Chapter 15 Katie
Chapter 15 Katie
My phone was exploding.
And I was stuck inside an Edwardian-era swimsuit with no hope of escape.
It had been interesting enough to put on the worsted wool serge suit (say that three times fast) when dry, but now that the
outfit pressed damp against my body, un-sausaging myself while my phone kept buzzing about a certain emergency left me tangled
with my arms stuck over my head, my belly in view, and my lower cello still covered with “ruffled bloomers.”
No way was I calling for help.
There were some images no one needed to get stuck in their minds.
Me as a headless Edwardian belly dancer was one of them.
At least the beach outing had been relatively trouble-free, except for the instance when Miss Lennox fell out of the bathing
machine (read changing room on wheels) into the cool loch water, garnering plenty of attention and a rescue by Logan.
She seemed a little disgruntled that Mr. Logan hadn’t attempted CPR on her.
From the way she was clutching his shirt while “unconscious,” he may have thought she hoped to give him CPR. I feel certain all sorts of Edwardian etiquette was broken when Miss Lennox’s strength proved greater than Mr. Logan’s
resistance and mouth-to-mouth took on a little less life-saving quality and a little more scandal.
My phone buzzed again, and I suddenly envisioned poor Emily finding my tangled dead body already mummified inside the vintage swimsuit.
Lord, help me.
With another tug and a pulled muscle, the cloth freed me and I sighed down on my bed. Worsted wool serge, indeed!
While sliding into some blessed dry, though still Edwardian, clothes, I reached for my phone. Ten messages popped up on the
screen. Most from my mom.
My stomach tensed.
Oh no! Who was hurt? Dad? Brett?
Mom: Katherine, I cannot believe you’d attack another person! I was sure you’d grown out of your volatile teenage phase.
What?
Mom: I just can’t believe it. For all the world to see! I knew all along traveling all the time couldn’t be good for you and your
mental health.
Where was this coming from? I never hurt anyone—at least on purpose.
Mom: All the ladies at the club are appalled. I’m horrified. How am I going to explain this one?
Brett: Hey, sis. Looks like you’ve got an online enemy among your ranks.
Dave: Are you okay? This isn’t your usual way to get viewers!
Brett: Here’s the link.
I clicked on the link just as another text came through from Mom.
Mom: Is there a way you can get those photos and the article removed? It doesn’t look good, Katherine. Everyone loses their temper
sometimes, but as I’ve told you on several occasions, living in the spotlight places you in a vulnerable situation. You have
to be aware of how you present yourself even more. I’m sure you’ll clear this up.
Article?
I closed out the texts and opened the link. A photo filled up my screen of the waltzing lesson from the day before when I
was reaching down to help keep Miss Dupont from falling, but someone had taken the shot and put a very different spin on it.
The headline of the post read: “Miss Adventure Turns Nasty.”
I skimmed over the article. Someone had spun the lie that I’d gotten jealous of the other guests and started a fight. Another photo from the tennis lesson, with
Graeme holding his eyes right after I’d hit him with the tennis ball, read: “The true colors of Miss Adventure shine during
competition. She may smile on the screen, but she’s seething beneath the surface, waiting for the opportunity to strike.”
Other photos from different moments over the last few days had been twisted to suggest sabotage of other people’s clothing,
tripping Mr. Logan (with a photo of him at the dining table after the big spill), and stealing food.
Stealing food? I mean, that’s the only believable one, but still!
Only one person would do such a thing. Someone inside Craighill. Someone with online connections, plus a bone to pick with
me.
I growled and nearly threw my phone. Mark!
I immediately sent off two quick messages to Dave and Brett to provide some clarity, but I paused before responding to Mom.
Appearances were everything to her. Presenting as fine and perfect was everything. She didn’t ask if the information was true. She didn’t ask for clarification. She just wanted me to fix it, because it all boiled down to how it made her look in front of her country club friends and the ladies at church.
I pinched my eyes closed against the pain of another conversation about “appearances.” My life-in-accidents stood in stark
contrast to her pristine world—another reason I never lived up to my sister’s perfect reputation. I was too painfully authentic,
whether I meant to be or not. The longer I stayed away from home, the more I saw how toxic her mindset was. How debilitating
to relationships, especially for those closest to her.
I should have been used to it after years of never measuring up to Sarah’s ghost, but it still stung. It was so easy to make
a memory into a saint. As the only other girl in the family, the comparisons fell on me.
Fury wound its way through my chest, but the hurt ached even deeper. Hurt that she’d jumped to the wrong conclusions. That
she automatically believed the lie.
I placed the phone down and took a deep breath. I couldn’t change her.
The phrase pinged in my mind. I couldn’t change her.
God knew I’d tried. Brett too. Even Dad, when I was younger.
But her mind was too mixed up in how she and her family were perceived. And then, after Sarah died, we all walked around on
eggshells, waiting for Mom’s outbursts, trying to dodge them, hoping her sudden reactions didn’t land on us. And then we all
started avoiding her. Dad stayed at the office. Chase and Brett joined sports and then went off to college. I ran away. First
to my grandparents and then... around the world.
It would have been simple to blame her reactions on the death of her child, but the unpredictability was there before Sarah died. Death just made things much worse. A few of us suggested she seek professional help, but she said the problem wasn’t her. It was everyone else.
The weight of it pressed on me.
My gaze flew to the cloudy sky out my window, searching, pleading. What was I supposed to do?
And then, the mantra I’d repeated to myself for years hinged into place with a different click.
I couldn’t change her.
And then, I couldn’t change her.
My breath burst from me like a hit to the stomach.
It wasn’t my responsibility. A knot in my chest began to unravel.
It wasn’t my fault .
And it wasn’t something I had the power to control.
I pulled up her text and steadied my mind. Keep the response simple, and say more when you’ve had time to think.
Me: The information is false. I’m working on fixing it, but keep in mind that people can say whatever they want online and I
have no control over it. Traveling is not the problem—a jealous writer is. I’ll send more later.
I reread the post and made some mental notes before grabbing my Edwardian boots and hat and dashing from the room, braiding
my damp hair as I went.
I refused to count how many times I almost fell on the way downstairs toward the back garden. Thankfully, I found Mark on
his way to the back lawn for our archery lessons and pulled him into the library.
“Why are you such a jerk?” I pressed the corner of my phone into Mark’s chest so effectively, he stumbled a step back.
“Jerk?” The guilty look on his face negated his defensive raised-palm posture. “That’s not a very nice way to say good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, my eye!” I turned my phone around so he could see the screen where the article glared its full and horrible
headline. “You know as well as I that I was trying to keep Miss Dupont from falling, not knock her down because I was”—I looked
down at the text and quoted—”‘jealous of the attention being bestowed upon the other media guests in the house.’”
He skimmed over the screen as if he’d never seen the words before. “That’s not a good look for you, Katie. It could really
hurt your ratings.”
After controlling the urge to slap him, I almost corrected him to say that any news increases visibility, but since he didn’t
take the time to learn the ins and outs of social media, why try educating him now? “Ohhh!” The word emerged like a fighting
roar. Would Mr. Lennox loan Monty the Python to me for just a few minutes? Just a few. “I cannot believe you’d stoop this
low. This is like something a third grader would do to cheat in a schoolyard game. Not a grown man.”
His jaw tensed, but he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know why you’re blaming me. Anyone from the house could have posted
that.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt my head. “Mark, everyone else is in the photo. And you were standing at the perfect angle to take it.” I scrolled down and showed him the photo from the lawn
tennis match—a photo of Graeme holding his eye after I’d accidentally hit him with the ball. “And you know this was an accident. Everyone knows this was an accident. You are aware these links can be traced, right?”
His face paled. Got him!
“You accused me of some pretty rotten things, Mark.” I shoved my phone in my pocket. “And the only reason you could have done
so was for the Vision Award. You slandered me because of an award!”
He folded his arms across his chest and looked away like the stubborn child he was.
He had no defense. I shook my head and stepped back. “News flash—you didn’t just slander me, but there are several instances where you imply that Mrs. Lennox is not managing her business as she should and that the Edwardian Experience isn’t fair or safe.”
The arrogance on his face melted.
“How stupid was that, right?” I backed away from him. “Here you are, up for a prestigious award for your content, and you
let a bout of jealousy strip you of one of the things that put you in the finalist category to begin with—your professional
integrity.”
With another glare, I marched around him—as best I could in my “sports skirt” and heels—and entered the back lawn. I’d had
bad things written about me before, so this wasn’t a first, but those negatives always seemed to weigh heavier than the hundreds
of positives out there.
And it just stung a little more from someone I actually knew.
Even if that someone was Mark.
Dave’s text oozed with his usual balanced approach, offering some suggestions to help curb the spread through a clarification
post and video. Which I would do after archery. Brett’s text only wanted to make me aware of it... and praise the fact
it was creating such visibility. The man really was the most optimistic optimist in the whole world.
Mom hadn’t responded.
No surprise. She said her piece, dropped her bomb, and waited for her offspring to respond with dutiful obedience to her demands.
Lord Wake and Lady Lennox were already in position with bows when I arrived in the garden, with Mr. Logan and Miss Dupont
having some sort of side discussion over one of the arrows, it seemed. Graeme hadn’t joined everyone for the beach trip, but
evidently he’d been asked to assist with archery.
Um... and then I immediately wondered what he’d look like in swimming attire, Edwardian or not. Heat shimmied up my neck
like the teenager my hormones wanted to be, and my attention focused on his well-suited self. It was enough to almost distract
me from my frustration.
Almost.
But not enough to stop my forward momentum toward a physical release of my ire. I slipped on my glove and bracer I’d packed for the trip, then snatched a bow from the nearby collection, took up a few arrows, and stepped to the designated shooting spot. A round straw target was positioned about, what, forty yards out?
I breathed in the familiar feel of the bow in my hand, clasping my palm around the grip. My body instantly relaxed. A long
bow. My favorite.
Perhaps I couldn’t dribble a basketball and walk at the same time, but I knew how to do this. And right now the frustration
buzzing through my veins needed an outlet.
Mrs. Lennox had even chosen wooden arrows? Some of my ire dissipated. Grandpa would be impressed. I tilted the bow slightly
and slid the arrow on the shelf, smiling as I raised the bow. Thankfully, this certain dress had more give in the sleeves,
so I could take a proper position and have full range of motion as I pulled back the string. My fingers slid over my cheek,
anchoring my placement, and as I followed the arrow point to the target, I drew in a breath.
I released my frustration in one breath as I relaxed my hold on the string. The arrow swished off with barely a sound and
pierced near the center of the target. Without a pause, I took up another arrow and repeated the movements, releasing more
anger and securing another bull’s-eye.
“Well, Miss Campbell, this isn’t your first archery lesson.” Lord Wake smiled, moving to stand between me and Ana and gesturing
toward the target. “Or is it beginner’s luck?”
With a grin, I swept down to take another arrow and replicated my movements, landing the next arrow between the first two.
“It’s my one sport.” I lowered the bow and turned to Lord Wake. “I’m pretty lame at the rest.”
“But how do you get it to go so straight?” Ana whined her question, waving the bow as she spoke. “Mine keep flying off in
all directions!”
She fired off an arrow that soared high and far to the right of the target, and no wonder. Her body faced forward instead of sideways, she overdrew the string, and she used a low anchor.
With a few pointers, and after about three tries, her arrow finally struck the far side of the target. “Did you see that?”
She spun around, eyes bright, and nearly decapitated me with her bow. “I did it .”
And then a realization clinked into place in my mind. Was Ana Lennox trying painfully hard just to do something right? Sure,
she was immature and silly. Sometimes a bit desperate and dramatic. But were all those things how she grasped for self-worth
and approval?
And Lord Wake looked down at her with a little pride on his face—not like an adoring lover, but more like a happy uncle. Had
he taken on the responsibility of Ana’s companion so she wouldn’t make even more desperate decisions, since her mother was
hyper-focused on the Edwardian Experience and her father so relaxed he was almost horizontal?
“You did!” I nodded. “And I bet you could do it again too.”
“Would you take a video of me, Katie?” Ana’s eyes brightened with her smile. “So I can show my dad?”
My heart softened completely. “Of course I will.”
And she hit the mark again and again, her success continuing to deflate my annoyance.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t dealt with bad publicity before. Having a presence on social media or anywhere online pretty much
guaranteed that unless you were Julie Andrews or Jennifer Garner, you weren’t going to make everyone happy.
But the betrayal of a colleague just ruffled my fury feathers in all the wrong ways. And it took another ten to twelve shots
with the bow—and a few prayers that only God needed to hear—before I finally felt calm enough to stop.
I shot a few more arrows, lowering my blood pressure to a less volatile level, and then moved to sit in a nearby chair. Miss Dupont took my place at the shooting spot with Mr. Logan joining, her much more attentive than usual as he helped guide her in the archery lesson. My gaze shot to Mrs. Lennox, who failed to correct the inappropriateness of their nearness and whispered conversations.
Mark didn’t show up to the lesson.
Coward .
It would have done my heart good to best him at archery.
A shadow fell over me, and I looked up to find my favorite Scot staring down at me. He studied my face and then took the seat
next to mine.
“Are you sure it’s okay for the butler to sit during working hours?”
His lips crooked and he relaxed in the chair as if in answer... or as proof he didn’t care what the answer was. My whole
body warmed at his closeness and that grin. “You looked fairly scunnered when you came out of the house.”
Scunnered? Must mean annoyed. Or furious. “A wee bit.” I imitated his accent poorly, but it inspired a playfully jutted eyebrow,
so I took it as a win. “Mark is jealous and trying to hurt my online reputation by sharing false information.”
I knew it would blow over. It still stung though.
Without hesitation, the butler pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. Within ten seconds, a low growl rose from his throat.
A sound I felt in my chest... and shoulders. All the way to my less attractive kneecaps. Heavens.
“Where is he?” Graeme sat up, ready for the attack.
I stopped him with a hand to his nearest tree-trunk size arm. Number one, how was it possible to feel his muscles beneath
a butler’s jacket? Number two, Graeme could squish poor Mark to jelly with one foot. Maybe one look. “Don’t waste your time
on the Great Disappointment. Once Lennox finds out, he’ll likely be kicked off the island anyway, unless he can do some major
groveling.”
Though the idea of someone coming to the defense of my reputation left a soft and wonderful mark right in the center of my chest. In fact, I almost got a little teary-eyed.
Why?
Because my emotions were all over the place. That had to be it.
“It’s not the first or last time I’ll have to do damage control for online slander.” I shrugged. “The way of the cyberworld,
I’m afraid. “
He relaxed. “Does it bother you?”
“Sometimes.” I leaned back in the chair. “I think it might bother my mom more though. Image is a big deal to her.” I blinked.
Had I just said that out loud? I rarely talked about my mom to people, especially anything that could be perceived as dirty
laundry. “But it will pass. I know my boss would love for me to make some posts or write an article to counteract or distract
from it, if possible, so I’ll think of something. I’ve had a lot of questions about how these gowns hold up on long walks,
so I may try that.”
He nodded, squinting as he looked ahead at the archers. “I read a few of your posts online. You’re a braw writer.”
Ah, braw I knew, and my happiness meter kicked up to thrilled. “Not too sappy for you?”
“Well, you’re not a Sassenach.”
And then all happiness dropped. I had completely forgotten about those posts!
The “Hot Scot” posts.
The comments debating my future love life with said Scot. I turned my face away from him to grimace my displeasure before
returning with a smile. “My editor chose the titles.”
He kept his face forward but said nothing.
“I... I never mentioned your name, and I haven’t even put any of the photos up from the Highland games yet.”
He ran a hand over his mouth and nodded. “But you did mention I was hot.”
My jaw slacked. And my face took a fevered trip to sunburn hot.
I sure had. More than once. I held in a little whimper. The semi-confident flirt had been vanquished by Miss Humiliation.
“I was recovering from a near-death experience.”
He coughed. “Of course.”
I shrugged to try and play cool. “I described things for the readers so they could use their own imaginations. You know—poetic
license and all. And the weather’s been rather warm the last few days.”
He seemed to have a wrestling match with his grin for a minute and then nodded again, keeping his gaze forward. “I also read
some of the comments.”
The desire to cringe began a whole new war with my shoulders.
The comments! My followers had always been active before, but add a life-saving, dancing, woodworking, single Scot into the
mix, and they’d become ravenous. However, Graeme really had an amazing fan club right now, plus his own hashtag: #Katieshotscot.
Did God read hashtags? Because I could count that one as a prayer.
“And read about your fear of sheep.”
Not the response I was expecting. I stared over at his profile. Great nose, BTW. “Sheep and I have a long and somewhat troubling
history. I would share it with you, but I’m not sure you’d recover.”
His lips twitched. “Since your followers know about your sheepish past, it might be just the right time to distract them from
the bad press by overcoming your fear.”
Sheepish? (I ignored his clear desire to distract folks from my love life.) Had this wonderfully burly man just tried a pun? Seriously?
Mr. Tree-Trunks-for-Arms tried a pun? “And you have just the right place for me to overcome my fears?”
“It’s not a baaad idea.”
I tried to catch my laugh from escaping, but it just sounded like a tuba failure. “What’s your idea? I’ve heard facing your fears is a good thing.”
He turned in the chair, gaze locking with mine. “You have an early supper this eve, and then I’ll show ye. Interested?”
In more ways than one. “Okay.”
His smile spread wide. “The servants’ entrance by the kitchen. Meet me there after supper.” His gaze trailed down to my impractical
shoes, leaving a little fire trail in its wake. “And wear sensible clothes too.”
***
Graeme
Dancing with Katie Campbell fed my dreams.
Bantering with her from across the table in my kitchen fed my heart.
Having her “rescue” my awkwardness in demonstrating at the Highland games deepened my interest in her all the more.
But watching her shoot a bow like a warrior maiden—and then teach ridiculous Ana the basics—had my thoughts lodged somewhere
between kiss-the-woman-senseless and hold-her-in-my-arms. She came with the wildest combination of ridiculous humor, kindness,
intelligence, and beauty. A wonderful combination.
And she didn’t even know it.
After having read a few dozen of her articles and watched a few of her reels, something became clear—Katie didn’t take herself
seriously enough to believe she was attractive or desired.
And she was both. More than both. The longer I observed her and the more conversations we had, the more my brain started entertaining her future
with mine in every scenario. Her heart kept proving more and more worth the winning. She fit in a way Allison never had.
Into conversations.
With Lachlan.
In Glenkirk.
And it didn’t make sense at all because her life contrasted in every way with mine.
But as she rode alongside me in my car toward our surprise destination, the conversation only made me like her more—though
she tended to turn the topics away from her family. She mentioned her editor, Dave. And a brother named Brett. Even showed
me a photo of the farmhouse she’d inherited from her grandparents, called Lark Hollow Farms. But any probing questions about
other family members or her past she met with a deflection back toward me or by sharing a story from her travels.
What was she hiding?
“So where are you taking me to help me overcome my fear of sheep?”
I nodded ahead to a sign along the road. McClean Farms.
She followed my direction and then turned back to me. “A farm?”
“A sheep farm.”
Her eyes rounded. “A sheep farm.”
“Aye.” And my grin tugged wide.
“You’re taking me to an entire farm of sheep?” The pitch in her voice rose.
“Aye.” I nodded. “To show you they’re not to be feared.”
Her bottom lip dropped, and she slapped my arm. “I trusted you, and here you go taking me into the very heart of sheepland.”
“It’s not like we’re going to Mount Doom or anything, Katie. They’re just sheep.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” She pinched her fingers together in her lap so tightly her knuckles turned white. So I reached
over and placed my hand over hers.
Her gaze shot to mine.
“I’ll be with ye.”
She blinked a few times, those captivating eyes of hers glistening for the briefest moment. “Okay.” Her voice was barely a
whisper.
I slid a thumb over the back of her hand, her skin soft, cool.
She froze a moment and then cleared her throat but didn’t pull away. “However, I hold you eternally responsible for any baaad thing that happens.”
And whatever hesitation that had been keeping hold of my heart pinged its release. Puns weren’t my humor of choice, but when
her eyes lit up from me using them, they suddenly took on new appeal. “ Ewe ”—I lengthened the word and raised a brow, watching comprehension dawn on her face with her smile—“can count on me.”
Then she looked down at our hands and, ever so slowly, turned her palm over so that our fingers entwined. Nothing prepared
me for the sense of rightness in her hold, the strange sort of certainty. And I wished we weren’t so close to the McClean
house. That we had another half hour to ride and talk with her hand in mine. That there weren’t questions between us about
futures and homes and where the two would meet.
But Maggie McClean already had the front door open before the car even came to a stop.
“Wait.” Katie looked over at me. “This is Maggie, the Knitting Nazi’s farm?”
My laugh burst out, and I gave her hand a squeeze. “Knitting Nazi?”
“Have you seen her knit?” Katie’s eyes widened again. “Oh, I understand now. She must be taking out her sheep frustration
through knitting. It makes perfect sense. If I worked with sheep all day, I’d find a way to release my frustration too.”
I chuckled, reluctantly let go of her hand, and exited the car, meeting Katie on the other side.
“Well, let’s see what you’re made of, lass” came Maggie’s first words as she approached, pulling her sweater around her shoulders and giving Katie a look from head to toe. “And if they don’t kill you the first time, it’s a good sign.”
At first I feared Maggie had destroyed any chance of Katie stepping forward. The older woman wasn’t known for her bedside
manner. But Katie must have caught the glint in Maggie McClean’s eyes, because she plucked up and placed her hands on her
hips.
“Maggie, I’m sure that if I have you as a guide, I’m going to be just fine.”
The woman’s smile crinkled her entire face and she looked over at me. “You’ve got a smart one here, Graeme. Flattery will
get you everywhere.” Her expression sobered. “Except with sheep. They take a calm approach, and the fewer words the better.”
***
Katie
“I think Maggie’s taken a bit of a fancy to you.”
I chuckled and looked over at Graeme as we drove back toward Craighill, his teasing more recognizable now that I knew him
a bit better. Plus, his lips crooked ever so slightly on one side, confirming his humor.
Not that I focused on his lips a lot. Sometimes I got distracted by his shoulders or eyes, and now the new sense of holding
his hand.
But little clues certainly helped a girl out. Especially a girl who was trying to figure out if this whole “Falling for a
Scot” thing was real, or just a fragment of my online persona.
“Do you mean from the way she failed to warn me that one of the sheep had a tendency to ram strangers with his head?” I narrowed
my eyes at him. “Or was it the way she placed a little feed on the back of my sweater so one of the sheep kept trying to eat
my clothes?”
His grin spread wide. “Maggie McClean is known for her teasing nature, and the fact she did so with you only proved how much she likes you.”
“She tortures those she loves, is that it?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “In the best way. Very Scottish.”
I pressed my body back into the car seat, the happy hum of a satisfying day calming my racing heart. Despite the antics of
Maggie and her sheep, I had to admit, I’d tiptoed toward overcoming my sheep terror.
“Well, I don’t plan to flock toward buying a sheep farm in the future, but I have to admit, it wasn’t so bad.” I sighed. “And Maggie makes some of the best... what was it called?”
“Tipsy laird,” he offered.
“Oh my goodness, yes.” I placed a palm over my happy stomach. “I’ve had trifle before, but that one? I love raspberries. Thank
you, Maggie!” I sighed. “And I loved the tea. Did you say it was heather tea?”
“Moorland tea can be made from heather, aye.”
This place oozed with discoveries. Around every corner. From the food to the landscape to the history, culture, and people.
It’s as if I could never learn enough. The videos Graeme took of me and the sheep were bound to be a great distraction from
Mark’s post, but they’d also answer a challenge from some of the readers to face my fears.
The readers always loved when I took their requests or considerations into account while traveling. And their votes for the
Scot in my life certainly matched my own.
But the scariest part was, I didn’t want the match to be a fling or something temporary. Graeme and Lachlan and Mirren—even
moody Maggie—were starting to take up space in my heart in a way that hurt when I thought about leaving.
And I knew women gave up their dreams all the time for love. The movies and fiction spoke of it in spades, but I loved traveling
too. Finding stories brought me such joy. But in my limited experience, men didn’t want a woman who traveled around the world.
Ah! What was I even thinking? Graeme hadn’t asked me to stay. He’d held my hand. That was it. Hand-holding didn’t equate to
a lifelong commitment.
Deep breaths, Katie. You’re overthinking like a pro.
“You never got to finish telling me about heather’s legend.”
Graeme had stayed beside me when meeting the sheep and almost kept guard while Maggie introduced me to the beasts in her own
special way. He was a good man. Sure, a little grumpy around the edges, but good.
He caught me staring, and I looked back toward the view. A misty rain fell, the weather that seemed the most predominant to
this place. “I refused to look up the story because I figured your version would be much more authentic than a Google search.”
I almost felt him smile.
“Legend has it—”
“Do you realize how incredibly tantalizing those words are?” I sighed back into the seat and closed my eyes so nothing would
distract me from the sound of his voice.
“—there was once a lass named Malvina who loved a warrior named Oscar, but before they could be wed, Oscar was killed in battle.”
I sat up and looked at him. “There are a lot of really sad Scottish stories, Graeme.”
“We try to keep things real. Life is filled with both bitter and sweet.”
I relaxed back, sending him a frown. “I’m waiting for the sweet part then.” I closed my eyes again.
“A messenger from the battle delivered the bitter news to Malvina, along with some heather flowers as a token of Oscar’s love.
It is said that Malvina wished that whoever received heather flowers would know happiness and luck for their days since she’d
known the happiness and love of a good man, despite having lost him.”
Bittersweet for certain. “So heather means love and luck?”
“Different types of heather have different meanings, I suppose.” The car wound up the drive to Craighill’s back entrance. “White is usually in reference to purity and happiness. It’s also thought to protect, which is why Scottish warriors often wore it into battle.” He sent me a wink. “It’s also believed that white heather grows over the resting place of faeries.”
“Ooh, now that sounds like a great post idea.”
He brought the car to a stop by the side entrance of the house. “There’s some up along Tearlach Path, if you fancy a look.”
“The place not too far from your house where you can see the Gribun cliffs?” I turned toward him. Light from the house was
playing with evening shadows across his features. “That path?”
“Aye, but be careful when you visit faerie places. You never know what may happen.” His eyes twinkled as he exited the car
and made it around to my side before I even gathered up my camera bag, an umbrella in hand.
“I suppose the other colors of heather have meanings too?”
He frowned as he looked down at me. “But you dinnae expect me to know them, do you?”
“Of course I do.” I rolled my eyes and stood. “You seem to know everything else.”
He released a loud sigh as if I were the most “bathersome” creature and then slid his arm around my waist to pull me nearer
beneath the umbrella. I sucked in a deep breath of his leathery-sea scent and his touch, and decided to take the slowest walk
in earth’s history toward the door of the house.
Tarry, just like Grandpa taught me.
“The heather on the far side of the loch that I can see from my window, it’s purple.”
“Ah, the most popular color.” He didn’t seem in a hurry either. “Purple can mean admiration or beauty. Usually offered to
let the person know how much you value them in your life.”
“Oh.” A soft touch of rain hit the top of the umbrella, and Graeme tugged me a teensy bit closer. I “cooried” in like the enthusiastic coorieer I realized I was. “And pink?”
“Pink?” Had we gotten even slower? “It means love.”
Love. My breath hitched on the word and my heart took the hint by racing into a faster rhythm. Was it even possible to love someone
you’d just met? To feel a kinship more real than with some of the people you’d known your whole life?
I stopped and looked up at him, the house entrance too close. Too clearly an ending to the evening. “You are all sorts of
surprising, aren’t you?”
“Surprising?” The question brewed off his tongue in that wonderfully Scottish way that I somehow felt in my chest.
I cleared my throat in an attempt to get my emotions under control. “Well, it’s just that you started off all grumbly and
‘Have you got two left feet, woman?’”—this said in my best Scottish impersonation.
“That was horrible.”
“My point was made, however.” I shot him a grin. “You’re not all grumbly and irritating. You’re actually really kind and funny...”
“Incredibly handsome.”
I laughed, and he sent a look of mock offense.
“Okay, yes. In a rugged, rescue-the-damsel sort of way.”
One brow shot high at that last part.
“Well, you have. Several times.” I chuckled. “At least you won’t get bored hanging out with me, is all I’m saying.”
He chuckled, low and deep and oh-so deliciously. “You rescued me at the Highland games.”
I turned toward him, my breath shaking a little at the nearness of his face to mine. “Maybe everyone needs a hero in their
life now and then, right? Even fumbling ones.”
“Katie.”
His voice cradled my name. My breath shivered out as I stared up into his face, searching those eyes for an answer to the
next steps in this very unexpected and unfamiliar dance.
Faint lights from Craighill glowed warm against the rising dusk and fog, encouraging me even deeper into his hold. The air tinged with the orangey sweetness of primroses, the gloaming whispered of magic, and all of it wrestled through my nomadic heart as if to offer an unsettling what-if.
Those two words whispered through my mind, almost like I was answering some unvoiced call from the highland mist.
One of his dark brows took an upswing along with the corner of his lips. “Will you hold this for me?”
I swallowed, crawling my way through the mental cloud his stare had on my comprehension. “Um... sure.” I took hold of the
umbrella, keeping it carefully perched over the two of us, and then, with his hands free, he placed them on either side of
my face.
He was going to kiss me.
Me.
And him.
Kissing.
With the slightest hitch in his growing smile, he lowered his head, and my entire body paused in sweet anticipation.
And then—
“What are the two of ye doing out in the—”
The cook’s voice broke off as she likely interpreted the intention of our position, and we pulled apart.
I think the cook was probably part pixie.
“Thank you for this evening, Graeme.” I handed him back the umbrella, holding his gaze.
“See you Sunday?”
“Aye,” I answered, inciting the smallest smile from him.
And then I turned, with one last look to him, and entered the house.