Six #4
Bridget had had a walled garden in Ireland, all neat and trim, the walls low. Here, the walls were high and thick, serious about keeping out both bitter wind and prying eyes. The flowers were the stubborn varieties, nothing delicate about them.
“Does your brother know you’re hiding in here?”
The man stood in the only door to the garden, the breeze catching his kilt.
“You’re Uncle Angus. Bridget said I’m to stay away from you because you have a wicked temper.”
White brows shot up. “I’ve a temper? As I recall, our dear Bridget was easily vexed herself, and over mud, dogs in the house, and other infractions which the sovereign has disgracefully neglected to make hanging felonies.” He wasn’t smiling, but his blue eyes said he was teasing.
“You know Bridget?”
“I’m her uncle too, child. Were you aware there’s a tiger in your garden?”
More teasing, and Maeve liked it. “That’s Preacher. Michael says he brings the mice their eternal reward.”
“Aye, and he brings the lady cats something else entirely.” Uncle crossed his arms and got comfortable against the worn jamb of the garden door. “How is Scotland suiting you so far?”
He was the first person to ask her this question, and the way he watched her suggested he would listen to her answer, not be off about some grown-up errand even as Maeve considered her reply.
“I don’t know yet. The shortbread is nice. Brenna makes it with lavender, and Michael said it’s his favorite.”
“It’s not your favorite, is it, princess?”
Had he overheard her? The notion was both unsettling and pleasing. “Lavender is for soap.”
“And lemon drops are for little girls.” From his coat pocket, he withdrew a sack, one Maeve recognized might contain sweets. He shook it, the sound tantalizing. “Come sweeten your day, little Maeve. You’ve certainly sweetened mine.”
More teasing. Maeve rose from the grass and advanced on him. He wore the same plaid as everybody else around the castle except Brenna, and he was tall, though not quite as tall as Michael. She had to reach up to get at the sweets, which meant Uncle was still teasing her.
“Thank you.” She popped the little candy in her mouth, and it did taste of lemon and sugar—also of bitter smoke. She did not spit it out, because that would be rude, and Uncle Angus seemed nice.
“I used to come here to sketch on a pretty day, but you’re bored, aren’t you, child?”
Nice, and he paid attention. Maeve watched the cat disappear among the daisies. “Brenna said I might take this garden in hand, but it’s a wreck.”
“A pretty wreck,” Uncle Angus said. “Like our Brenna.”
Maeve didn’t know what to say about that. “Preacher likes it here.”
“Come winter, Preacher will like it much better under your covers. Have you met Lachlan?”
The daisies rustled, but no desperate little squeak suggested Preacher had put an end to a hapless rodent.
“I haven’t met anybody except Michael and Brenna. Prebish is resting, and Elspeth is busy.”
Uncle snapped off a daisy and held it out to her. This was clever of him, a grown-up trick, because daisy stems were tough. “Do you know where the stables are, child?”
Maeve nodded, twirling her flower and watching the now-still daisies. “I saw them from the parapet. You can see everything from up there.”
“Take yourself to the stables, and you’ll find a boy named Lachlan who’s about your age. By Highland standards, he’s a cousin-in-law of sorts to you, and he’s horse mad. Ye ken?”
Bridget’s husband had been horse mad. Kevin’s house was full of pictures of horses, he wore riding clothes until teatime, and in spring, he stayed in the barn all night if a mare was close to foaling. When he talked about his horses, he sounded like he was reading poetry.
“Lachlan’s my cousin?”
“Not quite, but he’s Brenna’s cousin, which counts nearly the same in these parts. He’s a good lad, and I’m sure he’ll introduce you to the horses and the stable cats if you ask him.”
“I like horses and cats, but I wasn’t allowed to have a pony in Ireland. Ponies are expensive.”
Bloody damned expensive, according to certain grown-ups whom Maeve had been allowed to overhear more than once—purposely, she suspected.
“Find Lachlan, but don’t tell him I told you where he was. He’s truant from the kitchen, and I wouldn’t want to get the lad in trouble.”
He winked at her and strode off, his kilt swinging the same way Michael’s did. A flash of orange caught Maeve’s eye, and there, eight feet above the daisies, the cat sat on the top of the wall.
“I’m going to the stables to find my cousin.” Though in Ireland, she’d had a sister, and Bridget had seldom been good company. Maeve had a brother here…somewhere.
The cat sat atop the wall, its expression as dour as a preacher’s. When the beast started washing its paws, Maeve felt well and truly ignored—and free to find her cousin.
It occurred to her, as she tried unsuccessfully to snap off a lovely white daisy, that if Uncle had remained rooted in the doorway, her only escape from the garden would have been over the walls.
She spat out the lemon drop, brandished the daisy before her like a sword, and charged off toward the stables.