Her Highland Fling

by Jennifer McQuiston

  There is always next year.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You’re an idiot.”

  William rolled his eyes, given that this was at least the third time this week he’d been told something of the sort, most recently by his brother, James. The fact that the latest claim came from McRory did little to soothe his fraying temper.

  “Aye.” He glared at the butcher. “You’ll not find an argument from me there. But we need every able-bodied man between the ages of fifteen and fifty to stand in their plaid and greet the tourists. Today is your turn, and I dinna particularly care if you object or not.”

  McRory scowled. “Ye daft nubbin, this isn’t about the plaid. You are an idiot to have let Miss Tolbertson go.”

  A growl loosened in William’s chest to have the conversation circle predictably around to Pen. He understood he was an idiot in that vein as well, and the entire town took every opportunity to remind him. “I dinna let her do anything. She decided her own way.”

  “Well, you’ve been nothing but unpleasant since she left two months ago, and you’re as liable to scare the bloody tourists off as welcome them.”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. Was no one on his side? Pen had made quite an impression during her short week here, and her newspaper article and the ensuing flood of tourists had lifted her legend to staggering new heights. He had no doubt that if she deigned to visit them again, she’d be greeted with the sort of enthusiasm more appropriately reserved for the queen.

  On account of this—or perhaps in spite of it—the general consensus was that he was not only a bloody idiot, but a love-struck fool as well.

  But short of following Pen to London—an idea to which she had clearly conveyed her displeasure—he had no idea how to fix his foul temper.

  “If she’d taken a shine to me,” McRory went on, scratching his beard, “you could bet I would not have let her flit off to London. Why did you not go after her? I would not have pegged you for a coward.”

  “I’m not a coward.” William’s collar suddenly felt overtight despite the day’s perfectly pleasant temperature. “I’m a gentleman.”

  But he wasn’t a gentleman, not really. Because a primitive part of him agreed with McRory, and he was getting bloody well tired of arguing with his conscience.

  The butcher shrugged. “I see very little difference from where I stand.”

  William pointed across the street, where a rowdy, masculine crowd had begun to gather outside the Gander to get their first glimpse at the day’s tourists. “Then go stand over there.”

  “And miss my turn with the coach?” McRory grinned, showing the gap between his front teeth. “Why, the future Mrs. McRory might be on it, and today I mean for my lap to be the first she sees.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” William stared down the road, trying to think of anything but the butcher’s lap. At least the weather had started to cool off. The October sun was bright but unthreatening, which was a good thing, given that he was draped in wool nearly every day now. Never his brightest idea, the bloody plaid had been mentioned in Pen’s newspaper article, and now every visitor from London expected to be greeted by a Highlander’s bare knees.

  William only prayed the curious visitors would trickle off come winter. He wasn’t looking forward to a stiff Highland breeze then.

  Down the road, a cloud of dust rose up, signaling the imminent arrival of Mr. Jeffers. That was odd. He checked his pocket watch. It was close to three o’clock.

  Was Jeffers . . . early?

  McRory peered at the approaching cloud of dust and then, with an eagerness that didn’t bode well for the day’s crop of tourists, spit in his hand and slicked it over his hair. “Well, with you moping about like a kicked dog, I suppose it means the ladies will be mine today.” He grinned. “Good thing I’ve lap enough for all of them.”

  Mr. Jeffers roared up in his usual haphazard manner. But rather than unloading tourists, he began to unload boxes. Lots of boxes, and a machine that looked suspiciously like an oven, but with wheels and gears. “What is all this?” William demanded. “Where are the visitors?”

  “Only one visitor today,” Jeffers answered, heaving a large crate down from the top of the coach and placing it in McRory’s waiting hands. “But she’s an important one. She might need a hand, if you’re of a mind to help her.” He paused in his exertions long enough to wink down at them. “I hear this one especially likes a man in plaid.”

  McRory dropped his crate and surged ahead, and William let him go. After all, the future Mrs. McRory might be on board. William had no heart for it, anyway.

  Because every new coach reminded him of the day Pen had roared into town.

  And every day that passed without her reminded him of all he had lost.

  A rustle of skirts met his ears. “Welcome to Moraig,” McRory crowed.

  “Thank you, k-kind sir.”

  Surely he was hearing things, his imagination playing tricks on him again. But those sleights of memory usually came at night, when he was alone and vulnerable and wanting. His eyes whipped to level, and he nearly choked on his surprise.

  Pen stood beside the coach, as beautiful as she was in his dreams.

  But this time she was real. She must be, because she was wearing far too many clothes.

  William knocked a very bemused McRory out of the way and picked up the woman his heart refused to forget, swinging her around until she was whooping and wheezing all at once.

  “MacKenzie,” she laughed. “P-put me down a moment, so I can speak.”

  He did but made sure she knew of his appreciation for the sight of her by sliding her slowly down the front of his plaid. Her gasp told him she’d recognized his enthusiasm.

  “Oh my,” she said. “That is a lovely g-greeting.”

  He took a step back, suddenly aware of their audience. Worse, his own uncertainties regarding the nature of her return began to crowd in. Perhaps she wasn’t here to see him. Perhaps she’d come to see Caroline, who was about to start her lying-in.

  Or perhaps the Times had sent her on another investigative matter.

  The truth was he simply didn’t know why she was here, and it might have nothing to do with him. And so he waited for her say to something, hope humming in his throat.

  She tilted her head. “You look t-tired, MacKenzie.”

  “Aye. I’ve not been sleeping well,” he admitted, but it was a fact he couldn’t see remedying tonight. She was here. He’d just held her in his arms.

  Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

  He looked at the boxes Jeffers was still unloading. They made a veritable tower in the dusty street. His heart leaped with hope at the thought she might stay longer than a week. “How long will you stay this time?” he dared to ask, knowing he would gladly take whatever it was and try not to worry about her next leaving.

  “That d-depends.”

  He blinked down at her.

  Her smile was serene, but it held a hint of mischief as well. “Do you think Moraig might b-benefit from having its own newspaper?”

  It took a moment for her words to find a foothold, and even then they felt slippery in his brain. “I dinna understand.”

  “I had thought to start one.” She raised a pale brow. “Counter the t-town’s rumor mill with facts, for a change.”

  “You mean . . . You are moving here? To Moraig?”

  She nodded. “I’ve brought a small printing press. Nothing close to a real press, mind you, but it will serve to produce a small local paper.”

  “You are coming to start a newspaper?” he repeated, his head buzzing like a hive of hornets. She nodded again, and his heart strained toward her. “But . . . why?”

  Her blue eyes shone with good humor. “Are you sure you g-graduated summa some-aught from Cambridge, MacKenzie?”

  Behind him, he could hear McRory snigger.

  She tilted her head. “Why d-do you think, you thick-witted Highlander? I’ve missed you. And you did tell me I could return,
whenever I wanted.”

  He looked confused, poor thing. Absolutely brained by it all.

  This time, though, she couldn’t blame him for his confusion.

  It had been two months since he had seen her, two months where he’d been largely oblivious to the degree of misery that had consumed her. All he knew was that she’d left, returned to London alone. He had no way of knowing she’d done so not only because of the commitment she’d made to the paper, but because the moments she’d spent in his arms hadn’t seemed quite real.

  But most of all, she had left because as tempted as she’d been by his offer, she couldn’t see herself being so selfish as to take MacKenzie away from the townspeople who needed him.

  But it had been real. Perhaps the most real thing she’d ever had.

  Far more real than London, fairy creatures included. The city’s streets had seemed sour after the wholesomeness of Moraig’s dusty thoroughfares, and the smog-choked skies smothered the life out of every star that dared to shine. Nor could she bear to write to him and explain these things, when her words—the only thing she might conceivably count as a talent—seemed to dry up on the paper.

  She’d felt hollow inside. Trapped. Lost.

  Until Caroline—bless her sisterly heart—had written of MacKenzie’s own misery, suggesting that perhaps she had left a piece of her heart behind in Moraig.

  It may have taken her two months to understand the emotion, but there was no hesitancy now. He’d given her the time and space she had asked for—things she now knew had come at his own personal cost. A generous man was William MacKenzie. So concerned with the welfare of others he would sacrifice himself.

  How could she not have seen it from the start?

  She traced the hollows beneath his eyes, vowing to make them disappear.

  “I love you, MacKenzie.” She smiled, knowing she would never again falter over those words because they came from her heart, not her throat.

  “You dinna ken how much I have wanted to hear you say that.” A slow, spreading smile claimed his face. “Well. Most of that.” His voice lowered. “If you are going to be here awhile, do you think you might at least call me William, lass?”

  She choked on her laugh. “P-probably not. A man would have to marry a woman to earn that privilege I think.”

  He stepped toward her. “Are you proposing to me, Miss Tolbertson?”

  Anticipation bunched in her chest. She lifted her chin to look up the impossible length of him. “Are you accepting my p-proposal, MacKenzie?”

  Brown eyes glittered down at her. “You don’t do anything the traditional way, do you?”

  She only smiled. Serenely, she hoped.

  He dropped to his bare knees in the dust of Main Street, and suddenly she found herself in the astonishing position of looking down on him. McRory and Jeffers began to slap each other on the back, as though their happiness belonged to everyone. From across the street, she could hear excited whoops and whistles, sounds that echoed the cacophony in her own heart.

  “Careful of those bare knees, MacKenzie!” came a disembodied voice.

  “Have a care, you dinna want to show her your arse!”

  He ignored the taunts of the townspeople and looked up at her, his eyes warm on her skin. “Will you marry me, Pen?”

  “Yes,” she said and then giggled at how simple the word was to say, after all this time. “William.”

  And then she was in his arms, knocking them both off balance. They tumbled into the dirt and grit, not even caring about their audience. Because the cheer that erupted behind her told her they approved of whatever it was they were seeing beneath MacKenzie’s plaid.

  And then her mouth found his, and she was sliding into a kiss that felt like coming home. “I missed you,” she murmured against his lips. “More than I’d thought p-possible.”

  “You don’t have to miss me anymore. It doesn’t matter where we live, as long as we are together, aye?”

  “Aye,” she sighed in pleasure and kissed him again.

  Keep reading for a special sneak peek at

  DIARY OF AN ACCIDENTAL WALLFLOWER,

  the first book in Jennifer McQuiston’s anticipated new series!

  Pretty and popular, Miss Clare Westmore knows exactly what (or rather, who) she wants: the next Duke of Harrington. But when she twists her ankle on the eve of the Season’s most touted event, Clare is left standing in the wallflower line watching her best friend dance away with her duke.

  Dr. Daniel Merial is tempted to deliver more than a diagnosis to London’s most unlikely wallflower, but he doesn’t have time for distractions, even one so delectable. Besides, she’s clearly got her sights on more promising prey. So why can’t he stop thinking about her?

  All Clare wants to do is return to the dance floor. But as her former friends try to knock her permanently out of place, she realizes with horror she is falling for her doctor instead of her duke. When her ankle finally heals and she faces her old life again, will she throw herself back into the game?

  Or will her time in the wallflower line have given her a glimpse of who she was really meant to be?

  COMING FEBRUARY 2015

  A Sneak Peek at

  DIARY OF AN ACCIDENTAL WALLFLOWER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Miss Clare Westmore wasn’t the only young woman to fall head over heels for Mr. Charles Alban, the newly named heir to the Duke of Harrington.

  Though, she was probably the only one to fall quite so literally.

  He appeared out of nowhere, broad shouldered and perfect, trotting his horse down one of the winding paths near the Serpentine. His timing was dreadful. For one, it was three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, hardly a fashionable hour for anyone to be in Hyde Park. For another, she’d come down to the water with her siblings in tow, and the ducks and geese they’d come to feed were already rushing toward them like a great, screeching mob.

  Her sister, Lucy, poked an elbow into her ribs. “Isn’t that your duke?”

  Clare’s heart galloped well into her throat as the sound of hoofbeats grew closer. What was Mr. Alban doing here? Riders tended to contain themselves to Rotten Row, not this inauspicious path near the water. If he saw her now, it would be an unmitigated disaster. She was wearing last Season’s walking habit—fashionable enough for the ducks, but scarcely the modish image she wished to project to the man who could well be her future husband. Worst of all, she was with Lucy, who brushed her hair approximately once a week, and Geoffrey, who ought to have been finishing his first year at Eton but who had been expelled just last week for something more than the usual youthful hijinks.

  Clare froze in the center of the milling mass of birds, trying to decide if it would be wiser to lift her skirts and run or step behind the cover of a nearby rhododendron bush. One of the geese took advantage of her indecision, and its beak jabbed at her calf through layers of silk and cotton. Before she knew what was happening—or could even gather her wits into something resembling a plan—her thin-soled slipper twisted out from under her, and she pitched over onto the ground with an unladylike oomph. She lay there, momentarily stunned.

  Well then. The rhododendron it was.

  She tucked her head and rolled into the shadow of the bush, ignoring low-hanging branches that reached out for her. The ducks, being intelligent fowl, followed along. They seized the crumpled bag of bread still clutched in her hand and began gulping down its contents. The geese—being, of course, quite the opposite of ducks—shrieked in protest and flapped their wings, stirring up eddies of down and dust.

  Clare tucked deeper into the protection of the bush, straining to hear over the avian onslaught. Had she been seen? She didn’t think so. Then again, her instincts had also told her no one of importance would be on this path in Hyde Park at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, and look how well those thoughts had served.

  “Oh, what fun!” Lucy laughed, every bit as loud as the geese. “Are you playing the damsel in distress?”

  “Perh
aps she is studying the mating habits of waterfowl,” quipped Geoffrey, whose mind always seemed to be on the mating habits of something these days. He tossed a forelock full of blond hair out of his eyes as he offered her a hand, but Clare shook her head. She didn’t trust her brother a wit. At thirteen years old and five and a half feet, he was as tall as some grown men, but he retained an adolescent streak of mischief as wide as the Serpentine itself.

  He was as likely to toss her into Alban’s path as help her escape.

  Lucy cocked her head. Wisps of tangled blond hair rimmed her face like dandelion fluff and made her appear far younger than her seventeen years, though her tall frame and evident curves left no doubt that she was old enough to show more care with her appearance. “Shall I call Mr. Alban over to request his assistance then?” she asked, none too innocently.

  “Shhhh,” Clare hissed. Because the only thing worse than meeting the future Duke of Harrington while dressed in last year’s walking habit was meeting him while wallowing in the dirt. Oh, but she should never have worn such inappropriate shoes to go walking in Hyde Park. Then again, such hindsight came close to philosophical brilliance when offered up from the unforgiving ground.

  She held her breath until the sound of hoofbeats began to recede into the distance. Dimly, she realized something hurt. In fact, something hurt dreadfully. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on the source when her mind was spinning in the more pertinent directions.

  “Why are you hiding from Mr. Alban?” Lucy asked pointedly.

  “I am not hiding.” Clare struggled to a sitting position and blew a wayward brown curl from her eyes. “I am . . . er . . . feeding the ducks.”

  Geoffrey laughed. “Unless I am mistaken, the ducks have just fed themselves, and that pair over there had a jolly good tup while the rest of them were tussling over the scraps. You should have invited your duke to join us.”