by Caro LaFever
She’d listened. Her entire life.
Which was why she’d made a decision at a very early age. Love wasn’t a good thing for her. Love took too much. So she loved sparingly and carefully, and mostly not at all. She’d grown a thick ring of thistles around her heart to keep her safe and secure.
She loved her dad.
She loved her mom.
And she loved her sisters.
Because she couldn’t help it. They’d burrowed into her childish heart before she’d made what she called her love decision. She lived with the knowledge, and parceled out her devotion in careful bits so they wouldn’t depend on her too much. Wouldn’t ask too much. Wouldn’t need more than she could give.
“All right,” Iain grumbled from behind her. “If ye insist on getting yourself as wet as a scalded cat, then if ye wouldn’t mind switching to the other side, that would work to get us where we need to go.”
Lilly paddled and paddled, blindly focusing on the waves of the sea and the shrill calls of the seagulls. She blanked out her new reality, because she couldn’t see her way back to her safe place. The place where she took photos of happiness and love instead of participating in the bewildering practice.
He went silent behind her, much to her relief.
The waves went wilder as they pushed past Somairie. They circled around the last edge of the island, the castle standing on it as an exclamation point of McPherson power and prestige. She spotted the dot of her father’s cottage before the canoe skirted past it and into a channel between the islands rising around them. Straight in front of her, she could see a crag of stone piercing the sky.
“There’s where we’re going.” He finally broke the silence, his voice quiet, almost hushed.
Before she could grab her love and concern and shut it down, she turned to look into his eyes to make sure he was okay.
The sky and sea behind him bled into his gaze, making him as part of the scenery as the land and water. As part of Scotland as the castle and the isles. A piece of her wept inside, because that wasn’t her. She wasn’t a part of something, she never had been. At an early age, she’d lost that need. But for Iain McPherson, it was a part of who he was.
A part she loved and couldn’t bend to.
“What?” His straight brows furrowed. “Are ye too tired to paddle anymore?”
“No.” Turning around, she stared at the spike of rock rising before them. “I can make it.”
But could she? Could she make it back to where she’d been a short time ago? Happy as a lark, free as a bird, tied to very few and pleased at the knowledge.
Her hands shook as she dug into the water once more.
Something had gone wrong in lovely Lilly’s head.
Iain yanked the canoe onto the sand, all the while noting the stiffness of her body as she stood to the side. Noting the tightness around her pouting mouth and the wild look in those sea-green eyes of hers.
“Are ye all right?” The words sounded absurd to him because they’d been having a great time until halfway through their trip when she’d gone completely silent. “Are ye feeling seasick?”
“I’m fine,” she said again.
No, she wasn’t. Not at all.
Eyeing her drenched jeans, he wondered if that could be the problem. But she’d laughed when she’d been completely wet, when he’d foolishly thrown her into the sea. Why would one of her legs being soaked cause her to be so upset? “Do ye want to take those off? I have a blanket I can wrap about ye.”
She glanced down and frowned, like she’d forgotten about the splash over the canoe’s gunwale. “No, it’ll dry soon.”
His male brain scrambled for another reason for her weirdness. He came up with nothing, which frustrated him.
Before he could decide what to say, she yanked off her lifejacket and then waved at the rock formation running along one side of the beach. “I think I’ll go take some pictures.”
“Leaving me to set up our picnic?” He tried a tease to see if she’d relax, but all he got was more wild eyes and a tighter mouth.
“I suppose I can stay and help.” She folded her arms tight in front of her.
“Naw.” Lifting his rucksack from the canoe, he decided to let her have some space. His island was only about half a mile long and uninhabited, other than the flocks of birds. She couldn’t get into too much trouble. “Go on and take your photos. I’ll have a nice feast for ye when ye return.”
She marched off without saying anything else and the taut line of her shoulders told him there was definitely something going on in that blonde head of hers.
She…worried him.
That would be the word. Worried.
He hadn’t felt the emotion since he’d laid his comrades to rest and then his da. There hadn’t been enough of him inside to worry about another human being, much less himself.
But now, he worried about his donas.
Spreading out the big wool blanket, a blue-and-green tartan showing his family’s colors, Iain lay down with the rucksack as his pillow and looked at the sky. A trace of fluffy clouds skidded above, along with a lone gannet flying high, its distinctive black-tipped wings flapping once, twice.
Something like peace swept through him, pushing away the worry for Lilly. She’d eventually tell him what was going on. The woman didn’t keep much hidden. Once she’d told him, he’d find some way to fix it, whatever it was.
Everything inside him stilled.
Because that’s what he’d been before. The fixer. That’s what had led him into disaster, when he’d thought he knew exactly what to do and had been so very wrong.
The fixer.
All the muscles in his body tensed, as if preparing for an attack or girding for battle. This time, though, instead of reaching for a whiskey bottle or blotting out his memories with a blast of loud music, he let the title and the connotations come to him.
Into him.
His stomach roiled and his head hurt. The constant ache in his thigh seemed to turn to fire, and his heart beat in his chest in a crazy dance.
He let it keep coming.
The stark pain of his past came at him and he took it this time. Took the responsibility and the wretched regret. Took what he’d done wrong and what he could never repay.
His breath hitched in his throat, an agonized gasp.
Then it was gone, washing from him like the tide, taking with it his past.
Dropping his hands to his sides, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The sounds and smells brought back his childhood like a wave of the sea. They brought back what he’d been before everything. Before the Marines and before the wars and before the deaths. The sound of the caw of a seagull reminded him of being a boy dancing along this shore, running down Fingal’s main street, laughing with his friends. The briny scent of his land, a smell his da used to call the tangle o’ the Isles, filled his nose. The warmth and solidness of the sand beneath him made him feel like he’d found his ground again.
He’d never be able to forgive himself. Never be able to be the carefree boy he’d been. But he still belonged here, he realized. He still was a McPherson. More than anything, he was still alive and planned on staying that way.
Sitting up with an abrupt snap, he stared at his sea, watching as one lone boat puttered across from Somairie to the mainland. His da would have laughed at his cousin’s extravagant plans. His da would have said things were fine as they were on the islands, and things should continue to be as they always were. His da would have given him a wink before calling for the bagpipes and inviting the villagers to the castle for a party.
He was not his da.
Donal had been right about that.
He was not his da.
For his entire life, though, he’d thought he should be. As a child, he hated being shy. As a teenager, he’d hated being so sensitive. As a man, he’d hid himself behind the tough exterior of a soldier. Yet he was not, for all of that trying and torment, his da. He wasn’t the type to laugh and jok
e and slap a man on the back. He wasn’t good at telling tall tales and singing loud songs. He didn’t much care for big parties and festivals.
And he never would.
The realization seeped into him, in some ways more acidic and bitter than taking in the knowledge of the disastrous ending of his military career.
He was not ever going to be Malcolm McPherson.
But he could be Iain McPherson.
The real Iain McPherson.
If he could decide who that man was.
He was asleep.
Lilly stopped at the edge of the blanket and looked down at him. His face was peaceful, his mouth slack. His limbs lay in careless abandon, his nicked hands splayed lose and by his side.
Sliding her camera into its case, she laid it on the corner of the blanket, and kneeled on the soft warmth of the tartan. He drew her to him, even though his eyes were closed and his mouth didn’t speak. Something about the softness of his face or the fragility of his pose made her think it was safe to crawl closer.
And closer.
His lashes were nearly black, a clear contrast to his porcelain skin. Long and lush and lavish. He used them so well as a weapon to keep her at bay, yet now they just lay there on his cheek, like a delicate brush of dark on white.
With her gaze, she traced the line of his jaw to his jutting chin. The line was perfectly male, strong and sure, firm with resolution even in sleep. He’d shaved yesterday, but not today, and the rough bristle of shadowed hair graced his skin, hinting at the male animal underneath the vulnerability.
His mouth was like the rest of him. Such a contradiction between the power of a man and the softness of a spirit. His lower lip jutted out, red and ripe. The upper lip bowed in the middle, almost feminine, if not for the whiskers surrounding it.
Reaching over, she tenderly touched the tip of his nose with one finger. She drew her touch up, tracing the small bump in the middle, wondering where he got that, and then to the bridge and across one straight brow.
His sky-blue eyes shot open.
He said nothing.
Lilly looked into those eyes and saw her new reality for what it was. Reality. There was no way back to her safety zone, a place where she parceled out her heart with caution. For this man, for this time, there was no safety in hiding any longer from what she felt.
She let her finger slide off his cheek and gave him a bleak smile. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” He kept staring at her. “Did ye get some good photos?”
No, she hadn’t. Instead, she’d sat on a rock and stared at the Atlantic, thinking about her mom and her sisters across the pond. Thinking about why she’d never quite fit into New York City, and her family over there. How that had changed something inside her. Something inside her that seemed to be changing once more.
“A few.” She inched back, although she knew she’d already been caught.
His mouth pursed. “Is that a fact?”
“Mmm.” Glancing at the water, she took in the breadth of his sea, the salt of his air, the ridge of his islands. Something settled inside her.
It is what it is.
Her dad’s favorite saying came to her, some comfort for her new reality.
Iain straightened and pulled his bag around. “And here I promised to have a feast spread out when ye got back here. I’ve been derelict in my duties.”
The wry edge of humor in his voice comforted her too. “Slacking off, soldier.”
She turned to make sure the mention of his military past went over okay, and was satisfied to see his expression didn’t grow dark and his shoulders didn’t go taut.
Instead, his beautiful mouth quirked. “I aim to change that right now.”
“Go ahead.” Her stomach rumbled, surprising her. She’d thought the turmoil inside would have swamped any basic needs. Apparently not.
He laughed because he’d heard the sound. “Lovely Lilly needs food.”
“What did you bring?”
Zipping open the bag, he pulled out two bottles of water and handed her one.
“A woman can’t survive on water alone,” she teased and again, was astonished she could do so.
“I wouldn’t ask ye to.” A couple of plastic-covered cheeses, both log-shaped, came from his rucksack next. Then he pulled out a bag filled with an oval brown bread.
“What are those?”
“Now I’m here to educate ye.” He carefully peeled the plastic off. “On what good cheese the Scottish make.”
“What’s the bread?” She leaned in to pluck the bag up and stare at the flat, unremarkable looking thing.
“Bannock.” Next, he flipped a knife and a plate from his rucksack. Laying the cheese down on the plate, he began to slice. “Hand the bread over, lass.”
“What’s bannock?” She squished the bread in between her fingers.
“Give it here.” He snatched the bag from her and gave her a glint of his eyes.
“What is it?”
“Bannock is a flat bread Scots call scones sometimes.” Pulling the loaf out, he cut into it and put a slice of cheese on the wedge. “Here now. Have a taste of Scotland.”
The cheese was soft and creamy, with a touch of pepper. The bread was chewy and tasted like an oatcake. The combination of flavors exploded on her tongue. “Mmm.”
“The donas likes it.” He sliced the other cheese and put it on another wedge. “Try this one.”
Lilly obediently popped the next offering into her mouth and closed her eyes in simple pleasure. This was also a soft cheese, buttery and smooth with a sour tinge at the end. It mixed perfectly with the taste of the bread.
Swallowing the treat, she opened her eyes.
He stared at her with a hunger she couldn’t misunderstand and she could no longer ignore. Because she was hungry, too. Hungry not only for his body, but for his heart.
A shiver went through her.
His straight brows furrowed. “Are ye cold?”
Cold with wariness, hot with desire.
“Not at all. Tell me what those cheeses are.” She shifted back on the blanket.
“The first one is called crowdie. Supposedly, the Vikings brought it over to us, so it’s our most ancient cheese.” He rattled off the words with swift ease and pride like the cheese and the history were as much a part of him as the land and sea.
“And the second?”
“It’s called caboc.” He munched on a slice of his own before continuing. “Another traditional Scots cheese.”
“I can’t believe my dad hasn’t ever shared these with me.”
“Your da doesn’t strike me as an adventurous eater.” He stuck another of the slices in his mouth and chewed with evident satisfaction.
The truth of the statement made her cock her head and stare at him. The McPherson was perceptive, very perceptive if he’d picked this knowledge up about her dad without spending a lot of time with him. “You’re rather wise about people, aren’t you?”
He appeared startled for a moment as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Wise? I’m no such thing.”
“Really.” Leaning over, she snatched another treat. “How often have you met my dad?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three, four times.”
“And somehow, in those few short meetings, you figured out Dad tends to stick to the basics.” She nibbled on the soft cheese and bread. “Things like pre-sliced cheddar cheese and white bread.”
He shuddered, an exaggerated reaction that made her chuckle. His gaze lit in response and the sparkle tinted the blue with starlight and magic.
Lilly went quiet inside, so quiet she thought she could hear her heart thunder to life for the first time in all her twenty-nine years. This love for Iain wasn’t anything like the love she had for her family. She’d been wrong to think so, wrong to think this mirrored what she’d felt before. This love circled around her and inside her until it became one with every fiber of her body and soul.
The realization made her heart batter agains
t her chest.
Thankfully, the man lounging on the blanket across from her didn’t detect the storm raging inside her heart. “Some would argue the caboc is Scotland’s oldest. The daughter of a MacDonald chieftain created the recipe and handed it down to her daughter as a secret.”
Scrambling inside her head and heart, looking for a familiar rock from her previous life she could hold on to, she tried to keep up appearances. “Is it a secret even now?”
“Some would say so, though my da used to make a good enough replica in our creamery.”
“Used to?” With a start, she remembered she was still this man’s friend, and still needed to get this man back to a normal life. Even though she’d decided to be more. Somewhere between landing here on this island and now, she’d decided to take him as a lover. Decided her heart would always be his. And yet, she still had something else to give him. “What do you mean, used to?”
Predictably, the dark clouds swirled into his eyes. “Leave it, donas.”
“No, I won’t.” She curled her fingers on the edge of the blanket because she couldn’t use her touch yet. Not until she’d pushed him a bit. “Why isn’t your creamery making cheese anymore?”
“Because I wasn’t here to help.” The words came out with a swift punch. “And when my da got sick, he couldn’t keep it going.”
“Iain.” Affection and worry mixed into her love, a soft, solid brew of devotion. “You were serving your country.”
“I should have been able to do something.” He threw down the knife in self-disgust. “I should have been serving my family and my islands.”
She couldn’t stop herself from touching now. Not now when he needed her. Getting to her knees, she crawled straight at him and unlike before, when he’d scuttled away, this time he held his position by leaning down on his elbows and spreading out his long legs.
“Are ye coming for me, lovely Lilly?” He might not have retreated, but those half-mast eyes of his told her he had his guard up.