Chapter 16 #3
Another thought occurred to him suddenly. If he had a hangover dire enough, perhaps Sunshine Phillips wouldn’t slam the door in his face when he came begging for a cure. He hadn’t seen her in a week; perhaps she would have forgotten her loathing of him in that time.
There was only one way to find out.
Cameron woke to the sound of a gunshot.
He sat bolt upright, then found hot pokers plunged straight into his eyes. He fell backward with a cry and dragged covers over his head.
The sheet was ripped away. “Get up, you fool.”
He pulled his pillow over his face. It was Penelope.
The gunshot noise had been her snapping the drapes open and the pain in his eyes was the bloody sun itself.
Damn it, when would the concierge stop letting her into his room?
She was not what he wanted to wake up to first thing in the morning—especially when he wasn’t quite sure where he was or how he’d gotten there.
He lifted his pillow slightly and was vastly relieved to find that he was alone in his bed.
He really shouldn’t drink.
Penelope jerked his pillow out of his hands. “Sit up and be a man.”
He threw his arm over his eyes to try to save himself the pain of sunlight stabbing into his brain like very large swords.
“I’m indisposed,” he mumbled.
“You’re still wearing your shoes,” she said in disgust. “What were you thinking?”
And just how the hell was he supposed to tell her that?
Apparently an answer was not what she wanted. “Go shower,” she commanded. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
That was enough to sober him abruptly. “You’ll wait?” He sat up and peered at her. “Why?”
Her mouth fell open. “You didn’t forget brunch with Lord and Lady Huntingdon.”
He couldn’t muster up a decent reply. He was, quite obviously, not at his best. Brunch. Who had thought up that stupid, bloody, inconvenient word?
She glared at him. “I can’t believe you would sink this low. The Huntingdons, Mac! I’ll never be able to show my face again at any party in town if you don’t show up—sober—and be charming.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’ve a bloody hangover!”
He rubbed his hands over his face. “Hell.”
She stalked across the room. “I’ll have coffee sent up.”
Cameron dragged himself out of bed, then realized that he was not only wearing his shoes but the rest of his clothes as well. Only his suit coat was missing and he found it hanging on the back of a chair across the room. He vowed to cut George’s pay as soon as was convenient.
He showered and dressed, threw his clothes in a suitcase, then fetched his papers out of the safe.
He staggered downstairs in twenty minutes, which seemed to mollify Penelope somewhat.
He escorted her out to the waiting car, then opened the door for her.
He shut the door so she wouldn’t hear anything he said, then handed George his suitcase and his briefcase.
“I don’t care about the clothes,” he said pointedly.
George nodded. “I understand.”
“I’m demoting you,” Cameron grumbled. “Couldn’t you have at least taken off my shoes?”
“I tried, but you wouldn’t let me,” George said. “You said the path through the MacLeod forest hurt your feet.”
Cameron gaped at him. “I said what?”
“Apparently you have tender feet.”
Cameron, ride for the MacLeod witch.
The words came out of nowhere and slammed into him with the force of a dozen fists. He put his hands on the car and leaned against it heavily as he struggled to remember who had said that.
Giric. Giric who had been standing with him as Breac lay dying at his feet. Giric who had suggested that he fetch the MacLeod witch because there wasn’t anyone else within a hundred leagues who could save his brother. He remembered getting on his horse, but he didn’t remember anything after that.
He had difficulty catching his breath. Had he actually gone to the MacLeod forest? Was it there that he had somehow fallen into the twentieth century?
The thought was astonishing.
He breathed raggedly. The pain that screamed through his head was almost enough to bring him to his knees—and it wasn’t the pain of a hangover.
“My lord?”
“I was sloshed last night,” Cameron managed.
“Completely, my lord.”
He heard George shut his things in the trunk, then felt his chauffeur’s hand on his arm.
“Lord Robert?”
“I’m fine,” Cameron said, through gritted teeth. “Just a headache.”
“If you say so, my lord. Here, I’ve opened the door for you.”
Cameron felt his way down into the backseat.
Cameron, ride for the MacLeod witch.
He had to roll down the window and gulp in several deep breaths of unpleasant London air until he felt slightly better.
By the saints, where was that coming from?
The words echoed in his head, drowning out even Penelope’s blethering on about the various fine qualities of the Huntingdons and their even more numerous antiquities.
He knew he should have been paying attention at least to the latter, but he couldn’t.
All he could do was breathe and hope he didn’t start to weep soon.
What he endured presently was far worse than the headache he’d had in Patrick MacLeod’s front courtyard.
At least then he’d had Sunshine Phillips to help him with her soft hands and marvelous brews.
Perhaps if he could get himself all the way to her front door and look pathetic enough, she might actually help him again.
Perhaps he would hurry back to Scotland after what he was certain would be an endless brunch, have a little ride south, and see if anyone was home at Mistress Phillips’s house. A simple knock on her door, a cup of tea at her hearth, a little conversation. How much damage could that possibly do?
He was surprised by how just the thought of seeing her again made the pain in his head—and his heart—ease.
He was very surprised, indeed.