Shay said nothing.
Graham grinned then, and any remaining tension eased completely. “I know the look.”
Shay watched his oldest and dearest friend walk away, then catch up to his wife, whom he promptly swept up into his arms, eliciting a delighted laugh from Katie and good natured whistles and hoots from the merry band around them.
Shay slowly crossed the field, well behind the ebbing throng, rubbing at the increasingly annoying twinge in his chest. He tried not to think too closely about Graham’s words of wisdom, but it was a challenge. He knew Graham to be honorable and as dedicated to the islanders in his role as clan laird and island chief, as he was to those closest and dearest to him. Just as he knew Katie would benefit from that honest dedication, and that if any couple was going to go the distance, Shay believed they would.
Roan was an equally dedicated sort, who wore his heart on his sleeve and saw the best in everyone. And Shay hadn’t seen anything to indicate he’d be any less of a devoted husband to Tessa, despite their short courtship, than Graham was to Katie.
He wished he had that same kind of faith. Graham had been right in saying that Shay had surely been exposed to a lot of what could be right between a man and a woman. The difference was, except for university, Graham and Roan had spent all their lives on Kinloch. So that was all they knew. It was easier to believe the best of people when you were never exposed to their worst.
And Shay had not only been exposed to it, he was a constant active participant in the dismantling of it.
He stopped beside his car and fished his keys out of the sporran that hung at his waist. A hint of a smile curved his lips, as it often did when he looked at the old jitney. He’d bought it at the age of seventeen, with money earned sheep tending and hauling in nets full of fish. He’d never been so proud as he had the day he’d towed the auld girl home behind Magnus MacLeod’s tractor. His father had been far less than impressed with the idea of his son driving about in what amounted to a taxicab, but then that was his typical reaction to just about anything Shay did, and by seventeen, Shay had gotten very good at shrugging the disappointment aside.
Shay had spent a long, happy summer putting the jitney to rights, prouder still the first time he’d driven her into the village under her own power. That was almost as many years ago now as the tender age he’d been at the time, and yet, she was still by his side. He ran a palm over the bonnet, the paint gritty and pocked from a lifetime of residing in salty air and unpaved roads.
His smile grew rueful, as he realized that the longest relationship he’d ever sustained, outside of his friendship with Roan and Graham, was with his car. “Aye, but a leap of faith I took fifteen years back, and look where it’s brought us,” he said under his breath. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of faith most folks needed to commit their hearts to another person, but it was something.
He started to open the door when a clearing of a throat caused him to go utterly still. Just a clearing of a throat, but he knew . . .
“Would ye have a minute for me, Shay?”
He took the briefest of moments to gather himself, or at least find his breath, then turned his head . . . and looked straight into teasing hazel eyes and the sweetest of smiling faces. Kira MacLeod stood just behind him on the tiny strip of flat land between the rocky edge to the meadow, and the track road just beyond the cars. She stood so close that the light citrus fragrance she wore teased his senses. So close that all he had to do was shift the rest of his body fully around and she’d be half in his arms. The steady island breeze had caused wispy tendrils to come loose from her swept up hairstyle, and it took every ounce of strength he had not to reach out and smooth away a stray strand clinging to her lips.
His gaze lingered there. And his fingers curled more tightly into his palms.
And he knew, right then, his heart thudding loudly, while a thunderstorm of want pounded through his veins . . . that Graham was right.
As long as they were both on the same island . . . he was going to act.
Heaven help them both.
Chapter Two
For a moment, Kira thought he wasn’t going to respond. He was simply staring at her. Well, there was nothing simple about it, actually. There was a certain light in his eyes, eyes that were a unique shade of ochre, like that of a finely aged whisky, which leant a singular intensity to his gaze, and made her feel quite as if she were the only woman left in the entire universe.
Which was saying something given all the noise and clamor of the wedding celebration, everyone shouting and hollering as they got into their cars and began to make their way, like a merry holiday caravan, into the village, horns tooting, song bursting forth from several who had piled into the back of Maddaug’s open lorry. She’d just been thinking, smiling to herself as she walked down the row of vehicles, that a person would have thought it was middle of summer, and not nigh on winter, the way everyone was carrying on. The sun was rapidly setting and it would be full dark before it reached half past four.
The days were short in winter, aye, but oh, she’d loved every second of this one, from the preparation, to the ceremony, to . . . well, just every last bit of pomp and circumstance of it. The boisterous celebration was simply the proverbial icing on the cake. Everything was as it should be and she couldn’t be happier.
For which she was eternally grateful on more levels than would be obvious to anyone else. As excited and thrilled as she’d been for her closest and dearest friend, Tessa, on this most special day of her life . . . Kira had privately wondered how she’d feel as she watched Tessa and Roan pledge their vows. Would it bring back hard memories? Would the day turn out to be a harsher test for her than she’d thought she was ready to endure?
“Aye, of course,” Shay responded, at last, pulling her from her thoughts. His normally low voice sounded even deeper to her ears, more intimate, with a bit of grit making it even more gravelly than usual. “What is it ye need?” he asked.
You, she thought, feeling suddenly a little helpless. She’d been attracted, aye, but she hadn’t expected to feel all shivery and goose-pimply and incredibly aware of his every breath and pore. It was only when he finally lifted a questioning brow that she realized she was standing there, essentially gawking.
“I—I, well . . . I . . .” She stammered, suddenly tonguetied now that the moment was finally upon her. For goodness sake, you’re behaving like an addled schoolgirl in the midst of her first crush. String a decent sentence together, why don’t you? Kira smiled, widely, hoping it made her seem more her normal self, but afraid from the way his eyes widened slightly that the effect was more that of a swanning loon. Oh dear.
“Yes?” he prompted.
She took a short, steadying breath. This wasn’t supposed to be the hard part. “Would it be possible for me to, that is to say, for us—do ye think we could manage some time together—what I mean is . . . I need you.” Dear lord, a swanning loon would be sane compared to this babbling. She’d known the man since she was a child. Granted, it had been only in recent months that she’d begun to look at him . . . well, the way she’d begun to look at him, but you’d think the way her tongue had tied itself into knots she was introducing herself to the King of England. Had England a king, of course.
It was just . . . he drew her. His quiet, easy confidence. The way he always seemed in command of any situation, without saying a single word. The way he carried himself, the alertness she saw in his eyes despite his otherwise inconspicuous demeanor. There was an aura of intense awareness with him . . . of tightly leashed power. It had been the stuff of many a fevered dream and fantasy, in fact.
She’d often wondered what it would feel like to have him direct all that focused intensity toward her and her only, but she hadn’t thought it would render her a babbling idiot.
“You . . . need me?” he repeated, slowly, as if uncertain he’d heard her correctly.
And she heard a note of . . . alarm, was it? Which was when she realized how her blurted declara
tion might have sounded. “Oh! Not like that—I meant I need to see you, not that I need you as in like I need a man—” She broke off and could feel the flush of mortification steal up her neck and tinge her face. A face she well knew to be pale enough that, even in the growing dusk, the blush would appear as two rosy splotches, staining her cheeks in a way that wasn’t remotely becoming, but made it look as if she’d just finished some arduous task. Such as plowing a field. Oh . . . dear. This so wasn’t how she’d thought this would go. “I probably shouldn’t be bothering you here, now.”
“It’s fine,” he said, quite clearly even more concerned now. “Is something wrong, Kira?”
“Wrong?” Damn, the word had come out like a squeak. But he’d said her name, and it sounded so . . . good. Really good. And she’d so badly wanted to have her femme fatale moment, to be all alluring and enticing as she basked in his smoldering gaze. Instead, his only thought was probably that she might need immediate medical assistance. Lovely. “No,” she said, quickly, wishing she could start this conversation over. “It’s . . . business, actually.”
Now he looked surprised again, and perhaps a little . . . disappointed? Surely that was her own imagination at work. Her quite overactive imagination.
“Regarding?” he asked, his demeanor all solicitor now, no smolder.
Any chance at a femme fatale moment was officially over. As was any chance she might have with him. Kira took a breath and fought down her disappointment in herself. She’d finally found her way back to wanting a man to notice her, and this was how she’d handled it? Truly, she was a disaster. The reality of which allowed her to finally get hold of her ridiculous self. “I’ve stopped in at your office once or twice over the past fortnight, but have managed to do so when you’ve been on the mainland. I kept meaning to call and schedule an appointment, but then I thought today—we’re both here—so I’d have a chance to mention it directly. I realized after the ceremony that once we get to the pub it will be too loud, so I waylaid you. But I’m sure you’d like to get on to the pub so you can toast Roan. Tessa is likely wondering where I am as well.”
“I’m sure Roan and Tessa will survive with only the rest of the entire village to toast them.”
She smiled at that, well imagining the chaos that the pub had surely become by now. “Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m not normally one to accost folks as they go about their business.”
“You didn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t in when you stopped by.”
He sounded so sincere. She could only imagine that grave earnestness was what made him such a successful lawyer. “Will you be in this week?
“I may have to go to Edinburgh early on, though I’m trying to skirt around it. Regardless, I’ll be back by Thursday. Would that be soon enough?”
“Aye, that would be fine.” Perhaps by then she’d have found the dignity she’d somehow managed to lose completely during the past five minutes. “Sometime that morning, then?”
“I’m not certain of my schedule, but just drop ’round whenever it’s convenient. I’ll make the time.”
Her smile came more naturally now. “Thank you,” she added, then stuck her hand out. What, like you need to shake on setting up a simple business appointment? Honestly, what was wrong with her?
He looked down at her hand with a moment’s confusion, or at least it seemed so, from the way he frowned at it. But just when she was about to snatch it back, he took her hand in his.
And that femme fatale moment came roaring back in full force. At least, on her end, it did. His palm was warm and surprisingly a bit rough for a man who earned his keep inside an office and various courts of law. It took a moment longer for her to realize that he was neither shaking her hand . . . nor letting it go.
Her gaze lifted to his and that focused intensity was back, but with an additional edge that made tiny hairs of awareness lift all along her arms, up to the back of her neck. The sensation was disconcerting in its intensity . . . and entirely, wonderfully pleasurable in its exclusivity.
“Thursday, then,” he said, at length, that very grit and gravel causing yet another skittery cascade of tingling awareness.
“Thursday,” she echoed. He was still holding her hand, so she forgave herself the breathless note even she could hear.
And then his hold tightened, and for the briefest of moments, she could have sworn he was going to pull her closer still. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, and she felt a distinct wobble in her knees. Was he—could he be actively contemplating . . . kissing her? Had she gone off into some kind of dream state at some point? Because surely it was a moment out of her own private fantasies. Though none of them had done this reality one whit of justice.
Her lips parted and the most delicious shiver of anticipation raced through her. It had been a very long time since she’d felt a man’s lips on hers . . . and yet it felt as though she’d waited a lifetime for his.
A split second later, just when, perhaps, her eyes might have been fluttering shut, his hand was sliding away from hers and reality came thunking back in as his expression returned to one of active concern.
“The sun is setting. You’re cold. Had I more than this short jacket—” He broke off and began to quickly undo the silver filigree buttons that adorned the front of his formal jacket, matching those on the cuffs of the sleeves.
“No, that’s—dinnae worry,” she hurried to say, a bit mortified now. How silly she was. How very, very silly. To think, for one second even, that he . . . “I’m fine,” she said, more calmly.
“You’re shivering.”
How to tell him that the very last thing she was at the moment was cold? Much less that he was the cause of all the shivering . . . none of which required his jacket as a cure. Still, as the reality of her surroundings crept back in, she did pull her shawl more tightly around her, noticing as she did so that all the other cars had now departed and that the sun, indeed, was dipping low on the horizon. “I should be getting into town—we both should, I suppose, before the toasts are all made and the ale gone. Wouldn’t be right for the rest of the wedding party not to show.”
“Let me see you to your car,” was all he said, in his typical man-of-few-words way. In fact, she had no idea at all what he was thinking. Which was possibly just as well. No need to add insult to injury.
“It’s right there,” she said, nodding across the single track to where her tiny red Fiat sat parked just opposite his. Not a coincidence, but he never need know that. “I’ll see you in town.” She’d already been backing up, but stumbled a bit as her low heel caught on the rough edge where the grass met the road.
Shay sprang forward, hand out to steady her, but she managed to steady herself on the flat of the road before he could round the back of his old jitney. She’d always thought it a whimsical choice of vehicle for a man who seemed anything but, and who could certainly afford far better now. She knew he’d had it forever, and it was likely a sentimental thing, but she’d been away back when they’d come of driving age. In fact, he’d come to Kinloch at age seven, and she’d gone off to boarding school shortly after, returning only after her divorce, so she didn’t know much more about it. Or that much about him, really. She’d never asked him about the car. Maybe now she would.
“I’m fine,” she assured him as she started to cross the road, then quickly made her way to her car, feeling his gaze on her back, which set off another round of sparks she was going to have to start getting over. “No time like the present,” she said, crossing around to open the driver’s side door. She did her best to slide her voluminous frock into the tiny, aging two-seater with as much grace as possible, and waved as she rattled off down the track towards the village. Hopefully the pub would be so crowded she could lose herself in the mob for a bit, gather herself, then slide out after the bride and groom made their departure.
“So you can go back to your cottage. And your weaving room. And hide,” she muttered. She had work to do, yes. And she had to go
over the plans she intended to show Shay on Thursday as well. Plans for the basket weaving school she wanted to open, on the island. Weaving artisan basketry was an ancestral Kinloch tradition, as well as the sole foundation of the island’s economy, so there were likely to be some complicated, centuries old laws to untangle and work around to bring her vision to life. “But, at least you have a vision now,” she said, as she pulled around past the pub and began the search for a place to park. “You have a purpose.”
The only real question was—or had been—would Shay just play a legal role in that vision? Or the more intimate one she’d hoped he would. She’d thought that perhaps the time spent together, hammering out the legal details for launching the school, would give her a chance to figure that out.
“Och, well, now you’ll simply be able to devote all your time and energy to getting the school up and running.” It was just the recent weddings and people running around falling in love that had gotten her thinking about romance again, which wasn’t a bad thing. It was good to want to feel something again, wasn’t it? It was a sign of healing and growth, having optimism about her future. So what if it wasn’t going to be with Shay Callaghan? She’d get his help with the school, and . . . eventually she’d expand her horizons where other men were concerned. Somehow.
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