Secrets to Seducing a Scot

FIFTEEN

That very midnight, near Invergarry, nearly a hundred men met on a remote field, their torches blazing. As they drew together from all directions, their lit torches looked like an explosion happening in reverse.

In the dark, their differing tartans looked much the same. It was just as well, since they were there for a common purpose.

“Tomorrow’s the Games, lads,” said Guinnein Kinross, heartily shaking hands with a MacLaren. “Hope ye’re ready for a Kinross thrashing.”

“Still think ye’re a match for the MacDonnels, Kinross?” interrupted a MacDonnel man. “Or did last year’s Games not convince ye?”

Brandubh McCullough planted his flaming torch in the wet ground. “There will not be a contest among us this year, men,” he said. “Tomorrow we play to a different aim altogether.”

The firelight played on the underside of Brandubh McCullough’s face, giving his handsome features a ghoulish appearance. “We’ve thrown down the gauntlet to the English. They know we’ll not be paying their tax. By now that Marsh fellow, the one they sent to tell us to draw off, will have sent word to Parliament. England will be readying her troops. And when they step foot on Scottish soil, I want us to be ready.

“By my reckoning, there will be twenty-seven clans at the Games tomorrow. Not all of them sympathize with our cause. The heads of fifteen of those clans live in English pockets, and speak with English tongues. That leaves twelve of us to carry the protests of the people into battle.

“Tomorrow, our men will not be there for trophies and rewards. Our men will be there for training. Tomorrow, we’ll be perfecting our battle skills. Our weapons of war will be the clachneart, the caber, and the pitchfork. I want us to be fit and strong and fast. Forget the piping and the dancing. Yer people will be training at swordplay and wrestling and tug o’ war. Because that, gentlemen, is what we’ll be preparing for. A war.”

A shout erupted from the gathering.

MacLaren shook McCullough’s hand. “Don’t ye worry, son. There is no’ an Englishman alive that can take one of my lads. We’ve been waiting for this day since my grandfather was a boy. The time has come for us to stand up to the tyranny of the Protestant king. Scotland will be bullied no longer. What do ye say to that, lads?”

Another shout erupted from the men as they stabbed their torches into the night air.

Brandubh McCullough took up his torch from the damp earth. “Scottish home rule, gentlemen. That is the real trophy. Tomorrow, we train champions!”

Their collective shouts split the night.

And when the men finally dispersed, their outgoing torches formed an explosion in the right direction.