by E. K. Blair
I want to correct her, tell her that Declan parted ways with Cal and was making a strong name for himself as an international real estate developer, but I’d rather her not know my link to him.
“He attended St. Andrews at the same time Prince William did,” she adds with enthusiasm, but I don’t care about the trivial anecdotes she seems to take pride in.
Anxious to be alone, I take my last bite of egg and excuse myself. “Do you mind if I take this with me?” I ask about the magazine.
“Of course not.”
“Thank you.”
When I close the door to my room, I sit down at the small desk near the window and open the article with Declan’s photo. Alone with my love, I run my fingers over his face and pretend it’s real. I shut my eyes and try to smell him, but there’s nothing except the lingering fragrance of my perfume in the air.
I look back at him and then begin to read the article that the photo accompanies. I feel my smile grow the further I read. And when I discover a charity event where Declan will be the guest of honor, I know this is an opportunity that I must take full advantage of—and I will. I continue to read the piece that boasts about the charities Declan supports and advocates for.
I note the function where he will be honored is being held this Saturday evening at his alma mater, and start scheming.
AFTER READING THE article a couple days ago, I went ahead and made my day trip to Edinburgh, but not after making a few phone calls. The foundation that Declan is being honored for and has become one of the main financial contributors to is one that strives to offer valuable education to under-privileged children. Knowing there will be so many eyes on him at this event, I think it will be the perfect opportunity to talk to him. I doubt he would cause a scene, but rather be forced to be cordial for the good graces of the attendees. He’d have to stand there and listen to me. So I went ahead and became a donor myself, and the sizable check I wrote secured me a seat at the event.
As I stand in front of the full-length mirror here in my hotel room in Saint Andrews, I run my hands down the lace overlay of my navy dress. The thin material hugs my petite form, just barely skimming the floor. I wear my hair down in soft waves to hide the still-grotesque wound on the back of my head. I continue to pick at it daily, and it’s grown in size. I don’t want it to heal because it’s the only physical thing I have to represent Declan. His gift to me, created by his own hands. He gave it to me, and I refuse to let it go. It serves a multitude of purposes: it’s my vice, my pain reliever, my trophy, my reminder, my solace. My love, branded into my flesh, and I own it happily.
When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I pick up my invitation and pashmina before heading down to the lobby. The car I called for is already waiting out front, and my heart beats in anticipation as the driver opens the door for me. I’ve granted myself permission to be vulnerable ever since I woke up in the hospital, exhausted from the emotions I finally allowed to erupt inside of me.
But now . . . now it’s time to focus.
I know what I want, and I need to do whatever it takes to get Declan to talk to me, to hear my words, and to understand and believe in what we had. To know it wasn’t a lie—not all of it. To know I didn’t want him to kill, I didn’t want to use him or betray him, but that everything spun out of control so fast I couldn’t stop what had already been set into motion.
When we arrive and pass through the gate of Saint Andrews University, I take a moment to admire the historic buildings, aged to refinement. The car jostles along the cobblestone road and slows in front of a building that’s adorned with rustic, fire-lit lanterns and a red carpet lined with press photographers. It’s foreign that I would attend an event alone and not know a single person, but I refuse to let insecurity taint me.
The car stops and I watch women dressed to the nines in their designer gowns and men in their kilts and fly plaids. I take a hard swallow, straighten my spine, and reach out for the hand of the usher who opens my door.
“Miss,” he greets with a nod. “Will you be joined by a companion?”
“No.”
“May I escort you?”
“That would be lovely,” I accept graciously.
I feign my right to belong and mingle among, what appears to be, the high society of the UK—wealth and prestige. But I’m good at what I do, veiling the disgust that molds me as the vile human I really am.
Looping my arm through his, he introduces in his heavy brogue, “I’m Lachlan.”
I look up at his broad, clean-shaven face and smile at the forty-something-year-old man with dark hair distinguished by flakes of silver. Putting on the charm I perfected while married to Bennett, I remark with flirtation, “And where is your companion?”
“I’m without as well.”
“Really? That surprises me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Truthfully?” I question, lifting a brow to create amusement, and when he smiles and nods, I’m blunt, telling him, “You’re startlingly attractive. I find it hard to believe you’re not here with a little tart attached to your arm.”
His chuckle is deep and rich when he responds, “Oh, but I do have a beautiful little, what did you call it?—tart?—stuck to my arm.”
I join in his laughter. “Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth?”
“My name, it’s Elizabeth. And I assure you, I’m no tart.”
LACHLAN AND I are all smiles when he leads me into the magnificent ballroom, draped in luxury. The room is masculine, smelling of rich varnish and weathered books, dark mahogany walls, and the finest champagne being served off of polished antique silver trays. As a waiter passes me, I pluck a sparkling flute from the tray.
“Quick on the bevvy. Eager?” Lachlan teases, and I answer with a simple, “Parched,” before taking a sip.
But I am eager. Too eager, as I dart my eyes around the room in search of Declan, but all I see are unfamiliar faces.
“Elizabeth,” Lachlan starts, pulling my attention back to him. “What brings you here? I attend many of these events, and I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m from the US. I recently arrived here but have been staying in Galashiels.”
“Gala? Interesting. It’s such a small town. Most travelers stay in Edinburgh. What’s in Gala for you?”
“A good friend of mine,” I tell him. “He’s supposed to be here tonight actually. Declan McKinnon, have you seen him?”
“That wee bastard?” he belts out.
He must see my confused expression when he explains, “Scottish humor, dear. It’s a friendly boast.”
“Oh.”
I take a sip of my champagne while he adds, “We both attended university here,” and then is cut off by a gentleman at the microphone announcing that dinner will be served shortly and to enjoy the band and some dancing.
I scan the room again, which is filled with a mass of people, chatting, drinking, and mingling. Voices are quiet, aside from the random, boisterous comments from the men. Rich with their accents, I must stand out to them as Lachlan introduces me to a few people while everyone makes their way around.
My attention is half-hearted as the time passes. Lachlan accompanies me through the dinner service, and while he’s visiting with a few other people seated at our table, I finally spot Declan. He’s in the back of the room, at the bar, with a woman on his arm as he converses with a couple men.
I stare.
I can’t take my eyes off of him as he stands there in a kilt. Good God, he’s perfection. I’m used to seeing him in a dressed down tuxedo at black tie events, but there is nothing dressed down about him right now. Proper in a black jacket, red and black kilt with a matching red and black tartan fly plaid that’s slung over his shoulder, and a black leather sporran that hangs low from his hips. Down to his flashes, this man is obscenely beautiful, and I want to rip that wench right off his arm.
I notice he isn’t paying much attention to the woman as he drinks from his old-fashioned and con
tinues to talk to the men. I want to jump up and go to him—eager to be in his presence, but I know the reaction I’ll get. It’s the one I fear, but expect. The one I hate, but deserve.
“Something got your eye?” Lachlan says.
I turn and smile, telling him, “I found my friend.”
“Ahh,” he sighs as he spots Declan at the bar.
But before I can make a move, a man steps to the podium on the stage and begins talking, starting off with gratitude for the attendance this evening. I watch as Declan makes his way over to the stage while the gentleman continues to address all the attendees.
He’s so close, but he’s further away than he’s ever been, even before we ever met, because his hatred cleaves wounds deeply. And my betrayal spears even deeper.
Declan’s name is announced as the quintessential donor to the foundation. His name is praised for his time and devotion to the charity, and the round of applause is loud as the podium is handed over to him and he steps behind it. There’s no arguing his humility; I see it in his expression. He feels the attention is undeserved.
He thanks the audience, and I melt into the sound of his voice. His accent, lighter than most others in this room, seduces me as I sit here. I feel exposed, as if people can see how my body is responding to his voice. My stomach trills and my heart quickens in luring excitement. I miss that voice. Miss it whispering softly in my ear, barking his possessive words to me, claiming that I’m his property, growling when he would come. Every sound of his enraptured me the way it’s doing right now.
Giving his speech about the importance of proper education for all children, regardless of social and economic stature, I continue to admire the great things he is doing to his outfit. I take in every piece of the man I have been mourning for the past couple months. I can finally look at him without him spitting his enmity at me. So for now, I worship this moment in time where I see my old, confident Declan, speaking gracefully, loving his smile when he chuckles at his small banter.
When his speech comes to an end and he presents his substantial donation to the foundation president and encourages everyone to take out their checkbooks to do the same. He’s showered with admiration for his time and efforts with grand applause, which he humbly accepts.
Stepping down from the podium, he shakes hands with the many committee members, and with all eyes on him, I know this is my moment. As conniving as it is, it’s the only way I can get his attention without him lashing out.
“Excuse me,” I say softly to Lachlan as I stand and set my napkin on my seat.
Keeping my eyes on Declan, I make my way through the people who are now leaving the tables behind to socialize and dance. As I approach, the woman I saw him with earlier is back at his side. She’s tall—much taller than my petite stature—with raven hair that’s pulled in a sophisticated bun at the nape of her neck. I quickly remind myself of what Declan and I shared not too long ago, and right my posture as I step next to the both of them. When the man in front of me shakes Declan’s hand and steps away, green eyes widen in surprise.
“Declan, it’s so good to see you again,” I croon excitedly, putting on my act in front of the small group that’s gathered around him.
He falls in line with me, the way I knew he would, being surrounded by all these people. He chivalrously accepts my hand and a kiss to his cheek.
“What are you doing here?” he questions, with only a mild bite to his tone, but his face is cordial.
“Now, you know charities are dear to me,” I tease in mockery with a giggle. “I’d like to make my time in Scotland meaningful.”
“And how long is that? Don’t you have to get back to the States soon?”
Leaning in closer to him so not everyone can hear, I say, “No. At the moment, time is a little futile, if you know what I mean.” I then turn to his date, remarking to him while my eyes are fixed on the woman, “Declan, she’s stunning.”
My words, and the manner in which they are delivered, make her uncomfortable. She fidgets and responds, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Davina.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“And you are?”
“An old acquaintance,” Declan interrupts, answering for me, and I giggle, adding, “Well, that’s putting it modestly.”
I can see the tension when he bites his jaw down, so I quickly make my request publically, “I was hoping I could steal you away for a couple minutes. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about . . . privately.”
“This probably isn’t the best time.”
“It’s okay,” Davina tells him with a pleasant smile. “I need to go visit with Beatrice anyway.”
Smiling up at Declan, I boast, “Perfect!”
His smile is tight as he walks past me with no eye contact. “Follow me.”
I do, keeping up with his quick stride, but when I see he’s making his way outside and away from all these people, I grab on to his arm and tug back. “Here is fine.”
“I thought you said you wanted privacy.”
“This is private enough.” I need the crowd to ensure he keeps his emotions in check.
He narrows his eyes and sneers angrily under his breath, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you, to talk to you, and this was the only way I could get you to listen without you losing your shit on me.”
Keeping his voice low, his tone is harsh when he says, “What do you want to say to me, huh? I’m sorry? It’s not what you think? Forgive me? Well, fuck you because there isn’t anything I want to hear coming out of your mouth.”
“If you’ll just let me say my piece, I’ll go. If that’s what you want, I’ll leave—disappear from your life, and you’ll never have to think of me again.”
Declan grabs my elbow and pulls me closer to him. His face is so close to mine, I can feel the heat of his blood pulsing through his veins. “You think it’s that easy? You think I can just shut you out and never think about you again—the woman who deceived me to the point that I . . . ” he pauses for a second to make sure no one is close enough to hear his next words, “ . . . took a man’s life? I’ll never be able to get rid of you because you’re now the demon than lives inside me.”
Words slaughter deeply.
The urge to drop to my knees and beg at his feet to forgive me surges through my body. I did this to him. It was me, and the weight of that responsibility is making it near impossible to stay above ground. It’s sinking me down to a hell I’m terrified to face.
“Tell me what I can do,” I plead. “Because I’d do anything for you, to take any piece of this away from you.”
“It’s done with. It happened and nothing will take that away, but you . . . continuing to pop up . . . you’re just twisting the knife you’ve put in my back.”
“Let me attempt to take it out then.”
“That was a lovely speech,” an older lady compliments as she walks past us.
Declan quickly thanks her and then turns back to me. “You need to leave.”
“No.”
“God, you’re stubborn.”
“Declan, no. I want to explain.”
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
“Tomorrow,” he suggests. “You want to talk privately? Fine, I’ll give you that. Come to my house, say whatever it is you need to say, and then leave.”
“Okay,” I respond with a nod.
“I mean it. You leave Scotland. Go back home.”
I continue to nod in agreement with his words, and confirm, “Tomorrow then?”
His jaw clenches. “Yes. And now I want you to excuse yourself from this party.”
And I do. Getting what I wanted, I smile, but it doesn’t feel entirely victorious for obvious reasons. Retrieving my pashmina and clutch, I say my goodbye to Lachlan and thank him for accompanying me as my escort. He offers to drive me back to the hotel, but I politely decline and accept his flirtatious kiss to my hand before he opens the car do
or for me.
“It was a pleasure, Elizabeth. I hope to see you around,” he tells me, and I return the gesture, saying, “I hope so too.”
“WHAT WERE YOU doing with that woman?” I ask when Lachlan approaches me at the bar. “How do you know her?”
“I don’t. She was alone, and I offered to escort her. Why?”
Taking a hard shot of my Scotch, I bite against the burn. “I want you to follow her.”
“Who is she?”
“Just follow her. I want to know what she’s spending her days doing.”
His chuckle agitates me as he responds, “So now I’m a PI, McKinnon?”
“You want to work for someone else?” I snap, setting my old-fashioned down on the bar with too much force, and repeat harshly¸ “Follow her.”
I DON’T WANT to look like I’m trying too hard, so I go for simplicity, wearing a modest cashmere sweater, slacks, and a pair of flats. I keep my makeup light with a touch of sheer gloss on my lips. My hand nervously shakes as I dab on a little concealer under my eyes to cover the evidence of my lack of sleep last night.
When I left the party, I checked out of the hotel, so it was late when I arrived back here at Isla’s after the two-hour drive. My mind was racing all night, anxious about seeing Declan today and wondering exactly what I’m going to say. A part of me questions what it is I’m even doing here in Scotland. Confusion is my state of mind, so I don’t even attempt to reason my actions, because it’s a doomed feat. All I do know is that I’m lost, and Declan is the only thing that’s familiar and known.
Slipping on my knee-length, ivory pea coat, I make my way down to my car. I find myself speeding to get to Declan, but I’m worried about what will greet me when I arrive. With white knuckles, I take a few slow, deep breaths as I round the bend in the road and approach the gate. For the first time, I roll up to the intercom box and press the button. There’s no answer, but the gates open anyway.