August 20, 1821. Fletcher is asleep beside me. Outside our inn, the wind is gusting and lightning flashes in the distance. Rather than sleep, I prefer to enjoy the sight of Fletcher’s face on his pillow. Happiness enfolds me in a warm cocoon.
Tomorrow we should arrive in the Hebrides. How different this arrival will be than my last, when I was dragged to Skye against my will by Uncle Percy. Will anyone ever know if Percy poisoned Queen Caroline? Will Cobbett reported that the official word is Caroline died of an intestinal obstruction, aggravated by medication. Others whisper, however, that she died of a broken heart. Having seen her shortly before her death, my guess would be the latter. She was a miserable woman, with desperation and hopelessness in her eyes. In my opinion, Percy Talbot intended to arrange her demise, but I doubt if he had time or opportunity to do the deed in the few hours that elapsed between Fletcher’s leaving for Scotland and the queen’s final illness. My guess is Uncle Percy had nothing to do with Caroline’s death, but he was planning to take full credit with Trowbridge and collect a reward. Did Trowbridge misjudge King George’s reaction to Caroline’s murder? Who knows? George hated Caroline passionately, but after meeting the king, I’m not sure he had a killer’s instincts. The man seemed to me to be more benign than vicious, more fun loving than evil, more of an architect than a monarch.
My only concern now is Fletcher’s increasing nervousness as we approach the Isle of Skye. He tries to hide his worry, and he is enormously grateful to have escaped death. He assures me he is the most joyful of men now that we’re wed, but I sense he is not content. I would wager his fear is that his clansmen will not accept him as chieftain; that in the end, he will be rejected as their leader because of his foreign birth, that we will be outcasts and homeless.
I am not worried in the slightest. Fletcher has more friends, more respect than he realizes. And the only home I care about is in the shelter of his embrace.
* * * *
The sun was low and the breeze whipping along the sound when Fletcher gave his bride a hand onto the skiff that would take them to the Isle of Skye.
Their journey through the English countryside into the Highlands had been idyllic. His strength had returned quickly, and with each passing day he and Beth had found incredible pleasure in each other’s company. And the nights at small inns along the way had sealed their union with boundless love and delight.
Only his concern about their position with his clan kept him from complete joy. With Strathmor looming in the distance along the far coast, Fletcher had to face his future in his father’s homeland. Beth had given Will Cobbett the use of Berkshire for as long as he wanted it. Will deserved the gift, but Fletcher wondered if Beth would regret her generosity if her husband were rejected by the Mackinnon clan and they must live in his crude hut by the sea. Would Beth change her mind about living on Skye? Would she long for the comfort and security of her home in England? His old doubts came back to haunt him as they bobbed along toward the lea side of the island, where they would go ashore at the Kylerhae dock.
With Beth close beside him, he watched for the whitewashed cottages to come into view. Did anyone know he was coming? Word had a way of spreading quickly in the Highlands, but he had no idea if he would be anticipated or if his appearance would be a complete surprise.
He saw the fire before Beth did. It was blazing skyward from the highest point above the village. Was it only a coincidence? He knew that every new chieftain was called to his induction by the burning of a huge pyre.
As the boat neared shore, he glanced at the oarsman but saw nothing in the man’s face to indicate that anything out of the ordinary was taking place.
The dock was deserted. No one was there to meet them.
The oarsman assisted first Beth, then Aggie to shore. “I’ll bring up the trunk and baggage, milord,” he offered, then began unloading their belongings.
Fletcher was uneasy. Despite that, however, he smiled reassuringly at Beth and took her hand.
“Excuse me, miss,” said Aggie. “I’ll duck in that bake shop there. Door’s open, and I’ll buy bread for our supper in case the pantry’s bare.”
“That will be fine, Aggie,” Beth said happily.
“’Tis surely good to be here,” Aggie responded.
Fletcher smiled at Beth. “Guess we’ll be afoot until we bring Spirit Dog and Kola onto the island.”
“That’s all right. I feel like walking. It’s not far to the castle.”
Hand in hand, they strolled through the deserted streets and began the climb along the path toward Strathmor.
A frantic barking caught their attention.
Fletcher was delighted to see Black Dog tearing down the road, running mightily until the creature threw himself against his legs, almost knocking him over. Kneeling in the dust, Fletcher ruffled the silky coat and tossed back his head and laughed. “Ah, Beth, someone welcomes us home. Maybe the most important citizen of Skye.”
Only then did he catch the sound of the pipes wafting against the breeze. At first he thought he imagined it; then he rose and cocked his ear toward the moors.
“The pipes,” whispered Beth. “Maybe there’s a celebration in progress.”
“Could be,” he said. The sound of the tune, “Over the Sea to Skye,” was growing louder, and it was accompanied by the tapping of drums.
He quieted Black Dog. “There, Beth—isn’t that the Mackinnon banner I see above the hill?”
“Why—so it is. And the people—they’re coming this way. Everyone in kilt and tartan.” Beth put an arm around his waist. “Do you think they are coming for you?”
He felt his throat tighten. “Could it be?”
He walked forward, leading her by the hand, while Black Dog bounded around his boots.
When he could see clearly, he recognized Kenneth MacCrae in the lead, carrying the staff and banner in Clan Mackinnon red and green. He hurried forward to greet the man he had left in charge until his return.
The two met on the road. Kenneth wore a broad smile, but he greeted Fletcher with a formal handshake. “We’ve come to fetch ye, my laird. We’ve been watching from the hilltop for your boat to arrive. ’Tis time ye took up your duties as chieftain, we all agreed.”
Fletcher was astonished. He had hoped for acceptance by his clan, had wanted approval and a place to call home. The suddenness of his dream coming true left him speechless.
“Did ye understand me, sir?” asked MacCrae as the pipes stopped their playing.
Fletcher glanced at Beth, then coughed to clear his throat. “Aye. I heard you, Kenneth. But I cannot believe this could happen so soon. Have you taken the vote, then?”
“We did. But ’twas just a formality. ‘Tis ye we want to lead the Mackinnons, Fletcher. Ye will do us proud, we are certain.”
Deeply moved and swept with pride, he turned to Beth. Her pleased smile delighted Fletcher’s heart. “I knew they would choose you,” she said with a cocky air. “The Scots are very intelligent folks.”
He faced Kenneth. “Then we’ll march with you to the bonfire. But I have no tartan, no cap—nothing of my clan for the ceremony.”
“I expected as much,” said Kenneth. Reaching into a pouch slung over his back, he pulled out yards of Mackinnon tartan and a leather belt. “Ye can put this on when we get there. And here’s a cap. I got them from your house, so they’re yours, fair and true.”
Fletcher draped the fabric over his shoulder. Placing the Glengarry cap on his head, he turned to his lady. “How do I look, my sweet Beth?”
“More like a Mackinnon than ever I’ve seen you, my darling.”
He leaned close to her ear. “You know my Lakota hair will grow back one day. I’ll look less like a Mackinnon then.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “I daresay, your clansmen are used to your eccentricities by now, my laird. And to your peculiar choice of a wife. My heritage is English, you recall.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and nearly lifted her from the ground. Grinning, he said, “Faith, Beth, despite that handicap, you’ve won everyone’s hearts. Come long, my bonny bride. The good people of Skye are waiting.”
The pipes struck up a rousing air, and the new chieftain of the Mackinnons, the laird of the Isle of Skye, with his love at his side, marched up the path to join his clan at the top of the hill.