Диана Гэблдон - Drums of Autumn 4

“Would you stop that?” Brianna looked crossly at her friend, who had swooned dramatically into one of the plastic seats. “Ignore her,” she advised Roger, turning toward the door. With a cautious glance at Gayle, he took her advice, and picking up a large box tied with string, followed her into the concourse.

“What did you mean about your bread and butter?” she asked, looking for some way to return the conversation to a sane footing.

He laughed, a little self-consciously.

“Well, the historical conference is paying the airfare, but they couldn’t manage expenses. So I called round, and wangled a bit of a job to take care of that end.”

“A job playing the guitar?”

“By day, mild-mannered historian Roger Wakefield is a harmless Oxford academic. But at night, he dons his secret tartan rrregalia and becomes the dashing—Roger MacKenzie!”

“Who?”

He smiled at her surprise. “Well, I do a bit of Scottish folk-singing, for festivals and ceilidhs —High Games and the like. I’m on to do a turn at a Celtic festival up in the mountains at the end of the week, is all.”

“Scottish singing? Do you wear a kilt when you sing?” Gayle had popped up on Roger’s other side.

“I do indeed. How else would they know I was a Scotsman?”

“I just love fuzzy knees,” Gayle said dreamily. “Now, tell me, is it true about what a Scotsman—”

“Go get the car,” Brianna ordered, hastily thrusting her keys at Gayle.

Gayle perched her chin on the windowsill of the car, watching Roger make his way into the hotel. “Gee, I hope he doesn’t shave before he meets us for dinner. I just love the way men look when they haven’t shaved for a while. What do you think’s in that big box?”

“His bodhran. I asked.”

“His what ?”

“It’s a Celtic war drum. He plays it with some of his songs.”

Gayle’s lips formed a small circle of speculation.

“I don’t suppose you want me to drive him to this festival thing, do you? I mean, you must have lots of things to do, and—”

“Ha ha. You think I’d let you anywhere around him in a kilt?”

Gayle sighed wistfully, and pulled her head in as Brianna started the car.

“Well, maybe there’d be other men there in kilts.”

“I think that’s pretty likely.”

“I bet they don’t have Celtic war drums, though.”

“Maybe not.”

Gayle leaned back in her seat, and glanced at her friend.

“So, are you going to do it?”

“How should I know?” But the blood bloomed under her skin, and her clothes felt too tight.

“Well, if you don’t,” Gayle said positively, “you’re crazy.”

“The Minister’s cat is an…androgynous cat.”

“The Minister’s cat is an…alagruous cat.”

Bree gave him a lifted brow, taking her eyes briefly off the road.

“Scots again?”

“It’s a Scottish game,” Roger said. “Alagruous—‘grim or woebegone.’ Your turn. Letter ‘B.’ ”

She squinted through the windshield at the narrow mountain road. The morning sun was toward them, filling the car with light.

“The Minister’s cat is a brindled cat.”

“The Minister’s cat is a bonnie cat.”

“Well, that’s a soft pitch for both of us. Draw. Okay, the Minister’s cat is a…” He could see the wheels turning in her mind, then the gleam in her narrowed blue eyes as inspiration struck. “…coccygodynious cat.”

Roger narrowed his own eyes, trying to work that one out.

“A cat with a wide backside?”

She laughed, braking slightly as the car hit a switchback curve.

“A cat that’s a pain in the ass.”

“That’s a real word, is it?”

“Uh-huh.” She accelerated neatly out of the turn. “One of Mama’s medical terms. Coccygodynia is a pain in the region of the tailbone. She used to call the hospital administration coccygodynians, all the time.”

“And here I thought it was one of your engineering terms. All right, then…the Minister’s cat is a camstairy cat.” He grinned at her lifted eyebrow. “Quarrelsome. Coccygodynians are camstairy by nature.”

“Okay, I’ll call that one a draw. The Minister’s cat is…”

“Wait,” Roger interrupted, pointing. “There’s the turn.”

Slowing, she pulled off the narrow highway and onto a still narrower road, indicated by a small red-and-white-arrowed sign that read CELTIC FESTIVAL.

“You’re a love to bring to me all the way up here,” Roger said. “I didn’t realize how far it was, or I’d never have asked.”

She gave him a brief glance of amusement.

“It’s not that far.”

“It’s a hundred and fifty miles!”

She smiled, but with a wry edge to it.

“My father always said that was the difference between an American and an Englishman. An Englishman thinks a hundred miles is a long way; an American thinks a hundred years is a long time.”

Roger laughed, taken by surprise.

“Too right. You’ll be an American, then, I suppose?”

“I suppose.” But her smile had faded.

So had the conversation; they drove in silence for a few minutes, with no sound but the rush of tires and wind. It was a beautiful hot summer’s day, the mugginess of Boston left far below as they snaked their way upward, into the clearer air of the mountains.

“The Minister’s cat is a distant cat,” Roger said at last, softly. “Have I said something wrong?”

She flashed him a quick blue glance, and a half-curled mouth.

“The Minister’s cat is a daydreaming cat. No, it’s not you.” Her lips compressed as she slowed behind another car, then relaxed. “No, that’s not right—it is you, but it’s not your fault.”

Roger shifted, turning in his seat to face her.

“The Minister’s cat is an enigmatic cat.”

“The Minister’s cat is an embarrassed cat—I shouldn’t have said anything, sorry.”

Roger was wise enough not to press her. Instead, he leaned forward and dug under the seat for the thermos of hot tea with lemon.

“Want some?” He offered her the cup, but she made a small face and shook her head.

“No thanks. I hate tea.”

“Definitely not an Englishwoman, then,” he said, and wished he hadn’t; her hands squeezed tight on the wheel. She didn’t say anything, though, and he drank the tea in silence, watching her.

She didn’t look English, her parentage and coloring notwithstanding. He couldn’t tell whether the difference was more than a matter of clothes, but he thought so. Americans seemed so much more…what? Vibrant? Intense? Bigger? Just more . Brianna Randall was definitely more.

The traffic grew thicker, slowing to a crawling line of cars as they reached the entrance to the resort where the festival was being held.

“Look,” Brianna said abruptly. She didn’t turn toward him, but stared out through the windshield at the New Jersey license plate of the car in front of them. “I have to explain.”

“Not to me.”

She flicked one red eyebrow in brief irritation.

“To who else?” She pressed her lips together and sighed. “Yeah, all right, me too. But I do.”

Roger could taste the acid from the tea, bitter in the back of his throat. Was this where she told him it had been a mistake for him to come? He’d thought so himself, all the way across the Atlantic, twitching and cramped in the tiny airline seat. Then he’d seen her across the airport lobby, and all doubt had vanished on the instant.

It hadn’t come back during the intervening week, either; he’d seen her at least briefly every day—even managed a baseball game with her at Fenway Park on Thursday afternoon. He’d found the game itself baffling, but Brianna’s enthusiasm for it enchanting. He found himself counting the hours left before he’d have to leave, and looking forward nonetheless to this—the only whole day they’d have together.