Isobel was astonished at how strange and unfamiliar the words sounded.
She repeated her greeting, her colour deepening still more, and saw him smile warmly, with real delight, as Mairi explained how she had passed the time in his absence. At the end of the old woman’s account he reached out and drew Isobel into his arms and kissed her long and tenderly. That sweet melting of the limbs flowed through her, and she held him close, her fingers looped in his springing hair. If they had been alone—
But they were not alone, and the waiting throng was hungry for news. Hector gently put her from him, though he retained her hand, and gave his attention to the women who had no men to welcome home.
The news, for all of them, was amazing, wonderful, almost too good to be true. The Highlanders had risen in impressive numbers - if not quite to a man - to support their Prince. Now after a bare two months of fighting, almost the whole of Scotland, but for one or two isolated garrisons, lay in their hands. Just a few days ago, at Prestonpans near Edinburgh, they had gained a magnificent victory against government troops. Now it only remained for them to gather all their strength for the march on England. There, the Prince had been assured, his Jacobite supporters would rise and opposition melt away like mist with the sun.
Best of all, every man who had left Ardshee on that summer morning was alive and well and enjoying a well earned rest in Edinburgh. He and Hugh, their chieftain explained vaguely, had returned on a small but urgent matter of business and would stay a day, perhaps two, before setting out again for the glorious end to the adventure.
After that, the singing and dancing and stories and poetry flowed as they never had before. Whisky was brought out, and chickens roasted, and the piper’s small son played merry tunes on the little pipe on which he practised his father’s craft. Isobel sat quietly, her eyes on Hector, noting how his appearance bore out his words, for he looked like a man who had seen victory, and knew he would see it again. Happy, relaxed, his eyes glowing in his tanned face, he lent his voice to the singing with deep fervour. And now and then he looked her way, and his eyes seemed to be sending her warm and tender messages, so full of meaning that a shiver of anticipatory delight ran down her spine.
At long last the company took their leave, and Hector and Isobel were left alone, facing each other across the fireside.
‘I am thinking,’ whispered Hector softly, ‘that it is bed time, my wife.’
Again that delighted shiver. She put her hand in his and went with him, soft-footed, up the winding stair to their room. There, with great care, he gently closed the door, and then turned to her. He undid the brooch from her plaid - the smaller plaid Mairi had made - and let the tartan folds fall to the floor. Then his strong slender fingers set neatly to work on the lacings of the gown, and the petticoat. And then he carried her, wild with desire, to the bed.
He knelt at her side, and brushed the corn-gold hair from her forehead, and whispered: ‘My wife,’ in a voice as caressing as his hand, as it made its exquisite way over her smooth tingling skin. And then he made love to her as he had never done before, with a consuming passion that yet held a lingering tenderness, answering the flame of her desire with a sweet generosity that was entirely, delightfully new. This time, when at last he drew back, she felt no shame, no dismay, only a blissful happiness, a drowsy contentment.
Nor did Hector simply turn away, his body satisfied. Instead he lay beside her, leaning on one arm, running his finger with idle tenderness down her cheek.
‘Wife of my heart,’ he said softly, and it struck her how well suited the Gaelic was to words of love. ‘You have pleased me more than I can say. You are indeed worthy to bear my name.’
The first cloud slid between them. Isobel felt a quiver of irritation that even
She repeated her greeting, her colour deepening still more, and saw him smile warmly, with real delight, as Mairi explained how she had passed the time in his absence. At the end of the old woman’s account he reached out and drew Isobel into his arms and kissed her long and tenderly. That sweet melting of the limbs flowed through her, and she held him close, her fingers looped in his springing hair. If they had been alone—
But they were not alone, and the waiting throng was hungry for news. Hector gently put her from him, though he retained her hand, and gave his attention to the women who had no men to welcome home.
The news, for all of them, was amazing, wonderful, almost too good to be true. The Highlanders had risen in impressive numbers - if not quite to a man - to support their Prince. Now after a bare two months of fighting, almost the whole of Scotland, but for one or two isolated garrisons, lay in their hands. Just a few days ago, at Prestonpans near Edinburgh, they had gained a magnificent victory against government troops. Now it only remained for them to gather all their strength for the march on England. There, the Prince had been assured, his Jacobite supporters would rise and opposition melt away like mist with the sun.
Best of all, every man who had left Ardshee on that summer morning was alive and well and enjoying a well earned rest in Edinburgh. He and Hugh, their chieftain explained vaguely, had returned on a small but urgent matter of business and would stay a day, perhaps two, before setting out again for the glorious end to the adventure.
After that, the singing and dancing and stories and poetry flowed as they never had before. Whisky was brought out, and chickens roasted, and the piper’s small son played merry tunes on the little pipe on which he practised his father’s craft. Isobel sat quietly, her eyes on Hector, noting how his appearance bore out his words, for he looked like a man who had seen victory, and knew he would see it again. Happy, relaxed, his eyes glowing in his tanned face, he lent his voice to the singing with deep fervour. And now and then he looked her way, and his eyes seemed to be sending her warm and tender messages, so full of meaning that a shiver of anticipatory delight ran down her spine.
At long last the company took their leave, and Hector and Isobel were left alone, facing each other across the fireside.
‘I am thinking,’ whispered Hector softly, ‘that it is bed time, my wife.’
Again that delighted shiver. She put her hand in his and went with him, soft-footed, up the winding stair to their room. There, with great care, he gently closed the door, and then turned to her. He undid the brooch from her plaid - the smaller plaid Mairi had made - and let the tartan folds fall to the floor. Then his strong slender fingers set neatly to work on the lacings of the gown, and the petticoat. And then he carried her, wild with desire, to the bed.
He knelt at her side, and brushed the corn-gold hair from her forehead, and whispered: ‘My wife,’ in a voice as caressing as his hand, as it made its exquisite way over her smooth tingling skin. And then he made love to her as he had never done before, with a consuming passion that yet held a lingering tenderness, answering the flame of her desire with a sweet generosity that was entirely, delightfully new. This time, when at last he drew back, she felt no shame, no dismay, only a blissful happiness, a drowsy contentment.
Nor did Hector simply turn away, his body satisfied. Instead he lay beside her, leaning on one arm, running his finger with idle tenderness down her cheek.
‘Wife of my heart,’ he said softly, and it struck her how well suited the Gaelic was to words of love. ‘You have pleased me more than I can say. You are indeed worthy to bear my name.’
The first cloud slid between them. Isobel felt a quiver of irritation that even
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