The Sweetest Hours (Harlequin Superromance)

by Parry, Cathryn

  “Damn straight it is. I’m bringing up a little girl who’s fifty percent Scottish-American. My husband has three Scottish-American grandparents, and one Scottish grandmother, actually born in the old country. I figure that makes me Scottish by injection, and I plan to act accordingly.”

  He nearly choked.

  “So, you’ll play along with Kristin and me?”

  Mutely, he nodded.

  Thankfully, she pivoted on her clogs and stalked back to her instrument of his doom—a silver range with six gas burners, four of them currently going full throttle, shooting up vicious blue flames. He wiped his mouth and ventured out of her kitchen and into the lion’s den.

  With foreboding, he glanced into the dining room, where a crowd of men stood, drinking lager from brown longneck bottles. Unless they all ganged up on him, he figured he could handle each of them, alone, judging by height and weight. One of the men looked as though he might be bigger than Malcolm, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure because the man, unfortunately, sat in a wheelchair and had a glum expression on his face.

  Kristin was nowhere to be seen.

  Malcolm raked a hand through his hair. She would be back soon, with the little girl in tow, he assumed, and introductions would commence. He could behave seriously and in a low-key manner, the same as he’d been doing all day.

  Or...there was still time to confess to her. Pull Kristin aside and tell her his real name. His true purpose. Let her in on his thoughts about what her CEO had asked him to do. Maybe some steps she could take for herself to mitigate the fallout before anyone else knew...

  It was insanity to consider it.

  He’d planned to never see this woman again after tonight. She was not part of upper management at Aura Botanicals, nor was there any reason for her to learn of his past. If he came clean now...

  Then that would break his agreement with Jay Astley to remain anonymous. Malcolm would be jeopardizing the new product branding plans. He would also be jeopardizing his own company and the people in it.

  It was too risky.

  He had to continue the charade. One last night of being George Smith before the security name was retired for good. Kristin would never find out who he really was.

  The only difficult part would be the guilt.

  No. Guilt he could handle. The worst part would be resigning himself to remaining aloof for the next few hours. Like it or not, he saw all the ways that she was like him, with her heavy flashlight and her love and loyalty to her family and her employer. She had an innate capability for taking care of herself and others. And, she was fun. The lady was quietly compatible to him in a way that he hadn’t known in years, in a way that pulled him in and attracted him.

  It was downright dangerous, and he could be in trouble here unless he was careful.

  Plus, he would eat no more than one bite of haggis—he didn’t care what her dynamo of a sister-in-law threatened him with.

  And, he would never let on to any of them that he knew what Burns Night was. He was simply an observer, killing time. His mouth shut. A ghost who would fade from memory once his driver arrived and he left this small Vermont town forever.

  The brother in the wheelchair rolled over to him at the same time that Kristin came hurrying back into the room.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushed and her smile trembling in an “I apologize!” grimace. “My niece wanted help with her part in the festivities. I didn’t mean to desert you.”

  She turned to the largest of the men, the one in the wheelchair. “George, this is my brother Stevie. Stevie, this is George. He’s a work colleague, and he’s stranded in town until his ride gets here.”

  “My sympathies,” Stevie said, holding out his hand.

  “Good to meet you,” Malcolm answered, and shook the man’s hand, nearly getting his fingers crushed in the process.

  “This—” Kristin continued, with unmistakable worry in her voice “—is my mom. Mom, this is George.”

  “Er...hello,” Malcolm said.

  Mom speared him up and down with her sharp eyes that didn’t appear to miss much. Clearly, an appraisal was in process.

  Frowning, Mom asked him, “George? George what?”

  “Smith,” Kristin replied.

  “And what does he do at Aura Botanicals?” Mom demanded.

  “Marketing,” Malcolm said without hesitation. The crowd was moving toward the dining table, so he followed along, praying the line of questioning would soon stop.

  “And where did he go to school to prepare for the job?” Mom demanded of Kristin.

  “Er, Dartmouth.” Malcolm decided to answer her directly. “And later, Harvard Business School.”

  Mom whirled to stare at him. Her eyebrows shot up. In a heartbeat, her expression changed. “That’s the Ivy League!”

  He knew that. Kristin sighed and leaned over to murmur into his ear: “I went to a local college and my grades weren’t stellar. No one around here lets me forget that.”

  “Engineering is difficult,” Malcolm remarked. “I imagine that business studies are much easier.”

  “You’re being nice to me. I appreciate it.” She pulled out a chair and indicated that he sit.

  He did so, and she joined him to his left. Her face seemed frozen in a mask of what appeared to be both trepidation and hopeful excitement. The dining table was large, and there were a variety of chairs jammed around it, due to the crowd the sister-in-law chef had invited. He wasn’t sure who everyone was, and he was glad Kristin hadn’t made the big deal of introducing him to everyone. He was just waiting for his ride. That was all.

  He leaned back in his seat, cushioned and lined with fabric, while hers was an aluminum folding chair. Despite them each sitting on different kinds of chairs, he and Kristin were at the same height, so his thigh brushed against her thigh. His elbow rubbed her elbow.

  She drew back, smiling sheepishly at him. “This is worse than airplane seating.”

  He stared, then realized she was talking about coach class in commercial airliners. He didn’t know much about that.

  The little rug rat climbed into the chair on the other side of him, his right side—his eating side—which was a relief because she was miniature size, and it was unlikely they would bash elbows during the course of the meal.

  He smiled tentatively at the little girl. She grinned back, her freckles even more impressive at this close angle, and she cupped a hand, whispering into his ear, “Watch me, I’m going to dance later.”

  “You’re...?”

  “George,” Kristin’s mother said, simpering from across the table, “I apologize for our boardinghouse arrangement. We are not usually so uncivilized.”

  “Yes, we are,” an older man contradicted her from the opposite side. He stood and leaned across the table to shake Malcolm’s hand. “I’m Rich, Kristin’s dad.”

  “Better than being poor,” quipped the brother in the wheelchair as he maneuvered himself beside the dad.

  “They’re terrible,” the mother said, fussing with the silverware that the sister-in-law had set out. “Pay no attention to them. We’re usually not so disorganized, either.”

  “Sure we are,” a tall man chimed in.

  “I should probably explain who everybody is,” Kristin murmured to Malcolm. Discreetly, she inclined her head. “That is my dad, Rich, and mom, Evelyn—both of whom you’ve already met. Dad works at the county Chamber of Commerce and Mom serves part-time in the town offices and the rest of the time in the café, helping Stephanie.” She gestured across the table, still speaking in a low tone. “PJ, my oldest brother, is married to Stephanie. This is, of course, their house. Then there’s Stevie.” She tilted her chin toward the man in the wheelchair. “He’s renting a basement room, for now, while he rehabs from his motorcycle accident.” A cloud crossed h
er face.

  “Will he be okay?” Malcolm asked softly. Throughout the entire conversation, he kept his gaze on the tableau of the room. Bustling, energetic, they weren’t paying much attention to him—except for the mother. But at the moment, she was occupied with searching for napkins—giving him and Kristin a chance to talk safely.

  “We hope so,” Kristin answered in a lower voice. “Stevie was reckless, going too fast, and he lost control when a car coming in the opposite direction crossed over to his side. We’re lucky he survived the accident.” But she brightened and talked faster. “Over there is Neil, my second oldest brother. He lives across town.”

  “How many brothers do you have?” Malcolm asked, suddenly feeling nervous. So much for being aloof. The haggis hadn’t been presented, and already he was betraying himself.

  “Four. The last, Grant, just joined the marines. He’s in boot camp. He’s hoping to come home and join the police force after his tour of duty.”

  Brilliant. “Er, are you the youngest sibling?” God, Malcolm hoped not. That would bring out her brothers’ protective instincts.

  “No,” she said, “I’m right in the middle. Two older than me and two younger.”

  Malcolm nodded. He didn’t know why he was bothering to keep close track of everything. He would probably never see her again—he was counting on never seeing her again.

  “Except for the marine, no one in your family tends to move very far from home, do they?” he observed.

  “No, we do not.”

  Before he could ask why, the sister-in-law—Stephanie—strutted into the room. She’d changed from her chef clothes and was wearing a blouse with green and navy blue plaid in it—Black Watch, he automatically thought. She still looked formidable, the military tartan appropriate on her.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “Attention, everyone!” She tapped a water glass with her spoon. “Thank you for coming to the Hart family’s first annual Burns Dinner. This is a surprise orchestrated by—”

  “Me!” the urchin to his right said, jumping in her chair. She squatted, her feet on the seat, and her kilt was in a most unladylike position. But, Malcolm had grown up with an urchin sister, and in his house, they hadn’t stood on formality much, either.

  He must’ve been grinning at the little girl, because to his left, Kristin turned in her seat and gaped at him.

  “He smiles!” she said. “Hallelujah!”

  The urchin giggled, her chubby hand splayed over her freckled face.

  “Kristin,” the girl’s mother ordered. “Help Lily sit properly in her chair. Lily, use your company manners.”

  He couldn’t help it, he turned to little Lily himself. Didn’t say a word, just gave her his best comic glower.

  Lily laughed harder. But she straightened her skirt and untangled her feet from beneath her, sitting solidly on her rump.

  Meanwhile, the mother and father were arguing across the table. It was so much like his own family he was starting to believe there was something to the Scottish genes. Maybe he was homesick.

  Stephanie clapped her hands, startling them all. “As I was saying, this is called a Burns Supper. Lily learned it from her aunt, who was teaching her about Scotland and her Scottish ancestry for Lily’s Brownie badge.”

  “Oh, please,” Evelyn said. “Here we go.”

  “Your mother was born in Scotland,” Stephanie said, directing the comment at her mother-in-law. “I think we should be proud of that.”

  “Yes,” Evelyn said, “but I know where this is going.”

  She shot a look at Kristin, who blushed furiously.

  Malcolm wondered what was going on.

  “My mother was not heiress to a castle in Scotland,” Evelyn said to Kristin. “Get that fantasy out of your head. I don’t want to hear a single word of it tonight.”

  “She was, too!” the urchin—Lily—cried beside him. He winced from the shriek in his right eardrum. But at the same time, it took all his self-control to restrain himself from bursting out laughing. In general, he didn’t like to snuff out anyone’s enthusiasm—he hated the look of sadness it gave Kristin—but Evelyn was right.

  There were thousands of castles in Scotland. Malcolm had often met people who, just because of a last name indicating a few drops of Scottish blood, somehow felt they were related to Scottish royalty. It was part of the romance of the Scottish diaspora, he supposed.

  “A long time ago, Nanny got a letter from a man in Scotland, and, and, and...” Lily threw up her hands. With a straight face, the little girl said to Malcolm, “My great-nanny owned a castle. In Scotland. Really.”

  “Is that so?” Malcolm murmured.

  “It’s a family story,” Kristin explained, her face flushed. “Before I was born, my grandmother received word from Scotland, informing her that she was heiress to a castle.”

  “Probably a scam,” her father—Rich—remarked.

  “Certainly a scam,” Evelyn agreed. “They were looking for money.”

  Kristin’s countenance fell.

  Malcolm wished he could make her feel better. “Do you have the letter?” Malcolm asked gently.

  “My mother-in-law tore it up,” Rich said. “She was a practical one.”

  Kristin shook her head. “My family tends to be...skeptical,” she said to Malcolm.

  Malcolm completely understood.

  “Still,” Kristin said, glancing across the table at them. “The story remains.”

  “It’s like those spam emails the Nigerian princes send, looking for bank account numbers,” her brother—PJ—remarked. He looked plaintively at his wife. “Honey, I thought I smelled hamburger in the kitchen. Aren’t we going to eat?”

  Malcolm had news for him—that smell was haggis. Not one person present was going to be pleased once they tasted it. If this crowd heaped scorn and poked fun on a “castle heiress,” then the presentation of the haggis would really kick off a round of derision.

  Kristin stared at her empty plate. There was a resigned sadness to her face. Malcolm suspected she had experience with the futility of arguing with skeptics. Why did she stick around in the same hometown she’d grown up in if she had to deal with this on a daily basis? She was an adult—why not move away like he had?

  As far as her career was concerned, she’d told him she liked the products at Aura Botanicals and the variety of the work in a small company. He understood that. But why subject herself to such restriction when she obviously craved adventure? That was her true personality—he’d watched her in action all afternoon. He’d only known her this one day, and it was obvious to him.

  He frowned. He shouldn’t long to cheer Kristin up or to look out for her. He shouldn’t be moved enough to care about anything she did.

  Leaning back, he ran his tongue over his chipped tooth.

  “I believe in the fairy castle,” a small voice whispered in his right ear.

  He turned his head slightly. The urchin was standing in her chair again. She was staring at him as if she expected an answer.

  “Do you now?” he murmured.

  “Don’t you?” she whispered back.

  But it was a loud whisper. He glanced at Kristin, who was gazing at him expectantly, as if she’d heard their entire conversation and was immensely interested in what he thought on the matter.

  Malcolm didn’t believe in fantasies of castles and lost letters. But he did believe in Kristin. The woman was eminently capable. So he smiled in encouragement at her.

  “I do,” he said.

  She bit her lip and looked down at her hands in her lap. When she glanced up again, she was blushing.

  “Mom, when are we going to play the music?” the urchin shouted to her mother in the kitchen.

  Malcolm flinched again. Kristin covered her mouth, laughing. She was beautiful w
hen she laughed. Bewitching.

  Damn.

  “Hold your horses!” Stephanie clomped into the room holding a white note card. She passed it to Kristin, whose face brightened further upon receiving it.

  Clapping, Stephanie said, “Attention! The Burns Supper is now commenced! Kristin Hart will please read the opening grace.” Then Stephanie spoke behind her hand in a stage whisper to him. “I copied it from the internet. Let’s see how Kristin does with the accent.”

  Oh, lord. It must be the Selkirk Grace. Would Kristin read it in English, or would she go for the vernacular?

  Inside, he felt tense. If Kristin were going to give away his secret to her family, then now was her chance.

  He waited, breath held...

  Kristin cleared her throat, and with a flourish, she read:

  “Some hae meat and canna eat,

  And some wad eat that want it.

  But we hae meat, and we can eat,

  And sae let the Lord be thankit.”

  Yes, she gave the language a thorough butchering. And then she raised her head and smiled at all assembled, exquisitely pleased.

  “I’d like some meat,” her father said plaintively.

  “Doesn’t everything sound better with a Scottish accent?” Kristin sighed to no one in particular, ignoring her father. “God, I miss Nanny.”

  “What did that poem say, Aunty?” her niece asked her. “It sounded funny.”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Kristin answered. “But Robert Burns was a witty poet in his day. I’ll research it later and explain it to you once I figure it all out.”

  But Kristin didn’t look at Malcolm. She hadn’t given away her suspicions regarding him, either. She could have pointed out that he had admitted to her that he’d lived in the country and that he knew damned well who the national poet of Scotland was. She could have shared with the group that she’d overheard Malcolm speaking in a similar, heavily accented vernacular this morning. She could have offered him up to the laughter and the skepticism and the jocular infighting, all things he was so familiar with from his own large brood of cousins. But she had not.