by L. L. Muir
It was impossible not to watch them both. Even though Jordan couldn’t hear the sound, she was compelled to watch one screen for a few seconds, then turn and look at the other, watching the same thing happen all over again.
She was completely engrossed in the old movie before she realized it was a musical. And not just any musical, but that mocking Brigadoon!
Nothing would sound so idiotic as asking the people sitting next to you on a plane to please stop watching their movie and chose another one—just to keep you from bawling your eyes out. So Jordan’s only option was to not bawl her eyes out!
She pulled an eye mask out of her bag, slipped it on, and leaned back, telling herself to sleep. She pretended the sisters were watching The Shining, a movie she hated, and thought about how nice it would be to sleep in her own bed again. To eat regular American food again. To not strain to understand someone’s Scottish accent every time she interacted.
But one of the sisters had her volume up loud enough for an eighty-year-old, and Jordan could hear, barely, a song about heather on a hillside.
Light peeked beneath her mask and if she tilted her head back just a little, she could see the screen. Gene Kelly and that Fiona chick were dancing on the hillside. Very dramatic. Very…sappy. And if she turned her head, she could watch it all again.
Gah!
Though she pretended to sleep, Jordan was very aware when the show reached the point where the village was going to sleep, and the mist would be coming to take it away. A horrible lump of dread rose from her stomach and lodged in her chest as she watched the fictional couple say good-bye.
But he didn’t have to say goodbye. Gene Kelly was leaving Fiona because his friend needed him. Their quick romance had only been skin-deep after all. It had never reached his heart. “It’s the hardest thing in the world to give everything,” said Mr. Lundie, the little Scotsman in charge of the town. “Though it’s usually the only way to get everything.”
And Kerry had tried to explain—he had nothing left to give…
Jordan dug out a pair of earplugs, asked the stewardess for a blanket, then tossed it over her head so no more light and no more singing could seep into her brain. It didn’t matter if Kerry had been taken away by magic or a city bus. All that mattered was that he was gone. It was over. And there was a new set of photos she wouldn’t be able to look at without it ripping her heart out.
~ ~ ~
The previous day…
Walking away from Jordan was like trying to cross Culloden Moor in knee-deep mud. Every drop of blood, every bit of flesh on his body told him not to do it. But there was no sense fighting a Muir witch. There was a bargain involved, and Soni had fulfilled her part of the bargain. Now it was Kerry’s turn to leave his mortal life behind him, along with Culloden…and Jordan.
He stepped onto the bridge itself and ignored the urge to run back to the woman holding his heart in her hands. Wickham hailed him with a wave. Soni, dear Soni, would be walking out of the mist any moment…
“Soncerae allowed me to come in her stead, Mather. The lass has worn herself through these past months. As her family, we insisted she rest herself before she falls truly ill.”
Kerry nodded. “She did look weary when she came for me. I am pleased she has others looking after her.”
Wickham shook his hand and grasped his shoulder. “I’m pleased as well that ye understand. I’ve watched ye, now and again, with Miss Lennox. I wondered if a bit of mist on the bridge might work out for the best, let her see that there is magic at work here, that ye have no choice in the matter.”
“I hope it will.”
“One last wave, then, and we’ll be off. She’s a brave lass. Just look at her.”
Kerry moved to the side of the bridge, wishing he could jump off and tell Wickham to go to the devil. But a scene would do Jordan no good, and in the end, he’d be returned to spirit form and she’d be even more confused. They’d had so little time, he hadn’t wished to squander it on nonsensical explanations. Perhaps he should have.
She looked so forlorn, standing there in the grass, circled with pink heather…
Kerry felt the mist coming for him, swallowing him whole. A hand descended on his shoulder, then turned him, urging him into a darkness he chose not to fight. And, just as he’d expected, they were once again on the familiar moor. It was still daytime. The clouds hung low and gray. It smelled like snow.
“Wickham?”
“Aye?”
“I can still smell things.”
“Oh, aye. Ye’re mortal still.”
“Then why do these people not seem to notice me? Or ye?”
Wickham gave a sly laugh. “Because, Mather, I do not wish them to notice us.”
“If we are waiting on Prince Charles Edward Stuart, I have no desire to speak with the man.”
“Or poke him in the nose?”
“Or that. Just allow me to say my farewells to Soncerae, and I will go where I am expected.”
“Ye’ll forego yer boon?”
“Aye. But I’ll not forego Soni’s promise?”
“And just what did the lass promise?”
“That she would see me again. I tell ye, I shall not move on without it.”
Wickham’s head tilted to one side. “No doubt ye’d be happy to spend another day with Jordan Lennox, while ye wait for my niece to gain her strength.”
Kerry took a deep breath and shook his head as he let it out. “I would not put Jordan through another farewell. I have hurt her heart enough.”
“Well said of ye.” Wickham nodded. “Verra well. I will see ye to a place where ye can wait. It might be days, yet, before we agree she has rested enough.”
Kerry shrugged. “What could time mean to me now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thursday morning, bright and early, Jordan pressed cucumber slices against her eyes. She had to get the swelling down before her meeting with Princess Rebecca at Foster and Foster. They’d given her two days to allow for jet lag. They didn’t allow for heart-lag.
Since she’d cried more than she’d slept for the past two days, she admitted it might have been better to meet with Rebecca as soon as she’d gotten off the plane. The cucumbers could only do so much.
“Allergies,” she answered, when the woman took one look at Jordan’s face—the dark circles under her eyes and the pillows that used to be her eyelids—and asked what had happened to her. “Some crazy species of…something,” she nearly said Highlander, “didn’t like me, while I was in the Highlands.”
The side of Rebecca’s nose curled. “Well, then, maybe it will be a good thing…not to be sent back again.”
Jordan hated the way the woman made every statement feel like an ax hanging over her head. But in a few minutes, she might not have to worry about it anymore.
She turned on the projection and inserted her flash drive into the port. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to get them organized. I’ll just flip through them quickly and stop on the ones I think you’ll like.”
Rebecca lowered herself into the chair at the head of the conference table and made a noise to show Jordan what she thought of that before she began her usual “I’m bored and unhappy” fidgeting. Jordan preferred to think of it as an oink.
She might have suggested that the director move to another chair in order to view the photos better, but the princess wasn’t the type who would sacrifice her throne for anything.
The first picture to load was the close-up of her mother. Rebecca’s chair stopped squeaking. Jordan ignored her and took a couple of seconds to try and see her mother through Kerry’s eyes. She was shocked to find that it took no effort at all.
“Sorry. I just dragged files onto the flash without looking at them. I don’t know how I missed the date on this one. Give me just a minute.”
“Jordan.”
“What?”
“I like this. This has… This has something… She’s not pretty by any means—”
“She’s be
autiful,” Jordan argued, irritated the woman had dared judge her mother.”
Rebecca’s voice changed to something almost human. “That’s it exactly. She is beautiful.”
“That’s what being in love does to people. It makes them…beautiful.”
“And falling in love with Scotland can make anyone beautiful! I love it!” The squeaking started again, but this time, Rebecca was dancing with excitement. And having caused that excitement, Jordan decided to delay the news that she had no intention of selling the photo of her mother.
“I’m interested to see what else you have,” the director said. Coming from her, it meant she was ecstatic.
Jordan took her time, not just to torture her boss, but because she dreaded what the pictures of Kerry would do to her. If she so much as sniffed, Rebecca would pounce on her like a shark smelling blood.
There were a few shots she’d taken at the airport she knew were nothing special, so she flipped through them quickly. The first picture of The Blacksmith statue caught her breath. It had only been four days since she’d seen that face, but it all came flooding back to her. She could almost feel his forehead pressed against hers—she inside Catherine’s truck and Kerry standing in front of the door, holding it closed, telling her she had to go home alone so he could be a gentleman.
She flipped through more shots of the statue, then explained who the man was.
“Jeez, Jordan. It sounds like you knew him. Go a little overboard in your research, did you?”
In unison, the two of them gasped at the first shot of Kerry.
“Ho! Baby! Come to mama.” Rebecca jumped out of her chair and hurried over to stand close to Kerry. It made Jordan want to turn off the machine. “We can start with the woman. She’s in love. Being in love makes you beautiful. We switch to this guy. Falling in love with Scotland will make you beautiful, too.” She actually rubbed the screen where Kerry’s knee was.
Jordan grabbed the thumb drive and yanked it out of the machine, then shut down everything still on display. “Sorry, Princess, he’s mine. All mine, actually. So’s the woman. And they’re not for sale.”
“Jordan. Come on. It’s not as if the man were standing here. I didn’t touch him.” Rebecca headed back to her throne as if denying her was unthinkable. “I’ll behave. Show me what else you have.”
Jordan shoved the drive into her bag and swung it over her shoulder.
The other woman’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. Her mouth gaped for a moment, then she growled. “Look, Jordan. You can forget about turning in your receipts if you don’t hand over the photos. No airfare. No hotel. You can’t afford to cover all that. I’ve seen what we’ve been paying you.”
Jordan walked into the hall and kept walking, luring her boss out.
“Jordan, stop!”
All heads turned. Jordan finally stopped and faced the woman.
“You’re a bully, Rebecca. And people always find a way to get rid of bullies. Foster and Foster won’t appreciate you running off the talent. And all of these people are just waiting for the chance to spread the news.” She turned to the employees standing in their doorways and peaking over to tops of their cubicles. “Be careful. She’s humiliated. She’ll be desperate. Don’t let her win.”
~ ~ ~
Walking back to the train station, Jordan felt like her feet barely touched the ground. It wasn’t because she’d told off the schoolyard bully, it was because she had seen Kerry’s face again, remembered what she’d promised to remember—that no matter where he was, he loved her.
And her mother loved her too. A few change overs, and she could be in Iowa by dinner time. And if she was lucky, she could sleep most of the way.
CHAPTER-TWENTY-FOUR
Kerry pressed his face between the barred opening of his cell door and bellowed at the top of his lungs. “If ye do not chose to stop that foul singing, Charlie, I shall dig a tunnel into yer royal cell and make a set of bagpipes out of yer verra common innards! See if I don’t!”
In response, the prince started his song from the beginning, not so much as varying his volume, torturing Kerry a’purpose.
The sound he’d waited for all day came from above—footfalls.
“Wickham Damn You Muir, ye’d better be coming to fetch me out of his hell hole! And when Soncerae learns what ye’ve done to me, I hope she turns ye into a wart on Charles Stuart’s arse!”
Wickham chuckled as he descended the last of the steps with keys dangling from his fingers instead of a tray of food, and Kerry was overcome with relief.
“Bless ye, Wickham. I recant every foul thing I ever said about ye, if ye’ll but get me well away from that tune-deaf troll.”
“Prince Troll, to ye, Mather!”
Kerry held his tongue, hoping his forbearance would win him his freedom. “And how is our lass today?”
“My niece is back to herself this morning, and she’s asking for you.”
He dared not hope! “And?”
“So I’ve come to fetch ye.”
“I wouldn’t prefer Heaven over Hell at this point, as long as Charlie won’t be allowed in.”
Wickham laughed, moved to the next cell, and put his hands on his hips. “I give ye some company for once and ye’ve run him off with yer singing?” He clicked his tongue. “Too bad. There will likely not be another.”
“Send the witch to me, peasant,” came the prince’s answer. “If she is not ready to hear my terms, I am happy in my own royal company.”
Wickham spit. Kerry could only hope it had hit its mark, and even if it hadn’t, he was almost inclined to forgive Soni’s uncle for locking him away. After a great deal of thought—when he had little else to do—he realized that guarding a man/ghostie like him for a week might be much to expect, and locking him away, where he cannot get into much trouble, was not a bad idea.
But it hadn’t been a man like him, it had been him. And not only had he been locked up in close proximity to the one responsible for the deathblow to Scotland, he’d been locked up with a broken, bleeding heart of his own with no distractions available to him.
The latter was much more difficult to forgive.
Wickham sorted through his keys and waved Kerry away from the door. “Lower yer hackles, Mather. Soni is waiting.”
Kerry followed the man to the top of the stairs like a gentleman. When they were above ground and breathing fresh air, he knocked the bastard onto his arse like a cantankerous brawler.
Wickham got to his feet and never raised a hand to his bloody, swelling lip. Kerry asked why he grinned.
“We go to meet Soni this verra minute. Who do ye think will have her sympathy? The brute with bloody knuckles? Or the dear uncle ye bloodied them on?”
~ ~ ~
When Kerry caught sight of Soni in the light of day, seated in a garden absorbing the sunshine into her slightly pale face, he realized how ill she must have been in order for this to be the recovered version of her. He put his imprisonment out of his mind and went to his knees before her chair.
“Soni, lass!” Wickham gave Kerry a warning glance. “What a grand sight, ye are!”
Her smile widened. “Kerry Mather, I’m so happy Wickham insisted we have the chance to say our goodbyes. It broke my heart when I thought I’d let you down.”
“Ye’ve given me everything, lass. How could ye ever disappoint me?”
She lowered her brow. “Ye weren’t at all happy I sent ye to Brechin.”
Kerry lifted her hand and kissed the back of the wee thing. “Nay, lass. Ye sent me to the Lennox lass. Nowhere else I would have rather gone.”
She gave him a knowing wink that made him believe she was still the same young witch he’d come to love, despite her illness. “Wickham said ye helped the woman see her mother clearly?”
“I hope I was of some service, aye.”
Soni nodded and gestured for him to get to his feet. “Ye did indeed. And what about yerself? Were ye able to see yerself more clearly, then? Not as a failure, but
as an inspiration to generations of Brechins? Generations of Scots? To see the Scotland ye were so certain Jordan could not?”
“Ye’re too kind by half.”
“And you, Kerry, are a romantic. Brigadoon is one of my favorites, of course. You must have seen it on a television?”
“Auch, aye. The guards are romantics too, it seems.” The memory of Jordan’s face still pinched at his heart. “I only wish our story could have ended as happily as the other.”
Soni frowned at Wickham. “What happened to yer lip, Uncle?”
He barely glanced at Kerry. “I must keep Charlie in line from time to time.” He turned his head to the side and made a spitting noise. When Soni turned away from him, he gave Kerry a wink.
“My uncle owes ye an apology, Kerry.”
Wickham sputtered. “I? Owe him?”
She nodded, then faced Kerry again. “I hear ye did not want yer boon.”
“Nay, lass.”
“My uncle should have offered ye another. This Lennox lass. Ye’re well and truly in love with her?”
“Well and truly. I am ever so grateful—”
“But does she love ye in turn?”
He shrugged. “I hope she does. But I almost wish… If we’d never met, she would have been spared a heartache, aye?”
Soni nodded. “Ye don’t want her to hurt anymore. I understand. Does that mean ye’d like her to forget? It can be managed, if that is truly what ye wish.”
He nearly bent in half from the pain that shot through him at the suggestion. “Nay. May God forgive me, but nay.”
She tapped on her chin for a moment, staring at Wickham while she did so. “Then maybe my industrious uncle can think of another way to put her out of her misery.”
“Pardon?” Kerry and Wickham responded in unison.
“Ye know what I mean, Uncle. Kerry’s earned it. And I’m sure Jordan has suffered enough. Let him have her.”
“Have her?” Kerry shook his head. “Listen to me, Soncerae. I would not have the lass meet an early end just so we might be together. I would walk willingly into Hell, hand in hand with Charlie if I must. But do not allow anyone to harm my Jordan!”
