It Happened in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  He came with a shudder and she followed him into the bliss.

  As the waves of their coupling rippled away, she realized that he’d stilled. She gazed up to find him staring at her warily.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she said. But she had and he knew it.

  He didn’t say a word, but pulled out and stood, turning away, looking out the frosted window again.

  She scooted off the bed and reached for her twisted nightgown.

  “I got carried away,” she tried to explain. She didn’t understand how they could be so connected one second, and in the next, for him to become as distant and as cold as Antarctica. She longed to wrap an arm around his waist and ride out the storm which was making his back rigid in the moonlight.

  She waited, in vain, for him to tell her to come back to bed. Or that he would at least say her name once more. But he’d erected an impenetrable wall between them.

  It would do no good to ask him for his forgiveness again. She already knew the answer.

  I love you, she wanted to cry out into the darkened room as a cloud came over the moon. But she kept her regard for him to herself—at least this time. As she walked into the hallway, she felt as if she’d given herself away, once again, to the wrong cousin.

  Don’t lose heart, the little voice said. He called you mo ghràidh. But she was certain he was regretting it now, because she’d pleaded with him to love her.

  * * *

  “Lass?” Brodie stared out into the night, unable to calm his pounding heart. “Good night.” His blasted voice sounded emotional. He’d told her sex wouldn’t mean anything, but somehow it had.

  She said nothing but quietly shut his door.

  He shouldn’t have let it happen. He’d been minding his own business, looking into the night for the person lurking about. Why had he been so weak? He knew the answer. For a lot of reasons, some even rational.

  He scoffed. “Yeah. Right, rational.” What a line of bullshit he’d been feeding himself . . . closure. There was no closure in having sex. He’d only opened Pandora’s box and totally screwed himself and the resolve he’d built up since she’d married Joe.

  Love me, Brodie still hung in the air like perfume. Any man would’ve been honored for a woman like Rachel to ask him for his love. Aye, her words sounded sweet and sincere, but if he did as she asked, he’d be pulling the rope for the death knell of his weak heart.

  If only the damned partridge tattoo didn’t want to bust out of his chest, run to her, beg her to come back, tell her that they should make love until they were old and gray.

  “Effing hell.” He should find Doc right now and have himself committed. A real man should be stronger than this.

  Like a gavel, he pounded the bed. He would not run to her. He would stick to his guns. Tomorrow, he would act like nothing had happened. He wouldn’t ruin Christmas for Grandda. He would pretend it had all been a dream. He’d get through the holidays and wave good-bye to Rachel when she left, showing her the same amount of emotion as if she were one of the damned retreat-goers. He’d be fine. Abraham had made it all these years without a woman by his side. Brodie could do the same.

  He yanked on his pajama bottoms and lay back on the bed. He refused to think about Rachel on the other side of the wall, though her scent was everywhere. He got out of bed, taking the quilt with him, and marched down the hallway to the sofa.

  But as the clock ticked on the wall, he was unable to sleep. Hell. That’s what he got for not being able to control his urges. When he finally dozed off, he was tortured with dreams of Rachel. They were on his boat in midsummer. She was laughing into the wind and smiling at him. He’d never been happier.

  At six thirty, he woke to the smell of coffee and Rachel padding around in the kitchen. Without stopping to wish her a Happy Christmas, he readied for the day—externally and internally. When he had composed himself to being as emotional as the retaining wall to the village, he appeared in the kitchen.

  Rachel was a vision of contradiction. She wore a long-sleeved red party dress and dark tights, but on her feet were her purple fuzzy slippers. Nothing had changed between them—she knew the score—yet she still wore his locket around her slender neck. This time, instead of the locket making him angry or confused, he was relieved it still hung there. He shouldn’t feel that way and cursed his inconsistency. Damn his gullible heart!

  He took in her face and found her gaze was filled with expectation, earnestness, and an I-want-to-talk-about-last-night-before-we-go expression. “I made you a cup of coffee.”

  He nodded and approached the mug, but not before he remembered his resolve and fortified himself.

  As she opened her mouth, he raised his hand to shield against her onslaught.

  “Nothing’s changed,” he said gruffly. But in the background, he could still hear her plea, Love me, Brodie. He needed that coffee to clear his throat . . . and his mind.

  “But—but . . .” The pain in her voice was killing him.

  He changed the subject. “What about the thief? Have ye set out his breakfast?”

  “I thought I’d leave him the scones.” She pointed to the paper bag lying on the counter. “Maybe something more from the refrigerator, too.”

  “Fill it up. It’s Christmas.” If Brodie had any say about it, it was also Reckoning Day. Something had to be done. He couldn’t continue to stay at the quilting dorm to watch out for Rachel or he’d lose his mind. And my heart. He hated himself for thinking like a sappy schoolgirl.

  “I’ll get last night’s plate.” He stomped from the room toward the front of the cottage, not feeling the joy of Christmas in the least. One thing was for certain, he’d better straighten out his mood before going home to Grandda.

  When he yanked open the door, not only was the empty plate sitting on the stoop, but another paper statue. This time, though, it was a bear. A damn bear. The thief had given the American lass a bear. Was he sweet on her?

  Brodie needed to catch this bastard.

  He bent down, retrieved both items, and took them back to the kitchen. “Ye have an admirer.” The taste was bitter in his mouth. If this was Tuck playing some kind of prank, Brodie was going to straighten him out with a boot up his arse.

  She took the things Brodie offered and smiled at the bear. “He’s talented.”

  “And a criminal.”

  She shrugged. “Do you think this will hold him off until dinner?” She had stacked three scones and four leftover bangers on the plate, covering it all with plastic wrap.

  “Aye. Go put that out front and let’s get home. Hannah will probably be up.”

  Rachel smiled at him, the smile that was always on her face when she was thinking of her daughter. “For my mother’s sake, I hope she hasn’t been awake too long.” Rachel left with the plate.

  Brodie retrieved his coat and met her at the front. He pulled the door closed, locked it, and stepped over the plate of food. They walked in silence to the cottage, but he could tell Rachel still wanted to talk. He wouldn’t allow her to draw him in. He wouldn’t ask how she fared today. He was a rock. Immovable, inaccessible. But the waves breaking on the walkway sang out, Love me, Brodie.

  At his grandfather’s cottage, Brodie barred the door with his hand as Rachel reached for the knob. “I have an errand to run.”

  “On Christmas?” She sounded circumspect.

  “Don’t open the presents without me.” He waited until she was safe inside, before heading into the shadows at the back of the houses. Winter didn’t provide a lot of camouflage, but at least it was still dark, due to the short days. He circled around to the quilting dorms, ready to catch the thief in action. God, he hoped the bastard hadn’t picked up his meal while Brodie was getting Rachel to Grandda’s in one piece.

  Brodie took up his position behind the lounge chair at Duncan’s Den, waiting and watching the full plate Rachel had left
.

  It was damned cold this morning, and only minutes into his stakeout, Brodie was wishing for long underwear and a stack of quilts to burrow under. He considered slipping into the quilting dorm to get one when there was movement in the shadows across from Thistle Glen Lodge.

  Rachel was right; the bandit wasn’t big enough to be Tuck. But the body shape and the way he moved confirmed the stalker was a he. He lurked in the shadows for several seconds, probably to make sure it was safe to come out. Finally, he slunk forward, shadow to shadow, until the last place to go was the porch. Brodie readied himself. The moment the thief bent down to get the plate, he rushed from his hiding spot and grabbed the man by the scruff of his coat collar.

  “Uh!” came the thief’s surprise. “Leave off.” He swung wildly.

  Suddenly, Brodie realized he wasn’t a man at all, but a tall kid. A teen. Skinny. Hannah had enough strength to hold him off. “Who are ye?” Brodie let go, certain he could stop the kid if he decided to run.

  The teen straightened himself up indignantly. “I’m Harry.”

  Brodie didn’t recognize him from Gandiegow or one of the surrounding villages. “Harry who?”

  “Harry Stanton.”

  “What are ye doing here?” Brodie asked.

  “Looking for me father.”

  “Who’s yere father?”

  The kid’s eyes dropped to his feet. “I dunno.”

  “Ah, hell.” Brodie shook his head, feeling kind of stupid for trying to be a badass. He’d caught him, but now what was he going to do with the lad? “Pick up yere plate. We’re going to my grandfather’s.” He couldn’t believe he was doing this, taking home a delinquent for Christmas. “Watch what ye do and say at my house. My family’s there.” The thought struck him strangely how it wasn’t just Abraham he was thinking about. Rachel, Hannah, and even Vivienne were his family, too.

  The kid stood there, looking at him closely.

  “Stop staring at me,” Brodie said. “I’m not yere da. Now, let’s get going.”

  The kid grabbed the plate, but couldn’t keep his eyes off the food as they trudged down the walkway.

  “Go ahead and eat something. There’ll be more when we get to the cottage.” Brodie had never known real hunger, but he recognized the teen’s.

  When they arrived at Abraham’s, Brodie let the kid in and showed him where to put his snow-dusted wellies—size forty-four. Next he pointed where to hang his coat, then showed him to the parlor, where Hannah was chatting nonstop with the rest of the family laughing at her antics.

  “Ye’re here,” Abraham said as Brodie stepped into the entryway.

  Hannah rushed him. “Brodie!” Instead of letting her hug him, he shifted her to the side, putting a protective arm around her.

  With his other hand, he grabbed Harry’s sleeve and pulled him into the room. “We have a guest.” The kid still held the plate, and Rachel’s eyes fell to the breakfast she’d made him. She lifted her eyebrows at Brodie as if waiting for an explanation. “He’ll be spending Christmas with us.” He didn’t know any other way to keep an eye on the kid.

  “Welcome,” Grandda said. “Come get warm by the fire. We were just getting ready to open presents.”

  Hannah hopped up and down. “Yeah!”

  Harry walked over to the fireplace, looking miserable, and sat down on the stone hearth with his plate.

  “Hold off on the presents for a moment. I need to grab something to eat.” The smell of sausage from the kitchen was powerful. Brodie would make another plate for Harry, too.

  Hannah ran after him into the hallway and grabbed his hand. “Hurry, Brodie. Hurry.”

  He couldn’t help himself; he squatted down to hug the lass. “Happy Christmas, wee princess.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Happy Christmas to ye, Sir Knight!” She raced back to the parlor.

  A few minutes later, he returned with two plates, hearing the last of the introductions to the newcomer in the room. Harry mentioned nothing about looking for his father, only saying that he was passing through. Brodie handed him the new plate of food, nodding to him that he’d done the right thing. Today wasn’t the day to be accusing the men of Gandiegow of fathering a child and abandoning him.

  For a moment, Joe passed through Brodie’s mind. Could he be Harry’s father? Nay. It was too far-fetched and too much of a coincidence to have Harry land in this house looking for his kin.

  Hannah was so hyperactive at this point that both Rachel and her mother seemed to have given up trying to contain her enthusiasm.

  “Do I get the first present?” the girl chirped.

  Brodie swallowed his bite of scone. “Aye.” He went to the tree and rolled out a crudely wrapped present. He didn’t know a lot about little girls, but when he’d seen it in the store at Inverness, he thought it would be perfect for dolly. “Here.”

  Hannah shredded the wrapping paper as if a pot of gold were hidden inside. “A stroller!” she squealed. She snatched her doll off Abraham’s lap and shoved her in there as if she were stuffing a pillow into its case.

  “I hope ye like it,” Brodie said awkwardly.

  “Tell Brodie thank you,” Rachel prodded.

  “Thank ye,” Hannah said. She looked over at Grandda. “I fancy it a lot.”

  Abraham winked at her as if she’d used the word correctly.

  Harry snickered, reminding Brodie that he was in the room.

  “What?” Harry said a little belligerently. “The lass is cute.”

  Hannah, never shy, beamed at Harry.

  “Who’s next?” Rachel said. “How about one for Abraham?” She reached under the tree and pulled out a flat box. “Hannah, give this to your grandfather.”

  The lass dropped the handles of her buggy and skipped over to Rachel. She took the gift, ran to Grandda, and shoved the present at him. “Here.”

  With arthritic hands that had seen better days while fishing, Grandda unwrapped the gift with much more restraint than Hannah until tartan fabric appeared. Quickly, he ripped off the rest of the paper. “It’s the MacFarlane tartan.”

  “Turn it over,” Rachel said.

  Grandda flipped the frame and on the other side was them . . . Rachel, Hannah, Abraham, and Brodie. “A family portrait.” Grandda seemed choked up when he looked at Rachel. “Ye’re a thoughtful lass.” He put his hand out to her.

  Rachel came to him and squeezed his hand, then kissed his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

  Once again Brodie was touched by how kind she was to his grandfather.

  Abraham patted the gift. “Did ye make this, Rachel?”

  “Aye,” Hannah said, butting in. “She made it all by herself, except I helped to put the picture in the frame.”

  Grandda beamed at the girl. “Ye’re a thoughtful one, too.”

  Rachel reached under the tree and discreetly tore the tag off the next gift as she lifted it out. “If I’m not mistaken, I think Santa left a present here for Harry.”

  The teen’s head popped up. “What?”

  “Father Christmas,” Hannah said, correcting her mother.

  “Yes, right, Father Christmas. Here, Harry.” Rachel held out the medium-size box to the boy.

  “For me?” He looked around at them as if they were a group of forest animals who had suddenly learned to talk. Finally, he took the gift and tore into it as if he’d taken lessons from Hannah. It was the simple patchwork quilt, meant for Vivienne, nothing elaborate, but Harry gazed upon it as if it were that pot of gold.

  All of a sudden, the kid looked embarrassed. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He crumpled the quilt to his chest and held it tight.

  “Who’s next?” Hannah cried. “Me?”

  Brodie stepped forward and pulled a present from under the tree. “How about another one for Grandda?” Normally, he got his grandfather a good bottle of whisk
y, but this year, Brodie had gone all out. He handed the present over. “Here.”

  Abraham opened the rectangular box and looked up at Brodie more than a little shocked. “’Tis too expensive.”

  “Nay. I thought ye and Hannah could FaceTime when she goes back to the States.” But the thought of them leaving Scotland made the scone in Brodie’s stomach turn to stone.

  “FaceTime?” Abraham said.

  “I’ll show ye, Grandda.” Hannah took the iPad box and flipped it over. “It’s easy.”

  More presents were handed out. Brodie gave Hannah the child’s rocking chair, which had been his as a boy. Rachel gave Vivienne what she called a Scotland Survival Kit with warm boots and goodies from the store. Then more presents for Hannah were ripped into, while Harry sat with his quilt and watched as he ate the two plates of food.

  The one present Brodie didn’t bring out was left upstairs, tucked in the back of his closet. The leather-bound notebook of hand-pressed paper was for Rachel. He remembered how she liked to sketch when she’d been here six years ago. The gift didn’t mean anything, and he had no intention of giving it to her in front of everyone. They might read too much into it.

  Grandda was beaming at them with wrapping paper scattered at his feet. “How about another family picture?”

  “I’ll do it,” Rachel said.

  Vivienne took her phone from her. “You get in the picture. I’ll take it.”

  Harry stood. “Nay. I’ll do it.”

  Vivienne gave him a generous smile and handed over the mobile.

  Brodie took his place behind his grandfather. Instead of Rachel keeping her distance, the minx sidled up next to him and his nose picked up her familiar scent. It wafted over him the same way the waves caressed the beach. Love me, Brodie filled his senses and he had a hard time keeping it together.

  Harry held the phone up, but then dropped it to his chest. “Ye’ll have to squeeze in.”