The Laird Takes a Bride(75)

And peace was such a nice, safe feeling.

It was all he wanted.

All he needed.

And on that thought, his body relaxed. His eyelids grew heavy. And at last, he slept too.



He was having an argument with Gavin. Or, rather, he was trying to have an argument with Gavin, who, taller, older, only looked down his finely chiseled nose at him and smiled in that aloof, condescending manner he deployed when he was trying to prompt Alasdair to explosive outbursts of fury.

It usually worked.

They were standing on the shore of Loch Sgàthan, deep, blue, beautiful, with Castle Tadgh clearly visible in the distance. Here in this loch they had swum, fished, sailed for all their lives. Don’t do it, you daft fool! he was saying to Gavin, only he noticed that he was shouting, for the wind abruptly rose, and the blue waters of the loch had turned a troubling dark green, no longer smooth and glassy but choppy and angry-looking.

But I want to, calmly replied Gavin. When have you ever stopped me from doing what I wanted to do, little brother?

Never, damn you, Alasdair said, waiting for the mood to shift, for the affection—which for all their lives had knitted them together—to return, as it always did, even after their ugliest fights.

I’m ready, someone cried, I want to be the first one on the boat.

And there was Mòrag, her black curls whipping crazily in the wind, looking not at him, but up at Gavin.

And Gavin smiled at her, took her hand, just as Alasdair heard a loud crack that could have been thunder, or, equally possible, his heart breaking. He prayed it was thunder, for pride was clearly all he had left.

I’m ready too, Gavin told Mòrag, and then as Alasdair reached desperately for them both, to try and stop them by physically restraining them, a crowd of people had suddenly appeared between them, blocking his way. Friends of Gavin: the large party he had invited from Glasgow, charming young men, bonny young ladies, their pleasant chaperones. And Father and Mother, too:

Mother, saying proudly, Gavin is such a fine sailor, isn’t it a handsome boat we’ve given him for his birthday?

Father nodding, nodding, nodding.

Don’t do it, he shouted, don’t go, but his words were lost in the howl of the wind, and even as he glanced in despair at the loch, a dark, menacing shape, enormous and sinister, swam up near the surface, and only Alasdair saw it.

The crowd of people in front of him had gone oddly transparent, and he could see through them as he would an ordinary pane of glass. He could see Gavin backing away from him, smiling, Mòrag clinging to his arm.

Gavin, saying, We’re going whether you like it or not, little brother. Stay on the shore if you wish. We’ll miss you; won’t you change your mind?

Goodbye, goodbye, everyone said gaily, Father and Mother too.

Mòrag, laughing, her black curls suddenly a morass of deadly snakes, alive and writhing and furious, as if entirely separate beings from Mòrag and transmitting their black anger to Alasdair, who shouted, You’re daft, all of you, you shouldn’t go, it’s unsafe, can’t you see that?

Nobody listened, nobody heard him, and furiously Alasdair tried to turn and walk away from them, but he had looked at the snakes and been instantly turned to stone. He was forced, then, to watch as the boat, already full of passengers and in the middle of the loch, went slowly down. Forced to hear the screams, the pitiful cries for help. It seemed to take years for the beautiful new boat to sink within the ugly green depths of the loch.

The last one to go under was his brother Gavin, his golden-blond hair like a shining helmet in the gloom.

Gavin didn’t scream or cry like the others. No, he stood there very calm, smiling at Alasdair triumphantly, as if even in death he’d gotten yet again the very last laugh.

Gavin! he shouted. I’m sorry I turned away from you! So sorry!

Too late, little brother. You should have come with us, you know. We’re having so much fun.

No. No—

You should have come with us.

No! You were wrong to insist!

I’m never wrong, little brother.

You’re daft!

What’s the matter?

I’m sorry—

Wake up.

What? I can’t hear you, Gavin!

Alasdair, wake up. Wake up!

Mother, Father, Gavin, Mòrag, all of you— you can have her with my blessing, Gavin, if only you’d come back—

Wake up, Alasdair!

A hand was upon him, shaking his shoulder, and Alasdair was swept away, jerked from his dream, opening his eyes to find himself in his bed, sweating, and in his blind disorientation he had no idea who was touching him: with a rough noise he shoved the hand away, wrenched himself across the bed. “Stop,” he said hoarsely, “don’t touch me.”

There was only silence.