by L. L. Muir
“Lass?” His voice was calm, quiet.
She didn’t answer.
“What game do ye mean to play here?”
Thankfully, he couldn’t hear her blush. But still, she said nothing. Let him wonder if she had gone.
It was a thick old door and very little chance he had heard her gasp. She should sneak upstairs, then stomp back down, pretend to bring him an extra blanket or something. Make him doubt what he’d heard. She could claim the door sticks sometimes. After all, she had to let him out so she could watch his face while she got her answers.
“Yer mistake, Bronagh Flannery, was in assuming I wouldnae wish to play it.”
His silky, growled words reached her easily, as if there were no door at all between them. It was like he was kissing her again, breathing against her cheek again!
The shadow shifted only a little, but then she saw the light coming through the keyhole. The rather large keyhole.
He knew she was still there because he’d been watching her!
Shock and shame sent her fleeing up the stairs, knowing her pounding footsteps gave her away. But she felt the devil himself was within that room, and the more distance she could put between herself and temptation, the better.
Chapter Eleven
There were times in Bronagh's life when her mind would stop working altogether. A mood would hit her and she's toddle off to the office supply to find a new pen, a crisp new ream of paper--a fresh sketch pad and pastels--and when confronted with myriad choices, her brain would stall out. And after a long hour or two of standing before the displays, with her thoughts caught on a never-ending loop, she'd finally have the wherewithal to wrench herself away. She'd be forced to return another day when maybe her brain was working correctly.
It happened regularly enough that she suspected the phase of the moon might have something to do with it. But not so regularly that she spent much time investigating the triggers of those episodes.
That night, faced with far too many options for what should, could, or should not happen with the creation she'd locked in her basement, her brain slipped into freeze mode.
Inconvenient, that.
Through so many such episodes in her thirty-four years of life, she'd learned that her brain could be reset much like a computer. She needed only to turn it off and turn it on again.
With such a singular predicament facing her, she turned to her usual remedy by setting her alarm for twenty-four minutes and lying on her bed for a cat nap. The lovely braw man in the basement would have time to consider his predicament while she reset her brain. In twenty-four minutes, she'd wake and know just what to do.
She’d owe him an apology. He owed her answers. But neither of them could get what they wanted until her head was clear.
Twenty-four was a magic number. A mind game she had to play to make sure she fell asleep...efficiently. Four minutes to relax. Twenty minutes to sleep. Set and check.
She slipped off her tights and skirt, then kicked her legs between the cool sheets, to warm them with a little friction. She buried her arm beneath the pillows and welcomed the chilled cotton against her heated face.
Breathe in and out, in and out, in and out. No rush. No worrying. Just appreciate this precious time…to reset, to breathe in…and out, in and out...
Wyndham was intrigued. Bewildered, but intrigued. He could imagine all sorts of interesting reasons why the lass would lock him inside the room for the night. The most likely and least exciting was caution for her own safety while she slept. After all, he was a stranger who’d already taken advantage of her lips.
If she had him locked away, she'd be able to sleep in peace. It made perfect sense. But if peace was all she needed, she could have simply said so. He could have called for his ride and gone.
Unbeknownst to her, Wyndham knew her well enough not to fear her motives. They'd enjoyed hours-long conversations in their seven meetings on the moor. There wasn't an evil bone in her lovely body. Not a nefarious motive in her lonely Irish heart. In fact, her only flaw, if he called it a flaw, was her push for perfection.
How many times had she drawn his hands, his arms, his face, then declared them disasters when in point of fact, they were accurate renderings of each wee detail? How many times had she copied the lines in his face as well as any mirror could have reflected, only to declare that nothing was ever perfect enough?
Poor lass.
He let that worry go for the time being and got back to the dilemma at hand. Why had she chosen to keep him near when she was so clearly devoted to Wyndham the Muse?
A wee bright light of hope lay at the heart of the question—obviously, Wyndham The Muse left her wanting for something more than just a cooperative set of eyebrows. And if that were true, it meant there was room in her life—and hopefully her heart--for Wyndham The Man. All was not lost!
“All right, Highlander,” he murmured aloud, “all ye must needs do is remember how ye won her heart the first time.”
Truly, he’d expected that kiss to have gone far to winning her. As for himself, it was perhaps the most wonderful moment of his life—any of his lives! It was something he’d yearned for as a ghost, but never expected to come to pass. Once their lips had parted, however, she’d turned away, denying him the chance to watch love blossom in her eyes. In mere heartbeats, thoughts of “the other man” had washed the romantic gesture away.
No. Passion was mercurial. It was devotion he sought.
Since he could grow back neither his “pelt of a beard” nor his wild hair in a timely manner, he would win no competitions with his appearance. But since the soul he competed against was no leaner than he was, at least his size wouldn’t be at issue.
His Bronagh wasn’t concerned with earthly goods, so a fat purse would do him no favors. Lucky, that. She already had a sense of his wit and his honor. At the very least, she trusted Mac enough to allow him to stay the night, albeit behind a locked door. But it did bode well that she wanted to keep him near, and truth be told, she didn’t seem as concerned about those painted eyebrows as she’d let on.
She needed to check them in the morning? In the light of day?
She’d been lying through her pretty teeth!
Wyn shook his head and paced while he gripped his shortened hair at the back of his head, preventing his elbow from upsetting the lamp and bric-a-brac each time he turned. “I have her attention then. But what must I do with it? What did the muse do?”
His feet stopped as if they’d found the answer and simply waited for his mind to catch up.
What did the muse do?
He remained at the moor, apart from her for a month at a time!
The old adage repeated over and over in his mind—absence makes the heart grow fonder. And fondness was precisely what he sought. It was pointless to believe he could stay away from her overlong, and certainly not for an entire month. He was mortal now, and the passage of that much time would drive him mad. But she’d already revealed herself when she’d locked that door. He had no doubt she’d think of him often once he was gone again.
The memory of their second meeting came to mind…
Covered in layers of jackets and woolly mittens, prepared for any weather September might choose for the day, she’d hurried onto the battlefield and quickly set up her easel by the bench, then called quietly to him. He’d been pleased when she’d been able to see his form immediately. With a shameless sigh, her shoulders had dropped with visible relief.
“I’ve missed ya,” she said by way of greeting. “I should have come on the 15th, but I have a routine I must follow, ye understand? I spend the day at the coast on the 15th.”
He shook his head, not understanding at all. But it was just the first of many times she mentioned how dependent she was upon routines in her life. And luckily for him, he’d become part of one.
“I’m going to paint you.” She patted the seat next to her. “A big portrait. Nearly lifesize. Something haughty, Raeburn-ish.”
He sat and
leaned close while pretending interest in her case that sat on the ground on the opposite side of her knees. What dire price he would have given to have tasted her lips that day. “Paint me? But ye’ve brought no brushes, no paints.”
She shook her head and waved him back, believing he was somehow under her control. “I need to study ye first. And the canvas will be too big to bring here. I want to study yer face today…” She’d already started drawing faint lines on her large notebook, but her hand fell away and she turned to face him head on. “I tried to get ye to come to me at home. I tried a dozen times a day, for a while.”
She blushed and hid her eyes for a moment while he struggled for the right way to explain what he really was. Not the muse she’d imagined, but an actual ghost unable to leave the ground into which his life’s blood had spilled completely.
“I worried ye wouldn’t be here, either. That my imagination wasn’t up to the task, yeah?” She frowned and gestured toward the field with an open hand. “Maybe I need the spirit of this place to see ye clearly.” She frowned even harder. “Tell me ye’re not hanging about my house, listening to me, watching me like some stalker.”
She shook her head and her expression cleared.
“Of course not. It’s not like ye have yer own motives, yeah? It’s not as if my muse would desert me to go inspire other artists. Ye’re a part of my psyche, I know. But ye seem so real to me, I forget.” She laughed. “I know I’m losing my mind, but you know what? I don’t care.”
A decision Wyndham had made earlier that day began tugging on the tail of his conscience like a wee child demanding his attention. The fresher memory was enough to bring him back to the present and make him instantly ashamed. It was the choice he'd made in the men's toilet, to walk away instead of complicating Bronagh Flannery’s life.
But shame was not enough to make him give her up now.
Oh, he planned to walk away all right, but only for a short while so she would miss him. As Mac, he’d crossed the threshold and was well and truly in her life now. She was an intelligent woman. A clever lass. When he gave her the truth one day, if he gave her the truth, he could help her deal with the shock. After all, what was a little mental strain compared to the needs of the heart?
Her heart, his conscience needled, or yer own?
He opened the bureau drawers one at a time, searching, while he took a pair of deep breaths and considered his answer. But alas, for the life of him, he didn’t know.
Chapter Twelve
Light seeped through Bronagh's eyelids and dared her to wake. She groaned and rolled her face away from it. A few more minutes is all she needed to finish off her dream. She'd been so close. He'd finally bent down low enough to kiss her. She needed only to close the distance, to take matters into her own hands...
But the dream was gone. She tried in vain to put herself back into the scene, but she was already forgetting where it had taken place. Was it the basement? The cafe? Definitely inside somewheres.
Oy. Pathetic.
She flung the covers away and forced her eyes open. The light glaring in around the sides of her curtains was too obnoxiously cheery to be anything other than morning. She'd had a lie-in then. What day was it?
“Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit,” she said, out of routine. An old friend told her it was supposed to be good luck to say it first thing, on the first day of the month, the second you woke. But since she never remembered, Bronagh had started saying it every morning just to be safe.
Nope. Not today. Yesterday was the first. A Tuesday. Today is Wednesday then. Sheriff is going to lose it. In fact, why hasn’t he called?
She looked at her mobile. Dead as a doornail. He wouldn't be happy about that eith--
Holy shite!
The previous day bloomed instantly in her memory like a flower opening in a time lapse. Boom. There it was. Every little excruciatingly embarrassing detail.
She had locked a Highlander in her basement, believing he was the incarnation of her muse, for feck sakes! And her twenty-four-minute-nap had turned into hours! He was going to slit her throat or see her hauled off to jail!
“Gah!” She slipped on her robe and slid her feet into her slippers before heading for the stairs. “Coming!” There was little chance he could hear her, but she shouted it again. One thing about sleep, it really did help clear her head and make her feel normal again…
She flung open the basement door, but with a foot hovering over the top step, she paused, stepped back, and headed for the kitchen. Any conversation in the morning would go better with coffee--even a bad conversation.
Especially a bad one.
Ten minutes later, she hurried down the steps. In her hands, she carried a tray chuck full of half-assed breakfast foods. Three quick-fried eggs, reheated tattie scones from a takeout box, four half-roasted tomatoes with the burned bits hidden against the plate and a rather dry slice of back bacon. Sad, but there wasn't a baked bean to be found in her cupboards, but he couldn't bloody expect a complete Scottish breakfast from an Irishwoman, could he?
She stomped down the last few steps to announce herself, sucked in a brave breath, and marched up to the bedroom door. The barrel lock was just as she'd left it. She took just a second or two to listen, but not a whisper of movement came from inside.
For a long time, she stared at the door and negotiated. If he made a sound, she'd knock. If she heard nothing for another minute, maybe she should let him sleep?
Ye great git! Do it!
She rapped a knuckle on the door. “Mac? Listen. I’m ever so sorry about last night. I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly at all. Ye see, what ye don't know is that yesterday, I quit my job. So when we first met in the cafe, I was half out of my head, yeah? Ye may have noticed, but I have a serious case of OCD, and…well, for a moment or two, I just needed to be in control of something. Unfortunately, that something was you.
“Then last night, I was embarrassed ye caught me lockin' the door, so I ran away. I intended only to catch my breath. I closed my eyes for a moment, set my alarm and all, but my phone died. And, eem...” She took a deep breath to give her own ears a break. “Are ye awake?" After a pause, she rapped on the door again though much harder than before. "Mac? Are ye awake?"
He couldn't have gone out the window. Only a wee bairn might have fit through it.
She sat the tray on a pile of boxes and reached for the slide lock. He might be holding his tongue and lying in wait for her, but she figured she deserved a good scare after what she'd put him through.
"I can't blame ye for being angry with me. But maybe ye can understand…" She braced herself and pushed the door open. "I've made ye some coffee and a shoddy attempt at a Scottish breakfast..."
The room was empty. The covers on the bed were undisturbed. He'd either made it up again or he'd never so much as sat on it.
The door to the loo stood open, the room dark beyond.
"Come on out of there now. Let me have it if ye must." She could imagine him hiding just inside, ready to jump out and scare her witless. "I don't intend to stick my head in there, so give over, yeah?"
Nothing moved.
"Fine, then. I'll not have made breakfast for nothing, though, so I'll be eating it myself." She had yet to meet a man or lad who wouldn't rise to a threat to his food. So she turned and stepped back into the hall, absolutely expecting to be surprised from behind. But still, nothing.
The door had been locked from the outside. Only a ghost or mouse could have slipped under it, but before she let her mind go looking for trouble, she considered the lock again. A Post-it was attached to the wall beside it. She hadn’t noticed it before.
THE HINGES ARE ON THE INSIDE.
With another peek in the room, she found a hammer and screwdriver on the bureau. An old toolbox sat beside them and she laughed with relief. At least he couldn't be too angry if he'd gotten himself out right away. But she was also disappointed he hadn't left a phone number on the note so she could call and apologize.
At least
she didn’t need him for any more posing. Even without natural light, she knew the eyebrows were perfect. And it was their perfection that had sent her over the edge the night before.
So Mac was gone. A real man, who had found a reasonable manner of escaping the basement and had walked out of the house on his own two legs. He wasn’t an incarnation of Wyndham, and she hadn’t lost her mind. Well, not permanently.
She ignored the pang of disappointment that she’d probably never see Mac again and instead, was grateful she hadn’t awakened to the police breaking down her door.
She chuckled and turned off the lights. With the slice of back bacon clamped between her teeth, she headed up the steps with the tray in hand. Eating someone else's breakfast sounded like the perfect way to start her hunt for a new job.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Bronagh finished eating, she was glad Mac had escaped. Her attempt at a proper breakfast would have had a mortal man running out the door in any case. At least this way, he'd never know how close he'd come to food poisoning.
Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t had takeaway from Pandora’s Kitchen in over a week, so the rather greasy tattie scones might have been rancid. After taking one bite, she’d gulped down the still-hot coffee and hoped the temperature would sterilize any bits she hadn't spit into the bin.
Her mobile rang. It was her therapist.
The usual arrangement included a phone call the evening after her days with Wyndham on the moor and a therapy session on the sixteenth of the month, after spending the day on the shore. But Bronagh had forgotten to call-in last night. She let it ring a couple times while she debated answering, but in the end, she knew it would be cruel to make the woman worry.
She tapped on the green button. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Morning, Bronagh.”
“Ah, yes, it is morning, isn’t it? I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I…was distracted.”