The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)(28)

       
           



       

"His brothers are awfu' handsome too," said Joan, "and they're available," she added practically. "Ye said Angus favours Morag, did ye?"

"Aye, well, she canna favour him that much, if she'd let Robbie … " Meg cast a quick glance at her great-aunt's face and subsided, blushing.

But Duncan's no' courting, is he?" persisted Joan, starry-eyed.

"No," said Beth. "Duncan isn't courting." Duncan could look after himself, she knew that. He was a born diplomat.

Angus was another matter altogether. In spite of his comments about not being ready to marry and seeing what the MacDonalds had to offer, he was sweet on Morag. That was obvious by the way his face lit up every time they met. The beautiful blonde blue-eyed MacDonald twins had been batting their eyelashes at him for two days and he'd done no more than give them an appreciative look and a few friendly words. She could only hope that Robert had taken her warning to heart, and would leave Morag alone.





CHAPTER SIX


The wedding celebration got off to a good start, with everyone eating their fill and chatting merrily in small groups. The original intention to hold the feast outdoors had been defeated by the inclement weather, and the barn, which was large enough to comfortably accommodate the guests, had been appropriated instead. Benches, stools and tables had been brought from every house for those who needed to sit, and piles of hay had been left in the corners for those who wanted to sprawl; later they would make a bed for the children too young to stay awake, and possibly for some of the adults too.

At the moment the children were almost sick with excitement and good food, and after having repeatedly got under the feet of every adult present, were taken outside by Iain and Angus in spite of the intermittent rain, to play a boisterous game which would no doubt result in several scraped knees and elbows and not a few tears, but which would at least deplete their energy a little.

Alex, as he had promised, was clad in the full garb of the chieftain; tall, broad and magnificent in red and black feileadh mhor and hose, armed with basket-hilted broadsword, dirk and sgian dubh, which weaponry, tonight worn only for show, he would abandon later when the dancing started. His blue bonnet was adorned with the pine sprig of his clan and two eagle feathers denoting his status as chieftain, and he wore his hair loose, falling to his shoulders in rich chestnut waves. The right sleeve of his white linen shirt was rolled up in preparation for the impromptu arm-wrestling contest that was about to take place. A crowd of impressively-clad clansmen had gathered round and a cheer arose from the assembly as Simon took his place opposite his chieftain. The two men locked arms, shifting elbows on the table to achieve the best position, and at a mutual nod the contest began. The men closed around, obscuring Beth's view, but she had no fears that Alex would lose this bout.

There was only one man here who could best his chieftain, and she looked around the room for him, finally locating him in another corner, armed with a large hunk of beef and a pewter cup of wine, his tree-trunk legs stretched out in front of him. He looked in no rush to join the proceedings and was instead watching the musicians of both clans, who were choosing a suitable spot to sit and were chatting amiably, getting to know each other. He sensed Beth's gaze on him and looked up, smiling appreciatively at her beauty which was enhanced by the simplicity of the white dress she wore, belted with a sash of the same red and black pattern that her husband was wearing. Her hair was also loose tonight and floated around her hips in a silver cloud. She walked across to join him and he moved to one side to make a place for her on the bench.

"Do you think he'll win?" she asked.

Kenneth swallowed his mouthful of beef and nodded.

"Aye," he said. "Simon's a bonny fighter, but he's no' got the strength of Alex." He scanned the assembly quickly. "There's no' a man here that'll take him, I'm thinking, although one or two would gie him a challenge."

He caught her surreptitious glance at his enormous arms, as thick as her thighs, and smiled sadly.

"It's an awfu' shame that I canna challenge him mysel'," he said. "But I'm too long in the arm, ye ken."

She looked up at him.

"And if you weren't too long in the arm, you'd no doubt have strained a muscle this very day, unfortunately rendering you unable to participate," Beth commented.

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."