Page 31 of Return to Wildsyde

“Whisky cherries?” he repeated, the only bit of that sentence he could decipher. “Aye, they’re innocent enough this time next year, ye little eejit! Did ye drink the contents of that whole jar, and eat the cherries, too?”

“Aye,” she said, grinning up at him and then giving a loud hiccough.

Lyall gave a startled laugh. “Oh, I am glad I am nae gonna have yer heid in the morning, lassie. Ye are gonna sorely regret this.”

She shrugged, such an expression of sorrow in her eyes he felt it strike at the place his heart had once been. “Add it to the pile,” she said, and suddenly went limp.

She fell so suddenly he almost lost his grip on her, but just caught her up again before her head went under the water. He lifted her into his arms, sodden petticoats and all, viscerally aware of the naked skin he could feel under his arms.

She was a dead weight, and surprisingly heavy, her head lolling back as she sang softly under her breath, “Toroddle toroddle, toroll.”

Lyall carried her back to the beach and set her down on the sand. She sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo like a peculiar starfish, eyes shut against the glare of the sun. The wet petticoats clung to her body, lovingly highlighting lush curves he had no wish to become familiar with, yet he could not look away. How ridiculous and yet how glorious she looked, all inhibitions and cares cast aside, a strange, wild thing from another world, biding for a moment in his. She flung one slender arm over her eyes and hiccoughed again and then groaned and the spell was broken. Lyall shook his head, reminding himself severely of exactly who and what he was dealing with.

“Get up,” he said. “The tide will come in soon and ye can nae stay here. Ye are lucky I came upon ye. Lord, ye have nae more sense than a bairn coming down here in this state.”

“Washn’t in this state,” she said indignantly.

“Well, if ye came down sober, that’s worse,” he said, reaching for her and hauling her into a sitting position. That seemed to be a mistake, for the colour left her face in a rush and then returned with a sickly green cast.

“Oh,” she said helplessly, covering her mouth with her hand.

“If ye are gonna boke…”

Well, she did, and before he could suggest it, she took herself further away. He considered putting distance between them himself but took pity. She did not look like a scheming harlot in this sorry state. So, he crouched down and held her wet hair back as she retched and made sounds of utter misery.

“There, there, lass, best ye rid yerself of it now, for it’s gonnae get a good deal worse,” he said cheerfully, not beyond finding the situation humorous from his perspective.

Oh, she would be mortified when she sobered up.

“I want to die,” she moaned tragically and with considerable feeling.

“I dinnae blame ye for it none, but ye had better save that thought for the morning,” he said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice as he considered her getting drunk on whisky cherries when she had clearly not realised how potent they were. Of all the daft things to do. Suddenly the situation seemed terribly funny, and he was hard pressed not to laugh.

“Come on. I think ye are done and we need to get ye home before anyone sees ye in such a state.”

Luella shook her head, dragging herself away from the mess she had made on the sand, and collapsed in a pitiful heap. “No. I’ll jus’ die here, s’pretty. I never sheen the sea, s’beautiful.”

“It is beautiful,” Lyall agreed, staring down at her. In different circumstances, with a different woman, he might have told her she was beautiful too, for she was, despite being roaring drunk and throwing up at his feet. He shook himself and bent down, hauling her up despite her vociferous protests.

“Haud ye wheesht,” he said mildly. “Can ye walk?”

“Course I can…” she began, and managed one step before her knees gave out.

Lyall caught her, holding her upright as he stooped to gather her dress, shoes and under things. He gazed at the lacy drawers for a moment before giving himself a mental shake and shoving them at her.

“Hold these,” he ordered, before lifting her into his arms.

Murdoch came running back to him, barking excitedly, perhaps thinking Luella was a new kind of stick to throw. She gave a little cry and clung to Lyall, her arms tightening around his neck.

“He’s nae gonna hurt ye,” he said with a sigh. “Can ye nae see his tail is a-wagging?”

Luella gazed blearily down at the animal. “Nice doggie,” she said doubtfully.

Lyall snorted. “Away with ye, Murdoch. Home now, lad.”

Murdoch pricked up his ears at the mention of home and sped off up the path with his wives in pursuit. Luella sighed, becoming boneless in his arms as he carried her up the steep slope away from the beach.

“Toroddle, toroddle, jolly, jolly pigeons,” she sang tunelessly, ending with a hiccough. Lyall cast her a dubious glance, wondering if she would throw up over him. “D’ya like my song?”