She’d happened upon this particular curve of the stream on the far boundary of the Dalhousie lands in her escape from Delilah’s exacting play direction. Juliet had taken a hasty tea before everyone else, grabbed her ready canvas bag filled with pencils and journals, and fled the house with no one the wiser. Best to stay clear of Delilah’s path when she had a performance in her sights.
Juliet pulled out her copy ofAs You Like It. Before bed last night, Delilah had given firm instructions to waste no time in memorizing her lines. Juliet found it suspect that Delilah coincidentally happened to have brought twenty-one copies of the play all the way to Scotland—the exact number of speaking roles.
She gave a bemused shake of her head. In truth, she liked that quality about her cousin—her doggedness in pursuing her passions, even when that pursuit landed her in a hot bit of trouble. Like the trouble at Eton College that had landed them in Italy for several months, waiting out a scandal.
Not that Juliet had minded. Italy was lovely.
The breeze whispered through pine needles, and Juliet inhaled deeply of its crisp, earthy scent, a wisp of salt hidden within. No air in the world compared to the air of the Scottish Highlands—not even Italian air.
Much of what Delilah had said about their reasons for coming to Scotland was true. Juliet was here for research purposes. But there was more. She was here to get a feel for Scáthach herself. The way this land felt beneath her feet. The way this breeze felt in her hair.
She loosened her own hair from its single braid and allowed the breeze to take it. She removed her boots and slipped stockings down her legs, feeling slippery moss between her toes where rock met stream, cold Highland water rushing against her ankles. These elements shaped a person as surely as wind and rain shaped the face of a cliff. Nature and humankind were elementally linked, and ever would it be so.
And here in this Scottish wind and river and land would she find the elements that composed and forged Scáthach.
A frisson of anticipation skittered through her. Herein lay the elements that brought writing to life, and they were the only elements that made writing worth the effort of committing one’s words, thoughts, and passions to paper.
A sudden rustling noise crashed through the not-too-distant brush. Juliet whipped around to find a great gray-and-white shaggy beast of the four-legged variety bounding straight for her. An inelegant “Ugh!” startled from her as she scuttled off the boulder in time for the dog to charge onto it and launch itself into the stream, where it began stomping and splashing in the water with the ease of familiarity.
“Clootie!” shouted a deep, booming voice.
Juliet knew that voice.
Through the woods emerged Clootie’s owner—none other than Kilmuir. A great, shaggy owner for a great, shaggy dog. For Kilmuir was certainly shaggier than he’d been when last she’d seen him in London the previous year. And she couldn’t help thinking the slightly longer hair that now curled at the ends and the dense golden beard cut close to his jaw and chin suited him perfectly.
Traitorous thought.
She caught the moment he noticed her. He gave his customary lopsided smile and wave of greeting. She returned the wave and offered a semblance of a smile.Like for like… No more, no less.
A furry head nudged her hand, and she glanced down to find Clootie staring up at her with a gift in her mouth. A river stone worn smooth. Juliet couldn’t help but be charmed by the oversized collie. Then Clootie began shaking out her fur, thoroughly drenching Juliet in the lengthy process.
“You’ll have to forgive Clootie her lack of manners,” said Kilmuir, stepping within speaking range. “She’s still a pup.”
Juliet felt her eyebrows lift toward the forest canopy. “She must weigh four stone.”
“Yeah, still a pup.”
Juliet laughed. She found it impossible to be irritated by either pup or master. On this matter, at least. “Clootie?” she asked. The name hovered just beyond the reach of recognition. “What’s a clootie?”
“A dumpling,” he said simply.
“You named your dog after a dumpling?”
“Not just any dumpling,” he said, his lopsided smile threatening, “but my favorite dumpling.”
Irritatingly, Juliet found herself…charmed. “Do you venture to this part of the land often?” she asked. If the answer was yes, then she would find another contemplating spot. She wasn’t sure how long her defenses could hold against being charmed by this man and his shaggy dog on a regular basis.
“Every morning, first thing.” He jutted his chin toward Clootie. “This one needs a morning adventure or she gets up to mischief.”
Juliet watched the collie chase a squirrel. “And she isn’t getting up to mischief now?”
“Nay, she’s just being a dog.”
A short length of silence stretched out. “Is this not Dalhousie land?” she asked, searching for something of no particular importance to say.
“The stream is the border between our lands.”
Ah.