Page 103 of The Scot Beds His Wife
How was it a marriage of two weeks, one built on a bevy of dangerous falsehoods, could feel more real than the one she’d spent four unhappy years in?
“If I remember correctly, ye have two pistols in that set,” Gavin noted.
“I lost one the night I was shot,” she lamented. “I’ve looked for it everywhere.”
“We’ll do what we can to find it. I’m sorry for yer loss.” When she put the lonely pistol down, he placed a hand over hers, as though unable to help himself.
“That’s mighty kind, but it’s not like the thing was a person to me.”
His manner became sly as he rested his chin in his handand propped his elbow on the table. “I’d wager my fortune ye named that gun.”
So as not to watch the flex of his muscled forearm beneath the rolled cuffs of his sleeve, she scowled down at her remaining pistol.
Probably an unbearable weight, propping up that big head of his.
“Come, bonny… we both ken that I’m right.”
Pouting, she muttered, “Caesar and Antony.”
“As in Julius Caesar and Mark Antony?”
“Yep.”
He frowned. “Great men, surely, but werena they both defeated and slain?”
“Well, they wouldn’t have been if they’d had a set of these.”
Gavin barked out a sound so full of mirth it startled her. “Ah, bonny, ye never cease to surprise and delight me.” Eyes sparkling like emeralds in the candelabra she’d lit to see to her work, he wrapped a hand around the arm of her chair and pulled it close enough to touch his.
Something about a show of strength, even one so benign as pulling an occupied chair with one arm, brought to life every part that made her a woman.
“Tell me about these troublesome McCoys in America,” he requested, threading his fingers with hers on the table while scrubbing his free hand over his face, as though to wipe away exhaustion.
“It’s kind of a long story,” she warned.
“Just the interesting parts, then.” His jaw cracked on a yawn. “The ones with the most blood and tears and such.”
A gentleman barbarian, her Highlander husband.
“Well, the papers say the carnage began over a land dispute a century ago, but really heated up during the Civil War. You see, the McCoys fought for the Union, and theHatfields for the Confederacy. The pater, a man they called ‘Devil Anse’ Hatfield, supposedly ordered the death of the head of the McCoy family, Asa Harmon, but as it was wartime, no charges were filed. After that Floyd, Devil’s cousin, took a hog from Randolph McCoy. But ‘Preacher Anse’ Hatfield—a cousin, I think—was the justice of the peace, and ruled in favor of Floyd. A couple people were murdered in the dead of night over that one pig.”
“I’m beginning to regret asking ye to tell the story.” He sighed.
“Oh, hold on. It’s just about to get good,” she promised, talking as fast as she could so as not to lose her audience for the tale that had kept her glued to the newspapers, gorging on the violence. “Last year, Devil’s son Jonce took up with Roseanna McCoy and she lived with the Hatfields in sin for months. So, when the McCoys arrested Jonce for bootlegging, Roseanna rode all night to beg Devil to save him, and how do you think he thanked her?”
“I couldna begin to guess.”
“He left her pregnant ass for her cousin Nancy, the slag.”
His shoulders shook with a lazy chortle. “That’s her title, Nancy the slag?”
“No, that’s just what I call her. I learned that word yesterday from Douglass Mackenzie. Now don’t interrupt me.”
“My apologies.”
“So, Roseanna’s brothers, Tolbert, Pharmer, and Bud—”
“Now ye’re just making up names.”
