Rescuelander

by Samantha Liddell

  Tonight, though, with rounds continually being bought, Scott went a bit overboard, and it was starting to show. He was the one who decided to call it a night. He had overstepped his mark on his quality-over-quantity philosophy.

  He must have read my mind. “Think it’s time to call it a night, Sassenach,” he said to me joyfully. So Scott and I left the rest of the group to continue drinking merrily, and we headed back to the B&B. We had been holding hands almost the whole way, until Scott pulled away just around the corner from the B&B and starting dancing a Highland jig down the street. He looked quite the sight doing so, and with the added feature of being dressed head to toe in the late Mr Wilson’s clothes. Thankfully when we arrived back inside the B&B, Mrs Wilson was still up, so Scott stopped his silly Highland jig, wished Mrs Wilson a “good night, milady” like a true gentleman, and headed up to our room.

  I hoped to dear God Sophie and James were asleep and not doing the deed as we walked in, and as if my prayers were answered, they were indeed fast asleep on a completely deflated air mattress that obviously got a good work out that evening.

  I ordered Scott to lie down on the bed; I could tell he still had some Highland dancing left in his system to let out, but I was in no mood, plus we had company down on the floor. I slid his loafers and Glengarry off and unclipped his suspenders.

  “Aye, well if you insist there, my Sassenach,” Scott said, wishfully thinking.

  “I do not insist one little bit, Scott,” I replied, and just like that he gave up on his urges and was out like a light, snoring as soon as his head reached the pillow. I, on the other hand, had got a second wind on that walk back and didn’t feel quite as tired as I had back at the pub.

  I saw my journal sitting on the bedside table so decided to pick it up and go downstairs to the kitchen, make a cuppa, and write a new entry into it. I still had to write down my dream from last night in detail, and not forget about adding Jim into it.

  As I entered the kitchen, I was greeted by Mrs Wilson, who had the same idea as I did about making a cuppa.

  “Oh hello, dear, did Scott get off to bed all right?” she asked kindly.

  “Yes, thank you, he is up there snoring his head off,” I replied.

  “Oh bless him,” Mrs Wilson said.

  I placed my journal on the kitchen table next to Mrs Wilson as I went to make a cuppa. Mrs Wilson studied the journal for a minute or two before speaking. “That Journal looks very familiar,” she said.

  I stopped making my tea and went back to the table and sat next to Mrs Wilson. After everything that had happened over the last few days, I had forgotten about the connection between Mrs Wilson and the journal. I decided to play it down, though. “Oh, does it? How so?” I asked innocently.

  Mrs Wilson continued to study the front cover from a distance, not yet touching it, until a look of recognition appeared across her face. “Aye, that’s it, I remember now. I gave a diary just like that one to a very dear friend of mine… oh, must have been a good thirty years ago. She was from Australia also. I had met her while backpacking around the UK. We ended up traveling to some great places together. Our last trip we did together before she moved home was to Thailand, where I picked up a journal just like that one from a street market. She loved to travel, so I wrote a little personal note inside for her, to encourage her to continue with her travels and to fill up the pages.” Mrs Wilson then went silent for a minute as she tried to remember what she had written. “Aye, that’s right, I wrote inside the cover, ‘A blank book, fill the pages up wisely. Be sure to rest and recharge throughout by using this bookmark.’ I then slipped a bookmark in between the pages, which had written on it:

  ‘You can do it!

  Your time is valuable,

  Your talents are many.

  And your future is bright.’”

  As Mrs Wilson told me the words she had written, I was there, reading them from my own journal, one word ahead of her as she spoke.

  I decided I needed to show her. “Is this what you wrote?” I turned the journal around so she could see the writing.

  As she read it, she was all of a sudden very taken aback, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “How can that be? That is just not possible, but that is my writing and all.” I put a supportive hand upon Mrs Wilson’s shoulder. “I always knew Sally McKnight never ended up doing any more travelling after she returned to Australia. You see, she ended up meeting a man—he was a farmer, I believe—they got married and had children. I don’t think she ever did leave Australia again, as far as I know, anyway.”

  It was now my turn to look taken aback, and to cover my mouth with my hand in shock. “Sorry, but did you just say Sally McKnight?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear, she was a very good friend of mine, although we have lost contact over the years,” Mrs Wilson said, sounding disappointed.

  “Well funny you should say that, as I have a great-aunt by the name of Sally McKnight, and she married a man by the name of Colin Smith but she decided to keep her own last name and not take his.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, he was a farmer. She did send me a wedding invite, but I couldn’t make it, still being a poor backpacker and all,” Mrs Wilson explained.

  “So then I must have got this journal somehow off her, did I?” I asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, dear.”

  This was all getting very strange. So if I got the journal somehow back in Australia, then I never did get it from my dream. That did make a lot more sense now. I was very confused as to how I could have brought something physical such as a journal back from my dream and into reality. I had to go tell Scott, whether he was awake or not.

  I left Mrs Wilson sitting at the kitchen table still with a million unanswered questions, but I needed to tell Scott straightaway. I entered the room and was greeted with what sounded like a snoring circus, all three of them hard at it, snoring their heads off. I jumped on the bed and shook Scott a few times. He stirred and made a little noise. That was good enough for me, so I started to explain the whole journal situation to him. I was so excited, yet confused at the same time, that I didn’t realise Scott had never actually fully woken up and had gone back to sleep by the time I finished talking. “Hells bells, Scott, this is important stuff. Ah, never mind, it can wait until the morning.”

  It was dark in the room, the only light coming in was from the hallway, so I didn’t see that James had now actually fully woken and had heard my whole journal explanation. Which has now added to his already confused state about the dream that Scott had, the one that allowed him and Scott to be able to track Sophie and I down. He likely decided to keep quiet for now, though, because he hadn’t quite worked out if what Scott and I were implying was true, or if we were just two crazy people who had lost their marbles. It could wait until the morning, it seemed, because he rolled over and wrapped his arm around Sophie and drifted back off to sleep.

  I was in two minds whether or not I should go back downstairs to the kitchen and join Mrs Wilson and discuss the whole journal thing further or do the sensible thing and go to bed. If I hadn’t been so tired and not fallen asleep before I had made up my mind what to do, I would have chosen the not-so-sensible option and stayed up all night talking to Mrs Wilson.

  It wasn’t until the morning was upon us and I was slowly opening my eyes that I realised I had indeed fallen asleep last night before deciding to go back down to the kitchen. I was feeling very annoyed with myself. I may have gotten the chance to gather some more answers to my questions last night about Scott, and the unusual situation we had now found ourselves in, but when the opportunity arose, what did I go and do? I ended up falling asleep.

  Scott could tell I was unsettled and that something was on my mind as soon as he opened his eyes. It could have been all my tossing and turning and huffing and puffing that woke him up. “Letticia, what are you doing? Please can you not just lie still. My head is spinning as it is, this morning,” Scott said.

  “Well that’s
not my fault, Scott, maybe take your frustration out on that one-too-many whiskeys you had last night,” I said defensively.

  Scott rolled over and looked me in the eye. He could see something was troubling me and pulled me in close and wrapped his arms around me. “Remember, open communication, Letticia, we talked about this. There is no point in tossing and turning and huffing and puffing. If there is an issue, you need to use your words,” Scott said, as if I was back at kindergarten, being told off by the teacher for throwing a tantrum and being told to use my words.

  “Oh, I will use my words, Scott, I am very capable in using my words. In fact, I used my words last night, a whole one-sided conversation of words to you as you lay there sound asleep and snoring.”

  Scott laughed. “Really? You do understand when someone is asleep, they cannot hear or be involved in a conversation, don’t you?”

  I did not look amused one little bit. “Of course I know that, I’m sorry, Scott. It’s just, I found out some very interesting information last night and I was so excited to tell you, but you were in no state to listen, and you know me, I like to be listened to at times like this.”

  Scott stroked my hair then tucked a loose strand behind my ear. “Well in that case, I am all ears, talk away.”

  I looked at him blankly. “Nah. don’t worry, it’s not even that important.”

  Scott was rather taken aback. “Really? Please tell me you are not serious, are you? You woke me up with your tossing and turning and huffing and puffing all for something that is now not even that important?”

  I giggled. “I’m joking, Scott, of course it is important, everything I say is important.”

  “Well Hells bells, then, Letticia, would you just spit it out.”

  I was offended by his demand but decided to spit it out anyway. “Okay, fine, then. So it turns out the journal that Mrs Wilson gave me in our dream, and that I somehow brought back into reality, was never ever given to me in my dream. Mrs Wilson knows my great-aunt, she gave her the journal over thirty years ago, and somehow it has ended up in my hands,” I explained.

  “See, Letticia, see how important open communication is?” Scott teased.

  “I never said open communication wasn’t important, Scott, and enough about open communication, please, we have far more important things to talk about.”

  “Very well, then, but not sure how we’re going to talk about these very important things without using open communication.”

  I looked at Scott for a second or two, contemplating whether or not to punch him in the arm or roll away from him in a huff. I decided on the first option. As I went in to give him a friendly punch in the arm, he grabbed my incoming wrist, pulled it down onto the bed, then somehow manoeuvred me onto my back as he rolled on top of me and kissed me with those amazing Scottish lips of his. I kissed him back for a few seconds, until I remembered we had company on the floor. I twisted my head around to see their whereabouts; as I did so, Scott put his finger up to my lips as if to keep me quiet. “Shhh.”

  With my head twisted, I got a good look at the guests on the floor, who were somehow still completely out to it. I then twisted my head in the opposite direction to see what the time actually was on the bedside table clock, and quite rightly, they should still be asleep—it was only 6:30 a.m., and not completely dark, but it wasn’t completely light out either.

  With my head twisting in all directions, Scott finally stopped it and made me focus on one thing, and one thing only: him. He was looking down at me, as I was now looking up at him. He came back in for a kiss, but as he was doing so, he slowly slid himself inside me. We were having the most quiet, yet intimate, passionate sex. It felt so wrong, yet so right at the same time. There was no rough, fast, or awkward positions being performed, in danger of waking up those guests we had on the floor—aka, James and Sophie. It was just a moment of true connection between two people who were very much in love with each other. It was slow and methodical, but at the same time, it was intense and powerful. It felt meaningful, like we belonged in that position and nothing could come between us. As Scott slowly moved back and forth while deep inside me, I lay there doing nothing but looking up at a man who was mine, a man who loved me for me, and all of me. I could be Letticia Little, with all my flaws and crazy ideas, and he still loved me. How did I get to be in such a position? Not just the physical position of being underneath him, where I had found myself at that very moment, but in a position in my life where I was with the man of my dreams.

  I continued looking at him, deep in thought while he was deep in me and doing all the work, and who obviously only had one thing on his mind at that very time, unlike myself with my wandering mind. And by the look of it, that one thing on Scott’s mind was about to explode. I stared into his eyes, and they started to tear up like they always did just before he climaxed. His deep dark brown eyes were glazing over with the pressure of knowing his climax was on the horizon.

  I knew I had to stop thinking and start getting involved also, if I wanted to cum with him. He would only be a few moments away. His watering eyes was the first sign that it wasn’t far off. I let myself go and relaxed and went along for the ride. We became one as Scott released, and as I did at the same time. It was intense and fun, climaxing in silence, having to control ourselves, along with each other, to not make a sound. Scott covered my mouth with his hand to keep me from screaming in pleasure, which only added to the intense orgasm I was already having.

  He had finished before me but continued to watch me from above, enjoying what he had just given me. It was now his time to look down at me and appreciate what an amazing Sassenach he got to call his own.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I awoke to my trusted bagpipe alarm at 8:00 a.m. Scott and I had drifted back off to sleep after our silent but remarkable early morning sexual relations. My alarm also woke up James and Sophie, who found themselves uncomfortably lying on the floor on top of a completely deflated air mattress. They looked stiff and sore, either from the cause of lying on a hard floor all night, or the direct action of how they become to be on a deflated air mattress on the floor in the first place. I decided to leave that mystery unanswered, after all, who was I to judge after what Scott and I had also done an hour or so earlier.

  I left the room to go to the communal bathroom down the hall to freshen up. As I opened the door of our room, I noticed something down by my feet—and no, thankfully, this time it was not a pile of sticks to decode, but instead it was four piles of clothes, freshly washed, ironed, and folded. The guys’ Kilts looked clean and ready to go, as did mine and Sophie’s lovely, comfortable lazing-around-home outfits we had been wearing the morning of our adultnapping. Not the most flattering or fashionable clothes, but a far cry from the outfit I wore out to the pub the night before. Anyway, we had already snagged our Kilt-wearing Scottish warriors who loved us for who we were, so wearing trackies and hoodies that made us look two sizes bigger than we actually were, was totally fine. We were not out to impress anymore, hell, why we were at it, we could have eaten a whole packet of chocolate Tim Tams and still been loved.

  Mrs Wilson had ever so kindly washed and dried all our clothes overnight, ready for us to put on in the morning before breakfast, and before we headed off back home.

  After a lovely warm shower and a home-cooked Scottish breakfast with all the trimmings, and a positive outcome after ringing up the mechanic and being told the Range Rover was good to go and could be picked up anytime, we had now found ourselves checking out of Mrs Wilson’s second B&B, thanking her for her warm and welcoming hospitality.

  As the others walked off to that dreaded panel van, Mrs Wilson pulled me aside. “We didn’t get to talk much more about your great-aunt, Sally McKnight, last night, but just tell me one thing, is she still alive?” she asked hopefully.

  “She sure is, alive and kicking,” I replied. “I will email you through her contact details once I get back home this afternoon, if you would like me to.”

  “Aye
, that would be wonderful, I would really appreciate that.”

  I gave her a kind smile and embraced her in a warm, friendly hug, one that said we were family now and connected for ever. She returned the same quality of hug back to me. “You take care now, lass, and safe travels, you hear. Thank you for filling those pages up, I’m glad someone had the need to apply some ink to those lines. Even if it was a third generation later.”

  I looked at her with compassion. “Maybe one day you will get to read it.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Mrs Wilson said as she waved us off.

  We never did get to say goodbye to Alistair, he was nowhere to be seen, obviously sleeping off a big night from the night before. We left Mrs Wilson our contact details to pass on to Alistair.

  The Range Rover was finally picked up and back in top condition, after Scott had to hand over his life savings to drive it away. But that was not what was important right now, what was, was getting home to Swans Cottage to my children, and to my parents and the rest of the clan, who were no doubt eating us out of house and home. Come to think of it, though, they were very welcome to, all that haggis needed to be eaten. But on the other hand, after just paying the mechanic’s bill, it might be all we had left to live on for the next month or so.

  Here I was being all melodramatic again in my own head. I decided to forget about the finer details and concentrate on just getting home to what truly was important, and that was our family.