Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

T he following morning, Alistair was headed to his study without breakfast. Whether that was the result of little hunger or something else, he did not wish to dwell on at the moment.

He opened the door to his study, with its walls paneled in dark wood and high ceilings. His gaze traversed the entire room, from the mahogany desk and leather armchair to several ceiling-high bookcases lined with rows of leather-bound tomes of books Alistair had read several times.

It was then that he noticed a strange presence in the room. A presence of canine origin.

"Ah, Haggis." Alistair called out to the dog that was responsible for his and Hannah's first meeting. "I dinnae see ye there, lad."

The dog didn't react in any way. It just sat there, underneath the window, silent and calm. Alistair realized that he never taken a good look at the dog. It was a decent specimen, he had to admit. A terrier, with a glossy coat and round, dark eyes which didn't leave Alistair's.

"So, ye are the one who is supposed to keep Hannah safe from the likes of me, huh?" Alistair said, feeling a little silly for talking to a dog, but he could swear that it seemed as if the dog understood every single thing that was said to him.

Those eyes were almost human. Alistair half expected Haggis to respond in a human voice.

"Ye daenae like men that much, do ye? Or is it just me? " Alistair asked again, feeling slightly less ridiculous this time. He wondered if Hannah spoke to Haggis often. She seemed to be the type to talk to animals, to care deeply about them. It was one of the things he liked about her, one of the things they had in common.

"I have to admit, lad," Alistair continued, talking both to himself and Haggis. "I sometimes daenae like meself all that much, but I cannae say anythin' about it."

He took a step closer to Haggis. He was a typical Scottish terrier, small in size, with a shiny, dense coat the color of wheat. Whilst his body seemed to belong to a pup, his long beard and bushy eyebrows revealed a much more ancient soul, an almost wise old man who had lived throughs several lifetimes and would not allow anyone to take advantage of him or his loved ones.

Alistair looked at him. The dog didn't react. Alistair had to admit that he expected the dog to growl or bark, or show some sort of displeasure at seeing him, but there was no such thing. Haggis was merely watching him intently, still deciding whether the intruder was friend or foe.

"Ye are tryin' to make up yer mind about me," Alistair pointed out. "Did Hannah tell ye somethin' about me? Somethin' other than how we met?"

The warm, golden light that oozed from the window fell upon Haggis' coat, making him appear almost magical. Now more so than ever, Alistair had a desire to pet him. He walked over to the dog slowly, then lowered himself to his knee. The dog looked at him distrustfully, but he was silent. He was not baring his teeth.

"I ken ye trust Hannah more than me," Alistair told Haggis. "She is yer mistress, after all. Her word is the most important one, but perhaps, ye can tell whether or not I am a good man. Ye can, cannae ye, lad?"

He hesitated for a moment. He waited to see if there would be any reaction. Still, nothing.

"What do ye say, lad?" Alistair asked, smiling, as he extended his hand a little hesitantly. "Can we be friends?"

His hand traversed the distance between himself and Haggis, gently landing on the dog's fur. It felt soft to the touch. Strangely, the dog still didn't react. It allowed Alistair to pet him, but it showed no emotion. There was mistrust, but Haggis' eyes assured Alistair that they would one day be friends.

"I understand ye," Alistair smiled, pulling away equally slowly, so as not to frighten Haggis. "Ye are in a new place. Ye daenae ken anyone, but Hannah. But we can be friends, ye and I. Maybe after some time."

He looked at the dog, their eyes locking. Alistair smiled. He almost felt as if the dog understood him and the situation he was in. In fact, the situation that had been imposed upon him.

Alistair sighed, getting up. "I'm certain it's hard bein' a dog," he told Haggis. "But bein' a man… that's enough to kill ye."

Alistair chuckled at himself. "Look at me, talkin' to a dog. But ye ken? Hannah was right. Dogs are better companions sometimes. Me own dogs are like that as well. I do hope they havenae been giving ye too much trouble. They are used to bein' the kings of the garden here, but I do believe we could all get along just nicely. Daenae ye think so?"

Haggis was still sitting in the same place and also, in the same position. He hadn't moved. His eyes hadn't moved. Yet, Alistair felt as if the dog understood everything that had been told to him. He listened, which was much more than humans did sometimes.

Then, he stood up and looked out of the window. He had a clear view of the garden. Namely, of the patch that Hannah had been given from his mother, to do with as she pleased. Alistair had to admit that he was surprised to see her down in the dirt, her hands all muddy.

"Well, look at that!" Alistair whistled. "I dinnae ken that yer mistress was so fond of gardening!"

He looked back at his mahogany writing desk, which was beckoning him to take care of the morning correspondence and a few other urgent affairs. It was a good excuse to keep himself locked up in his study not just for the morning, but for the entire day. It was in fact, the perfect excuse.

Then, he glanced at Hannah once more. The decision had already been made, only he didn't know that yet.

Feeling strangely exhilarated, he rushed out of his study and right out to the garden.

At first, Hannah didn't notice him there at all. She had her back turned to him, bent over the patch of the garden that she planned on making beautiful with all sorts of different flowers. It was a lovely, sunny day, and the garden work provided much needed tranquility.

"What are ye plantin' there?" she heard Alistair's voice explode all around her, and the moment he spoke, all that tranquility vanished into thin air.

She looked up at him, sheltering her eyes from the sun with her dirty hand. His physique was that of a god descended down to earth, to grace mere mortals with his presence. She could see the muscles of his arms bulging through the thin fabric of his shirt. She tried hard not to focus on them.

Instead, she wanted to ask him what he was doing here, but he might take it as antagonizing. She didn't want to start yet another day so negatively. Perhaps it was up to her to show him that although they might not love each other as married couples ought to, they could still have a civilized relationship filled with mutual respect.

"Over here, in this small part, thistle," she started to explain, drawing invisible circles with her hands, trying to focus on anything but the effect he was having on her. "Over there, bell heather and mountain avens, and in that far end, some primrose and myrtle."

"That sounds like a nice arrangement," he told her, smiling. She could not imagine a man like himself being interested in flowers. Yet here he was. "Do ye ken the story about the thistle?"

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Aye. It is the national flower, is it not?"

"Aye," he confirmed. "Can ye tell me the story?"

She wondered why he would be asking her this. Why was this story important? Then, it dawned on her. Perhaps he was also making an effort at small talk. And what is flower talk if not small talk?

One look in his direction, and his playful grin revealed everything. He was making an effort. She should follow suit.

"There is a legend that—" she started, but was immediately cut off, when she saw Alistair drop down to his knees. She couldn't look away from his hands as they dug into the rich soil, earth filling the crevices underneath his nails and between his fingers, just like hers. His hands were strong, his palms big and wide. She wondered what it would feel like to have them on her cheek. The thought almost made her blush even more furiously than she already was.

He looked up, questioningly. Only then did she clear her throat and continue, not wanting to betray herself. "A legend that there was a sleeping party of Scot warriors who were awaiting an attack from an invading Norse army. What happened was that one of the enemies stepped on the prickly plant, and it was his cry of pain that woke up all the Scottish soldiers, who then quickly lifted their swords and defeated the invading Norsemen. After this happened, they shared the story when they returned home, and the thistle became our national symbol."

"Aye, that is true, lass," he said, sounding pleased. He was smiling so widely; he revealed a row of pearly whites.

"Ye thought I dinnae ken it?" she wondered, unable to resist smiling herself. She beat him. He wasn't expecting this.

"I like to assure meself of things," he revealed with a shrug, holding a heap of dirt in his hands. "It is easy for people to say all sorts of things. But when the moment comes for them to prove it, that is where ye can see everythin'."

"And ye see everythin' about me?" she teased, as now, they were facing each other, both knee deep in dirt. She could not take her eyes off of his strong, square-shaped jaw, off of his eyes that seemed to stare only at her.

"I daenae," he said.

"At least ye confess," she chuckled, a laughter so melodious and effortless that she surprised even herself.

He grinned upon hearing her laugh. "Women are odd creatures."

"I suppose I can agree with ye, up to a certain point," she admitted.

"Did ye have a garden back home?" he inquired politely.

"Aye," she nodded. "Olivia and I used to tend to the garden with our mother, that is until she took ill."

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding apologetic and slightly awkward, but it was in an endearing manner. She didn't expect to hear him talk like this, with so much sympathy. It took her by surprise. "I dinnae ken."

"Ye couldnae have known," she smiled. "She went quickly. At least, she was in no pain. That is some comfort."

"There is little comfort to those who are left behind," he said pensively. "But life goes on, like these flowers." He looked around, at the other parts of the garden, which were already in full bloom. "It is how nature intended it to be."

"Aye," Hannah agreed, not really certain what to say to that. Despite her desire to talk to him, sometimes, that was a difficult endeavor. Words would not come as she wanted them to, and the last thing she wanted was for him to think she wasn't intelligent enough for him.

As if on cue, they both dug their hands back into the dirt, using small rakes and shovels to ready the ground for the seeds. Hannah didn't like the fact that she had a hat on, because it was a hot morning, with promise of more heat to come in the upcoming hours.

She huffed a little in discomfort when their eyes locked again.

"Are ye hot?" he asked.

"A little," she admitted. "This hat isn't helpin' at all."

She had never been so prim and proper as to wear a hat or a bonnet at all times when outside, although she knew that was what the customs dictated. How she yearned to take off her hat, which was only heating her head even more, not allowing the soft breeze which appeared occasionally, to caress it with its embrace.

"Then, take it off, if it troubles ye," he suggested.

"Ye mean, ye daenae mind?" she asked.

"Why would I?" he chuckled. She loved the sound of his laughter. It was full and hearty, as if it flowed from the deepest recesses of his being, dying to come out into the surface to bless her ears. "Ye have control of yer body, not me."

She liked how that sounded. It was a simple statement but filled with respect for her as a woman.

"Aye," she managed to muster, caught off guard by what he just said. It was in contrast to many of the things she heard him announce, as most of them deemed women inferior beings to men, or namely, him. The man before her was not the same man who said all those things. This was a kind man, a respectful man, a man she could maybe even grow to love.

With those things in mind, she used her dirty fingers to untie the ribbon underneath her chin and she pulled the hat off of her head. She was immediately relieved. The breeze blew through her hair, ruffling it up a little, with loose strands flying around her face, framing it to perfection.

"Aye," he smiled. "Much better."

"Do ye ken?" she asked, feeling herself blush at his words.

"Ye should always be comfortable in yer clothes," he said. "Or, better yet, be without them, when the situation allows for it."

Without clarifying anything else, he stood up, grabbed the hem of his leine and pulled it over his head, revealing his naked upper body. Tiny little droplets of sweat framed his muscular torso, glistening in the sun. He rested his hands on his hips, and closed his eyes, enjoying the breeze as well.

Hannah was mesmerized. She couldn't take her eyes off this god-like man. Her memory flooded with images from the library, where they were so close that their lips almost touched. She wondered what it would be like to touch him, to taste him, to feel his strong hands on her body. She had no idea when he moved or how. All she could listen to was the sound of his voice.

"It is soft now, but it will grow into a fine thing. Would ye like to touch it?" she heard him ask.

Her cheeks flared up instantly at the suggestion. Then, her mind scolded her.

Where have ye been lookin', Hannah?

"I beg yer pardon!?" she exclaimed, appalled at his question, her hand tingling, ready to slap him if he truly meant what she thought he did.