A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1)

by Angeline Fortin

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  He stopped in his tracks at her deliberate taunting and looked back over his shoulder. “What?”

  “I said —”

  “I ken what ye said, lass. What do ye mean?”

  Brontë strode toward, then past him. Proud she managed a straight line while her passion-induced imbalance would have her wobbling. “It means I do what I want, when I want,” she called back. “You have no say in it. If you don’t want me, maybe I’ll find someone who does.”

  Fire ignited in his gaze and he followed after her in long strides. “Ye’ll no’ be kissing my uncle, lass.”

  Biting back the wicked grin that tugged at her lips, she took up the challenge. “Yeah? Try to stop me.”

  Snatching up her skirts, she took off at a run thrilling at the chase when she heard his footfalls behind her. Holding her dress, parasol and hat made it hard to provide much competition. Her laughter made it even more difficult. Not that she was trying to escape him.

  No, she wanted to be caught.

  Wanted him to realize how much he wanted to catch her.

  He snatched her up a few steps before she broke through the tree line separating them from the lawn. With the same dexterity that irked her once before, he clasped her close before she could stumble or fall and spun her around until her back pressed against a tree. Staring down at her panting hard, expression conflicted between amusement and ire, he sent a look heavenward as if praying for divine assistance. “Ye’re the most vexing minx I’ve ever known.”

  “And you enjoy it, don’t you?” She laughed up at him, content in her victory.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph have mercy upon me,” he murmured under his breath before kissing her hard and fast. “How is it ye’re no’ a wee bit winded?”

  “Are you saying I take your breath away?” The words teased and tempted the truth.

  His expression softened and he gave it to her. “Aye, that ye do.”

  The pleasure of his words brought an undeniable smile to her lips. She ran a palm up his chest, to his shoulder until she could stroke his bare neck with one fingertip. “You’re still able to talk. I’ll have to see if I can do better.”

  On her tip toes, she kissed his jaw, his chin. She nipped on his bottom lip and he groaned in surrender, sweeping her into his arms.

  “Lass…”

  “Help!”

  The scream came on the wind and they leapt apart, turning toward the house. People were running from every direction toward one central location near the croquet course. There were more cries for help. Others of dismay.

  Then above them all, a thin wail of panic. “Henry!”

  Heart pounding, she clasped Tris around the wrist and held him back before he could leap forward. “It’s Henry,” he rasped.

  Yes. This was it. What she’d been watching for, waiting for by the morning room door when Tris had come around and distracted her. Thankfully their walk hadn’t lasted so long they’d arrived for the aftermath and news of Henry’s sudden death, requiring another set back in time to right the wrong.

  “I need to get to him.” He didn’t move. Brontë grabbed him by the jaw and forced him to turn. His eyes were dark with fear. “Look at me. Look,” she demanded. He focused on her with a shake of his head. “I can fix this. I can help him, okay? But I need to get to him. Next to him. Do you understand? Tris!”

  He swallowed and nodded. “Aye. Aye.”

  He caught her by the elbow and hauled her across the lawn at a run. Trotting alongside him, she dug into the pocket she’d tied on under her skirt and wrapped her hand around what would become a miraculous life saver in less than a minute. It was there. Anticipating the moment she’d need it. Tris shoved a path through the melee surrounding Henry, pushing everyone who crowded around him out of the way. “Back away, everyone. Back, I say. Give him some air.” For a moment, he stared with horror at Henry who gasped for each lungful of air, however when he turned to Brontë, his gaze was steady and calm. “What do you need?”

  “Space. And a distraction.”

  He nodded curtly.

  “Tris!” Hazel cried out. She crouched at her husband’s side as he was lowered to the ground. “He can’t breathe!”

  “Hazy…” Tris caught Hazel around the shoulders and lifted the sobbing woman into his arms. “We need Sung-Li! Fetch him straightaway.”

  “He’s coming,” Hannah told him, her voice wavering. “Papa went to fetch him.”

  “Calmy doony, lass. All will be well,” he crooned to Hazel as he turned and set her closer to her husband’s shoulders and fell to his knees beside her. The move created room enough for Brontë to kneel next to Henry.

  Tris unknotted Henry’s tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar, yelling his name. Henry was sweating now, shaky and pale. Still red in the face, not blue. Some measure of air continued to find a path through his constricting throat. Thank God.

  “Let me see. Let me see!” An elderly Asian man knelt across from Brontë. “What happened?”

  “A bee sting,” Hannah supplied. Mr. Wyndom, by her side, added, “While we were playing croquet.”

  Sung-Li probed Henry’s neck and looked into his eyes, shaking his head. “He is suffocating.”

  Actually, it was anaphylactic shock. But not for long.

  Hazel’s diary hadn’t included much detail on the day other than Henry had suffered a horrendous reaction after being stung by a bee. Brontë and Aila had interpreted it as an allergic reaction. While Sung-Li tilted back Henry’s head to better open his airway, she pulled the EpiPen out of her pocket. Aila had stolen it from her brother’s medicine cabinet a few days before. It wasn’t a tiny, easily hidden solution, so they’d painted the tubular casing white and sewed a handkerchief around it to disguise it as best they could to avoid detection.

  She’d been carrying it all day, touching it repeatedly to assure herself that all would be well in the end. Uncapping it as discreetly as she could manage, she bowed over Henry with a grief-laden moan to justify the motion and brought it down on his thigh to inject the epinephrine as the instructions directed. Thank God for Aila’s brother’s prodigious allergy to tree nuts.

  Killed by a bee sting! What were the odds?

  She could only hope it was enough. The medicine was fast acting though not long-lasting. If it weren’t enough to completely counteract the reaction, all she had left to help was a bottle of over-the-counter antihistamine.

  Almost immediately Henry drew in a ragged breath. Then another. Labored, but deeper. Brontë drew back to look at him and caught the penetrating gaze of the Asian gentleman instead. His dark eyes were probing, cautious. He reached out to catch her hand, fisted around the expended hypodermic. Shit! He was going to call her out. What could she do?

  A split second later, he released her. Quick enough, she doubted anyone had noticed. Panicked, heart pounding like a bank robber on his getaway, she shoved the casing back in her pocket as Hazel crouched over Henry again, crying big sloppy tears of relief that splashed on his splotchy face. He inhaled again, easier than before and went limp with a sigh.

  Of relief, she thought. Hoped.

  “Henry? Henry?” Hazel cried. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, dear lass. Fine,” he assured her and tried to sit up.

  “Whoa, now.” Brontë pushed him back down. “Not yet. Take a few minutes. How are you feeling?”

  “Well enough,” he said. “A tad embarrassed but otherwise in the pink.”

  “Liar,” she whispered, grateful for the tired grin he offered in response.

  Sung-Li checked him over: pulse, heart and throat. “You’ll live, I think.”

  Henry thanked him and Hazel repeated the same over and over.

  “I’ve done nothing,” the man assured them, looking to Brontë again.

  What could she say?

  * * *

  “A bee sting, Henry?” Tris asked once Henry was taken to his room to rest. He added a mocking cluck of h
is tongue to diffuse the tension in the room.

  Henry refused to go to bed despite his wife’s fretting. Rather he laid back on a chaise near the window. Trembling and rather pale, but breathing, nonetheless. Mission accomplished.

  Again.

  Triumph failed to infuse her.

  “Aye, I know we all thought it would take an ancient warrior wielding a sword to fell me, but…” He shrugged with a faint chuckle that Hazel didn’t appreciate. She continued to fluctuate between berating him and fussing over him.

  Hanging back with Hannah near the door, Brontë watched as they settled Henry in. Though Tris delivered her a baleful stare at steady intervals, no one thought to ask them to leave. Good thing. She wanted to be close in case the symptoms reemerged and further medication was needed.

  Thankfully the Asian gentleman seemed to have things well in hand. He’d sent a servant to fetch a leather case containing different containers of medicinal herbs and sorted through them with educated haste, his efficiency reassuring.

  Bonus, he didn’t push her for an answer to the question that lingered in his dark gaze.

  Pressing his fingers around Henry’s throat and neck one more time, he hummed, low in his throat. A noise that sounded suspiciously uncertain to Brontë’s ears. “He is going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Yes. I’ll make a poultice for the sting. He’ll be right as rain.”

  “This is Sung-Li,” Hannah told her. “He’s been my mother’s majordomo of sorts since I was a little girl. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Sung-Li bowed and moved to the washstand, where he took some of the herbs and mixed them in a small ceramic bowl from his bag with a few drops of water until it formed a thick paste. When he finished, he handed it to Brontë. “Apply to the wound while I make him a tea.”

  Glad to be of help, she returned to Henry with the herb paste and knelt at his side. “Lift your arm so I can see it.”

  He turned to expose his upper arm, his shirt sleeve loose and already rolled up for Sung-Li’s inspection. Expecting to see a flaming red welt, she was surprised that there was no more than a pallid bump with a dab of crusted blood at the center. More like a mosquito bite than a bee sting. With a frown, she made sure the stinger was completely gone and not embedded inside. It wasn’t, so she dabbed on the medicine.

  When she rose, Tris pulled her aside. “Nothing more to worry over then?” The question was strained with tension.

  Brontë looked up at him with a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine. Didn’t I tell you it would be?”

  He nodded though the furrow of his brow and downturn of his mouth told her he remained troubled by the day’s trials. As was she, in all honesty. The addendum he’d added the other day but had never been addressed hung heavy in her heart and mind.

  Until the next time.

  There was no sense in the continual threats to Henry’s life. Or at least nothing that made sense to her.

  “We’ll leave you to rest.” Hannah bent and kissed Hazel’s cheek then squeezed Henry’s hand. “You already look much better.”

  “Thanks to Sung-Li,” Henry said, and Hazel echoed the appreciation.

  “I did nothing,” he demurred once again.

  They assumed his words were mere modesty. The looks Sung-Li shot Brontë assured her he knew the truth of the statement, if not the extent. He’d seen what she’d done.

  Tris lingered at Henry’s side, visibly hesitant to leave his friend until he was assured once more that the danger had passed. Once they were in the hall and the door closed behind them, Tris shook Sung-Li’s hand heartily, offering similar words of gratitude. “I appreciate all your assistance. I should’ve known you’d be around when we needed you most.” Tris turned to her with an explanation. “Sung-Li has always cared for our bumps and bruises. He also taught me and most of the lads the martial art of Qigong when we were growing up. As he did my uncles years ago.”

  “He taught the ladies a thing or two as well,” Hannah added with a mischievous smile.

  “Yes, yes.” Sung-Li agreed brusquely. “Too bad none of you were patient enough to learn simple medicine. I wager Miss Hughes would have had the foresight to have learned.”

  “I doubt it,” she answered, musing his curious phrasing. “I have almost zero patience in most matters. May I ask where you’re from, Sung-Li?”

  “San Francisco,” he said, his grin broad and tooth-filled. “After that, Boston before my mistress came to Scotland and married Lord Merrill.”

  “My stepfather,” Hannah clarified for Brontë’s benefit.

  She nodded. “And before then?”

  “Nanjing.”

  “Oh.” She smiled and executed a proper bow, adding in Mandarin. “It is very nice to meet you.”

  Sung-Li blinked in surprise. As did both Tris and Hannah. “You speak my language?” he asked in Mandarin as well.

  “I learned it at school.” She’d taken it as her language elective in college only because her father had wanted her to take French and she’d been determined to spite him after abandoning her mother for his young new girlfriend. Mostly students studying international business took the class. She’d never imagined she’d have a chance to employ the knowledge outside of her classroom. “I’m afraid I don’t know much.”

  He nodded, taking her hand in his and turning it to expose the inside of her wrist. “Enough to translate this, I imagine?”

  Her tattoo. She’d forgotten her gloves after lunch, but with the long sleeves of her dress hadn’t thought anyone would notice. Again, Sung-Li’s powers of observation had seen what all the others had missed.

  “Peace and healing,” he translated for her, tracing a thumb over the inked kanji.

  Another byproduct of her parent’s divorce when she’d moved from anger on toward forgiveness.

  “May I ask what you injected him with?” he asked in Mandarin.

  “Medicine to counteract the sting.” There was no point in lying to him.

  He nodded again, slowly. His expression thoughtful. “I would like to ask many more questions, but this is not the time. Tris is a most curious lad. Always.”

  “He is. And impatient, too.”

  He laughed and she joined him while a fierce frown burrowed its way between Tris’s brows. Gone was the light of desire and humor that had radiated from him an hour before. Her next encounter with him was unlikely to continue along that same vein. He’d known she would do something to prevent Henry’s demise, though the near-tragedy must have slipped his mind for a short time at least. Added to questions about her knowledge of the language of China and a tattoo of the same triggered, she’d soon face the same burning questions he’d wanted the answers to days ago.

  Hannah, contrarily, merely looked intrigued and pleased. “How wonderful for Sung-Li to have someone who shares his language! I confess I tried to learn but found it impossibly arduous.”

  No arguing that. It was a difficult language.

  “I want to hear all about it. Mama will be interested as well.” Hannah linked her arm through hers and drew her down the hall. As Brontë had anticipated, Tris looked ready to argue. “Oh pooh, Tris! You can glower all you like. You’ve monopolized Brontë’s time all afternoon. You can have her later.”

  Too bad having her would likely be the furthest thing from his mind.

  Chapter 19

  Tris tapped on Brontë’s door when in truth he’d prefer to break it down. Beat his fists against it and demand answers. Waking the dozens of people who occupied bedchambers nearby wasn’t his goal, however. If anyone saw him at her door, the worst would be assumed, and her reputation would be ruined. Fine thanks that would be for what she’d done today, the vague details of which kept him wide awake when he ought to be sleeping like everyone else.

  He wanted — nay, needed — to know what she’d done to transform a man suffering from gruesome suffocation back into his familiar, flippant friend in a matter of minutes. He’d never seen the like. Not eve
n Sung-Li possessed such miraculous skills no matter what everyone else believed they’d witnessed today.

  Then to speak to him in Chinese…?

  Bloody hell, he knew nothing about this woman.

  That ended tonight.

  He knocked again, then tried the knob. Finding it unlocked, he turned it and pushed the door open anticipating a darkened room with Brontë asleep in bed. A bedside lamp shone upon a rumpled but empty bed. From the open door to the adjoining room, a brighter light cast a rectangle of light across the floor. There was a splash of water from within. Muted humming so off-key he couldn’t stop the smile that vanquished the frown that had lingered on his lips for hours.

  The sound stayed his feet as well, though his initial impulse had been to barge across the room and shake a few vital truths from her. Instead he locked the door and leaned back against it, listening to the tuneless mumble.

  “Uh-huh, oh yeah. Uh-huh.”

  His chest heaved with suppressed laughter at the muffled rhythm. Her mouth might have been filled with cotton to produce such a dreadful noise. Whatever Brontë was doing in there, he’d heard cats in heat with more musical talent.

  A shadow fell across the beam of light signaling her imminent arrival. She appeared in the portal with a skip and a spin, bobbing her head up and down. Pulling a toothbrush from her mouth, she twirled it in the air before popping it back in for a vigorous scrub. Hence the muffled singing.

  It explained nothing else.

  Her brown hair was piled in a sloppy knot on top of her head. And she was wearing…hell, he didn’t know what it was. A snug, pink shirt of some sort with a round neck and short sleeves. It also bared several inches of her midsection above the baggy plaid trousers she wore that hung low on her hips. The shirt clung to her breasts. Breasts clearly not bound in any way.

  “What are ye wearing?”

  She bounced to a halt, gaping at him with wide eyes, hand motionless on the end of the toothbrush protruding from her lips. She mumbled his name around it. The only sound beyond the tinny buzz that filled his ears.