Devil in Tartan

by Julia London

  “Aye, no, you’d no’. He was no’ a friendly lad,” MacColl said. “But he was a devious one, as it happens. You were right, laird, you were. Bernt was making whisky, and Davy stole it right out from under him, he did.”

  Duncan blinked. “What?”

  “He betrayed them all, the Livingstones,” MacColl said darkly. “Stole their ship, their whisky, their chief, then fired on the royal ship. Aye, well, he came home to roost, that he did, and without Bernt. Bernt is gone, milord. But justice has been served.”

  “What?” Duncan all but shouted. He was shocked that his instincts about Bernt Livingstone had been right. What did it mean, gone? Would he have the bounty for having found the thief? And what of the praise his uncle, chief of all the Campbells in these hills, would heap on him? Duncan could well imagine the look on Roy’s face, who did not believe Duncan would find any stills. But how in bloody hell was he to present his uncle with a dead man?

  “Aye, no one is as shocked as his kin,” MacColl said low. “We’d never have guessed it, no’ a one of us, but it was wee Davy Livingstone.”

  Duncan was dumbfounded.

  “Ah, you’ve come just in time, laird, that you have.”

  Duncan turned around—it was Duff MacGuire, the actor. Duff handed him a dram of whisky.

  “What’s this?” he asked, and looked around Duff. That was when he noticed the rough-hewn coffin, the freshly dug grave. He moved closer...and noticed the distinct smell coming from the coffin, too. That was death if ever he’d smelled it. Granted, he’d never smelled death, but that scent turned his stomach.

  “To Bernt Livingstone,” Duff announced. “Recently departed but forever in our thoughts.” He lifted his cup. “Seems fitting we drink the whisky that ended Bernt’s life, aye? To Bernt!”

  “To Bernt!” the rest of them shouted, and drank. And then the sobbing commenced again.

  “What in hell has happened here!” Duncan demanded, and whipped around to MacColl. “If there are two dead men, I see only one grave. Is it Bernt Livingstone you bury?”

  “No, milord. Bernt was lost at sea. This is Davy Livingstone, who met justice for his crime,” MacColl said, looking surprised by his outburst. “We had no choice, did we? He stole from his clan, he mutinied against his chief.”

  “I donna understand,” Duncan said. “How?”

  “Aye, it’s true, laird,” said a tall, lanky man. “’Twas my ship he stole, took it with the blackguards he’d rounded up in Oban. A mutiny it was!”

  “Mutiny?” Duncan’s head was beginning to spin.

  “Aye,” said Mr. MacLean, the accountant. “He tricked our Bernt, he did. I beg your pardon laird, I’d no’ speak ill of the dead, but you know verra well, I suspect, that Bernt could be a wee bit...overtrusting?”

  “Aye,” Duncan readily agreed. A fool that man was.

  “Davy tricked him, convinced the old man that he might sell his ill-begotten spirits in Oban. In the dead of night, they took Gilroy’s ship,” he said, pointing at the tall, lanky fellow, “and loaded the wee bit of whisky Bernt had made in the stills, aye? And set sail for Oban.”

  “Oban,” Duncan said.

  “But Oban was no’ his true destination,” Duff said. “He and his lads took the ship out to sea, bound for Denmark, and there they fired on a naval ship, lost Bernt and watched that old bucket sink.”

  “No’ an old bucket,” Gilroy muttered.

  “Came limping home, he did, with naugh’ to show for his thievery.”

  “And the stills?” Duncan asked.

  “Destroyed, milord. After what happened, it seemed fitting.”

  Duncan suspected a trick. He’d never found the bloody stills, so how could he be certain they were gone? He couldn’t. This sounded like a fantastic scheme Bernt Livingstone would concoct to avoid paying his rents. “How is it that I’ve never heard of Davy Livingstone, then?” he asked, eying them warily.

  “Never around much, that one. Liked the public house in Oban. None of us knew him well enough to know he’d forged a bad agreement with Anders Iversen. None of us could have guessed he was bound for Denmark.”

  “Anders Iversen!” Duncan said. “Is that the man, then, that left Miss Livingstone high and dry?”

  “Aye, one and the same.”

  “He did no’ leave me high and dry.”

  Duncan twisted around. Miss Livingstone stepped out of the crowd, dressed quite somberly, her glorious hair piled up under a hat. “I knew him for a scoundrel in the end,” she said. “Had I known that he and Davy Livingstone struck their wicked agreement, my father...my father would be alive now.” Tears welled in her pretty blue eyes. “I should have known! I should have realized what my father was about and I should have stopped him! Oh, but he was concerned that you’d find our stills, milord, for you’re a clever man, and my father realized the error of his ways. But it was too late! He feared you would punish us harshly, and the poor soul wanted only to save his clan.” A sob escaped her throat and she bowed her head and began to weep.

  “I would no’ have punished you harshly,” Duncan demurred, feeling uneasy, and reached out to pat Miss Livingstone woodenly on the shoulder. “I donna understand, yet,” he said, moving away from her. Sobbing women unnerved him. “Why would this Davy fellow return to this island if he’d stolen your ship and your whisky and caused the demise of his chief, then?”

  “Because the Campbells are searching everywhere!” Miss Livingstone wailed, throwing her arms wide. “Is it no’ true? He had no place to go!”

  The youngest son of Bernt Livingstone put his arm around Miss Livingstone’s shoulders and pulled her into his chest, and she began to weep again quite loudly.

  “Aye, but he should no’ have come here,” said MacColl through clenched teeth. “The men and women of this island willna stand for depravity. He was tried and judged for his crime, he was. He was hanged and now we’ll bury him.”

  Duncan eyed the coffin. He eyed the mourners, all staring back at him. “How do I know it is Davy in there?” he asked, pointing at it. “Maybe you’ve hidden the whisky in there, aye?” he said accusingly.

  MacColl looked at him as if were a precocious child. “Milord...you’re far too clever for such a simple ruse, aye? It would be foolish for any of them to try, as a man of your talents would discover whisky there. On my word, the spirits the Livingstones produced has been lost and the stills destroyed.”

  Duncan agreed, he was too clever for that trick to work. Had he not just mentioned his suspicion? They’d be bigger fools than he thought to try and hide whisky right under his nose.

  “If you like, milord, I can open the coffin,” said a man with a bushy beard, and moved as if he intended to do just that. He hesitated, and winced. “Fair warning to you, aye? His eyes were plucked out by the crows. They made quite a mess of it, they did.”

  Duncan swallowed. “That is no’ necessary,” he said quickly. He tossed his whisky down his throat, then dropped his cup. It landed on a rabbit. God, he hated this island. “You’ve made everything verra difficult for me with your island justice, that you have,” he said irritably. “I should have liked to present the culprit to my uncle so that I might have the bounty. Now he’ll think I canna command the bloody lot of you. Where are my rents, then?” he demanded.

  “I think we’ve come to an arrangement you might like,” said MacColl, and gestured to the path. “The Livingstones have at long last come to their senses. Perhaps we might speak of it in my salon, aye?”

  Duncan glanced at the gathered and the rough-hewn coffin. “Anywhere but here,” he said, and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose. As they moved down the path, the mourners raised their voices in a hymn.

  * * *

  AULAY DIDN’T KNOW how long he paced, but he was certain there had been carpet beneath his feet when he started.

  “Wha
t’s that?” Catriona said, and vaulted from her seat on the settee, hurrying to Aulay’s side.

  “What?”

  She put a finger to her lips.

  Aulay heard it then—voices. Many voices. It sounded as if they might be shouting. “God in heaven, it’s a fight,” he said, and whirled about, prepared to go and assist.

  “No, they’re singing,” she said. “A hymn from the sound of it.”

  He recognized it then. They were singing, all right, and the sound grew louder, coming closer, and people began to appear from the woods, scattering rabbits like leaves, their arms linked, all of them singing and laughing.

  Mathais was the first to burst into the room. “It worked!” he shouted. “Campbell was utterly convinced!”

  “The best performance was our own Johnny Livingstone,” Duff said, coming in next with several more and bowing to a slender young man, who blushed at the praise. “The crows plucked out his eyes!” he said, and laughed uproariously.

  “If you ask me, the best touch was the corpse,” said Gilroy. “Mrs. Potter Livingstone was right—the mix of grass and kelp and seaweed makes an awful stench.”

  The Livingstones laughed roundly.

  “And Duncan Campbell believed it,” Aulay said incredulously. He’d thought the plan ridiculous, had argued against it, but had been overruled by the Livingstone clan.

  “Aye, of course. There was a coffin before us, a freshly dug grave. Of course he believed it.” Gilroy laughed, then clapped his hand on Aulay’s shoulder.

  “Where is Miss Livingstone, then?” Aulay asked.

  Duff pointed out the window. She was walking down the path with Mr. MacLean.

  Aulay strode outside to her. “Is it true?” he asked as he reached her. “Campbell has believed this nonsense and carried on?”

  She lifted her shoulders in an incredulous shrug. “It’s true.” Her sudden smile was brilliantly sunny and full of relief.

  “Aye, now, donna fret, Lottie,” Mr. MacLean said as he carried on toward the house. “We’ll be quite all right under the MacColl banner. He’s proven himself a good man, he has.”

  She watched MacLean walk away then turned her smile to Aulay.

  He nudged a hare out of the way. “It’s really true?” he asked again, unable to believe it. “Campbell believes you hung the traitor?”

  She laughed. “He was appalled by it, and a wee bit miffed he’d no’ have the bounty, but aye, he believed it.”

  “Bloody hell,” Aulay said with wonder. He reached for her hand. “Well then, Miss Livingstone, now that it’s done, and I’ve declared my intentions, it seems a good time to put it all behind, and look toward a future.”

  Her smile brightened and she shrugged a little. “Is it? Have you forgotten that I canna pay your debt? No’ even with the sale of our house and livestock.”

  “I’ve no’ forgotten.”

  “Do you still intend to sail a whisky runner?”

  “That depends,” he said, “on what my future holds.”

  “Well then, remind me of your intentions, Captain.”

  “Which part?” he asked, smiling, too. “The part where I declare I’ve no’ a bloody thing to offer and that we’ll be quite in debt and I canna show you the world? Or the part where I tell you I love you and will make you my wife?”

  She slipped her arms around his neck. “I like the bit where you tell me your sea has turned over on itself, and you’re no’ the same man you were. And I particularly like the bit where you give me your solemn vow you’ll never again mention the two ships I sank.”

  He laughed. “My sea has turned over on itself, lass, that is true, and I am a different man for it. A better man. A happy man.” He was truly happy. He’d never believed he could find happiness without a ship, but he supposed he’d found a different sort of deck to stand on, a different sort of sea. One so vast and ripe with possibility that it would take the rest of his life to explore. “But you are mad if you think I’ll never mention the two ships you sank,” he muttered, and kissed her.

  Lottie laughed into his mouth.

  “What of you?” he asked. “What of your desire to see the world, then? I donna know if I can give that to you, Lottie.”

  She clucked her tongue. “I will see it,” she said. “If I never step foot off this island again, I will see it through your eyes, will I no’?” She touched her fingers to his lips. “You’ll paint it for me.”

  He could not possibly love her more. “I will.”

  “’Tis madness!” she exclaimed. “A pretend funeral and a verra real offer of marriage all in one day!” She kissed him again, much to the loud delight of the Livingstones who were gathered at the window, watching them.

  It was madness, all right. Aulay might never see the deck of a ship again, but his life would not want for adventure. His view of the world would never be empty again. He’d found the one to add to his seascape.

  EPILOGUE

  Three years later

  THE FAMILY HAD gathered in the cove on a brilliantly warm summer day to launch the new ship. It was not a very big ship, and in fact, could be counted on to hold nothing but perhaps a seashell or two.

  But Beathan Mackenzie, son of Aulay and Lottie Mackenzie, was mightily proud of it all the same.

  Aulay watched his son toddle after the ship on bowed, chubby legs, shrieking with delight as Aulay moved along in the surf to keep the ship from sailing off to sea. Beathan would be two years next month, and Lottie was expecting another child. Drustan had made the ship for his nephew, complete with sails and guns and even a few casks of whisky carefully carved and affixed to the deck.

  “’Tis a beautiful ship,” Aulay’s mother said proudly, her eyes misting a wee bit. She was very partial to Drustan. “He’s got talents we’ve not yet discovered.”

  Mathais had come down to the cove to see the ship launch, in the company of Rabbie and his son, Ualan, who followed Mathais about like a wee puppy. Mathais had grown taller and fuller, and at seventeen years, Rabbie said he was one of the best with a sword and would be one of the finest Highland soldiers one day.

  Bernadette and Catriona were walking together in the surf with Bernadette’s daughters, their shoes off, their skirts held up so as not to wet the hem.

  Aulay’s father had come down, too, helped by two Mackenzie lads. He leaned heavily on a cane but stood tall nonetheless, breathing in the salt air, his gaze on the horizon. It had been two years since he’d come down, he’d said, since shortly after Beathan’s birth.

  “Aulay! Donna let him go so far!” Lottie called to him. She hurried forward to scoop her son up from the water where he’d wandered into the ankles.

  “He’s all right,” Aulay said. “I’ll no’ let him float away, Lottie.”

  She kissed her baby’s cheek and held him close. “I donna like him on the water’s edge,” she insisted. “A wave could come along and sweep him off,” she said, and carried her son up the beach, cooing to him.

  Aulay picked up the wooden ship.

  “New mothers,” his father said. “Wait until the next comes along—she’ll breathe then, mark me.”

  Aulay smiled. He walked up to stand next to his father and gaze out at the sea.

  “Do you miss it, then?” his father asked. “The sea?”

  Of course he missed it. Sometimes he ached with longing for it. “Aye,” he said. He missed it, but he’d found much more meaning in his life than he would have thought possible all those years on the deck of a ship. Since the Reulag Balhaire had gone down, Aulay had gradually begun taking over the accounting from his father. That gave Rabbie the freedom to work on their various enterprises. It was not the sort of work Aulay was accustomed to, but he didn’t mind it. He’d been rather creative in finding ways to repay their debt to William Tremayne without selling property.

  But more than anything
, he’d found such happiness with Lottie, particularly now that they were all at Balhaire, that the rest of it didn’t seem to matter as much. With Beathan’s birth, Aulay had experienced a burst of love and purpose beyond his wildest imaginings. William had, surprisingly, recently offered Aulay the use of another ship. Aulay had toyed with the idea of it. But for the first time in his life, he was hesitant to risk his life at sea, what with a beautiful wife and baby and another on the way.

  And it was more than that. Something profound had happened to him on that last voyage. When his ship had gone down, and his life with it, it had been a turning point for him. Aulay didn’t want to recreate what he’d had, particularly when he had realized that his dreams of revitalizing their trade was probably never going to happen in the way he’d hoped, not with their trade routes being encroached on every day.

  He’d also slowly realized that his life at sea, so important to him, had been his escape. But it had not been a meaningful life. Yes, he’d seen many ports of call. Which meant he’d seen the inside of dirty taverns, had encountered rough men and hardened women. And every time he returned to Balhaire, he’d felt restless, eager to be gone again. But that was because his life had been empty. Lottie was right—the sea was the same. It was what was in his sea that mattered, and he’d nothing until she came along.

  He glanced at his wife and son, who were now walking hand in hand, the same pearl white hair. They stopped every foot or so to squat down and examine some find. Lottie seemed more beautiful to him now than ever.

  He painted the world for her, just as she’d asked, drawing on his memory of things he’d seen. She loved the paintings and would study them, asking him about this stroke or that shadow. He was grateful that their family fortune had improved enough that Aulay had surprised her on her birthday with plans to see London. Lottie was beside herself with excitement, really—when their next child was born and was strong enough to travel, they were accompanying Cailean and Daisy and their brood to London.

  “I’m proud of you, son,” his father blurted.

  The admission startled Aulay. He turned to his father in amazement, baffled by why now, after all these years.