Chapter 23 #2
“I’m going to kill you,” I shout over the thudding hoofbeats.
“I’m already dying a slow death here.” He adjusts me even closer, and I feel more than hear his throaty chuckle.
That silences me.
Too soon—or not soon enough—he’s slowing the pony to a trot, then to a walk. As we reach an outcropping of trees, Callum untangles us and slides off. I tense, but the second his feet hit the ground, he wraps his arms around me and gently slides me down.
I sag close to him, unusually close, but my legs—and maybe my will—are incapable of budging.
It’s too intense. I can’t meet his eyes, so I look around instead. “Where are these bluebells?”
“They’re not in season.”
I cast a dramatic glare at the pony. “I thought that was the whole reason for this ride.”
“Not the whole reason.” He sounds so mischievous. I can’t trust my ears, so I look up at him. That hard face, with the scars and the once-broken nose, gazes down at me with something like tenderness.
“Patience, Rosie, and let me finish the telling of it. Bluebells come in May, but ’twas a mild autumn, and I ken a secret wee spot where a few still bloom.”
As he steps back, he slides a hand down my arm until he’s laced his fingers with mine. The move is confident and sure, like this is our thing now.
I follow him into the woods, thrown by how I might trust him to lead me anywhere.
Unlike the trees near Donag’s cottage, these are airy and bright. Dappled sunlight throws coins of light along tangles of ferns and moss, and somewhere close by, a stream burbles cheerfully.
I gasp as we cross into a clearing so magical, I half expect a unicorn to wander by.
Grass unfurls before us like a tufty green and yellow picnic blanket.
Heather grows in the sunniest patches, its blooms faded to palest lilac, and spines turned the gold of fall.
Trees encircle the glade, their roots like giant gnarled feet nestled in carpets of red fern.
It’s a messy palette of color, but what draws my eye are a few pops of vibrant purple-blue—tiny flowers sprinkled like fairy gems in the deepest shadows.
I grin. “Those are bluebells?”
“Aye.”
“It’s like they were hanging on just for me.”
“Just as I was,” he says, his voice low with intent.
My gaze jumps to him. “What did you just say?”
But he’s grinning again, light and breezy as he chucks my chin. “Your hearing’s a mite feeble for a lass of so few years.”
He bounds into the clearing, turns, teeters playfully, then plops down. He kicks his feet out in front of him, leaning on elbows stretched behind, at complete ease. “In May, this will be a blanket of blue. I’ll bring you back and show you.”
I’ll be gone.
The thought buzzes at me, and I mentally swat it away like a bug I’m pretending doesn’t exist.
He watches me, waiting. “Rosie-love.” His voice is a low caress, soft and encouraging. His palm skims over the ground beside him in invitation. “Come bide a wee while with me.”
Rosie-love. Nerves like a million dragonflies take flight in my chest.
My legs carry me closer. I hope I don’t look as lumbering as I feel when I sit next to him.
He stretches to pluck a bluebell, and I forget myself, exclaiming, “You can’t do that. There are so few left.”
“Aye.” He tucks it behind my ear, fingers threading through my hair, gentle and reverent. “And there’s only one of you.”
Like a slow flame curling along paper, heat crackles down my body, consuming me, until I’m in danger of floating away.
I’m not sure what’s happening here. It’s so surreal that this even is happening. Never have I ever been looked at with such rapt focus.
How did I hurtle through time to land here? With him?
I toss aside the thought with a self-deprecating laugh. “The only flowers I’ve ever gotten were from Poppa after a school play. Roses. Of course. Get it? A rose for Rose.”
“You’re lovelier than any rose.” The compliment rolls from him so easily, and yet it doesn’t feel like a line. It came out like it’s simply the truth as he sees it.
It’s too overwhelming to consider what other truths might be looming inside him.
His eyes have caught mine and hold me transfixed, as if their silvery-blue color were comprised of actual metal, some fantastical lodestone with the power to draw me in and hold me close.
It’s too intense. I don’t know how to act or what to say. So I bring the conversation back to the thing that’s been nagging me since last night. “Do you really think Hamish will be cool about the whole dance thing?”
His intensity fades back into his usual good-natured friendliness. “If by ‘cool’ you mean will he have all the bitterness of a loch in January, then aye, he’ll be cool.”
I laugh weakly, agreeing. “Apparently, there are douchebags in every century.” When he doesn’t follow, I amend, “I mean, he’s an ass.”
Callum winces, like Hamish is somehow his fault. “I told you not to trust the rich lad.”
Trying to keep it light, I remind him, “Actually, what you said was not to trust a man with one eyebrow.”
The hint of a smile cracks his face, but he nods with all the seriousness of an old wise man. “That was verra sensible of me.”
He’s trying to be playful, but I can tell his mood has shifted. The Hamish thing troubles him. And I think it goes deeper than simple jealousy or male posturing.
I wrestle with the skirt of my dress until I’ve crossed my legs and am facing him in the grass. “Hamish might be richer than you are, but that doesn’t make him better. You know that, right?”
He nods, but it’s halfhearted.
“Right?” I repeat more firmly.
That gaze snags mine again, and this time there’s something raw there. An injury he keeps hidden. He looks deeply into my eyes as though he might discover a mirror buried deep within.
“Aye,” he agrees finally. With a subdued smile, he adds, “They say the king may make a duke, but God alone can make a Highlander.”
“Isn’t Hamish a Highlander?”
He opens and shuts his mouth before finally answering. “Hamish has been pampered from the cradle, his every whim indulged. He drinks wine from France. Sleeps on silken pillows. Has servants”—he gestures to himself with a sweeping hand—“to do his every bidding.”
I lose Callum for an extended moment as he contemplates the scene around us, his eyes roaming from the grass, to the trees, up to the watery blue sky, ending down at his plaid.
He’s quieter as he continues, “Highlanders are made of sterner stuff. Our hearts are carved from these granite hills and just as steadfast. A true Highlander doesn’t need coin to be rich,” he says, picking up steam. “At day’s end, he’s content to rest with naught but heather for his bed—”
I can’t help my giggle. “Okay, Mister Heather Bed. Now you’re just being dramatic.”
His eyes flash to mine with pretend outrage.
“You doubt me, woman?” Before I can reply, he springs to his feet and scoops me up, sending the clouds whirling over my head.
I make squeaking, delighted sounds like I’ve never made before, as he trips along, hoisting his feet high to storm over the uneven ground.
Callum halts, swinging his body right, then left, as if searching for the perfect spot. When he finds it, he drops to his knees. He slows his playful movements, becomes careful, deliberate.
“A bed of Highland heather,” he says softly, and with a gentleness that steals my breath, he lays me down.