Bride of the Black Scot by Elaine Coffman

Author:Elaine Coffman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ellora's Cave Publishing Inc.
Published: 2014-05-20T04:00:00+00:00

The burn lay quite close to camp. Juliette heard the low murmur of voices before she left the residual light of the campfire.

A moment later, Stephen’s voice reached out of the darkness. “Hearing you approach makes me wonder how the English ever perfected the sneak attack.”

“It is wiser to be heard and recognized than to be shot for sneaking,” Juliette replied.

She saw the dark outline of two shapes sitting on a boulder that the burn seemed to curve around, its surface spangled with moonlight. Just as she reached them, Angus came to his feet. Stephen handed him two fish, strung through the mouth and gills with a length of string. “You’d better see to these,” he said. “I ken I am about to be talked to death.”

“Aye, talk gushes like water from the Sassenach lass. I ken all the English are smitten by Aaron’s rod,” Angus said.

“We are a friendly lot,” Juliette replied with a shrug, looking at Stephen.

“Have you no heard, lass, that silence catches a mouse?”

“I thought to inject a few currants of conversation into this tasteless gruel of existence.”

He laughed. “Well then, lass, sit yourself down. Angus has left the spot warm for you.”

She glanced in the direction Angus had taken. “Had he known that, I am certain he would have stood the entire time.”

“Win his trust and you will have a strong ally.”

“Faith! I think it easier to catch leviathan with a hook than to win that man’s favor.”

Stephen laughed and Juliette sat upon the spot Angus had warmed, watching Stephen roll up a piece of string with a hook on the end of it.

“Do you ever use a rod?” she asked.

“No. I learned at a young age that a rod is nothing more than a stick with a hook on one end and a fool at the other.”

“When I was young, I tried to learn how to tickle fish, but I never mastered the art. My father said the water was too clear.”

“Aye, fish are tickled best when the water is muddy.” He finished rolling up the string and put it in his pocket. “You are close to your father, I think.”

“Yes. My aunt says it is because I have no mother, but I think it is because my father is such a wonderful man.”

“When did you lose your mother?”

“When my youngest sister, Ellen, was born.” Her look turned wistful. “You were fortunate to have known yours for such a long time.”

“How do you ken I knew my mother for a long time?”

“Because, in spite of the sadness in you, there is also a gentleness…a patient understanding of women that could have only come from a mother’s love.”

“Maybe it is because I have always been a lad who was fond of the lassies,” he said.

“No, it is much deeper than that,” she said, seeing that her words made him uncomfortable. It was proof that she had spoken the truth.

He looked at her strangely.

“Is something bothering you?” she asked.

“Aye. I can no help wondering why your father would agree to your betrothal to the Black Scot,” he said.

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