And still she sang on, some English ballad about a man whose truest love had spurned him.
“Softly the west wind blows; gaily the warm sun goes; The earth her bosom showeth, and with all sweetness floweth. I see it with mine eyes, I hear it with mine ears. But in my heart of sighs, yet am I full of tears. Alone with thought I sit, and blench, remembering it; Sometimes I lift my head, I neither see nor hear...”
And so she continued, her song blaring, her melody true, but grating in its untimeliness and its volume. Iain waited impatiently, teeth clenched until he thought they might shatter. He stared into the darkness, while his men continued to grumble complaints, refusing to allow himself to be baited. He knew what she was trying to do, and of course, it was working. But he’d not let her know it.
She’d grow tired soon enough and she’d quit, he reassured himself, and was rewarded when at the end of the verse, she suddenly quieted.
Sighing with vexed relief, Iain closed his eyes, only to snap them open when she began the verse all over again.
This time louder.
Muttering silent curses, he said nothing, keeping reign upon his temper. Neither did his men speak but to themselves, until she began the verse yet a third time.
“Ach, now, Iain,” Angus complained loudly. “Canna ye make her leave the lays for the morrow?”
His complaint was reinforced by a number of groans and muttered curses as the lass sang louder still. Iain closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, praying to God to give him strength.
“Willful English,” muttered Lagan.
He’d taken the words right out of Iain’s mouth.
When Malcom lifted his little head and peered at her through the shadows, he decided enough was enough. Before his son could voice his own complaint, Iain inhaled a bellow—and strangled on his words as an enormous bug flew down his throat, silencing him.
Choking and coughing, Iain dragged his son from atop him and turned to slap a hand over the lass’s mouth, trying to save her from herself. He could have sworn she smiled at his attempt to hush her. Preoccupied with strangling as he was, his muzzle stopped her all of two seconds and then she began the verse yet another time, although this time the words were muffled through his fingers.
“Ach, nay. Doesna she know another song, at least?” Dougal asked.
Iain might have asked the very same thing, were he not struggling for his next breath. Vexsome woman! Still choking, he sat, dragging her with him as he leaned to hawk the bug from his mouth. Nothing came, and he was mightily afraid he’d swallowed the creature.
She sang louder now, and Iain peered at her out of the corner of his eyes, considering thrusting the whole of his arm down her throat. “Stubborn,” he rasped, and choked again, giving in to another coughing fit. “Stubborn, fashious woman,” he finished whenever he could.
“Da... will ye leave her to sing,” Malcom whispered at his side.
Shocked by the request, Iain stared down at his son through the shadows, thinking that surely the bug had addled his brains, that or he must have imagined the soft plea. Malcom had never favored coddling before. Not ever. He’d been a wee man from the instant he could walk and talk.
“I dinna want her to stop,” his son said somewhat desperately.
Though nothing else had managed to accomplish the feat, Malcom’s uncertain request hushed the lass abruptly.
The glade turned silent, his men mute.
“’Tis a verra pretty song,” Malcom said. “Will ye sing me another, Page?”
Shocked by his son’s entreaty, Iain felt her swallow and he dropped his hand to allow her to reply, his heart twisting at the innocent request. The glade seemed to become quieter still as everyone awaited her reply.
For a long instant, she didn’t answer, and Iain held his breath as his son added, a little aggrievedly, “My mammy never sung to me. She went to be wi’ God when I was born. Will ye sing to me, please?”
Iain’s heart twisted and his eyes burned with tears he’d never shed for a wife who had never loved him. “Malcom,” he began, anticipating her refusal.
“Iain, ye heartless cur,” Angus’s gruff voice interjected. “Let the lass—” The old man’s voice broke with emotion, and Iain knew his eyes stung, as did his own. “Let the lass sing to the wee laddie, will ye?” he finished, his voice sounding more tender than the old coot would surely have liked.
“Aye,” added Dougal. “Let her sing to the wee lad. Malcom never had him someone to sing him a lullai bye.”
Iain swallowed his grief for his son and felt a leaden weight in his heart. “’Tis a fickle lot, ye are,” he groused.
“Can she, Da?” Malcom begged. “Can she sing to me?”
“Will she?” Iain amended, frowning. He couldn’t make the lass sing if she didn’t wish to—no more than he could have made her stop when she would not.
“Aye,” she answered abruptly, surprising him. Iain’s gaze tried to reach her through the shadows, but she was staring down at his son. “I’ll sing,” she said softly, and there were murmurs of approval from his men.
“What is it you wish me to sing?” she asked Malcom after a moment.
“Ach, ye can sing anythin’,” his son declared excitedly, and then crawled over Iain to lie between them, as though it were a perfectly natural thing for him to do.
Iain sat speechless.
For an instant there was no movement from her side of the breacan, and then she lay down next to his son, jerking Iain’s arm out from under him and tugging him down to lie beside them. Iain thought she might have done it on purpose—her way of letting him know that while she’d given in to the son’s request, she didn’t like the father any better for it. He would have grinned over her pique, save
