Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  He rested his hands on her shoulders. “You are just like them. You can be hurt by malicious gossip, just like any of them. You can be hurt by too much isolation. You can be hurt by your own fears. Come to the fair.”

  “You can no’ know what it’s like, Duncan.”

  “Maybe not, but I can be there for you. I can be there beside you. And if it gets too bad, I can help you find a place to escape everything for a while.”

  “You can be so kind.”

  He pulled her closer. “I can be even more.”

  “Do I feel like a ghost to you, Duncan?”

  “You feel like a woman.”

  She leaned forward. “Do I taste like a ghost?” she asked softly. She pressed her lips against his.

  He enclosed her in his arms. She tasted like the Highlands, seductive and exhilarating. There was a wildness in her as well as a deep serenity. She was all the things he had carefully schooled himself not to want.

  But he wanted her.

  “Come to the fair with me,” he said when he had finally forced himself to step away.

  “Aye, I’ll come. But I’ll no’ guarantee that it will have the results you desire.”

  “Don’t wear green.” Green was the color that fairies wore, and now the color associated with the ghost. Even if it suited Mara perfectly, he didn’t want her to have any strikes against her.

  She smiled sadly. “I could wear pink or blue, but it will no’ make a difference. If the people of Druidheachd dinna want me here, they’ll find a reason other than the clothes I wear.”

  “I want you here.”

  “Duncan, have you forgotten you will no’ be here long yourself?”

  For the first time that thought gave Duncan no pleasure.

  CHAPTER 9

  As promised Mara didn’t wear green. She wore violet—violet skirt, violet stockings, and a violet body suit, with her hair flowing loosely over it like a golden satin mantle. Her eyes were still green, however, as green as a Scottish summer and as filled with clouds. Early in the morning—or at the skreich of day, as Frances always called it—Duncan contemplated Mara standing in the hotel lobby and knew that she had come only to fulfill her promise to him. She didn’t want to be here.

  “I half expected plaid,” he said.

  Sunshine broke momentarily through clouds. “The only plaid I own is nearly all green.”

  He laughed. “I’m not surprised.”

  “I did no’ want to be My Lady Green Tartan.”

  “You look lovely.”

  “And you look bonny yourself, Duncan. More a Scot than an American today.”

  Her words gave him pleasure, although he told himself that was silly. The local tailor had insisted on fitting him for a jacket of the finest Harris tweed, and he wore it now as a public relations gesture. Frances had given him a tie she’d bought him in Inverness. He held it out now. “The Sinclair tartan,” he said with a grimace. “I look like a tourist.”

  “Have you ever visited Rosslyn Chapel south of Edinburgh?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s the burial place of the Sinclairs. And you’ve more in common with your clan than you might think. Until the seventeenth century was nearly over, the Sinclair men were buried in full armor. Even in death they were no’ vulnerable.”

  He narrowed his eyes, but he laughed, too. “Well, I haven’t donned my armor today. And under the tweed and plaid beats an American heart,” he said.

  “But’s it’s interesting, is it no’, that when you needed refuge, you came back to Druidheachd? Perhaps you have two homes, Duncan. A person can belong to more than one place.”

  He didn’t want to explore that, but he didn’t protest. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I told you I would.”

  “Good. Because I need you.”

  She lifted a brow in question.

  “We’re going to set up a stand at the fair,” he said, “to sell food and drink. Two of my staff got sick during the night, and they won’t be able to man it. I could use your help.”

  “Me?”

  “Think about it, Mara. Everyone in the village will stop by. It will give you a chance to see and be seen.”

  “Aye, I know. That’s the trouble.”

  “Are you afraid? I’ll be there with you.”

  “I’m not afraid. Resigned, I suppose.”

  “I thought you couldn’t see your own future.”

  “No, but I mind well my past.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her—at least reassurance was part of what he wanted to give her. But people passed back and forth beside them, and there had already been enough furtive glances in their direction. “This is the present. And you’re with me. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “My Lady Greensleeves and one of the Men of Midnight?” She smiled. “It’s a wheen of blethers to think my reputation will be improved by the likes of you.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the kitchen. “Frances is making enough sandwiches for a Highland regiment. Will you help her? I’ll be at the green setting up for the next hour. When the sandwiches are finished, I’ll come back for the food and the kegs.”

  “And what do I get for all the hard work?”

  He thought how lucky he was that the question had been asked just then. He pulled her into a dark corner of the hallway. Momentarily at least, they were alone. “What do you want?”

  “Undying gratitude?”

  “Yours forever. Anything else?”

  She surprised him. She rested her hands on his shoulders and drew him closer. Her fingers curled against the back of his neck. Lightly, seductively, she stroked. “No pleas and no promises,” she said. “Just a moment at a time. The blink of an eye, then another.”

  “I can give you that.”

  “Aye, if you will.” She raised up to kiss him. His mouth descended hungrily to hers.

  And more than a moment passed.

  * * *

  Duncan didn’t know if he had ever been in love. As a young man he had been infatuated with Lisa. They had married young, before they’d had the good sense to look behind their passion to see if they shared anything else. When it had become clear to him that passion wasn’t enough, that in fact they no longer shared even that, he had tried to find common ground on which to build a marriage.

  But he hadn’t tried hard enough. He had been busy building a career. As part of her endless search for meaning, Lisa had gotten pregnant. He, in turn, had worked harder to support his growing family. Lisa, in turn, had looked elsewhere for answers to the mysteries of life. The cycle had completed itself inevitably with divorce. If there had ever been love, or even the potential for it, it had wilted on the vine.

  Since his divorce there had been little time to think about the future. He had been left with a daughter who needed all his attention and a lack of faith in his own potential as a husband. He was still bitter about the damage that Lisa had done, and wary about letting anyone get close to him.

  Yet beside him today, as close as he had allowed anyone to get in years, was Mara MacTavish, a woman with problems to rival Lisa’s and a heart that was entirely different.

  “There you go, Mr. Burton,” she said. She counted pounds and pence and smiled politely as she did. “All your change and your sandwiches, too. And there’s crisps to go with them in the poke.”

  Duncan watched Carlyle Burton, a man no younger than seventy-five, bathe in her smile. From across the green the skirl of half a dozen bagpipes and as many drums drowned out Carlyle’s response, but from the corner of his eye Duncan saw Mara flush. “Cheeky old chap,” she said, when Carlyle was gone.

  “I gather he likes you.”

  “I think you asked for my help to stir up business.”

  She had been good for business, but not only because men like Carlyle had succumbed to her charms. Duncan had watched the faces of most of the villagers who’d found excuses to stop by the stand. Mara was a c
reature under a microscope. She had been silently scrutinized by the cowardly and questioned by the bold. In return, she had presented herself with the perfect mixture of reserve and warmth to even the most judgmental patrons. But Duncan had felt no easing of suspicion as the morning wore on. Mara was an unknown quantity, a stranger who kept to herself and lived alone in a primitive stone cottage she had built with her own hands. And why would a woman live as she did unless she had something to hide?

  “It’s important for people to get to know you,” he said. “How else will they see that you’re exactly like them?”

  “Am I? Am I exactly like them?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “Maybe you’re a little more sensitive to your environment. That’s all. I think you pick up clues the rest of us don’t notice.”

  “Is that how you explain my entire life?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s what you tell yourself? That’s how you justify your interest in me?”

  He wasn’t completely insensitive. He heard frustration and sadness in her voice. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “It’s no’ complex. You have to explain me somehow. If you dinna, then you have no way to explain yourself.”

  He frowned. “Are we having a fight?”

  Her shoulders slumped, and for just a moment he saw exactly how difficult the morning had been for her. “I’ve no wish to fight with you, Duncan.”

  “Then let’s not.”

  She nodded. As if she needed to put space between them she crossed the straw-scattered ground to talk to Frances. The stand was nothing more than an ancient canvas tent with two sides open to the elements and long tables across the openings piled with food. Behind them Frances and Jessie sold kedgeree, a fish and rice stew, and at the end of their table Brian dispensed beer. There were similar tents strung around the green, manned and womanned by local organizations, but the Sinclair Hotel had the greatest variety.

  The midday rush began, and both he and Mara were caught up in the flow of patrons. It wasn’t until later that he was able to talk to her again. “I wasn’t trying to downplay what you’ve been through, Mara. I know your sensitivity has made life difficult for you, and I know today’s been a trial. I was trying to let you know I understand.”

  “I dinna think that’s it at all. Are you no’ asking for reassurance, Duncan? Dinna you really want to know if I’ve seen someone’s future today? Dinna you really want to know if, as I handed out crisps and sandwiches, I had visions of who’s destined to die or merely who’s going to suffer terribly?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He pushed past his initial rush of anger and tried to sort out his feelings.

  She spoke first, but she didn’t look at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “What in the hell’s going on?”

  She was silent for a few minutes. She handed out more sandwiches with a forced smile and made change. He was pulled reluctantly into two separate conversations with villagers. Only when the crowd slacked off again did he turn back to her. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “I dinna ken how to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Her shoulders were pulled back as rigidly as a soldier’s, and her chin was lifted high. She shook her head.

  He was headstrong and stubborn, and he’d long ago learned how to get what he wanted in situations like this one. But staring at Mara, Duncan knew that this time he’d found his match. He could poke, pry, plead and she still wasn’t going to tell him what she didn’t want him to know.

  “Can I help?” he asked instead.

  She seemed to wilt before his eyes. “There’s nowt to be done.”

  “I can’t remember feeling this frustrated in a long time.”

  “I think I’ll stroll the green.” She untied the white chef’s apron that Frances had provided her with. “Can you manage awee without me?”

  “Would you like some company? Or would you rather be alone?”

  “If the company’s you.”

  He felt the strangest mixture of emotions that he didn’t want to dissect. He removed his apron, too, and asked Jessie to cover their table while they were gone.

  Outside the tent he took her hand and wove his fingers through hers. He waited for her to pull away, but she left her hand in his. “Shall we just walk around, or did you have somewhere special you wanted to go?”

  “I just wanted to walk.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  The Druidheachd Johnsmas fair was part medieval market festival and part traditional Highland Games. There was no written record to document when the first one had been held. For as far back into antiquity as anyone could see, the fair had been held on Midsummer Day, climaxing in the evening with dancing and bonfires on the hills just outside the village. For centuries before this one, men in belted plaid and trews had strolled the Druidheachd green with their ladies, bartering for bolts of cloth or bits of ribbon. There had been fire eaters and jugglers, strolling bards and games guaranteed to test the strength and endurance of the strongest clansman. There had been bannocks warm from stone ovens and strong malt whiskey from local stills.

  And there had been laughter.

  Laughter was noticeably absent in the voice of the woman walking beside Duncan. The Mara he knew was warm and witty. Now she was as brittle as glass, but not nearly as transparent.

  “Have you seen April lately?” he asked her. Sally, one of the hotel maids, had offered to take April for the day. She had two young daughters, and April enjoyed playing big sister. The last time Duncan had seen them all, they were enjoying the antics of a clown at one of the two stages set up on opposite ends of the green.

  “They may have gone back to the hotel to put the bairns down for their nap.”

  “April could use a little nap herself. She hardly slept last night, she was so excited about the fair.”

  “I’m sure they’ll return before the tossing of the caber and the other games.”

  “There’s a horse race at three. I know April wanted to see it.”

  “A race?”

  “It’s been a tradition in Druidheachd since I was a boy and probably for a hundred years before.” He pointed to the center of the green. “There’s a ring of sorts there, pounded hard as stone by horse hooves. It’s not exactly the Kentucky Derby, but it suffices.”

  “But it’s a wee bittie green. There’s no room for a race.”

  “No one’s expectations are high. This is Druidheachd. Half the fun’s the anticipation, the other half’s the wagers. No one cares if the horses have to go round and round to log any distance.” He pulled her toward one of the stands where local crafts were displayed. “Look at this, you could have sold your wool or your herbs. Let’s check out the competition for next year.”

  Her hand seemed to grow cooler as they walked, and she grew stiffer. She was silent as they perused the hand-knit sweaters and white pottery adorned with thistles and blooming heather.

  “You’re a braw pair, are you no’?” Andrew asked from behind Duncan.

  Duncan faced his friend, his hand still entwined with Mara’s. Andrew was dressed in full Highland regalia, from kilt and fur sporran to plaid pinned at his shoulder with a silver brooch. On his right stocking the traditional sgian dubh, a dirk in a sheath, peered over the top. He was a splendid sight with his auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight and his hazel eyes reflecting the dark green stripes of his tartan.

  “I’d have run the other way, no questions asked,” Duncan said. “I wouldn’t have stayed to meet you in battle.”

  “No’ to worry. We’d have been on the same side.” Andrew extended his hand to Mara. “What do you think of our fair, Mara? Have you seen one to rival it anywhere?”

  “Andrew has a natural career in advertising,” Duncan said, “but I’ve never been able to convince him.”

  “And why would I want to sell things I dinna believe in to people I dinna even know?”

  “Aye, why would he?” Mara asked.
She smiled. It was a pale imitation of her usual, but it was an attempt.

  “I don’t think you told Andrew how you were enjoying the fair,” Duncan said.

  “It’s a bonny wee fair.”

  Duncan watched Andrew search her face. “There’s shade over in the corner. If Duncan does no’ take you there to rest, I will.”

  “Mara?” Duncan asked. “Is he right? Do you need to sit down for a while?”

  “Maybe a bit.”

  They started over toward a trio of chestnuts that shaded the grass in a wide circle. It was adorned with the bodies of young and old alike who were temporarily protecting their pale Scottish complexions.

  “I was thinking of Fiona just a moment ago,” Andrew said. “I mind a Johnsmas fair where we were lads and she was a bit of a thing.”

  “Fiona?” Mara asked.

  “My sister,” Duncan said.

  “She was a canty wee lassie, all spirit and laughter. She leaped up on the stage and tried to dance the fling.” Andrew fell silent.

  “That was a long time ago,” Duncan said.

  “Aye.”

  Mara and Duncan settled themselves in a quiet spot, but with a wave Andrew wandered off toward the stage. He played in a pipe band that was scheduled to perform soon.

  “Did something happen to your sister?” Mara asked.

  He was so glad for a change of subject that he was even willing to discuss Fiona, a subject he usually avoided. “There was a fire at the hotel when she was just three. I was eight. I don’t know if anyone ever really determined what caused it. A carpet too close to the fireplace; a spark that probably smoldered for hours until everyone was fast asleep. Unfortunately the fire started in the room that Fiona and I shared. I was away that night, staying with Iain and Andrew at Fearnshader. Fiona was alone in our room with our parents asleep in the next. Maybe if I’d been there I’d have woken up at the smell of smoke. But Fiona always slept deeply. By the time my father awoke to her screams and rushed in to rescue her, the draperies had caught fire and her bedcovers, too. If the hotel weren’t solid stone, it might all have gone up.”