For the first time in days, the corner of his mouth twitched.
He winced as he rolled to his knees, pressing a hand to his side where the healing wound pulled. Fiona’s irritation softened.
“What were ye lookin’ for?” she asked, more quietly now. “Truly.”
He glanced back at the water, where the surface lay smooth and empty again, as if nothing had happened.
He said, voice low, “I had tae know if the loch would take a man before they took anythin’ else.”
“What does that even mean?!” She cried. “So ye traipsed in to see if ye’d drown? You reallyaredaft!”
“One Mackenzie is a cheaper price than a dozen fools with more coin than sense,” he muttered.
Her jaw tightened. “Don’t say that again.”
He looked at her then, properly, shoulders hunched, hair dripping, eyes darker than she’d seen them yet.
“I won’t,” he said.
It was the closest thing to an apology she’d ever heard from him.
They reached the local tavern by dusk.
The Rowan’s Rest hunched into the hillside of Fort William—situated at the foot of Ben Nevis—low-roofed and smoke-stained, the sign creaked on its chain. A painted rowan branch, berries long since faded by rain and time, adorned the front door. Warm light bled from the windows that carried the smell of stew and spilled ale.
They left the road early, circling behind the inn to a small lean-to stable. A tired boy of twelve looked up from forking straw.
“Got a stall?” Harris asked, tightening his hold on Dubh’s reins. “One in back. Quiet. No questions.”
The boy nodded so fast Fiona was amazed his head stayed on. “Aye, sir.”
Dubh tossed his head and rolled his eyes like a nobleman forced to share quarters with peasants. When Fiona reached to pat his neck, the stallion swung his massive head and huffed warm breath straight into her face, shoving her back a step as if insulted by the attempt.
“Your beast just shoved me,” Fiona exclaimed, brushing hay from her sleeve and dignity.
Harris smirked faintly. “He’s judgin’ if ye’re worthy.”
“For what?” she sputtered.
“Tae touch him.”
Dubh stamped once, glared at her in a very equine sort of disdain, then turned his back and wandered into the stall as if ending the conversation.
“He’s insufferable,” she grumbled.
“You two will get along well, then,”
As Harris turned to check the latch, Dubh slowly angled his massive head toward Fiona again, and sniffed her from boots to brow like she were a suspicious parcel left on his doorstep.
When she lifted her chin in challenge, the stallion snorted, flicked an ear, and turned his whole backside toward her in a gesture so pointed she didn’t need a translation.
“He just dismissed me,” she whispered.
Harris didn’t even look up. “Aye. Means he’s accepted ye.”
“Accepted me? He presented me wi’ his arse.”
“Horse manners,” Harris shrugged. “Ye get used to it.”
