by L. L. Muir
Almost.
She shrugged. “Sorry about that.” She peeked at his face and he was still frowning.
“Ye canna expect the woman to give ye yer due if ye cannot accept a compliment from a man who already loves ye, aye?”
She opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of a rational argument, so she clapped her lips shut and just nodded. Thankfully, he stopped frowning. And just in time too. The second most important test was at hand.
“Please tell me my sister did not just refer to your kilt as a skirt, sir.” Her dad stepped forward and his large, solid belly filled the space in the center of their little circle. He waved Mary away, who then walked over to join another group of grubbers who were foundering without someone more substantial to glom onto.
The Scot shook Daddy’s outstretched hand. “She did, sir, but perhaps she doesnae ken any better.”
“Oh, she knows.”
“Daddy, this is Jim. Jim, this is my father, Rockefeller Cunningham.”
“Rocky to my friends.” He always started out friendly, so if they kept their conversation brief, her dad might not have time to turn offensive.
The actor’s eyes narrowed. “Cunningham?”
“Yes. It’s Scottish, but maybe you didn’t know that?”
Grace panicked. She’d requested an actor who could do a believable Scottish accent. She hadn’t expected anyone to have to study Scottish history to get the job. After all, she wasn’t paying them that much.
“Auch, aye,” her actor said. “I ken well enough that Cunninghams are Scottish. A unicorn on yer crest, I believe.”
“Yes.” Her father grinned. “With a horn of gold.”
He clapped the Scot on the shoulder, but surprisingly, the man didn’t move at all under what had to have been a lot of force. Her dad liked to keep men off balance any way he could, and if he couldn’t do it with words, he’d get physical. But this time, Grace thought her father might have meant the move as a sign of approval.
“Either you know your stuff, Jim, or you’ve done your research.” Her father narrowed his eyes at Grace as if to say, “you don’t fool me.” Then he turned back to the Scot. “Where are you from?”
She had to jump in. “I’m sure you’ve never heard of it, Daddy. And besides, he’s from Eugene now.” She gave the actor a smile and a quick wink and hoped he had brains enough to play along. It was clear he was pretty enough for any part and buff enough to make him look like a medieval Highlander wrapped cleverly in a plaid package. But how bright he was, she couldn’t guess.
She’d been stupid to think she would really get away with lying to her family. And she could have gotten out of it by saying they’d broken up, but before her mother shred the news about Patience’s engagement, she’d first asked if Grace was still dating that Scot she talked about.
“Oh yeah,” Grace had said. “Still with him. Still happy.”
Then her mother had pounced. “Good. Now don’t mess it up between now and April. I want you to bring him to the wedding.”
The shock of finding out whose wedding she would be bringing him to was upstaged by the fear of producing a boyfriend by April. And not just any boyfriend. He had to be a Scot!
After a few sleepless nights, she’d considered telling her mom she’d caught her Scottish boyfriend cheating on her, but she didn’t want anyone thinking she was stupid enough to date a cheater. And she would much rather use her savings to hire a boyfriend for a short weekend than flush all the work she’d done. And it had taken a heck of a lot longer than just a weekend to prove she could survive away from the “family shelter” in Texas.
But the lie hadn’t been so simple. And she was about to be exposed.
He was a real Scot? Maybe. But how much would a Scottish Texan know about Scotland?
CHAPTER THREE
The Scot gave her a worried look and then turned back to her father. “I hail from Paisley, Renfrewshire,” he said. But for a second there, it sounded like he’d been forcing his words though clenched teeth. She’d seen plenty of people struggle to be civil to Rocky, but this guy hadn’t even met the true Rockefeller Cunningham yet. So what would he do when he did?
The important thing, she told herself, was that his supposed hometown sounded awfully Scottish. Believable, even.
She gave him a big smile, but his attention was still on her father. And thankfully, her father was busy trying, but failing, to ignore the school of grubber fish moving slowly in his direction.
Daddy scowled at his sister, Mary, then brought his attention back. “Just outside Glasgow, isn’t it?”
Jim nodded. “It is.”
“Visited an Abbey there once, a long time ago.”
Grace’s mother appeared next to her father and he relaxed. His handler had arrived. She was a butterfly…with armor. Mother turned her back to the oncoming mob of relations and they turned away as if they’d hit a force-field. No one messed with Barbara Cunningham.
“You must be Jim,” she said, and stepped forward briefly to fake an embrace and kiss the air next to the actor’s face. Then she resumed her position.
Her mother was Queen of the Money Handlers. She wasn’t a money maker, but she was married to one. And she definitely trumped the other money handlers—the lawyers—who consisted mostly of her own younger brothers—those who didn’t expect to inherit their own family businesses—and her nephews—who had no hope at all. But her mother also held an honorary position in the Grubbers Association because the grubbers were big spenders, and they’d learned their craft from Barbara Cunningham herself.
She was like a goddess to them.
The reason why local charities did so well financially was because they were shrewd enough to offer a throne to handlers like Grace’s mother. Because most men, even powerful oil men, couldn’t spend all that money on their own.
“Mother, this is Jim. Jim, my mother, Barbara Cunningham.”
“Jim?” Her mother raised her perfectly penciled brows. “Just Jim?”
Her apparently authentic Scotsman took her mother’s hand and pretended to kiss her knuckles, just as she’d pretended to kiss his cheek. And those penciled brows stayed where they were.
“The name is Fitzjames Arthur Payton, at yer service.” He let go of her hand and it just hung out there, in the air, for a whole five seconds before she pulled it back. “Ye’ve permission to call me Fitz if ye must.”
“Payton?” Her father was turning red. “Payton?”
“Yes, sir.” Jim lifted his chin, apparently in no mood to take anymore guff about his name. “Perhaps ye were nay aware Payton, too, is a Scottish name.”
Grace wasn’t sure when she’d closed her eyes to pray, but the sound of her dad’s laughter brought her back. Apparently, the man was still human enough to know when he was being teased, even though no other humans, in that particular room, dared to tease him anymore.
She looked at the Scot to see if he realized just how lucky he was and ended up getting caught in those terrific green eyes again, and she couldn’t help thinking what beautiful eyes their children would have. Of course, that would never happen. Ever. But she still wished the rest of the room would just disappear for a few minutes so they could have a decent conversation.
One of the man’s cheeks lifted with half a smile and she realized he might be thinking the same thing.
Her heart began to race. These were the kind of moments that other girls lived for. For anyone else, this frozen scene was what started fairy tales, and she wouldn’t be surprised to look down and find her foot on the first of a long road of yellow bricks just begging her to take a walk.
But she wasn’t other girls. She was Grace Cunningham. And Grace Cunningham had a legacy she had to keep buttoned up in her genes. She turned away and acted as if the moment had never happened, hoping the heat in her face wasn’t showing through a carefully applied layer of liquid base.
Her cousin, Charles, rapidly tapped the heavy handle of a knife on his champagne flute, and the room qu
ieted. He pointed to the opening and everyone broke into applause when they realized the bride-to-be was standing there. Patience basked in the spotlight and waved like a beauty queen on a float, the family her adoring masses. She was as gorgeous as money could buy, but her eyes had an extra little twinkle to them that Grace hoped meant her sister was actually happy.
The grinning groom appeared over her shoulder and the bride rolled her eyes, like he’d ruined her big moment.
So much for happiness.
Patience then ignored those who called out to her and bee-lined it for Daddy. A true grubber. And if Shawn was working at Forrester Oil with his father, the bride was about to graduate to Handler. Sadly, Grace suspected that little detail was a more probable source of that gleam in her sister’s eye. Patience Cunningham was going to graduate and never look back. All she had to do was play nice with Shawn until his purchase papers were signed.
Grace would have felt guilty for thinking such a thing if it wasn’t so typical of Barbara Cunningham’s Mini-me.
Grace would have considered warning Shawn, but she knew him from when they’d all been teenagers. He knew just what he was getting into. For the moment, he was happy to move around the family gathering like he had no assigned class, like his only goal in life was to marry Patience. But he was fully aware of the distant cousins who leaned close for a faux embrace, but only wanted to pad their chances of rising to the top of the food chain, stuck to his underbelly like parasites.
This wedding wasn’t about love. Wasn’t about high school sweethearts finally uniting. And even though the ceremony would take place in a church, that ceremony would be all about money.
Money that went as deep as oil wells. Money that could change the world if only the right people were given some of it.
If it were mine, I could do so much good with it.
The walls were suddenly too confining, the milling mob too invading, and Grace had to get out of there! It was bad manners, she knew, since she hadn’t yet greeted the bride, let alone everyone else. But it was just too much. If she didn’t get away from them, she was going to become one. She’d be lined up next to a chosen, worthy, future money-maker in front of a priest, waiting to graduate, waiting to funnel money where she privately wanted it to go.
She’d never get out of Texas again!
Something clamped down on her arm and swung her around, and by the time she understood it was the Scot’s broad hand, she was being lifted off the ground. He’d scooped her off her feet like some groom carrying his bride across the threshold!
The guy was simply too big for her to have any effect on, so all she could do was bend her head toward him and try not to die of embarrassment before he decided to put her down.
They moved toward the glass doors and she could see the sunset and fresh air, and most importantly, empty space awaiting them.
“Grace.” Her mother’s warning tone cut through the crowd, but luckily for her, the actor was immune.
Jacob, a young, distant cousin grabbed the handles and pushed both doors open for them. The Scot’s deep voice rumbled beneath the hand she held against his chest for stability.
“Thank ye, laddie. And close them again, if ye would.”
A few smooth steps later, they were outside on a wide veranda with nothing but flowers crowding the space. Their sweet, spicy fragrances rose with the heat and surrounded her and her rescuer in a cloud. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was back in Eugene where blue and white hydrangea bloomed all around her little yellow house. Where breezes blew to her the fragrance of acres and acres of wildflowers she’d planted for the bees.
She was jarred back to reality when her feet touched down. The Scot held one of her arms and pressed a hand to her stomach while he frowned at her, probably waiting to see if she was going to be able to stand on her own.
“I’m fine. Fine.” She nodded and smiled and he removed his hands. Even in the Texas heat, her skin felt a little cold where his hands had been. Had it been so long since anyone had actually touched her?
Pathetic.
He nodded sharply, then turned to look over the swimming pool that had been changed into a fountain for the festivities. Large, geometric rafts, covered with a precise pattern of flowers, floated slowly back and forth, moored to something below the water. Even with the setting sun, the heat cooked the expensive flowers. They wouldn’t last long, but she was sure a fresh batch would be baking for the reception the following night.
She leaned on the balustrade and left more than a foot of space between them. She shivered when she remembered the feel of his arm around her waist. If anyone else would have tried it, she would have freaked out. But there was something strangely non-threatening about the Scot in spite of his size. And his muscles. And the fact that he’d been tough enough to give her dad a good handshake and keep his balance under a heavy thump on his shoulder.
The sight of him probably sent other men running for the gym, and maybe the local wool clothier…
She couldn’t just stand there for the rest of the night in silence, listing to the patter of water falling on water, close enough to feel his body looming within reach, wishing there was something real for her sister to envy.
Finally, she sighed. “How did you know I needed to get out of there?”
He took his time answering. “Ye began to pant, lass. And yer neck jumped with the beating of yer heart.” He glanced back at the closed doors. “I would have expected yer mother, at least, to come see what ails ye. Not that it’s my business, ye ken.”
Grace laughed. “Are you kidding? She’s got guests to see to. And if she comes out those doors it will be to bawl me out for making a scene.”
Those green eyes told her his heart broke for her. But as sweet as that was, she definitely did not want his pity. Her family dynamic was just…complicated.
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Really. If I’d been dripping blood or something, I’m sure she would have come running.”
He turned back to the view. The fountain program started over again and wider sprays splashed on the grateful flowers. They wouldn’t be grateful for long, of course, since it was chlorinated pool water. But it might keep them looking and smelling good until the dinner was over. Even if no one else wandered outside to enjoy them.
Of course, if some money-makers—her dad and uncles—decided to come out, the flowers would have a nice-sized audience.
Ugh. We still have to sit through dinner.
The Scot shifted his weight beside her. A little closer maybe. “If ye’ll tell me what upset ye so, I can do what I can to keep it from happening again.”
She wasn’t about to tell him what brought on her panic attacks, so she didn’t say anything.
“Though, to prevent it, I suspect I’d have to gag all the guests,” he turned and grinned, then fingered the tartan draped over his shoulder, “and I’ve just the nine yards of plaid, mind.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The seating arrangements for this auspicious wedding supper may as easily have been assigned in medieval times. On a raised floor at the head of a ballroom sat the King and Queen with the heir apparent—a rude lad called Young Rock—their two daughters, the groom, and one Scottish guest.
Himself.
The last of the seats surrounding the circular table sat empty due to the unexpected illness of Young Rock’s wife. And all the while the guests were finding their own assigned seats, almost to a man, they glanced at the empty chair as if were made of gold, and they were but waiting for the bravest among them to attempt to take it. Eventually, Barbara became annoyed and asked for a servant to take the thing away.
The other guests sat on lower tables and looked on in reverence. Happily for them, they’d all been allotted their own shakers of salt, so that, in itself, proved the times were either modern, or Rocky Cunningham was wealthier than any other medieval king.
Fitz had been introduced to a fifty people and forgotten fifty names, but thankfully, his wee G
race assured him he wouldn’t be expected to remember any.
She was a fine companion for his two days’ sojourn in mortal skin, and he planned to thank Soni heartily for sending him to this Texas city called Arlington. As for his quest—the heroic deed expected of him—he could only hope that he would be called upon to take revenge on this cluster of Cunninghams.
Except for Grace, of course.
A den of vipers, to be sure. Even the lovely bride lost her beauty when she first laid eyes upon her younger sister. Though Grace hadn’t witnessed it, one side of Patience’s nose had curled at the mere sight of her, and he was hard pressed to understand why his lovely wee lassie had deigned to attend the wedding festivities at all.
Her home was in Oregon, a generous distance from Texas. Surely it had been an effort to travel all that way, but in his opinion it was an effort lost and unappreciated by her own family. He had hope in his heart that wee Grace would understand, and quickly, that family did not always mean Clan, and Clan did not always mean family.
What the lass needed was a new assignment of both. But judging from the fact that she’d hired someone—someone who had not arrived in time—to play the role of an imagined suitor told him she had no current prospects.
The idea frustrated him, for what lass as sweet as Grace would go unnoticed for so long? Something was amiss.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to fill her needs himself. He was only there for the rest of the evening, or perhaps another full day after. There was no time to wed the lass and give her a new name and clan. Besides, she’d find it hard to be grateful for either if he simply vanished afterward.
She’d never agree to such a thing in any case. After all, he was spending the evening with her under false pretenses. She’d have no reason whatsoever to trust him if she ever discovered his deception.
His Grace was sweet and kind. She was not a fool.