MacKenzie glared at his brother’s retreating back, muttering something about butterflies for brains as well. Pen looked down, hiding the smile that threatened to claim her. No, she didn’t know anything about brothers. But she sensed that beneath the bickering lay affection and even respect, and she was none too worried about MacKenzie’s head, after she’d felt the steady strength in his hand.
Seeing a remaining shirt lying in the shade of the scaffolding, Pen bent down and picked it up. But instead of proffering it like the peace offering she had intended, some perverse, devilish instinct made her hold it behind her back.
“What did your b-brother mean: not to befuddle you further?” she asked. She hoped it meant what she imagined. Because it was becoming more and more difficult not to stare at the flexing muscles in this man’s shoulders, and she had a mind to indulge in a bit more research before this little trip was over.
MacKenzie turned toward her and shook his head. “Dinna pay him any mind. He’s daft.”
“I thought he was a solicitor,” she teased.
“He’s a daft solicitor,” MacKenzie amended. He looked at her, almost sheepishly. “You . . . ah . . . said you wished to have a word with me?”
Pen searched for an opening—any opening—that might further the conversation, now that she had pulled him from his work. “I understand you’re to enter the caber competition?” He nodded warily. “Mr. McRory implied he is going to throw it farther than you.” She paused, searching his broad face for a reaction. “Do you have anything to say in response?”
He treated her to a slow, spreading kind of grin that made him look suddenly boyish. “Aye. McRory might believe he can toss it farther.” He leaned in, and she could smell the sharp, healthy tang of hard-earned sweat from his body. “But ’tis not the length of a man’s stick that matters, you ken. It’s his aim.”
Pen gasped, her thoughts immediately flying to things that had nothing to do with cabers and everything to do with warm, sweaty, shirtless bodies.
Had he meant to be so suggestive?
But no . . . the tips of his ears were reddening, as if he had only now realized how his words might be interpreted. “I mean, the caber is not only judged on the length of the throw, but how straight. It must go end over and fall in a straight line to acquire the maximum points. I’ve been watching McRory from atop the scaffolding, and he’s none too straight with his aim, aye?”
She nodded, though a dangerous part of her wanted to discuss the length and relative aim of MacKenzie’s stick. She cleared her throat, not wanting the conversation to end just yet. “I’ve another question for you, if you d-don’t mind. I’ve a wish to see inside Kilmartie Castle. I understand you’re the man to help me with that.”
He tensed. “Did McRory say something he oughtn’t have?”
“That you are the heir to the Earl of Kilmartie?” Pen raised a brow. “He might have mentioned something of that n-nature.”
“The butcher’s as daft as my brother.” Brown eyes narrowed down on her. “The town loves a bit of gossip, as I am sure you are discovering. But it’s harmless, really. Part of Moraig’s charm. You shouldn’t pay it any mind.”
“Like the crodh mara?”
“Aye. Very much like that.”
“Well, I rather enjoyed meeting your water cattle.” Pen smiled sweetly, though what she felt was a bit more complicated. “So it stands to reason I might enjoy the c-castle as well.” She leaned in, his shirt still clasped tightly behind her back. “And you did assure me you would show me anything I wished,” she added.
He stared at her a moment, as though surprised she would be so frank. He seemed to be sidestepping any mention of that memorable night, but the same devil that had caused her to hide his shirt made her want to remind him of their kiss at every opportunity.
Finally, he scrubbed a hand across his brow. “Aye. I did. So come to the castle around seven o’clock tonight then. Bring your sister and Cameron, as well. I’ll invite James and his wife, and we can make a dinner of it.”
Pen nodded. She was pleased he had agreed so easily, though she was disappointed to hear they would have an audience. She’d hoped to have his undivided attention.
Something made her want to dig deeper here. It wasn’t only the story. It was the man himself. She felt as though she were uncovering him, one secret at a time. “McRory also said you graduated from Cambridge.” At his frown, she plunged on. “It seems like you might be trying to hide some facts from me, MacKenzie. But as I said, I am an excellent journalist. I’ll sort out the t-truth eventually, with or without you.”
“I have no doubts about your capabilities as a journalist, but I am not hiding, Miss Tolbertson.” What might have been a glower darkened his face. “It’s only that the focus of your story ought to be the town. They are the ones in need. I prefer to stay in the background and help where I can, and my own situation has nothing to do with it.”
“Organizing the entire event is scarcely j-just helping where you can,” she pointed out, though she couldn’t help but feel a swell of respect for a man so determined to put the town first. With her free hand, she gestured to the wood structure that had so recently handed him his downfall. “Look at you. You’re risking life and limb to b-build this for Moraig.” She paused, blinking up at the massive set of wood. “Although, what is this, if I might ask?”
“ ’Tis a music stage,” he said, a bit less gruffly. “We’ve pipers and musicians planned. Music is as much a part of our tradition here as the games.” He hesitated. “Mayhap you’ll consent to share a dance with me, Miss Tolbertson?”
“Perhaps.” She tried to ignore the sudden leap of her heart, which was all too willing to agree with anything that might send her into this man’s strong arms again. Her fingers curled around the bit of cotton she still held behind her back. “If you’ll put on a shirt.”
He looked down, clearly startled by the reminder. “Ach, my brother,” he muttered, looking around on the ground. “He’s taken my shirt, it seems. Daft, I tell you. Meddlesome, too.”
Pen laughed. Time for the game she had started to end.
Or perhaps, it was time for it to begin?
She’d kissed him, of course, and he’d kissed her back, but she hadn’t precisely made her hopes clear. She brought his shirt out slowly from behind her back, dangling it from one gloved finger. He looked at her in what might have been panic.
Or perhaps befuddlement.
“You were hiding my clothes?” His brows pulled down in confusion as he accepted the shirt from her. His fingers crumpled in the fabric, but he looked at a loss to know what to do with it.
Ah, there was the return of the bumbling giant.
She was discovering she enjoyed being able to pull it from his university-educated skull.
“I was merely enjoying all the views Moraig has to offer, MacKenzie,” she answered, though her unaccustomed boldness meant her cheeks felt as though someone had held them too close to a candle. “Perhaps you might show me more later?”
“The castle. As we agreed.” His ears reddened even more. “And I . . . ah . . . thought we agreed you might call me ‘William.’ ”
She bent and scooped up her notebook, dusting it off. “I don’t think of you as a William.”
Couldn’t, in fact. In her mind, he was simply MacKenzie.
She straightened and met his gaze, willing her words to behave properly for once. She concentrated on every syllable, determined to get it right. “But please, do call me ‘Pen.’ ” A smile that was anything but serene claimed her lips. “A man who’s kissed me in the moonlight might have earned the p-privilege, hmm?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“She thinks I’m an idiot.” William frowned at James and David Cameron, who were standing in the library, glasses of port in hand.
The interminable dinner might be finished, but he was unfortunately still dressed in the sort of formal attire that made his feet itch and his neck feel as though hands were closing in, choking the
life out of him. Christ, even the plaid was better than this.
But guests for dinner at Kilmartie Castle meant manners, and manners meant neckties.
“No, I’m the one who thinks you are an idiot,” David Cameron chuckled, swirling the port in his glass. “Caroline and her sister think your idea for the Highland Games is a brilliant opportunity for the town.”
William should have felt like smiling. It was good to hear of Caroline’s approval. She was a fine woman, one who spoke her mind and managed her own opinions. She had turned David Cameron around for the better, when it had once seemed he’d been bound for little beyond a life of dissolution. But unfortunately, William felt less concerned with Caroline’s approval than her sister’s. Pen didn’t act as though she thought the games were a good idea.
For some reason, it mattered, and not only because of her role in his plans for Moraig.
“I was given the impression during dinner she was still forming an opinion,” he muttered, staring down into his drink. In point of fact, she had asked everyone at the table their views, scribbling each response down in her notebook, but she had not publicly divulged her own thoughts on the matter.
“You refer to Penelope?” Cameron asked.
William looked up. “You don’t call her ‘Pen’?”
A fair brow shot up. “Do you call her ‘Pen’?”
William’s collar suddenly felt even tighter, though it was already cinched as tight as a miser’s purse. “I . . . ah . . . that is . . . She’s invited me to use her given name,” he admitted.
“And yet, her given name is Penelope,” Cameron mused. Blue eyes narrowed in William’s direction. “Only Caroline calls her ‘Pen.’ ”
James burst out laughing and slapped William on the back, which had the misfortune of rattling the ribs still sore from his earlier fall. “Perhaps she was more impressed by your cattle than you thought,” James chuckled. “Though I might have chosen something different as tonight’s main course. She looked a wee bit upset when Father proudly told her it was kyloe beef.”
“I only showed her the breeding stock,” William protested. The cows he’d shown Pen were far too valuable to grace a dinner plate. But there was still no doubt he’d felt like a bloody bounder when her eyes had widened and she’d set her fork down firmly.
“Well, have a care. I’ll not have it said you were taking advantage of Caroline’s sister.” Cameron’s initial scowl shifted to a grin. “Although, did you really pretend your cattle were fairies? Good God, man. I nearly burst a gut when she told us about that. Have you lost your bollocks completely?”
William shrugged off their mirth. He was used to this sort of ribbing, though he was more often on the giving end of it than the receiving end. He refilled his glass, wondering if it might give him the same kind of courage he’d found two nights ago in the whisky. Damn it, what was wrong with him? He’d been a silent, fumbling fool during dinner, and now the moment he opened his mouth, something ridiculous came out. He’d not meant to call her “Pen” in public, and certainly not in front of Cameron.
Perhaps he needed to be drunk around her for proper conversation. He drained his glass in a convulsive swallow. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make again.
“Well, chin up,” James said, finishing the rest of his glass as well and then turning toward the door. “You’ll have another chance to humiliate yourself soon enough. Time to join the fairer sex in the drawing room.”
“Aye,” Cameron snickered as they made their way into the room filled with feminine laughter. “Perhaps you should offer to show her your fairy kittens, next.”
“Fairy k-kittens?” Pen said, looking up with sharp interest from the settee.
William’s attention arrowed in on her as though loosened from a bow. The sight of her felt as though someone had kicked him, and not in entirely pleasant places. Tonight she looked a proper lady, blond hair piled high, a gown of lovely blue silk highlighting her delicate curves. Curves he’d recently held against him.
And dear God, she had little Lizzie on her lap.
Though the dinner had been formal, the tone in the drawing room was decidedly less so. William’s mother, the countess, had insisted on seeing her granddaughter, and so James’s daughter had been fetched down from the nursery and was being passed around the drawing room and properly fussed over. At five months old, Lizzie was a sweet thing, with blue eyes and pink cheeks she’d inherited from Georgette, and a pair of healthy lungs that she’d no doubt acquired from James.
There were times when William could not help but battle a bit of envy at his brother’s good fortune. Seeing this child he loved sitting on Pen’s lap made that envy shift into something more defined.
Want. He wanted what his brother had. A wife, a child. Happiness.
Looking around, he realized he was the only male in the room who didn’t have those essential things. James had found Georgette. Even David Cameron—who probably didn’t deserve anything beyond a swift kick in the bollocks—had found love, the gentle swell of his wife’s belly demonstrating his own state of contentedness.
And with a startled bit of insight, William realized as he looked at Penelope Tolbertson holding this small, blond-haired baby on her lap, he might find those things with this woman. It wasn’t even an outrageous thought. He was thirty-five years old. The expectations of his future title demanded he marry, after all, and Moraig wasn’t exactly brimming with potential mates.
Why not Penelope Tolbertson? She was beautiful. She was intelligent.
She was here.
And there was no denying she made his heart race, quite happily so.
She was also still waiting for his answer. He cleared his throat, hoping the port had worked its magic. “Er . . . ’tis just a story about kittens. For wee Lizzie.” He gestured to his niece, who began to bounce happily on Pen’s lap at the sound of her name. “She’s too small for cattle, aye?”
Pen smiled up at him, her blue eyes crinkling about the edges, and he wanted to dive into that smile and never let go. No one he’d met in Moraig or beyond had ever stirred his fancy in quite this way. But as he mulled over this startling, tempting new idea, he was also struck by an almost painful awareness of how impossible it was.
She lived in London and was clearly committed to her position as a reporter. He was devoted to Moraig and had organized the games because he wanted to ensure the prosperity of the town where he intended to spend his life.
He needed her to return to London with a story to convince others to come.
Otherwise, it was all for naught.
As the men took their seats, Pen stole a surreptitious look at the one man among them whose appearance made her heart thump faster.
She’d been seated opposite MacKenzie at dinner, so she’d been able to look all she wanted—and she was coming to understand she wanted a good deal. But once again, though he’d certainly been a pleasure to look upon, he’d proven a poor conversationalist, reverting to grunts and fumbles. He didn’t resemble anything close to the silver-tongued man who’d kissed her senseless and made her believe in fairies two nights ago.
But Pen was an expert in the matter of tangled responses, and she was beginning to understand that more than dim wits lay beneath MacKenzie’s mumbles.
He hesitated only with her. She’d observed him carry on a pleasant enough conversation with her sister, Caroline, and he’d spoken easily and warmly with Georgette. When his opinions were directed to the table at large, they were well formed and educated.
In fact, Pen was ashamed of herself for reaching such a quick judgment of his intelligence before. She, of all people, understood what it was like to be measured by the ease of one’s words and found wanting.
“How do you find the town, Miss Tolbertson?” Georgette smiled, holding out her hands for her daughter.
Pen dutifully passed the babe on to its mother, leaving the child with a quick kiss on the top of her fair head and a discreet inhalation to preserve the precious scent. “
’Tis lovely, though in truth I’ve only seen a b-bit of it.” She hesitated. “B-both times I’ve come to Moraig, I’ve stayed with Caroline, you see, so my forays into town have been limited.”
“Perhaps you ought to stay a night or two in town,” James suggested, smiling down at his wife and daughter. He reached out a finger, which Lizzie grabbed, gurgling happily. “After all, there’s a room still held at the Blue Gander, waiting to impress our reporter up from London.”
Pen blinked in confusion. “Why would they still b-be holding the room?” she asked. She’d been very clear on the matter of her lodging.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Everyone in the room looked at each other, as though gauging the moment and the appropriate response. And then Georgette sighed, almost apologetically. “William personally had a room in the inn refurbished for the reporter we expected and then paid in advance for a week’s use of it. The innkeeper is still holding it.”
Pen sidled a surprised glance toward MacKenzie, who looked irritated by the disclosure. She recalled his stumbled confusion the day she had met him, how she’d presumed his insistence on walking her to the Blue Gander to have been the result of misplaced masculine superiority.
She regretted being so quick to dismiss his idea now.
Her impressions of the town were clearly very important to him, but he had bowed to her wishes and not breathed a word of his efforts. Her respect swelled another notch.
“I might enjoy staying at the B-blue Gander during the games,” she admitted. “In order to get a more authentic feel for the town, as a tourist would.” She looked up at her sister. “Would you mind, Caro? Only for a night or two?”
Caroline smiled. “No, I know how important this story is to you.” She curled a hand around her growing belly and shared a warm look with her husband. “You should do whatever you need to get it right.” And by the look they exchanged, it seemed Caroline and her husband might make the most of the bit of privacy.
Her Highland Fling Page 5
