Chapter 8 #2
“Patty, my lad,” Roddy said, coming into the hallway, “what brings you down from yon mountain? Or should I guess?”
Roddy was his nephew—by way of a very convoluted family tree.
It fascinated Roddy to no end, the twistings and turnings of that formidable conifer.
Patrick shared his fascination, but it wasn’t for a genealogical discussion that he sought Roddy out at present.
He nodded his head down the hallway. “Who’s the fiddler? ”
“Miss Madelyn. A right proper one, isn’t she?”
“She’s here?” Patrick frowned. “Then where is her car?”
Roddy winced. “A bit of trouble with finances, or so the car company said when they came to collect it early this morning.”
“Well, she certainly doesn’t dress the part of the idle rich.”
“Those were Miriam’s,” Roddy said with a twinkle in his eye. “Her mother’s leftovers. She fished them out of the attic when Miss Madelyn’s suitcase was stolen.”
“Stolen?” Patrick echoed. “Here?”
“If you can believe it.”
“No word of it?”
“None.”
Patrick stroked his chin again. Granted, the village had its share of trouble, but it was very difficult to steal a tourist’s suitcase and not have someone catch wind of the deed and immediately tell anyone who would listen.
There was more to it than a simple theft. “Has she paid you for her lodging?”
“Mr. Taylor paid for hers originally, or so I understood. But of course he then took the reservation himself. I wasn’t going to charge her, seeing as how she lost her lodging through subterfuge.”
Patrick considered. Madelyn certainly didn’t look like she was down on her luck.
She was an attorney, for pity’s sake. Surely she made enough and squandered little enough that she could afford a few days in Scotland.
It wasn’t as if Roddy’s was some high-priced five-star hotel in London’s theater district.
But having her car repossessed? There was something foul afoot there. He looked at Roddy.
“Does she know her car is gone?”
“I didn’t have the heart to tell her yet.”
“Where’s Taylor?”
“Still asleep.”
“Convenient.”
“Aye, I thought so, too.”
Patrick wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but it was hard to avoid here.
“Roddy, mate, let me use your phone,” Patrick said. He obtained the rental car company’s name from Roddy and the number from the operator.
In less than ten minutes, he had the entire story. He hadn’t been able to get her a new car, but he had been able to get her a refund to be sent to the States. It wasn’t ideal, but it had been the best he could do without driving down and personally putting pressure on the players involved.
Patrick looked at Roddy. “Apparently, Taylor called and told them her credit card was no good.”
“Bloody wretch,” Roddy said. “Can he do that?”
“Apparently he did. Perhaps he has friends.”
“Difficult to believe.”
“Hmmm,” Patrick agreed. “So, what of Madelyn? Is she walking yet?”
“Not today. But tomorrow, aye. She vows to sightsee if it kills her.”
“Don’t tell her of the car. I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“You could loan her one of yours.”
Patrick shuddered. “My altruism stops at the door to my garage. Besides, all I have left is the Range Rover and the Bentley. I’ve seen how she drives.”
“How?” Roddy asked with a smile. “Slowly, or just poorly?”
“Slowly. I’m just certain it would be bad for the engines.”
“Hrumph,” Roddy said.
“Think about how the Bullet fared,” Patrick said. “That should tell you something.”
Roddy smiled. “He found his way home all right. My thanks for putting his tack up. I did notice what Miriam sent along as lunch had mysteriously disappeared from the saddle-bags.”
“No sense in letting a good meal go to waste.”
Roddy laughed. “Aye, well, she’ll be very flattered you felt the need to poach her goods.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’d best go help with breakfast. Do you care to stay?”
“Of course, especially since my other choice is to either go home, or go to Moraig’s and endure yet another lecture on the beauties of entangling myself with a certain Yank.”
“You could do worse.”
“I’ve no intention to ‘do’ at all.”
Roddy clapped him on the shoulder. “She seems a fine lass, Patty. Miriam likes her. Best be saying good things about the girl if you’ve a care for your tummy.”
Patrick bowed. “If that’s the case, then nary a slight will pass my lips. Can I help?”
“Go sit. Enjoy the music. She’ll quit once Mr. Taylor comes out.”
“Has he no stomach for it?”
“None. The great idiot,” Roddy muttered as he walked away.
Patrick retreated to the lounge, sat in Roddy’s most comfortable chair, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep.
He dreamed of clan wars, of bloodshed and strife. He tramped over blood-soaked fields, fought until he could scarce lift his sword, hid in trees as an overpowering enemy passed by underneath. And through it all, music washed over him, bathed his soul in a feeling he couldn’t quite identify.
Not terror.
Not despair.
He listened more closely. The melody was mournful, full of longing and unfulfilled dreams. Yet underneath, like a swiftly running brook, there bubbled up something that made him want to press on.
It was—
“Oh, no. You again. Don’t you have some kind of menial labor to perform?”
Patrick decided he really should tell Madelyn how fortunate she’d been not to have to wake up to that voice every morning. He didn’t bother to open his eyes.
“Did it all already,” he said.
“Perhaps you should get your filthy jeans off the proprietor’s good furniture.”
Patrick opened his eyes slowly. “Perhaps you should find out whom you’re speaking to before you overstep your bounds.”
Taylor snorted. “Don’t need the name of a common laborer.”
“I am Patrick MacLeod, Lord of Benmore. You may call me Lord Patrick.”
Taylor opened his mouth to speak, but was saved by Roddy coming in to deliver the call to breakfast. Taylor looked down at Patrick.
“Lord or not, you’ll never have her.”
Patrick lifted one eyebrow. “I imagine that really isn’t your determination to make. The lady may have something to say about it.”
“Not while I’m around, she won’t.” He bent close to Patrick. “Back off, Scotty. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“Ach, no bloodshed,” Roddy said nervously. “Mr. Taylor, your food grows cold.”
Taylor straightened, straightened his clothes with a pair of sharp tugs, then marched into the dining room. Roddy looked at Patrick.
“He’s a complete arse,” he said in Gaelic.
“I could not have put it more truthfully myself.” Patrick clapped his hands on his thighs. “Lead on, nephew. Not even sourness of that magnitude can ruin your lady wife’s cooking.”
“She’ll be pleased to hear it.”
Patrick followed Roddy out of the lounge and indulged in a brief regret that he didn’t live in another time when he could have tossed Taylor in his brother’s dungeon and left him there to rot for a few months.
If nothing else, it would have spared the souls around Taylor the misery of his company.
Patrick wondered how Madelyn had borne him even for a short time.
He paused outside the dining room to listen to Madelyn’s final notes. He tried to find the feeling he’d almost identified.
But it was gone.
Perhaps he would ask her to play for him, sometime when she had peace and quiet and no one to judge her harshly. Perhaps then he would be able to identify what it was she stirred in him.
It was, he decided slowly, something quite sweet.
Something worth investigating further.
Something, he feared, that might involve entangling himself with a certain Yank, just as Moraig had suggested that he do for almost the whole of the previous afternoon. It was amazing how many suggestions an old woman could bludgeon a man with whilst he was about chopping wood for her fire.
It wasn’t something he was sure he could do with any success.
Involve himself with Madelyn, that is, not chop wood.
He clapped his hand to his head before he drove himself mad with his own ridiculous thoughts, took a deep breath, and went in to breakfast.