by Trisha Telep
He had no idea what she was going on about but the look in her eyes told him she’d make his life a living hell if he thought to naysay her so, huffing, he sat. And thought.
By the time the doctor said they could leave, he had no doubt that his continued ignorance would be the death of him. That if he planned to live long enough to make love again – much less make and raise a son, he had to enlist Maggie’s help. And the only way he could do that was to tell her the truth.
But to ensure her belief he still had a good bit of work to do.
Three
At dawn the next morn, Alex stood on the stoop and smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world, waved as the bus bearing Maggie to Portree pulled away. The moment it disappeared, he ran to the shed.
Whilst looking for the scythe, he’d spied a carefully covered stash covered in clear sheeting. Given the care with which he’d found the objects and boxes wrapped, he knew it had to be Maggie’s handiwork, A.J. being a sloth.
Uncovering only roll upon roll of fabric, he frowned. He opened the first box and uncovered hundreds of colourful spools. In another, he found all manner of sewing sundries from needles and measures to buttons. In another, skeins of finely-spun wool in a rainbow of colours.
Humph! This store made no sense. Maggie, the least vain woman he’d ever met, rarely wore anything but her tight blue trews and that God-awful serving wench livery. Spying the edge of a large battered trunk, he worked his way through broken furniture hoping it held the answer.
The lock proved no obstacle. “Let us see what yer hiding, Maggie my love.”
He lifted the lid and pulled out several books from the chest. Hmmm, clothing styles dating back centuries. He opened the next, finding only descriptions of textiles and their manufacture. He dug deeper and pulled out a large, green leather-bound and gilt edged volume. “Ah, this is more like it.”
He opened the cover expecting to find a ledger or diary but instead found page after page of beautiful drawings, some in charcoal while others were coloured in lovely vivid hues. And all with the initials M.M.M. penned at the bottom.
So this was her dream, to be a modess. He sighed. This he could not make happen. Disappointed, he started putting all of it back as he found it, bumping his shoulder against a teetering pile of fractured furniture. A tube of yellowed paper fell at his feet. He opened it and found architectural renderings labelled Sky High Designs, Maggie MacKinnon Proprietor.
He studied each of the pages then grinned.
Moments later he pushed through the Boar’s Head door. “Mickey, a word if ye please.”
Looking none to pleased to see him, Mickey nodded. “What can I do for you A.J.?”
He smiled. Mickey loathed A.J., which meant he respected and cared deeply for Maggie.
“Take yer ease, Mickey. I’ve not come to drink ye dry. I need yer opinion on these.”
He spread the curled pages on the counter and Mickey smirked. “I haven’t seen these in ages. Thought she’d lost them.”
Alex pointed to a circle. “Do you know their meaning?”
“They’re lighting fixtures.” He flipped a page. “This is the electrical schematic for the entire shop she’d planned.” He flipped another and grinned. “Ah, the façade she envisioned. Too bad she never had the money.” He rolled up the papers.
“Do ye know a man who might be available to do such lights?”
An hour later, Alex had all the information he needed and bid Mickey adieu. To his surprise, Mickey followed him out. “A.J., wait.”
“Aye?”
“I should have driven you home that night. I’m sorry.”
Ah. “Believe it or not, I’m most glad that ye had not.”
Mickey thought on that then said, “Where are you off to?”
“Portree.”
“If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll give you a lift into town. I have to pick up some supplies.”
“Thank you.”
Entering the outskirts of the town, Alex was again taken by how much had changed since his time. “May I ask a boon?”
Mickey grinned. “A boon, huh? What is it?”
“I need yer help in keeping Maggie occupied in a few days whilst I get a few things accomplished about the place. Might ye be able to help with that?”
“I’m sure it can be arranged. Just tell me when.”
“Thank ye.”
A few days turned into a fortnight but finally Alex was ready. When Maggie went to work, he walked to the Boar’s Head and rang the bell.
Mickey, one eye open and his wiry hair askew, opened the door. “Do you not have a clock, MacKinnon?”
“Aye, ye lazy sloth, I do. Now to why I’m here. Today is the day! I need ye to get and hold Maggie ’til I come fetch her. I’ve much yet to do and don’t wanther coming home and finding me half done.” Just thinking about what he’d yet to do made him weary.
“Alright. I’ll pick her up from work and Bridget will keep her occupied.” He started to close the door, then peered out again. “Did John finish with the electrical?”
“Aye and then some.” To Alex’s amazement the auld man had brought in and installed a most bonnie hanging lamp of wrought iron. A gift for Maggie, he’d said. A good man, John.
Alex ran back to the house where he pulled out the drill Mickey had taught him to use. Off came the storage shed’s old door and on went the new. Off came the weatherworn shutters that had been masking the new windows and on went the new. He worked as if possessed until he was satisfied all was in order. He could only pray ’twould be enough.
He found Maggie in the pub chatting with Bridget. Seeing him, she smiled. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten me.”
He gave her a quick kiss and took her hand. “Never. Come, I’ve something to show ye.”
Seeing that Mickey and Bridget, grinning like idiots, had followed them out, she asked, “What do they know that I don’t?”
His middle in knots, he smiled down at her. “Ye’ll see soon enough.”
As their home came into view, Maggie looked up at him then back at the croft. “Oh! Oh my God.”
She broke into a run only to come to a halt before the shop door. A hand pressed to her lips, she pointed to the sign he’d spent hours ever so carefully painting. “I never thought …”
“Go inside.”
Bouncing in place on the red granite stoop, she drew a deep breath and opened the door. He reached past her and flipped on the lights only to hear her gasp as she took in the interior. Knowing it was smaller than her plans, he quickly assured her, “Once ye’ve a few patrons, we can knock an arch in yon wall and build the new room so all will appear just as it does in yer renderings.”
He’d been alarmed learning how expensive construction was in this time. Had he not been able to barter brawn for those services he had no talent for …
“I love it.”
“Are ye sure, lass?” Tears were streaming down her cheeks at a hellish rate as she walked about the room, her hand sliding over the fabrics, her work counter and then the colourful spools Bridget had insisted he mount on walls pegs. She stopped before her desk.
“You bought a computer?”
“Aye, Mickey said ye would need such and Bridget said we should get the silver,” He shrugged. “The man said ye need go back to his shop and get yer special drawing … uhmm?”
“Programming?”
“Aye, that’s what he said, and in the drawer ye’ll find something else.” He forgot what Mickey had called it.
She opened the drawer. “Oh! A cellphone.”
He nodded. “And all is working here and in the croft.” He’d been disgusted to learn A.J. had been slack about paying his debts but all had been set to rights thanks in great part to Bridget getting testy with those involved.
Shaking her head, Maggie whispered, “I just can’t believe you did all this … for me.”
“I did have a bit of help and auld John gifted ye with the splendid lamp.”
&nbs
p; She wrapped her arms about his neck. “I don’t know how to thank you for making this dream come true. I love it, but how could you afford it?”
Greatly relieved she appeared most pleased despite the shop falling short of her designs, he stroked her back. “That will take some time to explain.”
Taking her by the hand, he didn’t stop walking until they came to the old castle ruins where he led her to a grass knoll. “Please sit.”
Shaking, as much from anxiety as from the shock of his gift, she sat. He settled behind her, his legs and arms wrapping about her. Taking her hands in his, he whispered, “I love ye beyond reason, woman, have for a long time, so please keep that in mind as I tell ye what ye’ll doubtless find alarming.”
Oh dear God, he’s had an affair. Had guilt been the driving force behind him building the shop? Or has he got us so far in debt that he’s now scared?
She held her breath, readied for the blow as he said, “Ye may have noticed that on occasion I have little or no knowledge of things I should … such as why I should not eat lobster.”
Tell me about it. “I have noticed.”
“There is a good reason. You see … I am not Alistair Jerome – A.J. as you call him – but am Alexander James MacKinnon, born on Beltane morn’ in the year of our Lord 1490, in this very place. For reasons I have yet to fathom, my soul has remained with the MacKinnon ring until that night A.J. drove off the bridge. As his soul took flight my soul entered his lifeless form.”
“What?” She tried to rise but he held her fast.
“Shhh, lass. Just hear me out and then I shall let ye go.”
Oh God, he has lost his mind.
“I know not why. I just know that it did and I am now again alive and breathing.” He heaved a sigh. “Did you know the keep at our backs was once four storeys tall? Aye, and ’twas on its upper most level, in the solar, that my son was born and my wife died.”
“You were married.”
“Aye, to the MacDonalds’ youngest daughter, Mhairie Elizabeth. Ours was naught but a marriage to ensure the peace betwixt our clans but she proved a brave lass. As she lay dying, the childbed fever all but setting her flesh afire, she said her only regret,” his voice cracked, “was that she would not see our bonny son grow.”
Maggie craned her neck and found shimmering tears trapped behind his thick black lashes. My God, he believes every word he’s saying. And only Mhairie’s death had been recorded. Not how she died.
He smiled down at her. “My son was christened Ian John MacKinnon after his grandfathers. I was so proud. He was so perfect. Not long after, however, I was killed––”
“I know. I’ve heard this story a dozen times.”
“Hmm, I imagine you have, but none know what I’m about to tell ye. I felt no pain – only surprise – when the blade ran through me. I did, though, feel the boot on my ass as my assailant pulled his sword free, and that, I assure you, I did feel.
“As I tumbled to the earth, my life’s blood spilling on yon mountain, I twisted and saw not my enemy as I fully expected, but the satisfied countenance of my younger brother. Angus.”
“Your brother?” The records said that Alexander had died in a battle with the Campbells, and that Angus then became the liege lord. They said nothing about murder.
“Aye. Such hate, such loathing filled me …”
She listened, half mesmerized, half mute with horror.
“So centuries came and went and slowly my fury ebbed but what did remain of me still sensed and felt, celebrated and wept – albeit erratically – until I awoke in A.J.”
His arms had relaxed their hold on her and she was able to rotate and, kneeling, face him. “A.J.––”
“Alex. Please call me Alex.”
“Alright.” She had to placate him until she could get him help. “Alex …” God, that sounded strange, “I know you believe this, but I’m having a little difficulty doing so.”
He nodded. “I have no doubt that ye do. Worse, I fear ’twas I – and not A.J. – that wooed and won ye. There, at the foot of those mountains, I saw ye through his eyes and became enchanted. Had I not done so, he – obsessed as he was with the legacy – might not have thought to pursue ye, and ye, my love, would not have suffered his wrath. Ye would have … should have had a better life.”
“That’s not tr––”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Nay, ye feared him and well ye should have.” He brushed a lock from her eyes. “I was there, lass. I saw. I heard. But all I could do to cease his madness was unbalance him, make him fall.” He cleared his throat. “And because I could sense only his exaltations and rages, I know naught of what else went on betwixt ye.” He leaned forwards and kissed her brow. “What other dreams do ye harbour, lass?”
The tears she’d been fighting fell. How strange. He had to go insane before even thinking to ask. How sad is that? But since he did ask, she said, “I had dreams of some day having a family.”
“Gentle and loving as ye are, I think ye should.” He held out his hands. “Look, lass.”
The ring. Oh. My. God. “You’re not wearing the ring.” He never took it off. Ever. Wouldn’t wear a wedding band because the ring held that place of honour.
He nodded and pulled her to his chest. Resting his chin on top of her head, he silently stared across the Inner Sound as she, listening to the steady thud of his heart, tried desperately to sort out all he had said.
“Some day I would verra much like to hear another son call me Da, Maggie. But I will not suffer that child going through what others of my line have. Some day I will die again and dare not trust that history won’t repeat itself. I sold the ring, Maggie. Went to Portree thinking to have it melted down for money to build yer shop, but the goldsmith took one look and took me across to Oban, where he introduced me to a man who studied what he called Mid-evil history.” He made a derisive sound at the back of his throat. “A more suitable name I cannot imagine.
“He bought the ring, Maggie, and paid handsomely for it. So ’tis safely gone.”
She looked up, not knowing what expression she might find on his face, and found him smiling at her in that intense and special way he had when they’d first courted. Her heart nearly broke.
And she knew. Every word he had spoken was true.
The man she’d fallen in love with and who now held her was … the MacKinnon.
Four
“Come on, Da, just one more!”
Maggie glanced at the kitchen clock and shook her head. Her sons had their father wrapped about their little fingers. Knowing he would acquiesce, she tiptoed to their room, peeked in and found the lads piled like puppies on Alex.
As she grinned, he murmured, “Alright, but only one more else Mama will have my hide.” He picked up another storybook and the children put up a howl.
“Not that one, Da,” Robbie, four years, and the spitting image of his father, whined. “We want to hear the story of the MacKinnon.”
“Yes, tell us again about the MacKinnon,” chimed five-year-old Collin, “and this time don’t forget the part about the dragon.”
Her husband, fighting a grin, heaved a huge sigh. “As ye lust.”
Giggling, the lads scrambled and settled to either side of him. As Alex wrapped an arm about each, they looked up with such adoration, her heart nearly burst.
“Once upon a time,” Alex began, “there lived a great liege lord named––”
“The MacKinnon!” they both chorused.
“Aye, and in his veins ran the blood of––”
“Alpin, king of the Picts,” Collin cried.
Alex nodded, “And father of––”
“Cinead mac Alipin, king of Scotland!” Robbie added, not to be outdone by his precocious sibling.
“Right and let’s not forget Bebe––”
“King of Norway,” they shouted in unison.
“Aye, and his best friend was––”
“King Arthur!”
Alex looked from one to t
he other. “Who’s telling this story, ye or me?” He huffed in proper dragon fashion sending the lads into giggling fits. “As I was saying, the MacKinnon and King Arthur loved the same fair lass, who was known to control the fiercest dragons in the land. Her name was Mary Magdalene.”
“That’s Mama!” giggled Collin. “They loved Lady Guinevere, Da.”
“Oh, that’s right, ’twas Lady Guinevere. So, both finding the lady most fair and fulsome and both wanting control over her firebreathing dragons for their own purposes, they decided the best way to choose who should wed her was to fight to the death.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. It was easy to see how Alex had become the most popular tour guide at the Tourist Centre. That he looked divine in a kilt while armed to the teeth probably didn’t hurt either.
“With their broadswords,” said Robbie, swinging his imaginary sword in a broad arc.
“Aye, but Lady Guinevere, being much wiser, said to the battling kings, ‘Nay, the man who can ride my favourite and most fierce dragon shall have my hand and no other.’ And so …”
Grinning, Maggie tiptoed back to the kitchen.
The Mackinnon’s handsome heirs would learn more of their clan’s history through silly tales and lore as they grew but, true to his word, Alex would hold secret their legacy.
And she now had a secret of her own to share once the lads were asleep. In this morning’s post she’d found a letter she’d only dreamed of receiving. One from London, bearing the royal crest. Skye High Designs was now the proud – oh so proud – holder of a Royal Warrant of Appointment.
Long live the man who had made her dreams come true.
Long live … Her MacKinnon.
The Reiver
Jackie Barbosa
Lochmorton Castle, West March, 1595
Duncan Maxwell grabbed one of the pitch torches from its sconce on the dungeon wall, and ducked to avoid hitting his head on the lintel, as he entered the small, dark cell. The reiver his men had captured in the wee hours of the morning huddled in the far corner. The figure neither looked up to see who had entered nor flinched at the sound of the heavy wooden door thudding shut. Duncan knew that his presence had been registered, however, for the youngster’s spine stiffened and his respiration increased.
