derisively.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can see you are very much the Lowlander. The plaid has defeated you.’
But he came to her side, took the length of material and deftly draped it about her, securing it at the waist with the belt from the chest, and at the breast with the circular silver brooch from the little box.
‘There,’ he commented. ‘Now you are more fit to appear as my bride.’
She fingered the brooch, trying to accustom herself to the strange feel of the plaid about her. She had to admit that Hector had constructed a most effective garment from it.
‘It was my mother’s,’ he added, and it took her a moment or two to realise that he referred to the brooch.
‘Oh—’ she said, and then she indicated the brush and comb. ‘Were those hers, then?’
‘Indeed they were—And there is her likeness.’ His hand swept towards the portrait. The dark eyes, so like his own, gazed shrewdly at the tall graceful figure of his wife, as if they recognised the fear and misery tightening into a knot behind the silver brooch.
As Hector took her arm, and they turned to leave the room, Isobel caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and for a moment was startled. She had grown so used to her image clothed in matronly grey, or mourning black. Now, with the plaid draped in soft folds about her shoulders and her head, she looked unlike herself, the bright yet subtle colours of the tartan drawing colour even from her weary face. And she looked, too, as primitive as the Highlanders around her: another person, no longer the Isobel Carnegie who had left the kirk two mornings ago. It was an uncomfortable sensation, as if she had glimpsed a stranger.
As she followed Hector from the room she wondered whether the person inside the enveloping plaid still had anything in common with the young widow of so short a time before.
Chapter Five
They rode sturdy ponies to the shieling. The piper went with them, and the inevitable tall Highlander - Isobel was fast growing to hate his presence as Hector’s constant shadow. The other clansmen followed them on foot, and the deerhounds ran alongside, veering off at intervals in pursuit of elusive scents.
They took a steep winding track to the mountainside above the cliffs, where the rocky landscape was spread with grass and bracken and wild flowers. Little knots of stunted birch and hazel and rowan grew in the sheltered hollows, and bog myrtle scented the air. A breeze blew off the sea, but gently, just enough to take any discomfort from the heat of the mid-morning sun.
They had gone perhaps two miles when they saw a small black figure outlined against the sky, like a sentinel keeping watch from the rising ground. Either it was further away than it seemed, Isobel thought, or it was a child. Even as she narrowed her eyes to see better, he disappeared. A few moments later a crowd of dark figures appeared in his place, large and small, waving, calling out, their excitement visible even at this distance.
The approaching riders were almost swallowed up in the eager group as they reached the hill top. Hands reached out, voices were raised in lilting greeting, tousle-haired children jumped up and down. The welcome was for Hector, and he returned it warmly, dismounting to continue the short journey to the shieling on foot, asking questions of this one and that. Isobel could not understand what he said, but she could guess at the enquiries about the health of one and the child of another from the expressions and gestures of the women as Hector addressed them.
To Isobel they were cool, but respectful and courteous. And she sensed beneath the rather distant words and gestures an immense curiosity about her. Good manners kept it in check, but she glimpsed covert glances stolen in her direction, remarks exchanged in an undertone when they thought she was not looking. She could see that they thought her beautiful, and were surprised at it, but she knew they were judging her too. They were
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can see you are very much the Lowlander. The plaid has defeated you.’
But he came to her side, took the length of material and deftly draped it about her, securing it at the waist with the belt from the chest, and at the breast with the circular silver brooch from the little box.
‘There,’ he commented. ‘Now you are more fit to appear as my bride.’
She fingered the brooch, trying to accustom herself to the strange feel of the plaid about her. She had to admit that Hector had constructed a most effective garment from it.
‘It was my mother’s,’ he added, and it took her a moment or two to realise that he referred to the brooch.
‘Oh—’ she said, and then she indicated the brush and comb. ‘Were those hers, then?’
‘Indeed they were—And there is her likeness.’ His hand swept towards the portrait. The dark eyes, so like his own, gazed shrewdly at the tall graceful figure of his wife, as if they recognised the fear and misery tightening into a knot behind the silver brooch.
As Hector took her arm, and they turned to leave the room, Isobel caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and for a moment was startled. She had grown so used to her image clothed in matronly grey, or mourning black. Now, with the plaid draped in soft folds about her shoulders and her head, she looked unlike herself, the bright yet subtle colours of the tartan drawing colour even from her weary face. And she looked, too, as primitive as the Highlanders around her: another person, no longer the Isobel Carnegie who had left the kirk two mornings ago. It was an uncomfortable sensation, as if she had glimpsed a stranger.
As she followed Hector from the room she wondered whether the person inside the enveloping plaid still had anything in common with the young widow of so short a time before.
Chapter Five
They rode sturdy ponies to the shieling. The piper went with them, and the inevitable tall Highlander - Isobel was fast growing to hate his presence as Hector’s constant shadow. The other clansmen followed them on foot, and the deerhounds ran alongside, veering off at intervals in pursuit of elusive scents.
They took a steep winding track to the mountainside above the cliffs, where the rocky landscape was spread with grass and bracken and wild flowers. Little knots of stunted birch and hazel and rowan grew in the sheltered hollows, and bog myrtle scented the air. A breeze blew off the sea, but gently, just enough to take any discomfort from the heat of the mid-morning sun.
They had gone perhaps two miles when they saw a small black figure outlined against the sky, like a sentinel keeping watch from the rising ground. Either it was further away than it seemed, Isobel thought, or it was a child. Even as she narrowed her eyes to see better, he disappeared. A few moments later a crowd of dark figures appeared in his place, large and small, waving, calling out, their excitement visible even at this distance.
The approaching riders were almost swallowed up in the eager group as they reached the hill top. Hands reached out, voices were raised in lilting greeting, tousle-haired children jumped up and down. The welcome was for Hector, and he returned it warmly, dismounting to continue the short journey to the shieling on foot, asking questions of this one and that. Isobel could not understand what he said, but she could guess at the enquiries about the health of one and the child of another from the expressions and gestures of the women as Hector addressed them.
To Isobel they were cool, but respectful and courteous. And she sensed beneath the rather distant words and gestures an immense curiosity about her. Good manners kept it in check, but she glimpsed covert glances stolen in her direction, remarks exchanged in an undertone when they thought she was not looking. She could see that they thought her beautiful, and were surprised at it, but she knew they were judging her too. They were
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