Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
That hand. I’ve been sneaking glances at it since I arrived, stealing the briefest of touches, and now he’s extending it to me. As if I could just reach out and take it. Lace my fingers with his.
Should I? Could I even?
What would be the harm? People dance. It’s innocent.
I’m lonely, sad, scared. I long for the simple touch of another person. I ache for it. I can’t help it.
I need to know what it feels like. What he feels like. What those strong fingers would feel like curled around mine with intent.
I hold my breath. Extend my arm. But I feel so awkward. Is my body always this stiff? I’m like a store mannequin—one of those cheap ones, with the flat chests and bad hair.
The way he meets me halfway makes it all okay.
He takes my hand with easy, happy confidence, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He smiles down at me and says, “There’s a lass.”
I let go of that breath. Let myself sink into the feel of him. The dry heat of his palm. The light scratch of calluses against my skin.
A low, satisfied hum escapes him as his fingers squeeze mine, and I think my heart might burst.
“’Tis a bonnie night for a cèilidh,” he says as we duck out the back door.
I murmur in agreement, but my yes is in answer to so much more.
For weeks, I’ve raced to the cottage every night, scared of who I’ll meet on the path and what I’ll find when I get back. But now, for the first time since I left New York, holding his hand, I feel safe.
As we step into the night, a shiver ripples up my body. It’s cold—colder than it’s been—the night air icy-fresh. The nip of fall sharpening into the bite of winter.
“Och, you shiver like a wee leaf.” Callum drops my hand and wraps his arm around me, pulling me in tight.
He’s so warm. Solid and strong. A human furnace.
I let myself nestle even closer. I tell myself it’s just for a moment. Just to warm up.
He pauses to look up. Faint starlight glows along his profile, and it’s an effort to pull my eyes away and follow his gaze.
With no light pollution, the night is stunning, the dense spatters of stars like white paint flung against the velvety black fabric of the sky.
And it’s so quiet.
Nobody’s phone is pinging. There aren’t any car horns. No noises from distant televisions.
It hits me that neither of us have spoken in a while. But instead of feeling awkward, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Effortless. Companionable.
The least lonely I’ve felt since I left home. Maybe even since before that.
The silence is shattered by the rich, vibrating hum of fiddles as players begin to tune their instruments. The sawing of bows on strings is so unexpected, so recognizable, I laugh out loud.
Callum’s smile is wide as we reach the entrance to the back garden. He beams down at me. “Ready?”
At my nod, he unlatches the gate.
It’s like entering a whole new world. I know this garden. I weed this garden. There are gooseberries, broad beans, rhubarb, onions. Edible herbs for cooking. Poisonous herbs for poultices.
But none of that’s evident now.
Now, it’s a wonderland. As if a fairy king appeared at sundown and transformed it into his own.
Embers from a blazing fire pop and float to the sky. People mingle and move in the clearing beyond. Some have mugs spilling with drink. Most are smiling. Musicians are warming up their instruments. The cacophony builds, coalesces…
Then it falls silent.
Two drumbeats…
And a song explodes to life, fast and reeling, the notes skipping joyfully, as if the souls of the instruments have been set free.
The musicians are grinning, shouting, stomping their feet.
There’s a drummer, two fiddlers, and one playing something that looks like a mini bagpipe. Their joy is mesmerizing.
I point to the piper’s strange instrument, and Callum leans down to hear me as I ask, “What’s that?”
“Reel pipes.” He’s tapping his feet in time, and I find I am too. The rhythm pulses like a heartbeat. I can’t not move.
People spill onto the lawn. Like iron filings drawn by a magnet, they arrange themselves precisely into groups of four.
Callum jiggles my hand. “Ready?”
The dancers begin all kinds of complicated, organized twirling—like in a Jane Austen movie, but with dirt and laughter.
And a lot more closeness.
Men take every chance they get to sidle closer to women, linking arms, stealing kisses. They’re rewarded with gentle pinches and swats. And laughter. Always more laughter.
Everyone looks so free. So easy. I don’t know if I’ve ever been either one. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how.
Callum is waiting for my answer.
I shake my head and blurt, “I’ve never danced like that.”
I feel his breath on my cheek as he leans close and says, “I’ll teach you.”
I freeze in place.
I’m not smooth in the best of circumstances. Not at dancing, and especially not with close-whispering guys.
“Looks complicated,” I say, even though the steps are shaping up to be the least complicated thing about tonight.
“Maybe later,” I say finally. “But you should dance. Totally.”
I give him a light shove, but Callum is a wall of granite. He simply stands. Waiting.
When it becomes clear I won’t change my mind, he gives me a rueful nod. “As you wish.”
He steers me from the action and situates me on a bench.
“Certain you’ll be all right?”
“Certain.” I give him another shove.
“Noo aff wi’ you,” I say in my best imitation of Aoife’s accent. But as I watch him walk away, my chest sinks. Only I would find myself in such a different place and remain the exact same me.
I resolve to find some guts…then promptly take it back the moment a body appears in front of me. It’s a man with close-cropped hair and ears like dessert plates protruding from his head.
And—oh crap—he’s saying something.
I mumble some words that I hope sound like yeah, nice night, please go away.
Unfortunately, he takes it as an invitation to move closer. My gaze finds Callum, who is dancing. Just like I told him to. Dancing and laughing and twirling some girl.
My cheeks burn for the kind of woman I wish I was.
The guy repeats himself, louder this time. He’s no more intelligible than before, only now his words hit me on a cloud of sour, beery breath.
I grit my teeth into a smile and lean away. Context would indicate he’s asking me to dance, but how should I know? What if I say ‘no’ and it turns out he’s asked if I’d mind a kiss?
I’m a deer in headlights.
The guy takes a step closer, looming over me now. He darts a glance left and right, acting like he’s found a twenty on the floor and wants to make sure nobody’s around to see him take it. He eyes the seat next to me on the bench.
Oh, hell no.
He’s going to sit down.
I slide my hands out, taking up as much space as I can. And—
Callum appears. He inserts himself between us, dwarfing the guy. And it’s not just a size thing. It’s something about Callum. His presence is all swagger and strength. A slow, methodical kind of danger.
He completely ignores my visitor.
Just shoulders past him, handing me a metal cup like I’m the only person in the garden. “You looked like you could use a wee refresher.”
The guy immediately recedes into the crowd. Callum has that effect, I guess.
Relief loosens a goofy smile onto my face. “You’ve got a real way with people, don’t you?”
He tilts his head, brow creasing.
And I ignore the way brawny, capable Callum becomes adorable when perplexed.
“I don’t follow your meaning,” he says.
“Never mind.”
I sniff the liquid in my cup, suspicious.
“I came to rid you of your pesky midge, but I was speaking truly.” His gaze flicks over me, assessing. “You fair have a weary look about you.” He nods at the cup. “Drink up, lass. ’Twill warm you and thicken your blood.”
“So you’ve said.” I smirk. “But if my blood thickens much more, I won’t be able to walk home.”
“Then I’ll carry you,” he says simply.
And I believe he would. Without hesitation. Without a second thought.
So I sip.
It’s smoother than what Aoife keeps in her kitchen, like honey and wine. I sip again.
He laughs. “Easy now, Rosie.”
He gently plucks the cup from my hands and sets it on the bench beside me. For a second, I think he’s going to sit. I feel strangely hollow when he doesn’t.
“You should be fine now.” His gaze sweeps the crowd. It’s not casual. He’s making sure.
“None will bother you.” His voice is calm. Confident. “They ken you’re with me.”
Then he’s gone. Plunged back into the dance.
While I sit.
People keep stealing glances at me, like they’re dying to know what my deal is. It makes me more self-conscious than I was already.
I pick up the cup for something to do.
Sip.
Sip again.
I start to relax. To unclench things that have been clenched since I arrived.
Maybe this drink is doing something to my blood after all. I can almost sense its exact path through my body, mingling with my cells, flowing through my veins into the most remote capillaries.
A pulse thumps low in my belly. My muscles soften.
Warm. Languid.
Callum passes into my line of sight. I’ve been avoiding looking at him. But why? It’s time to stop worrying what other people think. They don’t really care about me. They’re too busy having their own fun.
So why shouldn’t I watch Callum? He’s laughing and shouting as he moves with the other dancers. His large body spinning, advancing, retreating with surprising grace.
And his joy—
It’s explosive. It bursts from him. How can a man who’s known such hardship be this happy?
But Callum doesn’t feel self-pity.
Unlike so many modern guys who feel sorry for themselves, yet their lives are unfathomably luxurious compared to what he endures every day. I’ve known football players burlier than Callum. And yet he’s fiercer somehow. Scarred and rough, and even a little scary.
Then he smiles—and those stony features crack, transforming him into something impossible to look away from.
My mind flashes to the graveyard, to the language on some of those old gravestones. Epitaphs to braw lads, straight-limbed and bold-hearted. This is what they meant. Callum is all those antiquated-sounding things.
The reel ends. One song flows directly into the next.
Callum links arms with yet another girl. She laughs, tilting her head just so, her fingers grazing his chest. And then…she lets them linger.
For one beat. Two. Three.
The relaxed warmth that had pooled in my belly goes ice-cold. Callum spins her away again. The movement is fast and fluid.
It’s simply the dance. Just part of the steps. I’m the one who insisted he go out there. Which means this burn in my throat—it’s not jealousy. It’s not longing.
It’s only acid in my stomach from too much drink.
The men arrange into an outer circle, clapping in time as the women link arms and twirl inside. As if all this obsessing has summoned him, Callum looks up. His eyes shoot straight to mine. Everyone hop-steps forward in a new move.
But his gaze doesn’t budge.
His partner finds him. He twirls her. But his eyes stay with me.
“You’re like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream.”
A male voice startles me so much I actually squeak.
Hamish.
He steps from the shadows, sliding onto the bench beside me like he’s been watching all along.