by L. L. Muir
“In the square!”
The waitress came up behind Jordan and rubbed shoulders with her. “Maybe ye’d best find a table. I’ll be with ye in a blink.” She nodded toward a line of empty tables along the wall, then carried her full tray away.
Kerry folded his arms and planted his feet apart like he was preparing for a fight. “The statue is of my ancestor, aye? Kerry. Flynn. Mather. He took up his pan and hammer in the first Jacobite rising.”
Half a dozen older men got to their feet and started shouting words Jordan knew, for a fact, weren’t nice. The bald man, guilty of starting the argument, waved for them to settle down.
“Ye’re wrong, laddie,” he said. “The statue honors Kerry Moffat Mather, our blacksmith that fought at Culloden—the second rising, not the first. And the last of his kind, more’s the pity. If ye bear the name, I am surprised ye never learned of the man ye were named for. Even Padruig here kens of The Blacksmith.” He pointed to a baby carrier sitting on one of the tables, a young woman rocking it back and forth. Jordan could only assume the baby inside all those blankets was a tiny thing. Not something she expected to see in a bar, but then again, it was a restaurant, too.
With everyone laughing at the bald man’s joke, she thought Kerry would be a good sport and let it go. But he still looked upset. Confused, maybe. So Jordan stepped close to him and touched his arm. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head. “Ye saw the statue?”
“I took pictures of it, remember?”
“Did ye read the name?”
“Yes. I don’t remember everything—”
“But ye remember the name?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly. And I already downloaded the pictures. I can’t look on my camera.”
He put his hands on his hips and called out. “And who among ye would care to prove me a liar?”
It wasn’t just the old men causing the roar that followed, and even some women joined in the chorus of laughter and shouting. But no one looked angry about it, thankfully.
“We’ll take my lorry!” The man holding up his keys was the same man who’d driven the van that had passed her on the road, just before Kerry had joined her on the sidewalk. He seemed relatively sober, but Jordan wouldn’t have let him drive her anywhere.
Even the bartender pulled off his apron and came out from behind the bar to join the wave of men clamoring to get out the door, taking Kerry with them.
He glanced back at her, his head easily the highest of the mob.
“You’re on your own,” she hollered.
He nodded at the empty tables. “Find a place to sit, lass. Order some food. This shan’t take long—”
And he was gone.
Jordan was left standing in a bar with a dozen women, one waitress, and a baby. She moved to one of the tables and sat.
“I’ll just stoke the fire, then,” the waitress said as she moved to a small wood-burning stove between the bar and the dancefloor. “They’ll be soaked through, no mistake.”
A couple of women strolled over, a bone thin brunette and a plumper blonde.
“Zat yoor mon?” The latter sat down as if they were old friends. “E’s quite a catch, in’t e?”
“He is a pretty man,” Jordan had to admit.
“Well, lucky for ye, I’m drunk,” said her new friend. “Or I’d seduce him away from ye.”
The brunette nodded dramatically, to vouch for the blonde—either to stress that her friend could have seduced Kerry, or just agreeing the woman was drunk, it wasn’t clear which.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Surrounded by two dozen fellow Brechins, Kerry stared at the plaque at the foot of The Blacksmith of Brechin. Rain poured down the statue’s face and made a water spout of the end of his nose—Kerry’s nose. For the name on the plaque was, indeed, Kerry Moffat Mather. Died for Brechin and Scotland at The Battle of Culloden Moor. April 16, 1746.
“But why?” He looked at the man beside him. “Why honor a man who failed? Why not his father, who fought and lived?”
The man slapped him on the back. “Listen to ‘im, men. Ye’d think the man kenned nothing about Scotland, aye?” The others laughed. “Our blacksmith joined the fight. Not all joined. Our blacksmith fought the English. Some Scots fought with the bastards. This man went into battle, with neither sword nor bayonet, but with the pan and hammer his forefathers fought with. To honor them.” He looked at the crowd around them. “He honored us.” He grinned. “For every man here has a drop or two of Mather in ‘im, aye?”
“Aye!” The others shouted as one.
A bloke in a tattered red sweater turned to face his friends. “Seems as though a Mather will be buying the drinks this night!”
Kerry’s stomach fell. It was quite like going into battle without a sword in hand—returning to the bar with a company of thirsty, vindicated men…with not a penny in his sporran.
~ ~ ~
Kerry’s heart was both lightened and heavy when he found Jordan waiting for him.
“You look happy,” she said.
“I am.”
“Everyone looks happy.”
He glanced at his grinning fellows spreading through the room seeking their own women. “Auch, aye. They are.”
“I don’t get it. Were you right about the name?”
He shook his head, but couldn’t stop grinning. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders that might have been keeping him earthbound for centuries. But when he remembered his current plight, he sobered. “In every conflict, there must needs be a loser, aye?”
“And you lost. So…”
“Losing is not quite the same as failing, it seems.” His grin came back, for it wasn’t the statue he was speaking about.
“Uh oh. What did you lose?”
There was no pleasant way to say it. “It seems I will need some coin after all. To buy drinks…” He gestured to the bar at large. “As it happens, it is the custom when losing an argument with Scots.”
“And you have no money because you didn’t want me to pay you.”
“Regrettably, aye.”
“So now you want to be all professional about it.”
He winced, for all afternoon he’d been wishing he’d have taken that tack since the first. “Professional, aye. I’m fairly mortified to admit it.”
She suddenly grinned, and in her smile, he had his answer. She would save his pride. “It’s totally worth it.” She poked her fingers into her bag and pulled out her credit card, then slid it slyly across the table to him. “I ordered you a hamburger—but I’m happy to add a side of crow.”
~ ~ ~
It wasn’t the best hamburger Jordan had ever eaten, but it was pretty good. Kerry’s had to have been made with a little sprinkle of fairy dust or something, judging by the way he was enjoying his.
And every woman in the place enjoyed him enjoying it.
Thankfully, all the ecstatic moaning and groaning was interrupted by the bartender announcing the competition was about to begin in the next room.
Kerry’s eyes widened. “What is this competition in which ye’ve enlisted me?”
“Foot pool,” the bartender answered for her. “Everyone who’s signed up, please move into the lounge for the first match!”
“Foot pool? What the devil is that?” He shook his head and pushed his plate away like he was accusing her of making him lose his appetite, with half a hamburger to go. “I’ve never sported much, Jordan. I beg ye, go and remove my name from yon list.”
She snorted. “Yon list? I don’t think so. Remember our bet? I’d give you a boon if you didn’t have a good time? So, if you don’t do what I had planned, I’m not responsible if you don’t have a good time.”
“Ye mean ye’ll rob me of my…boon?”
She was sure he almost said kiss. “I won’t rob you. But you won’t earn it, either, unless you give it the old college try.”
He rolled his eyes, and when his hamburger caught his attention again, he pulled his
plate close again. “Doubtless I shall need all my strength, aye?”
“Ye’d best hurry,” the bartender said over his shoulders. “We’re about to explain the rules, aye?”
Kerry tucked the rest of his hamburger into his mouth—how he didn’t choke to death, she couldn’t guess—then he washed it down with the rest of his Tennent’s and gestured for Jordan to go ahead of him. “I assume ye wish to witness my disgrace,” he said, once his mouth was empty enough to speak again.
“Disgrace? Of course not. I expect you to win.”
He looked a little surprised, but then his chest puffed out like he had accepted a challenge. Then he swaggered away like he’d already won the big prize. By the time he took his seat on a small metal chair—which looked like it couldn’t hold his weight—her stomach already hurt from laughing.
It was going to be a painful but excellent night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Foot pool, as it turned out, was incredibly dull—unless the participants were drunk.
In the middle of the parquet dance floor sat a monster-sized, legless, pool table top. The pockets resembled basketball nets. Soccer balls took the place of billiards, and grown men stood on the table and kicked the white soccer ball instead of using a pool cue.
The white ball hit the colored balls—four red and four yellow—that had been arranged in a diamond on the other end of the table. The first kick sent the balls in all directions. None of them dropped into a pocket, so the second man climbed up on the table to take his turn. The man to get all four of his color to drop, won and went on to play the next man on the list.
Halfway through the first game, Jordan looked across the room at Kerry and choked her lager out through her nose. He was leaning his elbow on one knee and glaring at her. The look on his face accused her of boring him to death on purpose. She wiped her nose, shrugged, and gave him an equally silent message that said she was paying the same price he was.
The best part of that first game was when the second player held his leg back a little too long and toppled off the side of the table. He was too drunk to get back on, therefore forfeiting and cutting the game time in half.
When everyone cheered, it wasn’t because they were celebrating the first guy’s win.
The winner got to break. The white ball took a wicked bounce and flew off the table, waking the crowd up. Kerry jumped to his feet and started across the floor, his head down, eyes on her.
The bartender noticed. “Dinnae go far, mate.”
The big man kept coming. “I am fourteenth,” he said over his shoulder.
“Still, ye never ken.”
Kerry smirked and reached for Jordan’s hand without slowing. She knew she either had to jump up and go with him or be dragged. On the way to the front door, she handed her camera off to a woman behind the bar. Kerry plucked up her umbrella as they hurried through the dripping entryway.
Despite the cold rain and the narrow overhang on the building, more than a dozen people hovered outside the door smoking their cigarettes as fast as they could. They didn’t huddle together in small groups—it was a community activity among people who knew each other well, laughing and conversing with whomever might be standing nearby.
Jordan had a fleeting fantasy of she and Kerry marrying and settling down among the odd but notoriously hospitable Highland Scots. Shopping trips to London and Paris, weekends in Bavaria, vacation weeks in Italy. And the odd game of foot pool…
But then again, she had no idea what a modern-day blacksmith did, or how much he made. Was there a need in Scotland for another photographer?
She told herself it was just the Tennent’s talking while Kerry led her to the outer wall of the beer garden and stepped under her umbrella with her. Holding it high enough for him let a lot of rain in, but she didn’t mind since it gave her an excuse to cling to him.
“I have so little time, Jordan. I beg ye. Dinnae make me waste my last hours in the pub, wishing the minutes away.”
“You’re not just trying to collect on that boon?”
“Ye’re as miserable as I, admit it.”
She finally nodded. “Fine. But on a night like this, just about our only option is to go back to the apartment. And I’m afraid we’d only get into trouble sitting in front of the fire. You know?”
He closed his eyes for a minute and she followed suit. His arms held her a little tighter and she took up the slack, gripping his jacket and the tartan that draped over his shoulder like they were the only things keeping her from falling off the spinning planet. And going back to the apartment didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.
“Ye’re a wise woman, Jordan Lennox.”
She looked up to find a forced smile on his face.
“Let us go back inside, where it is safe, aye?”
“Safe. Right.” She took a deep breath and loosened her grasp. “We’d better run, then. I’m getting less wise by the second.”
He put his hands to the sides of her face and pulled her closer. She tilted the umbrella out of the way so he could kiss her without the pole between their faces. But he totally missed, pressing his lips against her forehead instead of her mouth. They were soaked by the time he straightened away from her.
“My jeans just gained five pounds,” she said. “And you’ve got a piss-poor aim, Kerry Mather. I don’t have much hope for you winning any trophies tonight.”
“No need for trophies, lass. I’m a bloody hero just for going back inside…and not taking ye home and making ye mine. Instead of a trophy, I shall earn a sainthood.” His eyebrows jumped a split second before he sprinted back to the door, dragging her along behind him.
So, Kerry wanted to go back to the apartment just as much as she did. Somehow, it was almost enough to dry her jeans.
~ ~ ~
Jordan asked for her bag from behind the bar and went into the bathroom to paper-towel-dry her hair and let her blood cool. When she looked at the drowned rat in the mirror, she was surprised there wasn’t steam coming off her shoulders.
Crazy how the distraction of a little rain let her hormones run wild—like a raptor-let-out-of-its-cage kind of wild. It was lucky for her Kerry had some self-control, because she, alarmingly, did not.
When she’d first struck out for the restaurant and found him behind her, staring from a distance, watching over her but trying not to touch—maybe that had been his weak moment, and this was hers. If they were ever weak at the same time, though…
She pulled out her make-up bag and started from scratch. She went for a little more smoke around her eyes, slightly fuller lips. And while she applied her little tricks, she completely ignored a little voice in her head accusing her of trying to seduce a perfectly helpless Scotsman.
Jordan felt awake and renewed when she emerged into the music and the random flashes from a disco ball against the dark-paneled walls. Once again, the waitress was happy to tuck her bag behind the bar and hand over Jordan’s camera. If this was going to be her last night with Kerry, she wanted some shots to help her remember it clearly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jordan’s hair was a little wild from the air drier in the lady’s toilet, but no one seemed to notice as she made her way to the other end of the building. To her pleasant surprise, the folks of Bridgend Bar had decided to cut the boring tournament short.
The foot-pool tabletop now leaned against a wall. The small tables had been turned on their sides to create a wall around the perimeter of the room, and in the center, ten men played soccer while the rest of the crowd shouted from the sidelines, above the loud music.
A quick scan of the room left Jordan panicked. Kerry was nowhere.
She went back to search the area close to the bar. He wasn’t there, either. Nothing but street clothes and shorter men. No handsome Highlanders sitting around the tables that were still upright. The regular pool tables were abandoned.
He had to be in the bathroom. Either that, or he was outside smoking. He wouldn’t have ditched her.
<
br /> You don’t just kiss someone on the forehead like that and then ditch them.
She told herself to be patient and he’d show up. She ordered a Coke and went back to watch the soccer game. After weaving through the crowded sidelines, she made her way to an empty seat and sat down in a chair that gave her a good view of the whole room, and gave the whole room a clear view of her. At least Kerry would be able to find her easily.
Soon, she realized that the game playing out in front of her wasn’t quite soccer, and it wasn’t quite rugby. It was more of a free for all. The entire mob of ten was a shifting mass of bodies, kicking and wrestling for the center where a small yellow ball was caught in a forest of legs.
Suddenly, a man came flying out of the middle and landed on his butt. Another one flew off to the right. Two more stumbled back and to Jordan’s left. The resulting hole quickly filled with bodies again, but then the mass exploded in all directions.
Standing in the middle of the dance floor, grinning and victorious, with both arms wrapped around the yellow ball, and all his adversaries sprawled at his feet, was The Blacksmith of Brechin.
The kilt was missing, and the only thing he wore besides his boots and his lace-strapped socks, was a pair of basketball shorts—apparently borrowed from a smaller man. They only covered the top half of his thighs and looked like the short-shorts from some 1980’s sitcom.
Jordan popped off a dozen shots without raising the camera.
The Highlander’s chest and arms were bare except for a smattering of dark hair in all the usual places. The sheen of sweat on his forehead and muscles made it look as if he’d been playing hard for hours.
The first back on his feet was the balding man. “Are ye daft, man? Ye cannae touch the ball with yer hands!”
Kerry ignored him, held the ball over his head, and howled like a wolf. Every woman in the place clapped and whistled. The rest of the men shook their heads and laughed. Kerry laughed too, then tossed the ball away.
