Page 22 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

6

"Grace!"

Her father leaped from the stool he was sitting on over to Grace.

Except, perhaps it wasn't quite that he leaped. As he came over, Grace was concerned to see him stooping badly.

"Father!" Grace exclaimed. She cast her eyes about the cottage. It was all as she had left it, and the smell of home panged her terribly. She had missed this.

She had led him through the central village of the Ferguson estate until they had come to a small line of cottages. There, she had bid them to dismount and, with no words of explanation to Andrew, simply walked up to one of them and rapped on the door.

When it had opened, it was to reveal a thin and wiry old man with boils of thick, curly hair. He looked at her in amazement.

"Come here! Let me look at ye, lassie," said her father. He had placed his hand on her chin and led her into the light. The tiny cottage was both cramped and dark, with the only light coming in from the opened door.

Her father pushed her into the light and scrutinized her carefully. So far, he had not seen Andrew lurking in the background.

In the light, Grace noticed the ravages in her father's face. She felt her heart sinking. Every time she went away, he had gotten a little older—and smaller.

Grace stared into her father's hazel eyes, the one feature she shared with him. Other than that, there wasn't much obvious to bind them together. He always told her she looked like her mother, but it would have been nice to know for herself.

"Ye've lost weight, Grace," chided her father, displeasure creeping across his scored face. It was only in the full light of the sun that Grace really saw how old and worn he was. Her heart skipped a beat. She felt bad being away for so long and leaving him.

"Och, I havenae," she retorted, as he put her arms around her and hugged her.

"Ye have," grumbled her father, his arms around her slender waist. "I can feel it. Look...an' I dinnae think my arms have grown since ye left!"

"Yer arms havenae, but yer beard has," retorted Grace. She smiled fondly. "Ye look like one o' Bruin's sheep! When are ye going tae get a shearing, eh?"

"Come on, sit down, lass. Let me make ye a bowl o' broth!" Her father pottered off, hobbling slightly as he made his way across the cluttered cottage.

The tools of his trade—as a blacksmith—were strewn all around, as well as wares like nails, candlestick holders, and little pieces of armory.

"Ye an' yer broth!" laughed Grace, but she followed him in. From outside the door, Andrew lingered. He had not been formally invited in yet. In fact, Grace's father had not even seen him.

Grace stole an anxious look to Andrew waiting there. She smiled at him briefly.

"Father," she said, leading him gently by the hand. "There's someone I want ye tae meet."

Now her father looked up. His vague hazel eyes looked nervous. Grace noticed how they seemed to be graying with age and almost fraying around the edges, a bit like the hairs on his head.

"This is Andrew."

"Hello, there, Mr., um..." Andrew stepped into the center of the room to find the old man gazing up at him in amazement. Then he stopped. Suddenly, he realized that he had absolutely no idea what Grace's surname was.

"Sweeney," said the old man. He was thin and wiry and stooped from age. Andrew narrowed his eyes and did a quick piece of mental arithmetic. He looked about sixty-five if he was a day, while the girl couldn't have been much more than twenty.

Looking at him, Andrew couldn't help wondering if this man was her grandfather.

"Hello, Mr. Sweeney," replied Andrew charmingly. The old man nodded to him, ushering him in.

"Come in, come in, lad," said the old man. He smiled pleasantly enough, but Andrew noticed he kept his hazy eyes trained straight on him at all times.

Andrew stepped into the cluttered room. Casting his eyes about the place, he wondered how the old man even found the space to sit down. Grace had told him that her father was a blacksmith. What he didn't expect was to find half his shop in his home.

Andrew followed Grace into the room and waited patiently as her father attempted to tidy up. Eventually, he had moved enough stuff to make some space to sit. Pulling up a stool by the fire, the old blacksmith proffered them a seat, which Andrew accepted.

Then he hobbled over to the fire, inspecting a metal pot on the open flame, and gave it a stir. As he did, Andrew caught him glancing over to him.