Payton

by L. L. Muir

  She’d had a generous word for every acquaintance to whom she’d introduced him. She’d grimaced a time or two when someone had been a bit rude in their conversation with him, but she’d excused them without thought.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d said dozens of times between introductions. “You’ll have to forgive Thus and Such because if this and that.” She found fault with no one while all her closest kin had insisted Grace had faults aplenty. And each and every time he’d spoken up for her, knowing instinctively she was incapable of those faults, she’d sided with her accusers!

  He heaved a heavy sigh into the depths of his wine glass. These people did not deserve to be in the same room with Grace Cunningham.

  Cunningham. Why in Heaven’s name did she have to be a Cunningham?

  “Come on, now.” The groom grinned at him and leaned forward. The table was large and round, however, so he couldn’t have expected a private word in truth. “Is your name really Payton? Or are you and Grace just pulling one over on Rocky?”

  Rocky cleared his throat rather violently and from the corner of Fitz’s eye, he noticed his wife reaching for her husband’s hand, not to comfort him, but to pinch him.

  “Aye. Fitzjames Payton.”

  The groom shook his head, laughing. “But you’re in Texas. And you’re here.” He pointed at the window with his butter knife. “If you were smart, buddy, you would have lied.”

  Fitz exchanged a glance with Grace. She bit her lip and blushed. Perhaps it was the wee glass of wine she’d had, but she seemed to be much more relaxed than she had been, in spite of her family’s continued coldness toward her.

  “What is that?” he said, nodded at the monstrosity in the distance, though he knew full well what it was. He’d been dead for two hundred and seventy years, but he hadn’t been deaf. Nor had he been blind. The stadium to which the bridegroom referred had been on the tellie many a time.

  Cowboy Stadium. Locals, he’d heard, called it the Death Star, it was that massive and imposing. Even from the short distance, perhaps a mile away, Fitz would rather not go near the thing, for he reckoned that, surely, it wouldn’t be good for a man’s soul to feel so small and insignificant beside it.

  He also reckoned that when Grace had instructed him to play the part of a Cowboy’s fan, she hadn’t realized what it was she’d been asking. But she was about to learn.

  “What do you mean?” The groom looked to Grace. “What does he mean, what is that? Are you sure you two are dating?”

  Grace choked, and for that Fitz was truly sorry, for she seemed honestly distressed and not pretending in order to distract the conversation. She nodded, held him off with an outstretched hand, and drank from her water goblet with desperation. Perhaps she was afraid he would scoop her into his arms and carry her outside at the first sign of stress. But if that were the case, he’d have already done it dozens of times.

  He turned his attention to the mother.

  Barbara Cunningham wasn’t watching her daughter. She was looking around the room, watching to see how much attention Grace’s coughing fit was drawing. The woman blushed deeply, but with the amount of makeup she’d applied to her face, it only seemed as if a cloud had covered the sun and dimmed the light near her.

  A strange hissing noise seemed to come from beneath the table and Fitz pushed his chair back and lifted the edge of the rich linen that covered his knees. He’d ceased worrying about snakes and the like long ago, but now that he was back in mortal form, he didn’t want his limited time with Grace to be cut short because his instincts failed him.

  There was nothing beneath the table but a number of shining shoes and his own square toed boots. But the hissing continued while Grace repeatedly cleared her throat.

  Nowhere in the room could he see anything that resembled a tire of any sort. Then he wondered if the light hanging above their table was worked with gas.

  But no.

  Grace finally nodded to her mother and set her napkin aside.

  The bride laughed. “Apparently Gracie doesn’t want us talking about the Cowboys. Maybe she isn’t really a fan. Maybe she’s embarrassed her family is from Texas.” Her voice had grown louder as she spoke, and strangely enough, so had the hissing.

  Has the bride sprung a leak of some kind?

  He chuckled. But when he turned his head to look at Grace, the direction of the hissing was clear. It came from Grace’s mother. She was obviously using the tactic to reign in her daughters.

  Embarrassing Barbara Cunningham was apparently a sin.

  “I’m not ashamed you’re all Cowboys fans,” Grace whispered to her sister, obviously trying to appease both her and their mother.

  “Did you hear that, Daddy? She said you’re all Cowboys fans. Like she’s not one of us.” The bride narrowed her eyes in a rather triumphant scowl. “Grace doesn’t like the Cowboys.”

  “That’s bull,” Rocky growled. “Grace hasn’t forgotten where she came from. Of course she’s a Cowboys fan. It’s not her fault if the only fellow she can find doesn’t know the first thing about football. She’s obviously trying not to embarrass the boy.”

  Boy?

  “Ah,” Fitz grinned. “Forgive me, sir. I didna ken ye wished to discuss football. I believe I ken all that needs knowin’.” He gave Grace a wink, but she showed a disturbing lack of confidence in him when she closed her eyes and hung her head.

  Rocky gave him a glare. “Don’t tell me I’ve just paid for the dinner of a Bronco’s fan.” He turned to his wife. “And if I have, I mean it, don’t tell me.”

  “Nay, sir.” Fitz grinned.

  Barbara had been hissing again, but no one paid her any mind, so she gave up.

  Rocky held his hands out over the table as if trying to control his family. “Don’t ask him. You hear? I don’t want to know.”

  “There’s only one football team on the side of God Himself,” Fitz continued. “So there would only be one team to which to rally, aye?”

  Grace’s hand covered her eyes, but her mouth was moving silently. It was clear she was saying the word Dallas over and over like a prayer.

  Fitz snorted, enjoying the fact that he’d managed to render the entire family speechless. But eventually, ye simply have to drop the ball…

  “Celtics, of course.”

  The bride’s brows twisted. “Celtics? The Boston Celtics aren’t even a football team! Hah!” She leaned a nasty face toward Grace as if she’d committed the gravest sin for bringing an ignorant man to her wedding supper.

  “Nay. They’re not,” he said to Patience. “And neither are yer Cowboys.”

  Rocky growled. Truly.

  The bridegroom burst into laughter. “He’s talking about soccer? Hah! He’s talking about soccer!”

  “I’m speaking of real football, laddie. The kind that takes much more ability than to clap yer hands and rush forward a few steps at a time, aye?”

  “I beg your pardon, son?” The fact that Rocky had spoken slowly and mannerly was as clear a sign as a hissing snake, and he decided to answer Grace’s obvious prayer and stop poking the man.

  “Forgive my poor manners, sir. This is not the time nor the place to school ye and yers on the finer points of football.”

  Rocky snorted. Fitz was surprised his food didn’t come out his nose the sound was that violent. Then the big man burst into laughter and the rest of the room fell silent while everyone waited to learn why their patron was so delighted.

  “Barbara?” Rocky said, while staring at Fitz.

  “Mmm?” She was perhaps too embarrassed to speak.

  “What time will the wedding be over in the morning?”

  “Not until noon, at least. Why?”

  “And the reception?”

  “We need to be dressed by four. Why?”

  Rocky turned to the groom. “Two hours should be enough. I assume you can ditch your wife from one to three?”

  The bride gasped. Her bridegroom laughed, then nodded.

  “Then we’ve got our
selves a game.” He turned to Fitz. “I believe you need a proper introduction to what you call American Football, son.”

  Fitz grinned back, but then he realized that it would be up to a young witch from Scotland whether or not he would be available for such an appointment. He looked into Grace’s eyes for a precious few seconds and hoped, if he didn’t manage to do anything particularly noble before one o’clock on the morrow, he would be permitted to stay.

  He turned back to Rocky. “If I am allowed, sir, I welcome the challenge.”

  The man suddenly frowned and leaned in Fitz’s general direction. “Please tell me you have something to wear besides a kilt.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Grace knew for a fact she’d had too much wine because she was having a lovely time while sitting at the same table as her family. She hadn’t been worried about the money, or the greed, or the cloud of depression that would inevitably follow her home to Eugene on Sunday—because her mind was completely occupied with Jim. Jimbo. No, wait. She was supposed to call him Fitz, or James. But definitely not Jim.

  The best man, Ronnie, stood to make a toast. His shoulders were twice as broad as the fabric-covered chair behind him. His neck was nearly as wide as his head. Ronnie, the football buddy from Shawn’s high school team. But someone had forgotten to tell the guy he could stop bulking up. He wasn’t on a team anymore.

  Ronnie turned to face the bride’s table and any definition in his neck and head disappeared. Together, they looked like a straight, fat pipe and the only things interrupting the surface was his ears. The solid column disappeared into his muscle-bound chest that made it impossible for his suit to fit right. And there was something about the shock of red hair spiked on the top of his head that looked…familiar.

  Laughter burst from her when she realized why.

  He’s Beaker. From the Muppets!

  Her mother started hissing and Grace tried very hard to get a grip. Ronnie was still talking, so she turned and faced him again, determined to show good manners. But all she could see was Beaker.

  The laughter sneaked out between her teeth, and when she clamped her hands over her mouth, it then tried to escape through her sinuses, making her snort. The hissing grew louder, and a little angry. But it wasn’t her fault! How could anyone be expected not to laugh while Beaker was giving a wedding toast?

  Fitz or James or Jimbo—definitely not Jim—stood up and excused himself. Then he took her hand and asked her to dance. Or maybe not, since she stood up to go to the dance floor, but they ended up back on that lovely veranda again.

  She’d been taken away for laughing.

  “I embarrassed you,” she said, trying to look sorry about it.

  “I don’t embarrass easily, lass.” He guided her to the edge of the stone railing so she could lean against it. “Ye didna eat much, I reckon.”

  “I reckon I didn’t. But I had plenty to drink. I think.”

  He chuckled.

  She pointed at his lovely trim stomach. “I noticed you didn’t drink your wine.”

  He shrugged a shoulder, then bit his lip for a minute. And she very much wanted to volunteer to bite that lip for him.

  She had to be drunk, and she said so.

  “A wee bit,” he said. “And I’ve recently… That is to say, I’m nay certain how much of yer American wine will affect this body of mine, so I thought it best not to test it.”

  “Ah.” She pretended to understand.

  The rafts of flowers still floated, but candles had been added to the water and the fountains had been turned off. The infinitesimal breeze nudged the glass balls with candles all to one end of the pool, however, leaving one raft neglected in shadows.

  “What is required of me, Grace Cunningham?”

  She winced at her own name. She really wished she could change it so she could stop being ashamed, but her family would never forgive her. And they would find out.

  “I need you tonight,” she said, then gasped at how that sounded.

  His eyes laughed at her.

  “I mean, for tonight’s wedding supper, of course.”

  “Of course.” He was still laughing.

  “And for the wedding tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “And after? Would ye mind if I toyed with yer father a bit?”

  “Toyed?”

  “Aye.”

  She grinned. “Only if I can watch.”

  “I’d have it no other way.” Then he looked worried. “And after? Do ye need me by yer side for this reception?”

  She nodded. She wanted him by her side until the minute she got on her plane, if not as a buffer between herself and the rest of the Cunningham clan, then as a distraction. But that would be expecting too much.

  He cleared his throat and it made a low rumbling sound in that lovely wide chest. “I am embarrassed to say… all I have at my disposal is my kilt.”

  “No worries,” she said. “We’ll just call Daddy’s tailor first thing in the morning.”

  He looked absolutely mortified.

  Had it been such a snotty thing to say, that she could call a tailor at any time? Though she dreaded hearing it, she had to know. “What’s wrong?”

  He held his hands out to his sides. “I’ve no coin, Grace. None at all.”

  She laughed, relieved. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Then she realized she’d insulted him, lumping him in with the other grubbers, even though he wouldn’t understand. “I’m sorry. I was teasing. It’s no big deal. I mean, we can just take the cost out of your fee, if that’s all right with you.”

  “My fee?”

  “I’m paying you, remember?” She turned and leaned back against the stone and waved toward the French doors. “It’s not like you would dance through this gauntlet if you didn’t have to, right?”

  “I believe I would dance with ye anywhere, lass.”

  She searched for his face in the shadows, trying to read those eyes, wondering if he was laughing at her again. But she couldn’t focus well, so she gave up.

  “That’s very sweet of you, Jimbo. Or Fritz. Or—”

  “It’s Fitz, not Fritz. But perhaps ye should simply call me Payton. The rest of my name seems too difficult.”

  She giggled. “Payton. My father won’t appreciate it at all.”

  “Then I insist.”

  She laughed again, then got a grip. “I don’t hate my father, you know.”

  “Ye don’t?”

  “No. I don’t. I hate his money. I hate what he does with it,” she gestured toward the thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers floating unappreciated in the pool. “And what he doesn’t do with it.”

  Chills spread over her and raced down her arms toward her fingertips when the Scot’s voice moved closer and dropped lower. “And yer mother?”

  “Mother?” She thought about the Queen for a minute. There weren’t a lot of fond memories there, but instead of feeling sorry for herself, Grace pitied the woman. “I don’t think she knows how to be happy.” Then she giggled again. “But she knows how to hiss, doesn’t she?”

  She couldn’t help herself and bent over because she couldn’t use her stomach muscles to both laugh and hold herself up. And she was tickled to hear that she wasn’t laughing alone. With her lips closed, she tried to stifle her own noise just so she could listen to his. The sound was too delicious to waste.

  Eventually, they both wound back down.

  “Forgive me, lass. I’ve not enjoyed a good belly laugh in centuries.”

  She forced a deep breath into her lungs. “Me neither.”

  “But tell me, does she truly believe that no one kens the hissing comes from her?”

  Grace sighed. “I know. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “Sad indeed.” He was watching her again and thanks to a shift in the breeze and the drift of some candles, she was finally able to focus on his eyes. But he cleared his throat and stepped back. “I believe the air has done us good. Shall we go back?”

  He led her inside and she realize
d there was a tension between them that hadn’t been there before. She was pretty sure he was trying to be careful to keep their relationship all business, and she was grateful. After all, looking like Clive Owen in a kilt gave him an advantage over any woman under ninety, and he could have easily pushed that advantage. But he didn’t.

  And the last thing she needed, or wanted, was to fall for a guy in Texas of all places.

  Coffee and dessert were waiting for them and he forced her to finish both. Then, finally, her mother gave them permission to leave and walked them out the front doors and ordered her car brought around.

  The gloves came off as soon as the doorman stepped away from them.

  “You’re in no condition to drive,” the woman hissed. “So your father’s car will take you to the Omni.”

  Grace shook her head. “I’ve already made reservations—”

  “I know. I cancelled them. You’ll have the Governor’s Suite. I had your things moved for you.”

  She imagined some bell hop getting a kick out of packing her panties back into her suitcase. And what about the pair she’d left on the floor of the bathroom? How perfectly humiliating!

  Mother’s specialty.

  “And don’t get any notions about changing rooms and pocketing the money. It’s paid for, all right? Enjoy it. Don’t enjoy it. I don’t care. But you won’t go slumming in Arlington. Not as long as I’m alive.”

  “Yes, mother,” she said through gritted teeth and prayed for the car to come quickly.

  “You’ll make sure Jim is dressed decently for the wedding?” She ignored the fact that he stood right next to her.

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Then I’ll see you both at the church in the morning. I’ll send the car at nine-thirty.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  The long town car slid up to the curb and the Queen disappeared back inside the country club.

  Grace turned to the Scot and was surprised to find him smiling, though his jaw was rigid, his gaze intense.

  “Nay need to telephone yer father’s tailor, lass.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I’ve decided my plaid is just the thing to wear to yer sister’s wedding on the morrow.”

  She grinned. “I was thinking the same thing.”