James stole glances at Andrea as they walked, impressed by the fact that she didn’t feel the need to fill every moment of silence with idle chatter. She seemed content to soak up the stillness, to take in every detail of the landscape. Overhead, a raptor circled, soaring on outstretched wings.
He tugged her to a stop and pointed. “Look. A golden eagle. You can tell by the wings.”
She turned her face to the sky, watching its path against the scattering of fluffy clouds. “It’s incredible.”
“It’s rare,” he said. “They nest on the island, but they’re hard to find. I’ve never even seen one.”
She met his eyes and smiled. “Maybe this place really does hold some magic.”
She looked so appealing, her hair windblown and her eyes sparkling, it was all he could do not to kiss her right there. Instead, he just smiled back and agreed. “Maybe.”
They tramped through the grass for almost an hour, winding through the small valleys and passing grassy, cone-shaped hillocks. Andrea made little exclamations of delight as she spotted rabbits in the brush or clusters of wildflowers just beginning to emerge from the green carpet. Finally, they rejoined the path that circled around the tower. Up close, the rock formation stretched high into the sky, far taller than it had looked from the distance. Stubborn, hardy foliage clung to the rock sides, and a long narrow path led steeply up into the cleft of the formation.
“Our final destination,” he said, pointing to the top.
The climb was short, but steep, and the path squeezed through a narrow opening in the rocks. James followed behind Andrea, ready to catch her if she slipped, but she scrambled up the slope with the ease of a practiced hiker. He emerged onto the flat, grassy top seconds behind her.
The view of the glen spread out around them. A small loch reflected back the sun and sky, a glimmering blue pocket in the broad expanse of green. James moved toward the edge, but Andrea remained firmly rooted in place.
“Come, Andrea, you should see the view from here.”
Andrea crept forward slowly.
He threw her a quizzical look. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid of heights?”
“Not afraid exactly. Just wary. I’m okay if there’s a handrail or something, but standing this close to a sheer drop-off …”
“It’s not that steep.” When she still didn’t move, he held out a hand. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”
Reluctantly, she moved forward and grasped his hand. Not exactly far enough to be in any real danger but close enough to see the rocky sweep down to the base of the cliff.
“This makes me feel a little ill,” she said, but at least she was smiling.
James set down the hamper. He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her securely, pulling her back against him. “Is that better?”
It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined getting her into his arms, but he wasn’t going to quibble over details. He breathed in her perfume and momentarily lost his train of thought. Her heart thrummed against him, but she relaxed slightly in his arms.
“This really is an inconvenient problem for sightseeing,” she said.
“I’m finding it rather convenient myself.”
She elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“Ach, woman! You’re a lot stronger than you look, you know.” He let go of her and rubbed his injured ribs ruefully.
Andrea gasped and pulled his arms around her again. “I didn’t say you could let go. What if I’d fallen off the edge?”
“From six feet away? I hardly think it constitutes a risk.”
She twisted around to look at him. “You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely, and in more ways than one.”
He thought that would earn him another elbow, but instead, she laughed. The sound seeped into him like the warmth of the spring sun. She had laughed before, but rarely so freely or so openly. They stayed that way for another minute or two, taking in the spectacular view off the side, and then she said, “I think that’s about all I can take. You promised a picnic?”
“All right, if you insist.” He let go of her, though he still kept a steadying arm on her elbow until she was safely away from the edge. The flush had crept back into her cheeks, and she avoided his eye as she looked for a likely spot for their picnic. Either she was embarrassed by her fear of heights, or she hadn’t been quite as afraid as she claimed.
She tramped around the top of the tower as if carefully considering the location for their picnic, but from the slightly unsteady way she’d stepped away from him, he figured she was using the excuse to put distance between them. “How about here?”
“Fine by me.” James pulled a tartan flannel blanket from the hamper and spread it out onto the grass. She knelt as he began to unpack their feast. Two stemless wine glasses came out first, followed by a tall glass bottle. He held it up. “Sparkling water. I didn’t think wine was the best idea, given the climb.”
Next came out two melamine plates and real cloth napkins, followed by several plastic containers. James popped the lids and pointed to each dish. “My take on tuna Niçoise sandwiches, new red potato salad, and fresh fruit. I was going to bring some sorbet, too, but I figured it would melt.”
“This is the fanciest picnic I’ve ever had.” She smiled and unfolded a napkin across her lap while he poured her a glass of water.
“Advantages of sightseeing with a chef.” He arranged the items on her plate as carefully as he would have in a fine restaurant and set it on the blanket before her.
She took a bite of the sandwich, and her eyebrows flew up in approval. He’d hoped she would like it. This was one of his favorite recipes, even though it was remarkably simple: seared tuna, seasoned delicately with olive oil, vinegar, and Dijon mustard, then layered with hard-boiled eggs and spring greens on an artisan roll. Even a day old, the bread was fantastic, a perfect balance of soft custard-like crumb and flaky crust.
“You’re an artist,” she said. “Truly. This makes me think of spring and country air and …” She broke off, blushing again.
Did she have any idea how appealing that shy little habit made her? Even more so because he had the feeling he was the only one who coaxed it out of her.
He smiled, an expression that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his face around her. “You appreciate food more than any non-chef I’ve ever met.”
She accepted the compliment with a pleased smile of her own, leaning back onto her hands while the breeze rustled her hair. “You love this place. I can see it in your face when you bring me somewhere new. Why did it take you so long to come back?”
He’d asked himself the same thing. “The arrogance of youth perhaps? There’s a certain prejudice against Scots in England. Not like there used to be of course, but it’s still there. Once I succeeded in London …”
“You didn’t want to acknowledge your roots.”
“Something like that.” The smile faded. “When my dad died and I came back for the funeral, I realized what I had been missing. You bury the past, and maybe you lose a little of what made you who you are.”
Tears glimmered along her lower lashes before she blinked them away. “That’s what Becky says. But sometimes the past is better left buried. Just because circumstances shaped you doesn’t mean you should dwell on them.”
“But you have to face them before you can move on.”
“It seems to me you and Ian have plenty of unfinished business.”
James flinched as the comment struck home.
Andrea’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you’re right. Ian and I have always had a complicated relationship. When our parents split up, they let us—made us—choose where to live. Serena and I chose Skye with Dad. Ian chose London with Mother. After that, he assumed the man-of-the-house role, always wanted to give me advice. E
ventually, I stopped visiting. I got tired of hearing from Mother about how I should be more like Ian.”
“Is that why you rebelled in school?”
He gave her a wry look. “No, that was just my own mischievous nature. The fact it infuriated Ian and Mother was just an unexpected benefit.”
“You don’t like being told what to do.”
“Does anyone?”
“No, I suppose not. We all want to be in control of our lives.”
“Sometimes we don’t know what we need,” James said softly, catching her eye. “Sometimes we have to have matters taken out of our hands.”
“That sounds suspiciously like you’re fishing for a compliment.”
She was too quick. He grinned. “Only if you’re handing them out.”
She laughed. “It hasn’t turned out too bad so far.”
“That’s the best you can do? I’m going to have to try a little harder then. I have somewhere else in mind.”
“Good. I, for one, would like to get off the top of this death trap.” Andrea began to pack their plates and silverware into the hamper.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like one last look over the side?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Tempting as that sounds, I’m wise to your plan now.”
“Next time I’ll try to be less transparent.”
He caught her smile before she turned her back on him to fold the picnic blanket. When she finished, James shoved it back into the hamper and then led the way down through the crevice.
He took Andrea’s hand again when the path leveled out and emerged onto the green hills. They didn’t linger in the meadows this time, taking a more direct path back to the car. He squinted at the sky, where the fluffy clouds over the mainland were giving way to a gray ceiling.
“Looks like rain,” he said. “And the wind’s beginning to pick up.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t melt.” She squeezed his hand. “If we only have today and tomorrow, I don’t want to miss anything.”
“Have I actually been successful?” he asked in mock astonishment. “Do I hear Andrea Sullivan wanting to enjoy a holiday? In Scotland?”
“Oh, shut up.” She gave him a shove, and he ducked out of her way, laughing.
Since Andrea was determined to see Skye’s points of interest, James turned the car north toward Uig, intending to take the long loop around and hit the most spectacular natural sights. Most of the roads this far onto the Trotternish peninsula were single-track, and more than once, James had to pull into a lay-by and wait for a vehicle to pass in the opposite direction. When they finally arrived at Duntulm, he found a parking spot in the gravel by the side of the road.
He and Andrea walked out to the promontory, where the ruins of the old MacDonald castle stood, their hands linked. Errant clouds slid in front of the sun, driven by the stiff sea breeze, alternately casting their surroundings in shadow and sunlight. The water made a moody blue contrast to the dark, rugged edge of Harris in the distance.
The idea James’s ancestors had built this castle, lived and died here, always seemed somewhat surreal. His clan was the largest in the world, but somewhere in the tangled branches of his family tree, he knew he was descended from the MacDonalds of Sleat who had built the castles on the island. Maybe that was why his father had never wanted to leave. There was too much history, too much MacDonald blood spilled over this small expanse of Scotland.
The ground near the castle was marshy and uneven, bisected by several lines of wooden fences to keep holiday-goers from pitching off the heights to the rocky break below. The closer they got to the cliff where the ruins lay, the harder Andrea gripped his hand.
“You do realize I might pass out,” she said. “I may have used up all my courage on the fairy tower.”
“Then stop here and enjoy the view.” He paused at a cluster of stones that had once been the castle’s foundation and slipped an arm around her. She relaxed against him and looked out over the incredible vista, and he watched the uncertainty fade from her face in favor of quiet appreciation.
“Let’s go into the ruins, shall we?”
She nodded, finding his hand again. They tramped around the dirt floor, surrounded by the crumbling walls of the old castle. He held her around the waist as they peered through the keyhole opening in the front wall that framed a view of the sea. He found himself watching her as much as the scenery, enjoying the look of pleasure on her face and the feel of her body pressed alongside his. He didn’t dare draw attention to the fact in case she panicked and withdrew again, but she seemed content to rest in his arms. It was a small step, but at least it was one in the right direction.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The first fat drops of rain struck them as they climbed back out from the floor of the castle. Clouds blotted out the sun again, and frigid wind buffeted them outside the protective shelter of the stone walls.
“Race you back to the car?” James asked.
Andrea didn’t think he meant it literally, but the skies apparently did, because they chose that moment to shed their full burden, loosing drops so large they stung when they struck her skin. She grinned at him and took off at a sprint up the marshy hillside.
Andrea dared a glance back and saw him following a few paces behind, laughing as he ran. She beat him to the car, but by the time he fumbled his keys from the pocket of his jeans, she was shivering and soaking wet. He quickly unlocked the doors, and they dove for the shelter of the wagon as if of one mind.
The doors slammed with a hollow thud. Rain drummed dully on the roof and splattered the windshield. Andrea shivered violently as water dripped from her sodden hair down her face.
James started the engine and flipped on the heater. “I’m so sorry.”
Laughter bubbled up inside her. “Did you actually just apologize for the weather?”
He smiled sheepishly. “I suppose I did. Cold and miserable, remember?”
“And horrible food,” she added. “I think we can agree that one isn’t true.”
“Good. I would hate to spoil your newfound fondness for my country. Wait here.” He jumped out of the car into the downpour and popped the hatch in the back. By the time he got back into the driver’s seat, he was even wetter than before.
“This should warm you up.” He pulled the picnic blanket out from under his coat and draped it around her shoulders, then pushed her wet hair back from her face. His touch stirred a riot of sensations in her middle. He started to pull away, but she curled her fingers around his hand and held it against her cheek.
“I’m beginning to think you are a good man, James MacDonald.”
He froze, his fingers twining with hers, but he didn’t say anything.
“I’ve been thinking I should learn a few words of Gaelic while I’m here. What is it you said? An toir thu dhomh pòg?”
“Do you have any idea what that means?”
“Serena told me.”
“And what did she tell you?” He seemed to be struggling against a smile.
Andrea leaned across the console and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Will you kiss me?”
“Close. More properly, it means, ‘Will you give me a kiss?’”
She laughed, and it came out far shakier than she expected. “James, stop talking and just kiss me.”
He smiled and brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek, then lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold, and she sighed against his mouth. His fingers tightened on her shoulder, but his lips remained gentle, softly exploring, tasting. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she knew he was holding himself back.
His patience was torture. She gripped his jacket and pulled him closer. The urgency of his response stole her breath and made her head swim. He buried his hands in her hair, and Andrea surrendere
d to the moment, reveling in the taste of him, the restrained strength in his touch. When his lips traveled across her jaw and down to her throat, a whimper slipped from her mouth.
The sound must have brought him back to his senses, because he froze and lifted his head a fraction of an inch, his breath coming in bursts.
“You’re killing me, Andrea,” he whispered. He pressed another lingering kiss to her lips, then released her completely and fell back against his seat.
Her cheeks instantly heated. She had gotten wrapped up in the moment, driven by the need for closeness, connection. He probably thought … Well, she didn’t want to know what he thought. “I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry.”
“I’m not sorry at all.” He raised her hand to his lips so her fingers curved against his cheek and kissed her palm. The mere press of his lips in such an unexpected place sent a thrill of electricity through her body. From the little smile he gave her, he knew it too.
“We should go back to the hotel,” he said. “You’re soaked.”
She looked down at her jacket, the light gray fabric now charcoal from the rain. “What’s the hurry? We can’t get any wetter, can we?”
“You only say that because it’s positively steamy in here now.” His mouth curved into the wicked smile that had gotten her into this situation in the first place. “Let’s go change into dry clothes, and I’ll make you a cup of chocolate.”
“All right. You sold me with the chocolate.”
James eased the car from the turnout, driving slowly in the steadily falling rain. The windshield wipers thudded against the windshield with every sweep, giving her something to focus on besides the man next to her. To say she hadn’t wished for that moment since she met him would be a bald-faced lie. She just hadn’t been willing to succumb to temptation when she thought she was just another conquest to him.
The rain dwindled to a spatter as they curved around the other side of the peninsula. James pointed out the Old Man of Storr, a particularly spectacular volcanic rock pinnacle, but they didn’t linger long. Despite her earlier words, she was chilled to the bone, the cold even more biting in contrast to the flush of heat she felt any time he touched her. She spent the drive back alternately shivering and trying to calm her racing pulse.
Five Days in Skye: A Novel Page 18
