Page 64 of The Tartan Thesis

I chuckle as he clamps a hand over his lips, his eyes wide before he hastily grabs a towel.

“I’m going to smother her with a pillow,” Torin grumbles, wiping the mirror, unable to look at me.

“Oh, come on,” I say, “you’ll never do that. You two are inseparable.” I pause. “Also, and more importantly, you didn’t answer my question.”

“And I’m not going to,” he says, still avoiding my eyes.

“What? Why not?” I ask, grinning.

“Because it doesn’t matter what I may or may not enjoy in the bedroom,” he says, finally looking my way. “That’s between me and whoever I sleep with.”

The thought of him being in bed with someone else sends jealousy tingling across my chest and down into my gut.

“That sounds like a yes to me,” I say as he wipes up the last of the mess.

He sighs and squeezes more toothpaste onto his brush. “Just brush your damn teeth. Ya eejit.”

19

Torin

Cairn

Translation: Man-made pile of stones

Usage: To describe a structure used as a landmark, trail marker, memorial, or ceremonial mound

The sun is rising on a chilly morning the day after Boxing Day as Beau and I trudge along a path through the Culloden Battlefield.

We got an early start so we can travel far and wide across the Highlands, our tour beginning on a grassy expanse, flags at either end marking where two opposing armies stared each other down before meeting in battle in 1746.

“The 1745 Jacobite Rising was an effort to restore Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Stuart monarchy to the British throne. That all ended here when the Redcoats had an almost unopposed victory in this very place.”

Beau nods, his usual excitement tempered. He’s interested, but even golden retrievers can tell when a place demands reverence.

We stop halfway across the field, and I point to the line of blue flags on our right. “The underfed and overtired Jacobite army stood there and did their best to hold their lines during the artillery duel that opened the skirmish, but they were vastly outgunned by government forces. With casualties mounting, the right flank couldn’t hold back any longer. They launched a Highland charge, running forward, kilts flapping behind them, battle cries piercing the morning air. They planned to shoot when in range, then continue pell-mell into the melee to take on the Redcoats in hand-to-hand combat. A tactic that had worked well in the past.”

“But it didn’t work this time,” Beau says.

“Aye. The land between was a bog, nothing but broken and muddy ground. Highland forces lost momentum and fell apart. Only a portion of the charge ever reached the government lines,” I say, pointing to the red flags to our left. “The few who made it across the field were quickly struck down by the well-trained Redcoat force. The rest of the Jacobite army were barely able to make a charge under a barrage of gunfire and artillery devastation, and the battle was over within the hour.”

Beau’s gaze sweeps across the field before he turns to me, blue eyes sparkling. “And then the Bonnie Prince went back into exile?”

I nod. “He was one of the lucky few who got away. Upwards of two thousand Jacobites lost their lives here, with countless more injured or killed in the aftermath that followed.”

We talk more about the events that led up to the battle as we walk back to the car and observe a moment of silence by the cairns that serve as memorials for those who died here. No matter how many times I visit this place, I’m moved by the history and how thoughtfully everything has been laid out by the National Trust for Scotland. Simple markers, nothing grand, just a quiet respect for what happened. They did a beautiful job.

Beau starts the car as we approach so the seats are already warm when we climb inside. I buckle up and expect him to back out so we can head to the next stop, but I look over and find him watching me with those gorgeous eyes, a smile on his lips.

“What?” I ask with a nervous laugh. “Is there something on my face?”

“It’s just…” Beau hesitates. “You’re going to be an incredible professor someday.”

My face flushes, his earnest eyes searing into me. I sink down in my seat, looking straight ahead. Beau has said a lot of nice things to me in recent weeks, but out of all of them, this one means the most.

I’m still no good at accepting compliments, but I manage to mutter, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he says and nudges me with his elbow before extending his arm behind my seat and backing out.