Page 50 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

From Edinburgh they made their way to Aberdeen, then Inverness, going across the Highlands to Ullapool, where Ross decided he had seen enough of Scotland. “A man can do just so much drinking and whoring, Percy.”

To this, Percy merely lifted a dubious eyebrow.

Ross laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, man, but it’s true. I’m plumb tuckered out, as the old man said.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to go back, or do you simply need a good night’s rest?”

“No, I’m ready. Even drinking and whoring taken too far begin to…” He paused and looked at Percy. “What’s the word I’m looking for here?”

“Cloy.”

“Right. Even whoring and drinking taken too far begin to cloy.”

“And as Blake so eloquently put it, ‘ The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.’ ”

“Lead on,” Ross said, slapping him on the back. “The only excess I want now is an excess of sleep. God’s bones! I’ve never been so tired. It’s hard work keeping so many women happy.”

Percy didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He was laughing too hard to speak.

Four days later Barra Mackenzie sat in his study reading a letter from his cousin, Robbie Fraser, who lived in Ullapool.

I have taken the liberty of suggesting that my old friend, Lord Percival, and his charge stop off at Seaforth on their journey south.

You will remember Percy as the man I became friends with when we both worked so hard to have the Corn Laws repealed.

I know you will like him. Although he is not a farmer, he is much like you, a good man who holds his own plow.

They should arrive on Tuesday, the fourth.

I know you will extend to them every courtesy that you have shown me on my numerous visits to Seaforth.

Oh, just the memory of eggs, cold veal pie, tongue, and hot, hot salmon under a ray of sun in those pastoral fields of yours, all polished off with a good shot of whisky .

In my exuberance, I almost forgot to tell you the name of his charge—a young man, American by birth, but Scot, I believe, to the core. He is a grandson to the old duke at Skye and goes by the name Ross Mackinnon.

Ross Mackinnon. Och! and double och! Barra had heard that name often enough to cause him immediate worry.

And then it hit him. The fourth . Today was the fourth.

Without a moment to waste, he sent for Una, and in the same breath he dispatched a bevy of cleaning women to the fishing cottage that was less than a mile from the main house.

“Send them to the fishing cottage?” Una asked, giving Barra a strange look. “Are you daft, man? I doubt Annabella has ever been fishing in her life, and we both know Ailie holds no fondness for it.”

“I’m not sending them there to fish, love. We are expecting guests and I am simply removing the bait.”

Barra recognized the angry thrust of his wife’s chin and gave her a hug of conciliation.

“I know this doesn’t make any sense to you, but time is of prime importance here.

I don’t have time for explanations, other than to say one Ross Mackinnon is on his way here and the lass needs to be away—at least for a while until I’ve had time to form an opinion of the lad.

There isn’t time to plan anything else. You will have to find a way to explain to them. ”

“But what will I tell them? They aren’t children. And you know what a mess I make of lying.”

Barra kissed the top of her head. “Yes, love, I know, but there’s no help for it now.” He gave her a pat on her backside. “Now off with you. There’s work to be done. We’ve guests for dinner.”

Una hurried toward the door, then paused. “You do like Bella, don’t you?”

“Aye, I like the lass,” Barra said. “Why else would I be going to so much trouble to skirt her away until I see if this Mackinnon is any better for her than that fool, Huntly?”

Una sighed in agreement. “Even after all these years, I still love you, Barra Mackenzie,” she said.

“Aye,” Barra said. “I always knew you for a wise lass.”

Barra Mackenzie watched his wife of thirty years walk away. Even after all these years? He shook his head, a slow grin forming. He didn’t completely understand his lass.

Even after all these years.

A short while later Una entered the fishing cottage, which was nothing more than an old black house that had been used by crofters years ago and then abandoned.

Barra, not wanting to see anything go to waste, had made it into his fishing cottage.

Una, getting into the spirit of things, had taken it upon herself to soften the bare bones of it and add a few homey touches of her own.

When she finished, she declared it to be “the doll house I never owned”.

Barra had grumbled a bit and said something to the effect that “any man who lets his wife decorate his fishing cottage ought to swear off whisky”.

But when it was all said and done, he did have to admit Una had outdone herself on this one, for the little black cottage was as cozy and comfortable as a pair of old slippers that were run down at the heels.

Groaning under the weight of the heavy wicker basket she carried, Una flung back the heavy oaken door and found herself in the glow and warmth of the firelit kitchen.

With a grunt of exertion she heaved the basket up on a long trestle table made from plain, unfinished boards.

“There,” she said, giving Ailie and Annabella a glance.

“Is all of that for us?” asked Ailie.

“Aye. This should be enough food to last you a week.”

“Or a year,” said Ailie, “unless you don’t expect us to do anything but eat.”

Una looked around the quaint little kitchen with its well-worn plank floor, and took a seat at one of the benches that flanked it. “Just as I thought,” she said. “You’ll get on nicely here. This place is warm as toast. Not a suspicion of a draft.”

The kitchen occupied one end of the larger of the two rooms of the cottage—the smaller of the two being the bedroom.

Perhaps that was where it got its charm, for there was something cozy and inviting about having a house that combined the kitchen and parlor—although parlor was a wee bit ambitious a word for this room.

Near the fireplace were two large armchairs with fabric covering worn and shiny from wear.

It was in these chairs that Bella and Ailie sat—waiting, Una assumed, for her to leave.

But she wasn’t in any hurry. It had been a while since she had ventured this way, and the cozy little cottage seemed to put its arms around her and invite her to stay.

She had forgotten just how charming a little cottage could be, with its rows of mismatched plates gleaming from the cupboard, and the exposed rafters, smoky and hung with dried bunches of herbs, heather, and wild sea grasses, and over on the shelf a tiny plover nest with its two cracked, speckled shells.

It was the kind of place a man could be happy in, a place free of care and worry, a place made for feasting and song, and later on talking in low tones with a glass of whisky and a smoke—for everything here was cheerful and merry, from the pieces of furniture that seemed to greet one another from opposite sides of the room to the flicker of firelight that played over all, making no favorites.

Una let out a satisfied sigh. “I rather fancy this place. Want me to stay here with you?”

“No, we do not,” Ailie said, leaving her chair and standing beside her mother. “And besides, you know Papa wouldn’t hear of it.” Taking her mother by the hand, she said, “Here, let me help you up.”

Una seemed in no hurry to move. Ailie threw a pleading glance toward Bella.

“Aunt Una, aren’t you needed back at the house to help hold those two ogres at bay?” Bella asked.

Una’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, my, yes! I almost forgot. Here I am looking a sight, when I’ll be having guests for dinner.” She hurried toward the door, then turned back. “This is a wonderful place. Enjoy it, won’t you?”

“We will, Mama.”

The door closed and Ailie looked at her cousin. “Did you believe that story Mama told us?”

“Which story?”

“About the ogres —those demented despoilers of virgins.”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it isn’t that I don’t believe her as much as that I… Well, bless my soul! I’ve never seen a driven, demented despoiler of young virgins before, and I would so like to know what one looks like, wouldn’t you?”

Annabella shook her head violently. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Later that night, at least an hour after they had eaten their supper of cold mutton and potatoes, Ailie and Annabella lay in bed, trying to go to sleep, neither of them having much luck. At last Ailie sighed. “I wonder if they’re young lords? And of course they have to be handsome.”

“Who?”

“The despoilers of virgins, of course. Who else?”

“You certainly spend a lot of time thinking about those two,” Bella said. Then, reflecting upon what Ailie said, she asked, “Why would they have to be handsome?”

“Because no virgin in her right mind is going to let herself be despoiled by an ugly man.”

“Oh, right,” said Bella, her voice trailing off as she pondered Ailie’s wisdom.

Judging from the noise coming from the vicinity of Ailie’s bed, Bella decided she must be having a difficult time going to sleep.

About that time the bed groaned and Ailie muttered something in frustration.

A moment later Ailie said, “Are you sure you don’t want to go have just one look?

” Her voice, sadly wistful, was laced with a hint of hopefulness.

“One tiny peek? We could sneak up to the window and…”

“How utterly wicked. Do you realize it would be the most appalling scandal if we got caught? Now, do hush up and go to sleep, Ailie. You are sporting mischief and you know it.”