have stolen it.” The old woman leaned
her head back and scrutinized Duncan as carefully as she had the whistle. “If ye are
his grandson, ye didn’t get your size from him.”
The MacCrimmons whispered among themselves for a time, then a handsome man with graying
hair asked, “Can ye play that wee whistle?”
Duncan sat down on a stool that was far too small for him, placed his fingers on the
holes of the whistle, and began to play. His music was so entwined with Moira’s memories
of the summer they were lovers that the first note took her back to that time.
“Ach, he’s got MacCrimmon blood in him for certain,” the man with graying hair said
when Duncan had finished the song. “Ye should have learned to play the pipes.”
“I do play the pipes a wee bit,” Duncan said, “though not as well as the harp.”
“The man is boasting now,” the old woman said. She waved to a lad in the corner. “Fetch
Caitlin’s harp, and let’s see what this big fellow can do.”
When Duncan strummed the strings of the harp, the sounds made Moira think of delicate
faery wings and the fields aflower on a high summer day at home. She closed her eyes
and let the music take her back to a time when she was a young lass with nothing to
worry her but which gown to wear.
“Who taught ye to play?” the same man asked after Duncan finished the tune.
“One of the MacArthurs taught me the pipes,” Duncan said, referring to another well-known
piping family. “My mother played the harp a bit. I figured the rest out on my own.”
“I remember your mother well,” the man said. “She was a fine woman and a beauty, but
she didn’t have the gift.”
“’Tis in his blood,” a plump woman standing next to Moira said. She waggled her eyebrows
and nudged Moira. “MacCrimmon men have music in their souls and magic in their fingers.”
Moira remembered. The memory had blighted her marriage.
“Shame your mother didn’t send ye to us,” the man said.
“I was born to be a warrior, not a piper,” Duncan said.
“Ach, the Highlands are filled with warriors,” the man said, waving his hand. Then
he grinned. “If ye had the training ye should have, ye could be a famous piper like
me. My name is Uilleam, by the way. I’m Caitlin’s father.”
“I’ve heard of ye,” Duncan said. “I hope I have the pleasure of hearing ye play before
we leave.”
“Ye won’t be taking your friend anywhere for a few days,” the healer interrupted.
“Now, if ye all have satisfied your curiosity, let me tend to this poor injured man
in peace.”
Duncan expected to be sleeping with the cow in one of the cottages. Instead, one of
the women led him and Moira to the last cottage in the little row.
“We keep this cottage ready for visiting pipers,” the woman explained as she opened
the door for them. “We have pipers from all over the Highlands come here to improve
their skills, though we have none staying with us at the moment.”
The woman opened the door and bustled about the tiny cottage, lighting the lamp on
the table and pouring the pitcher of water she had brought with her into a bowl for
washing.
“You’ll find peat by the hearth and warm blankets on the bed,” she said.
There was only the one bed. Duncan told himself that nothing interesting was going
to happen in that bed. For one thing, Moira was widowed but three days.
But his cock was not listening to reason. As he looked at the bed, seven years of
pent-up yearning had him nearly shaking with desire. His body prickled with awareness
of Moira’s as she stood so close to him. When his arm brushed hers, a jolt went through
him like the lightning in the storm they had sailed through.
“Caitlin said to give ye this salve,” the woman said, handing a pot to Moira.
“Thank you,” Moira said as the woman left.
Duncan heard the door close. The two of them were alone.
Chapter 14
M oira glanced about the tiny
her head back and scrutinized Duncan as carefully as she had the whistle. “If ye are
his grandson, ye didn’t get your size from him.”
The MacCrimmons whispered among themselves for a time, then a handsome man with graying
hair asked, “Can ye play that wee whistle?”
Duncan sat down on a stool that was far too small for him, placed his fingers on the
holes of the whistle, and began to play. His music was so entwined with Moira’s memories
of the summer they were lovers that the first note took her back to that time.
“Ach, he’s got MacCrimmon blood in him for certain,” the man with graying hair said
when Duncan had finished the song. “Ye should have learned to play the pipes.”
“I do play the pipes a wee bit,” Duncan said, “though not as well as the harp.”
“The man is boasting now,” the old woman said. She waved to a lad in the corner. “Fetch
Caitlin’s harp, and let’s see what this big fellow can do.”
When Duncan strummed the strings of the harp, the sounds made Moira think of delicate
faery wings and the fields aflower on a high summer day at home. She closed her eyes
and let the music take her back to a time when she was a young lass with nothing to
worry her but which gown to wear.
“Who taught ye to play?” the same man asked after Duncan finished the tune.
“One of the MacArthurs taught me the pipes,” Duncan said, referring to another well-known
piping family. “My mother played the harp a bit. I figured the rest out on my own.”
“I remember your mother well,” the man said. “She was a fine woman and a beauty, but
she didn’t have the gift.”
“’Tis in his blood,” a plump woman standing next to Moira said. She waggled her eyebrows
and nudged Moira. “MacCrimmon men have music in their souls and magic in their fingers.”
Moira remembered. The memory had blighted her marriage.
“Shame your mother didn’t send ye to us,” the man said.
“I was born to be a warrior, not a piper,” Duncan said.
“Ach, the Highlands are filled with warriors,” the man said, waving his hand. Then
he grinned. “If ye had the training ye should have, ye could be a famous piper like
me. My name is Uilleam, by the way. I’m Caitlin’s father.”
“I’ve heard of ye,” Duncan said. “I hope I have the pleasure of hearing ye play before
we leave.”
“Ye won’t be taking your friend anywhere for a few days,” the healer interrupted.
“Now, if ye all have satisfied your curiosity, let me tend to this poor injured man
in peace.”
Duncan expected to be sleeping with the cow in one of the cottages. Instead, one of
the women led him and Moira to the last cottage in the little row.
“We keep this cottage ready for visiting pipers,” the woman explained as she opened
the door for them. “We have pipers from all over the Highlands come here to improve
their skills, though we have none staying with us at the moment.”
The woman opened the door and bustled about the tiny cottage, lighting the lamp on
the table and pouring the pitcher of water she had brought with her into a bowl for
washing.
“You’ll find peat by the hearth and warm blankets on the bed,” she said.
There was only the one bed. Duncan told himself that nothing interesting was going
to happen in that bed. For one thing, Moira was widowed but three days.
But his cock was not listening to reason. As he looked at the bed, seven years of
pent-up yearning had him nearly shaking with desire. His body prickled with awareness
of Moira’s as she stood so close to him. When his arm brushed hers, a jolt went through
him like the lightning in the storm they had sailed through.
“Caitlin said to give ye this salve,” the woman said, handing a pot to Moira.
“Thank you,” Moira said as the woman left.
Duncan heard the door close. The two of them were alone.
Chapter 14
M oira glanced about the tiny
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