Scot of My Dreams

by Janice Maynard

  The Highlanders had always been a breed apart, their reputation for fierce independence appealing to someone like me, who had carved a life for myself in the midst of hardship. As difficult as it had been to leave my business in the capable hands of my group of stylists, I had a sinking suspicion that it would be harder still to say goodbye to Scotland at the end of my month’s adventure.

  Shaking off the dismal anticipation of a day still well into the future, I debated my options. Small vases were nice, but I rarely took the time to buy flowers. I liked the butter dish, but again, it would sit in my cabinet unused most of the time.

  Then I spotted what I thought was a trivet. I supposed it could be used for that purpose, but on closer inspection when I picked it up, I saw that it had a hanger on the back. The piece was circular, about five inches in diameter, probably meant as a wall decoration. The image painted on it was beautiful: blue hills stacked one on top of the next, the ubiquitous heather in the foreground.

  In the distance stood a familiar building.

  I turned to the potter and held up my find. “Is this a real location?” I asked, suspecting I already knew the answer.

  “Aye,” he said, his hands covered in wet clay. “It’s Dunvarstone Castle.”

  Chapter 11

  “I thought it might be,” I said, my heart beating rapidly.

  “’Tis an impressive castle,” the potter said. “But it’s not open to the public. Ye can walk nearby, though…and get some lovely pictures.”

  I knew I had found my souvenir. The price tag said £15, which by my rough calculations was about thirty dollars. Not cheap, but also not beyond my budget. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been twice the price. I knew I had to have it.

  Once I paid for my purchase and waited for the proprietor to tape it up, I was beginning to get hungry. “Is there anywhere to eat around here?” I asked, taking the bubble-wrapped package and tucking it in my tote.

  The potter nodded. “If you follow this road about half a mile, you’ll stumble upon Hodden. It’s not so much a village as a wide spot in the road. But the post office doubles as a wee store, and you can buy a sandwich or a mutton pie.”

  “Thank you. I may be back another day. You have some beautiful things here.”

  It was already after one o’clock. I had lingered longer than I intended in the interesting shop, and now I was starving. Thanks to the potter’s guidance, I found the crossroads that was Hodden. Ten minutes later, I climbed a small hill behind the store and sat down to enjoy my lunch.

  The beef pastry was hot and fresh. I ate it slowly, enjoying the breeze and the warm sunshine. Again I thought about my two friends. I missed Hayley and her propensity for organization. Even though McKenzie and I butted heads at times, I missed her wicked laugh and her unquenchable optimism.

  Though to an outsider it might appear we three women had little in common, we understood each other on a deep, almost spiritual level. We had shared a playpen back when such things were commonplace. We had learned to read and to write and to multiply together.

  Then came a big gap in time when we’d lost each other. But our relationship had eventually come full circle, aided and abetted by our mutual love for the stories of Outlander. We had read the books over and over and had seen every episode of the television series at least three times. Studying Jamie Fraser, his expressions, his words to his ladylove, had consumed our leisure hours.

  We were bound together by our devotion to a man who had been conjured up by a talented writer and a creative television crew. What would Hayley and McKenzie think of Bryce? Would they see him as intriguing as our imaginary hero, Jamie?

  I finished my meal and tucked the trash in the outside pocket of my pack. It was getting late. If I wanted time to primp—and maybe take a nap—I’d best be heading back to the hostel.

  * * *

  By five thirty that evening, I was a wreck. Why had I ever said yes to a date with Bryce MacBrae? Though I had chosen to wear the nicest of my travel outfits, my simple cotton dress and T-shirt were ordinary at best.

  Fortunately, I had the skills to gild the rose. My hair cooperated, feathering over my forehead and around my ears like it was supposed to. I carefully applied mascara and eye shadow to make my hazel eyes look smoky and mysterious. Normally, I wore clear lip gloss, but given the situation, I pulled out the big guns: a deep berry-colored lipstick that was non-smudge, in case a girl happened to get kissed. Not that I was thinking about kissing. I wasn’t. Not much. But after all, since I had found my sexy Scotsman in the first week of my Scottish adventure, it seemed only fair that I get to kiss him at least once.

  I stared in the mirror of the communal bathroom and tried to study my reflection impartially. I was having a good hair day. That would be a plus except for the fact that a lot of men liked long hair rather than short when it came to a woman’s crowning glory. Sadly, not something I could change at the drop of a hat, even if I wanted to.

  My cheekbones were probably my best feature. My grandmother used to tell me they were movie-star cheekbones. As a kid, I was never sure what that meant, but I knew it was a good thing. They were high and pronounced. I might have lost a pound or two since arriving in Scotland, mostly from all the walking and the unexciting food.

  I pinched my cheeks and smoothed my eyebrows. I hadn’t primped this much since the local neighborhood paper ran an article about my beauty salon. I wasn’t accustomed to getting “gussied up” anymore. Most evenings I was so tired after work, all I wanted to do was go home and watch Jeopardy.

  Despite my dithering, the hands on the clock continued to move. At ten ’til six I knew I had to go down to the lobby. I wasn’t expecting Bryce to climb four flights of stairs and knock on my door.

  Though I was early, Bryce was earlier. I saw him immediately, standing at ease near the front door. He spotted me and smiled, coming to meet me in the center of the room. “You look beautiful,” he said. “I’ve made reservations for six thirty. And I forgot to ask, do you have any strong dislikes when it comes to food?”

  “No. I’m easy to please.” I stared at him and tried to catch my breath.

  He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “You’re not wearing your kilt,” I blurted out. He was clad in a dark tan blazer over navy slacks. His white button-down shirt was open at the collar. He looked amazing, but I was still a bit disappointed.

  Bryce took my arm and steered me outside. “I wear that old kilt when I’m out ranging around on the estate, because it’s comfortable. But I wouldn’t wear one to a casual dinner. Nor would most men in Inverness. Now, a fancy occasion—that’s another story.”

  “I see.” Of course his explanation made sense. This wasn’t eighteenth-century Scotland. We were living in a new millennium. A thoroughly modern society.

  Too bad.

  Bryce had brought his beautiful car again. It smelled of leather and luxury. Unfortunately, Inverness wasn’t all that far away. I wouldn’t have minded taking a long drive with the laird. Anywhere at all.

  Over dinner, he charmed me with his easy conversation and his sly sense of humor. “You know a lot about me,” he complained. “But I know very little about you. Tell me why you came to Scotland.”

  We were dining on locally caught salmon and some kind of delicious brown bread. “Well,” I said, not wanting him to think me ridiculous, “it’s a beautiful country, you know.” I hesitated to talk about the Outlander stuff. When I’d tried to explain that to my fellow travelers at the hostel, they had looked at me as if I were crazy. I didn’t want Bryce to also think I was eccentric.

  He leaned back in his chair, his small smile making me want to jump his bones. “There are a lot of beautiful countries,” he said. “Why Scotland?”

  The man wasn’t going to give up. I bit my lip. “Have you heard of a television program called Outlander?”

  “Aye.” He surprised me. “The news did a piece about it some time ago. The producers have been filming in Scotland, right?”r />
  “But you haven’t actually seen it.”

  “No.”

  “It’s amazing,” I said. I proceeded to tell him the storyline and the characters and McKenzie’s generosity and the vision that had brought my friends and me across the pond to seek adventure and romance. Actually, I skipped over the romance part.

  After my impassioned speech, Bryce stared at me so intently, I squirmed. “I can’t quite figure you out, Willow,” he said.

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Based on our acquaintance so far, I had you pegged as a woman who was straightforward. Maybe even a wee bit cynical. I’d never have guessed you had a romantic side.”

  What he said was spot on, but I bristled anyway. “There’s nothing wrong with romance.”

  “Of course not. Actually, I’m damn glad to hear about the whole Outlander experience. I think it bodes well for my chances of getting you into bed. You know, the kilt thing and all.”

  Chapter 12

  My mouth dropped open, but I snapped it shut. I looked around us to make sure no one had overheard. Restaurants in Scotland were much smaller than those back home. The tables were tucked closely together.

  Fortunately, other diners were engrossed in their own conversations. “You can’t say things like that,” I hissed.

  “Why not?”

  Why not, indeed? “I do prefer honesty and plain speaking,” I said, sounding pedantic even to my own ears. “But you and I barely know each other.”

  “Is that a prerequisite for a vacation romance?”

  I felt myself getting heated. In more ways that one. “Hayley and McKenzie are the ones who think they’re going to find their soulmates in the Highlands, not me. All I want to do is learn how to relax.”

  “I’m happy to offer my services in that regard.” He leaned back in his chair and played with his wine glass. I couldn’t help but notice his hands. They were large and tanned and graceful. It was easy to imagine him wearing one of those fluffy shirts with the lace at the wrist.

  I was sure those big hands with the long fingers would be infinitely talented in pleasuring a woman. The knowledge was instinctive and based entirely on the unsettling sexual awareness that simmered between us.

  On his right hand, he wore a signet ring that looked old and valuable. “Is that a family crest?” I asked, pointing to his ring and hoping to shift the conversation to less volatile topics.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Aye. Every laird of the MacBraes has worn this ring at one time or another. ’Tis been passed down through the generations.”

  “Your father wore it?” Bryce had allowed me to change the subject, but the amused twinkle in his shockingly blue eyes told me he was merely biding his time.

  “He did. For a number of years. When I turned twenty-five, though, my mother’s declining health convinced him they needed to move to Italy, where she was born. They’ve been raising grapes and enjoying a golden early retirement, although they did come back to Dunvarstone for six months when Abigail’s husband was killed. She needed all of us to get her through that rough time.”

  “And your grandfather?”

  “He died young. My uncle Horatio, whom you met, has been a de facto grandparent to Abigail and me.”

  “But he didn’t inherit the castle and the estate?”

  “Sadly, no. It goes from father to son.”

  “Sadly?” I couldn’t see why owning a castle was a bad thing.

  Bryce’s gaze was guarded now. “I never wanted to be the laird. I’ve had a millstone around my neck for twelve, almost thirteen years now. ’Tis not the way I imagined living my life.”

  He lifted a hand for the check. I sensed he had said more than he intended. But at least we were no longer talking about sex and romantic Scottish novels. I had a breather to regroup and decide how to proceed.

  As we left the restaurant, Bryce touched my arm. “Do you feel like walking a bit?”

  “Of course.” It was a beautiful evening, warmer than the ones previous.

  He led me through the older parts of town. “Inverness has a rich history, as you might imagine. Historians have documented proof of a settlement here as far back as the sixth century. The actually city charter was granted in the twelfth century. Our little metropolis is growing rapidly, in part because of the quality of life.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t imagine anywhere more charming to raise a family.

  Though it was Friday night, the streets were peaceful. Occasionally, noisy music and laughter spilled from a pub or a restaurant, but the shops were closed. I was content to walk with Bryce and revel in the simple pleasure of an evening with an interesting man.

  We turned a corner, and I found myself staring at the hotel where I had spent my first night in Scotland. My heart clenched with sudden longing to see my two friends. Was this how Claire felt when she discovered she couldn’t get back to modern-day Inverness? Though she had found much to enjoy in 1743, did she feel as if she were two different people?

  I shook my head slightly, trying to separate fact from fiction. I may not have traveled back in time, but the truth was, my current situation was so far removed from my day-to-day life that I was disconcerted.

  Bryce stopped and examined my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked, with annoying perception. I didn’t want anyone to know me that well.

  “Nothing. Not really. I suppose I’m a little homesick.”

  It was a partial truth at best.

  He stared down at me as if trying to read my mind, a feat made more difficult by the gathering gloom. “Let’s sit for a minute,” he said. Steering me toward a bench beneath a lamppost, he sighed. “I want to ask you something.”

  My heart pounded. Whenever I was scared, my default was to make jokes. “It’s far too early for a proposal. We just met. And if you’re about to proposition me, I have to tell you I don’t put out on a first date.”

  Bryce groaned aloud. “‘Put out?’ What kind of terrible American expression is that? No wonder you don’t believe in romance.”

  “I believe in romance,” I said quickly. “At least in theory. But romance has a tendency to make women stupid.”

  He sobered. “That sounds like the voice of experience. Have you had your heart broken, Willow?”

  “Yes. But not in the way you mean. My father abandoned us when I was in the fourth grade. My mother was helpless without him. She had spent the duration of their twelve-year marriage becoming the perfect wife, mother, and homemaker. The idea that he didn’t love her anymore was soul-crushing.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” I said. I hated talking about my past. Even McKenzie and Hayley didn’t know much about what happened to me in the years we were out of touch. Maybe I was trying to prove to myself how incredibly foolish it would be to fall victim to the romance of being wined and dined and seduced by a handsome, sophisticated Scotsman.

  We didn’t say anything for a long time. It must have been late, but I didn’t care. Back at the hostel, there would be another group of strangers for me to meet. At the moment, I knew Bryce MacBrae better than anyone else around.

  And he must have known me, too, because he didn’t argue with me or try to persuade me to go on. He simply sat in silence and let me be me.

  At last, I exhaled. “It takes a very long time for a bank to foreclose on a mortgage. My mother had no job. She was paying only the electricity and the water bills, and somehow she had enough for food. At least in the beginning.”

  “Your father didn’t offer financial support?” Bryce sounded disapproving. Undoubtedly, he was the kind of man who took his obligations seriously.

  “No. We didn’t even know where he was. The credit cards were in his name. He cancelled them all. I think my mother had a modest savings account. I remember she began taking me to rummage sales on the weekends and selling off our things little by little.”

  “I’m sorry, Willow.”
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br />   “The change in our circumstances didn’t really hit me until the police came and evicted us. By then I was in sixth grade and old enough to be humiliated and embarrassed. We drove across town to my aunt’s house. She took us in for seven or eight months. But it was a tiny place, and that arrangement ultimately ended. Then it was one family member after another, until eventually even friends weren’t exempt from my mother’s sob story.”

  “Children need security.”

  “Yes.” I swallowed hard. “At fourteen, I got a job at the neighborhood supermarket. I gave my entire paycheck to whichever family member was feeding us. It was the only way I could hold my head up.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She never got over my father. She still thinks he may come back one day.”

  Chapter 13

  I don’t know what I expected from Bryce. Already, I regretted my candor. I think unconsciously I was trying to enlist his support, so we would both know not to get involved in something ill-advised.

  He rose abruptly and stared down the street, his back to me. Hands shoved in his pockets, he remained still as a slight breeze ruffled his hair. Finally, he turned back to face me. “If you expect me to feel sorry for you, Willow, I don’t.”

  I stood as well, feeling the sharp sting of regret. “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “But you did want me to know why a beautiful woman like you isn’t interested in romance.”

  “I should go now,” I said. “It’s late.” Ironically, this was the same bus stop where I had begun my trip to the hostel. I knew I could stay here, and sooner or later a bus would come by. It was hard to make an indignant exit, though, when Bryce was standing in front of me and wouldn’t leave.

  He signed audibly. “Let’s try an experiment,” he said quietly.

  Without any more warning than that, he slid his hands on either side of my face and tilted my head. His lips found mine. Everything around me melted away. No Inverness. No bus stop. Only the frantic pounding of my heart.