Page 9 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)
Chapter Three
Scotland
When Ross Mackinnon stepped on Scottish soil for the first time, he felt that he was home.
A strange thought, when he considered he had never even been to Scotland, but it was a feeling that continued to plague him, a feeling he could not shake.
He had come home. Home to the land of his fathers. Home to Scotland.
He knew so little about this raw, wild land, this place of rugged mountains and crystalline seas, of mirrored lochs and soft green hills that called out to him to fulfill his destiny.
It was a country as stern and demanding as a father’s pride, as enduring and nurturing as a mother’s love.
He had done much reading on the ship during his crossing and had learned that Scotland had an incredible history for such a small country—a history as bittersweet and sorrowful as the mourning of a dove, a story of struggle and daring and desperation against the fist of fate that was slowly closing.
Scotland. He had learned so much. He knew so little.
Yet the very name Scotland sang in his blood like warm brandy.
Scotland. A land of glory, ghosts, and intrigue.
Land of the wild, unconquerable Picts, who forced the Romans to claim them too barbarian to civilize and build Hadrian’s Wall to hold them back.
Home of trows and wee folk, of holy trees and magic mounds, habitat of Celtic guerrillas and pagan Druids, place of barbarous Nordic plunder and pleasant peat hearths.
Scotland. A land of pride and determination that prompted Robert the Bruce to say, “For so long as a hundred of us are left alive, we will yield in no least way to English domination.” Scotland.
A land of war and little peace, of gentle Lowland folk and wild, kilted Highlanders, a proud people broken and beaten but never brought to their knees.
A place of blood and defeat, of sadness and maudlin song, a land lashed by man as well as by the elements, a land of swirling Scottish mist and blinding snow, of demon wind and banshee serenade, and home of the bonniest banks that ever lined a whispering river.
Scotland. A forgotten jewel set in the crown of history.
At first glimpse, the windswept Isle of Skye made him feel as if he had just read a long, mournful passage that left him feeling reflective and humbled.
His first sight of the gray stone walls of Dunford Castle evoked a feeling that was sadder still—for there it stood, huge and ancient and crumbling, a fortress of dead dreams and a glorious past, a flower, wild and sweet, that pierced the flesh and bled from the heart.
Ross had been in Scotland only one week, but already he knew his life would never be the same.
He spent a few days in Edinburgh after leaving the Charity —something not as easy as it sounded, for the moment he tried walking on solid land after weeks at sea, his knees buckled and he stumbled.
It was a mighty embarrassing situation for a man known in six counties for his ability to ride wild horses and even wilder women.
A ride on a ship took longer to recover from than a ride on a horse, or a woman either, for that matter.
It took a full day for him to get his land legs back.
From Edinburgh he had taken the train to Mallaig, where he hired a boat to take him to Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye. Kyleakin, he learned, was pronounced Kylakkin , according to John MacLeod, the owner of the boat.
John MacLeod was an odd sort, a man of dour wit and Calvinistic cheer who was as stingy with his words as the thrifty Scots were reputed to be with their coin.
One of the few times Ross heard him talk at all was as they passed a gap-toothed old ruin that caught his eye.
When he inquired about it, MacLeod seemed to take pleasure in giving a reply.
“Maoil Castle. Goes all the way back to the Middle Ages, it does, when a noblewoman from Denmark called Saucy Mary owned it. Some say she was a Norman princess, but you canna believe everything you hear. They say she stretched a chain from the castle to the mainland and demanded a toll from those that passed.” He fell silent once more, not saying another word until he asked for his coin when they reached Kyleakin.
Kyleakin was a tiny waterfront village where the people weren’t any friendlier than John MacLeod.
After asking directions to Dunford from several people, Ross was about to lose his patience, along with his temper, but persistence paid off.
He finally found someone who would answer him, a young, ruddy-faced boy loading milk cans in a pony cart.
It was this humble milk cart that delivered Ross Mackinnon to his ancestral home, Dunford Castle, or at least relatively close to it.
The cart pulled up at a fork in the road. “I canna take you any further. But dinna fret. ‘Tis only a wee bittie way down that road to Dunford,” the boy said, pointing to the deeply rutted trail.
“Thanks for the ride.” Ross flipped the lad a coin and turned, starting down the trail, not waiting for the boy to drive off.
It was a longer walk to Dunford than he had at first imagined.
Ross noted that a wee bittie way in Scotland was much farther than either a hoot and a holler or a just a little piece was in Texas.
When he reached the castle, he sent the huge brass knocker crashing against the door.
A moment later a white-haired woman with bright blue eyes and a blank expression opened the door.
She didn’t say a word, but simply stared at him.
“Is this Dunford Castle, home of Lachlan Mackinnon?” Ross asked.
“Have you any particular reason for wanting to know?”
That took Ross back a bit, but he composed himself, remembering how the ship’s captain had warned him that the Scots weren’t all too eager to warm to any strangers.
“I suppose I do,” Ross said, smiling. The woman’s expression turned sour.
The smile vanished from Ross’ face. “My name is Ross Mackinnon.”
“I dinna ken any Ross Mackinnon,” she said and began shutting the door.
“Wait!” Ross said, shoving his foot out to stop the door. “I’ve just come from Texas.”
“Then it canna be a problem to find yer way back.” She gave the door another shove.
“Hold on now. Give me time to state my piece.”
“Dinna fash yerself with me. I had to call the dogs on the last puir laddie that wanted to state his piece. Now, get on with you.”
But Ross held his ground. “I’ve come a long way to see Lachlan Mackinnon. I believe he’s my grandfather and I don’t suppose he would take too kindly to your sending me away, considering all he’s gone through to find me.”
The woman gave him an appraising stare. “You say the Mackinnon is yer grandfather? I dinna ken that to be possible, but come along wi’ you, then.
His Grace will send you on your merry way soon enough.
” The woman stood back, motioning for him to enter, her sharp little eyes clamped on him in a none-too-friendly manner.
As Ross was ushered through the door of this inhospitable-looking Scottish castle, he was thinking folks in this part of the world spoke a strange brand of English.
The accents here were different from even those he had heard in Edinburgh.
And as far as manners went, the entire Scottish race must have been standing behind the door when they were passed out.
After being here several days, he was already becoming accustomed to it.
That was why this woman’s clannish and unfriendly behavior didn’t particularly chap him.
But he hadn’t exactly adjusted to the rude stares, and as he followed the short woman down a dim, winding corridor, he couldn’t help noticing how the servants stopped what they were doing to stare as he passed, making him wonder if he might have ripped the rump out of his britches.
Because his mother died when he was young, Ross hadn’t been taught a lot of things, but he did know it was not polite to stare—something folks in this neck of the woods had obviously never learned. “Is this the way folks welcome a stranger in these parts?” he asked. “By staring?”
“They dinna stare at you,” the woman replied, “but at yer strange clothes.”
Ross looked at himself in the next mirror they passed.
He didn’t see anything particularly wrong or strange about what he was wearing: a decent pair of buckskin breeches, his best pair of boots, solid silver spurs (won in a poker game), a blue cambric shirt, and his Texas hat, which he had pulled off and tucked under his arm the minute he stepped inside.
He did notice that no one he had passed wore a gun.
Perhaps it was the sight of the Colt strapped to his hip that caused these open-mouthed stares.
His spurs ringing against the stone floor, he was ushered into the library, a darkly paneled room with an impressive collection of leather-bound books.
On the walls were maps of Scotland, England, and the world.
Tiny compartments were stuffed with manuscripts, papers, and more books.
In the center of the room, an enormous table was littered with maps and papers, inkwells, scissors, seals, a pair of scales, a rule, a compass, and a pair of gold candelabra. A huge desk sat between two oriels.
The man sitting behind the desk seemed nearly as old as everything else in the room. The light streaming through the windows absorbed all the color from his hair and turned the gray to white.
“Your Grace,” the woman announced, “this gentleman says he is yer grandson.”
“Thank you, Mary. That will be all.” The man stood, the light from the window streaming around him in shafts of brilliance, and Ross felt a sense of both awe and reverence as if he were standing in the presence of someone holy.
So this was his grandfather.