by Connie Mason
“’Tis no’ like reiving a herd of cattle, ye ken,” Hamish had told him when Rob first came to him with the plan. “A cow is the most biddable creature on God’s earth. It’ll go wherever it’s driven. A woman doesna drive worth a damn.”
Truer words were ne’er spoke.
“Have ye eaten?” she asked as she pulled a bannock from the pouch. She offered it to him with a forced smile.
So might a spider smile at a fly.
But it seemed like days since he filched that sarnie from Angus’s skillet. His stomach was knocking against his backbone so hard, he couldn’t keep his hand from reaching for the crusty bun.
“I thank ye,” he said between bites.
If she’d found a way to poison it, he almost didn’t care. He wolfed down a couple sausages, giving Fingal a few bites. Surely she wouldn’t chance poisoning the dog who’d taken such an obvious liking to her. He upended the wineskin for a deep draught.
“Ugh! This wine’s nearly turned.” He swiped his mouth with his sleeve, but it didn’t help the sour aftertaste.
She seemed to swallow a laugh. “I said as much to Angus, but he seems to be the thrifty sort. Nothing usable must be thrown out.”
“Might as well sop this with a sponge and offer it to me on a stick.”
“Dinna mock the way Our Lord was offered a drink on the cross,” she said with a frown. “Ye’re flirting with blasphemy, Rob MacLaren.”
If she only knew the half of it. “Blasphemy is but one on the long list of my sins.”
“Aye, but it’s one the Lord is loath to forgive.”
“And not the only one, it seems,” he muttered, spitting into the loch to purge his mouth of the vinegary taste. “Ye might have warned me.”
“Ye might have warned me as well,” she said, her gaze never wavering from his.
They were no longer talking about the wine. The subject had veered into deep water without the slightest hint that an abrupt turn was coming.
How did women do that?
Irritation crept up his neck like a rash.
“I know ye think I owe ye somewhat, but for the life of me, I dinna know what it is,” he said, frustration with himself making his voice harsher than he intended. “’Tis no’ as if I forced ye, lass.”
Her lips pressed into a tight line.
“Well, can ye honestly say anything that passed between us was against your will?” he demanded.
She merely looked at him.
“If ye expect me to be sorry, ye’re destined for disappointment.”
She didn’t say a word, but if glares were arrows, he’d be a dead man.
“And if the opportunity arises for me to do it again, rest assured, lass, I’ll no’ hesitate.”
“Dinna fret, MacLaren.” Her tone was sugary as a boiled sweet. “The situation is no’ in the least likely to repeat itself.”
Elspeth plopped down on the bench and looked out over the dark water, ignoring him completely.
“Well, then,” he said uncertainly. “That’s settled.”
He suspected that was wishful thinking. In the murky world of women, he was always adrift. They always wanted to pry into a man’s soul, to find out not only what he thought, but what he felt.
As if a man knew!
When Fiona first asked him how he felt about her, he had said in all honesty, that he didn’t have any feelings.
“Of course ye do, daftie man,” she had said with a laugh. “Ye just dinna know how to name them.”
So Fiona had taught him.
That jumbled-up sensation in his gut every time he saw her was excitement. The warmth in his belly meant he was happy. And when he told her that his chest constricted almost painfully, she had smiled.
“That’s love, Rob,” she’d said simply. “Ye love me. Your chest knows it. The rest of ye might as well admit it and be done.”
He loved her. It was a revelation.
But now that Fiona was gone, he was left to navigate the shoals of his soul alone.
The deerhound left his side, since no more sarnie seemed in the offing, and settled next to Elspeth with his head resting on her knee.
“He likes you,” Rob said.
She stroked Fingal’s head. “I’m glad someone does.”
His chest constricted. No. That doesn’t mean…
“I like ye,” he heard himself say before he thought better of it. “I like ye fine.”
Her lips twitched, but she kept herself from smiling. She rolled her eyes at him instead. “Ye have a strange way of showing it.”
“Ye too. I havena forgot that ye hate me,” Rob said, sensing a way to retrieve the situation. Why had she kissed him after she told him so? “Do ye kiss all the men ye hate?”
Her brows drew together. “I dinna hate ye so much.”
“No, ’twas ‘verra, verra much,’ as I recall.”
He nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise when she had kissed him after that. Maybe Elspeth Stewart was as turned about by her feelings as he was bewildered by his.
She wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Why did Angus name his dog Fingal?” she asked.
He recognized her question as a frantic plea to change the subject.
The answer was obvious. Everyone knew Fingal of legend was a giant. Fingal of the Gray Shaggy Fur was too. But Rob decided to let the topic of conversation stray there. The matter of their feelings was fraught with far more peril than a legendary giant or a giant of a dog.
“Angus loves the old tales, ye see,” Rob said. “And since Fingal of old is connected with Loch Earn, Angus thought it only fitting to give his hero a flea-bitten, mangy namesake.”
Elspeth covered the hound’s ears with her hands. “Hush! You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Ye tell me ye hate me without batting an eye, but ye’re concerned for the dog’s feelings?”
“I like the dog, MacLaren.” She arched a brow at Rob. “Besides, Fingal didna steal me from the altar, did he?”
The hound turned his great head and slurped her cheek with a wet doggie kiss before she could stop him. She hugged Fingal’s neck with a laugh.
Rob never thought to envy a dog, but he suddenly wished he could run his lips over that smooth cheek and make her laugh. And feel her arms about his neck.
“Dinna encourage him,” he warned. “Or he’ll wash the other cheek for ye.”
Elspeth wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “What’s the connection with the other Fingal—the hero, I mean—and this loch?”
“Are ye the sort given to vapors?”
“Ye saw me face a wolf pack. Ye know I’m not.”
He nodded. “Ye know how to keep your head; that’s certain. I’m just saying ’tis best to tell this sort of tale on dry land. ’Tis about the each uisge, ye see.”
“The water horse?” Moonlight silvered her face, and her eyes sparked with interest. “I love the old tales. Can ye tell it, please?”
If she asked him to walk across the loch with that kind of entreaty in her voice, he’d give it a try.
“I’m no’ a bard, ye ken, but I’ll do my best.” Rob leaned on the tiller to keep the boat sailing down the center of the narrow loch. “The doings I’m about to tell ye of happened long ago, back when the world was young and magical beings were common as…” He searched his memory for a poetic turn of phrase such as a bard might use, but could only come up with one of his own. “Common as bedbugs.”
“Common as bedbugs? Ugh!” She shuddered. “Ye speak truly when ye say ye’re no’ a poet.”
“Weel, ye must admit there are few things more common,” he said with a shrug. “In any case, young Fingal was walking the heath one day near Loch Tay, where he was wont to roam, carrying a boulder in one hand and an oak trunk in the other. He was s
et to wander the wide world and wondered what adventure he might find.”
“What did he intend to do with the boulder and the trunk?” Chin in hand, Elspeth leaned toward him, clearly interested in the story.
“The boulder was in case he met a foe and needed something to squash him with,” Rob explained. “And though Fingal was big enough to step across most streams, he used the tree trunk for vaulting over burns when he found one too wide for him to leap over.”
“Makes sense. Go on, then.”
“But Fingal didna meet a foe this day. Instead, in a shady glade, he saw a beautiful stallion, strong of haunch and long of limb, with a mane and tail black as…” This time his memory of the last bard he’d heard served him well. “Black as a witch’s temper.”
“Black as a witch’s temper,” she repeated. “That’s better than ‘common as bedbugs.’ I have hopes for ye, MacLaren. There may be more poet in ye than ye know.”
“My lady does me honor.” Rob sketched a mocking bow. “But back to the stallion Fingal found. It looked to be big enough for him to ride. Being a giant, he knew mounts suitable for him were like to be far and few in between, so he decided to catch it, but—”
“But he didna have a rope to catch it with?”
“Who’s telling this tale?” Rob demanded. “Ye’re getting ahead of me.” When she clamped her lips tight, he continued. “So Fingal set down his boulder and his oak trunk and fetched out his rope. For ye see, he did have a rope—and a good, stout length it was—tucked away in his sporran. The horse was munching away on the long grass. It seemed to be paying him no mind. As he crept closer—”
“And I dinna expect a giant creeps verra quietly.”
“Is this how they tell tales in the Stewart’s hall, interrupting the bard at every turn?”
“No indeed,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a real bard.”
He snorted and started in again on the tale. “So Fingal sneaked up on the horse, verra quietly for a giant of his size. He was almost close enough to toss a loop over its head when it turned and looked at him with eyes that seemed to see into the deepest wrinkle of his soul. ‘Ye dinna need a rope, Fingal,’ the beast said, lowering its head in a bow to do him honor. ‘Aye, I ken who ye are. Who in the glen doesna know so great a hero? Ye can ride me an’ ye wish.’”
“Doesn’t sound natural for the horse to speak,” Elspeth said.
“Oh, it isn’t. No’ now, in any case. But remember this was a long time ago when such things were common as…as beggars at kirk.”
Elspeth sighed. “Still no’ much of a poet, are ye?”
“No, I suppose not, but I warned ye I was no bard,” Rob said, glad Elspeth was talking to him at all. Even with her complaints, she seemed to be enjoying the story. Pleasing her was starting to be something he longed to do at every turn, whether it was delighting her body or her sharp wit.
“Go on,” she urged. “I’ll try not to interrupt again.”
“Thank ye. Where was I? Oh! But Fingal thought it seemed odd too. Not that the horse spoke, ye ken, for that was no’ something out of the ordinary for those days. But what the horse said gave him pause,” Rob said. “He was a mighty big giant, and no horse of any sense would willingly let him ride it.”
“Hmmm.”
“It was just then that the sun broke through the clouds, and Fingal saw the stallion’s true color,” Rob said, enjoying the way Elspeth’s eyes had gone round as an owl’s. “The horse’s dark coat was green as glass.”
“And that’s how he knew it was the water horse!” Elspeth said triumphantly.
“Aye, that’s how he knew,” Rob said, deciding he didn’t care if she interrupted him so long as she was happy. “‘Ye’re an each uisge,’ Fingal cried.”
Every time Rob said the hero’s name, the deerhound thumped his tail against the hull.
“‘Away wi’ ye,’ quoth Fingal. ‘I’ll no’ have ye threatening the folk who live around Loch Tay,’” Rob said. “So he used his rope for a whip instead and drove the water horse over hill and down dale until they came to Loch Earn. There both giant and beast were so blown, they stopped to rest by common agreement, and the beastie begged him to leave him be. Fingal had run about as far as he cared to, so he suffered the water horse to enter Loch Earn. But he made the each uisge promise never to return to Loch Tay.”
“And that’s how the water horse came to live in Loch Earn,” Elspeth finished for him, clapping her hands.
“Ye seem to know quite a bit about water horses,” Rob said.
“Oh, aye. Enough to know ye dinna want to ride any strange horse ye might happen upon near a loch,” Elspeth said. “Ye may mount such a beast easily enough, but once ye are astride its back, the skin of the water horse becomes sticky. Ye canna leap to safety no matter how hard ye try. Then the each uisge runs into the loch and drowns its victims.”
Rob laughed to show he didn’t believe a word of it. Still, the waves sometimes mounded up on the loch in odd shapes, as if something large and malevolent moved with purpose under the surface.
“Aye, and once they stop kicking,” Rob said, “the water horse gobbles them up.”
“Hair and bones and all. Everything but the liver,” Elspeth said with a shiver of horrified fascination.
“But ye know, the each uisge doesna always take the shape of a horse,” Rob said. “Sometimes, he poses as a handsome man. Ye’ll ken him by the waterweed in his hair.”
“Aye, in the old tales they warn of it, but that’s only when the water horse is courting,” Elspeth supplied. “Sometimes, the beast takes a human maiden for a wife, they say.”
“I’ve heard such things as well,” Rob said. “But the water horse is no’ a verra good husband.”
“No indeed. He’s cruel and spiteful, and his wife is kept prisoner till she dies, which didna happen soon enough to suit her in all the stories I’ve ever heard,” Elspeth said. “The water horse is a verra poor husband.”
“That’s a common enough failing too,” Rob said, suddenly serious.
When he didn’t say more, Elspeth cocked her head at him. “What’s wrong?”
Rob felt suddenly heavier, as if he’d been tossed in the loch and was dragged down by sodden clothes. “I canna throw stones at the water horse, Elspeth.”
“What do ye mean?”
“I was a husband,” Rob said slowly. “And as it turned out, a verra poor husband indeed.”
Chapter 15
“I didna know ye’re married.”
“I’m not. I said I was a husband. My wife died.”
Elspeth stroked Fingal’s head in silence for a moment, then met Rob’s gaze. “D’ye wish to speak of it? Mayhap it will help.”
“Women are ever quick to say such, but words dinna change a damned thing.” He turned away in self-loathing. “We could talk all night, but Fiona will still be dead.”
“I’m sorry for it,” she said softly.
“’Tis no’ your fault, lass.”
Yet he was making her pay for it. He supposed he owed her the truth.
“Did your parents arrange the match?” she asked.
He snorted. As if he’d allow someone else to make that kind of decision for him. “No, my parents are long gone. I’ve been laird since I was sixteen. Fiona was my choice.”
Elspeth sighed. She’d already confessed that her wedding was more a joining of clan interests than two souls. Did she envy Fiona and him their love match?
“Did she bring ye much land and cattle in the marriage?” she asked. “I’m told men value such in a bride.”
He shook his head. “Not an inch of earth or a single hoof.”
“Then why did ye choose her?”
He shrugged. “I married her because she wouldna live with me in sin.”
“Y
e can’t fault a woman for that.”
“No. I wouldna fault Fiona for anything. I simply couldna live without her.”
“And yet ye do.”
The waves washed along the hull of the boat, filling the silence. Once he’d have fancied he heard Fiona whispering beneath the sound, but now there was only the shushing of the loch against the wood.
Fiona would never speak to him again.
“What I have now isna life, Elspeth,” Rob finally said. “’Tis but breathing.”
“What—” She stopped herself as if she feared asking something too personal, but because she was a woman, she couldn’t bear not to finish the question. “What was your wife like?”
Rob smiled. He rarely spoke of her, but he suspected he should do it more often. Fiona always lifted the darkness of his heart.
“She was…” He finally found a bard tucked in his soul. “Fiona was sunlight on the water. A warm hearth while the wind roars outside. She was—”
“Tall and willowy,” Elspeth interrupted, straightening her spine. “And she had long red hair.”
“Aye. How did ye know? Did Angus tell ye so?”
She shook her head. “I…guessed.”
“Well, then, since ye brought the matter up, aye, she was lovely. And her beauty ran clear to the bone. She was kindness itself.”
He could still see her in his mind’s eye on the day of their wedding, her cheeks flushed, her green eyes glowing. Then he remembered the last time he saw her, and his chest tightened so he couldn’t draw breath.
Once the dark moment passed, he found that his lungs still craved air. “I didna deserve her,” he said roughly. “Like the water horse and his bride, I damned her on the day I made her mine.”
“What happened?” Elspeth asked so softly, Rob wondered if he heard her only think the question.
“Come Christmas, ’twill be two years past. I married her on the day of our Lord’s birth, and we celebrated Christmastide in roaring fashion,” he said with a melancholy smile. “Then just before Twelfth Night, Fiona wanted to visit some of the outlying crofters with baskets of food, but my friend Hamish had seen a wild boar, a monstrous big fellow, he said, and he wanted me to go after it with him. So I told Fiona the crofters could wait till we had some fresh pork to add to the bounty. But she’d set her heart on going that day.”