Love by the Stroke of Midnight by Raven McAllan (best historical biographies .txt) 📗

tongue these days. Always could flay a besom when need be.”

Marcail blinked. “Ah…?”

“You youngsters, to not even know your own language. Tear a strip, tell them what you think, you know, not stand for any nonsense. Agh, I dinna think wee Bonnie is a besom. She’s troubled, and who can blame her.” The woman tilted her head to one side. “That’s your ma coming back. Be kind. You’ve not long to wait now.”

Not long was still too long, Marcail decided as the woman vanished. She’d be a-gibbering by nightfall.

“I’ll not let you.”

That was something to be thankful for at any rate.

* * * *

In between pouring glasses of champagne, Ruari kept glancing at his watch and muttering under his breath. More than once his wife touched his shoulder in a recognisable gesture of reassurance.

“Where’s Paden?” Marcail asked at last, in a ‘doesn’t really matter but just wondering’ way. Or she hoped it was. “And Baird? He’s got no excuse, it’s not a school day.”

“Paden has gone to do something for me,” her dad said uninformatively as he handed glasses around. “And you know as well as I do, Baird will come when he can.” His tone didn’t invite any more questions. “Meanwhile, we’ll drink to your health, Marcail Morven Drummond, and wish you wealth, health and happiness and all your heart desires. To join with our spirit guides to bless you, take care of you and show you your path in life. To give you strength and determination to do as you should and to ensure your life is enriched.”

A clap of thunder made all of them jump.

“Is that a sign you’ve said enough, Pa?” Marcail asked, using the nickname Ruari hated. “Time for me to open my presents?”

Her dad appeared discomforted. “Don’t call me Pa,” he said in an automatic way. “Drink your fizz and hold your horses. Don’t rush your fences.”

“Oh glory, he’s in one of his horsey-saying moods,” Bonnie murmured to Marcail, who bit back a snigger. “What next, stop chomping at the bit?”

Marcail rolled her eyes. “Probably or, don’t bet on the wrong horse, or don’t change horse midstream,” she said under her breath.

“What are you two muttering about?” Ruari demanded. “It’s rude to whisper in company.”

“Nice fizz, Dad,” Marcail said hastily. “Nice treat.”

“Nasty word,” Ruari said snippily. “Nice. It’s overused and trite.”

“Sorry.” Marcail had forgotten the word was one of her dad’s bugbears. “It’s got a smooth and dry taste and I’m sure the nose has mango and apricots.”

Her dad shook his head in mock sorrow. Or she hoped it was mock. “Ingrate. Don’t over-egg it, merely say it’s a very pleasant champagne.”

“Darn it.” Marcail threw her hands up in the air in pseudo-annoyance and spoiled the gesture by giggling. “And there I’ve been reading up tasting notes, just to impress you.”

Ruari laughed, his good temper seemingly restored. “No need, love, just enjoy it.”

Marcail nodded and looked towards the table, where she could see a large wicker basket. “Is it not present-opening time? It’s not long till Samhain, and we’ll want it over and done by then, surely?”

Her dad frowned. “As soon as Paden gets back. If it’s too late you can open them after we’ve welcomed those passed over into our lives once more.”

Yet more changes.

“No need, we’re here.”

Marcail swung round to see who’d spoken.

“Baird. When did you arrive?”

 

Chapter Seven

“This minute. Paden came across for me.” Baird held out his arms, and Marcail went into them for a hug.

“And me.”

Oh how she wished.

“You got brought over?” That was something out of the ordinary. Baird usually travelled to the island in his canoe. She opened her mouth to ask why, and out of the corner of her eye saw her dad frown and shake his head.

“Brilliant,” she said instead. “We can get started early then. More time for me to savour my presents.”

“Who says you’ve got any?” Baird said. “Maybe you’re too old for presents now?”

“Ha, in your dreams. I will never be too old for pressies.” Marcail nodded towards the basket on the table. “That’s got my name on it.”

“It’s as well I didn’t buck the trend then. Happy birthday, love.” Baird handed Marcail a slim package just as the old grandfather clock in the hall began a series of groans and wheezes, which signalled it was about to chime. “Just in time.” Baird accepted the glass of champagne his father handed him and held it high. “To Marcail, to wish her all that is right, proper and good.”

Marcail smiled as the others—except Paden—joined in with the salutation. He raised his glass and merely said, “To Marcail.”

“My salutation will be private, ma ghaol, and hopefully be all we both desire.”

Now she was impatient to hear what Paden had to say to her. Before she had time to think properly, she heard him in her mind. “Not until we’ve eaten tonight, sadly. Then we will know if…”

“If?”

Silence.

“If, dammit?”

“Marcail, are you ready to open your presents?” Her mum looked at her quizzically. She glanced around to see everyone staring at her expectantly. All except Paden, who smirked.

“You’ve had one, eh?”

“Stop it now. I need to be with it.”

“Of course,” she said in a composed manner, and sat down in what the family called ‘the birthday chair’. A big old armchair, which family history said had belonged to one of their ancestors who was supposed to be watching over them all. No one said who it was, or why he or she had decided they needed watching. All that had ever been said was it wasn’t Morven.

“Definitely not Morven.” Paden perched on her chair arm, swinging one leg and resting his arm along the top of the back, his fingers almost touching the nape of her neck, as the others sat around in a semicircle. “She watches in other ways.”

Marcail ignored his words. They told her nothing new and she had other things to think about. To whit, to not let herself lean back and invite his caress. Not the time or the place.

Instead she