building, glancing around as he looked for the proprietor.
A buxom lass in a square-necked, loose-fitting embroidered gown approached him, threading her way between crowded tables occupied mostly by men.
"Mi casa es su casa," she told him , smiling . Her words held a tinge of invitation.
Diarmid stared at her. Fair skin and hair, hazel eyes. About Miriam's age, she was an attractive lass . He'd never expected to find the likes of her in a cantina.
"In case you don't understand Spanish," she went on , " what can I do for you?"
Taken by her looks, by her husky voice, he grinned. “Whatever you want, lass."
She tilted her head to one side and examined him. "You're a long way from home, aren't you, Scotty?"
He shook his head, the grin fading. For all that he couldn't rid his voice and his words of Scotland , California was his home. "Come to that, what're you doing here?" he challenged.
"Earning my way in the world. If it's any of your business."
"When I have the time I might make it mine. For now, I need a bit of food and drink. And your name." He could tell she liked his looks. Old or young, most lasses did.
"One of the girls will serve you," she told him, starting away. He touched her arm and she stopped, glancing at him with raised eyebrows.
"I'll make a fair trade--my name for yours." He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. "Diarmid Burwash, ma'am."
By now most of the customers were watching them. One, a stocky, swarthy Mexican, scowled blackly at Diarmid. The blonde lass hesitated, pursing her lips, then suddenly curtsied. "Miss Stella White, sir ," she murmured, her eyes laughing at him before she turned away.
The Mexican lass that served his food was young and dark and her breasts all but fell out of her bodice as she bent over the table, tantalizing him. But as he ate his tortillas, his eyes followed the blonde as she moved from table to table, smiling and saying a word or two but not lingering nor serving anyone. She wasn't dressed in the latest San Francisco fashion of tight bodice and bell-shaped flounced skirt held out with a multitude of petticoats--her loose-fitting gown hinted at, without revealing, lush curves.
Up until now, he'd never known a lass named Stella. But no matter how much she appealed to him, he had the letter to deliver first. Once that was done, there'd be nothing to stop him from coming back and getting better acquainted.
Diarmid reached Don Francisco's hacienda before the true darkness of night. Both he and Bruce were more than ready to stop. Turning over the buckskin to a servant, Diarmid strode under an arbor of blooming white roses, their sweet scent following him onto the front veranda. Determined not to be intimidated by fine dwellings and servants, he lifted the massive iron knocker and let it fall hard on the plate, once, twice, three times.
An old woman in black, an Indian by the look of her, opened the door.
"I carry a letter for Don Francisco," Diarmid announced in Spanish.
Wordlessly, she gestured for him to enter. As she led him along a dark corridor, he felt himself watched, but quick glances at the unlit rooms they passed revealed no one. The old woman escorted him to a small room glowing with lamp-light . Shelves built against the white-painted walls held scores of gold-embossed leather-bound books.
A bone-thin man with white hair, mustache and beard sat in a chair with a leather seat, a book open on his lap. The man set the book aside and rose, showing himself to be a head shorter than Diarmid.
In his limited Spanish, Diarmid introduced himself and briefly explained the circumstances that brought him to the rancho. He held out the letter as he finished.
Don Francisco accepted the letter without taking his eyes from Diarmid. "Dark as you are ," he said, in English, "you could be a Spaniard--except for the way you speak the language."
Diarmid smiled. "Who can tell? '
A buxom lass in a square-necked, loose-fitting embroidered gown approached him, threading her way between crowded tables occupied mostly by men.
"Mi casa es su casa," she told him , smiling . Her words held a tinge of invitation.
Diarmid stared at her. Fair skin and hair, hazel eyes. About Miriam's age, she was an attractive lass . He'd never expected to find the likes of her in a cantina.
"In case you don't understand Spanish," she went on , " what can I do for you?"
Taken by her looks, by her husky voice, he grinned. “Whatever you want, lass."
She tilted her head to one side and examined him. "You're a long way from home, aren't you, Scotty?"
He shook his head, the grin fading. For all that he couldn't rid his voice and his words of Scotland , California was his home. "Come to that, what're you doing here?" he challenged.
"Earning my way in the world. If it's any of your business."
"When I have the time I might make it mine. For now, I need a bit of food and drink. And your name." He could tell she liked his looks. Old or young, most lasses did.
"One of the girls will serve you," she told him, starting away. He touched her arm and she stopped, glancing at him with raised eyebrows.
"I'll make a fair trade--my name for yours." He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. "Diarmid Burwash, ma'am."
By now most of the customers were watching them. One, a stocky, swarthy Mexican, scowled blackly at Diarmid. The blonde lass hesitated, pursing her lips, then suddenly curtsied. "Miss Stella White, sir ," she murmured, her eyes laughing at him before she turned away.
The Mexican lass that served his food was young and dark and her breasts all but fell out of her bodice as she bent over the table, tantalizing him. But as he ate his tortillas, his eyes followed the blonde as she moved from table to table, smiling and saying a word or two but not lingering nor serving anyone. She wasn't dressed in the latest San Francisco fashion of tight bodice and bell-shaped flounced skirt held out with a multitude of petticoats--her loose-fitting gown hinted at, without revealing, lush curves.
Up until now, he'd never known a lass named Stella. But no matter how much she appealed to him, he had the letter to deliver first. Once that was done, there'd be nothing to stop him from coming back and getting better acquainted.
Diarmid reached Don Francisco's hacienda before the true darkness of night. Both he and Bruce were more than ready to stop. Turning over the buckskin to a servant, Diarmid strode under an arbor of blooming white roses, their sweet scent following him onto the front veranda. Determined not to be intimidated by fine dwellings and servants, he lifted the massive iron knocker and let it fall hard on the plate, once, twice, three times.
An old woman in black, an Indian by the look of her, opened the door.
"I carry a letter for Don Francisco," Diarmid announced in Spanish.
Wordlessly, she gestured for him to enter. As she led him along a dark corridor, he felt himself watched, but quick glances at the unlit rooms they passed revealed no one. The old woman escorted him to a small room glowing with lamp-light . Shelves built against the white-painted walls held scores of gold-embossed leather-bound books.
A bone-thin man with white hair, mustache and beard sat in a chair with a leather seat, a book open on his lap. The man set the book aside and rose, showing himself to be a head shorter than Diarmid.
In his limited Spanish, Diarmid introduced himself and briefly explained the circumstances that brought him to the rancho. He held out the letter as he finished.
Don Francisco accepted the letter without taking his eyes from Diarmid. "Dark as you are ," he said, in English, "you could be a Spaniard--except for the way you speak the language."
Diarmid smiled. "Who can tell? '
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