A Hellion for the Highlander
Alexander narrowed his eyes. There was something in the way her voice caught that he recognized, though he couldn’t place where. Something from his own past that told him for sure that she was lying.
Why would she lie?
He didn’t know, but he knew one thing. “That’s all right,” he told Cicilia pleasantly. “I can wait. Ye dinnae mind hostin’ yer Laird ‘til yer faither returns, I suppose?”
Alexander saw it, then, the flash in her eyes that told him she was definitely hiding something. It was tiny and would have gone unnoticed by most—but Alexander noticed everything. He always had.
“O’ course nae, Laird,” she said, getting to her feet. “But if ye’ll excuse me, I have to get goin’. While me faither is gone, the farmhands need some help, an’ the animals will nae look after themselves. Please feel free to explore as ye like.”
He nodded, watching her go. She was dressed in a man’s work clothes today, trews that emphasized the curves of her hips and a loose blouse. Did she really intend to work in the fields?
A strange woman, nae doubt about it.
Once she was gone, he sat where he was, pondering everything from the night before and from this morning.
The old man was lying. Cicilia was hiding something. Nathair was distracted by the pretty face of the old man’s granddaughter, so he was like to be no help at all.
But it just made Alexander more certain. There was a secret here, on his own land. And he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d uncovered it.
Chapter 7
Dulce est Desipere in Loco
It is Sweet on Occasion to Play the Fool
Cicilia spent the morning performing her farm chores as usual, and as the sun reached its midpoint, she made her way to the stables. One of the other farmhands was there, but Cicilia dismissed him, telling him to go get a bite to eat.
She walked in, reached
for the brush and tack, and headed over to her work. She began to sing quietly to herself, a nonsense rhyme she remembered her mother repeating in her youth.
“If wishes were horses, poor men would ride…”
Cicilia liked horses a lot. They were majestic creatures, who judged not based on any sort of human measures. They cared little if she was a man or woman, rich or poor, young or old. They simply knew that she fed them, and brushed them, and loved them
Me God, but the Laird an’ the Man-at-arms have certainly brought some beautiful horses.
They were of an Irish breed, she suspected. Their coats shone with health, dappled white and black with beautiful long white manes and tails. One was a filly, one a stallion, and she suspected they were related.
She approached the filly, holding out her hand, and was delighted when the horse leaned forward to be pet.
“Oh,” Cicilia said, her heart melting. “Oh, ye’re beautiful, are ye nae? Ye an’ yer brother, both.”
The horse let out a little huffing sound that Cicilia took as agreement, and she smiled. She had no doubt the creature could understand her. Not only were they hard workers, but they were intelligent, too, especially when well trained.
Perhaps that’s why I feel such an affinity with them.
She laughed slightly at the thought, petting the horse’s nose some more. “Do ye have a name, me lassie?” she asked. The horse huffed again, and Cicilia grinned.
“Right,” she said. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to ask yer master later. Let’s get ye both cleaned up, aye?”
Both horses, as well as her own, seemed mighty pleased by the idea. She smiled, setting to work, and continuing her song as she did so.
“If the ifs an’ the an’s were the pots an’ the pans, it’d leave nae work for the tinker’s hands.”
Cicilia always found herself smiling at that line. She’d once asked her father why he always kept so busy. The farmer had considered it for a moment, then told her, “Ye must keep busy lest the devil finds ye idle.”
She’d been too young to understand it, then, but she realized now. The devil lived in one’s mind, and to keep going, to stay at work, was the only way she had avoided succumbing to grief when her father died.