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

by Laura Trentham

  The woman’s back was to Izzy. She was trim and wore a black, tailored pantsuit with an easy sophistication. Her blonde hair was swept into an elegant chignon. While her chronological age was a mystery, she had a timeless air about her.

  Alasdair glanced up and caught sight of Izzy. His gaze widened and darted between her and the woman he was talking to as if debating whether to make a run for it. She hoped he did so she could kick off her heels, hunt him down, and tackle him to the ground like a wild banshee.

  She flanked him, not sparing the woman a moment’s attention, and met Alasdair eyes with an unflinching gaze. “I have a good mind to dump you naked in the mountains without a blanket to hide behind this time.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alasdair struggled for words. Isabel’s honeyed accent held a new bitterness. Obviously, Isabel had discovered something, but what? He would have to stall until he could get her alone and feel out the situation.

  “Mum, this is Isabel Buchanan. Isabel, I want you to meet my mum, Fiona.” The polite introduction seemed to take Isabel aback. Or maybe his mum appearing in Highland attributed to the shock. He had certainly been gobsmacked to see her standing on the edge of the crowd during their dance.

  “I take it my son has somehow earned your ire?” His mum’s accent was posh and British compared to his brogue. Neither did they look alike. He was dark where she was fair, but there was something in her strength of expression that he’d noted in the mirror.

  “He’s earned a good kick in the pants.” Her gaze shifted back to him. “When were you going to tell me the truth?”

  Which truth was she referring to? He took an educated guess. Plus, it was easier to throw Gareth under the huge double-decker bus bearing down on him. “Gareth being my uncle changes nothing. Except for the fact he’s not Cairndow’s caretaker, but its owner.”

  Isabel’s jaw slackened. “Gareth’s your uncle?”

  Bloody hell. He’d chosen poorly, but backtracking wasn’t an option, especially with his mum staring back and forth between them, her face a mask of fascinated horror. “His name is actually Gareth Blackmoor, the ninth Earl of Cairndow.”

  “He’s been lying to my mom since the day they met?” Isabel said more to herself than him.

  While true, Alasdair couldn’t let the harsh statement stand. “Yes, but only because he wanted your mother to see the man and not the title. I don’t think he expected to…” He didn’t want to lay his uncle’s heart out for examination.

  “Expected to what?” his mum asked.

  Both women’s gazes bored into him, and a nervous sweat broke across his neck. “Only Gareth can answer that. Isabel, I swear he was planning to tell your mother after the festival.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe anything you promise after you’ve been plotting behind my back to leverage Stonehaven for your corporate overseers?” Isabel was righteous in her fury, her eyes stormy with lightning meant to strike him dead on the spot.

  His life was falling apart like a sand castle being wiped clean by a wave he should have anticipated, but had caught him by surprise. He thought he’d have time to fix everything, but his time was up.

  Had George gotten to her? Alasdair had half expected him to make an appearance, but hadn’t seen him since the parade. “That was a misunderstanding.”

  She made an unbelieving guffaw. “So Wellington wanted to assume control over our loan for altruistic reasons?”

  He mouthed a curse, earning him a pointed look from his mum, which he ignored. Upsetting his mum with choice language was the least of his worries. He should have guessed. Assuming loans was a common enough method of persuasion, if not a little devious.

  “How did you find out?” he asked.

  “Sterling, the bank’s loan officer, is a friend. He doesn’t want to see me or Mom hurt. Not that you would understand the novel concept.” Sarcasm dripped like acid from her voice.

  “I swear I didn’t know Wellington was trying to acquire your loan.”

  “You knew there was a plan afoot.” It wasn’t a question.

  Alasdair was losing her. His lips were dry, so was his mouth and throat. His body was numb. Had all the blood drained out of heart to puddle at their feet?

  “I didn’t intend to lie to you. I never thought we would”—he glanced toward his mother—“connect the way that we did. I assumed getting Gareth home would be a simple matter of bundling him back to the airport. When it wasn’t, I decided it would be prudent to discover as much as I could about your circumstances.”

  “And that meant gathering information on our financial situation?”

  “Something like that. It was intended for my information only, but the man I asked to handle the research took it to my superior instead of sending it to me.” The anger festered in his voice.

  “You feel betrayed too? Good.” Isabel pushed past him, scanning the crowd.

  Alasdair did the same, in a race to find Gareth and Rose before Isabel, but it was too late. She nimbly dodged through the crowd whereas he was left to bulldoze a path. He didn’t notice his mum on his heels until he halted, and she bumped into him.

  “Sorry, Mum.” He was apologizing for a myriad of things but mostly because he had disappointed her.

  “For what?” She stopped him with a hand on his arm, her expression unreadable.

  “I’ve made a hash of things. If you haven’t caught on yet, my job at Wellington is over. I plan to quit if Richard hasn’t already left a message firing me. Even though I thought I was doing the right thing, I’ve hurt people. People I care about a great deal. You came all this way to see me fail.”

  Her mouth softened into an almost smile. “Darling, I came all this way because you obviously needed me.”

  He took a breath. “How…?”

  “Your recent calls have been rather enlightening as was your text informing me you were staying through the games. I did some research and booked a flight. If everything turned out to be fine, I decided I could use a fun weekend away from London.”

  He’d never thought of his mum as an emotionally intuitive person, but he was discovering he’d been wrong about a lot. “I care about Isabel. More than I can fathom. I told myself it was only a fling, but I knew it wasn’t even from the beginning.”

  His mum’s smile reflected the same melancholy in her eyes. While it held notes of sadness, there was a solace to be found there too. “You remind me of Rory in the best possible ways, Alasdair.”

  It had been a long time since his mum had spoken his da’s name aloud to him. “I thought you hated Da.”

  “I did.” She arched her brows with a familiar haughtiness. “But, I loved him too.”

  He glanced over at where Isabel was holding forth with Gareth and Rose. Gareth’s face had blanched behind his beard. “Uncle Gareth requires reinforcements. Can we maybe talk more about Da later?”

  His mum nodded. “Of course.”

  Alasdair shouldered his way to Gareth’s side, his mum hovering in the background. Rose’s body was stiff as she shuffled to stand next to Isabel, facing them. They had assumed their battle lines.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Rose ran a trembling hand over her forehead.

  Assuming Isabel had launched all her accusations, Alasdair accepted his kamikaze mission. “Rose, please don’t blame Gareth for my misstep. My sole purpose in soliciting information about Stonehaven was to protect my uncle. This was before I got to know the two of you and realized…”

  His brain went numb as he processed what’d he’d learned about Isabel and himself over the last two weeks.

  “And realized we were easy marks? Too trusting? Simple and unsophisticated?” Isabel’s anger was fed by hurt. Knowing he was the cause clawed at him, leaving wounds that might never heal.

  “I realized how special you are. Please know that I tried to stop what I’d put into motion.” He wanted to touch Isabel and comfort her. If he tried, he had the feeling he’d end up curled up in physical pain on the floor.
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  “After everything we shared, why didn’t you tell me your real name, Gareth?” Rose’s pale-faced disappointment was somehow worse than Isabel’s fury.

  Gareth stumbled on his words before find his voice. “I … You … It was nice not to be the ninth Earl of Cairndow for a little while. I planned to tell you after the festival. I promise you I did.”

  “How can I believe you now?” she asked.

  “By remembering everything else that I’ve said to you. You know in your heart I didn’t lie about anything else.”

  At Rose’s contemplative silence, Gareth lifted a hand, but Rose took a step back from him, reaching blindly for Izzy’s arm. “The festival kicks off in the morning. Izzy and I can’t deal with this right now. If you’ll excuse us.”

  Gareth, Alasdair, and Fiona followed the Buchanans out the door and into the still-humid night. Gareth gave it one last try. “Rosie, please.”

  “Perhaps after the festival we can discuss the matter, but not now. I don’t have the time nor energy.” Rose glided away with the bearing of a queen, and Izzy followed with the barely veiled aggression of a bloodthirsty knight.

  Alasdair stared until Rose and Isabel disappeared into the shadows. He’d known the literal moment of truth was coming. He had tried to prepare for it. Had tried to mitigate the fallout. But nothing had prepared him for the pain and hurt and betrayal he’d caused Isabel.

  “You lads need a drink,” his mum announced as she herded them back through the door. “Come on then. My treat.”

  Wearing his years heavily, Gareth slumped his way to the bar. Similarly shell-shocked, Alasdair let his mum take charge. She handed them each a whisky neat. The three of them raised their glasses in a silent toast and knocked them back. His mum signaled for three more.

  “After Rose has a chance to cool down and consider the situation, you can reason with her and throw yourself on her mercy.” Alasdair slipped an arm around Gareth’s shoulders for a bracing shake. “I don’t think Isabel will ever forgive me and rightly so.”

  His mum made an unladylike noise and tapped her empty glass on the bar top. “Women will forgive worse sins than the two of you have committed if they love you. I know from experience.”

  Gareth cleared his throat. “Fiona. I’m—”

  His mum held up a hand. “No. I’m not here to ruminate over past misdeeds committed by either one of us. Or by your brother.”

  “Then, excuse my bluntness, Fiona, but why are you here?” While a truce tempered the air between then, Alasdair could remember the anger on both sides after his da’s death.

  “I was worried about the two of you, of course,” she said.

  “Worried I’d make the mistake of marrying an American?” Gareth asked bitterly. “There seems little chance of that.”

  His mum studied Gareth for a moment before turning the intensity of her blue eyes on Alasdair. “For goodness sake, I’ve never seen such glum faces as the two of you are wearing. The battle may be lost, but not the war. Not while you have me on your side.”

  “Isabel hates me, Mum. I’ve lost her.”

  “You’re not a quitter.” None of his mum’s confidence was wearing off on him.

  “Except, I informed you not ten minutes ago that I’m quitting my job.”

  “Pish-posh.” His mum waved off his evidence based-argument.

  “After all your talk about American tarts, I don’t understand why you aren’t thrilled about the outcome and bustling both of us on a plane back to London.” Alasdair thunked his glass onto the bar and threw his hands up.

  “I might have overreacted a smidge to Gareth’s abdication.” His mum had the grace to look chagrinned. “It’s just that you’ve lost so much, Alasdair, I didn’t want you to lose the one thing your da left you.”

  “Are you saying if I marry Rose, you’d be content with an American countess?” Gareth’s incredulity was fair, considering his mum’s first reaction to his flight from Cairndow.

  “Of course. I was only concerned you were being taken advantage of.”

  Alasdair had doubts as to the virtue of her concern, but he’d let the matter lay. “What about Isabel?”

  Warmth flared in his mum’s eyes. “When you told me she was funny and smart and mole-free, I knew you cared for her more than you would ever admit to me. Maybe even yourself. All I want is for you to be happy, Alasdair.”

  In that moment, he forgave her for all the times her overbearing protectiveness had chafed. She had done what she could to keep him from being hurt in the only way she knew how.

  “Rosie’s not answering my calls or texts.” Gareth slipped his mobile back into his jacket pocket and slumped over the bar, his chin propped up on his hand.

  “Give them time,” his mum said with a wisdom Alasdair wanted to buy. “Another round of whisky?”

  Alasdair hesitated. “I’m competing tomorrow for Laird of the Games.”

  “Feats of strength to impress Isabel is not the worst idea I’ve heard.” His mum patted his arm. “But not the best either. We’ll think of something, but right now, we need a place to stay the night. I’ll be back.”

  Alasdair wouldn’t be spending the night in Isabel’s bed. He might never feel her cuddled next to him or kicking him or have her hand flop his face in the middle of the night ever again.

  Before Alasdair could curl up on the floor in a fetal position, Holt, the eggplant farmer, sidled up to Alasdair’s elbow, his fair skin ruddy from his own alcoholic indulgences. “Is it true what they’re saying?”

  “What are they saying?” Alasdair asked.

  “You two are royalty.” Holt gestured between Alasdair and Gareth with a hand holding a glass, whisky sloshing up the sides.

  Gareth barked a laugh. “Not hardly. The Blackmoors were a thorn to the English for centuries. We hung onto our land and title through schemes and a bit of luck. It didn’t hurt that Cairndow is impregnatable. Never been breached by any enemy. Except mold.”

  “Gareth is the ninth Earl of Cairndow. I suppose someday—not anytime in the near future, mind you—that I’ll be the tenth,” Alasdair added.

  “The Buchanan ladies seemed a mite upset over the glad tidings,” Holt said with a sarcasm Alasdair hadn’t realized he possessed.

  Gareth dropped his head into his hands with a groan at Holt’s pronouncement, and Alasdair didn’t see any reason to give Holt further ammunition by admitting his misdeeds went even further.

  “I’m sure you’re thrilled. You can swoop in and console Isabel.” Alasdair took Gareth’s unfinished drink and emptied it in one swallow followed by a chaser of bitterness at the image of Holt wooing Isabel.

  Holt raised a shoulder in a gesture that struck Alasdair as strangely Continental for a bean farmer. “Izzy is pretty and nice and close to my age. Those are few and far between in a small town like Highland. I thought, why not give it a shot? But after seeing the way she looked at you at the pub, I realized Izzy and I would only ever be friends. And that’s okay.”

  A rush of empathy flooded Alasdair. Loneliness radiated off Holt. It might have been the whisky talking—no, it was definitely the whisky talking—but he found himself patting Holt on the shoulder and saying, “You’re a good-looking bloke, Holt. You’ll find the perfect lass someday. What about Anna?”

  “Anna?” A laugh burst out of Holt. “She’s pretty and all, but she’d make a terrible farmer’s wife.”

  “I couldn’t imagine leaving London until I came here and met Isabel.”

  Holt made a throaty sound between humor and disbelief and sipped at his own drink. “Are you saying love conquers all? Please.”

  Another whisky miraculously appeared in front of Alasdair. Who was he to turn his back on a miracle? He drank deeply. “Love? No, of course not. Ridiculous. I’ve known Isabel mere weeks.”

  “My dad said he knew the first time he met my mom that she was the one. The one.” Holt’s snort was squarely in the camp of disgust this time. “Luck is more like.”

  Alasdair
’s mum returned from wherever she’d been—maybe consulting with her boss in the Underworld?—and clapped her hands to get their attention. “Every room in town is booked, but I met a nice gentleman who has offered us accommodations.” She pointed, and everyone turned to see Dr. Jameson waving merrily to them.

  “Why should we bother sticking around? Isabel will refuse to see me tomorrow,” Alasdair said glumly.

  “You could win her back,” Holt said from over Alasdair’s shoulder.

  Gareth stood and threw his arm across Holt’s shoulders for support more than comradery if Alasdair had to guess. “Yes! Win her back, laddie.”

  “And how would I accomplish that?” Alasdair asked.

  “Feats of strength, o’ course.” Holt’s Southern accent had grown thick with whisky and honey.

  Alasdair made a gesture toward Holt and addressed his mum. “See, he thinks it’s a good idea too.”

  “Yes, but all three of you are sozzled.” His mum sounded more exasperated than angry.

  The laugh that rumbled out of Alasdair only confirmed his mum’s assessment. Holt tapped him on the arm with a vigor that veered painful.

  “All you have to do is win tomorrow and receive your prize from Izzy,” Holt said as if it were as simple as showing up. “She’ll have no choice but to talk to you.”

  “Great plan,” Alasdair said dryly. “Except, I have no chance of winning the games. You’ll beat me handily.”

  The three men were quiet for a moment considering the problem of Alasdair’s lack of experience at Highland games.

  His mum made a scoffing noise. “It’s obvious, isn’t it, darling? You’ll have to cheat.”

  “Mum!” Had his mother been taken over by aliens?

  But Holt nodded and wagged his finger at Alasdair’s mum. “Yep. She’s right. I know what I can do: lose on purpose.”

  “Why would you do that for me?”

  “I don’t know.” Holt rubbed his chin and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling like any good philosopher before favoring him with a boyish, lopsided smile. “Prolly cuz I’m drunk.”