Scot of My Dreams (11 page)

When the weather finally broke, we made a list of sites and began ticking them off. “Isn’t there a castle right in the middle of town?” I asked one morning as we planned our outing. “Inverness Castle? That’s a pretty unimaginative name.”

Abby smiled. “It is. To be honest, it’s not a very old castle. It only dates back to the 1830s, if I remember my history.”

“Back home we’d call that really old. But I get your point.”

“The site itself is historic,” Abby said, as if trying to sweeten the pot. “There have been castles on that hill overlooking the river for the last thousand years. The current structure houses the sheriff court. But the grounds are open to the public.”

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll keep it on the list. Let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”

“I’ve not heard that one before,” Abby said.

“If you come to Georgia to visit me one day, I’ll teach you some great Southernisms.”

Bryce stopped us on our way out. It might have been my imagination, but I thought his gaze lingered on my lips. “You lasses have fun today.”

If nothing else, I knew he appreciated my attempts to bring Abby out of her shell. “We will,” I said lightly. “Your sister is a great tour guide.”

Abby juggled the car keys in her hand. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Okay, okay,” I laughed.

Bryce took my arm, sending goosebumps all over my body. His warm fingers held me firm. “I’d ask one thing of ye, Willow.” His accent was thick, as if what he was about to say was important.

“Of course,” I said. Perhaps he was worried about Abby.

“Save Culloden for me,” he said, his voice husky. “I’d like to be the one to take you there.”

I looked up at him, mesmerized by the unspoken message in his deep cobalt eyes. He was wearing a blue chambray shirt today. The color deepened the tint of his irises. “Of course. I’d like that.”

Despite our studied indifference towards each other the past couple of days, we had done nothing to extinguish whatever electrical current danced between us. I found myself breathless, my heart hammering as fast as a middle-school girl’s in the presence of the cutest boy in class.

Abby cleared her throat. “We’re burning daylight,” she said, her proper British accent laced with humor.

Bryce lifted an eyebrow. “I see you’ve picked up a few things from our resident Southern belle.”

“I’m no Southern belle,” I protested.

He put his hand on either side of my waist and kissed my cheek. “We love the way you talk, Willow. Your words are like a warm river of treacle.”

The compliment was so unexpected and uttered with such intimacy, I was caught off guard. “Um…”

Abby took pity on me. “Unhand the woman, Bryce. You can woo her on your own time. Today, she’s mine.”

He flushed and stepped back, but he never took his eyes off me. I think I held my breath until we were safely outside with the door closed and locked behind us.

Bryce had brought Abby’s car around to the front of the house. It was a small compact, easy for a petite female to drive. With my long legs I had to fold myself up a little, but I wasn’t about to complain.

I hoped Abby was looking forward to today. People who dealt with depression were often good at hiding their emotions. As far as I could tell, she seemed genuinely lighthearted at the moment.

We were lucky to find a parking place on the street in the historic district. Abby pocketed the keys and grinned. “Okay. I’m going to give you the works. If you get bored, you’ll have to say the word.”

“Never,” I said. “This is such a treat for me.”

We walked for blocks and blocks, stopping to read plaques on one building and the next. I flashed back to a scene at the very beginning of the first
Outlander
episode. Claire was strolling along the streets of 1945 Inverness, window-shopping. A blue vase caught her eye, and she almost went inside to buy it, little imagining how her life was about to change.

Here I was, decades later, wandering those same streets. Though
Outlander
was a fictional tale, the city of Inverness was very real. It had existed here in the Scottish Highlands for centuries. I was enchanted with its personality and charm.

Only an average student in school, I was never particularly interested in history, especially not the background of a country other than my own. My world as a teenager had revolved around the usual topics. Boys. Makeup. Fashion.

Now I literally walked in the steps of people who had lived and laughed and loved centuries ago, during a time when life was neither safe nor easy. I soaked up the sights and sounds along with Abby’s running commentary.

“You’re a pro at this,” I said. “I’d never have learned so much on my own.”

She beamed. “Well, ’tis my home, ye know.”

We stopped for lunch at a charming pub. I ordered traditional fish and chips and was promptly won over by the crunchy outside and flaky filet inside. “We have pale imitations of this dish in the States,” I said, “but nothing so good.”

Abby ordered a local ale. I stuck to Coca-Cola. My mother was a teetotaler. I had grown up avoiding alcohol, and mostly the habit stuck.

After lunch we hit up two more must-sees, the Inverness Museum and St. Andrew’s Cathedral. At four o’clock, I had to give up. The indefatigable Abby was clearly stronger than she looked.

“Enough,” I said. “Let’s go home, so I can collapse.”

“Sure,” Abby said. Then she looked at me with entreaty. “Would you mind one more quick stop? You can stay in the car. I won’t be long.”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind. Whatever you want.”

We didn’t go far…only to a walled churchyard on the outskirts of town. Abby parked the car and stared out the windshield. I sensed she was trying to work up her courage.

“Abby,” I said softly. “Is this where your husband is buried?”

She nodded. I saw her chin wobble. “I haven’t visited in a very long time. But I need to tell him I’m okay.”

“Do you want me there? Or would you rather be alone?”

“Come,” she said. “Please.”

The door in the high brick wall wasn’t locked. Inside the perimeter we found a neatly kept cemetery. The gravestones ran the gamut from large to small and everything in between. The dates, at least the ones I could read from a distance, went as far back as the 1400s.

Abby didn’t wander. She made a beeline for a newer section in the far corner. I hung back, not wanting to intrude. As I watched, she leaned down and kissed the marble marker. Then she crouched and ran her fingers over the inscription, her lips moving as she whispered something to the man whose mortal remains were all she had left of him.

She waved me over. “I’m fine,” she said, though I saw tear tracks on her face.

“May I ask you something, Abby?”

“Of course.”

“If you lived your whole life here until you got married, I’m guessing you must have a wide circle of friends. Why bring me here today? I know the reasons I enjoy
your
company, but why am I the one getting credit for your improved outlook on life?”

It was a blunt question and a personal one, but she answered readily enough.

“My friends were amazing. I was the one who pulled away. I was such a wreck—you can’t even imagine. Every time I was with one of them, I felt raw. Like people were watching me constantly to see if I was going to crack.”

“That must have been hard.”

“It wasn’t a clean end,” she said, her eyes bleak. “I was so angry with him for going back to Afghanistan. He’d beaten the odds once and come home to me. Then he was gone again. After that, he was dead. Looking back, I think I clung to my anger, because without it, I would have been empty.”

“People process grief differently. There’s no timetable.”

“I know. And though you may not believe it, having you here has helped.”

“I believe it, but I don’t understand it. We barely know each other.”

“That’s the point,” she said, standing and wiping her hands on her jeans. “You didn’t know me back then. When you look at me, you’re seeing the woman I am now. I don’t have to feel self-conscious about what a pitiful mess I used to be. You’re not judging me. We’re friends without a past. This is easier.”

I mulled over what she said. It made a weird sort of logic. “Maybe you’re not giving your friends enough credit. Maybe they’re waiting for a sign from you. If you’re prepared to move on, why don’t you tell them? Just like you’ve told me today?”

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “But for now, I like things the way they are. My brother enjoys having you around, too. Surely you’ve noticed.”

“He’s a very handsome man,” I said. “And a charming one. But I won’t be here very long. Besides, he’s indicated to me that he has other priorities than romance right now.”

“
All
men put romance way down the list until Cupid whacks them on the head. Bryce needs to get a life.”

We walked back to the car and headed for home. “Has he ever considered opening the castle to the public?” I asked.

Abby laughed. “Now there’s a question.”

“Did I say something funny?”

“Bryce has been trying for years to persuade his uncle that the only way to keep the property and to preserve and protect it is to do what so many have done—offer tours.”

“So your uncle has a share in the estate?”

“Oh, no. My father signed it over to Bryce when he and Mom moved to Italy. But Bryce was brought up to respect his elders, and he can’t bring himself to do something that would hurt our uncle. I think Bryce is waiting until Horatio dies.”

“But by then it might be too late.”

“Exactly.

My days fell into an easy pattern. Once the weather improved, Abby and I found plenty to keep us busy. The only contact I’d had with Hayley and McKenzie was a text from Hayley the night of the flooding telling us she was okay. I hoped they were having as much fun as I was.

The only fly in the ointment was the continued distance between Bryce and me. I’d had two goals for this trip: to learn to relax and to indulge in a romance with a Scotsman.

I felt good about my initial challenge. Some days I barely thought about my salon at all. Atlanta felt very far away. Bit by bit, I realized there were aspects of me that might bloom if I spent more time on my personal life.

Though I had never thought of myself as any kind of scholar, I found moments to slip away to the castle’s sumptuous library, searching for books on Scottish history and customs. The old, leather-bound volumes had a smell that conjured up another century. Late in the evenings when everyone had retired for the night, I curled up in bed and read for an hour or more.

My room was across the hall from Abigail’s. At the end of the long corridor was the master suite where Bryce slept. After Horatio’s near tragedy, Bryce had hired a trio of male nurses to watch over Horatio. Bryce had also moved his uncle downstairs to a suite of rooms with a connecting door for the live-in help.

I hoped the new arrangement meant more peace of mind for Bryce. And selfishly, maybe a chance for him to spend some time with me.

Abby and I made a date to watch
Outlander
together. I suspected she was humoring me, but I knew that as soon as she saw Jamie Fraser and Claire Randall on the TV, she’d be hooked.

We popped some popcorn, changed into jammies, and made ourselves comfy in the sitting room that was part of Abby’s suite. I suppose in the old days it might have been where a nanny slept. At some point, it had been transformed into a modern den. The television and sound system were state of the art.

Brodie curled up between us on the sofa. As the opening titles rolled, I played with his ears and tried to imagine the show from Abby’s point of view. She already knew how beautiful her homeland was. But even so, surely she would agree with me that the hero was everything I had promised.

Even though Hayley and McKenzie and I had watched these episodes at least three times each, I found myself engrossed again, looking for details I might have missed earlier. I tried not to be smug when I saw that Abby was totally into the storyline.

She barely noticed when Bryce knocked and opened the door. “Can we talk a moment?” he asked, looking at me.

“Of course.” Bryce was the only man in the world for whom I would be willing to miss a bit of Jamie Fraser.

In the drafty hallway, I was bashful. I hadn’t expected company. My tank top was thin, and I wasn’t wearing a bra. Even my pajama pants clung to my legs and bottom more than I would have liked.

Bryce noticed, of course. In fact, he noticed and he noticed and he noticed. Until his cheeks turned red and his Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed. I suspected he reacted in another spot as well, but I was careful to keep my gaze trained on his face.

“What’s up?” I asked casually, trying to sound like a platonic friend. Or a sister.

Bryce rested his forearm on the wall, his expression hard to read in the dim light from the old-fashioned wall sconces. “You’ve worked a miracle with Abby.”

I shook my head. “Not really. She was ready to move forward with her life. My being here is merely a novelty that gave her a reason to admit it. I like her, Bryce. She’s going to be fine. You don’t need to worry so much.”

He stared at me without speaking. I knew my nipples had perked up. Maybe he would attribute that to the chill in the air. “I like having you in my castle,” he said gruffly.

“And I like the fact that you
have
a castle. Works out well for both of us.”

“How much of your vacation do we have left?”

I shrugged, not wanting to think about it. “Not quite two weeks. It’s going by fast.”

“Did I make a mistake, Willow?”

“You’ll have to narrow that down for me.”

I knew what he meant. And he knew that I knew. But I wasn’t going to make things too easy for him.

His lips twitched. “About us being friends.”

I lifted an eyebrow innocently. “You don’t want to be my friend?” My heart beat faster.

Somehow, he backed me up against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head. He’d had a shower recently, and he smelled amazing.

His chest rose and fell. “I want to make love to you,” he said. The words were barely audible. “My life has been nothing but torture since the moment we met. I wake up hard, I go to bed hard. I haven’t slept worth a damn in days.”