A Time & Place for Every Laird

by Angeline Fortin

  Day Four

  “I could travel in such a way each day wi’out tiring of it,” Hugh said as they stepped onto the deck at the bow of the ferry the next morning after leaving Claire’s car in the hold below. “’Tis more akin tae the travel of my time than yer car might ever be.”

  “We would have to compromise on that because I’m not sure I was made to ride in a carriage or a wagon. Too slow,” Claire told him. The May morning was cool, the brisk breeze snapping at her cheeks and nose, but Hugh seemed oblivious to the chill, turning his face into the wind with visible pleasure as his keen gaze absorbed the sights that had been lost to the darkness on their previous trip. The buildings of Seattle, Mount Rainier, the people.

  And she was absorbed in him. Watching his reactions and expressions as he took it all in.

  “Of course, with the ferry, you might get a relaxing commute but you have to be willing to work within the schedule,” Claire sighed, knowing she wouldn’t mind it at all with a travel companion like Hugh.

  She didn’t know if it was the Scot in him, the courtier, or just the fact that he was from another time with a different set of rules, but Hugh wasn’t one to allow an awkward moment to taint the hours following. He was charming and entertaining and had kept their conversation at the dinner table flowing smoothly. Afterward, they had taken a walk down the beach while Hugh had told her more about his time, his family and what he had read about the years following his departure in the book she had provided.

  When the temperature dipped and Claire had shivered in the cold breeze from the sound, Hugh had once again gallantly offered his coat, gently teasing that one day Claire must learn to bring her own.

  He was so damn likeable, she thought. Interesting and intelligent. Was it going to be the end of the world if she admitted—if only to herself—that she found him attractive? Or wonderfully handsome?

  Or sexy?

  There was no denying that Hugh was just that. Claire slanted him a covert look up and down. The wind at his face tousled his hair as he stood tall, broad shoulders thrown back. His thin, V-neck sweater molded to him with the breeze, showing the definition of his pecs and those rippling abs. He was breathtaking, drawing the eyes of every woman aboard, and every one of them, right down to the last octogenarian eyeballing him, was clearly tempted to run her hands over that chest.

  Sexy, in a word, didn’t say enough. It stood to reason that any woman would want him. From his own conceited comments, many had. But he wasn’t the only hot guy in the world. After the swooning endorsements of her friends, Claire had rented the movie Magic Mike. Hot bodies had abounded. Muscles had rippled.

  And she had felt nothing more than detached appreciation. Not one of them physically compared to Hugh … well, perhaps Joe Manganiello did. Wasn’t that why so many women loved True Blood?

  Years of nothing, not a spark. Now there was definitely something. An earth-shattering something that flared between them each time the distraction of entertainment and humor waned. Why Hugh? Why now?

  “Sorcha?”

  Claire jumped and felt a blush creeping up her neck as she turned to look at Hugh, taking in the bemusement that told her he must have called her name more than once. Exhaling heavily, Claire fought the urge to fan the flaming of her cheeks that couldn’t be cooled by the wind alone. “Sorry, I must have zoned out there for a minute. What did you say?”

  “I was asking about that.” Hugh pointed up at the sky, and Claire identified the airplane for him, referring back to her conversation about 9/11 and the hijacked planes. Hugh propped a hip against the rail and crossed his arms with a scowl. “Ye maun think me a veritable simpleton for asking so many questions, especially when ye need tae repeat yerself.”

  “Ignorance is a far cry from idiocy, Hugh,” Claire said, setting aside her surprisingly lustful musings and reaching out to squeeze his hand consolably. Usually her explanations were met with an impossibly attractive sheepish grin but today Hugh seemed more disgruntled by his lack of knowledge. “A description is much different than actually seeing something.”

  So far that day, Hugh had asked only a few questions, but Claire knew that he had many more that spoke not to the wonderment but to his trepidation about his place in this time. After speaking of his fears initially on the ferry into Bainbridge two nights before and on the beach the previous morning, she knew Hugh disliked vocalizing his reservations, not wanting to appear weak or unmanly. That was something that had probably been driven into him since birth. She doubted that men of his time and heritage were even allowed to consider having a feminine side.

  But how strange it all must seem to him! Alien, he had said that night on the ferry. How must it look in broad daylight? Claire tried to put herself in his shoes, and looked around as well, contemplating how drastically the world had changed since his time. Buildings of today had made even the skyline of a city unrecognizable to him. Then to fill that city with the billions of innovations that had emerged in the past three centuries!

  Aware that he was still stewing in his upset, Claire offered, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I would bet there’s a thing or two you could teach me and everyone else in this century. Dozens of things, probably.”

  Hugh snorted. “Such as how tae assemble some puir wee sowel’s toy?”

  Claire rolled her eyes at the harsh retort. Boy, he made her do that a lot. He was just so frustrating. Challenging. Invigorating. Whoa, girl, back on topic, she chided herself. “Or how to get that perfect shine on your suit of armor,” she teased, trying to draw him away from his dark thoughts. “Come on, Hugh! What did you do for a living? I can’t believe I didn’t ask.”

  “I was a duke, a gentleman,” he said almost sullenly, turning away to look at the cityscape once again. “I had nae occupation.”

  “Hugh!” she gasped. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re being deliberately obstinate!”

  “Dare I insult ye wi’ another history lesson?” he grouched.

  Claire gaped at his surly tone. “Is there anything I can do to stop you?”

  “Gentlemen of my time and station were raised by nannies and governesses before we were shipped off tae school and then university,” he told her in arch tones. “After which we embarked on our Grand Tour, which was meant only tae fill our time and allow us tae sow our oats until we inherited our father’s wealth.”

  “Poor, poor, Duke Hugh,” she drawled, her patience tested, “leading a life of luxury and privilege. Now I do feel bad for you.”

  “Yer sarcasm is unwelcome.”

  “And so is this woe is me bullshit,” Claire shot back, enjoying his wide-eyed stare at her words. “Yes, you heard me! You have met some of the greatest men in history! Most people in this time would envy you that. I envy you! Any historian would grovel at your feet for just one tiny morsel of what you know about how your time really was, and you worry about holding the can opener backwards? Hugh, you could write a book about Voltaire filled with things you consider insignificant that would fascinate millions of people and probably win you a Pulitzer, and you think that you have nothing to offer?”

  Claire drew in a deep breath, her mind buzzing with the truth of her words. Hugh was amazing! Incredible! He had seen the world, befriended some of the most remarkable men in history, and he thought he had little to recommend himself? The truth of the matter was that there was little Claire could offer Hugh, once he found his stride in this century. How ridiculous to think that she could match such a worldly man. How humbling that eighteen years of education and her hopes of completing her doctorate one day left her feeling intellectually inferior.

  But whatever Hugh had been in the past, humble might not have been one of them. “In my years in Europe, I wrote as well. If my works were nae brilliant enough tae stand the test of time once, I doubt this time would be any different.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” she asked more compassionately. “You didn’t find your book in Robert’s library so you believe you failed? Mi
llions, billions of books have been written since the Bible, Hugh. They can’t all be in one of the two places you’ve been since you’ve been here.”

  That haughty brow went up again. “Hae ye ever heard of me? Did my name survive through history alongside those I collaborated wi’? Nae, it dinnae. I lost my life and left no legacy that I even lived at all. My family, my home, my work. Gone! All of it.”

  It ate at him, Claire knew, and why wouldn’t it? Despite the flashes of humor, the consequences of his predicament had not faded. He’d had little time to mourn, nothing compared to the three years she had taken. But she couldn’t let him wallow in it until it was all he saw. If she had to bully him out of his doldrums, she would. “You know what your friend Arouet would have to say about this pity party you’ve got going on?” She didn’t pause to give him an opportunity to answer. “I’ll tell you what he’d say because he’s already said it. He said, ‘Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her; but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.’”

  “Who are ye tae lecture me?” he said, throwing her words from the morning before back at her.

  The rebuke did sting, but Claire continued, lecturing firmly. “Yes, I know you could throw that same bit of wisdom back at me, but this isn’t about me. This is about you and your moment to step up to the plate and take your swing at what’s being thrown at you. So, you need some education on the way the world works today. A crash course on how to survive. A handbook, so to speak …”

  “Ahh, like those ones I saw among others on the shelves,” Hugh said flippantly. “We could entitle it The Twenty-First Century for Dummies.”

  Arghh! Claire’s mind screamed with frustration and she simply couldn’t contain it. Instead, she pushed hard at his shoulder, which gave about as much as a brick wall might, which only compounded her frustration, and before she knew it, Claire was retorting loudly, “I was kidding about the damned week. Jesus, Hugh, have a little patience! You’re not a freakin’ idiot, for crying out loud!”

  Panting after that outburst, Claire looked around at the curious faces turned toward her and wondered at herself. Twice she had lost her temper. Twice now? What was wrong with her? “I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.”

  The words were met by Hugh’s deep chuckle, and she turned to look at him in surprise. “You think this is funny?” Still he laughed, his blue eyes twinkling with merriment, and then Claire knew. “You did that on purpose.”

  “But ye’re so bonny when ye’re in a rage,” he teased, tweaking a lock of her hair.

  “You made me shriek like a banshee for the second time,” she accused, staring at him as if he’d suddenly grown two heads.

  But Hugh seemed inordinately pleased by her words, crossing his arms with a toss of his head and a chuckle. “Ha! I understood that reference! Finally.” Grinning with self-satisfaction, he added, “As for yer temper, I wouldnae let it trouble ye unduly. Ye’re a woman. Shrieking like a banshee is—how would ye say it?—yer thing.”

  Make that three heads. He might have been smiling but he said it as if he actually believed it. And maybe he did. Hugh probably wouldn’t recognize equal rights if she smacked him across the face with a copy of the Nineteenth Amendment.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you just said that.”

  He raised a mocking brow. “Are we going to argue again?”

  “God, I hope not,” Claire murmured sincerely, then after a moment, offered a slight smile. “You fight dirty.” She paused hesitantly. “I guess I should apologize … again.”

  “No need,” Hugh said, his dimple deepening. “I understood nary a word of what ye said anyway.”

  “And with that I feel as if I’ve been firmly put in my place,” Claire sniffed, though she knew he was teasing her now. “Should I go through it one more time? Cliffs Notes version?”

  “Not necessary,” Hugh smiled as well. “In truth, I did grasp the gist of yer lecture and I, too, ken when I hae been put in my place.”

  A huff of laughter escaped her with that. “Ha! I bet no woman in your time would ever yell at a man like that.”

  “Nonsense. My aunt reacts more harshly to a muddy boot on her carpets,” he said with an engaging grin.

  Chapter 19

  While Hugh watched, Sorcha shook her head yet again. At this rate, he might keep her head bobbing constantly for the duration of their acquaintance, though in all honesty, Hugh knew he had displayed such a reaction more than a few times in the past few days. It was the product of an odd combination of humor and incredulity. Both of which Sorcha inspired handily.

  She was quite droll, really. Her dry sense of humor was finely tuned enough to keep him on his toes. Her words of wisdom, such as they were, had been spot on, and Hugh was determined not to take part in a “pity party” again. Week or not, what was done was done, the past was past. As she said, using Voltaire’s words, the cards had been dealt and were his to play.

  As for her fits of temper—his absurd observation about the female gender aside—well, perhaps they were more easily forgiven from Sorcha than they might be from any other woman of his acquaintance simply because of her valued assistance and because she was even more lovely when roused by anger—and he had provoked her purposefully this time, if not the last, for that very reason. Or maybe his reaction had been tempered by the knowledge that in rising to the challenge of her anger once, he had inadvertently caused her great pain.

  In any case, it now was blatantly obvious with this last outburst that Sorcha was far more startled by them than he. She’d been appalled by a common reaction to provocation. Clearly such a temper wasn’t her norm, and Hugh could only assume from her reaction that the strain of their association had begun to take its toll on her.

  For that he was now deeply remorseful since it was becoming more and more obvious that Sorcha wasn’t normally one to be so expressive in her emotions. Hugh would wager she was the sort to cradle her hurt and anger to her bosom.

  Nay, he had no desire to cause her pain despite the fact that he seemed to bring out the worst in her. What he did desire had been tactically barred from him by her “ground rules.” Bloody hell but she was tantalizing, even when in a temper when her eyes darkened to violet and glowed with the fire of her rage. When her chest heaved and her pulse throbbed visibly along her neck. She had a passionate nature that wasn’t the result of her red hair alone, but obviously she had suppressed it for a long while.

  Hugh doubted that Sorcha had taken a single lover since her husband had died. After so long her passions were likely to be buried deep within her, and curiosity about how fiercely they would burn had haunted his dreams and tempted him to stoke them.

  The attraction was mutual, the desire shared, though he knew she would never admit it. He had seen it in the hair salon. Sorcha had looked at him as if seeing him for the first time and perhaps that was indeed the case, but ever since then it had been there, smoldering in her eyes when she looked at him. Simmering in that brief moment when her dewy lips had clung to his.

  The voice over the speakers announced that it was time to return to their vehicles, and Hugh followed a still-stunned Sorcha through the cabin and down the metal stairs to her car. When they were both seated, she turned and looked at him expectantly. “I truly am sorry for yelling at you, Hugh.”

  “The fault is mine for deliberately provoking ye,” he told her.

  “Why did you? To shut me up?”

  “Nae. Yer point had been taken. My quip was meant only tae lighten the mood,” he said. “Clearly, it failed in its purpose, but it was nae my intent tae anger you so. I feel certain there has tae be a bit of Scot in ye, lass.”

  “Maybe,” Sorcha sighed. “Or maybe I just overreacted. This whole thing has just been so … Well, let me just say that I’m usually not this difficult to get along with.”

  Hugh looked into her amethyst eyes, taken by the depths. They were so expressive, every emotion was there fo
r him to see. The worry, the dread, the caring. Hugh lifted a hand, letting it hover a hair’s breadth over her cheek. The heat of her skin warmed his fingers, inviting his caress, but no matter how she provoked him, Hugh would not release himself to the temptation to take her lips with his again. Not merely because of their agreement or even because he needed her aid, but because the respect he had developed for her demanded that he cause her no more upset than he already had. He dropped his hand and heard her sigh—With relief? Or disappointment?—and her parted lips drew his gaze. Plump and moist, begging to be kissed.

  When her tongue darted out to wet them, Hugh almost groaned aloud in frustration … his impulses urging him to turn aside his honor. He lifted his gaze back to hers as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Sorcha had no idea how alluring she was, how just the thought of her could lure him from his doldrums, how the sight of her in her preposterously snug clothing enflamed his senses. “Nonsense,” he murmured, his brogue thick with burgeoning desire that he could not disguise. “I feel as if we get along verra well.”

  Her eyes widened in recognition of the inadvertent suggestion in his voice, and her breath released in a slow exhale. He could see her pulse quickening along her slim throat and liked to think that perhaps she was wavering in her resolve not to be touched, but the moment was lost when the cars in front of them began to move.

  Sorcha quickly started her car and shifted into drive to follow.

  “Then I’m glad my unusual temper hasn’t made things awkward between us,” she said. “I’d like for us to be friends.”

  “I cannae imagine why,” he said, with a trace of humor to cushion the truth of the words. “I’ve been nothing but weak, irritable, dishonorable, and now unpleasantly provoking as well. In my time, such weakness is disgraceful.”

  “These days we call it being human,” Sorcha countered as they pulled away from the ferry depot. “Just so you know, from my point of view you’ve been intelligent, humorous, and inspiring in the fortitude you have shown in facing an unimaginable situation. Maybe it’s the softer side of the twenty-first century, but we don’t generally expect … or necessarily appreciate … strutting and chest beating in our men.”