Page 38 of Loched in Love

Instantly I gather her into my arms, intent on keeping her from the shards of glass, and turn the faucet handle again to save the trident before it turns to ash. As soon as I’ve a bubble large enough to hold the key, I tug her to my chest and hug her to me, rubbing her back with my palm.

She seems to melt into me at the lightest of touches, and I grin from ear to ear as warmth spreads through me. My wee lass trusts me.

“The key?” she asks, raising up off my shoulder after a moment.

“Not to worry. We’ve a wee cup that I could carry it in somewhere, aye?” I answer.

Chapter 13

ELENA PIERSON

“Where’s the passenger pick up line?” Lachlan asks.

His voice is filled with excitement, and he’s practically bouncing with it by my side just outside the railway station where we’ve been sitting on a metal bench the last thirty minutes or so.

“For the buses? Over there I think,” I say, and show him by pointing to our right under the hazy fluorescent lighting. It’s very early in the morning and the crickets are still chirping their song in the long grass nearby.

I’ve been telling him about what the different modes of transportation are, and he’s been peppering me with questions about each one. So far he’s seen trains and cars, but hasn’t seen a bus yet, and is like a kid in a candy store about it.

I grin, knowing he’s just as overexcited about being around people. And who could blame him, after being cooped up inside the train for so long?

I glance down at my phone in my hand for the time, trying to see how much longer of a wait we have before continuing our journey to Dozmary Pool.

I huddle into his side for warmth, liking the way he squeezes me to him every so often to his side, but he doesn’t seem to be feeling the chill at all. I’m dressed for brisk weather with a light jacket, meanwhile he’s outfitted in his regular outerwear of jeans and today’s color of plaid, green, bringing out the magical undercurrent in his eyes.

Any minute now, a tourist service is picking us up from London to take us there since it’s too remote for buses.

The railway is bustling this morning, even as the stars twinkle like diamonds in the sky. The dark doesn’t seem to dissuade the British from their ongoings, however, making me feel grateful that I don’t have to walk for a while still.

Having traveled by train for what feels like weeks instead of days now, it’s nice to sit somewhere that’s unmoving and stationary. The persistent bobbing and swaying of a train is unlike anything I’d ever ridden in before, but I’m betting the train legs subside like jetlag does, and it won’t be long before my feet feel normal again.

Lachlan pulls me close to kiss the top of my head randomly, and I grin at the sensation, continuing watching the tiny driver icon on the map make its way to where we sit at the curbside with our luggage.

In the last couple days, I’ve noticed he does little things like that a lot, and I’m growing quite fond of how affectionate he is without seeming to notice, always touching me and never far away.

Ever since the kiss in the bathroom, neither of us have tried to get too close, as if some unspoken truce has been made that we wait until we at least get his trident fixed.

So far, Lachlan’s favorite pastime has been asking me about my family and what it was like growing up in Massachusetts, and he’s had so many questions I’ve barely had time to ask him any of my own.

I feel his fingers graze my scalp lightly sending shivers down my spine as he twists a lock of my hair absentmindedly, and I bite my lip as a comfortable calmness overtakes me at the move.

Once Lachlan asked the staff to speak with the conductor about less stops to reach London faster, it only took another day to reach the bustling city, although we’ve not seen much of it.

“Oh look. Is that one for us?” He nudges me, and I glance at the nearby curbside across from where we’re seated.

A van pulls to a stop and the driver hops out. “Hello! Would you be Lachlan Macbeth?” a little old lady with a dark cap covering part of her curling gray hair that sprigs around her face like a halo asks.

She stands arms planted wearing a black and white matching jogger suit and pink glittery sneakers next to a blue van with the tourist logo on the side.

“Aye, I am,” Lachlan says, giving her a showstopping smile of his.

“You’d be a highlander if ever I saw one. Well, come along lad and don’t just stand there, help get the luggage to the car,” she waves us over, a bright grin on her weathered face. She backs away quickly to the small van and pushes a button on the key fob to lift the hatch, with all the vivacity of a seventy year old woman who’s told the world to piss off and she can do anything.

“Aye, born and raised,” Lachlan replies.

I suppose he’s right; the Scottish Highlands have been the highlands for thousands of years.

When it comes time to actually put the luggage into the back of the van, I sit back and watch as Lachlan wins over the little old lady, making her laugh while she lets him manhandle the bigger bags.