Meet Me in Scotland (22 page)

“I would never exact revenge on Gabriel.” She was glad the fishermen were eating Dominic's food, but she couldn't bring herself to say it.

Her husband, though, gave her a hard stare, as if he didn't believe it.

Claire huffed. “Well, I know for a fact that Emma thinks more of the mud on the bottom of her shoes than she does of Gabriel.”

“I believe you have it wrong. Have you not seen what passes between them? I'm just asking you to stay out of it, is all. Let nature take its course. Gabe deserves to be happy.” He stared at her for a long moment.

“Go ahead and say it, Dominic. At least one of ye men deserves to be.” She grabbed her coat off the hook, trying not to cry in front of him, and practically ran from the building.

At one time and not so long ago, she and Dominic had been the perfect couple—always in sync, always in tune with each other, always passionately in love. Their relationship now felt like a war zone. How had it come to this? She knew their finances were crap, but it didn't take much to live here in Gandiegow and raise a babe.
The tears ran down her face and she tried to wipe them away before anyone passing saw her misery. What if she never got Dominic back? What if she'd ruined it?

In another minute Claire found herself in front of the kirk. She stepped inside, intending to light a candle for their relationship, but Father Andrew was there, winding garland around the candles.

“How are ye today?” Father Andrew asked.

“Fine,” Claire answered automatically. “Do you need a hand?”

“Aye. I didn't know this was a two-person project until I started.”

She grabbed the other end of the garland and wound it through the candles on her end while he did the same from his side. The church was quiet, solemn, perfect for Claire to reflect on her sins. She had the sudden urge to confess everything, especially throwing Dominic under the proverbial bus for the villagers to run over. She opened her mouth to say something when the door rushed open. Moira dusted the snow off her jacket and stomped her feet.

Father Andrew smiled. “I'm glad you could make it. Are the rest coming?”

Moira nodded just as the door opened again. Deydie, Bethia, Rhona, Claire's second cousin Freda, and what felt like the whole damned town flooded in. Why were they here?
This isn't Sunday.

The women took off their coats, and Deydie took charge. “Okay, ladies, let's get to polishing those pews. Ailsa and Aileen, I want you to work on the floors. Make them sparkle, dammit.”

Father Andrew shook his head. But everyone accepted that Deydie would always be Deydie. Not even God would take on the task of changing her.

Father Andrew turned back to Claire and explained.
“The town cleans God's house once a month.” He beamed at all of them.

Bethia nodded to Claire. “Many hands make light work.”

Claire finished with the garland. She had every intention of sneaking out the front until Deydie snatched her arm and shoved a dust rag in her hand.

“Ye get to work on the altar. Make it shine, lass.”

Claire took the rag and went down the aisle, her sins feeling larger and heavier than ever.

*   *   *

Emma woke up in her hotel in New York and struggled into the outfit her mother wanted her to wear. As soon as she was dressed, she and her crutches were whisked away in a limo to the television studio. In her hand she held the itinerary her parents had sent her, the script she was to memorize, and answers to the most likely questions. At the studio, hairdressers, makeup artists, and producers awaited to ready her for her appearance. She was so jet-lagged she couldn't see straight. When she was introduced to come onstage, there sat her father, looking perfectly Hollywood, his black hair with just enough silver in it to show he could be trusted by one and all. Emma knew differently. He shot her a look that said she'd better not screw this up with Dr. Hill, the famous television psychologist.

Dean Castle spoke first about how
children can lose their way
and how
children often feel the need to rebel against their parents
. He spoke about how he and Eleanor, Emma's mother, planned to help Emma through
her current lapse in judgment
. They were going to
spearhead her therapy
and
get her on the right track so she could help couples in no time, contributing once again to the psychological community
.

Emma wanted to vomit. Thank God they went to commercial break, or she might have spewed on her
father's polished Italian loafers. Without the cameras rolling, her father's veneer of parental love fell away. He gave her a disappointed frown, then spoke to the producer, not looking back in his daughter's direction again.

An assistant straightened Emma's jacket. “You'll speak next.”

The show went back on the air. Dr. Hill turned to Emma, tucking her long, pencil-skirted legs under her chair. “How do you feel about your poor advice being caught on tape and going viral? Do you feel remorse for what you said to the couple you were
supposed
to be helping?”

Emma saw Robert Frost's two roads in front of her. She was too tired, too disheartened to go down the path less traveled. It didn't help that her father kept shooting daggers at her every time he knew the camera wasn't on him.

Emma caved. Like always.

She recited the mea culpa her parents had written for her. Her father seemed satisfied, but she didn't get a chance to speak with him afterward as she was whisked off to the next appearance with her mother across town at
Mom Talk
.

After that she had an hour at the hotel before a late lunch with her parents and their publicist. If only this nightmare-of-a-day would be over. Then three more days of morning shows, talk radio, and late-night appearances with her parents.

Emma lay on the bed and cried. Irrationally, she wished Gabriel were here to take her into his arms, tell her it would all be okay, and kiss her until none of this mattered. Until he had blotted out the mess she'd made of her life.

But that wasn't how things worked. She was alone in this world. She straightened her shoulders. She'd gotten
herself into this, and she would get out of it by doing exactly what her parents wanted her to do. She rolled out of bed and prepared for her next ordeal.

Just as she was finishing with her makeup, the phone rang. She picked it up. Her mother didn't say hello or ask how she was doing.

“A car is waiting out front to take us to the restaurant.” Her mother hung up.

It sounded more like a ransom call from a kidnapper than a parent who cared about her daughter. Emma slipped on her coat and grabbed her purse, taking a second to glance down at her sleek black dress and trendy black pump on one foot and black stocking over her Ace bandage on the other. Gabriel would have a fit about her wearing a pump with her crutches. But what was Emma to do? Her mother needed her to dress appropriately.

On the way to the restaurant, everyone was silent. But her mother's tight mouth and her father's squint gave them away. They were still furious with her. Acid churned in Emma's stomach and she was certain she wouldn't be able to eat a thing. She wished she were back in Gandiegow, sitting in Gabriel's kitchen, having a relaxed dinner.

At the restaurant, the limo driver helped her out of the car and to the doorway, but then she was on her own. The maître d' showed them to the table where the publicist sat, looking bored.

Emma went to prop her crutches against the chair next to her, but a server ushered them away. Her hopes sank. A quick retreat would now be impossible.

Another server came to take their drink orders. Emma felt like she could use a whisky, but resisted. She needed her wits about her when dealing with her parents.

As soon as the server left, her mother pulled out a contract and thrust it at her. “We need your signature on this.”

“What is it?” Emma picked up the papers, examining
them. “Is this a contract for another book?” She still owed them chapters on their current work in progress.

“Yes.” Her mother took a sip of chardonnay. “Your father and I are trying to put a positive spin on this disaster of yours.”

Her father drummed the table with his fingers. “The book is about you, Emma. As we discussed on air today, your mother and I will help you get back on track, and this book will tell our story.”

Holy crap . . .
This was too much. Gandiegow's brand of in-your-business insanity was looking better and better against these
business arrangements
her parents had to offer!

Emma stood. “I have to go to the loo.” It was the most assertive she'd been in the past twenty-four hours. She motioned to the server who'd taken her crutches. It wasn't a pretty exit, but she finally succeeded in trudging off to the bathroom for solitude.

When she got there, she collapsed into one of the boxy black chairs and put her head in her hands. She wouldn't whine about having a crappy childhood; she knew she'd grown up in great privilege. But couldn't they act like they cared for her just a little? Deydie and Bethia came to mind. Those two women reminded Emma of Claire's mother, Nessa. Deydie and Bethia didn't hesitate to treat Emma like family. The whole town of Gandiegow had, in fact. Even the doctor.

Her phone rang. She looked at the number and didn't recognize it. Normally she would have let it go to voice mail, but she was happy to do anything to stall, anything to keep from going back to the cold, impersonal table with her parents.

“Yes,” she said.

“We need you.” Gabriel's baritone brogue warmed her, even though he sounded upset.

“Why? What's going on?”

“Claire is missing,” he said. “I don't know where she is.”

“I'm on my way.” Emma hung up. Her heart raced.

She hobbled back to the table as quickly as she could but didn't sit down. “I have to go.”

Her parents both blinked up at her, annoyed.

Her mother spoke first. “Sit down. I ordered you the lamb.”

Emma hated lamb. “It's an emergency.”

Eleanor scoffed. “Seriously, Emma, what kind of
emergency
could you have?”

“It's Claire.”

For a moment, her mother looked confused, then realization dawned. “Oh, that little Scottish girl.”

Oh, good grief.
She wanted to yell at her mother that Claire had lived in their house
for seven years
. That Claire's mother, Nessa, had been their housekeeper, working her fingers to the bone for Eleanor until she passed away.

“Yes,” Emma finally said, not trusting herself to say more.

Her father pushed the contract toward her. “You haven't signed this yet. We have more appearances here in New York for you to do, too.”

“You'll have to do them without me.” Emma snatched up the contract and shoved it in her purse. “I'll take it with me and read it on the plane.”

“Where are you going, Emma?” Dean said, perturbed.

“I'm going home to Gandiegow.” Emma turned and left, not giving her parents a backward glance.

G
abe hung up and leaned back on the sofa by the fire in Quilting Central, satisfied with a good day's work. Claire came out of the women's restroom, and he waved to her. “Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you'd gone to.”

Claire came over but didn't sit, studying him closely. “I've known you a long time; you're up to something. Spill it. What's going on?”

How much should he tell her? Should he boot up his laptop and show her Emma's television appearances? How her best friend had denied her feelings and lost her dignity for her parents' sake? It hadn't been hard to find out where Emma was and what she was doing. All he had to do was Google her parents and discover what devilment they were up to.

“Come sit for a minute,” he said.

Claire plopped down beside him. “What gives?”

“Emma dug herself into a hole and I threw her a lifeline, is all. I need you to play along when she gets back.” He explained what he'd seen and what he wanted her to say when Emma came home. “Can you do it?”

“Sure.” She sat back and scrutinized him. “Why are you doing something nice for Emma? You don't like her.”

“If you saw a dog run over by a car, wouldn't you stop and help it? Even if it was an annoying, yipping dog?” He felt proud of his analogy, though he knew it wasn't exactly true. He didn't think Emma was nearly as annoying as she'd been in the past. Or maybe she'd never been annoying at all. Maybe it had been him and his skewed perception of her. He didn't know anymore.

Claire looked conflicted. “I'll be here for Emma when she gets back, but we need to talk.”

He frowned, the one to be circumspect now. “About what?”

“I need to warn you about her.”

“She's yere best friend,” he growled, knowing where she was headed. “Don't say anything ye'll regret.”

Claire stood and backed away from him. He'd never really lost his temper with her or even in front of her, but he was close to doing it now.

She got a determined look on her face and plowed ahead. “Ye're family to me, just like Emma is. You need to be aware that Emma has a past.”

“We all do, Claire,” he bit off.

“Don't misunderstand. Emma's a wonderful person, but she's had more men in her bed than I have scone recipes.”

“Stop,” Gabe warned. “Don't go any farther.”

She reached out and gripped his arm as if he meant to bolt. “Dominic said you have feelings for her.” She frowned at him, perplexed. “I didn't see it before, but I'm sure seeing it now.”

“Bullshit. At least not in the way you think,” he denied.

“I'm telling you, Emma doesn't do relationships. I know ye're looking for one. She doesn't believe in marriage, either. Which
you
do. She isn't the right one for you.”

He jerked his arm away. “Who said anything about the right one? I told you I don't care for her in that way. And you, her closest friend, should be ashamed for . . .” Gabe had been blocking Emma's escapades from his mind, but now he felt . . . hurt? Jealous?

“I love her, but I love you, too. You're like the brother I never had.” She crossed her arms over her chest and plastered a stern expression on her face. “You had to be warned.”

“Dammit, Claire.” He rose. “Maybe you should get your own house in order. Quit worrying about me, and make things right with your husband. What did you do to make the town's women turn against him?”

She paled but recovered quickly. “I didn't do anything.”

“Ye're lying, Claire. Your right eye always twitches when you're shoveling out the bullshit.”

She rubbed the offending eye. “I have to go.”

Gabriel watched as she marched off, and knew he'd have to work harder to get the Russos back together. Claire sure as hell wasn't making it easy on him. When Emma returned, he'd have to force her to help more. Then a terrible thought hit him: What if Claire ratted him out to Emma about how he'd lied to get her home?
Screw it.
He'd done it for her own good.

He opened his phone and texted Emma.
Send me your itinerary. I'll pick you up from the airport.

She sent back one letter:
K

He wouldn't leave Emma hanging. The second he knew she'd made it through airport security or boarded—as soon as she couldn't turn back—then he would tell her that Claire had been found safe and unharmed. He hated that she was worrying, but he had to get Emma out of harm's way, away from her self-centered parents.

*   *   *

Emma fretted all the way to the airport, worried about Claire. Had she gone for a drive and gotten lost in a snowstorm? Had she slipped and fallen off the boardwalk into the sea?
Oh, God, please let her be okay.

Luck was with Emma. She was able to exchange her ticket and get through security in time to board the next flight. She didn't bother buying a magazine, as she had the contract to focus on during the trip. That was, if she could quit worrying over Claire long enough to read it. She texted Gabriel her itinerary.

Gabriel texted back:
Let me know when you've boarded.

Strange.
After she settled into her seat, she sent him a quick text to let him know she was on her way. She was about to turn off her phone when she received another text from him.

Claire has been found safe and sound. She's at home in bed.

“What?” Emma said out loud. She texted Gabriel back.
Where was she?

She'll tell you when you get home.

Emma stared a long time at the word
home
. It was odd, but she did feel like she was headed home. She let the feeling settle over her as more passengers boarded.

Gabriel texted one more time.
Are you okay?

She smiled at her phone.
Yes.

I'll see you when you get here. I'll be waiting.

His reply made her smile even more. It almost sounded like he'd missed her, too.

She laid her head back and shut her eyes, feeling more relaxed than she had in a long time. She thought about the peace she'd felt in church last week and hated that she'd missed a Gandiegow service for this dreadful trip.

She was starting to get a clue how screwed up she really was. She'd willingly come all this way to humiliate herself for her parents. But she'd always done what was expected, wanting to please them, hoping if she did what they wanted they'd have a normal family—with parents who cared for each other and cared for her. Emma pushed it out of her mind. She'd think about it another day. Right now she was going home to Gandiegow. To Gabriel.

She fell asleep and didn't wake up until the plane landed in London. On her connecting flight to Inverness, butterflies began to multiply in her stomach.
He'll be waiting
. She had to pull herself together. If not mentally, then physically. With compact in hand, she fixed her face, making herself presentable for the doctor.

As Emma made it through the gate with her Aircast and crutches, she saw Gabriel. His face lit up. Then she noticed he was holding one boot in his hand. It wasn't black, like the last pair he'd bought her, but a shiny red plaid boot. He was wearing a Santa cap and grinning like seeing her was the best present ever.

She pointed to his plaid treasure. “What's this all about?”

“An early Christmas present. I figured you wanted to feel more feminine.”

She gazed up at him. “What I'm going to feel is more Scottish. Are you trying to turn me into a Highland lassie?” She smiled and reached for the boot. But he didn't immediately let go, giving her a funny look instead.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. We'd better get going.”

She leaned on her crutches and took his arm. “Claire? Is she all right?”

He squeezed her arm back. “Sorry. False alarm. She's fine. I feel terrible about making you come home early.”

“You don't look sorry.” She gazed into his eyes.

He didn't resemble the person she'd held in her mind for so many years. He was an amazing man. He had a way of soothing her—and driving her crazy—like no other. While she was in New York, she'd missed him, truly missed him. All the anticipation at seeing him again coalesced into one definitive point. They were here together now, and that was all that mattered. She did a most uncharacteristic thing: She went up on tippy toe and kissed his cheek.

He blushed. “What was that for?”

“It's the Christmas season. A time for giving, right?”

A flash of mischief crossed his face. “Well, in that case . . .” He took her into his arms and spoke right before his lips touched hers. “Welcome home.” Then he kissed her passionately but, oh, so tenderly.

She should've swatted him away, but she plastered herself up against him in front of the whole airport terminal and kissed him back fervently. She gave herself over to the kiss and floated away with it—thrilled, relaxed, safe, secure, complete. It felt too wonderful to care about anything except for him and what he was doing to her beating heart.

“
Get a room
,”
some joker said as he passed by.

The statement stopped her midkiss. She pulled away, thinking this would be the perfect time and place, away from the good but nosy people of Gandiegow. She chewed her lower lip and brought her gaze up to meet his, making him read her mind with her pleading eyes.

He stared at her for a long moment, a tortured expression on his face. “Nay, I can't.” The way he shook his head almost imperceptibly made her think he was trying to convince himself.

“But . . .” She stopped, the truth hitting her in the chest.
He's gone to bed with half the women in the UK. What's wrong that he won't sleep with me?
She shut her mouth and straightened her shoulders. She was sick to death of being humiliated. She'd had enough of it in the past day to last her a lifetime.

“Never mind.” She walked away as fast as she could manage on crutches, completely mortified. Her eyes stung, feeling like they would give way to tears at any moment.

“Wait, Emma.” He came up beside her.

She put up her hand but didn't dare look over at him.

“It's not you—it's me,” he tried.

“That's original.” She kept her gaze straight ahead. “You don't owe me an explanation. I get it. I'm not your type. But, then, what the hell was that kiss all about?”

He grabbed her arm and spun her around yet steadying her at the same time. “No, you
don't
get it.” He dragged her over to the side, out of the way of the other passengers and their roller bags.

“It
is
me, Emma, not you. Ye're great.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I promised myself that I wouldn't take another woman to bed unless she's . . .” The rest of the sentence seemed to have gotten caught in his mouth. “I have to be in a committed relationship now for me to . . .”

Pain contorted his face, and she wanted to console him. Which was in complete contradiction to the pain
he was causing her
.

He continued. “I've made a vow to change, don't ye see? For me now, sex and commitment have to go hand in hand.”

Was that supposed to make her feel better, saying he wasn't interested in a committed relationship with her?

Not to mention that she wanted to have a right good romp in the sack just when the rogue had decided to become a choirboy.
Literally
.

“I'm sorry, Emma.”

“Please. Life is full of little disappointments.”

He gently pushed her shoulder back against the wall, trapping her there. He bent his tall stature to her level, making eye contact, searching her face. “But if there were any other way . . .”

She stepped out from his large hands. “You can't do that, Gabriel. You can't just seduce me with your eyes and not expect me to want you back.”

Anger crossed his face. “I could say the same of you, lass.”

“Maybe you should've sent someone else to pick me up from the airport.”

“Maybe.” He slung her bag over his other shoulder. “But you're stuck with me. Get over it.”

Everything had gotten turned upside down. Moments ago, she'd been happy to be back in Scotland. Thrilled to see him. But in a matter of minutes, she wished she were anywhere but here.

They walked to the Land Rover in an uncomfortable silence. It didn't get better once they were in the vehicle. He looked like he couldn't be rid of her fast enough. Deposit her at the quilting dorm. Steer clear of her at all costs. Now and forever. Amen.

She didn't know why it hurt so much. Egghead Emma should've known better than to open up and let him in. She'd given him a wide berth for the past ten years. What was another decade without him?

Just thinking about Gabriel's easy smile not being in her life made her physically ill.

“Pull over,” she said.

He did, bringing the auto to a stop. She stumbled out, leaned against the car, and sucked in the cold Highland air.

He came up beside her and laid a hand on her back. “What can I do to help?”

She shook her head, afraid to say anything lest a sob escape from her soul. After a long minute she spoke. “I'm okay.”
I'm not.
“Let's get to Gandiegow.”

Back in the car, he wouldn't leave her alone. “Is it your stomach? Your head?”

“It's probably jet lag.”

“Tell me where it hurts,” he insisted. “How am I supposed to diagnose you if you won't talk to me?”

“I don't want to be diagnosed. Just drive.” She was afraid of what it really was and refused to name it. She didn't believe in love—at least not in the way that others blindly accepted its existence. Emma believed in cold, hard facts. And the fact was that Claire and Dominic had the only healthy relationship she'd ever seen.