The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)(29)

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.