The Reckoning, page 4
part #50 of The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series
“Aye.” Wickham chuckled. “If only we were Rom. But alas I have nothing to offer, nothing to trade but for that lame pony. If ye’d care to exchange a horse for him, we could be on our way and off yer lands in the morning.”
Everyone laughed then, for no one would argue it was an exchange worthy of a gypsy. But none could be sure one way or another. They’d claimed not to be Rom, then given every reason to believe they could be. But still, there was no hint of potions on offer.
The old man rubbed his cheeks with one hand. “Have ye nothing to drink, then?”
“That depends,” Soni said.
“Depends upon what?”
“Upon how far away ye’ve left that cow.”
The visit wore on, and all the while, Soni was aware of every blink, every inch of movement made on Simon’s part. She could feel every inch of the seven feet between them. The times he glanced or smiled in her direction, the sound of his voice when he spoke low to someone else—it was all too delicious! But the best moments were those when their eyes caught and lingered. The campfire seemed to swell inside her own chest in those precious seconds.
Simon had to feel something for her. Even if it was a tenth of her own exhilaration, he had to be aware there was something extraordinary between them.
After another such connection that sent her blood sizzling through her body, she glanced around at the other faces ringing their fire, to see if anyone had noticed. Sadly, someone had. It was the village girl whose gaze bore into hers and let Soni know that her banter was not appreciated by all. And while she held Soni’s attention, she moved steadily around the circle until she stood beside Simon. When she slipped her arm around his, he glanced down, but did not pull away. The girl’s chin lifted in challenge.
Simon belonged to her? That couldn’t be!
Soni turned her attention to the fire and left it there. When the old man made a joke, she smiled, but she never glanced up. If she saw the girl’s hold on Simon even one more time, she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears that sat in wait just behind her eyes.
She sent a silent plea to Wickham. Send them away. I beg you.
Wickham cleared his throat and got to his feet, then invited them all to come visit again. “Since we are unable to travel until the pony has recovered, there will be plenty of opportunity, though no potions. If ye’ve tonics of yer own ye’d like to share, by all means, bring them along. I will see if I can produce a trinket or two as thanks.”
Everyone left in good spirits, and their cheerful voices could be heard long after they’d disappeared into the trees again.
All the while, Soni stared into the flames and conjured her own memories of Simon. He might belong to another, there in the past. But in the future, his heart belonged to Soni, and only to Soni. And that small but unshakeable truth was the only thing holding her together at the moment.
“Auch, lassie. I am sore at heart for ye. I saw what she did. But ye cannae ken for sure what it means. She could be his sister for all we know. I beg ye not to fash until ye ken—”
“I want to go home.” She stood up and headed for the wagon, determined not to weep until she was inside with no chance of others hearing. But Wickham caught her hand and pulled her into a giant bear’s hug, then held her securely while she fell completely apart.
“I forget sometimes,” he said against her head, “that ye’re just a wee lassie. So wise. So powerful. But so young. Too young to know…that all hearts break.”
Chapter Seven
Simon was all too aware of why his cousin Annag had warmed up to him at the fire. She’d clutched his arm to stake her claim on him, to discourage the bonnie gypsy from taking too much interest. And she’d succeeded, more’s the pity. But what frustrated him most was his own cowardice. He should have shrugged her off and made it clear to the other lass that he was as unfettered as could be.
But what then?
Annag would have called him out in front of all and sundry, for his interest in the stranger. And how would he have answered that? If he’d admitted he was intrigued by the lass, his mother would scold him all the way to Oban.
In her current state as a fairly new widow, he couldn’t upset the woman. It would be cruel to worry her. Besides, the lass and her uncle would be gone from Appin in a matter of days. In a month or two, none would remember them at all. Why stir up a pot of trouble?
Why indeed…
Each time he so much as blinked over-long, he saw that face, those dark flashing eyes, that smile that sucked him forward. Her laugh created bubbles in his own chest. But how much trouble was he willing to put himself through in order to hear it again? And again?
He tucked his still oblivious mother into bed and sought his own rest, but he was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Could the lass have followed him home?
He lifted up on the heavy wood slab as he opened it, careful to prevent it from creaking and drawing his mother’s attention. Annag stood there, huddled beneath a cloak, though the night was warm. She waved for him to come outside.
He shook his head. “Ye’re out alone? With Romani about? For shame, Annag.”
She rolled her eyes. “Only one Rom. And he never noticed me.”
“Still. Ye’re a fool to be out alone. And I’ll not pay for yer foolishness by seeing ye home again.”
Her bottom lip protruded and the moon left a drop of light on the wet surface. But kissing his cousin seemed only slightly more pleasant that kissing a snake, for that was the creature Annag resembled most days. She was ever so devious. And this was not the first time she’d come out alone at night with the sole intent of forcing him to walk her home again.
He began to close the door, but she put her foot in the way. “Go home, Annag.”
“Ye’re not to see that Gypsy girl again, Simon.”
“Ye’re my mither now, are ye?”
“Nay, but yer mither will hear of it if ye do. And my father will hear of it. He’ll run them off, lame pony or no, if he thinks that lass will seduce ye.”
“And what will my mither and yer fither say when I tell them who truly means to seduce me, eh?”
Her mouth dropped open. With his boot, he shuffled her foot out of the way and closed the door quickly, before she had the chance to stick it back again.
“Damn ye, Annag,” he whispered, though she could not have heard. “I’ll not let ye steal away this wee moment of happiness. I vow it.” And with that, he put his cousin out of his mind and invited the image of another to fill his dreams—a lass with a bright orange skirt with a blade strapped to her leg.
Simon woke early the next morning with a single worry foremost in his mind. He had to keep Annag from spending time with his mother, for who knew what vindictive plan she would have hatched in the night, and what worry she might whisper in the poor woman’s ear.
He finished his chores, helped his mother with her most pressing tasks, then claimed his uncle had asked him to come around that morning. It was an effective excuse his mother rarely questioned.
At his uncle’s house, he casually mentioned that the priest was headed for Oban that afternoon, and didn’t Annag want to go into the city? It was his cousin’s favorite occasion, to escape her duties and go visit her mother’s relatives to the south. And the priest was always grateful for company. Simon only hoped she wouldn’t willingly forfeit her own pleasure just to spite him.
He glanced away when she tried to catch his attention, no doubt to see how innocent he was in delivering the news. But when it seemed he didn’t care one way or another if she went, she decided to go after all. His offer to help his uncle was welcome and accepted, and he was conveniently present when Annag trotted off to the kirk with a packed satchel.
In her wake, he and his uncle sat down to rest and enjoy the peace that always came with Annag leaving town.
“I was thinking,” Simon said, “that we had a grand time around the fire last eve.”
Uncle Archie mopped his brow. “Aye. I was thinking the same.”
“Then I thought it might be wise to keep those travelers happy.”
The pair of crows’ nests that served as his uncle’s brows jumped high. “Happy? Why?”
“Ye’ve got plenty of last year’s batch on hand, and ye’ll need room for this year’s…”
“My spirits, ye mean?”
“If ye sent a jug over to their camp, as thanks for last evening, it might be there waiting for ye next time ye walk out that way—”
“Ye know what I’ve a mind to do?” His uncle rubbed his chin and looked off to the west.
“What is that?”
“I’ve a mind to send a jug of my spirits over to that camp. Who kens what bad luck might come to those who cross their path? Best to stay in their good graces.”
Simon shrugged. “’Tis only for a week, after all.”
“We should keep a close eye while they’re about.”
“Wise thinking, uncle.”
“But best not to deliver it myself. Wouldn’t want to be seen by the more superstitious folk. Perhaps ye wouldnae mind taking a jug over that way.”
“Not a terrible burden, no.”
His uncle giggled. “Especially considering that fetching lassie.”
“Lassie? Auch, aye. I seem to recall a lassie, now that ye mention it.”
The man sobered. “And now that Annag is out of the way, like, ye could make certain the lassie’s feelings weren’t hurt—”
Simon was already on his feet. “Aye. Better to stay in her good graces as well. Even though they’re not true Roma—”
“Even though.”
His uncle stood and stretched, then winked before heading for the house. Simon couldn’t stop grinning, so pleased was he to discover he and his uncle understood each other so very well. Since his father’s passing, he’d missed the chance to discuss things without women about—important things…like women.
Simon happened to have brought along with him a clean length of tartan and a fresh shirt. He collected two jugs of spirits and his bundle, then headed for a bath in the burn that ran down the hillside and eventually emptied into the eastern arm of Loch Linnhe. He predicted he could be good and dry by the time he reached the Scottish gypsies’ camp.
Simon quickly came to the conclusion that he never gave his cousin enough credit. She’d known precisely which gesture would prevent anything happening between himself and the bonnie lass, whether or not Annag was present.
Soncerae, as her uncle called her, refused to look his way, even though the reasonable man bid him welcome. She ignored the two jugs he offered, stepped around him like so much manure in her path, and continued to scurry around the campsite as if in a great hurry to gather their things.
“Ye don’t mean to go,” Simon said, when he realized what she was about.
It was left to Wickham to answer. “Soncerae would very much like to depart today. But I cannot possibly risk the pony.”
Soni stopped and faced her uncle, emitted a low, frustrated shriek, then stomped up the steps and disappeared into the enclosed wagon. Every few minutes afterward, the conveyance would rock slightly, or something would crash against the inner walls.
Simon snorted. “My own mother does the same, betimes.”
Wickham nodded. “All women do.”
“I should mention…ye might keep one jug handy in case my uncle comes this way in the evening, so ye’ll have a potion to offer him, aye?”
“Auch, aye. I will. Now,” he said, then sniffed his oxter and winced. “Where might I wash away the smell of campfire and whatnot?”
Simon gave him simple directions to the burn, but was happy to linger after the uncle set off. He waited a few minutes to see if the lass might emerge, wondering where the older man had gotten to, but she did not. He was left with no choice but to annoy her into facing him.
He crept over to the wagon, then knocked rapidly on the wall, hoping to startle her. “Come on, Harry. Yer uncle’s gone. We’ve the whole camp to ourselves, now. Let us not waste the chance to clear the air.”
Not half a minute passed before the door creaked, then slowly opened. Simon came around the end to see her head-on and offer her a hand down the steps.
She stood in the doorway, unmoving. “Ye called me Harry.”
He shrugged. “A tease, is all. If ye’ll remember, when we met, ye were muttering about a Prince Harry—”
“I know. I remember that. But I remember…another time.” She shook her head vigorously. “Never mind. I’ll explain…later.”
She noticed his hand still offering assistance, and she took it gently, smiling, as if she were a completely different lassie than the one who’d tried to damage her wagon from the inside. For this lass glided down the steps like a queen and smiled at him as if the sun rose and set in his eyes.
With nowhere to sit except the ground, he led her around the perimeter of the clearing. She didn’t protest that he still held her fingers. In fact, she seemed not to notice.
“Yer uncle calls ye Soncerae?”
“Aye.”
“A name I’ve never heard before. Soncerae,” he repeated, committing it to memory, tasting the sound of it. Sweet and mysterious. “May I call ye Soncerae?”
“Ye may. Or Harry. Whatever ye like.”
He closed one eye and tilted his head, worried he was missing something. “Ye’re terribly biddable of a sudden. I confess I am almost afraid.”
She pulled her hand free, then blinked like she was coming out of a long sleep. “I’m sorry. I was…upset before…and didn’t sleep well. I’m not usually so…dramatic.”
He waved away her apology. “That other lass, last eve. She was my—is—my cousin, Annag. My uncle Archie’s daughter. Though we do not get on well, she is easily jealous of other women. It has little to do with me.” He shook his head. “But no matter. Annag has gone to Oban for a bit.”
Her large eyes fairly shone with pleasure. “Really?”
He held out his hand and waited for her to give him her fingers again, which she did, and they resumed their wandering. “Aye. There are plenty of young men in the city to whom Annag Stewart is not related.”
Though separated by more than three feet, Soncerae’s smile reached all the way to his heart, as if she’d pressed her very lips to his chest. And in that moment, he was well and truly smitten. And just as surely, he knew that in six days’ time, his heart would be well and truly broken if he didn’t do a better job of guarding it.
It wasn’t as if he were in a position to marry. His mother still needed him so completely, and it would be a long while before he would have anything to call his own, let alone something to offer a wife.
Neither had he a reason to think of marriage where Soncerae was concerned. She clearly led a different sort of life, Rom or not. Tying herself to the son of a bonnet farmer could surely not interest her.
They walked on in silence, pausing now and then to examine a leaf or a strange mark on the trunks of trees. She began to gather wee blossoms, which sadly, required both her hands.
“I am delighted ye came out to speak with me,” he finally said.
“And I am delighted I was wrong about yer cousin. I must admit yer uncle surprised me. I worried he would run us off, then he was so charming.”
Simon laughed. “Archie Stewart? Charming?”
“Aye.”
“More likely, he was as thirsty for attention as his daughter. His wife has been gone a long while. I do not believe he would pose a danger to even a true Rom. We are typically a tolerant people. Well, tolerant to a point.”
Soncerae finally gave him her attention again. “What point is that?”
He counted on his fingers. “We honor fairies, Catholics, and witches in that order. No Protestants, and especially not a Protestant who dares sit on a Stuart throne.” He whispered the last.
“Oh, well, I am happy to report I belong to the first set.”
He laughed. “Ye’re a fairy, a Catholic, or a witch?”
“Precisely.” She laughed too.
“Well, I must admit, that if ye’re not a Catholic…I think it would be easier if ye were Romani--.”
“Here now!” The uncle returned with his clothes and hair dripping as if he’d been pushed into the burn instead of entering of his own volition. “What sort of talk is this, then?”
Soncerae laughed away his concern. “Simon was telling me how tolerant the Appin people are…as long as ye’re a fairy, a Catholic, or a witch. Protestants need not apply.”
The man seemed relieved. “Well, then. We should have no trouble.” He grinned and marched on, passing between him and the lass, then on up the steps and inside the wagon, presumably to change into dry clothes.
Simon thought it interesting that just like Soncerae, the uncle hadn’t specified fairy, Catholic, or witch.
He hoped they were great teasers.
Chapter Eight
It was probably a good thing Wickham had interrupted. Simon clearly wanted her to declare herself a Catholic so he wouldn’t have to worry what else she was. But she hated to lie to him. The truth was, Pat and DeAnne Blakeburn hadn’t taken her to church since she was a wee lass, and she didn’t dare ask them if it had anything to do with discovering she was a witch.
She didn’t even know if she qualified as a Catholic anymore.
Simon frowned at the caravan, then took her free hand and led her to the west end of camp, then on into the trees. She hoped it meant he wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted to be kissed. They’d seen each other three times, now. And if he didn’t do something soon, she might have to take matters into her own hands.
He left her standing alone and high-stepped through the weeds until he was twenty feet away. He bent briefly, then stood and held up a fresh stalk that was heavy with yellow flowers. He stomped around again, held up another, obviously pleased with himself, but he said nothing until he was headed back to her.
“Have ye heard of the tradition that, when gathering flowers with a suitor, a lass should reward the lad with a kiss for every blossom?” He held up the sprigs again, to show they had twenty or thirty blossoms each. No wonder he was so proud of himself.
