Sparks in Scotland (3 page)

Chapter
Three

A
fter the four of us
peered around St. Margaret's Chapel, taking in the stunning stained-glass window, we popped back out and headed toward the Royal Palace. The rooms in here were quiet, humming with the soft whispers of visitors. Wood panels, thick stones, ornate paintings—the place was stunning. I couldn't get over how old everything was. What would it have been like to live in this palace?

“Take a look over there,” Graham whispered to me with a nod of his head to my right.

I turned and looked . . . and saw the Crown Jewels. With a blink, I asked, “Is that really . . .”

He grinned, and his teeth flashed in the light. “Aye. The real deal.”

The bejeweled crown was set on blue velvet, with a sword and a scepter presented around it. My fingers itched to pop it on my head, just to see what it felt like. With all the gold and jewels on it, it was probably heavy. But I didn't want to get kicked out of Scotland on my first full day.

“Whatcha smilin' about?” he asked, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“Oh. Um, I was just thinking what it would be like to be royalty. We don't have anything like that in the States.” Unless you counted movie stars or the president, I supposed. But there was something unique about a monarchy.

“So tell me about America.” He slipped into an easy pace beside me, and his cologne wafted to my nostrils. His scent was light and fresh, drawing me closer.

My pulse picked up again, and I struggled to keep my voice even and not give away my attraction to him. “Um, what do you want to know?”

“Ya go to . . . high school—that's what it's called in America, right? What is that like?”

We walked into another room and eyed the paintings on the walls. A bunch of serious, severe-looking men and women frowned at us from their luxurious clothing and tapestries captured on the canvases.

“I just finished my sophomore year—I'll start eleventh grade in the fall.” I tilted my head and studied the jewel-draped woman in front of me as I thought about how to describe American high school. “Basically, it's chaos,” I said with a light laugh. “We have
classes on many subjects, on many different levels, depending on where you placed—regular, honors, advanced. I don't have a lot of classes with my friends, but I can choose which kind of math or history or science I want to take, which is nice.”

“What classes did ya take this year?”

I described my sophomore year schedule, including how I'd lucked out and got to take both art and photography. “So I was able to get out of study hall and do more art.”

“I just finished my fourth year of secondary school,” he told me. “From what I understand, our school systems are quite different. For us, secondary school starts when yer eleven or twelve, and ya go for up to six years.”

“So you guys basically group middle school and high school together. Interesting.” I'd never imagined how different school systems could be, depending on where you lived in the world.

We walked into the Great Hall, which was a large red and wood-trimmed room lined with swords and armor. It was massive and imposing, and I couldn't stop staring.

“Oh wow,” I breathed. “This is gorgeous.”

Mom pointed out a display case to Mollie, and they walked over to study it.

“So what do you do when you're not in school?” I asked him. What was life like for the average Scottish guy?

“Well, I put on a kilt and run through the Highlands as my friends and I dance to the bagpipes.” His lips quirked as he stared at me with a lifted eyebrow.

I scrunched up my face in mock consternation. “Okay, you're putting me on.” Though I had to admit, his comment drew a huff of laughter out of me.

“Maybe a wee bit,” he admitted with a grin. “I go on my computer, talk to friends, play the drums—”

“Oh, you're a musician.” My heart thunked. Stupid weakness of mine; I loved guys who were musically inclined. “I wish I could play something. I tried trumpet in middle school and I was awful.”

“I started when I was a lad. Da taught me. I'm in a band, actually.”

“That's so cool,” I breathed. “What kind of music do you play? Do you do covers of songs or write original pieces?”

“We do both. I've written a couple of songs, but we also cover popular rock groups. We've played a few parties, that kind of thing. We have another gig in a few weeks, actually.” I could hear the pride in his voice.

We walked in companionable silence for a moment. Wow. My first impression of Graham was nothing like how he really was. All his earlier attitude was gone—either he'd gotten over whatever had made him crabby, or he'd decided to let it go and try to enjoy the day.

We followed our moms and wandered around through the rest of the building, but I had to admit, the castle didn't hold as much of my interest as Graham did. As we walked, he offered commentary on a few of the portraits, relaying strange and quirky facts about the castle's inhabitants.

“How do you know so much?” I asked him.

His face was deadpan. “All Scots know these things.”

“Really?” Wow, that put us Americans to shame. Probably half my friends couldn't tell me the names of the last five presidents.

He chuckled. “No, I'm teasing ya. My da—”

“Come on, guys,” Mollie interrupted, reaching out to tug his hand. “You're dragging along, and we're hungry. Let's finish touring the castle and get something to eat on the Royal Mile. And kick up our feet for a bit too—mine are aching.”

The rest of our tour went a little faster. We poked around the War Memorial and the Half Moon Battery, then left the castle. I'd gotten several good photographs I was happy with.

“That was incredible,” I told Graham in a rush.

“ 'Twas,” he agreed.

The sun was warm, so I stripped my fleece off and tied it around my waist. Graham's gaze raked over me, and then he quickly looked away. Luckily, he didn't see the flush crawl across my cheeks. I turned my attention to the Royal Mile, a long stretch of old buildings as far as the eye could see. It bustled with people walking to and fro.

A band of men wearing kilts and carrying tiny accordions went walking by, playing and singing loudly as they danced their way down the street. We cheered them on. A crowd of a dozen or so little kids followed behind, tiny hands clapping as they screamed for more music. One of the men, who had a huge mustache, shot me a bold wink as he passed, and Mom giggled as she elbowed me in the side.

“That's hilarious,” I said, my stomach hurting from laughing so hard. “They looked like they were having a blast.”

“Never know what yer gonna see here,” Graham said with a grin.

Mom and Mollie stopped us at a pub with outdoor seating. We popped into the metal seats, and I sighed in relief to get off my aching feet for a few minutes. All that walking was adding up. The waitress, a young blonde in her twenties, came out and cheerfully took our sandwich orders. Graham's long legs were splayed under the glass-top table, and his knee brushed mine as he shifted in his seat.

I sucked in a shaky breath, torn between wanting to move my leg and wanting to push it closer to his. Good grief, this guy was causing some crazy, mixed-up reactions in me. And I'd practically just met him.

I cleared my throat. “So, Mom,” I said in an effort to distract myself from his nearness, “tell me more about how you and Mollie met.”

That worked. The two women talked over each other, spilling the story of their friendship. Apparently, they'd met back in elementary school when they'd been assigned to work at the same art station. When they'd both realized their favorite color was green, they'd become instant friends, the way little kids often bonded.

Our food was delivered, and we noshed as they continued to talk.

“Before the Internet, we would write letters back and forth,” Mollie explained to me and Graham. “It was one of my favorite things back in those early days, getting a letter from your mom.”

Mom's smile widened, and she reached over and squeezed
Mollie's hand. “Me too,” she said with a slight sheen in her eyes. “Of course, now we have e-mail and chat messengers and texts and cell phones to help us talk. Gotta love technology.”

My heart squeezed at the real, true friendship between them. Despite the distance, they'd made it work. It made me happy to see. Even Graham seemed touched, his eyes smiling as he looked quietly at them.

“Remember that time we both liked the same guy?” Mollie suddenly asked. She tilted her head in thought. “Um, his name was Bradley . . . Bradley . . .”

“Oh my God!” Mom said with a laugh. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Bradley Amos? He was so cute. Remember those thick black glasses and how he'd look at us over the top of them?”

Graham raised an eyebrow at me, and I just shrugged. Our faces held matching smiles.

I finished my last bite and looked around the street. Now that I'd eaten and rested up, I wanted to explore more of the strip. It was tempting to ask Graham to join me, but I didn't want to assume anything. “Mom, can I walk around for a while?” I asked in a hesitant tone. “I'll stay right here on the Royal Mile, and I have my phone with me.”

She looked uncertain. “I'm not sure I like the idea of you wandering around by yourself. . . .”

“I just want to do a little window-shopping. Pretty please.” I clasped my hands in front of me and shot her my most begging look.

Her response was to narrow her eyes with a knowing smirk. “I know what you're trying to do, missy. But it's not safe, and you know I worry.”

“I'd be happy to take her around if ya want,” Graham offered. He wiped his hands on his napkin and plopped it beside his plate. When he glanced at me, there was a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks. “If she wants me to, that is. Wouldn't want to assume anything.”

Was he nervous? The thought made my own pulse stutter in response. “Um, yeah. Of course. I'd like that.”

Mom hesitated for a moment more, then looked at Mollie, who gave an encouraging nod. “Oh, I suppose. But only for a half hour or so, okay? And keep that phone in your pocket.”

I jumped up, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Thank you!”

Graham slid out of his seat and said good-bye to his mom. His smile was friendly as he neared me, and I suddenly found myself feeling awkward again. It was one thing to follow our moms around. Quite another for us to be alone.

I nibbled my lip as we made our way down the street, studying the tall, ancient buildings, their peaks climbing into the sky.

“Grand street, yeah?” he asked me in that compelling rumble of a voice.

I nodded. “I feel like I want to see everything all at once. It's so much to take in. So, where exactly do you live?”

“Not too far from here. A wee south.”

Another small band strolled by, this one playing drums. A
crowd built along the street line, and we stopped and watched. The lead drummer, a man a little older than my dad, flipped his drumsticks in the air, and the crowd roared its approval.

“It isn't like this back home,” I said as I clapped along with the music. “Our streets in Cleveland have nothing but traffic jams and grumpy drivers.”

He chuckled. “We have our share of those as well.” His fingers brushed my upper arm, and goose bumps rippled from the contact. When he gave me a warm smile, I felt something in my chest melt a little bit. “I have an idea of where we should go.”

He took my hand to lead me through the crowd, and my lungs contracted to the size of grapes. All I could focus on was the feel of our bare skin touching. It was easy to get a sense of his strength from the firm grip, not to mention the slight calluses on his ­fingers—probably from playing drums.

We stopped in front of a light-blue store, and I gave out a squeal of excitement. “A tartan shop! Oh, how cool is that?”

His grin grew wider as he held the door open for me and ushered me inside. The bell rang when the door closed, and a portly bald man wearing a kilt came lumbering from the back.

“Welcome!” he cried out. “Can I give ya a hand?”

“Aye,” Graham said. “My American friend here would like to try on a kilt, if it's all right?”

“Come with!” the man told me with a wave of his hand. He led me to an area in front of a three-way mirror. “Yer a right wee one, ain't ya!” At my blush, he laughed heartily and went to a shelf
holding a bunch of folded tartan, then snagged a beautiful blue-and-green-plaid pattern.

His accent was heavy, but between him and Graham and their hand gestures, we managed to get the kilt wrapped around me and adjusted correctly. I still had my jeans on underneath, but I got the idea of how it would look.

“This is so cool,” I said as the store owner helped me tuck the last bit in. I twirled in the mirror and admired the pleats in the back. “I'm definitely bringing my mom back here to buy me one.” She'd already promised that once we found out our official family tartan, we'd get kilts made in it. And if we didn't have a tartan pattern, we'd just find one we liked and get those.