Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (3 page)

He prayed that she liked grinning fools. “Indeed, I would
love a drink,” he said at last.

Without a word, she turned, giving him her profile—which,
like the rest of her, was just about perfect—before dropping the bucket into
the well again. She handled that bucket like some women handle a baby. He
closed his eyes, imagining her hands on his naked body. He opened his eyes.

He was an idiot. Pure and simple.

A moment later, she drew the bucket up and set it on the
edge of the well. The sun seemed to pull a burst of color from her rich mahogany
hair as she leaned over to fill a tin cup.

A breeze wafted across the field, rippling the shafts of hay
and causing the loose tendrils of hair to dance about her face. Turning back to
him, she handed him the cup.

He reached for it, and their hands touched briefly before
she drew hers away, blushed, and looked down at her bare feet and worn, faded
gown.

“You are very shy,” he said.

She lowered her eyes. “I dinna encounter many foreigners.”

Foreigner?
He could not help smiling. “I am not
foreign. I was raised in America, but I was born not far from here.”

She said nothing, so he drank the water and handed her the
cup. “Thank you. The water was, as you said, very cold.”

“Would you like more?”

He wondered what she would say if he told her he could
sit here drinking water from her cup until he’d had enough to float a
battleship.
“No.”

The wind ruffling the hay field became stronger. The sun
went behind a cloud and stayed there. He glanced up. “Those are mighty
inhospitable-looking clouds.”

“Rain,” she said, glancing up, then looking at him through
long-lashed eyes for just a moment. “But I ken it will go as quickly as it
comes.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Aye.”

“And you work these fields every day?”

“No, I come here…sometimes.”

“To work?”

“To bring the workers food, or to draw them a drink of
water.”

He raised his brows. “How fortunate for me, then, that I
happened by on a day you were here, drawing water.”

Her violet eyes questioned him, as if she did not understand
what he was saying.
God, are there really people this innocent?
She
looked down at her feet again, and he could not help noticing that her cheeks
had colored. So she was a shy lass, and not very talkative—something that would
have sent him on his way, had she not been so fair.

But she was fair.

And he was intrigued with her, this shy lass with skin as
pure and undefiled as he knew she was.

“What is your name?”

“Cathleen,” she said softly. “Mary Cathleen Lindsay.”

He forced the conversation a bit longer, making an even
bigger fool of himself than he had done before, until she picked up her jug of
water. Out of sheer boredom, more than likely.

“I must go now,” she said. “The workers grow thirsty.”

Not moving, he sat there for a moment, just looking at her,
something about the scene familiar to him. “The woman at the well,” he said,
wondering why he thought of that biblical reference, since his thoughts were
far from pure just now.

“Aye, ‘
Everyone who drinks of this water shall thirst
again
’,” she said. “John.” She turned away then and walked off, balancing
the jug on her shoulder.

He watched her go, then started to turn and ride away when
he noticed a white cloth lying next to the bucket. He urged his horse closer
and, leaning down, picked it up.

It was a woman’s kerchief, the kind the women in the field
wore in their hair. He rubbed it with his thumb. The fabric was coarse and not
expensive, but it was delicately made and edged with intricate embroidery.

Somehow he knew it belonged to her, that those hands that
drew the water had crafted it, that it was she who had toiled for hours over
this coarse piece of cloth to lovingly embroider it and turn it into a work of
art.

He looked toward her, wondering if she was as inexplicably
drawn to him as he was to her.

If she turns around. If she looks back at me. She is!

She turned her head, nothing more than a quick glance, but
it was enough.

Ahhhh, sweetheart, do you know what you’ve done!

He smiled at her and lifted the kerchief like a salute, then
brought it to his nose. He inhaled her fragrance, which smelled of summer rain
and fresh-cut hay, a scent as fresh and natural as he found her to be. With a
light kiss, he tucked it into his pocket.

She turned around suddenly and ran across the field, not
stopping until she disappeared behind a group of thirsty workers.

Without another look, he turned his horse and rode back the
way he had come. He wished he had asked more about where she lived. He reminded
himself that in any case, such a beauty would not be hard to find again. And
then he thought that perhaps it was a good thing he had met her, for now he had
two reasons to come back. One for business and one for pleasure. He couldn’t
have asked for more.

As she walked home, Cathleen Lindsay tried to think about
what she would serve for dinner, but all she could think about was her
encounter with the man at the well.

The American with the strange ways and the odd speech.

Images of his deep blue eyes and smiling mouth, his teasing
words, kept haunting her, and she was reminded of the nights she would lie in
bed, hugging herself and weeping, overcome with loneliness, wanting so
desperately to be loved, knowing she never would be.

She chastised herself for allowing herself even to think
about a loving relationship. Such notions were not for her, nor would they ever
be. A long time ago she had made her peace with her lot in life. She was
satisfied with her existence; she had cultivated sadness as a product of her
suffering, and she had become used to its occurrence and predictability. She
was the product of her past, resolute and obstinate. She wanted this man out of
her thoughts, and she willed it to be so.

In an effort to distract herself, she reached up to take her
kerchief from her head in order to wipe the perspiration from her face.
Suddenly she remembered leaving it at the well. She not only remembered where
that kerchief was now, but the way he had looked when he brought it to his
lips.

She decided he was a bit eccentric, and yet he had seemed
quite congenial for a stranger. He was very bold, and talkative. She knew that
his world and hers were quite separate from each other, for there was nothing
poor about him. His manner was refined and quite elegant. He was dressed as a
gentleman, with his polished boots and perfectly tied cravat, and the horse he
rode was blooded, the saddle expensive.

She was unaccustomed to such as he. There was no reason at
all for her to be thinking about him. No reason at all. But she was.

She found that baffling.

She told herself that this was simply because he was the
first American she had ever met—and she did consider him an American, in spite
of his telling her he was Scots born. His accent was as American as his
straightforward manner.

She decided she liked Americans.

Perhaps this was because he had kind eyes. Or because he
smiled a great deal. Or because she found him pleasing to look at. And then it
just might be all three.

There was much character in his face, and much understanding
in his eyes—so much understanding, in fact, that she sensed he knew exactly
what she was thinking. This was the only thing she found disconcerting about
him. It left her at a loss to think that someone could read her thoughts—little
that it mattered, since she would never see him again anyway.

“Good afternoon to you, Cathleen.”

Startled, she looked up to see Henry Darnley riding toward
her. She stopped, holding her hand up to shade the late afternoon sun from her
eyes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Darnley. How is that leg of yours doing?”

Henry looked down at his leg, where his black bull had gored
it less than a fortnight ago. “It is still sore, but I’m walking on it now, God
be praised.”

“Aye,” she said, ‘“
In everything give thanks.
’ First
Thessalonians. You had a verra close call, I remember.”

“Too close. If you had not happened by when you did, I might
well have bled to death.”

“I ken it was a blessing that I chose to go home early that
day.”

“A blessing indeed. You are a saint in my book, Cathleen. I
ken why everyone calls you an angel of mercy.”

She felt her face grow warm, and she dropped her hand and
looked up the road. “Weel, I ken I had best be getting myself home. I wouldna
want to give my grandfather cause to worry.”

“Nor would I wish to be the cause of it,” he said. “Give my
best to David.”

“I will,” Cathleen said.

“Good day to you, then.”

“Good day, Mr. Darnley,” she replied, waiting until he had
passed before starting up the road again. She had not gone very far when her
thoughts returned to the man at the well.

Cathleen was surprised to be thinking about him. It wasn’t
her wont to allow her thoughts to dwell upon men. And yet for the past half
hour she had done just that.

Try as she would, she could not understand it.

She forced the image of the smiling American away, putting
her mind, for the second or third time, to what she would prepare for her
grandfather and herself for dinner.

Tatties, turnips, and oatmeal, more than likely, for that
was their usual fare.

But in between tatties, turnips, and oatmeal came the memory
of his features, full of expression; of an elegant stretch of mouth and eyes
that held a thousand secrets. His eyes were the darkest hue of blue, a step
away from black, but in the sunlight they were like deep pools that absorbed
the light, appearing much lighter than they really were. Those eyes held a gaze
that had reached out to her, touching her gently, moving over her body briefly,
leaving her breathless, but never with the feeling that he was looking through
layers of clothes to see what lay beneath.

How fortunate for me, then, that I happened by on a day
that you were here, drawing water…

His words stayed with her. His voice had a slow, almost lazy
ease and tone to it. How strange she felt. How odd. She glanced around her,
seeing the same trees, the same burn tumbling down the fell side on its way to
the dell below. Nothing about her world had changed. And yet, everything within
her seemed different.

Why did she feel lightheaded and weak when she thought about
him? Why did she feel as if he had reached inside of her and touched something
that so desperately needed to be touched? She reminded herself again that she
had no right to be thinking like this.

She began gathering wildflowers, telling herself that these
were probably the last she would see this season.

Some time later, she reached the cottage she shared on the
small farm with her grandfather. She peered over the bounty of flowers in her
arms to see Pedair Wass in their front yard. He was delivering a load of peat
he had cut in the bog.

“I can cut a thousand peats in an hour and keep on going,”
Pedair was telling her grandfather.

“Aye,” David said. “You are a dab hand with a tuskar. Will
you be coming in to have some tea and scones?”

“I am as empty as a widow’s purse, but the missus will be
waiting dinner and I’ve three more deliveries to make before I go home. Tell
Cathleen we are beholden to her for her help with the cooking while young Jamie
was so ill.”

“You can tell her yourself,” David said, nodding in
Cathleen’s direction, “for here she comes now…at least I ken it is her, for I
see a bouquet of flowers coming this way with her same color of hair.”

Cathleen laughed at her grandfather’s attempt at humor.
“Tell Mrs. Wass I was glad to help,” Cathleen said, lowering the flowers to
peer over the top. “Master Jamie is getting on well, then?”

“Aye. As fit as a fiddle, he is,” Pedair said, glancing at
Cathleen. He put a thick peat on top of the others, as if that little something
extra was for Jamie. “Weel now, I guess that about does it.”

David counted out his coin, handing it to Pedair.

Pedair didn’t count it but simply shoved it into his pocket,
tipping his cap to them as he spoke. “Good day to you then.”

“Goodbye, Pedair,” Cathleen and her grandfather said in
unison.

They watched Pedair leave before turning toward the house.
“You need a haircut, Grandpa,” Cathleen said, giving the longish gray hair at
his nape a yank. “I’ll give you one before dinner.”

David drew up his shoulders. “I ken it would wait another
week or two.”

She laughed. “You always say that.”

“Aye, and sometimes it works.”

“Next week, then,” she said, taking his arm as they walked
toward the thick-walled cottage, pausing for a moment to let three fat ducks
waddle by.

“Those ducks seem to have recovered,” David said.

“Aye, they are good as new.”

“Dinna you ken it is time to return them to Mary MacGregor?”

“I have returned them to her three times, Grandpa. They keep
coming back here.”

“They are not your ducks, Cathleen.”

“Aye, but the ducks dinna seem to ken that.”

“You will have to tell Mary they are here.”

“I stopped at her house on the way to the hay field this
morning.”

“Will she be coming after them, then?”

“Aye. She said she would come tomorrow.”

David watched the ducks waddle down to the loch.

“Dinna fret, Grandpa. She will come after them, I promise.”

Cathleen and her grandfather watched the ducks swim until
they disappeared in the reeds that edged the loch.

“I hope they dinna come back again,” David said. “I dinna
ken you need three ducks.”

“I dinna need those three,” Cathleen said. “What would I do
with them? I couldna eat them after nursing them back to health.”