Chapter 15 #2
She paused and looked at the front door. It was a rustic bit of wood that looked as if it was centuries old. How many people had knocked on it? she wondered. What had they worn, what had they eaten, what had they sat on when they were welcomed into the front room?
Hopefully more than was there, she decided as she walked into the house. Patrick needed to get some furniture. How long had he been sitting on this pitiful stool in front of the fire? It was something even Cinderella probably would have objected to.
Maybe the kitchen needed cleaning. She flipped on the light and looked inside the room. He had a stove reminiscent of Ian’s, but this one was not new. There were worn cabinets, a large farmhouse type of sink, and a small refrigerator. She walked across the stone floor and opened the fridge.
Nothing inside.
Either he was good at finishing his leftovers, or he didn’t eat here much. She shut the door. The same loaf of moldy bread sat on the counter, but she left it alone. Maybe he was working on a science experiment.
She stood back and surveyed his culinary domain. It wasn’t pretty. It had none of the warmth of Jane’s kitchen. Maybe it just lacked a family to give it warmth.
Well, that and food, a table, and some dishes.
For a moment, she had a vision of a family in the room, children laughing, two parents watching over their brood with tenderness and affection.
She was one of those parents.
Patrick was the other.
“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. She really had to get a grip on her rampaging hormones. She turned around and walked away before she really lost her mind.
She found herself quite without warning standing at the entrance to Patrick’s bedroom. She flipped on the bare bulb overhead and stared at the armoire.
Sword or no sword?
Only one way to find out.
She opened the armoire and looked inside.
No sword.
She wasn’t surprised. It was probably hiding with Ian’s at Ian’s house. She reached out to touch the very old-looking plaid blanket.
Bagpipes started up in the distance.
She jumped back, shut the armoire door, and rubbed her arms.
“All right, this is just too creepy,” she said to no one in particular. It was no doubt what she deserved for poking around in a place she shouldn’t be.
She left Patrick’s room and made her way out the back door.
The pipes were coming from the top of the hill. She started across the enormous backyard, climbed gingerly over the low rock wall, and started up the hill before she thought to check on either the condition of her tailbone or her position on the map.
Patrick’s hill was reassuringly free of red dots and a careful wiggle showed her tailbone to be in remarkably good working order. She paused and listened. The music was still there. Well, whoever it was had better be prepared to be kicked off the hill. Patrick couldn’t be happy about trespassers.
She managed to hike up to the summit with only a minor amount of grunting.
The music grew louder. She stopped and stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets.
It was cold and there was a breeze. Maybe she was crazy to be outside.
After all, who cared if someone wanted to play the bagpipes on Patrick’s hill?
There’d been a guy who’d done the same in an empty lot near her house while she’d been growing up, and she’d never felt the need to make him stop.
She rubbed her eyes. And when she stopped, she saw him.
He was maybe a hundred feet away, playing with complete calm, apparently unconcerned that she was watching him, or that he might be loitering on private property.
Where had he come from so quickly?
As she looked at him, she noticed something else.
His kilt wasn’t moving with the breeze.
She thought about that while she stood there and listened to what sounded like some kind of lament.
The song ended.
The man looked at her, made her a low bow, then smiled.
Right before he disappeared.
Her jaw fell down. She knew this because she’d fallen asleep sitting up many times in law school and there was nothing quite like the feeling of your jaw sliding south and you being too exhausted to retrieve it.
“Spooky, aye?”
She screamed bloody murder—well, not those words, but it was a scream worthy of any B movie horror heroine. She whipped around, wishing she had some kind of weapon, only to find the young Himself standing behind her, looking surprised.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You ... you . . . you . . .”
“I thought you heard me come up the hill,” Patrick said. He smiled. “In truth. But that was very impressive.”
She couldn’t seem to form words, so she stopped trying. She pointed back over her shoulder.
“Aye, he’s good, isn’t he?” Patrick asked.
“Ba-ba-ba,” she managed.
“Bagpipes,” he agreed. “Very difficult to play well.”
“Ahhh . . .”
“He must like you. I’ve never seen him play for anyone else. Then again, you heard him at Culloden, didn’t you?”
She closed her mouth and nodded.
“He’s a ghost, I fear.”
“I don’t believe—”
“After what you’ve just seen?”
“I don’t,” she said, taking a deep breath, “believe in ghosts.”
Though at the moment, she wasn’t so sure of herself. In fact, she wasn’t sure of anything.
Patrick stood there, the only thing solid and real in a world that was full of things she’d never expected. It was all she could do not to reach out and take hold of him so she could steady herself until everything around her stopped swirling.
On second thought, that was a damned good idea. She flung herself at him with enthusiasm.
He caught her without so much as a grunt of protest.
His arms went around her, safe, strong arms that seemed to block out all the things she couldn’t explain, all the idiomatic phrases she couldn’t translate, all the really lousy things that had happened to her over the past week or so.
He pulled the ponytail holder from her hair and began to comb through her hair with his fingers.
She wondered if his strength and stamina were up to standing where they were and continuing that activity for the rest of the day.
It didn’t take her long, however, to realize that while he might have been good for the day, she wasn’t. Her tailbone was quite a bit better, but it wasn’t perfect. Maybe that scream had done more damage than she’d thought. She sighed as she pulled back to look up at him.
“Highland magic?” she asked.
“Aye, I fear it is.”
She looked back to where she’d just seen something she couldn’t believe she’d just seen, then looked at Patrick.
“This is not on my list.”
He laughed. “No doubt.”
Neither are you
, she almost said, but restrained herself.
“I was going to suggest we go for a drive,” Patrick said, “but the places I intended to go aren’t much freer of ghosts than my hill.”
“And what spooky places do you have in mind?”
“Loch Ness.”
She nodded. “Monsters are good.”
“We can continue down the inland coast, if you like.’Tis a beautiful drive.”
“Is it possible that the only music we might hear is from the CD player in your car?”
“We can hope.”
“Then it works for me. Let’s go.” She looked behind her just to make sure there hadn’t been any reappearance of that figment of her imagination. The hillside was free of anything scary. She turned back around only to find Patrick holding out his hand.
And for some reason, the sight of it caught her in a most unexpected manner.
In the vicinity of her heart.
“Shall we?” he asked with a smile.
For the first time in her life, she lost her heart.
It didn’t hurt nearly as badly as she’d thought it might.
So she put her hand in Patrick’s.
Bagpipes started up in the distance.
“Someone approves,” Patrick said dryly. “Maybe he won’t follow us.” He led her carefully down the hill. “You’ll like the drive,” he promised. “Beautiful. Many interesting sights. Probably something already on your list.”
Her list, yes, her list. She’d have to get to making it again right away. It would take her mind off the incredible sense of déjà vu she had just holding Patrick MacLeod’s hand.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Scotland was full of so many things she hadn’t expected.