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It’s been so long since I’ve danced that I grin up at him, eyes alight. My feet follow his lead without hesitation, and we glide soundlessly across the grass, twirling and spinning around a collection of large trumpet-shaped flowers, the moon shining down on us like an enormous spotlight. When we reach the center of the garden, there’s a clearing off to the side holding another fountain, this one surrounded by thin towering trees — a beautiful, secret hollow.
The cool night breeze brushes against my skin as we dance, and a different kind of magic from Rory’s stirs in the air. When my eyes meet Finlay’s, another jolt of electricity shoots down my body. His hand rests lightly on my waist, pulling me close and pressing my body against his, but I break away for a moment to gaze into the still water of the fountain and run my hand over its mirror-clear surface.
“Whit is it?” Finlay asks, looking into the fountain with me. Two faces reflect together in oscillating waves, him achingly handsome and smart, me with my jaw busted and bruised. I massage the sorest area of my face, wondering how long it’ll take to heal, and then drop my hand with a sigh.
“You know I love you, right?” My voice is quiet, as though unwilling to speak more. “Even when I’m with the others. With Rory.”
“Aye,” Finlay says simply. There’s no hint of teasing or sarcasm in his voice. “And I love you, sassenach. I always have.”
“I just don’t want you to be jealous. There’s nothing to be jealous of. You sounded pretty cut up earlier.”
At first, Finlay doesn’t answer. But then he says in a gruff voice, “Rory thinks we’re a’ musketeers — are we fuck. I telt ye, sassenach, earlier. We’re no’ equal the way he thinks we a’ are. He thinks that because he’s the one at the fuckin’ tap. But naw, we’re no’ really the three musketeers: just four guys competing for your attention, and three lost souls competin’ for his.”
I don’t want to argue with him about this, about how invisibly he sees himself within our tight-knit group. He observes hierarchies and power structures wherever he goes, and maybe he’s evenright. “Bold of you to assume Rory can’t see the full picture,” I reply with a slow, teasing quirk of my lips. “I thought, to you, he was perfect.”
“Whit? Naw. Never perfect. Hauf the time we’re at each other’s throats and he wullnae agree wi’ me over the basic stuff — so how can he be perfect?” It’s difficult for him to replace the fondness in his tone with spite, though he puts on a good front. “It’s just a’ that… animal fuckin’ magnetism, aye.”
Finlay’s frowning, looking dissatisfied by his words. When he notices my growing grin, he shakes his head, plunges his hand into the fountain, and tosses a handful of cold water at me. I manage to dive out of the way in time, snickering, as Finlay hisses from the chill. “See, this is just fuckin’ typical,” he rants wildly, shaking off the water droplets, and my laughter bursts out in happy, uncontrollable peals. “Go tae punish someone andI’mthe sad fuck who ends up dyin’ o’ hypothermia.”
I pointedly take his cold, reddened hand in both of mine and kiss the back of it. “Shall we dance?” I murmur, fighting my amusement. “You seemed happier then.”
“It’s no’aboutbein’ happy—”
“Fin,” I say suddenly, and he falls quiet at this single blast of his name. I let my fingers press against his lips, covering his delectable, runaway mouth. “Shh.”
He takes the hint. With his kilt swaying gently, Finlay reaches out a strong hand to pull me even closer, and the gap between us vanishes. Pressed together, we move in dreamy wonder, our eyes never leaving each other, our bodies in sweet harmony. The only sounds in the garden are our soft footsteps on the grass and the evocative whir of the bagpipes. We may as well be the only two people in the world.
“Two years in Scotland,” I whisper forlornly, listening to the rich tone of the bagpipes, wondering what’s happening beyond the walls, “and I’ve still yet to attend a Burns supper.”
“Can only attend after yer third year stayin’ here,” Finlay says. “It’s the law. Comes after ye get yer wild haggis huntin’ permit.”
“Funny,” I say, completely po-faced.
Finlay shrugs. “Usually works on Americans. Just ‘cause you’re sharper than the rest… Ye wullnae believe the things they believe about Scotland.”
I feel like I probably can. “So what happens at one? A Burns supper?”
Deeply serious, Finlay looks into my eyes and answers, “We burn the English.” His words hang in shocked silence for a moment, but I can barely contain my laughter as he slips his arms around me and pulls me tightly against him. His breath tickles my hair as he whispers, “We burn them all.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, grinning up at him. “Yup, dumb American here, I totally believe that.”
“Well, whit d’ye think’s in a haggis?”
“Isn’t it, like, sheep guts?”
“No, it’s the English. They just taste as foul as sheep guts—”
“Right, and so you carve them up into little bits.”
“Exactly! It’s our one day of retribution.”
“So then what’s St. Andrew’s Day?”
“Aye, fine, that’s ourotherday of retribution. Look, there’s a lot o’ English tae get through, sassenach, and we’ve got a lot o’ retribution tae dole oot. They keep breedin’ in the south.”
Finlay’s enthusiasm is contagious, and my giggles turn into laughs, until we’re both breathless and laughing like idiots, clutching each other’s shoulders. We don’t move apart for some time, enjoying each other’s company. Finlay wraps his arms around my waist. I lay my head on his chest. We breathe as one.
“So there’s drinkin’ and eatin’,” Finlay says, his voice rumbling above my head, “and if ye’re lucky there’s fightin’. There’s speeches and music and bagpipes and singin’. Someone’s aye greetin’ at ‘My Luve’s Like a Red, Red Rose,’ usually me…” He pauses, gazing down at me. “I cannae recreate the whole thing by myself, but mebbe the bit ye deserve is this…”
