HE WALKED BACK to Cranesmuir and waited in the square ’til the door of the Duncans’ house opened and Buck emerged. The man looked mildly surprised—but not displeased—to see Roger, and nodded at him but didn’t speak. They walked together to an ordinary, where they got a room and went upstairs to refresh themselves before supper. The ordinary didn’t run to a bath, but hot water, soap, razor, and towels went some way to restore them to a decent state of cleanliness.
Buck hadn’t spoken a word more than necessary, but he had an odd expression—half pleased and half ashamed—and kept darting sidelong glances at Roger, as though unsure whether to say something but rather wanting to.
Roger poured a cup of water from the ewer, drank half of it, and set the cup down with an air of resignation.
“Tell me you didn’t,” he said finally. “Please.”
Buck shot him a quick glance, looking both shocked at the words and slightly amused.
“No,” he said, after a pause long enough to knot Roger’s belly. “No, I didn’t. I’m no saying I couldn’t have, though,” he added. “She . . . wasn’t unwilling.”
Roger would have said he didn’t want to know, but he wasn’t quite able to deceive himself.
“Ye tried?”
Buck nodded, then picked up the cup of water and dashed the remnants into his own face, shaking them off with a whoof of breath.
“I kissed her,” he said. “Put my hand on her breast.”
Roger had seen the upper slopes of those breasts as they swelled above her deep-green woolen bodice, round and white as snowdrops—but a lot bigger. By a considerable force of will, he kept himself from asking, “And what happened then?”
He didn’t have to, though; Buck was obviously reliving the experience and wanted nothing more than to talk about it.
“She put her hand on mine, but she didn’t pull my hand away. Not at first. She went on kissing me—” He broke off and looked at Roger, one brow raised. “Have ye kissed many women?”
“I haven’t kept count,” Roger said, with a slight edge. “Have you?”
“Four besides her,” Buck said contemplatively. He shook his head. “That was different.”
“I’d expect it would be. Kissing your mother, I mean—”
“Not that kind of different.” Buck touched his lips with two fingers, lightly as a girl might. “The other kind. Or maybe I dinna mean that, quite. I kissed a whore once, and it wasna like that at all.” He patted his lips absently for a moment, then realized what he was doing and drew his hand away, looking momentarily embarrassed. “Ever gone wi’ a whore?”
“I have not,” Roger said, trying not to sound censorious, but not managing all that well.
Buck shrugged, dismissing it.
“Well, so. She kept my hand on her breast while she took her time about kissin’ me. But then . . .” He paused, blushing, and Roger drew himself up. Buck, blushing?
“What, then?” he asked, unable to refrain.
“Well, she drew it down, ken, over her body, very slow, and still kissin’ me, and—well, I must have heard her skirts rustle, mustn’t I? But I wasna paying attention, because when she took my hand and put it on her . . . erm . . . lady part, I thought I’d pass out from the shock.”
“Her—was she—it, I mean—naked?”
“Bare as an egg, and just as bald, too,” Buck assured him. “Have ye ever heard of such a thing?”
“I have, aye.”
Buck stared at him, green eyes wide.
“Ye mean your wife—”
“I bloody don’t,” Roger snapped. “Don’t ye dare speak of Brianna, an amaidan, or I’ll gie you your head in your hands to play with.”
“You and who else?” Buck said automatically, but waved a hand to calm Roger. “Why did ye not tell me my mother was a whore?”
“I wouldn’t tell ye something like that, even if I knew it for a fact, and I didn’t,” Roger said.
Buck looked at him for a moment in silence, eyes direct. “Ye’ll never make a decent minister,” he said at last, “if ye can’t be honest.”
The words were said objectively, without heat—and stung the more on that account, being true. Roger breathed in hard through his nose and out again.
“All right,” he said. And told Buck everything he knew, or thought he knew, concerning Gillian Edgars, alias Geillis Duncan.
“Jesus God,” Buck said, blinking.
“Aye,” Roger said shortly. Buck’s description of his encounter with his mother had given Roger a vividly disturbing image of Brianna, and he hadn’t been able to dismiss it. He hungered for her, and as a result was acutely aware of Buck’s lingering images of Geillis; he saw the man’s hand absently cup itself, fingers drawing slowly in, as though he were guddling—Christ, he could smell her on Buck’s flesh, pungent and taunting.
“So now ye’ve met her,” Roger said abruptly, looking away. “And now ye ken what she is. Is that enough, do ye think?” He was careful to make the question no more than a question, and Buck nodded, but not in answer, more as though he were having an internal conversation—with himself or with Geillis, Roger didn’t know.
“My father,” Buck said thoughtfully, without actually answering. “From what he said when we met him at the MacLarens’ croft, I thought he maybe didna ken her yet. But he was interested, ye could tell that.” He looked suddenly at Roger, a thought having struck him.
“D’ye think it was meeting us that made him—will make him,” he corrected, with a grimace, “go and find her?” He glanced down, then back up at Roger. “Would I not exist if we hadn’t come to find your wee lad, I mean?”
Roger felt the usual sense of startled creepiness at realizations of this sort, something like having cold fingers suddenly laid against the small of his back.
“Maybe so,” he said. “But I doubt ye’ll ever know that. Not for sure.”
He was glad enough to leave the subject of Geillis Duncan, though Buck’s other parent was probably no less dangerous.
“D’ye think ye need to speak with Dougal MacKenzie?” Roger asked carefully. He didn’t want to go anywhere near Castle Leoch or the MacKenzies, but Buck had a right to do it if he wanted, and Roger himself had an obligation—two of them, as kin and as priest—to help him if he did. And however such a conversation might work out, he doubted very much that it would be as disconcerting as the meeting with Geillis.
As for dangerous, though . . .
“I don’t know,” Buck said softly, as though talking to himself. “I dinna ken what I’d say to the man—to either of them.”
That alarmed Roger, who sat up straight.
“Ye don’t mean ye’d go back to her? To—your mother?”
Buck’s mouth curled up on one side.
“Well, we really didna say much to each other,” he pointed out.
“Neither did I,” Roger said shortly, “to my father.”
Buck made an indeterminate noise in his throat, and they fell silent, listening to the growing drum of rain on the slates of the roof. The tiny fire dwindled under the rain coming down the chimney and went out, leaving no more than the faint smell of warmth, and after a bit Roger wrapped himself in his cloak and curled up on one side of the bed, waiting for his body to warm enough for sleep to come.
The air through the cracked window was sharp with cold and the tingling smell of wet bracken and pine bark. No place smelled like the Highlands, and Roger found his heart eased by its harsh perfume. He was nearly asleep when Buck’s voice came softly to him through the dark.
“I’m glad ye got to say it, though.”