creaked open, his own heart had stilled. Instead of his golden haired brother, the English woman had stepped out, and then simply stopped, fear so much a part of her that he could almost smell it flooding the pores of her skin.
He looped the leather straps over his back, inserting his arms in holes designed for the haunches of a four legged animal. He was the MacLeod beast of burden, had been since Malcolm had taken their one horse south to England. That poor beast had earned a well deserved rest, being fattened up with that other skeleton of an animal the English woman had ridden north. He was surprised the emaciated creature had made it this far. Woman or beast? Aye, the woman could use some fattening up, too.
And gentling.
Alisdair bent against the resistance of heather choked soil, pulled until clods of earth flew from Geddes’ feet, unearthing one row, then another and another. The muscles of his back and shoulders flexed with the strain and ached in protest, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Habit and strength of will made him ignore the pain in his shoulders and back. The discomfort of his body was a small price to pay next to that of his conscience if he did not work as hard as he could.
He had come too early to the title of laird; he would not compound the tragedy which had elevated him to that status by being a poor leader. Nor would he abdicate his responsibilities, either by selling his own clansmen into slavery as had been rumored of other chiefs, or by demanding rents from tacksmen who were living from day to day on the meager produce garnered from their hidden root crops.
“I’ve a stable you can muck out when you’re finished, brother.” The memory of his brother’s teasing words hung in the air.
It was ironic that after all the hell he had taken from Ian, it was, after all, his fancy education which had saved their lives. Not the education garnered at Edinburgh and on the continent, as he struggled to learn his profession of physician, but the training received, quite literally, at the feet of one of his professors. Dominic Starn was not only a famous biologist, but he had a peculiar leaning for root crops and an affinity for Scottish soil. Alisdair MacLeod often dug in the earth of his don's small yard in Edinburgh while being lectured on muscles, veins, ligaments and bone. He’d done the same here, at Tynan, to the mocking accompaniment of his brother’s amusement. Yet, it was those same turnips and cabbages and potatoes which had ultimately fed the clan, kept the old from dying too young and the young from dying before learning to live.
He and Anne had returned to Tynan after the calling of the clans to the doomed cause of the Bonnie Prince. They had left their home in Edinburgh and returned to the Highlands because he was a MacLeod, not because he wished to fight. After Culloden, he had taken his wife and escaped to the continent, in hopes that his child would be born safe from the blood bath that had been Scotland. But, such was not to be, and once again, he had returned to the place he called home.
Wholesale genocide was the Duke of Cumberland's aim, but he was not going to succeed if he, Alisdair MacLeod, had anything to say about it. As long as a breath of air filtered through his lungs, and his arms could raise the long leather straps of a harness, and his back could bend beneath the savage demands of a plow, he would fight for his people. If once he thought that the drudgery of endless nights of study for exams and tedious days of listening to interminable lectures were hellish, it was little compared to his life of the past two years.
Sometimes, at night, he would nearly sob with fatigue, or genuine pleasure, at the feel of his body lying straight upon his bed. Tears would sometimes squeeze from beneath clenched lids in those stolen moments in the darkness and silence of the night, but Alisdair wouldn't feel ashamed. He was too exhausted to feel shame. Or grief. Or a thousand
He looped the leather straps over his back, inserting his arms in holes designed for the haunches of a four legged animal. He was the MacLeod beast of burden, had been since Malcolm had taken their one horse south to England. That poor beast had earned a well deserved rest, being fattened up with that other skeleton of an animal the English woman had ridden north. He was surprised the emaciated creature had made it this far. Woman or beast? Aye, the woman could use some fattening up, too.
And gentling.
Alisdair bent against the resistance of heather choked soil, pulled until clods of earth flew from Geddes’ feet, unearthing one row, then another and another. The muscles of his back and shoulders flexed with the strain and ached in protest, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Habit and strength of will made him ignore the pain in his shoulders and back. The discomfort of his body was a small price to pay next to that of his conscience if he did not work as hard as he could.
He had come too early to the title of laird; he would not compound the tragedy which had elevated him to that status by being a poor leader. Nor would he abdicate his responsibilities, either by selling his own clansmen into slavery as had been rumored of other chiefs, or by demanding rents from tacksmen who were living from day to day on the meager produce garnered from their hidden root crops.
“I’ve a stable you can muck out when you’re finished, brother.” The memory of his brother’s teasing words hung in the air.
It was ironic that after all the hell he had taken from Ian, it was, after all, his fancy education which had saved their lives. Not the education garnered at Edinburgh and on the continent, as he struggled to learn his profession of physician, but the training received, quite literally, at the feet of one of his professors. Dominic Starn was not only a famous biologist, but he had a peculiar leaning for root crops and an affinity for Scottish soil. Alisdair MacLeod often dug in the earth of his don's small yard in Edinburgh while being lectured on muscles, veins, ligaments and bone. He’d done the same here, at Tynan, to the mocking accompaniment of his brother’s amusement. Yet, it was those same turnips and cabbages and potatoes which had ultimately fed the clan, kept the old from dying too young and the young from dying before learning to live.
He and Anne had returned to Tynan after the calling of the clans to the doomed cause of the Bonnie Prince. They had left their home in Edinburgh and returned to the Highlands because he was a MacLeod, not because he wished to fight. After Culloden, he had taken his wife and escaped to the continent, in hopes that his child would be born safe from the blood bath that had been Scotland. But, such was not to be, and once again, he had returned to the place he called home.
Wholesale genocide was the Duke of Cumberland's aim, but he was not going to succeed if he, Alisdair MacLeod, had anything to say about it. As long as a breath of air filtered through his lungs, and his arms could raise the long leather straps of a harness, and his back could bend beneath the savage demands of a plow, he would fight for his people. If once he thought that the drudgery of endless nights of study for exams and tedious days of listening to interminable lectures were hellish, it was little compared to his life of the past two years.
Sometimes, at night, he would nearly sob with fatigue, or genuine pleasure, at the feel of his body lying straight upon his bed. Tears would sometimes squeeze from beneath clenched lids in those stolen moments in the darkness and silence of the night, but Alisdair wouldn't feel ashamed. He was too exhausted to feel shame. Or grief. Or a thousand
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