Sunday, September 21, 2008


Well, I could na say as I blamed him...about th’ shoes I mean, though I were right put out about his denyin’ me. But too late, fer he’d brung observance down upon his wee head.

Th’ Captain turned and took note o’ him.

“State yer name.” Th’ Captain says as I latched onto me husband’s arm in an effort t’ look supported an’ innocent.

“Malcolm.” He says, lookin’ sgian dubhs at me.

“And your Sir name.” Sighs th’ Captain.

“MacGregor.” Me husband mutters.

Hmmm. That were news t’ me as we hadn’t yet got t’ that part what wit’ me bein’ gone an’ all.

“Aye! An’ that would make me th’ La-day MacGregor.” I says givin’ a mock curtsy.

“Ye did na e’en know ye were th’ Lady MacGregor until jus’ now.” Me husband growls in me ear. I admit, I likes it whence he growls.

“Aye. But I did know th’ Malcolm part.” I shot back in a whisper.

“Silence!” that from th’ Captain.

“You are the husband then?” he inquires.

“Aye!” I replied fer him. “This be me husband, one Malcolm MacGregor! Now if ye’ll excuse us we’ve married life t’ be attend’ t’ an'..."

“Madame, shut your gob.” Says th’ Captain.

Aye well, it would na be th’ last time he’d say that t’ me this day.

“Fine.” I says. But I didn't.

Well, I debated it back an forth wit' th' Captain an' e'en demanded an audience wit' th' Price, which earned me no distinguished marks. But me somewhat vociferous protestations only served t' rouse th' Colonel an' he arrived lookin' rumpled wit' a chicken bone in one hand, a goblet o' port in th' other an' me death warramt along wit' some half-chewed meat an' a bit o' his beard on his tongue.

Th' Colonel do na like being roused owin' as t' how he be excessively lumpish an' generally in a nefarious mood by nature. Though iffen I'd o' saved some o' them scones I might o' been able t' distract him.

Scones? I thought. Scones! Drat! Th' Lady Cameron an' her tight arsed, fancy ilk were behind this! An' know ye, th' Lady Cameron be no lackin' in behind.

I were kind o' perplexed thinkin', can ye really be hanged then fer fartin' at th' Ladies Tea? And how then will this look in th' history books?

“Seize his weapon.” Came th’ Duke's order as th’ guards stepped forward t’ relieve Malcolm o’ his dirk, which now that I thinks on it were probably a lucky thing fer me as th’ look he shot me could o’ withered a fresh thistle.

But they were na content wit’ jus’ that and th’ Captain turned t’ me mates Merlyn and Lord Talon who’d been watchin’ th’ arraignment from the blanket.

Me other mates, Mad Peg, Screamin’ Lily Rose, th’ Lady Shawna an’ Bloody De’d Aim, who were me favorite an’ mos’ accurate wit’ a blunderbuss at 44 paces-though that weren’t helpin’ me now-sat lookin’ unarmed an’ helpless.

“Pirates.” He proclaimed.

And so it were that under guard we three, meself, Merlyn an’ Lord Talon, were marched off t’ adjoin wit’ our fate.

I looked back one las’ time t’ see me husband settle his arse upon our picnic blanket- th’ verra picnic meant t’ celebrate our handfastin’-as Mad Peg passed him a wooden bowl.

“Cheese?” she politely inquired.

He picked out a hunk an’ began t’ delicately nibble upon it givin’ great care t’ lickin’ all th’ edges first fer ants, his eyes ne’er leavin’ mine until I were yanked offen me boots by an insolent an’ scraggy guard an’ marched at bayonet point t’ th’ British outpost.

Th’ last thing I heard afore they shoved me int’ th’ tunnel leadin’ outside th’ walls o' th' Fort were Mad Peg sayin’ “We’ve Irish Potatoes as well.”

Like I said, Mad Peg ain’t much o’ a liar.


*Stay tuned for Part Th’ Sixth

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