A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  Muffled shouts and the blaring of a horn permeated the room through an opened window to drown her out. Everyone in the room turned to look, then froze in horror as a feminine scream and toddler’s shriek filled with air.

  “Aw, son of a bitch.”

  Tris and Hazel both gaped at Brontë.

  Language, she reminded herself.

  She handed baby Carrie back to her mother. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  Turning, she ran to the stairs and raced down them, holding her skirts in one hand and digging in her purse with the other. How had she let this happen? She’d gotten distracted by Hazel, then the baby. Been thrown for a mental loop by Tris’s appearance when she hadn’t expected to see him at all.

  Cousins?

  Not that it mattered, she reminded herself.

  Nothing mattered except setting things right.

  “Mrs. Hughes! Wait!”

  “Shit,” Brontë muttered under her breath this time and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Having some experience with Tris’s speed and willingness to sweep her off her feet in the worst possible way, she waited for him to reach her despite the urgent situation outside. Time was on her side, after all. “Yes?”

  “Perhaps you should wait here,” he said as he caught up then strode past her. “This may be no sight for a lady to witness.”

  “What do you mean no si...?” The absurdity of what he meant registered. “Hold on. Are you saying I’m not man enough to witness a car accident?”

  He blinked in surprise. “Madam, there may be conditions present to upset your deli —”

  She cut him off with a raised hand. “If you’re about to say the words delicate sensibilities, I may have to vomit all over you.”

  Shock left his jaw dangling.

  “Better than me saying I’d have to kick you in the balls, isn’t it?” she ground out. Screw language. Screw blending in. He’d never remember a thing anyway.

  Because this conversation would never take place. For him. If only she could be so fortunate.

  He cleared his throat. “This is an emergency situation, madam. Level heads are —”

  “Oh my God, you’re really going to go there, aren’t you?” She wasn’t prone to it, but modern feminist indignation flooded her, nearly choked her. It might be 1914, but she’d never imagined getting a front row seat to the sexism of the time. “I’m more than capable of keeping my head in a crisis, Mr. MacKintosh.”

  “Madam, I’m sure you’re quite capable.” His tone said otherwise.

  Before outrage could leave her speechless, she swept a hand toward the door. “By all means, big manly man. Go save the world.”

  She waited until he finished waffling and ran out the door, then followed. She dialed back her time travel device, cursing him under her breath all the while. In the street, Tris joined a small group of men clustered at the front of a long, sporty motorcar while a toddler on the far side of the road wailed for her Papa in the arms of a woman in a gray dress and white apron. Hyacinth and her nanny, presumably. The sight tugged at Brontë’s heart. She longed to go to the child and comfort her, tell her everything would be okay.

  Better to simply make everything right so that the girl would never have to cry like that. Battening down her fury, she evaluated the situation. Let’s see, the car was angled in front of a carriage with a team of four horses. If she were reading it right, the car driver sped around the slower carriage and hit Henry. On the far side of the larger conveyance, he may not have seen it coming.

  No problem. She had this.

  TWENTY MINUTES EARLIER

  Tris lounged on the blanket propped on one elbow watching Henry toss a ball to his daughter. Toss being a strong word. As they were a scant two feet apart and his friend reached out before lobbing it gently, he might well be passing it to her. He rather appreciated Hyacinth’s enthusiasm on the return volley, however. The toddler hurled it directly at her father’s face with a contagious giggle.

  Henry fell back on to the grass with a pained grunt. Fake or real, Tris wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, the sight roused his own humor.

  “Well done, Hyacinth,” he cheered. “You’ve defeated him handily.”

  His friend pushed himself back to his knees, dabbing at his nose. “I say, no concern for the vanquished?”

  “You deserve it for dragging me out here to play with children when we could otherwise be playing golf with my uncles this morning,” Tris told him. “Waste of a fine day.”

  Dusting himself off, Henry rose to his feet and retrieved the ball to begin the whole process again as the daughter clamored, “Again! Again!”

  “A fine morning to spend time with my daughters,” Henry countered. “Besides, Hazy deserves time for a visit with the aunts and we can play a round or two this afternoon. And you needn’t act as if you aren’t enjoying yourself. I know for a fact, you play with your nieces and younger cousins on a regular basis. Voluntarily, I might add.”

  Tris grunted. “Voluntarily is a matter of perspective. I’ve so many, I’ve no choice in the matter. They’re underfoot no matter where I step. Since you’ve embraced fatherhood, I’ve lost my only safe haven.”

  “Perhaps you should try embracing fatherhood, as well,” Henry suggested. “Then escape would become nonsensical.”

  “Or far more necessary,” Tris shot back rather than go another round with his friend over the many merits of marriage. Pressure from all fronts on the matter had been the theme of the season this year.

  Laying back against the blanket they’d spread on the grass, he tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the bonny, bright blue sky above. It really was a fine day. Setting club to ball might have been a splendid way to enjoy it. On the other hand, this wasn’t so bad either. A chance to clear his mind of business, to relax. He didn’t do much of that these days.

  When his mother wasn’t dwelling on his unfortunate state of bachelorhood, his workload was her favorite complaint. No one understood how he relished the challenge of his ever-evolving business interests over the past few years. From shipping to banking to invention. He’d begun with the sole intention to build a fortune for himself. To claim an identity beyond his family name and connections. He’d been full of piss and frustration back then.

  In the past couple of years — indeed he could precisely pinpoint the moment — his vision for his future had become as dark as the North Atlantic on a moonless night. Of late, he didn’t precisely know what it was he sought. Something more alluring than days spent at a desk. Something more rewarding than numbers in a bank account. No matter how they grew.

  A few months ago, he’d begun endowing the Burgess Company who’d become the first licensed commercial aircraft manufacturer a few years before. Tris anticipated the day he could take flight himself. Find a measure of freedom and exhilaration he hadn’t been able to find anywhere else. His family thought him mad, reckless. Not a one would risk his life by travelling through the air.

  Then again, most of them had found a sense of contentment he lacked in his life.

  “Hazel tells me we’ve received an invitation for a house party at Glen Cairn,” Henry said as he continued to toss the ball to his daughter. Tris was glad to know the mundane activity wasn’t enthralling enough to fully engage the mind of a doting father.

  “Aye,” he answered. “My uncle Dorian has decided to join the war effort. The party is to send him off.”

  The recent declaration of war against Germany and Britain’s moral obligation to support her allies had provided Tris a pathway from his discontent. Though they’d seen no battles as yet, preparedness was a true British maxim. The past few months had sparked industry and invention, and Tris meant to have a hand in its advancement. His connection with the Burgess project had led him to begin a correspondence with The Marconi Works in Chelmsford regarding their development of an aircraft telephone transmitter to allow for communication with the pilots in flight.

  With the prospect of war looming over the sum
mer, he’d begun tinkering with the functionality of the radio systems, investing his time and not only his fortune to move the possibilities of radio transmissions to greater heights. The expedient advancement of technology was vital, not only for short-range communications within the British army and between her allies on the Continent, but long range as well.

  Undoubtedly when the actual fighting began, the allied forces would put Germany in its place and the war, as it were, would be short lived. For the moment, at least, the importance of his work had provided Tris a problem to be solved. A sense of purpose.

  While he spent day after day living the outward life of an idle, wealthy gentleman.

  With little more to do than lay around watching a grown man scamper...aye, scamper after a toddler and push a wee infant around in her pram like a nursemaid.

  The bairn in question began to fuss. Awakened from her nap, no doubt, by the high-pitched squeals of her older sister.

  The greatest excitement of the day, a wailing child.

  The greatest conundrum, how to get her to stop.

  With a sigh, Tris rose to fetch her from her carriage. The actual nursemaid, who accompanied them outside, beat him to it.

  “I’ve got her, sir.” The nanny fussed over the baby. “It may be too hot for the wee lassie now. She’s looking flush. Shall I take her in, my lord?” she called to Henry.

  Henry trotted over to examine his infant daughter and nodded. “May be best.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tris offered, brushing off his hands.

  The nanny shook her head in vigorous protest. “Oh, no, sir! I’ll take her.”

  “I don’t mi...” His words trailed off as he noticed a woman in a purple dress hurrying along the perimeter of the circular park at the center of Moray Place.

  “Sir?”

  “Aye, you go ahead then.” He absently waved the nanny off.

  He had another calling at present.

  A flash of something truly intriguing.

  Vaguely he heard Henry assure the nursemaid that they’d be along shortly. His attention was absorbed by the other woman. The way she ran with her skirts lifted in one hand jogged a memory long forgotten. She met up with another woman identically dressed, right down to the plumes on her hat. With a frown, he started in their direction. They looked like twins, though he was too far away to be certain.

  Either way, one — or both — of them resembled someone he hadn’t seen in more than two years. Aye, he recognized her.

  It took a heartbeat longer to recall the circumstances of their first encounter.

  What the bloody hell?

  Chapter 8

  HAVING WARNED HER OTHER self of the problem and sending her around the opposite side of the circle in case she ended up not quite succeeding again, Brontë retraced her steps back around the curved drive toward the location where the accident would soon take place.

  Through the trees, she could see Henry playing with his daughter, the nanny sitting on a blanket nearby. She hadn’t spotted them upon her arrival before. Then again, she hadn’t been looking around for them, her focus on the door she’d been determined to pass through. Tris had been there with Henry moments before stretched out on a blanket. She didn’t see him there any longer.

  Not that she needed to. Or wanted to.

  There was no sight of the car or the carriage on the road as yet, so she looked ahead for an advantageous position from which to pounce and save the day.

  “Are you lost, miss?”

  “Shit,” she muttered under her breath as the man in question stepped out of the cluster of trees.

  He studied her from head to toe, and as they had in the house, his eyes flared with recognition. “So, it is you. Come to vandalize another vehicle or flatten another tire, have you?”

  Must he be so handsome? She didn’t need the distraction lest she fail again in her undertaking. The past couple of years — aka two days — had only served to amplify his masculine appeal. The new maturity in his face, the last hint of boyishness gone. He’d filled out, too. His tan linen coat stretched across broad shoulders, the sleeves were tight hinting at muscular biceps.

  Even his tightly buttoned reserve and fierce frown couldn’t detract from his appeal. Beneath his thick brows, his eyes were sharp, intelligent and carried more heat than she could handle right now.

  Tall, dark and handsome. He was everything a girl could want, if a girl were looking.

  If a girl weren’t related.

  How distant did a cousin need to be before it wasn’t gross anymore?

  No, no, she scolded inwardly. Remember what you’re here for. Save Henry. Tris wasn’t a part of that equation. Forget about attraction versus relation, those absurdly sexist remarks had truly rankled.

  She wrinkled her nose at him with a sniff. “Don’t you have some other woman you can go subjugate?”

  His brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, no offense bu —”

  “No offense?” If possible, his brows inched up a notch further. “How was that not offensive?”

  “You want to talk offensive?” she shot back, her annoyance over his chauvinistic words ratcheting up again in response. “How about assuming a woman can’t step up in an emergency situation? Or can’t handle the sight of blood?”

  He shook his head. “What are ye nattering about, lass?”

  At the honeyed tones of his incredulous brogue, she shed her flash of irritation with a sigh. “I’m sorry. That might have come from an angry place.”

  And how could she be mad at him for something he hadn’t even said yet? Besides, his response was probably typical of any man in this era. Women didn’t possess the basic right to vote yet. What more could she expect?

  “An angry place?”

  Brontë nodded and looked up at him. So far up. He had to have been a few inches over six feet at least to dwarf her like that. To make her feel so petite. Feminine.

  Helpless.

  That rubbed her a little sideways, too.

  “Listen, Mr. MacKintosh, I’m glad we’ve had this little chat. I am, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got places to be.”

  With that, she continued on her path around the park. The nanny was packing up the blanket. Henry was on one knee before his daughter. Given the mulish look on Hyacinth’s face and that protruding bottom lip, she didn’t want to be told it was time to go in. Brontë scanned the road ahead. No sign of the carriage or car yet.

  “How did you know my name?” he asked as he fell into step beside her. “I don’t recall an introduction on our last meeting.” He frowned and continued before she could answer. “And about that... Did you know the ship we were scheduled to be aboard went down with a horrific loss of life? The circumstances of your previous visit prevented us from being on board.”

  “You’re welcome, but I didn’t do it to save your oh-so charming self,” she told him, tearing her eyes away from his just in time to spot the carriage coming around the circle. “I did it for them. Not that it mattered.”

  The car roared out of the side street to the mews and crowded the carriage from behind with an impatient honk. A quick glance told her Henry was nearing the curb, his daughter trotting along next to him with the ball while the nanny followed behind.

  Tris looked up as well and lifted his hand in an absent wave to Henry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Feeling his questioning gaze on her, she kept her eyes glued to Hyacinth as the toddler dropped her ball and it rolled into the street.

  “Now I have to save him again.”

  BEFORE TRIS COULD QUESTION what the lass meant by her peculiar words, she dashed away. Not to disappear this time. Hyacinth chased her ball into the street and Henry rushed to yank her back from the approaching carriage. A second later, the blaring of a horn sounded as the impatient driver of the motorcar whipped around the far side of the carriage straight at Henry. The woman hurled herself at him full tilt and tackled him to the ground as the vehicle sped by.
r />   Leaving behind a flattened ball where Henry had stood.

  Now I have to save him again.

  How had she known? Had she simply seen the vehicle approaching and deduced the outcome? Was anyone so astute? Did anyone possess such foresight?

  Leaping forward, Tris ran to help the pair up from the cobbled road where they lay in the street. Thankfully the carriage had stopped. Though the horses fidgeted petulantly, they didn’t advance to trample Henry and his improbable heroine. The driver of the carriage leapt down from his perch to help. His passengers also descended, ostensibly to offer their assistance. They stood back to gape at the spectacle. Their exclamations of astonishment filled the silence as Tris lifted the woman off Henry, where she sprawled across him, panting softly.

  “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” a murmured litany from her lips.

  Tris carried her back to the curb as Henry rose to his feet and joined them, dusting himself off. Setting her on her feet, Tris wondered how to examine her for injuries without exceeding the boundaries of propriety. “Miss, are you injured?”

  “No.” She looked dazedly from the street to her feet, flexing her arms and squinting at a bloody scrape on her palm. “Nope. I’m good. I’m all good.”

  “You’re all good?” He shared a baffled look with Henry who was on his knees comforting his daughter.

  “I did it,” she said under her breath and then lifted her head to grin up at him. Her hat had fallen off, the loose knot of hair on top of her head listed dangerously to the side and Tris swore he could see hints of pink on the ends of some of the dangling strands. Despite the feat she’d achieved and the danger she’d faced, her smile was broad, and her bonny eyes danced with triumph that accelerated his already quickened pulse.

  ’Twas the excitement of the moment, nothing more, he thought. A life and death state of affairs that set his heart pounding, now tragedy was averted. Because of her.

  “Ha! Who excels in emergency situations now, huh?” She lifted her hand above her shoulder and presented him with her open palm, her expression expectant.