Page 61 of Highlanders for the Holidays
The answer was nay, but he could not ignore this sense of knowing he’d been gifted with. Mayhap his kinsmen all simply thought him a boy who cried wolf, but more times than not he’d had good cause to be alarmed.
There was the time he’d told his Da he’d spied the Weeper wailing by the burn, washing out a bloodstained tunic. According to folks, she only appeared when someone was about to die. And later that day, Kermichil choked on a wishbone and died.
And then there was the time he’d spied the Sassenach hiding in their barn, up in the loft. But Malcom had been young then—no more than eight—and ran away to tell his Da. Unfortunately, they never found the man, but mayhap his watchfulness had prevented an attack that day. Couldn’t it be, despite his being young, he’d scared the man away?
The sky was dark this eve, with a gloomy new moon, but the night seemed perfectly clear—without a hint of snow. Angus’ reed had long since quieted. And little by little, the laughter subsided as kinsmen took to their blankets beneath the stars.
The darkness was nearly impenetrable now, but Malcom could still hear a few stubborn kinsmen rapping at their nails.
He settled against a fat log outside the glow of the fire, where none could spy him too clearly—all the better to keep his vigil by—and cast his cousin a worried glance.
For her part, Constance didn’t even realize he was there, watching over her—making certain she didn’t get herself into trouble. Thankfully, his lovely young cousin was no longer quite so inclined to be shed her clothes. Still, Malcom remained close, watching as she flirted with Kellen dún Scoti.
Barely two years his junior, Kellen was nevertheless a stranger to their clan. It mattered not who his Da was. Everyone was suspect to Malcom’s way of thought.
“Tell me more about Dubhtolargg,” he heard Constance whisper, and Kellen scooted closer.
Malcom frowned as the dún Scoti lad waved his hand along an imaginary landscape, embellishing for the benefit of a girl. “Our vale is surrounded by mountains, and ringed with beautiful rowan trees—almost as beautiful as your hair.”
Malcom rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh.
“My father’s house sits upon a loch.”
“In the water?” Constance asked, aghast.
“On stilts. ’Tis called acrannóg,” the lad enlightened.
“D’ ye never get wet? What about when it storms? Does the water never rise into your beds?”
“Never,” he said. “This is the way my ancestors have lived for many, many years.”
“What a sight! I would dearly love to see it someday.”
“Perhaps you will?” Kellen rested a hand upon her knee and Malcom cleared his throat, very loudly. Kellen started, spotting him at once, and withdrew. Constance never bothered peering about, and Malcom crossed his arms.
“What about your kinsmen?” she asked, completely enthralled. “Do they all sleep beneath the same roof? How very large yourcrannógmust be!”
Once again, Malcom rolled his eyes, quite sure Kellen would take it as a point of male pride—yet so long as it was only hiscrannógthey were discussing, Malcom couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Nay,” Kellen said, leaning back on one arm. “We have a village, same as ye.”
Constance shivered, rubbing her arms.
“Are ye cauld, lass?”
“Just a wee bit,” his cousin said softly, batting her lovely, long lashes. Och, but she had no idea how dangerous those sultry looks could be…
Kellen cast a wary glance in Malcom’s direction and Malcom smiled thinly. As long as he stayed near, they were bound to behave themselves, so he settled in for the duration and laid his head back to stare up into the stars, giving his eyes a bit of rest and letting his ears do the listening.
But he had no notion how tired he was. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a moment. Without warning he fell fast asleep…
