Chapter 19 Graeme
Chapter 19 Graeme
I was caught.
Likely to my demise, with her track record, but caught nonetheless.
Even before the kiss, when I’d held her in my arms in the rain, some part of my heart recognized a missing piece her presence
filled. And I wanted that rightness all the time. Her.
Her past, her misadventures, her kiss, and her future.
All of it. Like I’d never wanted anyone else in my life.
I couldn’t explain why I’d been drawn to her from the start. Was it the need to help her? The way she lived without pretense
and slipped right into my life and family so easily? But now, knowing her tender heart better, her courage and teasing ways—well,
I’d gone as mental as the folks in Craighill, I s’pose. Something in the broken pieces of her heart matched mine, and we made
a whole.
I don’t know how it worked. I had no scientific or psychological explanation.
But it did. Or could.
Perhaps I was a different person than I’d been two years ago with Allison—more mature. More aware of seizing life as it came.
More inclined to trust a higher hand to help with the weak spots, instead of allowing my pride to rule my head.
But watching her at my parents’ house with my family, seeing how she fit in a way Allison never had, solidified everything.
I couldn’t let her go.
Lachlan’s call as he’d burst into my workshop the day before and recounted finding Katie on the ledge squeezed in my chest. I knew what it was to lose someone. Too well, I knew it. And perhaps I’d come across as irritated at first, just because the pounding in my chest at how I might find her didn’t cease until I held her safely in my arms again. But finding Katie safe and whole, and being able to bring her home healed something in me.
She helped heal something in me.
I paused on the idea. No, not necessarily her.
Love did.
Air burst from me as I took another walk around the main corridors of Craighill in search of her. Love for her wound its way
into the bruised and scarred places I’d pushed to the side since Allison—and deepened by Greer’s loss—and shored them up.
Braced my heart to love again, whatever may come.
Her weaknesses, her genuineness, even her ridiculous mishaps, called for love—practically pleaded for it.
And I wanted to give it. To her.
I nearly laughed again. It didn’t make sense. It seemed too impossible in such a brief amount of time, but there it was. I
wanted more conversations. More teasing. More laughter. And definitely more of those world-shattering kisses.
Dressed for my butler duties, I watched out for her at breakfast, but she didn’t show. With the house buzzing about the end
of the inaugural Edwardian Experience, the wrath of Lennox on Mark the Eejit (who was sent packing yesterday), the upcoming
ball, and the special gowns created for the women from some designer in Edinburgh, the morning class on ballroom etiquette
had been moved to the afternoon. So, perhaps, Katie hadn’t left her room.
But with her penchant for running away, I imagined she was trying to avoid me.
And to avoid a determined butler took quite the feat.
I could be as stubborn as her, if not more so.
I was in this chase for the prize—Katie Campbell’s heart. And I might not know how it would all turn out—including the possibility
of getting my own heart thoroughly smashed—but I knew I’d regret not trying at all.
Her care for others, her humor, her intelligence and passion.
And just the thought of such passion turned my thoughts directly back to kissing her quite thoroughly in my house and wishing
for a repeat as soon as possible.
It was then I heard her voice coming down the hallway. A one-way conversation. Possibly mobile?
“And this is the hallway to the ballroom, everyone.”
Was she making a video? I slipped into the narrow door of the linen closet and waited.
“Tomorrow the grand ball will happen, bringing this marvelous Edwardian adventure to an end. I can’t wait to show you the
gown specifically designed for me. If I ever hoped to feel like Cinderella, this dress is the one to do it. I’ll also be interviewing
the designer tomorrow so you can learn more about her vision for the dresses and what led to her design choices.” She drew
closer. “I’ll pop in later today to give you a tour of the ballroom as we take our next class. See you later, and may you
turn your misadventures into the best adventures.”
Her sign-off line. I’d heard it several times since following her online. And I smiled. Despite the hurts she’d known and
her proclivity toward disaster, she aimed to take the difficulties and find the good within them. Perhaps we wanted exactly
the same thing. Making something beautiful out of something broken.
Her cleverness and kindness shone through in the videos and articles as clearly as in person, proving her even more genuine.
Beautifully genuine.
Just as she made it to the open door, I slipped my arm around her waist and pulled her inside the closet. Her eyes widened just before I claimed her lovely, shocked mouth with my own.
A hum of appreciation curled up from her, and for a second she melted against me like she had yesterday, giving me full permission
to tug her even closer. But then she pushed back.
“What—” she sputtered, blinking. “Why are you kissing me?”
A laugh burst out of me. “Because I like kissing you?”
Her bottom lip dropped again, and I moved in for another taste, but her palm stopped me. “But... but you’re not supposed
to like kissing me. Not after yesterday. You’re not even supposed to really like me .”
“I assure ye, yesterday only made me like you—and kissing you—even more.”
She shook her head, her brow puckering with wrinkles. “But... Graeme.” She looked at me as if trying to console me. “I’m
a mess. A big mess. I even make messes. You said so yourself that death is practically nipping at my heels. You can’t”—her
voice trembled ever so slightly, and my chest ached—“you can’t like me.”
“Prepare yourself, Katie.” I raised a palm to her cheek and smoothed back a few stray hairs that had fallen from whatever
hair twist she wore. “I like you. A lot. And I’m not certain why trouble likes to follow you, but I am certain that I want to be there to help you out of it. If you’ll have me.”
***
Katie
If I’d have him?
Lord above. A perfectly delicious Scottish man shouldn’t go around saying things like that to an emotional American woman who found him dangerously attractive, without fully counting the consequences.
So I did what any self-respecting woman would do.
I grabbed his face and pulled him right into another kiss.
Which he didn’t mind, because neither of us pulled away for... well, I’m not sure, but I was rather breathless and so was
he.
“You’re crazy,” I murmured, patting the front of his shirt as my eyes started burning. Why in the whole wide world would a
man like him want to be with me?
“Aye.” The simple word, spoken so confidently and with such a grin, nearly sent me vaulting right back into giving him a vigorous
reward.
But my vision blurred instead. “I don’t understand, Graeme. What could you possibly see in me to counteract my bent for mayhem?”
“What do I see?” His hand slipped to my neck, his pale gaze roving over my face as if searching for an answer. “Can’t I just
like you because of who you are? How much I enjoy being with you?”
Could he? My history of fleeting—and sometimes catastrophic—romantic relationships provided no assistance... or point of
reference. “You did say you have a list at some point, if I recall. And it would be helpful in believing you, because...
the only thing I’ve really done to impress you is attempt to die.”
He laughed. “You’ve done a little more than that.”
“Okay, accidentally wound others, including you.”
His grin spread all the way to his eyes, and from the way he looked at me, I was beginning to think he enjoyed self-harm.
“Katie.” He laughed again, bringing his other palm to caress my cheek. “You’re funny.”
“You like me because I’m funny?”
“Aye.” He shrugged. “And you’re kind.”
Not what I’d expected.
“You don’t see it, do you?” He shook his head, still staring at me with such intensity and tenderness, I barely held on to enough brain power for comprehension. “You help those around you all the time, like it’s the most natural thing to do. I’ve seen it with Dupont and Lennox. You even saved Mark the Eejit from being overrun by Kirsty, at your own peril. You’re smart and clever, which anyone can tell from talking with you, but especially when reading your writing.”
He’d read more of my writing?
“And, whether it’s from what you’re searching for in life or your faith, or maybe a wee bit of both, you bloom with this sort
of”—he waved his hand a little as if searching for the word—“hope about you. Even when the eejit betrayed you, you didnae
really want him hurt. And unlike him, you’re not seeking to steal attention from others or puff yourself up. Even in your
online presence, you’re promoting other people and their stories or the places they live. Not yourself.”
My grandparents had seen those things in me and told me so, but their voices had been gone from my life for almost seven years.
And it was easy to forget the good parts about yourself when the record playing in your head only recounted all the clumsy,
ridiculous, broken parts on repeat.
He framed my face with his hands, but this time his approach came slowly. Gently.
Maybe there was something to the magic of this place. Even their Scottish closets. Because once his lips touched mine, any
doubts about our compatibility disappeared against the warmth of his mouth against mine. As large and gruff a man as he appeared,
his lips moved with infinite tenderness, kindling a slow and wavering spark into a full-blown bonfire in my chest. I wound
my free hand into the folds of his butler’s jacket. Holding on? Oh yes. Afraid I might wake up? For certain.
He wrapped me in an earthy-sea scent, which seemed so at home in these wild highlands. Woodsy. Him and his work, blended together with the stories and tales pouring through these mountains. I’d never thought how a person could belong somewhere so certainly, but he did. Here. And maybe I belonged with him.
His thumb stroked my jawline as he took his time, teasing my lips with his, and I gave in to it all. The touch, the tenderness,
the overwhelming sense of being found. Seen.
I could have blamed the faeries.
Or thanked them.
But if yesterday’s kiss kindled my blood, this one captured my heart.
And I realized how very dangerous Graeme MacKerrow was. He’d just killed all of my ready-made plans. Everything I thought
I believed about myself and my future? Dead.
Mr. MacKerrow. In the linen closet. With a kiss.
Our date was still on!
I hadn’t ruined it.
After kissing me senseless in the linen closet (which was not Edwardian appropriate at all), Graeme renewed the invitation
for lunch at his house the next day before I needed to be back at Craighill to get ready for the ball. When he’d sheepishly
added that Lachlan would be joining us, my quick enthusiasm garnered me another round of kisses until we both parted ways,
me for the class and him to... watch the class.
Well, he watched me some too.
Then practiced the waltz with me.
I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that I cared for such a man.
And he cared for me .
And of course this realization didn’t happen last week when I had time to make decisions. No, I had less than two days left to sort out what we were supposed to do about all that caring. Because, for better or worse, I was due to leave Scotland the day after the ball for an assignment I couldn’t change.
So, maybe I had to tone down my happily-ever-after mindset to something more... realistic. Something temporary. Fleeting.
I took the following morning’s relaxed schedule to walk down to Mirren’s so I could have a last chat with her before I headed
to Graeme’s. Craighill was aflutter with activity in preparation for the ball, and I needed to apologize for my flight from
Mirren’s on Sunday. Explain.
As soon as she saw me through the window, she opened the door and drew me into a hug. “Ah, hen, I hoped you’d pop in.”
“I just wanted to apologize to you before I leave. I doubt, with all the activities going on at Craighill, I’d have a chance
to talk to you before the ball, and I leave on Thursday for my next assignment.”
“Come in. The knitters will be here in a few minutes, and they’ll want to see you too.”
She led me back to her office, leaving the door open to listen for any visiting patrons. Her tenderness and welcome smoothed
over my worries. No guilt or manipulation. No hesitancy in her affection. Just... acceptance and care.
“I wanted to thank you for how wonderful you’ve been. Your whole family.” I accepted the teacup she offered. “I don’t have
words to express how special it has been to know you.”
“Do you not plan to come back?”
I paused my teacup to my lips, the question a lingering unknown as far as “coming back” in a way to fit permanently into their
world and Graeme’s life. Of course I’d come back to Scotland. It had seeped into my soul. Beguiled me. I had to come back.
“Of course.” I took a sip and lowered my cup to the little table. “I’m just... well...”
“You’re afraid. Aye,” she finished, nodding, her expression softening with a knowing smile. “And rightly so. Love isn’t easy.”
“Especially when you add two totally different worlds to the mix.”
“True. The best loves are made up of a fair bit of challenge. There’s sacrifice and longing and hurt and hard choices.”
I had the sudden urge to come to love’s defense, even though I felt every one of those things deeply. Her smile tipped a little.
“But”—she raised a finger in dramatic emphasis—“there is also joy and affection and laughter and friendship.”
And kisses, but I’d keep that one to myself. “And... belonging,” I added, my eyes stinging a little.
Which I’d felt here. With her family. With Graeme.
Her gaze sharpened on me. “And that scares you most?”
“I want it so badly, I’m terrified.” Her face blurred in my vision. “That I’ll bumble it like I do so many other things. Like
I did on Sunday.”
“Katie, darlin’”—Mirren reached forward and took my hands in hers—“when someone loves you, truly, no amount of your good-hearted
bumbling will steal their love from you.”
“But... but how can you be sure? I’ve felt it happen in my own family. What if... what if I’m not enough?”
She tilted her head, searching my eyes. “How badly do you want to belong? To be loved?”
The taste of it teased an almost insatiable desire. “A lot.”
She squeezed my fingers and released my hands, sitting back in the chair. “There is a castle in Perth that has two towers
with a gap between them of about two and a half meters or more. What would that be for you in American measurements?”
I calculated, trying to follow along. “Eight feet? Nine?”
“’Tis said that years ago, Dorothea, the daughter of the Earl of Gowrie, who lived in the castle, fell in love with a man her parents didnae wish for her to marry. Some say he was a tradesman who worked at the castle. However, being the hospitable Scots they were, they placed the man in the West Tower opposite Dorothea’s East Tower, with no connection between the two towers for them to meet at night.”
Where was she going with this? Did she want me to stay away from Graeme? Or vice versa?
“One night Dorothea slipped from her bedroom with the plan to visit her lover in the adjacent tower. But Dorothea’s mother
expected some shenanigans and came to the adjacent tower’s stairway just as Dorothea had begun climbing it. Hearing her mother’s
call, Dorothea had to act fast. What was the lass to do?”
If I answered, “Run away,” would that prove my cowardice?
“There was nowhere to hide on the stairway, and she couldnae be found in her lover’s room, so Dorothea ran up the rest of
the stairs to the battlements on the top of the West Tower. With her mother approaching, Dorothea only had one chance of escape.”
I felt my body tense. “A leap of eight or nine feet?”
“Aye, and at night too. And in a gown.” Mirren raised a brow, adding her own bit of tension to the story. “But she made it,
and her suspicious mother returned to the East Tower to find her daughter fast asleep in her bed.”
“What happened to the lover?”
Her smile tipped. “Dorothea and John ran away the next day and eloped to live happily ever after. Or at least that’s how the
tale goes. But even to this day, the gap between a battlement and a nearby tower is known as the ‘maiden’s leap.’”
“Maiden’s leap?” I repeated, watching her, the implication pinching.
“Love is always an act of faith because we cannae see the future. But there are some leaps that seem impossible and others
that are not. What makes the difference?”
“What?” I whispered.
“The strength of character of the lovers and the choices they are willing to make. If the two people are willing to make the hard commitment to each other and do the work love requires, the leap isn’t as far. And doesnae have to be as frightening either.”
“How do you know if the people have strength of character?”
Her smile gentled. “Well, part of that is the leap, the other part is using your eyes, ears, mind, and heart to make a good
guess. But love gives you the strength to leap, and faith gives you the vision to believe that the one you love will be on
the other side to catch you. So the question does come back to what sort of person are you? And what sort of person are you
willing to leap for?”
Mirren gave my shoulder a squeeze and left me to contemplate her story as I sipped my tea. The Stories and Stitches book club
ladies arrived soon after and pelted me with their special brand of affection and dozens of reminders that I had a place in
Glenkirk whenever I wanted. Maggie even offered me a job on her sheep farm, to which I smiled and politely declined.
Mirren laughed.
And as I made my way back to Craighill, I knew Graeme was worth leaping for.
But was I brave enough to leap?