MacLeod by Cathy MacRae

Author:Cathy MacRae [MacRae, Cathy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Short Dog Press
Published: 2016-05-18T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

His grip on my fingers tightened then loosened. I slid back to my chair. He leaned forward and shoved his hands between his knees. “I dinnae follow Chief MacLeod when he left Raasay for war. My wife had just died in childbirth—our second bairn—and I couldnae bear to be parted from wee Duncan.”

“Your son?”

He nodded. “’Twas difficult to know what to do. The urge to do my duty as a soldier for the chief was strong, but he had nothing but kind words for me that day—the day before he set out for Inverness.”

“Ye knew him?”

“Aye. He offered to have Duncan stay here at Raasay House where he could be cared for by his wife and others. But his ma’s loss was too fresh and I hesitated.” He drew a deep breath. “My decision was finally made to follow the chief and his men, but two days after I left Duncan at Raasay House, word came of the defeat at Culloden. I came back.”

“Was he … was he well?” I could hardly breathe for the catch in my chest as I awaited the next part of his story.

“Aye. Though a bit ill from greetin’ after I left. The chief’s lady wife suggested he and I stay here until the men returned. But we soon learned there were many who would ne’er return.”

“There were few MacLeods killed that day at Culloden,” I remarked.

“Not all who dinnae return died at Culloden. The government marked all who were Jacobite supporters—captured a few, killed more.”

“Leaving many here to fend for themselves.” It was a statement, one I’d learned in my determination to discover my family’s fate.

“What do ye know of what followed?” Alasdair asked.

“Och, I’ve haunted the Culloden Visitors’ Centre for the past two hundred and seventy years. There isnae much I dinnae know.” I paused, the familiar sensation of dread pooling deep inside. “Except what happened to my family. Did ye know them?”

“Mayhap. In the weeks after Culloden, most of us on Raasay banded together as the English did their best to destroy us as they searched for the prince.”

“My ma’s name was Tavia, and she had three wee ones—my sister, Fiona, and the two youngest. Fiona was twelve summers, the bairns five and three.”

Alasdair’s look turned introspective. “That was her name. I remember it. She was here in the beginning. Her husband—”

“My step-da,” I interjected.

Alasdair nodded acknowledgement. “He took her away to America—her and the lasses—though I was already dead.”

I pounced on his statement as his voice trailed off. “What do you mean, ‘the lasses’? What about my wee baby brother?” Shrill-voiced, my words betrayed my concern.

Alasdair caught my gaze. “Ye asked earlier about me using the shower for myself.”

“Ye said ye couldnae wash away yer past,” I replied slowly, recalling his earlier statement, wondering what this had to do with my wee brother.

“Are ye sure ye have to know?”

Have to know? Such a different question from did I want to know. My head screamed at me to tell him no, that I dinnae want to hear another word about his past.

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