Page 44 of Sins of the Highlander

“Why did Angus name his dog Fingal?” she asked.

He recognized her question as a frantic plea to change the subject.

The answer was obvious. Everyone knew Fingal of legend was a giant. Fingal of the Gray Shaggy Fur was too. But Rob decided to let the topic of conversation stray there. The matter of their feelings was fraught with far more peril than a legendary giant or a giant of a dog.

“Angus loves the old tales, ye see,” Rob said. “And since Fingal of old is connected with Loch Earn, Angus thought it only fitting to give his hero a flea-bitten, mangy namesake.”

Elspeth covered the hound’s ears with her hands. “Hush! You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Ye tell me ye hate me without batting an eye, but ye’re concerned for the dog’s feelings?”

“I like the dog, MacLaren.” She arched a brow at Rob. “Besides, Fingal didna steal me from the altar, did he?”

The hound turned his great head and slurped her cheek with a wet doggie kiss before she could stop him. She hugged Fingal’s neck with a laugh.

Rob never thought to envy a dog, but he suddenly wished he could run his lips over that smooth cheek and make her laugh. And feel her arms about his neck.

“Dinna encourage him,” he warned. “Or he’ll wash the other cheek for ye.”

Elspeth wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “What’s the connection with the other Fingal—the hero, I mean—and this loch?”

“Are ye the sort given to vapors?”

“Ye saw me face a wolf pack. Ye know I’m not.”

He nodded. “Ye know how to keep your head; that’s certain. I’m just saying ’tis best to tell this sort of tale on dry land. ’Tis about the each uisge, ye see.”

“The water horse?” Moonlight silvered her face, and her eyes sparked with interest. “I love the old tales. Can ye tell it, please?”

If she asked him to walk across the loch with that kind of entreaty in her voice, he’d give it a try.

“I’m no’ a bard, ye ken, but I’ll do my best.” Rob leaned on the tiller to keep the boat sailing down the center of the narrow loch. “The doings I’m about to tell ye of happened long ago, back when the world was young and magical beings were common as…” He searched his memory for a poetic turn of phrase such as a bard might use, but could only come up with one of his own. “Common as bedbugs.”

“Common as bedbugs? Ugh!” She shuddered. “Ye speak truly when ye say ye’re no’ a poet.”

“Weel, ye must admit there are few things more common,” he said with a shrug. “In any case, young Fingal was walking the heath one day near Loch Tay, where he was wont to roam, carrying a boulder in one hand and an oak trunk in the other. He was set to wander the wide world and wondered what adventure he might find.”

“What did he intend to do with the boulder and the trunk?” Chin in hand, Elspeth leaned toward him, clearly interested in the story.

“The boulder was in case he met a foe and needed something to squash him with,” Rob explained. “And though Fingal was big enough to step across most streams, he used the tree trunk for vaulting over burns when he found one too wide for him to leap over.”

“Makes sense. Go on, then.”

“But Fingal didna meet a foe this day. Instead, in a shady glade, he saw a beautiful stallion, strong of haunch and long of limb, with a mane and tail black as…” This time his memory of the last bard he’d heard served him well. “Black as a witch’s temper.”

“Black as a witch’s temper,” she repeated. “That’s better than ‘common as bedbugs.’ I have hopes for ye, MacLaren. There may be more poet in ye than ye know.”

“My lady does me honor.” Rob sketched a mocking bow. “But back to the stallion Fingal found. It looked to be big enough for him to ride. Being a giant, he knew mounts suitable for him were like to be far and few in between, so he decided to catch it, but—”

“But he didna have a rope to catch it with?”

“Who’s telling this tale?” Rob demanded. “Ye’re getting ahead of me.” When she clamped her lips tight, he continued. “So Fingal set down his boulder and his oak trunk and fetched out his rope. For ye see, he did have a rope—and a good, stout length it was—tucked away in his sporran. The horse was munching away on the long grass. It seemed to be paying him no mind. As he crept closer—”

“And I dinna expect a giant creeps verra quietly.”

“Is this how they tell tales in the Stewart’s hall, interrupting the bard at every turn?”

“No indeed,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a real bard.”