A tavern was a tavern was a tavern, and yet this place could not have been anywhere in Megan’s native Maryland except maybe a Renaissance fair. The guy behind the bar was singing about being a baron’s heir in a Scottish accent so thick Megan could not make out any other words except maybe a mangled reference to “gin.”
Plaid was a part of the landscape, from Morag’s backpack, to the curtains over the windows, to the cushions on the benches, to the—
“The guy with the sheep is wearing an honest-to-God kilt,” Megan said. To go with his plain black, pleated kilt, he wore combat boots that laced halfway up muscular calves and a denim jacket with a streak of dried mud creasing one shoulder.
He leaned forward to push his beer away from the sheep.
“Is that a hoofprint on his back?” Megan asked. A perfect horseshoe of mud, open end up to catch the good luck, even.
“Probably,” Morag said. “I’ll place our orders. I’m for fish and chips. You?”
Megan still had difficulty understanding Morag, not only because she had a heavy Scots burr. Morag also spoke quickly, and tended to be halfway to her next destination, tossing words over her shoulder as she marched along.
“Grilled cheese if they have it,” Megan said. “And ginger ale.”
Comfort food, because transatlantic travel was tiring, and Megan had been cross-eyed exhausted before she’d caught her flight from Dulles International Airport. She was nearly dozing with her eyes open when a set of small, cloven hooves and furry little knees came into her line of sight, along with the scents of fresh cut hay and expensive hand cream.
“Are you the maiden of honor?”
In contrast to the fluffy little sheep cradled in the guy’s arms, his voice was all dark lochs and shadowed mountains. He was tall and muscular, both, which was probably the definition of the word braw, and his dark auburn hair hung nearly to his shoulders.
He held the sheep with one hand and his beer with the other, though one of those seventy-pound longswords probably numbered among his fashion accessories.
“I’ll be the maid of honor at Julie and Niall’s wedding,” Megan said, smoothing her palm over a wooly, knobby little head. “Hello, Declan. I don’t know as I’ve ever met a sheep who likes beer, but then, I’ve never met a sheep, much less one with its own name. Your date seems a little low on charm.”
“Has Morag already got you drunk, then?” the guy asked, settling into the chair at Megan’s left elbow.
“Scotland has got me bushed. I’m Megan Leonard. Nice sheep.”
The sheep bleated, a ratchety, scratchy noise that would draw the attention of every hungry predator on the premises.
Had there been any.
“This is wee Mary,” Kilted Wonder said, holding his beer up to the sheep’s nose. “She’s a curious sort. I’ve brought her here for practice, because she’ll be a gift to the bride and groom. Those with flocks will bring a lamb to the pub after the wedding, and Julie and Niall will have a good start on a herd.”
The sheep sniffed the beer but declined to take a sip. A teetotaling sheep, apparently.
“You’re saying there will be livestock loose at the wedding reception?” And this was the country where Julie Leonard, M.A., J.D., summa cum laude graduate of the George Washington University’s National Law Center, had chosen to settle down? “Does my sister know she’s marrying a vassal of Robert the Bruce?”
Morag was engaged in conversation with the bartender, but something—besides the sheep whisperer—smelled good and homey, like a grilled cheese actually being grilled.
“Your sister is marrying my cousin,” the guy said. “A cousin several times removed. I’m Declan MacPherson, best man and friend of the groom.”
The two weeks Megan had stolen from her business calendar just got more interesting.
“We’ll be seeing a fair amount of each other,” she said, “but I’m warning you, mister, if your sheep eats the flowers I arrange for my sister’s wedding, we’re having lamb shish kebabs at the reception.”
He leaned closer, bringing those grassy, meadowy scents with him. “I don’t eat lamb, mutton, veal, or beef, but I can be tempted to take a bite out of an uppity little Yank who has no respect for rural customs.”
Men did not intimidate Megan, not even handsome Scotsmen who could throw her across the room like one of those Viking sledgehammers at the Highland games.
Megan was a florist, one who’d handled the flowers for more hysterical brides, bereaved spouses, forgetful husbands, and harried event managers than Declan the Delicious could imagine. Men were like ferns. They had a place in some bouquets but were never the item of central interest.
She patted MacPherson’s chest. “You’ll take a bite out of me? I might like to nibble on you too, sweetie. That’s a custom where I come from. The members of the wedding party hook up, and a good time is had by all. Hopefully, nobody starts a herd, though, and you’d have to lose the sheep. Three-ways aren’t my thing.”
His eyes underwent a subtle, diabolical change, thawing from the Wrath of the Clans to the ruin of a grown woman’s dignity.
“I don’t share either,” he said, winking. “Except my beer. Have a sip, because Morag won’t get free of old Hamish for another five minutes at least. Would you like to hold my lamb?”
Two weeks. In two weeks, Megan would go home, close on the damned loan she’d finally wangled from the Damson Valley Bank and Mistrust, and reconcile herself to sending Julie a Christmas card every year.
Megan extracted the livestock from the grip of its owner, the lamb accepting the change of venue calmly.
“‘Would you like to hold my lamb’ has to be the worst pickup line I have ever heard, Mr. MacPherson. Also the most original. If I fall asleep before lunch gets here, kiss me awake.”
He kissed Megan’s cheek. “Now you can dream of me instead. I’ll see what’s keeping Morag. Take good care of my best girl.” MacPherson patted the sheep’s head and sauntered away, the kilt swinging tantalizingly with his every step.
Megan met the sheep’s gaze. The damned beast looked sympathetic.
“Men,” Megan said, taking a sip of MacPherson’s beer. “Baa, humbug, so to speak.”
***
Declan MacPherson had attended a few weddings, but they’d mostly been days to put on the formal clan attire and drink a little more than was prudent. Livestock had to be fed and watered, morning and night, and that limited both the duration and the extent of any frolics.
Of all frolics, in fact.
Weddings apparently entailed a lot of silly superstitions, traditions, and assumptions Declan hadn’t encountered while tending his acres, one of them being a temporary pairing of the best man with the maid of honor.
“You’re not interested in finishing that?” he asked Megan. Half a grilled cheese sandwich sat on her plate, oozing cheddar made from the milk of Declan’s own dairy. Megan had parted with Mary only when the food had arrived, and the lamb wandered the premises, sniffing over everything, sheep-fashion.
“I couldn’t possibly finish this,” Megan replied, taking a sip of Declan’s beer. “Maybe Mary Queen of Scots would like it?”
“I’d like it,” Declan said, before Morag could snatch the food away. Morag was small, but she could put away tucker like a farm boy during haying.
“If you’re going to lollygag about the trough, Declan,” Morag said, “I’ll leave you to get Megan to the cottage. Julie will be by to say hello once she’s done picking out desserts for the reception.”
“And why wasn’t the best man included in the thankless undertaking of selecting desserts?” Declan asked, standing and grabbing Morag by both shoulders. She was a twitchy little thing. A man had to be quick with a kiss to her cheek. He swooped in, planted a smacker, let her go, and sat back down.
“Declan MacPherson,” Morag growled, swiping the back of her hand over her cheek, “on an old man, that kind of forwardness is cute. On you, it’s…”
Declan picked up the grilled cheese. “Charmi
ng, I know. You needn’t thank me. Be off with you, More. Tell Julie I’m partial to raspberries on my sweets.”
“Megan, I do apologize,” Morag said, grabbing a shoulder bag woven of more colors than Declan’s greenhouse had in April. “Declan is Niall’s choice, so my hands are tied. Watch him. He’s apparently in a frisky mood, and he’ll kiss you before you see it coming.”
“He already did,” Megan replied. Her accent wasn’t Southern, but it would sound sweet in the darkness, the vowels broad, the consonants rounded. “So far, I’m liking Scotland just fine. Thanks for the lift, Morag, and we’ll see you at the wedding.”
Morag whisked off, leaving an odd sense of returning calm in her wake, like when a storm clears and the birds start singing again.
“Morag’s on the rebound,” Declan said, tearing off the crust from the sandwich and nibbling a bite. “She needs to regain her confidence, but she’ll soon be back in good form.”
“That was Morag on a bad day?” Megan asked, taking another sip of Declan’s drink.
“That’s my beer you’re swilling, love. I’m quite healthy, but you barely had anything to eat and now you’re downing the ale.”
She tipped the mug to peer at the contents, which were dwindling fast. “This isn’t like me. I’m already a little tipsy.”
“You prefer to be a lot tipsy?” Declan asked.
“Not tipsy at all. Julie can be an endearing drunk, but I’m… we’re sisters.”
Declan had had a sister once. For twenty-three years, he’d had a sister. “You’re sisters, which is why you’re the maid of honor.” In case Megan needed reminding why she’d ended up in Scotland.
“Julie and I are different. She’s tall, blond, smart, pretty, and charming.”
The cheese was scrumptious and the bread perfectly toasted and buttered, while the company was apparently daft.
“You’re short, dark, stupid, homely, backward, then?”
Megan Leonard was the prettiest version of homely Declan had ever laid eyes on. Her dark hair was full of ideas, waving and curling around her head, wisping away from the braids and bun she’d afflicted it with. Her complexion was roses and cinnamon—a few freckles to hold a man’s interest. She had curves to hold a man’s interest too, and she wasn’t overly tall.
“I’m the older sister who was always mistaken for the younger because I’m shorter,” Megan said, giving Declan’s shoulders a measuring, disapproving look. “This has probably never happened to you.”
“I’ve never been mistaken for anybody’s younger sister, you’re right.” Declan gave a short, sharp whistle, and Mary came scampering over. “Let’s get to the cottage before you’re asleep in my beer, Megan Leonard.”
She stood, then sat back down immediately. “I’m mostly tired, though I’m not much of a drinker. I missed the corporate tax return deadline in March and I hate that. I tried to get the schedules together before leaving for the airport and nearly missed my flight too.”
She was about to miss half the afternoon.
Declan popped the last bite of grilled cheese in his mouth, took Megan by the hand, and drew her to her feet.
“You’re tired and you’re tippling. I know a nice, soft, fluffy bed in a bonnie wee cottage, and that bed is calling your name right now. Mary, stop eyeing Hamish’s basil and come along.”
The lamb obligingly hopped down from the windowsill, suggesting she’d already done more than sniff the potted herbs Hamish grew there.
“Will you throw telephone poles this afternoon, or whatever it is best men do in Scotland?” Megan asked.
“I’ve been known to toss a caber or two, but today I have an appointment with my accountant.”
Then Declan would stop by the feed store to dicker over last month’s bill—off by 50 pounds again—and catch up on the gossip, look in on the afternoon milking because Dundas was getting on and wouldn’t ask for help if he were having four coronaries. At the greenhouse, Declan would check the soil moisture levels against the growth of the potted salvia which was turning up temperamental. If necessary, he’d rotate inventory so the blooming varieties were out front, and if he was lucky, not interrupt Deirdre and Robert at their pleasures for a damned change.
He’d best get some groceries too, having subsisted on peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches longer than a grown man liked to admit.
Declan paused by the door of the Wild Hare to snag a sensible green suitcase by the handle, then waited another moment for Mary to sniff it over.
“The customs inspector thinks I’m smuggling contraband,” Megan said, brushing a hand over the lamb’s head. “You are much nicer to pet than any smelly old dog.”
“She likes your scent,” Declan replied, holding the door so the lady and the lamb could precede him to the Land Rover. “You smell of greenery and happy occasions.”
Megan’s fragrance was also elegant, floral, and complicated, like a greenhouse full of rare varieties of orchid.
“I think that was a compliment,” she said, peering into the driver’s side of the Land Rover, then circling to the passenger’s side. Declan tossed her suitcase into the back—he’d washed his vehicle that very morning, else the suitcase might have been covered in peat moss for the next few weeks. Mary, he placed in the back more gently, though she looked none too pleased to have her place on the front seat usurped.
“We don’t have far to go,” Declan said, getting behind the wheel and buckling up. If they hadn’t had Megan’s suitcase, he might have suggested they walk across the cathedral grounds and through the woods along the river.
But they did have the suitcase, accountants charged by the hour, and the maid of honor was dead on her feet. Then too, Declan was already hungry again, and another PB/Nutella had no appeal.
“Just so you know, I didn’t want to come here,” Megan said as Declan pointed the Land Rover down the high street. “Our parents are gone, though, and Julie and I don’t have brothers or cousins. If I hadn’t come, she would have had no family at all at her wedding.”
Declan would have no family at his wedding—if he ever married.
“You mustn’t fret about Julie,” he said. “She’ll get a passel of Cromartys to call her own, people who’ve known Niall since he was a nipper. We’re not like Americans, who move a thousand miles from their folks just for a bit more money.”
“We move for opportunity, Declan MacPherson, and a lot of us, a few generations back, moved away from Scotland to find that opportunity.”
Was she proud of having pilfered some of Scotland’s best and brightest?
“My family stayed put,” Declan said, “and thus I have the opportunity to work land that’s belonged to MacPhersons for generations. I live in the house where my great-grandfather was born, and likely his great-grandfather too. Land that has fed my family and provided generations of sustenance shouldn’t be abandoned for something as fleeting and insubstantial as opportunity.”
“Land, Katie Scarlett,” Megan responded in a mock baritone. “You’re preaching to the choir, Declan. I’d no sooner pull up stakes and leave my flower shop on a whim than Julie would have tried one of her criminal cases without any evidence.”
They tooled past stone buildings festooned with geraniums, pansies, and other colorful flowers as well as the occasional cat sunning itself on a stoop. Children stood on the bridge, throwing rocks into the water as children had probably been doing from that same bridge for centuries.
“You’re not so different from your sister, Julie,” Declan observed. “Julie’s a reasonable sort, but I gather when she fixes on an objective, she can be very determined.”
Lucky Niall, that Julie’s determination had swung in his direction.
“If you have a crush on my sister, I will hit you,” Megan said as they turned past the park and back toward the woods along the river.
The same sister she’d dropped everything and come to Scotland for?
“I haven’t a crush on your sister,” Declan said, “though Julie’s a
fine woman. Farm life is hard, physically demanding, with impossible hours. The weather can be against you in any season, foot rot can take half your livestock, and competing successfully with environmental cretins is nearly impossible. I’ve no time for foolish crushes on women smitten with the local golf god.”
“The flower shop is the same for me,” Megan said, yawning behind her hand. “Work, work, work, and I finally have something to show for it, though it has taken me years. I won’t throw my dreams away for some guy who thinks I’d look cute in his kitchen.”
Megan Leonard would look very cute in Declan’s kitchen. Also in his greenhouse or his bedroom. In the hay mow, that wild hair of hers allowed to fly free, a thick tartan blanket beneath them…
The sporran was an accessory developed to protect a man’s dignity. That it held Declan’s wallet, change, comb, and phone was merely coincidence.
“So what is expected of me as a best man?” Declan asked, turning down the lane that led to Dunroamin Cottage. “Other than to stand up with Niall at the ceremony and keep track of the ring?”
“You throw the bachelor party. You show up at the rehearsal dinner and keep the groom from getting too drunk. You charm the in-laws and pretend I’m the date you’d choose even though I’m forced on you by circumstances and I can be a regular bitch when my lantana gets droopy.”
“The dreaded droopy lantana. Anything else I should know about?”
“Are you making fun of my lantana?”
So fierce about her flowers. “Yes, and possibly of you as well.” Declan parked the Land Rover and peered in the rear view mirror. Mary stood on top of the suitcase, doubtless scouting the surrounding ferns and bracken for snacks. Like farmer, like sheep.
“If I’m to be your escort for the next two weeks, tell me the real stuff, Megan. What can I do to be helpful? Niall and I have recently settled some longstanding differences, and I don’t want to muck this up.”
Declan turned the ignition off and sat with the maid of honor in the Land Rover beneath the leafy canopy. From thirty yards away, the gentle lap and murmur of the river made a soothing countercurrent to the tension subtly filling the vehicle.
Must Love Scotland (Highland Holidays) Page 11