The Heir’s Chosen Bride

by Marion Lennox

  ‘Great. You read and I’ll stir,’ she said. ‘OK?’

  So she stirred and he read and he stirred and she read and then they both sat and watched the vast pot of honey-gold marmalade until finally, finally their test drop formed a skin and Hamish announced that it was done.

  Their cleaned jars had been sitting in the range for the duration of the cooking, slowly warming. Hamish set the jars out and Susie poured and poured and poured until they had thirty-odd jars of cumquat marmalade lined up on the big kitchen table. They attached lids, they cleaned up their mess and then they turned and looked in satisfaction at what they’d done.

  All evening they’d worked almost in silence. It wasn’t that they’d meant to be silent or that they were uncomfortable with each other, it was simply that words were unnecessary, Susie thought. Now, as she looked at the golden jars, words were even more unnecessary. What they’d done this evening…

  She’d take this home with her. Would she eat it? Maybe, but maybe she’d keep one jar.

  How long did marmalade last?

  How long did love last?

  Where had that come from? Dumb thought. She thought of Rory, of standing beside the man she loved, making her wedding vows. She’d thought it would be for ever.

  And now she was standing beside this big, kindly man who was Rory’s cousin. What she felt for him was…different.

  Of course it was different. How could she love Hamish?

  How could she not?

  But Hamish’s thoughts were on practicalities. ‘We’ll box them up,’ he said softly, looking at the pots with the air of a man who’d done a difficult job to his satisfaction. ‘If we send them air freight they’ll get there as fast as you will. You’ll be able to eat Loganaich Castle Marmalade for breakfast every morning.’

  ‘Will you keep some, too?’

  ‘Sure.’ He eyed the bucket under the bench. This was a great new splinter skill. How come he’d never thought of doing such a thing? ‘Maybe Marcia and I can make some more. But do you want all these?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain. ‘If you eat porridge for breakfast, then you’ll hardly use thirty pots of marmalade.’

  ‘I only eat porridge while I’m here. I never eat porridge while I’m anywhere else.’

  He relaxed. ‘Very wise. So if Marcia and I make more marmalade we can send it over.’

  ‘Maybe this is enough.’

  ‘It’ll last for a good long time.’ He grinned, trying to tease her to smile. He liked it when she smiled. The stress lines around her eyes faded, making her seem younger, more carefree. Which was how she should be. ‘Every time you eat it you can think that the cumquat trees haven’t lived in vain.’

  But that was a mistake. As soon as the words were out he knew that he’d committed an error. Reminding her the cumquat trees were doomed.

  ‘I guess I’ll remember they’ve been knocked down.’

  ‘If you want to be miserable you can think that.’

  ‘I don’t want to be miserable.’

  ‘Then don’t think about it. Move on, Susie.’

  ‘Stop remembering this place?’

  ‘If it makes you emotional, yes.’

  ‘If I stopped thinking about anything that makes me emotional I’d be in for a pretty barren existence.’

  ‘You stay under control that way.’

  ‘Which is important?’

  ‘Of course it’s important.’ He moved to adjust a marmalade jar which had dared not be in line with the others. Right. He now had thirty perfectly controlled pots.

  But moving hot jam jars was a mistake. The jar he moved cracked, like a mini-explosion in the stillness. Maybe the jam had been too hot. Maybe the jar hadn’t been heated up enough. Whatever the reason, there was suddenly jam running over the table, spoiling his careful symmetry.

  He moved to shift the nearest jars away from the broken one. He lifted one, then swore as the heat seared through the cloth he’d used to lift it. He dropped it-and it cracked like its neighbour.

  ‘I’d just let them settle this among themselves,’ Susie said cautiously, eyeing the mess with trepidation. ‘This might be an instance where lack of control just has to be accepted.’

  ‘I never-’

  ‘Hamish, if you lift another jar you’re risking all-out calamity. I do want some marmalade to take home.’

  He eyed the jars. He looked at his burnt fingers. He looked at the mess. ‘But if I shifted these-’

  Susie grabbed his arm and tugged him over to the sink. ‘Leave it,’ she ordered. ‘Your poor hands.’ She plunged his hand under cold water-which did feel better than trying to pick up more marmalade.

  ‘I’ll get some burn cream,’ she told him but he shook his head.

  ‘It’s minor.’

  ‘Then stay under water for a little longer.’

  So he did. The marmalade mess stayed untouched. He stayed…out of control?

  She was so close. She was holding his arm, forcing his hand to stay under the water. She was so…

  ‘Susie, I’m really sorry about the trees,’ he managed.

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry about the trees,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘If I didn’t think what Marcia said made sense… If I didn’t realise that any purchaser will do exactly that, chop them down to make way for a pool…’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, and sniffed. ‘It’s totally sensible.’ She sniffed again.

  ‘Susie, don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying.’

  Of course she was crying. Tears were welling up behind her eyes, threatening to fall at any minute.

  ‘OK, we won’t do it,’ he said desperately-and she dropped his hand in astonishment.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We won’t pull down the orange trees.’

  ‘Just because I cried?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘I can’t bear to see you-’

  ‘You can’t bear to see me cry so you’ll do what I want.’ She thought about it, and suddenly the tears welled up even more. ‘I think I need a slice of your inheritance.’

  ‘Susie…’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ Tears were streaming down her face now. ‘I really do. And I want you to promise me that you’ll wear your kilt every third Monday of the month for the rest of your life.’

  He was backing off. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand, turning off the tears like a tap. There was dangerous mischief glinting behind the tears. ‘It’s not me who’s being ridiculous.’

  ‘You…’ He stared at her, stunned. ‘You turned on those tears…’

  ‘At will. Neat trick, isn’t it?’

  ‘To get what you want?’

  ‘I never cry to get what I want.’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘Believe it or not, I didn’t. If you think I really want you wearing a kilt, driving the women of this world crazy…’

  ‘Then why-?’

  ‘I was teasing, Hamish Douglas. Teasing. You’ve never heard of the word?’

  ‘By crying.’

  ‘Can we leave the crying alone? It’s getting boring.’

  This was crazy. She was standing there glaring at him, her eyes still wet, marmalade splashed all over her T-shirt, daring him…daring him…

  ‘I hate you to cry,’ he said, sounding dumb, but he didn’t know how else to sound.

  ‘So I’m not crying.’

  ‘Susie…’

  ‘What?’ she said, almost crossly, and she folded her arms across her breasts and glared.

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Sure. I’m crazy.’

  ‘I want…’

  ‘What do you want, Hamish Douglas?’

  What did he want?

  The question hung. He glared at her, marmalade-stained and rumpled and angry and not crying, and suddenly…

  Suddenly the mist cleared to make way for one dumb plan. There was a myriad of emotions running through his head right now, emotions chasing their respectiv
e tails, but the only thing he could think was a stupid, unwise, crazy thought. But once thought, it was not possible to put it aside. It was just there. It had to surface.

  It did surface. ‘I want to kiss you,’ he said.

  There was a moment’s silence. A long moment’s silence. She appeared to consider, jutting her chin slightly forward, slightly belligerent, taking her time to come up with a response.

  And finally she did.

  ‘Well, why don’t you?’ she said.

  What was he doing, wanting to kiss Susie?

  Was he mad? He was engaged to Marcia. Marcia could walk in at any minute. Even though she wasn’t possessive, to find her fiancé kissing another woman might push her a wee bit far.

  Might? It would, he thought wildly, searching frantically for the control he so valued.

  But his control was nowhere to be found. For Susie was right in front of him. Battered, bruised and beloved Susie.

  Beloved? Where had that word come from?

  It was just there. As was Susie. She was right in front of him, ready and waiting to be kissed.

  Was she mad? Was she losing her cotton-picking mind? To kiss Hamish… To let him kiss her…

  He was engaged to another woman and the day after tomorrow she was leaving here and she’d never see him again in her life.

  Which was why…which was why she was proposing to let him kiss her, she decided. For there was a tiny part of her brain that said this was all there was, this moment, this tiny connection that could only last for one fleeting kiss and then be over.

  She’d dared him to kiss her. And he’d do just that. Or she certainly hoped he would.

  The signs were good.

  He had his hands on her waist. He was taking his time, lingering, looking down into her eyes as he drew her against him. He was making sure that he wasn’t coercing her. He was making sure that she hadn’t made some daft, stupid mistake when she’d agreed to be kissed.

  Maybe she had made some daft, stupid mistake but she wasn’t admitting it. Not now, when he was so near. So close.

  Not when he was so…Hamish.

  She was being drawn into him now. She was allowing those big, capable hands-these lovely, strong and battered hands-to pull her against him. Her breasts were being moulded against the strength of his chest. His hand shifted to cup her chin, tilting her face so her eyes met his.

  Things were looking hopeful here. Very hopeful indeed.

  He smiled down at her then, a rueful, searching smile that asked more questions than it answered. But there was such tenderness in his look. Such…love?

  He was asking a silent question, but she couldn’t respond. How could she respond? She gazed helplessly up at him, and the last vestiges of her laughter faded as she felt her heart lurch sideways. As she felt her heart still, and then start to race as it had almost forgotten it could race.

  As she fell. As she tumbled deeper and deeper in love with the man before her.

  He was engaged to another woman. She tried to think that but she couldn’t.

  For it simply couldn’t matter. This was too important, she thought. Hamish intended to kiss her and all she could do was wait…and hope.

  Or raise her face a little more to meet his kiss?

  Or she could put her hands on his face and draw him down to her.

  Definitely. She’d definitely do that.

  She could not think of Marcia. Or Rory. There was no room to think of anything or anyone but Hamish.

  And his kiss.

  She could drown in this kiss.

  What was he doing? Kissing a woman who wasn’t Marcia?

  He was doing what was right, he decided. He was doing what needed to be done.

  He was doing what he’d ached to do from the moment he’d first seen Susie.

  Oh, the feel of him. The strength, and yet the tenderness. The certainty and yet the hesitation. His mouth plundered hers, yet she knew that if she pulled back-at the slightest hint of pressure-he’d release her.

  For this was no man claiming his rights. He was as unsure as she was, as stunned by the strength of feeling between them, and the feeling was unbelievably erotic.

  Hamish.

  The wild beating of her heart settled and things slipped into place, things that had been out of kilter with her world for so long. She’d thought when Rory had died that she could never love again-but the heart expanded to fit all needs.

  She still loved Rory. She’d love him till the day she died but Hamish was a different man, a different love. Her new, wonderful love.

  His lips were on hers and he kissed her as she’d ached to be kissed-but she hadn’t known there was this ache within her. His lips were tentative, tasting her, feeling her response, feeling by the faint parting of her lips that he was, oh, so welcome.

  Hamish.

  Maybe she said his name. She didn’t know. But his kiss moved, to her nose, gently teasing. To her eyelids, maybe tasting the salt still left by her tears. Her fake tears, produced to mock, but how could she ever mock this man?

  His fingers were raking her hair and the sensation was magic. She moaned a little and kissed him back, finding his mouth and claiming it. Tugging his body hard against hers. Curving into him.

  She lifted his hand and led it to her breast. Her body was arching against his. It had been almost two long years since she’d been held by a man. She’d loved one man and she’d thought her body could never fit with another but she was wrong, oh, she was gloriously, wonderfully wrong. Her Hamish.

  Marcia was nowhere. Marcia simply didn’t exist. But this was no betrayal. Susie was no traitorous vixen searching for another woman’s man. This had gone way past that. Hamish belonged to no other woman.

  Hamish was simply a part of her.

  She locked his arms behind him, then lifted her head to allow him to kiss her as deeply as he wanted. He was tasting her neck, caressing her shoulders with his tongue, and the sensation was so exquisite she thought she must sob with aching pleasure. He slipped his fingers under the soft fabric of her T-shirt, cupping the smooth contours of her breasts, making her moan softly with love and desire. Her hands were locked about his head now, deepening the kiss, deepening, deepening…

  There was such want. She hadn’t known how alone she was until tonight, when suddenly she was no longer alone.

  This man was her man. She knew it at some primeval level she couldn’t begin to understand and didn’t want to try. The only place in the world that she should ever be at peace was right here, in this man’s arms.

  Within the arms of the man she truly loved.

  She melted into his kiss with abandon, surrendering to the promise of his body. To the feeling that here in his arms anything was possible. She’d never be lonely. She’d never be alone. With Hamish beside her, she could take on the world.

  ‘Susie,’ he whispered, and his voice was as unsteady as she felt. ‘Dear God, Susie, we can’t.’

  ‘We can’t…?’

  ‘Make love.’

  She froze at that. She froze and thought about it. And reality came flooding back. Awareness of her surroundings.

  Awareness of Marcia?

  ‘You mean we can’t make love right here in the marmalade.’

  ‘Well…it’d be a bit sticky.’

  ‘I guess.’ She pulled away a little, searching to see his face. He looked dazed. Confused. And a little afraid?

  ‘Hey, there’s no need to look scared,’ she said, and he shook his head, searching for some sort of reality.

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  Reality was slamming back fast. Marcia was just upstairs. Hamish was engaged to be married to Marcia. Susie was on her own. The day after tomorrow she was leaving here. Hamish had never said he wanted her. He never said he needed her, yet here she was, wearing her heart on her sleeve, making herself wantonly available.

  It couldn’t be wanton to kiss the man she loved.

  But he didn’t love her. She could see. If his eyes reflected hers the
y’d be full of love and desire and he’d be moving to hug her, moving to claim her.

  Instead of which he was staring at her as if she were some sort of witch, capable of casting a spell.

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  It needed only that.

  ‘You didn’t mean to kiss me?’

  ‘No. Susie, I’m-’

  ‘Engaged to Marcia.’ Somehow she made her voice work. ‘Of course. I… Look, it’s late and we’re overtired and-and it was only a good-night kiss after all.’

  Liar, she screamed at herself, but he was nodding, though his eyes said he knew as well as she did that it had been no such thing.

  ‘We can’t… Susie, Marcia and I are getting married.’

  ‘Of course. And you and I, we’d be impossible. I’m so emotional.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and there was almost relief in his voice. ‘You cry.’

  ‘I do,’ she agreed cordially, feeling like crying now, but there was no way she’d cry. Something was being destroyed that had hardly started to be created.

  He was still looking at her as if he was afraid. She wanted to scream. She wanted to…

  She didn’t know what she wanted.

  ‘Of course I cry,’ she whispered. ‘And you hate crying. I cry all the time, happy and sad, and you can’t stand it.’ An errant tear rolled down her cheek right then and she wiped it away with anger. He was right-she couldn’t even stop crying to save herself.

  ‘I’m not in control,’ she admitted. ‘Well, that’s OK, that’s the state of my existence, but for a moment there you weren’t in control either. That’s what’s scaring you, isn’t it? You hate it. Well.’ She took a long, searing breath, searching frantically for the words to say to finish it. As it had to be finished.

  She finally found them, right or not, but the words that had to be said.

  ‘Marcia’s upstairs, Hamish. She’s your fiancée. She’s your future. And I need to check on Taffy. I need to check on Rose. My baby and my puppy. They’re my future. And by kissing you I’m just interfering with the way of the world. With the way things have to be from this day forth.’

  And before he could say another word she’d turned and fled, out of the kitchen door, back out into the night.