Tris laughed aloud at that, leaning back in his chair. “You and Hazy have been after me forever and a day to court a lady. Don’t think I don’t know why we always have a young, unmarried woman in our company.”
“If I thought courting Brontë was all you had in mind, I would have left you to it,” Henry retorted as he poured himself a cup of coffee and added far too much sugar and cream to it. He stirred it slowly, arching a brow at Tris. “Don’t think I don’t know how to read you by now, my friend. It was clear as day you wanted to bed her.”
His friend raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. Tris grimaced for more than one reason. “I can see why Hazy refuses to let you keep coffee in the house. You abuse the beauty of the brew.”
“I would say I only enhance it,” Henry countered and took another sip before setting the cup aside. “What I can see is that you’re avoiding the topic at hand.”
Folding his newspaper and setting it aside, Tris rocked back further in the chair until the front legs lifted off the ground. Forward and back again he rocked as he considered his friend’s solemn countenance. He wasn’t an unspeakable rogue given to seducing innocents as Henry was well aware. “It’s not like you to feel compelled to warn me off a lady. Not since we were both after that barmaid at Cambridge, at any rate. What makes Miss Hughes the exception?”
“She is my wife’s cousin.” Henry lifted a shoulder to meet the tilt of his head as if he didn’t entirely understand it either. “Beyond that, I have an affinity for the lass. I can’t explain it. However, I mean to keep her safe.”
As she meant to keep you, Tris thought. And succeeded.
“Very well.” He swayed forward until the chair was on all four legs once again and pushed away from the table. “Not that it matters as the lass in question has departed, but I give you my word I’ll not attempt to lure her to my bed.”
What looked to be a sly grin lifted the corner of Henry’s lips, though he lifted his cup once more to guzzle the remaining contents and hide the smile. Returning the cup to the sideboard, he clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Thank you. Are we ready to be off to the train station then?”
Tris frowned, suspicious of his friend’s suddenly buoyant demeanor. “Aye. My trunk has already been taken out. Why?”
“My motorcar is full with Hazy, the wee lasses and their nannies. If you’d be so good as to assist, I’ll need you to take our guest up with you.”
“What guest?” he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.
“Why Miss Hughes, of course. She’s decided to accompany us after all.”
And the bloody devil had locked him into an intolerable promise.
THE SIGHT OF TRIS MACKINTOSH after a full week away took Brontë’s breath away. Buttoned up three layers deep, from jacket to waistcoat to shirt, and knotted up to his starched collar, he was more handsome than she remembered, and she’d been certain that her memory exaggerated his appeal. If anything, it had failed her.
He strode toward her where she awaited him in the mews, not far from where he’d dropped her in the mud not long ago (for her, at least). His light grey suit so impeccably tailored to his powerful body, she swore she could define each muscle of his thighs. See each breath lift his chest. When he swept off his felt bowler, she could certainly discern the astonishment lingering in the mossy depths though Henry had assured her Tris knew of her ‘decision’ to stay on for the house party.
“Miss Hughes.”
“Mr. MacKintosh,” she responded with a hint of sarcasm, holding out her hand to him as she’d seen some of the ladies do at the theater. “You look surprised to see me.”
“I confess I am. I thought you’d planned to leave.”
“Plans change.”
He took her hand and kissed it lightly making her regret the ivory gloves Hazel had insisted she wear. His hands were bare this morning. Strong, tanned fingers clasped hers firmly. She could see the strength there, feel the callouses on his fingers and wondered what an investor did to have such hands.
Wondered what it would feel like to have them on her.
Echoes of sermons about taking chances and embracing opportunities rang nonstop in her ears. For all Granny’s encouragement and Aila’s prodding, leaping straight into Tris’s bed wasn’t her first priority. Securing Henry and Hazel’s future was. After that was done, she’d have time to contemplate something more.
If he proved amenable, that is.
For all his warm looks and flattering compliments, he’d yet to offer any outward indication that he’d be interested in engaging in a bit of fun between the sheets. There was a difference between opportunity and stupidity. With that reminder, she tugged her hand from his and rubbed her fingers together to rid herself further of the after effects of his touch. She’d wager the sensation would linger much as his kiss had in the days following her return home.
Returning to 1914 this morning, after days away, had been seamless from their point of view. It had been a simple matter of setting herself back to the moments following her original departure and claiming she’d changed her mind about staying. She told them she’d sent a telegram to her grandmother informing her of her decision to stay on and asking her to ship up her belongings. Hazel had kindly invited her fictional grandmother to join them. Brontë assured them her granny was happy to continue on to London where close friends awaited her, knowing she was in the company of family.
No one had been the wiser of her time away.
Except her.
She’d missed them. All of them.
“Did you do something with your hair?”
Catching one of the fine ringlets behind her ear, she wrapped it around her finger self-consciously. She’d dyed it to cover the last of the pink ombre and added a faint highlight. Neither Hazel or Henry had noticed the subtle change in her hair color. The maid Hazel assigned to help her had only noticed when she’d taken it down to brush it this morning. How could he tell when most of her head was covered by a wide-brimmed hat?
“Hazel’s maid Maddie did my hair this morning. Do you like it?”
His gaze meandered a slow path from head to foot, taking in the outfit Hazel had lent her, along with trunksful of clothes to take to the country with her until her own arrived. Though they never would.
The ensemble was comprised of a form-fitting, thigh-length, seafoam green linen jacket that fastened with a single large button at her waist. It was edged with wide bands of Bucks point lace down the front, bottom and cuffs. Other bands of the lace were inset down the front panels to follow the lines of her body giving the illusion of an hourglass figure. A flattering pattern she’d have to remember if she had a chance to use it in a costume someday. She wore a matching skirt beneath it and a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with silk flowers and the same lace.
For a woman used to leggings and sweatshirts, the outfit seemed absurdly feminine. Whether she was able to accurately read him or not, however, the appreciative look in his eyes made her feel beautiful.
“You’re as bonny a sight as this lovely day,” he assured her.
Brontë smiled at the fulsome flattery. “Thanks. That green vest suits you. It brings out the color of your eyes.” He raised a brow, and she shrugged and patted his chest. “Tit for tat. I told you the other...er, last night I’m unused to inequitable interactions. You compliment me, I’m compelled to compliment you right back.”
Tris shifted his weight from one foot to the other and she swore she almost saw a blush darken his swarthy cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I dinnae like praise for the sake of praise, lass.”
“Nor do I,” she told him. “So I hope you were as honest in your opinion as I was in mine. The color does flatter you. You look quite handsome in it.”
“And ye’re quite honestly the bonniest lass I’ve seen...all morning.”
Amusement bubbled up inside at the qualifier. “Touché. Now are you going to drive me to the train station or not? The others went ahead with the directive
that we’re to follow behind without delay. I’d call all this kowtowing a delay, wouldn’t you?”
Something fluttered in her chest when he threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Always in a rush. That is an Americanism I’m all too familiar with. By all means, let us proceed. That is, if you mean to allow us to make it to the train this time?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a grin that belied the innocent denial.
“Of course not.” He might have intended to let it go with that light teasing. Once roused, however, the subject prompted a troubled frown. “There is nothing...er, pressing then that should delay our departure?”
“No.” She consoled herself in the knowledge that she’d answered his question honestly. The train itself was not the problem. Besides she didn’t want him to worry. “It looks like a beautiful day to travel.”
His expression cleared. “Good.” Taking her arm, Tris lead her to his bay in the mews where his driver and mechanic awaited them. “Miss Hughes, I’m certain you remember Andy.”
“Fondly,” she teased and held out her hand to greet him. He looked taken aback by the gesture, his eyes skipping to Tris and back again. Taking a step back, he tugged at the forelock of his hair and turned to open the car door.
Not of Tris’s two-seated Stutz Bearcat (she’d Googled it while she was home). This one was long, white and about as sleek as 1914 could possibly offer with a bright chrome trim, a distinctive hood ornament and intertwined ‘RR’ on the grill even she could recognize. “A Rolls?”
His grin was proud. “I can’t imagine how you guessed it.”
“Me being a girl and all?” she asked with a raised brow and when he shrugged noncommittally, added for a bit of remuneration. “Did your daddy buy it for you?”
His brows lowered and a heated flush darkened his countenance. “I’ve made my own fortunes, Miss Hughes.” The moment the stern comment passed his lips, his expression cleared. “Ah, you mock me, I gather.” His head bobbed in grudging acknowledgement. As if he were stroking a well-loved pet, he ran his hand up the high-arching bumpers. “They call it the Silver Ghost. I confess I’m rather enamored of it.”
Amusement had her shaking her head. “Boys and their toys.”
Some things never changed.
She climbed into the back seat since Andy was holding the door for her and thanked him. The tan leather top was down, given the warm, clear day. She ran her hands over the tufted leather seat, trying to hide how impressed she was. In any time, a Rolls was a Rolls. It might lack modern perks and tech, but it did have style. “Come on, Tris. Stop petting it and let’s go.” Another flush and he climbed in next to her while Andy took the wheel. “If you love the old girl so much, why aren’t you driving?”
“Andy will drop us at the station then bring the motorcar up to Glen Cairn so that I might have use of it while we’re there,” he told her.
“I mean, why not simply drive it there yourself?”
He frowned as they left the mews and drove through the sun dappled streets. “’Tis a long drive, lass. Were I traveling alone, such a fine day would make it a pleasant one for me.”
“I can’t decide if it’s the idea of my company that’s deterring you or if you somehow believe the fragility of the female species makes the journey an impossible one.” She paused. “I warn you, neither one is a good reason.”
His frown deepened. Taking her warning to heart or trying to come up with an alternative? “My family is expecting us for luncheon. The train is far more expedient than the drive.”
Good one, though there was enough hesitation in the explanation for her to suspect he made it up on the fly. The question it brought to her mind was how the train could be faster.
“We’re going to Glenrothes, aren’t we?” Hazel had mentioned the MacKintosh family home on her previous visit, and she’d found it on Google Maps the other day. It was only thirty miles north of Edinburgh. “That’s less than an hour away. Hardly a marathon drive.”
“It would take well over three times that long,” he corrected her.
“Why? Unless this thing can’t get over fifty miles per hour?”
Maybe it couldn’t. Brontë wasn’t familiar with the land-speed records of early automobiles.
Tris looked affronted. “It’s got forty or fifty horses under that hood and can manage more than eighty miles per hour. Not as fast as my Bearcat but respectable.”
“True.” She thought through the distance unable to make sense of it. In a race, it would be a tie or close with the added bonus of continuing straight to his family’s home without transferring from train to car again. “Then I can’t see why it would take so long.”
“The particulars of the area must truly have faded in your memory,” he told her. “From here to the Kincardine Bridge north of Falkirk to cross the Firth of Forth alone is more than an hour at top speeds. Then eastward again to Glenrothes more than another hour. Unless you think the ferry is faster. I assure you between wait time and travel time, it is not.”
“Probably not, but why not just use the Forth Road Bridge to cross the firth?”
“Road bridge?” he repeated. “The Forth Bridge is solely a rail bridge.”
“Not the rail bridge. The car brid —” Brontë stopped herself, trying to remember when the bridge was built. The Queensferry Crossing Bridge had opened recently so the Forth Road Bridge had to be pretty old. Maybe not that old? She chewed her bottom lip trying to recall.
“Miss Hughes?” he prompted. “While there has been debate for quite some number of years to add another bridge over the Forth, it hasn’t yet been approved.”
“My mistake,” she said brightly. “Oh look. We’re here.”
Thank God.
Assimilate, she reminded herself. Assimilate. If she kept making gaffs like those, he would never relax his guard and trust her. She needed to watch her tongue and her choice of words.
Then again, she wanted him to know the real her, too. A delicate balance. And easier one if she refrained from questioning irrelevant tidbits like bridges and ferries.
Enthusing over the short, train trip ahead to cover the blunder, she was glad when Andy finally pulled to a halt before the depot which was a far cry from the bustling intersection of a dozen trains and light rail systems in her time. Not to say it wasn’t busy. Up to a hundred travelers hurried up and down the platform. Some carried small suitcases, others pushed carts with larger pieces of luggage on them. Some were porters, but the passengers themselves all looked to be dressed in their Sunday best. It reminded her of old photos she’d seen in documentaries about the early airline industry. Everyone dressed up for the event.
As was she.
Brontë smoothed a hand down her light weight jacket and gathered up her purse. Absorbed in the chaos around her, she got out of her side of the car before Tris or Andy could open the door...forgetting her resolution to go with the flow of the times. Riveted by the sights, she took note of the different suits and gowns with a tailor’s eye, and mentally listed styles she liked or details she admired. Someday, she hoped to work a production where she could employ all she learned from this time. Not many opportunities in theater. If she went back to the movies...
“Back to that, are we?” Tris caught her arm and looped it through his. “Andy is seeing to the trunks. Shall we find the others?”
She nodded, letting him tow her through the crowd to the front of the waiting train. To the first car, in fact. In front of it, the massive black engine bellowed out heavy clouds of steam from its stack as well as from the sides. It looked like the Hogwarts Express.
A repressed, nerdy thrill shot through her.
“This way.”
Tris gave her a hand up the steps into the first carriage. The passage was dark and narrow but paneled in rich walnut. On each side, doors opened into private berths with plush velvet benches facing one another. They found their companions in the third one on the right. Their two nannies occupied the one directly acros
s with the two girls. Henry, who’d been sitting next to Hazel in the forward-facing seat when they arrived, rose when they entered.
“There you are,” he said with some relief. “They were harking the final boarding. I was afraid you’d miss us.”
“Miss Hughes has a habit of dawdling,” Tris told them.
“Me?” Brontë protested. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop caressing your car like some long-lost lover long enough for us to leave!”
Hazel gasped then giggled with a rosy blush. “Henry and Tris both are perhaps too fond of their motor cars,” she said with a grin. “It is silly to be so enamored of such a thing, isn’t it?”
Brontë nodded, but Henry voiced a teasing protest. “As you are enamored with your books, my dear? I daresay I’ve witnessed you hugging more than one in an obvious display of physical affection.”
“Books deserve love and affection,” Brontë spoke up in Hazel’s defense. “They impart joy and knowledge.”
“As does my motor car,” Henry declared.
“Is that so?” Hazel grinned up at him. “What has it taught you, darling?”
Brontë shared another smile with Hazel as her husband cast about for an answer.
“To drive alone is to spare a man such ridiculous female pestering,” Tris put in and they all laughed while Henry pounded his friend and cohort on the back.
The whistle blew and the train jerked into motion with a chug that harkened back to old Looney Toons cartoons in Brontë’s mind. The jolt sent her careening into Tris’s arms. He caught her tight in his embrace and steadied her perhaps a little slower than necessary.
Could be she pulled away a little slower than she might have as well. She stared up into the gorgeous face inches from her own and thought of that too-brief kiss. Oh, it had been a long week for her!
“Here, Brontë my dear, please sit.” Henry indicated the spot next to Hazel.
She pulled away from Tris with a shake of her head. “No, you sit next to Hazel. I don’t mind.”
A Scot to Remember Page 14
