The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance)

by Nell Harding

  “He’ll never know,” Fiona said grimly. “So if you’re shouting, I’m in.”

  “I do know a place close to here where we can have free pints,” Sarah reminded her. “If we can get out of these clothes before the cement dries on us and we become just another couple of freakish gargoyles by a wall.”

  Fiona was already slipping off her kerchief and shaking out her hair. “There has got to be a better way to deal with this,” she said moodily, grabbing the handles of the wheelbarrow to push it to the tap behind the house. “And I’m talking about the wall, to set things straight.”

  “I don’t think we did set it straight,” Sarah pointed out, nodding her head in the direction of their sorry-looking stretch of wall. “As for your other problem, we are dealing with it in the best way possible.”

  Fiona smiled at her friend. “Then lead on, Macduff.”

  Saturday morning was chilly but dry, with only the morning mist hanging on the surrounding hilltops. The small gathering in the car park at the trailhead was dressed in fleece vests and woolly hats as they stood in small bunches drinking tea from a thermos that Fiona was passing around.

  Colin sat in his car at the far end of the parking lot, steeling his nerve to join the others. They looked exactly like the crowd that he had expected: middle-aged and retired people, either from the history society or local hill-walkers keen to have more inside stories to foist on their unfortunate friends when they were dragged along on these early-morning walks.

  Colin didn’t mind walking in the hills, but compared to sports where you kept score and could win or lose or stop to have a drink in nice surroundings, there was something a bit too earthy about hiking and about the entire hiking crowd. Still, if this was what it took to get to spend a bit more time with Fiona Buchanan, then he would do it.

  He pulled on his snug jacket, neutral colours for fishing and hunting parties, and tightened the laces on his hiking boots. He sighed as he looked at the motley attire of the waiting crowd, who were dressed in training pants with stripes down the side, or torn hiking pants with coloured patches from the eighties.

  Fiona was wearing a worn-looking jacket and nondescript trousers, but still managed to stand out with her quiet beauty, her pale complexion and light hair giving her a dreamy look which made Colin think of wood nymphs or Renaissance paintings. He was aware that his friends would attribute that association to her soft curves, but that was part of her feminine mystique to a man constantly surrounded by angular, bony women.

  Taking a deep breath, Colin left the comfortable warmth of his Rover and donned a cheerful smile as he strode across the lot to greet the rest of the walkers. Most knew him by sight and were welcoming and pleased to have him as a guest among them, although Fiona’s reaction was harder to read.

  She was just in the act of gathering up the tea cups when Colin joined them. She seemed to freeze for a split-second in her activity before fixing her pale eyes on his face questioningly, warningly. Still, she managed a polite smile and nod in his direction before raising her voice to quiet the group as she explained the morning’s programme.

  Colin listened with half an ear to the introduction, taking more interest in watching Fiona as she spoke. When she was speaking to the group as a leader or public speaker, she seemed sure of herself and comfortable with her subject and any questions directed her way. It was in the informal moments, collecting the coffee or lingering at the Mackenzie House opening, that she seemed less confident socially, perhaps uncomfortable with this slice of society.

  He couldn’t help noticing the contrast with himself. He was completely at ease in social situations, able to chat and charm and entertain and interact with anybody he met in the functions he attended. But he had a complete horror of speaking in public, which was why he admired Fiona’s skill. Right now, he also admired her wisdom in keeping the discussion short so that they could begin walking to warm up.

  Beyond that, it was hard to say what exactly he found so fascinating about this woman. She was pretty, to be sure, but he had his choice of pretty women in his circle. It had more to do with her passion for the area and its history, and the fact that she simply had interesting things to say, things that she had obviously thought a lot about. She wasn’t shy to say these things or to voice her opinion. Compared to his peers and the many frivolous or gossipy conversations that made up their discussions, she was exceptional.

  She also didn’t seem in the least blinded by his social station. If anything, it was the opposite, something she held against him. But rather than taking offense at her bias, he found it a refreshing challenge. He had enough confidence in himself to be sure that he could get past her prejudiced view.

  He found himself hurrying to catch up to the group as they set off up the trail from the car park. It was one of those massive public works paths from a hundred years ago, laid out in steps of huge flagging-stones and wide enough for people to pass each other easily. It represented the sort of investment in sheer human force that simply couldn’t be done anymore since the abolishment of slavery or the end of the Aztec Empire, but the flippant comment that this inspired in him didn’t seem at all appreciated by the staid member of the Historical Society who was walking next to him.

  With a sigh, Colin gave up on the man and moved further up the line, trying to make his way slowly up to Fiona. The people he passed were busily identifying wildflowers and different types of heather, forcing him for the first time to look more closely at the details of his surroundings and realise that there were, in fact, quite a few different species and that they were really rather pretty.

  He was smiling to himself now as he closed the gap on Fiona. Already he was taking a bit more interest in the details of the land he enjoyed so much, and rediscovering the pleasure of learning. Perhaps even discovering it for the first time, as he had not been noted for his unbridled keenness for learning in school.

  He was whistling a jaunty tune as he caught up with the guide, who was busy answering questions about history from the woman walking beside her.

  “I say, isn’t that St. John’s wort?” he asked the woman enthusiastically, pointing to the small yellow blossoms growing on the slopes beside them.

  The woman stopped to examine the flowers, mumbling something about bird’s foot trefoil and the common mistake of lumping together all yellow-flowering plants. Colin made a vague sound of interest and smoothly took her place beside Fiona, who looked at him suspiciously.

  “I didn’t pick you for the botanical type,” she said guardedly, apparently not oblivious to the switch in travelling companion.

  “There’s always so much to learn,” he responded cheerily.

  “Which is no doubt why you are here today,” she said dryly, clearly not convinced of his motivations. Then again, neither was he, really.

  “I told you, I find you interesting,” he said affably, not at all put out by her tone. “And I wanted to hear more of what you have to say.”

  “Excellent,” she said, smiling this time. “Because right now I have a lot to say about the view from this ridge, and some historical events that happened just below here. So bear with me, please.”

  At this she stopped and turned around, allowing the group to straggle up to join her in a line along the ridge. Below them on the slope, the silver line of a stream cut through the open heather to join a larger river in the valley bottom. Clumps of woodland interspersed with moorland where hardy sheep were grazing. It was all very bucolic and picturesque, but not exactly the landscape that Colin would have chosen to give a speech about.

  But Fiona rose to the occasion, describing the Jacobite rebels who had ridden down the valley toward Fort William, and the English troops who had marched back in retaliation. Somehow she made the scene feel vivid and real, bringing history to life and capturing the romance of long-lost times. She went on to quote from her favourite poet, who had described the same scene with obvious sympathy for the local youth who fell fighting the English.

  “I c
ould start to take your anti-English comments personally,” he told Fiona quite cheerfully as they started walking again. “I’m definitely picking up on some pro-Scottish undercurrents to your discourses.”

  “Pro-Scottish doesn’t have to be seen as truly anti-English,” she pointed out. “I’m sure that we could make fine neighbours.”

  She flushed awkwardly at her own words, and quickly went on. “Anyway, we should have our vote soon enough.”

  “And then what will it be?” he asked conversationally. “Will we foreigners have to leave our lands and flee for the motherland with our tails between our legs?”

  “We aren’t going to elect a Robert Mugabe,” she informed him while he struggled to remember if that was the name of an African dictator or some forgotten poet. He decided on the former.

  “And if you were elected?” he went on, deciding that it was safer to avoid her comment entirely. “What would you say to us English invaders?”

  “That you are welcome to stay as our guests,” she replied, pausing for breath as the trail became steeper. “We aren’t threatening to evict anybody.”

  She placed a certain emphasis on her last words, for reasons that he couldn’t fathom. He gave up trying, deciding to take it as a positive sign instead. “So that means that we could be friends then,” he said. “There isn’t some inherent and unbridgeable gap between us.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Yes, there is, Colin,” she said, giving him a strange pleasure to hear his name slipping naturally from her tongue. At least he had made some sort of impression on her. “We come from totally different worlds. And from what I’ve heard about you, you like to keep it that way.”

  There was a sting in her words that was wasted on him. The fact that she had heard of him from other people seemed to suggest that she had been asking about him, which was definitely a sign of interest. As to her implied accusation of class consciousness, he found it natural, having grown up with it.

  “It is nice to be able to entertain friends and guests without paparazzi from Hello magazine popping up from behind bushes,” he said with a shrug. “And why stand in line to eat second-rate food at McDonald’s when I can afford more peaceable surroundings and better fare?”

  It was hard to find fault with his logic, he thought, but Fiona rolled her pale eyes and looked at him as if he were particularly thick. “It isn’t about whether you eat at McDonald’s,” she said crossly. “But your posh clubs and restaurants wouldn’t even let the likes of me in, so you hide yourself away from the real world, from how the rest of us live. You exist in a sort of bubble.”

  This time he thought about her words a moment before replying. “We all have our bubbles, in a way,” he suggested. “You have as well, in your academic circles of history and literature. You are as far removed from reality as I am, seeing everything through your sentimental filter of how things used to be, not how they are.”

  Her eyes clouded over as she scowled at him. “I know more about the real world and how most people live than you could ever imagine,” she told him in a low voice. In a louder voice she went on, calling out to the group behind her, “Make sure you stop to notice this Scottish harebell as you pass.”

  She smiled at the others and Colin was afraid that their conversation would end here, but she looked up at him again. “And I don’t exclude the likes of you from my world.”

  “I think you do,” he said lightly but firmly. “Whereas I don’t. And to prove it, let me take you to dinner at my club.”

  She snorted and shook her head. “And be some sort of exotic curiosity, a native on exhibit?” she asked scornfully. “No thanks. You know I’m not welcome in that world with my accent and background.”

  “With your education, you might get away with it,” he offered, realising too late how insensitive that sounded. He hurried to correct his mistake. “In any case, I wouldn’t be all that welcome in some of your pubs either, with my accent and background. This class-consciousness works both ways.”

  “Of course you’d be welcome,” she snapped irritably. “Hostility is now reserved for rival football clubs only.”

  “If I’m so welcome, show it,” he pressed, a challenge under his light tone and smile. “Let me invite you to dinner in a place of your choosing.”

  For once she seemed to have no reply as she thought about his words. “Why are you doing this?” she blurted suddenly. “Is this some sort of prank?”

  He was taken aback. “Of course not,” he said, his surprise registering in his voice. “I would like to get to know you, that’s all. Just a chance to speak together.”

  “We’re speaking together now,” she said churlishly.

  “Yes, but you’re about to make another one of your speeches, aren’t you?” he replied. “I can tell, because you are only half-listening to me. Which is rude, by the way.”

  She sent him a dark look. “Not as rude as monopolising a tour guide for personal reasons and preventing her from concentrating on her work,” she informed him. “If I say yes, will you leave me in peace for the rest of this walk?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you,” he said airily, grinning broadly. “So it’s a date?”

  “One dinner,” she specified sternly. “And I’ll choose where.”

  “How will I contact you?” he asked, not willing to let her slip away. “And when?”

  She looked distracted. “Pick me up at the One-Winged Duck,” she decided. “How about this Friday after work?”

  He was unrepentant as he asked, “What is after work for you?”

  She made a face. “Let’s say six o’clock, and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Six o’clock Friday it is,” he said triumphantly, not even bothering to check if he had other plans. They could wait.

  “And now leave me alone,” she commanded firmly. “No more questions until the end of the walk.”

  “None, your honour,” he replied meekly, quickly considering the option of leaving the walk right now and returning home for a hot midday dinner. He decided that this might give Fiona the wrong impression.

  So instead he saluted Fiona cheekily and allowed himself to drop back among the others, ready to subject himself to another few hours of history and botany with this fairly intense bunch. He wondered if he had ever put in this much effort just to get a date and decided that he hadn’t. But there was a new lightness to his step and his heart as he listened patiently to a mirthless man explaining the difference between two types of heather. He was actually willing to learn things in his pursuit of Fiona. She had to be special.

  Chapter Five

  Late on Friday afternoon Fiona dropped Livingstone with Sarah at the Glen Murray Inn. The dog was already comfortable with Sarah and seemed more than happy to be let loose in the back garden, which was guarded by a much higher wall than the cottage.

  “You should have suggested meeting here!” her friend protested. “And introduced me to your fancy new friend.”

  “Too close to home,” Fiona said with a sharp shake of her head. “He might guess where I live. And what if he saw Livingstone? I figured that Braeport is more neutral ground. I don’t want him tracking me back to the Dog House.”

  “So it will have to be his place, not yours,” Sarah said with a saucy wink.

  “Not going to happen,” Fiona said firmly. “I agreed to the date just for his education, to bring him out of his bubble. Consider it part of my task to open the people of the region to their own culture. In this case, real life.”

  Sarah merely grinned. “You won’t stay completely immune to his charms forever,” she predicted. “From what I hear, he’s fun company. And even you must get a bit of a rush from being the focus of those eyes.”

  Fiona looked at her with a sardonic grin. “I don’t have forever,” she said logically. “His curiosity in interacting with the other half isn’t going to last that long, just like in that Pulp song “Common People.””

  “We’ll see,” was all that Sarah would sa
y, obviously happy to cling to her ideal of Colin as an irresistible charmer. “I reckon that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. You might as well partake of a slice of upper class life while he tastes what it’s like to slum it. Have you decided where to have dinner?”

  “The Old Wharf,” Fiona replied promptly. “Fish ‘n chips.”

  There was a loud thump as Sarah banged the pint glass she was drying on the bar top. “Tell me you’re joking. You have a rich bloke ready to pay for your meal and you’re suggesting fish ‘n chips?”

  “Best in the region,” Fiona pointed out stubbornly. “And it’s a nice evening to eat outdoors.”

  “On wooden benches with picnic tables,” the barmaid protested. “You can do better than that.”

  “That’s the point,” Fiona explained patiently. “I want him to see normal life. Get his fingers greasy for once.”

  “I’m sure they have fish and chips in his clubs and restaurants,” Sarah said, clearly unimpressed. “They just don’t use beer batter, but some fancy wine batter instead or something. You’re wasting a good opportunity just to make a point that he won’t remember. I don’t think you’re about to change his ways in one dinner.”

  “I don’t want to change his ways. I just want to open his eyes a little. And get him off my back.”

  “And just maybe find yourself on your back?” Sarah couldn’t resist asking slyly, pulling her hand back from Fiona’s irritated slap. “Really, why not? He’s sexy and fun and even up-and-coming historians must have hormones. Couldn’t you use some up-and-coming?”

  Fiona sent her a bleak look. “He’s not my type. Yes, he is hot, I agree. But I need more than just a hot body and attractive face to win me over.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Then forget about the winning over and just have fun. You deserve it.”

  “You sound like a shampoo commercial,” Fiona said testily.

  It was Sarah’s turn to flick her with the end of a tea-towel. “Well, you can at least let him buy you a fancy dessert or after-dinner drink or something.”