Page 11 of A Stroke of Luck
Heads bent together, the young lady and the man fell into a heated negotiation. Helped along by much shrugging, sighing and a goodly amount of repetition, an agreement was finally reached and sealed with a shake of hands.
“Get in,” she called, hurrying around to the back of the cart.
Nonny and Perry were quick to join her in climbing up atop the pile of barley, but the duke hung back, unsure of whether the invitation included him and his valet.
Or of whether he wished to be part of any endeavor that involved the maddening Greeleys.
Any doubts were quickly cleared away by another impatient shout.
“I said,get in!”
He looked up to see Zara glowering at him. With her hair sparking with red highlights in the morning sun and her hand perilously close to the pitchfork in the sideboards, she looked even more like the Admiral of the Amazons than ever, despite the loss of her ship.
His lips tugged into a wry purse. Somehow, he did not think she would hesitate to skewer him on the spot if he attempted to mutiny.
“Don’t think you are going to tiptoe off and leave us in the lurch,” added Zara. “There is work to be done, and whether you are a duke, a despot or a demoiselle in disguise, you are damn well going to pitch in and do your fair share.”
“Bruichladdich.”Zara shaded her eyes and indicated the cloud of peaty smoke that hung over the inlet of Loch Indaal.
“Is something stuck in your throat?”
Her brothers had craned their necks to pick out the low, whitewashed stone building, but the duke—or whoever he was—made no move, save to voice the mocking quip.
She chose to ignore him
“There looks to be an odd sort of copper chimney,” remarked Nonny with some enthusiasm. Interested in all manner of mechanical things, he strained to see more. “We haven’t seen anything like that in our travels. I shall have to make a sketch of it in my notebook. What is it for?”
“Mr. McTavish makesuisge beatha.”
“Ah, well that certainly explains why we have been bouncing along on this rutted cart patch for the last half hour,” growled Prestwick. “I assume you are?—”
“It is also calleduishgiin Gaelic,” she continued. “And whisky in English.”
Stump shifted against the planking and grinned. “In any language, it warms the cockles and curls the toes.”
At the mention of toes, she saw the duke wince and rub at his foot. “Not used to walking very far in those fancy Hessians, are you?” Though it was a tad mean-spirited, she couldn’t help adding, “No doubt you simply summon your gilded carriage.”
“Actually, it is black, with forest green accents and burgundy wheels,” came the acid reply. “Gold would be too vulgar for words.”
The cart hit a rock, sending all of them sliding around in the grain. “And I assure you,” he snapped irritably, as he beganpicking barley out of his hair. “It is a good deal more comfortable than this sorry piece of junk.”
After another few creaks and jostles, Nonny ventured a tentative question. “Are you really a duke?”
“No—I am actually the Emperor Caligula, ferried back over the River Styx from the netherworld by Charon.”
Perry gave him an owlish squint. “You are mixing metaphors, so to speak. Charon and the River Styx appear in Greek mythology, but not that of the Romans. Perhaps you are confusing the two because the Latin poet Virgil mentions the Ferryman in Book VI ofThe Aeneid.”
Zara had to repress a chuckle at the sight of the gentleman’s face. It was clear he was not used to being corrected, and certainly not by a precocious eleven-old-year with a predilections for the classics.
“And in any case, Caligula was not a very savory character, what with all the orgies and such,” finished the lad. “If I were you, I would rather be King Priam, even though he ended up being slain by Pyrrhus during the sack of Troy.”
The duke’s valet was also looking greatly amused. “If I were you, I would stick with bein’ Prestwick, sir. Borin’ perhaps, but on the whole, a good deal more comfortable.”
The murmured comment earned a glare from the duke. “That is highly debatable.”
“This isn’t nearly so bad as the wagon ride we had over the Pyrenees,” remarked Nonny. “There was only rough planking to sit on, the sun was hot as Hades, and jolting over solid rock for hours on end was enough to make your teeth rattle.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel considerably better?” Prestwick asked sourly.
