Scotland for Christmas

by Cathryn Parry

  Agoraphobia was an anxiety disorder. It could very well be Rhiannon’s coping mechanism. Likely, she had seen something deeply upsetting. Possibly involving Jacob’s father.

  Jacob put his hand to his head. All these years, he’d assumed he and his family had been the only ones affected by his father’s murder. Obviously, he’d been wrong.

  Jacob moved closer to the laptop screen behind Malcolm. On it, he could see that Rhiannon’s eyes were darting—taking in the chaos of the church scene before her—which reminded Jacob that the cameras went both ways.

  She could hear and see them, just as they could see and hear her. She noticed Jacob staring at her, and a look of panic crossed her eyes.

  Jacob then quickly moved with Isabel at his elbow, gently guiding him along. Jacob realized that Malcolm was standing in front of the screen not just to speak with Rhiannon, but also as a deterrent, a guard so that other people couldn’t speak to her or upset her as they filed past to their pews.

  Every cousin in the family seemed to reverently pause and quiet down as they passed her on the laptop screen. Some nodded. Some looked down, reflective. It seemed to Jacob like a quiet, sad respect they paid her by not pointing out her hidden presence.

  It spooked him, and he was a guy who carried a firearm, a badge and a radio every day of his working life. He was trained to run toward gunfire, not look away from it. He dropped threatening perpetrators with a knee to the neck. He jumped in the way of an attack, without a second thought.

  This situation was different. And he saw...in a sickening epiphany that kicked him hard, that maybe the department psychologist had been right to single him out. This—his father’s murder—had left its mark. It wasn’t just something horrible that had happened a long time ago and was over and done with. It was an event that wasn’t finished, that didn’t finish, that still had rippling effects in many people’s lives—more than he had ever realized.

  “What exactly happened to her?” he asked Isabel. “Why does Malcolm have to protect his sister like this?”

  He needed to know what Isabel knew—everything that she knew, and he needed to know here and now. The bride hadn’t yet arrived and the ceremony hadn’t yet started, so it wasn’t unreasonable of Jacob to ask questions. Just having that laptop set up in the back of the church was likely a distressing reminder on what should have been a wholly happy day for the bride and groom. “Why does Malcolm’s sister have agoraphobia?”

  “We’re...not supposed to talk about it.”

  He stared at her, dumbfounded.

  “It’s...a bit of a family secret,” she said.

  Well, it was time she told him, because here he was, dressed in a kilt, attending her cousin’s wedding at her request.

  “I told you I won’t betray you, Isabel.”

  “I know.” She smiled slightly. “You’re still here with me despite everything.” She licked her lips. “You’re standing in a church at a wedding ceremony, you realize.”

  It was crazy, but at this moment, he really did feel they had more in common than they had differences. “That doesn’t bother me anymore.”

  She hooked his arm and murmured into his ear. “It doesn’t bother me, either.”

  “Good.” He nodded.

  “All right.” She drew in a breath. “I’ll tell you because you’re a professional bodyguard, and you’ll understand how difficult this is. Most people don’t understand, but you’re...different.” She cleared her throat. “My cousins Rhiannon and Malcolm were kidnapped and held for ransom when they were children. Malcolm was ten, and Rhiannon was just eight years old.”

  Holy crap. Eight years old? He stared at Isabel. For some reason, he’d assumed that Rhiannon and Malcolm had been older than that, closer to his age at the time.

  “What happened after the ransom note went out?”

  “I...don’t actually know.” Isabel looked helplessly at him. “None of us know any details. At the time, we weren’t told what was happening until it was already over, and they were held for eleven days. I was young myself, and it... Well, the whole thing was absolutely forbidden from being discussed.”

  “But they were rescued unharmed?”

  “I...don’t know. My uncle John worked with the police, I believe. I don’t know exactly what happened, either during the rescue or before, just that Rhiannon had a difficult time recovering from it emotionally. Malcolm was held separately from her, and...I don’t think even he knows all that went on.”

  She looked down. “Rhiannon doesn’t discuss it, and everybody is just...protective of her.”

  Jacob studied Isabel’s face. Showing pain was out of character for her, but she was plainly uncomfortable with the case. There was no guile in what she was telling him, and he believed her. He believed that she knew as little about the details of the kidnapping rescue that had killed his father as he did. Yet, all these years later, the botched operation affected her, too.

  It definitely affected her family. Jacob watched Malcolm, protecting his sister even as he watched the entrance for signs of his bride’s arrival.

  Everybody—on the Scottish side of the church, at least—accepted Malcolm’s actions as normal. No one batted an eye at Rhiannon watching silently from the screen, thousands of miles away.

  They accepted and moved on. What was hurt was covered up and not discussed. So similar to Jacob’s family.

  “I have to ask you this, Isabel. I’m a professional bodyguard—it’s what I do for a living. Why...don’t you all talk about it? Wouldn’t that help for the future?”

  “We don’t talk because of the media. And the television companies and movie people. My uncle quashed it at the time, Jacob, but there were a lot of people interested in salacious details they could use to entertain the public, and to hurt us. This is what has to be done. We need to be silent. We’re Sages. It’s for our survival.”

  “You don’t like that, do you?” he asked quietly. “Tell me the truth.”

  She looked up at him. “I plan to be CEO of Sage Family Products someday. I suppose I’ll have to act as my uncle has acted.”

  “But you don’t like it.”

  He waited for her response. He sensed that she wanted so desperately to be normal, and yet assumed she never would be. She thought she always would have to be different. Careful and protective.

  She didn’t answer him. Before he could say anything else, one of the groomsmen approached.

  “Hello,” the man said. “We’re asking everyone to move to their seats. The bride is outside, and we’re set to begin.”

  Jacob gestured for him to lead the way. The usher brought them to a pew with two empty seats by the center aisle, on the groom’s side.

  Music started playing—a lone bagpiper. A rousing, soul-stirring drone so hauntingly unique to the Scots’ homeland—his parents’ homeland—that it made Jacob’s hair stand on end. Inexplicably, he had a feeling of déjà vu, of being in a place he’d never been before, at least not in this life. It was the queerest, spookiest sensation. And yet, it was true.

  He looked down at the kilt he was wearing. Felt the roughness of the wool against his thighs. The pleats, the muted plaid. The short, black military-cut jacket with the brass buttons. This was borne from a military uniform worn by proud people with a long tradition. He wasn’t part of it, and he knew little about it, yet he sensed its greatness.

  At heart, he probably did want to know more about it. His ambition of being a federal agent today was surely related as a reaction to what had happened twenty years ago to his father.

  It made sense to him in a way that it never had before.

  The usher finished seating Isabel, then nodded to Jacob and handed him two copies of the wedding program before heading toward the altar with the groom and the other waiting groomsmen.

  Jacob sat in the aisle seat and
passed Isabel a program.

  “Here comes the bride,” she murmured.

  Everyone rose, all at once, craning their necks to the rear of the church and getting ready to catch the first glimpse of the bride.

  Isabel stood, too, gritting her teeth somewhat. He understood completely. It was hard to be at a wedding, at a place where everybody else was in love when you weren’t and yet wanted to be.

  He leaned toward her. “It won’t be so bad,” he promised.

  “I’m just glad you’re here,” she murmured. As she shifted, a strand of her hair touched his lip and clung there.

  He froze. Such a longing filled him. He wanted this woman. Maybe it was the air in the room circulating beneath his kilt. Maybe it was the bagpipes bleeding that soulful wail. Maybe it was the innocent vision of the young flower girl with her wild red hair and basket of rosebuds, skipping to drop them in the aisle in front of the bride.

  It was primal, this anticipation.

  “Jacob?” Isabel’s voice was raspy. He stared at her lips. At the bare, flushed skin by her throat. If he had her, if she was his woman, he would be hard pressed not to worship her, to mess up her hair in the sheets of their bed every day.

  He gave a guttural groan of his own. Dragged his hand over his hair and clenched his fists.

  Her hand curled into the crook of his arm. “I...almost forgot about the reading,” she whispered. “Don’t you think I should switch places with you?”

  She was right about the logistics, but as a professional bodyguard, the aisle seat was his place. He’d be negligent if he gave it up. “Sorry, no. I can’t.”

  “Do you want me to climb over you?” she whispered, raising her eyebrow.

  “Yes, I do.” He winked at her.

  Her lips twitched. “Then how will I ever stay composed?”

  “You said it’s a love poem,” he murmured. “Nobody’s supposed to be composed during a love poem.”

  She gazed at him, just as the bride passed by. But he was really only aware of Isabel, inches from him on the hard seat. He was only vaguely aware of a ceremony starting, of verses read and songs sung. The only thing he waited for was Isabel’s poem.

  When her name was finally called, she rose, dignified. Like a crown, she put on her original, elegant persona. Then, as a private gesture to him, she arched one eyebrow, and he stood aside, blank-faced, for her to pass. He was laughing inside, though.

  She proceeded to the lectern as if it was the most natural place in the world for her to stand. She’d taken no notes or photocopies with her.

  But she wasn’t fazed. Leaning into the microphone, she gazed out over her audience. “‘A Red, Red Rose.’ A love poem by Robert Burns.” Staring straight at him, she recited from memory in a soft, gentle voice, filled with meaning:

  “My love is like a red, red rose,

  That’s newly sprung in June.

  My love is like the melody,

  That’s sweetly played in tune.

  “As fair art thou, my bonnie lad,

  So deep in love am I,

  And I will love thee still, my dear,

  Till a’ the seas go dry.”

  She was utterly beautiful. There was a line—a connection—directly from her to him. And though he wasn’t familiar with the poem, the Sages were. Isabel lifted her hands, appealing to the audience to join in. Her family’s side of the church sang the next stanza all together in a mixture of boisterous voices:

  “Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!

  I will luve thee still, my dear,

  While the sands o’ life shall run.”

  The next section, she sang by herself, to his everlasting shock:

  “And fare thee well, my only luve!

  And fare thee well, a while!

  And I will come again, my luve,

  Though it were ten thousand mile!”

  For the last two lines, she looked only at Jacob. Her voice was clear and beautiful. Maybe he was the only one who noticed, but it seemed to Jacob that on the last line—and especially the last word—her voice faltered.

  When she returned to her seat, he did what he’d been expressly avoiding. He took her hand and moved it under the edges of his kilt so that nobody else could see.

  There, he gave her hand a solid squeeze.

  She didn’t remove her hand, as he’d expected. She kept her fingers clasped tightly around his, intertwined until the bagpiper finally played the bride and groom’s walk down the aisle together, and everyone in the church rose to cheer.

  * * *

  ISABEL FELT LIKE jumping out of her own skin.

  When Jacob had clasped her hand, she’d felt the strength of his regard for her. Her journey to this point of feeling hope for her future had been difficult, and Jacob had been good for her.

  She would miss him when they both returned to the city.

  The rest of the ceremony was a blur. She concentrated on the warmth of Jacob’s body beside hers. She was aware of every small movement he made, from the shift of his shoulders to the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  Once, his tongue came out to lick dry lips, and it seemed her heart almost stopped.

  His glance caught hers, and she gazed into the deep blue of his eyes. Like a storm of hidden feelings and emotion. Always, that sense of smoldering within him.

  When at last the wedding vows were over, and Lily, the red-headed flower girl, skipped ahead dropping rose petals from a wicker basket for the bride and groom, everybody stood. Isabel and Jacob stood, too.

  Jacob abruptly dropped her hand.

  Saddened by the movement, she pressed her palm to her stomach.

  Their eyes met. He seemed to be struggling with what to say. “You did a good job, Isabel.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “That poem is...well, it’s also a song, and a tradition at Sage weddings.”

  “You’ve sung it before?”

  “No. Not alone like that. Not in front of...everybody.”

  She had left the obvious unsaid, that she had sung it to him. It must have been apparent to everyone in the church. She hadn’t made eye contact with anyone in her family, but of course they would have seen.

  Jacob glanced away. “You’ll make a good head of your family,” he murmured.

  “You think so?”

  He nodded, a thoughtful nod, involving teeth, tongue and lips, as if literally tasting the feeling he swallowed. “I know so.”

  “Thank you for coming here with me,” she said. “You made it...”

  “Easier?” he asked.

  “I was going to say ‘good.’”

  They walked out of the church, through the cooler evening air, toward the inn where the reception would be held. From past Sage weddings, Isabel knew there would be reels and dancing and whiskey drinking long into the night.

  She and Jacob were silent, listening to the chatter and laughter of everyone else around them.

  Inside the warmth of the inn, Jacob turned to her. They weren’t touching, but she had such a physical awareness of him.

  “I’d hug you,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me.”

  “Of course,” she answered with dignity. “That would be...unwise. Instead, we should talk about tomorrow, and what happens then.”

  “Right.” He seemed to think for a minute, and then forced a smile. “We’ll meet after breakfast, and then, ah, we’ll leave for the city sometime after that.”

  She forced herself to smile, too. “Sounds like a plan.”

  But no sooner had she said “plan” than a lone singer in the main room started singing “Red, Red Rose,” the Robert Burns poem she had just read.

  Perhaps Malcolm an
d Kristin had chosen this for their first dance. Usually, brides and grooms in her family danced a boisterous reel, but Uncle John wasn’t here to start the festivities, so maybe the order had been changed.

  Jacob was staring at Isabel as if he was in physical pain.

  She touched his upper arm. His shoulder felt solid and warm beneath the formal Bonnie Prince Charlie kilt jacket. “I think it’s a sign. We should at least dance to this one song.”

  He nodded, but when it came right down to it, they didn’t really dance. They both sort of stood there, Isabel with her hands on his shoulders, Jacob with one hand lightly touching her hip as he stared into her eyes.

  Such blazing blue eyes he had. Their faces drifted closer and closer.

  If you let yourself do this with him, then you are setting yourself up for a world of pain....

  Jacob was fighting the battle, too.

  They were both losing.

  He took her hand again. This time he led her farther from the great room with the dancing and the merriment to a quiet corner near the fireplace in the lobby, where no one else could see them.

  His rough hand cupped her cheek, and he pressed his lips to hers.

  She drew in her breath before hesitantly kissing him back, her heart skittering in her chest.

  This was the first time she’d kissed any man besides Alex, and it was a bit of a shock that she was even doing it. A kiss was such an intimate thing.

  But Jacob steadied her. He was gentle at first, and sweet. A hand to the back of her head, his fingers drifting through her hair.

  But there was fire inside him, too, and their kiss inevitably deepened. She tasted mint on his tongue. She found herself making a breathless moan. Pressed against him, her breasts to his hard chest. Her mind unable to think.