The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  Kenneth laughed, a deep rich giant’s boom.

  “Aye, something of that nature. At least while the MacDonalds are here. But even so, it’s still the truth that ye do need to be somewhere close tae each other in arm length. There’s no’ many men alive I can wrestle with.”

  That had to be true. She had never met anyone who came even close to his stature. He must be near seven feet in height, she estimated. She normally avoided standing close to him. Accustomed as she was to looking up at people, especially her husband, who topped her by a full foot, she still felt somewhat ridiculous talking to somebody whose belt buckle was approximately on a level with her eyes. She wondered how tall Jeannie had been and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this mountain of a man who had almost been destroyed by his wife’s stupidity. Duncan had told her the details of the story of her death and Kenneth’s subsequent distress and had warned her not to speak to him of it. Kenneth didn’t notice her changes of expression as these thoughts crossed her mind, being too busy scrutinising the other occupants of the room.

  “Now take yon wee gomerel there for example, yon’s the sort of idiot that’d insist on taking Alex on, although he’s too short in the arm for a fair contest. Then he’d take it badly when he lost,” he said scathingly.

  Beth followed Kenneth’s gaze across the room to where Robert MacDonald was sitting, chatting enthusiastically and seemingly innocently with an enraptured Morag. Beth wondered whether it was a blessing or not that he was too preoccupied to entertain challenging Alex, in view of what that preoccupation was.

  “Sorry,” said Kenneth belatedly and insincerely. “He’s your kinsman.”

  “He is,” replied Beth, resolving to keep an eye on her cousin. “But you’re still right. He’s got all the rebelliousness of the family without the sense. He’s very young though, in fairness, only just turned sixteen.”

  “Let’s hope he finds the sense quickly, then, or he’ll no’ grow much older,” said Kenneth roughly, reminding her of Graeme in his bluntness.

  A somewhat damp Iain and Angus re-entered the barn, pied-piper-like, trailing a line of rather subdued and dishevelled but grinning children, just as a roar arose from the table and Simon emerged, red-faced but smiling, rolling down his sleeve.

  Angus, who had been about to make his way over to the food along with all his small companions, instead veered away and joined his brother, just as one of the MacDonald visitors, Alasdair, took the place of the defeated Simon.

  “Now there’s one who’d gie Alex a contest,” said Kenneth, burrowing his enormous paw into the hay at his side and producing a bottle of the finest claret, provided courtesy of Sir Anthony Peters and his mysterious benefactor. He uncorked it with his teeth and took a deep swig before passing it to Beth.

  “Do you think so?” she said doubtfully, eyeing the MacDonald’s wiry arms. She didn’t think he had a hope, herself. He was a good ten years older than Alex, and by the way he held himself Beth recognised the early signs of rheumatism.

  “No’ him, he hasna a chance. I’m talking about Angus,” said Kenneth. “Maybe no’ the now, he’s too impatient and careless forbye, but he’s growing into his strength, and fast.”

  As they watched the contest started, and Angus removed the single eagle feather from his own bonnet, brandishing it like a sword near Alex’s armpit in a distinctly threatening tickling gesture. Alex’s right arm dipped suddenly, and with lightning speed he drew his dirk left-handed, slashing it at Angus’s hand and slicing the feather neatly in two, to the riotous applause of the assembly. Angus withdrew, sucking his finger, from which Alex had also accidentally shaved a sliver of skin. He smiled ruefully at Beth as he passed and made his way to the food table.

  “There’s another one who needs to find sense quickly,” said Beth, watching him affectionately as he engaged in a mock battle with two of the older children for a choice piece of meat, his injured finger already forgotten.

  “Angus? No, not at all. He’s sense enough when it’s needed. He’s just high-spirited is all. He reminds Alex of what he used to be before he had to take on the chieftainship. And he stops him getting too serious about it at times. Angus is what Alex wishes he could still be. And Alex is what Angus wants to be, some day.”

  Beth looked up at the big man, who was watching Angus carefully as he walked past Morag and Robert seemingly without noticing them, a wriggling child tucked under his arm, the choice piece of meat shared between the protagonists and already half consumed.

  “How long have you known them?” Beth asked.

  “Since they were born. I’m older than I look, lassie,” Kenneth said. “It’s the soft pampered life of the MacGregors that does it. I turn forty next winter.”

  Beth was surprised. She had put him in his very early thirties, at most. He had all his own teeth still, and the smooth skin and lithe step of a much younger man.

  “What about Duncan, then?” she said.

  “Duncan? Ah, well now, he’s the odd one out. Second-born sons often are. He was sent down to mediate between the two firebrands, I’m thinking, and stop them acting on impulse too often. He holds his brothers in check, helps to tame their wildness. Alex has learned to tame himself now, to some degree. Angus’ll learn too, in time. But ye ken that already, do ye no’?”

  She did on a subconscious level, but hadn’t thought about it until now. She looked for Duncan, saw him expertly and sensitively fending off the attentions of Joan MacDonald.

  “Yes, I do. They’re very close, as brothers. It’s nice to see. I’m not at all close to my brother,” she said, grimacing.

  “They’re more than close, they’re parts of a whole. If one was gone, the others’d be diminished. Ye’re doing well, lassie,” he said suddenly, pale blue eyes twinkling down at her. “I kent it’d take a particular sort of woman to fit in wi’ them without causing strife, and ye’ve done it. Most women would feel threatened by the closeness between them.”

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  “Why would I feel threatened by Alex’s brothers?” she said. “The love of a man for his wife is a different thing altogether from that of a man for his blood kin. I feel protected by Angus and Duncan, not threatened. They’re the brothers I longed for and never had.”

  “Aye, that’s the way it should be. Ye’ll be a fine wife to him, Ealasaid, and it’s no’ just me who thinks so. I’d take my hat off to ye, if I could remember where I’d put the damn thing.” He felt around at his side fruitlessly.

  Beth exploded into laughter.

  “It wasna that funny,” he began, and then followed her gaze to where Angus had appeared behind Duncan, bending over to whisper something to him. Then he straightened and passed on, fiddling briefly with his bonnet. When he put it on, its beautiful intact eagle feather waved proudly above his left ear. Duncan, oblivious, still verbally fencing with the tenacious Joan, now sported the mutilated remains of what had once been a magnificent plume and briefly a tickling stick.

  Beth and Kenneth watched as Angus approached with jaunty step.

  “The musicians’ll be ready in a minute,” he said as he came within earshot. “That’ll give Alex the excuse to stop before he starts to tire.”

  “He’ll kill you when he finds out,” Beth commented. They both knew she was talking not about Alex, but Duncan.

  Angus threw himself down in the hay at Kenneth’s side.

  “No he willna, he’ll be too busy throttling you,” he said. “Joan’s just tellt him it was you who said he’s no’ courting at the minute.”

  “I didn’t actually tell her he wasn’t,” Beth said defensively. “I just confirmed it when she asked.”

  “Aye well, ye’ve made his job awfu’ difficult. Christ, is it a MacDonald family trait to never take no for an answer?”

  “I don’t know,” said Beth. “You know my family as well as I do. Allan and Meg seem very reasonable.” Allan and Meg were sitting with her grandmother, and seemed content just to eat and drink and watch the proceedings.


  “That’s two out of five reasonable ones then, at least,” he said, tarring Beth with the same brush as Joan and Robert while casually observing the latter, who had slung one arm across the back of the bench seat behind Morag. “Will ye have the first dance wi’ me, then?” he asked as the drone of the pipes announced the commencement of the music.

  For a moment she was tempted to say yes. It would at least take his attention away from Robert.

  “No, I’ve to have the first dance with my husband, as you well know,” she said. “I’ll save you the second. Don’t use me to get your revenge on him for decapitating your feather. How’s your finger, by the way?”

  “Desperate sore,” he whined, hoping to elicit sympathy.

  “Good,” she replied. “Have a drink to dull the pain. Kenneth’s got three bottles of claret stashed in the hay under you. I’ll be back after the first dance.”

  She wandered off into the waiting arms of her husband, leaving Kenneth to reluctantly unearth the carefully secreted bottles of claret, and bemoan with Angus over the unsympathetic and far too observant nature of the chieftain’s beautiful wife.

  Beth ended up having the first three dances with Alex, after which Duncan intercepted her as she dashed off to get a breath and a drink before the next dance started.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, before he could speak. “I didn’t actually tell her you were unattached.”

  “What? Oh, that. I can deal wi’ Joan, she’s a bonny lass anyway. It’s no’ that I want to speak to ye about,” he said. “Ye’ll have seen wee Robert, I’m thinking.”

  “Yes, I’ve been watching him, as far as I can,” she said. It would be difficult to keep a close eye on him all night, as she had to circulate, being the chieftain’s wife as well as the bride.

  “Aye. He tried to seduce Morag yesterday, and by the looks of him he’s hoping to complete the conquest tonight. She’s only just fourteen, and even if Angus wasna soft on her, I’ve nae intention to let her be ruined. Or Robert be killt, either.”

  “Grandmother warned him she’d thrash him if he didn’t leave her alone,” Beth said. “Hopefully he’s just talking to her. Providing they stay here, there’ll be no harm done. And Angus doesn’t seem too bothered, anyway.” He had seemingly given up on dancing with Beth and was taking the floor with another woman.

  “Dinna be fooled by his casual attitude. I ken him well. He’s watching their every move. And he’s no’ impressed. But he’s got no claim on Morag and he kens it. That doesna mean he’ll no’ cut the throat of anyone that harms her.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Nothing, at the minute. I’ll keep an eye on them. I’m in a better position to do that than you. But if I call for ye, will ye come straight away?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  The dancing continued, the claret flowed, ran out, was replaced by whisky. Night came and lamps were lit. The older people gathered in small groups to watch the younger ones dance and to reminisce about their youth. The very young ones started to wilt, and subsided drowsily into the hay. Everyone was in great spirits, the music good, the drink and food plentiful and excellent, the mood friendly. Morag and Robert had danced together twice, then returned to their seats. They showed no signs of sneaking off.

  There was a short break while the musicians rested, drank and discussed the next tunes they were going to play. One of them produced a wooden whistle from his pocket and played the first bars of a jig. The others nodded, confirming that they knew it, and it was added to the repertoire.

  “Oh!” said Beth, who was passing by. “I’ve not seen one of those for years!”

  “Do ye play?” asked the man, a short stocky dark-haired MacDonald, whose preferred instrument was the fiddle.

  “I used to,” she said, eyeing the instrument wistfully. “My mother had one and she taught me and my father to play a few songs. I lost it a few years ago, though.”

  The fiddler held it out to her.

  “Here ye go,” he said. “Gie us a tune.”

  She took it hesitantly.

  “I’m not sure I can remember how to play it,” she said.

  “Have a go,” said Alex, who was standing behind her. “No one’ll laugh at ye if ye canna.”

  She raised it to her lips, played a scale, then a few random notes. Then she smiled, half to herself, tapped her foot and struck up a short tune. By the end of it she’d played no more than two or three bad notes and had attracted the attention of several of those nearby, who called for an encore.

  She tried it again, more sure of herself now, playing it through once without error, then a second time, when to her surprise her audience started singing along:

  ‘There came a fiddler out of France,

  I wat nae giff ye kend him

  And he did you wi’ our good wife,

  Geld him, lasses, geld him!’

  Beth took the whistle from her lips amidst cheers, blushing furiously, and made to hand it back to the fiddler.

  “Christ, what manner of woman have I married?” came the teasing voice in her ear. “Where the hell did ye learn that?”

  “My mother taught it to me,” Beth said, scarlet. “The tune, that is. I didn’t know the words until now. I had no idea.”

  Alex laughed.

  “Do ye ken any more?” he asked.

  “Yes. But I’m not sure if I should play them, after that,” she said, glancing at her grandmother, who she was sure would be offended. The old lady laughed and beckoned her to play another.

  She braced herself and struck up a jig. She knew the name of this, ‘The Blythsome Bridal’, and prayed that the lyrics didn’t go into the intimate details of the wedding night.

  They didn’t, although they did dwell somewhat on the desire of the groom to take the bride’s maidenhead in advance of the wedding.

  There was great applause, after which Beth firmly handed the whistle back to the fiddler and walked away before she could be persuaded to play any more.

  “I thought ye said ye couldna play an instrument,” Alex said, his arm round her waist.

  “I can’t as far as the English are concerned. Can you imagine Clarissa’s face if I asked her to accompany me in ‘Geld him, lasses, geld him’ on the harpsichord?” She giggled. “Maybe I should do a turn at the next Handel concert. That’d liven things up at Geordie’s Court a bit. With a bit of luck he’d have an apoplexy on the spot.”

  “I doubt it, but it’s worth a try. How many tunes d’ye ken?”

  “Quite a few, though I’m out of practice. The ironic thing is that I didn’t play the one I remember best, because I know the title and am sure that one’s a bit rude. I had no idea about the others.”

  “What’s the title, then?” Alex asked.

  “’Piss on the grass’,” said Beth.

  He hugged her to him.

  “I wish I’d kent your mother,” he said sincerely. “She must have been one hell of a woman.”

  “She was,” said Beth. “And so is my granny.” Ealasaid, in spite of her age, had stood and was demonstrating the steps to a complicated ancient dance no one else could remember, a short line of youngsters watching her feet and attempting to copy her. Joan and Meg were amongst them, as was Angus and Allan. Robert was not. Nor was Morag.

  “And so are you,” murmured Alex in her ear, managing a brief kiss before he was swept away by a group of his clansmen to officiate in a good-natured dispute.

  Duncan came up behind Ealasaid, and whispered a few words in her ear. She faltered momentarily in the steps, nodded her head at whatever he’d said, and continued. From there he went to another woman, one of the MacDonald visitors, a black-haired buxom girl with laughing brown eyes. Then he moved to Kenneth, still sitting by the hay, although the claret was long consumed.

  Finally he came to Beth, taking her arm as she was just about to accept a cup of whisky.

  “Are ye drunk?” he said.

  “No not at all,” she repli
ed, following as he led her across the room. “I’ve been dancing, not drinking. Although I intend to remedy that as soon as possible.”

  “Good,” he said. “They’ve gone.”

  She did not ask who had gone. Ten seconds later they were out of the barn, standing in the starry darkness, the wind grabbing at their clothes and causing Beth’s hair to snake around her head Medusa-like. Duncan removed his bonnet before it could blow away, registered the decimated feather with a brief smile, and then started explaining.

  “She left about ten minutes ago, and he followed her no more than a minute since,” he said as he hurried her across the clearing in the direction of the stables.

  “How do you know they’ll be in the stable?” she said.

  “It’s warm and dry, and there’s plenty of soft hay. Small noises’ll no’ be heard among the horses snuffling. It’s where I went to do my illicit courting. It’s where everyone goes. They’ll be there.”

  As they got near to the building, he slowed.

  “Beth, d’ye think ye can handle this on your own?” he asked.

  She stopped, surprised. She knew why he didn’t want Alex to handle it. As the chieftain, he would have to deal with it on an official basis and it would become an inter-clan matter. But she thought Duncan intended to sort things out himself and had asked her to accompany him only because there was another woman involved.

  He saw the uncertainty in her face, and the puzzlement.

  “Robert’s your kinsman, Beth, and you’re the MacGregor chieftain’s wife. And a woman. He’s a stupid wee loon wi’ no morals and no respect for the rules of hospitality. If I go in there, I’ve nae doubt his pride’ll make him challenge me and force me to fight him. I’ve nae wish to become involved in another blood feud between the clans. He canna challenge you, and Morag’ll no’ be so embarrassed at ye finding them as she would be if I did. Can ye do it? I’ll be outside in case he does get nasty, though I canna believe even he’d be that stupid.”

  She gathered herself, trying to think of the right words to say at a moment’s notice, then abandoned the effort. She would deal with events as they unfolded.