‘What the hell are we doing at a kirk, freezing our balls off, Callum?’ said Bryce as they shuffled towards the kirk’s door, where the Reverend Shaw was cheerfully beckoning his parishioners inside.
‘We are pretending that we are not dirty heathens,’ hissed Callum.
‘But that is exactly what we are, and since when did you care what folk think of you?’
Callum shrugged the question off, but Bryce knew him too well.
‘It is over that Hennaut filly, is it not? And she’s English to boot. God’s blood, Callum, could you not moon over someone more suitable for marriage?’
‘I am not mooning, nor am I considering marriage to anyone. I just….’
‘Oh, you are mooning at the very least. That lass may be a feast for the eyes, but she is English and ….’
‘Since when did you enter a kirk, Callum Ross?’ said the Reverend Shaw. They had reached the front of the line.
‘Since he decided to embrace God and his good works, Reverend,’ replied Bryce smoothly, on his behalf.
‘Enough of your cheek, Bryce Cullan. You are even more out of place than your surly friend here.’
‘Where is your Christian charity, Reverend? We are two lost souls in need of rescuing from our vices, Callum especially.’
‘And what is his sin?’ snapped the Reverend.
‘Oh, it’s a juicy one. ‘Tis lust, married to unrequited love.’
Callum elbowed him in the ribs, and Bryce winced.
‘Well, since you are here, you may as well have one of these,’ said the Reverend, handing them a bible. ‘I hope it brings you closer to God. Either that or you may both burn up in hellfire once you set foot inside.’
When they had taken a seat in the pews, Callum scanned the kirk but could not see Tara Hennaut. His heart sank. The last two weeks had been an agony of indecision and longing. He had journeyed to Inverness many times in the hopes of seeing her and come away disappointed. He had been so sure that she would be at worship on a Sunday. Perhaps she was ill.
As the Reverend Shaw took to his pulpit, and the kirk fell silent, there was a clatter of boots on flagstones, and Mistress Shaw swept in, with Tara following in her wake. The lass made quite an entrance, and all heads turned at once. Tara wore a plain grey dress with a drab plaid wrapped over her for warmth, yet she made Callum’s heart skip a beat. Her simple garb highlighted her loveliness and let it shine. Luckily for him, most seats were taken, so Tara and Mistress Shaw sat across from him.
‘Someone is the object of great fascination,’ sneered Bryce. He leant into Callum. ‘Though I will own, the sight of that face is worth the discomfort of this damned place.’
Callum smirked. ‘You cannot say ‘damned’ in the kirk. ‘Tis blasphemous.’ He laughed inwardly at the absurdity of what he was doing.
‘She has her guard dog, Mistress Shaw, with her, Callum,’ whispered Bryce. ‘You’ll not get close to the lass this day, for she is Mistress Shaw’s latest crusade and the object of her charity.’
‘Why would Tara Hennaut need charity?’
‘I have asked around, and apparently, that shiftless notary, Mr Penry, is not the most discreet when he is in his cups. Braecaple is about to fall down and needs a good deal of coin to make it sound. Mr Hennaut and his niece are in dire straits financially. There’s a good deal of debt upon the inheritance which must be paid off.’
‘That cannot be true.’
‘Tis. And as a friend, I would caution you on this infatuation. I heard gossip that the debts on Braecaple are held by some very hard men. The Hennauts can be as haughty as they want, but they may be more impoverished than their prideful demeanour suggests and possibly in some danger from their creditors too.’
‘But it is a big estate with rich farmland. So how can it be in such dire straits, Bryce?’
‘I have it on very good authority that Walter frittered his money away gambling, and if Ralph Hennaut doesn’t pay up, he may be facing debtors’ prison. And that means the lass might have no dowry to tempt a good match. I fear the lovely Tara Hennaut might soon be destitute and desperate, my friend. Even you might have a chance then.’
Bryce could not know how his words thudded into Callum’s heart like nails into a coffin. Pity made his heart clench while his infatuation with the lass hardened into obsession. He had dreamt of Tara for weeks. Alone at night, he would think of her and reach for his cock in the darkness. He would imagine her golden hair, soft as down, brushing against his face as she leaned in to press her plump pink lips to his.
‘Dance not with the Devil, for he demands your immortal soul. And indulge not those baser urges to which all men are prey,’ boomed the Reverend Shaw, rising to a fever pitch of passion from his pulpit. His words snapped Callum out of his dreaming, and he tore his mind back to the present.
‘Bryce, I cannot imagine Tara poor, but if she is and….’
‘Hush,’ hissed Mistress Shaw, turning abruptly and putting a bony finger to her pursed lips. Tara turned and looked in the direction of her companion’s ire. The girl’s eyes briefly met Callum’s. There was sadness in their brown depths, but she conjured a small smile of recognition on his behalf, making his heart soar.