The faint whoosh of water grew louder in the background and offered a welcome distraction. The opening in the trees was wreathed in the glow of the setting sun like a magical portal into another world, but the closer they got, the more mundane the scene became. It was simply a wood giving way to a meadow cut through by a stream.
Alasdair stepped all the way to the bank looking out at the wide bend that formed the swimming hole. He set down the hamper, took a deep breath, and whispered, “This is peaceful. It reminds me of Cairndow.”
She opened the hamper and pulled out a blanket—red and black tartan, of course—and spread it over the grass. Flopping onto her back, she stared at the sky framed by the trees circling them. Alasdair lay down beside her, his shoulder nudging hers.
Colors streaked the sky like a finger painting, but at the edges was a deep orange giving the impression the tops of the trees were on fire. Summer sunsets were the most beautiful. If the festival didn’t keep her so busy, she might stop to enjoy them more.
All around them lightning bugs flashed in the grass. If she squinted, she could imagine they were beacons from distant lighthouses. The woods made stories take root in her imagination, but she’d stopped nurturing them, afraid if she put them out into the world she’d look silly.
Alasdair shifted to his side and propped his head up on his hand, looking down on her and wreathed in magical light. He was going to kiss her. Expectation sent her tongue out to daub her suddenly dry lips.
His chest brushed hers, and her back arched ever so slightly. His face shifted closer, and she tilted toward him, closing the distance between points A and B. He stretched across her body and her blood sang a welcome.
In a sexy, husky brogue, he whispered, “I’m bloody starving.”
He grabbed the handle of the hamper, lifted it over her body, and sat up, exclaiming in delight as he pulled out the food. She lay like a discarded rag doll. She was epically bad at reading signals. Confusing an imminent kiss with hunger was humiliating.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Everything about him was annoyingly cheery.
“Please tell me there’s alcohol.” She pushed up on her elbows.
“A chilled Chardonnay.” He pulled out the corkscrew and opened it with an efficient grace that made her wonder what those hands could do on skin.
He held out a red plastic cup with a generous amount of wine. Their fingers brushed on the handover, and she took several huge swallows to dull the edge of her arousal and embarrassment. God bless her dear sainted mother for not being a teetotaler.
They assembled BLTs and ate them on the blanket. There was no need to speak, because life teemed around them. Bullfrogs croaked and birds cawed. Crickets sang and squirrels rustled. The lightning bugs had risen into the brush, blinking their mating calls like Morse code.
“Did you know that lightning bugs can synchronize their blinks?” She kept her voice low.
“Really?” Either he was a good faker, or he was actually interested.
“Up in the Smokies, scientists study the flashes and try to make sense of them. What if they hear their own music?” She smiled. “Can’t you just picture a lightning bug orchestra in tuxedos?” Once upon a time, it was something she might have incorporated into one of her stories.
He cleared his throat and gave her an “I told you so look.” She shrugged. “What?”
“You are proving my point for me.”
She chose not to rise to his bait. “I’ll bet there’s nothing like this in London.”
“No, but there’s a glen with a crystal blue loch at Cairndow. My friend Iain and I would sneak off on moonlit nights.” His stared toward the river, but he was seeing his past, a smile turning his lips. He refilled both of their cups, and she drank deeply.
A buzz hit her quick and hard, and for some reason, she decided to try a Scottish accent. “Did you and Iain find a wee spot of trouble in the loch?”
The sparkle in his eyes lit fireworks in her chest. He deepened his brogue until it was thicker than even Gareth’s. “Ach, we’d drink and raise hell and use our silver tongues to lure bonny lasses into the water with us for some skinny-dipping.”
She laughed, but breathlessly, her insides melted into goo. “That sounds naughty. And fun.”
“Aye, it was.” He resumed his usual accent. “Or would have been if the water hadn’t been so blasted cold.”
She did her best to stifle her wine-giggles with another sip. “I’ve never been skinny-dipping.”
“That deficiency must be rectified immediately.” He stood and held out a hand.
Her giggles trickled to a stop like a spigot being turning off. “No way. Uh-uh. Forget it.”
“You can leave your knickers on if you want.” He stepped to the bank and grabbed the back of his shirt to pull it off. The diffused light accentuated the shift of muscle and tendon across his back and shoulders. The waistband of his jeans loosened.
Izzy drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs and watched in wide-eyed amazement as if a magical creature had wandered into her woods. Or more accurately, she was witnessing an audition for Chippendales. He stepped out of his jeans with athletic grace. She tensed. Would his boxer briefs follow?
With them still on, he waded into the shallows of the river. “It’s a mite warmer than the loch at Cairndow.”
Farther still he went, the water rushing to his thighs until he reached the drop-off and disappeared. She popped to her feet, her eyes itchy from not blinking. He breached the water, and a flick of his head sent droplets scattering. He turned on his back and floated. Dusk had overtaken them fully and darkness crept closer on cat paws.
She shuffled to the bank and stalled, holding out the neck of her shirt and evaluating her bra. It wouldn’t make the cut for the Victoria Secret fashion show, but it was lacy and white and newish. Her panties were plain pink cotton, no more revealing than bikini bottoms.
Did she take a chance or retreat?
“All I’m missing is a bonny lass.” His voice came from the shadows in the brogue she had no willpower to resist.
Was she actually doing this? She shucked her shirt, dropped it on top of his clothes, and worked the button and zipper of her jeans open. With a shot of courage—or madness. Did madness run in her family? A question to consider later—she pushed her jeans to her ankles.
In her haste to kick them off and get into the cover of the river, she lost her balance and toppled like a cut pine tree. Her hip hit the ground hard enough to bruise, and pebbles scraped her knee. Kicking her legs free of her prison of denim, she hop-skipped into the river and dove under the water.
Her hand brushed smooth, taut flesh and she startled to the surface with a gasp. Alasdair treaded water, the white of his teeth showing in a grin. “Are you okay?”
Her hope that he had been distracted by a frog or a fish withered. “Now do you see why I was banned from dance school?”
His laugh raced over the water like the flight of a bird, and her stomach fluttered as if trying to keep up. She swam toward a sandbar in an eddy, her feet finding purchase on the bottom. Water lapped at her collarbones, trying to draw her into the current.
Joining her, he skimmed his hands over his face and hair. “The water’s cooler than I expected, but nothing like the loch.”
“The river flows from the mountains.”
“What is winter like in Highland?”
“Changeable. A spate of warm days in the middle of January will see everyone in short sleeves. Then, a week later it might snow. We usually see flurries every year, and one significant snowfall. Even an inch will shut Highland down. Woe be it to you if you haven’t stocked up on milk and bread beforehand.”
“I got to spend a winter holiday with Gareth, and remember him driving us from the train station through a blinding snow in his old Land Rover. It was beautiful and scary and the best kind of exciting.”
A sudden surge of undercurrent tugged her feet. Before she could be swept downstream, Alas
dair caught her around the waist, and she grabbed his arms. Even after she regained her feet, neither of them let go.
“Where would the river take you?” he asked.
She tried to ignore the way his thumb brushed her hip bone. A shiver cascaded through her. No one had ever discovered the sensitive place.
“The current slows around the bend. The river isn’t dangerous.” Except standing this close to Alasdair, it felt like the most dangerous place in the world.
“There are stories Gareth used to tell me about the ancient places in Scotland. Places that were traps set by beautiful, but deadly fairies. They lured young men to their doom in the moonlight. With one kiss they’d spirit the poor souls to the fae realm and they’d never be seen again.” He spoke with the rhythm of a natural storyteller. She’d heard the same cadence in Gareth’s voice. Maybe it was bred into Scottish men.
“How do you know they met their doom? Maybe the fae realm was so wondrous, those young men never wanted to leave.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I thought the fairies make-believe, but I’m beginning to wonder.”
Even Izzy, as unsophisticated as she felt with him, cottoned on to his meaning. If this place housed old magic, then she must be the deadly faerie. Beautiful too though, he’d said. A flush warmed her.
“I wouldn’t want to be a faerie in your story,” she said softly.
“Why not?” His thumb traced the delicate curve of her hip bone once more.
“Leading men to their doom wouldn’t be conducive to a second date,” she said with a breathless tease.
He laughed. “I suppose not. What kind of faerie would you like to be?”
“A faerie who would save a hapless man from his doom in the mortal world only to become accidently bound to him.” It popped into her head and out of her mouth as if the idea had been lurking for a long while. She poked his chest. “Don’t say it.”
His lips twitched, but stayed closed.
“You think I’m writing the wrong stories and have enslaved myself to Highland and the festival.”
“A mite dramatic, but not altogether wrong, wouldn’t you say?” With his hair slicked back, his sleek brows set off the strong bones of his face, masked by the growing stubble.
“You said earlier that passion versus duty had been on your mind. Why? Is it because of your half-brother?”
Humor leaked out of his face. “Not entirely.”
“Is your job a duty or a passion?” She tilted her head and wiped at the water running into her eyes.
“Definitely not a passion.”
“A duty, then. Does your boss inspire your loyalty?”
His laugh cracked and echoed off the water. “Hardly. Richard inspires fear, anxiety, competition. I looked up to him once. I think. Richard seemed strong where my da seemed weak, but everything has become twisted. Being here makes me forget why I’m killing myself to please him.”
“That’s good. Isn’t it?” She wasn’t sure if she should apologize or congratulate him on his enlightenment.
“Can we not talk about work?” Troubles ran deep under his outward stoicism, but she would respect his reluctance to delve deeper.
“What do you want to do then, Highlander?” The question came out suggestive.
He answered with an innuendo-laden smile. She scrunched her toes into the sand, anchoring herself in the expectation of having her world rocked. His lips brushed across her cheek, the rasp of his stubble sending chills through her. But, he didn’t quite close the deal.
“Are you drunk, fairie-girl?”
“What if I am?” She could close the distance in a heartbeat.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
She jerked back to meet his gaze. “Now is not the time for you to play the gentleman, Blackmoor. I want you in the part of the marauding Highlander.”
“You’d better run then, before I catch you, lass.”
She giggled and shoved his shoulder. She’d only meant to playfully free herself from his arms, but his feet shot out from underneath him and the current carried him away as if fairies had ahold of him. She cackled a laugh and set out in the other direction toward the bank. He would catch his footing and be right behind her.
Hardly slowing, she grabbed the mound of clothes and skip-ran down the path barefoot. Only when she stubbed her toe on an exposed root did she slow and question her sanity and, frankly, her maturity level, which had dipped into negative territory with the addition of too much wine.
Stopping, she pulled on her T-shirt and jeans. Her clammy underwear made it difficult to maneuver the damp denim over her hips. She was left holding Alasdair’s jeans and T-shirt, which meant he was traipsing around in a pair of wet boxer briefs molded to … everything. Her heart kicked into a rhythm that would have raised alarms on an EKG.
She balled up Alasdair’s clothes and returned to the river. Except, he wasn’t there. She stood on the edge of the bank and called his name, hearing only her voice echoing back. Dire scenarios rampaged through her imagination.
The full moon illuminated the picnic basket and crushed grass. Crushed grass where the blanket had been. She fell to her knees and checked inside the basket. No blanket. She heaved a sigh. Alasdair had made it to the bank and was probably halfway back to the house by now.
Grabbing up the picnic basket, she ran as fast as the darkness would allow back to Stonehaven. Her mom and Gareth rocked on the patio swing with glasses of wine. Her mom was reclined on a pillow, her legs across Gareth’s lap while he swung them as if she were a baby he was coaxing asleep.
“Is Alasdair back?” she asked breathlessly.
Her mom raised herself to an elbow. “I thought he was with you.”
Izzy put the basket down and hugged his clothes to her chest. “I accidently lost him.”
Her mom swung her legs off Gareth’s lap. “He’s not a hat or a pair of sunglasses. How could you lose him?”
“Um.” She searched for an excuse that didn’t involve playacting as an innocent lass running from a sexy, marauding Highlander. “He got swept downriver.”
“And you didn’t go after him? Should we call the authorities?” Her mom was up and pacing now.
“No, he’s fine. Or at least, he didn’t drown, but I have his clothes.” She held up the bundle she clutched.
“Alasdair is lost in the woods … naked?”
“Not completely naked. He took the blanket and still has his underwear on. I … think.” Her voice petered into silence as her mom looked at her like she’d lost her mind.
“Hang on,” Gareth said. “I see the lad a’coming out of the woods.”
The three of them lined up to stare into the moonlight-dappled night. Alasdair was indeed stalking through the field. Izzy’s breath hitched and she shuffled to where the bricks gave way to grass.
He wore a plaid wrapped around his waist, the end thrown over his shoulder. The rest of him was beautifully bare. His hair was as black as the shadows that parted before him, his attitude positively primeval. Her knees wobbled. Not from fear but excitement fueled by the lowering of her inhibitions from the wine. Electricity like heat lightning arced between them.
He cleared the high grass. Closer now, she could see the clumsy way the tartan blanket hung around his waist, crudely tied with a vine. His feet were dirty in his flip-flops and his hair was still damp from his trip downriver. His exasperation was also evident.
“I can’t believe you left me.” He propped his hands low on his hips, pulling his muscles tight. So tight and hard she was having a hard time tearing her gaze from his chest to his face.
“I came back, but you had already taken the blanket and left. I thought you might have beat me home.”
“I got lost on the millions of blasted trails in that godforsaken wood.”
“So no errant faeries lured you away to your doom?” She tried on a smile, but let it fall when he didn’t return it. It appeared that they would not be resuming their little game.
He harrumphed and snatched his clothes from where she was hugging them. “I’m going to shower off the muck.”
Once he was gone, her mom said in a chiding voice, “That wasn’t very hospitable of you, Izzy.”
Any explanations she offered would embarrass them both. “I’ll apologize in the morning.”
Her mom and Gareth retreated to the house, and Izzy took up their spot on the swing. Her mom had left a half glass of wine on the table. Izzy finished it off in two swallows, used one of the cushions as a pillow, and stared up at the night sky.
If her mom could have a fling with an attractive Scotsman, why couldn’t Izzy? Just because she had never participated in a fling didn’t mean she wouldn’t be good at it. In fact, if she put her mind to it, there’s nothing she couldn’t excel at.
Even writing? Her gut begged her to listen to Alasdair’s advice. What if she attempted one story of adventure and magic? What did she have to lose but time she would have spent churning out more “trite and amateurish” literature?
What’s the worst that could happen? She could get her heart broken, her soul crushed, and experience utter humiliation. All three applied to writing and to initiating a fling with Alasdair. But if her mom was brave enough to put herself out there, couldn’t Izzy give it a shot too? She sat up, holding her head, when the world spun around her.
She would try her hand at new things—writing and fling related—as soon as she sobered up.
Chapter Nine
The next morning, Alasdair found himself tiptoeing out of the house and into the middle of the field of wildflowers with his mobile clutched in his hand. Privacy was hard to come by, especially knowing Isabel was on the other side of his bedroom wall.
The urge to talk to his mum was odd, but the last few days in Highland had brought the past into sharper focus. He tapped her name.
“Alasdair, darling. Are you home?” Their connection was so clear, she might have been only a handful of kilometers away instead of thousands.
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 14
