Page 84 of The Tartan Thesis

I lean back, let it happen, allow myself to enjoy this. Time slips, the fire shifts, sending sparks spiraling up into the dark. Then the cold creeps in. It starts at my legs, a slow bite of winter air beneath the kilt, sharp enough that I shiver.

Beau feels it instantly. “Let’s get you back inside.”

“No,” I say. “I’m alright. Let’s just sit so I can cover my legs.” I don’t want to move, not if it means losing this. I don’t want to break whatever spell this is.

A few guests have drifted back into the barn, others have begun to leave, opening up space around the fire. Beau releases me and drags two chairs closer to the flames. He wraps a blanket around me, tucking it in, then puts his own over my legs, layering warmth over warmth.

“You don’t need one?” I ask as he takes the seat next to me.

“Not as much as those sexy legs do,” he says with a grin, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. Then, softer, “I told you I’d keep you warm before, and I failed.” He shifts, angling himself slightly toward me, one knee brushing mine. “I won’t be doing that again.”

“Well, thanks, then,” I say, his words warming me more than any fire could.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then—

“So is ‘Auld Lang Syne’ your favorite Scottish song?” he asks, bringing us back to normal conversation. “It always hits me in the feels.”

“Aye, it does that.” I chuckle. “But no, it’s not my favorite.”

“Then what is?” he asks. “‘Flower of Scotland’? ‘Scotland the Brave’?”

“Neither, though those are great too,” I say. “Mine is ‘Loch Lomond’. We played it tonight. You probably heard everyone singing along.”

“I think I remember that,” he says. “It sounded familiar, but I don’t really know it.”

“You’ve definitely heard it before,” I say. “It’s quite popular. Often sung at the end of wedding receptions before sending the happy couple off on their merry way.”

“Ah, is that why it’s your favorite?” he asks. “Because it’s meant for happy occasions?”

“Aye, in a way,” I say with a smile.

“In a way?” he asks.

I look toward the fire, watching a log collapse in on itself, sparks lifting in the dark. “Aye,” I say. “You see, it wasn’t meant for happy occasions. It’s actually a really sad song.”

Beau’s face shifts from curious to intrigued, so I go on.

“The story goes that it was written after the 1745 Jacobite rebellion about two soldiers who survive and are taken to trial in England. One is sentenced to death, the other is set free. Before he’s executed, he tells his comrade, ‘Ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye, but me and me true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.’”

The fire cracks sharply, and for a moment neither of us speaks. “That does sound sad,” Beau says, looking pensive again. “But what are the high and low roads?”

“The high road is the one over land,” I say, “the road of the living. The low is the one the dead take back to Scotland when they perish in another country.”

“And the low road is faster?” Beau asks.

“Aye, and even though he’ll make it home first, he’ll never be reunited with his true love in the place they used to meet,” I say.

“On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond,” Beau finishes quietly.

“Aye,” I say, and we sit for a moment, lost in thought.

“So, if it’s such a sad song, why is it sung at happy events like ceilidhs and weddings?”

“Two reasons,” I tell him. “First, though sad, it’s about a great love story—” My voice catches on that terrifying word. Beau’s eyes lift to mine, and there it is again, that flicker of hope and fear. “And love is always worth celebrating.”

“And second,” I say, clearing my throat and shrugging, “because we’re Scottish.”

“You are,” he says, drawing the words out, brows knit in confusion.