by L. L. Muir
His gazed roamed over the crowd and Jordan held her breath, waiting for him to find her. If she hadn’t been surrounded and cornered, she would have run…just so he could catch her.
~ ~ ~
The thrill of besting every man in the place made Kerry’s blood pump hot and furious through his veins. When he finally found Jordan, his heart listed to the right from the exquisite pleasure of knowing she was watching him, pleased with what she saw.
The wee flare of her nostrils reminded him of a rabbit, cornered but not yet caught, preparing to flee. But when she licked her berry-red lips, he knew she didn’t want to get away from him. She wanted to get away with him.
It was a lucky thing they hadn’t returned to the flat, or he’d be offering his soul to the devil at that moment, willing to pay any price if he could keep his living, breathing flesh, just to spend another day, another hour, in Jordan’s arms.
Kerry picked up the table separating them, put it back on its legs, and moved it aside. A woman moved forward, poised to speak to him, but when she glanced between him and his prey, she thought better of it and disappeared. There was nothing but a few steps between them—and nearly three centuries.
She is not yours. She cannot be yours. Three hundred years too late.
The voice in his head was right, of course. But did he care?
He held out his hand and she laid one of hers on top of it. I’ve decided what I want, she seemed to say. Now it’s your turn.
Willing? Aye, she was ever so willing. But there was something else in her eyes—a bit more trust than he wished to see. A prayer, perhaps, that he would tread carefully, choose wisely.
My, but she was weaker than he’d seen her before. Had he done this? Had he worn her down with his charms?
Or had she worn him?
The stain on her lips was fresh, her eyes dark, with more makeup than before. He wanted to wash her face with a warm wet cloth to see her more clearly, to remind himself that hers was not a heart he wished to break.
“Gather yer things, lass. ‘Tis time I got ye home.”
She nodded, agreeing. Heaven help him. Heaven help them both.
He slipped her coat over her shoulders. She tucked her wet jumper through the handle of the bag now holding her camera.
Jordan looked at his bare chest and exhaled. “You’re forgetting something.”
“Auch, aye. I’ve got all my things here.” He plucked up the bundle he’d made of his kilt. The shorts he’d promised to return the next day.
Christine, the bartender’s wife, met them at the doorway. “Shall we go then?”
“She has a car,” he explained, and stood aside for the women to exit first. Christine unlocked a small truck. Kerry opened the passenger door. Jordan got in and started scooting toward the middle. After he slammed the door closed, she quickly scooted back and rolled the window down. “What are you doing? Get in!”
“Nay, lass.” He held the door firmly between them. “Christine will see ye home.”
“It’s still raining.”
“Aye, and thank God for it. I need a good wash before I dress again.”
“I’ll wait for you. We can walk home together.” She tried to open the door but he held it firm.
“I’ll not be coming,” he said lightly, though he felt as if he’d had to dredge the words up from his guts. “I’ll be by first thing, lass, wanting my breakfast early, aye? None of this lazing about until ten o’clock. Do ye hear?” Her eyes swam with tears, and to keep from breaking down and giving in to his baser instincts, he looked off toward the road. “Goodnight, lass.”
“I’ll leave the door unlocked, in case you change your—”
“Nay.” He gestured toward the bar. “I’ve friends a’plenty to give me shelter for the night. Lock yer doors, for pity’s sake.” He leaned through the window and pressed his forehead against hers. “For both our sakes.”
He swallowed with difficulty, then straightened. To her credit, Jordan put on a bright, brave smile, as if her insides weren’t twisting and rebelling as his were. “See you in the morning, then.”
He pushed away from the open window, waved his thanks to the bartender’s wife, and stepped back. Lifting the wee truck over his head would have been no more difficult. And before he could change his mind and start up the hill toward the square, and the wee flat beyond, he turned and faced the small crowd mulling through the parking lot.
“Which of ye has a dry bit of floor to offer The Blacksmith of Brechin?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Not married yet?” The bartender’s wife glanced at Jordan before turning all her attention to maneuvering through the parking lot.
“Me? No.”
She laughed. “I meant the two of ye. Surely, ye don’t mean to let that laddie get away? If ye can help it, that is.”
“I wish.”
“Don’t tell me he’s already taken.”
“I...” The truth dawned on her. “Actually, I don’t know. I never asked.”
“Ye never— Well, I’d best keep m’ gob shut, then.”
Jordan tried to laugh it off. “I’m a photographer. He was just modeling for me. I really don’t know much about him.”
“Modeling for ye?” Christine gave a very unladylike snort. “Preenin’ for ye’s more like. But ye’d be wise to ask some questions before ye feed him too much...breakfast.”
“I think you’re right.”
~ ~ ~
Kerry was invited to pass the night at the home of Marion Moss, a widower who lived only two blocks from the bar and therefore didn’t need anyone to take his keys from him if he became overly drunk. Three blocks in heavy rain, however, sobered the man enough to find his front door. He showed Kerry the cupboard where he would find bedding, then disappeared into the bedchamber to leave him in peace.
Stretched out upon the floor, Kerry was surprised at how grateful he was for a bit of mortal rest and fell asleep appreciating the softness of a twenty-first century pillow, ignoring the twenty-first century argument that a beautiful woman was just across town, wishing he would come knock upon her window. Deep down, he was just too much of an eighteenth-century gentleman to take advantage of the situation.
His sleep was haunted, no doubt as penance, by the image of her sitting at the edge of a playing field, waiting patiently for him to win a trophy and take her home. No matter how hard he tried, or how fast he ran, he never seemed to get the rules right.
Undaunted, he kept trying until he was finally declared the winner. To his horror, he was awarded a large iron pan and a ball ping hammer, then turned to face the Hanoverian army across Drumossie Moor.
Jordan stood in their midst wearing a pea coat of red, setting up a tri-pod and a camera to film the battle. The first shots were fired, but once again, he forgot to protect his heart.
“Kerry!” Jordan shook his shoulder as he lay bleeding into the mud. “I need to shoot you again from a different angle.”
Dawn breaking through Marion Moss’s sheer curtains brought him fully awake and saved him from the madness of his dream. But for a moment, he wondered if he was simply rising from his grave all over again. One look around the room brought him back to the moment and he sat still to listen. Moss’s snoring lent a peace to the place—a lonely place without a woman to fill it.
The sun would be up in an hour… and so would a certain American photographer.
Kerry wished he had something to leave the widower as thanks for his hospitality, but the only things he had on him were his tam and his skean duh. He folded the blanket and set it on the couch, topped it with the pillow, and left the wee blade in the center. The man might get a chuckle out of showing it to his fellows at the bar.
Kerry also left the shorts and hoped Moss would see them rightfully home again.
All the way up the rise and around the square, Kerry hoped Jordan wouldn’t be too cross with him for waking her early. But it was his last day, after all. Their last day together. And he wanted to fit a lifetime into it.
The statue of The Blacksmith drew him. The likeness could have easily been his father, but he acknowledged it looked just as much like himself. He said a quick prayer, then, and asked God to bless the souls of Brechin who had honored him so. If they were looking down upon him from Heaven, they might be pleased he hadn’t dishonored his name during his brief second mortality.
Carried the name of Brechin into battle? Aye, he had. Little did they ken it was a battle with the devil he’d fought the night before. And won.
He was now well and truly ashamed he’d hidden from his father and forefathers for so long. On the bright side, he would welcome seeing them again…if not for a certain lass he dreaded leaving behind.
“Not yet, Soncerae. I’ve half a day, still. I beg ye not to come for me until ye must.”
The rising sun winked at him over a distant rooftop, reminding Kerry that no matter what Soni could do for him, time and daylight waited upon no man. So he hurried off to beat upon a certain lass’s door.
The door was unlocked, and Kerry immediately worried for Jordan’s safety. When he stepped inside, however, he smelled the freshly cooked back bacon and realized the lass had already been up.
The table was set with care and three covered plates sat in the center. He touched one. It was cold. The glass of orange juice was tepid. The bowl of beans, chilly.
He reckoned she’d cooked and gone back to sleep, and though he knew it was a dangerous move, he went to the bedroom door and peeked inside. The bed had been straightened, however, so he strode immediately to the lavatory door. It was ajar and the lights off.
She couldn’t have been so angry with him she’d left him! Surely!
He looked again at the table so lovingly set with napkins folded and the potted plant set in the center.
Facing the living room, he found the couch was empty, but the fire was lit, and Jordan lay before it tucked inside a blanket like a sausage roll. His heart fell over itself jumping for joy, like an old man riding a horse for the first time. Had he ever known such happiness before? How could he have wasted his own life not knowing this bliss bubbling in his chest?
The sight of her was joy itself. Mattered not if she were coming or going, if it were their last moment, or the start of a very long life together. He was content to have her with him. And for each minute they had left he would be grateful.
Kerry didn’t have the heart to wake her. If she’d been up cooking already, she hadn’t had much sleep, if any. A few hours, no more. It was the excuse he gave himself to lie down behind her and keep still.
Her breathing lulled him, calmed his over-excited heart, and allowed him to imagine what it would have been like had they met and married long ago. After a time, their hearts would have fallen into a rhythm together. Their love would have been that ardent, he was sure.
The sun was well up when Jordan finally stirred, then started. She rolled away from him, then smiled. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to fall in love with ye all over again, I fear.”
Her brow puckered together. Tears filled her eyes and leaked down salty trails left from tears already cried. “I think I caught the same bug.”
He scooted closer and promised himself it was only for a moment. Then he leaned over her as she rolled onto her back. “Permission to break your heart, Jordan Lennox?”
She nodded instantly. “Permission granted.”
CHAPTER NINTEEN
Kerry’s stomach growling—screaming like a mountain lion, actually—was the only thing that could have brought Jordan to her senses. It took her a little longer to come out of the blissful fog than it took him, however, and when her feet were finally back on solid ground, he was laughing at her.
He gave her a kiss on the nose, then sobered abruptly. “Have a care, Jordan. If ye’re so easily seduced by a handful of kisses, I worry—”
“Seduced?”
“Aye.” He narrowed his eyes. “Seduced. And once I am gone, I worry—”
“I’m a big girl, Kerry. And once you’re gone, it will be none of your business—”
“It will always be my business.”
“Not if you’re not around.” She skirted around him and headed for the food. “Do you want me to reheat all this? Or nuke it?”
“Nuke it?”
“Heat it in the microwave.”
“Aye. Yes. This, I would like to see.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me. They don’t have microwaves in Brigadoon.”
“Precisely.”
She remembered the advice Catherine had given her on the way home. “Um, Kerry?”
He watched her pile ham on the plate, then he added one more. “Aye?”
“Are you married?”
He was so shocked by the question he took a couple of steps back. “Jordan Lennox. How could ye think such a thing? I’ve kissed ye, after all.”
She shrugged. “You never know.”
He took the plate out of her hand and set it on the table, then made her face him. “Ye’ll always know with an honorable man. I am not married. And I’ve never seduced a woman as I did ye—”
“Seduced?” She laughed and pushed him away so she could put his plate in the microwave. “You’re a little liberal with that word, aren’t you?”
“Forgive me. But ye did seem like putty in my hands, as they say.”
“The only putty around here will be those beans if I have to reheat them twice.”
~ ~ ~
There was a tension in the air while they cleaned up the breakfast dishes, like the beginning of a lightning storm while ye wait for the next flash. Kerry knew they were tempting fate if they stayed indoors, but he found himself dawdling, polishing a plate for a good three minutes before setting it aside.
Jordan was the first to speak and break the silence. “How does this work, exactly? You don’t have a car. How do you plan to leave today?”
He shrugged both shoulders. “Someone will collect me.”
“Do you have to call them? Tell them where to come?”
“They’ll find me. Now, will ye cease the inquisition and pack yer bag?” He nodded toward the bedchamber door. “I’d like to put a bit of distance between us and that bed, if ye doona mind.”
“I doona mind. And no matter how tempted I am to let you kiss me again, I think it’s better if you don’t.” She smirked. “I wouldn’t want you seducing me in public or anything. Who knows what I might do? Rip off your kilt, probably.” She tilted her head back and forth, staring at his sporran. “Is it just one belt that holds it up?”
He couldn’t prevent the flush of blood that rushed to his face and made the hair prickle on the top of his head. “Jordan Lennox!”
“Come on, Loverboy,” she said as she scooped up her bag and headed for the door. “Let’s get away from that bed before I ruin you.”
He took a few deep breaths to steady himself before he followed her out the door. Just before he closed it behind him, however, he opened it again and took a quick look around. The wee apartment would be part of a memory he wanted to hold close to his heart.
Permission to break yer heart?
Permission granted.
The words fairly gave him chills.
~ ~ ~
Jordan waited on the street for him, then led the way to the statue and forced him to pose next to himself. “Kerry Moffat Mather,” she read aloud. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice you had the same name, when you were standing right here the other day.”
“I wasnae looking at the plaque, and barely gave any attention to the statue. I was angry that I’d been sent here and was determined to leave this place as quickly as I could.”
“Angry? At whom?”
He shook his head vaguely. “At God, I suppose. I thought to go somewhere…more exciting for my…holiday, as it were.”
“So, why didn’t you?”
“Because I suddenly found myself in yer mother’s shoes.”
She rolled her eyes. “W
hat is that supposed to mean?”
“I suddenly found myself in the company of someone who made the city irrelevant, aye? Wherever ye went, that was where I wished to be also.” He shrugged. “I thought I’d appreciated the woman’s photograph when I first saw it. I appreciate it tenfold now.”
Jordan lowered the camera and walked away, cutting through the middle of the square, headed to River Road. When he caught up with her, they strolled along in silence for a while.
“She was staring at my step-father…when I took that picture.”
“So ye said.”
“It was the same way she used to look at me. I guess I realized, then, that I’d been replaced.”
“Or perhaps, when she looks at ye that way, ye’re looking somewhere else?”
A slow smile lifted her cheeks. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“When ye leave here,” he said, “do ye reckon ye’ll go see yer mother?”
“Why?”
“Perhaps she’d like to see the picture ye took.”
Jordan nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think she would.”
“Ye’re the Blacksmith of Brechin!” A young lass hurried over to intercept them on the path just as they reached the tunnel. “Can I take a photo with ye?” She waved her cellular as she came, expecting no resistance.
“Surely.” He winked at Jordan. “My first selfie. Verra exciting.”
Before the first lassie had finished chattering at him, another two came to take her place. Then a trio of middle-aged women who could barely stop laughing enough to press the button. Eventually, they gave up and handed off their cellulars to Jordan and asked her to do the honors. They offered him money, but he declined to take it. And as soon as they were gone, he grabbed Jordan’s hand and hurried into the tunnel, stopping half way to put his hands on her waist and pull her close for a kiss.
She laughed and tugged on his belt. “Careful, now.”
“Wheesht! Surely none will ask for a picture if we’re snogging, aye?”
Jordan let him kiss her once more before deserting him in the dark. He emerged to find her surrounded by lassies dressed in their Sunday best, asking her for a photo with him. As a credit to her profession, she herded them all together into a group around him and took pictures with each of their phones. While they peered at their wee screens to find the results, Jordan snatched up her bag, grabbed his hand, and dragged him off down the street.
