Page 143 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
Just us, a tent, and whatever the night might bring. My stomach gave a pleased little flutter at the thought.
23
Rory
Dinner was a disturbing affair: tinned haggis that Maxwell had discovered lurking in the cottage pantry.
The cold grey mass sat in our camping bowls, looking distinctly unappetising in the torchlight. I prodded it with my plastic spoon, watching it jiggle ominously.
“Well,” I said, forcing cheerfulness into my voice. “At least it’s authentic Highland fare.”
Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain Burns never intended haggis to come from a tin.”
I managed a decent-sized spoonful. The texture was unfortunate—mushy and oddly metallic, with an aftertaste suggesting it had been in that tin since the last century. But I’d eaten worse during my rough-sleeping days in Glasgow.
“Not too bad, actually,” I said, swallowing heroically.
Then I caught sight of Maxwell’s face.
His expression was somewhere between disgust and genuine horror, nose wrinkled, mouth twisted into the most spectacular grimace I’d ever witnessed. He made a small, wounded sound.
The laugh burst out of me, sending partially chewed haggis spraying across our makeshift camp. I doubled over, coughing and spluttering, bits of grey mush decorating the Highland heather.
“Oh god,” I wheezed. “Your face!”
Maxwell watched my haggis explosion with the weary resignation of a man who’d clearly made poor life choices. “Beautiful.”
The food situation improved at dessert—shortbread biscuits. I made sad faces at Maxwell until he gave me two extra from his pile.
We’d camped two hundred metres down the lakeside, tucked behind ancient Scots pines that provided concealment whilst maintaining clear sightlines to the castle ruins. Too cold really, especially without a fire, and I already had my thick winter coat on.
“We should check in on Isla and Dev. Check they got to the BnB okay.” I pulled out the satellite transceiver. The display showed nothing.
“Bollocks,” I said, shaking the device.
“Equipment’s probably temperamental out here.” Maxwell shrugged. “We’ll try later.”
“I expected you to spiral into panic mode if we couldn’t confirm Dev was still chained to a radiator.”
Maxwell scoffed. “I’m really hoping you’re right, and Dev is back to himself now. Else we’re fucked.”
“If he does demon out, Isla can probably take him. She looks small, but like me, looks can be deceiving.”
“Itlookedto me that demon Dev was handing you your ass yesterday.”
I laughed. “He feels very, very sorry about that now. He grovelled for thirty minutes earlier.”
A sudden tension—a tightness that ran through our bond like a plucked wire—made me flinch.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
Maxwell sighed, his shoulders sagging. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared out at the lake. The water lapped gently against the shore, creating soft ripples that caught the moonlight.
“About Dev…” he began, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “Look, the way he was talking with me earlier, when you were upstairs, makes me think he might want to get back with you at some point. And I just wanted to say, if that happens, I’ll understand, and it doesn’t need to be a big deal. The wolf bond thing might sort itself out.”
