Page 44 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

Annabella answered her mother’s latest sally with a nod and closed her eyes.

She was thinking what a strange turn her life had taken over the past few months.

Here she was betrothed to a man almost as old as her father, forced to live in a strange country, and now, the piece of fruit that toppled the fruit bowl: she was being carted—like so much baggage being dumped—to the home of her aunt and uncle, who were virtual strangers.

Strange thing, life. One day it was roses; the next day, horse droppings.

They arrived at the inn at Applecross an hour later and were off again early the next morning.

It was still raining as they embarked, making the travel slow and miserable, but the duchess was determined that they were going to reach the home of the Mackenzies before night.

Each time the driver suggested they stop and rest, she rammed her parasol against the roof of the coach and said, “Onward, my dear man. Onward.” Then to Annabella, she said, “We are going to reach your Aunt Una’s if we have to hitch ourselves to the wagon to do it. ”

It was times like this that Bella believed her mother to be Scot to the core.

The duchess was good company, Bella decided, for her mother’s vivid descriptions and burning Scots determination did prove humorous at times.

Evidently it paid off, for it was still light when they began to descend a deep narrow glen through which ran a brattling little stream, the first one Annabella noticed that was running toward the Atlantic.

On either side of them the hills rose to a great height—bare, rocky, and stripped of almost all vegetation save a few determined tufts of heather.

It was a rather destitute place, mottled by huge stones and boulders and unfit for sheep or goats—one even the birds deemed to avoid.

Already twilight was entering the glen, and Annabella looked up, missing the light from the peat fires of the shepherds flaming the hills above that she had grown so accustomed to since coming to Scotland.

Indeed it was a dismal place—the valley of the shadow of death.

And then paradise lay before her, a place of smooth, mirrored water and soft green islands.

Behind the lake, slopes of a mysterious mountain rose to cast a gloomy shadow across the loch, and Bella opened her journal to learn the mountain’s name: Ben Slioch.

“It sounds like a name from the Bible,” she said. “Ben Slioch.”

“Slioch,” her mother repeated. “I can’t remember what that means in Gaelic. Arrows, I think.”

“Spear,” Bella corrected. “My journal says it’s partly sandstone.”

“With a name as gritty,” said the duchess.

“Loch Maree,” Bella whispered as the road opened to a moory plain bordered with hills. On either side of them, sparse patches of corn and potatoes seemed in keeping with the half dozen or so pathetic cottages that dotted the brown heath.

“There’s a boat full of people just ahead,” Bella said. Her mother looked out and ordered the driver to pull up.

“It’s a wedding party,” the duchess said, her words almost drowned out by a piper in full Scots dress, the wild notes of his bagpipe strangely melancholy for such a festive occasion.

The driver came around to tell them they would have to go by boat across the loch, there being no road the coach could follow. “I’ve made arrangements for another conveyance on the other side,” he said.

As their things were being loaded on the boat, Bella listened a moment to what the boatman in the other boat was telling the wedding guests. She didn’t understand it, of course, since it was Gaelic, but she listened, liking the sound.

“I wish I remembered more of my Gaelic,” her mother said, coming to join her.

“He is telling them stories of the loch. It’s legend haunted, you know.

There are ruins of an old monastery on one of the islands, and a Norse prince and princess whose lives ended in tragedy are buried there.

See that little island over there?” She pointed and Bella nodded.

“He is saying, ‘The burliest Scot I know would think twice before going there after dark.’ It’s supposed to be haunted by fairies and wraiths and every land and water sprite known to man.

” The duchess fell silent, listening with her brow knitted in remembrance of the words Bella found so strange.

“He’s saying something about that island—that there’s a tiny lake in the middle of the island and another tiny island in the middle of that lake.

In the center is a tree where the queen of fairies holds court.

” She listened some more, the knitted brow giving way to a full frown.

Then with a helpless shrug she shook her head.

“I give up. He’s talking too fast for me to keep up and my Gaelic is too rusty.

” She kept her head upright and closed her eyes.

“It makes me remember just how much I’ve forgotten.

” When her mother opened her eyes again, Bella saw a new light gleaming there, a light of determination.

“I’m going to find me some books in Gaelic to take back to England,” the duchess said.

“I should be horsewhipped for allowing so many things to slip from my mind.” She smiled wanly and patted Bella’s hand.

“Try to rest a bit. We should be at your Aunt Una’s in less than two hours. ”

Bella did as her mother asked, her thoughts turning to Ross Mackinnon the moment her eyes closed. She wondered what he was doing now, and if he had even noticed that she was gone.

Ross noticed, and he wasn’t too happy when he found Annabella gone.

“Gone!” Ross shouted. “What do you mean, gone? Gone where? With whom?”

Lord Percival blinked with each overemphasized word Ross shouted. “Please … spare me. You are nigh to rupturing my ears.”

“I’ll damn well rupture something worse than that if you don’t tell me what’s going on here.”

“I just told you. Her Grace and Lady Annabella left early this morning while you were riding. They had stayed here much longer than they originally intended and decided it was time to get back on their schedule.”

Ross glared at his grandfather. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

“Nothing more than to loan them a coach.” With elevated brows, the Mackinnon asked, “Would you rather I had them walk?”

Ross relaxed a little. “Something here isn’t up to snuff and I intend to find out what it is.”

“What do you mean, not up to snuff?” Percy asked.

“I mean, I think you two know more than you’re telling me.”

“We only know that the duchess asked His Grace for the use of a coach. She deemed it fitting to keep their destination a secret. A Scot likes his privacy and respects that right in others, Ross. In truth, it was none of our business where they were going.”

Ross eyed his grandfather.

“I dinna ken you’ll get any answers by frowning, lad,” the Mackinnon said.

Without giving Ross the opportunity to respond, Percy went on to say, “The ladies’ untimely departure is only a few days ahead of ours. Even if they had remained here, you would be leaving in a few days, and that’s the way of it.”

“They could’ve given me a chance to say goodbye.”

“Maybe they would have if you had been inclined to look at the lass with more of an eye of the philosopher…or a Methodist,” the Mackinnon said, slapping Ross on the back as he and Percy doubled over with laughter.

That only made Ross angrier. Seeing this, his grandfather said, “There isna a thing to be done about it now, lad. You’ve got your future to see to, and you canna be chasin’ the lassies about while you’re doing it. Sometimes it’s a hard lesson to learn.”

“What is?” Ross said, his anger subsiding a bit.

“First things first. A man can’t stand up and sit down at the same time,” the Mackinnon said.

“Why the hell not?” Ross said.

Percy spoke this time. “As Blake said, ‘If you trap the moment before it’s ripe, tears of repentance you will surely wipe.’”

“I believe the rest of that quote says, ‘But if you let the ripe moment go, you can never wipe away the tears of woe.’”

Percy lifted his brows and looked at the Mackinnon. “The lad has a good memory,” he said.

“Only when it suits him,” said the Mackinnon.