“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.
The idea didn’t invigorate her spirits as she’d hoped it would.
And it wasn’t thoughts of building on auld Conal McAuley’s croft, which Roan and Tessa had already singled out when they’d proposed the school idea to her in the first place, that dominated her thoughts as she drove into town.
No, it was the memory of those whisky-gold eyes staring intently into hers, the feel of his warm palm . . . and how he’d tightened his hold on her hand... just as he’d dropped his gaze to her mouth . . .
She shifted in her seat, gripping the steering wheel more tightly . . . and pressed her thighs together against the ache that built there as she replayed that moment through her mind again. And again.
She hadn’t really imagined that part . . . had she?
Chapter Three
The following morning Kira was in her weaving studio bright and early. Well, it was early. She wouldn’t vouch for how bright it was. Inside or out. But it was get to work or thrash about in her bed another hour or two, pretending to sleep. She was tired, more than a wee bit cranky, and not feeling particularly creative, but she needed to occupy her mind with something other than Shay.
“And wouldn’t that be a nice change?” she muttered as she picked up her current work in progress from the basin of water where she’d been soaking the spokes. It was a small basket, or would eventually become one, that incorporated both the colorful waxed linen strands that the Kinloch clans were known for in their artisan basketry, as well as thicker and tougher lengths of willow, and a few other natural odds and ends she’d gathered on the island. The idea of pushing the boundaries of their ancient traditions to create work that didn’t exclusively use waxed linen was seen by some on Kinloch as innovative and just the thing their island industry needed to remain vibrant and relevant in the global market. Others, namely the clan elders, saw it as a sacreligious breach of their cherished and much celebrated heritage and weren’t shy about making their displeasure known.
Kira respected the elders’ sentiments. She’d trained at her grandmother’s knee and held the old ways in deep regard. But she had to stay true to her own vision and creative calling, something her grandmother would have championed. To that end, Kira had made it clear when she’d first introduced her new design ideas to Roan, who controlled the marketing and sales of their baskets, that if there ended up being no market for them, that would decide the matter. She’d continue to make them for her own creative outlet, but would find a way to celebrate old traditions in a more pure form for the baskets she wove for market.
However, Kira’s baskets had gained immediate notice. In fact, she’d recently completed an exclusive order for a famous Italian shoe designer to use in his Milan showroom. She smiled privately as she remembered his recent, brief but colorful visit to Kinloch. Next to the wedding plans, Maradona—just the one name—had been the focus of conversation island-wide. Still was. He’d been quite a flamboyant and colorful figure on their otherwise quiet little isle. The fact that he’d brought some of his amazing shoes and handbags as well, and made gifts of the former to the younger weavers and the latter to the island’s oldest clan elders, had gone a long way toward creating a grudging détente between Kira and the traditionalists.
Kira smiled, thinking that the road to winning approval would be long, but all roads could be traveled. She just had to take it one step at a time. That was how she’d gotten this far. She let out a little sigh, forcing her thoughts away from Shay, away from the painful divorce that had sent her back to Kinloch, away from all of it. The only thing she had to think about was how to make the new pattern work. She’d already worked the slenderest of willow spokes into the base and had woven the initial rows with slender willow weavers interspersed with other organic material. Now she began to weave the thickest ply waxed strands in an intricate braided pattern in and around the unwieldy willow spokes, tucking them in and through the other material as well as she went.
The result was a rustic, uneven weave, with irregular gaps and an unwieldy, wild shaping to the basket itself, but the very earthiness of it called to her artistic soul. She probably wouldn’t rim it, but band it with a few rows of hand-dyed round reed at the top, then leave the spokes bending and twisting up and outward. Not a functional basket, but an art piece, a talking point. It was both harsh and beautiful, wild and barely tamed into shape, much like the island they lived on, which grew both the rugged willow, and the flax that was spun into such gorgeous, beautiful, and pliant waxed threads. She still wasn’t sure this particular idea was going to work because the elements involved were so dramatically different, and willow was a beast to work with, but so far, she was liking the results well enough.
Besides, the multicolored stranded braiding took some serious concentration, which was an added bonus this morning. She studied the open weave and considered adding an assortment of baked clay and blown glass beading to the pattern and made a mental note to rework her diagram, see how it might fit in a midpoint band.
Less than three rows later, however, she put the unfinished basket back on her worktable and swore under her breath. “Never weave when you’re upset,” she murmured. “It comes out in the work.” Those were her grandmother’s words. Kira had found weaving to be immensely therapeutic. Normally, within minutes, whatever mood she’d been in when sitting down would smooth out. The combination of the repetitive motion and seeing a pattern come alive under her own fingers would take her out of her head and whatever stresses . . . or pain lurked there.
“Not today.”
Today, the tension showed in the work. She liked the idea of taming these unruly elements and forcing them to work together, but it was, in the end, to be a harmonious blend . . . not a tortured union.
“And you know all about those.” She shoved her stool back and stood, rolling her shoulders as she trudged out of the studio that her grandmother had had built onto the side of the tiny cottage a full generation ago, and into her small kitchen. Memories of the wedding reception at the pub the night before immediately filtered, unwanted, back through Kira’s mind as she set the teakettle on to boil. Like viewing some of Tessa’s professional photographs, Kira could picture the night in a series of mental stills. She rummaged in the cupboard for a tin of biscuits, but her thoughts stayed on the previous night.
To be sure, the pub had been packed, but rather than mingling and losing herself in the crush as she’d planned, she and Shay had been pulled to the front of the bar where Roan and Tessa, along with Katie, Graham, and Katie’s friend Blaine, were stationed. Kira was pushed, literally, up against Shay, time and time again, throughout the evening. Her plans to head home early had been for naught as the bride and groom hadn’t left themselves until the wee, wee hours.
And as much as Kira had loved seeing Tessa come into her own, both as a woman overcoming a difficult and challenging past, and now, as an island resident and jubilant bride to one of the most beloved clansmen on Kinloch, Kira had very selfishly wished she could have absented herself from the reception almost as soon as she’d arrived. Worse was the fact that she was well aware of why she was moping about. It wasn’t because of the less-than-desirable impression she’d made on Shay. And it wasn’t because the event brought back painful memories of her own wedding day. It hadn’t.
It was because, despite giving herself a stern talking to on the way into the village, she hadn’t been able to get past the notion that she and Shay had, indeed, shared some kind of . . . momen
t, however brief, back by that roadside. In fact, by the time she’d made it to the pub and jockeyed her little car into a narrow alley behind the village, she’d managed to convince herself that if the day was a celebration of hope and faith, then maybe that was the sign she’d needed to take a little leap herself. So what if she hadn’t started on this new path with exactly the right first step? She’d still taken one.
She shouldn’t just turn tail and run because the path wasn’t perfectly smooth. Right? She’d taken one step. All she had to do next was to take another. Simple, really.
She’d even entered the pub with the half-formed idea that if the moment presented itself, and she could get past the embarrassment of acting like an addled schoolgirl, she was going to talk Shay into a dance, as surely there would be plenty of music played that night. It was to be a rousing ceilidh, with any number of villagers contributing on their own fiddles and flutes, tin whistles and bodhrans. In fact, it was more likely she’d have a harder time avoiding a dance with him, since they were both in the wedding party and would surely be pushed onto the floor numerous times.
“Right,” she muttered, and bit off half a biscuit as she waited impatiently for the water to come to boil.
It had been a night filled with singing and dancing, along with heartfelt recitations of ale-inspired poetry and ballads sung with the poignant earnestness only a Scot can deliver, which made hearts soar and even men weep. Every man and woman in the pub had likely pressed hands or more together at some point during the long, boisterous night. Except, of course, for Shay and Kira.
But then, it was hard to get the attention of a man who refused to so much as look at her. And she wasn’t mistaken about that, given their proximity to one another all evening. In fact, a man would have to work quite hard to completely and utterly ignore a woman who’d been half plastered against him for an entire evening. And yet, Shay had managed the task. Heroically, even.
Kira had swiftly gone from mildly embarrassed, to feeling enormously stupid, to just wanting to get the hell out of there and go right back to hiding in her cottage. She and Tessa had pledged to stop hiding from life. To become “bad-ass non-hiders” to use Tessa’s phraseology. Tessa had pulled it off, and in quite brilliant fashion, with the wedding and celebration as proof. Which was ironic, since Kira was the one who’d fancied herself ready to start living again.
Now she cringed. Imagine, thinking she was some kind of Cinderella, coming out of her self-imposed life of weaving servitude to the island economy, ready to go to the ball and reclaim her role as a vibrant and desirable woman.
“Not so bloody likely after all,” she snorted, and finished off the rest of the biscuit. Half the tin was empty before she’d realized it.
But all the sweet biscuits in the world couldn’t erase the flash-parade of images. How Shay had all but gone out of his way to position himself on the far side of Graham or Katie whenever possible so as to keep from being pushed against her, or crowded into her personal space in any way. And when he had been, repeatedly so, he somehow managed to keep his gaze fixed anywhere but on her. Other than the occasional “excuse me” when he’d been roughly jostled against her, he hadn’t spoken so much as a single word to her. Granted, aside from his short toast to the bride and groom, he hadn’t said much otherwise, either. Nor had he danced.
She had, almost defiantly so, and she certainly hadn’t lacked for partners. But when she would return to their group and inevitably get nudged to his side, still heated and flushed from the music, hoping for even the briefest flash of awareness . . . Nothing.
She’d imagined the smolder then, standing by the roadside with him. She must have. That’s all there was to it. She’d been so smitten and overwhelmed by her reaction to his stoic, chiseled face and gravelly voice that she’d lost her foolish head. She’d gone for so long without even considering a man’s touch, much less allowing herself to want one again, so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that his had simply swamped her senses and made her imagine ridiculous things.
She honestly hadn’t thought it would be so challenging a chore as all that. In fact, she’d expected she’d end up laughing at herself for taking so long to do it, for making such a big deal of it.
Only that’s exactly what it felt like now, in the dawn of a new morning. A challenge. And a chore. Neither of which felt fair to her.
She did laugh at herself then, just as the kettle let out its shrill whistle. “Fair,” she all but snorted as she poured herself a cup. “As if life has ever been that.”
She was digging into the bottom of the tin for the last biscuit when there was a rap on the front door of the cottage. She glanced at the wall clock. It was barely eight. “Who’d be out here at this hour?” Though it was a Monday morning and working life began early on the island, she was fairly certain there wasn’t a man or woman on Kinloch who wasn’t nursing a wee bit of a hangover this morning. More likely a romping one, given the duration of the celebration. At the very least, she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to pay a social call so soon into the new day.
She supposed she should at least be thankful she’d chosen to steer clear of the ale. And the whisky. In her state of mind, she hadn’t imagined getting sozzled would do much to improve the evening. She shuddered to think what kind of false courage that would have given her . . . and, armed with it, what ill-advised action she might have taken.
The knock came again.
She dropped the empty biscuit tin in the dustbin and set her empty teacup in the sink. She’d shuffled halfway to the door when she realized she was in little more than a nightshirt and a robe. Neither particularly flattering. Nor, most likely, was her bed head or complete lack of makeup.
She paused for a moment, undecided on whether she should make a mad dash to the loo and at least run a comb through her hair, but then came yet another knock. No time. And honestly, it wasn’t as if there was anyone on the island who was going to care what she looked like. As far as she was concerned, if a person chose to stop by so early without advance warning, they got what they got.
Feeling both righteous and a bit put out—after all, she could have still been sleeping—she crossed to the door and yanked it open. “Aye, ye dinnae have to keep knockin’. Give a girl a chance to . . .” Her burst of words drizzled to a stop as she saw who was on her stoop.
“Hullo, Kira.”
She spent the briefest of moments wondering, a bit wildly, if perhaps she was still asleep, and dreaming this. Because there he stood, every ridiculously handsome inch of him, looking directly at her now, eye to eye, as if the endless hours of avoidance hadn’t even occurred.
And, unlike herself, he looked like a fresh breath of cool November air.
Of course he did. Kira wanted to glance heavenward and demand to know what she’d done to deserve further embarrassment in front of this man, but railing against the gods would have to wait until later. Indeed, she thought, life wasn’t fair a’tall.
“Mr. Callaghan,” she said, hearing the frost in her tone and not working overly hard to correct it. Or at all, really. She found she wasn’t in a forgive-and-forget mood this morning. “What is it I can do for ye at this early hour?”
Shay glanced at the watch on his wrist and she noted a flash of surprise before he glanced back at her. “I’ve been up and working for hours and . . . I finished. I was on my way home, and I pass directly by, so I thought perhaps you’d prefer no’ to wait till later in the week to discuss . . . whatever it was you wanted to discuss. I hadn’t realized the time. My apologies.”
“You’ve been at work? And already finished for the day?”
“Aye,” he said, without additional explanation.
It was one thing for the farmers and crofters and fishermen, but he worked in an office—his own office—and surely no one would have minded if he’d come in at a more normal hour, especially given the celebration the night before.
He nodded toward the side of her cottage. “I saw the lights on in your studio and ass
umed you were already at work as well.”
“Oh. Well, I was . . . but then—never mind. I’m—really no’ prepared for a meeting at the moment.” She made a lame gesture to her hair and clothes.
Only then did Shay seem to take in the rest of her. And it was only then she realized his gaze had been exclusively focused on her face. Quite the shift from the night before. Now, when she looked as if the angel of death had paid her a lengthy visit . . . now he looked at her?
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said, with an uncustomary stammer. “I should have called ahead. It was just . . . a spontaneous thought. I’ll leave you to your morning then.” With a brief nod, he turned to leave.
Kira had every intention of stepping back inside her cottage and closing the door on his retreating back, possibly slamming it. Instead she heard herself say, “You left the celebration when I did. That was nigh on three in the morning. How is it you’ve been at work already?” And what business is that of yours anyway? she asked herself.
But he had already paused, was already turning around. Maybe it had been that uncustomary stutter in his response. But there was something . . . different about Shay Callaghan this morning. Though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He was as controlled as ever . . . and yet . . .
“Actually, I had intended to go directly by my office after the ceremony, then on to the pub from there, but ended up following you in, so . . .”
“So, you’re saying you went from pub to office, then? At three in the morning? You haven’t slept?”
“I wasn’t going to anyway.”
She was too busy glancing over him to consider why that was. He was freshly shaved, his thick thatch of brown hair looked as if it had seen a comb or brush recently, and he most certainly was no longer wearing his formal clan colors. He wasn’t in a suit, but his trousers were crisply pressed as was the starched collar of his buttoned blue and white striped shirt. Ever the natty solicitor, even in somewhat casual togs.
Santa in a Kilt Page 3