Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

T he drive down to Inverness was slow—there was no direct route from Loch Fasail—but after they reached Ardloch, Bella took the coast road and the views were enough to keep Maclean from worrying too much about other vehicles on the narrow roads. Now that he was visible, Bella could see why he felt carsick on their last journey to Ardloch. He was so big that he was squeezed into his seat like a sardine in a tin, and because she had not realized it she had not thought to make adjustments for his height and size. This time she was able to ensure he was far more comfortable.

They stopped for lunch at Ullapool, with its white houses facing the water, and Maclean could watch the passenger ferry arriving across the Minch from Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis, while Bella was able to have a mochachino, so they were both happy. After that she took the faster route eastward, directly to Inverness.

"The Forsythes live to the southwest of the city, in a place called Auchtachan. When I rang Mrs. Forsythe said she will be at home but her husband is away, traveling overseas. He makes his living buying and selling historic documents. But she says it's all right for us to come and see the original manuscript—I think I persuaded her we aren't going to steal it. She's given me directions to the house, and there's a hotel we can stay in not far away from them, but I want to drive on to Inverness first and buy you some clothes."

He grunted, which she took as a sign of acquiescence, and went back to staring at the passing scenery. The mountains were gray rock and scree, with barely a blade of grass in sight.

"It seems so empty," he said at last. "Are there no people anymore? I canna remember it being so bare."

"It is empty. The landscapes up here can be very harsh, Maclean, you don't need me to tell you that. Maybe people were willing to struggle on in your day, but these days they feel they deserve more from life than just surviving."

"Why?" Maclean demanded. "I canna believe my people would want to live in a dirty, smoky place like Edinburgh rather than Loch Fasail. At least you can breathe there!"

"But that's exactly what happened. In the nineteenth century Highlanders were dispossessed, their land taken over by sheep because the chiefs could make more money that way, or they simply could no longer survive on the small patches they were reduced to living on. Rents were high, and then there was a potato famine—"

"Potato famine? I have heard of potatoes, but they were still uncommon in my day."

"They became more common, a fallback when there was nothing else to eat. And then a disease struck the potatoes and rotted them in the ground, and because the people had come to rely on them so greatly, they starved. There was the herring fishing on the coast, and a lot of people were employed with that, but then it collapsed when there weren't enough fish left to catch and process."

He was frowning, clearly wanting to argue with her and yet fearing what she said was true.

"The Highlanders had no choice but to move south, to industrial cities like Glasgow and Edinburgh, and look for work in the mills and factories. Some of them emigrated, either by choice or else they were loaded aboard ships without any say in it, and sailed away to other countries like Canada and Australia and America, to make new lives. I'm very sorry, Maclean, but your Scotland has been gone for almost as long as you have."

Bella glanced again at his profile, stern and aloof, and knew with an aching heart that although his emotions were held in check, he was grieving for the past.

"I don't believe life at Loch Fasail was ever easy, was it?" she said gently. "You were such a good chief, Maclean, that you kept your people alive and well when others failed. But even you, or your descendants, would have found it difficult to continue on as conditions deteriorated. It's possible that Loch Fasail wouldn't have been populated today even if the massacre hadn't happened."

He turned to look at her and his expression was deadly serious. "If I had been here to protect them, I would have found a way to get my people through the hard times, Bella. I would no' have let them starve or die from sickness."

"You may not have been able to help it, Maclean," she whispered, tears in her eyes.

He shook his head angrily. "No, you're wrong. I could have kept them safe, and though mabbe some of them might have left in the years between then and now, I dinna believe Loch Fasail would be empty as it is. People would have stayed and lived on. My people."

Bella knew she shouldn't believe in him, not when Scottish history so obviously told a different story, but she did. She did believe he really could have made a difference through the sheer force of his powerful will.

Perhaps that was part of the reason for his success as a chief and as a man. Bella knew that, like the Clan Maclean, she would have followed the Black Maclean anywhere.

* * *

Inverness was unrecognizable, although now and again Maclean thought he saw a stretch of the river or a curve of landscape that stirred in him an elusive memory from the past. Bella parked the car and led him firmly through the pedestrians who turned to gawk, to a shop that she said sold clothing, while Maclean tried to pretend he was above such curiosity, his back stiff and his face aloof.

The place they entered had a sign upon the window that read OUTFITTERS FOR THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN. It was wee, and there was very little light. The people who worked here spoke in hushed voices, as if it were a church, and they would not meet his eyes, which he did not know whether to be glad of or to worry about. After Bella had explained their business, they were led through to the back, which was far bigger, with clothing everywhere and in varying stages of completion.

Maclean was outfitted with long black trews and a shirt not unlike the one he already owned and a black jacket that clung to his shoulders without a crease. There were shoes, too, black and shiny. Bella knelt down to help him tie them, and he took the opportunity to whisper in her ear that he preferred his plaid.

He earned an exasperated look and a sigh.

"Excuse me, sir." One of the laddies who worked in the shop was holding Maclean's black velvet jacket. "I wondered if you'd tell me where this garment was made, sir. The workmanship is very interesting indeed."

Maclean, fearing he meant to steal it, snatched the jacket from him. Bella gave him a sharp look and turned to the laddie with a smile, blathering about Maclean having been overseas and only lately returned and the jacket being made in foreign parts. Maclean himself said nothing.

"You are a frustrating man," she murmured when they were alone again. Then she turned him to the long mirror and, smiling, said, "But a very impressive one, Maclean."

The dark trousers and jacket made him look bigger, somehow. Although he had shaved this morning, there was already a dark shadow on his jaw, making him look like a wild reiver, while his pale eyes stared challengingly back.

"Very nice, sir," one of the laddies was simpering. "Do you no' agree?"

He frowned and opened his mouth to tell him what he thought of such arse-licking, just as Bella hastened into the fray. "He looks perfect, thank you so much."

Then she went about the business of paying with the piece of plastic, as she called it. As he watched her standing there in her baggy jeans and woolen coat, Maclean had made a decision of his own, and found one of the laddies to ask his own question. He had his answer, and a short time later they were out on the street.

Although he was no longer in his plaid, Maclean noticed that people still stared at him. He reached down for the comforting grip of his claidheamh mor and then remembered he wasn't wearing it. Bella had told him he had to leave it at home, but he had insisted on bringing it, so she had made him leave it in the trunk of the car. "If you carry it around Inverness, we'll be arrested," she informed him sternly when he tried to argue.

"Arrested?" he snorted, but he knew what the word meant. "Verra well, woman, I'll leave it in the car. For now," he muttered, as she turned away, but Bella chose to ignore him.

"I've something else I wish to do," he said now, firmly.

Bella gave him a nervous glance. "Oh?"

"There is another shop I wish to visit."

"Oh?"

His mouth twitched. "The name of it is Siren, and it is in Bridge Street."

Bella's eyes widened. "Oh no, you don't, Maclean!"

"Oh, aye, Bella. I have suffered at your hands, and 'tis your turn now."

"Maclean, places like this Siren only cater to skinny teenagers. Believe me, I know." And when he gave her a blank look, "Wee girls, Maclean! I'm not made for those slinky numbers. You don't understand."

"No, Bella, you dinna understand. I am no' asking you, I am telling you."

She opened her mouth and he could see the words waiting there to pour out, and then she met his eyes and closed it again. With a shrug, she turned and led the way, but he sensed a new emotion in her, a painful acceptance. Aye, it was as he had always thought: She believed herself unattractive, she had been told so by Brian and maybe her mother, and although Bella was strong, the words had lodged deep.

Like a thorn.

If he did one last thing before the Fiosaiche decided his fate, it would be to make Bella realize just how beautiful a woman she was.