Chapter 2
2
Lachlan
The momentary surprise in her features quickly morphs into a ruddy sort of anger that pinkens her cheeks and makes her already prominent array of freckles all the more noticeable—her too-red mouth pursing and her titian brows knitting together as she clutches the black vase in her arms tighter.
“Excuse me?”
Bloody hell , I think. Of course.
“You heard me,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Did you not see the signs on the way here? Or maybe you reckoned they didn’t apply to you, aye?”
Her mouth parts, her ire briefly flickering with surprise before she straightens her shoulders. “I saw them.”
“And you…what? You thought you knew better? Typical American.”
“Hey! You don’t even know me. I was being careful!”
“You were two seconds away from busting your arse on the rocks.”
“I wasn’t— That’s not—”
Her cheeks heat further, and she actually stomps her foot at me, which might amuse me in other circumstances, but my eyes are too busy darting past her toward the rippling surface of the water with worry weighing heavily on my chest, looking for signs of movement.
“This isn’t a place for clumsy tourists,” I tell her. “Best you head back where you came from. There’s a nice gift shop in town.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and for the first time, I notice the sparkling green color of them, glinting in the sunlight—bright and viridescent—and paired with the fiery, wild curls whipping in the breeze, making her appear as if she was brought up here. She certainly doesn’t look like an American at first glance.
“I’m not clumsy ,” she huffs, interrupting my study of her. “And I’m not a tourist. I’m here visiting family.”
My brows shoot up.
Family?
I know everyone within fifty miles of here, and would certainly have remembered her had I met her before.
“Is that right? And who might that be?”
“ Not that it’s any of your business,” she tuts, “but I’m here to see my grandmother. Rhona MacKay.”
I bristle immediately upon hearing the name. My fists clench against my sides beneath my crossed arms, studying her in a new light. I can see the resemblance now, faintly—Rhona’s hair has long turned gray, but there’s a similarity in the shape of her eyes, her nose—even the curve of her mouth turned down in a frown is familiar.
I hear my da’s words drift through my thoughts like the whispers of an old ghost story, a warning that, until now, held no weight. A shiver runs down my spine, but I don’t let my wariness show. My entire life, I have been told to fear this woman, the one I didn’t know existed until just now—but she certainly doesn’t look like the end of the world as I know it.
“Is that right,” I mutter, hoping I look composed. “You’re a ways from the MacKay farm. You lost?”
“No, I’m not,” she huffs. “I was just going to…” Her lips squeeze together, and her hands press the black vase in her hands closer to her body. “It’s none of your business what I was doing, really.”
“Aye, I reckon you’re right,” I agree, “but again—someone had to keep you from falling on your arse.”
“I wasn’t going to fall on my—” She makes a frustrated sound, reaching to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Look. I just needed to see the cove, all right? It’s personal.”
“Personal,” I echo. “Right. Well, best move along now. The weather is supposed to turn.”
She peers up into the sun with a hand over her eyes, frowning. “It’s sunny out.”
“Welcome to Scotland,” I chuckle. “The weather has a mind of its own.”
“I still need to…” She looks out at the water, something in her expression that seems almost akin to sadness. “Whatever. I can do it later.” She casts a suspicious glance my way. “Is it really going to rain? Or are you just chasing me off?”
I shrug. “You’re welcome to sit here and find out.” I glance down at her tightly laced gutties, noting that they’d do her no good in the muck of a proper Scottish rain. “But since you aren’t even wearing a decent pair of wellies, you’d be more keen on help, I’ll bet. Once you’re knee-deep in mud, that is.”
She follows my gaze to her shoes, looking thrown for a second.
“Wellies are—”
“I know what wellies are,” she scoffs.
“Ah, so you’re not accidentally ignorant, but purposefully so?”
She tucks the vase into her side, throwing up her other hand. “Who the fuck even are you? The shore police?”
“Something like that,” I snort. I give her a mock bow, feeling fully amused now by her disdainful expression. It isn’t often I get to vex a MacKay. Especially one I’ve been taught to fear my entire life. “Lachlan Greer, at your service, princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” she huffs. “My name is Key.”
My brow arches. “Key? That’s your name?”
“Keyanna,” she amends, making a face. “But no one calls me that. Key is fine.”
“Key,” I try, deciding it suits her, for whatever reason. “Well, today is your lucky day.”
“Oh?” She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Why is that?”
“Because you’ve just found yourself an escort to the MacKay farm.”
“No offense, but I don’t need an escort.”
I step closer, her long body meaning that she doesn’t have to crane her neck too much to look up at me, but enough that it feels satisfying if only to get under her skin further.
“No offense,” I counter, “but it isn’t a request. This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”
“What,” she snorts, “are you going to tell me you own the place?”
My lips curl in a smirk. “Aye, lass. I do.”
For once, she remains blessedly quiet.
Key is pouting in the passenger seat of my old Land Rover, clutching that vase of hers tightly.
“I still don’t know why I couldn’t drive myself.”
I roll my eyes. “Did you not hear Hamish? You wore out the clutch on your poor motor. What were you even doing to it?”
“Driving it!” she answers exasperatedly. “I told the rental place I wasn’t good with a stick shift.”
“Well, that’s bloody obvious now.”
“At this point, I would have rather walked,” she mutters.
I chuff a laugh as I point out the windshield to the now-pouring rain beating against the car. “Would have had a bad time with that, I think.”
“Whatever.”
I sneak a glance at her while I continue down the path, having a hard time not noticing how stunning she is, if not loud and stubborn. She’s all long limbs and wild curls, and I try again to see Duncan in her, who I know from Hamish was her da. I was just a boy when he ran off to America, but I remember the story well. Just as I know all the stories of the MacKays.
“Your da,” I start. “Hamish said he passed?”
I notice even in my peripheral vision how much she tenses. “He did.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, not because I had any particular love for her father, but because it seems polite, at the very least. Plus, know thine enemy, and all that. “I was just a lad when he ran off, but I know your granny was torn up over it.”
And so was my da , I think bitterly.
She turns in her seat. “You were a kid when my dad left? Just how old are you?”
“Thirty-four,” I tell her, frowning. “I was only six when he left.”
“So you don’t remember him,” she says, an air of disappointment in her voice.
“Not really, no. He came back now and again, but I didn’t see much of him. Not before he stopped coming altogether.”
She turns her eyes down to her lap, frowning. For some reason, it makes me want to keep her talking.
“And how auld are you, then?”
“Twenty-seven,” she says.
“Practically a wean,” I chuckle.
“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles. “You’re not some old man.”
“I am in my bones, princess,” I say with another dry laugh. “Just ask anyone.”
It’s a joke for her benefit, but there’s truth in it too. Some days I feel…ancient. But that’s not exactly proper conversation between strangers.
“I said don’t call me that,” she grouses, which only makes me want to keep calling her that.
I point to the road stretching ahead. “The MacKay farm is just at the end of the way there.”
“Oh?” She sits up in her seat, and I catch sight of white teeth pressing against the red plush of her lower lip. “That one?”
She gestures to the sprawling white building with several smaller structures littered across the property.
“Aye,” I confirm. “That’s the one.”
She seems…nervous. More increasingly so by the second.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” she mumbles.
“A bad idea?”
“What if she won’t see me?”
I press on my brakes, turning in my seat with narrowed eyes. “Hold on. She doesn’t know you’re coming?”
“No,” Key tells me with a shake of her head. “It’s a…surprise.”
“Bloody hell,” I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Rhona doesn’t like surprises. You could have played this a lot smarter.”
“If you don’t stop insinuating that I’m stupid,” Key says with an icy tone, “then I’m going to punch you.”
“Is that right?” I can’t help the smirk that forms on my mouth. Now that I’ve met her, I can’t say that I’m all that scared of her, despite my father’s warnings . “I’d like to see that.” I poke at her arm. “These wee things could do damage, you think?”
“You’re an asshole,” she seethes. “How do you even know my grandmother doesn’t like surprises, huh? Better yet, why even offer to bring me here in the first place?”
“It was on the way,” I tell her with a shrug.
“On the way? What? Do you live nearby?”
I chuckle softly, shifting the Rover back in gear and continuing down the lane as the massive farmhouse grows nearer.
“No,” I tell her, shooting her a sly grin as I anticipate her flush and her look of shocked outrage. “I live here .”
?I grab one of Key’s bags as we come to a stop near the front door, pulling my jacket up over my head and pulling the piece of luggage out of the Rover before she can surely protest my help. The sooner I get her out of this rain, the sooner I can stop freezing my arse off. I hear her muted protests for only a second before I shut the door, and then she’s tumbling out the other side with her other bag in hand, shivering a little under the still-steady downpour.
I ignore the fleeting urge to offer her my jacket—the awning is right there after all—instead ushering her toward the front door and under the covered overhang that saves us from the worst of the onslaught. I watch her shudder beneath her thin sweater, and I frown despite myself, opening my mouth to say…something. What, I’m not sure.
The front door opens before I get the chance, and then Rhona MacKay herself is standing in the doorway, her gray braid hanging over one shoulder and her lined face offering an amused smile as she takes me in.
“There you are,” she says. “Thought you might drown in this weather. Look at you. You’re completely drookit.”
“Aye,” I offer, keeping my expression passive. “It’s a good one.” I gesture beside me at the still-shivering mess of wet red curls, watching Rhona’s gaze follow the motion. “Rhona, this is—”
Rhona sucks in a breath, and by the widening of her eyes, it’s clear she knows who Key is, although how, I can’t say. Her mouth parts in surprise as her hand reaches to press against her chest, and for a moment, there is nothing but the steady thumping of rain against the roof and all around us as no one says anything.
“Rhona,” Key tries, her voice sounding small. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Rhona says, her voice breathless but still carrying a slight edge. “And you shouldn’t have come.”
It’s none of my business, but I don’t miss the way Key visibly withers. In fact, it’s in my best interest to be involved with whatever is happening as little as possible, and yet…I can’t deny the fleeting urge to comfort Key as sadness colors her features.
I stamp it down quickly. She’s a MacKay, and a stranger at that.
I remind myself that Keyanna MacKay is no business of mine.