Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [36]
“Scottish singing? Do you wear a kilt when you sing?” Gayle had popped up on Roger’s other side.
“I do indeed. How else would they know I was a Scotsman?”
“I just love fuzzy knees,” Gayle said dreamily. “Now, tell me, is it true about what a Scotsman—”
“Go get the car,” Brianna ordered, hastily thrusting her keys at Gayle.
Gayle perched her chin on the windowsill of the car, watching Roger make his way into the hotel. “Gee, I hope he doesn’t shave before he meets us for dinner. I just love the way men look when they haven’t shaved for a while. What do you think’s in that big box?”
“His bodhran. I asked.”
“His what?”
“It’s a Celtic war drum. He plays it with some of his songs.”
Gayle’s lips formed a small circle of speculation.
“I don’t suppose you want me to drive him to this festival thing, do you? I mean, you must have lots of things to do, and—”
“Ha ha. You think I’d let you anywhere around him in a kilt?”
Gayle sighed wistfully, and pulled her head in as Brianna started the car.
“Well, maybe there’d be other men there in kilts.”
“I think that’s pretty likely.”
“I bet they don’t have Celtic war drums, though.”
“Maybe not.”
Gayle leaned back in her seat, and glanced at her friend.
“So, are you going to do it?”
“How should I know?” But the blood bloomed under her skin, and her clothes felt too tight.
“Well, if you don’t,” Gayle said positively, “you’re crazy.”
“The Minister’s cat is an … androgynous cat.”
“The Minister’s cat is an … alagruous cat.”
Bree gave him a lifted brow, taking her eyes briefly off the road.
“Scots again?”
“It’s a Scottish game,” Roger said. “Alagruous—’grim or woebegone.’ Your turn. Letter ‘B.’ ”
She squinted through the windshield at the narrow mountain road. The morning sun was toward them, filling the car with light.
“The Minister’s cat is a brindled cat.”
“The Minister’s cat is a bonnie cat.”
“Well, that’s a soft pitch for both of us. Draw. Okay, the Minister’s cat is a …” He could see the wheels turning in her mind, then the gleam in her narrowed blue eyes as inspiration struck. “… coccygodynious cat.”
Roger narrowed his own eyes, trying to work that one out.
“A cat with a wide backside?”
She laughed, braking slightly as the car hit a switchback curve.
“A cat that’s a pain in the ass.”
“That’s a real word, is it?”
“Uh-huh.” She accelerated neatly out of the turn. “One of Mama’s medical terms. Coccygodynia is a pain in the region of the tailbone. She used to call the hospital administration coccygodynians, all the time.”
“And here I thought it was one of your engineering terms. All right, then … the Minister’s cat is a camstairy cat.” He grinned at her lifted eyebrow. “Quarrelsome. Coccygodynians are camstairy by nature.”
“Okay, I’ll call that one a draw. The Minister’s cat is …”
“Wait,” Roger interrupted, pointing. “There’s the turn.”
Slowing, she pulled off the narrow highway and onto a still narrower road, indicated by a small red-and-white-arrowed sign that read CELTIC FESTIVAL.
“You’re a love to bring to me all the way up here,” Roger said. “I didn’t realize how far it was, or I’d never have asked.”
She gave him a brief glance of amusement.
“It’s not that far.”
“It’s a hundred and fifty miles!”
She smiled, but with a wry edge to it.
“My father always said that was the difference between an American and an Englishman. An Englishman thinks a hundred miles is a long way; an American thinks a hundred years is a long time.”
Roger laughed, taken by surprise.
“Too right. You’ll be an American, then, I suppose?”
“I suppose.” But her smile had faded.
So had the conversation; they drove in silence for a few minutes, with no sound but the rush of tires and wind. It was a beautiful hot summer’s day, the mugginess of Boston left far below as they snaked their way upward, into the clearer air of the mountains.
“The Minister’s cat is a distant cat,” Roger said at last, softly. “Have I said something wrong?”
She flashed him a quick blue glance, and a half-curled mouth.
“The Minister’s cat is a daydreaming cat. No, it