Wherever he’d landed, he was positive he wasnae supposed to be here. The lass kenned it, too. He started to rise when she pointed the tip of an old rusty key at him.
“Stay right where you are!”
“Aye,” he said, sinking back onto the bench, grateful for the order. His legs were a bit shaky, yet. “I mean ye no harm, lass.”
“Then why were you hiding?” she demanded.
“Hiding?” he repeated, distracted by her remarkable eyes. Large and intensely green, they were. Like the ferns that grew beside the stream, back home.
“Moments ago, this bench was empty. And mere seconds later, here you are. So, you must have been hiding. You couldn’t have scaled the wall or come down the walk that fast.” She pointed her absurd key at him, again. “So, for the last time, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“May I stand? ’Twould be awkward and in poor taste tae introduce m’self sittin’ down.”
“No.”
“Well then,” he dipped his head in deference. “Please forgive me if I dinnae make a proper bow. I am Darach Chisholm. At yer service, lass.”
“And?” She wielded her key once more. “What are you doing here?”
“I…uh…” he looked around, searching for a plausible reason to be sitting here.
Blast ye, Soncerae, for dumping me here, unwarned.
“I’m…looking for…uh…employment?”
He nearly groaned aloud. What made him blurtthatout? ’Twas doubtful the lass was looking for a crofter, or a two-day warrior with dubious sword-wielding skills. And, since his experience dinnae go beyond that, he’d only the brawn of his back to offer should she actually believe him. But he’d already put his foot in it, so he’d have to play it through.
“Are ye hirin’, by chance?”
