Chapter 9 #2
Children darted to and fro, laughing and waving at Cameron as they passed.
It was disorienting to see such carefree energy.
Fishing nets were left hanging to dry between cottages and fishermen worked side by side.
They would only pause to greet Cameron with the easy familiarity reserved for someone who belonged among them.
It unsettled her even more to see how easily Cameron responded.
When they reached the shore, the sand squeaking under their feet, she saw the fleet of wrecked ships.
In the distance, fishing vessels were already casting their nets wide.
It seemed as though most of the men in town were here, working together to get the wrecked boats seaworthy.
As they got closer, the men noticed them.
“Me Laird, it’s a pleasure to see ye again!” one of them yelled from where he was working.
“I hope the work is comin’ along well, Harold,” Cameron said.
“Aye,” Harold called back. “Thank ye again for assistin’ with the repairs.”
“When did you find time to come and help them?” Margo asked, unable to restrain her curiosity.
“The day after I returned with Eleanor,” he replied, leading her toward the strip of shops that was near the beach. “Fishin’ is how they feed their families, and the castle wouldnae survive if it werenae for their work. We need as many boats on the water as possible.”
“Oh,” she whispered, realizing that his absences were not to avoid being with her, but deeply driven by duty.
They did not exchange another word as they approached a wooden shack where an older woman was standing. Her hands were on her hips, and a playful grin spread across her face. She looked between Cameron and Margo, waiting until they were a bit closer to speak.
“I was wonderin’ when ye were goin’ to properly introduce me to our new Lady MacLeod, me Laird,” she said before turning around and disappearing inside the shack.
By the time Cameron and Margo reached the structure, the woman had reappeared with three small glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. She pressed a glass into his hand, then passed one to Margo. Without explaining what she was doing, she uncorked the bottle and filled all three of their cups.
“Agnes, we just arrived,” Cameron said, smirking at the woman.
“Ach, but I wasnae able to attend yer handfastin’,” Agnes argued, the smile on her face never fading. “I’d like to have me own little celebration of the bonnie Lady MacLeod.”
“What is this?” Margo asked, bringing the drink to her nose and inhaling.
When her brow furrowed, Agnes giggled and said, “That’s true Highland whisky, Me Lady. I promise ye that there is nothin’ like it down South.” She raised her own glass, saying “Slàinte! To the health of our new Lady!”
“To her health,” Cameron said, clinking his glass with both Agnes’s and Margo’s.
All three of them sipped at the same time. Cameron’s face remained unchanged, while Agnes grimaced slightly. Margo, however, felt as though her throat had suddenly caught fire.
She tried to restrain her coughing fit, not wanting to be rude, but she could not help herself. She sputtered, a gasping sound that immediately caught the attention of the other two. As Margo covered her mouth, Cameron outright laughed.
“Laird MacLeod!” Agnes chastised with a chuckle as Margo glared at him. “That is nae a kind thing to do, laughin’ at yer wife.”
“Aye, ye’re correct,” Laird MacLeod admitted as he dropped his hand. “I remember the first time I sipped yer whisky. It was just as unkind to me as it was to ye, Margo.”
“You could have warned me,” Margo grumbled, her throat still burning. “It would have been nice to know what I was getting into.”
“Nae warnin’ ye is part of the tradition,” Agnes said easily. Then, so warmly that Margo’s entire body heated, “Ye’re one of us now, Lady MacLeod.”
Lacking the words to respond, Margo only nodded, smiling. When the woman held out her hand to accept the glasses from the two of them, Margo was reluctant to hand them over. But, as soon as she did, Cameron led her away to the next shop.
The line of little shacks was a sensory delight. Smells of cooking fish, soft pelts hunted in the nearby woods, and candies that melted on her tongue. Every single time, the most impressive thing to her was the way Cameron interacted with the villagers.
Though he did not speak much with her, it seemed as if he knew exactly what to say to the people of his clan. He belonged here, she thought. He was part of the landscape.
But I am not. I could never blend in here. I could never truly be a part of this. But England is no longer my home, either.
Wrapping her arms around herself as they left the last shop, Margo looked at the distant cliffs.
They had been calling to her since they arrived.
If she could get to know them, understand the sheer energy of the land, she might be able to work with it.
Even if she felt that she couldn’t truly belong, she was sure she could still feel connected.
“I would like to see the cliffs before we return to the castle,” she said when the stables came into view once more.
“The winds are dangerous,” Cameron said, though his own gaze drifted to them. “Ye can feel how strong they are here. They are much worse up there.”
“I am a competent rider, Laird MacLeod,” Margo said, a bit indignant that he was implying she couldn’t handle herself.
“I’m nae sayin’ that ye arenae,” he replied, his tone flat. It was carefully constructed, though. Margo had come to realize that this meant she had a bit of give, that she could push.
“Then why, pray tell,” she continued, her voice as innocent as she could keep it, “would you not take me to see the cliffs?”
There was a long beat of silence that stretched between them. Then, with a sigh, Cameron said, “If ye insist, Lady MacLeod, then I will show ye the cliffs. But daenae complain if the winds are as strong as I said they were.”
“I will complain if I please,” she retorted.
“Aye,” he said with a scoff. “I daenae ken why I expected anythin’ else.”