Page 39 of Kilgannon #1

nodded and watched the men. Next to us Ian and Jamie held on to the railing and bent to look through the slats at the scene below.

Angus and Malcolm were showing two younger men how to parry and thrust, and I watched idly, noting how Angus oversaw every movement, every pause.

How very different this was than watching Will and his fencing teacher.

These men were not using dress swords and they were not practicing their form for its appearance.

They were learning how to kill and not be killed.

Below us the men had paired differently now, Malcolm and a partner fending off Angus and a much younger man.

Angus pushed his opponent back to the wall and stepped back, lowering his sword and talking earnestly.

He stepped back again, then fell heavily over the leg that Malcolm had thrust in his path.

Malcolm laughed as he watched Angus land on his back with a thud and a curse.

With a curse of his own, Alex leaned over the railing and shouted.

Angus picked himself up and reached for Malcolm, grabbing Malcolm’s shirt and throwing him against the wall, then leaning into his face and speaking quietly.

Malcolm was not laughing when Angus shoved him again and strode away.

The younger men turned away, some following Angus out of sight.

Alex spoke angrily to Malcolm, who spat a reply.

Whatever he said enraged Alex, who shouted at his brother.

I could not understand a word, but Alex’s anger and disgust was obvious and Malcolm’s disdain withered under his brother’s attack.

When Alex barked an order to the remaining men, Malcolm looked up at his brother and saw the boys and I standing at the rail.

He met my eyes, paused, then bowed with contempt.

I turned away. No, I was not wrong, he was as disagreeable a man as I had first believed.

Alex reached for me then and I grasped his hand.

As we left I turned to look below one last time and saw Malcolm standing alone in the big room, caught by a ray of light, dust motes swirling in the beam around him, staring at us malignantly.

I never forgot the moment. We never discussed it.

But I didn’t dwell on Malcolm, for I was too busy.

And too happy. Alex showed me the grounds, including the gardens and walled orchard that his grandparents had built.

And Alex used the time to start my Gaelic instruction.

I would say something and he would translate it into Gaelic.

Angus watched us benignly, shaking his head at our efforts, but Matthew and the boys joined the game readily and soon I had four teachers, all correcting me constantly.

I will learn the fool language, I told myself, if only to stop them from teaching me.

I learned my way around the valley as well.

The glen, as I’d been told to call it, was unusually fertile for the Highlands and had led to much of the MacGannon wealth.

I now understood what Robert had meant. When Alex was at home he was a wealthy man, but one cannot readily spend a stone castle or fertile fields that can feed only its owners well.

Life at Kilgannon was comfortable, that was obvious, but there was little surplus.

When the weather was clear we rode every day, until I had visited every tacksman and crofthouse and every member of Clan MacGannon.

Kilgannon’s lands were flung over glens and mountains and along the shore, and we had many miles to cover.

Alex explained that there were two levels of tenants on his lands: the tacksmen, who often owned their lands and rented them to others, and the crofters, who were at the bottom of the social scale.

The tacksmen might be minor lairds as well, depending on their family connections and situation. I believe we visited each one.

Alex showed me everything about his land, even grimly pointing out the two bodies that still swung in the wind from a tree not far from the castle.

“Murderers,” he spat, and gave me sharp look.

“Killed a good man for cattle.” His voice quieted.

“And did more. So we hanged them. And that, lass, is also part of this land.” I stared at the bodies and nodded, trying to absorb all of it.

I was beginning to remember many of the names and remarked to Alex that it was amazing that all of these people were related to him. He shook his head and turned in his saddle to look at me. “They may have the MacGannon name, but not all have the blood.”

“They are not all MacGannons?”

“Aye, they are that. But families move and many change their names when they change their allegiance. They become MacGannons and forsake whatever name they used before they came here. They can take the name but not the bloodline. Like the scum that murdered the crofter. They werena MacGannons two generations ago. Many, of course, keep their own names.” He gestured to Thomas riding behind us.

“Thomas is Thomas MacNeill, and the pipers are led by Seamus MacCrimmon, both names too proud to change. Like MacGannon. Do ye think if I moved to yer lands in England I’d become Alex Lowell? ”

“I see. But it’s acceptable for me to become Mary MacGannon?”

“Oh, aye.” He grinned. “Mary MacGannon. It’s a fine name.

Ye’ve improved yerself, lass.” I laughed at him.

He waved to a woman approaching us as we entered her yard.

“Ah, look,” he said. “Here’s the latest of Duncan of the Glen’s bairns.

Don’t they all look alike? This one is Alexander.

” He grinned. “Named after me. Aren’t ye impressed?

” He leaned down and took the small boy from his smiling mother.

We were in the remotest northern part of Kilgannon property, near a village called Glendevin.

The yard was mud, the crofthouse a long two-story stone building, tidy and well kept.

Both the yard and the house seemed full of blond children who all looked the same as the youngest, only taller.

Duncan MacGannon, known as Duncan of the Glen, was the proud father who stood in front of his huge family, grinning.

He took his son from Alex as we stopped before him.

“We welcome ye to our home, Laird Alex,” Duncan said. “And yer new wife as well. Will ye come and have bite or a glass?”

“Whisky would be perfect, Duncan. I thank ye,” said Alex, dismounting and then reaching up to help me. I slipped down into his arms and then into the mud, feeling it ooze into my velvet shoes. Obviously I would have to find something more suitable to wear on these visits. Or stay on the horse.

“My wife doesna have the English, Lady Mary, but she welcomes ye as well,” Duncan said, bowing to me.

“Tell her thank you for me, Duncan,” I said.

“No, let me try.” I attempted a simple greeting and could tell by their faces that I had been successful.

The woman replied and I realized she had invited me to either eat or drink.

I was at a loss how to accept at first and then remembered the words.

I wanted to say that I would be delighted to eat her oatcakes, and I thought that I had.

Obviously I hadn’ t. Duncan’s wife put her hands to her mouth, her eyes dancing, and behind her the children were giggling.

Turning, I saw everyone in the yard trying to suppress laughter and Alex grinning widely. “What did I say?” I whispered to him.

“Ye said ye were delighted to eat her foot.” He laughed aloud and kissed my hair as the others guffawed.

“How did I say that?”

“Verra clearly.”

I looked at her feet, clad in rough leather shoes that were covered with mud, and I turned back to Alex.

“Tell her I’ve changed my mind,” I said.

“I’ll just have something to drink.” He roared then and told them, and the moment passed.

Thank heavens I had said something funny and not something insulting, I thought.

Otherwise, these smiling faces might now be reaching for their weapons.

With a suppressed sigh, I longed heartily for Louisa’s drawing room in London.

No doubt they ’ ll remember me as an idiot, I thought later as we rode away.

I turned to wave again and a little boy ran forward, grinning widely and thrusting his foot out at me.

I laughed and he handed me a flower, limp and bedraggled from being held in the grubby hand.

We smiled at each other and he waved as we turned up the glen to go higher.

I looked after him and then at the flower in my hand.

It was a rose, small and pale, a kind I’d never seen.

“What kind of rose is this?” I asked Alex when at last we paused beside a burn to let the horses drink.

He looked at it through narrowed eyes. “White?”

“No, seriously, Alex,” I said. “One of Duncan’s boys gave it to me, so it must grow near his home. What is it called?”

“I have no idea, lass.”

“Beg pardon, madam,” said Thomas, leaning forward on his horse. “It is a wild rose.”

“Wild? And so delicate?”

Thomas nodded. “Aye, madam. It is small and easily bruised, but it will grow back again and again. Once it has taken root ye cannot budge it for all the effort ye’d give.”

We looked at the diminutive flower and I held it to my nose. “It’s beautiful. And very fragrant,” I said, pleased.

“Aye.” Thomas nodded. “That disguises how hardy it is.”

“We should give the rose a verra special name, Thomas,” said Alex with a smile, his eyes full of mischief.

“Do ye have one in mind?” Thomas asked in a mild tone.

“Aye, I do at that. And it’s only the one name that will do.”

“Ah, do tell us, Alex,” laughed Thomas.

Alex turned to include all the men. “Who do we know who is small and verra beautiful and easily bruised?” Eyes turned toward me.

“And,” he continued, “is as pale as those petals? And has numerous thorns?” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

“And is the hardiest flower in Scotland?” They all looked for my reaction.

I shook my head and raised my hands as if mystified.

“I can think of no one, Alex. Do you mean yourself?”

“Oh, aye, lass. I’m verra small and verra beautiful.”

I looked at the faces watching me. All right, Alex, I said to myself, and smiled wickedly.

“You’re not small, Alex,” I said demurely, “but you are very beautiful.” I ignored the snorts of laughter and waited.

Alex laughed. “Aye, well, that’s the truth of it,” he said as he restrained his dancing horse and met my eyes. “We’ll call it the Mary Rose.”

“Aye,” said Thomas next to him. “Verra good, Alex.”

“Naturally,” said my husband as he led us from the stream.

That night as we prepared for bed I found the rose again—Ellen had put it in a cup of water and placed it in our room. Alex took it from me and held the tiny flower in his hand. “Mary Rose,” he said, smiling tenderly. “It suits ye, lass.”

“Silly man,” I said as I turned back the bedcovers.

“Not silly, Mary Rose,” he said, and put the rose back in the water. “Smart enough to see beyond yer beauty to yer strength.”

I turned to face him. “Which you are constantly testing.”

“Aye, but I suspect yer tougher than all of us, my Mary Rose.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my neck, then slipped my robe from me as his lips traced down my neck to my shoulder and my arm. “The toughest rose in Scotland.”

“I am not tough,” I protested.

“Oh, aye, lass. Yer mind is.” He paused as he moved his mouth to mine. “But yer body is verra tender, Mary Rose.”