What was the world coming to that first a fisherman’s father should violate a century-old pact against hunting, and then some over-bold female should steal his skin before midsummer eve?
Probably she is very ugly and shrewish and had need of such vile trickery to get a mate! Or maybe she was an earth witch!
The thought made him wince. It was unjust, but the rules said that he was bound to her until his skin was returned or she was with child. The consideration of her ugly nature added to his infuriation with the situation. It would be even more difficult if she knew some magic. Witches were the worst—hard to control, tricky about trying to trap selkies by feeding them land salt and hiding their skins in clever places—and they were nearly always barren. He couldn’t afford to spend his life with a barren woman.
Well, he simply had to get the fur back. He was needed in Avocamor! The People were on the verge of being attacked by the finmen. He did not like being sneaky with women—especially not elderly ones—but he would compel her to give back his skin even if it meant cheating at the traditional bargain. There were things that could be done to bring a female under control without actually making love to her.
Ruairidh leapt from the rock and landed a dozen feet below on the grainy sand, his ankles untwisted and his joints unjarred. Taking a deep breath of air, he turned into the scent and followed the trail of the fur thief.
Hexy jumped at the sound of angry pounding at the castle door. The old knocker had finally been eaten away by corrosion, and they had temporarily installed a hammer by the strike plate. The noise was always loud, but whoever had come to visit was clearly very agitated and determined to call immediate attention to his presence.
Knowing that Marthe and Robertson were both busy and would be slow to answer the summons, she went herself to answer the door, hoping that it wasn’t anyone she knew socially; her eyes were itching fiendishly and were probably quite red.
The ancient door’s bolts were rusted; it took a bit of effort to unlatch and open them. Thus she had a moment to take in her visitor through the growing crack before he strode over the sill on long, lithe legs, a fair stretch of which showed beneath his rumpled kilt.
“De tha thu ‘deanamh?” the man demanded of her, his bottomless brown eyes framed in the longest, silkiest lashes she had ever seen.
“What?”
The eyes narrowed, but he repeated the question.
They were beautiful eyes, Hexy thought, but they were also alive with a hypnotic ire that did not seem entirely normal.
Hexy blinked once and laid her hands on the reassuringly solid wall behind her. Her heart began to beat heavily and she felt a little dizzy. Something about this man was very familiar, but also a bit frightening in a delicious sort of way.
“Are you the carpenter from Aberdeen?” she asked, rather hoping that it was the case even if he was somewhat alarming, because she had not seen such a splendid specimen of Scottish manhood since crossing into the north.
His coffee brown eyes finally blinked back at her, his dark brows drawn together beneath his glossy, unbound hair—which in spite of being unrestrained still managed to look kempt as it grew straight back from his face and spilled down his back in a neat line showing small ears laid nearly flat against his head.
“A bheil ghaidlig agad?” he asked her.
“I’m sorry,” she answered, trying out a smile of welcome and offering her hand. Unaccountably, both lips and fist trembled noticeably. “I don’t speak Gaelic. Um…chaneil ghadilig agam.”
The long lashes veiled the intruder’s eyes for a moment as he looked down at her outstretched fingers.
“Ye’d be one of the Sassenach women, then,” he said, his deep voice shifting into heavily accented English that resembled the local Scots dialect. He stared at her palm for a several seconds, clearly debating whether to take it.
“Actually, I’m American. My ancestors may have had the Gaelic at one time, but we’ve been in the States since the Revolution. I’m afraid that I don’t know much about the language or customs of the north.” The need to babble to this handsome stranger was involuntary and undeniable. Hexy had just noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and she was having a difficult time keeping her gaze on his face. Without a doubt this was the most beautiful, most compelling man she had ever seen.
The tall visitor digested this and then asked with a shade more patience, “So if ye do not know the customs, and ’tis all a simple error, will ye not return my fur tae me?”
“What fur?” Hexy noticed that her fingers were covered in gray dust and quickly let her hand fall. Between her red nose and dirty hands, it was no wonder this stranger wasn’t anxious to touch her.
“My fur. Ye took it from the beach. I want it back. Now.”
“I didn’t take—” she began, only to stop when he leaned over and sniffed at her. “What are you—”
His tongue darted out, and he tasted one of her allergy-induced tears as it welled out of her eyes.
She stood still, shocked into immobility and incredulity as she watched his pupils first expand and then contract down to pinpoints.
“Aye, yer the one. There’s nae point in denyin’ it. I’ll dae my duty by ye, lass, and lay wi’ ye if that’s what ye wish. But I want my skin back first.” He looked stern as he straightened to his full height. “Though why a bonnie lass like yerself would be out fishing for a lover…”
Hexy gasped and prayed she wasn’t blushing. Allergies had made her quite red enough. Embarrassment was simply adding insult to injury.
“Look here—what is your name?” she belatedly asked. “And who are you? And why are you being so—so rude to someone you don’t know?”
The man struggled with himself, clearly not wanting to respond to her question, but finally answering, “Some in these parts call me Ruairidh O’Uruisg. And I’m no ruder than ye’ve been yerself. Ye know that yer not supposed tae be askin’ my name yet. Why did ye call me by ritual if it means sae little tae ye?”
Hexy blinked, taken aback. Had she been rude? Marthe was always saying failte when strangers came into the house. Had she insulted this man by not obeying the local custom? Had she truly outraged Gaelic social convention by asking for his name too early in some greeting ritual?
“Roaring Oorushk? I can’t call you that,” she objected, speaking her thoughts aloud as she pinched her nose, fighting off a fit of sneezes. “Haven’t you some normal name?”
She regretted her thoughtless words as soon as she saw his offended expression. Her habit of talking to herself had once again landed her in trouble.
“Look, I am sorry. That was rude. But I told you that I haven’t the Gaelic and don’t know all your customs. I’m foreign. Take pity on me. Haven’t you an English name I could use?”
“Aye.” The man seemed to be chewing his tongue, but eventually he spat out: “If ye must know, some here have called me Rory.”
“Rory?” Hexy repeated, feeling suddenly feverish. She hadn’t thought of her brother for months and suddenly his name and image were everywhere around her. Another tear slipped from her eye and she raised a hand to wipe it away. “That’s…that’s a nice name. It was my brother’s. He—he’s gone now.”
The stranger watched her hand as she rubbed at her cheek. His tense expression finally relaxed a trifle and his nose twitched. His lips eased into an almost smile. Belatedly, Hexy recalled how dirty her hands were and realized that she had probably just smeared gray dust all over her cheeks.
“I am starting tae believe in yer innocence,” he told her, his voice gone soft as a lullabye. It was mesmerizing, somehow spinning cobwebs over her mind. “Ye may be daft, but I dae believe yer guileless.”
“Why are you smiling?” she asked, fascinated by the sight of the corners of his mouth curving upward. She had never seen anyone smile that way. Unable to control her thoughts or speech, she added, “It isn’t because I’m a mess, is it? That would be mean.”
More confident now, he ignored her ques
tion.
“It’s a strange accent ye have, mistress. And what might yer own name be, O thief of furs, whose brother was also called Rory?”
“Oh, I’m Hexy Garrow. Hesiod Garrow, actually, but everyone calls me Hexy.” The words spilled out as if compelled by some unseen force.
“That’s a bit of an odd name, Mistress Hesiod. Hexy.” For the first time, her name on a man’s lips sounded like a caress. “There’s something almost pixiating about the sound of it.”
“Pixiating?”
“Enchanting.”
“Oh.”
Hexy stared at him. The man’s deep, unblinking eyes seemed to call her into a mesmeric trance. Come drown in me, they seemed to say. I’ll keep you safe.
But I don’t want to drown, do I?
It was difficult, but Hexy gathered her scattering wits. She really wanted to close the door on whatever was making her sneeze but didn’t feel quite comfortable shutting herself in with this half-naked man who clearly affected her senses in some powerful way.
“Never mind about my name,” she said briskly. “What is this nonsense about a fur? Yours has gone missing, I take it? Along with your shirt.”
Hexy knew she sounded incredulous, but the ill-folded plaid barely held in place about Rory’s naked waist did not suggest the sort of wealth that produced fur coats.
Unless they were supplied by rich women.
The thought made her scowl.
“Aye, it has, and my sark tae. Ye gathered mine up from the beach last evening and brought it here.” The stranger raised his head and sniffed at the air. There was no other word for the flaring of nostrils and the deep inhalation that followed.
A second frown began to descend on his brow. His voice lost some of its charm. “It isnae here now, though. Where have ye taken it?”
“I haven’t taken your fur anywhere. The only fur I touched last night was Jillian’s new sable coat and that—oh, dear!” Hexy closed her eyes. “That wasn’t Jillian’s coat, was it?”
Rory shook his dark head, smiling that strange smile again when she cracked open an eye.
“Nay, it wasnae. ’Twas mine. And I should be right angered about this, for I am here on urgent business and need my skin.”
“But how was I to know? Yes, it felt strange—wonderful even,” she added plaintively as a huge sneeze began building in her. “But why would there be more than one fur coat abandoned on a private beach? No one would question that it was Jillian’s coat.”
“This Jillian left her skin on the beach as well?” Rory asked, his posture finally relaxing. Then: “Lass, why are ye crying? I’m nae sae angry as to call forth yer tears. Just fetch my skin and I’ll be off until Beltane. I’ll come back and see ye then, if ye wish it.”
“I am not crying.” Hexy reached into her shallow pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which she used to blot at her eyes and scrub some of the smudges away. “I am allergic to something outside, the cotton grass maybe. Or the yews. They are starting to leaf out now and dropping pollen everywhere. My eyes are like watering pots.”
“Then shut up the door.” Rory’s long arm reached out, and with very little effort, he closed the heavy panel, cutting out the daylight and the irritating air. “Ye cry everytime ye step outside?”
“Yes. I can’t help it.”
Feeling silly about standing in the dark of the foyer, Hexy retreated into the main hall, gesturing for Rory to follow.
“Look—”
“At what?” Rory asked.
“At nothing. That is simply an expression. It means pay attention.”
“Ah! Well, ye’ve got my attention. Gae on with it. Where’s my fur now?”
Hexy fought down her annoyance at the repeated question. It was somewhat easier to do now that her need to sneeze had subsided. “Rory, I am sorry that your coat got packed by mistake, but—”
“My skin has been packed?” he interrupted. “Packed where?”
“Yes. I’m afraid it is packed into Miss Foxworthy’s trunk and is on its way to Italy via Wales,” she said unhappily.
“What?” The deep voice was almost a shout, the beautiful eyes as baleful as handsome eyes could be. The stranger leaned down until they were face to face. “My skin is where? How could ye let it gae? Did ye no sleep wi’ it?”
“Don’t glare at me! It’s perfectly safe.” Hexy leaned forward until their noses all but touched. She did not for a moment consider admitting that she had slept with it wrapped about her, pretending it was a lover. It was too embarrassing. “You are the one who was trespassing on the beach. What were you thinking, leaving a fur coat out like that? How could you be so careless with anything that precious?”
“Trespassing!” His breath washed over her. It wasn’t unpleasant, smelling as it did of the sea, but the intimacy was unnerving. “There’s a Sassenach word fer ye! As if any man can own the sea. That beach has been used by the People fer centuries—”
“That may be so,” Hexy interrupted, stung at the accusation and also using a voice that was one step below a shout. “But this is Miss Foxworthy’s beach now, and you were trespassing.”
“Foxworthy!” The name was repeated with scorn. “And where are the MacKenzies of Fintry?”
The question brought Hexy up short and caused her to immediately abandon the impulse to either kiss or bite the nose in front of her.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” she began, then said gently: “I am sorry if he was a friend of yours, but Mr. MacKenzie died late last year. He left Fintry to his new wife.”
“Miss Foxworthy?”
“Yes.”
Rory clapped a hand to his head, hiding his beautiful eyes. He said something in a strange dialect that didn’t sound entirely like Gaelic. It didn’t, actually, sound like human speech at all. It was more of a strange barking chuff, followed by a string of vowels.
He finally straightened and took a step away from her, taking his nose and lips to a safe distance.
“And when dae ye expect Miss Foxworthy tae return?” he asked, his voice level.
“I—I am not entirely sure. Whenever Donald Healey stops winning races, or she gets bored, I suppose.” It didn’t seem a good moment to mention the potential of an Italian lover, or that Jillian would likely return to London rather than Fintry if either of these things occurred.
“Can ye get word tae her of the mishap somehow? Perhaps a letter, or might a messenger be sent by pony?”
Now that her annoyance had cooled, she could sense the urgency that underlay his request.
“If it is so important to you, why did you leave that coat on the beach?” Once again, she spoke her thoughts aloud.
“Because I couldnae very well bring it tae the thieving furrier’s house, now could I? The temptation would hae overcome him and made him brash. Could ye nae tell that that fur was special? ’Tis unnatural that ye let it go.” He sounded insulted.
“No, of course not. Why would I think it special?” she answered. But they both knew she was lying.
“We’ll talk about this later. Now, about that summons tae Miss Foxworthy…Fetch a pony up tae the house and let us hae a rider on his way.”
Hexy looked away from Rory’s long-lashed eyes and tried to think. It was difficult, as the allergies, or something, had befuddled her brain.
“I have a better idea!” Hexy exclaimed at last. “I’ve just recalled that they have a phone down in the village post office. Fortunately, Donny and Jillian are traveling cognito. We can telephone the hotel in Edinburgh where they plan to stay the night and leave a message for her. If we reach her there she can send your fur back at once.”
“A tell-a-fone?” he repeated.
“Yes, a telephone. Come along.” Hexy touched Rory’s arm briefly, no longer able to resist the impulse to make physical contact with him. “We need to hurry. The post office closes at four for tea.”
“Post office,” he repeated.
Ruairidh looked about with a cautious eye. The village had not changed. It was made up
of the same antique cottages, too weathered to be an ideal example of human pastoral charm. They huddled together around what had been a small green planted in the time of the Norsemen, but was now barren except for a few determined buttercups that bloomed every spring.
There had been a lowland church there once, which was surrounded by the remains of an unprosperous orchard that had been left long unattended; the wind-bent trees produced nothing but bitter, stunted fruit. Only a few identifiable ruins were left, a crumbling terrace of some sort and balustrades, and even parterres where black-faced English sheep grazed on wild vines and grasses. Still, for all it survived, it was not the sort of agreeable garden that thrived on neglect.
As the wooden shutters rattled under the wind’s late afternoon assault, Ruairidh stared suspiciously at the metal and wood instrument they called the telephone. A gramophone he had seen once and understood. This device did not look so straightforward and pleasant. He could hear the wind singing eerily in the wires that attached to it.
“What is that thing?” he asked of Hexy, firmly resisting the urge to touch her auburn hair. It was probably simply a matter of her having done the summoning ritual that made her so very appealing—though he now had some doubts about whether she had actually intended to summon him—but something about her called to him at an instinctual level.
“It’s the telephone. We shall use it as soon as Mr. Campbell returns from his walk.”
“Aye, you said that before, that it was a telephone,” he answered, looking up. A short, stout man bustled in through a small door, tiny spectacles glinting on his reddened cheeks. A Campbell! Ruairidh could tell his clan by his lowlander face and his broad feet. The People had been wary of Campbells since one of their females had committed suicide when her lover left her and there had been bad blood.
“But what does this telephone dae, lass? How does it work?”
Hexy stared at him.
“I forget how remote we are sometimes,” she said, apparently addressing herself.
The Selkie Page 3