Wyndham

by L. L. Muir

  “Distracted, or upset?”

  “No, actually. Just distracted. I had company over, then I fell into bed.”

  “Company is good.”

  Elizabeth let the unasked question hang like she always did, expecting her to answer it. Bronagh snuck a silent sip of coffee and waited the woman out. She didn’t plan on offering up more information than was asked for. And Elizabeth didn’t like to come out and ask anything--she liked Bronagh to spill her guts on her own. But Bronagh wasn’t in the mood.

  “So? How was Wyndham?”

  “Dinno. Didn’t see ‘im.”

  Elizabeth coughed like she’d just snorted her breakfast through her nose. “What do ye mean? Didn’t ye go to Culloden?”

  “Course I did. Ye don’t think I’d quit my bloody job in order to go and then stay home, yeah?”

  “Wait.” The woman took a moment to compose herself and force her voice back into professional mode. “When did ye quit yer job?”

  “Officially, yesterday. The sheriff no longer wished to honor my doctor’s note and said I had to work on the first of the month, to cover his arse while he left town. I respectfully declined.”

  Elizabeth took a very deep, very loud breath. “And just how respectful were ye?”

  “Eem, not very, I’m afraid.”

  “So ye burned a bridge…in order to see Wyndham.”

  Bronagh grinned. “With a Zippo. Like it was soaked in lighter fluid.”

  That earned her a gasp. “Were ye drunk?”

  “I was not drunk. Like I said, he wouldn’t give me the first off. Tried to bribe me, then threatened to sack me. I just beat him to it. Oh, and Deirdre, from the office, called last night to beg me to come back. Sheriff’s none too happy to be answerin’ my calls. She says he’s got a new appreciation for the crooks I had to deal with. But he’s too pissed to want me back. Had to cut short his London conference. So yeah, I’d say that bridge is truly washed out, yeah?”

  The silence on the line lasted long enough for her to refill her cuppa and sit down again. “Are ye there?”

  The woman cleared her throat, then asked carefully. “I don’t suppose ye’re drunk now?”

  Bronagh laughed. “Cross me heart.”

  “Then I don’t understand why ye didn’t see Wyndham. With the loss of yer job and the first of the month not going to plan, I’d have expected a meltdown.”

  Bronagh decided she didn’t want to give any more details. It was enough that she’d taken the impact of two major disruptions to her regular schedule and survived them. Elizabeth didn’t need to know—

  “Must have been terribly handsome company…”

  Well that, at least, she couldn’t deny.

  “What will Wyndham say?”

  Bronagh laughed. Usually, Elizabeth was careful not to treat Wyndham as a real man. And if she did ask about him, she usually called him “yer muse” or “yer imaginary friend.” Now it sounded like she was worried about him, which made Bronagh feel like the bad guy, which in turn made her defensive.

  “Wyndham didn’t show, so he doesnae get a say in the matter, does he?”

  “Didn’t show. Didn’t show,” Elizabeth tested the words. “Ye mean ye didn’t invite him?”

  “I dinnae have to invite him. He’s just…there. But this time, he wasnae.”

  “And you ended up with someone else?” Elizabeth chuckled lightly, obviously relieved. “Do ye suppose it’s the other man who made Wyndham unnecessary?”

  Too far.

  “Wyndham is necessary, Elizabeth. He’ll always be necessary. If I thought for a moment he wouldn’t be there next month, I’d…” Bronagh’s mouth stopped, but her mind kept on.

  It would kill her if Wyndham didn’t show again. It should have hurt her more that he hadn’t shown up yesterday! He was part of her. She breathed him in and out even when she wasn’t at the moor. If he didn’t show up a second time, she’d go mad. She was certain of it. It would be like losing…not a boyfriend. It was more than that. It would be like losing her best friend—her soul mate.

  Absently, she let her hand drop to the table with the phone in it, more worried about what she’d done than the voice squawking on the line. And all for a close study of a pair of eyebrows! She had to go back to Culloden. It didn’t matter the date. He’d be there. He’d show himself and everything would be all right again.

  Her phone rang in her hand and she jumped. It sounded louder than usual, as if Elizabeth was yelling before she’d even answered.

  “Sorry. Dropped the phone.”

  “Let’s finish that sentence, shall we? If ye go back to Culloden next month and yer imaginary friend doesn’t appear, ye’ll…what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I beg pardon?”

  “I said it doesn’t matter. The painting is done.”

  “Really?” Elizabeth sounded suspicious.

  “Yeah. I finished it last night.”

  “Even the eyebrows?”

  She’d forgotten how much she’d obsessed over those. “Aye. The eyebrows. My company had excellent eyebrows, so I used his. They couldn’t have been more perfect.”

  “Do ye want to tell me about these perfect eyebrows and who they belong to?”

  “Nah. I’ll tell ye in two weeks, at our appointment.”

  “And what will ye do in the meantime?”

  “Look for a new job, o’course.”

  “Wait. Ye mean ye don’t intend to go back to Murray’s? Bridges can be repaired ye know.”

  “I don’t want it repaired. I want a new job.”

  “Well, look at you. New man, new job. Just don’t tell me ye want a new therapist.” She laughed, but Bronagh didn’t. After a silent pause, she teased again.

  “Who knows?”

  She still needed Elizabeth. She had no intention of having to explain Wyndham to someone else and risk being mocked. And if she couldn’t conjure her Highlander again, someone would have to pull her back from the brink.

  “Just taisin’, Elizabeth. Ye know I am.”

  The call ended and she made sure the line was dead before putting it down, then turned it over for good measure. It was probably her guilty conscience that made her so wary—after all, she’d just lied to her therapist. Or rather, she’d lied by omission. Because, if she told Elizabeth the mental break she’d had the night before that ended with locking a stranger in her basement, she was sure the woman would insist on a new white wardrobe—with sleeves that tied around the back.

  Elizabeth could never hear the truth—that Bronagh’s mind was still trying to make Wyndham and Mac be one in the same. So it was best, by far, that the latter was long gone, and that all she’d ever have of the man was an excellent rendering of his eyebrows.

  It was time to head to Culloden, to prove once and for all that Mac and Wyn couldn’t possibly be the same man. And the easiest way to do that was to ask Wyndham himself. He would laugh at her--probably fall on the ground howling--but it would be worth it to have the matter settled. Of course, she didn’t intend to tell him about the kiss.

  While she washed up the dishes, Bronagh tried to bring Wyn’s face to mind. His hair, his beard, those eyes...but all she could see was her missing houseguest. His face and his form muscled out any other thoughts she tried to entertain.

  An obsession, is all. As soon as I see Wyn, Mac will be easily forgotten.

  She dried her hands and went to the doors of her improvised studio, and pushed them wide. In the center of the room stood the giant ghost made of tan canvas. The top of the easel was the pointy head. The shoulders were made from the upper corners of its massive frame. The rest of the old boat cover draped to the ground.

  Her heart jumped. She had left the painting uncovered the night before.

  In the center, over the canvas-ghost's heart, was another sticky note. It was most likely Mac’s opinion of her project, but she was too angry to care what he thought. How dare he look?

  She growled, then hissed, “I wasn’
t ready for anyone to see it.” She ripped off the note, also written in all caps, and read it twice.

  I SHALL RETURN. A GRAVE MISTAKE TO RECTIFY.

  She took a few breaths, then read it again.

  What did that even mean? Whose mistake? His for leaving? Or hers for locking him in the basement? Returning when? And would he bring the police?

  Refusing to freak out again, she shook the worry out of her head. There was room on the note. He could have added the word police at the bottom if he'd truly wanted to scare her. But he’d been a very decent fella, and decent fellas didn’t leave threatening messages like that.

  She whipped off the canvas. It was heavy, but her muscles were used to the movement. The edge cleared the top of the easel with no problem and the entire canvas dropped into a puddle to the side of her grand painting.

  She took a step back and looked at the canvas that had never seemed finished enough, and therefore, destined for her eyes only. But this time, nothing seemed out of place or disproportioned. It was Wyndham staring back at her. After a few blinks, it was her escaped prisoner again. The beard, the wild hair, the ancient kilt and weapons. It was all simply dressing, really, on the man she’d met only yesterday. A costume. A lark. No more serious than the bright plaids and checks that Loud James wore.

  Those intense eyes stared into hers and dared her to ask the question…

  How could her prisoner look so much like her muse? How could she have imagined that face so clearly and never remembered meeting the man? What was she missing?

  Too many trees, not enough forest.

  She read the note again. I shall return. A grave mistake to rectify. I shall return...

  “Yeah? Well. You’d better have all the answers when you do.”

  Her breakfast churned in her stomach once more and dared her to boke, but she swallowed hard, determined to hold it down. After all, it might be a long cold day on the moor if Wyndham McLeish didn’t show.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Throughout the first morning of self-restraint, Wyndham was rather pleased with himself. The note he’d left in the basement would keep Bronagh from worrying how he’d escaped the bedroom. And being a considerate man who cared for his woman, it was the least he could have done.

  The second note, he considered genius.

  I shall return. A grave mistake to rectify.

  He’d given her a mystery to solve, which would force her to think of him often. And he’d teased the perfectionist in her by not pointing out the mistake, so she’d be unable to correct it, which would make her crave his return!

  Bloody brilliant.

  Of course, he’d be tortured right along with her for as long as he kept his distance, but if it meant she’d be completely obsessed with him, leaving little time to think about her muse, all the better. He’d have outplayed…well, he’d have outplayed himself.

  That “other him” no longer existed, so he was only competing with his memory. But he couldn’t afford to let down his guard, especially when Bronagh’s love was the prize he was fighting for.

  That was the sum of his thoughts on the first morning. That afternoon, he’d already grown restless.

  It was Wyn’s turn to tidy up after the noon meal, and he was grateful to have physical work to help him pass the time. As he washed the heavy pans, he resisted the urge to count the hours and minutes that had passed since he’d slipped out the door of Bronagh’s house and into Wickham’s warm truck. If the man hadn’t arrived so promptly, who knows how many wee notes Wyn might have left around the house for Bronagh to find.

  He'd resisted the urge to slink down the hallway and watch her sleep—she’d mentioned that she didn’t care to be spied upon, and he would have given her a terrible fright if she’d awakened, so it was a risk he wouldn’t take. Instead, he’d sat in a small but nicely padded chair and watched out the window for his “car service.”

  That had been thirteen hours and…seven minutes—

  “Aargh!”

  MacTavish offered him another greasy pan and a dirty look. “Practicin’ tae be a pirate, are ye?”

  Wyn smiled, flicked the suds from his hands, twice, and sent his right fist toward MacTavish’s jaw. Sadly, the man blocked it.

  “Tut, tut, tut.” MacTavish lifted his free hand and tapped the side of his nose. “I’ve promised his lairdship I willnae fight the rest of the week, nor on Sundays. So perhaps we could finish this discussion on Monday morning?”

  Wyn lowered his arm and nodded. “Monday, then.” He turned back to his suds, but had an idea. “MacTavish?”

  The man paused at the kitchen’s side door. “Aye?”

  “Send Forbes.”

  The other man laughed, then he growled, “Gladly.”

  Later that evening, Wyn and Forbes stood before Laird Wickham Muir’s chair like a pair of recalcitrant lads.

  Forbes nodded. “I do apologize, milord, for the large hole in the kitchen wall. I will repair it.”

  “Ye won’t,” Wyn said, “for it was I who tossed ye through it. I will repair the hole.”

  Forbes lifted his chin to argue, but Wickham came out of his chair.

  “I will put the pair of ye through the wall if ye so much as look at each other for the next two weeks, is that understood?”

  Forbes was oblivious to the danger now standing before him. “Two weeks seems rather harsh—"

  “Shut it!”

  From somewhere above stairs came the sound of a woman clearing her throat. Wickham glanced at the clock, flexed his jaw, and lowered his backside to the chair once again.

  “Wyndham McLeish,” he said, in a softer voice, “see Monroe, the new quartermaster in the morning to repair the wall. Forbes?”

  “Aye, milord?”

  “Find someone less accommodating to tease.” Wickham suddenly grinned, leaned forward, and spoke lower still. “I would bet money our MacTavish will not rise to yer bait, say, before the Sabbath.”

  Wyn was about to speak up for the absent man’s sake, but Wickham cut him off with a sharp glance.

  “MacTavish, aye?” Forbes made a face. “Interesting. And just how much would ye bet, sir, if ye were a bettin’ man?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  Forbes’ eyes bulged, obviously forgetting the current worth of a ten-pound note compared to the good year’s wages ten pounds might have been in the old days. “Done, sir.” He spit in his hand and offered it.

  Muir rolled his eyes and left his hands on the arms of the modest-sized chair. “Done. But not until tomorrow. My family needs its sleep.”

  Wyn followed Forbes out the door, feeling the weight of a few coins and paper bills in his pocket with each step taken. MacTavish would be the surer bet considering how determined he’d been not to fight him earlier. And with only three and a half days before Sunday…

  He slapped the fellow on the back. “So, Forbes…”

  Bronagh was as nervous as a wet hen when she got out of the car and headed for the battlefield. Though it was still cold, the storm had passed, and she’d come prepared to be outside for a bit. She didn’t wish to take any chances, and thought her luck might improve if she summoned her muse in the same spot she’d originally done so.

  The bench beside the old cottage wasn’t so far away compared with others, but she was still half frozen by the time she reached it. She brushed snow off the wood and sat down, then pulled a pencil and small sketch pad from her coat, so he’d think she was there to work. Even if she was just playing games with her own mind, she didn’t care. It only mattered that she did all she could to bring him out.

  “W…W…Wyndham, my love. Come to me.”

  A waft of air teased her hair, then shook the dried heather that edged the low roof, like a ghost toying with her.

  “It’s feckin’ cold, Wyndham. Are ye going to show yerself or not? I ken it’s not the first of the month, but if ye were here yesterday, ye know what happened. Don’t bunch yer nose if I did my part.” She bit her lip briefly. “Are ye a coward
, then?”

  She grinned, knowing that fighting words always brought a rise out of him. If he could come to her then, he surely would.

  But he didn’t. She waited a painful, bone-chilling five minutes but she got not a sound nor a glimpse of the man whose breath-taking image held court in her studio.

  “Fine then.” She tucked the pad and pencil away, rewrapped her thick scarf around her ears and neck, and headed back to the visitor’s center where an Irish Whisky would be her first priority. “Ye might believe I deserve some sort of punishment,” she said as she went, “for taking that bruiser home with me yesterday, but ye ken I had good reason. And considering the hell I went through last night, I would expect a little pity from ye.”

  If Wyn walked beside her, she couldn’t tell. If he was determined to give her the cold, silent shoulder, she told him he’d best get over his tantrum quickly, that she wouldn’t give him all day. After all, she was desperate to see him, and she wasn’t joking when she said her very sanity was on the line.

  “Ye came verra close to never seeing me again,” she added, before she reached the doors. “What could ye have done if I’d ended up in jail? Or worse, highly medicated in a hospital?”

  The Wyn she knew should have been declaring his devotion and concern for her by then. But still, no trace of him.

  Torn between hope and despair, she ordered her coffee and biscuits, anything to keep with the routine, hopeful her subconscious would spit him out from habit alone. But even after she was settled at her usual table, the only soul who took interest in her was Loud James. Only he wasn’t wearing his tartans that day.

  He stopped beside her table and gestured to the chair.

  “Please, join me,” she said, knowing that Wyndham had the highest regard for the man. “I never thanked ye for yer help, yesterday.”

  “Auch, think nothing of it.” He settled in his chair and removed his own gloves. The red at the tips of his ears, nose, and chin proved he’d been outside too. The barista brought him a coffee and a slice of fruit bread, and he took the mug in both hands to warm them.