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

by Laura Trentham

  “Everything is for sale, Alasdair, if you know what leverage to apply. You taught me that.”

  And the pupil becomes the master, Alasdair thought sarcastically. “There is no leverage here. It’s a family estate and not for sale.”

  “Lesson two: There is always leverage.”

  Alasdair closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the muck he’d raked get deeper. “I would count it as a personal favor if you’d leave it alone, George.”

  “I might be persuaded to drop the matter, but Richard has the scent and he won’t give up. You know how he is.”

  Richard was a bloodhound when he was after a property, tenacious and obsessed. Alasdair pinched the bridge of his nose, still sore from the knock it took that morning. “What are you after with this stunt?”

  George gave a mirthless laugh. “A promotion, of course. At first I was hoping if you got promoted, I would get slotted into your job, but now I think I could leapfrog you for the VP position. Richard really likes me. Says I have untapped, raw potential.”

  “Go fuck yourself, George.” Alasdair ended the call. That had been foolish. He should have soothed George and manipulated him into mitigating the damage, but Alasdair had lost patience with George and Richard and himself.

  Alasdair needed to quit faffing around and get a commitment from Gareth on when he was returning to his duties at Cairndow. Then, Alasdair could return to London, squash George like the roach he was, secure his promotion, and resume his life. Such that it was.

  He made his way to the back door, stopping when two figures came into focus through the glass. Rose and Gareth clasped hands, nose to nose, illuminated by the sun. He clutched the plaid in his hand and stepped to the edge of the patio, presenting his back to the couple, feeling as if he was intruding.

  A soft breeze from the north eased the heat of the afternoon sun, and he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The door behind him creaked on its hinges, but Alasdair remained planted, unable to let go of the brief peace.

  Gareth joined him and stared over the field toward the woods, his hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his feet.

  “Everything alright, laddie?” Gareth’s question called forth memories of coming in soaking wet or muddy from afternoons running wild at Cairndow. Gareth had never scolded him or restricted his explorations. Alasdair had been free at Cairndow. These days he felt weighted down by chains he didn’t know how to escape.

  Maybe a good start was to unburden himself. “No. I messed up, Uncle Gareth.”

  “How so?”

  “I asked someone at Wellington to work up financials for Stonehaven. It was supposed to be for my information only, but the file got passed on to my boss.”

  Gareth ran a hand down his face. “Why did you ask in the first place?”

  “To protect you. I was worried about you.”

  Gareth was quiet for a long moment and when he spoke, his voice was thick. “Ach, Alasdair. I appreciate the sentiment, but there’s no need.”

  “I realize that now, but the damage is done. My boss wants Stonehaven for one of Wellington’s biggest clients. A Saudi with unlimited capital.”

  “Rosie will never sell,” Gareth said firmly.

  “Wellington has a long reach and can make things difficult for Rose and Isabel.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know, but I’ll certainly try.” Dealing with Richard as an adversary rather than an ally would be a challenge. A challenge that may upend more than his chance at a promotion no matter if he won or lost. He could very well lose his job entirely.

  “Let’s keep this development between the two of us for now,” Gareth said. “It may fizzle into nothing. I don’t want Rosie to fash herself over something she can’t control with the festival approaching.”

  “Secrets aren’t good.”

  “But sometimes necessary to keep those you love from heartache,” Gareth said matter-of-factly.

  Alasdair was keeping his half-brother secret from his Mum and Gareth for that very reason. But secrets weighed down the keeper and someday would crush him.

  “I see Timmerman got the plaid in.” Gareth took the fabric and shook out the sample into a large square.

  The change of subject was welcome. “He said it was the family tartan. Does it belong to the Blackmoors?”

  “You might not remember, but there’s a portrait in the gallery of Roderick Blackmoor, your many-times great-grandfather wearing tartan in a pattern very much resembling this. It was painted sometime after 1746 while the Dress Act was being enforced. Quite a rebellious—some might say foolish—thing to do. He could have been arrested.”

  “Just for wearing a kilt?”

  “After the Jacobite uprising, the English looked to squash any nativism of those who lived.” The bitterness in Gareth’s voice surprised Alasdair.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a revolutionary?”

  Gareth’s grin gleamed white but there was still an air of defiance about him. “Blackmoors are born revolutionaries.”

  Alasdair let out a long breath. “I’m not, but then again, perhaps I’m not a proper Blackmoor.”

  “Now that’s a load of codswallop if I ever heard it. You just don’t know what you’re rebelling against.”

  “I’m not rebelling against anything.”

  “Not yet, my lad.” Gareth tapped the side of his nose. “But battle lines are being drawn inside of you.”

  A battle. That was a good way to describe the way his internal organs reorganized themselves on a regular basis since stepping foot in Highland.

  “Tell me more about Roderick Blackmoor.” Memories of Gareth sitting on the side of his bed in the turret room of Cairndow tread close enough to catch. Alasdair didn’t remember the details, only the feeling of being caught up in an adventure that was all the more exciting because it had actually happened.

  “Roderick was a scoundrel.” Gareth’s brogue settled into the rhythm of a master storyteller. Of course, he’d had plenty of practice while giving tours of Cairndow. “He was handsome and charming and had all his teeth, or so they say.”

  “What a catch,” Alasdair said with good-natured mockery. “The lasses must have gone mad for him.”

  “It’s said the woman he married used a love potion to gain his attention, but it must have been almighty powerful, because he loved her until his dying breath. Annie was her name. She bore him ten bairns.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t die with Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  “Ach, no, but his left hand was cleaved clean through by a saber at Culloden. It’s said he wrapped it in his plaid and kept fighting, taking down another dozen Sassenach before he succumbed to blood loss. The story goes that Annie traversed the battlefield searching for her beloved Roderick, finally finding him half buried under the bodies of his kinsmen. She hauled him to Cairndow and nursed him back from the dead.”

  “Is there a portrait of Annie Blackmoor in the gallery? Sounds to me like she’s the hero of this story.”

  “Aye, it does, doesn’t it?” Gareth chuckled then added. “Unfortunately, her face is lost to history, but it’s said all the Blackmoors take after her. I imagine her with silver eyes and hair as black as a raven’s wing standing guard over Cairndow.”

  It was an unusually romantic thought coming from his usually practical uncle. But then again, what did Alasdair really know of Gareth’s heart?

  A sudden longing to set foot on the land that had belonged to the Blackmoors for hundreds of years welled up and filled the hollow places that London had carved like a stream eroding the bedrock of his history. He was homesick for a place that had never truly been his home.

  Or had it? Cairndow had been his safe place. His favorite place. Riding beside Gareth as a boy along the two-lane road that wound through the moor had always lit sparklers of excitement in his chest. He’d learned to ride a horse and climb a tree. He’d had his first kiss and got foxed for the first time. He’d learned t
o drive in Gareth’s old Land Rover. So many firsts. So many good memories he’d tried to bury after his da had died.

  “After Da died, I shouldn’t have…” The regret cut keenly into Alasdair’s heart.

  “No need to apologize, lad. Life is complicated and yours more than most.” Gareth continued to stare into the woods and beyond, maybe all the way to Cairndow. “Your da made some foolish decisions, but he was my brother. I had to stand beside him, even in death.”

  “Mum was so hurt, and I was mad. So angry at what he’d done.”

  “I was too, but it didn’t stop me from loving him.”

  “Didn’t stop Mum either, which made things even harder for her.” Alasdair hesitated. Gareth had the right to know about his nephew, and after speaking the truth to Isabel, Alasdair had found a new courage. “Speaking of secrets, I’ve been keeping a big one for a few years now.”

  “From me or your mum?”

  “From everyone.”

  Gareth shifted toward him, tension pulled his mouth taut. “This sounds ominous.”

  Easing into the confession would only be more painful, like taking baby steps into the cold waters of the loch at Cairndow. Better to plunge straight into the deep waters. “Kyla was pregnant when Da died. You have an eleven-year-old nephew in Glasgow named Lewis.”

  Gareth’s mouth gaped slightly, and he shook his head. Not sure whether he was in denial or merely processing the information, Alasdair went on. “I hired an investigator to track her down a few years ago. I wanted to connect with my half-brother.”

  “How did you know?” The question could have been applied to many of the facts.

  “I confronted her after the funeral. I was furious she’d turned up and upset Mum. My outrage was immature and misplaced, but I was young. I was ready to blister her when she started crying and told me she was four months along and that Da had told her he was thrilled and they’d marry as soon as legally possible.”

  “Christ Almighty. What did you do?” Gareth murmured.

  “I accused her of lying. Insulted her. Was generally a git. I ran home to tell Mum everything, but when I looked in her eyes, I knew it would break the last bit of her spirit. So, I said nothing.” In a smaller voice, he added, “Did nothing.”

  “You’re doing something now, though, aren’t you?” Gareth’s eyes held no judgment, only thoughtfulness.

  “Nothing significant. Lewis and I text and video chat. I’ve been to Glasgow a few times to see him. Considering how badly we treated Kyla, she’s supported our reconnection.” Alasdair took the tartan fabric from Gareth and ran his hands over the soft weave. “I want to bring him to Cairndow. Would you allow it?”

  “Allow it? I’ll welcome you both with bagpipes and a feast.” Gareth smiled but his eyes gleamed with sadness and his own regrets. “Does he favor your da?”

  “He looks like all the Blackmoors. Dark hair and gray eyes.” He and Gareth exchanged a telling glance. “Kyla married and has two other children, but she’s never lied to Lewis about who his da was. The other kids though … they can be cruel about such things. Although, Lewis seems to bear up well with the teasing.”

  “Did Kyla give him the Blackmoor name?”

  “No. His stepda is good to him and is Lewis’s father for all intents.” The revelation settled into knowledge and a new purpose. “Speaking of Cairndow, when do you expect to return?”

  “After the festival, I promise,” Gareth said. “I’ll tell Rosie the truth and hope she can forgive me.”

  “I would think she’d be delighted to find out you’re an earl in possession of a remote Scottish castle,” Alasdair said dryly.

  “Except, she is Highland royalty in possession of a remote American estate.” Gareth’s tart reply did little mask his worry. “Even if Rosie forgives my lying, she’s bound to Stonehaven as surely as I’m bound to Cairndow.”

  A platitude wouldn’t solve the very real conundrum.

  Gareth squinted against the sun. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “When are you leaving for home?”

  It took Alasdair a heartbeat to realize home meant London. My home is London, he reminded himself. His flat was there. As was his mum. And his job—for the moment.

  Nerves squirmed in his stomach. “I should have already left Highland.”

  Gareth shifted to regard him with fatherly eyes. “Yet, here you stand.”

  He’d done his familial duty. His uncle was of sound mind—his heart was another matter entirely—and wasn’t being taken advantage of by Rose. In fact, Alasdair had never seen him so content and happy.

  In addition, he could do more to protect Stonehaven from Richard’s machinations in London than over the phone. There was every reason to book a flight, yet … here he stood.

  Alasdair took a deep breath of pine-scented fresh air. Blue-green shrouded mountains stood sentinel in the distance, so different than the craggy, sparse peaks of the Highlands, but they offered the same escape and protection as Cairndow.

  “I was due a vacation,” Alasdair finally said.

  “Is that what this is?” Gareth’s gentle prodding was like picking at a newly formed scab. “Stay for the festival.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Says who?”

  It was a question Alasdair couldn’t answer, even to himself.

  Gareth’s gaze softened with amusement and not a small amount of pity. He gave Alasdair’s arm a squeeze. “Can I interest you in a trek through the woods to the river after it cools down a wee bit? It’s quite lovely.”

  Getting lost in the woods sounded heavenly. “I’d love that. Maybe you can tell me more stories about our ancestors.”

  “Excellent. I’ll let Rosie know our plan.” Gareth retreated to the house.

  Alasdair gave one last longing look toward the mountains and did the same, relieved not to see anyone. He stepped into his room and leaned against the door. It felt like a sanctuary.

  His thoughts whirled as if his world had been knocked askew and was spinning into the great beyond. A shower might not help reorder things, but after spending his afternoon stuck in a stuffy closet and outside baking in the sun, he could at least be confused and clean.

  All was quiet and the bathroom door wasn’t locked when he turned the knob. A whoosh of steam clouded his vision for a slow blink. Isabel scrambled for a pink towel and held it over her front. His hungry gaze devoured her from head to toes despite a voice ordering him to retreat.

  “The door was unlocked.” He pointed as if she might not know what and where the door was, his voice sounding scrambled.

  “My fault. I forgot to lock it.” The noise that skittered out of her was a poor imitation of a laugh. “Nothing you haven’t seen before considering the string of women you’ve dated.”

  He swallowed air, his mouth so dry he couldn’t form words. The steam-clouded mirror was clearing from the bottom up with the burst of cool air from his room. Like an old-fashioned peepshow, the steamy mirror was revealing her bare bottom inch by glorious inch.

  Now, not only was his mouth absent any moisture, but all blood flow was directed away from his head, depriving his noble impulses. Finally, he raised his gaze to the ceiling, knowing the slightly fuzzy reflection of her ass would forever haunt him.

  “You’ve probably seen many naked women. Enough to fill a dinner table.” She paused as if expecting a response he was unable to formulate. “A van?” Another pause. “A school bus? A concert hall?”

  A laugh hissed out of him like a teapot reaching a boil. “Not a school bus or concert hall. Unless you count digital women.”

  “Lord have mercy, that means you’ve seen a van’s worth of women in the flesh?”

  This time his laugh tamed the indecision that had plagued him since Gareth had asked about his departure from Highland. And Isabel. “And how many men have you seen? In the flesh and not online, that is.”

  “For your information, I don’t peruse internet porn. I would die if I had
to explain to Mom why my browser history was populated by man porn.”

  Unable to control gravity’s pull on his gaze, he glanced down. She’d wrapped the towel around her like a toga, covered from chest to knees. A gentleman would close the door and allow her privacy. Instead, he forced her to make the move, backing to lean against the wall of his room. She didn’t pull the door shut, but stepped forward until she was on the cusp of entering his room clad only in a towel.

  He remained still, other than his hands, which clenched and unclenched. He was a patient spider, hoping she’d wander into his web. “Not a van load of men then?”

  “A sedan maybe.” The corners of her lips quirked into a crooked little smile, revealing a tiny dimple in her left cheek.

  Only the left. Did other such anomalies exist elsewhere on her body? Were her freckles scattered evenly or did they cluster like constellations on her stomach or shoulder or hip? He should stop himself from wondering about things he wouldn’t have a chance to discover.

  Her gaze wandered to the floor and she fiddled with the place where her towel was tucked. For one brief moment of heart-stopping rapture, he envisioned her tugging it loose and letting the towel puddle around her feet.

  She tucked the edge in a little tighter and finally met his gaze. “Listen, about the closet situation…”

  Referring to a kiss as a “situation” couldn’t be good. “Situations” called for a response like a vaccine or a bombing campaign. “What about it? Should I apologize?”

  “No, of course not. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. In fact, it—” She bit her bottom lip.

  He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her words loose. What was it? Thrilling? Arousing? Sexy?

  “—shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Of course not. After all, I’ll be gone soon.”

  Emotions flashed like scattered snapshots. “Have you booked a flight home?”

  “Home” was proving a difficult construct. No pets or houseplants livened up the sea of white and gray the expensive decorator had called masculine and classic and perfect for entertaining. He never entertained. “Not yet, but I have … things waiting for me in London.”