by Nina Mason
“Aye, well. What can I say except that I’m flattered by her regard and your willingness to take time out of your busy schedule to take this meeting?”
“She tells me you live in Caithness, in a castle, and that you’re friends with Duncan Faol, the national party adviser.”
Callum took a tidy sip of Oban. “Guilty as charged on all counts.”
“She also tells me you’re considering running for the seat now occupied by Alasdair Sinclair.”
“Also true, though I’m still weighing the pros and cons.”
Lord Bentley looked away, his jaw tightening, and shook his glass. “One of the cons, I should think, if you’re serious about my daughter, is that she’s now living in the United States.” He turned back to Callum, meeting his gaze. “If you should decide to run and win the seat, your relationship with her will be intercontinental at best. At least while the House is in session. Have you considered that?”
“Aye, sir. And you’re right. It’s one of the drawbacks.”
Lord Bentley shook the ice in his otherwise empty glass to summon the waiter. “She sang your praises to me and insisted I throw my full weight behind your candidacy.”
Callum’s interest was piqued. “What did she say about me, if I may be so bold?”
“Well,” Bentley began, licking his lips, “she said you’re progressive, liberal-minded, trustworthy, loyal, and that your heart’s in the right place. You might think about cutting your hair, but otherwise, you seem ideal. With little effort, you could take the seat in a walk.”
Though flattering enough, Bentley’s description caught in Callum’s craw. “With all due respect, you make me sound like a lap dog, which, I assure you, is not the case. Nor do I have the slightest interest in becoming one, however noble the cause.”
Lord Bentley fixed him with a long, steady gaze. “I understand your concerns, Lord Lyon. But you’re only a yes-man if your actions and beliefs are in conflict. Isn’t that right?”
“Aye. I suppose so.”
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
The waiter brought another round. Callum picked up his and took a sip while considering what to say next. He was getting the distinct impression Lord Bentley was as keen on Callum running for the seat as Vanessa was. “Your daughter aside, why do you want me to run?”
The politician smiled over the rim of his glass. “Because I’d much rather have a liberal fill the seat than see it claimed by another conservative, especially a party yes-man like Sinclair. And, judging by what I’ve learned of you since speaking with my daughter, you’ll do the job as creditably as anyone I could dig up on short notice.” Holding Callum’s gaze, the earl sipped his drink and licked his lips. “The question is, can you get behind the party’s platform wholeheartedly?”
Drawing a calming breath, Callum called to mind the party’s main tenets—equal rights for women and minorities, freedom for all from poverty and subjugation, educational opportunity, fair housing, and environmental safeguards.
“Aye.” The Scot nodded. “For the most part.”
The earl’s eyebrows shot up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”
“The problem is,” Callum returned, eyes narrowing, “I have no desire to step into the spotlight. I’m mostly content with my life as it is.”
“Even if a little bit of change and discomfort on your part could help make things better? Not only for yourself, but for the entire United Kingdom?”
Callum bristled at the phrase “United Kingdom,” a union he’d hoped would be dissolved long before now. “With all due respect, I’m not all that sure the world can change. Not until people do, anyway. From what I’ve observed, humanity has remained tragically consistent since the dawn of time. The whole of history is an endless cycle of selfishness, cruelty, and a total disregard for the welfare of others. Not to mention, the good of the planet.”
Lord Bentley sighed and shook his head. “You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”
“Let’s just say I’ve seen more than my fair share of humanity’s foibles.”
The earl sipped his drink before clearing his throat. “If I can be candid, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came here today. My Nessa, you see, takes delight in shocking me, among others. And, when I walked in and saw all the hair, well, I thought she was up to her old tricks.”
“And now you don’t?”
“No.” Bentley downed the last of his cocktail, ice clinking. “I now see why she called me. And, should you decide to run, I’ll jolly well back you.” A gleam backlit the earl’s eyes as he added, “Provided you promise to visit a barber before you announce your intention to run.”
Lord Bentley must have gotten wind of Callum’s nationalist leanings because he’d invited Walter Mackintosh to join them for lunch. Mackintosh, another Scottish Member of Parliament, opposed the dissolution of the UK.
A tall man of slender build with steel-rimmed glasses, thin lips, and receding ginger hair, Mackintosh had sweaty palms but a firm handshake.
“Lord Lyon is thinking of running for Sinclair’s seat in Caithness,” Lord Bentley said by way of introduction. “He’s one of us, but I’m given to understand he disagrees with the popular vote on the question of Scotland’s independence.”
Callum glowered at Vanessa’s father. “Tell me something, your lordship. Do you change parties every time a Tory takes up residence at Number Ten Downing Street?”
“Point taken,” Lord Bentley conceded with a smirk.
Mackintosh gave Callum the hard once-over. “We’re elected by the people and the people have made their wishes clear.”
“Aye,” Callum said with a sneer. “As clear as the tainted Sassenach Kool-Aid they’ve been drinking by the barrel.”
“Be that as it may.” Mackintosh cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “Why rock the boat, Lord Lyon? I say better to leave well enough alone.”
Bitterness churned in Callum’s gut. He’d been born in a free Scotland and wouldn’t rest until independence was restored. It galled him no end that, after centuries of bloody struggle, the Scottish people gave up their chance to be free of English control not on the battlefield, but in the voting booth.
“With all due respect, sir,” Callum returned with a leer, “we’re a long way yet from well enough.”
“I disagree,” the other Scot countered. “The economy’s recovering and unemployment is down, thanks in large part to the bailouts of the English banks. Where would Scotland be now if not for England? How is she supposed to compete in the global economy?”
“There’s a strong market for whisky,” Callum pointed out, “and if we could retain a mere fraction of the revenues from North Sea drilling, and invest in sovereign wealth funds the way Norway does—”
Lord Bentley cleared his throat, cutting Callum off before he could put forward his argument for Norway’s approach. “Shall we continue this discussion over lunch? If we wait much longer, we risk losing the table I’ve reserved.”
Getting to his feet with the other gentlemen, Callum followed his hosts through a doorway and across the stuffy dining room to a table set for four. The two parliamentarians sat side-by-side on the side nearest the wall while Callum claimed the chair opposite Mackintosh, eager to continue their discussion.
Waiting until his sparring partner looked his way, Callum said, “Have you read Gavin McCrone’s report on the oil revenue? He says North Sea oil could make Scotland as rich as Switzerland. He also says an oil boom could make Scotland’s budget surplus so large as to be ‘embarrassing,’ that our currency ‘would become one of the hardest in Europe,’ and that our wealth would soon outstrip England’s.”
Mackintosh looked from Callum to Lord Bentley and back again. “What report is this?”
“It was presented to the cabinet office forty years ago,” Callum explained, “before being buried in a vault, never to be seen again.”
Mackintosh shot a glance at Lord Bentley,
who’d been listening while perusing the menu. “Why have I not heard of this until now?”
Before Bentley could say anything, Callum leaned closer and licked his lips, eager for the kill. “The vote doesn’t change the fact that Scotland is the put-upon wife in this marriage. As her friend, I see it as my duty to advise the poor lass to reconsider divorce when she has all the facts.”
Lord Bentley lowered his menu and fixed Callum with a hard look. “You’d recommend a divorce? Even if the majority disagree with you? Even if she’d be marginalized and more vulnerable to bullying? Be forced to give up her seats in NATO, the G8, and the UN Security Council? Have to raise her own armed forces, establish her own diplomatic contacts, and apply for separate membership in international organizations?”
Callum, unswayed, fixed the earl with a determined gaze. “Why shouldn’t Scotland be a full-fledged member of the European Union and other international organizations? Why shouldn’t our ministers have a seat at the grown-ups table? Why shouldn’t we have our own voice and the full power to represent and fight for our own national interests?” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “Just know this: if the prime minister doesn’t keep his promise to turn over more power to the Scottish Parliament, there will be hell to pay.”
In his day, Scotland stood on her own—at least until the dominoes started to fall after King James made that fatal blunder in judgment.
Chapter 13
The house Mr. Armstrong had rented on Vanessa’s behalf was a bit on the bijou side, but still brimming with vintage Southern charm. It had two bedrooms, hardwood floors, a brick fireplace, built-in bookcases, and a cute front porch complete with a couple of white wooden rocking chairs. The tiny bathroom could use updating, the crappy curtains would have to go, and the back garden was in serious need of pruning, but it still had loads of potential as a haven in her off hours.
She’d spent most of the afternoon unpacking and rearranging the furniture to her liking. One of the neighbors had stopped by with a tray of brownies. While the woman seemed nice enough, she asked prying questions about Vanessa’s religious beliefs and left a copy of The Watchtower for her to read.
As if.
On the plus side, the interruption had kept her from ringing Callum, which she was dying to do, if only to find out how things went with her father. After considerable inner debate and much cleaning and furniture re-arranging, she dug through the book boxes she’d shipped ahead for her copy of Love in Your Stars, a guide to astrological compatibility in romantic relationships.
Flipping through the yellowed, dust-mite infested pages, she found the section on Leo men and began to read:
“Leos, being lions, are proud hunters with fiery passions and romantic hearts. If you want to keep your Leo man, you’d better let him be king when it comes to courting. At the first sign a woman wants to rule him, he’ll make a beeline for his den and probably stay there for good, ignoring your desperate phone calls. You’d also better forget about pursuing a career. He’s your raison d’etre, darling, and don’t you forget it.”
Argh!
Vanessa flung the book at the wall. Fine. Let him do the courting, but she wasn’t giving up her career or falling at his feet like some starry-eyed groupie. He wasn’t the only one who could roar. She was a strong and independent woman with opinions and dreams of her own. If he didn’t like it, that was too bloody bad. She was probably better off without him anyway. Granted, she didn’t feel better off at the moment, but the emptiness would pass soon enough. She was just infatuated. No big deal.
Taking a breath, she made up her mind not to call him. Yes, she would talk to him if he rang her, but she’d leave it to him to make the first move. In the meantime, she had Fitzwilliam, her multi-speed rotating vibrator. Chin out, she marched into the bedroom, ripped open the box marked “nightstand” in Callum’s graceful handwriting, and rifled through it for her high-priced dildo. Shit, Fitzwilliam was nowhere to be found.
Damn that sneaky lion!
Giving up, she decided to go hunting. After changing into something easy to get off and on, she dialed Bayou Manac into her phone’s GPS app and headed out. Luckily, Mr. Armstrong had rented her a car—a champagne-colored Ford Taurus—to use until she could buy one for herself. All in all, he seemed like a very nice man.
Stepping onto the front porch, she pulled the locked front door closed behind her. Ugh. The humidity was still stifling and the symphony of insects made her feel like she was in darkest Africa instead of America.
She got in the car and propped her phone in the cup holder between the front seats. She really should charge it before setting off, but her bloodlust wouldn’t wait.
* * * *
“Your ticket, sir?”
The train conductor’s request brought Callum out of his trance. He dug out the ticket and handed it to the uniformed man, who punched it before giving it back.
Slipping the stub into his inside coat pocket, the brooding Scot turned toward the window, pressed his nose against the glass, and sighed.
The shocking cold transported him back to the sixteenth century, when he used to do the same while riding about the countryside in the royal carriages. The memory filled him with regret-tinged nostalgia. He blew a silent huh, creating a wee patch of vapor. Raising a finger, he drew an “x”—the cross of St. Andrew, Scotland’s patron saint.
He’d made no headway with Mackintosh in the end, but their conversation had done much to rekindle the fire in his belly. He’d almost forgotten how much he enjoyed a lively debate over the issues of the day.
In the end, they’d agreed to disagree. Callum promised, in exchange for their endorsement and support—should he decide to run against Sinclair—to keep a lid on his zeal for independence. For the meantime, at least. He hadn’t sold out, he’d simply been shrewd. Success in the political arena called for flexibility, not digging in one’s heels. Compromise, not obstinacy. He’d still fight the good fight, of course, he’d simply go about it with more stealth.
When it came down to it, what the bloody hell was honesty anyway? Speaking one’s mind whatever the circumstances and damn the consequences—the way Vanessa was prone to do—or being true to oneself?
He believed it was the latter. He also believed truth, like beauty, lay in the eye of the beholder. As Marcus Aurelius pointed out way back when, “Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.”
Speaking of truth, had Vanessa arranged the meeting with her father for his benefit or her own? As much as he wanted to believe her motives were noble, doubt still nagged.
She hadn’t called him. Should he ring her? His pride reared in protest before stomping the idea into the ground. If he chased her, she’d only run farther away and she was too bloody far away as it was. If he let her fly free, maybe she’d feel his absence and come back to him.
He clenched his fists against the hollow ache in his chest. Rather than wallow in misery, he should look for the good. However things between them turned out, he’d learned from their acquaintance. She was right. He’d grown too removed, too complacent, too willing to let others fight the fight while he stood on the sidelines, afraid to get his hands dirty.
Was it too late—and too risky—to climb back into the ring and throw a few punches? If he ran, he could push to put more power in the hands of the national parliament, restore the old-growth Caledonian forests, crack down on polluters, preserve Scotland’s public services, and channel some of the profits from the harvesting of natural resources back into Scotland’s coffers.
Suddenly, he felt excited, empowered, and inspired. It was a palpable energy that expanded his heart and electrified his blood. Vanessa and Duncan were right. He should do more than watch from behind the curtain. It was, after all, his planet, too.
That settled it. He would run for Parliament and damn the consequences. He pulled out his cell, eager to call Duncan and share the news about his decision as well as the meetin
g with Lord Bentley and Mr. Mackintosh. His heart sank a wee bit when he saw there were no messages waiting. He thought sure she’d call if for no other reason than to ask how things went with her father.
Was she glad to be free of him? He didn’t want to believe it, but part of him was starting to. Aye, well. Let her call in her own good time. Let her miss him. He had better things to do with his time than pine away like a lovesick schoolboy for a lass who valued her freedom more than she valued him.
Especially now that he’d made up his mind—though not without a wee bit of lingering reluctance—to climb back into the political arena.
* * * *
Deep in Bayou Manac, tendrils of silver moss swayed from ghostly branches as fireflies flashed here and there like neon-yellow twinkle lights. The air smelled of swamp gas and rotting vegetation. Night had just fallen, but the humidity remained unbearable. Choirs of creatures sang all around. Cicadas, crickets, toads, crocodiles, and God knew what else.
Under Vanessa’s paws, a small doe trembled, her dark, watery eyes swimming with terror. In a few more minutes, Vanessa planned to let the poor creature go—her new program of catch and release. Yes, Callum had warned her not to let her prey live, but he’d failed to provide a compelling reason. How could letting the doe go do any harm? Besides, she was mad at him for being a macho pig and stealing her dildo.
The deer still trembled under her paws. Vanessa tossed her leonine head, let out a woeful roar, and released her catch. While her hunger for blood might be sated, she still craved her absent mate with a need bordering on agony. As she watched the doe struggle to her feet and stagger into the ghoulish shadows, she remembered the bracelet Callum had given her in London.
One night, after making love, she’d expressed to him her fear the heady passion wouldn’t last. The next day, he’d gone out for an hour or so and returned with a beautiful silver cuff inscribed with a line from a poem by D. H. Lawrence. The gem of mutual peace emerging from the wild chaos of love.