by Virna DePaul
And Callum? He was kind of dumbstruck, uncomfortably imagining how different his life would’ve been if the real Priscilla Rose had walked through those doors a week ago. He’d still be pretending to be Jamie’s imitation. He’d be drowning in his new responsibilities. He’d be accepting that happiness would no longer be a part of his life. He’d be lost.
“Who else would I be?” Priscilla asked, sounding both amused and confused at his mother’s obvious bewilderment. “I do apologize for my delay. I—”
His mother interrupted her and whirled on Molly.
“But if you’re Priscilla Rose and she’s Priscilla Rose,” she said, “then one of you must certainly not be Priscilla Rose.”
Her confusion mounting to snobbery, Priscilla stared at Molly, sniffing in disgust. “That is not me.” Her eyes fell on the canvas. “And that is not my work.”
His mother’s face grew red in anger, and her finger quivered when she pointed it at Molly. “Who the fuck are you? Mack, call the police.”
His mother’s expletive snapped Callum out of his dumbstruck mindset. He had never before heard her swear. He quickly stepped in front of Molly. “Mother, calm down. This is all just a misunderstanding.”
Her eyes widened. “You knew?”
“Just listen, all right—”
“You knew!” Isla’s face was pure horror. “Why didn’t you say anything? What, what were you doing? What were you doing with her?”
Disgust filled her eyes as she stared down the woman she’d thought was a world-class artist but was instead a poor artist from New York City who sold her art in the subway terminal. It didn’t matter to Callum, but from the dangerous flicker in his mother’s eyes, it did to her.
“Mother, Molly is a very talented artist and—”
His mother cackled and pointed to the canvas. “Talent?”
“Please—”
“I want her gone.” Isla nodded at Mack as if commanding her hound to chase the fox. “I want her gone. Now.”
Callum controlled his voice, sounding as calm as he could muster. “Her name is Molly Lane. And she isn’t going anywhere.”
Well. That was unheard of. And unbefitting of a duke! Contradicting his mother was something Callum simply didn’t do, or at least hadn’t done since the accident with Jamie and everything that had happened afterward. She stared at him with shocked eyes, crossed her arms, and spoke with venom.
“What does she even want, Callum?” she asked, stepping forward so he could well see the clench of her jaw. “Well, what does she want? Clearly, she must be after something to pull a stunt like this. Money? A chance with an eligible duke? Is she from the press? What does she want?”
She wants me, Callum thought. Just me. But before he could gather the courage to say it, Molly stepped up to his mother, her chin held high and her shoulders rolled back, and stared right back at Isla.
“She just wanted to see an original William McTaggart.”
Callum made a choking noise that sounded more like a laugh. Molly turned to him, ignoring his mother’s angry squawking. She lowered her voice to a whisper so that he — and he alone — could hear.
“She never expected to want a duke, but she does.” Her fingers reached out to ghost across his. “If he wants her, too, she’ll be at the hostel in Kelso.”
And with that, she raised herself on her tiptoes, pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, and left the ballroom, but not before giving a quick and loving hug to Mack, who stood there frozen and blushing.
Everybody else was frozen silent, too. Callum was glad, though. It gave him a chance to listen to Molly’s loose boot sole smacking against the hallway stones and then the insistent slam of the castle’s front doors. Then there was nothing. She was gone. It almost made him chuckle, the thought of her trying to leave so many times before.
Mack, his mother, and a very confused Priscilla Rose all stared at him as if waiting to see what he’d do next. He could still feel her lips on his skin, could smell the scent of her hair, could still hear the echo of his own words from the night before.
I want you to stay, Molly.
He’d said he’d prove it to her. And that’s just what he’d do.
With swift, confident steps, he headed right for the ballroom doors.
Just outside the room, down the hall, and out the front doors, he’d do what he’d done in the rain just after they met. He’d chase her down. He’d sweep her up in his arms and they’d fall into the soft wet tangle of grass. He’d lift up her lips and kiss her endlessly.
As he got to the threshold leading out of the ballroom, he could see it. He could see it all. Right there before him.
“Callum Phillip Harding, you stay right where you are.”
His mother’s voice emerged like a brick wall in front of him. Without even realizing he was doing it, he stopped and stared at the door.
“Don’t you dare take one single step forward. Do you hear me?”
He should ignore her or pretend that he didn’t hear. With every passing second, Molly moved further away from him. What was he doing, standing frozen like a child being punished? Why couldn’t he move?
“Go sit down.”
His mother’s words were cold, heartless, and everything Molly’s words were not. Warm, soft, tender. She was his magnet, she was irresistible. Yet, his feet were not moving.
He looked over his shoulder at his mother. When he spoke, he was surprised and a bit dismayed to find his voice weaker than he intended.
“I want her,” was all he managed to say.
That didn’t even begin to encapsulate everything he felt about her, but to put all of that into words was impossible.
“Want is a luxury you are no longer afforded, my son,” Isla said. “Jamie is gone. You must be the Duke. A duke does not get involved with a woman like that, one who stirs your passions to the point of foregoing duty.”
“I can be a different kind of duke.”
“Really? Think of what your father would say.” She calmly clasped her hands in front of her. “Think of what Jamie would say.”
Callum flinched, almost as if his mother had slapped him.
“The times where you can gallivant off with some pretty face have passed,” his mother reminded him. “Jamie would never be so selfish.”
Callum glanced again down the empty hallway. That was his path to Molly.
“You owe it to him to live up to his legacy, Callum. You owe a debt that you must now pay.”
Her words stung more than she probably realized. The hallway was dark and quiet and all he had to do was step out into it. There was no one to stop him. Only himself.
Chapter Twenty-One
Molly
As she strolled down the gravel road from Floors Castle to the town of Kelso, Molly kept her footsteps nice and plodding. That would give Callum time to catch up to her.
Her ears tried to pick up the sound of a horse’s hooves. Every time she swore she heard something, she’d turn and find the wet and rainy road back to the old castle still empty.
In the lobby of the Kelso hostel, she also lingered, picking at the edge of her Styrofoam cup of coffee. Every few seconds, her eyes darted to the door. Every time the door opened and the bell above it chimed, she’d turn to greet him.
Worry started to creep in when she asked the girl at the front desk, who nodded over her lunch, to let Callum up to her room when he arrived. She didn’t yet want to add in an ‘if he comes’.
He would come. He said he’d changed. You’ll see, he said.
Up on the third floor, she peeled off her wet clothes and every few seconds or so, peeked through the curtains to check the road below for any sign of Callum. Shivering from the cold, she flipped through some staticky channels, not wanting to take a shower because she didn’t want to miss even the softest knock on her door.
But the cold finally drove her to escape it. Soap suds cascaded down her legs and her hair dripped puddles onto the floor as she rushed from the shower, wrapping a t
owel hastily around her chest and poking her head out the doorway to check the hall.
In either direction, it was cold, dark, empty. She checked again through the blinds to make sure he wasn’t outside, but it was with less enthusiasm, less anticipation.
She sank onto the lumpy mattress and stared up at the rings of water damage on the ceiling, for the first time considering what, back at the castle, she’d thought impossible.
He wasn’t coming.
He wasn’t on his way, rushing to her in the rain, running through the hostel’s halls shouting her name until he found her. She refused to believe what was so obvious it hurt. Hurt so fucking bad.
He wasn’t coming.
Clutching the towel to her shaking breasts, she didn’t know if she wanted to cry or scream or cocoon herself in her room with a case of Scottish whiskey.
How could she be so stupid?
He hadn’t changed.
He hadn’t changed at all.
She smushed a pillow into her face to mute her painful groans. Callum was done with his American plaything. Nothing but a fun and pretty little doll he’d enjoyed for a week. Now it was time to put away his toys and get back to work.
Tears pricked at her eyes, though Molly told herself she’d not cry.
She’d lived their dream, too, enjoying her fantasy for a few extraordinary days. With Callum, she’d pushed away her own life’s realities, so she couldn’t entirely blame him for letting her go.
For a few days, it had been a blissful make-believe. Trading the inevitable cubicle and deadlines and soulless art for a wild adventure with a duke who had told her she was too special for all of that. When the cold morning air crept in, the warmth of that make-believe pulled even harder. But that didn’t mean she could stay asleep and dream forever.
Hey, it wouldn’t be so bad. Right? She’d be making real money. She wouldn’t have to worry. She could buy better foods or maybe even get a bigger place and permanently take her parents’ things out of storage. She’d focus on helping her father heal. That would bring her happiness, too. She believed it would. She had to.
With her bones numb and her skin chilled, she sat up, rubbed her eyes, and caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She forced a smile and figured that was good enough.
Pulling on a pair of dry jeans and a warm sweater, she went downstairs and booked her flight back to New York City. Back to her father and to work.
To reality.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Callum
“Lift your chin a little.”
Callum lifted his chin a little.
“Down a tad.”
Callum put it down a tad.
“To the left just a hair.”
To the exact width of a hair, Callum shifted his chin.
“Good?” he asked the real Priscilla Rose.
She frowned at him from across the ballroom. “It was good, before you spoke,” she said, sighing and moving from behind the easel. “Lift your chin a little.”
He tried to stay perfectly still as his heart thudded in his chest and his mind raced and his toe tapped beyond his control against the wood floor. He should stand up, politely thank this artist for her time, apologize for his rudeness, and hightail it straight out of the ballroom.
But right as he was about to kick back his chair, he’d catch sight of his mother and he’d feel like he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.
“Down a tad.”
He could feel the pain in his chest, as if his skin was ripping apart. His head rang as if it was about to be split straight down the center.
“To the right just a hair.”
He needed water. Air. A drink.
“No, no, back to the left. A bit more. More. More. No, too much. Too much.”
Priscilla Rose had described the events leading to her late arrival. But Callum had heard nothing but Molly’s whispered plea to meet her in town. He imagined her sitting in her room and expecting a knock on her door and not hearing one. He kept wondering what she could be thinking, what she must be thinking as her door remained silent.
Dear God, what did she think of him?
“Has it been an hour?” he asked, throat parched and voice scratchy.
Priscilla lifted her wrist to check her expensive gold watch, but before she could respond his mother intervened.
“Regardless, we’ll continue.”
Callum turned to look at her, despite knowing the movement would garner a reprimand from this new artist.
“How long do you intend to continue, Mother?”
She examined her nails and refused to meet his gaze. “We’ll go until Miss Rose is satisfied with her work.” Only then did her eyes lift from her bloodred nails and meet his. “Do you have an issue with that, Your Grace?”
Priscilla butted in to cut through the obvious tension between Callum and his mother. “I’m fine to keep painting as long as you are still comfortable, Your Grace.”
Gritting his teeth, he forced a polite smile for the artist and nodded.
“Very good,” his mother said.
Priscilla again grabbed her paintbrush. Callum knew exactly what his mother was doing. It wasn’t as if she was trying to hide it. She didn’t want him with Molly, and she was going to do anything and say anything to keep him put. By manipulating him with his brother’s legacy, his mother held the only dagger that could pierce his heart. And she was not afraid in the slightest to use it. That dagger kept him still while Priscilla painted. It kept him pinned.
Moving hurt. Staying still hurt. Everything hurt.
This chair was his prison. And so, for the next few hours he did as Priscilla asked. He moved his chin to the left or to the right. He shifted his hands closer to his knees and then higher up his thighs. He straightened his shoulders and then straightened them even more. And all the while, he couldn’t help imagining what Molly was thinking.
“Well, now,” Priscilla finally said after what felt like an eternity, “I may need to make some small adjustments here and there with fresh eyes tomorrow, but I do believe I’m just about finished.”
Not a single speck of paint marred her crisp white shirt, and every strand of her hair was still tight in her ponytail, just like when she’d started. She cleaned her hands with a rag with the casualness of a server who just delivered dinner to a table. This meant nothing. She wouldn’t remember their faces. She wouldn’t think about her customers later that night. They meant nothing to her. All that was left was to pick up her paycheck and tips and then it was off to the next table. Off to the next customer. Off to the next canvas, the next face, the next paycheck.
“Wonderful.” Isla stood and moved across the ballroom to admire Priscilla’s work. “Finally. That is exactly what we were looking for. Yes, this will do quite nicely.”
Priscilla bowed slightly in a show of humility, but from her expression, it was clear to Callum she had expected nothing less than the highest praise.
“Mack will show you to your room, if you’d like to rest before dinner,” his mother continued, waving to Mack, who stood dutifully at the ballroom’s double doors. “We’ve prepared our finest suite for your use while you are here. And don’t be afraid to call for anything that you might need.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You are very kind.”
Fake smiles were exchanged between the two women. Without a single glance back at the man she’d dedicated herself to for so many hours, Priscilla disappeared around the corner after Mack.
Once again, there was only the gentle patter of rain against the stained glass windows.
“You’ll see eventually that this was the right decision,” his mother said.
Callum watched her study the large canvas on the easel. Molly’s portrait was, of course, tossed in the waste bin, along with used-up tubes of oil paint and dirty rags. He could just see the wood frame edge poking up from the black bag. Finally, his mother looked at him.
“Come here. Come and see.”
He wasn’t sure he c
ould actually move, let alone stand. Stiff didn’t begin to describe how he felt. Drained. Tired. Numb. His muscles felt so sore, and he hobbled over to where his mother stood in front of his portrait.
“Don’t you see?” she asked, pointing to Priscilla’s version of his likeness.
Callum laid eyes on the canvas. It was like a punch to the face, a kick to the shin, a piano falling right on his fucking head.
A laugh came to his lips, and he lamely attempted to stop it. But then he laughed–really laughed—and it was like flood gates opening. He laughed some more and laughed even harder when his mother turned to stare at him.
“What in God’s name has come over you?” she asked, grabbing his arm. “Callum, what is so funny?”
Tears blurred his vision and he tried to suck in a breath to speak, but when he saw the canvas again, he just kept laughing. He wiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks, and his sides were starting to hurt, so he bent over. He gasped and laughed as his mother put her hand on his back.
“Are you all right?” she whispered. “Callum, dear, should I—should I fetch someone?”
He shook his head and tried once more to straighten up. All it took was a glimpse of the portrait to send him folding right back over.
“Oh my.” His mother’s feet shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll fetch someone. Um, Mack? Shall I fetch Mack?”
“No, no, I’m all right,” he managed between sucking in breaths and laughing nonstop.
“Do you need a doctor?”
Still chuckling, he forced himself to stand, laying a hand on his mother’s shoulder to help ease the worry in her wide eyes and open mouth.
“Callum,” she begged, laying her hand over his, “please explain what is going on. You’re giving me quite a fright, you know.”
“Okay, Mother. I’ll…I’ll tell you.”
She waited, looking up at him expectantly. Laughter still escaped his lips when he glanced towards the canvas.
“I—I saw that portrait, Mother, and do you know the first thing that I thought? The very first thing?”
She shook her head, eyes still nervous and her breath held, ready to call out for Mack to help with her son’s mental breakdown.