by Gwyn Cready
“You know what?” Ellery said. “I forgot I have to make a call. Why don’t you go ahead and start the book club. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She slipped Kiltlander and her phone under her arm unobtrusively and slid out of the chair, though she caught the look of interest on Axel’s face.
She flew down the hallway to the restroom and was thrilled to discover a well-lit three-stall setup, which meant she could curl up on one of the toilets without inconveniencing anyone. Years of training had made Ellery an extraordinarily fast reader, and soon the book was ringing out a steady shhhp every thirty seconds or so. The wedding scene was fifteen pages. She could get through it in under ten minutes.
Cara, it seemed, realized that she and Jemmie had no other choice but to marry. She believed Jemmie was equally as pragmatic. But while Jemmie was more than willing to do as their captors required, he told her frankly that he wanted her, that the marriage was not a hardship for him but something that he truly desired.
Cara couldn’t deny she had feelings for Jemmie. He had saved her from a marauding clan and had been willing to give his life for hers when they were captured. Even if they were able to escape, Cara had no confidence that she’d ever be able to make her way back to Cairn-papple or even that Cairnpapple’s magic could be prevailed upon to work for her return. She fretted as the priest was called.
Beyond the stall door, sounds of footsteps came and went but nothing could induce Ellery to stop.
As the ceremony began, Jemmie pledged his love to Cara and swore that he would protect her with his life.
Ellery made an involuntary sigh. That is what was at the heart of true love, wasn’t it—between a man and woman, a parent and child? It was as simple as that: the knowledge that you would give your own life to protect another. And here was this young Highlander, able to understand that sentiment and voice it.
Dammit, what was Cara going to do? Jemmie pulled out a knife and cut a line across his palm.
Ellery gasped, and someone in the adjoining stall said, “Are you all right?”
“What? Yes, yes. I’m fine.”
A blood oath was what he proposed. Cara looked at her hand uncertainly.
Oh, do it, Cara. Do it.
Cara agreed, and after a second quick cut, they held their palms together, blood intermixing, while Jemmie said a prayer in Gaelic.
Ellery could hardly breathe. She wanted things to work out between Jemmie and Cara, wanted their love to triumph, but how could there be any hope for their relationship when they came from two entirely different worlds and Cara’s world was calling to her?
Cara made it through the ceremony and found herself alone with Jemmie in the small room their captors had provided. They talked until they had exhausted all the conversation they had. Jemmie told her that from that day forward, his primary obligations in life were to keep her safe and make her happy.
Ellery wondered what it would be like to feel such protection. Heck, the closest she’d ever been to such a feeling was… She straightened. The closest she’d ever been was when she lay in Axel’s arms at the Warhol that first night. Oh, why couldn’t life do a clean sweep of a memory like that once you moved on, sort of the way a new profile picture replaces the old one in each old Facebook post?
Jemmie’s kilt was warm and thick, and Cara’s fingers shook as she found the belt buckle that held it around his body. Jemmie asked Cara if she was ready. She was, and they kissed.
“The plaid will warm us, lass,” he said, and threw the heavy wool over both their shoulders, tucking it around them until she could feel the warmth of his body. Then he asked her if she would be patient with him and revealed his shocking secret.
Ellery banged the door of the restroom so hard exiting that Axel, who had just turned down the hallway, was afraid for a moment she’d taken it off its hinges. He saw the impending path of the freight train and jumped out of the way, but she swerved to a stop and jabbed her finger into his chest.
“Is there a plaid for Clan Mackenzie?” she demanded, eyes as bright as candles.
Flustered, he took a second to respond. “You mean a tartan? Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just continued her mad rush down the hall, calling as she went, “Whatever you do, don’t interrupt us! I’m at a key point in the interview!”
He picked up his phone, which he’d dropped when she’d slammed the door. Well, I’m glad to see she’s taking the article seriously.
“Jemmie’s a virgin?” Ellery cried when she reached the snug. The women, now numbering five, stopped their conversation and laughed.
“Ha!” Ginger said. “And you said you were on the phone.”
“Kiltlander, right?” one of the newer arrivals said, smiling. “God, I love that one.”
“Isn’t Jemmie amazing?”
“Told you it was something.” Marabel grinned.
“He’s a virgin,” Ellery repeated, barely able to contain her fascination. It was inexplicable. It was titillating. It was mesmerizing. Her brain was like a bottle of champagne that had been shaken too hard. If she didn’t get someone to uncork her, she was going to pop.
“How could he be a virgin?” she said. “He knew how to kiss Cara well enough to make her toes wiggle?”
“My boyfriend in the fifth form could make my toes wiggle,” Isabel said, grinning, “and I know he was a virgin because in sixth form we took the plunge together.”
Ellery laughed. Suddenly she felt almost as close to these women as she did her friends at work. I guess the shared experience of a romance novel can be the same kind of bonding experience.
But Jemmie a virgin? She could accept this on an intellectual level but not on the revved-up emotional one she found herself on. “Jemmie’s a warrior. He’s fought in battles, led his clan. Surely there were women clamoring to sleep with him when he returned.”
“You made assumptions, my dear,” Ginger said. “A dangerous prospect for a reader—or any woman, for that matter.”
The other new arrival said, “Jemmie has a highly developed sense of what’s right and wrong—”
“Oh, I know,” Ellery said.
“—and I think he just wanted to wait until he could join with the woman who would be his wife.”
“It’s just so… wonderful.” Ellery sighed. “And he loves her so much. I feel like I don’t want to do anything but read it. I’m Ellery, by the way.”
“Ginger was telling us about you,” said the one who’d been detailing Jemmie’s sense of honor. “I’m Pansy. And this is Madge,” she added, gesturing to a white-haired woman a few years older than Ginger. “I know just how you feel. The first time I read Kiltlander, I stopped doing housework, I stopped cooking, I stopped doing anything except reading. I’d run to the attic to hide so my kids couldn’t find me. At one point my son was wandering the upstairs calling for me. I just held my breath, hoping he’d think I’d left for the post office. I felt bad,” she said. “Well, only a little. But it didn’t matter because I wasn’t going to stop.”
“That’s nothing,” Madge said. “I called off work when I got near the end. Lost thirty-two quid that day. Didn’t dare tell my boyfriend.”
Ellery nodded. “I don’t want to tell mine, either. I mean, not my boyfriend. The photographer.”
Every head turned.
Across the room, Axel was sipping a club soda, gazing absently at the group. Under the gaze of five sets of eyes, he froze.
“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look,” Ellery whispered. The women’s heads snapped back.
“He’s your photographer?” Madge said. “He sort of looks like Jemmie.”
“What?” Ellery peeked through her fingers. “No.”
“Sure. He’s tall. And scruffy. Remember, Jemmie’s dirk had been taken from him and he couldn’t shave for Cara on their wedding night. And isn’t that a wee bit of red in his hair?”
“I… well…” Ellery narrowed he
r gaze. There was a bit of red there.
“He said he was your boyfriend.”
“That’s not true, Izzy,” Marabel said. “He said he had hopes. You see, he was taking pictures of us while you were gone, and Ginger said her youngest daughter was holding out for a handsome one and would he be interested? He said he was honored but that he was pressing his suit with someone else.”
“He said that?” Since when did Axel talk like someone out of a romance novel?
“Oh, yes,” Marabel said. “And Pansy was the one who asked if the someone else was you: You’d make such a handsome couple, after all.”
“He didn’t answer,” Pansy said, “but his cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink.”
So much for journalistic detachment.
“But why can’t he know about Kiltlander?” Isabel said. “He’s working on the story, too, isn’t he?”
“Well, yes, but… It’s sort of hard to explain.” Not really, she thought. You’re a big fat snob and a hypocrite to boot. Then she fell upon a workable response. “He thinks I should be writing. Our deadline’s Monday. And all I want to do is immerse myself in Jemmie and Cara. Who knew happy endings could be so wonderful?”
The table fell eerily silent.
“Why are you all looking like that?” A nervous shiver went down her spine. “You are not telling me that Jemmie and Cara don’t end up together!”
Their gazes shifted in five different directions.
“No, no, no!” Ellery said. “I won’t have it. How could I have chosen the one romance that doesn’t end with a happily ever after?”
Ginger patted Ellery’s shoulder. “We’re not saying it doesn’t end with a happily ever after”—Ellery’s heart soared—“but we’re not saying it does, either. There’s more to a happily ever after than ‘happy,’ and you’re just going to have to get there on your own.”
Ellery thought of Tess of the d’Urbervilles dead on the gallows; Jay Gatsby shot by a jealous husband; and Juliet stabbing herself with a dagger after finding Romeo dead.
“But don’t worry,” Isabel said. “There’s some good stuff along the way, including several historic battles, cameos by both Voltaire and the king of France—”
“Sex in a moonlit river,” Marabel interrupted, “sex bent over a tree; sex in a boardinghouse where Jemmie is both drunk and more than a little jealous; and,” she added, eyes glittering, “a very fine spanking.”
“He spanks her?” The cork didn’t just pop, it blew the bottle into a thousand pieces. Ellery squealed, “Are you effing kidding me?”
Isabel, clearly irritated at her sister’s interruption, said, “Believe me. It’s not as fun as you’d think.”
Marabel whooped. “Sounds like the voice of experience talking.”
A crimson flush as well as a barely suppressed smile spread across Isabel’s cheeks. Ellery’s jaw dropped. Isabel, a nice but mouse-colored forty-something who could have been the poster child for “unremarkable,” got spanked? Ellery had to admit she was a little envious. The most outrageous thing that had happened in her bed in the last year was when a stink bug had fallen into it from the ceiling.
These women were not at all like she expected romance readers to be. She liked them, which made her feel pretty guilty about the contempt she’d felt.
The women were still laughing when the pub’s door creaked open. Ellery looked over nervously. Six would mean a full contingent of book club members, and Axel would win his bet, but it was a balding man with fogged-up glasses, wearing an easy smile and a slightly shabby rain coat.
“Hello, Roger,” Simon said, and the women attempted to rein in their giggles.
Roger wiped off his glasses and made his way to the snug. Isabel sat up straighter and gave him a little wave.
“Glad you’re here, Roger,” Ginger said. “We’re a bit stalled on the current topic. Could probably use a switch.” She gave the other women a broad wink on the last word.
“Indeed.” Pansy’s mouth twitched from the strain of trying not to laugh. “You could almost say we’ve hit bottom.”
Roger gazed at the knot of chortling women, confused. He had to be Isabel’s husband. Ellery looked at the clock. Could that much time have passed? Was it already time for the book club to end?
“What is it?” Roger grinned good-naturedly at the guffaws, though he clearly had no idea why the women were laughing. “What?”
Simon appeared with a mug of beer, placed it in his hands and gave him an interested look.
“Izzy told us you like to smack her fanny,” Marabel said quite distinctly.
Roger coughed a little as a wave of red lapped at his jowls. The whole bar was listening now. His smile didn’t falter, but Ellery did notice a vein of pride creep into it.
“Ah. I see. Well, why not? It’s a damned fine fanny, after all, and a little tanning now and then warms us both.” He lifted the mug to cheers from the room, including those of Isabel, who scooted down the bench to give him room.
When the table quieted, Ellery said, “I know you’re almost done here, but I have just a few more questions.”
“We’re not done,” Pansy said, frowning. “We’ve barely begun.”
“Aye, sorry I’m late.” Roger slipped a book out of his coat pocket—the same book the rest of the women had in front of them.
Ellery gulped. Roger was number six. She looked to see if Axel had noticed. He had. He put down his glass, spread the fingers of his right hand, added his left thumb and gave her a sparkling look.
Holy crapola.
She turned back to the group.
“You’re a man.” Her voice was shaking a bit from the realization that her evening, like her afternoon, was going to be taking a very surprising turn.
“I am, aye,” Roger said amiably. “Thank you for noticing.”
The women giggled.
“But why are you reading romance?”
He chewed his lip for a moment. “Simple, really. I like the stories. I read my first—when was it, Izzy? About ten years ago. Izzy and I had been married, oh, a good number of years then and, truth be told, had begun to drift apart. Oh, Izzy doesn’t mind me telling this story,” he added, evidently in response to Ellery’s look of concern. “We’ve told it many times. She loved romances, always had them stashed around the house. I knew she was thinking of leaving me. We hadn’t talked about it, but it was clear she was unhappy, and I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I didn’t want to lose her. I picked up a book she’d finished and decided on a whim to hide it, wondering for an instant if someday that might be all I had left of her. I’d always been a big reader. I love mysteries—Sayers, Tey, Christie, Rankin—and historical fiction: I teach history at the local school and, oh, the battles and intrigue! When Hornblower captures the Witch of Endor in Nantes…” His face took on a faraway glow.
Ellery, who knew enough of Horatio Hornblower to conclude that the Witch of Endor was a ship, not a person, smiled. She, too, understood the joy of getting lost in a story.
“I had no plan, really, when I began to read Izzy’s book,” Roger continued. “I just thought that if I did read it, I’d at least have something to talk to her about. As it turned out, it concerned the Battle of Trafalgar, and the hero was a man longing for a woman out of his reach. I thought the action was well done, but what appealed to me more was the battle the hero was fighting for his soul. He loved the woman so much that if he could not conquer her heart, he knew he would die. Which, of course,” he added as tears welled in his eyes, “was how I felt about Izzy.”
Izzy reached out, laid her hand over his and squeezed.
“She found me reading it that night. I think she was as surprised as you.” He smiled at the memory. “But it was the first real conversation we’d had in a long while.”
Izzy’s eyes, which had been filling as he spoke, reached their capacity, and a tear striped each cheek. It was so sweet, Ellery wanted to throw her arms around both of them.
“Something changed tha
t night for us,” Roger said, “and I’m very grateful for it. What surprised me even more is I loved the book. There were still battles and heroes and life-or-death choices, but it added the fight for the inner empire too.” He touched his heart. “I liked that.”
Marabel twitched a brow. “It’s enough to make a man say, ‘Bottoms up,’” The giggling began anew.
Despite Ellery’s burgeoning respect for romances and their readers, this still wasn’t an article she wanted to write—not when Carlton Purdy was holding up the final decision so that the board of Lark & Ives could read her next Vanity Place piece. She could just see the look on the board members’ faces. There was a reason people read romance novels in the bathtub—other than the obvious one, of course—and that was so nobody else saw them doing it.
A hand clasped her shoulder. Axel crouched beside her chair, creating a cozy circle of intimacy with his body. Instantly the chitchat next to her seemed like it was miles away.
“Hey,” he said.
She could see the long muscles running down that forearm and smell the faint scent of beer on his breath. The electricity between them was so strong, the hairs on her arms stood on end. Did he feel it too? Was she the only one susceptible? Or was that the reason he steadied himself with a hand on the chair?
“You doing okay over here?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Not to work a pun to death, but you must be whipped.”
The gleam in his eye reminded her that the minute she stopped working, a sixty-quid room awaited. “No, I’m okay.”
“Can I bring you something to drink?”
“An actual coffee would be fabulous.”
“Will do. I’ve gotten all the pictures I need, so whenever you’re ready…”
Why did those forearms have to look so damn sexy? “Sure. Give me fifteen minutes more with them and then we can work on the story.”
He made a small snort, unbent and kissed her on the head. “Nice try, Pittsburgh.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
