“Your word, mo ghaol, is my command and all that.”
“Ha, I wish. Only if you choose, eh?”
He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Harsh, very harsh. Let’s say if it is in our best interests. You’ll find clothes in the wardrobe.” He flung back the covers and as he disappeared into the kitchen, she got the view she’d asked for.
“Very nice.”
He laughed and waggled his fingers in the air. She’d have preferred him to waggle his bum, but she guessed she couldn’t have everything.
Humming happily to herself, Marcail headed for the bathroom.
Once she’d been to the loo, found toothpaste and a new toothbrush with a note on it saying, ‘Mo Ghaol’, stuck to it, used them and had the speediest shower ever, Marcail decided she was ready to find out where she was, and the all-important, why.
She headed back into the bedroom and stopped mid-stride.
The view.
She hadn’t paid any attention before, but now…
Paden must have opened the blinds enough for light to filter in—and the view to be seen. Wherever they were, it wasn’t the island—or Skye. In fact, she’d bet her new sunnies it wasn’t even Scotland.
It was sunny. Blue skies and…she lifted one of the slats of the blind to get a better view. Almost enough to blind you with brightness. Maybe she better not bet her sunglasses, it looked as if she might need them. She could feel the heat through the glass. Hopefully they both had packed some cool clothes.
She craned forward. A glimpse of water. A lake? She doubted it was a loch, not with the heat of the sun as it streamed into the room. However the water wasn’t blue, but a deep mysterious grey.
“Lake Wanaka, just like you wished for.”
Marcail whirled around to see Paden, naked as the day he was born, standing in the doorway. She looked him up and down.
“Someone’s pleased to see me.”
He struck a pose. “Always, mo ghaol, but I’ll not take advantage.”
Why was he being so noble? “You didn’t say that last night,” she pointed out.
“You were the one who did the advantaging…” He grinned. “Or whatever it’s called.”
“I could do it again?” Marcail suggested hopefully. “You know, being noble and all that. Just to check I got it all right.”
Paden shook his head as he walked to the wardrobe and pulled out underwear, a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt for himself and threw her a long multicoloured dress, a pair of frilly knickers and a bra she’d never seen before. “Sadly not, though hold the thought until later. We need to get dressed and head out for a while.”
Marcail caught hold of the dress, drew it over her head and pulled on the pants, which to her relief were mainly cotton. She’d not bother with the bra. “Where are we going? Can I get away with no bra? It’s not that it isn’t beautiful, “she said apologetically. “It’s gorgeous. However, hot weather, silk and lace, and it might itch.”
Paden stroked an imaginary moustache. “You can always go braless or anything else less as far as I’m concerned.” He sobered and took the few steps needed to enable him to gather her close. “We need to head out. Because when it’s your birthday at home and also here we have something to do.”
“Can I grab something to eat?” Marcail followed him into the kitchen. It was a sign of just how far her ideas had changed that she hadn’t thought to ask what trick he was pulling to make her think she was on the other side of the world and to accept she was.
They were.
“My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,” she added as it rumbled. “Even a biscuit would do.”
Paden handed her an insulated mug and a bacon roll. “This okay for now? I promise you some of the best fish and chips ever, after. But we need to move, we’ve got half an hour.”
“For what?”
“Wait and see.”
Marcail took a healthy bite out of the bread and let the smoky flavour of the bacon coat her tongue and roll onto her taste buds. “Damn good,” she said through a mouthful of bread and meat. She sighed with pleasure and took another mouthful. She finished the roll in record time and wiped her hands on a napkin. “Ready. I’m in your hands, without a spanner this time.”
Paden laughed at that comment. “I was a wee bit worried when I saw that. I’m glad I passed the test, whatever it was.”
They left the house, and Marcail got her first look around the area. Down a short but steep hill, traffic passed on what looked to be a busy main road. To the left was another hill, higher than the one they were on, with what appeared to be a monument on top of it. To the right was the water she’d glimpsed from the bedroom.
Her heart sped up as hand in hand they headed down towards the lake. “Where’s that Wanaka Tree?” she asked. “Bonnie was most insistent I went to see it.”
“You will soon, it’s at the other end of town.” Paden shepherded her across the road—as if I were a child, Marcail thought, amused—and onto the shore of the lake. “We need to be there at midday.”
They skirted a children’s playground and walked past a kiosk selling ice creams with a small queue of people waiting by it. If she hadn’t just pigged out on her bacon roll, and had been looking forward to fish and chips, Marcail would have joined them.
On the water several canoes were occupied, and people leisurely paddled parallel to the shore. Somewhere a dog barked, and a child squealed with happiness.
A sense of peace enveloped Marcail as they strolled on. This far away from the centre of town there were less people—apart from several groups near the water’s edge, taking photos and fooling around. Those she could do without. It hit her that she’d hadn’t felt like she did at that moment for a very long time.
“It’s…” She hesitated. “It’s as if I belong here. Daft, but I feel this is my home.” She stole a quick look at Paden’s uncommunicative face. “Well, I do…” she finished lamely.
“That’s as it should be, mo ghaol.” Paden pointed ahead where a hundred yards away, several yards into the water, a lone tree stood. “Our destination. That Wanaka Tree.”
Marcail stopped dead and stared. “Is there really a rainbow around it? That’s flashing?”
“Only to those who see it. Those who are called to it.” He lowered his voice. “To those who need to gain its forgiveness. Its blessing.”
“And that’s us?” Marcail asked as they drew as close to it as they could without getting their feet wet.
“It is me, for forgiveness. It is for you to accept it.”
The way he spoke sounded archaic, but she understood what he meant.
“With the tree as our witness,” Paden continued. “Though what is needed is before its time, but it is here it needs to be said. If you don’t agree I am condemned to the other life. Life as it was. Wandering, wondering, wishing…” He sighed. “Waiting for who knows how long.”
“Clear as mud.”
“It will be as clear as crystal soon.”
“Go on then. Do we do this in the mind?”
Paden grinned. “Some of it maybe. But not all.” He fished in his pocket. “Marcail, mo ghaol, will you wear this for me? To show our ties, to show what we were and will be?”
“To atone for my sins when in our last time, I left, and couldn’t get back?”
“When?”
“When I came here, many moons ago. Stood here, where no tree stood, and vowed that you were the one for me. My one and only love. And…”
“And?”
Silence.
“Dammit, Paden, and…?” Marcail stared at his ashen face. “Paden, what’s wrong?” Was it possible to be standing and dead? She could see no sign of life.
The rainbow around the tree began to fade and suddenly she knew what she had to do.
“Of course I’ll wear it.” Even though she had no idea what the ‘it’ was. “I am your love, then and now.” And forever. Dammit, whoever this is down to, do something. I love him, my life will be empty if Paden isn
’t in it.
With some difficulty, Marcail unfurled his fingers and prised a pearl from between them. A black pearl, on a long slender chain. Without any conscious thoughts, Marcail put the chain around her neck and clasped the pearl in her hands. It warmed to her touch.
Okay then, whoever has to do whatever has to be done, bloody well do it now. If he dies I will never, ever forgive you. And yes, okay, I thought he was a pain in the ass and a figment of my overactive brain until recently but… She choked back a sob. I don’t now, okay?
She went hot and cold and shivered as dark spots danced in front of her eyes. Why?
Then she understood.
All right, I’ll fess up, he’s been around me, looking after me in his own way for years, hasn’t he? That’s why I was drawn to him so fast. Why I…li…love him. He’s the other half of me. So stop this nonsense, he’s atoned or whatever and he’s mine.
“No need to shout,” Paden said weakly. “I think they heard you. Do you really love me?”
“You’re mine,” she said out loud. “Do not dare renege. You got me here, you got me to believe most of what’s gone on, and well…what else?”
“Love?”
“Depends on how you behave, what you say or do.”
“Fish and chips,” Paden said, his colour restored. “And the rest of the story?”
“I’m standing comfortably,” Marcail said with a grin. “So you can begin. Maybe by sitting on that log. You know as in sit down before you fall down?”
Paden nodded. “I am a bit shaky to be honest. So much rests on you and me here, to achieve the correct outcome.”
They moved to the log, and Marcail sat sideways on it. “Lean on me so you don’t wobble off,” she said. “Tell me how I’ve gone from a total non-believer of anything supernatural, to accepting I’ve been talking in my mind to you, had hot passionate sex in my mind with you.” She blushed as Paden laughed.
“Damned good it was, as well,” he answered. “Good fun, eh?’
“Yes, well,” Marcail said, flustered. “Let me carry on without getting all hot and bothered. Where was I?”
“Hot sex.”
“Apart from that,” she said severely.
“You met one of your ancestors, agreed to be here with me, discovered we were a couple or whatever in a previous lifetime, and if we don’t become one again something might happen to me. Not that I’m pressuring you. Whatever happens will be as it should.”
“Scare me why don’t you. I know there must be more.”
Paden leant on her side. “That’s the gist. To condense it all, after Culloden, my ancestor, who we can now say was me, as you were Morven, died at Culloden. After marrying his lady there. The pearl was a symbol of their love and celebrated the marriage. To some it also showed his death.”
“No wonder I hate that name and stone. So, Morven?”
He nodded. “Morven. That last-minute marriage saved their—our son—from bastardy and upset a few people. Instead of being allowed to die, to live again, Rian, which incidentally means royal—as does Paden—was doomed to live a half-life, able to see what was going on but never to take part unless until one of Morven’s ancestors got to the age you are now, without a mate and without belief. I had to show you what we are to be allowed to live. Far-fetched to one who doesn’t believe, life for me.”
“And now you can live?” Marcail asked anxiously. “Like in you and me live?”
“I can…” Paden kissed her cheek. “As long as we wed within the next twelvemonth, before you pass your thirty years.”
“And stay married for at least the next thirty.”
“That bit’s easy. What was Skye all about?”
“Nothing to you now, that’s for someone else to sort out.”
“What now then?” She wondered idly who the sorter-out person would be.
“Whoever is thirty next.”
“That’ll be Baird then. Poor Baird.”
“Next, apart from telling your parents, getting married and so on?” Paden queried.
Marcail nodded. “Apart from that.”
“Let’s go for fish and chips. This life has given me a taste for them.”
* * * *
Marcail blinked as she watched the view of Paden and herself walking hand in hand back along the lakeside grow dim and finally fade.
“Was that us?”
He nodded. “It was and it is and it will be.”
“But we were here and not there? Sort of like a dream, looking into the future or what is it called, remote viewing?”
“It could be called that, amongst other things. It is as we want it to be.”
“You’re doing that clear as mud explaining thing again.” She mock thumped him on the arm.
Paden laughed and put his palm to hers. “It was…a glimpse of how it could be at first, then how I’d hope it could be, and then…”
“As it will be?” Marcail asked. “You, me, us.”
Paden stared at her intensely. “Are you sure? I know it’s all been sudden for you. After all, you had no idea I’ve been…”
He hesitated and Marcail looked at him curiously. “You’ve been?” she prompted. “Been what?”
“Part of your life for as long as you’ve been here in this entity.”
Things were becoming clearer now. “I know,” Marcail said, not totally truthfully. “Well, from the time I realised I had two voices in my head that spoke to me, anyway. Almost all my life.” She grinned at his stunned expression. “Okay, I’ll fess up, I haven’t known for long, only since we were stuck in the bothy. But your voice kept reminding me of something, and then the more I heard you in my head, as we are now, the more it niggled me. Not just the voice, but how comfortable you made me feel.”
“You make me sound like an old sofa.”
All squishy? She sniggered. “Nah. Unafraid, happy, where I should be, and who I should be with. Loved and loving back in return.” Marcail rested her head on his shoulder and almost cried at his expression of love, desire and contentment. Her heart sped up as he slowly, almost in worship, kissed her and held her close.
“Believe it, ma ghaol, all I have is yours, all I am is for you. All I can be… When I met you, I knew. You are my life.”
“When I met you, I knew I’d come home.”
Want to see more from this author? Here’s a taster for you to enjoy!
Love’s Bloom: The Daisy Chain
Raven McAllan
Excerpt
Stewart, Daisy’s soon-to-be ex-lover—even if he wasn’t aware of it—came with a groan and a shudder that Daisy swore shifted the bed three inches.
Outside rain splattered on the window, and the wind crept in around the sash and stirred the curtains.
Welcome to spring in Scotland. Where was sunshine and warm balmy days?
Not there for sure.
Unsatisfied—not only by the weather—and not anywhere near sated, Daisy muttered something unrepeatable and thought, ‘sod it, I’m not faking again’. Faking an orgasm was about as satisfying as eating four-day-old pizza that no one had thought to cover and the mice had nibbled. She didn’t even like fresh pizza. Her Italian food of choice was spaghetti with clams and a bottle of Gavi.
That was a good topic for her weekly newspaper column. She’d need to make a note of it later. Not the wine, but the yawn-a-gasm. ‘To fake or not to fake, that is the question’.
She wasn’t doing it, enough was enough. Time for a shake-up, she was in a rut, and was sick of the view.
That summed up her life, and not just with Stuart, although that—and he—was the catalyst.
Three months previously they had met at a pre-Christmas party and appeared to connect. How wrong could someone be? One month of skirting around each other, two of having sex—piss-poor sex if she were honest—and Daisy knew their relationship was doomed. Should she tell him then or later?
The insistent buzz of her mobile phone answered that.
Later.
She hef
ted Stewart to one side, ignored his incoherent mumble, picked up the phone and squinted at the caller’s name.
Plum…
Oh shit, what now. She flicked it on. Stewart grunted contentedly. “Glad it wasn’t a second earlier. Great, eh?”
Oh how she’d like to say, ‘no you selfish shit it wasn’t’. Daisy ignored him and spoke into the phone. “Hi, Ma, what’s up?”
The voice on the other end of the phone was nigh on incoherent. But as ever, Daisy got the gist of it. “Arrested? What the hell for?” She listened for a moment more as Stewart got up, scratched his cock and balls and wandered in the direction of the bathroom, as uninterested as ever in her family and their goings-ons.
“You did what? Oh for f…flips sake, Ma, how many more times? No, I’m not bailing you out this time. Ask Pete the…” Just in time she stopped herself calling him ‘the plonker’. Her mum got really agitated when she did, and she supposed she couldn’t blame her. “The guy you’re ah…seeing.” Better than saying ‘screwing’ to your mum. Not that it would faze her mum, but it just didn’t feel right.
Her mother’s diction became clear. “I’ve ditched him, Daisy. He wanted me to wear a bra.” Her voice rose. “Can you believe it? The controlling bastard. A bra.” She sounded as if she’d been asked to eat meat and she was a card-holding vegetarian. “I mean, where would I get one? What a waste of money. And if that wasn’t enough, he thinks I should call myself Priscilla. I am not a Priscilla, am I? Prissy Pris. So not me. It was the last straw, Daisy, it really was. Pr…isss…illa.” If you could hear a shudder, Daisy heard it.
However, Daisy could agree with that statement. Prickly Pris maybe, not prissy, anything but. Her hippy mum, who thought free love should include condoms on the NHS, had called herself Plum ever since she’d snuck into one of the early Isle of Wight music festivals, met Gregory, a.k.a. Leaf, Daisy’s dad, and gone to live in a tepee on the edge of a Scottish loch. There they communed with nature by picking wild fruit and berries, had a lot of dodgy tummy upsets when they didn’t know what they’d picked, swam naked and ate guddled fish. Not, Daisy devoutly hoped, all at the same time.
Love by the Stroke of Midnight Page 10