The Selkie (3 page)

“
Pixiating
?”

“Enchanting.”

“Oh.”

Hexy stared at him. The man’s deep, unblinking eyes seemed to call her into a mesmeric trance.
Come drown in me
, they seemed to say.
I’ll keep you safe.

But I don’t want to drown, do I?

It was difficult, but Hexy gathered her scattering wits. She really wanted to close the door on whatever was making her sneeze but didn’t feel quite comfortable shutting herself in with this half-naked man who clearly affected her senses in some powerful way.

“Never mind about my name,” she said briskly. “What is this nonsense about a fur? Yours has gone missing, I take it? Along with your shirt.”

Hexy knew she sounded incredulous, but the ill-folded plaid barely held in place about Rory’s naked waist did not suggest the sort of wealth that produced fur coats.

Unless they were supplied by rich women.

The thought made her scowl.

“Aye, it has, and my sark tae. Ye gathered mine up from the beach last evening and brought it here.” The stranger raised his head and sniffed at the air. There was no other word for the flaring of nostrils and the deep inhalation that followed.

A second frown began to descend on his brow. His voice lost some of its charm. “It isnae here now, though. Where have ye taken it?”

“I haven’t taken your fur anywhere. The only fur I touched last night was Jillian’s new sable coat and that—
oh, dear!”
Hexy closed her eyes. “That wasn’t Jillian’s coat, was it?”

Rory shook his dark head, smiling that strange smile again when she cracked open an eye.

“Nay, it wasnae. ’Twas mine. And I should be right angered about this, for I am here on urgent business and need my skin.”

“But how was I to know? Yes, it felt strange—wonderful even,” she added plaintively as a huge sneeze began building in her. “But why would there be more than one fur coat abandoned on a private beach?
No one
would question that it was Jillian’s coat.”

“This Jillian left her skin on the beach as well?” Rory asked, his posture finally relaxing. Then: “Lass, why are ye crying? I’m nae sae angry as to call forth yer tears. Just fetch my skin and I’ll be off until Beltane. I’ll come back and see ye then, if ye wish it.”

“I am not crying.” Hexy reached into her shallow pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which she used to blot at her eyes and scrub some of the smudges away. “I am allergic to something outside, the cotton grass maybe. Or the yews. They are starting to leaf out now and dropping pollen everywhere. My eyes are like watering pots.”

“Then shut up the door.” Rory’s long arm reached out, and with very little effort, he closed the heavy panel, cutting out the daylight and the irritating air. “Ye cry everytime ye step outside?”

“Yes. I can’t help it.”

Feeling silly about standing in the dark of the foyer, Hexy retreated into the main hall, gesturing for Rory to follow.

“Look—”

“At what?” Rory asked.

“At nothing. That is simply an expression. It means pay attention.”

“Ah! Well, ye’ve got my attention. Gae on with it. Where’s my fur now?”

Hexy fought down her annoyance at the repeated question. It was somewhat easier to do now that her need to sneeze had subsided. “Rory, I am sorry that your coat got packed by mistake, but—”

“My skin has been
packed?”
he interrupted. “Packed where?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it is packed into Miss Foxworthy’s trunk and is on its way to Italy via Wales,” she said unhappily.

“What?” The deep voice was almost a shout, the beautiful eyes as baleful as handsome eyes could be. The stranger leaned down until they were face to face. “My skin is where? How could ye let it gae? Did ye no sleep wi’ it?”

“Don’t glare at me! It’s perfectly safe.” Hexy leaned forward until their noses all but touched. She did not for a moment consider admitting that she
had
slept with it wrapped about her, pretending it was a lover. It was too embarrassing. “You are the one who was trespassing on the beach. What were you thinking, leaving a fur coat out like that? How could you be so careless with anything that precious?”

“Trespassing!” His breath washed over her. It wasn’t unpleasant, smelling as it did of the sea, but the intimacy was unnerving. “There’s a Sassenach word fer ye! As if any man can own the sea. That beach has been used by the People fer centuries—”

“That may be so,” Hexy interrupted, stung at the accusation and also using a voice that was one step below a shout. “But this is Miss Foxworthy’s beach now, and you were trespassing.”

“Foxworthy!”
The name was repeated with scorn. “And where are the MacKenzies of Fintry?”

The question brought Hexy up short and caused her to immediately abandon the impulse to either kiss or bite the nose in front of her.

“Mr. MacKenzie,” she began, then said gently: “I am sorry if he was a friend of yours, but Mr. MacKenzie died late last year. He left Fintry to his new wife.”

“Miss Foxworthy?”

“Yes.”

Rory clapped a hand to his head, hiding his beautiful eyes. He said something in a strange dialect that didn’t sound entirely like Gaelic. It didn’t, actually, sound like human speech at all. It was more of a strange barking chuff, followed by a string of vowels.

He finally straightened and took a step away from her, taking his nose and lips to a safe distance.

“And when dae ye expect Miss Foxworthy tae return?” he asked, his voice level.

“I—I am not entirely sure. Whenever Donald Healey stops winning races, or she gets bored, I suppose.” It didn’t seem a good moment to mention the potential of an Italian lover, or that Jillian would likely return to London rather than Fintry if either of these things occurred.

“Can ye get word tae her of the mishap somehow? Perhaps a letter, or might a messenger be sent by pony?”

Now that her annoyance had cooled, she could sense the urgency that underlay his request.

“If it is so important to you, why did you leave that coat on the beach?” Once again, she spoke her thoughts aloud.

“Because I couldnae very well bring it tae the
thieving furrier’s house, now could I? The temptation would hae overcome him and made him brash. Could ye nae tell that that fur was special? ’Tis unnatural that ye let it go.” He sounded insulted.

“No, of course not. Why would I think it special?” she answered. But they both knew she was lying.

“We’ll talk about this later. Now, about that summons tae Miss Foxworthy…Fetch a pony up tae the house and let us hae a rider on his way.”

Hexy looked away from Rory’s long-lashed eyes and tried to think. It was difficult, as the allergies, or something, had befuddled her brain.

“I have a better idea!” Hexy exclaimed at last. “I’ve just recalled that they have a phone down in the village post office. Fortunately, Donny and Jillian are traveling cognito. We can telephone the hotel in Edinburgh where they plan to stay the night and leave a message for her. If we reach her there she can send your fur back at once.”

“A
tell-a-fone?
” he repeated.

“Yes, a telephone. Come along.” Hexy touched Rory’s arm briefly, no longer able to resist the impulse to make physical contact with him. “We need to hurry. The post office closes at four for tea.”

“Post office,” he repeated.

Ruairidh looked about with a cautious eye. The village had not changed. It was made up of the same antique cottages, too weathered to be an ideal example of human pastoral charm. They huddled together around what had been a small green planted in the time of the Norsemen, but was now barren except for a few determined buttercups that bloomed every spring.

There had been a lowland church there once, which was surrounded by the remains of an unprosperous orchard that had been left long unattended; the wind-bent trees produced nothing but bitter, stunted fruit. Only a few identifiable ruins were left, a crumbling terrace of some sort and balustrades, and even parterres where black-faced English sheep grazed on wild vines and grasses. Still, for all it survived, it was not the sort of agreeable garden that thrived on neglect.

As the wooden shutters rattled under the wind’s late afternoon assault, Ruairidh stared suspiciously at the metal and wood instrument they called the telephone. A gramophone he had seen once and understood. This device did not look so straightforward and pleasant. He could hear the wind singing eerily in the wires that attached to it.

“What is that thing?” he asked of Hexy, firmly
resisting the urge to touch her auburn hair. It was probably simply a matter of her having done the summoning ritual that made her so very appealing—though he now had some doubts about whether she had actually intended to summon him—but something about her called to him at an instinctual level.

“It’s the telephone. We shall use it as soon as Mr. Campbell returns from his walk.”

“Aye, you said that before, that it was a telephone,” he answered, looking up. A short, stout man bustled in through a small door, tiny spectacles glinting on his reddened cheeks.
A Campbell!
Ruairidh could tell his clan by his lowlander face and his broad feet. The People had been wary of Campbells since one of their females had committed suicide when her lover left her and there had been bad blood.

“But what does this telephone dae, lass? How does it work?”

Hexy stared at him.

“I forget how remote we are sometimes,” she said, apparently addressing herself.

“Ach, laddie!” Mr. Campbell answered, setting down his walking stick. He rubbed a hand over his bald pate and limped forward. “As well to ask how the sea works. In principal ’tis simple enough. Think of this wire as being a very long horse wi’ his head in me shop and his arse in Edinburgh. The lassie shouts her message
into this end and it’s delivered out the other a short time later.”

Hexy picked up the handset, ignoring Mr. Campbell’s vulgar explanation.

“Well, it’s right glad I am that we hae the head end of the horse here,” Ruairidh finally said, watching intently as Hexy began cranking the handle on the side of the wooden box. “I’d nae like to see the other when the message arrives.”

Mr. Campbell laughed, but he eyed Ruairidh curiously.

The shouted conversation with the Edinburgh hotel manager that followed was confused, and Ruairidh suspected not likely to lead to the prompt return of his skin. The most he could hope for was that Miss Foxworthy would discover that there was an urgent message from her secretary—whatever
that
was—and somehow contact Hexy at Fintry.

“Well, that is all I can do for now,” she said, hanging up the thing she had held to her ear. “As a precaution I’ll post a letter to Wales straightaway if Mr. Campbell…?”

“Certainly, lass. I have some paper to spare.” The postmaster began rummaging through his desk. His gaze was curious as it rested on Ruairidh, but he asked no impolite questions.

“Thank you. As you have gathered, the matter is an urgent one.”

“Aye, I gathered so.” He handed her a paper, a quill and a pot of ink. He added rather pointedly, “Missing furs are always a problem in these parts.”

Hexy nodded absently as she seated herself and began writing. Ruairidh knew that she found his presence to be a distraction, but she didn’t ask him to step away. His kind were comforting in their warmth. And he knew that his attention made her feel beautiful and important, in spite of her red nose and apparently domestic position. It was a gift that the People had, and he was happy to share it with her.

“So this is about
poaching
, or whatever you call it? I am relieved to find that you are actually a savory character and not here for some nefarious purpose. I had my doubts about you in the beginning,” Hexy told Rory happily, as they left the small cottage where the postmaster lived. She had left some money on the desk to pay for the call and the postage for the letter. “I even wondered for a moment if you were maybe a little mad.”

Rory blinked, a slow closing of the lids, that showed off his lashes and that Hexy suspected was habitual. It was also quite alluring.

“Savory, am I? Surely that is what ye call yer meat pasties made frae these balls o’ fur?” He gestured at the black-faced sheep nearby.

Hexy laughed. “It is also the name of an herb.”

“So now I’m a plant. Are ye by chance having a game with me? Playing with Sassenach words and such?” he asked, looking down at her from his superior height. His lips made their odd curl.

“Perhaps a small game,” she admitted. “The language is still rather new to me. It all sounds very strange and even funny. I’ve only just gotten accustomed to
English
English, and now you speak Gaelic and Scots at me. You must remember that I am but a simpleminded female.”

“Aye? Then allow me tae tell ye in yer
English
English that yer one of the least simple women I’ve ever met—and it has been my luck tae not avoid an acquaintance with ye.” He added on a mutter, “And tae think that it was all brought about by the drowning.”

Hexy blinked and sorted out his periods. She smiled slowly.

“I am not especially good at puzzles or mathematics, but I do believe that that was a compliment. Except maybe the drowning part. What does that mean?”

“You must be very bad with sums and plussages. But mayhap you should be forgiven this once, since it was all said in the confused Sassenach tongue,” Rory answered. He shook his head, but he said it with a small smile. He did
not answer her question about drowning.

“Rory, would you perhaps like to come back to Fintry and have some tea with me?” Hexy heard herself asking.

The question shocked her a bit. She knew that they were being observed out of every door and window. The village was the repository of all the castle gossip. The inhabitants were a high-minded, moral people in all respects save one: They were inquisitive. Of course, that was universal. In a small village, rumor-mongering was almost compulsory.

Hexy realized that she was holding her breath, waiting for an answer—though whether she hoped for a reply in the affirmative, she truly could not say.