Chapter 5
Madelyn
thought her slide into ignominity had stopped. She thought the list of indignities visited upon her innocent—all right, so she had crushed a few paralegals under her spiked heels, so she wasn’t all that lily white—her mostly innocent person had ceased.
Apparently not.
And that had everything to do with the pile of clothing on her bed.
As she stared at it, her mind drifted back to the evening before.
She’d returned to Roddy’s inn after a successful completion of her day’s list. There had been that horrible business with Mr. Rude at Culloden’s field, but she’d shucked off that slight with the same alacrity she had her trashed nylons.
She had proceeded with her sightseeing sans hose and sans any unwholesome and unwelcome entanglements with men who obviously were better left in her delusions.
She put her hand to her cheek, sure she’d find some sort of residual burning from the embarrassment she’d felt the day before. Had she actually babbled words to the effect that she was his soul mate and he’d better get with the program?
She honestly hoped that he’d been telling the truth when he’d said he hadn’t heard her.
She’d quickly gotten over that humiliating moment and moved on. Eventually she’d moved on back to the inn to face an irate Bentley, who’d demanded to know where she’d been and why she hadn’t followed their itinerary. It had been almost enough to convince her to give up list-making for good.
She had left him frothing at the mouth in the foyer and retreated to her room to contemplate her next move, when she’d stumbled upon the gifts left for her.
She’d shared the bed with the pile the night before, simply because she’d been too tired to do anything but lie down next to it and succumb to slumber.
In the daylight, though, she had the coherence and leisure to look at the clothing.
She wasn’t quite sure just how she should go about being grateful.
She’d pulled enough money out of her stash the day before to buy several pairs of panties and a toothbrush, but she hadn’t dared do more than that.
She still had thirteen days in Scotland, and she would have to eat at some point during them.
She’d been prepared to make do with fresh underwear, no nylons, and her black suit.
But now she wouldn’t have to. She searched through the things Roddy’s wife had apparently pulled out of the attic.
They were fifties vintage—Miriam MacLeod’s mother’s gear apparently—and sported the colors associated with that era: lime, bright yellow, orange, hot pink.
It was Gidget, only she wasn’t going to look nearly so cute.
She was sure the shirts would barely reach her navel and the pants would look like capris—and that was assuming she could get them past her thighs and bum.
Sightseeing in floods and expensive black shoes.
She would look like a dork, but she had honestly never been more grateful for anything in her life.
Forty-five minutes later she was ready for the day.
She emerged from her room dressed in short, tight, plaid orange pants and a matching orange shirt.
She’d also found a white sweater (also too small) in the pile.
That and her black shoes certainly completed the outfit.
She’d pinned her hair up in her power chignon just to give herself courage.
“Good heavens, what are you wearing?”
Madelyn’s hair stood on end, even through her clip.
Had she ever found that voice pleasing? Unfortunately, she could remember all too well when.
She’d found it appealing up until the moment he’d called her on the phone to dump her.
She scowled. One floor away in their building and he couldn’t be bothered to take the elevator down to deliver his happy news in person.
Typical.
Madelyn turned and glared at him. “I’m wearing gifts from my gracious host. Gifts, I might add, that are meant to replace my wardrobe that you, one, made me buy; and, two, stole from me and disposed of in some Scottish landfill.”
That he didn’t immediately fall to the floor and begin to writhe as he screamed his favorite pep squad cheer “libel, slander, sue, sue, sue” told her all she needed to know about his illegal activities two nights prior.
She gave him her most formidable look of disgust and continued on her way to the dining room.
She hadn’t had money for dinner the night before.
It was in her best interest to tank up while she could.
She quickly put her bag on the seat next to her.
No sense in giving Bentley anywhere to sit.
“Good morning to you, Miss Phillips,” said Roddy MacLeod, coming in with a smile. “Ready for a bit of something strengthening?”
“Just a bit, though,” Bentley said, sliding into the seat across from her. “She’s busting out of her seams already.”
Madelyn didn’t bother to reply. Instead she smiled at a very uncomfortable-looking Roddy. “He gets like that when he hasn’t had enough partially hydrogenated oil. And yes, I’d love something strengthening.”
“A small portion—”
“Shut up, Bentley.”
He looked perplexed. It was the look he customarily wore when anyone of the fairer sex put up any kind of show of spine.
He didn’t wear it very often because usually any and all women in his general vicinity were too busy being mesmerized by his stench of power and the few, perfectly proportioned freckles dusted across his nose to notice they were being patronized.
She shook her head in amazement that she’d ever been one of them.
Dazzled by dermatological phenomena. Pathetic.
“So,” Bentley began slowly, lifting his fork and looking for all the world as if he was merely admiring its construction, “what are our plans for the day?”
She wasn’t fooled. She’d seen him pull the same thing in court a million times with whatever prosecution exhibit was handy. Distract, then broadside was his motto. “They aren’t our plans, Bentley, they’re my plans, and I don’t want you mucking them up.”
“Unkind, Madelyn,” he said, shaking his head sadly.
“And canceling our wedding six weeks before the fact wasn’t?”
“We’ve been over this before. We weren’t right for each other. At least,” he said, pausing dramatically and waiting for her to look up and make sure he was still breathing, “at least that was what I once thought.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “Bentley, you jackass, you’re engaged!”
“That’s true, technically—”
“Technically?” she echoed. It was no wonder he’d been able to jilt her so easily between his 10:30 and his 10:45. She gratefully accepted a hearty bowl of porridge from Roddy. “Thank you.”
“More to come,” he assured her. He disappeared back the way he had come.
“Your travels would be more comfortable with me,” Bentley said. “And then we could talk.”
“Don’t want your money,” she said around her spoon. “Don’t want to talk.”
“You were certainly willing to talk about taking my money to get here.”
“It was a fully negotiated trade for unrefundable wedding expenses and you know it.”
“But you never would have gotten here without me.”
“Untrue. I’ve wanted to see Scotland for years.”
“So you used me as your ticket here—”
And he called her argumentative? There was no point in trying to discuss anything with him.
Besides, he had a point about the fact that she probably wouldn’t have gotten to Scotland on her own, but it wouldn’t have been for a lack of funds.
Cheap, though, would have been the order of the day given the balance on her school loans.
She was good at cheap. Her parents had taken their summers each year in a different country, to polish their language skills of course, and they’d taught her well how to get along with little money.
No, it wasn’t about money. She liked to think it had been because she’d romanticized Scotland so much that seeing it alone would have been unthinkable.
Or perhaps it was just that she hadn’t been willing to take the time away from her career.
She had been pretty obsessed with clawing her way to the top.
Maybe she should be thanking Bentley for relieving her of that opportunity.
But grateful or not, she wasn’t about to let him tag along with her.
He was still Bentley after all. And if she hadn’t known better, she would have suspected he wanted to either get back together with her or fling with her while in Scotland.
With both alternatives leaving her wanting to go shower, she put her head down and plowed through breakfast, ignoring all Bentley’s attempts at further conversation.
When she’d finished, she rose. Bentley didn’t try to stop her. Counting that as an auspicious sign, she gathered up her gear for the day, made certain her violin was still resting safely under her bed, then walked outside to the car park. Still Bentley didn’t follow her.
She rounded the corner of the house.
And came face-to-face with the reason why.
He’d blocked her car with his. Not blocked, pinned. Trapped. Boxed in so there was no hope of escape.
Damn him anyway. She marched back into the house. Bentley was leaning negligently against Roddy’s little reception desk.
“Shall we go?” he asked smoothly.
“Go to hell,” she said angrily. “But let me out first.”
“I would be remiss in my duties as your almost husband if I didn’t see you properly escorted on this trip—”
“Move your car.”
He merely stared at her blandly. “No.”