Iain lifted a brow. “Will you now?”
“Oh, come off it, Iain. You’ve known all along that I would. You’ve been enjoying this, haven’t you? You like watching the mere mortals suffer and squirm and act like idiots while you rise above it all.”
“You Americans have no respect for your betters.”
“There is no one better.”
Andrew joined them, and they made room for him at their table, which was easy since everyone else edged away.
As always, Duncan was annoyed. “What in the hell do they think is going to happen just because we’re sitting together?”
Iain ignored him. “Duncan tells me he’s not going to sell the hotel,” he told Andrew.
“Is that so? And what is it you’ll be doing with it, Dunc?”
“Living in it. Running it. Running a business out of it, I think. I’m appalled at the state of advertising in the Highlands. We’ve got more to offer than knobby masculine knees and grinning Loch Ness monsters. I’ve got some thoughts on how to tastefully present what we’re about.”
“We?”
Duncan leaned forward. “You don’t have any idea how much this place irritates me sometimes. There’s nothing to do, and the weather? My God, the weather’s the worst in the world! And then there are the attitudes. I half expect to wake up one morning and find druids sacrificing victims in the middle of High Street and everybody else nodding and going about their business. And the two of you are no better than anyone else in the village. You’re set in your ways and you’re lazy and you keep coming back here no matter where else you go because you think, for some crazy reason, that this place, this Brigadoon rising from the mists every day of every year, is home.”
“And?” Iain asked.
Duncan sat back. “And, damn it, I guess it is.”
Andrew signaled Brian, and in a moment there were three drams of the hotel’s best whiskey on the table.
“To the men of midnight,” Andrew said. He held his glass high.
And the three of them drank in unison.
* * *
He had a Scot’s tolerance for his native drink and a Sinclair’s disdain for talking about his feelings. Now one warred with the other as Duncan drove the road up Bein Domhain to Mara’s. He hadn’t had enough whiskey to impair his driving, but two drinks had been all it had taken to convince him that tonight had to be the night to confront her.
He’d driven the road already this week. Twice, in fact. And both times he’d turned around just before he reached her croft because he hadn’t been sure what to say.
What could he say to a woman he loved beyond reason but to whom he had never mentioned that fact? How did he tell her that he was a stubborn, overbearing and sometimes blind fool who had learned much too early not to take any emotional risks? How did he promise that he had learned from his mistakes and wouldn’t make them again, when he wasn’t sure, himself, that he had learned. Not totally.
Because he was only human and, sadly, perpetually fallible.
Something rolled against his foot and Duncan kicked it to the other side of the car. A glance affirmed that it was a ball that April had been trying to teach Primrose to fetch. She hadn’t taken either the dog or the ball when she’d left town with her mother two days ago, but she would have lots of time to play with both when she returned.
April was staying with Lisa for the remainder of the week, at a hotel near Loch Ness where Lisa planned to recuperate before her long flight back to the States. She had plans to come back at Christmastime and take April to London for a few days. Lisa didn’t want custody, only the right to visit her daughter. And she had proved that she could put April’s needs above her own now.
After the rescue Lisa had been surprisingly honest about her difficulty accepting responsibility, and she expected to work on her problems for a long time to come. But she wanted to be part of her daughter’s life, and for everyone’s sake, Duncan was going to let her. Sometime in the last year she had stopped searching for easy answers.
Sometime in the last year he had started searching for answers. His search had led him back to the village of his birth and his boyhood friends, and to a compromise with Lisa that was going to help his daughter grow into a happy, healthy adult.
Now he had to face his last and possibly his most difficult challenge.
Duncan’s thoughts had taken him a good distance up the mountain. He realized he was close to the passing place where he had seen the fountain of light that had probably saved him from a fatal collision. On a whim, and because he still wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Mara, he pulled over and got out of his car.
It was a cold night and mist rose like icy fingers from the ground. If there was a moon tonight, it wasn’t visible in the cloud-layered sky, and not a single star shone. An owl hooted from the lone tree at the edge of the cliff, and somewhere on the ground below, a small animal, a vole or a shrew, perhaps, rustled in fright.
The view—or lack of one—was desolate. Cold and mist and a starless sky, the faintest shadows of distant peaks, the stark silhouette of leafless trees. And the remnants, the faintest dusting, of last week’s snowfall.
He took a deep breath of the frost-laden air and filled his lungs.
And he finally knew what he would say to Mara.
The rest of the trip went quickly. He parked at the bottom of her drive to give himself a few extra moments to prepare. Over the hill he could hear the tinkle of a bell and the hypnotic whisper of fleece against fleece as the sheep huddled together for the night. For the first time he truly understood Mara’s enchantment with this place, why she had struggled to resurrect it from the earth, and why it had given her the courage to move beyond it. Now he could picture himself here, too. Winter nights beside a peat fire, spring days exploring daffodil-dappled meadows. There was little he couldn’t imagine if Mara was at his side.
He crested the hill and looked toward her house, still a good ways in the distance. The chill that stole his breath had little to do with the autumn air. Just in front of her cottage was a familiar fountain of pale green light.
He stared, transfixed. The light glowed against the stone walls with an unearthly radiance and transformed everything in its path. For that moment he was rooted to the earth, unable to move. The light swayed and rippled against the stone, then slowly, so slowly, coalesced into the form of a woman.
“My Lady Greensleeves.” He breathed the words. Fear clutched at him even as he admired her beauty. He had seen this sight, this ghost of Perthshire and now of Druidheachd, twice before, and each time it had been a warning of danger. “Mara!”
He began to sprint toward the light. He had no thought except to find Mara. His fear was for her safety, and not for his own. He would fight ghosts for her; he would slay dragons.
He was closer now, and the light blazed brighter and didn’t fade away. He could see a clearer outline, the soft feminine curves, the long, pale hair. And then she was running toward him.
He held a flesh and blood woman in his arms, a woman dressed in a flowing green cape, her hair loose and wild on her shoulders. He covered Mara’s face with kisses and tasted the salt of tears on her cheeks. The lantern she carried brushed his back as she clasped him against her. His lips found hers and he knew he would never let her go again.
“My lady,” he whispered over and over. He held her close. She seemed to flow against him, her body as supple and yielding as light, her skin as soft and as warm.
“I knew you’d come.”
“Did you? How? Did you see our future?”
“No. I’ve waited for you every night. I’ve come outside for every passing car. I believed in you.”
“In us.” He kissed her again and filled his hands with her hair. She swayed in his arms and the feel of her body as it brushed against him set him on fire. “I believe in us, too, but I haven’t known what to say to you.”
“You dinna have to say anything, Duncan.” She slid her hands under his belt, under the w
aistband of his trousers and pulled his shirt free. “There’s nowt you could say that would be better than this.”
He felt her hands against his bare skin. He felt the rhythmic sway of her hips against his. He groaned, torn between trying to tell her what was in his heart and showing her.
“I love you,” he said. It was too little, too late, and he was ashamed.
“Aye, I know.” She rose on tiptoe and ended the conversation. He kissed her back and let desire consume him.
As if she knew, she led him inside and kicked the door closed behind her. He was surrounded by the fragrance of smoldering peat, of sage and chamomile and lavender. The air was warm against his skin as they undressed each other and the mattress was soft against his flesh.
In bed she moved against him, her legs entwined with his, her breasts indescribably perfect against his chest. He told himself to wait, to savor so that he could remember this always, but he was inside her before the words had ended, and they were moving together.
He could feel the velvet warmth of her surrounding him. He had asked for so little, and somehow, he had been given so much. She was part of him in a way he had never dreamed a woman could be, and he belonged completely to her.
He didn’t know what stars they reached for, what answers they sought and found together. He wasn’t aware of the passing of time or of beginnings or endings. The pleasure he felt was beyond words, and he knew it was her pleasure, too. When there was no way to prolong the ecstasy, when the agony of prolonging it was too excruciating, he gave himself up to one all-consuming moment.
And there was no time except infinity.
Mara was the first to speak. It might have been yesterday or tomorrow, a minute or a millennium. He didn’t know and more important, didn’t care.
“You took your time, Duncan.”
Time might have stood still when they were wrapped in each other’s arms, but he suspected she wasn’t talking about their lovemaking. He laughed. “Did I? Someday I’ll have to show you what it’s like when I really take my time.”
She playfully tapped his cheek with her fingertips. “You know that’s no’ what I meant. You took your time coming back to me.”
“I needed to think.”
“Did you?”
“I’ve been up Bein Domhain twice this week, Mara, and both times I left without seeing you.”
She stroked the cheek she had slapped. “Is it so hard to tell me what’s in your heart?”
“I haven’t been able to think of a way to tell you. I’m only good with words when it’s not myself I’m selling.”
“Ah. And must you sell yourself to me?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“Even though I knew already that you loved me?”
He turned to his side so that he could see her face. “Did you know?”
“Aye. And I know how much that frightens you.”
“I haven’t been very good at love, Mara. I couldn’t love Lisa enough to help her surmount all the problems in her life. And I didn’t love April enough to protect her when she needed to be protected or to help her have a relationship with Lisa when it was so clear she needed one.”
“You loved them both, and you loved them both enough. And you did what you thought was best. Always. And sometimes, no matter how hard we try, it is no’ enough to make things perfect.”
“You’re very wise.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Well, I’ve come by it at great cost. I wish sometimes I were only half as wise.”
He smiled and lifted to kiss her. “I would like to take you exactly as you are, wisdom and all, if you’ll let me. But can you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For never trusting you enough. For telling you I believed in your second sight, then refusing to believe that Lisa and April were at Glencoe?”
“What is there to forgive?”
“I didn’t trust you. I called my attorney and asked him to meet the plane that I thought they’d be on. I didn’t really believe that you could be right.”
“And so?”
“Mara, are you saying you forgive me?”
“There was nowt to forgive, Duncan. Could I be angry that you took no chances with April’s safety? Had I been you, I would have done the same. There was no shame in it. And you trusted me enough to come with me. I’ll never ask for more than that.”
He kissed her again, slowly and thoroughly. “Then there’s one thing more.”
“Aye?”
“There’s something I’ve only just admitted to myself.”
She smiled. “Only one thing?”
He laughed, but he sobered quickly. He touched her cheek, her hair. Then he tilted her face to his. “From the beginning I’ve used your second sight as an excuse to keep you at arm’s length. But it’s never been anything more than an excuse.”
“No?”
He moved a little closer. “You’ve frightened me, but not because you can see the future.”
“Why, then?”
He gathered her close, and rested his lips against her cheek. He feathered a trail of kisses to her ear, and then he whispered the truth he had only just come to know.
“Never because of the future. You’ve frightened me, my extraordinary lady, because you’ve turned the present into something magical.”
Her smile trembled and her eyes misted. “Have I?”
“And it will always be so.” He found her lips with his. She settled against him with a sigh, and he felt the peace and pleasure of a man who had everything. He reached down for the comforter to cover them, and then with a soft curse he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“What’s wrong, Duncan?” Mara asked sleepily. “Please dinna tell me you have to go back to the hotel tonight.”
“No. But I just remembered that you dropped the lantern before we came inside. I’d better check to be sure it’s out.”
She took his arm to restrain him. “Come back to bed. There’s nowt to worry about. I’d yet to light it before you came over the hill.”
“What are you saying? You never lit it? It was never on?”
She reached up and dragged him back down beside her. “No. I was waiting to see if it was needed.”
“I saw…” His voice trailed off.
“What is it you saw?” She kissed his cheek, his nose, and then, his lips. It was a lingering kiss, full of promise.
He sighed and wrapped his arms around her again. “I may ask you to prove from time to time that you’re really flesh and blood.”
“Would now be as good a time as any?”
He smiled, and his hands searched for evidence. “Now and forever, my lady. Now and forever.”
* * * * *
“Complex characters, compelling emotions and the healing power of forgiveness—what could be better? I loved this book!”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods on One Mountain Away
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Somewhere Between Luck and Trust
No River Too Wide
The Color of Light
When We Were Sisters
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CHAPTER ONE
Robin
The stories of our lives can be told in so many ways, but no one account, no matter how carefully rendered, is completely true. Words are, at best, only an outline, something I discovered years ago whenever I was asked about my childhood. In the same way, I’m sure I’ll tell the story of last night’s accident differently every time I’m forced to recount it.
I hope that won’t be often.
Right up until the minute I slid into the backseat of Gretchen Wainwright’s Camry, I remember everything that happened yesterday. For better or worse I remember little that happened afterward. The neurologist on call at the hospital promised that wisps of amnesia are not unusual, that after even a minor brain injury, patients often recount “islands of memory,” when past events are viewed through fog. Sometimes the fog lifts, and, blessedly, sometimes it does not.
Here’s what I do recall.
Meadow Branch, a housing development just outside Leesburg, Virginia, is more than my home. This little patch of earth is my refuge and my center. The friends I’ve made here are more important to me than I am to them, which is not to say they don’t care. They do. But I treasure each of them in a way they’ll never understand. To my knowledge I am the only woman in our neighborhood who grew up without a real home or family. And before Meadow Branch I never had a friend who didn’t blow away on the winds of fortune. No friend except Cecilia, of course. Cecilia, my sister, and–of no real importance to me–a superstar singer-songwriter, is my anchor in a way that even Kris, my husband, will never be.
In the past year, as my neighbors have begun to drift into new chapters of their lives, I’ve been discouraged. Our house is strangely quiet. The small group of women on our street no longer see each other regularly, no longer huddle together at soccer games, passing communal white wine in go-cups up and down bleacher rows. These days, our sons and daughters travel to matches all over the state in jewel tone polyester jerseys, like flocks of migrating parrots. At home they’re busy preparing for ever-increasing batteries of tests or studying karate, piano, or ballet.
Men of Midnight Complete Collection Page 24
