Chapter Two #2
“I mean, why are you keeping it in the west hallway, buried in a deacon’s bench, and being nibbled on by rats?
” She didn’t pause through the entire sentence, because that would mean she’d have to suck in more air, and every breath was so laden with rain mist, she might as well be swimming.
That also meant she had to wait before coming up for more air.
“Because the chapel’s lost to us, years past.”
That much was true. It was already roofless, and full of ghosts.
No one went in there anymore, even the ones pretending to be religious.
That was all right with her. She hadn’t managed to get on her knees and say one prayer since leaving the convent school what felt like years ago, but was actually only one.
The Sisters would be mortified. That was all right with Lisle, too. She did her praying standing up; she hadn’t time for any other way. Such was the punishment for being in the midst of one problem or another since becoming a MacHugh, and God wasn’t listening, anyway.
She scrunched her lips together, launched herself up onto the ladder’s edge, and swung her legs back and forth easily this time, since the beam’s weight was putting her higher off the floor than before.
The ladder was offended, and the wood was telling her every bit of it, as it shuddered and groaned in her hands, making it impossible to hang onto for any amount of time. Her own arms were stiff, and her elbows locked, and the shaking of her perch loosened her grip and weakened any kind of hold.
“I’m coming down, Angus!” She was trying to shout it in warning, because he’d ducked beneath the mass of tapestry-draped beam, and she couldn’t stay aloft much longer.
He was dragging something, and not about to let go.
“Angus!”
The wood creaked loudly, drowning out her voice, but the old man was scuttling out without the chest, and glaring at her like it was her fault as he sat there, his hands about his knees in the damp and decay and mess of what had once been a glorious hallway.
“You dinna’ give me enough time, lass! Try again. And stay up longer this time!”
“The ladder’s not going to hold, Angus. We’re going to have to leave it for now.”
“We canna’ leave it. The women will na’ rest.”
“They’ll have nae choice. We can fetch it on the morrow.”
“You doona’ understand. That book’s full of heroes!” He yelled it up at her.
“Well, they’re all dead heroes, Angus! Dead!” She yelled it right back.
“That does na’ change it, lass. You doona’ understand. You were too long in that foreign school. It’s worrisome.”
“Anything I am is worrisome to you. You’d best start changing your tune, or you’ll have to do it without your blessed bagpipes in future. That’s what I’m for thinking.”
“You’re threatening me with my own pipes?”
“I never threaten, Angus. I’m only—” Lisle stopped and swiped a sliver-filled palm against her forehead to force the rain to find other channels to sluice down rather than her eyes, then swallowed around the ball in her throat.
“Forgive me. I won’t hide your pipes another moment. I only did it to protect you.”
“I ken that, lassie. I always did, although it’s a thing that canna’ be done.
Sometimes there’s nae protection anyone can give us.
It’s a Scot thing. We’re that stubborn, that focused, that straightforward.
We’ll never give an inch, na’ one. You’re a Dugall.
You know. You lost four times more clansmen at Culloden last spring than the MacHughs did. Four times.”
“Doona’ remind me,” she said, holding every bit of anguish deep down, so not one bit of it sounded in her words.
“Highland blood runs deep and thick in our veins. It’s na’ something we can change.
I doona’ think we’d wish it changed, even if we could.
That’s why that chest is so important. It’s got the MacHugh family Bible in it, and that book holds the soul and spirit and lifeblood of this clan. We’ve got to get it.”
“What clan, Angus?” she asked. “What? Where? There’s nae MacHugh left. Just you. Three aunts. Four lasses. Me. We’re na’ a clan. We’re na’ much more than wretches, and very soon we’ll be homeless wretches to boot.”
His shoulders drooped. Lisle felt like she was kicking a wounded, great, old stag. His voice warbled when he answered.
“You’re wrong. There’s the lasses. They’re MacHughs. They’re the future. You know that. ’Tis why you protect and nourish them. You know it.”
Lisle sighed. “I’m their stepmother, Angus.
That’s why. You speak of a MacHugh future?
There is na’ one. There’s only the MacHugh lasses.
Not one possessing a dowry, clothing to call her own, and nae schooling beneath her belt, or even a good meal, for that matter.
I’m a failure at protecting and nourishing and making a future for the clan.
I’m a failure at just about anything I do. This included.”
“Nonsense! You’re nae a failure, Mistress. You’re the bravest lass in the isles…mayhap further. Trust auld Angus MacHugh about it.”
“If you doona’ stop that, you’re going to start me crying, and believe it or not, I’m already wet enough, thank you very much.”
He cleared his throat. “One more heft, another bit of swing, for as long as the last one, and I can fetch it. We’ll all be in where it’s dry, and the others will thank us for it. As well as all the MacHughs that have gone before. The dead MacHughs. The hero MacHughs. They’ll thank us, too.”
His voice was solemn and contained an indefinable quality that had Lisle bowing her head, despite herself. He was right. They were going to fetch the chest containing the names of the MacHugh heroes, or they weren’t going back in. It was a Scot thing.
“Amen,” Lisle replied, finally.
“One more good heave and we’ll have it, lass! Trust me. You lift it, and I’ll do the rest.”
He was in a crouch, bare feet sticking out of his black breeches, and ready to crawl beneath the mass the moment she raised it.
Lisle put her hands on the end of the ladder that was now at her eye level.
That’s what came of having one end deeply buried in the roof-beam mass and the other at a crazy angle, reaching up with its bare limbs for more rain. She jumped up.
The beam lifted, held perpendicular by the ladder, which was in the same position.
Lisle kept her elbows locked, held her breath, and didn’t move a thing.
She didn’t dare. The entire structure was groaning, and bending, and swaying and shimmering with raindrops, like some beast seen coming up from a deep loch by a clansman on a fogged morning, with a good dram of whiskey to fortify himself to the seeing.
The beastlike structure wasn’t the only thing complaining. Lisle felt like the cords in her throat were going to come through the skin, her lungs were burning with the denied air, and everything from her waist down felt like so much dead-weight.
Then, the ladder snapped, sending the shock of it straight to her stiff arms, weakening her position as a counterbalance, and shifting everything.
The middle of the debris pile rose, before collapsing into itself in slow motion, allowing her to see every bit of it, and knowing that, once again, God wasn’t answering the prayers she’d been winging in her thoughts.
Chunks of masonry, plaster, wood, and heaven only knew what else flew up with the motion.
Lisle couldn’t close her eyes to it, although she sent the command.
Everything was in open-eyed horror before Angus shot out, shoving a little chest in front of him.
Then, the image of him was obliterated by what looked and felt like one of the ladder rungs, as it hit her squarely on one side of her nose, giving her the first black eye of her life.
The ground, or what could just as easily be hall flooring, was as hard, unforgiving, and cold, and wet as it had looked when she was standing on it.
It felt worse, once she landed on her backside and felt it filling every bit of her own once-gorgeous nightgown with the rainwater mix.
There was nothing for it. She sat there and tried to cry.
Angus was at her elbow then, all concern and anxiety.
“Poor lassie,” he called her as he helped her to her feet.
Lisle had a hand to her eye, making certain it was still there, before she dared open it. She welcomed the smaller man’s arm about her shoulders as he led her over the debris field and back to the dry spot of hall where everyone else had been huddled.
Lisle was grateful there weren’t any mirrors left on the walls as she allowed the group to lead her to the kitchens.
Not that she cared anything about how she looked at the moment, but she still possessed some vanity, and at one point in her recent past, she’d been known as a beauty.
To have that changed in such an ignominious fashion would be the height of indignity.
Actually, the height of it was what greeted her when they reached the kitchens.
There was a fire burning, warming the enclosure for the first time in weeks, and shedding its golden glow onto the beautiful red bricks that lined the room. Everything felt warm and safe, secure, and eternally wrong.
“There’s a fire going. Bless the Lord.”
“Angus,” she said, stopping his praises with the way she said his name.
“What is it, lassie?”
“We haven’t got any wood.”
“But we have, too. Look at the proof yourself. Feel it. Is na’ that the nicest thing you’ve ever felt? Let’s get a good look at that nose of yours. You may have broken it.”
“Angus,” Lisle said again, in the same deadened tone.
He frowned. At least, she thought it was a frown. It was difficult to make out through the steamed mist rising from her soaked, woolen coat and nightgown, and the way her eye was swelling.
“Aye?” he replied gravely.
“Where did we get wood for a fire?”
“From me.” The black devil named Monteith pulled away from the wall and approached. He looked like he was frowning, too, in the minute glance she gave him.