Carn Mo'r

  CarnMo’r

  Chapter 1

  I am the Chieftain of the Clan Sinclair, Laird of CarnMo’r. I stand here upon the land of my ancestors. We have lived, loved, fought and died here for almost 2000 years. I am the master of all I survey, the first born of the firstborn and the last of my line. Within this sacred circle of stones, deep within the Ladder hills, we are free to dream and wish. What do I wish for? Nothing, I am here only to escape the duties of my title and find a little peace amongst the bones of my ancestors. I often come to this place on my own, a place unknown to outsiders.

  I was first brought here by my father, as he was by his, taught to listen to the ancient voices that inhabit the place and not to be afraid of them. As is my want, I took a shotgun, a few cartridges and pretend to go shooting, but instead I make my way here to rest my weary soul.

  The scream of a frightened woman captured my attention. The blood stirred mightily at that lonely cry. I left the sacred place on the run heading for Three-bogs-mire. Anger fuelled my steps; no local would be foolish enough to venture into the mire, probably one of the growing bands of hill walkers. Every man has the right of way to cross whatever part of Scottish land he wishes but the mire was clearly marked on every map.

  I leapt over the line of tussocks in to the mire itself and stopped on its edge. The woman was very close, luckily for her.

  ‘Stand still,’ I roared. ‘Struggle and you will go down faster.’

  My answer was a squeal of fear that galvanised me into action. She was down to her knees but I’ll give the woman her due, she stopped struggling. When I came within a few paces from her I thought my heart was going to burst and not from my exertions. When had I ever seen such beauty?

  She spoke, ‘Oh, thank God there was someone around.’

  Never in my whole life had I been lifted so high, then brought so low, and only in the fraction of a heart beat. My anger returned tenfold and seared my soul. How could this natural wonder be one of those vulgar colonialists, an American?

  Lord, how could you be so cruel? Hair as black as a raven; brown eyes you could lose yourself in and a complexion of fine porcelain. Her body beneath the long coat spoke only of joy. But now those lovely eyes spoke only of fear. In my anger I had snapped closed the breach of the shotgun.

  She eyed us both, expecting it to end her life before the mire got her, and although tears glistened she did not cry out and admiration at her courage began to break through my anger. I was forced to break the breach open and show her.

  ‘It is not loaded; I need it to leaver you free.’ I thought for a moment she was going to faint with relief.

  ‘Oh thank God. I thought for…’

  ‘You’re sinking fast, face the mire.’ It was a sentence I did not want her to finish.

  She faced the way she had entered the mire. ‘What do I do now?’

  ‘Lean back.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Just do it,’ I snapped.

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry.’

  She leaned back and I caught her in my arms. For the first time I smelt her sweet scent and it filled me with a longing I had never known existed. I swung the shotgun round her front.

  ‘Place both your hands on the barrel between mine.’ She complied and for the briefest moment our hands touched and I gasped, ‘ok, I want you to lock your arms, can you do that?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Good, I'm going to lean back slowly and try and lever you free. Try and keep your arms straight. This has to be done very slowly. When I ask you to, wriggle your toes.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘When I say so, not before.’

  ‘Ok, I’m sorry.’

  I leaned back taking the strain, feeling the pull of the mire, equalising the pressure then slowly exceeding it. She gasped with the strain being exerted on her, but I dared not pull any faster in fear of her arms giving in. ‘Do you feel you have stopped sinking?’

  ‘Yes,’ she almost whispered.

  ‘Good, then wriggle your toes gently. We must break its hold on you. It is a thing that must be done gently. The mire is a jealous mistress and must be coaxed into giving up her wares. Struggle and she will fight us. We are too far from help and this is a job for more than one. Before I returned you would be sleeping forever in her embrace, so we must conserve our strength lass, and work together. Do you understand?’

  ‘I can feel the sense in your words, Sir.’

  Sweat broke out on my forehead and I could feel the muscles in my broad back ripple with the strain. We cried out together as the mire began to lose its grip. Inch by agonising inch she began to slip free. With a horrible sucking noise it finally gave up its prize.

  We fell together in to the soft heather, she on top, both of us too tired to move and gasping for the cool mountain breeze. She fitted well into my arms and eventually the heat from her small buttocks penetrated my exhaustion. I gasped with surprise and she jumped off me like a scalded cat. We lay there in the heather like fools regarding one another, she on her hands and knees while I still on my back. Her eyes, those of a trapped fawn and mine I’m sure that of a hungry beast. My anger returned at my own weakness.

  ‘What the hell are you doing up here?’

  ‘I, I…’

  ‘Didn’t you know how dangerous it could be?’

  ‘No I…’

  ‘Don’t you even have a map? It’s marked clearly enough.’

  Her head dropped. ‘I’m staying at the Socach Inn. I just came out for a stroll after lunch. It was so beautiful up here I just kept walking.’

  I struggled to my feet. ‘A stroll! You went for a stroll in the Highlands of Scotland, without proper clothing, protection or even a map?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? That’s it, you’re sorry? May the good Lord save me from stupid women and Americans in that order.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And stop saying your bloody sorry. It’s annoying me.’

  She stiffened. ‘I may be stupid Sir, I may even be a stupid American woman and the lowest creature in your universe, but there is no need to be rude about it.’

  I fell in love there and then. Fire flashed in her eyes and I saw in them the strength I had sought throughout my 30 years. But my petty prejudices fought them and her rebuke angered me further, although I modified my language.

  ‘I apologise for my use of foul language madam, but you are still a bloody fool.’

  She reeled as from a slap; ‘I realise that now Sir, and if you would point me in the right direction this fool will leave you to your day.’

  I groaned. ‘Have you not been listening woman, this mire covers almost a square mile in patches. You managed by blind luck to get quarter of a mile across before you became stuck and I don’t have the strength to pull you out again. Just stick with me and I’ll guide you home.’

  ‘I think I would rather get stuck again.’

  Now it was my turn to reel and the dark rage that plagued my family threatened to engulf me. I thrust my broad chin towards her, ‘you will walk behind me. You will put your feet where I put mine, disobey and I will throw you back into the mire myself.’

  I turned and strode off. A squeal of pain forced me to turn back. She had twisted an ankle in the struggle and limped slowly after me. I sighed with exasperation. The thought of having to touch her to help brought forth a parody of emotions.

  ‘Sit down and let me look at that ankle.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid you might catch something?’

  ‘Bit late for that don’t you think?’ I scored one as she flushed. She let me take her foul smelling boot off. The delicate ankle was already beginning to swell. ‘You will have to come home with me, the village is too far.’

  ‘Go to the home of a Highland heat
hen, I would rather crawl home.’

  Oh my rage was bonny, never in my life had I been called that, but I could not blame her for her words, for I had been harsh. ‘Look yonder woman, do you see the black clouds that roll over the top of CarnMo’r?’

  ‘I see them.’

  ‘They will shroud us in a freezing mist, a mist that will kill you before you are half way home, injured as you are. Now I may be a heathen but my word is my bond and I give it here and now in the sacred hills of my ancestors, you will come to no harm. My home is half the distance of the village and in your condition we will be sorely put to make there before nightfall and the chill sets in. From there I will get you back to the village alive and safe.’

  Her eyes misted over for a moment. ‘I have your word Sir?’

  ‘You have it, now try and stand.’ She did so and squealed with pain, every nerve in my body jumped at that noise. Why? I had heard men die screaming in agony a thousand times and had never turned a hair. ‘This is no good, pull your skirt up.’

  Her eyes registered shock. ‘Why?’

  ‘I am going to have to carry you on my shoulders that will be the easiest way.’

  ‘You will not Sir…’

  ‘Do not try my patience woman, this is no time for modesty,’ I growled.

  Hesitantly she raised the hem of her skirt a few inches. I sighed in exasperation ducked down and swept her up on to my shoulders. Needless to say the skirt rode up a lot further than she intended. She squealed again but this time in indignation.

  ‘Be quiet,’ I ordered, ‘and put your free hand in the small of my back to give me some support.’

  I felt her small hand push into the small of my back. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, push harder, that’s it.’

  I strode boldly out knowing fine well the agony I was going to suffer later on but I minded not, a few inches from my face there was revealed to me a stocking top and above it a small slither of snowy white skin. I groaned involuntarily.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I snapped, but I was far from it. I wanted to brush my lips against that soft skin, to taste it with my tongue and the desire that coursed through me gave me the strength of ten.

  ‘Do you work here?’ She inquired.

  ‘In a manner of form, now shut up, I’ll need all my wind to get us home.’

  ‘I’m sorry’.

  The journey home was a nightmare. Despite her lightness twice I had to stop to catch my breath. Sweat poured from every pore in my body and soaked me before the mist had a chance but it was heaven-sent, and cooled me. On one occasion when I let her down more of that stocking top was revealed to me and I felt my blood boil. I am ashamed to admit she saw the direction my eyes had taken and sorted her skirt hastily. With a flick of her wrist she made me feel like a heathen. I prayed for this day to be over.

  On the third stop she watched me quietly as a mouse would watch a cat from hiding. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I gasped.

  ‘I could try and walk.’ She ventured, ‘It does not pain me so much now.’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘We are almost there, only half a mile to go. We would see it if it were not for the mist.’ I stood and paced round the rock we’d stopped at to try and slacken off my cramping muscles.

  ‘How far have we travelled?’

  ‘Roughly five miles, now be quiet and let me get my wind back.’

  When I was ready I held out a hand, she took it without hesitation this time and the exercise must have been coming familiar for she lifted her skirt a lot higher this time and though the sight made me tremble I almost floated the last half mile.

  Exhausted but exulted I finally sat her down on the doorstep. She gained her feet and looked up in surprise. ‘Do you live here?’

  I could only nod as I turned the handle of the oaken door and strode into the foyer of my home. Inside the great hallway I pulled on the bell rope viciously. In moments John Buchan appeared on the run.

  He took the situation in at a glance as always, although our filthy appearance left little room for guesswork. ‘Pick up a stray in the mire did we Sir?’

  ‘Aye I did that, and she has a twisted ankle to boot. She walked up from the Inn at the Socach.’

  ‘Sir! He called you Sir.’

  I whirled at the tone in her voice. ‘That’s right; I’m Sir Alasdair Sinclair, Laird of CarnMo'r.’ A look of abject horror crossed her face and I felt the darkness begin to descend. ‘Is there a problem with that?’

  ‘I, I …’

  ‘You think a heathen like me shouldn’t be a Laird. There are some who would agree with that but I’ve never really given a damn about them either,’ she looked stricken, but I thought her look one of guilt and the darkness that was ever present in the souls of our family descended. ‘John Buchan I will charge you with getting this woman cleaned up. Find something for her to wear, dress her ankle and get her off my land.’

  I marched off, the peacefulness of my study beckoned. How dare that woman do this to me? Who was she to invade the castle of my emotions and send them spiralling into the darkness? I was in a hell for once I did not recognise.

  Chapter 2

  John Buchan winched as the Laird slammed shut his study door and turned to regard the woman who had broken through the ice-cold shell of Alasdair Sinclair.

  Tears began to cascade down her face. ‘I am sorry. That was not what I meant, I, I just thought the Laird of CarnMo’r was wheelchair bound. I… how could he possibly carry me so far on his shoulders after being so grievously hurt?’

  John Buchan felt a chill burn clear through to his soul; who was this American lass? How could she know so much yet know so little? He decided to do a little fishing.

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse our Laird. He isn’t very fond of Americans; he was grievously wounded in the last weeks of the war by one of your pilots.’

  John hesitated for a second as those few moments in time flashed across his mind. They had thought themselves safe and the fighting over for them. The remains of a weary company, mostly veterans, some including John and the Laird from as far back as 1940 and Dunkirk.

  The American Mustang flew low over the column and most waved up at the pilot, no one could ever explain why he turned round and strafed the column. All John knew was when it was over most of them were dead and the Laird was lying in a pool of blood, his back laid open to the bone.

  Wounded by numerous splinters himself John had commandeered a Wily jeep and rushed the Laird to the nearest medical unit. His mind leapt back to the present.

  ‘It has left him with a bit of a complex.’

  She brushed away a tear. ‘I noticed. So you are the famous John Buchan? I have heard much about you.’

  John frowned. ‘May I ask from whom?’

  ‘My father, he was a surgeon during the war.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ John exclaimed, ‘I know your father! He’s the one that saved the Laird’s life. He invited him over after the war.’

  A small smile escaped her lips. ‘Yes that’s right. After my mother died a few months ago Father decided we needed a break. He remembered the Laird’s invitation and here we are.’

  John shook his head sadly. ‘Let’s find my wife lass, get you cleaned up and home. I’ll phone the Inn and let them know you are safe.’

  ‘No please don’t. My father will only rush up here and if he thinks the Laird has insulted me… it will cause a scene. Once I arrive home I will just tell him I want to leave.’

  They found his wife in the kitchen and her face fell when she saw the state Robyn was in.

  ‘Oh John what happened to this poor lass?’

  He grinned. ‘Alasdair found her in the mire.’

  ‘He carried me all the way here,’ Robyn added.

  Connie’s hands flew to her mouth at the sound of her accent and Robyn’s heart fell. Her eyes searched John’s face and suddenly he burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s not funny John
Buchan,’ she admonished.

  ‘Och lass you should have seen the temper he was in. Bonny it was.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Alasdair.’

  ‘No it doesn’t,’ but there was something more behind his laughter that they couldn’t put a finger on.

  Connie stretched a hand out. ‘Come, let me help you. Have a seat and I’ll make a cup of tea. My name’s Connie, what’s yours?’

  ‘Robyn, Robyn Colwin.’

  A puzzled crown crossed her face. ‘Colwin! I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere before.’

  John burst out laughing again. ‘You certainly have my love. Dr. Colwin was the man who operated on Alasdair and half the men in this Glen.’

  Connie’s hand flew back to her mouth, ‘Oh John, does he know yet?’

  ‘No not yet, but he will soon enough.’

  ‘What devilry are you scheming up now?’

  ‘Not a thing my dear. I had better go and phone the Inn.’

  The cup of tea Connie brought was heaven-sent. Warmth began to flow back into her. She watched Connie as she moved around the kitchen. They were roughly the same age and height but the similarity ended there. Connie was a natural beauty with long auburn hair. Her full figure showed through the thin summer dress she wore. Robyn took to her immediately and felt the feeling mutual.

  As life began to flow into her again, Connie sat down and they began to chatter. Somehow the subject got round to men.

  ‘My father often talks about John.’

  Connie flushed with pleasure. ‘John often talks about your father and how hard he worked to save the men of the Glen. I believe he even took some splinters out of John.’

  Robyn smiled. ‘He’s wanted to come here for years to have another wee dram with “The Buchan”.’

  Connie laughed, ‘I’ve heard about some of their wee drams.’

  ‘My father says he’s a good man.’

  Connie’s features softened. ‘John is a good man. He’s strong, brave a wonderful father and lover.’ Robyn turned scarlet at her revelations. ‘Oh I’m sorry Robyn, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, don’t American women talk of such things?’

  She became flustered, ‘I don’t know … I’ve never … I’ve never been married,’ Robyn offered lamely.