Page 16 of Sighs of the Highland Wind

“Where will you go after this?” she asked abruptly.

Unprepared for the question, Maxwell froze.

“I…” he began, then his shoulders slumped.

He wanted to go back to Kirklieth, but he could not do that until he had prepared himself a little more. He needed to be confident, self-assured, and unafraid. He did not even know if he had the courage. What if his family turned him over to the McDonalds? On the other hand, he was sitting here in the lair of his foe at that very moment, and he had no answer for her.

“I don’t know where I will go,” he confessed at last.

Kenna gazed at him, and he could see by the look of her bright green eyes that she knew he was hiding something and wondering if she should try to prise it out of him. He was, after all, indebted to her.

“Don’t you have a home?” she asked gently, her green eyes searching his face.

“I do,” he replied, sighing, “but I cannot go there.”

Kenna looked surprised at his bitter answer. “I see. Do you have family trouble?”

“I have some very personal issues.” His tone cut off all further discussion of the subject. “Forgive me, Kenna, but I would rather not discuss the matter.”

She nodded. “I understand. I should not have been so nosy, sorry.”

He was looking down at the floor, but he was aware of her bright green gaze on him.

There was something about his shaggy brown hair that Kenna found very attractive, although his beard was long and unkempt. She laughed inwardly as she thought how much she would like to take a pair of scissors to it. In fact, she remembered it was one of her first thoughts the moment she laid eyes on him. However, she betrayed herself with a smile.

Presently he looked up again and saw the expression on her face.

“Is something funny?” he asked, frowning.

Kenna touched her face.

“Your beard,” she answered. “Would you like me to trim it for you?”

He ran his hand over it. “Is it so bad?” he asked, laughing.

Kenna looked at him for a moment longer. The offending whiskers were long in some parts and short in others, with a hole here and there that exposed the skin underneath. It looked as though a bird had pecked it.

“It looks a bit untidy, Ewan,” she remarked. “A little bit like a bird’s nest, in fact! Would you like me to cut it for you? Or shave it off?” She held up her scissors and snapped the blades together a few times.

Maxwell rubbed his hands over the scruffy hair on his face.

“I have not looked in a mirror in weeks,” he confessed. “I am sure I look dreadful.”

Kenna stood up and went to fetch hers. It was nothing but a sliver of glass that had come from a bigger mirror, probably broken in an accident, and he felt infinitely sorry for her. She had so very little, and until recently he had had more wealth than she could ever have dreamed of. He had not been fabulously rich, of course, but compared to her, his wealth was immense, and she deserved it much more than he did.

Maxwell looked in the mirror. The face staring back at him was drawn and haggard and the beard looked like something he had once seen on a scarecrow. His hair was not much better, and he scowled at himself, embarrassed and ashamed.

“I am loath to admit it,” he said ruefully, taking handfuls of his whiskers and pulling them, “but I have never had to trim my own beard.”

“You had someone to do it for you?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in a question.

He nodded as he gave her back the mirror.

“Yes, I always had a manservant.”

He felt ashamed when he once more compared his circumstances to hers, but he smiled when he thought of Jock Taylor. He was a tall redheaded ex-soldier with a long scaracross his forehead who had always taken good care of him, and Maxwell smiled as he thought of him.

“He was always very proud of his work, and he always looked on me as his personal project and acted as if I was somehow unfinished if I went without his care.”