Moodie

by L. L. Muir

  Beside the stove was an opening to a small room beyond, with the leg of a table just visible. A kitchen, then.

  Thankfully, the stove gave off ample heat for the room, at least, and he couldn’t resist moving nearer whether the dog approved or no. Moodie kicked off his wet boots and approached it with hands extended, savoring the pain that accompanied blood rushing into his cold fingers after so many years of feeling nothing at all.

  The woman returned and approached him with her hands full of folded clothing, all shades of gray. She shook her head as she handed them over. “What kind of idiot are you?”

  “Hey?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I asked what kind of an idiot are you, taking a boat out on the Pentland Firth this time of year? It’s basically suicide.”

  Moodie scowled at her. “Look here, wench, I doonae ken where ye come from, but in my part of the world, it is impolite to call someone an eejit when first ye meet them.”

  “In my part of the world, which you are in, by the way, it is impolite to scowl at people who give you dry clothes. But you’re free to leave if you find my company so unpleasant.”

  “Aye, I might at that,” he grumbled. And good riddance to her. Enchanting or no, she was clearly too graumoch for his taste. “Just point me in the direction of the closest village.” He tried to hand the clothes back, but she pushed them away and gaped at him.

  “The closest...” She grunted. “Dude, do you know where you are?”

  “Um, aye,” Moodie replied. “If that be the Pentland Firth, this be Scotland.” He smiled to himself. No true Scot would mistake the weather outside for anything but a North Sea storm, even without the hint she’d given.

  “Well, yeah, I would hope you would know what country you’re in. But do you know where?”

  “Erm…”

  “This is Stroma. You know, uninhabited island. Has been for the last twenty years.”

  Uninhabited. As in, no people. Which meant no one in need of heroic assistance. “Nay,” he said. “It cannot be…”

  “I mean, I get that you wrecked your boat. It happens. It’s actually why no one lives here anymore. But still. No people. No village. Sorry.”

  “You live here,” Moodie argued.

  She raised one delicious eyebrow at him. Auch, she was bonny.

  He shrugged. “I only point out that ye said no one lived here, but you live here.”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s just me.”

  At that moment, a prick of cold touched the back of Moodie’s hand. He swore and snatched his arm away. He’d forgotten about the dog, whom he pointed at. “Not just you, then, is it?”

  “Nope. But then Fergus isn’t quite a village either, is he?” She narrowed her eyes at the beast. “If you’re going to be in here, you’re going to stay out of the way. Go lie down.”

  Fergus gave her the most pitiable look, then lowered his chin nearly to the floor and moved to the rug by the rocking chair where he turned in a circle before he lay down.

  The lass rolled her eyes. “Hard to believe he’s the alpha, isn’t it?”

  “Alpha?”

  “Yeah. Long story.”

  “I am happy ye have him for protection, at least. He made certain I kenned he was captain of yer guard.”

  “Did he?” She brightened. “Maybe there’s hope.” She waved a hand. “Don’t mind me. Sorry for calling you an idiot. Sorry you’re stuck with me for a host.” She pointed to the gray clothes. “And sorry if they don’t fit. That’s all there is. I guess you could wrap up in the blanket while your clothes dry…” She blushed and cleared her throat, then turned her face to the stove and rubbed her hands together.

  Moodie stared at her for a moment while resisting the urge to growl in frustration. Needless to say, he was well out of practice talking to women, and come to think of it, he’d not done so well conversing with Soncerae a wee while ago.

  Had it been half an hour since he’d been standing on the moor in the middle of the night, beside the enchanted fire?

  The imp faced him once more and held out her hand. “I’m Penny.”

  “Moodie,” he replied.

  She snorted. “You got that right.”

  Fetching or nae, I doonae care for her at all.

  Chapter Three

  What an ass.

  Penny took another towel from the drawer and dropped to the floor to mop up the rain that had sneaked in around the door. She let her hair drape forward to hide her face. “You can change in the bathroom. First door on the right.” She never heard him leave the room, but she could tell he was gone without looking up.

  Fergus gave a dramatic sigh, but she ignored him too.

  She was almost relieved the Scot was so…unlikeable. When she’d finally summoned the courage to open her door and found an oversized Highlander on her stoop, her first instinct was that someone was punking her.

  No. That was a lie.

  Her knee-jerk reaction was to wonder if, in her loneliness, her mind had conjured him from the cover of one of the romance novels she kept hidden among the stacks of books on the shelf. Tom would have never understood her need to read romances to remind herself how romantic heroes are complete fiction. And since they were complete fiction, the guy that had blown in with the storm couldn’t be one of those perfect heroes, no matter how he was dressed.

  Then she’d wondered if someone was punking her.

  But no one would have risked a man’s life just to play a joke on her. And the more he’d talked, the less perfect he’d become. So it really was just a fluke that brought him to her door.

  Now that she had her imagination back under control, she told herself she should be outraged someone had invaded her quiet solitude. But who was she kidding? She was thrilled she had someone human to talk to for a little while.

  She would never admit how her heart had jumped at the sight of him, or how long it took to get a grip. Her reaction was natural considering she’d been alone, except for deliveries and radio conversations, for nearly two months. And the weather hadn’t helped—little did she know that those low clouds and constant showers were only leading up to the real storm.

  Gloom she could live without. But solitude? Solitude was a different story. Truth was, she really preferred being alone. After everything that had happened, isolation was a gift...

  More than a few times in the last week, however, she’d caught herself fantasizing about a strong, handsome man coming to find her on this forsaken island. But those figments of her imagination had been a little squidgy around the edges. Handsome in a general, novel-cover kind of way. She’d never even considered a face like his—a couple of puppy dog eyes paired with a snarl. A smooth brow and a whiskered jaw. Long hair and a short…kilt.

  She had to shake her head to derail that train of thought.

  Nope. Those details hadn’t come from her imagination. They’d come from the sea, in a boat that, thankfully, hadn’t been carrying more people. She wouldn’t need to risk life and limb to search for bodies in the water.

  Penny sighed quietly and applied an eraser to his image like the towel she was using on the floor. She wiped away his thick locks of brown hair that needed a good brushing. His set jaw, determined, scruffy. Curious blue eyes that waited for…who knows what.

  She’d never been a small woman, but standing next to him made her feel tiny. She was short, yes, but she was as wide as the next chick. She had never been able to squeeze into quite the right pair of jeans. But next to him, she felt almost dainty. Definitely more feminine.

  And definitely the stuff of fiction.

  There was no chance that bit of fiction would get her into trouble, however. As soon as he’d opened his mouth, reality blew in like the storm blowing in around him while he took his time getting inside. The glower on his face had only been the beginning of his sourness.

  When people show you who they are, believe them. That was her motto now.

  He made more noise when he came back down the hall, but again, he sa
id nothing.

  She cleared her throat, got to her feet, and tossed the towel over the back of the rocking chair to dry. She crossed the room, picked up a thick crocheted hot pad and opened the door of the pot-bellied stove. If the fire died, it would get cold as a brass monkey in there before she could say boo. So she added another small log and stirred up the coals, all the time trying to ignore one massive presence in the increasingly small room. “Tea?” she asked without turning around.

  “Aye, and thank ye,” he said.

  “You can sit if you want,” she said.

  He was silent, so she assumed he had taken one of the two chairs that faced the stove.

  “It’s small here, I know. There are lots of bigger houses on the island, but I chose it because it’s easy to heat. Just me and the dogs, you know? No need to have a big place. When it’s cold like this, I mostly live in this room, but there are a couple bedrooms down the hall...”

  “Dogs? More than just Fergus?”

  “Yup.” She put the lid on the kettle and turned to find him dwarfing one of the chairs. He’d pushed the arms of the sweater up to the elbows and his kilt, shirt, and socks hung over one of his bared forearms. They’d stopped dripping.

  She glanced at the rest of him, and before she could stop herself, she let out a loud laugh.

  He scowled at her. “Where is the humor, lass?”

  “I don’t…” She laughed again. He waited with a cocked eyebrow, which only made her laugh harder. Finally, wiping tears from her eyes, she managed to speak again. “I did warn you those clothes might not fit,” she said.

  The Scot looked down at the borrowed clothing as if for the first time. The gray wool sweater was stretched thin across his shoulders and arms. No surprise because he was corded in muscles. The wool clung to his torso but stopped short of covering his belly button. The sweatpants were closed at his waist—thank goodness—but the ribbed cuffs went only past his knees. His feet were bare, which made him look like he was stranded on a desert island.

  Penny realized, with a start, that it was literally his situation, complete with the shipwreck, if his boat was ruined. Still, the combination of his ill-fitting clothing, the scowl on his face, and one word repeating in her head, made her laugh again.

  MacGilligan.

  “‘Tis true, I doonae think this jumper fits,” he said, trying to stretch the sweater enough to cover his exposed middle.

  Penny wiped another tear from her eye and sighed. “No, I think not. But at least it’s dry. We better hang your things. Here.” She held out her hands.

  The Highlander looked at her suspiciously but handed over the bundle of wet things. Pulling the second arm chair closer to the stove, she hopped up and spread the plaid cloth on a sturdy clothes line she had tied near the ceiling for just such occasions. There wasn’t much room for the shirt and socks, but they would dry clear through if she turned them a few times.

  She stepped off the chair and put her hands on her hips. “There. Should be dry in a few hours. Are you hungry?”

  Moodie’s eyes gleamed as if he had never eaten before. “Aye,” he said. “I am hungry.”

  She nodded. “I’ll throw something together, then.”

  At that moment, there was a rustling in the back of the cottage. She was so used to the sound she didn’t think anything of it, but Moodie stood quickly and peered around her. “Who else is here?”

  “No one.” She stepped into her tiny kitchen. “I think I could make some stew.”

  The rustling started again, and Moodie cursed. “Are ye a liar, then? A bonny lass can be a most duplicitous creature.” He stomped down the unlit hallway calling “Show yerself!” into the shadows.

  Penny folded her arms in a huff. A liar? Was he kidding? Ungrateful b… She’d let him in out of the storm—a complete stranger, and her a woman alone—and now he was stomping around in warm dry clothes calling her a liar? Well screw him. He could find his own place to stay!

  An annoying little voice in the back of her head registered that he had also called her ‘bonny,’ but she refused to be flattered and stood her stubborn ground until she heard him curse. Taking her own sweet time, she strolled down the hallway, knowing just what she’d find.

  There were four doors off the hall. Two bedrooms, one of which she used for storage. One bathroom, and finally, the now-open door that led to her makeshift dog barn. Moodie stood in the middle of it, surrounded by snarling animals just waiting for permission to take the skin off his bones for him.

  She cleared her throat, then ordered the dogs to stand down.

  Only when Mitsie, the last and smallest dog relaxed, did the man speak. “Woman, what is this?” He nodded around the room. “What do ye here? Lure sailors to yer home and feed them to these beasts?”

  Before she could answer, the dogs bunched up expectantly in front of yet another Dutch door and whimpered. Penny ignored the ridiculous question and walked around Moodie to unlatch it. “Back,” she ordered, though she knew the animals wouldn’t follow her inside if they remembered any of their original training. “If I’m going to keep them in here, away from the storm, I’ll have to feed them. You can help.”

  “More than one dog, ye said. So I suppose I was warned.”

  “Yeah.” She waved him through the opening, then closed the bottom half without following him inside. “I, um… I like dogs. I took all these in for research. They run free on the island. I study and record their pack behaviors.”

  He stood in the lean-to—an ancient sort of enclosed porch where she stored dog food and supplies, though she hadn’t needed to restock since she and Tom had set the animals free, to see how well they could fend for themselves. She’d done her best to seal off the drafts—canned insulation would have been a life-saver a century ago—but it was the kind of space you didn’t bother heating.

  She clucked and the dogs came to attention. Looking Moodie up and down, she realized he was an ideal partner for a place like this. All those muscles could be put to good use.

  When other possible uses for those muscles nudged into her imagination, she shook her head firmly to pre-empt the waves of hormones headed for her bloodstream, knowing perfectly well that such thoughts would just leave her lonely and discontent once the man was off her island again.

  The dogs observed them both, looking back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match. Who knew what they expected—or what they could sense going on in her bloodstream?

  “Okay,” she said to the castaway. “Open up that barrel there. It’s still got lots of food in it.”

  At the word “food,” the ears on every dog in the pack perked, their heads tilting to the side. Moodie snorted, but he was smiling, which surprised her. It was almost… an affectionate snort.

  “You like dogs?”

  “Oh, aye, I suppose,” he said without conviction. “They’re fine enough if they’re not trying to imagine how ye’ll taste.”

  “I love them,” she said, reaching down and running her hand across a slew of furry heads. “They’re predictable, after you get to know them. Dependable. You can’t really say that about humans.”

  Moodie’s back straightened at her words, and his scowl reappeared. “I suppose not.”

  Penny wondered if she’d struck a nerve, but she wasn’t sure how. With an internal shrug, she moved to the door of the cold room and pointed to the food. “The barrels are heavy, so I usually just bring it over one scoop at a—”

  Moodie interrupted her by picking up the barrel and carrying it to the door. He lifted it through the opening and bent to set it on the floor in front of her. Then he opened the door, stepped through, and looked at her for direction.

  “T…two scoops each.”

  He nodded and proceeded to give out the food, bowl by bowl. Penny stepped back and watched as he spoke to each of the dogs in turn.

  “Oy, you there, ye’ve already had yers. Let yer sister get her share, now, there’s a lad. Well aren’t ye a little beauty? Come here and let
me scratch those ears for ye. Not feelin’ the crowd, aye? I’ll move this bowl to the corner and ye can get it when ye’re ready.”

  A smile pulled at Penny’s face, followed by a surge of annoyance. So much for being unlikeable.

  Chapter Four

  Finally, all the animals were fed, except Fergus, who seemed far too nervous to come out of the house, so Moodie took a bowl inside. The woman warned that the hound was only being dramatic, and when the dog dropped his pretense in order to eat, Moodie supposed she was correct. Fergus seemed as relaxed as a pig in mud while he ate his supper and wagged his tail willy-nilly.

  It was a strange thing, that tail. Covered in short copper hair that grew suddenly long for the last four inches, the appendage looked more like an arm of a child waving a wee flag at a parade.

  Moodie sat in the rocking chair and waited for the lass to finish up in the barn. She was turning the dogs outside a few at a time, to do their business, which he understood to mean relieving themselves. If she were to let them all out at once, she worried they might run off in a pack and have trouble in the storm.

  He turned to the shelf of books beside him and pulled out A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. The novel had been published long after he’d had mortal fingers for turning pages, but he’d heard the tale mentioned a time or two in the century and a half since. He was vaguely aware of Penny’s return, and a few minutes later, he was jarred out of the story by the loud clang of a metal pan hitting the floor.

  He closed the book and set it on the table. “Allow me to help ye.”

  “Not a chance,” she called back, before he made it to his feet. “Give me a half an hour and I’ll give you a decent bowl of stew.”