by Lori Foster
In that instant, her world tilted. She’d also seen a flash of heightened awareness in his eyes. The air shifted, crackling as if charged with electricity. He’d lowered his head to kiss her, but she’d jerked free, breaking the magic.
And there had been magic.
Remembering sent shivers through her and made her heart thunder.
If he’d kissed her, she’d have been lost.
Jilly flattened her hand across the pebbles, pressing down on them until they stopped feeling like living, breathing memories and were once again nothing more than stones from the shore.
A pity she couldn’t do the same with the photos.
Frowning, she studied the camera lying so innocently on the dresser. Maybe if she stared at it long enough the incriminating pictures would disappear. Or at least morph into something less damning.
Unfortunately that wasn’t going to happen.
And she knew she wouldn’t be deleting the shots.
But she could remind herself why the photos shouldn’t matter.
So she reached for her grandmother’s locket, its age-smoothed silver warm beneath her fingers. Heart-shaped and engraved with two thistles, the stems entwined in intimate embrace, the locket held a twist of auburn hair and a tiny cutting of plaid.
Treasures Margo Clare had cherished all her days.
Remnants of the tragic love affair that had stolen the light from her life and left her soul bereft. Jilly tightened her fingers around the locket, more aware than ever of its sobering message.
Long distance romances didn’t work.
And it was always the woman whose heart would be broken.
Of course, according to Jilly’s grandmother, Alastair MacColl had been worth the risk. Big, brawny, and with a shock of red hair, he’d had flashing blue eyes and more charm than was good for him. As a gifted artist and passionate kilt-wearer, he’d needed less than a glance to bring world-traveler, Margo Clare, to her knees.
Her plans to hop trains and see Europe in a summer vanished as Jilly’s grandmother spent her holiday in the Scotsman’s arms, only returning home to announce her pending marriage and move to Scotland.
Alastair’s letter ending their relationship reached the States before Margo. The missive’s cold tone proved what a fool she’d been.
Now the letter rested inside Jilly’s purse, yellowed, brittle, and ink-faded. Waiting, as did the locket, for her to perform a closure ceremony at Alastair MacColl’s grave. A ritual she’d agreed to do because it’d been her grandmother’s dying wish.
Only if she burned the letter and tucked the locket into the cold, waiting earth would Margo Clare find peace in Heaven.
Or so the old woman believed.
Jilly’s heart began to hammer and she could almost feel the locket pulsing against her skin again, each silvery vibration admonishing her with five echoing words. Don’t make the same mistake. Don’t make the same mistake. Don’t . . .
Frustrated, she spun away from the dresser and started toward her bed.
She took exactly three steps before she huffed out a breath and wheeled around to snatch her camera and retrieve her photos of Salty.
But it wasn’t the seal’s black domed head that caught her eye.
It was the back view of Kieran as he stood on the shore looking out at the loch. The width of his shoulders and how the evening light glinted on his dark hair, revealing a touch of chestnut she’d only noticed on studying the photos.
She also couldn’t miss how companionably Haggis sat beside him and that in one of the photos Kieran was scratching the dog behind his ears.
A man who loved dogs couldn’t be bad.
How people felt about dogs had always been her measure of a person.
She clicked through the photos, the memory of their almost-kiss burning inside her until she shut down the viewing screen and tossed the camera onto the bed.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—get involved with a Scotsman from Luss.
Or could she?
She honestly didn’t know.
But she did recognize the need to get out of her room, pleasant as it was. A glance at her watch told her that the inn’s pub would still be open. She could sit at the bar, sip a pint of ale, and soak up the coziness until she was ready for bed.
As it happened, upon slipping downstairs and into the late night quiet of the lounge, a red-cheeked man in a tweedy jacket swung round in his chair and grinned at her the instant she stepped through the door.
“Ho, there’s yourself!” He waved his dram glass in greeting. “I saw you went straight to the source today, what? Well-met, lassie, well-met, indeed.”
Jilly paused, blinking.
For a moment, she thought he was the ghost. But this man wasn’t kilted and was definitely solid. He also didn’t have a see-through Jack Russell.
Even so, he seemed familiar and his words caught her off guard.
Then she remembered speaking with him at the Luss Post Office on the day she’d arrived. He’d suggested she stay at the Colquhoun Arms and, much to her relief, he’d also assured her that she’d find Alastair MacColl’s grave in the village churchyard.
“The source?” She started forward again, not sure what he meant.
“Why, young MacColl, of course!” He slapped his dram glass on the bar. “He’s Alastair’s grandson. I saw you with him on the strand, not far from his gallery.”
Jilly’s heart sank and her legs went rubbery.
Tweedy beamed. He had no idea he’d turned her world upside down.
“His gallery?” She stared at him, not caring if she sounded like a parrot. “The man I talked to runs boat tours.”
“Och, don’t we all these days!” The man chuckled. “Ferrying visitors around the loch, weaving, or piping at hotel-sponsored ceilidhs, the summer tourist trade gets us through the winter.”
Jilly nodded, unable to speak.
Her mouth had gone dry and she was beginning to feel sick.
“As for MacColl ...” The man leaned forward. “You know what they say”—he winked—“the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Some hereabouts think he’s more talented than his grandfather.”
“So he’s an artist?” Jilly could hardly get the words out.
“He’s a driftwood artist.” He spoke as if that made a difference.
“He makes animal sculptures out of driftwood. Horses, sheep, dogs, birds, you name it. Says the pieces he collects speak to him, telling him what they’re meant to be. Then he sets to work.”
Jilly swallowed. “I’m sure his work is . . . beautiful.”
“Aye, so it is.” The man reached for his dram, emptying the little glass. “You should stop by his studio. It’s at the end of the road, across from the pier but a bit hidden behind the trees.”
“I will.” Jilly forced a smile.
She had no intention of visiting the gallery. And she already knew where it was. Her grandmother had described its location to her.
No way was she going there.
What she was going to do was remember to listen better when people introduced themselves.
Looking back, she was sure Kieran mentioned his last name. But his dog’s haggis attack startled her so much the name hadn’t registered.
Luckily it did now.
Too bad the revelation made her feel so lousy.
Somewhere in the small hours, just as Jilly finally fell into a deep sleep, Kieran sat bolt upright in his bed. His heart pounded, the sheets were twisted, and cold sweat damped his brow. He shoved a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock on his night table, not at all surprised to see that it was after two A.M.
Not that the time mattered.
What counted was that he’d remembered what was so familiar about Jilly Pepper.
It wasn’t the girl at all.
Not really, although now that he’d made the connection, he couldn’t deny she had the same deep blue eyes and shining, honey-blond hair. He suspected she’d also inherited the full, round breas
ts though it was hard to tell beneath the jacket she always wore.
His gut clenched. How ironic that it was something else she wore that revealed her identity. Margo Clare’s locket was unmistakable. His grandfather had fashioned it for the woman, giving it to her as a token of his undying love.
She’d sworn to wear it always.
Then she’d left Scotland never to be heard from again.
“Damn.” Kieran scowled and leapt to his feet, promptly stubbing his toe on a chair leg. “Owwww!” he roared, resisting the urge to kick the chair.
Limping around the darkened room, he glared at the blackout shades at his windows as he snatched up his clothes and dressed as quickly as his throbbing foot allowed. Then he let himself out into the light summer night and strode straight across the damp grass to the small studio that had once been his grandfather’s.
He needed several tries to open the rusty-hinged door, but once inside enough of the night’s luminosity spilled through the windows to show him what he’d come to see.
His pulse racing, he went to where some of his grandfather’s earliest paintings were propped against a wall. He knew which one he wanted. It was the only painting covered with cloth.
It was hidden from view, though he knew his grandfather had often lifted the cloth to peer at it. Something he’d done with increasing frequency in later years. The long hours he’d spent in the studio, mooning over the portrait, had never failed to break Kieran’s heart.
But he’d understood.
Margo Clare had been the only woman Alastair MacColl had ever truly loved.
“Damn!” He cursed again as he found the painting and ripped away the cloth.
He stared down at the beautiful woman, scowling.
Her painted face smiled back at him. Poised, serene, and looking absolutely incapable of wreaking the kind of damage she’d done to his grandfather.
Kieran stepped back and folded his arms, his gaze focused on the painting. A true masterpiece, it showed the woman perched on a rock somewhere near the summit of Ben Lomond. She wore a blue dress and Jilly’s locket glinted brightly at her throat.
She appeared about the same age as Jilly.
And she seemed—no, she felt—so alive Kieran would have sworn she really was looking at him.
He narrowed his eyes at her, uncomfortable.
“Does Jilly know what you did? Did you ever tell her how you promised to return and then vanished into thin air? Did you laugh each time you received one of my grandfather’s letters, begging you to come back to him?” The questions left his lips before he could catch himself.
He frowned.
Only crazies talked to oiled canvases.
He might be halfway to falling in love with an American he hardly knew, but other than that he was quite sane.
Sound-minded enough to regret dashing out without tossing on a jacket. He shivered and rubbed his arms, certain his grandfather’s cluttered little studio was colder than an arctic winter.
Ignoring the chill, he pulled the draping back over the painting. He’d seen enough. Jilly’s locket was indeed the same one worn by Margo Clare.
But when he turned to leave, he also saw the lady was no longer wearing it.
She hovered in a shaft of soft light near the door, a mere shimmer against the night. Decades older, she was beautiful as before, and still in her blue dress. And rather than glinting at her neck, the locket dangled from her outstretched hand.
Her eyes pleaded.
The shimmering light around her intensified as she drifted nearer.
It wasn’t as you think.
The words rippled the air and lifted the fine hairs on Kieran’s nape. But before he could blink, she vanished, taking the odd light and the cold with her.
Only clarity remained.
Something between his grandfather and Margo Clare had gone horribly wrong. And now—he was sure of it—he had a chance to make things right.
He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I knew I’d find you here.”
The words came soft in the cool damp of the rain-misted churchyard. Rich, deep, and with enough burr to make Jilly’s breath catch.
She froze. Kneeling beside Alastair MacColl’s grave with one hand braced on his headstone and the other about to shove her grandmother’s locket into the wet mossy earth, left her in a vulnerable position to greet the man’s grandson.
She swallowed, not ready to face him.
“Don’t do it.” He was coming closer. She could hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel path. The rustle of bracken and heather, sounds that let her know his dog bounded along with him.
“It’s over, lass.” His hand settled on her shoulder, squeezing. “The locket is yours now.”
That did it.
She shot to her feet and swung around. “What do you know of it?”
His gaze pierced her. “Not as much as I’d like, but enough to guess what you were doing.”
Jilly glared at him, not liking the look on his face. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she lied, heart racing. “The locket dropped and I found it on the grave.”
Haggis pushed between them, whining.
Kieran folded his arms. “See? Even he knows you’re telling a tall one.”
“My business here is my own.” Jilly stood her ground. “I was about to leave anyway.”
“I know.” He looked equally determined. “I went to the inn. They told me you’d checked out.”
“Then you’ll understand I’m in a hurry.”
Rather than answer her, he glanced at Haggis. The dog sidled over to him, deftly helping him block the path out of the churchyard. Unless she wished to follow Haggis’s lead and lope through dripping underbrush.
Jilly frowned. “Just what do you want?”
A chance for us.
Kieran caught himself before he blurted the truth burning so hotly inside him. There were other things they needed to settle first. “Let’s say I’d like to avert another tragedy.”
She blinked. “A what?”
“I know you’re Margo Clare’s granddaughter.” He watched her carefully as he said the words. “At least I think that’s the connection.”
The high color that flooded her face proved it.
“Then maybe you should just turn around and walk away.” She jammed a hand on her hip, the sudden glitter in her eyes making him regret his bluntness. “Leave me alone so I can see to her last wishes.”
“I can’t do that.” Kieran shook his head. “I believe she changed her mind. If you’ll give me five minutes”—he steeled himself, expecting a rebuff—“I think you’ll agree.”
Her eyes flashed. “How could you know what she wanted?”
“Because”—he took a breath—“I saw her ghost last night.”
Her jaw slipped but she didn’t argue.
Kieran smiled, encouraged. “Five minutes is all I ask.”
She glanced through the trees to the loch, then back to him. “Five minutes where?”
Kieran swiped a raindrop off his brow. “I’d like to show you something in my grandfather’s studio. You’ll understand when you see it.”
“I don’t know . . .”
The hesitation in her voice made Kieran’s heart flip. Hope tightened his chest and he reached out a hand, willing her to take it.
Sharing his excitement, Haggis barked and ran to the churchyard gate, clearly certain they’d follow.
“You’d no’ let him down would you?” Kieran seized his chance, not missing how her gaze followed the dog. “Besides”—he glanced at the darkening sky—“this drizzle is about to worsen.”
Already rain splattered the path. Whether for that reason or because of the chill wind sweeping off the loch, she took his hand and let him lead her back to the promenade. Haggis shook himself and trotted beside them for the short walk to Kieran’s cottage.
But she hung back when they entered his garden and approached the studio. “I’m not sure�
�”
“It’s just a portrait.” Kieran opened the door. “My grandfather painted it of Margo Clare on Ben Lomond. She’s wearing your locket and when I saw her last night she held it out to me. I’m sure she meant—”
Jilly stopped on the threshold with a gasp.
She wasn’t staring at the painting of Margo Clare, but at a self-portrait of his grandfather and his favorite dog, a Jack Russell named Argyll.
“That’s the man I saw at the inn!” She stepped into the studio, one hand to her breast. “He was in the road, too, with that same dog. I’d know them anywhere.”
“Looks like he knew you, too.” Kieran joined her at the portrait. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
Jilly nodded, her mouth too dry for words.
“I suspected it was him. And Argyll.” He slid an arm around her. “They were inseparable. As I believe he and Margo Clare would have been if she hadn’t left him.”
“She didn’t.” Jilly jerked free. He had it wrong. “Your grandfather ended the relationship. He broke my grandmother’s heart. See”—she pulled the faded letter from her purse—“it’s all here.”
She thrust it at him, watching as he read. He blanched and then two bright spots of red colored his cheeks.
“Bloody hell!” He looked up. “My grandmother wrote this. Her handwriting is unmistakable.”
“Your grandmother?”
He nodded. “She loved my grandfather since childhood. But he thought of her as a sister. Until—”
“He didn’t hear from my grandmother again,” Jilly finished. “He never knew she believed he’d written to say it was over.”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Kieran frowned. “Grandfather sent letters begging Margo Clare to return.”
“Perhaps your grandmother intercepted them?” It seemed a possibility.
He frowned, ran a hand through his hair. “I sure hate to think so, but we’ll never know.” He reached for her, drawing her close just as Haggis nosed between them, tail wagging. “Jilly . . .” He looked down at his dog, then at her. “Whatever happened, we do know they brought us together. They want us to have the future they were denied. Maybe—”
