Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(16)

“I’m not so much of an invalid that I can’t do this myself.”

Pride, she thought. She turned back to the chest to let him struggle in privacy.

She put her hand amid the cloth in the chest, seeking a belt, but she hardly saw anything. Her body was cold and hot at the same time, shivery and flushed, and it wasn’t because she was still soaked from the rain. It occurred to her that these uncontrollable feelings that flowed through her might be the cause of her faltering extra sense. If she could stop feeling like her heart was in her throat every time he looked at her, then maybe that blackness would shift.

He said, “Well?”

She startled and reached for the first thing she found—a length of hemp rope. As she rose to her feet he lifted his good arm, giving her leave to wrap the rope around him. For all his muscles, he had lean hips. When she tied the belt, there was a lot of rope hanging.

He looked down at himself. “I look like a monk.”

Cairenn thought he didn’t look at all like a monk, though she had to admit that such clothes, on another man, might.

“That rope belt may be from a monk,” she said, as thunder rumbled above them. “They still come to the island, now and again. They live in the little rock huts that face out to the sea. They fast and pray and sometimes get sick and need a doctor.”

He gestured to the trunk. “Is there a stretch of canvas in there as well?”

“For what?”

“To shield us from the storm when we cross the courtyard.”

She hazarded a glance toward the door. “My father left his cloak. We can use that.”

He walked toward the door and slipped the mantle off the hook. He took one end of it with his good hand and she took the other. Pressing against his bad arm, she helped pull the billowing wool over their heads.

In the circle of his warmth, she was suddenly reluctant to leave. “I should warn you about my family.”

“Why? Have they horns and goat’s feet?”

“People think we’re odd, living up in this lonely place on the height.” She bit her lower lip, wondering what to tell him without actually telling him. “Keeping so much to ourselves, sometimes we act in ways that outsiders find strange.”

“Are you all trying to kill each other?”

“Of course not.”

“Then we’re sure to get along better than my own clan.”

He put an end to the conversation by pushing the door open with his foot. The rain hit them like cold needles as they stepped into the courtyard. Bowing her head against the wind, she curbed the urge to race across the yard in deference to his injury. The door to the main house opened before they reached it—Niall had been watching. They ducked in.

Through Dairine’s mind, Cairenn saw the two of them sweep into the room, the black woolen mantle flying around them like a loose seal’s skin. The thought was echoed in the minds of her younger brothers whose terrified wonder blossomed like the morning glories that opened at sunrise where they climbed upon the walls. She saw Niall’s surprise at the size of the man, his sudden insecurity about being the protector of the household. Her mother’s thoughts were guarded but Cairenn felt a curiosity flood through her, and something else, too, something muted but warm that Cairenn could only guess was welcome.

The table was set, the bowls of soup steaming, everything ready, and every last one of her family had been waiting for them.

Lachlan tugged the mantle until she released it. He caught it with his good hand and hung it on the wooden hook by the door.

“A blessing upon this house,” Lachlan said, bowing his head toward her mother, “and all those under its roof.”

“A hearty welcome to you, Lachlan,” her mother said. “Join us at our table.”

There was a great rush toward the trestle table as Cairenn’s younger brothers and sisters climbed over one another to take their places, excited and fearful at the same time to be the one who sat closest to the selkie. Her mother sat at one end of the table, her brother Niall at the other. She took the place on Niall’s right.

“Lachlan,” she said, as she gestured for him to sit across the table from her, “this is my brother Niall.”

Lachlan lifted a leg over the bench, “The harpist?”

Niall nodded. His mind was racing, sizing the man up, and cataloging every possible weapon within reach.

“I know a harpist,” Lachlan said, “by the name of Donal MacLean. He’s famous through the Western Islands. You’ll play later?”

I’ll play a sleep-song for sure.

Niall’s thought was like a slap. There was magic in Niall’s music, and her brother was fixing to use it as a weapon.

“Niall plays only if the feeling moves him,” she said, giving her brother an eye. “But maybe we can coax him into playing something soft and harmless.”

A love song then?

“No.”

Lachlan glanced at her sharply, and that’s how she knew she’d spoken aloud to Niall’s unspoken thought.

“Please,” her mother said, drawing everyone’s attention. “This soup is best eaten while it’s still hot.”

Cairenn dipped her spoon and lifted it to her lips like everyone else at the table, but she didn’t taste a drop. Dairine quivered beside her like a plucked harp-string and Cairenn sensed the instant her curious little sister couldn’t keep silent anymore.