A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel

by Laura Trentham

  Alasdair Blackmoor exuded sophistication and money and mystery. What was real and what was show? The threat level rose from moderate to high. She didn’t trust Gareth, and a strange man showing up in out-of-the-way Highland, Georgia, looking for him didn’t allay her suspicions.

  Were they partners who planned to scam her mother out of money? While her mom didn’t control a vast amount of liquid assets, she was land rich. The acreage alone was enough to make her attractive to schemers. Not that Izzy had ever worried about her whip-smart mother succumbing to a con artist. Until now.

  She pondered her next move. She could lead him out into the woods where the low-slung sports car would get stuck in mud. Or she could hope Bigfoot was real and captured him. No, there was no use delaying the inevitable. At least this way she was in control. She wouldn’t take her eyes off him. A devilish part of her chuckled and admitted that wouldn’t be a hardship.

  Turning onto the drive to Stonehaven, she glanced in her mirror, hoping he’d continue down the road past the Highland City Limit sign. He didn’t. Bypassing the picturesque red barn where she would eventually unload the tables rattling in the truck bed, she joined him at the front of the house and approached him warily. He studied the house with his hands on his hips.

  What did he see? A knockoff of a Scottish castle, or a house built with love and her family’s history mortared between the stones? Would he laugh like he had at her truck?

  He shifted toward her and took his sunglasses off, folding them and slipping them into his shirt pocket. “If the temperature wasn’t registering somewhere around fiery pits of hell, I might think I was in Scotland. Brings back memories.”

  His smile knocked her suspicions off track. It was boyish and registered as sincere.

  “Memories? Aren’t you from Scotland?”

  “I grew up in Glasgow, and only left when…” His gaze narrowed and looked beyond her until she wanted to glance over her shoulder. “I attended Cambridge and stayed in England afterward. I live in London now.”

  “That’s why you talk like you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With a Scottish accent, but not like Gareth’s.”

  His mouth pulled into a frown. “I never thought about it. Actually, my mum’s English. My da was Scottish.”

  “Was?”

  “He died in a car accident.” His smile dimmed, his eyes squinting up at cloudless sky. The shot of intimacy left her off-balance, and she looked heavenward as well, as if both their fathers were beyond the great blue expanse.

  “I’m sorry. My daddy died of a heart attack when I was eighteen. Sometimes it feels like longer, but then something will happen and my first thought is that I need to tell him, like my heart forgot he’s gone.”

  At his silence, she dragged her gaze from the sky to find him studying her, his eyes serious and searching. Had her maudlin fancy revealed a vulnerability he planned to exploit? Until she figured out his game with Gareth, she had to remain alert and stoic.

  She would do her best to quietly observe until conclusions could be drawn, logically and without emotion tainting the situation. Her mother certainly couldn’t be counted on to be logical or unemotional. She was the definition of infatuated.

  He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. The sun was brutal and the heat from the pea gravel could cook a potato. She cleared her throat and gestured at the front door. “Come on in before we roast.”

  She was uncommonly aware of him right behind her. The fringed rug tangled with the edge of her flip-flop and she staggered forward. He caught her around the waist, his grip even hotter than the sun outside. The near fall jolted her heart.

  “Careful, now.” A slight roughness in his voice hit her like a shot of Scottish whisky.

  “I’m fine.” She twisted her torso halfway around. This close, his height over her was emphasized and made her feel protected rather than intimidated. The golden circles around his irises sparked, lending warmth to his slate gray eyes. Familiarity panged distantly. She arched her back, but still he didn’t let go.

  Her blood quickened with something even scarier than fear. In a different time, she could picture him on horseback conquering a castle and claiming everything—and everyone—as his, and she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t willingly surrender.

  “You can let go now.” Her voice sounded like she’d sprinted a lap around the house.

  “Of course. Pardon me.” He stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back, his voice and veneer unruffled, whereas she felt as ruffly as her old Laura Ashley curtains.

  Izzy led the way to the family area in the back of the house, taking care to keep her attention on where she put her feet. The hallway hooked a left, and they descended three steps to a sunken living area with an attached sunroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a stunning view of a flower-dotted field surrounded by tree-covered foothills.

  Gareth and her mom shared a loveseat, their bodies angled toward each other, their heads close, talking softly. It was an old piece of furniture and had been her daddy’s favorite. How many times had she seen her parents sitting just like her mom was sitting with Gareth? Izzy’s heart sputtered along with her feet.

  Alasdair’s pace picked up, and he passed her. “Gareth?”

  Gareth stood and took a step forward. Shock slackened his jaw before he shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. “Alasdair! Laddie, what in blazes are you doing here?”

  “I’m, uh…” Alasdair glanced over his shoulder at Izzy. “I was in the States on business, heard you were here, and decided to look up an old friend.”

  Gareth’s brogue was thicker than Alasdair’s more refined version, but there could be no doubt as to their common birthplace. She sidled the periphery of the reunion to study the two men side by side. Their coloring was similar, but where Gareth was built like a bulldog, Alasdair had the lean grace of a panther.

  A simple happiness at two friends reuniting did not materialize between them. In fact, an unspoken conversation seemed to pass between the two men encompassing complications and questions.

  Gareth put his arm around her mom’s shoulders and drew her forward. “Rosie, I want you to meet Alasdair Blackmoor. Alasdair, this is Rose Buchanan.”

  Her mom either didn’t notice or was too polite to acknowledge the weird undercurrents and floated from under Gareth’s arm to clasp Alasdair’s hand in both of hers. “Lovely to meet a friend of Gareth’s. Come and sit. Would you like some tea? Or would you prefer coffee?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you. Jetlag caught up with me on the drive from Atlanta.”

  “Would you mind fetching tea for us, dear?” Her mom aimed a smile toward Izzy.

  Normally, she wouldn’t mind, but what if she missed an important, telling nuance between the men? Unable to produce a credible reason for not fulfilling her hostessing duties, she backed out of the den, only turning when her heels hit the first step.

  In the kitchen, she rushed to get four iced teas poured and on a tray with a pitcher. She plopped the sugar bowl and slices of lemon in the middle and stuck a teaspoon in each glass. On the way back, she forced herself to take measured steps to avoid a mishap. It would be her luck to face-plant in front of Alasdair.

  Her mom had maneuvered everyone into sitting around the coffee table. After setting the tray on the table with minimal spillage, she hesitated. Everyone had shifted as if a game of musical chairs had taken place in her absence. The only spot available in the conversational circle was next to Alasdair on the loveseat her mom and Gareth had occupied earlier.

  She took the seat next to him, the old cushion dipping in the middle with Alasdair’s weight. Her shoulder bumped his. She repositioned herself, but knocked her knee against his.

  “Sorry,” she muttered.

  Her mom put lemon slices in two glasses and handed Gareth one before settling back into the chair to sip her own.

  Izzy scooped several teaspoons of sugar into her glass and stirred, the tink of her
spoon the only sound. Izzy turned to Alasdair. “I thought you were thirsty?”

  “I am. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It wasn’t what I was expecting.” He leaned forward, added a sparse teaspoon of sugar, and squeezed a lemon slice into his tea. His sip was less than enthusiastic. “I had a hot cuppa in mind, that’s all.”

  Her mom half rose. “I can get you a mug of hot tea, Alasdair. It’s no trouble at all.”

  “Certainly not.” Alasdair waved her back to sitting. “When I’m in the States, I enjoy experiencing the local customs.”

  “Local customs” made them sound backward. Being a Southerner made her especially sensitive to jokes about no one wearing shoes or everyone using an outhouse or the lack of teeth. And absolutely no one of her acquaintance had married a cousin.

  Izzy rocked slightly on the seat, trying to keep her agitation under control. “Southerners have been drinking tea this way since ice became available. It’s refreshing during our hot summers.”

  “Iced tea is certainly refreshing, Miss Buchanan. It’s just that hot tea has been Britain’s drink since before your country even existed. The British empire was built on tea.” His condescending politeness on top of him calling her Miss Buchanan like she was an old maid schoolmarm unleashed what her father had affectionately called her word salads.

  “Fun fact: The British drank their tea hot, because of terrible water quality due to outdated sanitation practices. Basically, y’all had to boil your water or die of dysentery.” Izzy had no idea why information popped into her head and straight out of her mouth without stopping for an edit. In the beats of silence that followed her fun fact, she dug the hole deeper. “Can you imagine having an intestinal infection with no bathroom available? The mess, the smell. I read that the Thames was basically a sewer for much of the nineteenth century.”

  “Isabel.” Her mom shook her head and set her tea aside.

  Gareth’s booming laugh cut the rising tension. “Thank heaven for modern plumbing, eh? What do you think of Stonehaven, Alasdair? Doesn’t it remind you of Cairndow?”

  “Stonehaven is quaint and charming.” Alasdair’s word choice wiped out any good will he’d accrued outside.

  “Quaint?” Izzy shifted on the seat, not sure why she felt the need to do battle when she wasn’t sure what she was protecting, only that it felt in danger.

  Her mom tinkled a laugh. “The Earl of Cairndow’s estate is magnificent, Isabel. It makes Stonehaven look like a guesthouse. Do you work there too, Mr. Blackmoor?”

  Alasdair and Gareth exchanged another pointed look before Alasdair said, “When I was younger, I did. Now I work in London with the occasional trip to the States.”

  “How excitin’.” Her mother’s Southern accent was lush yet delicate, her movements as graceful and captivating as a former ballet dancer’s should be. She refilled Gareth’s glass from the pitcher.

  Although, her mom had tried to guide Izzy down the same path to glory, puberty had made clear that she’d inherited too much from her father, namely his spazzy energy and lack of anything resembling grace.

  “When is your flight back to London?” Izzy swiveled her head toward Alasdair.

  Her mom cleared her throat in a way that promised a talking-to later. “What my daughter means to say is that we hope you’ll stay with us for as long as you’re able. We have plenty of room, and I’m sure Gareth would love to have a friend from home here. He hasn’t said, but I can tell he’s homesick.”

  Her mom twined her arm in Gareth’s and leaned into him as if she wasn’t strong enough to hold herself up. Considering her mom had a hard-nosed instinct for business and was a feared negotiator with an honorary master’s in manipulation, Izzy barely contained a hoot of laughter.

  Gareth wore an adoring smile and stroked her hand. “You’re too kind, Rosie.” He transferred the warmth of his gaze to Alasdair. “You must stay, laddie. We have much to catch up on.”

  “That we do.” The push-pull of another unspoken conversation had Izzy looking back and forth at them for a hint as to the topic. Finally, Alasdair said, “I would be delighted to stay a few days if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Isabel will see that you’re comfortable, won’t you, darlin’?”

  No trouble? Izzy sensed a heaping bushel of trouble—at least two hundred pounds worth—had landed square on their doorstep. She didn’t know if Alasdair or Gareth were lying or not, but her instincts hollered for her to keep digging. If her mother was blind to the tension between the two men, then it was up to Izzy to discover the truth.

  * * *

  If looks could kill, Alasdair wouldn’t have been surprised to find daggers protruding from various body parts. After grabbing his suitcase from the tiny boot of his rental coupe, he followed Isabel up a twisting flight of stairs. He’d half expected to be led down into a dungeon complete with shackles, but the room she gestured him into was warm and welcoming. A far cry from the musty, drafty, stone-walled room he’d occupied during his holidays spent at Cairndow Castle.

  Touches of Scotland abounded. A green and blue tartan shot through with pink was folded at the foot of a four-poster bed covered in homey white eyelet pillows. A picture of windswept moors with Edinburgh Castle in the distance hung over a fireplace he couldn’t imagine the temperature ever dropping cold enough to use. The modern hum of the air-con made the room feel like an oasis.

  “I’m afraid we’re sharing a bathroom. It’s through that door.” Isabel pointed at a dark brown-stained door he’d taken for a walk-in wardrobe.

  “I very much appreciate the hospitality, Miss Buchanan.”

  “Call me Izzy.”

  “But your mother called you Isabel.”

  “Yeah, but my friends … you’re right. Call me Isabel.”

  He couldn’t stop his lips from quirking up. Isabel’s emotions were tattooed across her face. This one read “suspicious.” Could Alasdair blame her? His uncle Gareth was certainly up to something. While the use of their longtime groundskeeper’s surname had been surprising, Gareth’s display of tender affection for Isabel’s mother had been downright shocking.

  He’d never seen Gareth show interest in a woman, much less be smitten by one, although he suspected he was viewing the present through a childish lens. Like most people, Gareth no doubt had a past—and present?—full of stolen kisses and crushes and broken hearts.

  Alasdair nurtured his own suspicions about the Buchanans. Was Rose after Gareth’s wealth or title? He’d run across his fair share of American women who were fascinated by British aristocracy even though the States had cast off such social mores two hundred years earlier. Rose was vibrant and charming and quite lovely for a woman of a certain age. But was his mum onto something? Was his uncle being manipulated?

  Alasdair stowed his bag next to an ornate dresser and stepped to the window. It had the same view as the sitting room downstairs, but even more expansive from the higher floor. Covered with a lush green canopy of leaves and unbroken by development, hills extended to the horizon.

  The beauty settled an ache in his chest. He glanced over his shoulder. “Does your family own all of this?”

  Isabel stood in the doorway, her feet braced apart and her arms crossed as if she were a medieval knight on guard. She softened at his question and joined him to peel one side of the curtains back, looking out the window alongside him.

  “Stonehaven abuts a state park, so it’s not all ours. You can’t see it, but a river runs through the woods and marks our boundary.” In a near whisper, she continued. “When I was a kid, I would sneak out onto the roof and dream about who and what might live out there. Fairies. Witches. Elves. I made up story after story. Daddy encouraged me to write them down.”

  With her hair wisping around her face and a tilt to her lips, he found himself staring at her instead of the view. Not only was she quite pretty, she was complicated. In the short time he’d known her, she’d displayed both a rigid loyalty and a propensity toward whimsical musings.
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  “And did you?” he whispered so as not to shatter the moment.

  Her accompanying laugh was self-depreciating and attractive, but what struck him momentarily mute was her smile. A dimple creased her left cheek, lending her a charming asymmetry. Taken in concert with her sparkling eyes and the sprinkle of light freckles across her nose and cheeks, she magnetized his gaze.

  Shaking her head, she turned away, and the loss of her smile made him want to reach for her. “They’re stupid, childish stories. Not important.”

  He gave in to the impulse and caught her wrist, his thumb glancing over the delicate skin of her pulse point. Her heart was beating too fast. Or was that his?

  “It’s not stupid to dream.” Even as the words left his mouth, it struck him that he was contradicting what he’d heard most of his life from his practical-minded mum.

  His mum hadn’t approved of his attachment to Gareth and Scotland and the old ways, and had encouraged his move to Cambridge and his rise at Wellington Financials. He had “excellent prospects,” which was a phrase his mum batted around about many things in life—jobs, social standing, women.

  How long had it been since he’d traveled from London to Cairndow to spend the weekend or even a night? Years. Somehow years had slipped by. Years he’d spent cultivating a career with excellent prospects that had left him exhausted and racing to a destination that seemed always just out of reach.

  “I’ve outgrown make-believe.” Her voice was brisk, but before she turned her back, the gaze she aimed out the window contradicted her statement.

  “I won’t be staying long, I promise.” He felt the need to reassure her somehow.

  She nodded briskly. “Good. Because we’re busy getting ready for our Highland festival.”

  “Ah, I saw the banner in town.”

  “Yep. Mom and I plan and host it on the grounds at Stonehaven.”

  “That’s generous of you.”