The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Maggie studied the pretty young woman, wondering what on earth she was doing in her home … if this was, in fact, her home. “Good day.”

  “I hope you don’t mind but while I was at it I put a loaf in the oven. Should be ready in about a half hour.” Coming abreast of Maggie, she whispered, “I don’t know what you’ve been feeding him, love, but whatever it is, I want some for my man.”

  Maggie, slack-jawed, nodded. What in bloody hell is going on?

  Determined to find out, she waited until Daisy left then stomped up the path only to come to a stop upon seeing that the yellow flowers adorning the window boxes were dandelions. “Why would anyone …?”

  She opened the front door and her knees buckled. The furniture, under an inch of dust and clutter when she left this morning, now gleamed. As did the floor. The laundry she’d dumped on the sofa to be folded tonight had vanished as well. And just as shocking … the telly was off.

  “A.J.? Where are you?”

  She walked into the kitchen and gaped, finding every surface spotless and a pot of peeled potatoes sitting on the stove ready to be cooked. Sniffing, smelling meatloaf and lemon disinfectant, she muttered, “I’m definitely dreaming.”

  She checked the bathroom, found it immaculate and then, half-dreading she’d discover A.J. in a rumpled bed, peered into their bedroom and was stunned to find everything within set to rights as well. “I just don’t believe this.”

  A god-awful crash sounded at the rear. Not knowing what to expect next, she raced through the house and out the back door, only to have her breath catch at the sight of her husband standing in her garden, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts riding low on his hips, his body and face a ruddy, glistening bronze.

  Oh my.

  “Ah, there ye be, Maggie.” He tossed a boulder as if it were a pebble into their rusty wheel barrel and waved towards her garden. “What think ye?”

  “Uhmm …” With effort she tore her gaze from the bronze god to look around the yard. Two of the garden’s stone walls had been repaired and the third, the worst by far, had been knocked down and was in the process of being rebuilt. The weeds that once choked the plot were now piled in a shoulder high mound in the centre of the garden ready for a match. “You did all this?”

  “Aye, but I cannot take credit for whatever went on inside. That’s all Daisy’s doing … and a mean negotiator, she is, too.”

  “You paid her?” With what?

  He scowled as if she were daft. “Of course not. I noticed a ewe escaping from her pasture and I feared more would follow and be killed on yon carriageway, so I scooped up the beastie and knocked on her door. Learning her husband was abed with a lame back, and thinking this could prove fortuitous, I asked if she’d be willing to work a trade; in return for me mending her fence would she be willing to do a bit of cleaning? She said she would … if I’d also take down the weeds about her place. Well, what choice did I have?”

  “None?” He’d lost his mind.

  Grinning, A.J. nodded. “So after I had her flock contained, I knocked on her door again and asked where I might find her scythe. I knew we had naught for I’d already checked,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, “yon shed.”

  “Oh my God, you whitewashed that as well.”

  He shrugged. “I was already coated in the nasty stuff so thought why not. Anyway, ye will not believe what the woman handed me. Not a scythe but a contraption on wheels with revolving blades. Ye just shove and whaaaack … off goes the grass neat as ye please. Truly amazing.”

  Oh. Dear. God. “Sweetie …”

  “Aye?”

  Maggie forced a smile. “Why don’t we go inside now? I think you’ve had quite enough sun for one day.” And as soon as he turned on the telly to watch Taggart – he never missed the crime show – she’d be running to the Boar’s Head and calling the doctor.

  He examined his arms and his chest for sunburn, both of which looked, to Maggie, far more muscled than she could ever recall them being in the five years she’d known him.

  “Hmm, I am a wee bit singed. Alright then. The rest can wait for the morrow.” As he came abreast of her, he bent and kissed her nose. “I’m starving. What’s for supper?”

  Shaken, she mumbled, “Food.”

  Inside, she lit the burner under the potatoes then pushed him towards the bathroom. “Go take a shower.”

  He cocked an arm and sniffed. “Augh, I am a bit ripe.”

  “That you are. Now away with you and don’t use all the shampoo.”

  The moment he disappeared into the bathroom, Maggie collapsed on to the nearest chair. Although she much preferred this new and greatly improved A.J. over the old one, she couldn’t ignore the fact that something was drastically wrong with him.

  People who sustained head injuries often suffered amnesia, which might explain A.J.’s confusion about lawnmowers, but certainly didn’t explain all the frenetic labour. And it certainly didn’t explain his stilted English. But then again, hadn’t she recently read about a woman in London who, after a week-long coma, began speaking with a Russian accent? And not one of the London specialists she’d seen could explain it.

  “Mag-gie!”

  Oh Lord, now what? “I’m coming!”

  Oh. My. Word.

  A.J. stood naked before the bathroom mirror, his ass as white and firm as dual moons, the rest of his bronzed body flexing. “’Tis stuck,” he said.

  Feeling a bit breathless, she reluctantly slid her gaze from his glorious backside to his reflection. “Huh?”

  “The brush, lass. ’Tis stuck as fast as burr on a dog’s arse.”

  She blinked, saw he was grinning at her in the mirror and finally looked to where he pointed – to find the handle of her hairbrush sticking out from beneath the tangled mess of his wet hair. “How on earth …?”

  She pointed to the edge of the tub. “Sit. I can’t untangle it with you standing.”

  He dutifully turned towards the tub and her mouth went dry. He was well on his way to being fully engorged – something she hadn’t seen in well over a year. Her heart did the old thubbidy-thub.

  “Uhmm … face the wall.” She opened the window, hoping some cold air would knock some sense into her heart.

  “Did you find the present, lass?”

  “Huh?” Lord, he smelled good.

  “The present, lass. Did you find one?”

  “Oh, yes, I did.” She carefully rotated the brush, pulling free only two and three stands at a time. “Thank you for all the work you’ve done about the house, the garden.”

  “Yer most welcome.” After a moment, he asked. “What am I to wear to this eve?”

  “Your blue suit.” Her hands stilled. “A.J., please promise me something.”

  He craned his neck to look at her. “Aye?”

  “Promise me you won’t get drunk tonight.” The whisky and ale would be flowing like water at the wedding reception. And she really did want to enjoy herself.

  He reached over his shoulder and took her left hand in his. Running a finger over her wedding band, he said, “Upon my honour, I will not embarrass ye.”

  Right.

  She’d given him the perfect opportunity to say he’d learned his lesson and wouldn’t drink and he couldn’t say it.

  She jerked the brush free and stomped out of the room.

  Two hours later, she found him standing before the parluor window looking like a man on the way to the gallows. The suit he’d worn on their wedding day was now too tight at the shoulders and too loose at the waist. The shirt he’d left open to mid-chest. “Come here.”

  He did, his eyes raking over her from her hair to her shoes. “Ye look most lovely. Pale green is most becoming on ye.”

  “Thank you.” She did feel pretty in the bridesmaid gown she’d made and prayed Bridget felt the same in her wedding gown.

  She tried to button his shirt and, failing, pointed towards the bedroom. “Go on. We need to find something else for you to wear.”

 
She pulled the cream-coloured sweater she’d knitted during their first year of marriage from the wardrobe. “Try this.”

  He was out of his jacket and shirt and into the sweater before she could blink. Running his hands over the intricate nubs and cables, he smiled. “’Tis perfect.”

  So why had he never worn it?

  Inside the kirk, Alex smiled at those who greeted them, assuming A.J. had known them. At the third pew, Maggie stopped and handed him her purse. “Take a seat. I’ll meet you after the ceremony.”

  He slid into the pew and nodded to the strangers sitting next to him.

  “We heard about the accident,” the grey-haired woman to his left all but shouted, “How are you feeling?”

  “Verra well, thank ye. ’Tis a glorious day, aye?”

  Her snow-white eyebrows tented over dull blue eyes. “That’s good, dear.”

  When she said no more Alex shrugged and turned his attention to his stark surroundings. Had Rome grown so poor or his clansmen so slack that they no longer bothered with artisans and gold leaf? Humph! His chapel, only half this size, had at least been properly adorned.

  The piper and fiddler changed tune and the people around him looked over their shoulders. Following suit, his heart swelled.

  There she was, his Maggie, a wreath of flowers decorating her glorious curls, a bouquet of white roses in her hands. Lovely, but not any more so than when she’d come into the bathroom and had flushed to a heart-catching pink. Aye, she might be angry with him but beneath her breast beat a heart not yet dead to him, and happy he was to learn it.

  But next time he might think twice before doing something as rash as purposely tangling a brush in his hair. She’d damn near scalped him wrenching it out.

  The music changed and the congregation rose. The bride glowed as she walked down the aisle in a pretty white gown and took her place next to the groom, who stood proud and smiling, flushed with happiness.

  Feeling an unaccountable stab of jealousy, he looked at Maggie, wondering if she felt as he did. He found her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Without being told, he knew them to be not those of joy, but of loss and longing. Wanting nothing more than to bolt from the pew and take her into his arms, he forced himself to remain rooted. He had, after all, promised not to embarrass her.

  After the ceremony, they gathered at the Boar’s Head Pub, a place Alex could only recall in unpleasant flashes, but this time music and laughter greeted them. Maggie took one look at the crowd, most of which already had ale in hand and caught her lower lip betwixt her teeth. Hoping to distract her from her worry, he leaned down and pointed to the table set up on the opposite wall. “Look at yon cake.”

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Maggie then pointed to another couple. “There’s Marilyn and John.”

  Stomach rumbling, he guided her through the throng to the couple. Maggie greeted them as old friends and Alex followed suit, although he didn’t recognize either of them, they apparently having had little impact on A.J.’s turbulent life – likely a good thing.

  “We really like what you’ve done about your place,” the man said. “Almost didn’t recognize it as we passed.”

  Maggie grinned. “I didn’t either the first time I saw it. And you should see what he’s doing with the garden.”

  The conversation turned to cultivation and Alex eyed the lasses setting up a buffet in the adjoining room. Humph. If he didn’t put something in his stomach soon, he’d be keeling over. None too soon the bride and groom entered. During the cheering, a lass appeared at his elbow with a tray of stemmed goblets. He took two and handed one to Maggie. The man he presumed to be the bride’s father proposed a toast. The moment the bubbly liquid hit his tongue Alex grimaced. More toasts ensued. When Maggie emptied her glass, he handed her his full one. “I mean no offense to our host,” he whispered in her ear, “but are ye sure they’re not trying to kill us, lass?”

  “Since when do you turn down champagne?”

  He shrugged.

  Another serving lass came by, this time with wider goblets filled with more pale wine. “Some chardonnay?” she asked.

  Since it looked suspiciously like the last, he shook his head. What he would have appreciated was whisky. What he needed was food.

  Finally a third serving lass came by and offered them bits of salmon on bread. He would have kissed her had he promised not to embarrass Maggie.

  While Maggie chatted, he stood behind her right shoulder, eating everything the serving lasses had to offer until they disappeared, and the bride and groom, having greeted everyone, began their first dance.

  Moved by the way the pair looked at each other, he slipped his arms about Maggie’s waist. She, relaxed, rested her head on his chest as she watched the couple and he couldn’t help but wonder how A.J. could have let something so precious as her fond regard slip through his fingers.

  Thank God he’d been able to assert his will on A.J. whenever the ass had taken it into his head to raise his fist to her and had been able to throw the friggin’ idiot off balance.

  At least she no longer had that to fear.

  He watched as others began dancing. Their steps were far different from those he’d been taught but then no two couples appeared to be doing the same thing. The music changed again and Maggie swayed with the rhythm. Grinning, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “May I have this dance?”

  She craned her neck to look up at him. “But you don’t dance.”

  “Who said?”

  She grinned. “You.”

  “Then I lied.”

  With a hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the centre of the group. Preferring the way some men wrapped their arms about their woman, he followed suit and Maggie slipped her arms about his neck. Looking up at him, she said, “You’re full of surprises these days, Mr MacKinnon.”

  “Ye know not the half of it, m’lady.” But hopefully, she’d come to learn more. He’d grown bone weary of her putting her back to him every night. In hopes of rectifying the situation, he whispered, “Yon bride is fair but ye, my love, are lovelier.”

  She cocked her head, a small smile playing at the corner of her full lips. “You think so?”

  “Aye, I truly do.” He’d thought so from the first moment he caught sight of her. “Do you recall our meeting?”

  “Of course. You were showing off for your friends at the Broadford Fair, had just won a teddy bear. You turned around …”

  “And our eyes met. My heart stopped, never having seen anything so lovely.” He smiled at the memory. Aye, he’d wanted her with every fibre of his being upon first sight.

  Dear God above, he had … not A.J.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Naught, but that I’ve royally tupped up what should have – could have been.”

  Her eyes grew glassy and she threaded her fingers through the hair at his nape. “Time has a way of mending wounds … if we really care.”

  “I do care, Mary Magdalene MacKinnon, more than ye shall ever know.”

  He kissed her then, trying to impart all that he felt, the joy of feeling her in his arms and his regret for all the heartache his need had caused her.

  Feeling a tap on his arm, he pulled out of the luxurious haze Maggie had induced and found Mickey grinning up at him. “Time to eat, Romeo.”

  He looked about and found everyone, including the musicians, had moved into the adjacent room before the buffet. He then looked at Maggie and found her blushing. “Shall we?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll eat in a bit. I want to speak with Bridget.”

  “As ye lust.”

  Mouth watering, he stood in line and studied the awesome sight spread before him. Some foods he recognized, others were foreign but he would try it all. And look, lobster! He loaded his plate and returned to their table to find Maggie in animated chatter with a new couple. He devoured the beef and ham then dug into the lobster, having saved the best for last. He’d only taken two bites out of the suc
culent tail when Maggie yelped and knocked the fork from his hand. “You know you can’t eat that! You’re allergic to shellfish.”

  “I am? What means allergic?”

  “Oh God.” She looked about in panic then grabbed his arm. “Come on, we have to get you to the hospital. Oh, shit! We don’t have a car. Stay, don’t move.” She ran across the room and grabbed Mickey by the arm. A moment later, she returned with Mickey and another man. Taking his arm, her panic obvious in her lovely countenance, she shouted, “Come on!”

  He looked longingly at the lobster but didn’t argue only because his mouth did feel most strange. By the time he slid into the back bench of the conveyance with Police stenciled on its door, he could feel his face swelling. What the hell was happening now?

  One look at Maggie’s countenance told him whatever it was had her most alarmed. “I ha na meth to––”

  God, his tongue felt like a fleece pelt.

  She held tight to his hand. “Sshhh, you’ll be fine … as soon as we get you a shot.” To the driver she shouted, “Please hurry!”

  By the time she ushered him into the hospital and spoke with the woman behind the glass, spots were dancing before his eyes. A doctor stuck a needle in his arm then tried to place a mask on his face. He knocked it away, having enough trouble breathing as it was.

  Maggie stroked his back. “A.J., the oxygen will help.”

  Leaning on his arms, his lungs sucking for all they were worth, he shook his head. All he needed was air. To be let be … so he could focus on breathing.

  Maggie, tears streaming, murmured something to the doctor. Alex breathed and they waited. And waited. Finally, the tightness in his throat eased and he could draw a breath without sounding like an ill-made whistle. Shoulders hunched, he looked at Maggie. “My apologies for embarrassing ye yet again, love.”

  “You didn’t. What you did was scared me near to death.”

  He blew through his teeth. Scared himself near to death as well. He straightened and slid off the bed.

  “No, we can’t leave just yet.”

  “But we must. The wedding––”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “You aren’t going anywhere until the doctor says you can and certainly not before I get a prescription for an epinephrine kit.”