Hugh nodded gravely. “Ye hae my apology as well. My words were thoughtless and cruel. Ye hae my word as a gentleman that such ill-considered words willnae pass my lips again.” Nae, they would not, Hugh inwardly vowed. Sorcha clearly had enough pain and conflict in her life without him adding to it. If she was still willing to help him, he had nothing more within his power with which to repay her than kindness and courtesy. The good Lord knew that he was perfectly capable of both.
Sorcha’s arms loosened, though she did push her hands deep into the pockets of her sweater, and her pinched features relaxed. “You must be hungry. Did you get any breakfast at all?” she asked as she started toward the kitchen, and Hugh followed, wishing there was more he could do to right the wrong his temper had wrought. Despite the cheer in her voice, Hugh had quickly come to realize that Sorcha conquered worry and fear with sarcasm, and uncertainty with subjects changed.
“I found enough tae satisfy me,” he said, though he hadn’t been able to eat at all as he wondered at her absence. “I can prepare our meal if you like.”
Her arched brow told him clearly what she thought of that, and Hugh couldn’t help but grin. “Even a duke can turn a rabbit on a spit, if need be.”
“Next time I want to put Thumper on a skewer, I’ll know who to call,” she retorted, pulling meats and cheese out of the refrigerator. “For now, a sandwich or five will have to do.”
Silence fell around them as Sorcha pulled out a bag with a fascinating loaf of sliced bread and began to assemble a tower of sandwiches as she explained to him the origin of the term, about the Earl of Sandwich and his penchant for eating while he played at cards. It was a story meant for his amusement and Hugh took it as such, along with a plateful of the objects, with his thanks. Sorcha made another for herself with tomato, lettuce, and cheese, her focus on her work as she assembled it.
“Just so you know,” she said more to the cutting board before her than to him, “you were right. About everything.”
Chewing thoughtfully on his meal, Hugh tipped his head gallantly and offered a rueful smile. “As were ye, lass. As were ye.”
The confession brought her gaze to his for the first time since her return to the house. For a moment she gripped her knife tightly and stared at him in surprise before a more honest smile lit her bonny face. “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
Hugh snorted at the unusual quip and straightened, releasing a rumble of laughter that started deep within his chest. “Aye, lass, ’tis indeed.”
“It’s given us both a hell of a ride, but I suppose we just need to suck it up and get over it, right?” she rambled on, going to the refrigerator for drinks. “Just like everyone said … though since you’ve had it way worse—yes, you heard me, way worse—I’ll give you … say, another week to get over it and move on.”
Hugh raised a brow at that. She’d mourned for three years over the loss of a husband and expected him to “get over” the loss of his entire life in a week? Sorcha snuck a glance at him and winked and Hugh had to laugh. By God, but she was teasing him! She certainly wasn’t one to hang on to her anger for long, was she?
She set a bottle down in front of him labeled Diet Coke, something she had been drinking almost continuously since they had met while Hugh had only beer, wine, and the bottled water Sorcha had assured him was far safer and tastier than the water in his day. Trustingly, Hugh took a swallow and felt the liquid burn its way down his throat. Gasping, Hugh glared at the bottle and then at her, only to find her eyes dancing. “Good stuff, huh?” she asked, taking a long pull on her own drink and swallowing with a smack of her lips. “Ahh!”
“Yer a devious witch,” he accused but they were both smiling at that point.
“Are we good then?”
Hugh nodded. “We are, Claire.”
She just shook her head, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. “Oh, just call me Sorcha if you like. Claire somehow sounds wrong coming from you!”
Chapter 17
“Now hold it like this. Just wrap your hand around it … No, not so tight. Loosely. You want to have a good grip on it, not strangle it.”
“I am doing it exactly as ye said I should, lass!”
“I think you’re just not trying hard enough,” Claire chided. “Come on, we did your thing, now we get to do mine. We have to do something to pass the time.”
“When I said I was restless, I meant that mayhap we could just take a walk on the beach,” Hugh said. “I dinnae mean anything like this!”
“Well, it’s raining,” she replied. “So this will have to do.”
“Of all the things ye hae shown me of this time, this is my least favorite thus far.”
“Would you like some cheese with that whine?” Hugh’s brow shot up, and Claire smiled smugly. “Come on, what are you afraid of? That a wee lass like me might kick your butt?”
Hugh pressed his lips together grimly. “Challenge accepted.”
“Good, now you just have to put your hips into it a little more.” Claire moved behind Hugh and put her hands on his hips, pushing them to the side. “See?”
“I ken how tae do this,” he grouched. “I’ve been doing so since I was a lad.”
“Really?” Claire asked. “How old were you the first time? Because I’ve been doing this since I was eight.”
“’Twas invented by a Scotsman, lass!” Hugh huffed. “I’m sure I ken how tae do it better than ye! This just doesnae feel right.”
Claire laughed. “You’ll get used to it. Come on, try again.”
“Verra well.” Hugh lowered his hands and wrapped them, loosely this time, around the base of the long object. Drawing them back, he swung them forward once more. “How was that?”
“Better,” Claire nodded, looking at the television screen. “Three hundred yards. You’re certainly better at this than you were at the bowling.”
“As I said, ‘twas invented by a Scotsman,” Hugh grouched before taking another swing. His virtual Wii golf ball flew into the sky, through a tree, and landed on the edge of the green. “My countrymen would be appalled at what has become of the game. I cannae see that there is truly any skill involved with this.”
Claire took her turn, swinging her controller and sending her own ball after Hugh’s. Unlike Hugh, she was enjoying the rainy afternoon. After lunch, Hugh had taught her a card game from his time called whist before she had insisted on showing him a more modern entertainment by way of Wii Sports, which along with Let’s Dance 1–4 and Zumba, comprised sum of Robert and Sue’s video game complement.
Generally speaking, Hugh hadn’t completely gotten over his initial shocking dislike of the TV. He had hemmed and hawed over learning the games from the start, but Claire was determined to give him a little immersion into the twenty-first century and to show him some of what books could not. She had offered fencing initially, but Hugh had chosen bowling, a game Claire was surprised to learn that he was somewhat familiar with in theory, though the game had changed drastically over the years.
They had played only a few frames before switching over to golf. Claire suspected that her wicked curve on the bowling ball might have had something to do with Hugh’s change of mind. Clearly he had a competitive nature and didn’t like the idea of losing.
But he was good at golf, or at least this version of it. Claire frowned as Hugh putted successfully from twenty yards out and the cyber-crowd cheered. Even as unaccustomed as he was to the Wii controller and the awkward swing, he soon got the hang of them and was handily beating Claire by two strokes after the second hole. Playing as a child with her father, Ryan, and Danny – before Danny had forsaken physical activity for all things electronic – Claire had been the only female playing among men, a middle sister who had hated to lose—and she wasn’t much better about it now than she had been as a child.
Claire beat Hugh on the next two holes and was surprised to find that the Scot was also an awfully good sport. He praised her efforts, but the competition did become more heated. Claire played lik
e a twenty-first-century woman. She flung her arms up with a loud “Woo-hoo” when she did well and cursed soundly when she did not.
“’Tis meant to be a gentlemanly game, but yer a verra vocal player,” Hugh admonished.
“My dad is a pretty mild-mannered guy but he used to say that he thought golf caused Tourette’s Syndrome because he would always start cursing uncontrollably whenever he played,” Claire said with a sheepish grin before explaining what the illness was and how the symptoms sometimes manifested. “I guess I get it from him.”
Hugh’s lips tilted at the corners, but it was that sad smile that told Claire there was just another thing about being here that upset him. “I suppose the game itself has changed in many ways.”
“I’m sure you’ll find that most things you knew have changed in some ways,” Claire said practically. “But at least it’s still here, right?”
“If yer going tae look at it that way, I suppose I should be thankful that some of the human race still eats meat wi’ their meals and that everyone isnae a vegetarian now.”
“See? Now you’re looking on the bright side,” Claire grinned at Hugh’s chagrin as they returned to the game.
Again the question was asked about why Claire did not eat meat, and as they played, she launched into a long explanation of why people became vegetarian; some for their health, others who protested the exploitation of animals, and others who, like Claire, were generally suspicious of the hormones used to increase production of those products. That was why she would eat wild-caught fish but not farm-raised, why she would eat venison but not beef or chicken, and why she avoided eggs and milk unless they were hormone free.
Hugh accepted her explanation with a nod but stated that there was not a reason on earth that would compel him to forgo meat with his meals, and Claire was fine with that. Her beliefs were her own and she didn’t try to push them on others.
“Besides,” she added wickedly, “your fine countrymen also came up with haggis. I’m sure once you’ve eaten that, nothing is offensive anymore.”
“An innovation counterbalanced by the gentlemanly game of golf,” Hugh pointed out.
“Ahh, yes, the gentlemanly game of golf,” Claire teased in a haughty, British accent. “When one drunk Scotsman knocked a ball into a gopher hole and decided to call it a game?”
“That is nae how the game started!” Hugh protested. “Is that what people really think?”
Claire wondered what it was about Hugh that made her want to needle him so, but she couldn’t help herself. A humorous recollection tickled deep within her and Claire pulled Hugh into Robert’s office and turned on his computer. Oh, it was mean, she inwardly chided. She shouldn’t do it. She shouldn’t.
But she was going to anyway.
Going into YouTube, Claire pulled up Robin Williams’s comedy routine where he poked fun at Scotsmen and the origins of golf only to laugh more at Hugh’s outrage over the comedian’s impersonation of a Scotsman than at his ire at the skit itself.
“I dinnae talk like that!” he argued, to which Claire could only raise a mocking brow before collapsing against him with laughter. Hands clasped around his arm, she sagged against him with her forehead against his bicep as she surrendered to the hilarity.
But that humor faded quickly when Claire realized what she had done. That she had forgotten so thoroughly her own rule and the argument and insult of the morning, to relax so completely with Hugh once more! To find comfortable companionship only to have it ebb into undeniable discomfort as the sexual tension that had ensnared them the previous night once more spun its web.
Claire released Hugh’s arm and glanced up at him, only to find his blue eyes dark and intense as he stared down at her. When had she softened toward him so completely? When had he gone from being a savage to a man? From a charity case to a point of distraction? When he had made her laugh? When he had called her out? In just days, Hugh had overwhelmed her every defense, defenses that had been in place for years. He wasn’t a project anymore, and he wasn’t just business. He was an unanticipated friend … and an unexpectedly virile man who tempted her with each passing hour to tread where she knew she shouldn’t.
Hugh made no move to touch her, but neither did he pull away. He wanted to kiss her just as he had the night before, she could see it in his eyes, and Claire couldn’t help but recall that brief but tender kiss on the beach.
Claire chewed the inside of her lip as she looked away. Damn, that kiss! It might have been what had set off the heated exchange that morning. She had enjoyed it, as light and innocent as it had been. She had enjoyed it … and felt guilty for it. Deeply, darkly guilty.
And that had put her emotionally on edge, to the point that one minute she was comforting him, and then she was crying, only to burst out like some madwoman seconds later. Claire knew it would be nice to blame it all on the stress of their situation, but in retrospect she knew that the guilt was the hands-down culprit.
Why? Why should she feel guilty for enjoying a kiss? For finding a man attractive? Hugh was right about more than her being afraid of discovering that another relationship might not live up to the first or being afraid of loving and losing once more. He was right in saying that Matt wouldn’t have wanted her to become a martyr to his memory. Knowing Matt, he was probably looking down at her with a frown of disappointment.
Before he had first been sent overseas, her husband had wanted to talk about what would happen if he didn’t come back, but Claire wouldn’t listen then, so Matt had put it in a letter that one of his fellow officers had given to her at the funeral.
Find happiness, he had said. Find love. Have the family they had never found the time to make together. Everyone said the same thing. Even Matt’s parents.
But she hadn’t, for the very same reason Hugh had indicated. Fear. A fear she needed to conquer if she ever wanted to move on with her life and find happiness once again, fulfilling her husband’s final wish for her.
Claire wasn’t saying that a fling with Hugh was necessarily what Matt or her family had been suggesting with their urging, but if she did decide to play a little, would it be so wrong?
“’Eighteen fucking times!’” Robin Williams bellowed from the computer and Hugh drew in a deep breath and finally took a step back, putting what was to Claire’s mind some much-needed distance between them.
“… dinnae use a ‘wee fooked up stick.’”
“What?” Claire asked confusedly before recalling herself to the moment. “What did you use?”
Hugh proceeded to give her a history lesson, for a change, on the sport of golf. Grateful for the distraction, Claire asked more questions about the equipment they had used in the past and the courses they had played on. Soon she was leading him out to the garage to examine Robert’s clubs so that he could see the difference between then and now.
Technology had had its hand in golf, as it had in so many other things over the years, and Claire explained to him about shaft flexibility, the different club head angles, and how just about any golf store could do a swing analysis to tell him exactly what sort of clubs he could use. Back inside, Claire used Robert’s computer again, this time to pull up pictures of different golf courses from around the world for Hugh to see. He was suitably impressed, and slowly confessed that perhaps it would be something that he might try to pick up again in the years to come.
It was the first time that Hugh had mentioned his probable future, Claire realized. The first time he had vocalized the inevitable, but from his closed expression, he didn’t want to pursue the topic. Claire let it go, though she wanted to assure him that everything would be fine, that she admired how well he was handling himself so far. All things being equal, as she had thought back in Spokane, it was surprising that Hugh wasn’t locking himself in a dark closet shrouded in denial.
A lesser man would have been, but Hugh was dealing with the shocking transformation Earth had undergone since the mid-1700s remarkably well, which was encouraging since Claire was 99
percent certain that, no matter what little tidbits of information her brother Danny might be able to hack into for them, Hugh was destined to live the remainder of his life in the twenty-first century.
There were serious doubts in Claire’s mind that she would have fared half so well in Hugh’s time. Even knowing—at least conceptually—the history of the world, could she have coped with the changes any better? She couldn’t even light a fire without matches or cook a decent meal over one. And if she appeared there in her clothes of this time, would she have been taken as a witch? Probably a prostitute, Claire thought wryly. Hugh had generalized women’s fashion as “beyond the pale,” which certainly sounded negative, and the way he studied every outfit she wore, it was blatantly obvious that he wasn’t used to women in pants, especially ones as tight as a pair of skinny jeans.
But when he looked at her, there was interest there. Appreciation.
And that kiss …
Shaking away the thought, Claire forced her attention back him. If they managed to escape the authorities and secure his freedom, he would have to build a life for himself here or in Scotland. Sure, he could play golf, but Claire wanted to make sure he was more prepared for her time than that. Hugh would have to find some way to support himself. He might even get married someday.
Claire bit her lip at the thought. Damn.
“Sorcha? Are ye well?”
Not even a little.
Claire went to the library, pulled out a voluminous tome she had seen there earlier, and turned to Hugh, who had followed her in. “Here,” she said, handing the book off. It was Roberts’s nearly one-thousand-page book, The History of the World. “This should keep you occupied while I make dinner.”
Chapter 18
A Time & Place for Every Laird Page 14