“If you do it soon, no one would even know you’re pregnant.” Claire glanced down at Anna’s flat stomach.
“Even if I wasn’t pregnant, I wouldn’t want a big wedding. I wasn’t that girl who dreamed of getting married and having kids. In fact, before Iain, I thought it would never happen, and I was totally fine with that. My students are my kids. You know what I mean?”
Claire did understand. She had no desire to be a mother only to screw up her kid. Not to mention the fact she’d never been truly honest with a man. “I’ve never liked a bloke enough to even consider the L-word, much less marriage and bairns.”
Anna’s gaze shifted somewhere over Claire’s shoulder before returning. “Not even Holt?”
Holt had snuck closer to the true heart of her than anyone, and she was tempted to invite him in and tell him everything. But if it was going to end anyway, wouldn’t it be easier if neither one of them were fully invested?
“I barely know Holt. Anyway, he deserves a woman who can be his partner in every way. What we’re doing is merely a fun distraction. I can’t stay in Highland.”
“Why not?”
Claire sputtered for an answer before landing on a childish, lame, “Because.”
A sharp curiosity tinged with laughter flitted across Anna’s face. “Your fun distraction is headed this way,” she murmured.
Claire shifted to watch Holt. A thrill zipped through her as if her heart had plugged into an energy source. His kilt swung around his knees, his movements full of power and grace. He possessed a singular masculinity the kilt only emphasized. The universal question popped into her head. What was Holt wearing under his kilt and would she get an answer tonight?
Holt slid an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries. I’m not needy and requiring all of your attention.” Claire battled an unusual vulnerability.
“You may not require my undivided attention but you certainly command it.” His focus was so intense it might have been only the two of them in the crowded pub.
Claire’s hand found its way to his shirt, and she grabbed a handful and drew him closer to continue what they’d started outside by the Christmas tree. The staticky whine of electronics scythed through the pretense of intimacy.
Claire leaned away from Holt. A flurry of activity was taking place in their corner. Five men took up various instruments and made their way to the semicircle of a dais in the opposite corner, including Iain, who cradled a guitar.
The man tapped the microphone and said too loudly into it, “Ladies and gentleman, the Highland Jacobites!”
She faced the stage and Holt slipped behind her, his arm around her waist. Her weight shifted backward into him. His heat and strength exerted their own gravitational pull. It was too easy to lean on him—physically and metaphorically.
The Jacobites arranged themselves in a semicircle. The hum of conversation had picked up in intensity while the musicians took some tuning chords, then fell silent as the band launched into an upbeat Scottish reel.
Claire’s toe tapped without conscious thought. The beat infected her like a virus. Or was it an antidote? She closed her eyes and let her head rest against Holt’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you join them for a song? Iain and the boys would be happy to have a professional.” The heat of his breath in her ear made a shiver skate down her back.
Only then did she realize she’d been humming along, the lyrics scrolling through her head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I left the Scunners.” It sounded lame even to herself. She had left her band, not lost her voice or stopped loving music.
The chesty sound he made landed between confusion and amusement. “Singing one song in a small-town pub doesn’t count as a betrayal of your old band. Why are you punishing yourself?”
She half turned in his arms to see his face. “I’m not.”
Or was she? Returning to the family fold would mean shutting the door on music.
Holt didn’t argue, only held her in place with his steady blue eyes. It took a physical effort to force her gaze away. When she did, she noticed Anna watching them intently. The other woman shifted the direction of her stare from them to the band. The vibes coming from Anna were a mixture of protective and calculating.
“What the story with you and Anna?” Claire asked before she could stop herself. She had zero right to get upset by anything in his past. “Did you two ever date?”
His laugh was devilish. “Never in a million years could I imagine dating Anna. She’s like a sister. I’ve known her since before I could walk. I’d pull her pigtails and call her carrot. She’d yank my shorts down during recess. You know, we were friends.”
“That’s quite a shared history.” The ache in her chest felt a lot like jealousy. Not of his past with Anna but of a future Claire could picture in vivid, painful detail. Holt would watch Anna and Iain’s child grow and be part of its life as an almost-uncle. Anna would attend Holt’s wedding and be godmother to his first child. A daughter with dark-blond hair like him.
Claire put the brakes on her runaway imagination. If she was going to leave Highland with her heart intact, she had to live in the moment and not regret what could never be. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried to appreciate where she was. The here and now was Holt’s solidness at her back and music she loved in her ears.
The first set of music faded and the swell of conversation took its place. The band leader announced a break. Iain weaved his way back to their corner, stopping to chat with Anna before pinning Claire with his gaze.
Claire fought the urge to make a run for it, although she wasn’t sure why. Iain hadn’t recognized her. Not that she looked like the young redheaded whisky heiress from the papers so many years ago. Still she tensed, waiting for the question she dreaded.
“Will you join us for a song in the next set, Claire?” Iain asked.
Although she should have expected the request, she was surprised. And relieved. Relieved enough to nod with the enthusiasm of hearing a not-guilty verdict. She tempered her answer. “One song. I’m out of practice.”
“We’ll take what we can get.” Iain backed away and whispered something in the ear of one of his bandmates. The man raised his beer in Claire’s direction with a grin.
She already harbored regrets at her agreement.
“Why the dread at singing?” Holt asked.
“No dread.” She forced her lips to move but wasn’t sure it was into a smile or a grimace.
“You are an amazing singer, but a terrible actress.”
She let her facade drop. “It’s silly, but I don’t want to be reminded of how much I miss singing.”
Holt’s lips pursed a moment. “That pipes player must have really pulled a number on you.”
For a few blinks, Claire was confused. Then she remembered using Jamie as an excuse. “Not really. No one’s heart was broken. At least, mine wasn’t.”
“Sounds like you’re hard on hearts. Should I beware?” Though his tone was light, his gaze was heavy.
Was he insinuating his heart was involved even marginally in what they were doing? The way her heart answered the question made her wonder about the state of her vital organ. Before she had to formulate a response, the Highland Jacobites were called back to the stage for their second set and Iain gestured her over.
“You know ‘Caledonia,’ don’t you?” Iain asked on their way to the dais.
Claire’s already off-kilter heart stumbled. It was a song about missing one’s home. Every Scottish singer worth anything knew the song. She didn’t want to sing it, but before she could suggest another song like “Big Country,” she was in front of the microphone and one of the boys behind her was counting off.
While it wasn’t the biggest stage she’d been on, she stared out at the packed bar with a rising panic. Stage fright had never infected her. Until now.
Her gaze darted from face to face until she found th
e one she was looking for. Holt had stepped out of the corner shadows and stood in the sea of people, his arms crossed over his chest. Solid and dependable.
She’d never been lucky enough to have someone in her life like him. Or maybe she’d never given anyone a chance to be solid and dependable. It was a question she couldn’t ponder when her cue in the music was approaching.
She took a deep breath and sang the melancholy song not to Scotland, not to her parents, but to Holt. She already knew that she would miss Holt when she left Highland. Her Scottish lilt thickened and sweetened.
The bar noise receded, and now the sea of faces all watching her filled her with satisfaction. She held the audience in her hand. It was addictive, and she’d missed the power.
When the last plaintive note died away, applause cut by whistles had her grinning at the crowd. Phones were in the air recording her performance and snapping pictures for social media. Dread stole into her and left a lump in her stomach and throat.
The sandy-haired band leader leaned to speak in her ear. “How about one more?”
After months of being scrupulously careful to stay off her family’s radar, she’d gone and effed it up. Tilting her face away, she shook her head and hopped off the dais. She ignored the compliments and requests for a selfie and pushed through the crowd to find Holt. His smile anchored her and made her feel safer in the chaos.
“Will you take me home?” The desperation she couldn’t keep out of her voice erased his smile. “Now?”
“’Course I will.” Holt slipped an arm around her shoulders and led her through the crowd to the door, brushing off attempts to engage them in conversation in a way that didn’t offend anyone.
As soon as she hit the sidewalk, she didn’t stop until her back was against the brick wall in the alcove next to the sparkling Christmas tree, seeking safety in the shadows. She never should have gone to the pub with Holt. She’d known better and yet she couldn’t resist wanting to do regular couple-y things with him even though they weren’t a couple.
Holt leaned his shoulder against the wall next to her. The wall of his body blocked the chilly breeze and added a layer of protection her psyche needed.
“What—or who—are you afraid of, Claire?”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me. Smythe isn’t your real name, is it? I could help you if you’d trust me. Do you want to try to answer my question again?”
There was no anger or impatience in his expression, only disappointment. An emotion she was keenly familiar with. She’d been a disappointment all her life. She wouldn’t lie to him, but neither would she invite him to judge all her past decisions and heartaches.
“I want you to take me home,” she said hoarsely. “Or else I’ll walk.”
“Claire, would you please just—”
“No!” She turned away from him and started toward the road to Ms. Meadows’s.
He fell into step next to her. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
While her pride was screaming at her to keep walking all the way back to Ms. Meadows’s house, common sense won out. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
Their combined maturity level was in a free fall. She resented having to take his hand to climb into the truck. Why did the bloody behemoth have to be so far off the ground?
He joined her, closing his door a little too hard, and cranked the engine. She shivered in the cool air blowing out of the vents and scrunched herself as small as possible, staring out the passenger window, grateful for the darkness pressing in on all sides.
Even if someone happened to post her picture or a video on their social media, the possibility of her parents or Lachlan finding it was low. But not impossible. Lachlan would be on the first plane out to drag her home. Her parents might send Dennison, or maybe they would wait her out in Scotland. She fingered the hair at her nape. They might not even recognize her.
The farther down the dark, deserted road she traveled, the safer she felt. That was part of the problem: Holt made her feel safe. Too safe. She needed to keep her guard up, and she couldn’t around him.
As he turned down the narrow lane to Ms. Meadows’s house, she shifted slightly to look out the front windscreen, but as she took a deep breath to tell him they shouldn’t see each other again, he cleared his throat.
“Look. It’s not in my programing to half-ass things even if this is supposed to be a fling or whatever. I can’t help but care and worry about you. When you’re ready to trust me, come find me. Otherwise, don’t bother.” His voice was gravelly and cut her deeper than she expected considering she had been ready to deliver the same message.
“Understood.” And she did understand him. She wanted more than anything to slice her heart open and excise the pain. He would know how to stitch it up and make it all better. But she couldn’t take the risk.
She pushed her door open and in the harsh light of the cab, she stole one last look at him. He remained in profile even though she was sure he could sense her regard. Finally, she hopped out, shut the door behind her, and quickstepped to the porch.
Only when she was inside did she give in to temptation and peek through the curtains. The truck hadn’t moved. Her heart paced faster, wondering if he would stride to the front door, apologize, and offer to take whatever she could give. He reversed out of the lane and disappeared.
And still she stared out of the window hoping for a different outcome. It wasn’t relief but a profound loss that filled her. One shaky breath followed another until they had evened out and she had control of her emotions. Their one night in bed together had rocked her foundations. A second time might blast them into rubble. It was for the best.
“What’s the matter, girl?” Ms. Meadows’s sharp voice made her start and spin around. Ms. Meadows was in her dressing gown and standing like a sentinel in the hallway, her hands resting on top of her cane.
While Claire wasn’t a good liar, she was excellent at deflection. Which is exactly the skill she needed to employ at the moment. Slapping on a brittle-feeling smile, Claire took a breath and promptly burst into tears.
Chapter Twelve
Claire came awake not with a start, but slowly with her memory expanding like ripples on placid loch water. Her stomach was a mess of nerves and knots, her head throbbed from her crying jag the night before, and her eyes were still swollen.
She couldn’t even say that she and Holt had broken up. Two dates and one roll in the sheets didn’t constitute a relationship. She felt like she’d loaded her heart in a tiny trebuchet and aimed it at the side of a cliff. Is that why it was called a fling?
She lay back and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. A knock on the door had her bolting upright. Ms. Meadows didn’t wait for her to say anything but toed the door open and shuffled inside the room.
Ms. Meadows had let Claire cry on her knobby shoulder, fixed her hot chocolate, and tucked her into bed without asking her any questions. She’d only shushed and there, there’d until Claire had fallen asleep.
Exhibiting the same kindness from the night before, Ms. Meadows plopped a glass of water on the bedside table, a few droplets sloshing out, pulled out a bottle of aspirin from the pocket of her flowered dress, and gestured at the side of the bed. Claire scooched over to give room for Ms. Meadows to sit at her hip.
“You look like the devil gnawed on you and spit you out, girl. Take the medicine.” Ms. Meadows waited until Claire had taken two aspirin and drunk all the water.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said softly.
“For what? Being human?”
Claire huffed a small almost-laugh and fiddled with the edge of the thermal blanket. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. Not the other way around.”
Ms. Meadows patted Claire’s busy hands and squeezed slightly. “It feels good to take care of someone else for a change. Now tell me: Do I need to load the shotgun and give Holt Pierson what-for?”
Her almost-laugh turned into a real giggle at the image she
painted. “Holt didn’t do anything except ask me for something I can’t give him.”
“And what’s that?”
“The truth.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve been wondering about that too, but I vowed not to push you. I understand more than most wanting to keep pain close.” Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Ms. Meadows added, “Will you allow an old woman to give you some advice?”
“I would love some,” Claire said.
“There are good people in the world. Ones who want only the best for you. Life can be a long, hard road. Having someone to share your burdens with makes the going easier.”
Her words burrowed deep. Claire had been traveling alone for so long, she couldn’t remember what it was like to have a companion. Truths overwhelmed Claire until she couldn’t keep them contained any longer.
“My name isn’t Claire Smythe. It’s Claire Glennallen.” Claire collapsed back against the pillows and waited to see whether Ms. Meadows recognized her name.
Ms. Meadows tilted her head. “Are you kin to the folks who make the whisky?”
Claire nodded. “My family started the distillery a hundred years ago.”
“I see.” It felt like Ms. Meadows could see through the crack in Claire’s defenses to everything else she’d kept hidden. “I assumed you were hiding from a boyfriend, but you’re not, are you?”
“If only it was so simple. It’s my family I’m hiding from.”
“Why?”
A simple question with an answer that had grown more complicated over the years. “I don’t know. Because I’m a coward? I’m not close with my parents, but there are expectations that I’ll enter the family business. To complicate matters further, I have a cousin whom I made promises to a long time ago. He’s counting on me too.”
“You’re here to figure out where your loyalties lie?” Ms. Meadows asked.
“Yes, I believe I am.” Claire nodded once, finally able to acknowledge what she hadn’t been able to articulate even to herself. “I can’t keep burying my head in the sand, but I promise I won’t leave until we find a replacement for me.”
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