by Beth Trissel
Wrapped in the plaid arisaid Wrenie hadn’t been able to pry away from her, Mora followed the well-endowed female up the walk to Fergus’s front door. At least, as well as she could in these ill-suited shoes. Her eyes lingered on Wrenie, clothed in a black skirt and glove-tight shirt—she was fixated on that grim hue—emblazoned with a silver winged skull and the words “Cheat Death.”
Had the woman narrowly escaped the clutches of the Black Death, or the flames reserved for heretics and witches? The latter seemed more likely.
Black boots, fastened up the sides with silver buckles, showed whenever the wind lifted Wrenie’s uneven hem, but neither her costume nor anything else about her was any stranger than this land Mora had unwittingly entered. Perhaps the servants here had led some sort of revolt. Wrenie seemed more of a leader than a minion.
Whatever Wrenie was, her peculiar notions of fashion had inflicted a morning of torment on Mora. Staggering in the green, high heels, she recovered her balance, and mounted the steps to the door.
The pointed ends of the shoes hardly seemed meant to contain toes, while the odious garment called panty hose gripped her savagely.
Wrenie stepped inside, Mora at her heels. Music played from somewhere in the room, and she heard a man’s voice raised in song, but didn’t spot the troubadour or the musicians. It had been the same at the house of beauty, music emanating from the walls and most peculiar ballads to be sure, though she grasped the lament and yearning after love.
Her heart quickened when she spied Neil. He glanced up from the couch where he sat eating one of those enormous sandwiches she recalled from the evening before and drinking from a steaming mug. He regarded her as he might a specter.
Perhaps that explained matters. She was a ghost caught in purgatory. And yet, when she looked into his eyes, all torment faded except for the pang in her heart.
He dropped the food onto a plate made of paper on the low table in front of him, set the cup down, and got to his feet. His damp hair was freshly combed, and he’d changed into those long-legged breeches Wrenie referred to as jeans. The fitted garment looked far better on him than anyone else she’d seen wearing them. Over these jeans he’d donned a charcoal gray shirt that matched his eyes and buttoned up the front. Mora’s gown closed up the back with an odd device called a zipper.
Furrowing his brow, Neil said, “Wrenie, what have you done to her?”
Fergus looked up from his chair, apparently unaware that a gentleman should rise when a lady entered the room. “It’s not nearly as much makeup as Wrenie wears.”
Mora certainly hoped not. Wrenie wore enough cosmetics for an Egyptian queen, or so Mora had determined after a morning of beauty preparation.
Fergus returned his attention to that glowing box in his lap. His fingers flew over the letters on the front and made soft clicking sounds. Whatever engrossed him there made no sense to her.
Wrenie gestured with those odious fingernails. “All Max did was arch Mora’s brows a little to enhance her eyes and add a touch of liner and lip gloss. And a hint of blush to her cheeks, some foundation to cover those freckles—”
“I like her freckles,” Neil broke in. “They’re part of her charm.”
Charm? Did he think her bewitched?
“What about her hair? I mean it’s pretty,” he hastened to add, “but why that particular style?”
“She refused to have it cut.”
“I should think so.” Neil frowned.
“So Max thought it looked nice up on her head,” Wrenie said with a toss of her own.
Mora wasn’t so sure.
Neil didn’t appear convinced either. “Just the style for beauty pageants.”
Fergus glanced around. “Or maybe they need a Christmas Queen at the mall.”
The daft flow of words swirled over Mora’s head. Wrenie further contorted her bizarre features and made a face at him. Most churlish behavior.
Yet, Neil let it pass. Instead, he swept his hand at Mora while speaking to her addled maid. “What have you done with her clothes?”
“At the drycleaners.” Whatever that was.
Wrenie left her beaded purse on the stand inside the door. “Did you know she even wears a corset?”
Mora’s toes curled, and her cheeks warmed.
Neil assessed her at a glance then narrowed his eyes at Wrenie. “We don’t need to know that.”
“TMI, dudette,” Fergus scolded, unintelligibly.
“Fine.” Wrenie set the bag of cosmetics beside her purse. “I’m getting a soda. Anybody want one?”
Mora had nearly gagged at her taste of the noxious drink. She’d silently vowed never to have another. “Wrenie and I drank some sweet beverage she called ice tea. Delicious, though I did wonder why it was filled with chunks of ice.”
The ghost of a smile touched Neil’s lips. “You’re in the South. We load ice in everything. Nothing more for us now, thanks Wrenie. What do I owe you for this expedition?”
“Oh, don’t worry about the shop. I opened an account in your name,” she answered over her shoulder, walking from the room. “Max billed your credit card.”
“I’m sure he was thrilled,” Neil muttered.
“Extremely!” Wrenie called from the kitchen. “He expects you to come in regularly to get your hair styled.”
Neil opened his mouth to argue, “I don’t get it styled, just cut.”
“Aw, go on, Neil. You’re just his type,” Fergus added.
Mora had no idea what they were blethering about, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Neil. His presence triggered less than ladylike sensations in her nether reaches.
“I put Mora’s dress on your card too, and those darling shoes,” Wrenie added.
“The shoes are fine as long as she doesn’t actually have to walk in them,” he tossed back. “Well, Mora, let’s see this new dress.”
She hesitated. “There’s not a great plenty of cloth.”
The smile curving his lips sent a fresh charge tingling through her midriff.
“Don’t be shy,” he coaxed. “Show me and don’t mind Fergus.”
“No one does,” he mumbled.
Mora slowly opened the arisaid and unveiled her revealing gown. “Wrenie told me ’tis for the Yuletide festivity.”
Neil swept his approving gaze over her. “The fit is perfect.”
Mora had wondered at the fit after hearing the woman assisting her mutter something about why were all the girls so thin these days. As the woman wasn’t the least bit thin Mora had assumed plumpness to be the fashion.
Wrenie stuck her head around the doorway. “It’s retro eighties.”
Neil rolled his eyes. “What else?”
“Don’t you love the green on black, with those sequins?”
Approval warmed his gaze. “Lovely. And generous of you to allow the green. Figured you’d deck her out in all black. But why a holiday gown?”
Wrenie shrugged as though it were obvious. “If you wait until December, they’ll all be snapped up. And then what will she wear to parties?”
“What is she to wear to, oh say, the grocery store?”
“Are you taking her grocery shopping?”
Neil shook his head. “Not now.”
“I’ll get her something else later then.” With that, Wrenie returned to the kitchen.
He let the matter rest and beckoned to Mora. “Come sit with me. I need to speak with you.”
Weren’t they already speaking?
Perplexed, but without the slightest objection, she went willingly. Her skin prickled at his touch as he took her arm and drew her down onto the couch beside him.
If he noticed her involuntary response, he gave no indication. “While you were out, I returned home to restore some order and feed the cat.”
“Ye have a cat?” The Neil she’d known seemed unlikely to find pleasure in such an animal, preferring his big deerhound. Some folk even thought cats were evil, but Mora delighted in the purring creatures.
“I’
ve had Sebastian for years,” he said, without any further explanation, or the mention of a dog.
She sensed an underlying tension in him. “How did ye find yer house?”
“Covered in powder from where the police dusted for fingerprints.”
“A strange business, to add dust to one’s home.”
“I suppose so, if you think of it that way. I wiped it up as best I could in a hurry.”
“Sech cleaning is a servant’s work.”
His gravity deepened. “I don’t know how many servants you’re used to, but my one and only housekeeper is gone. There will never be another like her.”
“Aye,” Mora nodded. “I’m pained for yer sadness. ’Tis a grave matter, the felling of an old woman.”
“Your own aunt.” He studied her closely. “Don’t you remember her at all?”
Mora squirmed under his appraisal. “I’ve nary an aunt who goes by the title of Mrs. Dannon.”
He bent forward. “Maybe you knew her by another name.”
“Mayhap,” Mora agreed, partly to appease him. “Did ye blot up all the spilt blood without a hand to help ye?” She shot Fergus a reproachful look.
“Fergus is squeamish about such matters,” Neil said.
Fergus grimaced. “Yeah. I’m weird that way.”
“I’m not,” Mora insisted. “I should have given ye aid.”
“Surely a young woman isn’t accustomed to dealing with such grim business,” Neil reasoned.
Mora met the earnestness in his eyes. “Few live long in the Hielans without looking on the face of maiming and death. Even the lasses.”
“A hard life.”
“Aye. Raw and savage like a wild beast. But I love the land and its people.” Would she see any of them again, she wondered, knotting her hands in her lap.
Neil slid his hand closer and laid it across hers. Even the down on her skin tingled beneath his light caress. “I see.”
Mora explored his perceptive gaze and it seemed to her that he did see. Was he just sympathizing with her or truly beginning to remember? She prayed it was also the latter.
He blew out his breath, his chest heaving as if under a heavy weight. Then he straightened his shoulders and gave her an encouraging smile. “Enough of this depressing talk. You look so pretty and you’re all dressed up for a party. Let’s not waste that lovely dress. It’s meant for dancing.”
If he’d suggested they attend the court of the English Queen Elizabeth, Mora couldn’t have been more surprised or unprepared. Dancing took much skill to perform properly with grace. The dance master had been an infrequent guest in their home, his comings and goings unpredictable, and her father more interested in her brothers’—and consequently her—scholarly pursuits. And matters of warfare and clan rivalry, which formal dance didn’t enter into in the slightest.
“I was given little training in proper steps,” she stammered. “Still, I have some meager talent and delight in dancing.”
She thought of the more informal assemblies. Even those required a number of dancers to exact the steps, a minimum of four to six couples.
Did Neil have other guests in mind? Where were they keeping themselves? Circling her head at the room, she asked, “Who else will make up the set?”
Fergus wore a half smile. “Don’t look at me. And, trust me, you don’t want to see Wrenie dance.”
“I heard that!” she called from the kitchen.
“I hear you too, moocher—scarfing my chips and dip! I suppose the last of the bagels is history.”
“Saving that for something, were you?” Wrenie called back in between evident mouthfuls, with her usual disregard for her station.
“Does the word deli mean anything to you?” Fergus rejoined.
It didn’t to Mora.
“Thought I was in one. You need to restock the shelves,” Wrenie replied in a saucy tone.
Mora had given up making sense of the incomprehensible flow between them, or Fergus and Neil’s indulgence of the outrageous woman, but she had no inclination to include Wrenie in any social event. Nor did she think it seemly for servants to dance with gentlefolk.
She returned her gaze wonderingly to the faint mirth in Neil’s. “Who then?”
“Just us.”
“Dancing—alone?”
He squeezed her hand. “It’ll be all right, really.”
Unheard of. She was at a loss for words.
*****
Neil almost laughed out loud at Mora’s wide eyes and open mouth, but he made a considerable effort to conceal his amusement. He shouldn’t have shocked her. Someone as sheltered as she’d been couldn’t possibly have gone out dancing, unless it was to a square dance, if they had those in Scotland.
But here she sat in that totally impractical dress, hair piled on her head in an equally inappropriate style, clearly uncomfortable with her unaccustomed do and outfit, but trying to be a good sport. And despite it all, achingly desirable. It seemed the true test of her beauty was to survive a morning at Wrenie’s hands with her looks unscathed. Relatively. That hair had to come down.
The least he could do after her trying ordeal was to show the poor girl a good time, and escape the baffling mystery that hung over them and Mrs. Dannon’s horrific death for a few lighthearted minutes. Besides, he wanted an excuse to take Mora in his arms and, thanks to Wrenie’s fashion sense or lack of it, she was outfitted for dancing.
“Pin a corsage to her dress and you could take her to the prom,” Fergus tossed out. “I’ll bet Mora missed hers.”
“I’m contemplating something along the same lines,” Neil admitted.
Fergus grinned. “If we had time for a theme I’d be all over Camelot.”
“Better than Under the Sea, like my senior prom. This occasion calls for something special. What do you suggest? And don’t even think about trotting out Benny and the Jets.”
Fergus looked askance. “I wasn’t.”
But Neil knew Fergus loved to sing along.
“Fine. I’ll see what could possibly top that.”
To his credit, Fergus roused himself from his absorption in the laptop, lowered the recliner and got to his feet. Even a multitasker par excellence such as Fergus couldn’t do everything from his chair, and this could only mean he was foregoing his iPod and choosing from among his cherished collection of old vinyls. Fergus insisted there was nothing like the sound of an original recording.
Neil was touched by the gesture from one generally disinclined to put himself out, which required a trip across the room to the oak cabinet in the corner that housed, along with assorted electronics, a record player, also vintage and in prime condition. Fergus would have it no other way.
His back to them, he opened the double doors to the cabinet and sorted through albums neatly lined on the shelf. When it came to his prize possessions, Fergus was orderly. “What’ll it be? Moody Blues, Elton John, Beatles, Billy Joel,” he read off.
“Surprise me, but make it a slow dance.”
“I got that much,” Fergus replied.
Fortunately Neil had cleared the carpet earlier or he and Mora would have to dodge food wrappers and comics. Curling his fingers around her hand, he rose and drew her up with him. She got to her feet a little unsteadily in the heels. Another good excuse to slip his arm around her waist. The satin rustled and sequins shimmered in the light slanting through the window. This Eighties styled dress was intended for display beneath a dazzling disco ball.
He smiled to himself picturing her response to a crowded club, flashing strobe lights, blasting music, and then the familiar strains of Simon and Garfunkel’s Are You Going to Scarborough Fair filled the room. He had to hand it to Fergus in making this particular selection. The age-old song based on an ancient ballad suited Mora.
“Perfect.” He circled his other arm around her back. He didn’t pull her to him as tightly as the fiery surge inside him urged, but closely enough to savor her soft curves.
Gasping slightly, but not in any way that mad
e him think she objected to his hold, she tilted her head at him. If possible, her eyes widened even further. “I do not know this dance.”
“I do. Follow me,” he said, realizing his words carried a deeper meaning. He was asking her to trust him, when he didn’t yet know where he was leading them. But he would. Someway, somehow.
Mora lifted smooth arms around his neck and swayed in his lead as he slowly circled around the carpet. She was a natural, or maybe they were naturally good together. He didn’t doubt that one bit.
What bliss. Neil wished he could go on and on with her this way. Like being lost in a wonderful dream. The words of the song reverberated in his head, and it seemed to him that she’d always been his true love, his only love.
All too soon, the haunting refrain of the song came to an end. “Neil,” she summoned, sounding equally transported. “Have you been there?”
“Where?” Her query totally caught him off-guard.
“Scarborough Fair.”
He stopped in mid step and looked down into her face. She was utterly sincere.
“Everyone goes who’s able. My tutor said ’tis the merriest gathering in all of England.”
“Holy sh—” Fergus erupted and broke off. “There’s a link I need to double check.” He practically pounced on his laptop.
But Neil stood still. He had no idea how to reply to Mora. No words were needed, though, to simply hold her. She leaned her head on his chest while Homeward Bound played in the background.
“I thank ye fer the dance, Neil. ’Twas far lovelier than I could imagine, only…” she trailed off, wistfulness in her voice.
He sensed what she’d left unsaid. “Nothing here is as you expected, is it? Do you want to go home?”
“How can I?”
How indeed, and how could Neil let her go?
****
Mora savored the near unimaginable delight of Neil’s arms around her while wondering and waiting. As expected, Fergus jumped in.
“She’s right,” he declared. “She can’t go home the usual way. From what I’ve been able to learn, your lives are somehow entwined.”
This much Mora knew.
