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“Does your name have a clan marker?” I asked.
“It does.” He gestured forward, inviting me to find it with him.
We strolled through the grass, pausing to study each marker in turn. The worst of my crying jag passed, and I could read the names without tears clouding my vision. I barely sniffled any more at all.
Duncan gave me a sidelong glance. “This is really unfair of you, you know.”
“What is?”
“A pretty American woman who comes to Culloden to cry over our dead? It’s hard to resist.”
That compliment swelled inside me, squeezing out the sorrow that had gripped my heart and replacing it with the warmth of being praised by this handsome Scot. He might have taken his words back if he’d guessed how quickly my mourning had turned into exultation.
“Ah, here we are.” He stopped in front of a marker. “Clan Stewart.”
He touched his fingertips to his forehead and gestured toward the marker, a little salute to the long-gone men who’d died here. The rough-hewn stone was like the others we’d passed, largely unremarkable except for where we were.
“It’s unreal to have such a tie to history.”
He exhaled a soft laugh, shifting close enough his shoulder brushed mine. “I feel I must tell you, I can’t guarantee direct lineage. We claim this branch of the Stewarts, but I haven’t looked into it to verify.”
“I won’t dig into it, then. Still, I wouldn’t even know where to start looking to find any part of the Clarke family tree. My dad always jokes that we’re American mutts—a little bit of everything. I think we’re on the Irish side of the Clarkes, but we don’t really have a connection to it. Nothing like our name carved in stone on a battlefield, or a tartan just for us.”
“On behalf of Clan Stewart, I invite you to wear our tartan whenever you want.”
My ribcage fizzed with the warmth of that sweet offer. If he was trying to charm me, it was working.
“I didn’t know the English banned kilts and tartans.” The plaid prints were such a well-known symbol of the country, the fact that they’d been forbidden for any amount of time seemed unbelievable.
“Makes me wish I’d worn one today, to be honest.”
“Do you wear one?” My question probably came out a little too eager.
“I’ve been known to on occasion.”
Hello, Highlander.I looked away before he could figure out just how vividly I was imagining the scene. I didn’t have to work hard to conjure up a picture of him in a kilt showing off his toned calves. Throw a sword into the mix, and I just might swoon.
We wandered back to the information center, pausing to acknowledge clan markers along the way. Bea and Rupert examined a sign by the entrance but strode over to meet us.
“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” Bea sounded more gossipy than reverential. “You’re not the only one with tragic history, Molly.”
I had to guess she meant the American Civil War instead of my personal life, but the comment came across so vague, I had no way of knowing. My broken relationships had little in common with a field of dead, but maybe Bea saw things differently.
“Of course,” she went on, “all of this could have been avoided had they just accepted King George’s rule.”
My eyes drifted to Duncan’s. “And what do the volunteers here think of your theory?” I asked.
She gestured as though brushing the volunteers’ opinions away. “They have a more nationalistic view of it.”
“They would,” Duncan said dryly.
Lewis rounded everyone up, guiding us toward the parking lot. We would have just enough time to return to the lodge for lunch before setting out again for Loch Ness.
Before climbing on board the bus, Duncan turned to me and spoke low. “The banning of the tartans was unforgivable, but for this monstrosity, I’d be willing to make an exception.”
“I don’t know, it’s growing on me.” I patted the tartan-bedecked bus’s frame. “Good old Tarty.”
He barked a laugh. “Old Tarty? I’m not sure you’ve thought that through.”
