Page 45 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“No, I’m quite warm. I just didn’t want to wear the cloak when it’s damp,” she said, smoothing her hair back from her face. “It’s rather cosy in here, and I love the scent of hay,” she added, looking around her and smiling as she saw the little nest he’d made of the stooks of hay. A tartan blanket covered the floor, and the basket awaited them.

“If yer sure, then?”

Nodding, she sat down elegantly on the blanket and began arranging the picnic things for their meal. Muir stood watching for a moment, admiring the picture she made and aware of how much he’d been looking forward to this moment all morning. Last night had been a tough one, and he was weary to his bones, but seeing Delia had chased away his exhaustion and the disappointment of things having gone wrong. Somehow, she made the sun shine even on a dismal, grey day when he was not feeling in the best of spirits.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, realising he was studying her.

“Nothing,” he said at once, smiling and sitting down beside her.

To his surprise, she scowled at him, a challenging glint in her eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, perplexed. “I just sat down.”

Shooting him an impatient look, she handed him a flask of ale. “Don’t placate me and tell me nothing is wrong when I can tell it is.”

She was quiet for a moment, arranging a large slice of game pie on his plate, several pieces of chicken, and two thick slices of bread with butter. She handed it to him, and Muir set the flask down.

“If you want us to succeed and be happy together, you can’t shut me out. Even if you think I won’t understand your troubles, you must share them with me. How else can I ever be a part of your life?”

“Ach, but it is my duty to keep ye safe and to keep trouble from yer door, nae to add to it.”

“What nonsense,” Delia replied, darting him an impatient glance as she helped herself to a slice of the pie. “I can tell there is something is wrong, and if you don’t tell me what it is, I shall spend the whole day making up my own reasons. By the time I go to bed, I’ll have convinced myself you are regretting your decision and wish to be rid of me.”

“Yer all about in yer heid if ye think that!” Muir protested but Delia held up her hand.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, I’ll think it, and then tomorrow I’ll be distant, and you’ll want to know why, and I’ll say there’s nothing wrong. Then you’ll make up reasons why I’m not as happy as I was… do you see? If we don’t talk to each other honestly, we’ll only misunderstand each other and assume things that aren’t true.”

Muir considered her words, realising as he did how easy such a scenario was to imagine. “Yer a good deal wiser than I am, I reckon,” he said with a sigh.

“Well, of course I am, I’m a woman,” she said tartly, making him laugh.

She smiled at him, her eyes warm. “Now, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Muir sighed. “The truth is, I’m tired, lassie, and last night we lost six lambs. It happens, but so many in one go is difficult. It tugs at yer heart, especially when yer weary.”

Delia reached out and took his hand. “I’m sorry. That must have been very upsetting for you.”

Muir shrugged. “I’m a farmer, I cannae get too sentimental over such things, but aye, it’s hard when ye get so many all at once. We’ve been so lucky until now and so I suppose I wasnae expecting it, which is daft.”

“Not in the least. One ought not to look for trouble, I think, but I can see you are tired. Come, eat up and do the feast Mrs Paterson has made us justice, else she will be cross, and I do not wish to vex her.”

Muir smiled and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it, finding he felt rather lighter for having told her.

“I’ve been reading about sheep,” she said suddenly, blushing a little as he smiled at her.

“Ye have?”

Delia nodded, putting a small piece of pie into her mouth and chewing before she answered him. “A tup or a ewe three times shorn is a three shear tup or ewe. A ewe who fails to produce a second lamb is a barren ewe—which I must say seems a bit harsh—and after ceasing to give milk is a called a yield ewe. When taken from the breeding flock, she is a draft-ewe, and the gimmers, draft gimmers.”

Muir stared at her, touched and impressed that she had troubled herself to learn a little about his work, about the farm. “And what is a gimmer?”

“A yearling female sheep, a two-tooth ewe,” she said and grinned at him, looking so delighted with herself, Muir felt an odd sensation shifting in his heart.

“A tup?”

“A male sheep, uncastrated.”

“A wether?”