Chapter 17
‘Who’s the hottie?’
Giselle laughed at Izzy’s excited voice. ‘Good morning to you, too.’
‘Well?! Who is he?’
Yesterday evening, Giselle had sent her sister some photos of Lealt Falls, the Quiraing and the other places she’d visited over the past few days. Rocco had featured in a couple of them.
‘The castle’s new owner,’ she replied.
‘Flipping heck, Zelle, he’s bellissimo! Are you two…?’
‘No, we’re not.’ She deliberately didn’t think of the kiss at the Fairy Glen, and she’d been deliberately not thinking about it ever since it had happened. ‘He wanted someone to show him the highlights of Skye, that’s all.’
‘If you ask me, he’s one of the highlights,’ Izzy shot back. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but why you?’
‘Thanks!’ She’d been asking herself the same thing.
‘What I meant was, why ask you to play tour guide and not Cal? Is it because he fancies you?’
‘I doubt it.’ She’d been asking herself that too, but the far more likely explanation was that he knew her. They had a shared history, however brief.
‘I thought he was selling the place?’
‘He is.’
‘So why are you getting into bed with the enemy?’
I wish! she nearly said out loud.
Izzy continued, ‘Are you hoping you can persuade him to change his mind?’
‘He won’t.’
‘Shame. I can just picture him in a kilt, acting all lord-like.’
So could Giselle. ‘I’ll be seeing lots of men in kilts today,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘I’m off to the Highland Games.’
‘Och, now I’m feeling homesick. I can’t remember the last time I went to the games.’
‘You must be due a visit soon,’ Giselle pleaded. She missed her sister so badly.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Giselle had to be content with that, because there was no way she could afford to visit Izzy. They chatted for a while longer, Giselle studiously avoiding any further mention of Rocco, then she realised the time. ‘Gotta run; I need to get ready. Love you, Izzy.’
‘Love you too, Zelle.’
A fizzing excitement partly eclipsed the familiar ache in Giselle’s chest from missing Izzy this morning, brought on by the thought of spending the day with Rocco.
When he’d told her he was delaying his return home in order to go to the games, her heart had soared.
Her fragile, treacherous heart, which was going to get itself broken if she wasn’t careful.
A recklessness filled her, despite the certainty that her growing feelings for him would end in tragedy. She’d take whatever she could get, however small, however fleeting, and if she regretted it afterwards, so be it.
The rolling of the drums swiftly followed the call of the pipe major
as he brought the band to arms, then the first swelling, uplifting notes
of the bagpipes soared into the air. The sound made the hairs on the
back of Giselle’s neck rise. She loved the bagpipes, and the sight of so
many blue-kilted marchers with their pipes and drums filled her with
patriotic pride. The band would march from the square in the centre of
Portree to the field on the headland above the town, where the games
would take place, officially opening the ceremony.
Crowds lined the streets, falling in behind the procession, and Giselle grabbed Rocco’s hand to avoid them being separated. The excitement was palpable, and she was thoroughly caught up in it; and when she looked at Rocco’s face, he was also wearing a great big smile.
‘I can hardly hear myself think!’ he shouted, his breath warm on her ear, and she shivered in response.
He was still holding her hand when they reached the tree-lined open space overlooking Loch Portree, and didn’t seem in any hurry to let go.
A large central area was cordoned off for the participants, and people were already gathering around it.
From experience, Giselle knew that the best place to watch the games was the elevated ground to one side, and she led him towards it to stake a claim.
Kilts and tartan abounded (she was wearing a tartan skirt herself), and everywhere was a riot of colour.
Vans and stalls selling food and drink were dotted around, and the smell of frying onions and doughnuts hung in the air.
A hot dog or a burger wouldn’t go amiss later, but for now a coffee and a doughnut would suffice while they watched the marching bands battle it out, followed by the dancing competitions, which would take place on a stage set up to one side.
Giselle, like most Scottish children, had learnt traditional dance in school, and she couldn’t help tapping her feet and pointing her toes when the Highland Fling was performed. Her favourite, though, was the Ghillie Callum – known in English as the Sword Dance.
‘It originated as a dance of war,’ she told Rocco.
They were drinking their coffee sitting on a tartan blanket that Giselle had brought with her for this very purpose, and were watching four tartan-skirted girls in long white socks and soft black pumps dance around four swords placed in a cross on the ground.
Every time they jumped and spun, Giselle could feel herself wanting to jump and spin with them.
‘Can you dance like that?’ Rocco asked, as her body swayed next to his.
‘I can, but not half as well as these girls.’
‘I’d like to see you dance.’ His eyes were full of mischief.
‘You will later, at the ceilidh. I’m expecting you to dance as well, mind.’
‘Me? No chance. I’ve got two left feet. Anyway, I don’t know the steps.’
‘Och, it’s easy. I’ll teach you.’
He pulled a face, and she laughed at his expression. ‘You wanted the full Skye experience, so don’t complain if that’s what you get.’
‘Yeah, but dancing?’
‘It’ll be fun,’ she assured him.
‘We’ll see.’ His tone implied that it definitely wasn’t going to happen, but if she plied him with a wee dram or two of whisky, she thought she might get him on the dance floor.
Along with the dancing, the putting the stone competition (which was similar to the shot put, but involved an eighteen-pound actual stone instead of a steel ball) and the long jump were going ahead at the same time.
Each attempt was accompanied by lots of cheering and clapping.
The spectators were having as much fun as the participants, and with a crowd a couple of thousand strong, the noise was incredible.
Then an even louder roar went up as the over-the-bar entrants were called onto the field.
‘What is over the bar?’ Rocco asked.
‘See that contraption? The one that looks like the highest high jump in the world? That’s the bar. The aim is to stand with your back to it and throw a fifty-six-pound weight over it. Like the high jump or the pole vault, the bar will get higher each time.’
When the ceremonial chieftain (who was overseeing the games) announced that the bar was currently sitting at fifteen feet ten inches, there was a collective gasp and a round of applause.
‘Dear God, I don’t think I could lift fifty-six pounds, let alone throw it into the air over my shoulder!’ Rocco exclaimed. ‘That’s…’ He squinted. ‘Four stone, or twenty-five kilos!’
‘I’m sure you can lift more than four stone,’ she teased. ‘I bet you could even pick me up.’
‘I expect I could, but I couldn’t throw you far.’
‘Anyway, if you think that’s heavy, wait until you see the caber. It’s one hundred and twenty-five pounds and about sixteen feet long.’
‘You lot are nuts. Who was the first person who saw a tree and thought, I know, I’m going to pick that up and toss it? And then turn it into a sport!’
But Giselle noticed that he cheered and clapped and laughed and groaned along with everyone else, as cabers were lifted and tossed – or not lifted, in some cases.
One poor chappie actually toppled over backwards when he tried to carry it.
And when the current favourite stepped up to the mark, Rocco joined in with the rhythmic clapping.
Giselle found she was having as much fun watching Rocco’s delighted face as she was watching the games itself.
‘Aren’t you glad you stayed for this?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely! This is so much fun.’
‘It’s not over yet. Look, they’re getting ready for the tug of war.’
With much stamping of feet and digging heels into the ground for purchase, the two teams lined up along a length of rope, their supporters egging them on with lots of shouting and screaming. Rocco was shouting as loudly as anyone.
‘Which team are you rooting for?’ she yelled above the noise.
‘I don’t care who wins,’ he replied, whistling as one team dragged the other across a line only the umpire could see.
He was hoarse by the time the games drew to a close. ‘I need a drink,’ he rasped.
‘Let’s go for something to eat,’ Giselle suggested; the hot dog she’d consumed for lunch seemed like an awful long time ago.
‘Good idea.’
‘Most places will be packed, so I’m up for a fish supper if you are. We’ll celebrate your last evening on Skye in style.’ She couldn’t believe he was leaving tomorrow, and she’d been trying not to think about it all day. The thought of him not being around was poking a hole in her heart.
‘About that…’ he began. ‘Would you mind if I stayed a while longer?’
Would she mind? Hell, no!
Was it wise? Again, hell, no.
Was it delaying the inevitable? It was, but she didn’t care. She felt like a prisoner who’d been given a stay of execution.
‘I don’t mind.’ Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
‘Good,’ he replied. Then he kissed her.
Rocco had assumed the ceilidh would be held in a pub, but when Giselle took him to what looked like an old chapel hidden away behind the colourfully painted houses lining Portree’s harbour, he was surprised.
‘This is the Gathering Hall,’ she said. ‘I love the name; it makes me think of the gathering of the clans in olden times, when they’d get together for things like the Highland Games. This building is only 150 years old, though.’
‘That’s olden times, isn’t it?’