A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  Tris might prove himself prone to violence if someone in this room didn’t start treating him as more than a child to be patted on the head and sent on his way. Och, surely this wasn’t how Brontë claimed she felt when he overly-pampered her. If it was, he admired her restraint.

  “I’ve reason to believe Wyndom has tried to kill Henry on more than one occasion,” he told them and held up his hand before they could speak. “I’ve no evidence to lay before you presently other than he may have hired someone to run Henry down with a motorcar two weeks ago and that there has been at least one attempt here in the past several days.”

  The men were silent for a long moment. Tris could feel his father’s gaze upon him, thoughtful and assessing. Much as it had been when he’d been sent down from Cambridge for fighting in a drunken brawl first year.

  “You say you have no evidence to offer?” Francis asked quietly.

  “None other than my conviction that Henry’s life is in danger and that, if I’m even close to the mark, Wyndom is no good match for Hannah. He isn’t in any case,” he added. “The man’s a fecking arse who wouldn’t offer Hannah half the life she deserves. As his role as her suitor is the sole reason he was invited to attend, I believe we would all breathe a sigh of relief to see the last of him. The prospect of that alone should be enough to warrant his departure.”

  “I can’t say I disagree there,” Richard said. “Abby doesn’t care for him either.”

  “None of us do. He’s a gentleman of four outs,” Tris argued, using a disparaging phrase meaning a man without wit, money, credit or manners. “Hannah...well, I ken she wants to be married and catch up with Hazy but this isn’t the man to do it. Listen, Henry has been a lifelong friend. I’d do anything to assure his safety, even act on the most tenuous threat. I’m asking you to do this for me. What do we know of Wyndom anyway?”

  “What do we know of Miss Hughes?” Jack tossed back.

  The fierce need to defend his woman with the violence of his primordial forebears curled Tris’s hands into fists. He took a step forward. “She’s no’ the issue here! And I’ll hear of nae more slights or insinuations against her.”

  To the last, the men looked pleased by his rush to defend Brontë. No doubt his father would share every second of it with his mother. There’d be no mercy for Tris then. Abby would be ringing wedding bells before the night was through. Then no matter his intentions for the future, they’d try to fetter him more than any wedding ring could. Feck it, was there ever a family who minded their own bloody business?

  “Relax, lad,” Richard said in a thick brogue. “You’re right. She’s not the subject of this conversation or the reason you’ve come here.”

  On the contrary, Brontë was every damned reason he’d come here and set himself up for this farce. Tris bit his tongue and forced himself to meet his father’s gaze steadily.

  “I see no reason not to do as you ask,” his father added much to his surprise. “I know you’d never ask for something like this without due cause. I trust your opinion on the matter. Francis?”

  It was his uncle’s house after all. Francis nodded slowly, raking his fingers along his jaw. “Richard’s always been exceedingly proud of you, and I can see why. You’ve become a man of commendable conviction and loyalty. I’ll ask Wyndom to leave and set guards to make certain he doesn’t return.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jack offered. “The request may seem more reasonable coming from a disgruntled father. Hell, I may even enjoy it.”

  He should. Tris knew he would, given the opportunity. If he passed the man on his way out, he’d take great pleasure in it and the relief it provided his few frustrations in the process.

  At least he’d gotten what he’d come for in exchange for this humiliation.

  “Thank you.”

  With a nod, he turned on his heel and strode to the door. He’d no sooner set a hand to the knob when Francis added, laughter in his tone, “You’ll make Miss Hughes an excellent husband.”

  “Perhaps we should ask the Hamiltons to depart as well,” Richard added mockingly. “Since there’s no further reason...”

  Grinding his teeth, Tris yanked open the door and left. Narrowly resisting the urge to slam the blasted thing behind him.

  This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to be seen in Brontë’s company too often. Why he spent a fair amount of time with Janice, even while suspecting his mother set him to the task of keeping her company to further whet his appetite for Brontë. As if he needed their assistance! Och, forget the women, the MacKintosh clan on the whole was the biggest bunch of busy-bodies in the whole of Scotland.

  Couldn’t let a man go about his own courtship much less his own life.

  The lass better have something more than a vague excuse and evasive brush off to justify the gauntlet he’d just run for her.

  He was getting his bloody answers.

  SHE SHOULD HAVE LEFT the minute she’d returned from her walk with Henry. Tris had caught on quickly enough to her excuse to sidetrack his friend, and she’d known with each step along the way, there would be no more chances to evade his questions.

  If not then, she really should’ve left right after tea time. The note she’d sent herself combined with Tris’s reference to a conversation they’d never had should have been impetus to get out while the going was still good.

  She’d done neither. Instead, Brontë sat on the edge of her bed waiting for Tris to burst in demanding answers. There were a few she wanted for herself. In both of the inadvertent accidents to threaten Henry’s life, the details regarding them in Hazel’s journals after the fact had made no reference to anything suspicious. A hit and run car accident in a quiet neighborhood should have drawn some comment. Hazel may have been too distraught to make a connection, however Tris had proven himself the skeptical sort. It seemed logical that he would have called upon the authorities to investigate the matter.

  Going to the bureau, she dug her purse out from the bottom drawer and withdrew Hazel’s diary. Flipping through the pages, she sought the right entry and found it before noticing something off about it. She rifled through the book with dismay. Once filled to the last page, most of the book was now blank. The last entry was dated two days before. A glowing recounting of how thoroughly Henry demonstrated his good health and rampant manhood following his recovery from the bee sting. It made Brontë’s eyes cross. At the end was a small note adding that she hoped they’d have a boy this time.

  This time?

  Turning back a few more pages, she found the entry containing Hazel’s hunch that she was pregnant yet again. Three kids in three years? At this rate they’d have a whole shinty team by the end of the decade. Man, they needed to stay off each other or at least discover the joys of birth control to go along with the joys of sex.

  With a shake of her head, Brontë went forward again to the blank pages. Either Hazel had given up journaling...Or more likely, in returning the book to the past, she removed everything that would be written there in the days and years to come. The pages were blank because the future hadn’t been written yet. Her forethought in bringing it along had all been for naught.

  Time travel was turning out to be a tricky business.

  In any case, there was no way for her to predict what might come for any of them as long as she remained. And no evidence of her mission that she might show Tris in response to his questions, which was bound to be an interesting conversation no matter what. How could she answer him when she had no clue what she’d said to him already? How did one go about accusing someone of a murder that had never occurred? And then expect someone to believe you?

  Nope, she should have run. Instead she was here waiting to be beset by the inevitable.

  Thankfully the inevitable didn’t come barging in to scare the shit out of her. He managed a civilized knock before entering without permission. His hair stood on end as if he’d been dragged through the bowels of hell.

  “The things I do for ye,” Tris growled, pacing the car
pet at the end of the bed. “Ye had me groveling to my uncle and begging him to set Wyndom to the curb. Do ye ken how unpleasant that was for me?”

  “What did you tell him?” She clutched the diary to her chest.

  “Exactly what ye told me,” was his unhelpful answer. Precisely what she’d told him was the real question. “Och, dinnae look so fashed. I dinnae tell them it was ye who led me to my suspicions. I asked them to trust in my judgement on the matter.”

  “And did they?”

  “Aye.” He stopped mid-step and glared at her. “As I did ye. I did what ye asked of me.”

  “Turning Wyndom out?” she suggested for clarity’s sake.

  He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads. “I went to Sung-Li as ye suggested to get his opinion on the matter. He had nae more evidence than ye that the sting Henry took was more than a bee, by the by. Nor did Wyndom appear beleaguered by any guilt, ye noticed.”

  Knowing half of a discussion made rehashing one rather difficult. She did know Wyndom couldn’t look guilty for something he hadn’t done yet, however. “You asked for Wyndom to leave anyway? Why?”

  “Because I’ve some misbegotten faith in ye.” He ran all ten fingers through his hair, giving evidence to how it had come to be in the state it was in. “Blast it, it wasn’t the way Wyndom looked at anyone other than ye. Hateful. Suspicious. As if he kent yer interference to his nefarious plan.”

  Brontë blinked in surprise. “You did it for me?”

  “Of course, I did it for ye, ye daft woman. Isnae that what I just said?”

  “I mean, you did it because you were afraid for me?”

  With a low growl of warning, he turned on his heel and strode to the small fireplace at the end of the room. He braced a hand against the mantle and stared down at the empty grate. “Ye kent something would happen to Henry if he played shinty today, aye?”

  Because something had. How could she explain that to him?

  Though she provided no answer, he didn’t seem to care. “Ye saw this happen through yer clairvoyance?”

  Her nod skewed to the horizontal plane. She hated lying even more than she hated him knowing what the future would bring. It was a terrible burden to bear. Why had she ever thought it was a good thing to let him believe she had some sort of powers? Next thing she knew she’d be asked to read palms or tea leaves or some such nonsense.

  God help her if someone produced a crystal ball or wanted to do a séance.

  He spun around to face her once more. “Enough of yer flim-flam, Miss Hughes. I demand an explanation.”

  “We’re back to Miss Hughes are we, Mr. MacKintosh?” she prevaricated. She wanted to answer him, but needed time to formulate a response that wouldn’t see her strapped into a straitjacket.

  His scowl grew fierce. “How did ye ken these things are going to happen?”

  How she hated to see him tied in knots! Concern carried her to his side. “I want to tell you, I do. I keep trying to figure out a way to explain it that will make sense to you.” She looked down at the diary and drew inspiration from it. “What I know is like reading a diary after it was written. Nothing more than what was put on the page...”

  The look he gave her halted the full explanation before it could fully form, and her shoulders dropped. She tucked the book back into the drawer. The questions it would rouse if he identified it would only incite more arguments and she needed to get through this one first. “It would be like a sort of clairvoyance, yes. Sometimes, like today, I didn’t see it coming until it was too late.”

  “Aye, right. No’ too late.”

  Obviously. Brontë resisted the urge to slap a palm to her forehead. Duh.

  “I dinnae ken what to make of ye, lass.” He turned back to the fireplace. “Ye and yer secrets are making me barmy.”

  He shrugged her away when she wrapped her arms around him, but she couldn’t let this drive a wedge between them. “I don’t know what else I can say to other than beg you to trust me.”

  “How can I?”

  “Tris, look at me.” She caressed his cheek and turned his face toward her. His flat expression gave nothing away. “Everything I’ve done is for the greater good. Does it matter how I know, as long as I do? Please believe in me.”

  Rising to her toes, she kissed his tense jaw and then his unresponsive lips. “Tris?”

  He caught her by the shoulders and set her back a step. “Ye cannae keep distracting me wi’ kisses. Luring me to yer bed when I dinnae want to be there.”

  “You don’t?”

  He did a mighty fine impression of a man who did.

  His fingers dug into her upper arms before he dropped his hands and walked away from her. Toward the bed a few steps, then a sudden reversal as if the sight of the place where they’d found so much pleasure was too much to bear. “Och, ye maddening lass. I want ye, I burn to bury myself in ye every hour of every day. I wanted to court ye with respect like a bloody gentleman first so I could call ye my own in truth and I couldnae even do that properly. All my good intentions were blown to hell the instant ye touched me.”

  “Court me?” she repeated. No, Hazel couldn’t have been right about that.

  “Aye. What I went through for ye tonight. Sacrificing my dignity for ye when I scarcely ken who ye are. Do ye think I do it for nothing?” He sent his gaze heavenward as if seeking strength. “I thought to marry ye, though I cannae for the life of me think of a single reason why I wanted to at the moment.”

  “Marry me?” Her voice rose a notch.

  “Aye, what do yet think I’ve been about all this time?”

  “Shagging me,” she answered incredulously, arms spread wide. “Burning away this unbelievable, animalistic lust that has been consuming us.”

  He stared at her, his eyes reflecting the turmoil within. “Ye think that’s all this is, lass? Lust?”

  “I-isn’t it?” Her voice wavered under the intensity of his glare.

  Tris threw his hands in the air with a groan of frustration. His fingers curled as if he’d happily strangle her. “My father once told me love could make the strongest man quake with passion. Make a stoic heart bleed with the thought of losing someone. Make a bloody heart ache at the mere sight of them. It might be the only thing he’s ever told me that I believe wholeheartedly. Every time I look at ye, I get a lump in my throat ’til I can hardly breathe.” His voice rose with every word until he was almost shouting. “Every feckin’ time.”

  Jaw dangling, she tried to wrap her head around his words. Each one more an accusation than a declaration. He didn’t welcome the emotions any more than she did hearing them. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for.

  “Are you saying you love me?”

  “Nay, there’s a wealth of lies and secrets that keeps me from giving ye my whole heart.” As if the conditions made his announcement any easier to process. “I dinnae ken who ye truly are, lass. I cannae trust ye whilst ye lie to me and I find I cannae love where I dinnae trust.”

  The heat went out of him, his shoulders fell as he resumed his moody position by the fireplace. Not looking at her. Unaware that he’d set her entire world off its axis.

  It wasn’t unlike the trauma of seeing Henry struck down on the shinty field, this staggering shock that froze her to the spot. Chilling. Stunnin —

  Wait. She hadn’t seen Henry die this time. She’d circumvented it. It never happened. Yet the faintest vision of what might have been clung to the edge of her mind. Tenuous and out of reach.

  What was going on?

  “This is madness.” Tris sighed wearily. “I should nae hae let it get this far.”

  “You’re right. We should’ve never started this between us.” He swiveled around to stare at her in disbelief. “You said it. Not me. That doesn’t make it any less true. We should have never slept together. I got greedy and look what’s happened.”

  “That’s no’ what I meant, lass. I meant I —”

  “I know what you meant.” Even if he didn’t. She’d
come to fix the past and ended up creating a calamity. She’d wanted to deliver paradise and set up a sort of hell. For them both. “I’m sorry, Tris, I didn’t come here for this.”

  He nodded, his expression grim. “Aye, I dinnae come here to argue wi’ ye either and I shouldnae hae unburdened myself upon ye so. My frustrations no’ only wi’ ye and this untenable situation but wi’ my family are getting the best of me.” Coming to her, he framed her face between his hands and kissed her forehead with a sigh. “We’ll talk again in the morn?”

  Brontë made no response as he left her room. She didn’t tell him that taking a step back to cool off wasn’t what she’d meant at all.

  She needed to get out of here.

  Away from all this. From him.

  There would be no talk in the morning.

  Chapter 28

  SPRINTING DOWN THE gravel lane toward the front gates, Brontë hit the button on the time machine. The crunch of rock and sand beneath her feet morphed into the smack of asphalt. The sudden difference hit her like a slap to the face.

  Then again, so had Tris’s unexpected revelation.

  Every time I look at ye, I get a lump in my throat ‘til I can hardly breathe.

  Tears blurred her vision as she pulled out her phone and texted Aila asking her friend to come and pick her up. At least she’d had the presence of mind to pack her duffle up and change into her own running clothes before she’d snuck out of Glen Cairn Manor while everyone was at dinner. To put on her running shoes before fleeing down the road.

  Then again, she was good at running. Isn’t that what Granny said?

  Isn’t that what she was doing right now?

  Tris’s confession had left her so dumbfounded, she honestly hadn’t processed a full thought beyond the instinct to bolt. To run from a truth she wasn’t prepared to face.

  Or answer to.

  A hot tear splashed on her cheek. Slowing to a walk, she swiped it away with the back of her hand.