Kilty Pack One

by Amy Vansant

  “She did?”

  “Brown hair, aboot here.” He hovered a hand over his shoulder.

  Catriona thought about their time at Owen’s and recalled the girl with a notebook hurrying into the house as the police arrived.

  “Asher caught you loitering outside Owen’s house staring at Fiona?”

  “Aye.”

  “Great. I’ll be looking forward to that lawsuit. Anything else I should know?”

  “She gave me pecans.”

  “What? Is that some kind of weird Scottish metaphor for stuff I don’t want to know?”

  Broch scowled. “Ah dinnae think sae. Ah had pecan pie with Asher and it made me remember that Fiona gave me pecans, back afore.”

  “Fiona gave you pecans so you’re going to follow her through time like a lost puppy.”

  Broch grimaced and seemed upset. “Ah think ah loved her,” he blurted.

  Catriona stared at him and he shook his head as if trying to rid his brain of something.

  “Ah’m sorry, Catriona. Ah kin feel it. Ah dinnae ken how fur tae explain it tae ye.”

  Catriona felt the butterflies in her stomach rise into her chest, threatening to choke off her breath. She took a deep breath to blow them back down. “How would it be possible that she’s here?”

  “Ah dinnae ken. How is it possible ah’m ‘ere?”

  “Wouldn’t she have recognized you if she was your long, lost love?”

  “Mibbie she’s lost her memory lik’ me.” He slapped his hand to his chest and took a step toward her. “Ye have to understand. If ah hae a love ah’ve lost, ah can’t— I mean, ah hae tae—”

  Catriona took a step back. “It’s fine. Do what you have to do.”

  She turned and walked toward her apartment. He called out to her, but she raised a hand and kept walking. “Get Noseeum to look at that wound, too,” she called back, cutting his protestations short.

  Catriona returned to her apartment, where she took a quick shower before sitting at her computer.

  Work.

  Work she knew. Work never let her down.

  A quick Internet search confirmed Progressicon Inc. did own the land where the shipping container had been found, as Sean had suggested.

  Catriona navigated to a website she occasionally used—a job request board for hackers.

  Would like complete employee list of Progressicon, Inc.? ASAP.

  An offer popped up.

  One day. $200.

  She accepted.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Broch sat on the edge of his bed, his head hanging, a white towel wrapped around his waist. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he had upset Catriona. He was so distracted that he’d taken a quick shower after working for Harry. Things were bad if even a shower couldn’t make him feel better.

  He pictured Catriona walking away from him, her hand in the air, dismissing him. The whole time they’d been talking about Fiona, all he’d wanted to do was grab her and hug her. Kiss her. Go to lunch with her. Take her back to his room...

  Explore this big new world with her.

  Standing, he stretched, his arms sore from the day’s work, and wandered to his phone. A message hovered on it—an address and a time.

  Fiona’s address. Seven o’clock.

  He toweled his hair.

  This is it.

  By the end of the evening, he would know. Certainly he couldn’t be in the same room with the woman and not know if she was the woman of his dreams?

  He began to fold his kilt and then tossed it aside to instead grab his jeans. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself tonight. He wanted to disappear.

  When he was ready, he walked into the hall and paused before Catriona’s door.

  It felt like a betrayal to walk past it.

  Gritting his teeth, he pushed on and entered the elevator. Outside, he called a car and gave the driver Fiona’s address.

  When the car pulled to a stop outside Fiona’s home, he found it difficult to exit.

  “You gonna get out?’ asked the driver.

  “Aye. Sorry.”

  With a stiff nod to the driver, Broch stepped out and made his way up a cement driveway to a tall, boxy home.

  He took a moment to brace his nerves and knocked.

  Fiona answered wearing a dark skirt and diaphanous top. Through it, he could see she wore what Catriona had told him was a bra. In his mind’s eye, he recalled catching a glimpse of Catriona wearing a bra, standing in front of the bathroom mirror in their Tennessee hotel, fixing her makeup.

  He smiled at the memory.

  “What was that cheeky little grin?” asked Fiona, stepping back and motioning for him to enter.

  Embarrassed, he shook his head. “Och, nothing.” He walked past her, the sound of soft music tickling his ears.

  “Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

  Broch sat on the sofa. “Aye. Scotch?”

  She walked to a bar embedded in the wall at the end of the room. “I guessed that. I bought some just for you today. Neat?”

  “Whit?”

  “Do you want ice in it?”

  “Oh, na.”

  She poured three fingers into a heavy-bottomed glass and handed it to him. “It’s Macallan. I hope you like it. The guy at the store said it was a good one, and I would hope so, for the price.”

  He took a sip. “Aye. Thank ye.”

  “Thank ye.” She chuckled and poured herself a glass of red wine before sitting beside him.

  He swallowed. There was something about having her so near. She was familiar but he didn’t feel at home. He felt confused.

  “So you’re straight from Scotland?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Directly.”

  He finished his Scotch and she peered at his empty glass, eyebrows raised with what appeared to be amusement. “Let me get the bottle for you.”

  She stood and retrieved the bottle, pouring him another before setting the bottle on the table.

  He finished another shot and set down the glass. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took a deep breath. “Ah’m sorry. Ah’m nervous.”

  “Nervous? Of me?”

  “Fiona, ah need to ask ye somethin’—”

  “What?”

  “Dae ye think there’s a chance that we knew each other a long time ago?”

  She squinted, her attention unwavering, as if she was trying to read his mind through his eyes.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Broch’s nerves jangled.

  “Ah think ah do,” he said.

  “What do you remember?”

  “Ah dinnae ken, exactly...” He chewed his lip. “Ah’ve been having dreams about you—”

  “Dreams?”

  “We were in Scotland. In eighteen thirty-three. And—” He cut short, frightened to say the words.

  “And?” she prompted.

  “And we were falling in love.”

  The corner of Fiona’s lip curled into an almost imperceptible smile. She leaned back and took a sip of wine, staring at him over her glass.

  “Eighteen thirty-three, you say? That’s very specific, Brochan.”

  “Ye blethered the date. In mah dream.”

  “Did I?”

  “Aye. We were on horseback then. Another time, we met at an inn. Ye were with yer da.”

  She paled. “My father?”

  “Aye. Dae ye remember?”

  “In eighteen-thirty-three Scotland?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s crazy,” she said, her eyes drifting.

  “Aye.”

  “Wait here a moment.” Fiona walked out of the room and he heard the sound of her walking up the stairs. He poured himself another shot and downed it.

  Ah’m not learning anything.

  For one moment, Fiona had seemed on the verge of admitting she remembered him, too. The next, she’d looked at him as if he were mad.

  Mibbie ah should
leave.

  He was about to spring from his seat when she returned and topped off her wine.

  “Let me get you another.” She hefted the Scotch bottle and poured.

  He took and drank it, returning it to the table with a bang louder than he intended.

  She jumped, but appeared more entertained by his expression of frustration than frightened.

  “Dae ye remember? Ah hae tae ken,” he said. He could feel his jaw muscles tensing with frustration.

  Fiona’s eyes flashed. “Oh my. You’re angry, now. Tell me, what about Catriona? Aren’t you two—”

  He looked away. “Ah... dinnae want tae talk aboot her.”

  Fiona laughed, seemingly for no other reason than to cut the tension. “This has grown intense quickly, don’t you think? Let’s get to know each other for a moment.”

  He released his bunched shoulders. “Will blethering—talking—help ye remember?”

  “Talking always helps.”

  “Then aye.”

  “Tell you what—let me show you around the house. Would you like to see the outside?”

  He expelled a breath and tried to give in to the moment. His head felt vaguely fuzzy. She poured him another and handed it to him, even as he made a mental note to slow his nervous drinking. “Uh, aye.”

  She stood and he followed her to the backyard. It was a small, fenced patch of grass with an orange tree in one corner and a brightly colored shed in the other.

  “Have you been working for Sean long?” she asked.

  “Na. A fortnight.”

  She giggled and placed a hand on his bicep. “I do so love the way you talk.”

  He glanced at her hand. Her calculating aura had been replaced by an almost schoolgirl-like innocence.

  Is she flirting with me?

  He took another sip. “Uh, howfur ye? Hae ye been here long?”

  “Fifteen years or so.”

  He nodded, realizing that meant little toward proving or disproving her existence in nineteenth century Scotland. “Wherefur did ye grow up?”

  She shrugged. “Here and there.”

  “Ah mean, hae ye always been ‘ere?”

  “In L.A.? No.”

  “Sae before that ye were—”

  She waved him away. “Let’s not talk about me. My story is boring. Tell me more about you. How did you and Catriona meet?”

  Broch tucked back his chin. “Catriona?”

  She took a sip of her wine. “You and she are dating, right?”

  He shot back his glass and the yard seemed to quiver for a moment. Blinking to clear his vision, he returned his attention to Fiona. “This has nothing tae dae with Catriona.”

  “But there is something between you?”

  He sighed. “Ah care fer her very much.”

  Fiona cocked her head and smiled. “Oh, that’s so sweet. She seemed smitten with you. I could tell.”

  He took a step back, feeling off balance. “Dae ye mind if we gae back inside?”

  “No problem.”

  They reentered the house. Feeling flush, he tugged at his shirt. “Is it hot in ‘ere?”

  She took the glass from his hand and put it on the table. Placing her hands on either side of his waist, she stared into his eyes. “You want to take that off? Let me help you.”

  He shook his head, but felt overwhelmed by a feverish flush rising into his face. He grabbed his shirt and she placed a hand on his.

  “Relax,” she whispered.

  She pulled up his shirt and he raised his arms to rid himself of it. He heard himself giggle and felt her hands slide across his now bare torso.

  “Whit are ye doin’?” he said, his eyelids feeling heavy.

  “You said you were hot.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “Do you feel better?”

  She leaned close to him. He could feel her breath on his lips. Reaching up, he put a hand on either side of Fiona’s face and eased her back as he tried to focus. “Ah need to talk tae ye.”

  “Okay. What do you want to know, baby?”

  She ran her fingers along the waistband of his jeans.

  Whit’s happening?

  He could feel himself becoming aroused.

  This isnae what ah meant tae happen.

  His hands felt as if they had minds of their own. They slid down Fiona’s arms and he found her wrists. Grasping them, he took a moment to steady himself, and then pulled them to either side, away from his body.

  She leaned toward him and kissed his neck.

  His eyes closed.

  “Ah—ah’m afraid ah might love ye,” he whispered. His mission, to find the truth of his relationship with Fiona, seemed very far away.

  Something was very wrong, but he found it impossible to care.

  Fiona slid her wrist from his grasp and took his hand. “Come with me.”

  She pulled him towards the stairs.

  He laughed at the absurdity of what was happening, powerless to stop it. “That’s strong Scotch,” he said, his tongue sounding thick in his mouth.

  Fiona pulled him forward.

  He twisted his neck to look behind him and saw the newly opened Scotch bottle sitting on the living room table, still nearly full.

  Fiona mounted the stairs and he followed, tripping twice as they made their way to the second floor. She led him into a bedroom and, pulling back the covers, pushed him to a sitting position on the edge of her bed. The sheets were silky to the touch and he smiled, rubbing his hands across it.

  “Fake silk,” he mumbled.

  Knees bent, the lower half of his legs hanging over the bed, he felt someone straddle his waist. His arms reached out, hands resting on either side of a woman’s hips.

  He smiled. “Catriona.”

  When he next opened his eyes, Fiona was sitting beside him, holding his phone in front of her face. He heard a strange ringing noise.

  “Whit are ye doin?” he asked. Something about the way she held his phone struck him as funny and he chuckled.

  “Hello?” said a familiar voice.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed Broch’s phone. I wanted to ask you if you found anything about Toby today? Owen and I have fallen out so, I’m not in the loop.”

  “Fiona?”

  “Broch was telling me but then—well, we got a little distracted and then next thing I know—”

  Broch heard giggling. He was almost certain it was him.

  “—he’s a little drunk, so I thought I’d just call you.”

  Broch lifted his head, though it felt as if it weighed a hundred stone. His phone, hovering in front of Fiona’s face, now contained Catriona’s image staring back at him. She moved like a live person, not like a photograph.

  He grinned. “Hello Cat,” he said, raising his hand to wave, fingers rolling like a pianist’s.

  Catriona’s expression shifted from surprise to what looked like shock. Something about the corner of her eyes changed, and he recognized a new emotion.

  Pain.

  “Nae. Whit—?”

  He wanted to ask what was wrong, but his head collapsed back to the bed.

  It felt glorious to rest the weight of it.

  Chapter Twenty

  1833 – Edinburgh, Scotland

  Brochan stared at the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.

  Gavin laughed, doubled-over and slapped his leg.

  “Ah cannae wear this,” said Brochan. His arms hung in the air, flapping at his sides. The suit Gavin had lent him to wear to the dance didn’t even allow for him to drop his limbs lower than half mast.

  Gavin’s father entered the room, his eyes growing wide at the sight of Brochan. He was a large man with a barrel chest. Gavin was built like a field mouse.

  “What is this?” asked Laird Logan.

  Gavin caught his breath. “Brochan needed a suit fer the party. Doesn’t he keek fine, Da?”

  Laird Logan shook his head. “That willnae dae.”

  “Ah, think ‘tis wonderful. The
trousers provide an impressive display of his tackle. The lassies will swoon,” said Gavin, barely able to speak through his laughter.

  Brochan scowled. “Ye be still, noo.”

  “Give him one of mine,” said Laird Logan leaving.

  Gavin nodded, wiping his eyes. “Dinnae worry. Ah already hid one of Da’s fae ye. ‘Tis behind the sofa in that room. Try it.”

  Brochan shut the doors with a bang and found the second suit. When he exited the library a second time, he found himself alone. In the ballroom beyond, he could hear the sounds of feminine voices.

  Gavin’s disappearance came as no surprise.

  The women had arrived.

  Laird Logan’s clothing fit his blacksmith’s body much better than Gavin’s, but for excess room around his middle. Laird Logan had sent one of the house maids to check on him and she’d put a stitch in the waistband to keep his trousers from falling. He still found the formal clothing awkward, but only in such a way that any formal attire might feel.

  Brochan cracked open the doors to the ballroom. Perhaps a dozen people had arrived, men and women, already clumping in conversational clusters scattered about the room. The musicians had taken their places and, with a smattering of string plucks, prepared to play the evening’s music.

  “Let me see,” said Gavin, appearing from nowhere to push the doors wider. Brochan stepped back to keep from being struck.

  Gavin appraised him. “Much better.”

  “Na thanks tae ye, ye great galoot.”

  Gavin snickered and dropped into a chair, hanging his leg over the arm. “Seeing ye in mah suit has given me humor fae a week.”

  Brochan grimaced. “Ye haven’t seen me dance yet. Ye’ll hae mirth fae a lifetime.” He looked away to demonstrate his disgust, his gaze drifting back to the ballroom.

  A dark-haired girl entered through the main ballroom entrance.

  Fiona.

  “There she is.”

  “Where?” Gavin stood and Broch pushed him back into his chair.

  “Over there. Dinna draw attention.”

  Gavin jumped out of the chair and strode toward the doors. “Ah’ll take ye tae her.”

  “Na, wait.” He grabbed Gavin’s arm.

  “Easy, man. Ah’ll pretend ah’ve come tae blether tae my sister. Flora’s beside her noo.”

  Gavin pulled away and walked toward the women. Brochan turned to walk the opposite way, before realizing the eyes of the girls in Fiona’s group, including Fiona’s, were upon him. If Gavin tried to introduce him as he ran in the opposite direction, he’d look like a fool.