by Cara Colter
Had she remained sober, she might have kept it all to herself. But the Champagne had gone down way too easily, and she lost count of how many she had. It made her feel courageous and effervescent and unbelievably sexy.
She had seen the look in Lancaster’s eyes as they had followed her. That feeling of knowing him had kept growing stronger as the evening progressed.
Until, finally, she had tugged him out onto a darkened balcony, bracketed his face with her hands, looked into it and felt the truth.
“You are my future,” she had told him. “I’ve always known.”
She had kissed him. And he had answered. As if he had always known, too.
But then he had put her away from him, his face the same stern face that he had shown those schoolgirls who had tried to flirt with him.
“Lass, I cannot be who you want me to be.” Canna. And he had walked away, leaving her with a sense of drowning in her own humiliation and questioning her own intuition, the intuition that had told her, with absolute certainty, the truth about him and her and the future.
All that history leaped between them, now, over the phone wire, fierce and smoldering.
But then Sophie reminded herself how unreliable her intuition really was, because she had given it a second chance. Right until she had caught Troy with someone else she would have sworn her fiancé was devoted to her and only her.
So, this was not about rekindling anything, and Lancaster’s tone, when he answered her, made her realize what a good thing that was.
“Fine,” he said, his voice icy, not because of their shared history, but because he thought she had not seen what he had revealed to her last night. He thought she had not heard him at all. He thought he had trusted her with the deepest part of himself and she was being cavalier with that trust.
In fact, she had heard him completely. And now she was going to do something she was ashamed to say she had not done very often in her life.
She was going to figure out what Lancaster needed and how to give it to him. Not to benefit herself, except that it might aid her in getting over her own sense of heartbreak and failure if she helped another person.
What did Lancaster need? The very thing he resisted the most, as if any kind of frivolity, and kind of fun, was a betrayal of the memories he held and the great loss he had sustained.
“And please don’t wear your uniform,” Sophie said. “It just makes me feel terribly conspicuous. As if I’m a prisoner under escort.”
Silence.
“Tomorrow, then,” she said. “It starts at eight. Bye.”
She put the phone back in its cradle. “Buckle your seat belt, Mr. Major, the ride is about to begin.”
* * *
She wasn’t quite sure what a person wore to the pub in Havenhurst, so Sophie chose an outfit she would have worn to any concert, and she had been to many of them. She put on one of her favorite dresses, yellow with a parrot pattern on it. The skirt flared in a delicious swirl right at her midthigh. She coupled it with a colorful pair of cowboy boots and a denim jacket. She left her hair loose, and dabbed on just a touch of makeup.
“Really?” she told her reflection. “Girlfriend, you are practically screaming fun.”
Lancaster, of course, was completely punctual. He looked amazing in his very lack of effort to look amazing: a casual light blue sports shirt, a brown leather bomber jacket, pressed khakis, loafers. But his expression was aloof. If he noticed how fun she looked, nothing in his eyes gave it away.
“I hoped you might wear a kilt,” she said to him, trying to tease a bit of that aloofness out of him. But he was not going to be teased.
“A kilt is part of our dress uniform,” he told her, his tone formal. “They are worn only for very special occasions.”
He led her out to a waiting car and held open the door for her. Despite the fact he was not wearing a uniform, he seemed very much on duty. At least he held open the front door of the car for her.
“How was your day?” she asked, when it looked as if he intended to ignore her completely.
“Busy. Yours?”
“Peachy. You know that red fluffy bear that Ryan packs around?”
“Sammy,” Lancaster said.
She shot him a look. It told her more about him than he would care to know that he knew the name of Ryan’s favorite toy.
“The wonderful future sovereign of your nation flushed him. Of course, he’s too large to go down. Or his head was too large. But Ryan was screaming bloody murder and the toilet overflowed and there was water running all over the nursery.”
She glanced at Lancaster out of the corner of her eye. The most reluctant smile tickled his mouth.
“I’m surprised your team didn’t arrive expecting terrorists, really. The nanny, Caoimhe, apparently has a phobia, so she wouldn’t touch it, and she got up on a stool in a corner so as not to get her feet wet. I think she was having the vapors or something.”
“Vapors? She’s a trained professional,” Lancaster said disapprovingly, but he was still trying not to smile.
“I’m not throwing her under the bus. Everyone has their weaknesses—remember me and vomiting?”
“Trying to forget,” he said. “But vapors? Those horrible virtual cigarettes?”
Sophie could not have been more pleased! He was engaging in spite of himself.
“No, no. Not related to vaping. Vapors. It’s an old-fashioned word for a sudden fit of fainting helplessness. Used in romance novels.”
“Ah,” he said, as if that explained a great deal about her.
“I’m not given to such things,” she clarified, meaning both vapors and romance novels, though, of course, in her worst moments, that was exactly what she turned to. Romance novels, not vapors. Or vaping.
“Huh,” he said, with a total lack of conviction. He seemed to remember his unspoken vow to not enjoy himself and not to add more than monosyllables to the conversation, so she gamely held it up on her own.
“That left me to extricate said Sammy from his watery trap. He came out with a tremendous pop and splatter that practically undid Caoimhe—”
“You’re a bit off on the pronunciation, it’s Kwee-vah.”
Multiple syllables, she congratulated herself!
“Thank you. So, Kwee-vah was having a heart attack, and now I had a very wet and unhygienic stuffy to deal with. Ryan was leaping at me like a maddened monkey trying to get his hands on Soggy Sammy.”
Sophie actually heard a muffled snort. She cast him a glance. Yes, indeed. Suppressed laughter.
“I would have liked to have passed off the cleaning and care of the bear to a qualified staff member but oh, no, Ryan, having had his friend rescued from near death, was not going to be separated. So, dragging a screaming prince, who had attached himself to one of my legs, I found the castle laundry room. Good grief, I think it used to be a dungeon. It took most of the afternoon to wash and dry the bear. Thankfully, after quite a momentous escalation of his tantrum, Ryan fell asleep on the floor. With one hand pressed firmly to the dryer that held his BFF—that’s best friend forever—and one thumb in his mouth, which made it quite easy to love him again.”
Lancaster had managed not to laugh out loud, but his smile was full-blown.
“And then, after Ryan went to bed, I went to see Maddie and she actually got sick seven times in a row, which I think is probably a world record, but which put me off my own dinner. So, basically I am starving, in need of adult company and ready to have a bit of fun. Thank you for asking. Will there be dancing?”
“Sorry?”
“Dancing. At the event tonight?”
“I certainly hope not,” he said, his smile replaced instantly with glumness.
And then she laughed, and it teased another most reluctant smile out of her escort.
“There will be dancing,” he said. “It’s our w
ay. But I’m afraid you will probably just want to be a spectator.”
“Look at this dress,” Sophie said. “Does it look like something someone who wants to spectate would wear?”
He considered this, not even trying to hide his trepidation. It was clear, if he could think of a way out of this, he would.
But he parked the car, and walked down a cobblestone street to the pub. It had a sign out front that announced it was the Black Cauldron Free House, established in 1586.
“Oh!” Sophie said. “Another incarnation of the Black Kettle.”
It was like something off a postcard: the building was a Tudor style that seemed to be leaning capriciously to one side. They stepped inside.
“It doesn’t look like it’s changed much in the ensuing four hundred or so years,” Sophie called to Lancaster over the noise of rambunctious patrons. The floor was stone, and uneven. The ceilings were low, and the place was being held up by blackened beams that looked as though they had survived a fire. Long, rough tables were set out in rows.
She glanced at Lancaster. His eyes were narrow as he surveyed the very crowded premises. He was in warrior mode.
She could not help but notice the looks that were sent their way. He might as well have worn his uniform. Everyone knew who he was, and it made them curious about her.
She had intended to give him a carefree evening, to coax him to have some fun, but she clearly saw that this particular venue was only making him more alert, more on guard, more on duty.
“It doesn’t look like there’s any room,” she said, disappointed.
Lancaster already had his shoulder against the door, eager to leave.
But then, just when Sophie thought her plan to coax Lancaster to have some fun had been thwarted by an uncooperative universe—who was she to decide what anyone else needed, after all—someone called his name.
CHAPTER SIX
“MAJOR! WE’LL MAKE ROOM. We have a table over there.”
“Ricky!” Sophie cried, as the young guardsman appeared in front of them. It was so nice to know someone in this sea of strangers.
Lancaster cast her a look that warned her off greeting him with a hug. He looked at the door once more, with such longing that Sophie was not sure if dragging him out to this event was the right thing to have done, after all.
Ricky led them through the impossibly crowded room to a long wooden table. Men and women slid along benches until there was just room for them to sit shoulder to shoulder with their new companions. She was squished right up against Lancaster’s side, and some of her confidence about whether this was the right thing to have done returned.
It felt wonderful to be sitting beside him at the crowded table. She glanced at his face to see if he shared her take on it, but as always, his expression was very difficult to read.
Introductions were shouted out—lots more tongue-twisting names—and she realized that these were men of the guard, here for a social night out with their wives and girlfriends. She could tell almost all of them were surprised to see Lancaster. Even though they were looking warily askance on each other, as if his presence might subdue the revelry, she could not help but notice that the men reacted to him with respect, and that the women were as totally aware of him as those teenage girls had been on the pathway the other day.
And again, Sophie could not help but notice that women being aware of him did not seem to stroke his ego in the least.
Thick glasses were passed down the table and set in front of them, and filled from a pitcher of dark beer.
She tasted hers tentatively. It was warm but surprisingly flavorful with rich tones of malt and caramel. Still, she vowed to be very careful tonight. Despite her using past behavior as a threat to get Lancaster here, Sophie vowed there would be no repeat performances of the christening evening.
From somewhere, a glass of water appeared in front of Lancaster, so his comrades knew he was working, and that she was his job, not his date.
Sophie did notice he had relaxed a little, though, perhaps feeling her protection was no longer his alone, now that they were surrounded by fellow members of the guard.
Though Sophie could barely understand a word spoken around her, accents thickening even more as the beer disappeared, she was still thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being with Lancaster, a part of his community.
And then, the huge hall suddenly went silent.
A lone man appeared on the stage and took a seat on a stool. He began to play a pair of long-handled wooden spoons, a primitive, steady rhythm, hand to leg, hand to leg. The hall was completely silent as he practiced this ancient art, picking up tempo, his hand moving faster and faster until it was a blur of motion, creating an amazing percussion of sound. The hall erupted into applause when he’d finished. Then, it was as if a sign had been put out: start the party.
The spoon player was joined on stage by others now, and Lancaster leaned close to her so that she could hear him, and named the instruments. He told her the violin was referred to as a fiddle, and played differently in these circumstances. There was also a bodhran, which he explained was a handheld drum made of goatskin and played with a wooden “tipper.” There was a man with a tin whistle, one with a concertina, which was similar to an accordion, and a woman carried what he called uilleann pipes, which were a version of bagpipes.
Really, Sophie thought, Lancaster could read the phone book and that accent would make it sound sexy! She loved the sound of his voice in her ear, but soon her ears were filled with the leaping melodies of Celtic folk music.
A song was recognized and was met with shouts of approval. And then the entire hall was singing along, beer glasses raised, the crowd swaying from side to side along the benches, beer slopping happily onto the tables.
There was no sense asking Lancaster what the words were. She could not have made her voice heard. The noise was the most thunderous and joyous that Sophie had ever heard. There were songs the entire audience knew how to play and the wooden spoon sets were dug out of pockets, and the people played along in perfect rhythm until it sounded as if the hall was filled with stampeding horses.
The man on the other side of Sophie, older than Lancaster but just as big—she thought his name was Brody—looked askance at Lancaster and, at his nod, gave her his wooden spoons, shouting incomprehensible instructions in her ear. She tried valiantly to follow them, as Lancaster’s team cheered her on. They whistled their approval at her effort when the song finished, and she surrendered the spoons, vowing, silently, to get her own set when an opportunity presented itself.
She glanced at Lancaster and saw that despite himself, he was enjoying the evening. His handsome features had relaxed, the guard that was always up in his eyes had come down a bit.
A girl joined the band on stage—a moment the crowd had obviously been waiting for. To the accompaniment of a fiddle, she did a solo jig, arms at her sides, upper body stiff, short skirt swirling, feet flying in a blur of motion.
And then, as though a signal had been given, tables were shoved back to clear the floor in the front of the stage, and lines of men and women went forward, facing each other, their upper bodies held stiffly, but their feet on fire as they jigged intricate, flying steps. Their own table emptied of a number of people.
So this was what Lancaster had meant that she might prefer to be a spectator! She hated to admit he had been right, but the people of Havenhurst had obviously been passing these complex dances from generation to generation since the beginning of time. It would be uncomfortable and awkward to be up there. She found herself content to watch, happy in her awareness that Lancaster’s feet were tapping to the fast, stirring rhythms.
“Sir?”
Over the incredible noise, she heard someone addressing Lancaster. Sophie realized it was Ricky. He was looking quite flushed, perhaps from having too many beers. He had his arm draped over the shoulder of a lovely g
irl.
“Becky says you canna bring the lass here and not teach her our dances.”
Under the music, there was a sudden silence as the men who remained at their table considered Ricky, and his challenge, cleverly made through Becky, to their leader. Sideways glances were sent toward Lancaster.
Was it possible, Sophie wondered, holding her breath, that there were many people besides herself who longed to see Lancaster’s light come back on?
Lancaster leveled Ricky a look that could have stripped paint. The young soldier suddenly looked quite a bit more sober.
But then, Lancaster lifted a shoulder and tilted his head toward Sophie.
“Are you game?” he asked her.
She glanced back up at the people dancing, at their flying feet and their ingrained sense of these dances.
She really was not game! She was going to look a total fool.
But then she remembered why she had come here, that it wasn’t about her at all. It was about moving Lancaster back toward his own light. He was offering to dance with her. Did it really matter what the circumstances were?
When Lancaster held his hand out to her, and she took it, her fear of appearing a fool dissipated. It felt as though if there was ever a man in the world you could trust to look after you, it would be this one. His hand taking hers felt, just as it had the other night, when they stood at the cottage site, like the most right thing that had ever happened to her.
Still, when his hand closed around hers, and his simple strength was conveyed to her, she knew that it was this belief that he—and others—had in his strength that was at the very core of what had broken his heart. He had been trusted, and he had failed.
Even though it had not been his fault.
Maybe this was how she could be instrumental in helping him rebuild his trust in himself. Just one tiny step—even if it was a dance step—at a time.
* * *