She took it and laid it in a chair.
Brodie’s eyes scanned down her robe. He didn’t seem to approve of what she was wearing either. “When I came home, I heard yere phone ringing. I brought yere purse over straightaway.”
“Did you look to see who was calling?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Real men don’t rummage through a woman’s handbag. For any reason.”
“Not even for a piece of gum,” she teased.
The smile she’d hoped for didn’t appear.
“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
He moved her purse to another spot and surprisingly took the seat next to where she’d set her mug.
“What’s this?” He was examining her notebook.
“I’m designing a new quilt.”
“Is it Gandiegow by the sea?”
“That’s what I was intending.” The extra scraps from the villagers had been crying out for their own quilt. She could see the tartans as the houses of Gandiegow. Then she could use blue prints for the ocean and sky and maybe some different shades of white for the snow-covered bluff. And she liked the name he’d given it: Gandiegow by the Sea.
He gazed at her. “’Tis nice.”
He was talking about her design, but the way he was gazing at her led her to imagine he meant more. She faced the cabinet, chewing her lip.
She gave herself a moment to gather courage, then she got on with it. “Thank you for the tree.” She closed her eyes and waited, her stomach roiling with anticipation. “Thank you for the other gift, too.” When he didn’t say anything, she turned back around.
Brodie stared her square in the eye—as if he’d practiced it—and had the blankest look on his face. His expression was laughable. “I don’t know what ye’re speaking of.”
She grabbed his hand and yanked him up, ignoring his look of shock. She dragged him into the living room, doing her utmost to ignore the electrical pulses which passed from his hand into hers. The lamp and overhead light were still turned off so the tree shone bright like a billboard—inviting, the crowning glory of the room. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a more perfect Christmas scene.
“There.” She didn’t let go of his hand. If it was up to her, she’d never let go.
“Nice bird,” he drawled.
She’d fashioned the lights around the top like a glowing nest so her partridge could be seen even with the living room lights turned off.
“You did this,” she said. “Admit it.”
“It must’ve been the quilting ladies. They probably thought ye needed a tree with yere mum about to arrive. Also, for the girl, of course.”
“Really. And the partridge? Which one of the quilting ladies thought to give us such a unique gift?”
He shrugged. “Deydie?”
“Yeah. Sure she did.” Rachel deliberated on whether he bought it or if he’d carved it himself.
He let go of her hand. “I better be going.”
“Not so fast.” She wanted another one of his searing kisses. If only she had some mistletoe.
“’Tis late.”
“But I want to talk,” she said. “There’s so much to say.”
“Right now, the only thing we have to talk about is the message I’m to give ye from my grandda. He’d like Hannah to spend Christmas Eve night at the cottage, so she’ll be there on Christmas morn.” Brodie cocked his head. She speculated if there was more to the message, or if there was something he wanted to add, but couldn’t spit it out.
“Yes, she can stay.” Rachel wondered how this would work. Only one of them—either her mother or herself—could stay at Abraham’s cottage with Hannah. It would be Vivienne. Her mother would insist.
Brodie nodded, looking as if he was reading her thoughts and steeling himself against something unpleasant. He stalked out of the room, heading for the front, his determined gait making it clear he didn’t want Rachel running after him.
She did anyway, catching up to him as he was opening the front door. From behind, she wrapped her arms around him, knowing this was a huge risk she was taking by hugging him.
He stilled.
“Stay,” she said. “Talk to me.” She weaseled her way to the front of him, her arms still encapsulating him, and gazed up into his face. “There’s so much I need to say.” Six years’ worth.
“I can’t.” He was impenetrable as stone. But she only heard vulnerability in his voice.
She snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss, hoping to crumble his hard exterior and to strengthen herself so she could speak the truth.
The kiss wasn’t fervent as their last one had been, but an exploration of unchartered territory. Something new. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, delving in, and finding all the places she’d reserved only for him. The kiss seemed to go on and on.
When they pulled away, she laid her head on his chest, smiling. But immediately, she could feel him loosening his hold and slipping away.
This was now or never. She could talk to him for hours, but really everything boiled down to one statement.
Too afraid to look up and face him, she kept her head plastered to his chest, listening to his heart as she asked him the one thing she needed to know. “Can you ever forgive me?” Bravely, she lifted her head and gazed into his face.
He didn’t meet her eyes, but shook his head no. His exhale deflated him.
She dropped her arms—completely devastated—and let him go.
As he opened the door, her heart was breaking, but then she remembered. The plate on the front porch!
She grabbed his arm. “Wait!”
He stopped—half inside, half out—and turned to her with a dampened expression. “What?” It was pretty clear what he really wanted to say. I already gave you my final answer.
Her eyes searched for the plate, but it was gone. “Um, nothing. My mistake.” She turned to go back inside.
He took her arm, stopping her. “What’s going on?”
Rachel looked around for the man in the shadows. She only saw the backs of the houses of Gandiegow.
“Nothing’s going on,” she finally answered.
Brodie looked down and saw the piece of paper folded into a miniature hat. He reached down and opened it, the words Help yourself as plain as day under the streetlamp. “This isn’t nothing.” He’d said the words quietly.
She looked around one more time. “Not out here. Come back inside.”
Chapter Ten
In Brodie’s gut, he knew something was wrong. The way Rachel was acting was so strange. He was still reeling from the kiss and her request for forgiveness, but the paper hat on the porch took priority. Besides, he couldn’t talk about how she unbalanced him. Later he’d contemplate how he’d lied to her. He could barely admit to himself he was starting to forgive her—just a little—though he had no mind to absolve her altogether. What reasonable man would ever forgive Rachel for what she had done?
He ushered her back into the house and followed her into the living room. He switched on every lamp because the room was too damn cozy with just the Christmas tree lights twinkling. It’d taken everything in him not to kiss her when she’d shown him the tree. The tree he couldn’t help putting there. The partridge . . . it was an accident. While on the boat today, he’d passed the time whittling a chunk of wood. He’d been one surprised bastard when he’d seen what he’d carved.
She sat on the sofa. He stood at the mantle. He’d done so well staying away from her earlier this evening, hiding out on the boat until he saw her walking across town to Thistle Glen Lodge.
Rachel was silent, looking guilty.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“Everyone is saying that things are missing. They believe it’s Tuck.”
“I don’t listen to gossip.”
He nodded.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, not looking at him. “It’s not Tuck. The mystery person isn’t tall enough to be him, and his shoulders aren’t as broad.”
Jealousy pierced Brodie as if his chest was gashed by an oversized treble hook. He detested that Rachel was in Gandiegow and the things she made him feel. He especially detested her describing Tuck. And he detested Tuck, because all the women commented on how well the Almighty had put him together. Gads!
Brodie brought his focus back to the issue at hand. “How do you know this person isn’t as tall as Tuck?” Or as broad.
She shook her head.
Brodie was getting a sinking feeling and stalked toward her. “Explain.”
“I saw him,” she confessed.
“Who was it?” Brodie asked. “Where were you? When was this?”
She didn’t look happy that he was bombarding her with questions, but he couldn’t help it. He had to know. So he could keep her safe.
“Out with it.”
“Fine,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Last night when I was leaving Quilting Central. It was late.”
“How late?”
“After eleven.”
“Were you by yereself?”
When she nodded, his stomach felt sick. Something terrible could’ve happened to her. He was steaming mad. How could she be so reckless? “Tell me everything. Everything that ye saw.”
“There’s not much to tell. It was just a man. When he saw me, he stepped into the shadows . . . as if he didn’t want to be seen.” She hesitated. “For a second, I thought it might be you.” She turned her head away. “Watching out for me.”
God, he wished he’d been that smart.
She exhaled and faced him again. “But the man in the shadows couldn’t have been you. Too thin. Not big enough. Not nearly.” She skimmed Brodie’s exterior, seeming embarrassed, but also not stopping until her eyes had thoroughly looked him over from top to bottom.
Brodie puffed up, although he didn’t care that she was assessing him, or that she seemed to approve of what she saw. But he had to admit he felt appeased, but only slightly. But then the impact of it all had air escaping his lungs. “Ye didn’t think to tell me about it sooner?”
She straightened up and looked him square in the eye. “You’ve been AWOL. Remember?”
“Hell.” His plan to stay away from her could’ve gotten her hurt. He was royally ticked off. He crumpled the origami note in his hand. “What was this all about? I assume ye wrote it?”
“I think he’s hungry so I fixed him a plate after dinner. I fixed one for you, too. Did you get it? I left it in the oven at the cottage.”
It had been nice to get a warm meal when he’d returned home from freezing his arse off on the boat. It was thoughtful of her, but he wasn’t going to say it now. He was livid.
“God, woman! How did ye know this stranger isn’t out to harm you? Yere kindness to the thief could very well be deadly. Leave milk out for stray cats, but for God’s sake, stop inviting danger! What ye’ve done is to only ask him to come back for more.” Brodie glanced down the hall to where Hannah—young, small, and vulnerable—slept behind the door. He wanted to bellow at Rachel that she and her daughter had no choice but to come back to Abraham’s now. Brodie could keep them safe there. But he stopped himself from roaring. He wouldn’t scare the little one awake. He tamped down his fury and hurled the paper into the empty hearth instead. “Why don’t you have a fire going? It’s freezing in here.”
She wrapped her white robe around her, tightening it. “I—I don’t know how.”
He stared at her in disbelief. Holy effing hell. He’d let them come back over here and she didn’t have one ounce of survival skills to stay in a cottage on the northeast coast of Scotland? What had he been thinking?
“Don’t look at me that way! I grew up in a hotel. My grandfather switched the wood-burning fireplace with a gas insert when I was a girl. We just had to flip a switch.”
This was another glaring difference between them. She was a flip a switch type of woman and he was a grunt and muscle man—cutting down the trees, chopping logs, carrying them in, and building a damned fire. Just another reason why he couldn’t wait until she was gone. God, he still cared for her, though. But the gulf was too wide. Too deep. He’d drown trying to get to her. He would effing drown.
But he couldn’t think about that now. He walked straight to the hearth, squatted down, and grabbed the paper from the bin. He began crunching them into balls.
“Don’t start a fire now,” she hissed. “I’m going to bed soon. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“It’ll be fine.” His words came out more of a curse than as a comfort. “I’ll be here to make sure.”
“What?” Her pitch had risen.
He looked back at her. “I’ve no choice in the matter. You and wee bit need to be watched after. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
She sighed exasperatedly, sounding so much like one of Hannah’s melodramatic snits. “Seriously, Brodie, the food snatcher is harmless.”
He stood, going to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He gazed into her brown eyes, willing her to see the truth. “Ye don’t know that for sure. I couldn’t . . .” He faltered. “We couldn’t—Abraham and the rest of the village—we couldn’t have anythin’ happen to you.” Brodie’s eyes bore into her, making sure she knew it all. If something happened to her, it would kill him. It would crush his soul. He would be totally lost. “I mean it.” His voice sounded hoarse, like Grandda’s after one of his coughing fits.
She nodded and started to reach up with her hand.
Brodie let go and stepped back. “Stand over here so I can teach ye what every Scottish lass is taught before she’s three years old.” Hannah’s lesson would begin tomorrow. “Grab a handful of tinder from the box and spread it over the paper.
It was hell to have Rachel shoulder-to-shoulder with him, but at least she was nearby where he could keep her safe.
He guided her through the rest of the steps on how to build a fire, having her do each part on her own. Finally he stood when the fire was blazing, bringing warmth and comfort into the room.
“You can’t stay,” Rachel said, going to the sofa, sitting down, and pulling her legs up to her chin.
He disagreed. “Why?”
“Hannah.”
“I’ll be gone before she wakes. I have to do the morning run on the boat.”
“I know Gandiegow,” Rachel said. “The gossip will be thick if they find out you’re here.” She looked at him as though it saddened her that he couldn’t stay.
His chest warmed, as if the idiotic partridge had been swaddled in a quilt.
“Let me take care of Gandiegow,” he murmured. “As I said, they wouldn’t want anything to happen to ye.”
She stood and stared at him, as if it was a dare. “And you? Do you care, too?”
He held on to the mantle to keep from crossing the room and pulling her into his arms. “I care for the girl.” That was the only thing he would admit. But he cursed himself that his declaration took all the air from her sails.
He looked at the clock on the wall. “I have to rest before I get up in a few hours.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Why did you come here tonight?”
He didn’t point out that her red handbag sat in the kitchen as testament as to why he’d come. She didn’t know the rationale he’d used to bring it to Thistle Glen Lodge either. What if she has an emergency and needs her purse in the middle of the night? He couldn’t have her traipsing across the village in that robe of hers to get it. By the way she was acting, did she think he’d stopped by for some other reason? But she was wrong, completely wrong. He wasn’t so weak that he needed to make excuses to see a woman.
Her
robe and tousled brown hair didn’t go with the fierce glare she was firing at him. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her anger away. But the answer to her question as to why he’d come here tonight flickered across his mind as a lighthouse beam passes over the rocks, illuminating them, leading the way to safety. He cocked an eyebrow at her, making sure he got in the last word.
“The Almighty sent me here. Ye’re in need of a watchdog tonight.”
* * *
Rachel stood transfixed as Brodie pulled the quilt out of the tall corner basket. She wanted more from him than to be some kind of guard dog for her. She wanted a true love. She wanted to kiss him once more. Maybe twice. If she took the initiative again, she’d do nothing but make herself look foolish. Or desperate. He’d been clear. He was never going to forgive her.
She didn’t say good night, or thank him for staying over, but left him to stretch out on the couch. She grabbed her notebook before she walked down the hallway. She didn’t want to think about what had just passed between them. While she washed her face and brushed her hair, she forced herself to think of something pleasant, like the empty lot next door.
First she imagined the interior of the B and B . . . a warm beachy atmosphere, but it had to feel like a Scottish cottage, too. As she picked out everything in her mind from the window coverings to the sheets on the bed, the obvious question popped up. The cost.
She took her notebook to the bedroom next to hers so as not to wake Hannah. As she flipped to a clean page, past all the quilts she’d designed since arriving in Gandiegow, Rachel did her best to pretend Brodie slept at the Arctic Circle instead of only a few steps down the hall. She sat cross-legged on the bed, writing out everything it would take to run a B and B here. Then she made a list of questions which needed to be answered . . . such as who owned the land? Was it for sale? Finally, but most important, did Gandiegow have the traffic to make this whole venture possible?
When Rachel’s yawns were making her eyes water, she shut her notebook and headed to her room. She quietly put her nightgown on in the dark and crawled into bed. The idea of her own bed and breakfast had done the trick to keep her brain occupied. But now her mind wandered. Down the hall to the man stretched out on the sofa.
It Happened in Scotland Page 16