English voices startled her back to wakefulness.
An older couple approached along the path, both ruddy-cheeked and warmly dressed, their boots scuffed with mud. They looked well pleased with themselves, as though the Highlands were an adventure rather than a trial.
“Oh, how delightful to come upon another lady,” the woman exclaimed flashing a wide smile at Selene. “Let me introduce myself. I am Lady Charlotte Ashcombe, and this is my husband, Sir Giles. We’ve been touring the Highlands for over a week now and have scarcely encountered another lady. I can tell by your charming gown that you are English. It is such a pleasure.”
She laughed lightly. “After all these sights, my dear, I can still hardly understand a word these Highlanders say.”
Selene smiled politely in silent agreement.
“Even when they speak English,” Lady Charlotte continued, “it sounds like another language – tangled with unfamiliar sounds, peppered with strange words I scarcely understand.
“Are you staying at the inn?” the lady continued. “We are, for one last night. Tomorrow, we return to Edinburgh, and then on to Penrith, where our estate lies.”
“Oh,” Selene murmured, scarcely concealing her envy.
Back to England. To familiarity. To ease.
She sorely missed her childhood home. But her father was gone now, and the estate firmly settled upon Uncle Frederick, his capable wife, and their six children. He had been kind enough but his life was full. His household loud with children, his responsibilities many.
There was no true place for Selene there anymore. She had become an extra chair at the table, a presence altogether lacking in purpose.
This journey, she reminded herself, was not exile. It was simply… moving forward with her life.
“My dear,” the lady said brightly, “have you eaten here? It astonishes me that these people survive on what they serve for meals.”
Selene laughed softly. “I was told the fish is excellent – herrings, fresh from the sea, the catch of the local fisher-folk. I rather hope that is what we’ll be offered.”
“Heaven forbid they should leave the heads on,” Lady Ashcombe shuddered. “And that awful thing they eat. Haggis – have you been subjected to that yet?”
“Not yet,” Selene replied with a grin.
“A dreadful concoction,” the lady declared.
Her husband cleared his throat. “I rather enjoy the haggis,” he said mildly.
Lady Charlotte sniffed. “Dear Giles,” she said fondly, “You’ve never had a refined palate.”
“And the whisky…” he added, somewhat emboldened, “is excellent.”
“You drink far too much of it.”
Captain Jake stepped in smoothly. “If ye would care tae follow me inside, me lady, I’ve secured rooms fer the night.”
“In a moment,” Selene said. “I should like to take a short walk and stretch my legs. We sail in the morning and I wish to feel solid ground beneath my feet while I can.”
She rose, brushing dust and fallen leaves from her skirts.
The Lady Charlotte hesitated. “You must be crossing the Sound of Sleat.”
“Yes.”
The lady’s expression changed at once. Her mouth drew down and her eyes widened “Oh. How dreadful.”
Selene frowned. “Why so?”
“Because those waters belong to him,” the woman lowered her voice to a near whisper. “The Brute of Sleat.”
The words fell heavily between them.
