“What's with the dagger?” I ask, needing to yell above the cacophony.
“It's called a dirk. They're wearin' traditional highland dress and every man needs tae carry a dirk with him. The lasses all wore one too. Ye can call us naturally prepared.”
“Or naturally paranoid,” I mumble back.
“What was that?” he says, leaning down to hear me.
Stifling another laugh, I say instead, “So what's the fluffy bag for?”
I'm wondering if it's a prehistoric kevlar-type shield for a man's most prized anatomy.
“It's a sporran,” says Selene, enjoying my education. She looks like she's about to pack up laughing too.
“Well what's it for?” I shout, when we're lost in another marauding band of pipers and drummers stomping past like storm troopers.
Crikey, I can't hear myself think in this place.
“Mostly it's yer survival kit,” answers Doug. “But nowadays it can hold anything from yer credit card tae yer ipod.”
“Survival kit?” What's that cryptic statement supposed to mean? They're really into this cloak and dagger stuff.
“Aye!” he yells, drawing us further away from the bands toward the outfields. “Yer fishing line, a few hooks, and yer oats.”
“So it's a handbag that doubles as a willy warmer?”
Doug stops walking to stare at me aghast. “I beg yer pardon?”
“It's a purse for your chapstick and mascara which hangs in front of the 'bits'.”
“Could ye say that a wee bit louder?” smirks Doug, looking around anxiously.
“Keep walking, we're blocking the path the bands are taking to their competing zone,” says Selene tugging Doug, who in turn pulls me.
But it's true. Its a furry handbag with little bits hanging decoratively off it, slung by a belt around a man's kilt. I don't see what the big deal is. What I don't get is why the girls don't have one, they'd find it way more useful than the boys.
Watching them march away in formation I'm suddenly forced to stop walking by Doug. Looking forward I spy the thunderous scowl of Heather MacFarlane and her hideous entourage.
Oh boy!
Chapter 15
Douglas:
There they are. The whole crew is lined up waiting for Roddie to humiliate Ramsay and Robertson.
Letting the ladies go first, I watch the two platinum blonds glide over the grass onto the bleachers as if they hardly touch the ground. They're like two lithe stars the way the sunlight reflects off their hair.
I'm feelin' like King Duncan with the sidhe on each arm. I've noticed the two of them being gawked at and rubbernecked, but they dinnae even seem tae be aware of it.
If Heather's face is anything tae go by, I'd say the lasses have noticed too.
A practicing piper stands aft, playing tunes I grew up with, and it seems fitting tae watch our modern warriors showing their mettle tae the strains of Scotland the Brave.
*
Ellindt:
Sitting next to Doug while Morag and Heather stare poison my way, Doug is irritating me by tapping his foot in time to the bagpipes, singing softly under his breath.
Every time he bounces his leg, his thigh bumps mine, and I'm sorely tempted to put my hand on it and hold it down. It's like a nervous tick. I wonder if he's excited or worried?
Looking around at the hefty boys preparing for their conflict, he mirrors my thoughts by putting his palm above my knee, long fingers wrapping between the gap in my thighs and grasping warmly, twitching his fingers to his ditty.
Leaning in, I strain to hear the mumbled lyrics.
“Land of ma high endeavor, land of the shining river, land of ma heart fer'ever, Scotland the brave...” Then he mutes to humming.
“Scotland the brave?” I ask, searching his eyes.
“Oh aye,” he gifts me with a warm smile. “Yer about tae see the brave, right here, right now.”
The thought separates the plasma from my blood and a wave of attraction surges through me. Dizzy, I'm pulled to the sexy pout of his bottom lip, drawn to the sharp corners of his generous mouth. He
is
my brave. He hasn't run from anything yet and I'm beginning to dream that he'll always stay. Slinking my hand into the crevice of his collar bone, I snake up, capturing my fingers in his hair, encouraging him closer, to my mouth.
A throat clearing loudly halts us and my heart races, jolting to face the interruption, expecting to see Arelstin or Uncle Venix. Instead I'm staring into the brewing black holes of Roderick MacDonald's eyes.
Doug bolts up, standing, looking flustered. “Roddie!” He gestures to Selene, “This is Ellindt's auntie Selene. Selene this is Roderick, ma mate.”
Selene stands in a graceful fluid movement, offering him her hand, “How lovely to meet you. I've heard so much about you.”
Roddie gives me a nervous glance, his Adam's apple moving in labored motion as if he's thinking about flicking his cigarette butt at me.
That'll teach you to show strangers some manners, dirtbag.
Giving her his full attention he shakes her hand, offering a smoldering smile that could start forest fires, “It's ma pleasure tae meet ye.”
Rod has the hots for Selene! Oh my gosh, this is classic!
“Roddie!” gushes the annoying whine of the hungover and gormless.
Bug off Heather, you're not welcome.
But
no
, this chick, after being nothing but rude and proletarian elbows between Selene and Rod, turning her back on Selene to cut her off, “We've been lookin' fer ye! Where the hell were ye?”
“Heather, can ye nae see I'm busy. I'll talk tae ye later,” says Roddie, irritability darkening his features, pulling his brows down like curtains at the end of the final act.
“But we saved ye a seat!” she argues, looking ready to stomp her foot and tackle him.
“Aye, ye big ned!” staggers Morag, stopping to lean heavily on Heather.
“I dinnae need a seat as I'm a competitor. Who's the ned now?” he grumbles.
Looking at the two girls with faces that look like they were used to grind flour when they were still growing, now flat and almost square, their chins shallower than their lips, I can't help but feel a little sorry for Roderick. This is his stalker, and she has back up.
Auburn hair fires up my periphery and I balk at the sight of Andrea teetering our way in her bright red heels, overdressed for sure.
Looking away from the unravelling spectacle, I watch the muscle bound boys warming up, jesting with each other. Their smiles are friendly but their eyes are as cold as the ladies infringing on my clean air.
They still smell like vomit and stale ale, with cheap perfume doused over it to try and disguise the stench.
“Dougie!” squeals loudly from Andrea, and his groan reaches me.
“Allo,” he smiles, and it's so fake it's painful.
Selene grips my arm, spinning me around, hooking her arm through mine, pausing just long enough to disembowel Rod and his hanger's-on with her vampress smile, “We're just going for a stroll to check out their equipment.”
Her inflection to Roddie is an invitation laced with innuendo, but she doesn't wait, corralling me down the bleachers and onto the vibrantly green grass.
Leaning head to head with me as we stroll past the piper, she says, “If your uncle could see what you had to deal with last night, I think all would be forgiven. Good lord, those poor boys.”
“I'm glad you got to see it for yourself,” I say, amazed by the man we're dawdling past, heaving a heavy metal ball up in a warm up motion.
“Ellie...”
Her tone is so serious I stop and face her. She's only an inch taller than me, but the quicksilver slipping across her irises warns me that she's highly stressed.
“What?” Now I'm worried.
“Roderick saw Zarak. I read it in his thoughts. Zarak chased them out of the forest last night.”
My legs wobble with instant weakness and I clutch her arms to keep my balance. This is really bad. That means Rod knows our secret.
She shakes her head, forcing me to walk again, “Doug covered for us. I don't know what to make of it if I'm honest.”
“What was he even doing in the forest last night? Charm him, he seems rather taken by you,” I tease, smiling at my aunt when she visually caresses the bodybuilder physique of the man we're passing. “Roddie's built like that, he's your type.”
She bursts out laughing, “How would you know my type?”
“I'm not blind. If you stare any harder your eyes are going to pop out of their sockets.”
“Speak of the devil,” she whispers, just as a man's heavy footfalls rush up behind us.
“Sorrae about that. My fan club can be overwhelming.”
I think loudly to Selene,
Oh he's definitely trying to impress you. His fan club! Ha!
Shhhh,
she giggles back at me, turning to look up at Rod with her power smile. “We were just wondering what all this is,” she says to him, playing ignorant while gesturing to the random assortment of items behind the competitors.
“Well,” he says, literally flexing his muscles for her in his sleeveless t-shirt and bright red kilt, “The wooden pole is called a caber. We throw that. That ball with the stick is really verra heavy, and we throw that tae. That's called the hammer throw.”
“Oh really,” she murmurs, squeezing my arm so tight it almost cuts off my circulation. “That's fascinating. What's the barn fork for?”
“That's fer the sheaf toss. We hoist those heavy bags up and over a bar. The highest toss wins.”
I think he means the highest tosser,
I laugh mentally.
He could definitely win that.
Shut up, Ellindt.
But she glances at me with hilarity briefly splashed across her expression. I give her my eat shit grin, looking away, back to where Doug is still trying to extricate himself from that redheaded lowlife.
I wish I could be confrontational and assert myself, but we're not allowed to draw attention to ourselves. I have no choice but to leave it alone and swallow my pride, watching another woman make a play for my guy. When I'm independent I'm never ever going to stand down again. When I'm in charge of my own life I'm going to relish putting girls like that in their place.
He's obviously with me, can't she see that? Why yes – yes she can. And despite that she's trying to muscle in on my territory. I only have five days left and I refuse to have her mess it up.
He gave me a flower, not you! So back off!
“And this is fer the weight throw,” explains Roddie, finally filtering back into my awareness.
“It looks like kettle weights,” says Selene, sounding riveted.
“Aye, but we've been daeing this fer hundreds of years. We cannae help if we're centuries ahead of our time,” he says.
He's actually very good looking when he's being nice. He's ruggedly handsome, tall and imposing, with a definite rebellious flare to his walk and facial expressions. I would guess he's had a tough life.
Interrupting their flirtation, I ask him, “Why do you coordinate your shoelaces with your tartan?”
His eyes widen marginally before his pupils harden to flat and unimpressed, “Ah dinnae coordinate ma shoelaces, Ellindt.”
There, he's spitting my name out of his mouth like a cuss word again.
Selene answers for me, having access to his innermost thoughts,
It's code. Lace colors have significance. Red means he'll fight you, and isn't afraid to kill you in the process.
“Oh!” I gasp, looking from her to him.
He joins me, looking between us like an unsure chicken cocking its head searching for seed. “What?”
“Nothing,” I grumble, giving him the get lost glare.
Squaring his shoulders, inflating himself somehow, he looks down his sharp nose as if trying to peg me to the spot, “Ye wouldnae understand, yer not from around here.”
“Fine,” I say, holding my hands up in mock surrender.
“I've been told when a wiman says fine, then it definitely isnae,” interrupts Doug's smooth voice from behind me.
With mild relief I press against him when his arms fold around my waist and he holds me to him, cuddling up and resting his chin on my head.
“What's fine?” continues Doug.
“Nothing,” I say, wishing we could just drop it.
“Uh oh. Roddie, what did ye dae? Gaeing from fine tae nothin' is lady talk fer
now
yer gonnae be sorrae
.”
“We were discussing Rod's red laces,” intervenes Selene.
“Oh that. Yeah, he thinks he's a tough guy.” Doug laughs, jutting his chin across the top of my head toward the field, “I think they'd like tae have the final say on that point.”
Helping me change the subject, Doug says to Rod, “So did ye tell them why we ha'e the hammer throw at the Highland Games?”
“Why?” purrs Selene, looking up at Roderick as if she's mentally stripping him.
The incredible smile he gives her let's us all know he picks up on hints just fine. “The old name fer Scotland is Caledonia. Tae us it still is Caledonia. The legend says it's named after the Cailleach. A caille is a veil, like the kind ye see on brides. There are mountains formed here which come from enormous stones which fell from Cailleach's apron when she went striding across the Highlands. Wherever she goes she carries a hammer tae shape the landscape. Tae us she is the mother of all gods and goddesses. She's the first, and this is her home.”
“So you throw the hammer to impress your god?” smiles Selene, looking coyly up at him through her long eyelashes with deep blues.
“Aye, I guess ye could put it like that,” he smirks, and he even manages to look a bit embarrassed by the admission.
“And the Picts painted themselves azure with woad tae look like her, tae look like the greatest god Cailleach. The myth says she has blae skin,” adds Doug cheerfully, pride resonating in his tone.
Selene laughs huskily, “Are you sure her skin wasn't blue from the cold?”
Roddie and Douglas laugh with her, and I can sense the camaraderie building between her and Doug's best friend.
Desperate to change the subject, even though I know Doug is just trying to smooth over the jagged discomfort of our previous discussion, I ask him, “So is this like Scotland's answer to the Olympic games?”