“I dinnae believe so. Sorcha …” Hugh said her name as a request, and after a palpable internal struggle, she turned to look at him. Her fair skin was dewy in the dense morning air, the brisk air drawing becoming color to her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and fringed by dark lashes stripped of the artifice that had covered them in recent days. Still she was lovely. Reaching out, Hugh ran his fingers through the loose strands of her auburn hair, admiring how it shone so vividly red in the dim sunlight. There was so much to admire about her, her courage, her mind, and her beauty. She was like no woman he had ever known.
Having learned nothing the evening before, he caught her chin and gently guided her mouth to his.
The kiss was light and undemanding, but still he could feel her lips tremble beneath his. Stroking her chin with his thumb, Hugh parted his lips just enough to sample hers. She tasted delectably of salt, sweet coffee and cream.
Their lips clung a moment before she drew away and stared down into her coffee cup with a shaking exhale. He could see her chest rise and fall rapidly. What was she afraid of, he wondered? Sorcha had shown no fear of his person before, only understandable wariness. She was not afraid of their situation, as she should be; yet she feared this untapped passion between them.
The one thing that worried him the least.
“Perhaps it would be best after all if I left ye,” Hugh said, holding up a hand to stall her interruption. “That way ye could turn yourself in, plead coercion, and get yer life back.”
“I won’t let you do that, Hugh,” she said with a sigh. “I just … can’t for some reason. You deserve to get your life back as well.”
“What life do I have tae regain, Sorcha?” he asked. “What is waiting out there for me tae replace the life I hae lost? I miss my home. My family. But they are long gone.”
Sorcha tensed by his side, and Hugh had to wonder what she was thinking. It took a long while before his curiosity was appeased.
“A-are you married, Hugh?”
There was something in her voice that made Hugh look at her, but she refused to meet his eye. He wondered what had prompted such a question. Would it please her to know that he was unattached as much as it pleased him that she was widowed? Not that he didn’t regret her loss, but he was inordinately glad she did not have a husband about. “I am nae.”
“Engaged?”
“Nae, I always found myself emphatically disengaged.” Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, Sorcha’s mouth softened into a slight smile to acknowledge his quip. “Would it trouble ye if I were wed, Sorcha?”
“No, I … No, of course not,” she stuttered. “I was just wondering, the way you said that about your family.”
“Yet, ye were wed.” She shot him another inscrutable look, her lips pressed firmly together, but Hugh continued doggedly on. “He was killed.”
Her eyes closed and she mouthed the word silently but did not respond. Hugh recalled the tiny portraits of the man on the mantle of her home. The ribbons and medals. And the folded flag. “He was a soldier, aye?” Hugh pressed. “A warrior?”
Sorcha’s lips parted at that and she turned to look at him, her amethyst eyes glassy … and surprised. The shadow of satisfaction lit them then. “I like that. Matt would have liked that. A warrior.” She paused, and Hugh feared that was all she would say on the subject, but after a moment she continued, her words whispered on the morning breeze. “Yes, Matt was in the Army. It was all he ever wanted to do, to serve his country …”
She drifted off into silence, staring out over the water beyond until Hugh was certain she wouldn’t reveal any more and he found that he sincerely wanted to know. To know her better. Sorcha was his only ally in this time. She was his only friend, and Hugh knew he couldn’t have asked for a better one. And as he began to know her better, it was easy to see that it wasn’t merely sympathy in her eyes when she looked at him. It was empathy. She understood loss.
“I met him my senior year of high school,” she continued softly. Though Hugh wasn’t acquainted with the terms, he didn’t interrupt to ask. “His family moved here from Denver for his dad’s job. And that was it. We dated through that year and we both went to UW … the University of Washington. Matt was in the NROTC and was commissioned after we graduated. We went to Fort Carson for a while and a couple other bases before Matt was first sent overseas. I hated it, but it was what he wanted. So I came home and he went overseas, first to Iraq and then Afghanistan …”
Again Sorcha trailed off. It wasn’t difficult to know what came next but he was surprised when she continued, her voice laced with bitterness. “There wasn’t even enough of him left to fill the body bag. I-I never even got to look at him again.” Those last words were choked as her throat tightened around them. “Everyone wonders why I do what I do now. That’s why. No one should have to lose someone like that and not even have one last moment.”
A single tear trickled down Sorcha’s cheek, and Hugh gently wiped it away. His heart ached for her, for the loss of a man she had clearly loved, and loved still. “I am truly sorry for yer loss,” he offered. “How long has it been?”
“Three years,” she answered with a sniff, and Hugh straightened in surprise.
Given her profound grief, he might have thought it a matter of months, perhaps a year. Three years? It was a lifetime to grieve, even for one so loved. Death and loss were a matter of rote in his time. People lived and died, often young and unexpectedly. They were mourned but life went on. Had things changed so much since then? Did everyone in this time wallow in grief and misery when there was life and living to be embraced? Hugh wanted to ask but struggled with the words lest he offend her.
“Is three years or more a common period of mourning in this time?” he asked as gently as possible.
“No, apparently not,” she answered with that same bitterness, swiping her hand across her eyes. “You’d think I’m the biggest aberration on the planet, the way everyone fusses about it. Everyone is on me about it, even Matt’s parents. I should get out more, meet more men, date, remarry, live a little, let it go, move on!” The list went on until the anger in her voice rose in pitch.
“Why hae ye nae?” Hugh couldn’t help but ask. It was something he simply couldn’t comprehend, but perhaps people in his time were more prosaic about life and death. “Nae one expects ye tae mourn forever, I’m sure.”
“Because I don’t want to!” she bit out, turning to glare at him. “I was happy! I loved him! Do you think something like that comes along every day?”
Ahh, Hugh thought as he met her angry gaze. Her ire had darkened the amethyst to vivid violet. Now they were getting down to the bones of the matter. “I ken what it is,” he said softly. “Ye’re afraid tae lose again and mayhap tae love again, aye? Ye’re afraid that that was the best life had tae offer ye.”
“Excuse me?” Sorcha blinked up at him, shifting away from him on the log.
“Ye’re family is right,” he continued. “Ye cannae hang on tae a ghostie forever. Dinnae be afeared of moving forward wi’ yer own life. I doubt yer Matt would have wanted ye tae wallow in misery for the rest of yer days either.”
Sorcha shook her head disbelievingly. “I’m sure I must have misinterpreted something in that nearly unintelligible brogue of yours.”
“I’m sure ye dinnae misunderstand,” he returned. “Ye’re afraid, lass, ’tis nothing tae be ashamed of.”
“Really? This coming from the master of denial?” she nearly sneered the words.
“Ye’re going tae turn this back on me?” he asked incredulously. “I was only trying tae help.”
“I don’t need your help! I don’t want it!” she shouted, jumping to her feet, her hands fisted at her sides as she glared down at him. “I can’t believe you of all people have the balls to try to lecture me about fear!”
Hugh ground his teeth, feeling his own temper flare at her scathing words. “Calm down now, lass.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” she yelled. “I’m sick
of people telling me what to do, and who are you to think you have the right anyway? You can hardly admit that traveling through time hasn’t scared the shit out of you, and you’re going to lecture me on the subject of fear?”
His jaw clenched and worked as Hugh fought to keep his notorious Scots temper from erupting. “Sorcha …” he warned in low growl.
“Claire!” she corrected, shooting a finger toward him. “And you have no right! No right at all, after all I have done for you, to judge me.”
“I dinnae judge,” Hugh denied the accusation, but by this time his patience was nearly at an end. He rose to his feet as well, towering over her, but Claire was either too brave or too angry to be intimidated by him. Bloody hell, but it all made sense now, and Hugh couldn’t stop the words from rolling off his tongue. “Nae, lass, it doesnae take a genius tae figure ye out. Any fool can see it.”
“Go to hell, Hugh!”
“Verra likely,” he shot back. “But yer godly Matt willnae be there, will he? He’s a saint now, aye? That’s why there’s tae be nae touching, nae kissing. Ye dinnae want anything tae mar the purity of his memory.”
“How dare you!” She accused hotly, her body trembling with rage. “I loved him!”
“Aye!” Hugh shot back, looming over her. “And ye’ve got yer shrine tae him tae prove it tae everyone, hae ye nae? The pictures, the medals … Tell me, Sorcha, do ye pray tae him as well?”
Sorcha froze in shock for only a split second before her hand shot out and she slapped him across the face. Hugh’s head turned with the force of the blow and while at any other point in his life such a bashing would only have served to stoke his own anger more, for some reason Sorcha’s fair wallop seemed to knock the sense back into him.
Cheeks aflame with the sting of her blow, Hugh felt only remorse for his harsh words. “Sorcha … Claire,” he corrected, “forgi’ my words. I dinnae …”
“Don’t, Hugh,” she whispered shakily, holding up a hand to halt his words. “Just don’t.”
Chapter 16
Claire turned away and walked dazedly up the beach, her footsteps carrying her quickly away from Hugh. She clutched her sweater tightly around her middle, as if her own embrace could protect her from the world at large. Her fingers curled around the burning sting of her hand as she replayed that moment, that eruptive anger, which had fled the instant she had lashed out at Hugh, leaving her feeling hollow and spent.
Defeated.
And a little horrified. Well, perhaps more than a little. Claire couldn’t believe she had ranted at him like that—hit him!—especially when he was only saying the same thing she had heard again and again over the years. It was nothing new, nothing different than the homilies her Mom and Dad, her brothers, and her friends had plied her with over the years.
The temper, however, was new, and Claire couldn’t quite figure out where it came from. She had never lost it like that before in her life. My God but she had screeched like a harpy at him!
Well, she inwardly justified, Hugh had crossed the line with that last bit. Good Lord, that had hurt. A shrine? Is that what she had done? Did everyone see her that way?
Looking back over the past few years, Claire would wager that they did. She could remember once after her brother, Ryan, had brought one of his friends unexpectedly to dinner at their parents’ house, Claire had left early. Earlier than was polite. “So what are you going to do now?” Ryan had taunted as she left. “Go home and drown your misery in a pint with your old friends Ben and Jerry?”
“No,” she had shot back sarcastically, “this is my night out with Jack and Daniel.” But she had gone home and curled up on the couch with a tub of Tollhouse cookie dough, watched My Life, and cried like leaky faucet.
Another time when she had shown up to dinner, her brother Danny had welcomed her with a jovial, “I see you got out of your PJ’s today, Sis. What’s the special occasion?”
“Very funny, Danny,” Claire had said.
“Who’s joking?” Danny had responded teasingly.
Had he been teasing at all, Claire wondered now? Had any of them been joking?
Was Hugh actually right in saying that she was afraid?
For years she had evaded intimacy of any sort. First out of love for Matt, out of respect. Then … Claire bit her lip, seeing her life more clearly than ever before. Since moving to Spokane, away from her parents and brothers, the previous year, Claire had become something of a hermit. She had friends, like Darcy, at work and had once or twice gone out for “Girl’s Night,” but those nights had revolved around bars and men and had left a bad taste in her mouth.
Sure, she had been lonely. Who wouldn’t be? But as lonely as she might get, Claire had always gone to bed at night knowing that Matt would be there. Alone she could replay happy memories, recalling the sound of his laughter. She could keep a part of him alive.
But a lazy chuckle couldn’t warm a cold bed, and hadn’t she just days ago admitted—at least inwardly—that she missed a warm body by her side? And look how it had spiraled out of control! She had thought herself content with her choices, but now Claire realized that memories alone weren’t enough any longer. How long had it been since she even had a nice long hug? Suddenly she longed for the comforting contact of human flesh, specifically for the feel of Hugh’s strong embrace.
Her mind spun and Claire dropped down on a large log that slanted across the beach, stunned. Where had that bit of brutal honesty come from? Had the bitter vitriol she had just spewed all over Hugh stripped her down to a bared soul, leaving nothing but the naked truth? That astonishing eruption of rage had resulted in feelings and anger she had never verbalized to anyone. She had never lashed out so cruelly at her parents, but now somehow Claire felt better for having voiced it all. She couldn’t remember ever being so angry.
Rubbing her hands over her face, Claire splayed her fingers and looked between them out over the choppy waters of the sound. Seagulls soared overhead, boats crept by in the distance, but Claire didn’t truly see any of it, for she’d just had the most startling epiphany of all.
In truth, she couldn’t really remember a time when she hadn’t been angry.
She was angry, and had been for a long while. Angry at the world for taking Matt from her too quickly, angry at the Afghans who had planted that bomb, angry at the government for allowing such a war to begin with, angry with her family for pushing her too hard. Angry with Matt.
With a heavy sigh, Claire shook her head. Damn, that snooping Jameson had been right. She had left a good, fulfilling job developing environmentally clean ultrasonic propulsion to make weapons worse than the one that had taken her husband from her, and she had done it just because she was angry about the way Matt had died.
God, what an ugly, nauseating realization.
As for the fear … ugh, she really hated it when someone else was right.
“Hugh?”
Hugh lowered the book he had been reading and exhaled a sigh of relief at the sound of Sorcha’s voice. She had been gone for hours. Hours where he had awaited her return on the beach and had finally given up his post, sure that his harsh outburst had been enough to drive her away forever. Her absence had provided plenty of time for him to evaluate his position and the unanticipated friendship that had blossomed between them. Though he needed her more desperately than he cared to admit, he had also quickly begun to care for her as well. She was courageous, resourceful, intelligent, and witty. There was much about her to admire and little to scorn.
And she had been right. He held no position in her life that allowed for such personal observations of how she led her life.
Glancing up, he found her looking, not at him, but at the wooden bookshelves that covered the interior wall of the library. Her arms were still crossed tightly, a posture he had come to recognize as protective, defensive. Sorcha had employed it often over the past days as a means to maintaining distance between them. Initially, distance between herself and a stranger who might potentially harm her,
and now between herself and a man who had done so in the very worst way.
Hugh had never been one to readily tolerate insult or injury from anyone. For all the refinement of Frederick’s court, such things were commonplace, but swift and scathing rebuttal had quickly silenced any of the courtiers’ gossip concerning Hugh or his friends. He could charm with a raised brow and censure just as easily. If any other woman had dared berate him so, his rebuke would have been just as sharp and quick. From a man such an insult might have been, in some cases, even deadly.
No, it wasn’t unusual for him to make a weapon of words in such instances, words carefully considered and chosen for the sting they might inflict. However, it was unusual for him to lash out so thoughtlessly, and he regretted the rash temper that had prompted him to do so. Hugh wasn’t certain if it was the situation or Sorcha herself who had roused his emotions so. She did have a way of getting under his skin, irritating as a gnat.
Sorcha also had a way of lightening a man’s heart to the point where he forgot all his troubles and saw only her. That alone was worth making amends for.
“Sor … Claire,” Hugh pushed out of the chair, determined to atone for his insensitive taunting.
But Sorcha turned to face him with a smile (it might have been tight and perhaps a wee tad forced, but it was there) and said brightly, “I thought we might go into the city in the morning and see if my brother can help us find out what brought you here.”
And with that, Hugh knew she had miraculously forgiven him his thoughtless words. How or why, he hadn’t an inkling. After all she had given, he certainly didn’t deserve it. “Claire …”
She shook her head, holding up her hand in that way that would have seemed excessively rude in his own time but was delivered as a matter of course in this one. “I’m sorry for what I said. There are a million excuses I could give you for getting on you like that, a million justifications. I try hard not to follow ‘I’m sorry’ with a ‘but.’ There are circumstances here neither of us are used to. We both know it. I deserve what I got in return, but I’m hoping we can both figure out how to deal with our worries in more constructive ways than taking it out on one another.”
A Time & Place for Every Laird Page 13
