Page 11 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

“Aye, we have that,” the duke said softly.

“That and more.” He took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and wound it thoughtfully.

He dropped it back into his pocket. “Like most Highlanders, the Mackinnons have learned to live with sorrow, even to wallow in it on occasion. It’s part of our history to relive the glory and bewail the tragedy, something we do with a wild sort of independence.

We cherish our past, lad, but we don’t know what to do with it. ”

“Maybe that’s why my pa loved Texas so much—because it reminded him of the Highlands. He used to say we were part of the prideful poor.”

“You’re very much like your father,” the Mackinnon said.

“‘Tis something I wondered about for years—which of John’s get would be the most like him. Perhaps I knew all along. Perhaps that was why I thought of you as my last choice—because your wildness, your defiant nature was so like the painful memory of my break with him.” The Mackinnon paused, looking at Ross strangely.

“They say wisdom grows from the ashes of folly and that reflection sharpens understanding. I’ve had time for both.

I was wrong about your father. I stood too close to him. I shadowed him and slowed his growth.”

He stopped talking and Ross had a feeling he was about to say something about him, something he wanted to think through.

Ross watched the old man take a deep breath and noticed also how he seemed to grow in stature.

“I was wrong about you,” his grandfather said, his voice strong, his tone full of conviction and meaning.

“I said you weren’t my first choice. I didna ken that was because you were the only choice.

Mistakes,” he said, his eyes glistening with remembrance, “brood a nest of sorrows.”

A heaviness seemed to settle over Ross. He found this sort of talk sad, even gloomy.

It carried too many reminders for him, brought to the forefront of his mind too many things he had tried to forget.

Yet he couldn’t keep from looking at his grandfather and wondering how much of what he was feeling the older man sensed.

“You’ve had a difficult time of it, lad.”

“No more difficult than my brothers.”

“Aye,” the duke said. “I know their stories as well.” The sparkle seemed to go out of his eyes, and Ross thought he looked tired.

“I have often regretted not sending for the lot of you right after I learned about John’s death.

” The corners of his mouth lifted with a weak smile.

“At times I feel like John found a way to get back at me. Here he fathered six boys, and his brother Robert, who was to inherit the title, fathered none.” The Mackinnon looked very much the old man now, battle-weary and worn, but there was no sign of defeat.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “And now they are both dead.” He shook his head and the smile grew broader, his eyes sparkling like a youth’s.

“Six boys he fathered, and which one do I get to come back here? The one who’s just like him.

I ken he’s found a way to get even with me after all. ”

“Or a way to let you go back.”

“Aye, a way to go back, a chance to start over.” The duke paused, then said, “God help me if I dinna make a better go of it this time.”

“You will,” Ross said, with a boldness that surprised even him.

The Mackinnon laughed. “Have you the Lord’s confidence then, lad, or do you have the gift of sight?”

Ross looked at his grandfather, at the way his coat fit his broad shoulders, at the proud arrogance of his white head. “I know myself. I won’t let you down.”

“Aye, I ken you won’t, lad.” His smile was full of pride. “You’re a Mackinnon, aren’t you? And your father’s twin?”

“I’m nothing like my father. Everyone says so.”

“No, you’re all me on the outside, lad, but inside, you’re like your father.” The Mackinnon drew a deep breath. “I’ve wondered about you since I sent the letter asking you to come—wondered if you would, if I’d done right by asking you.”

“I’m here,” Ross said, “as for the other, I can’t speak to that.”

The Mackinnon chuckled. “The future looks to be entertaining then. I only hope I keep a sober head and remember misfortune can make or break a man.”

“It hasn’t broken me, and it won’t. No matter how hard it tries,” said Ross.

“That’s because you’re a Scot,” his grandfather said. “And a Mackinnon.”

That came as a bit of a shock to Ross. It was the first time he could ever remember being called a Scot, or being considered anything but a wild, rowdy Texan.

“There was a reason the fates decided upon you, lad. I’ve been busy plotting ways to get the Mackinnon clan on its feet, to see a strong, healthy young leader at its head. I’ll not see another clan claim what has long been ours.”

The duke must have sensed that Ross was watching him closely, for he paused and pulled his watch out of his pocket.

“God’s whiskers!” he said cheerfully. “I’m carrying on like an old woman, and I’ve let my impatience override my manners.

” He knew the lad had been given a lot to absorb today.

It was time to let the blood clot. “We’ll make a go of it,” he said, getting to his feet, “if I have to strangle every man who gets in our way.” The Mackinnon looked at his grandson sharply from beneath white, shaggy brows.

“At times I think it will be my own eagerness that will be my undoing. I dinna always remember the man who waits at the ferry will get across sometime. There’s no need to fash myself by jumping in to swim. ”

He went to a table and filled a glass with what Ross guessed to be wine from a tall cut-glass decanter. “Drink this. It’ll remove some of the travel weariness and replace your apprehension with clear-thinking calm.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard of a glass of wine giving a man a clear head.”

“‘Tisna wine, lad, but whisky, uisgebeatha , a Scots water of life .” The duke poured himself a glass and returned to his chair.

“To my grandson,” he said, “the next Duke of Dunford and chief of Clan Mackinnon.”

Ross lifted his glass in response and both men took a drink at the same time.

Once he had finished half the glass, his grandfather sat back, sinking more deeply into the leather of his chair.

He held his glass up, looking at its pale amber color.

“How this reminds me of the old days,” he said, “when a man got his whisky from a little mountain hut called a bothy . They canna build them like that anymore, but back then, they were cozy and snug, with sturdy stone walls and thatching so tight not a drop of water seeped through. I can still see the way it was on the inside—filled with casks and tubs, with so many pipes carrying the cold spring water into the stillroom a man could get dizzy looking at them.” His look turned wistful.

“It’s rare now to see a bothy like they had back then.

Most of them have been torn down with the crofters’ huts.

” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “But the taste isna far from what it used to be, God be praised.”

The Mackinnon rose and moved to the wall, pulling a silken cord. A few minutes later the door behind him opened and a draft of wind blew into the room. Mary reappeared. She moved to stand halfway into the room. “You rang, Your Grace?”

“Mary, I’d like you to meet my grandson, Ross. This is one of John’s sons.”

“He isna the one you wrote to the first time.”

“No. John had six sons, five of whom survive. Ross is the fourth son…and the best,” he added with a wink in Ross’ direction.

Mary snorted, obviously unimpressed. “The other four must be puir laddies, indeed,” she said.

Ross couldn’t help laughing, and he noticed that it was only with great control that his grandfather managed not to join him.

“Take Ross into the kitchen and tell Cook to fill him to bursting. While he’s stuffing himself, you see to his room.

I want him to have John’s old room. And have a bath sent up with plenty of hot water.

” To Ross, the Mackinnon said, “Go with Mary now. I’ll see you at dinner. ”

Ross nodded and turned toward Mary. She made a quick curtsy, her stiff skirts skimming the cold gray stones of the floor.

“And, Mary,” the duke called out, “tell Robert to see what he can do about some clothes.”

Ross paused, turning back toward his grandfather. “I have clothes.”

The Mackinnon’s expression was unreadable. “You dinna like our way of dressing, I take it?”

“They’re fine…on you.” Ross studied his grandfather’s appearance.

His clothes—a pair of trousers and coat of dark blue, a waistcoat of pale gray, beautifully embroidered—looked perfectly suitable on him, but Ross knew that didn’t necessarily mean they would look that way on him.

“I’d feel like a fool in a getup like that,” he said.

He turned to follow Mary, who said, “I’ll tell Robert, Your Grace.”

“I didna think you wouldn’t,” the old duke said, a ripple of laughter in his voice.

“Go ahead,” Ross said. “It won’t do you a bit of good.”

“Aye, it may not. It’s ill wark takin’ the breeksfrae off a Heilandman, ” his grandfather said, the ripple giving way to a full-blown laugh.

Mary led Ross back down the long winding corridor, then turned off in the opposite direction from the way he had come.

Ross followed her down a narrow staircase into the kitchen.

The cook was a large, robust woman with a respectably large meat cleaver in her hand.

Ross kept his distance. “His Grace says you are to stuff his grandson and heat him some water for a bath.” She turned from the room, saying over her shoulder, “When he’s satisfied, send him to the north wing. ”