A Scotsman's Promise

Chapter 17

Calen sat on the grassy riverbank, the shiny whistle Micara had given him heavy in his hand. The whistle's mass was next to nothing, but it weighed like an anchor on his mind. When he had returned to camp with the firewood, Micara was in the tent, silent and closed off. Christian and Will looked at him expectantly, clearly confused as to what was going on. Calen was in no mood to explain, so he had tossed down his load of firewood and stalked to the water's edge to think the matter through and clear his head.

He knew what he had to do, he just didn't know he was going to bring himself to do it. The whistle made it worse. He couldn't keep his convictions about her character in place with the proof against his assumptions sitting in his palm. He found himself wishing she hadn't given it to him, that she had stayed the spoiled and obnoxious aristocrat. It was easier that way.

Calen heard footsteps behind him and he didn't have to look up to know that it was Christian who sought him out. His friend lowered himself to the grass beside Calen. He kept quiet, knowing Calen well enough to understand that if he wanted to talk about his troubles he would.

There was silence for several minutes. Calen felt no need to spill his thoughts to his friend, especially considering the present issue with Micara was only a scratch on the surface of a subject he preferred not to dwell on.

He closed his fist around the whistle, hiding it from view. 

"What do ye think of my passenger?" he asked, interested to see if Christian had gotten the same impression as his own. Christian didn't answer. His expression was blank.

"A spoiled, feisty spit of a lass, isn't she?" Calen pressed.

Christian nodded slowly, his voice emotionless, "She certainly seems a mite of a handful."

Calen gave an agitated nod. "Aye, that and more. This whole trip 'as been nothing but a misery. She'll talk yer ear off with nonsense and then bite yer head of oe'r nothin'. A more feather-brained, willful, and obnoxious woman I've never met."

Calen's grip on the whistle was as tight as iron. His body was rigid and tense. When Christian let out an un-amused laugh, Calen was surprised.

"You are a thick-skulled cowering sod of a Scotsman," Christian said, his face serious and slightly annoyed. "You have your mind so set against her kind that you don't even glimpse the person that she is."

Calen opened his mouth in defense, but Christian cut him off, silencing him with words that Calen himself had taught him, " Důn do bheal," (duin du vale: shut your mouth) "What right have you to judge her? Especially when in doing so you are guilty of the same ignorance you have been judged by."

Christian stood, wrangling his exasperation before speaking again, gentler this time. "You are not the barbarous wretch you are behaving like. This is not you."

He paused a moment, sorry for what he had to say next due to its painful reminder, "This is not you, and she is not Christine."

Calen flinched, but otherwise did not respond. He stared into the river as if Christian did not exist. Christian waited a few moments for a possible reaction before leaving Calen to his own miserable company.

Christian didn't go back to camp right away, choosing instead to take a short walk. He disliked the whole business of the conversation he had just had with Calen. He had never had much of a stomach for quarrels, especially with his best friend from child hood. After every argument with him, he had always felt ill at ease until they had once again made their peace.  This time was no different. He understood Calen's reactions to Micara, but from the short time he'd spent with her, he knew them to be unjustified. The sooner Calen realized that, the better, for though he wouldn't admit it, Christian had seen something in Calen's behaviour that completely contradicted the way Calen claimed he felt about Miss Micara. Christian hoped his words had made some impact on Calen and that his friend would return to his somewhat reasonable self.