Page 32 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“I like that.” Mr. Baines dipped the oars in water, his grin pearly white.
His cousin twisted around on her bench. “I recall your father knew quite a lot about nature and whatnot.”
“He did. He taught me about hunting, fishing, how to properly shear a sheep—”
He stopped abruptly. Shearing was women’s work, but lacking a mother meant he and his father had to muckle through chores together. Cooking, washing dishes, a fair turn at the laundry, he could do it all. Growing up as such gave him a better understanding of a woman’s load. Except for childbirth and nursing a babe, household chores didn’t care who did them. Sharing tasks made work light. Could be why he’d tolerated Anne’s take-charge spirit.
Danger to his manhood didn’t worry him. Talk of home did.
His cousin had a peculiar look in her eyes as if she sensed the subject was perilous ground, but she’d test boundaries nonetheless.
“Do you miss it? The wide-open land, I mean. It must have been a trifle hard to live in the City after life in the highlands.”
Try life in a prison hulk, lass.
“The City grows on a mon.”
“I find that surprising. You liking the City.”
“It’s no’ a matter of liking. Learn the lay of the land and a mon can survive.”
“The way you learned to live off the land in the highlands before you were twelve,” Anne said quietly. “But there is a difference between surviving and thriving.”
A flutter stirred in his chest. “Indeed, there is.”
He’d become skilled at putting away memories of Clanranald lands... of Berneray and Benbecula and all the islets a lad with a skiff and a nose for adventure could explore. He’d grown up not far from Arisaig, but the isles had called to him. During midseason’s quiet, his father let him go for a day or two or three. The rugged, wide-open land had been in his bones, their whispers lingering to this day.
“I remember giggling madly about the name for sheep mating. Autumn is their season for it, is it not?” His cousin searched the air. “The name for it... it’s something sailors and soldiers use, something about a ram mounting—”
“Tupping.” Anne’s voice shot like lead from a flintlock. “It’s called tupping.”
“Yes!” Cecelia cried gleefully.
He grinned. Anne and her terse tones. She’d tolerate no talk of mounting. Did she wish to find a private place and be done with certain unmet needs? The seditious widow’s house loomed ahead, a lone candle lamp flickering beside the front door.
“When is the last time you saw your father?” Cecelia asked.
He fisted his hands on his thighs. Her question startled him, a rapier sharp cut to his heart.
“Summer of ’45,” he managed to say. “Afore I went to Edinburgh.”
On an errand to fetch the lass who changed me forever.
Anne fumbled with her hood, a shadow crossing her face. Was it guilt? A woman remembering the summer she’d been promised to one man while falling in love with another? Such a tale was not uncommon. She’d been no more ready for what happened that summer than he. Love had come at them like a mallet. It nearly destroyed them like one too.
“No wonder you want to go to the colonies.” His cousin was wistful, her gaze downriver.
Eight years since he’d last seen his father, and eight years since he’d last seen Anne. Visitants from his past, the two were inexplicably entwined. He looked downriver, a breeze cosseting his cheek. The water was a formless void save the narrow moonbeam striking its oily, onyx skin. That light pointed the way he would go once his promise to Anne’s league was done.
Why did it feel impossible?
“No’ sure he’ll have me,” he said roughly. “Last time we talked didna go well. We were...” His words faltered, and a hard swallow recovered them. “Our parting was... vicious.”
All eyes were on him. He shrugged heavily, the weight of youthful mistakes returned.
“He couldna understand why I supportedthe Uprisin’ and I couldna understand why he did no’.”
“He’ll have you, Will. With open arms,” Anne said. “I’m sure of it.”
