Chapter 7 #2
“I…I couldn’t.” Now, she would have to explain. “Because of the infatuation.” She shook her head. “It was complicated.”
“And that was why you didn’t call me Rory?”
“Mm-hmm,” was all she could get out.
His head cocked to the side, watching her with utter and complete concentration. “And now?”
“Now?”
Oh, what new mess had she landed in? How could she explain how she felt about him now when she didn’t understand it herself?
“Why don’t you call me Rory now?”
Oh. She’d spoken of her infatuation in the past tense. There might yet be a way out of this mess… “Erm,” she said, her mind racing. “Habit.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “Well, you’re not an old dog, are you?”
“Erm, no,” she said, trying to understand what he was about. “If I were a dog, I would be quite an aged one at three and twenty years of age.”
He smiled, but that discerning look hadn’t left his eyes. “But you’re not a dog, Miss Windermere.”
She sat perplexed and silent. One could take a multitude of meanings from that statement.
“And you can learn new tricks.”
Ah.
“Call me Rory.”
It was an invitation. It was a command. One she couldn’t—didn’t want to—refuse. The invitation warmed, but the command and the intent in his eyes when he spoke it lit dark and secret places inside her into flame.
Servants chose that moment to enter the room carrying several large plates laden with the heartiest meal Juliet had ever been served—an entire filet of salmon, leg of lamb, boiled, smashed potatoes, turnips, and haggis. No proper Scottish meal would’ve been complete without haggis.
“This is quite too much for me to eat, Kil—”
He glanced up and pierced her with his opaque turquoise gaze.
“Rory,” she finished. In truth, she quite liked his given name.
“What we don’t eat tonight will be finished on the morrow.”
“That’s practical of you.”
“Have you ever met an impractical Scotsman?”
“I reckon not.” She’d taken only a few bites when she found him staring at her. “What is it?”
“Scáthach,” he said. “What made you think to write a poem about her?”
“I’ve been intrigued since I first heard the mythology about her as a child.”
“Tell me.”
Again, a command from him.
And again, a response from her body.
“Her name translates to The Shadow,” she began. “That was what first sparked my interest. I’d never heard a woman described so.” She took a forkful of salmon that melted in her mouth. “Then there’s the legend itself. She lived with her daughter Uathach in a fortress on the Isle of Skye.”
“Have you ever been to Skye?”
Juliet shook her head. “I hope to someday.”
“You would love it there. Perhaps we could visit.” A beat. “Together.” His eyebrows crinkled. “With Delilah accompanying us, of course.”
“Of course.” Juliet cleared her throat. “And Scáthach trained warriors. Not female warriors like the Amazons, but male warriors. She also invented a weapon. A barbed harpoon called Gáe Bulg. But the mythology has always treated her as a mere stopping point for the real heroes of the story.”
Rory poured a glaze of sauce over his turnips and haggis. “Didn’t she train Cú Chulainn?”
“My point exactly,” said Juliet. “He began an affair with her daughter Uathach, but when he injured her—”
“Injured her?”
“It was apparently an accident that he broke her fingers.”
“Broke her fingers? And this fellow who broke the bones of women became a hero?”
Juliet had never seen Kilmuir—Rory—look so thunderous. She continued, “In pain, Uathach called out for her other lover—”
A hearty laugh erupted from Rory.
“—Who Cú Chulainn dispatched there and then. Feeling guilty about the whole situation, Cú Chulainn indentured himself to Scáthach and promised to marry Uathach.”
“What a gentleman,” said Rory, dry.
“A promise he didn’t keep.” She shrugged.
“But, really, my interest doesn’t lie with Cú Chulainn, but rather with Scáthach, and her ability to maintain autonomy in a world dominated by powerful men.
To become a powerful woman in her own right, she sometimes had to use those men to achieve her own ends.
For example, she had Cú Chulainn defeat her sworn enemy, who also happened to be a powerful woman—some say Scáthach and Aífe were sisters—which is yet another avenue to explore. ”
“And that avenue is?” Rory seemed genuinely interested.
“The ways powerful women can become pitted against one another in a patriarchal society, which only serves to benefit and uphold that system.”
Rory nodded. “Sounds like you have quite a bit of story to tell there.”
Juliet felt her adamancy give way to a smile. “Indeed.”
“Your poetry has purpose to it.”
A blush crept through Juliet. She could think of no higher praise. “I can’t imagine you give a fig about anything I’ve had to say.”
“Would you like to quiz me?” he asked. “I was never any good at school, but I would pass your test.”
The intensity of his gaze was almost too much.
She wanted to look away.
She didn’t want to look away.
No one turned her into a bundle of contradictions like this man.
A laugh wrapped in nerves escaped her parted mouth. A laugh full of bravado. “Because, of course, you’ve been hanging on my every word,” she said, cool and distant, because that was the sort of witty repartee expected from Miss Juliet Windermere.
Rory didn’t flinch or seem particularly impressed or amused by it. “Yes.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
All her wit and sophistication and cartload of words that could run around in circles for days had no defense against this—Rory’s straightforward honesty.