Callum sighed, scrubbing his face. “I dinnae believe I am going to say this, but aye. Ye have my support,” he muttered.
Torquil breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank ye, brother. I mean it.”
Callum stood and shook his head. “Ye will do weel to remember that love and pride ne’er mix weel.”
And then he was gone. Alone, Torquil watched the flames a while longer. He was surprised Callum had not remained. He had fully expected his brother to sleep here and then leave in the morn. It was just as well, with his brother gone, he could think of Eilidh with nay judgment. Without his brother to jest and jab at him whenever his mind wandered. However, he was happy for Callum’s sworn support and he wasn’t oblivious to the fact that said support did not fare well for his brother, either.
Pushing out of the chair, he made his way to his small kitchen and refilled his mug with ale. Cool air rushed in when he opened the door to the cottage. He found it funny that he had not noticed the nip in the air as he escorted Eilidh back home and when he walked back. He had other things to occupy his mind. Like the feel of Eilidh’s lips on his. Her soft curves leaning into his body.
He grabbed his lute, and with his mug of ale, sat down on the stone steps. He set the mug down beside him and started strumming the strings as he let the chill in the air cool his skin.
Thoughts of Eilidh flooded his mind. She was everywhere he looked. The midnight sky matched the blue of her eyes. The rich, brown bark of the trees was the same color as her long tresses. The rusty-red streaks matched the colored cap of the acorns that littered the forest floor. He could hear her laugh carried on the wind as if she were nearby dancing as he played. He could hear her music as if she were in front of him playing her fiddle. A sound he always wanted to be surrounded by. He didn’t think he would ever be able to get enough of Eilidh Hart. She would be forever on his mind.
Her laugh. Her music.
Her fire.
All the traits that made up Eilidh. He wanted them all. He wanted her.
Everything she was, he wanted. He couldn’t seem to let that—or her—go.
He began to play her favorite melody on his lute, the song floating through the night air, each note heavy with longing.
The same longing he felt for her. For a life that he dreamed they could have. He sang her words, his baritone suiting the words perfectly. Images of them performing the song together filled his mind’s eye. It was not the first time he had had such a wish. He was for certs that it would not be his last time either. Nay, when he thought of his future, Eilidh was truly and deeply planted in it, playing an integral part in his happiness.
But even as his thoughts wandered, he kenned Callum was right—time was passing frightfully fast on their secret. He would not say it aloud, as if doing so would make it that much more real. But he refused to give up. And after Eilidh’s actions earlier this evening, he did not think she would either. The realization of that made him smile.
Somehow, some way, they would both fight for this together.
He looked up at the sky just in time to see adreag, a falling star, traveling quickly across the dark sky.
It was easy to make a wish.
He could only hope that it would come true.
Chapter Nine
It was latemorning and Eilidh was in the drawing room, along with her mother and Morven, attempting to sew needlepoint alongside them. They had tried to teach Eilidh the art of stitching, and though she tried, after stabbing her finger twice, the second time so hard it drew blood, her mother sighed and gently plucked the needle from her fingers.
“How ye can play so delicately, but no’ have any dexterity for needlepoint, I cannot understand. Mayhap, ye are exaggerating so ye do not have to spend yer afternoon here.” Her mother lifted a questioning brow.
“That is actually a clever idea, Ma. I am disappointed that I didnae think of it myself. Though, I might have chosen something else that would be less painful and have no impact on my playing,” she chuckled.
Her mother’s forehead creased. “Are ye so injured ye will not be able to play?” Her mother’s concern was welcomed, but not warranted.
“I jest, Ma. Do ye no’ remember when I used to playuntilI made my fingers bleed?”
Lillias grimaced. “I do remember those days. I am glad that ye have outgrown that habit.”
“I am sure the maids are, too,” Morven chimed in. “Getting all yerblood stains out of yer gowns couldnae have been an easy task.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Giving them all that extra work so ye could make some kind of point. Really, Eilidh, ’tis good ye nay longer play such silly games.”
She gave Morven a droll look. “Shall I remind ye of the things ye have done to make our maids work harder?”
“Girls,” their mother scolded. “This is not a competition. We all have our talents.”
“Needlepoint is no’ Eilidh’s,” Morven mumbled.
Lillias gave her a stern look. “Ye are not too young for me to send ye to yer room, Morven. Do remember that.” She turned her attention to Eilidh. “I found it quite enjoyable that ye attempted needlepoint again, Eilidh. As I said, we all have our talents. Yers is not found in this room, but with yer fiddle. Do not let anyone make ye believe that yer talent is wasted. It is not.”
