On Temporary Terms

by Janice Maynard

  Duncan pulled her close in an embrace that was not at all sexual. His unspoken comfort was immeasurably wonderful. She wanted to bawl like a baby, but if she let go even the tiniest bit, she would fall to pieces. That was a humiliation she couldn’t bear.

  Gradually, her shaking subsided and her breathing returned to normal. She pulled back and rubbed her hands over her face. “Sorry I made such a big deal about it.”

  He dragged her close a second time. With her standing and Duncan seated, it was much easier for him to give her a searching stare. “You can trust me, lass. Surely you know that.”

  She wanted to. Badly. How wonderful it would be to hand over to Duncan every bit of her worry and despair and discomfort and know that someone else would intercede on her behalf.

  Even so, she didn’t want him witnessing the bloodlines she had come from. Her father’s deceit made it doubly important for Abby not to let her parentage besmirch her personal honor. Duncan said he didn’t like secrets, but the truth about Abby’s family life was better left in the dark.

  Besides, this thing with Duncan was temporary. There was no need for him to invest emotional support when he and Abby were never going to be anything more than two people having fun between the sheets.

  “I know that,” she said slowly. “And I do trust you. Maybe someday, when you’re back in Scotland and I’m no more than a distant memory, I’ll write you a long letter and tell you all about my father. Then, when you’re done reading it, you can toss it into the fire.”

  “And how does that help you now?” he asked, his eyes shadowed and his brows narrowed in a frown.

  She swallowed. “Being with you makes me happy, Duncan.”

  “I’m glad, but that doesn’t really answer my question.”

  “Let’s go back up the mountain. You have enough sadness in your life at the moment without worrying about mine.”

  * * *

  In the hours that followed, Abby made a concerted effort to shake off the cloud of depression and anxiety that always followed in her father’s wake. Duncan needed her. Her own issues could and should take a back seat right now.

  Duncan spent some time on the phone with family. The sound of his voice carried around the house. While he was otherwise occupied, Abby pondered her role in the upcoming funeral. She had brought two dresses with her for the somber occasion. One was a black, long-sleeved, lightweight wool, perfectly plain. She had worn it to her law school graduation, because she had finished midyear. The December commencement had been snowy and cold.

  It was definitely suitable for a funeral, but tomorrow’s weather was supposed to be sunny and warm. That was the problem with the advent of autumn in the South. You never knew what to expect.

  She tried on the dress and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. It was nice. Expensive. Classy. But the funeral was going to be stressful. The church would be crowded. Stifling. Surely this was a bad choice.

  The other option was also black, but far more casual. The crepe tank dress skimmed her body flatteringly and stopped just above the knee. The matching jacket was short and had three-quarter length sleeves. With the jewelry she had brought, it should do nicely.

  If the church was extremely hot, she could always shed the jacket, though that would be a last resort.

  When her decision was made, she went in search of Duncan and found him in the den. He wasn’t watching TV. Instead, he had tuned the satellite radio to a classical channel. The Beethoven sonata playing was mournful, almost painful under the circumstances.

  Duncan glanced up when she entered the room, but his expression was closed. It was no secret to her that he was using sexual intimacy to avoid thinking about what had happened in his life. In his place, she might have done the same. But she also knew that deferring all the guilt and pain and confusion was only a temporary solution.

  She paused to kiss the top of his head. Then she curled up in a chair facing him. “Did you talk to Brody again?”

  “Aye. He was checking up on me...making sure I was okay.”

  “And are you?”

  Duncan’s jaw tensed. “I want everything to go well at the funeral. I need to know that I’ve honored my grandmother’s memory appropriately. Things are different here. Customs. Expectations.”

  “You’ve done all you can, Duncan. And you’ll see...the town will turn out en masse tomorrow to pay their respects and to greet you. I’ll play whatever role you want me to... I can keep my distance, or I can stand at your elbow and introduce you to the people I know.”

  “I’d be glad of your help.”

  It was an oddly formal statement from a man who had made passionate love to her a few hours before. Something about him was different, though she couldn’t pinpoint the change.

  “Is your brother second-guessing his decision not to come?”

  “Not at all.” Duncan jumped to his feet and prowled the room. “He did have some very definitive ideas, though.”

  “Oh?”

  Duncan stood at the fireplace and stared into the empty hearth, his forearm propped on the mantel. “He and Cate want me to return to Scotland as soon as the funeral is over. Brody suggested putting one of Granny’s senior managers in charge at the office. Then, in a couple of months when the baby is older and Brody can arrange for his business affairs to be covered, the three of them will come back to Candlewick with me and stay for six or eight weeks while we liquidate Stewart Properties and sell the house.”

  Abby’s heart fell to her knees. “I see.”

  “It would be easier than doing it alone. Brody hasn’t replaced me yet as CFO. My job and my office are waiting for me. There are a lot of big decisions to be made regarding the estate. Perhaps it makes sense to take things slowly.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” She could barely speak past the knot of hurt and dismay in her throat. She’d been under no illusions about the permanency of her relationship with Duncan Stewart. But she surely hadn’t expected it to end so soon.

  Duncan continued to prowl. His body language was indicative of his mental turmoil. At one point, he paused in front of the radio and jabbed the power button, filling the room with silence.

  He spun to face Abby. “I don’t know what I want,” he said, the words low and taut with emotion. “When I thought my coming here was a years-long sentence, I felt trapped. Now that I’m suddenly free, it all seems different. Sad. Final. Grandda and Granny spent their lives building this business and this home. Who am I to toss it all away?”

  “Miss Izzy wouldn’t have expected you to stay once she was gone.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. He was pale beneath his tan. “You don’t know that. I don’t know that. Maybe she was hoping I would become emotionally invested and keep Stewart Properties in the family.”

  “Even if that were true, it doesn’t matter, Duncan. She lived a full and wonderful life. She had her dreams fulfilled. You aren’t bound by anything, either legally or emotionally. As far as her will is concerned, you—and to a lesser extent Brody—have the power to call the shots. There’s nothing unethical or immoral about selling out and returning to Scotland.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Are you being helpful and saying what you think I want to hear, or is this speech about the buyer you and your firm have waiting in the wings like a vulture?”

  The sudden attack caught her off guard.

  It hurt. A lot.

  She lifted her chin. “You’re upset. I’m going to pretend like you didn’t say that.” Tears threatened. “Good night, Duncan. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Turning her back on him, she walked away, her vision blinded by the hot rush of emotion.

  She was almost out of the room when he grabbed her arm and whirled her around. “I’m sorry, damn it. I shouldn’t have said that.” He cupped her face in his big, warm palms and bent to look her in the eyes. “Don’t cry,
lass. I can’t bear it. I’m a beast, I know. My head’s awhirl with all manner of dreadful thoughts. Don’t walk away from me. You’re the only anchor in my storm.”

  * * *

  Though Duncan did his best to make up for his appalling behavior, he knew he had hurt Abby badly. She pretended that his apology had sufficed to set things right between them, but the atmosphere in the house was definitely strained.

  They watched a movie together. He had assumed Abby would spend the night in his bed. Now, he was not so sure.

  At eleven, she excused herself, pleading fatigue. He wanted to follow her, but a gaping crevasse had opened up between them. Undeniably his fault.

  He wanted the clock to fast-forward. He wanted the funeral to be over. He wanted to be alone with Abby at a romantic hotel tomorrow night.

  Instead, he had dark, lonely hours to fill.

  When it was clear that Abby was not going to change her mind and pick up where they had left off after their provocative afternoon of lovemaking, Duncan showered and climbed into bed. As soon as he turned out the lights, all his doubts and worries tripled.

  Maybe Brody was right. Scotland was home. It was familiar. Perhaps a couple of months would be enough time to heal from grief and to prepare for the huge task of dismantling his grandparents’ legacy.

  At 2:00 a.m., sleep still eluded him. He wandered through the silent house, feeling more alone than if Abby had returned to her own place. Knowing that she was near but out of reach made his gut tight with regret. And what about his plan to escape after the funeral tomorrow? Had his outburst derailed that, as well?

  Maybe he had provoked an argument, because deep down, he still mistrusted Abby’s motives for staying by his side and in his bed.

  He wouldn’t be the first man to be manipulated by sex. Abby was ambitious. Nothing wrong with that. She worked hard, and she had a bright future ahead of her at the law firm. Pulling off the sale of Stewart Properties for her boss would be a coup for Abby.

  Was that why she was making herself indispensable to Isobel’s heir?

  Duncan wished like hell that he knew the truth.

  His body was exhausted, but his brain ran at high speed. So many things to consider. If he gave in to Brody’s urging and returned to Skye immediately, there would be no future at all for Duncan and Abby. Period. Was he ready for that?

  And if he stayed, was it fair to keep seeing Abby, knowing that he had no intention of asking for anything permanent? The only reason to spend more time in Candlewick was to clean out the house and dispose of all the property. Abby had offered to help him. He could linger two weeks. Would that be long enough or too long?

  Sometime after three, he stumbled back to his room and fell into bed. Though he did sleep after that, his dreams were unsettled.

  When his alarm went off at eight, he threw an arm over his eyes and groaned. Unfortunately, though his body still craved sleep, he was wide awake now. Maybe he could get a jump-start on cleaning out his grandfather’s office. He had to do something to pass the hours between now and the funeral.

  Abby’s bedroom door was closed. When he dressed and made his way to the kitchen, he found that she had made coffee. The American staple had become a crutch in these difficult days. He filled a cup, added some milk and went in search of his houseguest.

  He found her outside on the front porch, perched on a wooden bench, enjoying the frosty morning.

  She looked up when he joined her and gave him a small smile. “Did you sleep?”

  “Not as well as I would have if you’d been in my bed.”

  He tossed it out there deliberately, hoping to gauge her mood.

  She gave him a long stare and then buried her face in her cup again. Finally, she sighed. “I think your brother is probably right. I checked flights for this evening. If you head to Asheville as soon as the service is over, you can fly out and make your connection in Atlanta. You could be home by morning.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” He propped his hip against the porch rail and scowled.

  Abby nodded slowly. “If that’s what you want to call it. You need some time, Duncan. Time to get your feet back under you. Having Isobel die so suddenly was a terrible shock. You don’t really know what you want. Guilt and grief are clouding your judgment.”

  “So now you’re a lawyer and a shrink?” He didn’t like being psychoanalyzed any more than the next guy.

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “If you wanted to help me, you’d be naked right now.”

  Her face turned pink. “I think you’re using sex to avoid your problems.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” He was half-serious.

  Abby set her cup aside, stood and stretched. The tiny glimpse he got of her smooth belly gave him ideas. She sighed. “Why don’t you show me a couple of the other guest rooms? We have a few hours to kill. I’d like to know what I’ll be in for if I end up helping you.”

  Clearly, Abby wasn’t prepared to forgive him yet. At least not enough to climb back into bed. That was okay. He could wait. Maybe.

  “Fine,” he said, feeling grumpy and sleep-deprived. “If you want to be overwhelmed and depressed before we even get to the funeral, by all means.”

  Fortunately, Abby seemed willing to overlook his ill humor. He led the way to one of the three guest rooms not currently in use. “We’ll start with this one. Everything needs to go. Draperies, bedding.” He threw open a closet. “And look at this. We’ve got several decades of clothing hanging here. Some of it may be rotting away, it’s so old.”

  “Do you want to try and sell it to a vintage shop somewhere?”

  “I do not. My plan is to get rid of everything that won’t be worth including in an estate sale. All of it goes to charity. Or the rubbish bin, if necessary.”

  Abby nodded, rifling through the hangers. “But I might point out that old people have a tendency to stash stuff everywhere. Checking for valuables in pockets and drawers and everything in between will slow things down considerably.”

  “I suppose.” The subject couldn’t hold his attention. Not with Abby right in front of him.

  He was close enough to indulge his impulses. Lifting a lock of her hair, he rubbed it between his fingers. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, Abby, but I’m not going to fly back to Scotland tonight. You promised to go away with me and celebrate Granny Isobel’s life.”

  “That’s what a funeral is for.”

  The words were snippy, but he took heart in the fact that she didn’t step away. “Please, lass.” He brushed a kiss over the back of her nape, smiling inwardly when she shivered. She might be mad at him, but she wasn’t indifferent. “You and me,” he coaxed. “Dinner. Dancing. A big, comfortable bed with soft sheets and breakfast in bed.”

  “You told me I could have my own room.”

  He nipped the shell of her ear with his teeth. “I lied.”

  She turned and held him at bay with a hand planted in the middle of his chest. Big, beautiful gray eyes looked up at him searchingly. “You’re giving me emotional whiplash, Duncan.”

  He winced. Her complaint was spot-on. He was acting like a lunatic. Amorous one minute, angry and discontent the next. “In my defense, I’m not usually so volatile. My mates call me stodgy on occasion.”

  Abby shook her head disbelievingly. “I doubt that. Before Miss Izzy died, you struck me as extremely grounded. Unsure of this transatlantic move, perhaps, but definitely your own man.”

  “You’re not going to have sex with me this morning, are you?” He said it with some resignation, recognizing that he had been the one to cause disharmony between them.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I’m not. We have several hours until we have to leave for the funeral. I think it would be best if we each tackle separate rooms.”

  He rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone. “And aft
er the funeral? Are you still willing to go away with me?”

  She chewed her bottom lip. “For one night only. We come home Monday evening. Agreed? You have decisions to make, possibly even travel arrangements.”

  “Fine,” he said, wishing he had bartered for two nights from the beginning. Abby had the end of their relationship in view, and he didn’t want to admit she might be right. He didn’t want to let her go. “One night. I’ll make it count.” The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him this temporary affair was going to be far shorter than he had ever imagined.

  Eleven

  Later that day, Abby fetched a cup of water and as unobtrusively as possible, handed it to Duncan. He accepted the drink with a grateful, intimate smile, downed it quickly, and turned back to his duties in the receiving line with almost no interruption. He’d been on his feet doing this for an hour already, yet the line was still out the door and down the sidewalk.

  He was dressed simply but elegantly in a hand-tailored black suit that fit his tall, athletic frame perfectly. The only note of color about his appearance was a jaunty red bow tie. He had insisted that his grandmother wouldn’t have wanted everything today to be doom and gloom, so he had worn the pop of crimson in her honor.

  Abby leaned in and whispered quietly. “The next couple is the mayor and his wife. She owns the local diner.”

  Duncan didn’t miss a beat. He greeted the man and woman with a warm smile and words of thanks for their presence. Abby didn’t know if it was the Scottish accent, or the combo of tall, dark and handsome, or simply the fact that curiosity had won out, but it seemed that everyone in town had come to pay their respects to Isobel Stewart and to extend condolences to her extraordinarily charismatic grandson.

  Duncan had decided on an open casket. Miss Isobel looked sweet and serene as people filed past her with tears and smiles. Abby suspected that the spirited old woman would have been mightily pleased.

  Geoffrey and Isobel had been longtime members of the First Presbyterian Church of Candlewick. The church was small. Well-worn wooden pews provided seating for eighty worshippers, maybe a hundred if folks squeezed together.