by L. L. Muir
A broken spirit now, or a broken dream later?
She’d been hoping that nothing would have to break if she just ran fast enough and far enough. But that had been stupid too.
“Um,” she began, to get the Scot’s attention again. “I’m sorry if all this has ruined your morning. “I’ll get out of here and hopefully, you can pretend I was never here.” She walked down the steps and turned her head to face him as she headed down the drive. “I appreciate you covering for me.”
“I did not lie for ye, lass.” Even when he raised his voice, it was deep enough to rattle the leaves. Or maybe it was just a stray breeze that gave her another chill.
She stumbled to a stop and faced him. “You didn’t?”
“Nay. I only said that they would need to keep searching. What they concluded was their own business. Though that Rick fellow was fairly certain ye were inside.”
“But not Austin?”
“Nay. I suppose he’s not the suspicious sort.”
She laughed lightly because the guy had nailed it on the head. “No. Austin is too trusting.”
“Aren’t most men, until they are betrayed?” After a pointed look at her dress, he concentrated on his whittling again.
Betrayed? It sounded so horrible to phrase it that way when deep down, she’d been so sure she was saving him from a future he didn’t really want. But no, that wasn’t the truth. Deep down, she’d been saving herself, hurting Austin before he had a chance to hurt her to her face. Or worse, keep his disappointment to himself for the rest of their lives.
“Well,” she said, forcing a smile. “Let’s hope he won’t be so trusting next time, right?” She turned back to the slope and concentrated on her footing. Her heels made the angle much worse than it was and she couldn’t decide between walking on the rocks or the grass down the center. “Thanks again,” she said, then scooted to the left, hoping the gravel would give more traction if she slipped. If she fell, she would try to land on the soft grass that ran along the outside edge between her and the wall of high bushes blocking her view of the forest beyond.
Somewhere behind her, a large piece of wood bounced hard against the ground and made a strange ringing sound and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned to see an angry Scottish god bearing down on her and she quickly stepped backward. The satin of her slight train was pinned beneath her heel. She lost her balance and landed on her butt.
He reached out to catch her but their hands never connected, and his fleeting concern turned back into a scowl, like it was her fault she’d fallen.
“That’s all ye have to say for yerself?” He grunted. “That ye hope he’s learned his lesson? That ye have no care that the man will likely never trust another woman again? Ye hope for it?” He shook his head, disbelieving. “Have all women become the vixens we’ve seen on the tellie?”
It wasn’t his words that made her tremble, though they made her feel pretty guilty. And it wasn’t the fact that he was practically yelling at her when he didn’t really know why she’d run away from her own wedding. She already knew what a fool she was.
But the passionate god looming over her was absolutely beautiful. His hair flew out behind him like some wind machine was blowing in his face. His powerful jaw jumped beneath his dark, tanned cheeks, and for a second, she wondered if he was actually going to wring her neck.
And no matter how dangerous the situation seemed, she couldn’t help wondering how many thousands of women flocked to Scotland every year for a one in a million chance encounter like this, with a passionate man in a kilt?
But probably none of those women had come to the country intending to marry the knight in shining armor they’d sat next to on the airplane…
Too bad Austin was never that passionate about anything. In fact, their only arguments had been pretty one-sided because Austin never got mad. He was reasonable. He was wise. He was wonderful. And she couldn’t imagine anything she could do that would send him into such a rant.
Or loom over her while he lectured.
No. Austin would never be a danger to her. Not like this guy. And she wasn’t imagining it out of a sense of her own guilt. He was genuinely pissed.
Where is that knife he was whittling with anyway?
The romantic image, complete with a kilt-wearing hero suddenly dissipated like a morning fog when the sun came up out of the ocean. But it wasn’t the sun chasing the haze away, it was a real threat. This angry stranger could drag her inside and chop her up into little pieces without anyone being the wiser. Because the only man on earth who suspected where she was just happened to be her mortal enemy who never wanted to see her again anyway.
She had to get out of there or that airline ticket would never be used—Chelsea Marie Chase from Boston, Mass, would never be heard from again. And as Rick pushed Emily into Austin’s arms, he’d whisper in his ear not to worry about Chelsea, she’d probably thrown herself into a loch and drowned, just as mentally unstable as her addict parents had been.
Nope. Not going to happen.
She looked up at the Scot and raised her hand, inviting him to pull her to her feet. It was clear she would never be able to get off her dress and stand with him looming over her like he was.
“Do you mind?” she asked sweetly. “This dress cost more than I can make in three months.”
He glanced at her hand, then his face cleared as if he was just realizing what a bully he was being. He wrapped his hand around her thumb and wrist and pulled.
And she pulled.
Only, as she did so, she pressed one bare foot against his rock-hard calf and yanked him off balance. As he fell, she only had to guide him over her head and let him land in the prickly bushes behind her. A surprised grunt was the only sound she heard as she grabbed her shoes and purse and started sprinting down the strip of grass that ran down the center of the drive.
“Never mess with a waitress.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Five feet from the end of the drive, Chelsea had to decide which way to turn. If she went back down the road, she’d end up at the castle where she would have to face the music. But at least she could gather her things and get a ride to the airport. She also wouldn’t have to walk past the cottage again and maybe face a guy she’d thrown into the brambles.
If she took the sharp angle to the right and continued up and over the hill, she wouldn’t have to face Rick again. And when she did face Austin, it was not going to be with The Worm in the room.
Denial still felt like the right thing to do, so she slowed down to make the drastic turn. The crunch of gravel startled her and she turned to look over her shoulder.
“Never mess with a Highlander,” he growled, then reached for her shoulder.
She squealed and spun her shoulder away, which had her running backward into the road and tripping on her skirt again. That time, as she was falling, she gave up any hope of getting money back for the dress.
The Scot reached out to catch her, but he failed again, pulling his hand back and wincing like he’d jammed it into something. She did what was necessary to keep from turning her back on him while she got to her feet and gathered her things, but thankfully, he’d taken a step back.
“Forgive me, lass. I’ve frightened ye. It was instinct, I suppose, that had me chasing after ye.” He spoke gently enough, but his eyebrows where still slammed together. And his eyes moved back and forth like he was searching the trees for something he didn’t trust. “I’ll not harm ye,” he said, then went back to searching the trees.
But the real kicker was when he reached out and touched empty air in front of him, prodding it like some mime, like he was being contained in an invisible box.
She carefully lifted her skirts high enough to get her train off the ground and backed a few more steps. She’d seen some crazy acts on the streets of Edinburgh a couple of days before, but there was absolutely no doubt in her mind—this guy was not acting. His cheese had slipped off his cracker!
He slid one of his boot
s forward and it stopped abruptly where the drive ended and the road began.
“Just like Culloden,” he mumbled, then started prodding the air above the spot where his boot had stopped.
She took another step. His attention shot to her and she jumped and started backing quickly down the road. The castle was going to be the safest place for her after all. No matter how embarrassed she was, she would face Austin that day rather than risk this guy following her up the longer road to town. At least there would be people at the castle.
“What is yer name, lass?”
“Uh.” The little voice inside her head warned her to lie. “Chelsea.”
He nodded and held up his hands like he was surrendering. “I’ll not harm ye, Chelsea. And I’ve not gone mad. There is a barrier I cannot breach, so I’ll come no closer.”
She couldn’t help snorting. “A barrier? Like a force field? Look, I’m just going to get out of here and leave you alone, okay?”
He sighed. “Aye, lass. Do what ye must. Far be it from me to advise another to fight instinct, aye?” His smile was half-grimace. “It was lovely speaking with a woman again, and being spoken to. I thank ye. And I hope ye can overlook my poor manners. It’s been a long while since I’ve needed any, and I’m afeared I let my thoughts escape through my mouth.”
He went back to prodding the air and Chelsea saw it as a sign to move faster. But just as she was about to turn and run, he picked up a handful of dirt, spit on it, then threw it onto the road.
Only it never made it to the road.
She didn’t remember making a conscious choice to stop. Or to start walking back. It was just an automatic response, like passing a darling pair of shoes in a shop window and finding yourself staring down at them, wondering if they have your size.
She pointed where the dirt had landed. “Would you mind doing that again?”
He studied her for a minute, bit his lip for another ten seconds, then bent and scooped up a little rock. He turned away to spit on it, but it was always in sight. Then he pulled back his hand and tossed it, underhand, toward the road.
There was no sound when it suddenly stopped and fell straight down to the ground, landing and rolling to a stop right at the edge of the driveway.
She met his gaze. “Why the spit?”
He shrugged, picked up another pebble, and tossed it. This time it landed on the other side of the road and thumped against the low stone wall that might have been built hundreds of years ago.
“A barrier,” he said. “I am not allowed to leave this place. Nor any part of me, it would seem. Just like…the place I came from.”
“You said Culloden. As in, Culloden Moor?”
“Aye,” he said softly.
“Is there like a prison there or something? A mental institution…” She realized how rude she was being but it was too late to take the words back.
He snorted then. “I’m nay mental, lass.” Then he lifted both his shoulders again, held them, then dropped them. “Or mayhap I am…”
“May hap?”
“’Tis a long story, lass. Best ye be on yer way.” He shooed her away with his fingers. “Ye’re clearly able to save yerself when needed, so it was likely not intended that my destiny and yours intertwine after all. I was never meant to be yer hero, aye? But perhaps ye’ll have a pleasant thought for me, now and again, when you remember your time in bonny Scotland.” He put fingers to his temple in a mock salute. “Alexander Fraser, miss, at yer service. Like I’ve said, it’s been a pleasure.”
The guy gave her a little bow, then gave up tossing rocks and started back up the drive. And though she wasn’t really hoping to see anything…inappropriate, she couldn’t help but watch the back of his kilt swinging forward and back as he went, tapping lightly against the backs of his thighs.
When he passed from view, she peeked around the edge of the bushes that grew ten feet high between the drive and the road, creating a long hallway with the bushes on the other side. He collected the branch he’d carved into a giant pencil, then took it inside the house. He then turned and lifted it over the door, probably propping it over the curtain rods above the windows to either side. When his gaze lowered, he noticed her and gave her a sad little wave. Then he disappeared.
She turned back toward the road and realized she had to make that decision all over again. And this time, there was no rush to decide.
Which way to go?
And when the little voice in her head suggested she go back, she knew that voice hadn’t been referring to the castle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alexander had done something he would have never thought himself capable.
After decades of resenting the romance novelists—those who had lured impressionable women to Culloden in hopes of a glimpse of something resembling a certain Fraser character—he’d stooped to using the same tactics to lure the lass back to the cottage.
She didn’t seem particularly impressionable, but he was always surprised by which of Culloden’s female visitors would produce a tear or two while standing before the Clan Fraser stone. For all he knew, those women had been moved by the Fraser soldiers who had truly perished in the battle, but he had his doubts. After all, it was the Fraser stone that continually had flowers lying on the ground before it, and though other graves were honored regularly, there was no comparison.
It had been pitiful, truly, to be unable to appreciate the place of his own clan in that famous but fictional world. But as he stood there waiting for the lovely fish to take the bait, the bitterness washed away, and he wondered if perhaps he’d been jealous of that Fraser character all those years. And perhaps romance novelists knew something he hadn’t—the way to a lass’s heart.
A pity he hadn’t known, in his own day, how to keep a certain lass’s affection…
It seemed this Chelsea, as well as being a capable woman, was also the stubborn sort. He waited nearly half an hour for her to come back up the drive. His senses told him she was still out there deliberating.
Or perhaps she was the proud sort and wouldn’t return unless she had a reasonable excuse to do so. Would he have to swallow his own pride and go invite her back?
He couldn’t imagine what Soncerae had in mind when she’d placed him there and left a barrier around the place to ensure he stayed put. In any case, he would be unable to drum up any true act of heroism while sitting alone in a cottage, drinking wine and dining on chicken someone else had cooked for him. Clearly, others would need be involved. And the lass had been all but dropped in his lap. He should have kept her inside…
When he’d gone tumbling arse over teakettle into the bushes, he’d only given a heartbeat’s notice to the sting of the thorns. He’d panicked when he thought his one chance to prove himself was getting away. And after realizing he wouldn’t be able to catch her, contained as he was, he’d had to stoop to whatever means were available to him to bring her back again.
He had to admit that feeling the lass’s gaze upon him as he’d made his way up the rise and into the house had lent a bit of puff to his chest. It had been a good long while since anyone had appreciated his form, let alone a beauty like Chelsea.
He sighed, and stood, brushing the dust from the hearth from his backside and preparing his belly for some humble pie. But then he heard the low hum of a weak engine, perhaps the Cushman Utility Buggy returning from over the hill.
And he smiled, realizing he wouldn’t have to eat that bitter pie after all.
~
Standing at the back of the room, he noticed the white of her dress when she neared the top of the rise. She wore her shoes again, obviously no longer worried about fleeing from him. By the time she knocked upon the door, the buggy was growing near.
“Mr. Fraser,” she called quietly through the screen of the door. “Mr. Fraser!”
He paused from stacking wood on the grate and said, without looking her way, “Ye’ve broken in before, lass. Why let a thin door stop ye now?”
She paused not at
all and threw the screen wide, then pulled it shut behind her and closed the larger door besides. He stood to face her just as she finished with the locks.
“Um,” she began, but he cut her off with a raised hand.
“No need to explain, aye? Hide where ye will. And when they’ve moved on, we’ll find some food.”
She gave him a relieved smile, then started for the bedchamber. But she stopped and laid her hand on his forearm. “Thank you.” She gave his arm a squeeze, then hurried away. And while the buggy drove past the house, he stared at the spot where his flesh still showed the imprint of her hand. A minute later, there was a firm knock on the door.
He chuckled to himself as he unlocked all the latches and chains, but he sobered quickly when the one called Rick faced him alone.
“Found her, did ye?” Alexander asked.
The man frowned. “We didn’t.” Then he tried to look past Alexander, but he was nigh unto a door himself, not easy to see around.
“Pity,” he said, “unless ye’d rather not find her of course.”
The canny man understood and narrowed his eyes. “He just wanted me to check one more time,” he said, then turned aside to give Alexander a clear view of a distraught groom seated in the vehicle, looking both hopeful and forlorn. Rick shook his head at his friend and the poor lad bit his lip and looked away.
“See what she’s done to him?”
“As I said, pity.” Alexander offered nothing more and stood his ground even though Rick looked past his shoulder and made the smallest faint, expecting him to at least take a step back. But he was no fool to be easily manipulated by a scunner like that. “Better luck…to yer friend,” he said, then leaned forward slightly.
The man stepped back, then adopted an amiable smile. “Sorry to bother you again,” he said loudly for his audience in the cart. “You’ve got my number, if you see her.”