Wyndham

by L. L. Muir

  Bronagh knew just how the girl felt. After all, the Highlander from her fantasies had just planted himself across the table from her. She could stare at him all she wanted, and no one would think her rude.

  He smiled kindly at the lass. “Two Irish coffees and six biscuits, if ye please.”

  The girl actually bobbed before scurrying away. Bronagh rolled her eyes, thought a second, then made a mental note not to do any bobbing.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “How did you know how I like my coffee?”

  He blinked a few times. “I heard ye clear as day when ye ordered the first time. Would ye care for something more substantial? Is it time for dinner, then?” He turned to look out the windows like he expected the sun to tell him the time. But the sun had been missing from Scotland for days.

  Maybe he’s just hungry. Big fellas are always hungry, aren’t they?

  “It’s long past dinner. Suppertime will be a while yet. It’s only four, yeah?” She pretended not to notice how his bottom lip protruded a bit and sought to cheer him up. “I’m Bronagh Flannery, by the by.” She offered her hand across the table.

  His hand gently enveloped hers like a warm lambskin glove. “Wyndham, at yer service.”

  She froze, which left both their hands hovering. “Are you serious?”

  His gaze held steady. He gave a single nod with not a hint to his thoughts.

  She forced her shock into a pleasant smile. “Yeah? I have a close friend named Wyndham.”

  One of his brows lifted. “Close?”

  She shrugged a shoulder and looked toward the counter, pretending to be anxious for her coffee. “Especial. Complicated. I expected him to come today, actually.”

  “Perhaps he’ll come yet.”

  She nodded, though she didn’t believe it. For some reason, she supposed her Wyndham wouldn’t take kindly to a human competitor for her attention.

  The entire situation was preposterous, and while his attention wandered to the windows again, she closed her eyes and chided herself. Don’t be stupid. My Wyndham’s not real, ye cow. If ye want him to come, he’ll come. But she didn’t dare test it, did she?

  “Wyndham,” she said again. “Not a common name—”

  “A clan name. I’ve known many a Wyndham in my day. Scottish, Irish, Australian too. But ye can call me Wyn if ye’d like.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “My…friend answers to Wyn as well.”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “Perhaps ye should call me Mac, then, to avoid confusion.”

  “Mac…” Though she waited a few more seconds, he didn’t supply his last name. “Well, then, Mac will do.”

  They were interrupted by the barista who was very particular about the cup she took from the tray and placed ever-so-lovingly before the man. From the fumes fighting up through the thick blanket of cream that filled the top inch of his glass mug, Bronagh reckoned he’d been given a double jigger of whisky.

  “Drink that and ye’ll be stuck here for a good while, until ye’re able to drive.”

  He jerked up straight, his eyes wide as he pulled out his mobile. Grimacing, he dialed a number and made a variety of faces while he waited for the call to connect. “Wickham! Wickham, I was mistaken. I shall not need that ride for a while yet. Have ye come too far to turn ‘round, then?” His expression eased and he gave her a wink.

  Her breath caught and she wondered, for a second or two, how he could possibly be real. It didn’t matter if others could see him. It didn’t matter that the barista had spoken to him and heard him clearly. He. Could. Not. Be. Real!

  And she would never believe it until she proved it. So, while he was distracted with his call, she got up, wandered around the table, and looked him over. With his coat draped over the back of his chair, she had a clear shot of his neck, his shoulders. His shoulder-length hair had been tucked behind one ear, so his earlobe was visible.

  He was wrapping up the call, so it was now or never.

  With her heart thumping out her chest, Bronagh reached for the earlobe. But at the last millisecond, she changed her mind and clamped her thumb and knuckle around a thick muscle between his neck and shoulder—and squeezed.

  He tossed his phone onto the table with his right hand and simultaneously reached up with his left. Instead of defending his shoulder, he stretched back and caught her hand before she thought to retreat! He didn’t turn to look at her though—just held her gently but firmly with his thumb against the inside of her wrist. And for what seemed like the longest minute of her life, he just held her. And she let him.

  Oh, yeah. He was real all right.

  Someone was breathing heavily, and she was relieved it wasn’t her. In fact, it wasn’t either of them…

  The barista stood five feet away with a tray in hand, her mouth open, her eyes bulging like she was being squeezed around the middle. Two plates of biscuits had slid to one edge of the tray and threatened to go over the side.

  Bronagh cleared her throat and gave her hand a wiggle so he’d let her go. She ignored the girl and returned to her seat, avoiding eye contact with the man she’d just assaulted until she had her blushing under control. All prim and proper, she held her hands in her lap while the girl laid out the plates. The one with four biscuits went to the far side of the table with the extra dose of whisky, but she didn’t mind—she’d already eaten three with her first coffee.

  All the girl got for her trouble was a nod, however, for Mac’s attention was glued to Bronagh.

  “Go ahead then,” he said, then picked up his coffee.

  “Go ahead with what?”

  “Ye were about to explain,” he drawled in a voice too low and sexy for anyone’s good, “why ye pinched me.” His eyes laughed at her over the rim of the cup.

  She shrugged and took a swig from her own, then wiped the cream from her lips with the back of her hand. “Oh? I reckon ye get pinched all the time. Women testing to see if they’re dreaming.” She rolled her eyes to mock these mystery women as if she wasn’t one of them.

  He shook his head. “If that were the case, ye should have pinched yerself, aye?”

  He had her there. All she could do was shrug and take another sip. If there was whisky in her coffee, it wasn’t much. But it was probably better that she stay sober for what she was about to propose.

  “Forgive me.” He frowned and leaned forward to examine the sketches between them. “Ye said ye’ve drawn my face before. Is it one of these?”

  “Actually.” She stretched an arm over and straightened the top sheets. “That friend I mentioned—”

  “The other Wyndham?”

  “Yeah, well. He happens to look quite a bit like you.” She nodded, her plan forming in her mind as she spoke. “I’m certain it’s his face Loud James recognized in yers.” Though she expected him to be disappointed, he held his smile. “What I’m trying to say is that Wyndham is not so…”

  “Reliable?”

  “Something like that. I’m wondering if ye’d care to…” She gestured to the drawings.

  “Stand in for him?”

  “Precisely. Only I’d need to take ye somewheres else, yeah? I realize ye might have plans--”

  “No plans.”

  She picked up the mobile and handed it back to him. “Sounded like ye don’t have a car?”

  “I have a…sort of car service, if ye will. He can come fetch me from anywhere.”

  Truth was, Mac seemed a bit excited by her request, and Bronagh took a few seconds for a gut check. Did she really dare take a stranger to her home? Could she trust that this man would be the gentleman he seemed to be? Other than holding her hand, he hadn’t hit on her. If they’d met at a bar, could she have hoped for the same?

  His eyes were laughing again as he drained his cuppa. “I suspect we’ll have to wait until yer coffee is oot of yer bloodstream as well?” He offered one of his biscuits, and when she waved it away, he popped it in his mouth and added another.

  She shook her head and gestured tow
ard the over-attentive barista. “No worries. I suspect she lost track of which cup had the first jigger and accidentally put both into yers, yeah? I could deliver ye safely to Orkney if the North Sea were to freeze over.”

  “We may go now then?”

  Bronagh realized the sparkle in his eye probably wasn’t so much eagerness as it was his Irish coffee warming him up. “Yes. Let’s go, ye great sponge.”

  He got to his feet, scowling. “I am not drunk, Miss Flannery.”

  “Yeah? So those stars in yer eyes are for me?”

  He picked up her coat and held it open for her. “I must not admit it, but I will admit to owning a new appreciation for life. Whether or not it shows in my eyes, I cannae say.” His strange speech, at least, was not slurred. And he stood soberly by while she secured her wood case, then insisted on carrying it for her.

  True to his gentlemanly form, he offered his elbow. “I hear it is slick outside. That if ye fall, the North Wind could steal the warmth from your body and blow snow over ye in a flat minute. Ye’d be nothin’ but a great lump until spring when the groundskeepers find ye. So…best hold tight.”

  Bronagh fought the need to grin all the way to the main entrance. Someone shouted Sir! and her braw escort stopped and turned them both to face the ever-breathless barista. She held out a pair of small white sketches. “Yer friend dropped these,” she said, then handed them to him, ignoring his “friend” completely.

  It was then Bronagh remembered a couple of scraps falling out of her case and her intention to pick them up eventually. She watched for his reaction to what must be a close-up study of her muse’s hands, or his nose. He smiled kindly at the first, then blushed while he stared overlong at the second. When she realized that it must be the very detailed drawing of a sporran, she tried to pluck it out of Mac’s hand, but he held it out of reach, still staring, still smiling.

  She could have sworn her muse had the same look on his face when she’d done the drawing in the first place…

  Chapter Eight

  They fought against freezing gusts of wind all the way to the parking lot. When they finally climbed inside her car, Wyn felt as if they deserved a prize of some sort for not giving up and heading back inside. Getting used to the cold again was a bite in the arse, but he shouldn’t complain. Sensation came along with a beating heart, and a beating heart was a grand gift at the moment, especially when it raced as it did with Bronagh beside him.

  He was glad he’d had some practice getting in and out of vehicles before doing it in front of her. He didn’t want her to suspect he was new at it. She did ask if he had enough room for his legs but said nothing about the way he’d managed to fold himself over, then unfold himself inside the vehicle. And he was pleased she hadn’t brought one of those miniature vehicles he would be forced to ride on top of or be left behind.

  Now that would be cold…

  With the doors closed and her engine running, the wee space eventually warmed and she drove them away from the battlefield. Though he was completely distracted by the inch or two of scant space between their shoulders, he did notice Culloden getting smaller in the door mirror. And he wondered if he would ever return again, since his bones rested there in the expanse of turf and heather.

  Or did they?

  He looked down at his knees and became preoccupied with morbid thoughts until Bronagh’s voice brought him back to the present.

  “Mac?”

  “Aye?”

  “You all right?”

  “Grand.”

  She nodded. “I asked what you do for work.”

  “Did ye?” He wondered that himself. “Lately, I’ve been helping some lads construct some buildings at the ranch of…a friend. But I’m starting a new life, ye might say, and I have yet to decide the path I will take.”

  “Starting a new life, eh? That’s a coincidence. I’m starting over myself.”

  He sought to remain reserved, as a stranger would, and not reveal his concern. His lass did not like change, so something must be afoot. “And what is it ye do?”

  “Accountant. I know, boring, yeah? But I like the poetry of numbers falling into place, adding up precisely. Not everyone is good at it.”

  “An art form, then?”

  She smiled warmly. “I like that. Yeah, an art form. But I also like riddles.”

  “Riddles?”

  “Aye. Puzzles to solve.”

  “Ah. Find the missing pence?”

  She laughed. “Precisely. So I am thinkin’ I’d like to be a forensic accountant. Ferret out the thieves.”

  “Nail the bastards to the wall?”

  She laughed again. “Oh, no. I’ll leave that to the police. I’m not the brave type. But I would like to contribute to society and not just to my employer’s bottom line.”

  “A noble sentiment. Well done.”

  “A noble sentiment? My, eem, friend says that a lot.” She glanced between him and the road three times. “Ye know, the pair of ye have so much in common, it’s uncanny.”

  “This Wyndham fellow?”

  “Aye.”

  He shrugged. “I’d like to hear more about him. What does he look like?”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished them back again. It wasn’t fair to torture her by making her look closer, to recognize him. But every second they were together he became more and more drunk with the joy of it. The innocent brush of her hand, the smell of her warm hair—so close to him now he could taste it. It was an addiction that might leave him drunk.

  Perhaps drunk wasn’t strong enough a word…

  He’d been wrong earlier. It would never be enough to simply be her muse again. He could never go back to those days of reaching for her and watching his hand slide through her. It would be unbearable to walk up behind her as he used to do, lean down to brush his lips against her neck, and all of it go unnoticed.

  By heavens, she would notice him. And soon!

  For a moment, the desire to kiss that neck was so overwhelming he wondered if Soni had brought him back as a vampire…

  “Wyndham is about yer size. Yer coloring, I suppose. His hair is a bit darker, longer. His beard is long and grizzled, like a badger’s pelt.” She chuckled. “But I think he’s younger than he looks.”

  “He’s yer friend and ye don’t know his age?”

  She frowned at the road. “The topic never came up, yeah?”

  “A lean and fit man, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no. Not even close.” She considered for a moment while Wyn tried to recover his breath from the careless punch to his middle. “He’s a working man, ye ken? Works with his hands, I think. Something physical. Like I say, he’s about yer size.”

  He intended to change the subject quickly, before she might use a word like fat, but she kept on.

  “Like you, he has lots of lines around his eyes, but they’re not wrinkles. It’s more like…like he’s seen a lot. Maybe squinted a lot in the sun. But they also have a haunted quality. I imagine that…maybe there were things in his life that were hard to look at.”

  For a while, she drove silently, keeping her thoughts to herself, forgetting she wasn’t alone. And Wyn was touched that she spent so much time wondering about him. But as the mortal man sitting in the seat next to her, he was also slightly jealous that he was the third and unwelcome wheel.

  She blinked, then turned to glance between him and the road. Over and over.

  This is it. She will recognize me now!

  “The difference between Wyn and ye,” she finally said, “is that yer beard is trimmed to perfection—not at all like his. And what is strange is that, even though I appreciate precision and order most of the time, I adore that pelt on his chin. It makes me happy for some reason.”

  “Aye. Adoring a pelt does sound strange indeed.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his goading. Her gloved hands remained on the wheel, her expression completely oblivious of his discomfort. “Ye know, it is the only wild, unpredictable deta
il in my life—Wyn’s mussed hair and his unkempt beard. For a man, he’s a bit unpredictable as well. Emotional.” She grinned suddenly. “Maybe that’s why he’s so important to me. He can be wildly expressive where I feel I must always be in control.”

  She looked him over again, then lingered on his eyes before turning back to the road. “I suspect ye’re more like me, yeah? Reasonable because that is what is expected?”

  He nodded to keep from being contrary and turned to face the scenery washing past. But he didn’t see it. He was remembering that lass with the scissors and the electric sheers whom he’d allowed to run roughshod over him for the most part. If he’d known any of what Bronagh just told him, he’d have never sat still for it!

  For a long time, he fought to control his tongue. But in the end, his frustration won out and he inflicted a wee sting of his own. “Ye’re a lucky woman, Bronagh, to have such a friend. Someone who complements ye, someone to stand by ye and defend ye to the world. I do hope I have the chance to meet this character.”

  He reminded himself that his Irishwoman had already fallen for him once. So surely, she could do it again.

  With that reasoning to sooth his pride, he smiled innocently for the rest of the journey to her home in Inverness proper while Bronagh chewed on her lip. And while he smiled, he tried to think of a clever means of winning her heart away from that character…that used to be him.

  Chapter Nine

  Bronagh was pretty sure she’d just broken the number one rule in dating—when you’re with one man, never talk about another one.

  All right. So, technically, Wyn wasn’t a real man, but Mac didn’t know that. And for the past ten minutes, she’d made Wyn the topic of conversation. She wasn’t any closer to knowing Mac and he hadn’t gotten to know her. So, as far as dating was concerned, she’d completely blown it to smithereens.

  Not that she’d intended to date anyone.

  She reminded herself that, for the past half year, Wyn had been enough for her. Sure, it wasn’t a healthy relationship to have, but she truly was in love with him. And sure, she’d spent hundreds on a therapist, but that was to keep her sane while loving an imaginary man. Even from the beginning, she’d never intended to give him up.