by Lizzie Lamb
‘There are matters which have to be settled before we can put this romantic fire and the rest of the champagne to good use,’ she said.
‘In that case,’ he reached up and pulled her down so he could kiss her, ‘you’d better talk fast. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee my good behaviour.’ Fliss pulled back from the kiss and pushed him away from her, pretending offence.
‘Okay. I’ll keep it brief. Although, I am quite tempted to find out what your definition of bad behaviour might be.’ She laughed; pleased they could finally relax and enjoy each other’s company after everything that had happened between them. Then she asked: ‘Will you explain to me why you’ve sold the house in Elgin Crescent?’
‘Simple, I came to the conclusion that, in spite of its history, it’s only a house. Just so much bricks and mortar. It’s surplus to requirements, is a source of temptation to Isla and holds unhappy memories for me. After our – ahem – frank and honest exchange of views the morning of the Brocken Spectre, I had time to think over what you said. During the long flight to Hong Kong, I reached the conclusion that you were right. I should consolidate my assets and realise my dream of building up the estate for ecotourism, not let the past hold me back. I needed a push and you gave it to me!’
‘I was bang out of order on that occasion, sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted,’ Fliss freely admitted. ‘But I could see all the stumbling blocks standing in the way of our happiness, and you were too close to the problem and couldn’t. Am I forgiven?’
‘Totally.’ Ruairi reached out for her hand, caught it and kissed it. ‘But only if you forgive me for saying that your grief over your parents’ deaths was any less real than mine. That was unforgivably crass of me, but – in my defence – you touched a raw nerve that morning. Several, if we’re being totally honest, and my reactions reflected that.’
‘The house?’ she reminded him, picking up her champagne glass.
‘Grandfather bought it for a song in the early sixties when the slums were being cleared, leaving behind grand, dilapidated houses no one wanted. He liked the bohemian atmosphere I guess - maybe that’s where Cat and Isla get it from,’ he observed somewhat wryly. ‘My parents renovated the property extensively in the seventies when Notting Hill was beginning to rival Chelsea as an uber cool address. They loved the house because it was the only place they could truly escape the demands of Kinloch Mara. I didn’t realise quite how much it was worth until I had it valued nine weeks ago.’ He mentioned a figure and Fliss let out a long, slow whistle.
‘Wow. Maybe I can order two hot tubs for the Spa,’ she joked, ‘and a sauna.’
‘You can have whatever you want, mo chridhe,’ he grinned, kissing each of her knuckles in turn. Desire lanced through Fliss, but she kept a lid on her emotions. There would be time for that - later.
‘Talking of which,’ she blushed, glad that he was staring into the fire. ‘I inadvertently saw a letter lying on the chest of drawers this afternoon when I came looking for you. I recognised the signature. Is Becky Casterton my replacement?’
‘So much for my so-called surprise! It backfired spectacularly when you thought you’d been sacked. Poor Auld Angus, he’d been sworn to secrecy and was dying to tell you the truth.’
‘I’ve never been any good at maths,’ she admitted, raking her fingers through his thick, dark hair. ‘Stupidly, I added two and two together and got five.’ Ruairi levered himself upright, drew his knees up to his chest, crossed his bare feet at the ankles and regarded her, earnestly.
‘Fliss, I have business to conclude, investors to bring up to speed with the changes taking place at Kinloch Mara. I’ll have to leave you for long stretches of time until things are settled; wrapped up. I don’t want you to feel neglected or lonely while I’m away.’
Like Fiona.
The thought hung in the air but Fliss wafted away the ghost of fiancées past and his concerns with a wave of her hand.
‘I’m more resourceful than Fiona,’ she said, straightly. ‘Besides, I won’t have time to feel lonely if I’m to build up the Spa. I’ll have Angus and Mitzi to consult on an almost daily basis once plans are finalised and Becky and the new girl’s induction to oversee. Becky’s as mad as a box of frogs but a brilliant therapist and we’re lucky to have her. But I warn you, we might hit the hot spots of Port Urquhart together on a Saturday night when you’re overseas …’
‘Let me know if you find any,’ he said dryly, ‘and I’ll inform the Scottish Tourist Board.’
‘I will. But tell me something, how did you persuade Becky to leave London?’
‘Well, for one thing, she’s really missed you. And, I may have said there were,’ he gave a mischievous smile that made her heart perform flick-flacks in her chest, ‘wall-to-wall Hot Highlanders. Men in Kilts, forming an orderly queue awaiting her arrival.’ Fliss pictured Becky running rings round the Urquhart cousins and bewitching all the males under forty who came within her orbit.
‘She’d like that - and I’ve missed her, too. But I can’t promise she won’t punch Isla on the nose when she learns about the business of the gates.’
‘It’s a risk Isla will have to take,’ he shrugged unconcernedly.
It would be a long time before Isla was welcome in Tigh na Locha, Fliss suspected.
‘It’s a mystery how Becky kept all this secret from me? Oh, wait - is that why I could never get through on her mobile? She’d switched it off to stop herself blabbing? Nice one, Bex.’
Evidently losing patience with her Q and A session, Ruairi started to unbutton the pearl buttons on her shirt.
‘You promised that your questions would require brief answers. I suspect you of reneging on your deal, Miss Bagshawe. I think it’s time you were taken in hand,’ he declared, giving her a warm look.
‘Not so fast, your Lairdship,’ she re-fastened her blouse and regarded him sternly. ‘If I remember correctly, you said you had a better position to offer me. What could possibly be better than manageress of Kinloch Mara’s therapy centre and proposed Eco Spa?’ Although she spoke lightly, she held her breath, consciously thinking of his mother’s tartan sash and what it meant. At least what she thought it meant.
Ruairi was suddenly very pensive.
‘Fliss,’ he applied himself to unfastening the buttons she’d assiduously fastened just seconds before. ‘You arrived in our lives like a force of nature - Hurricane Fliss. I couldn’t resist you - and God knows I tried my best. Mo eudail,’ he stopped playing with the buttons, ‘my darling. I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you; if you’ll have me.’ He reached under the brass bed frame and brought out the tissue-wrapped parcel. ‘I should have given this to you straight after the ball. But,’ he smiled at the remembrance, ‘we were rather preoccupied. Then events overtook us.’
He placed the parcel in her trembling hands.
‘It isn’t an engagement ring - we can choose one of those later - it’s more precious than that. It belonged to my mother and I want you to wear it, as my wife, at the Christmas celebrations following Mitzi and Angus’s wedding.’
‘But that’s only,’ she did a rapid calculation, ‘ten weeks away.’
‘I don’t want to run the risk of losing you again.’ Then he grinned, a wide, disarming smile that pushed her insistence on being business like to the limit. ‘One of the advantages of having one’s own church and a second cousin who’s an ordained minister in the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland is that, apart from gaining the necessary paperwork, there’s no reason why we can’t be married before Mitzi and Angus.’
‘Always assuming I say “yes”, of course,’
‘Of course,’ he said humbly.
‘But, won’t people talk? Start doing calculations on their fingers.’
‘Let them. What do we care?’ he asked haughtily, reminding her he was the Laird of Kinloch Mara.
‘Everything the Laird wants - the Laird gets, is that it?’ she asked, matching his imperious tone. But it was hard to maintai
n the pretence, when her heart was singing and joy was bubbling up inside her like champagne.
‘In your case, Fliss, I take nothing for granted. I’ve learned my lesson the hard way.’ Unable to hold out any longer, Fliss unwrapped the sash and was about to slip it over her head when she paused.
‘Is it bad luck to try it on before we’re married?’
‘Curses, bad luck, karma - our lives are what we make them. I know that now.’
‘In that case, yes. I will marry you, Ruairi Urquhart - and as soon as possible.’ She recalled old Nurse McLeish’s prophesy, a baby within the year and the searching look she’d been given on the night Iona was born. She felt goose bumps along the length of her arms. Despite Ruairi’s rejection of curses, prophesies and omens she couldn’t dismiss the old nurse’s words.
But perhaps that was because she wanted them to be true?
‘Here, let me. You wear it over your left shoulder and fasten it with the brooch to show that you’re a chieftain’s wife.’ Obediently, she held up her arms and he slipped it over her head and fastened it. Then he got to his feet. ‘Come here. There’s something else I want to show you.’
Taking her hand, he led her over to the window.
‘Another Broken Spectre?’ she quizzed. Shaking his head, he turned her round so that she was facing the loch. Resting his chin on her head, he wrapped his arms around her and pointed to the ornamental gates. They were clearly visible under a bright hunters’ moon which lit up the gardens like a searchlight, all the way to the beach and beyond.
They were wide open!
‘The gates - I don’t understand. What about the curse?’
‘We have no fate, but what we make for ourselves,’ Ruairi whispered in her ear.
‘A Scottish proverb? Shakespeare?’ she asked, leaning against him, relishing the way his breath teased the hair on the nape of her neck.
‘Och, no. Auld Jaimsie the Piper.’ He laughed and swung her round twice, so that he was sitting on the window seat with his back to the gates and she was facing him. ‘Fliss, I’ve already said how you came into my life like a dangerous, beautiful whirlwind. How you’ve made me change, re-evaluate my life. By inadvertently opening those gates, you freed my family and me; forced us to relinquish the past and get on with our lives. They’re staying open from now on. Come our wedding day, we’ll walk up from the church and lead our guests through them. A new day, a new beginning. But in the meantime …’
‘Yes?’
‘You know that thing you did?’
‘Thing?’ she asked, puzzled but warmed by his passionate look.
‘On this very window seat, the night of the Highland Ball,’ he laid the flat of his hand on the padded cushion and patted it. Fliss blushed, remembering the moment only too clearly. She’d thought about it many times over the last few days.
‘I think I do,’ she said slowly, wondering where this was leading.
‘Do you think you could do it again?’
‘I’m not sure that I would be able to replicate it.’ Giddy with happiness, she moved closer to him and he opened his knees to accommodate her. ‘I mean, I might get it all wrong.’
‘In which case you’d have to practice until you got it all right, wouldn’t you?’
‘Well I do have high standards,’ she agreed poker-faced and started to untuck his shirt from his kilt. She ran her fingers round the waistband, started to unfasten the buckles at the side and then paused ‘Only, I’m not wearing my hold up stockings. So accuracy might be compromised.’
‘That’s a risk I’m willing to take,’ he said just as solemnly. ‘We’ll count this as a dry run and you can fetch your stockings from the Wee Hoose tomorrow.’ A devil of mischief danced in his eyes as he slipped her blouse off her shoulders and started kissing the line of her collarbone.
‘Very well - here beginneth the lesson,’ she managed to recite with due solemnity.
‘I’m sure my second cousin - and, indeed, most of the Church of Scotland - would heartily approve of your devotion.’ He leaned back against the window and placed his hands on either side of him in a gesture of surrender. Mimicking a look of intense concentration, Fliss pushed the pleats of his kilt slowly upwards and trailed her fingers along the inside of his thighs.
She paused as Ruairi drew in a shaky breath.
‘But first, mo chridhe - An toir thu dhomh pog - will you give me your kiss?’ she asked in almost perfect Gaelic as she bent her head towards him.
And the Laird of Kinloch Mara was only too happy to oblige.
Acknowledgements
Where would we be without our friends?
I wouldn’t have started on this journey if it hadn’t have been for Jean Chapman (former Chair of the Romantic Novelists’ Association), her writing class all those years ago in Countesthorpe and her encouragement ever since. I owe her an enormous debt of gratitude and respect. I have also had much encouragement and support from friends in the Romantic Novelists’’ Association, published and yet-to-be-published, the Leicester Chapter of the RNA, Leicester Writers Club and Peatling Magna Writers’ Group.
My lovely, funny friends on Facebook have cheered me on every morning and made me laugh before I glue myself to the chair in my stud and get down to the serious task of writing. You know who you are. Thanks also mega successful authors Trisha Ashley, Kate Hardy and Carole Matthews whose books have inspired me and whose friendship, tweets and posts on Facebook have spurred me onwards.
I can’t forget my ‘people’ in Leicester who’ve put up with my sometimes incoherent ramblings, don’t really get why I’m doing this but who have stuck with me nonetheless. They are Joan Davies-Bushby, Maisie Newman, Barbara James and Gill Chapman. Thanks also to my holistic therapist Hannah Chapman for her insights into the world of beauty/holistic therapy and for giving me “P.I.N.T.A”.
I owe an enormous debt to my friend and writing buddy Jan Brigden - proof reader extraordinaire - who had a gimlet eye for typos, excessive use of dashes and awkward phrases. Your turn next, Calam. Contact Jan for help with proof reading your manuscript on: [email protected]
And last, but by no means least, thanks to Nonpareil, author Amanda Grange whose inspiring words over lunch set The New Romantics 4 on this path to publication. And for her helpfulness along the way. We wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised to find that she’d moved countries to avoid our incessant emails.
Finally, if you have a dream, go out there and make it a reality. That’s what I’ve done.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After teaching her 1000th pupil, Lizzie decided it was time to leave the chalk face and pursue her first love: writing. She joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers Scheme, honed her craft and wrote Tall, Dark and Kilted. She’s had enormous fun researching men in kilts, falling in love with brooding hero Ruairi Urquhart, and rooting for heroine Fliss Bagshawe - and hopes you will, too.
Lizzie is also a founding member of the indie publishing group: The New Romantics 4. Her fellow New Romantics are June Kearns, Mags Cullingford and Adrienne Vaughan. If they are Athos, Porthos and Aramis - that must make Lizzie D’Artagnan! The New Romantics 4’s watch cry is, all for one and one for all.
Follow The New Romantics 4 on Twitter
To learn more about Lizzie, go to her website or follow Lizzie on @lizzie_lamb
She would love to hear from you so feel free to get in touch:
[email protected]
If you have enjoyed reading Tall, Dark and Kilted, please leave a review on Amazon, your favourite e-book or reading site, or simply tick ‘like’ on my Kindle page.
Check out these other romantic novels published by The New Romantics 4
· An English Woman’s Guide to the Cowboy by Kearns, June
· A Hollow Heart by Vaughan, Adrienne
· Last Bite of the Cherry by Cullingford, Mags
· Look out for Sweet Little Lies by Lizzie Lamb in 2013
(read the extract on the next page …
)
Sweet Little Lies by Lizzie Lamb
The sound of a motor bike pulled her attention towards the ribbon of track that led up from the bay. She shaded her eyes and frowned as it sped towards her, churning up the dusty red earth. For the first time since she’d arrived in Door County she was suddenly aware of how isolated her house was. Unhurriedly, giving no sign of how vulnerable she felt, India stooped and picked out a large monkey wrench from her toolbox. She slipped it into the deep pocket of her overalls and turned to meet her unexpected visitor, her heart hammering like a crazy thing.
‘You India Stuart?’ the rider demanded curtly, pulling up several feet in front of her.
‘That rather depends on who wants to know.’ As he gunned the engine menacingly, she took a deep breath and tried to slow down the frantic beating of her heart. Clearly, her answer didn’t please him because he switched off the engine, rocked the bike back onto its rest, dismounted and came towards her.
Instinctively, India took several steps backwards. Then she stopped; it wouldn’t do to let him know how frightened she was - in spite of her brave words. She glanced up for a split second to gauge the measure of him. But his face was shaded by a disreputable baseball cap and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses that gave no clue to his identity or his intentions.
‘Just answer the question, lady,’ he demanded brusquely, walking over to the fence and touching the still tacky paint. He glanced at her over his shoulder and she caught the suggestion of steeliness behind the firm jaw; obstinacy in the determined line of his mouth. Here was a man used to having his own way; a man not easily deflected from his chosen path.
‘I - I,’ India stammered, feeling increasingly anxious yet annoyed with herself for allowing this man - any man to intimidate her. She felt surreptitiously for the reassuring solidity of the wrench in her pocket but it slid from her grasp, fell through the hole in her overalls and landed on the dusty red earth with a dull thud.
