by Becky Banks
I just shook my head. “Oh no, I just got a bit of allergies, all these old buildings . . . ” I rubbed my nose aggressively to demonstrate my point.
“Oh, all right . . . ” She sounded unconvinced but, politely accepted my excuse. “Come then, I’ll drop ye back off at Will and Carol’s. I’ll tell ye, the clan chief will hear about this! Documents don’t exist, hmph!”
I let her chatter wash over me as I reread the letter over and over in my mind. That name, acknowledged by the former clan chief as the last of the Minory lineage, was nearly identical to the one that had brought me to Scotland.
CHAPTER 12
I spent the rest of the day puttering around town, buying knickknacks from the local shops and enjoying the day in general. It was closing in on over twenty-four hours since I’d nearly fallen off a cliff and been scared to death with a claustrophobia attack and dealt with an angry MacLaoch, so this day was going well. So well that the thought of going out socially for the first time I’d gotten to Scotland was sounding like a really good idea, even if it was a setup.
After a nap, dinner, and a shower, it was closing in on a half hour since the music had started in the hotel next door. I dressed in the one fancy outfit that I had brought with me, thoroughly surprised it hadn’t wrinkled, despite my not taking it out of my suitcase until then. I added a few gold bangles and matching loops to my ears and paused in front of the mirror. The Queen of Sheba would be hard pressed to find a top that fit better than this one. The top was a deep, nearly black, green and it was cut perfectly to show off the fullness of my chest and hips; the jeans were just snug enough; and my slip-on wedges made my legs look a mile long.
I threw on some mascara, a little blush, and—because I was feeling fancy—attempted to tame my mass of curls before heading out.
The hotel next door was a set of four refurbished stone townhomes from the eighteen hundreds. The bar was packed with people dancing in the middle and sitting or mingling around the edges. The main floor was an open plan, with a restaurant to one side and the bar/music venue to the other. The bar was simply that, though with nice hardwoods and modern touches. The tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room, leaving a large space open for dancing. The band, from what I could see through the crowd, was on the far end of the room.
I’m not sure what exactly I’d been expecting the band to look like, but what I saw was not it. Six seemingly random people in random states of dress sitting in chairs grouped in an awkward fashion. No electric guitars, no drums; just two fiddle players, a cellist, two bagpipes, and a guy on drums—hand drums. And the music wasn’t what I knew as bar music, screechy amateurish stuff or jukebox golden oldies; no, this was the most incredibly synced, melodic, emotionally moving music I had ever heard.
The rapid tempo grabbed me right as I walked in, the drum keeping time in my soul and the bagpipes adding a subtle Celtic current underneath the strings. I noticed as I made my way to the bar that some of the people dancing were really dancing. The lightness of their feet as they moved seemed completely natural with the music.
I made my way to the bar and ordered a pint of a Scottish lager. Sipping, I put my back to the bar and peered through the crowd at the band, looking for the nephew of Carol. There were only two fiddle players and one was female. The other looked to be just over twelve.
I downed my beer as if it were my last saving grace and asked for another just as the music stopped. I was halfway through the second—and I wasn’t sipping—when he ambled over. Carol’s nephew was an inch shorter than me in my heels and had the gangly features of a boy who could grow impressively into that body if he tried. From just looking at him, I determined that he wasn’t trying. His large, owl-like, watery blue eyes seemed even larger behind the small spectacles he wore, and I was pretty sure his mousy brown hair and pasty white skin hadn’t been washed in a while. I knew even then that what I was thinking was harsh, but when a boy is wearing what he’s thinking right on his face, and he isn’t thinking about his mama, it kind of brings out the bitch in me.
“Are ye Nicole?” he asked, like I were a present he had been given for Christmas.
Oh, god.
“As a matter of fact, I am, and call me Cole. You would be Carol’s nephew, right?” I stuck my hand out to shake and also to make sure he kept his distance. “Pleased to meet you.” I put a smile on my face.
He grasped my hand in his clammy one.
“My aunt said ye were pretty, but she didnae say ye were hot.” He scrunched his nose up in exclamation on that last word.
Ugh, again. I thought. Now I was at a loss for words, not because I didn’t have anything to say but because I had too many things to say, none of them nice.
“What’s your name, Carol’s nephew?”
“Argyle, Fletcher Argyle,” he said, bumping the person behind him out of the way to lean on the bar with his elbow next to mine. His hand brushed my arm like a boy desperate to touch woman flesh.
I raised an eyebrow at him, not impressed and losing patience. “Thank you, James Bond. Oh, your people are calling.”
His head whipped around so fast to look in the direction I pointed that I thought he must have hurt himself. The cellist made a get-over-here gesture, and he turned back to me: “Buy me a pint o’ the Tennent, aye?” And he ran back to his seat.
I was floored and was going to do no such thing. I also made a mental note to talk to Carol and let her know her nephew needed a nanny, not a date.
The music started back up again as I heard a male voice say from behind me, “Please tell me that is not your date.”
I downed the last sip of my second beer and turned around.
The guy behind me at the bar was straight from the pages of Scottish GQ. Taller than me, with thick, Scottish-red hair—not a golden copper like mine, but red—white freckled skin, and brown eyes. The kind of brown that had a hint of green in it. And two beautiful dimples when he smiled. And he knew it, too. He was also dressed to impress, is what you could say—expensive dark slacks matching polished shoes, a plain dark wool sweater that looked like it was made from bottle-fed cashmere goats, with what looked to be a starched, not just ironed, shirt underneath. I wanted to assume he was there alone, though from the looks the Scandinavian-looking woman—the one across the bar who had a nice leather jacket on the chair opposite her—was flinging at me, I wasn’t so sure.
“Blind date,” I said, then added, “Nix that, an extremely blind blinded date.”
He laughed—long, deep, and excessively throaty. To make someone laugh, what an intoxicating addiction that is. I had a girlfriend in undergrad who would laugh at nearly everything I said—not in a sarcastic way but in a genuine fashion, and I went out of my way to be her lab partner, study partner, and BFF. To this day, I loved her deeply—selfishly, but deeply.
The man turned to the bartender. “Johnny, send a pint over to Fletcher on me, will ye?” he said and turned back to me. I watched as Johnny shook his head and began filling the pint of Tennent. “Another pint of Tennent, or would ye like something a bit stronger?” I did not miss that he was suggesting both liquor and himself.
“What’d you have in mind?” I asked.
“Whisky.”
I raised an eyebrow, but was rewarded when I conceded. I learned that night that whisky, in certain regions of Scotland, is a lot like bourbon is in the South, tending to be sweeter and excellent quality. I also discovered that my palate preferred the speyside, or sweet whiskies—and by discovered, I mean I sampled about six until we found the one I liked. Getting tipsy fast, I still noticed that Johnny pulled each bottle from the top shelves only.
The music stopped again and I glanced toward Fletcher, but he didn’t move. It was just a short break.
“I’m sorry, you probably overheard my name, but I don’t seem to know yours.” And again I noted the woman at the back table glowering.
“Kelly Browning MacLaoch Gregoire, Clan MacLaoch, next heir to the seat as MacLaoch chieftain
. But call me Kelly.” He winked.
“You people are everywhere,” I said drunkenly. I was sure I should have responded in a more impressed manner, but he seemed impressed enough for the both of us. I was about to ask him his thoughts on the MacLaoch curse when I decided I couldn’t put up with Empress of Icy Stares any longer.
“Do you know the blond woman at the back table?” I asked him, staring her down. Just like that, the woman got up and worked her way through the room toward us.
“The only woman here worth knowing is you, love,” he said softly, leaning toward me to make his point.
“Uh, thanks,” I said warily, “but I don’t think that she feels the same way.”
“Kelly, let’s go,” she snapped. Her brows, dark against her fair skin, seemed to be permanently arched in anger, and her face, though beautiful, was pinched tight from the upset she was working on.
Kelly rolled his eyes heavenward just as the music, this time jumpy and lively, started back up.
“Good,” he said and snatched my hand. “Let’s dance.”
“But—” was all I managed before I was dragged from the bar to the dance floor, the whiskies rolling like a heavy hand through my body. Before we disappeared completely into the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Ice Empress talking to someone on her cell phone.
Kelly pulled me in against him as he danced to the music, a hop and a twist here, then some move that I suspected was completely Kelly-only. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I tried to emulate him. After a moment I felt foolish. It was as if I were a fumbling newborn trying to walk, and Kelly was everywhere and right in front of me all at once.
Bodies elbowed and jarred me as they moved in sync with the jumpy fiddle, and I thought of the mosh pits I’d been in at concerts in undergrad. The crowd jostled me farther and farther from Kelly. Taking a moment from his one-man party, he saw the gap opening between us and moved to close it.
Kelly reached forward and, planting both hands on my ass, wrenched me in against him. My head bounced off his chest and, before I got my wits about me, I realized he had also licked my ear.
“Yeah, baby. Mmmm,” he said, his voice barely heard over the high pitch of Fletcher’s and his counterpart’s strings.
“Whoa, buddy,” I said, trying to put some distance between us again. I was thinking drunkenly he’d obviously missed a step in How to Woo a Woman.
“I’m sorry, love, you are just too beautiful for me not to sample,” he said into my ear, then licked it again and began ministrations that went beyond ear licking. They were far too personal, with his body against mine.
“Kelly. Yuck, don’t lick my ear.” I wiped the spit off with my shoulder, thinking this is what Fletcher might be like in several years, if he ever moved out of his mother’s house. “And get your paws off of me.” I slapped his hands off my ass.
He looked down at me without pausing in his dancing and rolled his eyes. “Stop being such a fucking American prude. Just relax.” He grabbed at me again.
“Excuse me?” I raised my voice to be sure he heard me. This dance was definitely over.
“I said, stop being such a fucking American prude.”
I sneered. “I wasn’t asking because I’m deaf, but in case you are dense, I meant: your girlfriend is at the bar and I don’t want to fuck you, so let go!” I gave him a shove, but it was like shoving a stack of bricks.
Instead of moving away from me, he leaned back again so we made eye contact. “She’s not my girlfriend, and ye can’t be serious about not wanting to fuck.” He didn’t take his eyes off mine. “Not dressed like that.”
The room jerked to a standstill as I stared at him, hard. My mind replayed the words he’d just said to me, trying to find another set of words that he could have meant. Though I tried, for his benefit—this stranger in whose country I was a guest—I knew that’s exactly what I had heard him say.
Twisting out of his mauling grip, I squeezed around a nearby couple. Kelly’s hand wrapped around my arm and yanked me back to him. I stumbled backward and fell into him, and he grabbed at me again.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” I hissed in Kelly’s face.
He tried on a look that was an attempt, I could only assume, at dark and dangerous but looked more like the California Valley girl sneer of whatever. His words were dark, however. “Ye don’t leave until I say ye do.”
It was now undeniably clear that Kelly wasn’t used to hearing the word no and that in order to have him respect my wishes, I’d have to teach him sign language. With my knee.
Just as I shifted to the side for his first lesson, a shoulder moved in between us. A man pushed Kelly backward, forcing him through the crowded dance floor. Despite my unsuccessful tries earlier to make room, it seemed this man could move bodies without effort. I watched as Kelly’s face went from attempted seduction to outright pouting. It was disgusting.
When I got a better look at the man who had a grip on Kelly—who I was starting to feel wasn’t calling Kelly out on my behalf but for some deeper, longer standing reason—I groaned inwardly. Would I never see the last of my resident jerk? Clad in clothes similar to what he’d worn the day before, he nodded in my direction as if to emphasize a point to Kelly. His grip on Kelly’s shoulder tightened, and Kelly made a pained expression at him.
Slowly the MacLaoch turned and met my stare. His expression was dark and dangerous, and it growled, You. He looked back at Kelly for a few final words, and I made my escape to the bar to close my tab and leave. Sure, he’d just helped me out, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be anywhere near someone like him if he was close with someone like Kelly.
Of course, the only open place at the bar was next to Ice Empress—who was wearing an expression, I guessed, that was as close as she would ever get to a smile. She was extremely smug. And I wasn’t so slow as to not realize that the MacLaoch had been on the other end of the phone call she had just made. I’d thank her later.
I was just signing the check when I saw him approach from the corner of my eye and heard him say under his breath to her, “Eryka, go wait in the car.” When she didn’t immediately move, he punctuated it with, “Now.”
Oh jeez.
He moved in beside me and very gently took the credit card receipt from my hand, read my name, and handed it to Johnny the barkeep.
“Johnny, put this on our tab, aye? And I’ll have a dram of the Talisker twenty-five year.” His voice was smooth, no hint of the anger he’d just demonstrated.
I watched as my receipt got shredded and Johnny reversed the credit on the little machine he’d used to run my card. Johnny moved with silent obedience to this man, and I watched all this as the MacLaoch watched me.
“Dinnae know ye’d be meeting my cousin later,” he said. “Ye get around.”
“Excuse me?” I met his glacial blue eyes, hoping he could feel the daggers in my glare. “Thanks for covering my tab, buddy. It was unnecessary, but I’ll take it because if that guy is your cousin, we’re even now.”
His whisky arrived and he swirled it around in its glass and took a sip before saying, “And how does one small bar check make us even? I’m sorry, lass, but if ye remember, I pulled ye from a cliff and didn’t toss ye in the dungeon for trespass. I’d say the scales are still tilted heavily in my favor. Unless ye mean I actually ruined yer night with my cousin?”
The room became warm as I felt my blood pressure rising. “You think I came here to boff your cousin?” I hissed at the MacLaoch, “Your cousin is a fucking pig. And had you been a second later, you would have seen him with a bloody nose and the inability to fuck anything, much less take a piss without wincing, for a month.”
At that moment the music stopped, and I noticed the bartender was hovering in front of us, drying an already dry pint glass with his towel.
It was still loud in the bar, with everyone talking all at once, but the MacLaoch leaned in and breathed, “Keep your voice down, and I would be very grateful.”
Just as I was making up my min
d to get the hell out of there, things got worse.
Fletcher saddled up to us. “He’s not bothering ye, is he?” he said with as much false concern as bravado.
I was punchy—all the liquor had seemingly evaporated from my system and been replaced with adrenaline from wanting to drop-kick Kelly.
“Yes, Fletcher, he is. What are you going to do about it?” I said aggressively and stared him down. Waiting.
“Oh. I uh, uh,” was all he could muster, looking from me to the MacLaoch and back.
“It’s all right, Fletcher,” the MacLaoch said and clasped him on the shoulder. “She’s messing with ye. How’s your mother?” He asked, nonplussed by the whole situation and smoothly shifting subjects.
“Och, she’s good.” Fletcher replied without a hitch, as if it were natural that everyone was interested in Fletcher’s pathetic life. “Bitches too much, says how I have to go get me a real job. What she thinks I do ’ere, I don’ know.”
“Mmmph,” MacLaoch said.
“She’s such a pain in my arse, ye know?”
“Well, she’s yer mother, and ye’d do well to mind her, aye?” MacLaoch said, leaning against the bar, cradling his whisky in the palm of his hand, regarding Fletcher as a teacher might a wayward, but ultimately harmless, student. He seemed so at ease offering advice and taking in Fletcher’s ridiculous concerns.
“I do. It’s just that she does it all the time.” Fletcher shook his head in exasperation. “Fucking women.”
MacLaoch closed his eyes as if praying for mercy. “Och, Fletcher. Mind.” He nodded his head in my direction, his brows drawn together in disgust.
“Oh, sorry, aye,” Fletcher said to me, not really meaning it.
“Fuck you, Fletcher,” I said without emotion, but really I felt it toward both of them, so I plucked MacLaoch’s expensive whisky from his hand and polished it off. It slid down smooth and blossomed like a smoky sea with an afterkiss of vanilla and honey.
I slammed down the glass. “Well it’s been fun, boys, but I’ll be seeing y’all.”
