This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting adults.  If you are under age or don't care for this, LEAVE NOW.  As usual, characters from Highlander:  the Series belong to Davis-Panzer et alia ; I only play with them from time to time without any compensation.  No harm; no foul.  Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again).  Beta-read by Nikki Memmott.  Thank you, merci beaucoup, tapadh leat, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato.  Any errors are mine alone.

Glenfinnan on the shores of Loch Shiel
Scotland, May 1622

T he widow cringed with each hollow thump as the clods of damp earth struck the wooden coffin.  The men of the clan Macleod bent to their shovels to fill in the grave, and it wasn’t long before the earth was piled high and the clods fell silently.

Slowly the village folk drifted away until only the widow and her two children stood by the side of the Chieftain and watched the two remaining men mound the soil over the new grave.  When they had tamped down the last of the dark earth, one of the men rolled a large stone into place as a marker, and the other gathered up the shovels and ropes, then followed the rest of the folk back to the village alone.

“As soon as the stonecutter finishes,” the Chieftain promised.  “We’ll mark it with a proper stone.”

“Aye.”  She was weary of standing, the children clutching at her sides, but it was her duty to see her husband buried proper.  Duty done, she shooed the children toward home and pulled the tartan shawl closer around her shoulders.  The spring wind whistled through the tree tops bringing with it a promise of a cold driving rain before nightfall.

The younger man brushed the dirt from his hands and pulled the bonnet from his dark head as he approached the widow.  “My condolences, Mistress Sarah,” he said, ducking his head in reverence for the deceased.  “Dugal were a gude man.”

She touched his hand lightly.  “Thank you, Duncan.”

“It is done,” the Chieftain pronounced and pulled his claymore from the earth at the graveside.  He handed the sword to his son and took Sarah’s arm.  “Come, ’tis time we were away.”

As they started along the path that led back to the village she turned for a last look at the fresh grave.  With a deep breath she turned away and walked with the Chieftain, Duncan two steps behind, bearing his father’s sword.

They walked in silence most of the way to the village and as the first of the thatched roofs came into view Macleod spoke again.  “Ye have no other kin, do ye, Sarah?”

“No,” she answered.  “My father’s long dead, and I’ve nae brothers.  Dugal’s only brother took vows ten years ago.”  She shook her head.  “’Tis the bairns and myself, now, alone.”

“Father?”  Duncan spoke tentatively, and the older man stopped and turned to his son.

“If ye please, Father, an’ Mistress Sarah agrees, I would see to her and the children.”

“Ye’ll take over the holding, bring in the crop?”

“Aye, sir.”

Macleod searched his son’s eyes, seeing the compassion and care born of the younger man’s own grief and loneliness.  He turned to Sarah.  “What say you, woman?”

She looked past the Chieftain to meet Duncan’s eyes herself, then nodded. “Your son honors me, my lord.”

“So be it.”
 
 

S arah Macleod’s croft was a snug cottage nestled into the hillside near the entrance to the glen.  The wind swept away the smoke from the chimney, kept at bay by the stout stone walls and oaken door.  The roof was newly thatched, the reeds neatly trimmed over the doorway and the single window, which was glazed with oiled sheepskin.

“Hullo the house,” Duncan called as he approached, setting the wooden chest he carried down on the packed-earth path that led to the door.  He heard the bolt slide back and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Sarah stepped out, wiped her hands on her apron, and smoothed it over her skirt.  “The house welcomes you, Duncan Macleod.”  She stood aside.

He ducked his head through the low doorway and stopped a pace inside the door, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light.  A peat fire blazed in the massive hearth, the stones stacked closely without mortar.  An iron pot stood on its own feet half in the fire and he could smell the familiar aroma of stew as it bubbled.  Another pot sat nestled in embers, the tight fitting cover keeping the ashes out of the baking bread.

To the right, half the building was a byre, empty and clean this spring day, but come fall the holding’s herd of cattle and the sheep would move in for the winter, bringing both their warmth and their odor, but safe from the worst of the Highland’s winter.  Cheeses and sausages hung from the low rafters, and long braids of last year’s onions draped the back wall like a curtain.

On the left as he entered was the family’s quarters, a loft above for the children’s beds, and one large room for all else.  A curtained bed, little more than a straw-filled pallet on a wooden platform, stood in the far corner, and a table sat beneath the window.  A tall washstand with an earthenware basin took up the space between the door and the window.  Shelves that seemed to grow out of the walls themselves held carved wooden plates and bowls, a pair of pewter goblets and a set of tin candlesticks prominently on display.  Stout chests, twins of the one he had brought, lined the far wall and a wicker basket held mending and sewing.

She stood silently while he looked around, then pointed to a spot for his chest.  He set it down carefully then turned to her.

“The croft — by dower rights — ” she began, her head held high. “Is mine, but the holding will go to Andrew.”  Her son, nine years old, came to her side at her beckoning.  He wore his first kilt, still shin long on him, the dirk that had been his father’s at his belt, as long as a sword to the boy.  “When I’m gone the croft will go to Catrìona,” she continued as the flaxen haired girl, little more than a toddler, peeked out from behind her mother, looked wide eyed at Duncan, then disappeared again among Sarah’s full skirts.

“Take your sister to the well and wash,” she whispered to the boy.  “Supper is ready.”  She closed the door behind the children and turned back to him.  “There’s warm water — always — in that pot,” she gestured at another iron pot at the side of the fire.  “Ye’ll want to wash.”  She handed him a length of clean but frayed linen, once the back of a shirt he presumed, and ladled hot water into an earthenware pitcher.  He dutifully washed his hands and face, blotting away the water with the absorbent cloth.  He pulled his long hair back and bound it at the nape of his neck.  By the time the children returned, he was seated at his new place, the head of the family table.

The meal Sarah prepared was hearty and filling, and if the soup was mostly onions and barley Duncan didn’t notice the lack of meat; it was hot and thick, the bread was fresh and the butter sweet.  By the time the plates and pots were scrubbed and put away it was full dark outside, the only room of the house lit by the fire in the hearth and a single oil lamp at the window.  The wind whistled across the chimney, pulling the peaty smoke away but the burning sheep fat in the lamp smoked on its own, blackening the glass that surrounded the sputtering flame.

Sarah chased the children off to their beds in the loft above, then sat by the fire and let down her hair.  No more than a dozen words had passed between them since her greeting when he’d come into the house, a tense silence weighing heavily on them all throughout the meal.  The awkward quiet still stretched between them, now left alone together for the night.

Duncan didn’t know what to expect from Sarah, nor what she expected of him.  Their customs allowed he could take her as he wished, but he had long before vowed never to take a woman against her will.  As she brushed her hair, the long tresses gold in the firelight, the sight of her kindled a fire in his loins.  He still wasn’t sure how to treat this woman, not his wife but his responsibility.

Taking his whetstone from his sporran, he set about sharpening his dirk, using the repetitive chore to calm his mind and body, letting the firelight reflect off the long steel blade as he sighted along it, honing away any imperfections in the edge.  He was diligent, working until the blade was smooth and sharp, not a nick or burr to be felt or seen.  Satisfied with his handiwork he put it aside and stood, gathering the folds of wool, the end of his great plaid, over his arm.

“I’ll be to bed, then,” he said, still not sure what to demand; not wanting to force more from Sarah than she wished so soon after her husband’s death.

She looked at him for a second, then lowered her eyes as a blush rose in her cheeks.  “Aye, ’tis late,” she answered.  She rose from her stool, banked the fire to save it, and put her hairbrush away, then turned to face him again.  Her fingers toyed nervously with the laces of her bodice, then with a deep breath she tugged loose the bow and pulled the laces through the top eyelets.

“Mistress Sarah,” he said, searching for the right word, not wanting to offend her.  “I’ll not — I’ll no require — I mean — ”  He could feel the heat rising in his face, and not only from embarrassment.  Suddenly he saw her differently, no longer another man’s wife or widow.  Now for the first time he was aware of the swell of her breasts above her bodice, covered only by the thin fabric of her shift, her waist, tightly corseted by the bodice, thicker than a maiden’s but deliciously slender, as it curved to her hips, draped with her kirtled up skirts, the hem of her shift just above her ankles, her feet bare in her own house.

The tightness in his groin grew and he moved towards the ladder to the loft.  “I’ll sleep with the children,” he blurted out, the air suddenly thicker, it suddenly impossible to breathe.

“Duncan Macleod, ye’ll do no such thing,” she commanded, the tone of her voice that of a mother reprimanding an erring child.

He stopped in his tracks.

“Ye’re the man of this house, and by all the saints ye’ll sleep in a man’s bed!”  Her face colored with embarrassment as she heard her own voice, surprised at her own audacity.

A silent moment, filled with tension, lingered between them before Duncan nodded.  “All right, then,” he agreed.  “But I’ll no dishonour ye.”

Sarah retied her bodice laces and smiled.  “It would no be dishonour, Duncan,” she said quietly.  “’Tis your right.”

“I know,” he admitted.  He stood in the center of the cottage, unsure of himself again.

“Ye’ve always lived in your father’s house, have ye no?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“Well, ye’re the man of this house,” she repeated.  “And laird of this holding.  What’s here is yours by right, including me.  If ye want.”

He didn’t speak at first; he just took a deep breath and shook his head.  “Ye’re a beautiful woman, Sarah Macleod, and kind hearted as well.  But...”

She tilted her head asking him, to go on.

“...but I hardly know ye.  I would no feel right about it,” he continued, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“Not yet,” he added even more quietly.

“So be it.”  She went to her sewing basket and picked up a ball of heavy wool, home spun and dyed, ready to be knit into a sweater or cap.  She tied the loose end around the rail at the foot of the bed and pulled a length out of the skein, then snapped it off between her hands.  “To bed wi’ ye, then,” she said.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots and the knitted hose under them, then unfastened the brooch at his shoulder that held his plaid to his shirt.  He stood and turned his back to her as he unbuckled his belt and gathered the long length of tartan wool that made his kilt, leaving him only in his thigh-long shirt.  Sarah held out her hand and he passed the plaid to her.  She shook it out and folded it, then laid it on the chest he’d brought.

“All the way over, if ye will,” she told him, and he climbed into the bed, sliding under the linen sheet and woolen blanket to the far side, against the wall.  She extinguished the lamp, leaving the cottage lit only by the glow of the banked fire, then quickly unlaced her bodice again and stepped out of her skirts.  Slipping into the bed she stretched the length of wool across the blanket and looped it around the rail at the head of the bed.  Thus bounded by the symbolic line she turned to lay on her side, her back to him and pulled the blanket over her shoulder.  “Good night, Duncan,” she said quietly.  “God keep ye ’til morning.”

“God keep ye,” he responded, then turned to face the wall.  He lay still while she settled herself, and presently he heard her breathing slow and he knew she was asleep.  He was acutely aware of her; of the warmth of her body, of her scent, of the rhythm of her breathing, and there was an urge deep within him to take her, willing or not.  Yet another part of himself wondered what her skin felt like, what her touch would be like.  As he tied to relax and sleep he found his thoughts returning to the light in her eyes, the curve of her breast, the fragrance of her hair.  He turned over, moving gently so not to wake her, and looked at her as she slept, only seeing the glow of the fire on her hair, and the gentle curve of the blanket over her hip.

Sarah was different from the other women he knew; in all his twenty-nine years he had had little reason to deal with married women except as someone’s wife or mother.  Married woman kept to their own in the village; their days filled with caring for house and children.  He had sometimes accompanied his mother to market, or helped her carry washing, but he always stood apart from the tight-knit sorority of wives, awkwardly male among the women.

But Sarah was no longer another man’s wife.  And though they hardly knew each other, when she accepted his offer of assistance she gave him dominion over her home, her children and herself.  It was as though they had been handfasted: given leave to live as husband and wife without the permanence of marriage.  But Duncan had offered his help without expectation; indeed, he felt somehow obliged to step in.  He had been taught since the cradle that he was to lead the clan; this was but another step in his training, proof of his fitness to someday take Ian Macleod’s place.

Duncan reached a hand towards Sarah’s sleeping form; his fingertips brushed the loose strands of her hair.  They were as he imagined silk, fine and soft to his touch.  He bit his lip against the strengthening urges, and drew his hand back.  Not yet, he had told her.  He could wait until it was his heart and not only his body that wanted her.  With a deep breath that brought him her own special fragrance he turned back to the wall and forced himself to sleep.
 
 

II

A s soon as the sky began to lighten, before the cock could crow, Sarah awakened.  At first she thought it was Dugal sleeping next to her, the familiar bulk and scent of a man comforting, but in only an instant she remembered her husband’s death just two days before, his awful fall onto the rocks at the loch’s shore.  She remembered the burial and the young laird’s offer of assistance.

She lay still a moment, feeling the differences of one man from another; Duncan the taller, Dugal’s breathing more sonorous.  She would learn the other differences soon enough, she knew, starting with Duncan’s restraint.  Though Dugal had never touched her while she was his servant, the moment she was his wife he had demanded his rights.

With the cock’s first crow she was out of the bed to start her day.  She dressed silently, and trying not to disturb Duncan any further, she laid his clothes on the foot of the bed, and began her daily chores.  Her first task was to freshen the fire, little more than smoking embers of peat.  She added fuel, blowing on the glowing coals until the flames leapt into the tinder and caught in the peat.  She drew fresh water from the well and started a pot of porridge cooking, then cut slices from the shoulder of salted pork in the larder.  While the meat warmed by the fire the children quietly climbed down from the loft and washed the sleep from their eyes.  Andrew pulled a length of cloth around his shoulders and took a basket to the chicken coop, confident of finding at least half a dozen eggs, maybe more.  Catrìona padded after him, helping to scatter the chicken feed across the yard for the pecking, scratching birds.

By the time the sun rose she had a breakfast fit for a laird cooked and laid on the table.  “Duncan,” she bent close to his ear and called his name softly, touching his shoulder lightly.  “’Tis day,” she stated simply.

He awakened to her voice.  “Madain mhath,” he said, as she handed him his plaid and drew the draperies closed again so he could dress in what privacy the curtained bed afforded.

Keeping the holding was hard work, for it was time for the plough, but it was work Duncan was accustomed to:  long hours behind a team of oxen, lending his weight to the blade of the plough, heaving aside the biggest of the unearthed stones.  Andrew and Sarah followed behind him, the boy dropping the seed, Sarah raking over the furrow while Catrìona played at the edge of the field, watched by a collie bitch too old to chase the flock, but just as attentive and protective of the wee girl as she had been of lambs.

They toiled until the sun was high, the sky clear after the storm the night before, then sat under the trees for a meal of cheese and bread, a pot of home-brewed ale for his thirst.  Catrìona was soon asleep, her head pillowed on the dog’s flank, and Andrew, with Sarah’s permission, ran off across the heath, two of the younger dogs at his heels.

His shirt damp from sweat, Duncan pulled it off, then lay back on the grass.  The heather was just blooming, along with the bluebells and daisies, and the hillsides of the glen were covered with their colors, the stems bending in the breeze.  Sarah sat under a tree, her mending basket at hand, and set to work darning a well worn stocking.  He folded his arms under his head, the sun warm on his chest, the loose end of his plaid spread under him.

“Sarah,” he said, taking her attention from her mending, she raised her head silently.  “Here, woman,” he said, nodding towards his side.

She rose without a word and stepped across to where he lay.  She sank to sit near him, her skirts pooling around her.

“Tell me about Dugal,” he said.  “Did you love him?”

She shook her head, her eyes closed with her memories.  “My father sold me as a bondsmaid to Dugal when I was fourteen years old, then drank himself to death with the money.”  She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and continued.  “For seven years I cleaned and cooked and sewed for him, and he never beat me, never laid a hand on me.  When my bond was completed he asked me to marry him.  I had no where else to go; my oldest sister was married and already dead in childbed; my only other sister is in the convent in Aberfeldy.  So I said yes.  He gave me a home and children.  He was faithful and a good father.

“Just the two bairns?”

“No.”  She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath before going on.  “The first boy was born too soon and only lived a day.  Then a miscarriage, then Andrew.”  She counted on her fingers.  “Then a girl, stillborn, and two years later Malcolm.  He took a fever and died just after Catrìona was born.  I miscarried again just last fall.  The midwife said I can have nae more.”  She hung her head and Duncan could sense her grief, both for her dead children and her barrenness.

“For all the pain of birthing them and losing them, ‘tis such a joy to put a bairn to my breast and know ‘twas me gave him life.”  She raised her head and smiled at him again.  “No man can know.”

“I see it in your eyes when you look at them still,” he said.  “Ye never answered my question,” he reminded her.

“Love?”  She considered the question a moment more.  “No,” she admitted.  “At first it was duty and then for children and even for my own pleasure.”  She blushed, then went on.  “But never for love.”

“And Dugal?”

“He cared for me, but I think he confused lust for love.”

In a blink he rolled to his feet and upended a bucket of water over his head, shuddering and sputtering as it washed over him.  He shook his head, and his long hair sent water flying in all directions.  Refreshed and calmed he pulled on his shirt and returned to the ploughing.  Sarah took over Andrew’s task as well as her own and by late afternoon they had planted a good-sized plot.

Back at the croft Sarah set to preparing their evening meal while wee Catrìona again fed the chickens, and Duncan saw to the larger animals.  As the dogs brought in the sheep Andrew returned, three rabbits and a squirrel hanging at his belt.  Without a word to Duncan he quickly skinned one rabbit and the squirrel, cutting the meat into chunks, offal and all.

“’Tis for the dogs,” he explained, then set to working more carefully on the remaining two rabbits.  “These are for the pot.”

“Your father taught ye well,” Duncan observed.

“Aye.” Andrew didn’t look at Duncan, his fair head still bent to his work.

“Andrew,” Duncan insisted, and waited until the boy looked up.  He wasn’t prepared for the anger he saw in the boy’s eyes, and he knew he had to say just the right words now or there would forever be resentment if not hatred between them.

“I’ll no try to be your father,” the older man said.

“Ye’ve already bedded my mother,” he blurted out.

Duncan should have realized the boy knew of such things, as he had known what went on between men and women for as long as he could remember.  “I slept in her bed, true, Andrew, but I did no bed her.”

“Aye,” the boy admitted quietly.  “I heard naught last night.”

“Your mother is a good woman, Andrew.  She was willing, for it is my right.”  He had to move his head to catch the boy’s eye again.  “Ye ken that, do ye?”

The boy nodded and Duncan could see understanding far beyond his years in his eyes.  “Will ye marry her, then?”

“’Tis too soon to be asking that, my boy.”  He tousled the boy’s hair, bringing the first smile he’d seen on his face, then extended his hand as though Andrew were a grown man.  “This is your holding, Andrew.  I’ll help keep it for ye, and I’ll see to ye and your mother and sister, but I’ll no take the land from ye.”

Andrew wiped his hand on his kilt, then hesitatingly grasped Duncan’s.  His grip was strong, though his hand smaller, but Duncan adjusted his grip to match the boy’s and in that instant they both knew they were more than friends.

As they walked towards the croft Duncan rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “What do I call ye, then?” he asked Duncan.  “Ye’re the chieftain’s son — I canna call ye Duncan, and I’ll no call ye Father .”

“I’m no your father,” Duncan said again.  “But we are kinsmen.  Would uncle suit ye?”

The boy nodded seriously and smiled again, the extra years disappearing, and he looked again like a nine-year-old boy.  “Aye.  Uncle it is, then.”

The evening routine was repeated but for the addition of fresh meat to the table.  The boy had a knack for hunting small game, Duncan learned, and ran a snare line through the heath and bracken at the edges of the holding that yielded enough meat for the dogs as well as the pot.

Each of the children dutifully kissed their mother good night, then Andrew bent to whisper instructions to his sister.  She ran across the room to where Duncan sat, his sword across his knees, the whetstone in his hand.  She stopped short, starring at the sword until he set it aside, then unbidden she climbed into his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.  “’Night, Unc’a Dunc’n,” she piped, her voice a clear child’s soprano.  She jumped down from his lap and disappeared into the loft just ahead of her brother.

“Uncle Duncan ?” Sarah asked when the loft was quiet again.  Then she set aside her mending and loosened her hair.
 
 

D ay followed day, and before midsummer the whole of the holding’s fields were sown, the barley already tall and green in the intermittent sun.  The onions and turnips, planted the previous fall, were nearly ready to harvest, and the lambs and piglets weaned, fattening for the market.

Every day was filled with hard work, some of it shared between Duncan and Sarah, more of it performed apart.  He repaired the stonework of the outbuildings, and reset the tumbled stones of the low walls that separated the fields.  One day each week he stood a step behind his father, listening to the affairs of the village, bearing his father’s sword to show his place as the next chieftain.

“And what think ye, Duncan?” Ian asked more than once, forcing the young man to quickly analyze the situation and make a decision that would affect the entire village.  At first they were minor affairs where Ian had already made his own decision, but as the spring turned into summer, he listened more and more to his son.  Duncan noticed the subtle change in his father’s attitude, and his confidence in his own judgment grew as quickly as the grain in the fields.

Life in Sarah Macleod’s croft changed as well.  Andrew and Catrìona became more and more comfortable with their new uncle .  Catrìona delighted in riding on his shoulders, her small hands gripping his long hair as he pranced around the yard, scattering the chickens.  He built a small forge and taught Andrew to help when it was time to re-shoe the horse, and together they poured and sharpened arrow tips and fishing hooks.  Duncan showed the boy how to cast for the trout and salmon that filled Loch Shiel, and they hunted the small game in the woods instead of trapping it.

Every night the children would go to their beds in the loft, and Duncan and Sarah would chastely share the bed in the room below.  No longer did Sarah tie the length of wool between them, but still they each kept to their own edge of the bed, each sleeping as though they were alone.
 
 

M idsummer is the shortest night of the year, one of the times the church turned its face away while the people lit bonfires to forgotten gods and goddesses, and even the adults danced like children around the flames.

Still in mourning for her husband, Sarah had stood to the side of the huge bonfire while the others danced.  The children danced around smaller fires, but her eyes were on Duncan.  Taller than most of the men in the village, and darker of hair and skin, he stood out from the rest.  She watched him trace the intricate steps of the dance, his grace and strength obvious as he leapt higher than the others, turning and twisting his body in the ancient ways.

“Come, Sarah, dance with me,” he said to her, his breath still fast after the previous dance.  He took her hand to pull her towards the fire.

She held back, and pulled her hand away.  “It’s no fit,” she said, but the women around her pushed her towards him, their voices encouraging.

“Ye canna mourn on midsummer night,” one of the other women said.

“’Tis good luck to dance around the fire,” Duncan reminded her.  “Come.”  He took her hand once again and pulled her close as they circled the fire.  When the music stopped he wrapped his arms around her and spun around, lifting her feet from the ground.  Setting her down gently, he kept one arm around her waist.  With just the tips of his fingers he lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes, then bent his head to kiss her.

Taken by surprise, Sarah drew a sharp breath and pulled her head away, and immediately regretted ending the kiss.  She laced her fingers with his and smiled.

“Tonight,” he whispered, and with his promise they left the bonfire.

Duncan carried Catrìona all the way from the village, her sleeping head on his shoulder.  Sarah held his arm and walked close while Andrew led the way with a single tin lantern.  There was no full dark on the solstice, and the moon, just a day past full, was woefully pale in the dusky sky.

The child didn’t stir as Duncan laid her on her pallet in the loft, leaving Andrew to cover her sleeping form.  Climbing back down the ladder, Duncan caught Andrew’s eyes while his head was still above the loft’s floor.  “Sleep tight, boy,” he said with a wink, then jumped the rest of the way to the floor of the croft.

Sarah waited for him, her golden hair shimmering in the candlelight.  She stood in the center of the room, her long skirts sweeping the floor, unkirtled after the festival.  The tightly laced bodice cinched her waist and lifted her breasts, and the full, round globes rose above the edge of her shift.

He crossed the floor and stood an arm’s length before her, his hands on either side of her waist.  “I’ll no force ye, Sarah.”

“’Tis your right,” she reminded him, standing tall before him.  There was a nobility in her stance, a confidence in the tilt of her head.

He nodded, unable to take his eyes from hers again.  “I know,” he acknowledged.

She stepped towards him, standing close enough that he could smell the lavender in her hair, and the musky woman scent that made his breath quicken.  She took his hands from her waist and raised them to her bosom, and of their own accord, his fingers loosened more of the lacing, pulling the twisted cord slowly through each eyelet.

“Have ye never been with a woman, then, Duncan?” she asked, her voice a little teasing, unsure of the answer to her question.

“Oh, aye,” he assured her, watching in amazement as his fingers, without any conscious direction on his part, continued to unlace her bodice.  “I’ve been to Kintyre,” he boasted.

She knew what kind of women Duncan had met in Kintyre, in the taverns or on the streets.  “But never with a woman who was your own?”  Her bodice was unlaced now, and she shrugged it over her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.  Her shift was plain linen, a bit of embroidery along the casing for the drawstring.  Without the support of the bodice her breasts hung lower, and he could sense their fullness beneath the thin fabric.  Even in the flickering light he could see the darker circles of the areolas rise and fall with her breath and he watched spellbound as her nipples hardened before his eyes.  He felt his body respond.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was his by right, but he’d not been so aroused since losing Debra Campbell four long years earlier.  He and Debra had never lain together, their love still chaste when she fell to her death just beyond his reach.

Sarah took one more step towards him, filling his waiting hands with her breasts.  She unfastened the brooch on his chest, loosening the plaid, then boldly unbuckled his belt, and the yards of tartan wool fell to the floor leaving him in only his thigh-long shirt and boots.  She loosened her own skirts, then in only her shift led him to the bed in the back corner of the room.

He followed her like an acolyte, and as she untied the curtains hung from the bedposts he sat and pulled off his boots and stockings, then stood again and faced her.  “Ye’re no my wife, Sarah,” he began, but she stopped him with her fingers on his lips.

“Ye’re the man of this house, now, the laird of this holding,” she reminded him.  “I’m your woman, now, as well.”  Her eyes softened and a shy smile crossed her mouth.  “Ye’re a braw man, Duncan Macleod.  Ye’ll no be forcing me.”  She had unfastened his shirt while she spoke, and her fingertips teased at the dark hair on his chest.  “That is, if ye want me.”

He nodded as he slowly pulled the drawstring on her shift and smiled as the neckline loosened across her chest, then with the encouragement of his touch slid over her shoulders.  “Oh, aye,” he whispered, desire making his voice hoarse.  He lifted his hands to her face and gently caressed her cheek, the curve of her jaw, the point of her chin, and lifted her mouth to meet his.

When their lips met she flowed against him, her shift dropping to the floor.  His arms enveloped her, and as their bodies met, separated only by the cloth of his shirt, their kiss deepened and their tasted each other’s desires and needs.

His hands stroked the bare skin of her back, then he pulled away, turned, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms, and laying her gently on the bed pulled the curtains closed behind them.  He skinned his shirt over his head, then lay beside her, pulling the coverlet over them both. Tracing the line of her jaw from ear to chin he softly, gently, kissed her lips.  “Are ye sure, Sarah?”

She didn’t respond, but pulled his head to hers and kissed him thoroughly.  He smiled against her kiss and ran his hands over her shoulders, along her sides, to cup his hands around her breasts, then lowered his head to them, rubbing his cheek across the smooth warm flesh, then using his mouth and tongue, tasted and suckled the rose-colored tip, feeling it crinkle and harden.  His hand kneaded at the other, squeezing and stroking, rolling the already hard nub under his thumb.  He felt her hands in his hair and hearing her sigh he knew she had as much pleasure from this as he did, and the thought excited him all the more.  He lay on his side, and pulled her to himself, holding her smooth, soft skin firmly against his body, his covering of dark hair a stark contrast to her fairer complexion.

His manhood, fully erect, was caught between them, and the textures of both their bodies, one rough and one smooth, worked together to add to their passions.  He felt as though he had caught fire, the heat in his loins spreading throughout his body to incite him to explore further, and he took his hands away from her breasts, investigating every inch of her body, her womanhood, her self.  She repeated his actions, running her hands along his flanks, her nails tracing lines of fire up and down his sides, along his lean thighs and finally to the base of his manhood where she stroked and grasped and massaged his most sensitive areas until he could no longer wait to take her.

Married twelve years, Sarah understood his readiness, and knew his need.  She rolled onto her back and pulled him to her, opening to him, guiding his manhood into her most secret of places, giving herself to him without hesitation.

Duncan gave in to his instincts, letting his body follow the timeless pattern of this most intimate dance, and he moved himself further into her.  Pulling back and thrusting deeper, he held her head between his hands, his fingers dug deeply into her hair.  With his mouth firmly on hers, his tongue probed deeply, memorizing the texture and flavor of her mouth, her teeth, and her tongue, until finally he could contain himself no longer.  With a wordless cry and with one final, even deeper thrust, he felt himself fill her until she joined his cry with her own, her body shuddering in her own release.

He held her close throughout the too short night.

When morning came, the brief respite of the holiday was past, and the work of the holding once again filled the day.
 
 

III

W alking the fence line the following morning, resetting fallen stones in the waist-high wall, Andrew and Duncan worked in silence.  Something was on the boy’s mind, Duncan knew, but he gave the boy time to speak on his own.

As they worked together to lift one large stone, their hands brushed against each other.  The touch broke the barrier that had risen between them, and for the first time that day Andrew spoke.

“Uncle,” he began, then stopped.

Duncan could see the tension in the boy’s face, in his neck, in the way he carried his young body.  “Let’s sit down for a wee bit, ’Drew.”  He sat at the base of the wall and leaned against it.  Andrew sat beside him, a generous handspan between them.

The silence continued.

“Are ye wanting to say something?”

The boy hung his head, then turned to look at the older man.  “Last night,” he began, his voice low.  “After the bonfire.”

“Aye?”  Duncan tried to keep his tone encouraging.

“Ye and Mother.”  He swallowed and went on.  “I heard ye.”

Duncan remembered hearing his own parents as they made love, the sounds eventually becoming familiar and comforting.

“Are ye well, Mother?” he had asked one morning over the porridge.  He had heard her cry out more than once in the night, and he feared she might be ill.

Mary Macleod looked puzzled.  “Of course, child.  What makes ye ask?”

“I heard ye in the night.”  The porridge was sweetened with honey, and he spooned the hot cereal into his mouth, his eyes still on his mother.

His mother blushed deeply and turned away.  “Ach, it’s your father ye’ll be asking about that, Duncan.”  She laid a slender hand on Ian’s broad shoulder, her fingers squeezing lightly.  “It’s time ye explained things to him, Ian,” she whispered.

“We spoke of this before,” Duncan reminded Andrew.

“Aye.  And I ken it’s your right.”  The boy looked off across the fields, the croft visible only by the smoke rising from the chimney.

“It was no just my right,” Duncan said.  He suddenly felt a boy himself, and remembered conversations with Robert about Debra Campbell.  But Sarah was the boy’s mother, and he didn’t need to think of her as wanton.  Duncan cleared his throat, thinking quickly of how he could word his explanation.

“Ye ken about men and women, then, boy?”

“Aye.”

“Do ye ken it’s not only we men who want it?  Or need it?”

Andrew turned his head and met Duncan’s eyes again.  “I suppose,” he granted.

“I did no force your mother.  I never will.”  Duncan stood and reached a hand to the boy, nearly lifting him to his feet.  “And that’s all I’ll be saying about this.”  His voice was firm, just as he remembered his father’s long ago.  He knew he had to be father to this boy, as well as friend.

Sarah brought the mid-day meal to them, Catrìona and the ever-present collie following behind.  The boy wolfed down his food then ran off with the dogs to check his trap lines, and the girl promptly fell asleep, leaving Sarah and Duncan all but alone.

It was high summer, as warm as it ever is in the Highlands, this day a brief respite between the continual storms that filled the glen with rain and mist. Duncan lay back, his shirt discarded, the warmth of the summer sun filling him with contentment.

He reached his hand to hers, enveloping both hers in his.  He could feel the delicate bones in her fingers, and remembered the pleasure she’d brought him the night before.

Duncan lifted his head and shoulders from the ground and pulled her hand to meet his lips.  With just the brush of a kiss on her fingers he released her hand and lay back, his eyes locked with hers.  “And what was last night?”

Holding his gaze she gently touched his leg at the edge of his kilt, teasing just her fingertips under the wool, and drew her hand across his knee.  “It started as duty — obligation,” she demurred, then smiled as she slid her hand up under the kilt, along his thigh, making him gasp in surprise.  “And it ended in pleasure.”  Her eyes never left his, though his widened as she slid her hand farther along his leg, the whole of her palm against the inside of his thigh.  She stopped just short of his growing manhood, gently squeezed his leg and pulled her hand back.

Aroused, he sat up, pulled her into his arms and kissed her, wanting nothing more than to take her again here and now.

“Duncan,” she said, pushing him away.  “Not here,” she whispered, her lips but a breath away from his.  “Tonight,” she promised.

“Tonight,” he vowed.

She sat back away from him, gathering her mending once again.

“Andrew heard us last night.”  He tried to hide the embarrassment he still felt.  Their love-making had been wonderful, but to know that the children could hear.

“Just as you heard your parents and I heard mine.”

“But they are my parents — man and wife.”

“And we’re not.”  Her voice was low and somber.

“He asked once if I would marry ye.”

She chuckled, shaking her head.  “Ye’d think he was my father instead of my son.”  She raised her eyes from the stocking she was darning to face him.  “Even if ye asked, Duncan, I would no marry ye.  Ye’re the Chieftain’s son — and ye’ll be Chieftain someday.”

“And ye’ll be my woman.”  He reached towards her, and she laid her hand in his. .

“No, Duncan,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.  “Ye must take a wife who can give ye sons.  A chieftain must have sons.”

“Aye,” he admitted, “aye.”  He pulled her back to him, the mending spilling on the ground and wrapped his arms around her, one hand holding her head to his shoulder.  “But ‘til that day comes, my lady Sarah,” he whispered, giving her the title his wife would someday hold.  He held her close, burying his face in her silky hair.  “Until that day....”
 
 

That evening.

D uncan let himself into the croft and put up his sword, hanging it high beside the door, away from the children but in his easy reach.  His eyes searched the room for Sarah, but aside from the stew bubbling in the hearth, there was no sign of her or Catrìona.  The little girl seldom strayed far from her mother’s skirts, underfoot as often as not.  He shrugged at their absence and ladled warm water into the ewer so he could wash the sweat and stink of a day’s work away, stripping his shirt off to wash his chest and shoulders as well as his face and hands.

Feeling a little more human, Duncan lifted the lid on the stew pot to breathe in the aroma of the stew, the scent heavy with onions and rosemary, and the bits of lamb meat added their own fragrance.  The bread had been baked that morning, the loaf missing the portions they’d eaten at midday.  He knew better than to nibble, but the smells of the hearty food made his stomach rumble.  He tore a small chunk from the loaf and dipped it into the simmering broth, then popped the dripping bread into his mouth.  Just as he wiped the thick broth from his chin, the door opened again and Sarah burst into the croft.

Her hair was disheveled, her skirts soiled from dragging.  She was out of breath as if she’d been running.  “Duncan, ye’re back,” she panted.  Her eyes were wide with fear.

“Sarah, what’s wrong?”  He forgot his hunger as he stepped across the room to take her in his arms.

Sarah Macleod was a strong woman, physically as well as emotionally.  She had borne children as well as her husband’s death, but this was too much for her.  She leaned her head on Duncan’s shoulder and let the tears flow, the sobs wrack her body.

He held her close, still unaware what could bring her to such a state.

“Catrìona’s missing,” she finally said, once the sobs diminished . “I canna find her anywhere.”

Immediately Duncan loosened his grip on Sarah and pushed her to arms’ length.  “How long has she been gone?” he demanded.

“Wh-when we came back from the f-fields,” she stuttered.  “She went outside to play.”

Duncan kissed her forehead and reached for his sword.  “I’ll find her,” he vowed.  He shoved the scabbarded sword through his belt and checked the dirk that hung on his right.  “Where’s Andrew?”

He was halfway out the door when she answered.  “He’s still checking his traps.”

“Send him to the village for help when he gets back.  You stay here in case she comes home by herself.”  Searching for missing children was an all too common task among the village men.  Thankfully they were usually found none the worse for wear, but there were still wolves in the Highlands, and both boar and foxes could injure or kill a child as small as Catrìona.  And even in Glenfinnan, occasionally bands of brigands crossed the land, taking what they wanted, destroying what they didn’t.

Thank goodness it’ll be light so long, he thought as he searched the yard around the house and animal pens for any sign of the girl.  He finally saw a trail leading away from the holding, the small footprints accompanied by the large paw prints of the old collie.

“Catrìona!”  Duncan called for the girl again and again as he followed the tiny footprints towards the woods.  She had stopped every few yards, he noticed, and had picked some wildflowers only to drop them a few feet farther on. All too soon he reached the edge of the woods.  “Catrìona!” he called again.  The memories of his own adventure in these woods came back to him, especially the attack of the white wolf.  He had been thirteen when he braved the Donan woods; Catrìona wasn’t even three.

It was harder to follow the footprints though the undergrowth in the woods, the light, dappled by the canopy of leaves, playing games with his tracking skills.  He lost the trail more than once, but was able to retrace his steps and pick up the girl’s path.  “Catrìona!”

The sun was getting lower, and though it wouldn’t get full dark that night, he wouldn’t be able to track the girl and her dog in the lengthy dusk at the middle of the year.  “Catrìona!”  He was getting hoarse, calling at the top of his lungs only to hear his voice echo among the trees.

Was that a dog barking?  He broke into a run, leaping over fallen limbs, jumping a clear-running rivulet.  He came to a small clearing and stopped in his tracks.  Catrìona lay curled up at the base of an ancient oak tree, sound asleep, the tree’s gnarled surface roots kneed up around her protectively.  The old dog stood before her, hackles raised, barking and growling at a hissing wildcat.

“Good dog,” he whispered, and drew the dirk as quietly as he could.  He held the long-bladed knife at the point, his attention focused on the large wildcat.  He took a deep breath, let it half out, then held it, and in the blink of an eye let the knife fly.  He didn’t breathe again until the dirk was buried to the hilt between the cat’s ribs.  Pierced through the heart, the cat died instantly, but Duncan grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and slit its throat for good measure.  He wiped the blade of his dirk clean on the cat’s fur then turned to check on Catrìona.  She still slept amid the oak roots, her protector now quiet.  The old dog sniffed at the girl then turned twice around at her feet before dropping to the ground for a well-deserved rest.  She laid her grizzled muzzle on her paws and looked at Duncan.

“And what kind of dog are ye to let a wee bairn wander away from home?”  Taking a length of cord from his sporran he tied the cat’s feet together and fashioned a carrier, then he sheathed the dirk and wiped his hand on his kilt before lifting the toddler into his arms.  As he settled her head on his shoulder she awoke, reaching her small arms around his neck.

“Oh, Unc’a Dunc’n, ye found me.  I was lost.”  She planted a noisy, wet, little-girl kiss on his cheek.  “I knew ye’d come.”

Her sweet voice raised a lump in his throat and he nodded.  “Aye,” he finally said when he found his voice.  “I found ye.”  He hefted the carcass of the cat over his other shoulder and whistled at the dog.  “Let’s go home.”
 
 

IV

N earing the croft Duncan saw the men of the village gathered in the yard.  His father stood next to Sarah, his sword of office thrust into the earth.  They had seen Duncan approach, and when he was near enough, the burdens he bore.  The dog ran ahead, barking at strangers in her territory.  Sarah swept up her skirts and ran to them, pulled Catrìona from his arms, then sank down to sit in the dirt, her arms around the girl.  As she cried and alternately hug and chastised the child, the men joined them, forming a circle around Duncan and his adopted family.

He threw the carcass of the cat to the ground.  “The bitch kept this from her.  It must weigh near three stone.”  Duncan was clapped on the shoulder, congratulations offered by all the men.  For the first time in his nearly thirty years, he was treated like a family man.  He had grown from boy to youth to warrior in this clan, and now, his new role was confirmed.

The girl’s health and safety assured, the men quickly made their way back to the village, not one of them begrudging the unneeded journey to and from the outlying holding.  Andrew took the cat and skinned it, offering the meat first to the old bitch, then to the other dogs, and stretched the long-furred hide on a frame before he came in to supper.

“Mother will have a new fur muff for Christmas this year,” he confided to Duncan as they sat around the table.  It was hours later than they usually ate supper, and the children took themselves to bed immediately after the meal.
 

Duncan was sitting by the fire, cleaning and honing his dirk, when Sarah sat on the floor at his side and leaned her head on his arm.  He put aside his knife and touched her hair.  “Ye saved my bairn today,” she said.  “Mòran taing.”  Her hair was still disheveled, stray locks hanging astray, the plaits loosened.  He pulled the remaining pins and let the golden strands cascade over her shoulders.

He fetched her hairbrush from the clothes chest, and gathered her flowing hair until it all hung behind her back, then brushed it until it shone like gold in the firelight.  Parting it with his fingers he quickly plaited it loosely, tying it with a scrap of yarn from the mending basket.

He stood straight and raised her to stand with him.  He held her close, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, one hand flat against his chest just above his pounding heart.  She knew that in his heart she was his wife, and that in some small way Catrìona was his daughter as well.  The joy that filled her soul, touched every fiber of her being was unlike anything she’d felt before, a tingling sensation that reached all the way to her toes, even, it seemed, to the ends of her hair, and she shuddered with the enormity of it.

“Are ye cold?” he asked, and he pulled his plaid around her.

“No,” she whispered, scarcely able to breathe.  “Just happy — so very happy.”

“Well, then,” he cleared his throat, trying to sound matter-of-fact.  “I believe it’s time we’re to bed.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then turned away to bank the fire while he barred the door.  The household tasks complete they met at the side of the bed, and again he bent his head to her shoulders, the smooth skin soft against his lips and cheek, and as he kissed her neck he felt her pulse quicken.

Not waiting for instructions, he first loosened her shift, then slowly unlaced her bodice, pulling the cord through each eyelet with great care, using his fingers to pull the fabric aside as it was released, all the while kissing and nuzzling her neck and shoulders, taking his kisses along the edge of her shift, nosing his way under the gathered edge, her breasts still lifted by the bodice’s corseting, and he sank his face into her cleavage, and ran the tip of his tongue between her breasts, up to her throat, to the tip of her chin and to her mouth.  He kissed her again, a hard, demanding kiss, his tongue trusting deep into her mouth as he pulled the remainder of the lacing from her bodice and pushed it over her shoulders and off her arms, then just as quickly removed her skirts.  Her shift, the neckline already loosened, slid off her shoulders to her elbows, for her hands were raised to his shoulder, unfastening the brooch that held his plaid, then his belt, and her shift and his kilt fell to the floor simultaneously.  Before he could pull his shirt off she sat on the bed and pulled him to her, and as she lay back across the bed he knelt astride her, then lowered his head again to her breast, teasing the nipple with quick flicks of the tip of his tongue, then laving the whole of her full breast with its warm softness before pulling as much as he could hold into his mouth, still circling the sensitive tip with his tongue, stopping only to repeat his actions for its twin.

She sighed at his touch, his caresses, and when he raised his head to breathe, she reached for the hem of his shirt and slipped her hands under it on each side, and ran her slim, cool fingers along his thighs, across his hips and up his flanks to his chest, pushing the coarse fabric of his shirt up with the movement of her hands.  He sat back on his heels and raised his arms and she pulled the last garment over his head and arms and when he embraced her again nothing separated them.

Now he lay back, and as she knelt on the bed at his side, her hands roving over his body, kissing his chest, twisting the dark hair around her fingertips.

He tugged the yarn knot from the end of her braid, and pulled apart the plaits so her hair streamed over them both, and he caressed the silken strands as she continued to taste and touch and caress every inch of him.

She ran her fingertips lightly along the hardened shaft of his manhood, fully erect now, then bent her head to follow her fingers with quick, light kisses.  He gasped at the incredible feelings that coursed through his body, his chest heaving with each breath, and he fought to maintain some control, as his awareness of anything other than the sweet softness of her mouth faded away.

His responses excited her as well and when she pulled herself away with just a soft, lingering touch of her fingertips he grasped her shoulders and laid her on her back beside him.  He turned to kneel between her legs, trailing his hands over her breasts, along her ribs to her hips.  Lifting her body to his, he sheathed his throbbing manhood deep in her with one thrust, then drew her up to meet him when he sat back on his heels.  She sat astride him, joined in the most intimate of embraces.

In the loft above, Andrew heard their sounds of love.  He remembered Duncan’s words from the morning’s talk, and secure in the thought that his mother had found the happiness she deserved, he pulled up his blanket and willed himself to sleep.
 
 

T he summer passed as it does in the Highlands, warm, sunny days punctuated by dreary, wet afternoons, storms that would last an hour or a week without warning.  As the days grew shorter, the harvest came closer, and the work on the holding more demanding.  Food had to be preserved for the coming winter, meat salted and dried, vegetables hung out of the reach of mice.  And as the nights grew longer, Duncan and Sarah learned more and more of each other, their feelings for one another deepening as the summer drew to a close.

Bone tired, night after night they fell into the bed they shared, sometimes no more than a kiss and a caress passing between them.  Other nights would end with glorious lovemaking as Duncan explored and memorized Sarah’s body, and she his.

On such a night they lay, still awake, stretched from corner to corner across the bed.  Duncan’s head rested low on her belly; one hand gently caressed the soft skin inside her thigh.

“I remember the night ye were born, Duncan.”  Her voice was barely above a whisper, still husky from their passions.

“Ye do?” he asked.  He knew nothing of his own birth save it was on the Winter Solstice.  His mother had never spoken of it, of how long or hard her labor had been, and the midwife’s name had never been uttered in his hearing.  Curiosity overwhelmed him.  “What d’ye mind of it?”
 
 

Glenfinnan, Scotland.
Yule, 1592

T he wind howled through the trees, and lightning split the night, the bright bolts reflected in the water of the loch, the thunder echoed across the glen.  The sun had not risen for three days, and the waning moon hung low in the amazingly clear sky.

Braving the cold and the wind the people of the village gathered outside the Chieftain’s cottage, waiting.  Three girls, the youngest only five years old, huddled together, streaks of tears still on their faces.  This day had seen both the stillbirth of another brother and their mother’s death.  The midwife had hurried from her side to tend to the Chieftain’s wife, and less than an hour later she was dead, the body of her second son in her cold arms.

Now the village awaited the confinement of their leader’s wife, hoping for a healthy son who could someday take his father’s place, leading them both in war and peace.

Another scream echoed from the small cottage, and the women in the crowd cringed, remembering their own birthings, knowing the pain their friend endured.  The screams came one after the other, each one longer than the one before until suddenly they stopped.  The silence was as painful to the crowd as the screams, for no baby’s wail filled the void.  The older women among the crowd shook their heads and turned to go back to their warm homes, to their beds.  The younger women hugged their living children to their bosoms, grateful they had survived so far, all of them knowing the next babe could take them as well.

As the crowd began to disperse, suddenly, unexpectedly, a baby cried, loudly, lustily in the darkness.  The door of the cottage was flung open and their Chieftain emerged, a small bundle in his hands.  Though he was swaddled against the cold, Ian Macleod drew back the blanket and lifted the baby before the crowd.

“Here be my son,” he announced.  “Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod.  Let no man say else!”

As a cheer went up from the crowd he wrapped the baby again and took him back into the cottage.

“Your mother died the day I was born?” he asked.

“Aye.”  She nodded her head.  “Another stillborn son.  Some said my father killed her, but the midwife said she’d bled too much.  Either way she was dead.”

“My sisters and I waited with the others while your mother labored. It must have been a terrible hard birthing.  I’d never heard such screams, then that awful silence before ye first cried.

“I remember your father bringing ye out to show the people.

“Have ye ever seen lightning come from a clear sky, Duncan?  That night it did.  They said it was the solstice, and the lightning was the old gods trying to come back.  So we all said a Hail Mary and asked God to protect the village.  I remember Margaret had to help me cross myself — and I didn’t know all the words to the Hail Mary.”

Her fingers traced a random pattern through the damp hair covering his chest, every touch sending waves of desire throughout his body.  He caught her hand in his, stilling it in its journey, and lifted it to his lips.  Gently he kissed each fingertip, then tipped her head back to reach her mouth with a more demanding kiss.  As he moved his body over hers, his hands and mouth caressing her, he saw in his mind’s eye a clear night sky brightened by bolt after bolt of lightning.  He could feel the energy of the lightning enter his body, and his skin tingled from fingertip to toe.  He felt invigorated, more powerful than ever before in his life.  “Ach,” he mumbled against Sarah’s breast.  “Forever.  We could be like this forever.”
 
 

1 October 1622 (OS)

“I have to go.”  Duncan’s voice was firm, his features stony.  “Father has declared war with the Campbells.  I canna change that.”

“We need you here, Duncan,” Sarah pleaded.  “The barley’s almost in.  Andrew and I canna do it ourselves.”  She stomped across the room to stand before the door, her body barring it better than the oaken beam.  She planted her feet wide, her fists on her hips, and dared him to try to move her.

He followed her, and tried to embrace her.  “Sarah, my darlin’,” he whispered in her ear.  “It will only take a day or two.  We march tonight, fight tomorrow; and home Friday.”  He lightly kissed the edge of her ear and felt the now familiar trembling wash over her.  “I promise,” he went on, then bent his head to kiss her mouth, a long, lingering kiss meant not to excite but to tell her once more of his love, of the happiness he’d found with her family, of his promise to return.

She stepped away from the door.  “Ach, ye men.  Will ye no learn to talk instead of fight?”

“Father tried to talk.  The Campbells stole three more cows the next day.  We have to fight.”  He reached over the doorway for his sword and slid the scabbard through his belt, then checked the dirk on his right.  He touched her cheek once more, then opened the door.  Three armed men awaited him.

“I love ye, my lady Sarah,” he said, and went to meet his destiny.
 

On 2 October 1622 (OS) men of Clan Macleod of Glenfinnan, led by Ian Macleod and his only son, Duncan, fought against the neighboring members of Clan Campbell.  Although Clan Macleod was victorious, the chieftain’s son fell in the battle and died.  Some say he rose from his deathbed and lives to this day, known only as the Highlander.
 

This page last updated
21 August 2002

© 2000 Emma Keigh