“Gareth!” he called, striding forward, genuinely pleased for the first time that day. “It’s good to see you. Have you come to drop off the cabers?”
Gareth took his hand quickly and released it just as fast. “Why the hell haven’t you returned my calls?” he demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
Julian winced. Gareth was practically part of the family, and he’d already gone above and beyond the call of duty by letting Julian eavesdrop on that ridiculous date between Kate and Kilroy. His mom was right—he had been raised better than this.
“I’m sorry, Gareth,” Julian said, rubbing the back of his neck. “To be honest, I didn’t want to call, because I knew what you wanted. And now that the land dispute is over—”
“To hell with your land dispute. You can’t tell me you okayed Duke taking over like this.” He gestured over the field, and Julian’s gaze followed. It wasn’t ideal. But it was what they had.
“Of course I’m not going to say that,” Julian muttered. “But it’s done now, and it’s too late to turn things around. If I’d have known what was going on, I might have been able to stop it. But no one—”
“Tried to warn you?” Gareth snorted. “Bullshit. That’s why I was calling you all that time. Everything’s been heading this direction for days now, even the advertisements and radio spots. First it was the tents, and then the platforms, and now the food is here. You’ve been the only thing missing. You’ve been too busy chasing down Rockland Bluff and riding that media wave of yours to think about anyone but yourself.”
Julian felt each of the words like a rap of a ruler on the knuckles, which smarted all the more for being true.
“I know I have. But I’m here now, and I can fix this.”
“Can you? I have my doubts, kid. I hate to say it, but I’m disappointed in you.”
Julian frowned. There was a certain amount of censure he’d take from Gareth—the man was like a father to him, and he’d known him for years. But there should be a limit to what a man was expected to endure on what had to be the worst day of his life.
“I’ve been working on this for years. Years, Gareth. Everything I’ve ever done is culminating right here and right now. The SHS, the sponsorship, the men. If this doesn’t work out, I’ve got nothing left. Do you understand that? Nothing. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that I’m not going to let you down.”
Gareth laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced his gaze to meet his.
“Jules, you’re a good kid, but if you think that’s what I’m talking about, you’re ape-shit dumb, just like your stepfather.”
Julian brushed off Gareth’s hand and took a deep breath. It was one thing to insult him. It was another entirely to bring down his family. His hand balled into a fist.
“Say that again, Gareth, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t even thought those words. Harold was the Scottish Highland Games. He still is.”
But Gareth laughed, throwing his head back. “Jesus, Jules. You’d think Harold Wallace was a god the way you go on and on about him. We all liked him, sure. He was always ripe for a good time, and a more dedicated athlete you’d have been hard-pressed to find back then. But he’s no more Scottish than you or me. Or any of the guys, really.”
“What?”
“Oh, I know he fed you all those stories. Growing up in the Highlands, the Wallace family legacy, the time-honored ways of being a man and providing for the family. But that was all they were. Stories.”
Gareth stopped when Julian did little more than blink a few times.
“He did provide for our family. He saved us.”
“He was born in Pittsburgh and picked that tartan of yours out of a catalog,” Gareth said softly. “He was good to your mom, I won’t deny that, but more often than not, she had to do a hell of a lot of supporting him. There were those five years he couldn’t hold a job longer than a few weeks at a time—and it just about killed him when she had to start dipping into the saving’s account she built for you kids over the years. The only thing Harold had was the Games, and he did what you’re doing right now. Turned it into more than it is. Became obsessed. Lost sight of the real goals.”
It wasn’t possible. Julian flashed through his childhood memories, fishing out the ones that contained Harold, his mom, the SHS. They were jumbled and so closely tied to his emotions he couldn’t lay them out in a line straight enough to make any sense.
“You were such a shy, skittish thing back then,” Gareth continued. His memories seemed to be perfectly intact. “If you ask me, he was trying to give you something to hold on to. A frame, so you knew which way to grow.”
“Up. I grew up.”
“That you did. And you did it damn well. But Harold wasn’t a god, and the Scottish Games aren’t everything. If you want to make a go of this as a career—and I’m not saying you shouldn’t or can’t—you’ve got to get your head out of Harold’s ass and back into the real world. You’ve been living for far too long in a house built of cards, and it’s about to come falling down. But you’re too stubborn to realize it.”
Gareth shook his head a few more times before walking away, but Julian couldn’t do much more than stand there with a dazed expression on his face. It felt like his internal organs had been ripped out, one by one, laid out on the ground for everyone to poke and prod.
Except no one was around but him. Everyone else was busy working. Living their lives.
He looked at the hustle and bustle of the booths being erected around him and, for the first time, saw it for what it really was. A game. Make-believe. A sad little boy’s attempt to cling to something he thought mattered.
Kate had been right.
He’d accused her of living in a fantasy world, of building up her ideals until they were so large and overblown she’d become almost a caricature of herself. When all along, the caricature had been him.
He pulled out his phone and shuffled through the list of contacts until he found the number he was looking for. This was it—his one phone call to free himself from a prison of his own making. Fight or flight. Sink or swim. Up or down. Love or lose.
He pushed send.
“Hello? Irina? I need your help.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Throwing the Weight
The first time she’d arrived at Kilroy Hall, Kate had been swept away by the magnitude of everything. The house was big and the grounds were bigger. Everything inside announced the kind of wealth that went way beyond the surface—not just a gilded setting, but a solid gold one, built to impress and awe.
But none of it could have prepared her for the spectacle of the Highland Games taking place all along the back lawn.
“This is amazing,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The woman leading her through the stands and booths looked around as if seeing it for the first time, her blonde hair bobbing in time with her head. Bonnie Horton, her name tag read. She’d greeted Kate at the front door, walking her through the publicity requirements with a cold efficiency that made her feel silly and overdressed by comparison.
“Yes, the guys put on a pretty amazing show. You’ve never been to one of these before?”
No, she hadn’t. Given Jada’s penchant for robust men in tight outfits, it was a wonder she hadn’t been dragged to Scottish Games all over the country. It was certainly on her radar now.
To be fair, the men in kilts weren’t the only spectacle worth ogling—and they were worth it. A main thoroughfare had been set up through the center of the lawn, surrounded on either side with food stands and little shops selling everything from Celtic jewelry to history books. At one end of the grounds, a stage had been set up using a series of wide planks, a banner overhead encouraging all the patrons to drink more whisky. Bonnie informed her it was where the dancing competitions took place, but for now, it held a bagpipe band, accompanied by a drummer who bounced across the stage, setting the pace for the entire scene with his lively beat.
> The athletic area was set up on the other end, a huge open space that looked like a track-and-field arena that hadn’t evolved in two hundred years. Piles of hay, huge stone boulders and the large cabers Kate had come to recognize were placed off to one side, awaiting use over the next few days. The program in her hand indicated that each event had its own time slot and weight class, which was further divided into pro, amateur and both men’s and women’s events. It was a little overwhelming, to be honest.
In fact, the more Kate explored and exchanged friendly greetings with the men and women milling around in a combination of traditional Scottish dress, outlandish plaid-inspired drag and plain street clothes, the greater a sense of guilt settled in her stomach. The Fauxhall Gardens were set up and underway over at Sherwood Forest, and as proud as she was of how well everything had come together, it paled in comparison to the scope and magnitude of this.
“I appreciate you taking the time to come down here,” Bonnie said, directing Kate toward a crowd of people and cameras set up around an open pavilion decorated in muted tones of red and gold—the two colors that made up the bulk of the whisky people’s marketing campaign.
“Yes, well—” Kate said uncomfortably.
There had been an envelope slipped under her front door when she got up that morning. Inside was a single piece of white notepaper, the words scrawled hastily across it in blue ballpoint pen.
Please come to the Highland Games today. 10 am. Wear your Regency gown. You were right, and I need you. Julian.
It was the shortest and least romantic love letter she’d ever received—almost rude in the way it commanded her. But even though it was so far removed from the epistolary novel she’d always envisioned her life someday becoming, she’d immediately clutched it to her chest, bawling and clucking like Emma Thompson as Elinor Dashwood.
Julian needed her.
She’d shown up wearing the dress she had made for the weekend, a much-too-expensive blue figured silk gown with a bodice so tight she couldn’t move her arms any higher than a few inches. Ribbons in a darker shade of navy fluttered casually at her high waistline, which was drastically reduced from its normal size thanks to the stays she wore underneath. Anne had pulled them so tight Kate had been forced to hold on to the bedpost, not unlike the heroines in all the best period pieces.
But Julian hadn’t been there to greet her. He was nowhere in sight, and she was being shown around the grounds by a brisk whisky representative who didn’t seem to realize how limited Kate’s current range of motion was.
“Things are about to get started,” Bonnie said, gesturing at the stage. “I’ll have you stand up there and smile, and then we’ll take a few dozen photographs. After that, if I could get a few candid shots of you watching the first event, we should be set. You’re really going to be helping these guys out—whichever one we end up choosing for the sponsorship.”
“Sponsorship?” Kate asked, but Bonnie shushed her with her hand.
The labored honk of ten bagpipes rose up through the air, signaling the start of the Highland Games. Kate felt herself being moved along to the center stage, where she was expected to stand next to the professional athletes.
Never before had she felt so dwarfed in size, yet so huge in presence. Each man towered over her, outweighed her and put her simple gown to shame with their medallions and sporrans and tassels hanging from every available surface. Some of the men were old, some were young and many of them had a weathered ruddiness to their faces that made it difficult to age them at all within a twenty-year time frame. But despite their overpowering sizes, they each stepped back and made way for her to take her place, one man even removing his dark green tam and holding it reverently to his chest as she walked past.
Seconds later, the men did it again, parting like an obliging Biblical sea. Kate didn’t need to look up to know it was Julian they were making way for. She heard his sharp intake of breath at finding her standing there.
He was followed by Duke, but Kate barely registered the other man’s presence, even though everything about his bright yellow and red plaid and gold accessories proclaimed him a sight to behold. It wasn’t a sight she cared for, and besides—no other man could come close to looking as perfect as Julian did just then.
Like the rest of the men, he was dressed in his full gear, from the plaid that draped over one shoulder to the ornaments that kept everything in place. But with his regal bearing and solemn gaze, he came across as an entirely different sort of man. Not rough, not barbaric and not any of those adjectives she’d been slinging at him for the past few weeks. He looked stately and elegant, the leader of a pride of lions, chosen for his superiority in every way possible. No other animal dared to come close to him—not out of fear, but out of respect.
Their eyes met.
There was a reserve to Julian’s gaze, a thin veil that used to make her think he was as unreadable as an ancient Hindu text. But he wasn’t. That was the look he wore when emotions were struggling to rise to the surface and he was doing everything within his power to keep them submerged.
He took his place at the center of the group—too far to make it possible to converse but close enough that Kate registered his every movement. She had no idea how famous people did this sort of thing regularly. Being so much in the public eye restricted what she could do and say. Julian stood within arm’s reach, and she still had no idea what she was doing here—why he’d asked her to come at all, unless he too just wanted her to smile for the pictures.
A heavyset man stepped forward and began talking into the microphone, weaving a tale of tradition and honor that brought rallying cries to the lips of the crowd with almost every other word. Kate paid attention to none of it until the man at the podium yelled out, “Let the Games begin!” and everyone broke into a loud cheer.
Cameras flashed, and the men stomped their feet on the platform with heavy boots and even heavier bodies, jarring Kate right out of her reverie and almost off the side. But a warm arm grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back.
Julian.
“Don’t leave, Kate,” he said, his voice a low whisper that tickled at the base of her neck, fluttering her hair and sending jolts of pleasure straight down her body. “Stay until the hammer throw. Please.”
“Photo time!” Bonnie chirped, coming forward and clapping her hands. She had Duke by her side, and Julian stepped away the moment the other man came into view. The timing couldn’t have been worse, but there wasn’t very much she could do about it. This was what she’d been told to do. Smile big and feed the reporters the necessary lines.
Bonnie arranged the three of them in a studied pose, Kate in the middle, flanked on either side by her duo of masculinity. She immediately gravitated toward Julian, Duke’s spiced cologne tingling her nose with unpleasant memories and turning her stomach with nausea.
The reporters took about twenty photos, until Kate’s lips were so tired of being pulled into a smile she probably looked a bit like the Joker. The only thing she wanted was to get out of there and find a quiet place where they could talk, where they could begin to rebuild the connection she felt deep in her heart. But before she knew what was going on, Julian had run off in the opposite direction, and she was left standing there with Duke.
“I knew I could count on you, Kate,” he said with a grin. “You’re one hell of a good sport—I didn’t think you had it in you. You should be here for the big moment. They’re announcing the sponsorship after the hammer throw.”
Kate stared at him. “What is this sponsorship everyone keeps talking about?”
Duke laughed so loudly he drew the stares of curious onlookers. “You really don’t know?”
Michael came up beside her then, scowling dutifully at Duke and offering Kate his arm. “C’mon, Kate. Jules wants me to make sure you get to the hammer throw in time.”
But Kate snatched her arm away and looked up at Michael expectantly. “In time for what? And what is this sponsorship everyone keeps mentioning
—is it like a job? Like a real athletic sponsorship?”
Duke’s nostrils flared, and Kate was pretty sure she’d just insulted the man. Good.
“Yeah, Kate,” Michael said kindly. “A real athletic sponsorship. Think Nike but for the Scottish Highland Games.”
“And Julian is trying to get it.” The words were not a question, and they were said more to herself than anything else. Understanding began to spread through her stomach and into her throat. It didn’t feel very nice. In fact, it burned.
This whole situation was looking increasingly like more than just a game—like maybe it was as important as Julian had been trying to convince her since the beginning. And she’d done nothing but put up obstacles and belittle his dreams the whole time.
A lesser man would hate her.
For all she knew, Julian did.
“Wallace and I are both up for it,” Duke interjected. “It’s been all but decided that the winner of this year’s hammer throw is going to walk away with the contract.”
Michael shot him a quelling glance and turned Kate away, helping her to take halting, hobbling steps in the direction of the athletic field. They passed a group of cute little girls in plaid skirts and black vests, leaping in time to the clapping beat of what looked like their mother. As soon as they were well out of Duke’s hearing range, she turned to Michael.
“He never said anything,” Kate whispered. She had no idea so much of Julian’s life was tied up in this particular event. In all their conversations and in all their confrontations, it had always been about honor and the superiority of man. Never about what Julian, the normal human being, might need or want.
“Of course he didn’t,” Michael said with a rumbling laugh, not the least bit fazed that Kate’s entire worldview was shifting on its axis. “If you ask Jules, the Games are about the men—all of them, how we come together to make a team, how we heave and roar and triumph. The sponsorship means a lot to him, but he always puts the guys first. Well, he used to, anyway. I think someone else might be taking over that role.”
Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 Page 27