Sweet Wild of Mine

by Laurel Kerr

  June smiled, a true one and not a self-satisfied smirk like he’d been expecting. “What can I do for you?”

  Magnus paused, and not because he was worried about stuttering. He might regret what he was about to offer, but there was no other way. He spoke more fluently around the lass, and she’d said she’d stuttered in the past. Perhaps, she knew a trick or two to help him. “M-m-y p-p-p-publisher asked that I do a vlog about the zoo.”

  Understanding immediately fell over June’s face. She plopped down on the bench next to him, her face serious as she studied him. “Does your publisher know about your stutter?”

  Magnus shook his head. “Nay.”

  “Is this something you want to do?” June asked. “I never minded public speaking, even back when I stuttered. My grandmother from Georgia always said I was born with the gift of the gab.”

  Magnus shook his head. “Growing up it was just my d-d-da and me on this peedie isle off T-T-T-Tammay.”

  “I remember reading that in your book. No one else lived there, right? A hurricane hit the island in the nineteen fifties and destroyed most of the homes?”

  “Aye. The Great Storm of 1953. There was one a year earlier in ’52 as well. Life was hard on B-B-Bjaray during good times—still is. It’s rockier than the other islands in Orkney. Folks got weary of rebuilding and just moved to T-T-T-Tammay, Kirkwall, or south to Scotland. M-my d-da’s folks were the only ones who stayed.”

  “I remember it sounded so lonely and isolated the way you described your daddy’s croft. I shivered every time I listened to the narrator describe it in my nan’s audiobook.”

  “Aye. M-m-y d-d-da didn’t talk much, so we mostly lived in quiet.”

  “Was he a person who stuttered too? It can run in families. My uncle on my mama’s side stuttered, and so did Grandpappy Horne.”

  Magnus couldn’t help but snort at the idea of his da stuttering. His father would sooner cut out his own tongue than have it tangle around itself the way Magnus’s did. “Nay. He just liked tsàmhchair. I’ve gotten used to it myself.”

  “Tsàmhchair?”

  “It’s Scots Gaelic for solitude,” Magnus answered.

  “Tsàmhchair,” June said, rolling the word over in her mouth like a child would a boiled sweet. She repeated it with a faint smile curling her bonny lips. She leaned back and said it a third time before she turned to him. “I like it. It’s very musical.”

  “Aye.” Despite his stutter, Magnus had always loved words, loved the way they sounded in his head or on other people’s lips. He supposed that was why he’d become a writer. On paper, he could play with words, paint with them, control them.

  “Do you speak much Gaelic?”

  “Nay, only a wee bit. My Orcadian ancestors would’ve spoke Norn, which was derived from Norse. M-m-my m-m-m-mum’s folks came from the Highlands, and I can remember her speaking some Scots Gaelic. I’ve always thought it was a musical language, so I taught myself a little more. B-b-b-b-back in my roughneck days, I worked with some Glaswegians, and I lived in Glasgow for a time, so I use their slang as well.”

  June didn’t react to his hard block. He supposed she was used to listening to her brother. It was odd, talking to someone who just accepted his way of speaking. Growing up on the Isles and then working in the Arctic, he’d never met another person who spoke with a stutter. He supposed he may have unknowingly bumped into someone who did in London, but he didn’t socialize. He had too much of his da beaten into him.

  “So, what do you need my help with?”

  Magnus watched her, knowing this would cost him. But there was no other choice. “If you’ll tape my v-v-vlog, I’ll t-t-t-talk to your nana.”

  June beamed, and before he could guess her intent, she flung her arms around his shoulders and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He froze at the unexpected contact. He wasn’t accustomed to being touched. His da had never believed in showing affection, physical or otherwise. Generally, Magnus didn’t like another person’s arms about him. It felt like a trap, and he’d lived in one for too long. But with June, it was different. He didn’t feel like fleeing or even shaking her off. Something as soft as goose eider whispered through him, calling to parts long a-slumber.

  Still touching his shoulders, June pulled back to look at him. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! You don’t know how much this will mean to her. To me.”

  “Why is it so important?” he asked.

  To his surprise, her eyes grew as cloudy as the winter sky over the North Sea. “Nana’s been having difficulties lately.”

  “D-D-D-Difficulties?”

  June worked her plump bottom lip with her teeth, drawing Magnus’s attention there. The lass was worried about her nan, and he was thinking about snogging.

  “…so she tends to get confused, especially in the evenings. She still seems to have good short-term memory, but she looks so lost sometimes.”

  Aye, the hen was talking about her grandma. That settled his thoughts down. He forced himself to focus on her words rather than her bonny mouth. “Do you think she has Alzheimer’s?”

  June shook her head, her eyes glittering like green emeralds with a sheen of tears. “No. I took her to see the local doctor a few weeks ago, and he didn’t think her symptoms fit. He told me it was just part of getting older, but I’m still worried. I might take her to a specialist in the city, but until then, I want to keep exercising her mind. She loves talking about Tammay, and your first two books are some of her favorites. She listens to them over and over. If you could talk to her while we’re watching Sorcha, it would do her a world of good.”

  Magnus sighed. He couldn’t blame the lass for trying to help her nan. And it wouldn’t be too hard talking to an auld woman about the good old days. If she was like most, he’d just have to say a grain here and a grain there, and she’d be off reminiscing. With any luck, he’d mostly be listening, and if he was with Sorcha, he could focus on the peedie beastie rather than his own memories.

  The bigger problem was spending more time with the fae lass. She seemed to be weaving a spell around him, and if he didn’t mind his emotions, he might find himself well and truly cursed.

  * * *

  Honey sighed as she watched the Giant One and the Blond One talk. They were civil, polite…and utterly boring. She missed the sparks shooting from their eyes. Now, they just reminded her of the Black-Haired One and his mate.

  Quietly, Honey slunk away. She would have to figure out a way to incite them. For now, though, she would stick to annoying Fluffy. She darted into the maintenance facility, making sure her claws did not make too much noise on the floor. Growing up in a house had taught her how to sneak around the bipeds’ spaces. Within minutes, she’d reached the end of her quest: the supply room.

  Ignoring the sacks of feed, she headed straight toward the treat cabinet. Climbing up, she used her sharp claws and nose to open the door. Quickly, she withdrew the sticky bee larvae. Despite the rumble in her belly, she did not eat her pilfered booty immediately. Instead, with her tail low to the ground and the bounty carefully secured in her mouth, she scampered back to the enclosure. Unlike her, Fluffy could not access the sweet morsels.

  When Honey dropped the larvae onto the dirt of their enclosure, Fluffy showed his teeth and growled. Honey just flicked her tail and hunkered down to eat. Fluffy tried inching closer, but she slashed out with her claws. He jerked away and then did something entirely unexpected. Instead of trying to fight her like any self-respecting honey badger, he merely watched…longingly.

  Pathetic. The creature had spent far too much time with the bipeds. He had lost his wildness.

  Yet, when Honey stood up and headed toward her den on the opposite side of the enclosure from his, she might—just might—have left a treat behind. Accidentally, of course, because she never would have left one voluntarily. That was something the silly humans would do.

&
nbsp; * * *

  Watching a burly man feed a tiny, squirming cub played on a woman’s heartstrings like a virtuoso who’d sold his soul to Beelzebub. June hadn’t expected the giant Scot to be so gentle with the small polar bear. The man’s whole demeanor changed from fierce Viking to cuddly zookeeper. And, as sure as rain during a wet spring, did it ever look sexy on him. Even with his beard, she could see his broad, easy smile as he let the little cub gnaw on his gloved fingers. Sorcha made happy whirring chirps as she chomped down. Her black eyes shone with delight, and Magnus chuckled. The sound was deep and low, and it rolled over June like a balmy wave, leaving ripples of pleasure in its wake.

  “You give the peedie beastie a bottle like this,” Magnus instructed in his soft, sexy accent as he gently positioned the cub across his knees. “Her puggy should be supported at all times. You don’t want to hold the bear in your arms like a wean, or she could get food into her lungs.”

  “Does ‘puggy’ mean stomach, and ‘wean’ mean baby?” June asked. It struck her that Magnus had less disfluency when concentrating on his furry charge.

  “Aye,” Magnus nodded. One of his massive hands wrapped around the bear’s tummy, applying pressure as he placed the nipple in the cub’s mouth. Sucking sounds echoed through the utilitarian room as Sorcha greedily attacked the bottle. Her paws paddled eagerly in the air, and June’s heart just melted. This would be perfect footage for Magnus’s vlog. Since she’d brought Nan to talk with Magnus, June had an obligation to uphold her end of the bargain she and Magnus had made just the day before.

  Although the zoo owned professional camera equipment, June didn’t want to disrupt the scene. Instead, she reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her phone. Magnus didn’t notice, but June’s grandmother looked confused. Nan was having an off day, which was why June had brought her to see Sorcha. Sometimes, when her grandmother’s mind seemed foggy, she viewed technology with suspicion.

  June gave Nan a comforting smile and kept shooting the scene. Unguarded like this, Magnus would definitely win back the hearts of his former fans…at least the female ones. Who could resist watching a tough, muscular man coo over an adorable cub? It was as tempting as an apple tart topped with whipped cream.

  Magnus turned, his eyes narrowing when he saw she was recording him. She flicked the video off and returned her phone to her pocket. “For your vlog.”

  Understanding dawned in his blue eyes, and he nodded curtly. Although his hold on the cub remained tender, hardness had returned to his face. He was an extremely private man, June realized. She’d always had trouble understanding why some folks sought solitude. She loved people: Old, young, rich, poor—it didn’t matter. As much as she’d longed to stay in one place and form lasting friendships as a child, she hadn’t minded constantly meeting new people. Humans, with all their quirks, simply fascinated her.

  “Do you think Sorcha will be tired after her bottle?” June asked.

  “She may want to explore a wee bit,” Magnus said. As if in agreement, the cub emitted a squeaking chirp. Magnus chuckled, and June felt her insides go as gooey as chocolate chip cookie dough. There was just too much dang cuteness in the room.

  “Aye, you hear that? That’s the bairn letting us know she’s ready for a tussle.” Magnus smiled again, and June decided the man really did need to trim his beard to show more of his grin. There was just something magnetic about the Scot when he stopped his fierce scowling.

  Magnus placed the little tyke on the floor. Sorcha immediately tried to clamber around, even though she couldn’t lift her belly yet. Instead, she wiggled, using her paws to propel her almost as if she was taking a swim. June cooed. She couldn’t help it.

  “Why, isn’t she the most adorable little mite?” June turned toward her grandmother and froze. The woman sat stiffly in her chair, a fearful expression on her face. Sorcha chose that moment to wiggle in Nana’s direction. Her grandmother opened her mouth and emitted a hideous shriek. The bear cub froze, its half-lidded eyes trained on June’s gran. The capybara, who’d been snoozing in the corner, lifted her head.

  Magnus started to rise, but June was faster. She dashed to her grandmother’s side as quick as a cottontail with a bluetick chasing it. Right now, she felt just as scared as the poor rabbit, except for her, the danger wasn’t easy to determine. “Nan, what’s wrong?”

  The woman grabbed June’s forearm. Her fingers gripped with bruising force despite their delicateness. June didn’t yank away. She just patted her nan’s hand gently. “It’s okay. It’s just a bear cub.”

  “It’s going to eat me!” Nan shrieked, her voice unnaturally high and not at all like her usual cadence.

  Magnus crouched by her grandmother’s other side. To June’s surprise, he took the older woman’s hand in his, using the same gentleness he’d displayed with the cub. “Sorcha’s just a peedie thing.”

  Nan swung her gaze between the two of them, her hazel eyes slightly wild. She was clearly not convinced by his words. Magnus continued, saying, “I’ll protect you if Sorcha tries to hurt you.”

  That seemed to satisfy Nan. “My Oliver would have protected me too.”

  “Oliver was my grandfather,” June whispered, grateful that Magnus appeared to be calming her gran.

  Magnus gave June a slight nod, but he kept his focus on Nan. “Aye, you met him on T-T-Tammay.”

  “Yes,” Nana said slowly as if coming out of a stupor. “Yes. Yes, I did. He was a fine-looking young man. All the girls on the island thought he was the most handsome of the Yanks. The men were so dashing in their uniforms, although I’d always preferred the Coldstream Guards in full dress until I met Oliver.”

  “And where did your great romance begin?” Magnus asked.

  “The Selkie’s Strand,” her grandmother said, naming the pub that June had heard about for years. Although June had never visited it, Magnus had painted such a vivid picture of the place in his books that an image sprang to her mind. The ancient, whitewashed stone inn stood by the sea, right off the docks. Inside, the smell of old peat fires mixed with the salty tang of the ocean and years of whiskey spills. The heavy wooden tables bore scars from years of use. One or two locals always occupied the chairs by the bar, no matter the time of day. June had always planned to visit one day with her grandmother, but she wondered now if she’d waited too long.

  “Aye,” Magnus said. “The auld folk still talk about the ceilidhs they had during the war with all the young men on the island. They say there’s never been the like since.”

  A slow half smile broke across Nan’s face. Some of the cobwebs still lingered in her hazel eyes, making them appear more brown than green, but the fear had vanished. “Those days were both wonderful and terrifying. It was lovely, having all the young folks around, but we never forgot the boys were there to catch the German U-boats and to protect the convoys and the fleet stationed in the Scapa Flow.”

  “M-M-M-My d-d-d-da always avoided the Flow when he was out on his trawler. All the tourist ships and divers m-m-made him crabbit.”

  “There were no tourists in Tammay when I was a girl,” Nan said. “What do the islanders think of them?”

  Magnus lifted his shoulders and shrugged. “M-M-M-Many are happy. It gives some folks a way to make a living, and it’s brought back the old crafts. B-B-Best of all, there’s new people to keep the clishmaclaver interesting.”

  A soft whisper of a smile drifted across Nan’s face. Relief tinged with joy seeped through June. Her grandmother was looking more like herself. June swore color had even returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had definitely sharpened.

  “Oh yes,” Nan said. “The islanders loved gossip, although it wasn’t too different from our neighborhood in London. But the details they would find noteworthy!”

  “Aye,” Magnus said, and suddenly switched into different pitched voices, his Orcadian accent thicker than ever. “‘Did you hear, Auld Jack Ma
rwick painted his auld gate blue?’ ‘Ach no, what color blue did he?’ ‘Sky blue.’ ‘As in when the sky is shining, or when a storm’s a-blowing?’ ‘When the sun is out.’ ‘What kind of a deeskit nyaff does that? You cannot tell if it’s open or not!’”

  Nan actually gave the tiniest of chuckles, a rarity after an episode of fearfulness. June sent Magnus a grateful smile as she carefully directed Sorcha to worm her little body in another direction. Magnus bobbed his head in acknowledgment before he turned back to her grandmother.

  Nan reached out and patted Magnus’s hand. “That’s precisely how the villagers spoke. I can just imagine what they say about the Yanks, Aussies, and English who come on holiday.”

  “Aye. Every ferry carries a fresh tale, but there are some folk, like m-m-my d-d-da, who wished we were left in peace.”

  “He sounds like your great-grandfather, Rognvald Gray.”

  Magnus’s face darkened at the sound of his ancestor’s name. “Aye, the Grays of Bjaray have always been pure bastards.”

  Nan must have been feeling much more like herself. At Magnus’s cussword, her silvered eyebrows pulled down, and she looked every inch an English rose in high dudgeon. “Watch your language, Mr. Gray. You are in the presence of two ladies.”

  Magnus didn’t appear either chastised or annoyed by Nan’s dressing-down. His face remained stormy, but his anger didn’t appear directed at June’s grandmother. “Aye, but we are. We’re pure rotters. Every last one of us.”

  June watched Magnus carefully. She’d checked his first book out of the local library after he’d asked her for help with his vlog. The way he’d described growing up in virtual silence with his daddy had clung to June’s heart like a burr. She’d flipped through the pages, scanning them with fresh eyes. His writings had always possessed a haunting quality, but on reexamination, they took on an even greater poignancy. Loneliness saturated the pages, and June had begun to ache for the little boy growing up in such isolation, no matter the beauty of the landscape surrounding him.