by L. A. Fiore
Brochan returned and pushed a glass filled with an amber liquid in my hand. “Drink.”
I blamed the cold, it froze the section of my brain that handled impulse control because I took the glass from him and said, “You aren’t going to get me drunk, big boy. I can hold my liquor.”
Twenty minutes later I was seeing double. Fenella brought in a tray of hot soup and tea. Brochan sat in the chair across from us, staring into the fire. He was sexy and that feeling I was trying to run from grew stronger.
Fenella handed me a cup of soup. I asked, “There’s a circle in the woods. Do you know what it is?”
“A circle? Oh with the trees. No, I don’t.”
“There are all kinds of mystical things here, aren’t there?”
“Many, though some are imagined,” Fenella replied.
“Like werewolves?” My eyes darted to Brochan, who was now looking at the whisky in his glass.
“Yes, like werewolves.”
Thanks to the alcohol, I had a loose tongue and I almost mentioned the conversation with Tomas, but talking about it gave it more meaning.
“Well, I’m off to bed.” Fenella practically jumped from the sofa. I wasn’t the only one to find her departure sudden because Brochan looked up at her too. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She all but ran from the room.
“That was weird.” I glanced at Brochan who was watching me, but I didn’t know what he was thinking. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the setting, most likely it was the man, but I was feeling a little reckless. Don’t go there. I stood. “I think I’d like a book.”
I strolled around the library, chancing glances at him. He had reached for his own book, one that was on the table by the fire. Looks were deceiving because he appeared both calm and at ease, but I’d bet money he was like an engine revving, just waiting to take off from the starting line. He wore power and danger like a second skin.
I found a book, flipped to the end but didn’t like it, so put it back and reached for another. I read the endings to four books before I found one I liked.
“What are you doing?” Brochan was no longer reading. The book rested in his lap and his focus was on me.
“Reading the ending.”
“Before you read the book?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“If I don’t like how it ends, why would I waste my time reading the whole book?”
“If you know the ending, why bother to read the story?”
“Because a book is a journey. The ending is only part of that journey.”
His brow rose.
“What? It’s like life. Where you end up isn’t as important as how you got there.”
“I have never before heard that logic used for books.”
“But it makes sense. Doesn’t it? You’re thinking about reading the ending to that book…” I gestured to the one on his lap. “Aren’t you?”
“I already know the ending.”
“Ha! See.”
He lowered his head but not before I saw the grin. My heart stopped, what a sight. We spent the next few hours reading…together, sort of. It was nice.
CHAPTER NINE
LIZZIE
I was working on the painting, had moved into the solarium which had lots of great natural light and good ventilation.
“Miss Danton.”
The brush wasn’t near the canvas or there would have been a streak of purple across the image. “How does a man your size move so quietly?”
He approached, but his focus was on the painting. “You’ve captured more than the image. It pulses, like it’s a living breathing thing.”
“The castle kind of is. It’s stone, but all the stories it could tell. All the lives it touched. I believe some of that lingers, becomes part of it. Haunted houses, I think they’re haunted because there’s more darkness than light in their history.”
His eyes seemed to have gone flat, but then his focus shifted to me and I wondered if I had imagined those lifeless eyes. “Yesterday, the circle you asked about. It’s a healing circle. I thought you might like to see it in the daylight.”
So he did know what the circle was. Why share with me now, and not last night? Curious, but I didn’t ask. Instead, I teased him, “Inviting me to see the circle. Are you feeling okay? Maybe you shouldn’t take late night swims when it’s so cold.”
It was just a grin, a barely there one at that, and yet, like last night, the transformation in him almost had my jaw dropping.
“Shall we?”
“Yes.” I quickly rinsed off my brush and placed it on the palette. “A healing circle, do you know anything else about it?”
We headed out of the solarium as he explained, “The carvings on the pillars were for the Celtic goddesses, the hag in particular as she was a healer. It was believed if you were ill, spending the night in the circle would heal you.”
“Do you have any idea how long it’s been there?”
“The carvings are very worn. It’s possible the circle dates back to when the Ferguson clan owned the land back in the thirteenth century.”
“It’s one of the things I really love about Scotland, Europe in general…the history and continuity.”
“Not all history is good, some is better forgotten.”
I hadn’t imagined the harshness of his words. We stepped into the woods—the place was very different in the daylight—wildflowers, little streams ran here and there, the variety of trees, the shapes of their leaves and colors.
“It’s magical.”
“The woods?”
“At night it was a little scary, but seeing it during the day. It’s beautiful. I love that you didn’t tame the back of the castle. The contrast of the tended gardens and lawn against the wild woods…I kind of feel like Little Red Riding Hood.” I glanced over at him. “Fitting since I’m keeping company with the big bad wolf.”
He snarled, much like a wolf. “Fenella was right. There are a lot of superstitious nitwits in town.”
“Still makes you wonder how the rumor got started about you being a werewolf.”
It wasn’t anger, but more like weariness when he replied, “People fear what they don’t understand. A werewolf is a killer.”
His choice of words, did he know the other rumor about him? Was it possible there was some truth to it? I should be alarmed, even scared, but I wasn’t. In fact, I even felt the need to defend him.
“A werewolf is a man who shifts during the full moon. The instinct of the wolf is to kill, but there’s more to him than those basic instincts. One only needs to look to see.”
I’d have made a pact with the devil to know what he was thinking. We reached the circle and my feet just stopped. Chills danced down my arms. “It’s magnificent.”
Brochan stood near one of the pillars. I joined him, but my focus was on the carvings. He was right; it was hard to make out the images. I had to touch it. Something done centuries ago and it was still here, a link from the past to the present. Standing in that circle, I was overcome with emotion. I hadn’t realized tears were in my eyes until I heard Brochan ask, “Miss Danton?”
“All the people who came here, the ill and the family of the ill, looking for a miracle … clinging to hope. It’s heartbreaking because you know most probably didn’t make it.”
He studied me. I wiped at my eyes. “Sorry. I’m not usually a crier.”
“How do you do it?”
I met his gaze. “Do what?”
“Feel so much. Isn’t it exhausting?”
“Yes, but I’ll take that over not feeling at all.”
In the morning, I woke to the sound of bagpipes. I thought perhaps the pipes were like that haunted wail I’d heard the other day, just another ghost from the past, but the longer I lay there the more I realized there were indeed bagpipes outside. I jumped from bed and ran to the window. The lawn was filled with activity. There were obvious tourists walking around—cameras hanging from their necks, fanny packs around th
eir waists and canteens in their hands. Stands had been set up, like at a fair, to sell food and souvenirs. A man dressed in a kilt stood off from the others, a lonely looking figure, shrouded in mist, or maybe the painter in me added the mist. His hauntingly beautiful song carried on the wind. How the hell had they set up so fast and why hadn’t anyone mentioned it to me? In studying the scene I realized there were quite a few men wearing kilts, women too. Glancing at the clock, it was only eight in the morning. What was going on? I quickly dressed and hurried downstairs. In the kitchen, Fenella and several others were whipping up biscuits, as cookies were called here, and cakes. Her smile greeted me, and she answered my question before I asked it. “Highland games.”
“What’s that?”
“A lot of fun. Go see.”
“Can I help in here?”
She waved me out of her kitchen. “Go on now.”
The day was bright and cool, the perfect day for outdoor festivities. Farther down the lawn, the games were being played. Men and women dressed in their family’s tartans were competing in wrestling, shot put, hammer tossing, relay races and more. It was the event at the far end that held my attention. Men were tossing logs, cabers, which looked to be over twenty feet long. They were tossing them. Holy shit.
“Are you thinking of trying that?”
I jumped at his voice, but surprise turned to pleasure that Brochan was teasing me. I didn’t hide the smile. “No, but it’s amazing. Have you ever done that?”
“When I was a lad.”
“How long is that caber?”
“Nineteen feet and six inches and weighs about a hundred and seventy-five pounds.”
“Damn.”
There was another game involving a pitchfork, a burlap bag filled with something that was being tossed with an overhead throw to fly over a horizontal bar. “What’s that?”
“Sheaf tossing.”
“I think I need to try my hand at something.”
He turned to me and though his expression gave nothing away, he was teasing me again. “The caber toss?”
“No, obviously, but there has to be something I can try.”
“There is,” he said cryptically. “Come with me.”
I felt giddy that he was offering to join me for at least part of the day. I didn’t understand the rumors about Brochan because I really enjoyed his company…probably more than I should.
I did the sheaf toss and shot put, I even tossed a caber. Sure, I was competing with kids and they kicked my ass, but it was so much fun. Caleb, a little boy of seven, had just whipped my ass at the caber toss. I walked over and shook his hand.
“Nice toss.”
He smiled. Too shy to answer but I just knew he’d be bragging to all his friends about his victory.
“Are you hungry?” Brochan asked when I joined him after my very sad performance on the caber field.
“Yes, getting my ass handed to me makes me hungry.”
We stopped at one of the stands. Brochan ordered a Cornish pasty and a bridie. As the woman fetched our food, I asked, “What’s a Cornish pasty and bridie?”
“They’re similar, both are seasoned beef wrapped in pastry. The Cornish pasty also has carrots and potatoes, the bridie is just beef and onions.”
“Sounds good.”
He ordered us each a pint of ale.
“Which do you want?” he asked.
“You decide.”
He handed me the Cornish pasty and after the first bite my eyes rolled into the back of my head. “This is amazing.”
“Try this.” He handed me the bridie.
“Do you want to try this?” I asked as I held out the pasty. I wanted him to say yes, the idea of eating from something his mouth was on. Please say yes.
He didn’t say yes, he just took the pasty, his eyes on me as he took a bite. Was he thinking the same thing? I couldn’t tear my gaze from his mouth then realized what I was doing and took a long drink of ale to cool down.
We strolled through the activity and I was feeling a little off because the punch of lust and attraction came out of nowhere. Maybe not out of nowhere, more likely creeping up on me slowly but surely.
“Are you going to try any of the events?” I asked.
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Why?”
“Part of the rules is wearing your tartan. I won’t wear my colors.”
Bitterness laced through his words. He lost his father, but it didn’t sound as if they had a good relationship. My heart went out to him because I understood. Looking at the people around us though, his tartan wasn’t just his father’s. There was a long line of McIntyres that had worn it before him.
“I get it. I think you know that, being familiar with Norah. I wouldn’t share a fucking tissue with that woman. But seeing all these people, the generations—babies to white-haired men and women—those plaids are bigger than any one person. Their tartan links all of them, every generation. I wouldn’t turn my back on that. I wouldn’t give anyone that kind of power over me.”
He was watching me when I glanced up at him. His silence was meaningful. We had reached the castle.
“Excuse me,” he said before disappearing inside.
I was disappointed he left because I had been enjoying his company, but I had been too familiar with my comments. I didn’t know the details of his relationship with his dad and I wouldn’t be thrilled with comments from the peanut gallery on my relationship with my mother.
Fenella stepped outside not long after Brochan left. “There you are, lass. I was just going to look for you. Are you having fun?”
“Yes, it’s wonderful. Brochan just left. He was showing me around.”
Her face lit up. “He was?”
“Yes. Does he host this every year?”
“Aye, for many years now. Finnegan and I took him to the games in Edinburgh when he was a wee lad. He loved it.”
They didn’t talk about his father and from the way she spoke I had the sense his father hadn’t been in the picture much. At least he had Fenella and Finnegan, and Brianna. There was no question they loved him; he’d had family and that made me smile.
Fenella’s gasp turned my head in the direction she was staring. Mine wasn’t a gasp, but a punch of lust that almost knocked me off my feet. Brochan stepped from his castle dressed like his ancestors. His stern face and cool blue eyes did nothing to deter people from staring. His kilt hung from his narrow hips. The white shirt and tailored jacket hugged the muscles of his chest and arms. His muscled legs ended in hose and those black shoes everyone was wearing. It was the single sexiest sight I’d ever seen. He moved in that controlled way he had, the practiced moves of a predator. His destination was me. Another emotion, stronger than lust, moved through me seeing him wearing his kilt. He had found something in my words to change his mind. I had a feeling he didn’t change his mind often.
He said nothing, just offered his arm. I fell a little bit in love with him in that moment.
“I like your ensemble,” I said shyly.
He didn’t acknowledge me, his focus was straight ahead, but I saw his lips twitch. How could people be so wrong about him?
We reached the caber field. He took off his jacket and handed it to me.
“What’s that called?” I asked of the pocket thing sitting over his kilt.
“The sporran.” He looked up and grinned. “Kilts don’t have pockets.”
My heart fluttered, but damn this man was dangerous.
For the next hour, I watched as he tossed a caber. Halfway through he took off his shirt. Watching as that powerful body moved, the muscles straining under his golden skin with his efforts. I wanted a canvas and paint. Holy hell I needed to paint him. I wanted him life size, just like that, on my wall. I wanted him, period. It was stupid to deny it.
He joined me, dripping with sweat despite the cool temperature. My mouth watered thinking about licking him dry, every inch.
“I need a shower.”
I almost of
fered to wash his back. I bit my tongue.
He took his shirt and jacket from me as we walked back to the castle. My tongue was tied. I couldn’t form a thought because I was battling the strongest case of attraction I’d ever felt. He headed for the door, but stopped. He said it so softly and that made the impact even stronger. “Thank you.”
He disappeared inside before I could say anything. I stood there, unable to move.
Fenella appeared. “You got him to wear his tartan. I can’t tell you how many times Finnegan and I have tried and failed. What did you say to him?”
“Only that his tartan is more than just his father and that I wouldn’t let anyone keep me from my family history.”
“He listened to you.” She turned to me. “I think because he knows you’re kindred spirits.”
An ache started in my chest. “He didn’t have a relationship with his dad, did he?”
“Ah, lass. It was more complicated than that.”
She touched the thin white scar under my eye. “How did you get that?”
“Nadine, my tormentor at boarding school. She was mean. Picked on kids younger than her. Always looking for a fight, but she never fought fair. The staff let her get away with it too. I never understood that. I got whacked with a ruler my first weeks there because I had reached for a second dessert, but she victimized kids and they turned a blind eye. She always had a posse with her, those who were spared her torment. Instead of steering clear or standing up, they egged her on. Even knowing it could have been them she beat on, they encouraged her and laughed while doing so. I got more than a few black eyes courtesy of Nadine.”
“I’m sorry to hear you had a difficult childhood too.”
“It’s why I started painting. I had to believe there was something beautiful in the world. I hadn’t seen it personally, but people wrote songs about it, books, and poems. Life for me had been one never-ending nightmare. Painting saved me.”
“That explains the darkness of your work.”
“I don’t see it so much as dark. I see it as finding beauty even in the ugly. It was what I did.”
“Let’s walk,” she suggested, but was already heading down the lawn. She had a faraway look, as if she had slipped back in time. “Brochan’s dear sweet mother died in childbirth. Finlay loved Abigail. She was his whole world. When she died, he was lost. I won’t make excuses for what he did. There aren’t any. He took that loss, that pain and put it on Brochan.”
