Chapter 13 #3
“That’s because you don’t have a beautiful woman feeling guilty enough to go with you,” Ian said, dropping down onto the floor near Jane. “Take advantage of it.”
Patrick looked at Madelyn. “Ian babbles. Now, have you given thought to your list? Perhaps we should see a few sights hereabout before we go get your passport.”
Had it suddenly gotten hot or was it humiliation burning through her that had made her begin to perspire?
“I chucked my list,” she said. “I probably should be getting home anyway.”
“Of course you shouldn’t,” Jane said. “You’re here. You should see the sights. Pat is a great tour guide.”
“He knows lots of interesting historical facts,” Ian said blandly. “If you can put up with his miserable personality long enough to get at them. And if you can get him to be silent about supposed historical inaccuracies the tour guides spout.”
Patrick glared at Ian and said something that had to have been uncomplimentary in Gaelic. Ian only laughed and turned to wink at Madelyn.
“He’s foul-humored, just as I said.”
Patrick rose. “I’ll go fetch the maps and we’ll make your list.”
“No, really,” Madelyn said, holding out her hand, “I couldn’t. You’ve all been so kind, and I just can’t impose—”
“It’s not an imposition,” Jane said.
Madelyn took a deep breath. “If I could just use the phone, I can get my parents to wire me some money—”
Patrick put his hand briefly on her head as he passed. “Jane has pen and paper somewhere. She’ll fetch that; I’ll fetch the maps.”
Madelyn wasn’t sure she wasn’t going to burst into tears again. As it was, she had to blink furiously for several moments to get herself back under control. Jane got up and went into the kitchen. Madelyn couldn’t even look at Ian.
“’Tis a hard thing,” he mused, “isn’t it?”
She looked at him. “What? Accepting charity?”
He smiled. She could see why Jane had fallen for him. Poor Hamish Fergusson. It was no wonder he was jealous.
“Aye,” he said simply. “I had to once and it fair killed me. But if it eases you any, Patrick can afford it. And I daresay he needs time with you as much as you need aid from him.”
“How do you figure?”
“A beautiful woman who doesn’t care about his bank account? What lad couldn’t use that?”
“I do care about his bank account. I don’t want to decimate it.”
Ian laughed. “Not to worry. He’ll survive whatever small dent you might make in it. Nay,” he said, shaking his head with a smile, “you’re the dose of sunshine he needs. Let him see to you for a few days. It will do him good to be unselfish for a change.”
“I couldn’t, really,” Madelyn said. “He’s done too much already.”
“Aye, and see what a fine humor it’s put him in,” Ian said. “Look how he smiles instead of scowls.”
Patrick threw a pillow at his cousin, then dropped down next to Madelyn on the floor. He accepted pen and paper from Jane on her way by, then looked at Madelyn expectantly.
“Well?”
She took a deep breath. “I can’t, really.”
“Then I’ll make your list for you.”
“Poor gel,” Ian said sympathetically.
“Fish hatchery,” Patrick said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Oil refinery. Waste treatment plant.”
“Oh, Patrick”—Jane laughed as she sat down next to her son—“choose some decent things for her to see. There is so much beauty here.”
“Aye, precisely as I’ve told her,” Patrick said. He looked at Madelyn. “Do you want the pen?”
She wasn’t sure what would be worse, watching Patrick make a list, or doing it herself. “I can’t,” she said seriously. “My flight home is on Sunday. I need to be doing business—”
“We’ll do all that,” Patrick assured her. “In good time. For now, make your list.”
“But—”
He held out a pen.
She looked at it.
He took her hand, put the pen into it, then closed her fingers around it. He didn’t release her hand.
“Make your list, Madelyn,” he said gently.
And just how was she to make a list when she couldn’t see the paper for the tears swimming in her eyes? “I suppose I could make a day’s worth,” she managed.
“Two weeks,” he countered.
She blinked. It helped clear away the tears. “Patrick, there’s no way—”
He took the pen back with a sigh. “I do know where all the industrial parks are, of course.”
“Pat, stop teasing,” Jane said. “Madelyn, think of your dream vacation. You don’t have to do everything.”
She hesitated. It was killing her to say no, killing her to say yes.
Patrick leaned close. That about killed her, too.
“Old, musty train museums,” he began.
“I like trains,” Ian protested.
Patrick shot him a look, then leaned closer. “A nine-hundred-year look at farming implements,” he whispered. “Very interesting. Very dusty. Very sharp.”
“Oh, good grief.” Jane laughed. “Madelyn, put him out of our misery.”
Maybe just for a day or two. A day or two in Patrick MacLeod’s company, seeing Scotland from his eyes.
A day or two looking into Patrick MacLeod’s eyes.
Could that be so bad?
He leaned even closer. “Ruins. Moldy old piles of stones coated with history. Crumbling stairs, weedy garden patches, monasteries full of ghosts.”
Madelyn shivered.
And it had nothing to do with ghosts.
“Aye, do the ruins,” Ian advised.“’Tis better that way, for you’ll have no guides to offend. As I said, historical inaccuracies get under his skin and he’s quite vocal about it.”
Patrick snorted. “I won’t get us tossed out.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ian noted. He looked at Madelyn. “Be forewarned.”
Patrick put his arm around her. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Now, pick out a castle or two for the day and we’ll be on our way. I promise to behave.” He looked at her and winked. “For the most part.”
A handful of days with nothing to do but watch him try to behave? A handful of days alone with him, looking at castles, gardens, and ruins, and trying very hard not to fall helplessly into those emerald pools he had for eyes?
Heaven help her, she was in trouble.