“The cat died.” And all over again, Megan was assailed by grief, a huge, undifferentiated grief that encompassed her parents, her sister, her youthful ambitions, and most of all, Declan.
“Hughey was an old bugger,” Morag said. “One of the barn cats will move in, and he’ll become an old bugger too.”
What was the female equivalent of an old bugger? That’s where Megan was heading, into old buggerdom.
“Morag, I love Declan. I never told him I loved him because I didn’t want to put that burden on him.”
“He told you,” she said, accelerating into thicker traffic. “That’s what the Gaelic was. Love of my life. Never heard him call anybody else that, never been called that myself.”
The buttered scone Megan had made herself eat did a backflip in her belly. “He called me that?”
“My Gaelic is conversational, at best, but I know what I heard. And don’t tell yourself they were just words. When a man like Declan loves a woman, he doesn’t expect her to throw in with a life of hard work, uncertainty, and cow shit.”
“Sheep shit, too.” And flowers, and organic honey, and arguments over hot sauce, and a pet lamb, and… everything wonderful ever there was.
“I need to make a phone call, Morag. An urgent phone call.”
“Nothing stopping you,” Morag countered, fishing in the bag for a scone. “Put some butter on this, would you?”
“No, I need to make a phone call right now. What time is it?”
“Look on your phone, love.”
In Maryland, it would be very early. Too damned bad. Megan hit a few keys, and put the phone to her ear, and had to wait three endless rings for somebody to pick up.
“I am not yet at my desk. Do you know what time it is?” Mike Cochrane growled.
“I do, on two different continents, and I have a favor to ask.”
“Yes, I can pick you up at the airport. BWI or Dulles?”
Huh? “Not that kind of favor. Well, sorta that kind of favor. You need to pick up some flowers for your secretary.”
“I already did that. She wondered if I’d been diagnosed with a serious illness.”
“Then pick up some flowers for your girlfriend, Mike. This is important.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. Fortunately for you, my mom likes those long, dramatic flowers with the funny name.”
“Gladiolus, from the Latin word for sword, and they symbolize strength of character. My character’s not feeling so strong, Mike, so listen carefully, and do exactly as I say.”
***
“I am leaving on my honeymoon this afternoon,” Niall groused into the phone. “Julie is almost done packing, and whether to plant heather or raspberries on the back nine isn’t exactly what’s foremost on my mind, MacPherson.”
Thank God that Niall and Julie planned to start their honeymoon with a night in Glasgow before heading off to Skye.
“You have the next fifty years to think those thoughts,” Declan said, “while I have only until Meggie’s loan closes to rearrange my life.”
Julie said something in the background, and a pause ensued, during which Declan assumed the phone had been muted, or perhaps some kissing was going on.
“Julie says I’m to humor a fool in love,” Niall said. “Meet me at the Hare in an hour.”
“Thanks, Cromarty. Drinks on me, and give Julie a kiss for me—another kiss.” Declan hung up before Niall could answer.
***
It took Mike Cochrane walking into the flower shop and handing his phone to Dixie Miller, and Dixie putting the phone on speaker, but Megan had her staff meeting while Morag ate three scones and tapped her fingers against the wheel at a car park near the Edinburgh airport.
Cochrane fell into the role of bad cop, playing the guilt card with exquisite sincerity, while Megan bludgeoned her staff with the prospect of lost dreams, and opportunities snatched away. Dixie and Tony had been legitimately busy, and admitted to becoming engaged, but Megan was relentless, and Cochrane turned out to be a surprisingly effective wingman.
“You were absolutely ruthless,” Morag said when Megan ended the call. “Who would have thought a florist could be such a hard-ass?”
“This matters, Morag, and Declan likes my ass.”
“Declan, poor sod, likes all of you. Time to go?”
“Please. Warp nine, Mr. Sulu.”
***
“MacPherson, you cannot be serious,” Niall said, but his tone was wondering, rather than incredulous. Declan had his attention, which was saying something when the man was packed to leave on his honeymoon.
“I’m dead serious,” Declan replied. “The farm is in excellent financial health, because I’ve been lucky, and I’ve made some good guesses.”
“The harder I work, the luckier I get,” Niall muttered, staring at the spreadsheet Declan had passed him. The Hare was quiet today. Mary was curled on a sofa beside the fireplace, dreaming of whatever lambs dreamed of.
Declan was dreaming of the future. “A handshake will do, Niall. I’m not in any rush to close the deal, but I am in a rush to get my kilted arse to Maryland.”
Behind Declan, the door to the Hare opened, and some customers came in. If they were neighbors, they’d eavesdrop, but Declan didn’t particularly care who overheard this discussion.
Niall glanced over Declan’s shoulder, then his gaze went back to the spreadsheet. “You’ve been getting quietly rich, you bastard.”
“Not rich,” Declan said. “Solvent. One change in the regulations governing organic farming, and I might have to start over, get a new herd, triple what I pay the vet, or entirely redesign my milking parlor. Some new virus comes through, and I lose all my sheep. Farming is damned tricky to do well, and I’ve simply been enjoying a good patch. Now is the time for what I propose.”
Somebody scraped a chair back, somebody else ordered sandwiches at the bar. All Declan could think was that Megan was already on her way home, already somewhere over the North Atlantic, and getting farther from him by the second.
“You’re offering to sell me the farm and accept equity in the golf course as half the payment?”
“Basically. I need enough cash out of the farm to get Megan her second shop. Bank loans are all very well for those who need them, and my farm has benefited from its share, but I want to offer Megan another choice.”
Niall set the spreadsheet in the middle of the table, and again glanced around at the mostly empty room.
“That farm has been in your family for centuries,” he said. “You hated the thought of even leasing me fifty acres to expand the golf course not long ago, and now you’re ready to cut and run? Should I be worried about you, MacPherson?”
For God’s sake, it wasn’t complicated.
“The farm is the legacy I’ve inherited, Cromarty. That’s important, I’m grateful for it, but my focus now is on the legacy I can pass on. I’ve spent too much of my life farming for the ghosts of MacPhersons past, and not enough putting hot sauce on my chips. If Megan will have me, then I can start a new legacy in a new land with a woman who’s worth a damned sight more than a manure pit and some cranky heifers.”
Morag sat down across from Declan and took a sip of his beer. “Get out your hanky, Niall.”
“Megan got off all right?” Declan asked, though he’d hoped her plane would be indefinitely delayed.
“Ran into a bit of a problem,” Morag said, helping herself to one of Niall’s chips. “You might want to have a look behind you, Declan.”
Declan did not look behind him. He instead took a discreet sniff and caught a glint in Niall Cromarty’s eyes. A hand settled on his shoulder, then two arms slid around his neck.
“I could not leave you, love of my life,” Megan said. “I could not get on that plane and l-leave you.”
Declan had her in his lap in the next instant.
“You didn’t go,” he said, grinning stupidly, ecstatically. “I’m selling the farm, Meggie mine. Or trying to talk Cromarty into buying it. H
e’s addled, though, being newly married.”
“Don’t sell the farm, Declan,” she said, cuddling into his embrace. “Please don’t sell the farm, because I just made arrangements to sell my flower shop.”
Niall rose, grabbed his beer with one hand, and tucked a hand under Morag’s elbow, leaving Declan to make sure he’d heard Megan correctly.
“You’re selling your shop, Meggie? You love that place. It’s your dreams in bloom, your hopes and aspirations, your calling.”
She shook her head and kissed him, as if she needed a kiss to catch her breath.
“I love you, and you are my dreams, and where you are, there more of my dreams can bloom, Declan. Don’t sell your farm. My flower shop is in good shape, and Dixie and Tony will be able to buy me out over time. I’ll have to go back to sign papers, and close up my apartment—and buy Mike Cochrane a drink. If you can get away, I’d like a chance to show you where I grew up.”
“Take him there for your honeymoon,” Morag called from the bar. “I’ll watch the place for Declan.”
“Meggie?” Declan said. “Are you sure? Farming is hard, and thankless, and sometimes it doesn’t smell very good, and there are bad years, and blights, and,”—what was he doing, talking her out of staying?—“and God, please stay. Marry me, be my wife. Raise little MacPhersons with me, and flowers, and sheep, and—”
Megan kissed him, resoundingly, and the rest of the room started cheering and clapping. Mary woke up, parts of Declan situated near his sporran woke up, and life became a rosy proposition all around.
“I’ll marry you,” Megan said. “And we’ll work our asses off, and maybe have a few babies, and live happily ever after.”
“Get down the good stuff,” Declan called over his shoulder. “We’ve a betrothal to celebrate.”
“Well thank God for that,” Niall said, resuming his place at the table. “Julie was worried, and I did not want ownership of a glorified manure pit and some ill-natured heifers.”
Morag set down a plate bearing a grilled cheese sandwich oozing cheddar around the crusty edges of thick homemade bread, then shoved it in front of the only empty place remaining at the table.
“Let the woman off your lap, Declan,” Morag groused. “Time enough for that later. She’ll need her strength, married to you.”
Megan stayed right where she was, picked up half the grilled cheese and held it for Declan to take a bite.
“Declan will need his strength married to me, you mean. Fortunately, he’s a very sturdy guy, and I will take the best care of him.”
They both needed their strength, as it turned out, and they both took very good care of each other—and the heifers, and the sheep, and the children—and they all lived happily (though not always fragrantly) ever after.
-The End-
To my dear readers,
I had the best fun writing the stories for “Must Love Scotland,” and have ideas for more of these Highland Holiday novellas. If you’d like to read the first two, the series starts with my RITA-nominated novella, “Kiss and Tell,” (usually priced at $.99) featuring a Cromarty cousin practicing law in Maryland. The second story (Liam and Louise’s romance), “Dunroamin Holiday,” is paired with a fun story by Patience Griffin in the novella duet “Must Love Highlanders.”
My next Regency story is “Thomas—The Jaded Gentlemen, Book I” and comes out June 2015. You can order Thomas’s story here. My most recent Regency is “The Duke’s Disaster” (April 2015), which can be ordered here.
If you’d like to keep up with all my releases—it’s going to be a busy year!—then you can sign up for my newsletter here, and you can always find out what’s going on, or get in touch with me through my website, graceburrowes.com.
For sneak peek at Thomas’s story, read on….
Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
Thomas—The Jaded Gentlemen, Book I
Thomas Jennings, Baron Sutcliffe, has left a lucrative career in trade to take up life as a country squire at his newly acquired estate, Linden. Thomas arrives to his property to find that Miss Loris Tanner has kept Linden productive since her father, the estate’s land steward, abandoned both his post and his daughter under scandalous circumstances.
Thomas appreciates excellent management skills enough to give Loris a chance to prove her competence as his land steward, despite that being a profession uniformly undertaken by men. Loris’s other attributes—her tenacity, her honesty, and her tender heart—are what truly fascinate Thomas. Deadly trouble starts to plague Linden, and Thomas abruptly faces a choice: Which will he protect? The lovely estate he’s chosen for his forever home, or Loris Tanner’s heart?
Chapter One
* * *
What did it portend, when a man arrived to his newly-acquired estate and found an execution in progress?
“The damned beast is done for,” a squat, pot-bellied fellow declared from half-way down the stable aisle.
Thomas Jennings, Baron Sutcliffe, had an advantage of height over the crowd gathered in the stables. He hadn’t been spotted as he’d ridden into the stable yard, nor did he draw attention as he watched from the shadows at the rear of the group.
“The damned beast was rallying until some idiot fed him oats at mid-day, Mr. Chesterton,” a woman retorted.
She stood at the front of the group, slightly above average height, a neat dark braid hanging down a ramrod-straight back. Her riding habit was muddy about the hem and so far from fashionable Thomas could not have accurately named the color.
“Horses in work get grain at mid-day,” the Chesterton fellow retorted. “If you wanted special treatment for your personal mount, you should have come to me.” He uncoiled a bullwhip from around his waist, an ugly length of braided leather knotted to a heavy wooden stock. “I say the horse needs to be put down and I’m the stable master here, missy.”
This woman would not take kindly to being called missy.
The lady stood in profile to Thomas. Her nose was a trifle bold, her mouth wide and full. Not precisely a pretty woman, though her looks were memorable. She blocked the door to a stall that housed a sizeable bay gelding. The beast stood with its head down, flanks matted with sweat. A back hoof lifted in a desultory attempt to kick at the gelding’s own belly.
“The horse wants walking;” she said, “a few minutes on grass every hour; clean, tepid water and no more damned oats.”
Chesterton let the coils of his whip fall, the tip of the lash landing on the toes of lady’s dusty boots.
“You are prolonging that animal’s suffering Miss Tanner,” Chesterton said. “What will the new owner think of your cruelty? The beast turns up colicky after you ride him to exhaustion in this heat, and you won’t even give your own horse the mercy of a quick death.”
“We’ve had three cases of colic in your stables in the last month, Mr. Chesterton, Any fool knows a horse recovering from colic ought not to be given oats.”
Thomas had certainly known that.
“If a horse can’t handle his regular rations without coming down with a bellyache, then he’s not recovering, is he?” Chesterton retorted.
One of the stable lads sidled closer to the lady, while Chesterton flicked his wrist, so the whip uncoiled behind him. With one more movement of his wrist, Chesterton could wrap that whip around the woman’s boots, jerk her off her feet, and get to the horse.
“Chesterton, think,” Miss Tanner said, more exasperation than pleading in her tone. “Baron Sutcliffe has only recently purchased Linden, and he will now receive my reports on the crops and livestock. When he learns of four dead horses in one month, every one of them a valuable adult animal in otherwise good health, what conclusion will he draw about his stable master? Give me another twelve hours with the gelding and then you can shoot him if he’s still unwell.”
The offer was reasonable to the point of shrewdness.
“No baron worth a title will listen to a woman’s opinion regarding his land or livestock,” Chesterto
n retorted. “You’d best be packing your things, Miss Tanner, or I’ll be the one reporting to the nancy baron what goes on at Linden.”
“As it happens,” Thomas said, sauntering forward, “the nancy baron is here, and willing to listen to any knowledgeable opinion on most topics. Perhaps somebody might begin by explaining why ten men to whom I pay regular wages are loitering about in the middle of the afternoon?”
The lady did not give up her place in front of the stall door, but Chesterton coiled his whip and puffed out his chest.
“Alvinus Chesterton, your lordship. I’m Linden’s stable master. Yon beast is suffering badly and Miss Tanner is too soft-hearted to allow the horse a merciful end.”
Miss Tanner’s soft heart was nowhere in evidence that Thomas could divine.
Thomas assayed a bow in the lady’s direction, though manners would likely impress her not one bit. The point was to impress the louts surrounding her.
“Miss Tanner, Thomas, Baron Sutcliffe, at your service. Chesterton, if you’d see to my horse. He’s endured a long, hot journey down from London and needs a thorough cooling out.”
In any stable, the lowliest lad was usually stuck with the job of walking a sweaty horse until the animal could be safely given water and put in its stall. The stable master stomped off, bellowing for somebody named Anderson to tend to the baron’s horse.
Now for the greater challenge. “That’s your horse?” Thomas asked the lady.
“I own him,” Miss Tanner said, chin tipping up. A good chin, determined without being stubborn. In contrast, her eyes were a soft, misty gray—also guarded and weary.
“Chesterton tried to tell you what to do with your own livestock?”
Must Love Scotland (Highland Holidays) Page 18