A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  Chapter 31

  Glenrothes, Scotland

  September 10, 1914

  TRIS STOPPED IN HIS tracks at the breakfast room door. The last person he expected to see at the table at such an early hour was Brontë. Unless it was Henry. His friend was no more a morning person than she, yet there he was, seated at the foot of the table adjacent to her. Neither appeared pleased to be facing the early morning sunshine beaming through the windows. Mirrored scowls marred their faces.

  The incongruously humorous sight lifted the dread that weighed upon him through the night. His anger the previous evening had been inexcusable. Spewing his frustrations upon her as if she were nothing more than a handy target was beyond the pale. Then to twist her reaction to his abrupt declaration as he had... Tris sighed and crossed his arms, leaning a shoulder against the door jamb to watch the play of emotions on Brontë’s face.

  She hadn’t come down to dinner last night and looked tired this morning. Ashen with dark circles beneath her eyes. Bonny, aye, but weary. Their argument must have disrupted her sleep as it had his. Nonetheless, in spite of her crooked hairdo and wearing nothing more spectacular than a white blouse and blue skirt, to him she shone bright as the sunshine.

  He’d surprised her last night to be sure. There’d never been mention of anything more than lust between them so how could he be angry with her for her response? If he were honest, he’d surprised himself. He’d played his feelings regarding their affair close to his chest, as had she. The emotions she stirred in him were new, numerous and difficult to identify. He hadn’t put a name to them himself until last night.

  Sweet aching tenderness pierced his heart without pause. The smell of her lingered in the air even when she wasn’t near. Each thought to pass through his mind brought him back to her. What would she think of that? What would she say? All the things his father had told him, and he hadn’t taken notice.

  Now that they were there, however, he couldn’t ignore them. Aye, especially the lump forming in his throat as he watched her. His once stoic heart would bleed if he were to lose her due to a bout of foolishness. He owed her a bloody good apology.

  He’d have to arrange a moment alone with her to deliver it.

  Dorian and his father were breaking their fast at the near end of the table with their backs to him, talking about the battles Dorian would face in the days to come. Knowing something about the trials of war, his father was imparting sage advice.

  At the far end, Henry and Brontë sat mute, reading the newspaper. Both lifted their cups in a silent entreaty as a footman entered with a fresh pot of coffee. As always, Henry abused his, adding the atrocious amounts of cream that Tris was accustomed to seeing and then nudged the small pitcher across to table to Brontë. A soft grunt reached his ears. Of thanks? The possibility revived his good humor and extended his lips with an affectionate smile. She poured equally copious amounts of the liquid into her own cup, then dropped in cube after cube of sugar before handing the bowl to Henry. A silent routine, so rote they must have played it out time and again these past weeks. Henry dropped the same amount of sugar into his cup with a similar grumble of appreciation. Gad, but his two favorite people abhorred the morning hours and abused their brew in equal measure.

  Brontë braced her elbow on the table and propped her chin in one hand, idly stirring her coffee with the other while she read the paper laid on the table next to her. The pose struck Tris as oddly familiar and the burst of amusement slipped, as did his smile. He looked from Henry to Brontë and back again. Elbow up, hand in cheek, stirring the brew with the same degree of inclination of their bodies as if either one of them might tilt right out of their chair at any moment. He saw it then, what he hadn’t noticed before. The hair color, the nose.

  Hazel’s cousin Brontë might be but she also bore a striking resemblance to his friend.

  How could that be?

  Had Henry’s father ever been to —

  “Good morning, darling boy.”

  Tris looked down to find his mother by his side and straightened. He bent to kiss her cheek without showing an outward grimace for the juvenile affectation. Abby would forever see him as nothing more than a child no matter how he towered over her. “Good morning, Ma.”

  “Are you planning to eat or linger in doorways staring like a lovestruck lad?”

  With a groan, he strode into the room well aware she grinned with glee in his wake. Richard rose to greet her as if he hadn’t seen her in days rather than the minutes since he’d left their chambers. Ha, who was the lovestruck one?

  He made his way across the room, ignoring the fact that his own heart raced with unseemly haste. Brontë glanced up absently then did a double take, dropped her arms and straightened in her chair. Though she didn’t bless him with her bonny smile, her expression illuminated with pleasure.

  From Henry he got nothing more than a grumble.

  “Odd to see you two slug-a-beds at the breakfast table before ten,” he goaded lightly and made his way to the sideboard to fill a plate with sausage, tattie scones and black pudding. Returning to the table he took the chair next to Brontë. “What miracle brings you out before the lunch bell?”

  “Hazy said we must,” Henry groused. “Wants to explore Falkland Palace before luncheon.”

  Though he was aware of the sidelong glance she shot him from beneath her lashes, neither of them said anything more. Tris waited until the footman brought him a cup of coffee and took a sip — black, as it should be — and asked, “Am I welcome to join you?”

  A question, as he wasn’t certain of the answer. There was a fair chance he’d alienated her so thoroughly last night, she might be well and done with him. Henry grunted in response and after a moment’s pause, she asked quietly, “Do you want to?”

  Under the table, Tris reached for her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. “Where else would I want to be?”

  She drew a deep breath and her fingers curled around his. Och, she wasn’t angry. The spat triggered by his irrational anger had left her with the same doubts that plagued him. It would not do.

  The apology he owed her couldn’t wait another second. He leaned close to her until their shoulders brushed. “Will you excuse my behavior last night, lass? I said things I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven —”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong,” she whispered then glanced around the table. Tris did the same to find all eyes upon them. Even Henry’s, half open as they were. Pushing back her chair, she stood, and the men did as well. “If you’ll excuse me,” the plea included them all. “I need to check on our basket for lunch.”

  Turning on her heel, she strode out of the room, placing a covert nudge to his back as she passed. A hint for him to follow. Aye, this was no place for their conversation.

  Tris ate his breakfast and drank his coffee with haste yet taking long enough that his pursuit of her wouldn’t be noted and commented upon. When he finally deemed the delay sufficient, he pushed back his chair.

  “Did you see this article in the paper regarding the battle at the Marne?” Henry asked, having sufficiently woken enough to partake of conversation. “After days of fighting, the German army has retreated.”

  “Aye, have you heard the news, son?” Richard asked from the other end of the table. “Dorian and I were just discussing it as well.”

  Damned if his father’s smirk didn’t reflect the one on his mother’s face. They’d known full well what he was about.

  “A significant victory,” Dorian added. “After the Germans routed the Russian army last month in Tannenberg, another defeat would have drawn the war farther onto the western front. Regrettably, I’m afraid with a victory to the east to bolster them, the war will extend longer than we originally hoped.”

  The manner in which his uncle relaxed back in his chair and clasped his hand over his belly told Tris there would be no quick escape. Given Dorian’s imminent departure to fight in said war, he owed his uncle his full attention.

  For a f
ew moments, at least.

  A FULL FIFTEEN MINUTES passed before a soft knock sounded at her door. Far longer than Brontë had hoped for and she’d begun to think Tris wasn’t coming. Turning from the window, she watched him slip inside and shut the door. As it had in the breakfast room, his appearance brought every cell in her body to attention. For a heartbeat, time slowed. The tick of the clock stretched, and her pulse fell into a heavy, prolonged thump before sprinting ahead. She longed to throw herself at him but wrung her hands instead, unsure of what move to make though she’d spent the better part of the morning thinking about what she would say to him.

  “It was my fault. All of it,” she blurted, spreading her hands wide. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being such a thoughtless bit —”

  The words were cut off when he crossed the room in three long steps and swept her into his arms. Her back slammed into the wall as he carried her back. Hard and hot, tasting of coffee and spice, his mouth met hers. Hungover and nervous, she hadn’t been hungry before, now she was starving. For him.

  Two weeks without him, yearning for him. Wondering if she’d ever see him...have this again. Relief gave way to ravenous desire and she let him know how desperately she’d missed him. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, kneading the thick muscle. Around his back, hugging him tight. So warm, alive. Hers. “Oh, Tris.”

  Without breaking their kiss, Tris tugged up her skirts. His rough hands left a tingling trail behind as they swept up her stockinged legs and under her garters to clasp her bare bottom beneath the wide leg of her combination slip. He lifted her against him, and that familiar, quivering heat pooled between her thighs as his hard length strained against his trousers.

  A huff of laughter passed through him and he lifted his head. “Once again this is no’ what I came here for. I meant to apologi —”

  Brontë cut him off with another kiss. “You did.”

  He chuckled under his breath. “I wanted to talk to ye about last night.”

  “I’ve told you before, you talk too much. Later. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “’Tis been but a night.”

  “It’s been forever,” she corrected and pushed his coat from his shoulders. “I need you.”

  A low moan signaled his surrender, and Tris turned and carried her to the bed. Together they fell unto the feather mattress. A shiver of delight raised goosebumps down her arms when he buried his face against her neck and sucked the sensitive flesh below her ear.

  “Oh, my God!” Her head buzzed with the potency of her fervent desire and the jubilant gratification of knowing she was where she was meant to be. “Make love to m —”

  A firm knock rattled the sturdy door and they both froze in surprise. The knob jiggled and turned. Tris leapt off the bed and jammed a toe to the base of the door before it could open.

  “Brontë dear?” Hazel called. “The carriage is waiting. Are you coming?”

  She wanted nothing more than to stay right where she was.

  “Henry is looking for Tris as we speak. Brontë? Are you in there?”

  Secret code for: soon enough we’ll figure out that you’re in there together. With an apologetic glance for Tris, she climbed out of bed and set a hand to the doorknob, waiting for him to move his foot before she cracked the door. “I wanted to fix my hair. I’m sorry for dawdling. I’ll be straight down.”

  “No worries, dear.” Hazel smiled brightly and turned down the hall.

  “I’d prefer to dawdle,” Tris growled in his husky brogue, pulling her into his arms.

  “We can dawdle later,” she promised with a kiss. “I’d like to...that is, you were right. We need to talk first in any case. About everything.” And she meant everything. “Maybe now that will happen.”

  He inclined his head and straightened the trousers still stretched tight by his erection. “Ye’ll hae to make it quick else I’ll be the one accusing ye of talking too much.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter 32

  “THE CASTLE WAS LOVELY. Wasn’t it lovely, Brontë?”

  Brontë nodded to Hazel since her mouth was bursting with lush berry goodness. Delectable raspberry buns had been included in their picnic basket for dessert. Feeling as if she hadn’t eaten in days, she was famished and already made quick work of a smoked salmon sandwich and several shortbread cakes. The long tour of Falkland Castle didn’t signify in the return of her appetite.

  The castle with its architectural detail, lavish period décor, and tapestried walls couldn’t top the thrill of having Tris by her side again. Not even the Chapel Royal and the historical significance of the world’s oldest surviving tennis court built in 1539 for James V could overshadow her joy and contentment at being able to simply hold his hand. An intimate gesture that would raise a few brows back at Glen Cairn. Hazel’s had lifted a notch as well, though she merely smiled in a manner that implied she’d seen this coming all along.

  Leaving them again would be harder than ever. At least she’d make certain she did it the right way this time. As for Tris...well, once he fully understood everything, he’d see why anything more than an affair was nothing more than a pipe dream. And Brontë needed to show him that explanation before she slept with him again. Should he reject the truth, and her, she’d rather he did it before she fell into his bed and bared her soul to him.

  And she would. The instant her guard was down it would all come pouring out. Shit, she could hardly refrain from making a few declarations of her own and with Hazel and Henry right here!

  “We should have brought the girls with us,” Hazel went on. “They would have loved it.”

  “They would’ve been squirming with impatience the entire time,” Brontë countered with a smile. “Save play time in the garden for them. Though Hyacinth would love to run through these trees, wouldn’t she?”

  The toddler loved to run. Away from nannies, down halls and especially outside. Maybe that’s where she’d inherited the love. She wouldn’t mind a run here herself. The grounds of the castle in this time were nothing like they were in hers. In the twenty-first century, there were gridded orchards and trails through tunnels formed by the carefully placed trees low hanging branches. Flower-lined paths, and geometrically blocked English gardens brimming with fragrant flora. Here there were no terraces, no fish ponds or structured gardens. Endless lawns extended to the sparse trees that thickened into the surrounding woodland. They’d found a spot for their picnic under a downy birch to provide shade and near a weeping willow that offered a gentle rustling and sway of its hanging branches in the breeze.

  Henry popped the cork off a second bottle of champagne. With no regrets for her excess the night before, Brontë welcomed a refill. The pretty day and fine company warranted a celebration.

  Hazel snuggled against her husband once he resumed his seat. Brontë wished she could do the same with Tris, who sat a proper distance away. Honestly, she didn’t have a clue how their story would end. Nevertheless, she intended to make the most of the time they had, fight for every minute. She’d hoped to achieve that resolution at a full run. If baby steps were all she got, she’d have to make the most of them.

  “Would you care to take a stroll, Brontë?” Tris asked as if reading her mind.

  “I’d love to.”

  He stood and extended his hand to help her up. Henry also leapt to his feet. “I say, that sounds like an excellent ide —”

  With a sharp ping, the metal bucket containing the champagne bottle went flying to the side, the within bottle bursting in flying shards. Hazel’s cry of dismay spurred both men to come to her aid. The crack that sounded a split second before it was what demanded Brontë’s attention. They might not have recognized it for what it was, but she was raised by a generation of action movies. Spinning around, she caught sight of movement between the trees to the south.

  “Get down!” she screamed and dove at the trio, knocking them down like bowling pins.

  “Brontë, what on earth?” Hazel cried, while Henry protes
ted with an indignant, “I say!”

  Tris rolled to the side and took her with him until he lay on top of her. “What is it?”

  “Gun shot. I think it —”

  Another shot rang out and a tuft of grass flew into the air. Another closer to them and Tris wrapped his arms around her, sheltering her with his body. Hazel’s scream was muffled. Beneath Tris’s arm, Brontë could see Henry had taken up a similarly protective position over her.

  Another and her skirts jerked to the side. It didn’t take a genius to figure out a bullet had done it.

  What could they do? This wasn’t what the diary described happening. Henry was to have been robbed and shot a few days from now near Edinburgh’s city center while going to see a private investigator. Not here in the woods. What had changed?

  She had.

  She’d come back and the others had come on this picnic rather than searching for her. It had never occurred to her that things would be different. Damn it, she should have. All of this was her fault! And if she were shot and killed right here and now, there would be no chance to undo this mistake. How was she to fix it? How could they fight bullets?

  “What kinds of guns do you have now?” she asked Tris. Hazel squealed in terror as one tore into the blanket between them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bullets. How many bullets could he have?”

  A thousand questions shown in his eyes. He closed them for a moment. “Seven. The Kongsberg Colt holds seven. Nay, hold. Wi’ the Colt he would have hit something vital by this time. Something wi’ shorter range.” He paused. “The Steyr can hold eight but isnae as accurate.”

  “That’s five so far.” The wicker basket at their feet exploded out the side in splinters. “Six. Let’s hope you’re right. He’ll have to reload.”

  “He’ll take that time to come closer.”

  “Then we need to move.” He nodded and slid off her, keeping his body between her and the bullets. “Please don’t be a hero.”