A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  His family, being the competitive sort, usually fell into the former group. The rivalry resulting in the “nightmare” of this gathering.

  Being subjected to the chaos throughout his lifetime, he’d long maintained that he’d buck tradition and put himself into the latter group. Since that unsettling series of incidents a couple of years back, he’d been far more cognizant of his own mortality and his point of view on the subject — and many others — had changed. Though at twenty-six, he felt little obligation to settle in just yet, the thought lingered in the corner of his mind.

  Trouble was, single ladies of his acquaintance were all too often related to him or, like the fair Miss Hamilton, so wilting they set his teeth on edge. Growing up, he’d come to appreciate a certain sort of female personality. It wasn’t the sort who fluttered and fainted to catch his attention.

  Perhaps that was why he pursued Brontë when his better sense advised him to stay away.

  She never bored him.

  “A nightmare? Is that what we are?”

  “Some more than others,” she told him with a pointed glower before the tension leeched out of her. Her shoulders dropped and a rueful smile touched her lips. “Individually, everyone is very nice, but on a whole...suffice it to say, I’m not much for crowds.”

  “You’ve seemed to enjoy yourself thus far.”

  Of the fifty attendees, thirty of them were part of Tris’s family — sixteen of them cousins ranging in age from fifteen to twenty-two. His mother and aunt might have seated any combination of gentlemen next to her during meals or enlisted them to entertain her. His married uncles, for example. His many cousins, perhaps, too young to present themselves as a viable suitor for her. Even Henry with whom she was already comfortable would have been an excellent choice.

  They might have recruited Tris himself.

  No. He’d been sent to play lapdog to Miss Hamilton while Brontë had been consistently surrounded by some combination of the many bachelors in attendance. All of an age with her or older. All wealthy and eligible.

  For most meals, she sat between his friend Laurie Ashley-Cooper and his uncle, Dorian. She gifted each of them cheerful smiles, each one a kick in Tris’s gut. All he received were glowers and scowls. The realization brought a frown to his lips as well. Neither man seemed to provoke her ire or spark the flash of annoyance in her eyes as often as he. How he managed it when he far preferred her bonny smiles mystified him.

  “For the most part I am enjoying myself,” she admitted. “Laurie is pleasant company. Hazel’s di...er, shared some stories about him with me. I feel as if I know him already.”

  She favored Laurie then? He was part of the trio with Tris and Henry who as lads often found themselves knee-deep in trouble. Who, when attending university, had more than one barmaid fighting for a chance to flirt with him. Like his mother, Tri’s Aunt Eve, the current Countess of Glenrothes, Laurie had sandy blond hair, bright green eyes and more restrained nature in mixed company. Outwardly he was stoically British in his solemnity. Nonetheless, women liked him. And he was an earl.

  “And your uncle, Dorian...”

  The words trailed off so suggestively he might have thought she did it for no other reason than to prod the beast within him. She seemed to enjoy doing so.

  Victory often stirred enjoyment.

  Quite as likely, she’d genuinely relished his uncle’s company as her partner for each meal thus far. Dorian was well-read and well-traveled. There was much he’d seen and done to entertain an inquisitive lass like Brontë. He also had proven appeal with the ladies. Tall and braw, he had the dark hair tinged with auburn highlights and the muted green eyes that were a dominant trait in the MacKintosh men.

  The way she tilted her head close to his when they spoke was most aggravating, especially as Tris couldn’t hear them from his place far, far down the table.

  With Janice Hamilton.

  His mother was playing some cruel joke on him, he was certain.

  Tris lifted a brow, his mood darkening. “What about him?”

  With a coy shrug, she descended the slate steps from the morning room to the stone patio, trailing her fingers lightly along the wrought-iron handrail. Like an erotic caress, if she meant to taunt him.

  He’d be willing to wager that she did.

  “Nothing really.” She lifted her shoulder again with a little smile as he fell into step next to her. “I’ve enjoyed his company a great deal. I suspect your mother seats me next to him for the same reason she put you next to Miss Hamilton.”

  They could agree on that if nothing else.

  “They’ve been seating me next to Miss Hamilton for years to no avail,” he told her. “Ignore them.”

  She tilted her chin up high enough for him to catch the look she cast from beneath her lashes. “What if I don’t want to? He’s exceptionally handsome.”

  The minx. “He’s too old for you.”

  “He can’t be forty yet. I’d say that’s within a reasonable age range for me,” she responded. “Unlike some of the younger men here.”

  She shot him another look. This one firmly indicating that she grouped him in with the latter. They were of an age, the two of them, he knew from his conversations with Henry. Her mockery was meant to provoke him. She was bloody good at it.

  The challenge ensnared him like a hound on the scent of a feisty fox.

  Regardless of that truth, he couldn’t deny himself the chase.

  “Single ladies do delight in the opportunity to secure themselves a husband, don’t they?” he lamented with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d thought you of a different ilk, Miss Hughes.”

  Brontë took a step back, far enough for her to level her glare upon him from beneath the brim of her hat without tilting her head back too far to diminish its full impact. Tris savored his success in turning the tables back upon her. Intentionally this time.

  “I am of a different ilk, Mr. MacKintosh.”

  He grinned at her chagrin and she pursed her lips.

  “Maybe it would be best if you didn’t talk anymore,” she said. “Every word from your mouth does nothing but annoy. Maybe you should go back to avoiding me.”

  His humor faded away. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

  She cocked a mocking brow. “Haven’t you? I’ve hardly seen you except for across a crowded room or down the table.”

  “Have you missed me?”

  He’d intended to tease her, nothing more. Nevertheless the rosy blush painting her cheeks provided a rush of satisfaction. Bugger it. Good to know he wasn’t alone in this madness.

  The broad brim of her hat hid her face as she dipped her chin and turned away. Embarrassed or aggrieved, he didn’t know. She’d already proven she wasn’t a typical female. Now that he was in her company, there was no advantage in ruffling her feathers further. “It’s true I’ve come to realize you cannot be painted with the same brush as most young ladies of my acquaintance,” he conceded, ducking his head to peer under the hat. “They’re playing croquet this afternoon, so what would you fancy? Nay, let me guess? A game of billiards? A sojourn to the smoking room?”

  Her aggrieved expression gave way to a smile. Comforting to know that while he had a talent for infuriating her, she couldn’t stay angry with him.

  “How about a walk?” she suggested. “I had such a huge lunch again, I need to walk it off.”

  Walk it off?

  “I’m comfortable alone if you’re not up to it,” she offered when he hesitated.

  It wasn’t the exercise that gave him pause, nor the implication that he wasn’t fit enough to match her. Rather her words caught his notice. As it often did, her phrasing bore a second thought for sheer unusualness. “Nay, I’ll accompany you.”

  “I can find someone else to go with me,” she said. “Dorian, perhaps? I’ve adore my walks with him so far.”

  “I said I’ll accompany ye,” he bit out and immediately regretted it.

  Her eyes snapped with satisfaction that she’d m
anaged to attain the final gibe. Rolling his in return, Tris tucked her arm through his and practically dragged her toward a path leading into the tree line beyond the lawn and gardens.

  “Well, if you’re sure...” A hint of taunting tainted her voice as she let the provocative statement trail off.

  Tris didn’t pick up the bait but walked on. Soon enough she set a brisk pace through the tunnel of tree branches. No genteel stroll for her, no. “Relax, lass. This isn’t a foot race.”

  “I wish it were.”

  “Why?”

  “I enjoy running. For fun. For exercise. You have that here, don’t you?”

  Yet another curious statement to be deciphered. He cocked his head. “Aye, we’ve all forms of calisthenics for fitness. My family is given to golf more than naught. I also enjoy swimming, fencing and the occasional shinty match.”

  “And the ladies?”

  “Most ladies aren’t given to the pursuit of anything that might cause them to perspire,” he told her, adding with a click of his tongue, “Most unladylike.”

  He was mocking her, trying to vex her for his own amusement. She knew it, yet merely smiled in response. Their relationship was evolving.

  “And in truth?” she prodded.

  He nodded, acknowledging her perception. “Archery, lawn-tennis, swimming, bicycling. There are numerous activities for a lady to partake of light exercise.”

  “But not running?”

  “’Tis rare enough I was compelled to comment upon it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She set off once more. Her stride was long but relaxed. Her parasol swung forward and back with the rhythm of her gait as if following an unheard tune. For several minutes, she said not a word. He got the sense she was content in the hush that fell as the chatter of the guests faded. Soon only the crunch of their shoes against the gravel path and occasional whistle of a bird met his ears.

  And the soft breaths of the woman at his side. Not panting despite their swift pace.

  Minutes stretched to five, then ten. A quarter of an hour, they walked in companionable silence. She obviously wasn’t one given to idle chatter. Unless she was trying to turn the conversation away from his probing questions, that is. He could ask them again, push for answers. Taken as she by the harmony of the moment, he did neither. There would come a time for them. For now, he was content to let the subject rest and simply enjoy the pleasure of her presence.

  She’d been a bonny sight indoors beneath the soft lights. Here in the sunshine, she was stunning, and the thought struck him, in her element. He loved the play of emotions across her expressive countenance. Even from afar over the past day, he’d watched them come and go. Exasperation he was more than familiar with. There was also wonder there. Joy at times. At others something bordering on fear or panic though he couldn’t think why that would be so.

  As they walked, he became aware of the tension ebbing away from her and swore he could visibly see her shoulders drop another inch. The haste in her pace decreased in synchronicity to each exhale as if each step soothed her more than the last. She seemed more serene than he’d seen her as yet.

  About three-quarters of the way along the U-shaped trail, they came to a clearing overlooking a wee loch and the rolling hills of Lommond beyond. They paused to take in the view. Rather Brontë looked out while Tris watched her.

  She sighed with appreciation. “It’s so beautiful here. Peaceful.”

  “Quiet?” he suggested gently, appreciating the view as well though his gaze didn’t stray from her face.

  A smile graced her lips though her eyes remained upon the scenic vista. “Nothing against your family. They’ve all been lovely.”

  “They like you.”

  “And you?”

  She looked up at him much as she had the other night, her words harkening back to the same ones she’d asked then. He knew what she asked, as he’d known that night. The answer, while so simple, was a difficult one to provide.

  As if she sensed the truth, Brontë prodded him further. “Would it bother you if I walked with another man?”

  A question bold in nature if not in tone. One a lady wouldn’t be so forward as to ask. Then again, she wasn’t a typical lady as he had conceded but was truly only discovering.

  “Not at all,” he assured her. In all truth, there were any number of men he had no issue with escorting her. “’Tis your continual baiting I find exasperating. I believe you do it on purpose.”

  “You make it so easy.”

  She teased him again, though her voice remained hushed. He couldn’t stop an answering smile from turning up the corners of his lips. “As do you.”

  There was pleasure to be found in their banter, as trying as it sometimes was. Pleasure to be found in her company that he’d rarely found in another. True, by word and deed, she was vexingly unpredictable. A smart man would avoid her for the sake of his own sanity. Contrarily, he couldn’t stop himself from seeking her out.

  She confounded him, yet he only wished he knew what was going on in her head.

  She berated him, yet it only encouraged him to fluster her further.

  She teased him...yet it only made him wonder if she liked him at all.

  Then there were times like this. She cleaved contentedly to his arm, leaning into him until their shoulders touched. As if she savored his presence and wanted to share the moment with him.

  He didn’t mind at all.

  Aye, he liked her, too. More than he ought to.

  “I wonder...”

  She said no more, but curiosity bested him, and he asked, “Yes?”

  “Are you familiar with the saying ‘stop and smell the roses?’” The question was quiet yet earnest.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Basically, it means that we should look beyond the thorns in our lives, the chaos and distractions...all the negatives and take time to enjoy the little things while we can,” she explained, her voice so low, he would have thought she spoke to herself rather than to him until she glanced up. Her eyes shone in the sunlight like sparkling amethyst, her smile as reflective as the philosophical subject before she turned back to view the landscape. “If we don’t, we’re not really living, are we? We’re merely passing time. I can’t remember the last time I took the time to truly appreciate a beautiful view with a silent mind and realized how pleasant it can be.”

  “Ye prefer solitude then?”

  “Always.”

  “Should I leave ye be?”

  Brontë shifted her eyes to him, lavender trimmed in thick black lashes. Her gaze traced his features like a physical caress, one that stirred him from within and set his pulse racing. Then speeding when her tongue darted out to wet her lush bottom lip. The vixen. Teasing, provocative. She was undeniable without even trying.

  “No,” she answered in a low murmur. “Solitude is sometimes best when shared with the right person.”

  “Am I that person?”

  Chapter 18

  WHEN THE PROPER CRISPNESS fled his voice and that hint of huskiness roughened his soft burr, it was all Brontë could do to rein in the flutter of desire stirring inside. It was far easier to keep him wading through thick sarcasm and casual taunts than to be tempted into making a fool of herself yet again.

  He hadn’t wanted her. Had walked away from her invitation as subtle as it was. Since their arrival, it seemed he’d been glad to be done with her.

  Had she missed him? Very much, though she’d assumed he hadn’t shared the feeling. The answer certainly hadn’t been reflected in his vague or deflective answers to her more pointed questions. Did he have a problem with other men pursuing her or vice versa? More basically, did he like her?

  She wasn’t certain. True, he’d sought her out when he could’ve let her be. Danced attendance on her when he might be hanging with his friends instead. All the outward signs of jealousy were there when she’d spoken of his uncle. Unless he was keeping tabs on her purely for Henry’s sake or he was still suspicious
of her, the hot, turbulent look in his eyes as he stared at her mouth made her think she’d read him all wrong. Physical if not verbal evidence that he wanted to be there.

  As she wanted him to be.

  Yes, she was afraid he might be the one she’d like to share the solitude with.

  And so much more.

  This was all going too fast. Hadn’t she scarcely days ago deemed a physical relationship acceptable? How could she think beyond that when she barely had time to process or act on the decision?

  “You’re missing the point of what I was saying,” she told him, trying to back pedal a fraction.

  “And what is that?”

  “That is, the adage as a lesson to make the most of each moment. As my granny would say, to embrace every opportunity.”

  He nodded. “Or as Henry said, to seize each day.”

  “Carpe diem,” she agreed quietly, studying each line of his handsome face. She liked him like this; introspective and solemn. It enveloped them in intimacy as did the solitude. She wanted more of this. More of him. The flutter of desire she’d fought off quaked behind her ribs like the beat of a hummingbird’s wing. Unable to help herself, she rephrased her question, “It wouldn’t bother you if another man courted me then?”

  She got a frown for her bold question. As she got them often, she learned nothing from it.

  “I’m no’ yer keeper, lass.”

  How maddening he could be. Granted, Brontë found a measure of pleasure in provoking him, too. Their wordplay teased more than anything. Flirtatious from her perspective. In the end, however, she had more vital things to think about than hours spent vacillating between bouts of he wants me, he wants me not.

  She needed to know. Preferably out loud.

  The same fear that had kept her from inviting him to her bed after the theater regrettably stayed her tongue now. Testing the waters under the auspices of baiting him seemed a safer course of action than risking a flat out rejection. If he didn’t care, at least she’d know.

  “You’d be fine then if I held Dorian’s arm tight?” Hugging his arm, she pressed her breasts against his bicep. His breath caught for a heartbeat. Encouraged, she slipped her hand down his arm and interlaced her fingers with his. “You’d have no problem if I held his hand like this?”