With cobbler baking, Katie said goodnight. Why not when Murdo watched the soccer game, preoccupying John? So, there was little to worry about. The messy pile of dirty clothes finally yelled at me enough to lure me from my quiet sanctuary. I descended to start the wash, passed the family room, but refused to look through the doorway since Sticky Fingers held the seat on the sofa allowing him an easy view of the hall.
If he caught me looking into the room, John would misinterpret the gesture as adoration. His typical interpretation. I continued on to the garage's door opposite the kitchen.
One swing of the dark door revealed an intricate layout of some large motorized gizmo, meticulously dissected. Parts lay in specific places--the customary practice with Uncle John's hobbies--on canvas sheets spread across the garage floor. The ingenious man tinkered with everything. The ocean of thingamajigs separated me from the washing machine though. I carefully skirted each sheet of fabric, managing to leave each bolt and wire undisturbed, to shove the dirty clothes into the wash.
But Murdo might wish his clothing washed? I suppose I should offer to help him out. After all, I'd almost killed him. Maybe he is a little too handsome. But I did plow him over with a car. And he only has the clothes on his back. How does one wash a six-foot length of tartan without the cloth shrinking anyway? Whatever. I headed for the family room to offer the service, turned through the living room doorway, and avoided Sticky Fingers.
Murdo's legs stretched out toward the television from where he leaned back in the armchair, gripping a beer bottle.
Still sexy even though he was relaxed. I glanced back and forth between him and John.
John focused on the soccer match, flinching, muttering, and belching.
There's no comparison between Tweedle Dee and the Godling of Perfection. When I flicked my gaze back to Murdo, he stared into mine. Oh well. I guess I'll have to play it cool. "Can I wash your clothes? You've worn those two days now and have nothing else." I waved at Sticky Fingers. "Cousin John must have something you can borrow."
A faint smile played upon Murdo's lips.
Was he thinking I should be cooking and doing laundry? Maybe I shouldn't have offered.
"Aye."
His smile flat-lined as if he had decided I didn't deserve a good guffaw in front of the ass farting beyond my shoulder. I turned to Sticky Fingers, who sat engrossed in the game, scratching his balls. "John."
He waved stiff dismissive fingers.
Always the moron. "John?"
"What?" He snapped his nose my direction.
"Get something for Murdo to wear so I can throw his laundry in the wash."
"Wait for the commercial." He turned back to the television.
No. Not later. "Now, John. I've started the machine."
"Women." Sticky Fingers clanked his bottle on the table and darted toward the door.
Ass.
"Just a shirt." Murdo noted as Sticky Fingers disappeared beyond the door. "Ignore him, Katie," he said with soft-spoken yet adamant words.
How could he tolerate the pig? "Isn't he driving you crazy?"
He chuckled. "I ignore him. 'Twould do you best to do the same."
What? Was everyone planning to offer instructions in life? I'm twenty-two. Still alive. Kicking. Completely capable of decapitating bastards who plagued this existence. But nobody would ever know because I'm not going to prison! I eyed Murdo's wicked smile.
Why the smile? Only an idiot would trust him.
Sticky Fingers burst through the doorway with an orange T-shirt.
The one from last summer's music festival. Old. And so orange, the color hadn't faded. Boy, he had gone all out choosing a shirt for the guest.
He tossed the T-shirt at Murdo. "Here." He planted his miserable ass back on the couch.
Just throw trash at the guest. How rude. And then ignore everyone. But who wanted attention from him? Really.
Murdo rose from the chair, the orange cloth fisted in his hand. "Just a moment, Katie."
Okay. Let's get this show on the road. I followed Murdo into the hallway.
"And mind your step around the motor I've got spread about the garage," Sticky Fingers bellowed.
Like I'm an imbecile.
Murdo closed the restroom door. Shadow and light danced beneath it. And oddly, I didn't mind waiting. Weird. Why do I want to do things for Murdo?
The knob rattled. The door swung inward. Murdo flipped the light switch off. He stepped into the hallway's muted sunlight with the orange T- shirt tucked inside his blue-and-green kilt.
Where had my Highlander gone? To the Music Festival. Last year. Murdo looked absolutely horrible.
****
The sweet-scented clean shirt clung to my aching shoulder but the perfume couldn't dowse the lass' grimace. The bastard was afoot. Up to no good. Somewhere. I glanced up and down the passageway for evil Cousin John. "What's happened?"
Her jaw dropped. She glanced around at the floor, then back up at him. "That's an awful shirt." Gasping, she wagged her head. "I didn't mean to insult you."
So, my maiden found my own thirty-first- century shirt pleasing?
A smile danced on my lips.
Not good. I didn't want to return her insult. But I'd have fun with this one. Sniff her out. "What would you prefer I wear?"
She fidgeted, jaw flapping silently, then snatched my filthy shirt and made down the hall. "I need to get this right in the wash before the basin fills."
Just what a Ring Master wanted to see in his fiancée, behavior indicative of soul-mate attraction. There is naught else to do but wait for my assigned maiden to crawl into my arms after she tends to my laundry.
****
Katie paced in front of the washing machine. Oh, why had I been so easily read? But having to go back inside is my hard cold reality. Regardless of John's consciousness. The cobbler would burn. Especially since the wash cycle had been spinning for some time now. "Why are you so discombobulated anyway?" I muttered.
It wasn't like I'd never had a boyfriend. You know why.
I hated my reproving self. One could never win an argument in one's thoughts, mother had always reasoned. "Oh," I howled alone in the cold garage among the triaged bits and chunks of some unfortunate motor flayed by John's despicable paws.
With his looks, Murdo certainly had all the women he wanted. Murdo had saved me from Mr. Boots. And fixed me a meal.
Okay, I'm an intimidated virgin. Why hadn't I taken Jennifer's advice in college? Test drive a guy or two? The problem is simple. There aren't any guys like Black Liam. What's wrong with wanting an amazing amalgamation of muscled kindness and respectfulness? The perfect bride of ores tied up with a colorful tartan bow? What else could a metal smith ask for? All the guys in college were Sticky Finger Johns. Not knights in crimson plaids. What is wrong with wanting a man who would sweep me off my feet, reciting Burns while steering a boat into the sunset?
A real man. One who deserved my virginity. The problem wi, they broke the mold a generation ago with Black Liam. Now, I'm stuck here with passé needs and guys with modern ideas about romance. How can this workout without me winding up completely humiliated? Because he's a worldly pilot. And I'm just little Katie Innis from Kentucky. Whoopee. How did my life get so damned screwed up? I can kick ass with a sword. Why can't I just act like I'm a diamond among jewels? Why does having my virginity at the age of twenty-two have to be a black mark on my record? It's supposed to stand for something. Something good. Remarkable.
The door swung wide.
Hell. Sticky Fingers? I jumped, grabbing the humming washing machine behind me.
The huge thrashing square shook against my bottom, rocking my body.
Sticky Fingers stuck his head around the door. "Something smells like it's burning in here."
Not my blood pulsing through my veins with desire.
Gads, I certainly look enticing with my hips shaking. Did he notice? I'd definitely have to use a sword tonight if he was sober enough to care. I shoved of
f the washing machine.
Fortunately, he focused a scowl on the disassembled mess. "You're not touching anything out here, are you?"
Give me a few more seconds. Enough to grab a sword. I'll decapitate an annoying asshole.
Sticky Fingers retreated back inside the house.
Good riddance. I circumvented the gutted engine and made for the oven.
No hint of carbon hung in the air. Just pure apple and spice. The crumble's top bubbled but had barely browned. Just a couple more minutes. Like everything else around here, setting on the verge of explosion. Hissing from steam about to whistle a warning. Whether or not the next moment would cover the floor in bodies or not remained to be seen. I headed upstairs.
I'd dig some clothes up for Murdo. Clothes a real man would wear. Forget the old orange T-shirt. John is so preoccupied with the game he'd never detach himself from the television, wandering upstairs. To his lair. I made for the light pouring across the long rectangular green hall throw carpet, all the way to the last door on the left of the hall.
John's creepy room. Where many a lass had to have wished she hadn't entered. For the first time I thought good thing Sticky Fingers rarely closed his door. Strange. Life sure could change your attitude in a heartbeat.
His poor mother, who slept across the hall, must have grimaced every time she passed the pigsty. One would think a twenty-nine-year-old man could tidy his itty bitty bedroom. Somewhat. I entered his lair and stepped over a pair of blue jeans that seemed to be running for freedom in the way they stretched across the wooden floor.
All Scots can't be useless like Cousin John. Maybe I don't really need one. Wait. Murdo is a New Zealander. That had to be important when it comes to choices. I just needed to keep that in mind. I headed for the dark wooden dresser placed in the same spot beneath the window just like my dresser.
An odd sense of discomfort washed through me.
Why? I don't know. John's downstairs. And Iona had arranged all the bedrooms the same way. I stepped over his jogging shoes and a pile of stale socks, then skirted his mussed bed.
Don’t think about what goes on there. I fought a cringe.
The bed probably hadn't been made since Iona journeyed north. Poor Iona was always cleaning her son's room. I gladly pilfered through a drawer full of underwear to escape more saddening thoughts of my poor aunt.
Boxer shorts are Scottish? Not from what I'd heard about kilts. What the hell. I snatched the blue pair of boxers at the bottom of a pile.
At the bottom. Surely they were clean at the bottom. Especially since they were neatly folded by auntie hands. I also snatched a bundle of white sweat socks.
Murdo had to wear something under his boots. Then, I found a clean white T-shirt and sweats. Luckily, clothing retrieval went fast. I was out of the room in minutes with a pair of medium black sweatpants and an extra-large green sweatshirt. The unavoidable risk of entering the danger zone was a small price to pay after Murdo made me a sandwich. Lugged my boulder around. Saved me from Mr. Boots. Smiled. Made his eyes sparkle. Lord. What is happening to me?
Murdo's dark wooden door stood shut.
Okay, I'd knock then break and enter. I tapped.
No answer. I placed the clothes on Murdo's bed.
****
The hot denim almost burned Katie's hands as she tugged the jeans out of the dryer and shook them free of wrinkles. Everything is fine now, she concluded. The cobbler cooled on the stovetop. The clothes are dry. And I've sifted through last month's mail. Nothing major arrived during vacation. I'd just make sock bundles and return Murdo's shirt. I reached back into the dryer's steamy cylindrical compartment and grabbed Murdo's large off-white shirt.
No wrinkles for Mr. Perfect. Yep. Mr. Perfect. Well, he still hadn't proven he's a Black Liam. But he's taking a hike down that trail. I shook the shirt and toted the warm fabric to Murdo.
He sat in front of the television in the orange music festival T-shirt.
Damn Sticky Fingers for not being a little more hospitable. Then again, the moron would have competition if he allowed Murdo to dress well. Nice fact to note. I could have winked at Murdo. But how would that action be interpreted?
Sticky Fingers nursed another beer bottle where he leaned into the crook of the couch with his legs crossed.
Ever the infant. The coffee table was covered with at least eight bottles.
How many had each man drank? Hell. I stopped at Murdo's armrest.
He turned that square jaw up to lock a curious gaze on mine.
Soberly. Maybe he held his booze well. I'd find out. "All clean." I extended the shirt.
"Thank you, Katie." He reached a broad tanned hand for his clothing and pulled the soft fabric from my fingers.
Extremely soft fabric that had to feel good against all the corded iron beneath his clothes. Gads, he's sexy. His genuine interest in my feelings. The little twinkle in his blue eyes. What would those strong fingers feel like running along my body? Touching me everywhere my friends bragged men touched! Oh. No. I'm in trouble because Murdo hasn't proven himself totally trustworthy yet. I gulped down a lump of angst.
Better to think about the future. To plan a course of action to test Murdo. I'd ask about the banquet. Anything so those hilarious coots didn’t' focus their attention on me. It's tough enough being an outsider trying to fit in as if I hadn't earned some respect this past year. Hell, I'd made quite a few swords for the locals. You'd think they could ease up on teasing me. But here sat an adorable man who could spend some alone time with me and play the decoy. "Tomorrow night I have to go to an SCA dinner. Would you like to come along?"
"What?" Sticky Fingers boomed behind me.
Cousin John isn't going. I'll ignore him.
Murdo's eyes twinkled again.
Is he trying to concoct a fib to avoid the situation? Maybe I had been a bit presumptuous to ask. I'd just let him out of the deal. "Unless you just need to get back to Edinburgh by tomorrow night." Hell. I don't want him to leave yet. But this farce could end here. Now.
"No, Katie." Reaching that broad palm, he curled warm fingers around mine.
A hot spark popped and gooseflesh shivered up my arm.
All the way to my soul. I almost twitched with a flinch but caught myself.
I ached deep inside. Bone deep. All the way down to where I shouldn't be wishing he'd make the ache stop. Low in my belly. Well, what use is it lying to oneself? Between my legs. The kind of strange ache that made me want to straddle something. Something with mass. Even though I could fancy it a dangerous crevasse.
"I'd like to go to your dinner," he said.
Gently. Softly. Accepting. I exhaled. More for the tirade of words flooding from somewhere inside me. "It's a feast. We should dress Medieval. You can wear your kilt. They've been around a long time. And since academics argue about when the medieval period ended in Scotland, kilts rule." I managed to shut up and smile.
"I'll go with you." Sticky Fingers slurred his words.
Never. "Forget it."
Cousin John shoved to his feet. "Why not?"
Chapter 12
Well, the soused cousin can't stand, meaning he couldn't harm Katie again. Add to the truth, your maiden wants to take you somewhere and the life vibrated with a good omen. I choked down a chuckle that could be easily misinterpreted.
Cousin John sputtered and fell back to his seat.
Lost in his cups. How could she take him anywhere? I stared into her happy blue eyes. "Of course I'll go to your dinner."
Her wee fingers curled around my hand and gently squeezed.
That act of acknowledgement alone was enough to let a man die happy. If only I could tell her the bastard won't bother her again. But she didn't know I knew that tale.
Her gaze squinted with malice.
"Now, Katie. You know Da wants us to go together," John insisted.
I squeezed her palm.
"I won't go with you," she growled at the mongrel.
Even though she's unaware of
Druidism and oblivious to anam cara, the fey gift of soul-lover binding, she is starting to trust me. Truth danced in her eyes. In her posture.
She smiled, pulled her palm away, and left the room.
Gods' jest. To hold her hand. Anything. A hair. I sounded as lovesick as Gottfried's Tristan with a handful of Guinevere's hair. Hopefully, no Druids were around observing foolish Brothers. The humiliation would be unbearable if I ended up the next obsessed lover in a medieval tale.
A snore cut through the television's blaring racket.
At last, the fool slept. Although, the football match had been intriguing whenever the fool wasn't shouting at the indifferent monitor. But Cousin John had drowned himself to sleep. A soused worm was never so charming. What of Katie? Time to ensure my maiden of her safety, then retire to my chamber.
Up and away, I cleared the uppermost step, eased around the corner into the shadowy hall, and found her sweeping near the lavatory.
She snapped her bonnie face my direction, her blue gaze cutting through the darkness like a blade.
Angry. Probably expecting John. "Rest easy, Katie. 'Tis just me."
"I'll be all right. I'm always all right," she grumbled, turning back to drag the broom's bristles across the floor.
The whisking whispers echoed about the passageway but didn't swish away the bite in her comments. She seemed to struggle with cleaning the house for her cousin. And something else. And she wouldn't look at me. How many times had I seen that resignation in the cadets? There is more to her distrust. I'd offer an ear. "What's got you so frustrated?" I studied her fingers curled around the broom handle.
Her fingers paling at her grip.
She turned wee parted lips up to me.
Drawing my gaze to that sinuous mouth. Kissable lips. Why does she have to kill me with temptation?
She blinked. "John didn't have to trash his mother's house. I'm cleaning it before she arrives home. She won't be able to rest if she sees it filthy."
Predictable reaction from the lass. And responsible. Those were two virtues not always arising from the ashes of a difficult life.
Katie turned back to sweeping.
If only I could reveal what I knew of her future. Of her life destined to ride the rings and preserve history. If only I could ease her mind and make her laugh away this charade with the realization she didn't have to be alone anymore. But vile duty snuffed the words before they reached my lips. Regardless of my true intentions. A steamy shower would clear my head for a while. At least. Hopefully. I stepped toward the stairs.
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