Romancing the Ugly Duckling

by Clare London

  And he still needed them for that life, didn’t he? He couldn’t turn up on the streets of Soho in blue Wellington boots and a huge waterproof coat. To say nothing of the layers of comfy clothing he was now used to wearing, especially the oversized blue fleece Greg had loaned him when he first appeared in the cottage like a drowned rat. Perry had always been reluctant to give it back.

  For that matter, where the hell was Greg? Perry had heard Greg’s phone ring in the kitchen an hour or so ago. Greg had shouted up the stairs about having to go to Alasdair’s to find a sheep that’d gone missing and there was a storm on its way, then the front door had slammed behind him.

  Perry peeked out of the small window by the front door to see if Greg was on his way back yet. How long did it take to find a missing sheep? The fields of peat that stretched from the end of the croft seemed to go on for ever, with no landmarks to break it up. And now the rain had started falling, slowly but steadily. Typical. It matched Perry’s mood. Miserable, cold, and inevitably wet. Water had dogged him every step of the way on this trip. He’d arrived soaked to the skin, fallen in the loch, needed extra swimming lessons when he should have done it years ago as a kid….

  But every time, he recalled, Greg had been there to help him. Greg had dried him off when he fell in, made sure he was warm. Had kissed him. Greg had held him in the water until his swimming confidence grew. Greg had laughed with and kissed him—again, and again—and taken him to bed. Perry sighed.

  Oh my God, I am so in trouble.

  He’d just received his e-ticket for his flight home tomorrow. It was all booked. But this departure was impossibly painful, and not just because he’d fucked up his mission. It was because he didn’t want to leave Greg.

  “What am I going to do?” he mused aloud. “What can I do?”

  Rory gazed up at him, his tail wagging.

  “Things are so much easier for a dog, right?” Perry reached down and absentmindedly scratched behind Rory’s ears. “You can just love someone without needing to explain yourself. Without worrying whether they feel the same, or how much, or in what way. In fact, not needing to talk about it at all.”

  Rory tilted his head to one side. Perry had never had such a fascinated, nonjudgmental audience. And my God, he needed to let loose to someone or he’d burst. His emotions started to seep out of him like sand through his fingers, and as soon as he started, he found he couldn’t stop.

  “I want to sleep in his room like you do, boy. Every night. Be with him every day like you are, walking the croft, eating the food he grows, building the fire, watching his art take shape, drinking that ghastly wine he makes. Good grief.” Perry shook his head mournfully. “He’s turned me into Bear Grylls.”

  Rory snuffled. It was almost a laugh. He tilted his head the other way, his bright eyes fixed hopefully on Perry’s face.

  “Okay. Yes. It’s time to be honest, at least with myself, isn’t it? And with you. What I said to him was the complete truth. Love is the word. Love is the bloody word. I’ve fallen for him. The big, gorgeous, tongue-tied, brother-bullied, issue-riven berk that he is. I’d never have imagined it. He doesn’t like musicals, he doesn’t possess any cocktail glasses, he doesn’t believe in fabric conditioner, and that haircut…? Oh God, I can’t wait until Lisa gets her salon up and running and can knock that into a decent shape on a regular basis.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Rory didn’t make any doggy sounds.

  “Shit. I won’t be here to see it anyway, will I?”

  Perry reached down again, letting Rory lick at his hand. His eyes felt suspiciously sore but he refused to cry again. At least not today, and not where Greg might catch him. “I love him. I love Greg Ventura. Trust me to fall for the wrong guy again, eh?”

  Rory whined quietly.

  “I have to go back to London. I have to! I made a commitment, I have a problem to make good, and I have to face up to it. And besides, there’s nothing definite for me here. He hasn’t really asked me to stay, has he? At least, not because he feels the same way. It’s been such a short time to get to know each other.”

  Rory’s ears suddenly pricked up. Perry’s heart gave a lurch. Was Greg back at the cottage? Surely he wasn’t finished with Alasdair already? Perry had assumed with his newfound island crofting knowledge that they might have to take the sheep to the vet’s, and that was out by Dougie’s place. But when Rory shook himself and then trotted over to the window, Perry followed.

  “Can you hear something, boy? No idea how you can with that bloody rain hammering on the roof. And you certainly aren’t tall enough to see outside.” With a smile—at a dog, for God’s sake, what had got into him?—Perry glanced out toward the end of the croft.

  There was someone outside, darting toward the peat bog. Short, dressed in a white top and jeans, unsteady on its feet. Perry couldn’t see from here whether it was male or female, but it looked small enough to be a child. He couldn’t see anyone else around. No one would let their child out alone in the rain like that, would they? I mean, he knew they were hardy folks around here, but that one didn’t look like it had a coat or hat or anything to protect it.

  Rory barked loudly. He was standing to attention, right in front of the door, as if expecting to be taken out. And right now.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Rory barked again, as if to say, How many times do I have to repeat myself, you idiot? His tail thumped hard against the doorframe.

  “You’re the idiot, methinks,” Perry said. “Wanting to go out in that weather.” He peered out of the window again. The wind lifted around the cottage, wailing through the gap in the kitchen window that Greg hadn’t fixed yet. There was no sign of Greg or anyone else for that matter. Just the back of the small, white-dressed creature as it staggered across the horizon and finally out of sight.

  “The rain will turn that bog into a mud bath,” Perry mused aloud. “Poor kid needs to get back indoors as soon as possible.” Who was it? Why wasn’t it running for cover like any sensible-minded person would? For that matter, where could it be going? The only houses around here were Greg’s, Alasdair’s, and the Mackies’. And none of them could be called close neighbors in Perry’s citified opinion. The figure had been traveling away from Greg’s croft—was that north? Perry couldn’t remember, and he wasn’t going to waste brain cells trying to remember right now, but he suspected there was nothing to find in that direction for miles.

  Rory growled from deep in his throat.

  “All right. I get you.” Perry sighed. “I’ll go out and call them in here to shelter until the rain stops. But if I have to travel tomorrow in soaking wet shoes again, you’ll be the one to blame.” Then he spotted his blue boots against the wall by the front door. Excellent idea, even if he was only going to be outside for ten minutes. He really was turning into an outdoorsy person. He wriggled into them and opened the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  THE wind hit him first, full in the face, sweeping around the corners of the cottage like a mini tornado. He hadn’t realized how fierce it was getting. He grabbed the borrowed fleece and zipped himself into it. There was no time to put on any other layers. He couldn’t see the figure out on the bog any longer and he was worried about losing it completely. Who knew what muddy mess was out there, places to fall over, places to get stuck, probably pits and mounds like the worst kind of jungle? Subconsciously he knew a Scottish bog wasn’t remotely like the Amazon rainforest, but danger was danger, right?

  Perry tugged his sweater around him and started jogging down the path toward the bog, waving his hands. “Hey! Where are you? Can you hear me?” No one answered, though he didn’t expect it in this wind. He ran out of the croft gate and onto the scrub. The going was harder here, and the rain was gathering into shallow puddles. By the time he reached the peat, he was already slipping on the slick surface, and despite the long fleece, his jeans felt suspiciously damp around the knees.

  The rain was increasing in strength. By the time
he’d gone a few hundred yards farther, the jungle analogy was getting more and more credible. If he twisted around, he could still see the croft—a small, dark building on the edge of his vision. But the rain was coming down in rods all around him, and he had to blink hard to keep his eyelashes clear. Chill wetness beat down on his head, even through the hood of the fleece, and was soaking through the shoulders.

  Keep going. Just over that next lump. The land had always seemed pretty flat, but maybe the water was affecting the peat at different degrees. Whatever the topographical reason, Perry found himself alternately sliding down an incline, then struggling up out of mud that clung to his ankles.

  He couldn’t see the croft anymore. There should have been a route to the main road somewhere behind it, but he couldn’t see any sign of that either. Just gray, thick cloud above his head, sloppy mud below his boots, and the bloody wind and rain everywhere else. When he tried to shield his eyes to find a guiding landmark, the rain smacked him in the face, and the wind was so strong he had to struggle to lift his arms at all.

  Maybe he should have done more of that swimming. Or joined Greg more often in his daily workout. The thought of Greg in just a thin workout vest warmed him right through for a moment. Then the wind snatched back his attention. He tottered and nearly fell on his arse.

  The smallest tremor of fear ran through him.

  Pull yourself together! He was no TV weather boy, but he was sure this would pass quickly. He just had to find the child and get back to the croft, and then he could take a warm shower and change his clothes. He worried briefly about ruining more outfits and having to repack yet again, but that was hardly a priority at the moment. He leaned forward, put down his head like a little bull terrier, and pushed onward.

  He’d lost track of time and distance by the time he saw the flash of white clothing again. The child had stopped running and was standing stock-still, bent at the waist as if exhausted. The rain beat down on the bowed head, and the white clothing was turning gray with damp. Whoever it was, they were in trouble.

  “Come over here!” Perry yelled. “Come and get out of this hideous weather!” His words were whipped away by the wind, but he was sure the figure heard him. It raised its head and looked his way. Perry clumped a few steps nearer, though the mud was more and more tenacious now.

  Oh good God.

  It was Fiona Mackie. The little girl was white-faced and soaked through, staring at him with eyes so large they were like beacons. Perry tried to rush to her—he really did—but every step felt like wading in treacle. A foot away, he slipped again and his ankle twisted sharply underneath him. He bit back the curse he would have let loose if there wasn’t a minor in hearing distance. Instead, he reached for her and pulled her close. She was as cold as stone.

  “Fiona! What are you doing out here?”

  Fiona shook her head. Her teeth were chattering and her body shuddered with cold. Fear shot through Perry again. He struggled out of his wet fleece and wrapped it around her as quickly as he could, trying to capture any remaining warmth for her benefit.

  “Let’s get back,” he said. His own teeth felt frozen now, since he’d stopped walking. “Um. Do you know which way you came?” They should retrace their steps: get back to the croft as soon as possible. But where the hell was the croft?

  “Have to f-find Emily.”

  Emily? Perry felt sick at the thought of another child left out here, then remembered that Emily was Fiona’s doll. “Where is she?”

  “Wind. W-wind blew her away. I ran after her. Got to catch her.” Fiona’s face crumpled in distress, but she was obviously too tired by now to look farther. Perry glanced around but all he could see was black, churning mud. Wherever Emily was, she’d be the same color and consistency by now. They’d never see her against everything else.

  “We’ll find her, but not now, okay? Please, let’s get back out of the rain. We’ll come straight back out and find her.”

  “It’s a storm,” Fiona said, simply but rather obviously. The words stuttered out of her in her high-pitched child’s voice. “Grannie said it’d last for hours. I wanted to go and see Morag’s puppies, but Grannie said not until after the storm. And I couldn’t have one for myself because who’ll look after it when I go home with Mummy to the mainland? It’d be all on its own and would miss me, and they like company, especially farming dogs, don’t they? And they need really good training, and I wouldn’t be here to do it, but Grannie was being really mean—”

  Perry squeezed her arm in the hope of halting the tirade. God, she was wet, the fabric of her shirt was like wringing a sodden dishcloth. “Well, I think that actually sounds very sensible of Grannie, love, but come into the cottage and we’ll talk about it. Where is Grannie?” Was Aileen out here in this storm as well?

  “I ran away,” Fiona said. Her face set in a very mulish expression, despite the raindrops rolling off the end of her pert nose. “Me and Emily. I’m coming to live with Rory and Greg. And you, Perry.”

  Perry resisted rolling his eyes. “Um, well, yes. Let’s get Greg to sort all this out, shall we?” The bog underneath his feet was… well, bogging him down. He glanced back the way he thought he’d come, but couldn’t see anything to guide him. His ankle was starting to throb. How far had they come, for God’s sake?

  Fiona was crying and clung to him. “I’m so cold. Emily’s lost. Grannie will be so cross, I’ll never have a puppy now.”

  “Fiona Mackie,” Perry said almost sharply. “You can have as many puppies as you please, but only if we get back right now!”

  She shut up immediately, but she was still shivering violently. Would he have to carry her? She couldn’t weigh much, but he was starting to worry about his ankle. Any movement sent a sharp pain through his heel, and his calf had started to go numb. “Come on, love,” he said. “We’ll try this way. We’re bound to find one of the cottages soon.” He took her arm as gently but firmly as he could and guided her ahead of him.

  IT had been hours. Maybe days. No, that was stupid, wasn’t it? But Perry was having trouble concentrating on anything for more than a couple of seconds. He thought he could hear barking in the distance, but it was probably the rain on a fence somewhere. Or his hallucination, imagining St. Bernard rescue dogs on their way. But that was in the snow, wasn’t it? Not the jungle. Was he still in the jungle? It may have been called the rainforest, but did it actually rain this much, all the time?

  He’d just take a moment to gather his strength, then they’d set off again.

  Just a moment. He dug his heels into the mud and paused, breathing heavily.

  Fiona had collapsed a while back, her little legs too tired to hold her up any longer. When Perry bent to lift her up out of the mud, she clung around his neck and wouldn’t loosen her grip for anything. So he hoisted her up into his arms and struggled forward, carrying her. They’d staggered on like that for yards… miles… centuries. Shit, he was losing touch with his brain again. It was impossible not to find one of the three crofts any minute, wasn’t it? Unless, of course, he’d gone completely the wrong way and struck out into the uninhabited peat bog beyond the crofts. If so, it was miles before he’d reach any other houses. He could be moving in circles for all he knew.

  He peered ahead through the relentless rain. Still nothing to see. A trickle ran off his nose into his mouth and he licked it in, careless now of the muddy taste. The bloody sky must be empty of water eventually. And he was sure this was the right direction. Wasn’t it? Fiona was a dead weight in his arms, but he couldn’t put her down in all this filth. Poor little love. She hadn’t made any noise for what felt like a long time. The rain slithered down his back like he was in a shower at home. No, not home, was it? It was Greg’s house, not Perry’s. He was just a visitor. An unwelcome one, from the first.

  He wondered where Emily was. He wondered where Greg was. Would he be angry that Perry had ruined the fleece? That he’d probably have to delay his flight while his clothes all dried out again? That he’d be
an unwelcome, embarrassingly besotted, needy guest for even longer?

  Anyway. Rest was over. He had to keep going, get Fiona home safely. He wrenched the boot on his good foot up out of the mud and reached gingerly forward for a more secure foothold. Pulling up his injured foot took longer. Much longer. He nearly dropped Fiona.

  Mustn’t do that.

  Pain in his foot. Wind biting, beating his nose and mouth with sharp, cruel slaps. He’d stopped noticing the rain at the point he realized he was the rain, wasn’t he? One little, tottering, sodden blob of rain, determined to get across this bloody bog and get back to Greg. To safety, that was.

  He lifted the boot again. Made the next step.

  And the next.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  GREG didn’t feel settled at Dougie’s house, even though he’d claimed the comfy armchair, had drunk two cups of tea, and eaten most of Bridie’s cherry cake. His friends had been skirting around him, both physically and conversationally, ever since he came stomping over after taking one of Alasdair’s sheep to the vet’s nearby. He’d just wanted a bit of company, but all he got from them were pitying looks.

  “Perry’s leaving tomorrow?” Bridie sounded shocked. “Why didn’t you tell us? We’ll have to come and see him off. When’s he coming back again?”

  Greg decided to ignore that question, mainly because he’d been asking himself the same thing ever since he arrived. But would Perry ever want to see him again? Greg had just gawped when Perry said that… that thing about how he felt. He should have been quicker to reassure Perry, to say something soothing and mature. Instead, he’d blathered on again about himself as usual, and what a crap bet he was, and how Perry deserved so much more….