A Time & Place for Every Laird (13 page)

A single tear trickled down
Sorcha’s cheek, and Hugh gently wiped it away.  His heart ached for her, for the loss of a man she had clearly loved, and loved still.  “I am truly sorry for yer loss,” he offered.  “How long has it been?”

“
Three years,” she answered with a sniff, and Hugh straightened in surprise. 

Given her
profound grief, he might have thought it a matter of months, perhaps a year.  Three years?  It was a lifetime to grieve, even for one so loved.  Death and loss were a matter of rote in his time.  People lived and died, often young and unexpectedly.  They were mourned but life went on.  Had things changed so much since then?  Did everyone in this time wallow in grief and misery when there was life and living to be embraced?  Hugh wanted to ask but struggled with the words lest he offend her.

“Is
three years or more a common period of mourning in this time?” he asked as gently as possible.

“No, apparently not,” she answered with that same bitterness, swiping her hand across her eyes.  “You’d think I’m the biggest aberration on the planet
, the way everyone fusses about it.  Everyone is on me about it, even Matt’s parents.  I should get out more, meet more men, date, remarry, live a little, let it go, move on!”  The list went on until the anger in her voice rose in pitch.

“Why hae
ye nae?” Hugh couldn’t help but ask.  It was something he simply couldn’t comprehend, but perhaps people in his time were more prosaic about life and death.  “Nae one expects ye tae mourn forever, I’m sure.”

“Because I don’t want to!” she bit out, turning to glare at him.  “I was happy!  I loved him!  Do you think something like that comes along every
day?”

Ahh
, Hugh thought as he met her angry gaze.  Her ire had darkened the amethyst to vivid violet.  Now they were getting down to the bones of the matter.  “I ken what it is,” he said softly.  “Ye’re afraid tae lose again and mayhap tae love again, aye?  Ye’re afraid that that was the best life had tae offer ye.”

“Excuse me?”  Sorcha blinked up at him, shifting away from him on the log. 

“Ye’re family is right,” he continued.  “Ye cannae hang on tae a ghostie forever.  Dinnae be afeared of moving forward wi’ yer own life.  I doubt yer Matt would have wanted ye tae wallow in misery for the rest of yer days either.”

Sorcha shook her head
disbelievingly.  “I’m sure I must have misinterpreted something in that nearly unintelligible brogue of yours.”

“I’m sure ye
dinnae misunderstand,” he returned.  “Ye’re afraid, lass, ’tis nothing tae be ashamed of.”

“Really?  This coming from the master of denial?” she nearly sneered the words. 

“Ye’re going tae turn this back on me?” he asked incredulously.  “I was only trying tae help.”

“I don’t need your help!
  I don’t want it!” she shouted, jumping to her feet, her hands fisted at her sides as she glared down at him.  “I can’t believe you of all people have the balls to try to lecture me about fear!”

Hugh ground his teeth, feeling his own temper flare at her scathing words.  “Calm down now, lass.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she yelled.  “I’m sick of people telling me what to do, and who are you to think you have the right anyway?  You can hardly admit that traveling through time hasn’t scared the shit out of you, and you’re going to lecture me on the subject of fear?”

His jaw clenched and worked as Hugh fought to keep his notorious Scots temper from erupting. “Sorcha …” he warned in low growl.

“Claire!”
she corrected, shooting a finger toward him.  “And you have no right!  No right at all, after all I have done for you, to judge me.”

“
I dinnae judge,” Hugh denied the accusation, but by this time his patience was nearly at an end.  He rose to his feet as well, towering over her, but Claire was either too brave or too angry to be intimidated by him.  Bloody hell, but it all made sense now, and Hugh couldn’t stop the words from rolling off his tongue.  “Nae, lass, it doesnae take a genius tae figure ye out.  Any fool can see it.”

“Go to hell, Hugh!”

“Verra likely,” he shot back.  “But yer godly Matt willnae be there, will he?  He’s a saint now, aye?  That’s why there’s tae be nae touching, nae kissing.  Ye dinnae want anything tae mar the purity of his memory.”

“How dare you!”  She accused hotly, her body trembling with rage.  “I loved him!”

“Aye!” Hugh shot back, looming over her.  “And ye’ve got yer shrine tae him tae prove it tae everyone, hae ye nae?  The pictures, the medals … Tell me,
Sorcha
, do ye pray tae him as well?”

Sorcha froze in shock for only a split second before her hand shot out
and she slapped him across the face.  Hugh’s head turned with the force of the blow and while at any other point in his life such a bashing would only have served to stoke his own anger more, for some reason Sorcha’s fair wallop seemed to knock the sense back into him.

Cheeks aflame with the sting of her blow, Hugh felt only remorse for his harsh words.  “Sorcha
… Claire,” he corrected, “forgi’ my words.  I dinnae …”

“Don’t, Hugh,” she whispered shakily
, holding up a hand to halt his words.  “Just don’t.”

Claire turned away and walked dazedly up the beach, her footsteps carrying her quickly away from Hugh.  She clutched her sweater tightly around her middle, as if her own embrace could protect her from the world at large.  Her fingers curled around the burning sting of her hand as she replayed that moment, that eruptive anger, which had fled the instant she had lashed out at Hugh, leaving her feeling hollow and spent.

Defeated.

And a little horrified.  Well, perhaps more than a little.  Claire couldn’t believe she had ranted at him like that—hit him!—especially when he was only saying the same thing she had heard again and again over the years.  It was nothing new, nothing different than the homilies her Mom and Dad, her brothers, and her friends had plied her with over the years. 

The temper, however, was new
, and Claire couldn’t quite figure out where it came from.  She had never lost it like that before in her life.  My God but she had screeched like a harpy at him!

Well, she inwardly justified, Hugh
had crossed the line with that last bit.  Good Lord, that had hurt.  A shrine?  Is that what she had done?  Did everyone see her that way? 

Looking back over the past few years, Claire would wager that they did.  She could remember once after her brother, Ryan, had brought one of his friends unexpectedly to dinner at their parent
s’ house, Claire had left early.  Earlier than was polite.  “So what are you going to do now?” Ryan had taunted as she left.  “Go home and drown your misery in a pint with your old friends Ben and Jerry?”

“
No,” she had shot back sarcastically, “this is my night out with Jack and Daniel.” But she
had
gone home and curled up on the couch with a tub of Tollhouse cookie dough, watched
My Life
, and cried like leaky faucet.

Another time when she had shown up to dinner, her brother Danny had welcomed her with a jovial, “I see you got out of your PJ’s today,
Sis.  What’s the special occasion?”

“Very funny, Danny,” Claire had said.

“Who’s joking?” Danny had responded teasingly.

Had he been teasing at all, Claire wondered now
?  Had any of them been joking?

Was Hugh actually right in saying that she was afraid?

For years she had evaded intimacy of any sort. First out of love for Matt, out of respect.  Then …  Claire bit her lip, seeing her life more clearly than ever before. Since moving to Spokane, away from her parents and brothers, the previous year, Claire had become something of a hermit.  She had friends, like Darcy, at work and had once or twice gone out for “Girl’s Night,” but those nights had revolved around bars and men and had left a bad taste in her mouth.

Sure
, she had been lonely.  Who wouldn’t be?  But as lonely as she might get, Claire had always gone to bed at night knowing that Matt would be there.  Alone she could replay happy memories, recalling the sound of his laughter.  She could keep a part of him alive.

But a lazy chuckle couldn’t warm a cold bed
, and hadn’t she just days ago admitted—at least inwardly—that she missed a warm body by her side?  And look how it had spiraled out of control!  She had thought herself content with her choices, but now Claire realized that memories alone weren’t enough any longer.  How long had it been since she even had a nice long hug?  Suddenly she longed for the comforting contact of human flesh, specifically for the feel of Hugh’s strong embrace.

Her mind spun
and Claire dropped down on a large log that slanted across the beach, stunned.  Where had that bit of brutal honesty come from?  Had the bitter vitriol she had just spewed all over Hugh stripped her down to a bared soul, leaving nothing but the naked truth?  That astonishing eruption of rage had resulted in feelings and anger she had never verbalized to anyone.  She had never lashed out so cruelly at her parents, but now somehow Claire felt better for having voiced it all.  She couldn’t remember ever being so angry.

Rubbing her hands over her face, Claire splayed her fingers and looked between them out over the choppy waters of the sound.  Seagulls soared overhead, boats crept by in the distance
, but Claire didn’t truly see any of it, for she’d just had the most startling epiphany of all.

In truth, she couldn’t really remember a time when she hadn’t been angry.

She
was
angry, and had been for a long while.  Angry at the world for taking Matt from her too quickly, angry at the Afghans who had planted that bomb, angry at the government for allowing such a war to begin with, angry with her family for pushing her too hard.  Angry with Matt.

With a heavy sigh, Clai
re shook her head.  Damn, that snooping Jameson had been right.  She had left a good, fulfilling job developing environmentally clean ultrasonic propulsion to make weapons worse than the one that had taken her husband from her, and she had done it just because she was angry about the way Matt had died.

God, what an ugly
, nauseating realization.

As for the fear
… ugh, she really hated it when someone else was right.

“Hugh?”

Hugh lowered the book he had been reading and exhaled a sigh of relief at the sound of Sorcha’s voice.  She had been gone for hours.  Hours where he had awaited her return on the beach and had finally given up his post, sure that his harsh outburst had been enough to drive her away forever.  Her absence had provided plenty of time for him to evaluate his position and the unanticipated friendship that had blossomed between them.  Though he needed her more desperately than he cared to admit, he had also quickly begun to care for her as well.  She was courageous, resourceful, intelligent, and witty.  There was much about her to admire and little to scorn.

And she had been right.  He held no position in her life that allowed for such personal observations of how she led her life.

Glancing up, he found her looking, not at him, but at the wooden bookshelves that covered the interior wall of the library.  Her arms were still crossed tightly, a posture he had come to recognize as protective, defensive.  Sorcha had employed it often over the past days as a means to maintaining distance between them.  Initially, distance between herself and a stranger who might potentially harm her, and now between herself and a man who had done so in the very worst way.

Hugh had never been one to read
ily tolerate insult or injury from anyone.  For all the refinement of Frederick’s court, such things were commonplace, but swift and scathing rebuttal had quickly silenced any of the courtiers’ gossip concerning Hugh or his friends.  He could charm with a raised brow and censure just as easily.  If any other woman had dared berate him so, his rebuke would have been just as sharp and quick.  From a man such an insult might have been, in some cases, even deadly. 

No, i
t wasn’t unusual for him to make a weapon of words in such instances, words carefully considered and chosen for the sting they might inflict.  However, it was unusual for him to lash out so thoughtlessly, and he regretted the rash temper that had prompted him to do so.  Hugh wasn’t certain if it was the situation or Sorcha herself who had roused his emotions so.  She did have a way of getting under his skin, irritating as a gnat.

Sorcha also had a way of lightening a man’s heart to the point where he forgot all his troubles and saw only her.  That alone was worth making amends for. 

“Sor … Claire,” Hugh pushed out of the chair, determined to atone for his insensitive taunting.

But Sorcha
turned to face him with a smile (it might have been tight and perhaps a wee tad forced, but it was there) and said brightly, “I thought we might go into the city in the morning and see if my brother can help us find out what brought you here.”

And w
ith that, Hugh knew she had miraculously forgiven him his thoughtless words.  How or why, he hadn’t an inkling.  After all she had given, he certainly didn’t deserve it.  “Claire …”

She shook her head
, holding up her hand in that way that would have seemed excessively rude in his own time but was delivered as a matter of course in this one. “I’m sorry for what I said.  There are a million excuses I could give you for getting on you like that, a million justifications. I try hard not to follow ‘I’m sorry’ with a ‘but.’  There are circumstances here neither of us are used to.  We both know it.  I deserve what I got in return, but I’m hoping we can both figure out how to deal with our worries in more constructive ways than taking it out on one another.”

Hugh nodded gravely
.  “Ye hae my apology as well.  My words were thoughtless and cruel.  Ye hae my word as a gentleman that such ill-considered words willnae pass my lips again.”  Nae, they would not, Hugh inwardly vowed.  Sorcha clearly had enough pain and conflict in her life without him adding to it.  If she was still willing to help him, he had nothing more within his power with which to repay her than kindness and courtesy.  The good Lord knew that he was perfectly capable of both.

Sorcha’s
arms loosened, though she did push her hands deep into the pockets of her sweater, and her pinched features relaxed.  “You must be hungry.  Did you get any breakfast at all?” she asked as she started toward the kitchen, and Hugh followed, wishing there was more he could do to right the wrong his temper had wrought.  Despite the cheer in her voice, Hugh had quickly come to realize that Sorcha conquered worry and fear with sarcasm, and uncertainty with subjects changed.

“I found enough tae satisfy me,” he said, though he hadn’t been able to eat at all as he wondered at her absence.  “I can prepare our meal if you like.”

Her arched brow told him clearly what she thought of that, and Hugh couldn’t help but grin.  “Even a duke can turn a rabbit on a spit, if need be.”

“Next time I want to put Thumper on a skewer, I’ll know
who to call,” she retorted, pulling meats and cheese out of the refrigerator.  “For now, a sandwich or five will have to do.”

Silence fell around them as S
orcha pulled out a bag with a fascinating loaf of sliced bread and began to assemble a tower of sandwiches as she explained to him the origin of the term, about the Earl of Sandwich and his penchant for eating while he played at cards.  It was a story meant for his amusement and Hugh took it as such, along with a plateful of the objects, with his thanks.  Sorcha made another for herself with tomato, lettuce, and cheese, her focus on her work as she assembled it.

“Just so you know,” she said more
to the cutting board before her than to him,  “you were right.  About everything.”

Chewing thoughtfully on his meal
, Hugh tipped his head gallantly and offered a rueful smile.  “As were ye, lass.  As were ye.”

The confession
brought her gaze to his for the first time since her return to the house.  For a moment she gripped her knife tightly and stared at him in surprise before a more honest smile lit her bonny face.  “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Hugh snorted at the unusual quip and straightened, releasing a rumble of laughter that started deep with
in his chest.  “Aye, lass, ’tis indeed.”

“It’s given us both a hell of a ride
, but I suppose we just need to suck it up and get over it, right?” she rambled on, going to the refrigerator for drinks.  “Just like everyone said … though since you’ve had it way worse—yes, you heard me, way worse—I’ll give you … say, another week to get over it and move on.”

Hugh raised a brow at that.  She’d mourned for three years over the loss of a husband and expected him to
“get over” the loss of his entire life in a week?  Sorcha snuck a glance at him and winked and Hugh had to laugh.  By God, but she was teasing him!  She certainly wasn’t one to hang on to her anger for long, was she?

She set a bottle down in front of him labeled Diet
Coke, something she had been drinking almost continuously since they had met while Hugh had only beer, wine, and the bottled water Sorcha had assured him was far safer and tastier than the water in his day.  Trustingly, Hugh took a swallow and felt the liquid burn its way down his throat.  Gasping, Hugh glared at the bottle and then at her, only to find her eyes dancing.  “Good stuff, huh?” she asked, taking a long pull on her own drink and swallowing with a smack of her lips.  “Ahh!”