Читать книгу The Sweetest Hours - Cathryn Parry - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
MALCOLM STRODE BESIDE Kristin in the early darkness, his mood matching the light. Snowbanks lined the sidewalk. It was so frigid cold outside that the hard-packed snow crunched underfoot, and his breath made puffs of air as he walked.
They’d left the mill building and were cutting through the middle of what passed for a downtown—a New England-style town green surrounded by shops, shuttered tight, and old homes, typical of the region. It reminded him of the remote village in New Hampshire where he’d first been sent to prep school as a boy, which only depressed him further. He hunched his shoulders in his coat as they passed through a section of street without lamplights. Malcolm pulled his torch from his pocket and turned it on.
“You carry a flashlight with you, too?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Everyone should.” If trouble warranted it, the heavy barrel could double as a weapon. He never went anywhere without considering the security implications.
She showed him her flashlight. Smiling sheepishly, she said, “Not everyone understands it, but a person has to protect themselves.”
Something they agreed on. Still, he thought of his sister who was about Kristin’s height, though slighter. He couldn’t see her bashing anyone over the head with a piece of metal. Too bad.
“Did somebody teach you to carry that?” he asked her.
“Yep, my brothers.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah...will they be present this evening?”
Passing beneath a streetlight, he noticed the dimple form in her cheek. “We may be blessed with their presence, yes.”
Lovely. At least his luck was predictable.
Within another block, they were at her family’s house, a multistory, clapboard Victorian. They climbed a set of stairs to a big wraparound porch. Stamping her feet to warm them, Kristin pulled a key from her coat pocket.
“You have a key to your sister-in-law’s home?” he asked.
“I live in the apartment upstairs. My brother and sister-in-law own the house, and I rent space from them.”
Interesting. Living here was safe, he supposed. “You have a short walk to work.”
“I do.” She smiled at him. Her hair was tucked inside her beret, and she looked...pretty. The fur from her collar framed her face, and her soft, green eyes gazed up at him. It made him ache.
He had too many secrets to keep from her. He only hoped he endured the night without incident. If he kept himself aloof from her and did not let himself care about her or her predicament once he left, then he would do fine.
“I have one thing to ask of you, George—please don’t hold me responsible for what my family might say or do tonight,” she pleaded, her hand on the doorknob.
He blinked. “Why? Are they likely to string me up because I’m with you?”
“Not you. They like strong, silent types.”
Is that what he was? In any event, nobody would think well of him once his handiwork was made known. Kristin certainly wouldn’t.
A gust of cold wind blew by, and he hunched his shoulders against the frigid temperature. “What are the risks tonight, then?” he asked.
“Me. I’m the risk. I’m bringing someone to a family event.” She choked out a laugh, and then glanced at him helplessly. “Trust me, they would love to pair us up. And it turns out the whole clan is going to be here, not just Stephanie and Lily. So, could you please back me up—make it clear that we’re work colleagues only?”
He stared at her. There were so many things ahead that could go wrong—so many potential traps she didn’t even know about. But he could only fixate on one thing.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“No.” She shivered. “I am happily single.”
For some reason he liked that response. He smiled at her. “Then we’ll be happily single together.”
She seemed relieved. Nodding, a look of grim determination on her face, she opened the door. “One more thing,” she said, turning to him. “If you don’t like the haggis, then you don’t have to eat it.”
“I’ll be certain not to. You can count on that.”
She smiled at him, and something in his chest pinged. This wasn’t good. He was getting drawn to her despite himself.
There was a reason he’d done his best to keep his distance from her during the afternoon. But now here he was entering her private home, and it was too late to back out. “May I ask why your family is having a Burns Night? All these years I’ve lived in this country, and I don’t think anyone has ever invited me to one. It’s not well-known outside of Scotland.”
“Meet my family, and I’m sure they’ll tell you why it’s important—well, important to me, at least.”
The door was creaky, so she threw her hip into it. With a rattle of glass and a squeak of hinges, they stood inside a warm kitchen. That distinctive odor of tatties and neeps—potatoes and turnips—hit him, and he wrinkled his nose. He also noted sheep—haggis—mixed in, and he grimaced.
He’d been following behind Kristin, but she was immediately whisked away by a female rug rat. She was a shrimp of a girl, a ginger, with the wildest red hair and a smattering of freckles that he’d not seen in ages. Such a combination usually only existed on his home island.
The ginger rug rat was wearing a kilt that clashed with her features. A bright red Royal Stuart tartan, displayed outside almost every tourist shop on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. He was having difficulty not chuckling aloud, so he squeezed his lips between thumb and forefinger.
“George Smith?” a woman asked him. He didn’t answer right away; it wasn’t registering that she was speaking to him. When it did occur to him, he turned abruptly.
And looked down. She was a shrimp of a woman, too, to match the shrimp of a daughter. Black hair, flashing eyes, and wearing a chef’s white top, checkered loose pants and kitchen restaurant clogs.
That was a relief—she was a professional. Thus, it was unlikely he would be poisoned.
The lady chef grabbed his hand and pulled him into a small butler’s pantry off to the side. And then she shut the door behind them.
Inside, with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and rows of spices and jarred dry goods arranged on shelves, she grabbed a bottle of whisky—single malt—from a top ledge and unscrewed the cap. “A word with you, Mr. Smith,” she said, pouring them each a wee dram.
Solemnly she handed him a glass. “I know you’re an out-of-town guest, a work colleague to Kristin, but I am telling you, they are going to crucify her in there. And if you don’t support her—or worse, if you join in on the laughter and the insults—then I will personally see you pushed into a snowbank. Do you understand?”
“I...”
“Of course you do.” She smiled sweetly and raised her glass to him before slinging back the shot.
“Whoa!” she said. “That waters the eyes.”
“Er,” he said, still holding the glass of whisky, “I thought this was Kristin’s family celebrating a Burns Dinner?”
“Sure, but they’re not always an easy crowd, and definitely won’t be tonight once they figure out what kind of food I’m feeding them.” She shivered. “Trust me, I’ve known this bunch forever. Kristin was my nap partner in kindergarten. She kept me laughing so much, I never got my sleep. We were always in trouble.”
“Kristin has how many brothers?” Were they big? How many stone did they weigh?
“It has taken me weeks to find a decent haggis recipe,” she said, ignoring him, “and then, importing the ingredients and testing it in my kitchen.” She poked him in the chest. “It’s taken me a while to crack the code and make it palatable. The rest of them likely won’t touch it, but you will. You will at least try to like it for Kristin’s sake. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” He slugged back the whisky shot. It burned his throat like comfortable fire. “That’s good stuff,” he muttered, smacking his lips.
“Damn straight it is. I’m bringing up a little girl who’s fifty percent Scottish-American. My husband has three Scottish-American grandparents, and one Scottish grandmother, actually born in the old country. I figure that makes me Scottish by injection, and I plan to act accordingly.”
He nearly choked.
“So, you’ll play along with Kristin and me?”
Mutely, he nodded.
Thankfully, she pivoted on her clogs and stalked back to her instrument of his doom—a silver range with six gas burners, four of them currently going full throttle, shooting up vicious blue flames. He wiped his mouth and ventured out of her kitchen and into the lion’s den.
With foreboding, he glanced into the dining room, where a crowd of men stood, drinking lager from brown longneck bottles. Unless they all ganged up on him, he figured he could handle each of them, alone, judging by height and weight. One of the men looked as though he might be bigger than Malcolm, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure because the man, unfortunately, sat in a wheelchair and had a glum expression on his face.
Kristin was nowhere to be seen.
Malcolm raked a hand through his hair. She would be back soon, with the little girl in tow, he assumed, and introductions would commence. He could behave seriously and in a low-key manner, the same as he’d been doing all day.
Or...there was still time to confess to her. Pull Kristin aside and tell her his real name. His true purpose. Let her in on his thoughts about what her CEO had asked him to do. Maybe some steps she could take for herself to mitigate the fallout before anyone else knew...
It was insanity to consider it.
He’d planned to never see this woman again after tonight. She was not part of upper management at Aura Botanicals, nor was there any reason for her to learn of his past. If he came clean now...
Then that would break his agreement with Jay Astley to remain anonymous. Malcolm would be jeopardizing the new product branding plans. He would also be jeopardizing his own company and the people in it.
It was too risky.
He had to continue the charade. One last night of being George Smith before the security name was retired for good. Kristin would never find out who he really was.
The only difficult part would be the guilt.
No. Guilt he could handle. The worst part would be resigning himself to remaining aloof for the next few hours. Like it or not, he saw all the ways that she was like him, with her heavy flashlight and her love and loyalty to her family and her employer. She had an innate capability for taking care of herself and others. And, she was fun. The lady was quietly compatible to him in a way that he hadn’t known in years, in a way that pulled him in and attracted him.
It was downright dangerous, and he could be in trouble here unless he was careful.
Plus, he would eat no more than one bite of haggis—he didn’t care what her dynamo of a sister-in-law threatened him with.
And, he would never let on to any of them that he knew what Burns Night was. He was simply an observer, killing time. His mouth shut. A ghost who would fade from memory once his driver arrived and he left this small Vermont town forever.
The brother in the wheelchair rolled over to him at the same time that Kristin came hurrying back into the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushed and her smile trembling in an “I apologize!” grimace. “My niece wanted help with her part in the festivities. I didn’t mean to desert you.”
She turned to the largest of the men, the one in the wheelchair. “George, this is my brother Stevie. Stevie, this is George. He’s a work colleague, and he’s stranded in town until his ride gets here.”
“My sympathies,” Stevie said, holding out his hand.
“Good to meet you,” Malcolm answered, and shook the man’s hand, nearly getting his fingers crushed in the process.
“This—” Kristin continued, with unmistakable worry in her voice “—is my mom. Mom, this is George.”
“Er...hello,” Malcolm said.
Mom speared him up and down with her sharp eyes that didn’t appear to miss much. Clearly, an appraisal was in process.
Frowning, Mom asked him, “George? George what?”
“Smith,” Kristin replied.
“And what does he do at Aura Botanicals?” Mom demanded.
“Marketing,” Malcolm said without hesitation. The crowd was moving toward the dining table, so he followed along, praying the line of questioning would soon stop.
“And where did he go to school to prepare for the job?” Mom demanded of Kristin.
“Er, Dartmouth.” Malcolm decided to answer her directly. “And later, Harvard Business School.”
Mom whirled to stare at him. Her eyebrows shot up. In a heartbeat, her expression changed. “That’s the Ivy League!”
He knew that. Kristin sighed and leaned over to murmur into his ear: “I went to a local college and my grades weren’t stellar. No one around here lets me forget that.”
“Engineering is difficult,” Malcolm remarked. “I imagine that business studies are much easier.”
“You’re being nice to me. I appreciate it.” She pulled out a chair and indicated that he sit.
He did so, and she joined him to his left. Her face seemed frozen in a mask of what appeared to be both trepidation and hopeful excitement. The dining table was large, and there were a variety of chairs jammed around it, due to the crowd the sister-in-law chef had invited. He wasn’t sure who everyone was, and he was glad Kristin hadn’t made the big deal of introducing him to everyone. He was just waiting for his ride. That was all.
He leaned back in his seat, cushioned and lined with fabric, while hers was an aluminum folding chair. Despite them each sitting on different kinds of chairs, he and Kristin were at the same height, so his thigh brushed against her thigh. His elbow rubbed her elbow.
She drew back, smiling sheepishly at him. “This is worse than airplane seating.”
He stared, then realized she was talking about coach class in commercial airliners. He didn’t know much about that.
The little rug rat climbed into the chair on the other side of him, his right side—his eating side—which was a relief because she was miniature size, and it was unlikely they would bash elbows during the course of the meal.
He smiled tentatively at the little girl. She grinned back, her freckles even more impressive at this close angle, and she cupped a hand, whispering into his ear, “Watch me, I’m going to dance later.”
“You’re...?”
“George,” Kristin’s mother said, simpering from across the table, “I apologize for our boardinghouse arrangement. We are not usually so uncivilized.”
“Yes, we are,” an older man contradicted her from the opposite side. He stood and leaned across the table to shake Malcolm’s hand. “I’m Rich, Kristin’s dad.”
“Better than being poor,” quipped the brother in the wheelchair as he maneuvered himself beside the dad.
“They’re terrible,” the mother said, fussing with the silverware that the sister-in-law had set out. “Pay no attention to them. We’re usually not so disorganized, either.”
“Sure we are,” a tall man chimed in.
“I should probably explain who everybody is,” Kristin murmured to Malcolm. Discreetly, she inclined her head. “That is my dad, Rich, and mom, Evelyn—both of whom you’ve already met. Dad works at the county Chamber of Commerce and Mom serves part-time in the town offices and the rest of the time in the café, helping Stephanie.” She gestured across the table, still speaking in a low tone. “PJ, my oldest brother, is married to Stephanie. This is, of course, their house. Then there’s Stevie.” She tilted her chin toward the man in the wheelchair. “He’s renting a basement room, for now, while he rehabs from his motorcycle accident.” A cloud crossed her face.
“Will he be okay?” Malcolm asked softly. Throughout the entire conversation, he kept his gaze on the tableau of the room. Bustling, energetic, they weren’t paying much attention to him—except for the mother. But at the moment, she was occupied with searching for napkins—giving him and Kristin a chance to talk safely.
“We hope so,” Kristin answered in a lower voice. “Stevie was reckless, going too fast, and he lost control when a car coming in the opposite direction crossed over to his side. We’re lucky he survived the accident.” But she brightened and talked faster. “Over there is Neil, my second oldest brother. He lives across town.”
“How many brothers do you have?” Malcolm asked, suddenly feeling nervous. So much for being aloof. The haggis hadn’t been presented, and already he was betraying himself.
“Four. The last, Grant, just joined the marines. He’s in boot camp. He’s hoping to come home and join the police force after his tour of duty.”
Brilliant. “Er, are you the youngest sibling?” God, Malcolm hoped not. That would bring out her brothers’ protective instincts.
“No,” she said, “I’m right in the middle. Two older than me and two younger.”
Malcolm nodded. He didn’t know why he was bothering to keep close track of everything. He would probably never see her again—he was counting on never seeing her again.
“Except for the marine, no one in your family tends to move very far from home, do they?” he observed.
“No, we do not.”
Before he could ask why, the sister-in-law—Stephanie—strutted into the room. She’d changed from her chef clothes and was wearing a blouse with green and navy blue plaid in it—Black Watch, he automatically thought. She still looked formidable, the military tartan appropriate on her.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Attention, everyone!” She tapped a water glass with her spoon. “Thank you for coming to the Hart family’s first annual Burns Dinner. This is a surprise orchestrated by—”
“Me!” the urchin to his right said, jumping in her chair. She squatted, her feet on the seat, and her kilt was in a most unladylike position. But, Malcolm had grown up with an urchin sister, and in his house, they hadn’t stood on formality much, either.
He must’ve been grinning at the little girl, because to his left, Kristin turned in her seat and gaped at him.
“He smiles!” she said. “Hallelujah!”
The urchin giggled, her chubby hand splayed over her freckled face.
“Kristin,” the girl’s mother ordered. “Help Lily sit properly in her chair. Lily, use your company manners.”
He couldn’t help it, he turned to little Lily himself. Didn’t say a word, just gave her his best comic glower.
Lily laughed harder. But she straightened her skirt and untangled her feet from beneath her, sitting solidly on her rump.
Meanwhile, the mother and father were arguing across the table. It was so much like his own family he was starting to believe there was something to the Scottish genes. Maybe he was homesick.
Stephanie clapped her hands, startling them all. “As I was saying, this is called a Burns Supper. Lily learned it from her aunt, who was teaching her about Scotland and her Scottish ancestry for Lily’s Brownie badge.”
“Oh, please,” Evelyn said. “Here we go.”
“Your mother was born in Scotland,” Stephanie said, directing the comment at her mother-in-law. “I think we should be proud of that.”
“Yes,” Evelyn said, “but I know where this is going.”
She shot a look at Kristin, who blushed furiously.
Malcolm wondered what was going on.
“My mother was not heiress to a castle in Scotland,” Evelyn said to Kristin. “Get that fantasy out of your head. I don’t want to hear a single word of it tonight.”
“She was, too!” the urchin—Lily—cried beside him. He winced from the shriek in his right eardrum. But at the same time, it took all his self-control to restrain himself from bursting out laughing. In general, he didn’t like to snuff out anyone’s enthusiasm—he hated the look of sadness it gave Kristin—but Evelyn was right.
There were thousands of castles in Scotland. Malcolm had often met people who, just because of a last name indicating a few drops of Scottish blood, somehow felt they were related to Scottish royalty. It was part of the romance of the Scottish diaspora, he supposed.
“A long time ago, Nanny got a letter from a man in Scotland, and, and, and...” Lily threw up her hands. With a straight face, the little girl said to Malcolm, “My great-nanny owned a castle. In Scotland. Really.”
“Is that so?” Malcolm murmured.
“It’s a family story,” Kristin explained, her face flushed. “Before I was born, my grandmother received word from Scotland, informing her that she was heiress to a castle.”
“Probably a scam,” her father—Rich—remarked.
“Certainly a scam,” Evelyn agreed. “They were looking for money.”
Kristin’s countenance fell.
Malcolm wished he could make her feel better. “Do you have the letter?” Malcolm asked gently.
“My mother-in-law tore it up,” Rich said. “She was a practical one.”
Kristin shook her head. “My family tends to be...skeptical,” she said to Malcolm.
Malcolm completely understood.
“Still,” Kristin said, glancing across the table at them. “The story remains.”
“It’s like those spam emails the Nigerian princes send, looking for bank account numbers,” her brother—PJ—remarked. He looked plaintively at his wife. “Honey, I thought I smelled hamburger in the kitchen. Aren’t we going to eat?”
Malcolm had news for him—that smell was haggis. Not one person present was going to be pleased once they tasted it. If this crowd heaped scorn and poked fun on a “castle heiress,” then the presentation of the haggis would really kick off a round of derision.
Kristin stared at her empty plate. There was a resigned sadness to her face. Malcolm suspected she had experience with the futility of arguing with skeptics. Why did she stick around in the same hometown she’d grown up in if she had to deal with this on a daily basis? She was an adult—why not move away like he had?
As far as her career was concerned, she’d told him she liked the products at Aura Botanicals and the variety of the work in a small company. He understood that. But why subject herself to such restriction when she obviously craved adventure? That was her true personality—he’d watched her in action all afternoon. He’d only known her this one day, and it was obvious to him.
He frowned. He shouldn’t long to cheer Kristin up or to look out for her. He shouldn’t be moved enough to care about anything she did.
Leaning back, he ran his tongue over his chipped tooth.
“I believe in the fairy castle,” a small voice whispered in his right ear.
He turned his head slightly. The urchin was standing in her chair again. She was staring at him as if she expected an answer.
“Do you now?” he murmured.
“Don’t you?” she whispered back.
But it was a loud whisper. He glanced at Kristin, who was gazing at him expectantly, as if she’d heard their entire conversation and was immensely interested in what he thought on the matter.
Malcolm didn’t believe in fantasies of castles and lost letters. But he did believe in Kristin. The woman was eminently capable. So he smiled in encouragement at her.
“I do,” he said.
She bit her lip and looked down at her hands in her lap. When she glanced up again, she was blushing.
“Mom, when are we going to play the music?” the urchin shouted to her mother in the kitchen.
Malcolm flinched again. Kristin covered her mouth, laughing. She was beautiful when she laughed. Bewitching.
Damn.
“Hold your horses!” Stephanie clomped into the room holding a white note card. She passed it to Kristin, whose face brightened further upon receiving it.
Clapping, Stephanie said, “Attention! The Burns Supper is now commenced! Kristin Hart will please read the opening grace.” Then Stephanie spoke behind her hand in a stage whisper to him. “I copied it from the internet. Let’s see how Kristin does with the accent.”
Oh, lord. It must be the Selkirk Grace. Would Kristin read it in English, or would she go for the vernacular?
Inside, he felt tense. If Kristin were going to give away his secret to her family, then now was her chance.
He waited, breath held...
Kristin cleared her throat, and with a flourish, she read:
“Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it.
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
And sae let the Lord be thankit.”
Yes, she gave the language a thorough butchering. And then she raised her head and smiled at all assembled, exquisitely pleased.
“I’d like some meat,” her father said plaintively.
“Doesn’t everything sound better with a Scottish accent?” Kristin sighed to no one in particular, ignoring her father. “God, I miss Nanny.”
“What did that poem say, Aunty?” her niece asked her. “It sounded funny.”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Kristin answered. “But Robert Burns was a witty poet in his day. I’ll research it later and explain it to you once I figure it all out.”
But Kristin didn’t look at Malcolm. She hadn’t given away her suspicions regarding him, either. She could have pointed out that he had admitted to her that he’d lived in the country and that he knew damned well who the national poet of Scotland was. She could have shared with the group that she’d overheard Malcolm speaking in a similar, heavily accented vernacular this morning. She could have offered him up to the laughter and the skepticism and the jocular infighting, all things he was so familiar with from his own large brood of cousins. But she had not.
She was keeping their secret.
He glanced down at his hands in his lap, feeling sick for what he had to do. At some point soon, he would have to betray her.
He felt thoroughly ashamed.
“Now?” the urchin shouted to her mom. “Can I dance now?”
“No!” her mother answered. “Not yet.” Then she marched into the kitchen and returned carrying a platter filled with hamburgers, each containing lettuce, tomato, cucumbers and, instead of a commercial bun, assembled with that same bread that he had eaten at lunch.
He nudged Kristin. “This looks familiar,” he murmured.
She nodded, smiling. “Our sandwiches today came from Stephanie’s diner. She runs Cookie’s Place.”
“Who is Cookie?”
“The lady who owned the restaurant before Stephanie. When she passed away, Stephanie bought it. First thing she did was choose a new name, and everyone in town got mad and refused to patronize the diner, so Stephanie switched the sign back. The diner is, and shall remain for all time, Cookie’s Place.”
“People just do not like change,” her father said. “It’s a fact.”
“Attention!” Stephanie announced. “I’m offering a substitution for those of you who are not adventurous with the new food that will be forthcoming.”
She waggled her finger at Malcolm, indicating he restrain himself and wait for the joy of the pending haggis.
Everyone except for him, Stephanie and Kristin lunged for a hamburger.
Stephanie shook her head at them. “Your forebears would be shamed.”
“Our forebears would be thankful we’d left the sheep behind in Scotland,” her father-in-law answered.
Malcolm silently agreed, watching longingly as they ate. “How is business at your diner?” he politely asked Stephanie.
“Truthfully, there are two factions keeping my operation afloat. Aura Botanicals employees, and my in-laws.”
“Yeah, and this is why we come to dinner at your house,” one brother remarked to PJ as he sank his teeth into the bun. “Your wife knows how to cook.”
Malcolm’s mouth watered. A sane response. And it would also be a sane response to reach forward and grab a hamburger along with the other men at the table. He knew what awaited them.
Stephanie left the room and returned with her iPod stand. “Now,” she said to her daughter. “Now it’s time for your part.”
Then she addressed the table: “Technically, I was also supposed to serve a Cock-a-leekie soup course, but since you people don’t like soup in general, I didn’t want to hear the bitching and moaning.”
Only silence answered her. With the exception of him, Kristin and the urchin seated beside him, the rest of them were munching and chewing happily.
“In any event, no matter, because it is time for the parade of the haggis. I’ll start the music, and Lily will dance the Highland Fling. Everyone will show the traditional respect.”
Malcolm had never heard of the Highland Fling being combined with the presentation of the haggis. He bit his tongue. Do not laugh.
The strains of a lone bagpiper playing a Scottish reel exploded over the small iPod speakers centered on the dining table. It was like nothing Malcolm had ever heard, and it struck him as uproariously funny. He wished his sister was here; she would appreciate the humor in this.
Don’t laugh. Don’t make a sound.
Stephanie planted her hands on her hips and scowled. Malcolm followed her gaze to Lily, cowering and doing her best to hide under the tablecloth.
“What?” Stephanie asked her daughter. “What is the problem now?”
“I need Aunty to dance with me!” Lily wailed. “I can’t remember the steps without her!”
Malcolm glanced to Kristin on his left.
“Of course I’ll help you, honey. Excuse me, George,” Kristin said as she attempted to edge backward from the tight circle.
Malcolm stood and assisted, pulling back her chair for her.
“Oh, Kristin, really?” her mom admonished. “You have a guest.” She glanced apologetically to Malcolm.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m greatly interested in seeing this.”
“It’s for Lily,” Kristin mouthed to him, blushing further. But she held her niece’s hand and smiled at her.
“Please start the music again,” Kristin said to Stephanie, and took a position beside the girl. Kristin nodded at her, and they both turned out their toes like ballerinas, with hands on their hips.
Kristin looked down at Lily, nodding in encouragement. When they had eye contact, in a low voice, she said, “Step, bow, up on your toes... Go.”
Malcolm couldn’t keep his eyes off Kristin. Gracefully, like a dancer, she lifted her arms above her head and leaped in the stationary dance, said to have been traditionally performed on the face of a warrior’s shield before battle. Her legs pointing and kicking, she looked like a true Highland dancer. “One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, turn-two-three-four,” she instructed her niece.
And, God love her, as his aunt would say, the little girl kicked and twirled right along with her aunt. It was thoroughly charming.
After they’d finished their short duet and he’d risen to help them both into their seats, he asked Kristin, “You took Highland dance lessons?”
“Not really.” Her face still flushed, she smiled. “My grandmother thought she was paying for ballet classes, but unbeknownst to her, the dance instructor also taught us the Highland Fling and the Sword Dance so that we could compete at the Highland Games up in Quechee.”
“Quechee?”
“Vermont. They host a Scottish Festival there every August.”
“And did you compete?”
“No.” She grimaced. “Nanny ran out of money to pay for the classes.”
“Then what happened?” he asked.
“She passed away,” her mother interrupted. “And that was that.”
Blunt. Practical. Cautious. All words that could describe his own family, too. He sat back, watching as Stephanie strolled the perimeter of the room carrying her pride and joy on a platter: the perfectly composed haggis. It looked like a bloated rugby ball, exactly as it should. Stephanie set it on the table, to sniggers and wry jokes from the brothers and the brothers’ friends.
There was a gap in the banter, a long, drawn-out, uncomfortable moment when it appeared that the night had failed. That the ceremony itself was patently ridiculous, and that other than Kristin and quite possibly her niece, no one else bought into the fun. Even Stephanie seemed peaked, tired of swimming against the current of everyone’s bad opinion.
The platter just sat there. No one even bothered to cut into the haggis.
“I am not eating that,” Lily said flatly.
“Me, neither,” came a chorus of voices.
Kristin blinked silently. He couldn’t be sure, but her eyes looked moist.
Malcolm edged the platter with the haggis on it toward his plate. His stomach was clenching and threatened to revolt. But he forced himself to do it. Maybe it was penance...but he said it.
“I’ll be the first to taste the haggis.”
All eyes were upon him. No one moved. He picked up the carving knife. He might have been the only one who even knew there was a ceremony to go along with the slicing, plus another poem to be read—“Address to a Haggis,” by Rabbie Burns himself—but the verses were long, with many stanzas, and Stephanie was likely abandoning the readings due to lack of interest.
The more the tradition was being given up, the lower Kristin seemed to droop. Malcolm wanted that sadness in her to go away, even if just for tonight. He loved it when she smiled. He needed it. Worse, only he foresaw the sadness that he would soon bring to everyone around this table. It was the only way to explain what he was doing.
He sliced into the haggis, through the thin skin of intestine, releasing the mass of sheep’s innards mixed with other assorted flotsam and jetsam—bits and pieces of spices and chopped vegetables—onto his plate. Somehow, he resisted the urge to plug his nose and instead, he picked up his fork....
Stephanie hurried to his side. “I’m told it needs a wee dram of whisky on the top.” Without asking his permission, she opened a bottle and drizzled some whisky generously on, as if adding Vermont maple syrup to her pancakes.
Bless her. Diving in before it got cold or he lost his nerve, he shoveled some of the dark, steaming specks of sheep onto his fork. If Kristin could dance a Highland Fling before an unsupportive audience, then he could take one bite of Scotland’s national dish.
Tentatively, he tasted it. Everyone stared at him. “It’s...not bad.” Actually, it wasn’t. “It tastes like chicken,” he pronounced. “Whisky-flavored chicken.”
The father—Rich—held out his hamburger plate. “I’d like some whisky with mine, please.”
“Is that haggis?” Stephanie demanded. “Because only the haggis gets the whisky.”
Immediately, one of the other brothers pulled the haggis platter toward him.
The haggis got passed around—a teaspoon of ground meat plopped onto each plate, along with a drizzle from the bottle.
And afterward, Stephanie piled on some tatties and neeps. The tatties were mixed with liberal amounts of butter, and the neeps had brown sugar and maple syrup added. Maybe she’d figured it couldn’t hurt.
“All right.” One of the brothers stood at last, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That was great, Steph, thanks for inviting us. But Dad and I need to get going.”
“Wait!” Stephanie said. “We haven’t sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ or read a Burns poem yet.”
“Sorry, sis. We just don’t have time.”
Just then, Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the incoming text message. It was his driver, waiting for him. Malcolm looked at Kristin. She knew what the text was for.
“Actually, Steph, it’s okay,” Kristin said brightly. “It was a great dinner. Thank you for organizing it and for inviting us.”
And with a light smile on her face that he knew was fake, she pushed her chair back. “Besides, George has to leave, too. His ride is here.”
She turned to him. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate it. I hope you liked the dinner.”
He felt even worse now. Pocketing the phone, he stood. “I, er, would like to read a Burns poem as my thanks to you all, and I’d like to have everyone’s indulgence while I do so.”
Kristin stared at him.
He smiled at her mother. She was the one person besides Kristin who seemed predisposed to like him, so he played that for all he could. “I don’t know if I told you, Evelyn, but I went to prep school with a fearsome English professor, one who drilled poetry into our heads, and he made us stand and recite verses until we knew them by rote.”
Evelyn nodded. “I had teachers like that, as well. They don’t exist anymore.”
“No,” Malcolm agreed, “they probably don’t.”
A brother was putting on his coat, and Malcolm turned to shoot a look at him. “Please, sit down. This will only take twenty seconds.”
The brother sat.
“Thank you, George,” Kristin said softly. “What will the poem be?”
If he were alone with her, he knew exactly what line he would recite to her: The sweetest hours, that ever I spend. Because his short time with her had been sweet, and he was sorry it had to end.
But, they were not alone; he was sitting with her family. And, their hours together could not continue into the future.
So, he turned to her niece and smiled at the wee one. “This verse is called ‘To a Mouse.’ It’s by Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns, and I will recite it in your honor.” He took a breath:
“The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy.”
And then he looked directly into Kristin’s eyes:
“Still you are blessed, compared with me,
The present only touches you.
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary.
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.”
She stared at him. He swallowed, and knew he had to repeat it once more. This time, as it should be read.
“That was the English version,” Malcolm explained. “And this is the proper recitation:
“But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
“Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear.”
The table erupted in applause.
“That was my best Sir Sean Connery imitation,” he said lamely.
Kristin beamed at him, a quiet, shared look.
“Will you be back?” her mother asked him. “You’re certainly invited to our home, anytime you’d like.”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here for just the day.”
“A one-day contract?” Kristin inquired.
He nodded, finding himself unable to speak. A heavy sadness had descended over him. The night had been sweet. The sweetest hours. He was immensely sorry he could never see her again.
* * *
SHE’D KNOWN ALL along that George was leaving.
Kristin put on her snow boots and followed him outside to the porch. A black car was waiting for him, idling at the end of the driveway.
He stood still, staring at the car with his hands in his pockets and his coat open, seemingly unconcerned about the wintry weather that enveloped them.
She sensed sadness coming from him, but it wasn’t her problem, not any of her business. He was off to some other faraway place, the black car on the corner set to whisk him away.
She felt relieved that nothing had happened with George to risk her already shaky standing at Aura. But still, part of her wished she didn’t have to lose his companionship just yet.
He’d been good to her at dinner tonight, standing up for her. He’d even played along, though she knew he hadn’t wanted to—encouraging the others into tasting the haggis and reciting the Burns poem.
She’d seen what he’d done for her, and she’d appreciated him for it. With each secret glance he’d given her during the dinner, each reactive dimple in his cheek toward her, she’d felt herself drawing closer to him.
She blew into her hands, so cold in the dark night. She couldn’t see George’s face clearly in the dim light from the porch bulb, only the outline of his tall, broad form, the flat plane of his sexy, razor-stubbled cheek—a cheek that she could too easily get used to gazing upon.
How could she say goodbye to him? Instead, she fumbled for something to say. Something trivial—anything to prolong the moment.
“I hope that everything went okay today,” she said, “and that you got all you need from us.”
He turned, his expression illuminated, and smiled at her, descending two steps lower than her on the stairs. He was at exactly her height now, his eyes level to hers.
“I did,” he said, staring at her, his gaze not breaking. “Thanks to you, of course.”
Biting her lip, she looked down. “I’m sorry about some of the comments in there.”
“There’s no need to apologize.” His voice was gentle. “I understand families.”
“Yes, you do.” He’d been so good with them, even Lily. She lifted her head, her eyes searching his again.
His hand touched hers, warm from the dinner table inside. His fingers brushed her knuckles, just once. Kristin was glad she hadn’t put on mittens. She liked the feel of his skin against hers.
“Kristin,” he said in a low voice.
She waited, barely daring to breathe, his wool coat rough against her knuckles. She inhaled his unique smell, mixed with the earthiness of the whisky he’d consumed. Involuntarily, she shivered.
He opened his coat, enveloping her in his warmth. It was a tender, protective response. A stolen moment in an evening that was turning out to be magical.
Maybe she was a sheltered person...she supposed so. She’d only been away from Vermont for a short time, until life in the city had crushed and overwhelmed her. She’d been back home for years now, in this small town she knew and trusted, with people who—though they may sometimes tease or criticize her—on the whole loved her and cared for her, no matter what.
Yes, they gave her trouble. Yes, she longed to break free. But in the end, she needed this safety. And by his actions tonight, it was clear to her that George understood that.
She stepped closer to him, inside the shield of his heavy woolen coat. Tentatively she touched the solid wall of his broad chest, feeling his cotton shirt and the silk of his necktie beneath her fingertips.
“Is it bad that I don’t want this day to end?” she whispered.
“No, lass.” His voice was throaty. The gruff...Scottishness of it seeped into her, as if spilled from one of Laura’s potion bottles. “I won’t forget you, Kristin.”
His eyes held hers. And as she swallowed, he angled his head and leaned toward her.
And then he kissed her.
At the first brush of his lips on hers, the heated whisper of his breath against her cheek, she sighed and tilted her head back, wanting to feel all of it—everything about him—so she could remember him.
He was tender, his lips molded gently over hers, moving with sweetness, as if to remember her fully, too.
Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she made a little moan.
He gave her the joy of a long, passionate kiss. Mouth to mouth, honest and solid, because that’s who George was. He was just so damn sexy.
The car at the end of the drive flashed its lights at them. Once. Twice.
George cursed softly. He straightened and drew back. The warmth of his coat dropped away from Kristin.
“I will put in a good word for you at Aura.” Back to formality, his tone sounded tortured. “You can count on that.”
“I believe you,” she said.
“I’m sorry I have to go.” He looked toward the car. “Maybe someday I can tempt you away. To Scotland.” His tone was teasing, and the accent was there.
She smiled at him. Maybe if she were a different person, in a braver place, she would dare to follow him and kiss him again. Prolong their interlude that had felt so sweetly romantic and special.
But she wasn’t that fearless.
“Goodbye, George,” she whispered, touching his hand one last time.
“Kristin?” His voice caught.
“Yes?”
“I hope you find your castle.”
And then he was off, into the winter night, the snow swirling quietly in the lamplight.
