Jamie the Scottie
A thin line it is, between a Scottish Brute and a Fine gentleman..
Scotland, 1802
“Yer heid be harder than that block, laddie,” grumbled Mr. McFadden, slumped and weathered against the rough-edged door. “I told ye tae leave it fer me. Auld I may be, but these bones binna dust yet.”
Jamie paused as he straightened with the block in his arms. Even at sixteen, he could carry twice what other men could with half the effort. Of a certainty, he would not leave a man forty years his senior to lift such a load when he could do it without losing a breath. He raised a brow at the iron-miened stonemason who had honed him like a fine block of granite these past five years. “Shall I set ’er doon here, then, rather than upon yer bench?”
McFadden grunted, glanced at his own gnarled hands and the heavy downpour beyond the windows of his workshop, then sighed into a frown. “Dinna be daft.”
Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Jamie moved the heavy sandstone block to McFadden’s workbench, bending his knees to set it gently upon the scarred wood.
All day, he had battled a grin. Everything delighted him. McFadden’s false gruffness and stubborn pride. The smooth-planed surface he’d achieved on his own block of stone—the beginnings of a set of corbels for a grand house between Netherdunnie and Edinburgh. Even the thick, constant rain turning the roads to a muddy stew.
Today, everything shone to a high polish.
Because of her.
Today, she would agree to marry him. He could feel it the same way McFadden’s knuckles could sense a coming storm.
“What the devil has ye grinnin’ sae, laddie?” McFadden grumbled, whisking away a bit of dust from the block and scowling in Jamie’s direction.
Instantly, Jamie reined his mouth back into line.
“Gie’s the mallet,” the old man said, nodding to the tool near Jamie’s hand.
He handed his former master the mallet and watched McFadden begin boning in the edges of the block with emphatic strikes against the head of his chisel. Chips of sandstone flew, striking Jamie’s leather apron.
“Ye might as well gae’n see her. Seems that’s where yer heid be anyhou.”
“The grin broke open again. “Thank ye, Mr. McFadden.” Jamie stripped his apron with sharp tugs, flinging it at the peg on the wall before rushing to the workshop door.
“Slow doon, ye fool. She’ll be there whither ye tear that door from its frame wi’ yer great, muckle fist or no.”
Jamie scarcely heard the caution, but it was unnecessary. When he’d sprouted to his current size, towering over everyone in the village, he’d dented more than a few lintels with his skull before learning to duck when he passed through a doorway. He’d also required only one instance of accidentally shoving his sister to the ground with a playful swat of her shoulder before realizing his new strength required great temperance, especially with women.
Now, despite a drumming heart demanding he rush to meet his bonnie love, he paused long enough to snag his hat and plunk it upon his head before striding out into the silvery deluge. He felt not a drop upon his skin. Heeded none of the shouted greetings as he strode purposefully down the muddy lanes of his village, past the smithy where his father had labored until his death, beyond the small inn welcoming wayfarers on the road to Edinburgh.
He started across the expanse of the green with scarcely a thought … apart from one:
Fiona.
She would be his wife.
An apprentice no longer, he was now worthy of a journeyman’s wages, and while his mother might think him a lad, he was in every measure a man: He had become a craftsman, perhaps not yet of similar renown as McFadden, but one who worked and earned his way. He could support a wife. Perhaps a bairn or two.
Additionally, lads were small. He was taller and larger than anyone in the village—anyone he had ever seen pass through the village, for that matter. The width of his shoulders forced him to both stoop and sidle through narrow corridors.
And last, but by no means least, he had already lain with a lass.
His lass.
Three times.”
“He’d not torn her asunder, as he’d feared. No, he had found pleasure beyond compare. And his saucy, earthy Fiona had found her own as well, if her moaning and carrying on were an indication.
His smile returned. He could not wait to see her again.
The shorn grass had gone flat and soft beneath the onslaught of rain, making the ground slick and slowing his progress. Urgency thrummed in his blood. Perhaps Fiona would let him touch her again. His palms tingled with the possibility.
“… Jamie!”
He would start by kissing her. If he hurried, he would no doubt catch her behind her father’s dairy, waiting for him beneath the stout oak tree, her ready smile gleaming a welcome.
“Slow doon,” a feminine voice echoed behind him. “I canna run in these skirts.”
He glanced over his shoulder to see his sister straining to catch up with him, the brim of her bonnet a nearly solid fall of water. “What are ye aboot, Emily?” he called across the thirty feet she struggled to close. “Ye should be helpin’ Mam prepare dinner.”
“Finally, she reached him, one hand settling on her abdomen as she struggled for breath. His only sibling was two years older, tall for a female, and while they shared the same dark-blond hair, her features were thankfully much more pleasant to look upon than his.
Only recently, Fredrick steawarth had come by the workshop dressed in his humble finest, asking permission to court her. Jamie had scoffed at the man’s lofty airs— Fredrick was a blacksmith’s son, just as Jamie was, not an Edinburgh knab with a fancy neckcloth and false courtesy—but Fredrick had insisted Emily deserved such consideration.
Right enough, he’d thought dryly. Emily is surely the finest flower in the field with her blunt mouth and managing ways. Although he had granted his permission, he’d struggled to keep from rolling his eyes at Steawarth’s earnest regard.
Jamie’s delicate rose petal of a sister now slapped his upper arm with her usual hard blow. “Mam sent me to fetch ye. I’ve been chasin’ ye through this accursed rain since ye left the workshop. Did ye no’ hear me callin’?” Her straight, blond brows lowered in displeasure, Emily craned her neck and tilted her round chin.
Shrugging, he replied, “Nae time fer a chat.”
“Blethers. Ye’ve more important matters tae tend than meetin’ that dairyman’s daughter again. I warned ye that one’ll spring her trap sooner than ye can—”
He sighed, irritation slithering down his nape like relentless rain. “What dae ye want, Emily?”
“A man has come tae see ye. Mam wishes ye tae return. Now.”
“What man?”
“His name is Mr.Clyde. From England. Insists on speakin’ wi’ ye.”
The chill of Jamie’s rain-soaked clothing saturated his skin. He’d been hoping for an hour in Fiona’s arms to warm him, but it appeared no such comfort was imminent.
Bluidy hell.
