The Selkie Read Online Free PDF Page A

struggled with himself, clearly not wanting to respond to her question, but finally answering, “Some in these parts call me Ruairidh O’Uruisg. And I’m no ruder than ye’ve been yerself. Ye know that yer not supposed tae be askin’ my name yet. Why did ye call me by ritual if it means sae little tae ye?”
    Hexy blinked, taken aback. Had she been rude? Marthe was always saying failte when strangerscame into the house. Had she insulted this man by not obeying the local custom? Had she truly outraged Gaelic social convention by asking for his name too early in some greeting ritual?
    “Roaring Oorushk? I can’t call you that,” she objected, speaking her thoughts aloud as she pinched her nose, fighting off a fit of sneezes. “Haven’t you some normal name?”
    She regretted her thoughtless words as soon as she saw his offended expression. Her habit of talking to herself had once again landed her in trouble.
    “Look, I am sorry. That was rude. But I told you that I haven’t the Gaelic and don’t know all your customs. I’m foreign. Take pity on me. Haven’t you an English name I could use?”
    “Aye.” The man seemed to be chewing his tongue, but eventually he spat out: “If ye must know, some here have called me Rory.”
    “Rory?” Hexy repeated, feeling suddenly feverish. She hadn’t thought of her brother for months and suddenly his name and image were everywhere around her. Another tear slipped from her eye and she raised a hand to wipe it away. “That’s…that’s a nice name. It was my brother’s. He—he’s gone now.”
    The stranger watched her hand as she rubbed at her cheek. His tense expression finally relaxed a trifle and his nose twitched. His lips eased into an almost smile. Belatedly, Hexyrecalled how dirty her hands were and realized that she had probably just smeared gray dust all over her cheeks.
    “I am starting tae believe in yer innocence,” he told her, his voice gone soft as a lullabye. It was mesmerizing, somehow spinning cobwebs over her mind. “Ye may be daft, but I dae believe yer guileless.”
    “Why are you smiling?” she asked, fascinated by the sight of the corners of his mouth curving upward. She had never seen anyone smile that way. Unable to control her thoughts or speech, she added, “It isn’t because I’m a mess, is it? That would be mean.”
    More confident now, he ignored her question.
    “It’s a strange accent ye have, mistress. And what might yer own name be, O thief of furs, whose brother was also called Rory?”
    “Oh, I’m Hexy Garrow. Hesiod Garrow, actually, but everyone calls me Hexy.” The words spilled out as if compelled by some unseen force.
    “That’s a bit of an odd name, Mistress Hesiod. Hexy .” For the first time, her name on a man’s lips sounded like a caress. “There’s something almost pixiating about the sound of it.”
    “ Pixiating ?”
    “Enchanting.”
    “Oh.”
    Hexy stared at him. The man’s deep, unblinking eyes seemed to call her into a mesmeric trance. Come drown in me , they seemed to say. I’ll keep you safe.
    But I don’t want to drown, do I?
    It was difficult, but Hexy gathered her scattering wits. She really wanted to close the door on whatever was making her sneeze but didn’t feel quite comfortable shutting herself in with this half-naked man who clearly affected her senses in some powerful way.
    “Never mind about my name,” she said briskly. “What is this nonsense about a fur? Yours has gone missing, I take it? Along with your shirt.”
    Hexy knew she sounded incredulous, but the ill-folded plaid barely held in place about Rory’s naked waist did not suggest the sort of wealth that produced fur coats.
    Unless they were supplied by rich women.
    The thought made her scowl.
    “Aye, it has, and my sark tae. Ye gathered mine up from the beach last evening and brought it here.” The stranger raised his head and sniffed at the air. There was no other word for the flaring of nostrils and the deep