Something dribbles onto my leg—I’d sloshed the drink when I’d jerked from him. Flustered, I cover up my clumsiness by taking a giant gulp.
And instantly choke.
It’s awful. Fermented and rank, it sears up my nose and down my throat, pooling queasily in my belly.
I wipe my mouth, and blink burning tears from my eyes. “This isn’t water.”
“Water?” He laughs, and I can’t decide if the low, pleasant roll of it has earned or lost him points. “’Tis ale.” He plops back on the bench beside me.
“You mean’’—I give the cup a careful sniff—“you gave mebeer?”
He looks perplexed. “What else?”
My mind jumps to The Merry Widow, what feels like a hundred years ago. Or rather, what’s hundreds of years from now. How innocent I was. It felt so rebellious to even consider ordering a pint.
“Yeah, what else,” I murmur then take another sip, more carefully this time. I wipe bitter foam from my lips and give him a teary smile.
His eyes smile back, holding mine. “Is ale so different in your time?”
“I’m not exactly an expert. Where I come from, you’re not allowed to drink alcohol until you’re twenty-one.”
His eyes go wide. “You can marry but you cannae drink ale?”
I laugh. “We don’t marry either. I mean, for the mostpart. I think you probably need special permission if you want to get married younger than eighteen.”
“So you’ve nae scullion nor cook, and no brothers.” He pauses. Then, quieter: “And no betrothed?”
I’d swear two red splotches have bloomed on his cheeks.
Heat creeps up my own neck. “That’s right. It’s just me and my grandfather who run the farm.”
“That’s the man you call Poppa?” At my nod, he prompts, “And Janet?”
I raise my brows. “Can you picture her milking a cow?”
He gives a rueful laugh. “I suppose not.” The smile fades from his face. “But what if there’s fighting? If you’ve no other male kin, who’s there to defend the farm? To defend you?”
His concern is so antiquated, so touching, I squeeze his arm without thinking. The moment I make contact, his eyes zip to mine, and they’re darker somehow. Hooded.
He may no longer be a ghost, but he seems no less haunted.
I jerk my hand back and clench it in a fist in my lap. Words tumble out in a rush. “No, it’s pretty different where I’m from. Poppa and I run everything. Well, he’s got some seasonal guys he hires. Otherwise, I take care of the smaller chores and the cooking. Plus I go to school. Poppa deals with the rest. There’s no fighting. No clan wars. Nobody has swords, not for real. A lot of people have guns, but Poppa keeps his locked up, and it’s only for deer season anyway. There aren’t any lairds or kings or whatever—we elect our rulers. We eat meat every day, and bread and butter, and not a lot of soup…”
“You’re a braw lass, aren’t you?” He tilts his head as he studies me.
“For what? Eatingsoup?”
“Och, no.” He scrapes his hair from his forehead, searching for the right words. “Your world holds such wonders. Boxes that cook, boxes that clean, food enough for a kingdom. You might’ve stayed safe there, lived soft and easy. But here?” His voice roughens. “Here, it’s cold and hard. You’ve lost everything you know, yet you don’t cower. You face it all—the Campbells, the cruelty, the fear.” He gives me a firm nod. “Most folk would’ve broken by now. You haven’t.”
Something about his belief in me—this quiet, matter-of-fact praise—shakes me more than if he’d just called me pretty.
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat. “What choice do I have? Donag has made it clear that if I don’t do my work, you’ll be the one Campbell punishes.”
His expression falls, and he lifts a shoulder in a lifeless shrug. “Makes you no less brave.”
“That and a dollar will buy me a cup of coffee, right?”
He’s silent, staring at me as if he might eventually puzzle me out.
