Ramsay clinked his glass against the laird’s. “And may both be blessed!” He took a sip, welcoming the smooth, smoky taste. He needed it after this endless day.
As the laird settled back against the pillow, his glass in one hand and his other hand resting on Odin’s warm gray flank, Ramsay began to talk of the countries he’d visited around the Mediterranean and his travels into deserts in search of cities long buried in the sands. He spoke of the night in Constantinople when he’d helped an English sea captain make an impossible rescue from an impregnable palace. He compared the wines of Portugal, Spain, Italy, and Greece. He spoke until his voice was growing hoarse and the storm had intensified to howling wind, soaking rain, and occasional flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder.
“Pull back the curtains so I can see the lightning,” his grandfather ordered.
The old man had always loved a good storm. So did Ramsay, preferably from inside a warm, dry house. After pulling the curtains open, he set a couple more chunks of peat on the fire. The sweet vegetal smokiness was the scent of his childhood.
Abruptly the laird said, “Take me outside.”
Ramsay stared at him. “It’s cold and wet and the wind is making merry with the rain and the sea. Why do you want to go out?”
“I never wanted to die in my bed. Help me up, dammit!” Duncan swung his legs over the side of the bed, swaying but not falling over.
His request was insane, but why not? When death is imminent, risk fades away. Ramsay moved to his grandfather’s side and steadied him on the edge of the bed. The old man wore nothing but a long nightshirt, so Ramsay said, “I’ll get some rain gear from the hall.”
The house was silent, and the entry hall was lit only by a dim lamp. A door tucked in a corner opened to reveal a variety of oilcloth coats and capes along with hats and scarves hung on pegs. Below were boots and shoes and a couple of umbrellas that would never stand up to a serious Thorsayian wind.
He donned a caped and hooded coat himself and decided a long cape would be easiest for his grandfather to wear. After adding a pair of boots that looked as if they belonged to the laird, he returned to the bedroom and gently slid the old man’s feet into the boots. “You’re mad, you know,” he said conversationally as he draped the cape around the thin figure and buttoned it shut.
“Thank you,” his grandfather returned politely. “Bring the whisky bottle.”
Again, why not? Ramsay shoved the bottle into the large left pocket of his coat, then wrapped an arm around the laird’s thin waist. With surprise, he realized that he was taller than his grandfather. When had that happened?
“Where to?”
“Out the side door, then left to the bench,” Duncan ordered.
Silently Ramsay followed the orders, half carrying his grandfather. Odin pattered along behind. As soon as the outside door opened, a blast of wind caught it and slammed it against the wall, but the sound was drowned out by the roaring of the wind and waves. The bench was only a few feet away, set into a partially sheltered recess in the wall.
Ramsay closed the door, settled his grandfather on the bench, and sat next to him, his right arm steadying the old man. Odin leaped up on the laird’s other side and leaned against his thigh. The cat was nothing if not loyal.
Duncan raised his face into the wind and gave a nearly inaudible sigh of pleasure. “Nothing like a good storm to get the blood moving!”
“Then your blood must be racing.” Ramsay had to admit that the wind and waves were splendidly invigorating for a man who had had a very long and tiring day.
“Give me that whisky,” Duncan demanded.
Silently Ramsay uncorked the bottle and handed it over. His grandfather tilted his head back and took a long swallow, followed by a sigh of satisfaction.
“It was a night much like this when your mother brought you to Caitlin and me in a rain-drenched pony cart.” He sighed. “Your parents had taken you to Edinburgh to visit her family. They contracted some wicked fever there, though it didn’t appear until they were back in Thorsay. Alastair was dead or dying when Jeannie made her way through the storm to bring you here. She collapsed after handing you over to your grandmother and died a few hours later.”
Shocked, Ramsay said, “Why didn’t I know this?”
Duncan shrugged. “You never asked. You were ill also, but not so seriously. You didn’t seem to remember what happened that night, and I guess no one felt like talking about it. It was a bad, bad night for us all. Your mother was a game lass for all that she was a city girl.” He sighed again. “Gone too soon. Both gone too soon.” He took another swig from the whisky bottle. “But at least we had you.”
Ramsay appropriated the whisky bottle and took a deep swallow before handing it back. His grandfather was right—it was a good drink for a dark night. “With all the grief I gave you, I’m surprised you didn’t drop me into the North Sea.”
His grandfather chuckled. “I won’t say I wasn’t tempted, but you were just a high-spirited lad like your father had been. Like I was. There was no meanness in you.”
He began to cough horribly, bending over as he fought for breath. Alarmed, Ramsay supported him. “Time we went inside.”
“No, damn you!” his grandfather growled when he regained his breath. His voice faded to a whisper. “I always wanted to die like a Viking, facing into the storm.”
“I wish you’d stop talking about dying!” Ramsay snapped. “I’ve only just returned.”
“No need for me to linger, now you’re here,” the laird said in a thin voice. “I’m tired, Kai. So tired. And I’m leaving you a parcel of troubles to sort out.”
Wanting to lighten the mood, Ramsay said, “Signy and I discussed whether you’d like a Viking funeral, sent off to sea in a burning boat.”
