Angus blushed, but didn't say anything.
"Aye, well, that's another thing," continued Duncan. "Tonight she made a mistake. At the moment, as far as she's aware, only Beth, Robert and herself ken that. Robert'll be gone in a day or so, and he'll no' say anything in the meantime, or his auntie'll thrash him. Beth is sensitive, she'll no' say anything either, and Morag kens that. She's still got her maidenhead, and she's still got her dignity. Now let's say ye go and burst in on them … "
"I've nae intention tae do that," said Angus, shifting experimentally in Kenneth's grip. The iron-hard arms tightened, and Angus subsided. "I wouldna hurt her for the world. It's him I've a reckoning with."
"Aye, I see that. So let's say we let ye go, and ye go and beat Robert to a pulp, as I've nae doubt ye can. Let's put to one side the problems it could cause between us and the MacDonalds. If ye do that everything will come out. Alex'll have to get involved, and the whole clan, both clans, will ken that Morag was stupid enough to let a wee laddie take her to the stables and fondle her. She'll be mortified, her confidence'll be crushed, her reputation needlessly tarnished and she'll hate ye for the rest of her life, and rightly so. Now if that's what ye want, fine. Let him go, Kenneth."
Kenneth let him go.
"I've nae more to say to ye," Duncan said. "Do what ye will. But dinna ever accuse me of going soft again for being considerate, or ye'll regret it."
He turned and walked away, followed by Kenneth, leaving Angus standing in the gusting wind, his kilt swirling around his legs, his hair blowing into his eyes. He stayed there for a while, making no attempt to brush the hair from his face. Then, slowly, he walked away.
"Will he heed ye, d'ye think?" said Kenneth as they reached the barn.
"If he cares for Morag as much as I think he does, aye, he'll heed me," answered Duncan, blinking as they entered the warmth and light of the barn. The atmosphere was wonderful; it was clearly the best ceilidh there had been for some time. The music was continuing, although the dancers were flagging a bit. Simon had succeeded in balancing his sword on his nose to the count of ten, beating Alex and redeeming himself for his defeat in the arm-wrestling. The party would continue for a while yet, no one wishing to bring such a happy occasion to an end. Unless Robert staggered in through the door in half an hour, covered in blood. That would dampen the merriment somewhat. Duncan did not think he would. He prayed that Angus would see sense.
Angus saw sense. After a few minutes Beth and Morag returned, acting as though they had popped out for some fresh air. Robert also returned briefly, his handsome face petulant, only to be scooped off almost instantly by Ealasaid and Allan, to assist her to bed. He did not reappear, and Duncan thanked God for giving Beth such a sensible grandmother.
Angus came back some time later, subdued and windswept, nodded once in apology to Duncan as he passed and continued into a corner, where he sat alone. His uncharacteristic behaviour was not commented on, even by the normally astute Alex, now much the worse for drink. The party was subsiding into a storytelling session, as was customary when everyone became too drunk or too weary for more boisterous entertainment.
The children were all fast asleep in the hay, except for Peigi and Alastair's twin babies, who Alex had volunteered to take custody of while their parents stole off for some rare undisturbed time alone. The infants were sleeping soundly, one in the crook of each arm, a corner of Alex's plaid tucked tenderly around them. They made a lovely picture. Beth had, as she had intended, made up for her earlier abstinence and now sat between Kenneth and Duncan on a bench, Kenneth's hand periodically moving to her back to stop her toppling backwards.
"There's a question I've been meaning to ask ye for a while," he said, in the lull between the end of one story and the start of the next.
"What's that?" said Beth, blinking up at him.
"The first time we met, ye asked me where my beanstalk was. What did ye mean?"
She laughed, swaying back into the security of his hand.
"Ah well, that's a fairy story. Haven't you heard the story of Jack and the Beanstalk?"
Several ears pricked up. Everyone had heard all the stories told tonight many times before; tales of the deeds of the clans, of kelpies and the ban-sidhe. They were comforting, familiar. Nevertheless the chance to hear a new one was a rare treat indeed. There was a clamour for her to tell it, and she thought for a minute, trying to remember the details through the blur of alcohol.
"Once upon a time there was a young boy and his mother," she began.
"What time was that?" Janet asked.
"Sorry?" said Beth.
"What time was it upon?" she said.
"I don't know, it's just a way of starting a story," Beth replied. "It was a long time ago, anyway. Er … a hundred years."
Everyone settled down.
"Anyway, this young boy Jack and his mother lived alone in a little cottage in the woods," Beth continued, "and they were very poor, because his father had died."
"What had they done wrong?" interrupted Simon.
"Nothing," said Beth, confused.
"Why were they living alone, then, instead of wi' their clan?" he said.
"They were Sasannachs," Alex said, coming to her rescue. "They didna have a clan."
There was a murmur of sympathy from the assembled crowd.
"So, they were Sasannachs, and they lived alone," said Beth. "All they had left was a cow, and one day Jack's mother told him they'd have to sell the cow because they needed the money, and they'd sold everything else of worth, their furniture and suchlike."
"What for'd they dae that?" said Joan. "What the hell use is money? Ye canna eat that. Ye're no' poor while ye've got a cow. There's the milk, and ye can always bleed it in the winter if ye're desperate and mix the blood wi' a wee bittie oatmeal. And if ye're really starving, ye can kill it. One cow'd feed a woman and a bairn through to the spring."
Even through the alcoholic haze Beth realised that if she was ever going to finish this story, she'd have to adapt it. Once she got to the magical bit she'd be all right, she knew that. They'd accept any amount of giants and talking harps without a murmur. It was the practical stuff they'd query.
"The cow was diseased, although it didn't look it," improvised Beth. "And the woman knew there was a market coming up where lots of her enemies would be. The ones who'd killed her husband. So, not wanting to wait until Jack was old enough to avenge his father's death, she thought she'd get her revenge early by selling them a diseased cow."
There was a murmur of understanding from the listeners. Beth ignored Alex's amused face and continued.
"So, Jack was a bit daft in the head, and lazy too," she said. "And on the way to market, he met this man, and they got into conversation. And the man persuaded him to accept five magic beans for the cow, so he did, because he couldn't be bothered to walk ten miles to market."
"Are ye sure his name wasna Robbie Og instead of Jack?" someone called from the back, and everyone laughed. Beth took a deep draught of whisky, swayed, coughed, and settled down to the rest of the story.
"That was really interesting," said Alex an hour later, trying to manage two comatose and remarkably heavy babies, whilst supporting both himself and his extremely inebriated wife on the way home. "I've heard the story before, of course, but I had nae idea the giant was a Campbell, or that he spent his evenings counting his bottles of whisky."
Beth squinted up at him, somewhat cross-eyed.
"Oh shut up," she said. "I'd still have been there now trying to justify why they were selling the cow, if I hadn't changed things a bit. Anyway, they enjoyed it."
"Aye, they did," he agreed. "So I hope ye're now aware that ye'll have tae tell every Sasannach story ye ken, adapted for a MacGregor audience, before we leave."
"No problem," she said with the confidence of the extremely drunk, waving a hand airily around before losing her balance and landing on her bottom on the grass with a thud. She giggled, and Alex left her there for a moment while he delivered the twins safely to their grateful parents, who had spent the time, although they didn't yet know it, creating the next child.
When he returned Beth was lying on her back in the wet grass gazing dreamily at the moon.
"Do you know," she said, as he approached and squatted down unsteadily beside her. "I can see the hare in the moon. I've never been able to see it before. I've always seen the man instead. Isn't that amazing?" Her voice was full of childish wonder and he smiled, enraptured, turning his head up to look skywards and regretting it instantly as the world tilted dizzyingly. He looked back down at her instead, her silver hair and white dress rendering her ethereal in the moonlight. She could have been sidhe or fairy herself, so beautiful was she.
"Oh, I do love you!" she cried, launching her upper body at him and wrapping her arms round his neck with a suddenness that unbalanced him and sent him toppling forward. He got his elbows down just in time to save his whole weight from crashing down onto her and she laughed, winding her arms tighter round his neck.