Page 29 of The Scot Beds His Wife
By means of sharp elbows and tenacity, Calybrid scrambled in first, his knobby knees fairly knocking together beneath a kilt of red and gold. Wild wisps of white hair poked out from beneath his trusty wool tam-o’-shanter cap, and the lone strip of his chin beard dripped water onto his wool sweater. That, along with his bristly, overgrown eyebrows, lent a more literal meaning to the term “old goat.”
Locryn, on the other hand, boasted legs just as skinny,but they bowed beneath a jolly apple-shaped torso and strong, heavy shoulders. Samantha thought he had the kindest, most handsome pudgy face she’d ever seen, which was why his finicky surliness always surprised and delighted her. He eyed her with such rank skepticism, one russet brow dropped so low, it forced the lid to close.
“Preparing grouse is no mean feat,” he announced. “Perhaps I should do it meself.”
Calybrid set his hands on Locryn’s shoulders and steered him toward the blazing fire in the great-room hearth over which Samantha had erected a spit. “Why doona ye put the peat and cedar chips o’er the fire and get a nice smoke going?”
Distracted by the prospect of lingering near the fire after a tromp through the winter storm, Locryn grunted “Aye,” and ambled toward the blaze.
Thus had become their supper routine. After a long day of herding cattle, the men dispersed, only to reappear after dark when smoke from the great-hall chimney beckoned.
Aside to Callum and Samantha, Calybrid muttered, “Last time he prepared a bird, my body violently expelled it for a week, if ye ken my meaning.” With an overdramatic shudder, Calybrid’s lanky saunter was only interrupted by the slap of his wet outer clothes hitting the flagstones of the great hall. First his scarf, then his sweater, beneath which was another sweater, and then one of each of his boots discarded five steps apart.
“Ye can eat outside with the cattle if ye’re just going to leave shite all over the ground as they do,” Locryn bellowed.
“I always pick it up on my way out, do I not, Sam?” Calybrid didn’t wait for her answer. “So shove one of those peat bricks in yer mouth, if ye’re planning on being peaky nag all night.”
“Why do ye pick up for Sam and not for me?” Locryn planted plaintive fists on his hips, looking like a red-bearded matron with shockingly hairy knees. “She doesna do half of what I do to deserve the courtesy.”
“Oh, stop yer havering, Loc, or Sam’ll force ye to sleep in the coop with the rest of the pecking hens.”
Both amused and bemused, Samantha leaned over to Callum, whispering out of the side of her mouth, “They bicker like an old married couple.”
“’Tis widely thought that’s what they are,” Callum whispered back.
“Oh?” Samatha curled her lip as though it would help her decode his insinuation, then her eyes peeled wide. “Ohhhhhh,” she drawled more meaningfully. Looking back at the squabbling fellows, she fought both a grimace and a giggle as their relationship, their lifestyle, and their seclusion here at Erradale made a great deal more sense. “Which one’s the husband, and which one is the wife?”
Callum’s chuckle was a deep, pleasant rumble, not unlike the thunder over the distant Hebrides. “’Tis been the cause of much speculation between Thorne and me over the years.”
At the mention of her nemesis, Samantha was reminded of her ire with the handsome hermit, who met her frown with a look of contrition.
“I assumed you knew who the magistrate was.” His beard parted in a penitent smile, and Samantha caught herself noting that the silver peppered into his beard hadn’t quite reached his shaggy hair yet.
“Yes, well, we have a saying about assumptions in America,” she muttered, accepting his peace offerings of herbs and salt before bustling over to skewer the little bird carcasses over the warm fire.
“What’s that?” Callum queried, his golden eyes sparkling with mirth and intellect. He was familiar with the saying, and they both knew it.
“That they make an ass out of you and… well, in this case just you.”
“Granted, lass. Granted.” His laugh was a low harmony to the melody of hers, and it did as much to warm Samantha, as did the firewood she’d finished chopping just in time for the storm to reach them.
It had helped her to imagine that each one of the logs was Lord Thorne’s smirking face.
The ax had split them with the most satisfying ease.
Damn his perfect, dimpled chin and his stupid, rolling burr. The arrogant bastard knew the effect he had on women. He understood just exactly how to artfully use his lean, predatory body and wicked, crooked grin to steal a woman’s wits from her.
Not this woman,Samantha thought darkly as she roasted supper.Not this time.
“I gather your meeting with Thorne didn’t at all go well?” Callum correctly guessed the direction of her meandering attention.
“He supposedly found a hundred-year-old lease that contradicts the bill of sale. Though which is the forgery is anyone’s guess. They both look legitimate to me.”
“Perhaps ’tis time to employ a solicitor of your own,” Callum suggested.
Samantha nodded. She’d considered doing just that, but being unfamiliar with the British economy, she wasn’t sure if the money Alison had sent her was generous or a pittance.
“Callum,” she ventured. “If I were to go over the head of the magistrate to argue my case, where would I go?”
