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THE WILD ROSE OF KILGANNON
Prologue
Kilgannon.
Home. There were times when I thought I’d never
see it again. The air was cold this winter morning,
and the sun glinted off the water, turning it
from sapphire to silver. Above us the mountains
loomed deep blue against the pale sky; white clouds
scudded overhead. And the bare branches of the
trees reminded me that this was the season of
death. So much death.
All those months,
when I had dreamed of coming home, I’d assumed
we would all be together. If we were wise, we
would visit those who were still here, and the
grave, and then we’d leave, away in the dark like
the criminals we’d become. I glanced at the blond
man standing so quietly next to me, then gripped
the rail of the Mary Rose and watched us turn
into the inner loch. And a few moments later,
as we sailed around the headland, there it was,
the most beautiful home on earth. The dark stones
rose into the sky, the roof over the keep pointing
at the clouds. The gulls overhead called their
welcome to us. Kilgannon. Home.
It was the same
and I sighed with relief. There was our room,
there the parapet where I’d watched so many sunsets.
And there, in the meadow beyond the castle itself,
was the knoll where Alex had given the prizes,
and where I had welcomed him home. And in front
of me now, the dock where we had welcomed the
MacDonald to change our lives. Next to me the
boys bounced impatiently and I smiled at their
eagerness as I took a deep breath. Nowhere else
on earth smelled like Kilgannon. The sea met
the mountains and their scents mixed with the
fragrance of roses. Roses. Impossible, but there
it was. Kilgannon smelled like heaven. I turned
to look over the boys’ heads, to the other side
of the loch, where the grave was, and I sighed.
It would be, I knew, the first place we’d visit.
“Home,” I said.
“It seems so
strange without him,” said Matthew quietly, following
my gaze. “How can it be home if he’s no’ here?”
“He is here,”
I said softly, turning to him as he towered over
me, his handsome face drawn. “He is here, Matthew,”
I said again.
Next to me,
Ian nodded. “It is home,” he said and looked
up at me. I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder.
“And I’m glad
to be here,” Jamie said, his voice bright.
“So am I,” said
the blond man next to me, his voice full of emotion.
When I turned to him, he gave me a weary smile
and I patted his arm, knowing he felt the empty
space next to us.
I had imagined
that Kilgannon would be deserted, that all the
people would be gone, but the hills were dotted
with tartan-clad figures running toward the loch,
and on the dock a small group waved. Despite
my best efforts, I felt tears fall as the first
lonely strains of “MacGannon’s Return” came over
the water to us.
Home.
I closed my
eyes for just a moment. And remembered.
Chapter
One
Scotland,
October 1715
Regret is a
cold companion and I lived with it for months
after Alex left me. It was with me always, but
never more than at the end of the day, when I
would climb the stairs of the keep and watch the
sun go down behind a blue island. Alone.
It kept me company
later that autumn, when we women tried to keep
Kilgannon alive with the children and the handful
of me left behind. And was with me as we gathered
the meager harvest, tried our hand at fishing,
rounded up the cattle, and moved them to their
winter grazing. At night I tried not to think
as I bandaged my blistered hands and laughed with
the others at our new skills. But regret was
never far away. It stood with me as I watched
the last of the men leave on the brigs to join
the others, their sons gleeful, their wives crying.
Regret came
into its own as the autumn nights approached winter
and I stood at the windows watching icy rain run
in streams down the panes. It was mid-September
when Alex left to go to war, four weeks after
his birthday and a week before mine. Regret was
the guest of honor at my scanty birthday celebration,
organized by Ellen to cheer me. I did my best
to appear merry as I thanked her. And I was grateful
to have her with me, for I could not imagine life
without her now. It was difficult to remember
that she had once been a housemaid in my aunt’s
London home. She never complained, though she
was suffering the loss of wee Donald, her sweetheart,
gone off with Alex. That regret was also Ellen’s
companion did not ease my burden; it only sharpened
it.
The long October
and November nights passed slowly. Sleepless,
I roamed the halls of Kilgannon, making speeches
in my head, remembering what had happened in each
part of the house, staring at the family portraits
as though they had something to tell me.
I regretted
I had let him go. I regretted that he went.
I regretted that he had not chosen mine above
all other claims, that I could not accept his
choice with grace. That I had let my husband
leave knowing my anger and my fear. I should
have told him I had every confidence in him and
his people, but I had only wept and told him he
would lose. And I regretted, in those long hours,
that there had been no child of this union, and
perhaps never would be. I stood on that parapet
every evening, watching the blue islands and bartering
with God for just one more night with my love.
How many women, over the centuries, I wondered,
had stood staring off into space and wishing their
men home? I don’t care who is king, I
told the stones. Just bring my love home to
me. But the stones kept their silence and
eventually I descended and joined the others.
One thing I
did not regret was loving Alex, nor marrying him
and coming to this impossible place. Meeting
Alexander MacGannon that summer night in 1712
had changed my life forever. He was unlike any
man I’d ever known, and I’d been fascinated from
the start with the blond giant who strode into
my aunt’s ballroom with his Highland clothing,
impeccable manners, and enchanting smile. He
was honest and direct, full of humor and disdainful
of the conventions London adhered to so slavishly.
And the most handsome man I’d ever seen. That
had not changed with marriage. I still caught
my breath when he moved toward me, still was enthralled
by his touch, and still moved to passion I’d never
known could exist. Even after two years of marriage,
all he had to do was flash those blue eyes at
me and I was his.
And now he was
gone to war and with him had gone all my hope
for happiness, for it was my own country he fought.
And how I had struggled with that. And with him,
begging him not to join the Jacobites, not to
commit treason. For it was treason. And folly.
I knew they could not win, could not hope to taunt
the might of the English military and win. No
matter how glorious their intentions, no matter
how heartfelt their convictions or gallant their
warriors, they would lose.
Politics did
not matter to me. Alex did. And in my more honest
moments with myself, I even admitted a grudging
respect for his decision. I knew he loved me,
but I also knew he would always put duty and loyalty,
as he saw it, first. I did not regret that in
him, only that I had ever let the MacDonalds and
MacKinnons through the door. When they’d come
to ask Alex to raise the clan in James Stewart’s
defense, I should have been ruthlessly rude and
driven them away. But I might as well have tried
to stop the tide as prevent Alex from joining.
Regret was with
me, of course, on that cold and windy evening
when the news came that the battle of Sherrifmuir
had been fought on November 13th. The runner,
a MacDonald, shivered as he stood before us.
“Five Kilgannon
men killed,” he said, naming them. “Had any other
Kilgannon men died, I would have been told.”
Ellen, at my
side, gave a sigh of relief.
The runner frowned.
“But . . . Lady Mary, yer lord was wounded.”
The boys exclaimed
and I rose from my chair. “Alex? Wounded?”
“He was alive
when I left, but . . .”
I stared
over his head, filled once again with regret.
Alex.
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ISBN: 0440235685
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