Payton

by L. L. Muir

  She lowered her head, embarrassed. But he couldn’t be denied her sweetness any longer, so he used the sash of her robe to pull her against the front of the couch. He tucked a knuckle beneath her chin and lifted her face to meet his in a gentle kiss. ‘Twas all he wanted when he began, but soon it wasn’t enough, and he deepened the kiss until neither of them was breathing quietly. It took all his strength of will to end the embrace and allow her to pull back.

  She composed herself before standing and leaving the room, and while he was still resisting the urge to follow her, she returned with a box of tissues.

  “All right,” she said cheerfully, as if the kiss had never happened. “I want to hear this ghost story. And it had better be good.” She pointed to the cushion on the floor. “Your turn. Your hair’s nearly as long as mine, and still not dry.”

  “That may be, lass, but I reckon yer fingers running through my hair is not such a grand idea.” He dropped his eyes to his lap for only a second, but she seemed to get the essence of the problem.

  “Oh, well.” Her eyes widened slightly and she blushed. “Sorry. Um, well, I’ll just…”

  He patted the cushion next to him and leaned back. “Come. Sit here. I promise not to bite, if ye promise not to pet me.”

  She laughed and the tension of the moment was gone. “Fine. But I still want the story.”

  With glasses of water and a plate of cheese and crackers before them, Fitz began the tale he’d bene trying to avoid before. But he wanted her to know why he’d come that day, just in case she turned around and found him gone. Perhaps she would look back and think, “Maybe he’d been one of those ghosts after all.” And it might keep her from looking for him, or waiting for him to return, waiting in vain as his sisters must have done.

  “Once upon a time,” he began again, and Grace giggled. He reached for her hand and she surrendered it willingly. Then he toyed with her fingers while he searched for the right words to use. “Once upon a time, there was a horrible battle on Drumossie Moor. Many died.”

  “Too many.”

  “Aye. They did. And the morning after the battle, some of them rose again.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Some? Why only some?”

  He grunted with impatience. “I dinna ken. Now, am I to tell it, or are ye?”

  “My bad. Go ahead.”

  He gave her hand a tug and started again. “The morning after the battle, seventy-nine of the fallen rose again, including a wee lad named Rabby, and his dog.”

  “And a man named Fitzjames Payton.”

  He looked into her eyes for some sign that she knew what she was saying, but she only winked at him and nodded. “Go on.”

  “Aye. And a man named Fitzjames. He was the forty-eighth to rise.”

  “Nice touch,” she whispered.

  He pressed his finger against her lips to insist she hold her wheesht. And after he dragged that finger away, he was then able to move on through the story with no more interruptions. Eventually, the lassie’s head lolled to the side and propped itself against his shoulder and she breathed sleep into her chest and out again.

  He’d lost her.

  But he decided to keep talking, even though she couldn’t hear him. Perhaps, he thought, he could tell her subconscious about himself and when she woke, days from now, she would somehow sense that he wouldn’t be coming back again.

  So he told it all.

  He told how he’d been tickled to find himself in Texas and immediately lured into the bushes by a short lass with a kind heart. He told her what he thought of her family, and that she needed to find herself a new one. And he told her, quietly, that after he performed some noble deed for her, a witch would come and take him away forever.

  Then he explained how, one day, she would shed her own mortality and go looking for the gates of Heaven, and that she shouldn’t fear, because if it was in his power to do so, he’d be biding his time right there at the front. Easy to find. Waiting with arms flung wide and a grin on his face.

  She suddenly took a deep breath and startled from her dreams. “What?” She pulled away and frowned at him. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  She rubbed her face. “I think I fell asleep.”

  “Aye, ye did. And no harm done.”

  She looked around. “Will you tell me the end of the story tomorrow?”

  “If not tomorrow, then another time, aye?”

  She blinked rapidly and smiled. “Sometime when I’m not drunk or asleep?”

  He laughed lightly and rose to help her to her room. “I promise. When I give ye the end of the tale, ye will be neither asleep, nor drunk.”

  She yawned. “I don’t really drink, you know. Except when I’m in Texas.”

  “Well, some places are like that.” He turned her toward the bedroom and pushed her to get her moving.

  “Like, if you were in England?”

  He nodded behind her and gave her a little shove before letting her go on without him. “If I were in England, lass, ye can bet money I’d be drinking.”

  She laughed and left him at the doorway. Then she came back. “You know what you could do, even if I am half asleep, or half drunk?”

  “What is that, lassie?”

  She searched his eyes. “You could kiss me.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. Her face was only inches away.

  He gave her a crooked grin and ran his knuckles along her cheek. “Oh, can I now?”

  She bit her lips together and nodded. He finally noticed she wasn’t wearing that red lipstick anymore.

  “All right,” he said. “But only because ye begged me.”

  Her mouth opened on a gasp and he hurried to catch her by surprise. The kiss itself was sweet and innocent—just like Grace herself. Her arms came up to capture him around the neck and he let her take the kiss where she would. After all, he wasn’t the most experience young man when it came to wooing lasses, and it wasn’t as if he’d learned much in the past two and a half centuries, with or without tellies and mobile screens.

  In fact, he realized his sweet Grace might have been a wee more educated than himself. At least, with his own limited experience, he would never have thought that a kiss could last so long, or be so…like a conversation.

  She inhaled swiftly and it was enough to bring him back to his senses. He ended the kiss and pulled back.

  “I believe, Grace, that if we go on much longer, ye’ll fall asleep on me again.”

  She giggled and turned away. He pulled the door closed before she had the chance to undress without realizing she’d left the portal open.

  “Goodnight, my Grace,” he murmured through the door.

  “Goodnight, Fitzjames,” she called. “I’m sorry about your sisters.”

  He froze, wondering if he’d heard her aright, or if, perchance, her subconscious was already confusing the fictional Fitzjames with himself.

  He knelt before the davenport and offered a prayer as he had done nightly, long ago. He prayed with all his might that Grace would find the happiness he wished he could give her himself. And he thanked God for a wee lass named Soncerae, and for whatever miracle had brought him into Grace’s life, if only for a day or two.

  He also prayed that his noble deed, whatever it needed to be, would be clear to him on the morrow. He prayed he would be brave and strong and capable to complete it…

  And if it wasn’t too much bother, he’d like to also be brave and strong and capable when it came to humbling some American Football fans in the afternoon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Grace was pretty proud of herself for being able to think clearly the next morning, let alone have the forethought to send the Scot’s clothes to be pressed. But there was something sobering about defying one’s mother on the day of your sister’s wedding, and if she intended to have Fitz wear his kilt again, he was going to look good doing it.

  Not that he wouldn’t look incredible in just a robe—if there had been one his size.

  She’d hoped to hav
e the outfit back before the man woke up, but he turned out to be an early riser.

  He’d opened the curtains and figured out the coffee maker and she privately cursed him for the first and blessed him for the second as she walked carefully to the kitchenette, shielding her eyes from both the sunlight and what the Scottish god might or might not be wearing.

  “What have ye done with my plaid, lass?” His soft words made her think that maybe he knew she had a hangover. “And please doona say ye’ve changed yer mind about allowing me to wear it, for ye canna attend yer sister’s wedding on the arm of a man covered with only a towel. And I’ve my heart set on escorting ye.”

  She started to shake her head, but stopped when internal bells started ringing between her temples. “I sent them out to be pressed. They’ll be back in time.”

  “I thank ye for that, then. And now I’ll thank ye to drink this before the coffee.” He lifted her arm and pressed a mug into her hand.

  “What is it?”

  “A bit o’ the dog. Go on now. Gulp now, taste later.” He nudged her arm up.

  No matter what it was, it couldn’t hurt any worse than her current pain, so she did as she was told. The first time she swallowed, she realized she’d made a horrible mistake, but the second gulp was on its way to the back of her mouth and it was either spit it all out into the man’s face or suck it up, so she grabbed onto his arm to brace herself and forced the rest of it down.

  He laughed when she started beating on his chest with one hand. “Here now. Wash it down with the coffee. Not too hot, now.”

  Another mug was pushed into her hand and she didn’t care if it scalded her, she just had to get that…crud taste off her tongue!

  It didn’t burn, just like he’d promised, but she decided she was never going to trust him again anyway.

  “What was in that?”

  “Best ye doona ken, lass. But ye may want a wee lie down while the effects take hold, aye?”

  “Aye,” she whispered and headed back to the bedroom with the coffee cup, her hand still over her eyes. Just as she was closing the door to the bedroom, she had a horrible lapse in self-control and peeked back toward the kitchen—just to make sure he had been wearing that towel while they’d been talking.

  He was leaned back against the counter, mussed hair skimming his muscled shoulders, pumped arms folded above his flat stomach, and his ankles crossed. Towel in place.

  He shook his head at her, but with a smile on his face.

  She was almost…disappointed.

  ~

  An hour later, a town car arrived for them and they were off to the wedding. She’d been so distracted by the man sitting next to her she hadn’t paid attention to where they were going. And when the Scot helped her out of the car, she thought for a second they might be in the wrong place.

  The church looked ancient but charming. There was a wide stairway leading up to a porch that ran all the way around the building. A place to get out of the sun, probably. The big doors stood open and a large wreath of pastel flowers hung on each. And for once, Grace thought that particular expense was possibly worth it, the picture was just that perfect.

  Her mother stepped out of the doors and ruined the peace of the moment. She wore a dress suit of glittering champagne, and though the sky was overcast and the sun was hiding, the outfit shimmered even from a distance.

  “Way to upstage the bride, Mother,” she murmured.

  The woman waved a hand in their direction and a valet hurried down the steps with an umbrella. He opened it and brought it to hold over Grace’s head.

  “It’s not raining, but thank you,” she told him.

  The umbrella stayed where it was and the guy’s eyes bulged a little. “Please,” he said, moving his mouth as little as possible, like a ventriloquist. “Allow me.”

  She understood completely, and she nodded so the guy would relax. Barbara Cunningham had given him orders and he wouldn’t defy those orders even if someone had a gun to his head. Kind of like those soldiers Fitz had been telling her about the night before. The whole story was still pretty fuzzy. And the ghost story was coming back to her in little snippets, but she’d been falling in and out of sleep while he’d been talking and she wasn’t sure which parts had been the history lesson and which details belonged to the ghost story.

  The strange pall that hung over her head that morning might have been from his stories and not from how much wine she’d had with dinner—or rather, instead of dinner. The battlefield had been described in such detail, she felt like she’d actually been standing on it while both stories were told. It was the weirdest thing. Like she’d been caught in a spell and held there. And this charming old chapel had reminded her. Maybe it had been built the same time as that cottage on Culloden Moor…

  Fitz took her hand in a firm grip and supported her across the soft, damp driveway to the steps. Together against the enemy, she thought. Knowing her mother was going to flip out about the kilt didn’t sound so satisfying anymore. She just wished the morning could be over with already.

  “Really, Grace,” her mother said by way of a greeting. “If you’re going to play your silly games, try not to do it on a day that is so important to me.”

  All Grace’s guilt fled. “I’m sorry, mother. But I thought it was Patience’s important day, not yours.”

  Fitz gave her hand a squeeze, but he kept his eyes on her mother.

  The woman ignored the dig. “Just tell him to sit down before he makes a spectacle of himself.”

  “Tell yer mother,” Fitz said, still looking at the woman, “that I shall do my best not to outshine the bride.”

  Grace choked, realizing he’d heard her quiet comment before.

  Her mother pretended not to know what he meant, but the red skin just above her collar gave her away as she disappeared into the church.

  “I feel horrible,” she said, facing him.

  “Auch, Grace, Even if this was the first time ye’ve ever spoken back to the woman, the pair of ye will survive, and be better for it, I’m certain.”

  She grinned. “Oh, I don’t feel bad about that. It felt kind of…overdue. But I feel horrible because I have to leave you to sit by yourself.”

  He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles, sending shivers through her like a damp breeze. “Will ye be thinking of me, lass?”

  “No question about it,” she admitted.

  “Then I shall not be alone, shall I?” He straightened and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “For luck,” he said.

  She shook her head and tried not to smile. “Have you met my family? I’m going to need a lot more luck than that.”

  He frowned for a second, then caught on and pulled her close. They grinned at each other, then kissed again. And she tried to tell herself, the entire time, that this was all just for show, that he’d been hired to treat her well, that it would be odd if they didn’t display some affection.

  But there was something very real about the way he looked into her eyes when it was over. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to analyze it because an angry hissing noise was coming from just inside the church.

  “We’ll continue this discussion later, maybe?” she said as she dragged her arms from his shoulders.

  “Maybe?”

  She smiled over her shoulder. “Probably.”

  His deep, unhurried laughter followed her all the way to the bride’s room.

  When she opened the door and saw her sister’s reflection in the mirror, and the frustrated look on her face, Grace was flooded with an overwhelming sense of pity. She couldn’t help but think that every bride, on their wedding day, deserved to feel the way she herself was feeling at that moment. Like her feet were easily two feet off the ground, like nothing anyone said, no matter how heartless, could touch her mood.

  Like she’d just discovered that falling in love was every bit as wonderful as the poets said it was.

  Sadly, she suspected that Patience and Shawn, with their carefully laid plans f
or the future of their bank accounts, would never know it. At least not with each other.

  Grace watched the other bridesmaids lined up against the far wall, ready to start the march into the chapel, and realized they were more nervous about the woman with the whip—the mother of the bride—and less concerned with the bride, with whom they were supposed to be celebrating.

  This was not a wedding. It was the money ceremony. A pretty bouquet, some pretty words, and it all would mean so little.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As the least important bridesmaid—the post assigned to her only because of their blood and not her personal relationship with the bride—Grace marched first. She took her time walking down the aisle, as instructed, and tried not to think about the ugly gown she wore. It was the most awful cross between periwinkle and brown—a color her mother insisted was chocolate, a perfect match to the champagne and chocolate invitations that had been hand done.

  Unfortunately, hand done, in Patience’s case, meant finished at the last minute. There had been no time to complain and the invitations had been sent. When Grace received hers, she’d thought it was a joke. But then the joke had been on her when she’d been forced to wear the sickening color.

  As soon as the reception was over, she was going to find the nearest barbeque pit and make sure no one would ever see the dress again, not even at a thrift store. After all, poor people had enough going against them.

  She smiled at Shawn and tried not to show any of the pity she felt for him. Beaker stood to Shawn’s right but she turned her head to the left to keep from losing it. The last thing she needed was to laugh through the ceremony. Her parents would probably commit her to rehab at the end of the day, thinking she had a serious drinking problem.

  But all she really had was a case of the…happies.

  Her body was still in Texas and she was happy! Who would have thought?

  She was tough and forced herself not to look at Fitz until after she hit her mark. Once she did, she turned to wait for the rest of the party to take their spots. When her eyes found the dark, broodingly handsome figure on one of the back rows, her heart felt like it was dancing in her chest.