"Make love to me, Alex," she said, trying unsuccessfully to free her legs from her skirts and wrap them round his waist.
It was tempting, and his body told him he was capable of complying with her request, in spite of the copious quantity of alcohol he'd consumed. But it was cold and windy and the ground was soaking. What was more, a warm and cosy bed awaited. If they were quiet, they would not disturb the old lady …
His decision made, he untangled himself from her and managed, with some difficulty, to lift her from the ground, walking somewhat erratically in the direction of his house while she mumbled away dreamily in his arms.
"Until later," she said suddenly as they reached the door and he opened it quietly. The room was in darkness, but the fire had been burning all evening and it was pleasantly warm. He placed her carefully on her feet, keeping an arm round her waist.
"What did you say, mo chridhe?" he asked softly, leading her to the stairs.
"Until later," she said loudly and clearly. "You said you wouldn't forget. I haven't."
Neither had he.
"Isd," he said softly. "If we're quiet we'll no' disturb your granny, and we can have our ‘until later'."
"Mmm. Oh yes, I forgot. Granny." She hiccupped and giggled. "Sshh!" she hissed, loud enough to wake those in the next hut.
He managed to light a candle from the fire and manhandle his wife, alternately giggling and shushing herself, up the stairs and into the bedroom, where she turned immediately into his arms.
"Oooh, I want you," she said. "I've wanted you all day. You look wonderful in your chieftain's feil … ah … your … this," she said, grabbing at the front of his kilt and narrowly missing squashing his left testicle.
He swerved, and laughed. She was lovely, her hair tangled, her blue eyes soft and unfocussed with whisky and desire. Her back was soaking wet and cold. He put the candle down on the little wooden stool next to the bed.
"Come, lassie," he whispered. "Let's get ye out of these wet clothes first and into bed. We dinna want you to catch your death."
"Death," she echoed. "No. Better with no clothes on anyway." She laughed as he untied the sash round her waist and tried with great difficulty to pull her dress over her head. It would have been a little easier if the material hadn't been sodden and clinging, and a lot easier if she wasn't trying to disrobe him at the same time as he was disrobing her. They weaved around the room, making far more noise than was desirable. If Ealasaid had stayed asleep through this racket it would be a miracle.
Finally naked she fell backwards on to the bed, watching as he unpinned his brooch and unbuckled his belt, bracing himself against the wall with one hand in what he hoped looked like a nonchalant pose, but which was in fact stopping him from sliding down it. Alcohol-induced tiredness washed suddenly over him, and he fought it, hard.
"Hurry up," she said impatiently from the bed. "This is our third wedding night, and I want my marital rights this time! It's a husband's duty to satisfy his wife!"
A snort of laughter came from the adjoining room, quickly stifled. He was both disappointed and relieved in equal measure. He was very tired, and so drunk he was not sure he'd be able to complete the act if he started it. Better to wait until tomorrow, when they'd both slept off some of the whisky. He attempted to fold his plaid, gave up, dropped it on the floor and climbed into bed.
"Shh," he whispered. "We've woken your granny. Go to sleep, a ghràidh."
"Have we?" she said. "Sorry, Granny. Are you all right?"
"Ah … aye, thank ye for asking," came the voice from the other side of the partition, bubbling with suppressed laughter. "Goodnight,"
"Goodnight," said Beth, turning happily back to Alex. "It doesn't matter, though, does it?" she continued. "It's natural. Everyone does it, everywhere. You said so yourself that day on the hill when you … "
He kissed her, desperately, cutting off the rest of what she'd been about to say, his face burning. A peal of remarkably youthful laughter floated from the next room and was not suppressed this time.
"Gie her what she wants, laddie," Ealasaid said shakily. "Ye'll get no peace until ye do."
If he'd been unsure before, he wasn't now. He couldn't. Under no circumstances. He ended the kiss, and pushed his wife gently back onto the pillows, hoping she'd close her eyes and go to sleep.
She closed her eyes, and was silent for a moment. Then she opened them again and made a sudden grab for the mattress.
"Oooh," she said in quite a different tone of voice. "I think I'm going to … "
He leapt from the bed, tripping over the discarded plaid and grabbing at the basin as he fell. He twisted round and managed to get it in place just in time. Shuffling forward, he knelt at the side of the bed and held her until she had finished retching. Then he wet a cloth and wiped her mouth and face, before easing her gently back into bed. He toyed with the idea of taking the bowl back downstairs, made a realistic assessment of the capability of his legs to get down and back up again, then abandoned the idea, placing it in the farthest corner of the room instead.
He returned to the bed, gathering his now shivering, clammy and far from amorous wife in close to his side, crooning softly to her as though she was a child until the shivers ceased and she slept. Only then did he relax himself. His eyes started to close.
"Is she all right, laddie?" said the old lady softly.
"Aye," he said. "Just verra, verra drunk. She'll regret it in the morning, I'm sure. She drank an awfu' lot of whisky verra quickly."
"She did you proud tonight. It's a fine woman you're married to, MacGregor, even if she is my granddaughter."
"I ken that well, a sheanmhair."
"And it's a fine man she's got herself, too. Ye'll cherish her and protect her, I've nae doubt of that."
"With my life," he said. "Thank ye."
"It's no more than the truth. I'll let ye get your sleep. Ye've performed your husbandly duty for tonight, even if it's no' the one she was hoping for. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," he said.
Pause.
"Ealasaid?" he said.
"Aye?"
"It's a fine grandmother she's got, too. Your daughter would have understood what ye did, and been proud of ye, I'm certain. I'm sure she is, if she can see ye now."
There was a short silence.
"Thank ye, laddie. Goodnight," the old lady said, her voice shaky again, but not with laughter this time.
He closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alex's prophecy was correct, and Beth did indeed deeply regret her overindulgence the following morning. While the rest of the MacGregor and MacDonald clans enjoyed a communal breakfast before settling down to a serious political discussion, Beth remained in bed wishing she was dead, and for a time believing she was about to be so.
By mid-morning however, it was clear she was not about to shuffle off the mortal coil and she managed, with much wincing and holding of her head, to dress and make her way downstairs, where she settled herself in a chair by the fire with a cool damp cloth on her forehead. After a time she heard the door open and lifted the cloth from her eyes.
"Go away," she said, when she'd identified the intruder. "The last thing I need right now is a visit from someone who is completely unaffected by alcohol."
She replaced the cloth over her eyes and clenched her stomach, waiting for the joke about greasy breakfasts, delivered with head-splitting loudness.
"I'm sorry," said Angus softly. "I'll leave ye in peace, then."
She lifted the cloth from her face again. He was indeed going away, quietly.
"Angus," she said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing important," he replied unconvincingly. "I'll come back later, when ye're feeling better."
"No, come in," she said, sitting up and then immediately wishing she hadn't. "I am better. Or I will be, soon. It's all right."
He moved further into the room.
"Ye look terrible," he said.
"Thank you, that makes me feel a lot better," she answered sarcastically.
"Have ye eaten yet?"
"No," she replied firmly, hoping to close the topic.
"Ye should have a wee bit of bread or something, to get your stomach working. And drink as much water as ye can," he said. "Wait a minute, I'll get you some." He disappeared into the kitchen.
There really was something wrong. Not that Angus could not be sympathetic when someone was really ailing. But nobody was sympathetic over hangovers. They were common, self-induced, and always a cause for leg-pulling.
He returned with a cup of water and a slightly stale bannock. She took a few sips, and bit off a tiny corner of the bread. He sat down on the edge of the chair.
"What's the matter, Angus?" she asked when he showed no sign of volunteering the information. To her surprise, her stomach had not rebelled at the introduction of the morsel of bread. She took a larger bite.