by Pam Binder
“You like him.”
“He and Tatiana are engaged.”
“Ah. I’ll change the topic. Why did you want to know the origin of a sandwich?”
“I wanted to make sure that sandwiches wouldn’t seem odd. I have an idea of how we can stretch what is left of the food. We can make one of my mother’s favorites: meatball sandwiches. We’ll tell the customers it’s special in celebration of Hogmanay. Sandwiches will help stretch the little meat we have left. I’ll need someone’s help grinding the beef. We will combine the mixture with garlic, onion, and herbs, and then form them into meatballs. When they’re cooked, we will be back in business. Until they’re ready, we’ll serve up what is left of the soup, and make ham and cheese sandwiches.”
“Does Michael know about your hidden talent?”
“Making sandwiches isn’t that big a deal. Anyone can do it.”
Fiona smiled. “I wasn’t talking about making sandwiches, I was talking about the talent you have to recognize a problem and come up with a simple solution. That is rare.”
Chapter Nineteen
C.C.’s sandwiches were a big hit. Michael was a short distance away, taking orders and serving customers. Nowhere in his bio did it list that he’d worked as a waiter, and yet he looked as though he’d had years of experience.
She approached Bonnie Prince Charlie’s table. He and his men were laughing over a joke they’d shared. The prince sat back in his chair to watch her as she gave each man a plate of meatball sandwiches.
When she set the prince’s order in front of him, he gave her a dazzling smile. He’d removed his wig. His hair was tied at the nape of his neck and his deep-set eyes were framed by long lashes. He ignored the constant chatter of his men, concentrating his attention on C.C. A slow smile spread across his features as he winked at her and reached out to grab her waist.
She swerved out of his grasp and headed to a table next to his. Michael had told her a little about his history. Bonnie Prince Charlie was a notorious playboy, and it was rumored that after he fled the battle of Culloden, a woman helped hide him from the English. The irony was that when he finally made his escape to France and exile, he had been dressed as a woman.
The prince caught her staring, lifted his wine glass, and toasted her. “If you’re looking for a man, I’m yours, mon chéri.”
Out of nowhere, Michael moved quickly to her side. “Leave her alone.” Gone was the Scottish brogue he’d been practicing with customers. His voice was hard and monotone. “She’s my wife.”
“Impossible. If I had a wife as beautiful as yours, she’d not be here; she’d be in my bed.”
The prince’s comment drew laughter from his friends. The men all raised their tankards and clinked them together in agreement. The prince nodded to the man closest to him. The man had a wild beard that fanned out over his chest. He nodded back, drained his ale, wiped foam from his mouth onto his sleeve, then eased away from the table and stood.
He wasn’t as broad-shouldered as Michael, but he was almost as tall. He smoothed down his beard. “The prince has taken a liking to your wife. Name your price.”
Michael’s expression darkened as he set his tray on a table. “The lady is not for sale,” Michael shot back. His defiance of the prince brought a hush over those nearby.
The prince’s expression froze in place, and his eyes went dark and cold.
The bearded man rested his hand over the hilt of his sword. “My prince will take this wench, if ye will it or no.”
Muscles around Michael’s jaw tightened as he balled his hands into fists and edged toward the man. “She’s not merchandise that can be bought and sold. Apologize to my wife. Now.”
Time seemed to hold its breath. The man hesitated. He seemed to be assessing Michael for the first time.
C.C. had told Michael once that he never showed emotion. She had never understood the reason. She’d assumed it was because he was that rare athlete who could keep his feelings in check. He played with an intensity that few could match but never lost his temper, on or off the field. The moment the game was over, he had a standing rule. If any reporters wanted an interview, it was common knowledge they’d have to wait until Michael was ready. She’d assumed it was a power play, a way for Michael to exert his control over the media. What if it was something else? What if he needed time to calm down after a game and regain his control?
Watching Michael now, and the reaction of the men at the prince’s table, she knew the outcome if a fight broke out. Once Michael was in motion, he was unstoppable. He always completed a pass, or if a receiver weren’t in the pocket, he’d make the run himself. She’d said watching him play was boring, but that had been just an attempt to get a reaction from him.
Harold had said that when Michael was in high school he’d played both quarterback and defensive back, offense as well as defense. He didn’t care what position he played as long as he was on the field of battle.
When Michael Campbell was on the field, he was anything but boring. No one could keep their eyes off him. He made things happen. His coaches were always yelling at him to stop taking chances, as he risked injuries by making the play himself. The coaches might as well have been talking to a statue, which was probably the reason the press referred to him as one. Someone in the press had written an article saying Michael reminded him of Auguste Rodin’s bronze sculpture, The Thinker. The fact that Rodin wanted his sculpture to depict intellect as well as poetry and strength fit Michael Campbell perfectly.
Perhaps the prince’s men sensed that Michael was not the type of man who backed down and gave better than he received and that was why they hesitated. Most men had a keen awareness of who was the alpha dog and where they fit in the pack.
The big bearded man had also been drinking, probably most of the day. She saw the shift in his decision. When he squared his shoulders, she knew he was counting on his friends to give him the advantage and backup he needed. Except they didn’t look in any better shape than he did.
C.C. didn’t feel in any danger, but they were in a strange place, and according to Fiona, the last thing they needed was to draw attention. She put her hand on Michael’s arm. “We should go.”
The bearded man put his hand over his heart as he drew closer. “Your wife’s accent has a touch of the Sassenach. I have no love for the English, but when she speaks, I dinna care. Is your touch as soft as your voice, lassie? I’ll have a go at you when the prince’s had his fill. Ladies leave my bed with a smile on their face.”
“That’s it,” Michael said through clenched teeth. He crossed the short distance, pulled back his fist, and hit the man in the jaw.
The man’s head jerked to the side from the blow as he staggered back into his chair, sitting down hard. He rubbed his jaw and pushed himself back up, then paused. “He’s wearing the clan plaid of those traitorous Campbells, lads. I didna notice that before.”
The ebb and flow of conversation quieted as, one by one, people turned toward Michael and C.C. She could feel the resentment rising in the room like steam. Men stood, chairs toppled, and drinks spilled.
Fiona had rushed to their side, pressing what looked like a plaid blanket into C.C.’s arms. “Take this,” she said quickly. “It’s a kilt in the old style but the only thing I could find. You should run.”
They didn’t need a second warning. Michael grabbed C.C.’s hand, and they headed toward the door.
Chapter Twenty
Once outside, Michael and C.C. ducked into a narrow alley just as the door of the Water Horse tavern slammed open and angry men poured out into the street. With C.C. at his side, Michael headed deeper into the shadows. Muffled shouts of revenge against the Campbells drifted farther and farther away as the men searched the town.
In the pitch black of the alley, Michael felt his way along the wall of the building on his left. It veered slightly around a corner and led to a garden illuminated by a star-studded night. How could he have been so stupid? He knew the history of the Campbel
ls during this century. To say that they were disliked was an understatement. The sisters had a variety of kilts he could have chosen, but he’d wanted to wear his family’s colors to impress C.C.
He glanced over at her. She’d bent down to pet a snow-white kitten that had been rubbing against her legs. Most people would be afraid of a cat that was most likely feral, but not C.C. Animals gravitated to her and she to them. Nana said that animals could sense the good in people. He wasn’t sure that always applied, but in C.C.’s case, he believed it true. When the prince and his lackeys had spoken to C.C., he’d fought to keep from pummeling all of them into the ground. Men flirted constantly with Tatiana. It never bothered him. He’d rationalized that the attention and suggestive comments were part of the high-profile life they both lived.
Michael had ignored the attention Tatiana received while she basked in it, drinking it in as though it were her life’s blood. When the prince and his friends had flirted with C.C., however, he’d almost lost control. He’d wanted to shout, “Leave her alone. She belongs to me!”
The kitten scampered off into the garden, having apparently gotten its fill of human contact for the time being. C.C. leaned against Michael so naturally it felt as though they’d been a couple for years instead of hours. But they weren’t a couple. Not really. All of this was make-believe. He had to keep reminding himself of that fact. Because if he didn’t he would have to face his feelings for her.
Live in the moment.
It was one of Nana’s sayings, and she had one for every occasion. She’d repeat this one when she thought he was being pulled down with memories and regret. Not for the first time, he realized her wisdom.
Live in the moment.
He put his arm around C.C.’s shoulders as she nestled into him. Most women would be hysterical, or angry, or both at what they’d gone through. She was calm. Under the circumstances she had every right to yell at him. Because of him she had been forced to flee the safety of the twenty-first century into the turbulent past, and now she had been forced again to flee the warmth and security of the tavern.
“This is all my fault,” he said at last.
She reached up and touched his face with the back of her hand. “This is not your fault.”
Her touch warmed him to his core. “I should have changed kilts before we left the mansion.”
“And I should have changed into more practical shoes.”
“It’s not the same.”
She lifted an eyebrow. The gesture was so pixie-like, so cute, that it took all his will power not to gather her in his arms and kiss her.
“The reason I didn’t change shoes,” she began, “was because I wanted to prove to you that I could walk in heels like Tatiana.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted to tell her he was glad she was not like Tatiana. But that he couldn’t do. It might have opened the flood gates of his emotions. So he opted for another direction. “I wanted to show off that I had Scottish ancestry.”
She smiled and laughed in a way that reminded him of wind chimes touched by a summer breeze. She pressed her hand against his chest. “See, we both were distracted.”
He covered her hand with his. “That happens to me a lot whenever I’m around you.”
“You were very gallant in the tavern, defending my honor.”
His eyes narrowed. “That man was hitting on you.”
“That man was Bonnie Prince Charlie. Historians say he flirts with everyone.”
“I wouldn’t care if he were the commissioner for the NFL. I didn’t like how he was looking at you or talking to you.”
She drew closer, resting both hands on his chest as she gazed into his eyes. “You’re different. What happened to the Thinking Man statue?”
“Do you want him back?”
She shook her head slowly, giving him that slow smile that lit up her eyes like warm honey and cinnamon. “Absolutely not. I like this side of you. I’m just wondering.” Her gaze slid toward the garden as a chuckle escaped. When she turned back, it looked as though she was struggling not to laugh. “It’s like the episode in the original Star Trek TV series. I think it was the final season. The one where Mr. Spock travels back to the ice age and reverts to his inner caveman when he meets a woman.” She paused. “You probably don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“You mean the episode named: ‘All Our Yesterdays’? The woman’s name was Zarabeth.” He lifted his head and tried to keep his voice from giving away his amusement. “Actually, come to think of it, your theory makes a lot of sense. When we went through time I remember feeling different. As though my inner Neanderthal was being released.”
She actually harrumphed at him and pinched his arm. “I don’t believe you for a second.”
“What gave me away?”
“You’re grinning like a child who got away with eating an entire box of cookies.”
Muffled shouts reached the alley and echoed to where they stood. The men from the tavern had circled back and were searching the side streets.
C.C. drew back into the shadows. “I think we’d have a better chance if we tried to blend into the crowd.”
“Agreed, but not while I’m wearing the Campbell colors. I might as well be wearing a flashing beacon.”
C.C. produced the fabric Fiona had given to her. “Fiona said this is a kilt, but it’s in the old style, so it’s one long piece. I can help you put it on, and…”
He held up his hand. “I can manage.”
“But this is the old style of kilt,” she pressed. “It’s a length of wool that needs to be wrapped around your waist, slung over your shoulder, and belted in place.”
“Again, I’ll manage. I decided I wanted to embrace the whole Scottish kilt-wearing tradition.”
C.C. scrunched her eyebrows together. “I still don’t understand…” She sucked in her breath and her skin flushed. “Oh. You mean…”
He nodded. “Yup. Under this kilt I’m as naked as the day I was born.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Church bells tolled the eight o’clock hour. The sound reverberated throughout the town, beckoning everyone to join in the celebration of Hogmanay. Young and old poured from their homes. The night was clear and crisp, a good omen to start the New Year, and for the moment C.C. felt safe. In the alley, she waited for Michael to arrange the yards of faded blue-and-black wool plaid Fiona had provided into a style that resembled a kilt.
They hadn’t heard the men from the tavern for almost half an hour. She hoped they’d given up the chase. With her back to Michael, she averted her gaze and looked to her left, where the alleyway led to the town. On her right, the alley emptied into a park-like setting. From her vantage point, the clearing could be anything—land set aside for the town’s use, complete with fairy trees, benches and flower beds, or the backyard of a rich merchant, or even a cemetery.
She heard Michael behind her, struggling with the volume of material. “Can I help?”
He mumbled, “No, thank you.”
She allowed her gaze to drift toward the park again. A short while ago she’d joked that he was different. He’d joked back that he attributed it to their traveling back in time like Dr. Spock in a Star Trek episode. It was more than a change of place or time.
Some people thought that if they could change jobs, move to a different city, or date someone new, their lives would be better. The reality was more complicated. Her mother had often said that no matter where you went you were still the same person, with the same hopes and fears. Change had to come from within.
Michael thought this experience was changing him, but C.C. had seen the changes before they left the States.
He’d started changing when he was researching Scottish history for the movie part he wanted to play. He may not have realized it, but he had gone above and beyond what she suspected most people would have done. It was as though he’d become addicted to learning something new, or that he’d spent his life starving and had just discovered a
pantry filled with all his favorite foods.
Michael swore under his breath, something about if he couldn’t manage to belt the kilt in place, he’d walk out of the alley naked.
C.C. suppressed a giggle. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?”
“If you promise not to laugh.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“Honesty. Fair enough.”
She turned slowly, expecting…well, she wasn’t sure what she expected. He had the wool fabric twisted loosely around his waist and draped over both shoulders. He held what looked like a death grip on the bunched fabric at his waist. “You seem to have the main idea,” she said encouragingly. “And you’re not naked.”
“I will be if I let go. I can’t get it to fit in place the right way.”
She bit on her lip to keep from smiling. “How can I help?”
“If you can reach my belt…”
C.C. picked up the belt from the Campbell kilt on the ground. “You have the plaid too bunched up. You’ll have to let go so I can readjust the fabric.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“We’ll go slowly, then.” C.C. reached up to slip the wool down over his left shoulder. “If I can pull this through…” His breath was warm on her skin as she slipped it around and down. “You have too much material around your waist. We need to smooth out the folds.”
Michael reached for her wrist. “I’ll do it. Can you hold this section on my right side?”
She felt her face flush as she ducked her head, grateful for the long curls that hid her face from his view.