A Time & Place for Every Laird (21 page)

No, t
hey would love him, too, she decided.  Hugh was a ladies’ man but he was also a man’s man.  He’d probably never met a stranger in his life and was the epitome of jovial grace. 

Claire studied him as he spoke to the waitress
.  His big body lounged back in the wooden chair, his arm hooked over the back, drawing his sweater tight to show off his muscular physique and washboard abs.  The blue knit brought his eyes out vividly, framed by his dark lashes.  His dazzling smile flashed again as he ran a hand through his hair, and Claire thought Becky might pool right there at his feet.

And she wasn’t the only one.  Hugh simply being Hugh was like a magnet to the room at large. 
Most of the diners and staff were watching him, either covertly or openly.  Did it come naturally to him or was it ingrained as part of his ducal training?  Could that kind of charisma be taught?

If it could, Hugh had a great teacher
, because he was fascinating.

Even to her
.  How could she deny it when there was so very much to like about him that none of these people could see?  What was it about her that drew him, she wondered?

Becky paused to take a breath and Claire leapt at the opportunity to place their order, asking for
“The Pacific Clambake” from the Seafeast menu.  This item was ordered by the person, so Claire requested a bucket for three, then changed it to four, knowing Hugh’s appetite was often insatiable.

Lifting her mug to her lips, Claire considered Hugh over the top as the waitress finally left them once more.  Hugh drank as well, smacking his lips in appreciation as he downed half the liter in one swallow.  “Fairly satisfying.”

“High praise,” Claire said as they shared a grin.  “Maybe you should forgo becoming a professional golfer and open a brewery in your new life.”  She was biting her lip before the last word was complete, regretting the reference to that mysterious something that awaited him in the months and years to come.  Claire could only imagine how the uncertainty of the unknown rubbed him raw and was sorry to have brought up the painful subject again. “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Ye needn’t watch ye
r tongue wi’ me, lass,” Hugh said softly, but there was a new, firm resolve in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.  “’Tis nothing I hae nae already considered.  I hae determined that I need tae accept my fate such as it is wi’out mourning for the past.  For now, my goal is tae secure my freedom and yer safety.  When those things are assured, I will consider how tae best pass the remainder of my years.”

All of that without a trace of self-pity.
  Hugh could certainly teach Claire a thing or two about how to move forward from tragedy.

Stretching
across the table, she covered his hand with hers and gave it a squeeze.  Hugh turned his over and clasped her hand in his, tracing his thumb over the back of her hand. “You are an amazing man, Hugh,” she said sincerely, but Hugh just shrugged off the compliment.

“Nothing I hae done
as yet would make my ancestors proud,” he said.  “I intend tae remedy that.  But until I do, I am going tae apply myself tae yer uncle’s library and try tae find out everything that has happened in the world between my time and yers.”

“That could take awhile.”

“Dinnae worry, lass,” he said with a wink.  “I am equally resolved tae begin enjoying life here as well and I will certainly enjoy the chance to engage in an innocent flirtation wi’ ye.”  His thumb slipped between her fingers and slid across the center of her palm.  The calloused pad chafed lightly, leaving a tingling warmth trailing behind the caress, and Claire repressed a shiver, pulling her hand away. 

“I
think your definition of ‘innocent’ and mine might be vastly different.”

“Indeed?  Innocent words can
describe yer beauty.  Like how I wonder if yer skin is as soft and silky as it looks and how I long tae touch ye, how I love tae see yer blush creeping up yer cheeks and I wonder at the thoughts that prompt yer pulse tae quiver just here.” As if having the full force of Hugh’s husky brogue turned on her hadn’t been enough, he traced a line down the side of her neck, sending that pulse skyrocketing and Claire’s head spinning. “Ahh, ’tis as soft as I imagined,” he whispered, his eyes dark with desire.

Claire
fell back in her chair and grasped the handle of her beer mug once more, eager to cool the fire that was building inside of her.  “God, you’re good.  I’d hate to see what you can do when you have a vested interest.”

“Who says I dinnae?” Hugh asked
, and Claire’s gaze clashed with his, wondering at his words and what she read in his eyes.

It was the same look he had given her on the street.  It wasn’t playful flirtation there but compelling seduction that enticed her to cast her caution and fears aside.  Their attraction was a mutual one, she knew that, but she had thought it to be a casual one, at least from Hugh’s perspective.  Just a this-leads-to-that sort of thing that he had downplayed as anything more powerful with his invitation for light flirtation.  But unless she truly was verging on nunhood, that wasn’t simply wanton desire she saw in his eyes.  It was hunger. 
The kind that demanded total, soul-baring surrender.

It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time
, and Claire was once again aboard her proverbial ship at sea, tossing and tipping.  A part of her wanted to ride out the storm, while the other part demanded that she abandon ship
immediately
.

An image flashed through her mind from an old movie she had seen once where the people aboard a ship lashed themselves to the masts during a storm to avoid being swept overboard
, and Claire mentally did the same.  In laying out the terms of their flirtation, she had committed to taking a leap into the unknown, not the leap overboard.  She needed this challenge if for no other reason than to force a change in her life, and she was going to brave it even if she had to mentally tie herself down for it.

Thankfully, their food arrived—again with unusual speed—to break the thoughtful mood, and Becky, accompanied by a pair of helpers—each one predictably female—set cutting boards and mallets in front of Claire and Hugh and arranged a plate of skewered salmon and halibut and another of little cups of melted butter and lemon slices at one end of the table before dumping out a large bowl of Dungeness crab, snow crab, clams, mussels, oysters, shrimp, Andouille sausage, corn on the cob, and red potatoes onto the thick white paper that served as their tablecloth.  The bowl and a roll of paper towels found a home on the other end of the table.

The delicious scent of the hot seafood filled the air
, and, eyes closed, Claire leaned forward to sniff appreciatively.  Her stomach grumbled in anticipation of the carnage that was about to take place.  Fingers curling around the mallet, Claire opened her eyes to find Hugh staring at her, aghast.

“What is this?”

Claire frowned, looking to the food and back at Hugh.  “Dinner.”  She pointed with the mallet here and there, listing, “Clams, oysters, mussels …”

“I know what they are,” he said with some exasperatio
n.  “But tae simply
shovel
it upon the table so!  What are we …  Do ye truly expect me tae use this?” He picked up the wooden mallet as if it were something foreign.

“And these.”  Claire lifted her hands, spreading them wide and wiggling her fingers.  Hugh’s expression went from shocked to
appalled, and Claire couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up and spilled over.  “Oh, come on, Hugh!  It’s fun! I wouldn’t think you would mind.”

“Ye think yers is the only culture tae
employ a fork?” he asked, eyeing the feast apprehensively.  “It does smell most appetizing, though.”

“It is,” Claire said,
then smiled deviously.  “Wait!  We’re forgetting something.”  Taking a small, plastic-wrapped package off the table, Claire rose and walked around behind Hugh.  Within seconds, Hugh’s expression was beyond priceless as he stared up at her in horror.

“I willnae
!”  Claire burst out laughing as Hugh tore the plastic bib she’d just tied around his neck off and crumbled it in his hand.  “I am nae some wee bairn tae be needing such a thing!”

Forcing her lungs to draw in air, Claire fought for breath as she continued to laugh.  Eyes dancing, she opened her own bib and tied it on, smoothing the red and
white printed plastic over her chest before picking up a snow crab leg and expertly cracking it on first one side and then the other.  Pulling it apart, Claire popped the long piece of crabmeat into her mouth and smiled brightly.  “You’ll ruin your sweater,” she warned when Hugh followed suit.

“I might rather do so than look so foolish,” he said, taking up
the skewered salmon and pulling a piece of fish off the wooden stick carefully before putting it in his mouth.

Eyes
still dancing merrily, Claire signaled to Becky, who was still lingering nearby, and the waitress approached instantly.  “Becky, you forgot our forks.  Could you bring us a couple?”

The waitress nodded and dashed off
, and Hugh stared at Claire incredulously.  “Ye knew there were tae be utensils?”

“Of course, you silly thing,” she said cheerfully as she squeezed a few lemon wedges over the pile of food.  “You can’t eat potatoes or get the clams out of their shells without a fork, you know.”

Hugh scowled at Sorcha
, whose attention was firmly focused on shelling the shrimp in her hands, an amused smile still playing at her lips.  The angry expression was merely for show, and he suspected that Sorcha knew that.  But he did so enjoy her propensity to tease and provoke.

Unless she was provoking him in far more stimulating ways.

“Another of those moments I spoke of?”

Sorcha
blinked blankly.

“Retribution?”

She grinned knowingly but offered a helpless shrug.  “Maybe just a little.  I can’t seem to help it.  You just make it so easy.”

Joining her in
her laughter, Hugh applied himself to the feast before him.  Though he truly had been shocked when the meal had been presented, Hugh had been more than pleased to exaggerate his outrage to entertain her and to encourage her playfulness. 

She
was lovely when she smiled.  Breathtaking when she laughed, her unusual amethyst eyes bright and shining with humor, a blush coloring her cheeks.  Hugh felt the desire he had been fighting against stir once again.  Her “innocent” flirtation might well be the end of him.

Unaware of the thoughts in his mind, Sorcha continued on after Becky returned with the forks and they began working their way through the pile of food before them. 
Sorcha pushed all the sausage toward him but feasted heartily on the shellfish and vegetables.  “Does this really bug you?” she asked, and then added for clarification, “Bother you?  You’re not actually going to tell me that an eighteenth-century Scot has never eaten with his fingers before?”

“
Nae, I cannae say that I hae ne’er done so,” he conceded.  “Even as recently as the battle at Culloden it was so, as a soldier has few options when in the field.  But I again remind ye that I hae also dined wi’ kings.  The appropriate silver was always wielded wi’ each course.” 

“How many courses?” she asked curiously,
catching a drop of butter off her chin with a fingertip before licking it away in a manner that once again sent Hugh’s thoughts skewing.  She thought she was the only one affected by their flirtation?  The lass could set his blood on fire with an innocent gesture!

“What? 
Och, upwards of a dozen at times,” he answered, and Sorcha’s brows rose.

“I can’t even imagine,” she said, dabbing
at her mouth with a paper towel, much to Hugh’s regret.  “What was it like?  King Frederick’s palace?”

So, they ate on while Hugh regaled her with stories of court,
comparing the simplicity of traditional Scottish meals with the rich French cuisine that was all the rage on the Continent.  From there he began recalling some more ridiculous moments, such as the pageants and plays that would be performed, often with a man or two heavily rouged and dressed as women, as well as some more cultural ones, such as the orchestras assembled to perform the King’s work.

It was astonishing to Hugh to discover that
his descriptions of the clothing worn at court were of equal amusement to her.  Oh, she punctuated his accounts of the ladies’ garb, silks and satins crusted with gemstones and dripping with lace, with “oohs” and “ahs,” but describing a gentlemen in the same seemed to tickle her immensely.  Though Hugh had powdered his hair as a concession to fashion on occasion, he found himself glad that he could honestly deny ever having worn a wig or jeweled heels.

With such a reaction, Hugh felt he might have cried like a bairn in her arms and maintained more respect as a man in her eyes than the fashionable wearing of lace and satin allowed him.  It was yet another aspect of this strange time to puzzle over.

Eventually, Sorcha sat back in her chair, wiped her fingers, and removed her bib, leaving Hugh to conquer the remaining mountain of seafood alone.   She nursed her second mug while Becky solicitously brought one porter after another for him.  Just as Hugh would reach the bottom of one, another would appear at his elbow.

When the last shell had been shucked and the last bit of fish consumed, Hugh sat back with a sigh of contentment and raised his mug to his lips once again.  “Most satisfactory.”

“Sorry I can’t feed you so well all the time.”

“Ye
hae done verra well, lass.  Ye a far more skilled cook than I in any case.”

“I think we both know how much of a compliment that truly is,” she said drily
, and Hugh chuckled.  “We already determined that as a duke you have no practical skill in the kitchen.”

The sound
of his laughter seemed to draw the waitress like a magnet, for within seconds Becky was there once more.  She watched him from beneath her lashes as she cleared away the leftover bits and the bowl of shells.  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.  “Another beer?  Or dessert maybe?”

Sorcha shook her head at the eager girl and asked with a raised brow, “Anything else, Hugh?  Dessert?”  The last was drawled out with a touch of humor.

Hugh gave his denial to the waitress and asked for the check as he had seen Sorcha do before.  As Becky walked away, Sorcha gave a little laugh as she finished her second beer.  The alcohol had softened her through the course of the meal.  He had not yet seen her so relaxed.  “She would have served herself up for dessert if you had asked her to, Hugh.”

Glancing after the retreating waitress, Hugh knew Sorcha
's teasing words were true enough.  If he dared to say so aloud, she would no doubt laugh and call him conceited or some such but truth was truth.  With his looks, position, and wealth, Hugh had never lacked for female company.  Offers for affairs or single nights were common enough, and Becky was a bonny young lass.  Doubtlessly, she would make a satisfying bedmate. 

But she wasn’t what Hugh wanted.  She wasn’t
who
he wanted.  He had seen enough women in this time—whether on the television or in passing—to know that there were many attractive ones.  The abundance of cosmetics saw to that, but none could compare to Sorcha’s ravishing beauty, her auburn locks, beautiful eyes, and beguiling smiles, or to the spirit of her soul or the caring in her heart that had saved his life.

Becky
returned to the table, but Hugh couldn’t spare her even a look this time.  His focus was on Sorcha as she counted out a large sum of money from their meager funds and tucked it into a black folder.

Not only had the time come to start thinking of the uncertain future that loomed before him
but the time had also come to consider his path to a more equitable relationship with Sorcha. To offer recompense for more than she provided him, whether it be given in humor or funds.  It was time to discover a way to truly pay her back for all she had given.

“Ready?”

Hugh nodded and stood to pull her chair back.  He followed her through the restaurant, watching her
hair swing back and forth hypnotically as she walked.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains to the west, a sign that the day was nearly done and it was time to return to their island hideaway, but Hugh was hesitant to do so.  Much had occurred between them in the hours since their departure that morning.  They had moved from anger and wariness to friendship.  They had gone from an arm’s length to the warmth of Sorcha’s body pressed against him as she held his arm.  They had changed the rules for the behavior that guided them, allowing for flirtation, for touch, and his fingers already itched to do so.

It wasn’t his habit to care so deeply for a woman, to like her so well.  Hugh’s past relationships had been distant and oddly professional.  He’d kept an occasional mistress but had found ample company among the ladies at court; each had sought to gain something
, whether it be wealth or notoriety, from him.  There had never been a more serious flirtation, nor had he seriously courted a woman with intent of marriage. In his time and in his position, marriage was a business, not a romance, and at some point in his life, Hugh would have approached it as such.

Of course, that might have been why their mourning period was more unemotional and methodical as well.  He knew men and women alike who might have declared love for their mistress or lover
, but could think of none, including his uncle and aunt, who claimed it for their spouse.

He had not
ever before experienced, nor could he think of another who had admitted to experiencing, anything like this overwhelming desire he felt for Sorcha.  It was provocative and frustrating, fraught with both freedom and possessiveness. His arms ached to enfold her and his body yearned to be encompassed by hers.  Never in all his days had he simply
wanted
so profoundly what could not truly be his.

How
was he to go back to that quiet house with her, with nothing to think about but her?  How he could bear wanting her so, flirting and teasing, knowing all the while that another man held her heart?