If Not For Love - A Highland Romance

Chapter 2

 Two

"I don't see how anyone slept in these things."

"I dinna think they did," Tavish says, grinning at me as I try to get comfortable in the hammock stretching across one of the small cells. His blue eyes are bright, his auburn mane hanging loose, framing his rugged Scottish features.

Our tour of the Inveraray Jail has been quite an experience, and I mean literally. The old jail is an interactive museum where visitors can experience a little of what it was like for the inmates there long ago.

"I'm sure 'tis better than the wooden beds and pillows they slept on for the first thirty days they were here," he adds.

"Ye're probably right," I say, attempting to get up. Tavish grabs my hand and pulls me up. "Thanks." I stretch my back. "A good masseuse would have come in handy back then."

"True," he agrees. "But they wouldna ha been used for such innocent purposes, if ye ken what I mean."

"I hear ya loud and clear. Bad idea."

"I'm no saying the sentiment wouldna ha been appreciated."

I laugh, loving his sense of humor. He is definitely full of surprises.

Like leaving my cottage yesterday with the promise of seeing me again soon, then pulling up last night with a walnut carrot cake from Brambles, my favorite bistro and bakery in Inveraray. He also brought cider because neither of us drink, a fact that still blows my mind. He'd stayed and we talked until late. I walked him to his car, we said goodbye, and he drove away, having made plans to take me out today. And here we are.

Today is the first time I've toured the jail since coming to Inveraray and I'm glad Tavish brought me. He has made the whole experience fun and has shared some insightful thoughts with each exhibit. Like the room where some of the old punishments can be sampled by visitors.

He turns the crank machine that males prisoners had to turn 14,400 times a day. By tightening the screw, the warden could make it harder for the prisoner to turn.

"If this was used in prisons today, I think there wouldna be so much complacency in them, no matter how well the inmates fare with the care. Of course, there would be no need for weight sets either, which would save money."

"In a quirky sort of way, you're right."

"What does quirky mean?"

"It means strange, weird. Not that you are strange or weird."

"Och, maybe I am at times, but I'm glad you don't think so."

"Not yet anyway."

He raises a brow and snorts and I laugh. "Feisty lass."

"Oh, you have no idea."

We move on to the courtroom where over six thousand men, women and children were sentenced, some of the children guilty of nothing more serious than stealing a turnip or loaf of bread because of hunger. The jail still has the prison records. The room is set up like a circuit court in session. There are life-like figures on display and a recording of a court case is played over the speakers. We are actually listening to transcripts based on real trials held here long ago. It's a pretty incredible setup.

"That's the way I looked a few times during dull writers workshops," I say, gesturing to the figure of the tired old judge up on the bench.

"I dinna think you couldha looked that bad. That poor fellow looks like he had a run in with ole Medusa herself."

I smack a hand over my mouth, muffling a loud laugh. "Maybe he just had a bad day. Definitely had bad hair."

He laughs. "Ta be sure."

We sit for a while longer, then Tavish takes my hand and we head to the gift shop to browse before going to grab a late lunch.

* * *

Inver Cottage–once the old castle Lachlan–is a cozy little restaurant on the shores of Lachlan Bay, Loch Fyne, and it is one of Tavish's favorite places to dine. The view is beautiful, the atmosphere is relaxing and the food is amazing. He told me the owners took the restaurant over from previous generations of MacLachlans, distant relatives of his. After dining on salmon and smoked haddock fishcakes and sticky toffee pudding, we talk over tea.

"So, explain the whole clan thing ta me. I've read a bit about it, but I would like to hear about from the source, so to speak."

Tavish stirs his tea. "Well, I'll tell ye what I ken, but I'm no expert."

"That's okay, you're the next best thing."

He chuckles. "Since you put it that way. Well, a clan is sort of a group of kin. Most share the family names in one form or another, and each clan is recognized, identified and logged. We clans have our own tartan patterns. Most, like me own Clan MacLachlan, have several, some of the patterns verra old. A clan's family tartan represents the district they are from and we are identified by it. Like the Clan MacLachlan district is the Argyll area, Clan Colquhoun's origin is the Loch Lomond area."

"Like the song, and the Loch Ness monster, and so forth," I interrupt with a wide smile, making him laugh.

"Aye, like tha'." He pauses, fingering a pattern on the tablecloth and I find myself mesmerized by the movement of his large hand, as well as his voice. "Many clans have a Clan Chief. The ones that dinna have a chief are called armigerous clans, which is a clan that once had a chief but have no coat of arms with marks distinguishing birth order or family position. The coat of arms is usually passed from the father ta the oldest male heir. It would identify him as chief. So basically the chief-less clan is adopted in. And no every person who bears a clan's name is a descendant of the chief. Many clansmen took the chief's surname as their own ta show solidarity, or for protection and food."

"I read a little about the Jacobite uprising and how the clanship was destroyed."

"Aye. Today it would be called 'ethnic cleansing.' The Duke of Cumberland basically had Jacobite supporters butchered. Tartan was soon banned, then the ruling was overturned."

It is such a sad history, and we take a moment to ponder all that has been shared. I finally smile, lifting my tea cup. "How grateful I am that the ban was lifted. A highlander would not be a highlander without a kilt."

He grins. "No, it wouldna be normal. No to mention I would have ta stock up on breeks, and then worry about chafing."

Coughing, I almost choke on my tea. He reaches over, patting me gently on the back and I cover my mouth with a napkin. "That–" I cough again, "really would be a worry. Of course, you would–"

"Well, hello, Tavish." The perky voice cuts me off and I look up at the flaming-haired, shapely woman.

Tavish looks up, his expression unreadable. "Molly."

"How hav' ye been?" she asks.

"Fine."

Cutting her eyes to me, she leans in toward Tavish a little. "Might I talk to ye a moment?"

"Not now."

"Please. I just got back and it's important."

As I sit listening to her, the last excerpt I added to my manuscript yesterday flashes in my mind and I mentally cringe. Not a lost love. Please don't let her be a lost love.

Tavish looks at me. "I'm sorry, I'll only be a moment." He gives me a half smile as he stands and I draw forth a smile in return.

As I watch them walk away with Molly's hand attached to his arm, I realize my heart is in a vulnerable position, a place it has never been before, and it is now sporting an ache I have never experienced.

I have never been a person whose head turned easily and I hold to my heart tighter than I should. I have always listened my head first, but it seems that my head, with all it's logic, is being overruled. This is definitely a first.

And I haven't the faintest idea how to handle it.