Page 42 of An Allusive Love
One week later
“Ye’ve no’ toldyer brother about yer gooolden angel?”
They were in the formal parlor where Ian had been placed. It was a large room and easily held a large group paying their respects during the week-long wake. It was Colin’s turn to watch over Ian’s body. Lachlan and Brodie had joined him in the formal parlor, and they passed the time as most single men did. They’d drank and shared stories of their women, past and present. Brodie tried again to learn about the female who had taken Lachlan’s fancy. His brother remained tightlipped.
“I was unconscious and out of my wits, Cousin, after dealing with those agitators on the dock,” Lachlan said with gritted teeth. “I might have escaped the knot on my head if ye’d joined us in a timely fashion.”
Brodie snorted at the murder in his brother’s eyes. This would be a story to remember, if only because Lachlan was so desperate for it not to be told.
“Ye can make all the excuses ye want,” Colin said. He slapped Lachlan on the shoulder. “I dinna ken why ye’d keep it quiet. She’s a bonny lass.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut if ye do the same,” warned Lachlan.
Colin laughed. “I have no secrets. I’m a wee infatuated with Miss Rose. She’s a companion to the woman Lachlan lusts after.”
“I—”
Brodie interrupted his brother. “Wait, let’s go back to the angel story.”
Mischief twinkled in Colin’s blue eyes as he smoothed back his raven hair, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. A sign he was warming up for a good tale. “Weel, Lachlan had given one of the chancers on the dock a Glasgow kiss. Had a real goose egg on the back of his head. Sorcha bandaged him up and ordered to him lie down.”
Brodie settled into his chair, arms crossed and a huge grin on his face. “Of course, my brother insisted he was fine.” Sorcha’s brothers had a reputation for pummeling one and another. As the eldest sister of the family, she’d become proficient at mending bones and stitching up gashes. Now a plump middle-aged widow, she’d moved to Glasgow to work in the mill and was the first to be called for any injuries.
“Of course. Sorcha warned him he could get woozy at any time, so he promised to go directly to the office and rest.” Colin winked. “The office is where Fenella, er, Miss Franklin works.”
“I didna want to leave the mill. Kindly leave out yer opinions and recite the facts.” Lachlan scowled at his cousin.
“On his way up the stairs, his head began to spin. One of the lads and Miss Franklin got him to a chair and called for Sorcha. By the saints…” Colin began to laugh, shaking his head as he remembered.
“Go on,” urged Brodie, wondering at Lachlan’s red neck. “My brother is blushing.”
“Miss Franklin began to sponge his face with cool water. Lachlan began mumbling, incoherent at first, but the smile on his face was easy to read. A mon only smiles like that when—”
“Just finish the bloody story before Grandda comes in,” grumbled Lachlan.
“So Sorcha is standing in front of Lachlan, and he mumbles ‘Come here’ and something else we couldna understand. Sorcha leans forward, and…” Colin laughs again, wiping at his eyes. “Lachlan says, ‘Come here my gooolden angel,’ and reaches his hands out to grab Sorcha’s chest.”
Brodie let out a bellow. “What did she do?”
“She grinned and told him to remember he’s a long time dead and—”
“I didna touch them,” spluttered Lachlan. “I collected my wits.”
Brodie hugged his stomach as he joined Colin, their guffaws echoing against the walls. Just as they caught their breath, Calum wandered in with a small barrel of ale.
“Sounds like a good story.” He sat down next to Brodie.
“For another time, Grandda,” pleaded Lachlan. He reached over and took the keg, filling his cup. “This is half empty.”
“Aye, right,” Calum agreed and turned to Colin. “I’m ready to hear what happened to my grandson that day. Ye’re my brother’s son and my favorite nephew, so it’s best coming from ye than anyone else.”
The smiles faded and the big man nodded. “It’s no’ pretty.”
“Death never is,” agreed Calum.
Brodie listened to Colin’s retelling of the events in Manchester, England. A peaceful congregation of citizens, an almost carnival-like atmosphere with thousands of men, women, and children waving banners. A band played as they waited to hear The Orator speak on the working man’s right to vote and fair representation.
The cavalry of mostly local volunteers arrived. Townspeople waved and smiled, assuming they had been ordered to attend in case there was any mischief. But when Henry Hunt began to speak, the cavalry moved their horses into the swarm and drew their sabers. Terror had rippled through the packed mass of bodies. The soldiers had pushed the crowd from several sides, yelling to disperse, as they slashed their way to the platform. With nowhere for the people to escape, it had been a massacre.
