Chapter Eleven
The next morning, áedán appeared at my door before I'd finished my coffee.
“We're going into the village,” he announced from the doorway. “A proper visit. Not just to see Moira.”
I looked up from my notebook. “You want to go into Luss?”
“Nae.” He leaned against the doorframe. “But you've been trying to understand what it's like for me, living in a world that's moved on. I should probably try to understand what that world actually is now.”
“You live in it.”
“I live beside it.” He straightened. “There's a difference.”
“All right, but I need to do some research. I can't present your original myth to the Velasca without all the information about when it changed and how.”
“I'm sure the shops will have some books aboot my legend.”
“Very well.”
Twenty minutes later we were walking down Pier Road.
The morning was bright and warm, the kind of Scottish summer day that makes everything look softer.
Tourists were already gathering near the pier, cameras ready, voices carrying across the water.
The shops were busy, bells tinkling with every opened door.
áedán walked with his hands in his pockets, watching everything with the careful attention of someone cataloging threats. A car passed too close, and he tensed. A child on a bicycle rang her bell, and he tracked her movement until she disappeared around a corner.
“Coffee first,” I motioned to the shop. “There's a coffee shop near the church.”
“I dinnae drink coffee.”
“Have you tried it?”
He gave me a look that suggested I'd asked something profoundly stupid. “I'm six hundred years old. Of course, I've tried coffee. It tastes like burned dirt.”
“This is different. It's—” I searched for a word. “Modern.”
“Ah yes. Modern burned dirt.”
“It's better now. Trust me.”
The Coach House Coffee Shop was in yet another gray and red stone building.
Inside, beams crossed the peaked ceiling and long, pale wooden tables filled the main room.
An open doorway led to a little shop with cabinets full of country items. The scent of espresso and fresh pastries greeted us, as did a young woman behind the counter.
“What can I get you?” she asked as we approached the counter.
I ordered a cafe mocha. áedán studied the menu board with the intensity of someone decoding ancient runes.
“What's a flat white?” He stared her down suspiciously.
“Coffee with steamed milk,” the woman said. “Very smooth.”
“I'll have a pot of tea.”
“We have Earl Grey, English Breakfast, chamomile—”
“Do you have anything that isnae in a bag?”
She blinked. “We have a house blend, Scottish tea.”
“That will do. And a piece of that.” He pointed to a pie in the display case.
“Sure thing.”
We sat by the window. I watched áedán watch the village, his gaze moving from person to person, building to building, as if he were memorizing escape routes. When the woman brought our drinks and áedán's slice of apple pie, she set them down with a smile that lingered a moment too long on áedán.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” Her hopeful gaze went to áedán.
áedán didn't seem to notice. He was staring at my coffee with suspicion.
“Try it.” I slid my mug to him.
“I already told you—”
“Just try it.”
He brought the mug to his lips and took a single sip. His expression went through several stages: surprise, consideration, then profound disappointment.
“Well?”
“It's better than I remember, but too sweet.” He set the cup down. “Still inferior to tea.”
“You didn't even give it a chance.”
“I gave it centuries of chances.” He poured his tea, lifted his cup, and breathed in the steam. “Tea is older. More honest. Coffee is trying too hard.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Coffee is trying too hard?”
“Everything aboot it. The machines, the milk foam, the names.” He gestured at the menu board. “What's a macchiato?”
“Espresso with a small amount of foamed milk.”
“Why not just call it that?”
“Because it's too long.”
“Giving things silly names because their true names are too long is dafty.”
“I think it's dafty not to.” I stuck my tongue out at him.
áedán smiled into his tea. It was the first genuinely relaxed expression I'd seen on his face all morning.
After finishing our beverages and pie, we walked down to the loch and along the shore until we came to a group of children. Gathered at the water's edge, they were throwing pieces of bread to a family of ducks. The ducks swam near, but only a few came over to peck at the food.
áedán stopped walking and watched the children. Then he stared at the ducks. “They're feeding them wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I looked from him to the children.
“They're just flinging it aboot. The ducks arenae even trying.” He walked closer, studying the situation with the focus of a general surveying a battlefield, and set down the cooler. “You have to make them work for it.”
Before I could respond, he took out the bread we'd just bought, removed a piece, tore off a chunk, and threw it into the water. Not close to the ducks, but further out, so they'd have to swim to get it.
One of the children, a boy of maybe seven, looked up at him. “That's too far.”
“Is it now?” áedán threw another piece, even farther. A duck paddled after it with surprising speed.
The boy's eyes widened. He threw his own bread farther out. Another duck gave chase.
Within minutes, it had become a competition. The children were trying to out-throw each other, laughing as the ducks raced across the water. áedán was in the middle of it, throwing bread with the precision of someone who'd spent centuries understanding water and the creatures that lived in it.
“You're good at this.” A little girl looked up at áedán with open admiration.
“I've had practice.”
I stood back and watched. áedán lifted a smaller child so he could throw his piece further.
He laughed when a particularly ambitious duck managed to steal bread from another duck mid-swim.
The tension in his shoulders loosened, and he was back to the mischievous kelpie who had tossed me into the loch.
An older woman walking past smiled at me. “Your husband is wonderful with children.”
I opened my mouth to correct her. To explain that áedán wasn't my husband, wasn't even my boyfriend, much less my husband, but caught myself. That was too much to load on a stranger. “Thank you. Yes, he is.”
She walked on. I stood there, face burning, wondering why I hadn't corrected her.
áedán glanced back at me. He'd heard. I could see it in the slight curve of his mouth, the way his eyes caught the light. He didn't say anything. Just looked me over and then turned back to throw another piece of bread.
It happened twice more as we walked through the village.
A man at the bookshop said we made a lovely couple.
A woman at the souvenir shop asked how long we'd been together.
Each time it happened, I started to correct them.
And each time I started to correct them, áedán would slip his arm around my shoulders, casual and affectionate, and say something that wasn't quite a confirmation but wasn't quite a denial either.
I should have moved away, should have stepped out from under his arm and established proper boundaries. Instead, I stood there, hyperaware of the weight of his arm, the warmth of him against my side, and his fresh, masculine scent.
“You're enjoying this.” I stopped outside the souvenir shop to slide the books I'd purchased into the bag with those I'd gotten at the bookshop.
“Immensely.” He slid his arm around my shoulders again. “You're easily fankled.”
“I'm what?”
“Uh, what's the English?” He frowned. “Ah, yes, you're flustered.”
“I'm not flustered.”
“Your ears are red.”
I reached up to touch them. They were warm. “That's from the cold.”
“It's a warm summer day.”
“The breeze off the water is cold.”
“Sure, it is.” He squeezed my shoulder gently, then let his arm fall away.
I tried not to feel disappointed that he'd drawn away, but I've never been one to deny the truth. I was disappointed. But then he took my bag of books from me, and I felt a little better.
We were wandering down Pier Road, looking for a tea room or restaurant for lunch, when we heard a commotion coming from the pier.
We had just reached the end of the road and were about to turn and go up the other side, so we were close enough to see what the shouting was about.
A little girl had fallen into the loch, her red coat bright against the dark water.
A couple stood on the pier above her. The shouts had been from other people on the pier, alerting the parents.
The man had shucked off his coat and was climbing the railing, but the child was already going under, her coat pulling her down.
áedán moved before I could process my shock.
One moment he was beside me, the next he was in the water, moving with a speed and grace that wasn't human.
He reached where the girl had gone under in seconds, dove, and came up with her.
The couple on the pier ran for the shore, reaching áedán just as he carried the girl out of the water.
By the time I reached them, he was kneeling on the rocky shore, supporting the girl's back as she coughed out water. Her mother knelt beside her, sobbing, while the father stood over them, white-faced with terror.
“Is she—” The father could barely get the words out.
“She's fine.” áedán's voice was calm, steady. “Just a wee bit feart. Get her warm and dry.”
The girl's mother removed the child's soaked coat and replaced it with hers. The father was trying to thank áedán, words tumbling over each other, but áedán just shook his head.
“Anyone woulda done it.” áedán stood up and patted the man on the shoulder. “I saw you. You were aboot to dive in, but I dinnae think you'd reach her in time.”
“I think you're right. Thank you.” He shook áedán's hand.
Wrapped in her mother's coat and held in her mother's arms, the little girl looked up at áedán with huge eyes. “You're pretty.”
áedán chuckled. “Och, now. Thank you very much, lassie.”