Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

J ust as Bella remembered, the Ardloch Folk Museum was well presented. Sadly, places like this were often nothing more than a repository for junk, but the Ardloch museum was well thought out and there was an attempt to give it relevance to the people of the area, while at the same time catering to any tourist who might wander in.

The front of the museum was built as a "black house," a replica of the simple home of a Scottish rural working family. The single living space had been divided by partitions into rooms, each one telling its own story of hope and struggle, with placards describing life in the nineteenth century.

Bella paused in a room where the mannequins in their Highland costume looked almost real in the shadows. There was a brief retelling of Culloden and the Clearances, as well as stories of the rise and fall of the Scottish coastal herring industry, and the emigration of Scots to other parts of the world.

That was when Bella realized she had lost Maclean. She decided not to make a fool of herself by calling out his name and waving her arms. She'd set up this test for him and now he'd disappeared—in a manner of speaking. Never mind, he was here somewhere and in a moment he'd probably scare her witless, putting his arms about her and pulling her back against his big hard body, his breath hot and shivery in her ear. The man had definite sex appeal—last night had proven that—but she mustn't encourage him. She'd just tried to explain to him how insulted she'd been by the behavior of the boy in the electronics shop, and now she was dreaming of Maclean's hands on her.

The two things were very different, she knew that, but she wasn't sure if Maclean did.

She was part of the present and he belonged to the past. She couldn't rely on him, she couldn't begin to think of him as permanent in her life. He might vanish again tomorrow if the sorceress came for him and . . .

"Oh God." Bella stopped her thoughts right there and wondered for the hundredth time whether she was insane. And for the hundredth time she decided she wasn't. This was really happening to her. Maclean was here, with her, and whatever the reason for it, she was glad.

And that was the scariest thing of all.

A family, mother and father and two children, had begun to make their way through the cottage. The children's shrill voices echoed beneath the low, dank ceiling. "Yuk, I wouldn't like to live in here!" "It smells!"

Bella smiled. It was rather dark and smelly, but most houses in the past were. The modern citizen didn't realize how lucky she was with plumbing and sewerage and air-conditioning, not to mention toilets and showers and deodorant. In Black Maclean's day, life had been precarious enough without worrying if you were on the nose—though as far as she could tell, Maclean didn't smell.

There was a small display on Highland superstitions and folklore, and she cast a doubtful look at an artist's impression of the Loch Ness Monster. It looked a bit like the thing in her dream, with its wet skin and scales. Bella shuddered. Her dreams were beginning to worry her: First the hag had foretold Maclean's arrival and then she'd mentioned the Fiosaiche and the between-worlds. She had read about people suddenly developing the power to see into the future, but those cases didn't seem to apply to her. . .

Her heartbeat sped up.

An arrow was pointing toward a glass case in a nook with a sign: THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK MACLEAN.

Bella moved unwillingly in that direction.

A large cardboard replica of a Highland warrior stood, all hairy and fierce, a sword in one hand and a targe—a Highland wooden shield—in the other. When she'd first seen it, Bella had laughed aloud because it was nothing like the Maclean of her imaginings. Now her heart quickened again as she leaned toward the glass case and began to read the so-called legend.

THE BLACK MACLEAN

ONE OF SCOTLAND'S

MOST SHAMEFUL STORIES

Morven Maclean of Fasail, called the Black Maclean, set off for Culloden with his men. Unfortunately, Maclean was too cowardly to fight, made a deal with the English and soon returned.

Another arrow pointed onward, to a second placard on the other side of the warrior, above a plaster mock-up of Castle Drumaird. Bella took a step, just as the door behind her slammed shut, trapping her in the small room.

"Bastards."

The boiling fury in his voice made her jump, but Bella managed not to cry out. There wasn't much space in here, and she could feel him beside her, the heat and rage of his body like a physical force. If she closed her eyes she could visualize him in his kilt and black velvet jacket, his hair loose to his shoulders and his eyes pale and piercing.

Bella had convinced herself she would be able to tell if Maclean was lying. She needed to jolt the truth out of him. What sort of man was she dealing with? Was her belief in him real, or just part of her fantasy? Now she wondered whether she was safe.

Maclean knocked against the cardboard warrior, making him rock on his base as if he were spoiling for a fight. "This is no' me!"

"I know, Maclean. You look nothing like—"

"I dinna run away!"

"Maclean—"

"I saved my men from dying at Culloden Moor for a cause I could see was lost. Lord George came to me that night, before the battle."

"Are you sure?"

" I remember it. He dinna get my message, but he came anyway. He was unhappy with O'Sullivan and the prince, and he told me I should go. He said he was sorry he had called me out on such a fool's errand."

"He did?" For a moment she was stunned.

"I dinna run away from the English, and I dinna make a deal with them."

She tried to think how she could prove it. How did you prove the honesty of a man? And she knew she couldn't, not with dusty documents and old letters. A man's worth was in his voice, his words, his strength of character. . .

"What is this?" he whispered, his arm brushing her shoulder as he turned to the replica of Castle Drumaird and the second part of the legend.

"Maclean—" she began, but it was too late.

THE BLACK MACLEAN

SHOWS HIS TRUE COLORS

On his return to Fasail, and despite his people's pleadings for him not to, the Black Maclean mounted his black devil of a horse and went off to steal from his neighbors, the upright Macleods of Mhairi. Maclean was struck a death blow by Auchry Macleod, and died unmissed and un-mourned. The English had followed Maclean home, and being no more honorable than he, they rode into Maclean's lands and slaughtered every last man, woman and child. Maclean's body was never found, and it was popularly assumed that the Macleods had cut him to pieces and tossed him to the four winds.

A fitting ending for an unsavory character from Scotland's bloody past.

The Black Maclean.

His breathing was thick. She moved closer still, felt his kilt brush against her legs, and searched with her hand until she found his fingers. They were clenched around the handle of something . . . oh God, his broadsword. Was he going to attack the display? She slid her hand into his and squeezed, hard, to get his attention.

"Maclean, listen to me," Bella said, drawing on her dwindling courage. This had seemed like such a good idea! "You got home safe and sound, and then you marched northwards, into Mhairi. Why did you do that? Did you take on the Macleods through sheer bloody-mindedness? I know that the Macleans and the Macleods fought, and this time the Macleans lost. You were killed. Your men were killed. There was no one left to protect your people at Fasail—the old folk, the women and children—when the English dragoons came riding in."

"The Macleods killed me? I died under Auchry's blade? But Auchry was a coward and a worm! He would never dare raise his sword to the Black Maclean!" And then the rest of what she had said registered with him. "English dragoons? The red army was at Loch Fasail?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. They killed everyone, Maclean. And they burned Castle Drumaird and every other building to the ground. Nothing was left standing. That's why Loch Fasail is empty today. It's been empty for two hundred and fifty years."

Maclean's hand had turned cold, his fingers losing their strength.

He couldn't seem to breathe.

Nothing was left standing.

Bella's words repeated in his head. Numb, he tried to take it in. His lands deserted, his people murdered. He'd thought that whatever had emptied his lands must have taken place many years after his time. And Bella was saying it was his fault? No, it couldn't be so. He didn't believe it.

"News filtered through to the authorities, eventually. In the muddle and confusion after the defeat at Culloden the killings went unreported. The Macleods of Mhairi knew and when they were questioned about it long afterwards they blamed you. Said you had come boasting about your deal with the English, so full of yourself, wanting to celebrate by stealing their cattle and their women. You fought each other in a vicious battle, and this time you lost. You were already dead when the dragoons came to destroy Fasail."

He tried to see himself as the villain in Bella's book, boasting about his bargain with the red army, knowingly betraying all he believed in, but he could not, he would not.

"Why are you saying this, woman?" he cried in frustration. "Is it to torment me? There is more to the story, there must be. You have but skimmed the surface. My people died, and I was not there to protect them, but if ye think I would do such a thing without a just reason, then you wrong me. You wrong me!"

There were voices in his head, like a great wind howling. His people dying, slaughtered as the English dragoons rode through them like scythes through long grass. And he wasn't there to stop them. He wasn't there to save them. According to Bella, he was exchanging death blows with the Macleods over a few mangy cattle.

"The ‘upright Macleods of Mhairi,' " he sneered. "They were thieves—Auchry was the worst of them. He struck me no death blow! He would have been too busy hiding in some wee hole in the ground. Only Ishbel was worth something, and even she . . ." His fingers held hers so hard it hurt. "Ishbel Macleod, she's at the heart of this thing."

"Ishbel?" The name was new to Bella.

"Auchry's daughter. I took her hostage for his good behavior, to stop his stealing from me ." Then, when she was silent, " 'Tis no' unusual to take hostages. I did no' hurt her. I wished to marry her."

"And did you?" she asked quietly.

"No."

That was all, just the one word, but Bella must have felt the weight of secrets behind it. He could hear the questions forming in her mind. Behind them the door began to open. Maclean reached back and held it closed. His voice was a harsh croak: "Bella, ye must believe me."

But of course she kept on. Searching for her version of the truth.

"Did you make a deal with the English at Culloden, only to have them break their word and follow you home to Fasail?"

"Bloody hell, woman, is it likely I'd let those bastards into Fasail?" he roared. "And if I did, if I knew they were coming, then I would no' have run away. I never ran away from a fight in my life!" Behind them the door rattled but he pressed harder against it, keeping out whoever wanted to get in.

He sounded so sincere, so passionate. Bella wanted to believe him, she really did. "Most so-called legends are hearsay and lies spread by enemies. That's why I am writing my book, so that I can tell everyone what really happened. The English dragoons always denied their part in it, although the garrison at Fort William was famous for its brutality. But then again, maybe the massacre wasn't official—there were plenty of renegade bands around with little regard for the lives of—"

"Bella." Maclean's voice sounded strained. "I made no deal with the English, and they dinna follow me back to Loch Fasail. Ye must believe me. I command it!"

He stumbled against her, his fingers bruising hers. Big, hardened fingers used to fighting; a warrior's hand. Bella gasped, clinging to him, praying he had enough self-control not to lose it.

"You can't command something like that, Maclean. If I believe you, then it's because I choose to, not because you order me to. Tell me about Ishbel."

"I've tried to remember more, but remembering hurts."

"Unpleasant memories can be painful, I understand that."

"No." He groaned. "It hurts like a hammer in my head, like my brain is being boiled in oil."

"Oh." She swallowed, and even in his own pain he could see she was upset. Did the past have such an effect upon her, or was it just his past? Bella wanted him to be perfect, and he wasn't. She wanted him to be a hero, and if what she was saying about him was true, then he was far from that.

"You were a chief who cared for his people, who was willing to walk away from a fight to save his men's lives. You could have been a great man, and then you blew it. You're famous, Maclean, but for all the wrong reasons."

"This piece of paper"—he crashed his hand against the glass display—"says I was dead by the time the red army came into Fasail. I wasna there to protect them." His voice sounded wretched. "I didna even know that was what had happened. I left Fasail in good order. I was a good chief, and I believed that when I died all was well!"

He was in painful earnest. Despite the damning words of the Black Maclean legend, Bella believed him. She had made her choice. Whatever happened two hundred and fifty years ago at Loch Fasail was done without his knowledge.

A familiar excitement arced through her. History had wronged Maclean, and Bella must put it right. This was what she was good at, what she had been born to do.

"You will remember," she said, trying to soothe him. "Why else would you be here? And maybe when you do it will explain why the sorceress brought you back."

"Learn from my mistakes, you mean?" he said bitterly. "Oh, aye, there's something, I know it, but mabbe I dinna want to learn from it. Mabbe I'd do the same thing again."

That didn't sound good. He knew something, or sensed it, and whatever it was it made him uncomfortable with himself.

Behind her the door rattled again.

"I am no' the man this legend speaks of," Maclean whispered furiously. "I am not!"

"Maclean—"

"They have turned me into a monster! A beast to frighten wee children!"

"Please, Maclean—"

"And you believe them. I see it in your face, Bella Ryan. You brought me here to shame me and to prove yourself right. Deny it if ye can!"

And of course she couldn't.

The door was flung open and he was gone. Bella started to follow him, opening her mouth to try and comfort him, and was startled by the sound of a giggle. A child was waiting to one side of the door, gazing at her with round blue eyes.

"You're talking to yourself," the child announced, and giggled again. Then, turning and running back toward his family, "That lady's talking to herself!"

Bella groaned. That was all she needed, someone to tell the museum authorities that she was a dangerous nutcase.

The sun was shining outside, as it often did after a late summer shower. It would probably rain again soon, but for now the air was fresh and warm and she felt as if she could see the grass growing.

"Maclean?" she hissed, glancing around her. He had come this way, so where was he? "Maclean!"

But there was no answer.