The Last Sunset (25 page)

“Mary says she can never repay the debt she owes
Alistair,” Colin translated. “Had ourselves not intervened when we did she
would have fallen beneath the most evil of brutes. She says that since Alistair
almost lost his life saving Mary, her life belongs to him now. She knows he is
a good and brave man and will devote herself to him, and no other.”

Before Colin had finished translating Alistair’s
tone of voice had changed. He took hold of Mary’s hand and began to address her
sharply. She looked him full in the face and withdrew her hand from his.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” said Shawnee. “He’s
gotta be happy about that, surely?”

Colin went on, dismay in his voice: “My brother
has told Mary she should leave this instant if herself remains beside him only
out of duty. He says he would rather be freely offered a single kiss by an old
cailleach
,
than a life given under obligation, even by the fairest lass in all of
Lochaber.”

“What has Mary said to that?” whispered Shawnee.

“She has made no reply yet.” The young man’s
voice was barely audible. “Whatever has come over Alistair?”

“The guy knows what he’s doing,” murmured Sam.
“He’s trying his best to play a poor hand well.”

~*~

The wake moved from prose to song. A lassie
barely in her teens held her audience spellbound with a melancholy piece which
could only have arisen from a people steeped in hardship and loss.

As soon as her song was finished, Mary rose from
beside Alistair’s bed, and took her place amongst her clansfolk. She began to
sing the same haunting lament she’d sung when Alistair’s fever was at its
worst. As the melody once again filled the old cottage, Achnacon appeared by
the door, held in the same spell that enchanted everyone else, unable to tear
his eyes away from the lovely enchantress.

When the last note had died away Achnacon held
Mary’s face in his rough, calloused hands and kissed each cheek, paying an old
man’s homage to a young woman’s gift.

“Now I recognise that song,” Colin told the
others. “It’s a love-song from the Isle of Barra, about a man who recalls the
summer shieling he shared with the one true love of his life, before he lost
her to another.” He looked at his brother. “Her name was Mary too.”

“I want to win the lassie, not own her,”
Alistair snapped.

The old storyteller led the others in a
brighter, communal song as Achnacon made his way towards the newcomers.

“Is such a voice not a gift from the anchels?”
he said. “And will yourselfs be singing for us later perhaps?”

Nobody said they would, and nobody said they
wouldn’t. All made evasive noises, glancing hopefully at each other.

“Muirshearlach and the two Lowlanders have given
grand entertainment in the next-door cottage with the singing and the dancing.”

Andy groaned as he visualised Rae and Fergie
treating everyone to the dance of the seven veils.

“Perhaps ’tis well few of my people have the
English,” Achnacon added subtly. The smile faded from his face as he took Andy
to one side. “Muirshearlach has spoke of the great battle to be fought at
Drummossie four days hence.” He searched Macmillan’s face for confirmation of
the prediction. “Himself says the battle will spell disaster for the
Gaidhealtacht
.”

Andy nodded, afraid his eyes would betray the
full extent of the coming catastrophe.

“This vision yourself has had; is it a vision of
what must be, or what may only be?”

Andy shrugged evasively. “If Jamie and the
others can reach there in time, perhaps with the weapons they have…”

“Muirshearlach thinks yourself will have a
change of heart and will lead them to battle.”

“No!” Andy said firmly. “Ah’ll be staying here,
no matter what the others decide tae do.”

The troubled expression remained on Achnacon’s
face. “Muirshearlach has said Lochaber will be laid waste from saltwater to
fresh if Cumberland is victorious. He has said the few warriors who return home
will return to a blackened land.”

Muirshearlach has been saying far too much
for his own bloody good
, Andy thought bitterly.

“Your men look to yourself to lead them into
battle, young Andy, and yet you propose to remain behind with the old and the
feeble.”

Something in the Highlander’s tone brought the
blood rising into Andy’s face. “Even if we destroyed Cumberland’s army, what
would it matter if Ah returned tae find all this in ruins?”

Achnacon nodded slowly, his eyes searching the face
of his friend. “I also fear Cumberland. I know his heart is filled with hatred
for the Gael, but I know ’tis the soldiers of
An Gearasdan
who cast a
darker shadow over this glen. I am happy yourself is to stay. There is one
other who will also be happy, one who sees yourself as her protector.”

Andy looked stupidly at the old Highlander.

“The Lady Ishbel,” Achnacon explained. He
watched a smile appear on his friend’s face and then disappear just as quickly.

“My friend seems less enamoured now at the prospect
of meeting the daughter of Achnacon. Surely he does not wish to withdraw his
suit?” The old man’s voice carried the threat of outrage.

“Aw God, no,” Andy replied hastily. “Any man
would be honoured. It’s how Ishbel feels towards me that might be the problem.”

“Your turn of thought carries no sense,”
Achnacon said coolly.

“Earlier, Alistair told Mary he didn’t want tae
take advantage of her just because he’d saved her life. He felt it wouldnae be
right tae base a courtship on some kindae sense of duty. Ah know what he means,
because that’s how Ah feel about Ishbel.”

A slow smile spread across Achnacon’s face.

“Never before had Mary sung that song so well;
’tis now I see why. Lassies listen to their hearts. Perhaps men should do
likewise; nothing makes bigger fools of us than our own heads.”

Andy looked blankly at the old Highlander.

“What the lassies know of you they have took to
their hearts,” sighed Achnacon. “They are like flowers that have opened
themselfs to you and your foolish friend; how you conduct yourselfs will decide
how much else they take to their hearts.”

He took the soldier by the arm and began to
guide him towards the door. “Come, we have kept the good lady waiting long
enough…”

“What d’ye mean; Ishbel’s here now?” Andy looked
to his friends for help, his eyes wide with fear; but this time he was
definitely on his own.

Moments later he was in the cold night air. From
the adjoining cottage came the sounds of riotous celebration. Andy guessed his
troops would be in the middle of that obscene stramash. To his relief this
wasn’t their destination. Instead he was led to a nearby cottage, from which
flickered the dull glow of the ever-present peat fire. The door to the building
was gone. In its place was a rough curtain of sacking material. Achnacon guided
the soldier through, then left him on his own.

Andy narrowed his eyes in the smoky air, trying
to peer into the gloom. He had a strong sense of déjà vu, remembering how he’d
first laid eyes on Achnacon’s family. He’d had a rifle in his hand then,
something cold and solid to counterbalance the fear in his stomach.

Like some creature of the night he inched his
way nervously into the cottage, the tang of burning peat giving the room the
air of an opium den. He caught sight of her standing beside the fire, squinting
into the smoky darkness. She looked slim and elegant in a red calf-length
tartan dress, overlaid with a white lace shawl. Tresses of long dark hair hung
over her shoulders, framing a face that was flushed with anxiety and
expectation.

When Andy had first laid eyes on Ishbel he’d
been drawn to her, as he would have been to any good-looking female.
Thereafter, it had been the usual game that men play; stealing furtive looks at
a beautiful woman, trying to conceal his gluttony as he feasted his eyes upon
her. On that first occasion he had thought Ishbel effortlessly attractive. Now…
arrayed in the finest her people had to offer… Now she was simply stunning.

His stomach was in knots. He shouldn’t even be
here; a scruffy mongrel trying to win the affections of a beautiful pedigree.
He wanted to flee back to Alistair’s bedside and pour the remains of Alistair’s
uisge beatha
down his throat.

Ishbel was speaking to him, her voice soft and
barely audible. At first he thought she was talking in Gaelic, but as he drew
closer he realised she was delivering a speech in English.

“…Sister Shona thank yourself for safing our
lifes. Yourself iss a very prafe man…” She rubbed her hands nervously together.
After a few moments she tried again: “My family iss forever in your debt,
Corpohral Auntie; my father and my mother and myself and my sister Shona thank
yourself for safing our lifes. Yourself iss a very prafe man.”

As she looked hopefully at him, Andy did his
best to deliver a suitably heroic response.

“Aye, eh, Ah mean, anytime ye need help just
give us a shout and that, ye know?”

Her smile was a mixture of bewilderment and
grace. Andy broke out in a cold sweat. He stood as close to her now as he had
done at any point during the horror of that first night, and he recalled how
he’d sensed there was something pure and untamed in this woman. Now, as he took
in her luxuriant mane of hair, her strong, well-formed features, he had the
impression of a free spirit straining against the tartan finery of the
occasion. He fought back another surge of panic, and in a moment of desperation
knelt on the straw-covered floor before her.

“You probably don’t understand a word Ah’m
saying, but Ah’ll tell ye this anyway; you are so far outtae ma league it
scares the hell outtae me just being in the same room with ye. The best Ah can
hope for is Ah don’t make too big a clown of maself before Ah get found out.
But whatever happens Ah promise ye this; Ah’ll no’ let ye down.” He began to
struggle to his feet, and then added: “Oh aye, and no red-coated bastard is
gonnae lay a hand tae ye as long as Ah’m around.”

When he rose to his feet Ishbel’s hazel eyes
were wide with surprise. In a strange way, however, Andy now felt he could meet
this woman on equal terms.

“Have ye no’ got somewhere we can sit down?” he
grinned, making an exaggerated sitting motion with his backside.

This drew a little laugh from Ishbel. It was the
first time he’d seen her smile, and the warmth of it added to her face a wild
beauty that was all its own. She pointed to a semi-circular seat that lay
before the fire. They sat down together and looked awkwardly at each other. The
dancing shadows cast by the fire made the room seem inhabited by strange Gothic
creatures.

“Corpohral Auntie, yourself iss a very prafe
man,” she said, filling the silence.

He shook his head and pointed at himself. “Not
Corporal Andy. Just Andy. Ye understand; Andy?”

“Auntie,” she replied. She levelled an elegant
finger at her own breast. “
Ishbeal
.”

“Aye, Ah know. Ishbel. That’s a bonnie name;
Ishbel.”

“Auntie,” she repeated, a maidenly smile on her
lips.

Macmillan took a gulp of air as if he was
knocking back a stiff dram. “The thing is, ye see, Ishbel, Ah usually go tae
pieces if Ah’m anywhere near a gorgeous wee thing like you and you are the most
gorgeous wee thing Ah’ve ever laid eyes on and the only reason Ah’m able tae
tell ye this is because ye don’t understand a word Ah’m saying.”

She looked confused that he should expect her to
comprehend such a long speech.

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” he told her.
“D’ye understand? Gorgeous?”

“Gorcheous,” she mimicked, savouring the strange
texture of the word.

“Aye, that’s it!” Andy tapped his heart, then
drew a circle in the air around her face. “Gorgeous,” he told her again.

A faint blush coloured Ishbel’s cheeks. She
touched her own heart and drew a circle around Andy’s face. “Gorcheous,” she
responded, with a smile that started his stomach churning all over again.

It was clear she wasn’t here under duress, but
of her own accord, willing to open her heart to this young stranger. Andy was
warming to the occasion. In many ways it was easier to create a bond without
being encumbered by language. Here, he was spared the pointless prattle of
chat-up lines; the soft lies that men believe are part of the art of seduction,
and which often have the opposite effect.

She spoke to him again in Gaelic, pointing to
his bare legs. Andy recognised the word ‘phillamhor’, and realised she was
commenting on the tartan plaid he now wore. He rose to his feet and responded
with a low bow.

“Formerly Corporal Andy Macmillan of the Royal
Highland Fusiliers. Now apprentice clansman Andy Macmillan, at your service,
m’lady.”

Ishbel replied with a genteel curtsy. “
Ishbeal
Camshron, de Achnacon, deth Gleann Laragai
n.” She daintily held out her
hand, which her young suitor kissed.

Laughing together, the couple returned to their
courting couch. Andy had no idea where the limits of correct behaviour lay, but
she made no attempt to withdraw her hand. Her skin was as delicate and as soft
as that of a child, and was almost swallowed up by his own scarred shovel of
flesh.