Duncan glanced over at Rory with a wary look. Rory wasn’t too sure if he gave the same stare back. Well, wasn’t this a wonderful turn of events, where he’d be stuck with the taciturn Duncan for much too long.
Chapter 8
The supper turned out to be wine at Helen’s house then dinner at a nearby tavern. It was large enough to fit at least a hundred people, most of whom were Duncan’s men. The smells permeating through the tavern were wood, beer, and some kind of meaty stew that had actually tasted wonderful, although Fleur was a little scared of food poisoning, what with being in the seventeenth century and all. There was the scent of the ocean in the tavern too. The misted salt stung Fleur’s nose a tad. The tavern was warm, dark, and loud with a lute and fiddle player who argued as much as they played music.
Many of Duncan’s troops greeted him with something close to awe and stared at Fleur like the alien she was in this environment. They openly rubbernecked, gawked, and whispered while she ate. Probably because she was still in her black running suit and Adidas and not a long dress as every woman wore. Feeling a bit apprehensive about her garb, she wondered how to talk to Helen about needing a change of clothes, but never got around to it. After the stew was cleared from the table and Duncan somehow vanished too, she decided to chase him down and have a talk with him about his young troops. She found him at a corner table, alone.
Once sitting next to him, she asked, “Is it possible to tell your men not to . . .?”
“Stare at ye?” His voice was quiet but rumbled through her chest when he leaned into her ear to talk over the din of the music and hum of the folks’ continual chatter.
She nodded, looking up into his multicolored hazel eyes. She really liked the orange starbursts around his pupils, which had gotten rather large. Dilated pupils were a sign of sexual attraction—that had been an article Ian had tried to make her read while on the airplane to Scotland. Ian had gushed that it was a wonderful indicator and could reveal more information than invasive genital measurements in sexual studies. God, why had she just thought of that? Suddenly finding the air a bit hard to breathe, she wondered if her pupils were as large as Duncan’s. Well, the tavern was incredibly dark, that’s probably why he looked at her the way he did. She kept repeating that to herself as she couldn’t help but stare into his eyes.
He cracked a small lopsided smile. “I can try to talk to the lads, but I doubt they’d stop.”
Sense finally came back to her. Actually, it was anger. She huffed and crossed her arms under her breasts. From her periphery, she realized Duncan had noticed her movement. Something a lot like desire tripped her heart then sped through her body, then lulled around her breasts and at the apex of her legs. Okay, it was desire, but there was no point to it, now was there? She would leave soon.
“I’d think ye’d be used to it.”
Fleur turned to Duncan with an arched brow clearly aimed at him, but he didn’t further clarify what he’d meant. “Used to what?” she finally asked.
He leaned close, close enough his nose nuzzled into her hair, a lip just touched her ear. A zip of dark and beautiful energy nudged between her legs. She hardly heard him speak what with her body beginning to buzz for him.
“Used to being stared at.”
She spun to face him, finding his lips mere inches from hers. She liked the way the candlelight blazed against the red stubble of his cheeks and chin. She liked seeing his eyes turn a dark green. She liked watching his nostrils flare slightly. Still, something about his comment bothered her, and what amazed her was before she could stop herself, she let him know it. “Why? Because I’m Indian? I should get used to being stared at because I’m a little different? Is that what you think?”
He straightened in his chair and gained a few inches distance from her, making her wish so badly she hadn’t said anything. What was wrong with her anyway? She never was this...argumentative. Sure, she hadn’t been completely quarrelsome with him, but she found herself pointing any and all discomfort right at Duncan. The one person she liked the most since arriving in this odd time.
Wait—had she really just thought that?
His jaw line kicked, but he said, “Aye, they’ve never seen a woman like ye, but ’tis because ye’re the most bonny—beautiful lass they’ve ever seen. They ever will see, for that matter. That’s why they stare. That’s why I thought ye’d be used to it.” He leaned farther away, staring at the fiddle player who finally found a boisterous tune.
The flattery augmented the already sparkling energy zipping through her body, and she crossed her legs, something again she observed Duncan took note of too. God, she liked the way he’d reticently take peeks at her.
But why? Why like something that wouldn’t last? And why hadn’t she said thank you to the compliment? She knew she should have. Should have acknowledged it. If anything, she didn’t want Duncan to think she was a brat who expected such accolades or was used to being stared at for such a reason.
However, she sat mute, looking at the fiddle player who had started to hum with his melody. The lute musician drank a beer with his eyes closed and bobbed his head to the beat.
She wanted Duncan to kiss her. The thought interrupted her mind and instantly her body stopped, then jerked into a too vibrant and delirious state. It became so clear in her mind—he’d plant those perfect dusty pink lips of his on hers, and she’d lick at the seam of his mouth until he opened for her, then she’d plunge...Dammit, what was wrong with her?
Annoyance at herself and her damned endocrine system flooded her thoughts. She’d never wanted a man she’d known less than a day to kiss her before. She didn’t do those sorts of things. Dating had been somewhat interesting thus far. She’d find a man who had similar likes, dislikes, same political party affiliations, comparable education, then have the requisite coffee. Then a lunch. If she liked the guy, then dinner. A kiss. It was a linear path to finding success in a relationship. After the kiss, if she still liked him, there would be more dinners. Maybe sex. All right, she’d had sex only twice, thinking it the logical end to the successful dating system. But it had felt horribly wrong. However, that hadn’t made any sense then and sure didn’t now. The dates had been productive—the two men she’d had sex with had been worthy guys, both quite compatible with her, she’d thought.
Rachel had asked the question, But what about your heart, Fleur? Wasn’t compatibility good for her heart? A good match of minds would shield her from the agony of...losing someone. Although, Fleur knew it wouldn’t actually prevent loss. She knew it logically. But still, wasn’t there something to help that anguish?
So she kept persisting at the dating trajectory. It had to be the right path. She just hadn’t found a like-minded enough man yet. But once she did, then the success would be equated in terms of...she’d actually never thought of marriage in the conventional sense. Maybe living together. Adopting a child eventually. Things that seemed reasonable and rational.
But kissing a stranger? In a tavern, no less? When she couldn’t wrap her head around where the hell she was? This was insane.
She suddenly turned to Duncan, angry. “You can’t just call me ‘the most beautiful woman’ and get away with it, you know?”
“Oh?” He kept staring ahead at the fiddle player, but his lips quirked up at the corners.
“No way, buddy.”
“Buddy?” He still didn’t look at her, but drank some of his beer. The bob of his Adam’s apple with that light dusting of red whiskers rocked straight into her groin.
“That’s right.” Her voice cracked. “There are serious consequences to what you just did.”
“Aye?”
“That’s right.”
He suddenly leaned very close, staring down at her as his face finally halted a few inches from hers. His eyes seemed to drink her in more than he’d drunk his beer. His gaze sought hers, but then flickered down to her lips. “What are these consequences, hmm?”
She was going to do it. She was going to kiss him. Ju
st lean forward—her heart thudded so loud she was sure everyone in the room heard it, her whole body tightened in excitement—and kiss him.
“Lady Fleur, there ye be.”
Fleur glanced up at Rory, holding a few wooden tankards full of more beer with Helen standing beside him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Helen sat close to Fleur, leaning into her ear while Rory took the only available seat then divvied the beers on the table, continually smiling slightly, maybe a tad forcibly.
“I can take Mr. Rory MacKay back where we came, if ye need time alone with my son?” Helen whispered.
Duncan had distanced himself from Fleur, even crossing his massive arms across his chest and spreading his legs a little wider apart, as if bracing for her to attack him. Some naughty part of her thought about bending over to see up his kilt. Would the carpet match the curtains? She almost giggled at her erotic thoughts, but then glanced at Duncan’s mother, which, of course, was more than an icy splash of water on her fantasies.
Fleur shook her head and tried to keep her distance from Duncan too. He was just so...so...damned intriguing. Sexy. Sensual. Dripping with animal charisma and—God, she had to stop thinking about the man that way while his mother was so close.
The fiddle player stopped and everyone clapped, except for the lute musician who frowned. Someone cried, “Story time,” and then another repeated the words, until the whole tavern bustled even louder. There was much talk between two men Fleur thought to be the owners of the tavern, then they pointed to a white-haired, thin man at a table with three large, much younger women.
“Tell us a story, Mr. Brown,” someone said. Soon enough the tavern’s cacophony increased, ordering the elderly Mr. Brown to grace the crowd with a yarn.
Slowly standing on wobbly legs, he held a hand in the air, which immediately hushed the crowd. He coughed a few times, then cleared his throat. Smiling at the room, he began. “’Twas a beautiful day, much like today, when the fae pulled a trick on a bonny lass.”
The crowd booed, but Fleur knew they were showing their anger at the fairies.
Mr. Brown nodded then continued. “Ah, she was a sweet thing. So lovely too, for many a man had never seen anything like her before. She came from the time before time, ye ken? She came from when the people drew their art in caves and dragons roamed the earth. But the poor lass was troubled with an evil curse, she was. The curse made it so she could never talk. Never. Not even if she feared for her life, she couldn’ scream out. Not even when she was angry, could she yell. She couldn’ even ask for more salt, if she had a hankerin’. But the fae have special sight about such things and threw her to the Highlands.”
Someone yelled their approval, then the whole tavern roared at the mentioning of the Highlands. Fleur smiled and looked around the table, her heart thundering. Helen squeezed her hand, and Rory gave her back a warm grin. Duncan looked down to his beer, as if the thick foamy white head of it was thoroughly intriguing. All indications he was indifferent to the story being told, except his red brows began to furrow.
She wondered if he was thinking of her predicament. Did he believe her? If she were him, she probably wouldn’t. It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t logical. Actually, it was preposterous!
Mr. Brown started and the crowd hushed. “Ye see, in the Highlands God gave to the men here more strength,” more yelling ensued, but Mr. Brown continued in time. “And the fae knew this, for they wished a Highland man to break the spell for the woman. One after another the men approached the woman to break her curse. The Laird of Sutherland tried,” someone booed, “but he failed. The Laird of MacDonald tried,” no real yelling at that, “but he failed. So many lairds tried to break the woman free from her spell, but they could no’. Nay. About to give up, all the lairds had a council, and that was when a lone stable boy approached the woman. He wasn’ born of nobility, but was virtuous and kind. He didn’ have many riches, other than his beautiful singing voice, for all the land loved it when he sang. When he saw the woman, so sad in her spell, he began to sing for her, he did. Then he fell in love with her, and while he sang he wished to give her his voice. The fae granted his wish, and the spell was broken. The woman loved the stable boy so much she gave him half her voice, so he could speak and sing too. And they lived happily until their end.”
The crowd erupted with loud clapping and cheers. It was so much like the times she’d spent at the community center at Porcupine. Well, the alcohol wasn’t served. Intentionally. But the story telling, the familiar and friendly feeling of the tavern, even the music was so similar to when she had been a little girl growing up on the Pine Ridge reservation.
Fleur flashed to images of her all-boy cousins, wrestling in the dirt with them and laughing uncontrollably. Then she thought of the stories that everyone told. Everyone. It was a tradition that even the children had the opportunity to tell a fable. Suddenly her mouth watered, recalling the thick, buttery taste of fried bread with cinnamon sugar. Which always made her remember her grandma. Na had taken in a few of her cousins from time to time. Yet Fleur and Na were always together.
Until Fleur was fourteen, that was, and Na let the teacher take her away to the Texas high school. The memory flavored Fleur’s mouth with the dead taste of ashes. She reminded herself over and over again that Na had done what she’d thought was best, she really had done what she had thought was best, was best.
But it still hurt thinking of being so young and having everything she’d known ripped from her simply because she was told she was smart. Super smart, the teacher, Mrs. Barter had said. Her face had been flummoxed when she’d seen Fleur’s math scores. Fleur wanted to laugh at the woman, not sure if she was so confused because Fleur was, indeed, smart, or if she’d never thought a Sioux could be that intelligent. There had been days of tests, then Mrs. Barter, ironic name, had come to talk to Na, tell her what other opportunities existed for such a smart girl like Fleur. She talked of scholarships already in place, living with a nice family in Texas. Mrs. Barter showed pictures of the school campus, then the huge house that Fleur was supposed to call her next home. Na had slept on the decision, had talked to the elders, had prayed and prayed for help with the choice, the smell of sweet grass smoke heavy everywhere in their home, but Na had never asked Fleur if she’d wanted a future in Texas. Later, when Na was dying from diabetes, her feet already taken by the disease, she’d admitted she couldn’t ask Fleur, because she was too afraid that Fleur would sway her mind. It had been the one conversation Fleur was sorry to have brought up. The discussion had tortured her Na. Even a dozen years after the decision, Na was still unsure of what she had done, regretted so much.
“Aye, good idea,” Fleur heard a rugged voice say, interrupting her memories.
She stared at a large bald man who smiled at her.
“Yer turn, lass. Tell us a story.”
“Only if she wants to,” Duncan said, his voice a tad too serious.
She caught his gaze, looking as though he was gauging her reaction. He was so sweet. Or was he? She didn’t know him, but it seemed as if he was trying to protect her, as if he’d fiercely guard her from all in the tavern if she didn’t want to tell a story. It made her stomach feel too buoyant, but it was such a good feeling.
“I’d love to tell a story.” She smiled at the crowd.
Everyone cheered.
Rory urged her to stand, smiling supportively. She couldn’t help but grin back.
Then she looked out into the crowd as they hushed. “This is a story about...Coyote.” She almost laughed as she began. “Coyote, where I come from, is a god.”
The crowd “oh-ed” appreciatively.
“A trickster god.” Some gasped, but Fleur continued. “You see, Coyote is similar to a small dog, a little smaller than a wolf, and much more conniving. So Coyote lived in the enchanted forest with all the other animals, but he was never nice to the mice. One day he saw the mice working feverishly with ropes and bags around a tree. He stalked closer to the mice to see what they were do
ing, but it didn’t make any sense to him. Finally, he asked what the little mice were doing.
“They said, ‘We’ve got these bags here to climb into and hoist ourselves in the tree when the storm comes.’
“Coyote looked to the blue, blue sky and asked, ‘What storm?’
“The mice sighed as if Coyote was an idiot.” Someone from the crowd laughed. “Then the mice said, ‘We’ve heard it from the sky itself that the wind will blow as it never has before, and it will be the worst storm ever! We’re going to protect ourselves from the horrible storm.’
“Coyote nodded, thinking the wisdom sound. He said, ‘I need a bag too. I need to protect myself from the storm.’
“The mice ignored him.
“Coyote said, ‘Get me a bag too, so I can be protected from this horrible storm.’
“The mice shook their heads. ‘No,’ they said. ‘You’re mean to us. We’re not going to help you.’
“At this Coyote sighed, but then he panicked as he saw one lone cloud appear in the sky.” Fleur waved at a pretend sky, and people from the crowd turned their heads, as if they could see the white puff in the horizon too. She continued. “‘All right, all right,’ Coyote said, ‘I’ll be nice to you.’
“’Promise?’ The mice asked.
“Coyote nodded. ‘Of course! Just get me in the bag and hoist me up the tree.’
“The mice did as they were ordered and threw him in a bag, then pulled the rope and up he went. The mice tried hard not to laugh as they had finally out tricked the trickster, but they had to make their plan complete. So then they started throwing pebbles at him, swinging the bag around.
“Coyote said, ‘Oh, yes, this is a terrible storm. I feel it now. The hail is really pouring down.’
“The mice silently giggled at that.” A few people from the crowd chuckled too. “The mice began to throw bigger and bigger rocks, making Coyote holler and yell from the assault, but he just said, ‘Oh, this storm is so bad. Ouch. Ow. I’ve never felt anything like it.’ Finally after a few minutes, the mice had had their fun, and they brought down the sick and hurting Coyote. He wobbled out and felt the welts around his head, then said, ‘Yes, worst storm I’ve ever weathered. Thank you for the protection.’ At that the mice couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst out laughing at the trickster. That’s when Coyote realized the joke was at his expense and began to chase the mice, biting and growling after them. To this day when a coyote sees a mouse, he will try to snap and kill the mouse because of that silly prank.”
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