The Selkie Read Online Free PDF Page B

hiding his beautiful eyes. He said something in a strange dialect that didn’t sound entirely like Gaelic. It didn’t, actually, sound like human speech at all. It was more of a strange barking chuff, followed by a string of vowels.
    He finally straightened and took a step away from her, taking his nose and lips to a safe distance.
    “And when dae ye expect Miss Foxworthy tae return?” he asked, his voice level.
    “I—I am not entirely sure. Whenever Donald Healey stops winning races, or she gets bored, I suppose.” It didn’t seem a good moment to mention the potential of an Italian lover, or that Jillian would likely return to London rather than Fintry if either of these things occurred.
    “Can ye get word tae her of the mishap somehow? Perhaps a letter, or might a messenger be sent by pony?”
    Now that her annoyance had cooled, she could sense the urgency that underlay his request.
    “If it is so important to you, why did you leave that coat on the beach?” Once again, she spoke her thoughts aloud.
    “Because I couldnae very well bring it tae thethieving furrier’s house, now could I? The temptation would hae overcome him and made him brash. Could ye nae tell that that fur was special? ’Tis unnatural that ye let it go.” He sounded insulted.
    “No, of course not. Why would I think it special?” she answered. But they both knew she was lying.
    “We’ll talk about this later. Now, about that summons tae Miss Foxworthy…Fetch a pony up tae the house and let us hae a rider on his way.”
    Hexy looked away from Rory’s long-lashed eyes and tried to think. It was difficult, as the allergies, or something, had befuddled her brain.
    “I have a better idea!” Hexy exclaimed at last. “I’ve just recalled that they have a phone down in the village post office. Fortunately, Donny and Jillian are traveling cognito. We can telephone the hotel in Edinburgh where they plan to stay the night and leave a message for her. If we reach her there she can send your fur back at once.”
    “A tell-a-fone? ” he repeated.
    “Yes, a telephone. Come along.” Hexy touched Rory’s arm briefly, no longer able to resist the impulse to make physical contact with him. “We need to hurry. The post office closes at four for tea.”
    “Post office,” he repeated.
    Ruairidh looked about with a cautious eye. The village had not changed. It was made up of the same antique cottages, too weathered to be an ideal example of human pastoral charm. They huddled together around what had been a small green planted in the time of the Norsemen, but was now barren except for a few determined buttercups that bloomed every spring.
    There had been a lowland church there once, which was surrounded by the remains of an unprosperous orchard that had been left long unattended; the wind-bent trees produced nothing but bitter, stunted fruit. Only a few identifiable ruins were left, a crumbling terrace of some sort and balustrades, and even parterres where black-faced English sheep grazed on wild vines and grasses. Still, for all it survived, it was not the sort of agreeable garden that thrived on neglect.
    As the wooden shutters rattled under the wind’s late afternoon assault, Ruairidh stared suspiciously at the metal and wood instrument they called the telephone. A gramophone he had seen once and understood. This device did not look so straightforward and pleasant. He could hear the wind singing eerily in the wires that attached to it.
    “What is that thing?” he asked of Hexy, firmlyresisting the urge to touch her auburn hair. It was probably simply a matter of her having done the summoning ritual that made her so very appealing—though he now had some doubts about whether she had actually intended to summon him—but something about her called to him at an instinctual level.
    “It’s the telephone. We shall use it as soon as Mr. Campbell returns from his walk.”
    “Aye, you said that before, that it was a telephone,” he answered,