Her Highland Fling (11 page)

“I d-don’t need a husband,” she protested, sitting up now and fishing about in the dark for her clothes. Her voice sounded on the verge of panic.

He shook his head. “I dinna say you needed a husband, lass.” He hesitated, knowing it came down to this. “The question is, do you want one?”

In the darkness, her face seemed very pale and unsure. “I . . . I d-don’t know.” She stood up and clasped her gown against her front, but it couldn’t hide the way she was trembling. “I would make a
t-terrible
c-countess.” She cringed. “My stammer means I would b-be judged.
You
would be judged. You d-deserve someone normal.”

“I disagree. You would make a brilliant countess.” He shook his head. “And if I’d wanted someone normal, I wouldn’t have kissed you to start.”

“I kissed you first,” she said miserably.

“Not tonight.” He tried to smile. “I don’t want normal, Pen. I want brilliant. And you are that and more.” He was ready to kiss her again, to prove to her they belonged together.

But now she was throwing a hand to one side, gesturing toward the loch. “C-can’t you see? This isn’t about
me
, MacKenzie. I c-can’t see you living in London. You might as well try to put your water cattle in the Serpentine. It would kill you. Kill your spirit, the thing that makes you who you are. You belong
here
. In Scotland. Surrounded by p-people you know and love.” She shook her head, as if it was all too obvious. “You belong in Moraig.”

His heart felt heavier than the damn caber. “I belong with you, lass.”

She jerked her gown over her head. “You don’t understand.” She drew a deep breath and then faced him. “I don’t want you to c-come to London.”

Her eyes glittered through the darkness. He felt as though she could see right through him but yet couldn’t see a thing in front of her. He was suddenly very aware of his own nudity. It hadn’t mattered when she’d been staring at him in want, but now that she was rejecting him, he felt a burning need to cover himself.

He spent an inordinate amount of time arranging his plaid. In his heart, he agreed with her—to a point. As the heir to the Earl of Kilmartie, his rightful place was here, in Moraig. Moreover, he didn’t want to leave the Highlands. He loved this country, had never been more miserable than the four years he’d spent at Cambridge.

But he’d meant it when he said he loved her. Following her to London was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant keeping her.

And if the city was so terrible, why was she so determined to return?

“Will you at least think on my offer?” he asked gruffly.

She did not answer.

He pulled the plaid around him and then gained his feet and belted it into place. He had one more thing to say to her, and he hoped she was listening. “I ken you’re a good reporter, Pen. I can see it in the way you work, the questions you ask. I’m not asking you to give that up. I would come to you, wherever you decided to live. But living a life of loneliness is no life at all.” He hesitated. “I know, because it’s the life I’ve led until now.”

In the darkness, he could hear her swallow.

“I won’t press you, if the thought of me coming to London is so distasteful. ’Tis your choice, and if you go, know you are always welcome to return, whenever you want. But you don’t need to be independent to prove yourself to other people, or to me. I ken how brave you are. But perhaps it’s sometimes braver to risk your heart, aye?”

She stood motionless. Wordless.

And he knew then that he’d lost her. She was going back to London. Without him.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

“Y
ou’re an idiot.”

William rolled his eyes, given that this was at least the third time this week he’d been told something of the sort, most recently by his brother, James. The fact that the latest claim came from McRory did little to soothe his fraying temper.

“Aye.” He glared at the butcher. “You’ll not find an argument from me there. But we need every able-bodied man between the ages of fifteen and fifty to stand in their plaid and greet the tourists. Today is your turn, and I dinna particularly care if you object or not.”

McRory scowled. “Ye daft nubbin, this isn’t about the plaid. You are an idiot to have let Miss Tolbertson go.”

A growl loosened in William’s chest to have the conversation circle predictably around to Pen. He understood he was an idiot in that vein as well, and the entire town took every opportunity to remind him. “I dinna
let
her do anything. She decided her own way.”

“Well, you’ve been nothing but unpleasant since she left two months ago, and you’re as liable to scare the bloody tourists off as welcome them.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Was no one on
his
side? Pen had made quite an impression during her short week here, and her newspaper article and the ensuing flood of tourists had lifted her legend to staggering new heights. He had no doubt that if she deigned to visit them again, she’d be greeted with the sort of enthusiasm more appropriately reserved for the queen.

On account of this—or perhaps in spite of it—the general consensus was that he was not only a bloody idiot, but a love-struck fool as well.

But short of following Pen to London—an idea to which she had clearly conveyed her displeasure—he had no idea how to fix his foul temper.

“If she’d taken a shine to me,” McRory went on, scratching his beard, “you could bet
I
would not have let her flit off to London. Why did you not go after her? I would not have pegged you for a coward.”

“I’m not a coward.” William’s collar suddenly felt overtight despite the day’s perfectly pleasant temperature. “I’m a gentleman.”

But he wasn’t a gentleman, not really. Because a primitive part of him agreed with McRory, and he was getting bloody well tired of arguing with his conscience.

The butcher shrugged. “I see very little difference from where I stand.”

William pointed across the street, where a rowdy, masculine crowd had begun to gather outside the Gander to get their first glimpse at the day’s tourists. “Then go stand over there.”

“And miss my turn with the coach?” McRory grinned, showing the gap between his front teeth. “Why, the future Mrs. McRory might be on it, and today I mean for my lap to be the first she sees.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” William stared down the road, trying to think of anything but the butcher’s lap. At least the weather had started to cool off. The October sun was bright but unthreatening, which was a good thing, given that he was draped in wool nearly every day now. Never his brightest idea, the bloody plaid had been mentioned in Pen’s newspaper article, and now every visitor from London expected to be greeted by a Highlander’s bare knees.

William only prayed the curious visitors would trickle off come winter. He wasn’t looking forward to a stiff Highland breeze then.

Down the road, a cloud of dust rose up, signaling the imminent arrival of Mr. Jeffers. That was odd. He checked his pocket watch. It was close to three o’clock.

Was Jeffers . . .
early
?

McRory peered at the approaching cloud of dust and then, with an eagerness that didn’t bode well for the day’s crop of tourists, spit in his hand and slicked it over his hair. “Well, with you moping about like a kicked dog, I suppose it means the ladies will be mine today.” He grinned. “Good thing I’ve lap enough for all of them.”

Mr. Jeffers roared up in his usual haphazard manner. But rather than unloading tourists, he began to unload boxes.
Lots
of boxes, and a machine that looked suspiciously like an oven, but with wheels and gears. “What is all this?” William demanded. “Where are the visitors?”

“Only one visitor today,” Jeffers answered, heaving a large crate down from the top of the coach and placing it in McRory’s waiting hands. “But she’s an important one. She might need a hand, if you’re of a mind to help her.” He paused in his exertions long enough to wink down at them. “I hear this one especially likes a man in plaid.”

McRory dropped his crate and surged ahead, and William let him go. After all, the future Mrs. McRory might be on board. William had no heart for it, anyway.

Because every new coach reminded him of the day Pen had roared into town.

And every day that passed without her reminded him of all he had lost.

A rustle of skirts met his ears. “Welcome to Moraig,” McRory crowed.

“Thank you, k-kind sir.”

Surely he was hearing things, his imagination playing tricks on him again. But those sleights of memory usually came at night, when he was alone and vulnerable and wanting. His eyes whipped to level, and he nearly choked on his surprise.

Pen stood beside the coach, as beautiful as she was in his dreams.

But this time she was real. She
must
be, because she was wearing far too many clothes.

William knocked a very bemused McRory out of the way and picked up the woman his heart refused to forget, swinging her around until she was whooping and wheezing all at once.

“MacKenzie,” she laughed. “P-put me down a moment, so I can speak.”

He did but made sure she knew of his appreciation for the sight of her by sliding her slowly down the front of his plaid. Her gasp told him she’d recognized his enthusiasm.

“Oh my,” she said. “That
is
a lovely g-greeting.”

He took a step back, suddenly aware of their audience. Worse, his own uncertainties regarding the nature of her return began to crowd in. Perhaps she wasn’t here to see him. Perhaps she’d come to see Caroline, who was about to start her lying-in.

Or perhaps the
Times
had sent her on another investigative matter.

The truth was he simply didn’t know why she was here, and it might have nothing to do with him. And so he waited for her say to something, hope humming in his throat.

She tilted her head. “You look t-tired, MacKenzie.”

“Aye. I’ve not been sleeping well,” he admitted, but it was a fact he couldn’t see remedying tonight. She was here. He’d just held her in his arms.

Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

He looked at the boxes Jeffers was still unloading. They made a veritable tower in the dusty street. His heart leaped with hope at the thought she might stay longer than a week. “How long will you stay this time?” he dared to ask, knowing he would gladly take whatever it was and try not to worry about her next leaving.

“That d-depends.”

He blinked down at her.

Her smile was serene, but it held a hint of mischief as well. “Do you think Moraig might b-benefit from having its own newspaper?”

It took a moment for her words to find a foothold, and even then they felt slippery in his brain. “I dinna understand.”

“I had thought to start one.” She raised a pale brow. “Counter the t-town’s rumor mill with facts, for a change.”

“You mean . . . You are moving here? To Moraig?”

She nodded. “I’ve brought a small printing press. Nothing close to a real press, mind you, but it will serve to produce a small local paper.”

“You are coming to start a newspaper?” he repeated, his head buzzing like a hive of hornets. She nodded again, and his heart strained toward her. “But . . .
why
?”

Her blue eyes shone with good humor. “Are you sure you g-graduated summa some-aught from Cambridge, MacKenzie?”

Behind him, he could hear McRory snigger.