiosaiche decided his fate, it would be to make Bella realize just how beautiful a woman she was.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-four
Siren was far more friendly-looking and better lit than the Outfitters for the Complete Gentleman, and there was music. Evidently women were allowed to enjoy themselves while they chose their clothing. MacLean pulled her into the doorway, his grip tightening on her hand as he felt her resistance.
"MacLean," she hissed, "I really, really don't want to do this."
"Lass!" he called, ignoring her, and the woman behind the counter looked up. She was tall and skinny, with dark makeup around her tired eyes, eyes which widened in amazement at the sight of him.
"Ah, yes, can I help you?"
"I need something for Bella."
The woman's eyes slid to Bella, who was trying to hide behind him. "Anything in particular?" she asked in amusement.
MacLean hesitated, then turned and gave Bella a stern look. "Stay here," he said, and walked over to the counter, carefully avoiding racks of bright clothing as he went. And then he bent and murmured his request in the woman's receptive ear, too softly for Bella to hear above the plaintive wail of the music.
Bella stood and watched him, listening to Chris Isaak sing about falling in love, and wondering whether MacLean would chase her if she ran. The shop assistant was enthralled, it was obvious. MacLean cast his spell on everyone who met him, or saw him, and Bella was the worst of the lot.
She was being pathetic and she knew it, but she couldn't help it. So much for the new leaf being turned over! Her heart was stuttering in her chest as she remembered every embarrassing moment she had ever had with Brian. All the posh shops he had dragged her into, all the clothes he had tried to make her wear that made her look so unattractive and so unlike herself, and it was always her fault that the skirts were too tight or the blouses pinched, never the fact that they were the wrong shape or size.
"If you lose a couple of pounds, you'll look better," he'd say to her, as if it were nothing.
"I'm not made that way, Brian."
"You just don't try, Bella."
And now MacLean was going to do the same thing to her, he was going to humiliate and belittle her, not in wor
ds but by his actions, and it would be all the worse because he thought he was helping. No, she wouldn't let him.
Bella decided she would have to run, just as MacLean turned around and pinned her with a look. All the fight went out of her. This would be humiliating enough without struggling with him in the street. Better just to get it over with.
The shop assistant was peeping around him, smiling. "I'll make it painless," she promised.
MacLean quirked an eyebrow.
Bella huffed to hide her anxiety and followed the woman toward the back of the shop.
"Lucky you," she whispered. "He's gorgeous! And sweet as well. Where did you find him? Maybe he has a brother."
Bella choked. "No, I'm sorry, there's only one."
The woman sighed, but rallied as she pulled out some dresses from various spots along the wall. Bella eyed them nervously.
"Don't worry," she said, sensing Bella's anxiety, "they'll fit, and look good, too. You'll be stunning."
But Bella could not help feeling breathless as she entered the changing room and began trying on the clothing.
The first garment was black, a wraparound skirt with a halter top, and although nice enough, it made Bella uncomfortable. What if one of those knots came undone and the whole thing fell down? Still, it looked much nicer than she had expected. The second garment was a silky dress in a rose-pink color, and as soon as she put it on, she knew it was the one. It did something amazing to her. The bodice was low-cut, exposing lots of pale flesh, but not in a way that made her worried something might fall out, and the skirt clung and yet flattered her lush curves, flaring out just below her knees. Bella stood and looked at herself in the mirror in delight.
She was beautiful, and suddenly she looked at herself as herself and knew it.
"All right back here?" The sales assistant was there, smiling, her glance taking in Bella's transformation. "Wow! He was right, your gorgeous friend. Do you have shoes for this? I've just taken delivery of some strappy sandals. Want to try some on?"
Bella agreed, and chose a black pair, not too high, but high enough to flatter her legs. She felt dizzy with pleasure.
"What did he say?" she asked as the woman grinned back at her in the mirror. "My… my friend, what did he say to you?"
"He told me to find something that would make you realize you were as beautiful as he said you were."
"Oh."
"Not that you need much help," the woman went on. "You look like Elizabeth Taylor in her Cleopatra days. Nicely curved. A couple of centuries ago you'd have been hailed as a goddess. A pity fashion these days decrees one has to be half starved."
When the woman left, Bella took a deep breath, slipped off the dress, and instead of avoiding her reflection, as she usually did, she looked at herself, really looked.
And she was still beautiful.
The transformation had come from within herself, but she also knew that something had sparked it off. MacLean. His appreciation of her, his desire for her, had given her this new perspective. He had given her back her love for herself.
Bella smiled and her reflection smiled back.
"Never again," she swore then, "will I think less of myself because of someone else's opinion."
"Bella?" It was MacLean outside, impatiently waiting.
"I'm nearly finished," she called. Hurriedly she dressed in her own clothes again and, with a secretive smile at him, headed to the counter.
The woman grinned. "Enjoy yourselves."
MacLean slid his arm around Bella and gave her a squeeze. "Aye, we will."
Bella paid, and they left.
"I didna see it," MacLean complained.
"You will," she promised, and laughed.
He smiled back. "What is it, Bella?"
"Nothing, only… I'm happy, MacLean."
"Aye," he said indulgently, "and so you should be. You were made to be happy, Arabella."
And he meant it, she could see it in his eyes.
The woman in Siren was right: He was gorgeous. Bella only wished she could keep him forever.
MacLean was glad to be gone from Inverness and back inside the car. It was late afternoon now, and they were supposed to arrive at the Forsythe house for their dinner, but first they had to find a place to stay. Auchtachan had a hotel with comfortable rooms, according to Mistress Forsythe, and Bella found it, parked, and they went to book in.
"Are you here to make a film?" the girl behind the desk asked, her eyes never leaving MacLean.
"Film?" he demanded haughtily.
"Just visiting," Bella assured her, hurrying to fill out the forms and snatching up the key.
The staircase creaked on the way up and MacLean followed her, thinking the hotel looked old and dingy and could have been around when he was alive the last time. Only it would have been new then. He had noticed as they drove from Inverness that there were more buildings down here than there had been farther north. People lived in boxes, packed together, as if they were afraid of being on their own or afraid in their own land.
It made him feel like he couldn't breathe.
Their room was large and clean, but as usual MacLean found the ceiling too low, so he sat down in a chair by the window and glowered at Bella while she hung up a few items of clothing.
Castle Drumaird had been built for a man of his size. All his family were tall. He missed the place, he missed his own people and his own land, and his own life. He ached with the knowledge that all of that was destroyed when he died, and he chafed at the realization that he could have stopped it.
A gentle hand pressed upon his shoulder and Bella asked, "What is it, MacLean? You look as if you've eaten something that disagreed with you."
He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Bella, I dinna mean to be glum, but I'm sick for my home," he said. "This time is so different, everything is so different. I dinna belong here."
She smoothed his cheek with her fingers, feeling the roughness of his whiskers. "Wouldn't you get used to it? I know everything is strange now, but you seem to be more comfortable already. In a year or two no one would ever guess you hadn't been here all your life."
"Mabbe if I lived at Loch Fasail, then I could bear it. It wouldna be so foreign to me then. But here, it's as if I'm caught between two worlds, Bella, and I dinna like it. There's no sense of belonging."
She said nothing, but he could tell that she was upset. It had not been his intention to make Bella sad, too, and now he drew her down onto his lap, shifting uncomfortably from the restriction of his new set of clothes—the suit, as Bella called it.
"You've been brought here for a reason," she said quietly. "Perhaps when you know what it is, then everything else will make more sense."
He opened his mouth to reply, just as a great noise rushed overhead. MacLean flew out of his chair, gazing up, expecting any moment that the ceiling would fall in and they would be crushed.
"MacLean!" Bella was tugging at his arm, trying not to laugh. "MacLean, it was an airplane."
He narrowed his eyes at her, furious with himself and everything else. How could a man protect those he loved in a world like this, where things flew in the sky? As Bella calmed him, explaining as best she could, he pretended to listen, while all the while he knew in his heart that he would never be happy here.
He was like a castaway, washed up on a strange shore. He might try and fit in, he might genuinely marvel at modern life, he might pretend he was happy, but every moment of every day he would be dreaming of his home. And all that he had left behind.
Bella smoothed the skirt over her hips, examining herself in the mirror. This was the second time she had put on the dress since its purchase. The first time MacLean had asked her to take it off again, so that he could make love to her. She felt beautiful, he thought she was beautiful, and he showed her so, constantly. It was a dream come true.
Bella tucked her hair behind her ear and caught up her jacket. MacLean was standing, peering broodily out of the window. Checking for airplanes? Bella tho
ught with a smile, but she didn't ask it aloud. Poor MacLean, he wasn't at all happy with modern technology. As the Chief of the MacLeans of Fasail he had controlled everything; nothing had slipped by his watchful eyes. Here he was in control of nothing.
I'm sick for my home.
His words had lodged in her chest like a hard little lump.
Would he leave her if he had the chance? Of course he would—he must! MacLean belonged to the past. It was where he was comfortable, where he was born to be. She could not ask him to stay here, not when he was so obviously unhappy. If a chance came for him to go back, to return as a living man, then she would insist he take it. Whatever the cost to herself.
But, guiltily, she could not help but wonder if perhaps he would not have that chance. He might be stuck here forever, and although he would not like that, she would be with him.
"When can we read Tamsin Macleod's words?"
MacLean had turned and was watching her from the shadows. In his dark suit he looked even more dangerously handsome than he had in the plaid. Bella had hoped the modern dress might make him fit in, but it didn't. He was so striking and unusual that she knew he would be noticed wherever he went, whatever the century.
"I'm hoping to persuade Mrs. Forsythe to show us the document before dinner. Then we can eat and leave afterwards without being rude."
"You dinna know these people, then?"
"Not personally, no, although I have heard of their collection. I am not a great believer in private collections myself. I think history should be for everyone, in a public place, for the public. It belongs to us all. My father wanted to possess things, to own them. Houses, land, cars, women… I'm not like that."
He smiled at her passionate outburst. "Your eyes are flashing, Arabella. I wish I could show you Castle Drumaird as it was. I'd take you up onto the tower and we could stand in the weather and look out over my lands and you could instruct me on how I should no' possess so much, me being just one man."
Immortal Warriors 01 - Return of the Highlander Page 20