Duchess of Mine (10 page)

Fleur shook her head and tried to keep her
distance from Duncan too. He was just so...so...damned intriguing.
Sexy. Sensual. Dripping with animal charisma and—God, she had to
stop thinking about the man that way while his mother was so
close.

The fiddle player stopped and everyone
clapped, except for the lute musician who frowned. Someone cried,
“Story time,” and then another repeated the words, until the whole
tavern bustled even louder. There was much talk between two men
Fleur thought to be the owners of the tavern, then they pointed to
a white-haired, thin man at a table with three large, much younger
women.

“Tell us a story, Mr. Brown,” someone said.
Soon enough the tavern’s cacophony increased, ordering the elderly
Mr. Brown to grace the crowd with a yarn.

Slowly standing on wobbly legs, he held a
hand in the air, which immediately hushed the crowd. He coughed a
few times, then cleared his throat. Smiling at the room, he began.
“’Twas a beautiful day, much like today, when the fae pulled a
trick on a bonny lass.”

The crowd booed, but Fleur knew they were
showing their anger at the fairies.

Mr. Brown nodded then continued. “Ah, she was
a sweet thing. So lovely too, for many a man had never seen
anything like her before. She came from the time before time, ye
ken? She came from when the people drew their art in caves and
dragons roamed the earth. But the poor lass was troubled with an
evil curse, she was. The curse made it so she could never talk.
Never. Not even if she feared for her life, she couldn’ scream out.
Not even when she was angry, could she yell. She couldn’ even ask
for more salt, if she had a hankerin’. But the fae have special
sight about such things and threw her to the Highlands.”

Someone yelled their approval, then the whole
tavern roared at the mentioning of the Highlands. Fleur smiled and
looked around the table, her heart thundering. Helen squeezed her
hand, and Rory gave her back a warm grin. Duncan looked down to his
beer, as if the thick foamy white head of it was thoroughly
intriguing. All indications he was indifferent to the story being
told, except his red brows began to furrow.

She wondered if he was thinking of her
predicament. Did he believe her? If she were him, she probably
wouldn’t. It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t logical. Actually, it
was preposterous!

Mr. Brown started and the crowd hushed. “Ye
see, in the Highlands God gave to the men here more strength,” more
yelling ensued, but Mr. Brown continued in time. “And the fae knew
this, for they wished a Highland man to break the spell for the
woman. One after another the men approached the woman to break her
curse. The Laird of Sutherland tried,” someone booed, “but he
failed. The Laird of MacDonald tried,” no real yelling at that,
“but he failed. So many lairds tried to break the woman free from
her spell, but they could no’. Nay. About to give up, all the
lairds had a council, and that was when a lone stable boy
approached the woman. He wasn’ born of nobility, but was virtuous
and kind. He didn’ have many riches, other than his beautiful
singing voice, for all the land loved it when he sang. When he saw
the woman, so sad in her spell, he began to sing for her, he did.
Then he fell in love with her, and while he sang he wished to give
her his voice. The fae granted his wish, and the spell was broken.
The woman loved the stable boy so much she gave him half her voice,
so he could speak and sing too. And they lived happily until their
end.”

The crowd erupted with loud clapping and
cheers. It was so much like the times she’d spent at the community
center at Porcupine. Well, the alcohol wasn’t served.
Intentionally. But the story telling, the familiar and friendly
feeling of the tavern, even the music was so similar to when she
had been a little girl growing up on the Pine Ridge
reservation.

Fleur flashed to images of her all-boy
cousins, wrestling in the dirt with them and laughing
uncontrollably. Then she thought of the stories that everyone told.
Everyone. It was a tradition that even the children had the
opportunity to tell a fable. Suddenly her mouth watered, recalling
the thick, buttery taste of fried bread with cinnamon sugar. Which
always made her remember her grandma. Na had taken in a few of her
cousins from time to time. Yet Fleur and Na were always
together.

Until Fleur was fourteen, that was, and Na
let the teacher take her away to the Texas high school. The memory
flavored Fleur’s mouth with the dead taste of ashes. She reminded
herself over and over again that Na had done what she’d thought was
best, she really had done what she had thought was best, was
best.

But it still hurt thinking of being so young
and having everything she’d known ripped from her simply because
she was told she was smart. Super smart, the teacher, Mrs. Barter
had said. Her face had been flummoxed when she’d seen Fleur’s math
scores. Fleur wanted to laugh at the woman, not sure if she was so
confused because Fleur was, indeed, smart, or if she’d never
thought a Sioux could be that intelligent. There had been days of
tests, then Mrs. Barter, ironic name, had come to talk to Na, tell
her what other opportunities existed for such a smart girl like
Fleur. She talked of scholarships already in place, living with a
nice family in Texas. Mrs. Barter showed pictures of the school
campus, then the huge house that Fleur was supposed to call her
next home. Na had slept on the decision, had talked to the elders,
had prayed and prayed for help with the choice, the smell of sweet
grass smoke heavy everywhere in their home, but Na had never asked
Fleur if she’d wanted a future in Texas. Later, when Na was dying
from diabetes, her feet already taken by the disease, she’d
admitted she couldn’t ask Fleur, because she was too afraid that
Fleur would sway her mind. It had been the one conversation Fleur
was sorry to have brought up. The discussion had tortured her Na.
Even a dozen years after the decision, Na was still unsure of what
she had done, regretted so much.

“Aye, good idea,” Fleur heard a rugged voice
say, interrupting her memories.

She stared at a large bald man who smiled at
her.

“Yer turn, lass. Tell us a story.”

“Only if she wants to,” Duncan said, his
voice a tad too serious.

She caught his gaze, looking as though he was
gauging her reaction. He was so sweet. Or was he? She didn’t know
him, but it seemed as if he was trying to protect her, as if he’d
fiercely guard her from all in the tavern if she didn’t want to
tell a story. It made her stomach feel too buoyant, but it was such
a good feeling.

“I’d love to tell a story.” She smiled at the
crowd.

Everyone cheered.

Rory urged her to stand, smiling
supportively. She couldn’t help but grin back.

Then she looked out into the crowd as they
hushed. “This is a story about...Coyote.” She almost laughed as she
began. “Coyote, where I come from, is a god.”

The crowd “oh-ed” appreciatively.

“A
trickster
god.” Some gasped, but
Fleur continued. “You see, Coyote is similar to a small dog, a
little smaller than a wolf, and much more conniving. So Coyote
lived in the enchanted forest with all the other animals, but he
was never nice to the mice. One day he saw the mice working
feverishly with ropes and bags around a tree. He stalked closer to
the mice to see what they were doing, but it didn’t make any sense
to him. Finally, he asked what the little mice were doing.

“They said, ‘We’ve got these bags here to
climb into and hoist ourselves in the tree when the storm
comes.’

“Coyote looked to the blue, blue sky and
asked, ‘What storm?’

“The mice sighed as if Coyote was an idiot.”
Someone from the crowd laughed. “Then the mice said, ‘We’ve heard
it from the sky itself that the wind will blow as it never has
before, and it will be the worst storm ever! We’re going to protect
ourselves from the horrible storm.’

“Coyote nodded, thinking the wisdom sound. He
said, ‘I need a bag too. I need to protect myself from the
storm.’

“The mice ignored him.

“Coyote said, ‘Get me a bag too, so I can be
protected from this horrible storm.’

“The mice shook their heads. ‘No,’ they said.
‘You’re mean to us. We’re not going to help you.’

“At this Coyote sighed, but then he panicked
as he saw one lone cloud appear in the sky.” Fleur waved at a
pretend sky, and people from the crowd turned their heads, as if
they could see the white puff in the horizon too. She continued.
“‘All right, all right,’ Coyote said, ‘I’ll be nice to you.’

“’Promise?’ The mice asked.

“Coyote nodded. ‘Of course! Just get me in
the bag and hoist me up the tree.’

“The mice did as they were ordered and threw
him in a bag, then pulled the rope and up he went. The mice tried
hard not to laugh as they had finally out tricked the trickster,
but they had to make their plan complete. So then they started
throwing pebbles at him, swinging the bag around.

“Coyote said, ‘Oh, yes, this is a terrible
storm. I feel it now. The hail is really pouring down.’

“The mice silently giggled at that.” A few
people from the crowd chuckled too. “The mice began to throw bigger
and bigger rocks, making Coyote holler and yell from the assault,
but he just said, ‘Oh, this storm is so bad. Ouch. Ow. I’ve never
felt anything like it.’ Finally after a few minutes, the mice had
had their fun, and they brought down the sick and hurting Coyote.
He wobbled out and felt the welts around his head, then said, ‘Yes,
worst storm I’ve ever weathered. Thank you for the protection.’ At
that the mice couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst out laughing at
the trickster. That’s when Coyote realized the joke was at his
expense and began to chase the mice, biting and growling after
them. To this day when a coyote sees a mouse, he will try to snap
and kill the mouse because of that silly prank.”

At that Fleur tried to sit, but the crowd
erupted with laughter and cheers and thunderous applause. She
performed a half-hearted curtsy while heat poured through her
cheeks, then finally sat with a smile.

Rory leaned in close. “Amazing tale! I’ve
never heard anything like it.”

“Aye, that was so good!” Helen said, her own
cheeks taking in a slight pink hue.

Duncan didn’t say anything. However, the look
on his face was not what Fleur had expected. The man wore the
biggest smile she’d ever seen on him, and it looked damned
good.

The crowd pushed close, some people
congratulating her on a story well told, but soon enough a young
woman was unfolding a tale about a princess and a bear. That’s when
Duncan leaned close and whispered in Fleur’s ear. “Ye’re good at
tellin’ tales.”

She turned to him, staring into his eyes
turned forest green. “Thank you. Do you tell stories?”

His smile vanished and he leaned away,
shaking his head. “Nay.”

It had been said too sternly, almost
viciously, that nay. Duncan had distanced himself from her again,
which made her want to lean forward, try to tease him, try to get
him to smile like that again. God, he’d been beautiful. But his
cantankerous sullenness was getting on her nerves. So she let him
be. She caught, though, Helen smiling at her, looking from her
hulking son to her with a mischievous and curious grin. Fleur
wanted to smile back, but she glanced at Rory. He pushed a tankard
full of golden bubbling brew toward her with a large smile. Taking
the mug, she raised it slightly toward him. He bobbed his head as
she took a sip of quite possibly the best ale she’d ever drunk.

Then Rory leaned over the table. “Are ye
enjoying yerself here?”

She was, which utterly surprised her. Hey,
there was something to be said about indoor plumbing, and when not
having it how...deplorable it can be. Still, she liked it here. A
lot. She nodded, trying with everything in her not to glance at
Duncan.

“Good.” Rory leaned away slightly, but, after
glancing at Duncan and Helen, inclined forward again. “I haven’t
officially invited ye to stay at the castle. But yer welcome to
stay as long as ye’d like.”

Fleur nodded and looked at Helen, who was
absorbed in the story of the bear turning into a prince. “Mrs.
Cameron has offered for me to stay at her house, which I’d like to
do.”

Rory smiled yet again, but it seemed a bit
forced. Again. “’Course. I just wanted to extend the invite, let ye
know yer welcome. Besides, I’m makin’ my men stay here in Durness
for the next few days of trainin’.”

Duncan gave Rory a quick glance, but didn’t
say anything. However, he caught her eye afterward. The harshness
from that one “nay” suddenly vanished. His mouth had been in a
straight line, but then his lips smoothed into an easy smile. Aimed
right at her.

Zip. Straight through her heart, lingering in
her breasts, and lowering through her belly and thighs and between
them as well, she felt the impact of that smile.

Jeez, was sexual desire one of the stupidest
drives ever?

She wouldn't stay here, so why have these
feelings? She was from a different time. Further, Duncan was acting
distant and cool, and that was so messed up to want a man like
that. Maybe she needed therapy. Well, he wasn’t acting distant now.
He kept smiling at her, so, yeah, he was quite warm currently. Kind
of hot actually.

But, and this was a big but, any kind of
affection she had toward Duncan needed to stop. She had only one
mission, the muses had said, to help someone. And that someone was
probably Helen.

Again, Fleur tried everything to look away
from Duncan, to stop thinking about the way his knee just kissed
her own.

He didn’t need her help. He was strong,
virile, and dreamy. And obviously not in need of any kind of
assistance.

Damn it! She had a mission. It had to be a
special mission, not something ridiculous, like desire. Hurling a
person through time had to be a serious endeavor. She wasn’t here
for a schoolgirl crush to develop.