Authors: Donna Kauffman
Bad Boys In Kilts (28 page)
She laughed and tugged his head down for a long, hard kiss. “You flatterer, you.”
“I think you almost believed me that time.” He turned her back around so they could both look out over the pastures below. Jinty was barking and moving back and forth, keeping the strays in line. He propped his chin on her head. “So, what do you think? Are you game to try?”
She knew he was talking about working up here, but she couldn’t help but expand that to include the life she was slowly embarking on here.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I am.” She thought about what it would be like, spending the occasional afternoon up here, working peacefully side by side. It was a way of life she could never have imagined ... and one she badly wanted a chance at keeping.
She’d rediscovered herself here. She’d been writing longhand since starting back on the book. Not having to stare at a computer screen had also been freeing to her. She hadn’t intended to start at all, actually. Tristan had encouraged her just to relax and be, to walk the moors, settle in and not push herself. And maybe it was truly giving herself that freedom that had had her itching to get back to work. She’d been standing by the window in his loft the day the story idea had hit her, almost fully formed. Instinctively she’d grabbed one of his sketch pads and begun furiously making notes, getting down as much information as she could.
She’d been both jubilant and emotional when she’d finally come up for air. She had begun to think that part of her was well and truly dead. She wasn’t even sure it was a good idea, but she was excited by it, and that was more than she’d had in a long, long time. She hadn’t said anything to Tristan about it, not wanting to jinx it until she’d looked at it again. Besides, it had only been one day, albeit a momentous one.
But the next day when he’d headed out with Jinty, she’d climbed up to the loft and begun putting together a more detailed outline. Which had led to actually beginning to write the opening pages of the book. And that’s how he’d found her late that afternoon, sprawled in front of the window, with barely enough light to write by, but writing furiously, as if it might disappear on her if she didn’t get it all down right then.
He’d flipped on the soft track lighting overhead and waved her to continue working when she’d startled at his sudden reappearance, long since lost to what time of day it was. She’d smiled at him, he’d winked at her. They’d celebrate later. Then he’d done the perfect thing ... he’d moved to one of his easels, and begun quietly working himself, sketching her. She should have felt self-conscious, and initially she had, but she was soon pulled back into her story, which was all but gushing out of her. And sharing that moment with him was celebration enough. Although the bottle of wine and bubble bath he’d drawn for them later that night had been pretty special, too.
She sighed and tugged his arms more tightly around her waist. “What did I do to deserve this?” she murmured.
He didn’t question the track of her thoughts—he rarely did. They had a rhythm that was natural, easy. She cherished it already.
“It’s no’ about deservin’,” he told her. “It’s about allowing yourself the right to live life as you please. On your own terms.”
If anyone understood the value of that, it was the man currently holding her in his arms. And it was his innate strength that gave her the courage to voice her biggest fear. “I want to. But for a long time now, I’ve felt like I owe a lot of people for my success, that I had to somehow repay them for supporting my work so spectacularly. They just want more, and it should be flattering. It
was
flattering. But it was also enormous pressure. I didn’t want to let any of them down.”
was
flattering. But it was also enormous pressure. I didn’t want to let any of them down.”
“Ye wrote them a good story, Bree. And they enjoyed it. Ye didn’t demand success, it came to you for work already well done. Ye may owe your publisher another story, but you dinnae owe them or anyone yer soul.”
“They’d believed in me, and I didn’t want to disappoint.”
He turned her in his arms, looked steadily into her eyes. “Who did you write that first book for? Not for them. They didn’t exist yet. You wrote it for you. And that’s the only person you should ever write for.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It can be. We’re proof of that, don’t ye think?”
“I want to believe that. I truly do.”
“Then take hold of it, and make it be what you want. You get to say. No one else.” He smiled. “Well, save for me, anyway.”
She didn’t smile in return; instead, she grew more serious. “But what if—”
“Och, Bree, ye can’t ‘what if’ yer life away.” He framed her face. “Do you want to be here? With me? Write your stories, enjoy your days?”
“The nights aren’t so bad, either,” she quipped. But he wouldn’t let her dodge. Now he was serious, as serious as she’d ever seen him. “Okay. Yes. Yes, I want to be here. With you. And I’m excited about what I’m writing when I never thought I would be again. Yes, you’re right, I’m finally writing for me. But I am afraid. How petrifying do you think it is to know the whole world is going to judge the book, and me, and quite publicly. I’d think you of all people would understand. For the same reason you don’t share your work. You don’t want to be judged and found wanting.”
He laughed outright at that.
“What?”
“I don’t share my work because in my case, it truly is for me. I honestly dinnae care what others think. But then, it’s not my lifeblood like writing is for you.”
She had other ideas about that, but one battle at a time. “I’m trying to let that fear go, really I am. I am writing, and I am finding the joy again. But the pressure is there, the expectation. I can’t hide here forever. I will have to face it at some point. When or if the book ever finally hits the stands, you, your friends, your family, everyone in the village, they all might have to, too.”
“Then they’ll have to decide how to handle it, won’t they? You’re doing it again, living for others. It’s no’ selfish, Bree, to put your needs first. You’re not neglectin’ anyone, you know. It’s no’ your responsibility to oversee how your career affects every living being. It’s sweet and wonderful that you care, and they’ll all know that about you, as I already do. You live here, you write here, and you can be published again here. We’re all adults and we’re all in this together. We’ll figure it out.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Most things worth having aren’t. My brothers and I have held on to property that has been in Chisholm hands for centuries. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s worthwhile. Because the alternative is untenable.” He framed her face. “That’s how I’m comin’ to feel about you. But you have to feel that about yourself, your work, too. I’ll fight for you, Bree. But you have to learn to fight for yourself, or no one can help ye.”
She held his gaze, feeling the truth of his words clear down to her soul. “I guess, the more I have, the more I risk losing. And it scares me, to care that much again. I don’t want to risk losing any of this.”
“All of life is risk. So you do what you must to hang on to what you have, to what you want. It’s all any of us can do. Ye can’t live waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“But—”
“No buts. Do you want what we’ve begun here to continue, Bree?”
“Yes,” she said immediately.
“I do, too. I want you here. I want you in my life. So we go from there. What comes our way, we deal with when it gets here. You’ve made me as aware as possible of what’s out there, and we’ve done our best to protect ourselves. Beyond that, we live for now, not in fear of then. We live for us. No’ them.” He kissed her, so tenderly it made her heart melt. He pressed his forehead to hers and wove his fingers through her hair. “Trust me, Bree. But more importantly, trust yourself.”
He was so certain. Of course, he had every right to be. His whole life had been led on his terms. He took care of business and those he loved, but he made no apologies for living in a manner that made him happy and gave him peace. So ... what made her happy? What gave her peace? The answer, as it turned out, was rather simple indeed.
“I feel like I’m meant to be here,” she told him. “With you.”
Tristan smiled. “Then stay. That’s all you have to do.” Simple. So simple. And maybe, just maybe, it really was.
Epilogue
I
t was a beautiful, late-spring afternoon. The sun shone through the stained-glass windows of the abbey, cascading a rainbow of color across the excited, chattering congregation.
t was a beautiful, late-spring afternoon. The sun shone through the stained-glass windows of the abbey, cascading a rainbow of color across the excited, chattering congregation.
Tristan stood at the head of the aisle, his hands behind his back, palms sweating. The pews of the centuries-old Chisholm family church were packed with smiling, happy faces, all eagerly anticipating the momentous occasion.
Brodie glanced past brother Reese, his best man, and shot Tristan a grin. “You look like ye’ve had a taste of bad meat, lad. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be nervous.”
Tristan looked at his brother, the groom, who, from all appearances was relaxed and quite delighted by the impending event. “Why aren’t ye?”
Just then, the double doors swung wide and Kat Henderson stepped through the church doors on Alastair’s arm. She was an absolutely stunning vision. “That’s why,” Brodie whispered, voice tight, eyes a wee bit glassy. “Because I’m no fool. I know I’m the luckiest man on earth.”
Tristan did smile at that. “You do have a point.” He felt the hairs lift on his arms as organ music swelled inside the small family abbey, and Kat began her walk down the aisle. His heart picked up speed and he glanced behind him, at Dylan. He was glad their oldest brother had consented to taking part. It had been three years now since Maribel had passed away and he’d come home to Glenbuie. Well past time, they’d all thought, for him to join the land of the living again. They’d all done their best to encourage it, but with little success. But standing in a chapel for a wedding ... well, that tied itself to memories that no number of years could erase, and they’d have each understood if he’d begged off. Tristan had taken it as a hopeful sign when he hadn’t.
Tristan’s gaze shifted across the aisle, to Kat’s two attendants. The maid of honor, Daisy MacDonnell, was a vision her own self, and soon to become Reese’s intended. His brother had confided that he’d only put off asking because he hadn’t wanted to overshadow Brodie and Kat’s joy, along with the rest of Glenbuie, in the planning of their wedding. Daisy’s eyes were misty as she watched Kat’s measured procession toward the altar, and Tristan knew she’d make an equally stunning bride. And that Reese was also a very, very fortunate man.
Daisy had made a huge impact on the village with her business acumen. The Web site she’d constructed for the distillery had not only increased their sales internationally, but had created quite a stir village-wide with the throngs of sightseers who were now flocking to Glenbuie, both for a tour and taste of the family whisky, and also to enjoy the village itself. She’d woven together a ring of connected Web sites for many of the village shops, all extolling the charm and endearing ambience of the town square. The family would benefit further from her creative genius when Dylan finally opened the bed and breakfast. She’d cross-promoted it on the Web ring, and he was already booked for the season.
Which led his gaze to Kat’s other attendant. Bree. His pulse bumped up a little faster, as it always did when he looked at her. Seven months had passed since she’d stepped—or swerved—into his life, forever changing it. And him.
“And here I thought the bride was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the room,” Reese whispered in his ear.
“Oh, she’s stunning enough, she is,” Tristan said, never taking his eyes from Bree.
“We’re a lot, aren’t we?” he said with a light chuckle, his own gaze clearly on Daisy. “Do ye think the village can take so many Chisholm weddings in such a short period of time?”
Tristan glanced back at him. “How many?”
Reese grinned. “Are ye tellin’ me you’re not contemplating dropping down on one knee yourself?”
His hands shook a little. “I’ll gladly wait my turn.”
Reese just smiled and shifted back in place. “Perhaps I should wager on that.”
Tristan wisely said nothing. Bree had finished her book just last week. The entire village had celebrated the joyous occasion. They’d long since adopted their new resident author as one of their own, and considering they’d each done their share to protect her privacy as the media had eventually discovered her whereabouts and descended en masse, they all felt a bit proprietary of both her and the book itself. Bree had happily obliged and throughout the nightlong celebration had made certain they knew, each and every one, what their support meant to her.
He was so proud of her, so in love with this amazing woman, he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from begging her to marry him right then. He hadn’t. Partly out of respect for Reese’s plans, but mostly because the completion of her novel was cause all by itself for a joyous celebration.
He was willing to wait until the moment was all theirs. Standing where he was now, however, the enormity of that moment truly sank in and took hold. Yes, it made his heart pound; yes, it made his palms sweat. He was rarely nervous, but admittedly, the idea of standing before the entire village and watching her walk toward him down that very aisle ...
Bree looked up just then and smiled at him. Just for him. And he thought about all she’d handled, all she’d overcome, the leap of faith she’d taken, both with him and with herself.
Kat arrived at the altar, and Tristan watched as Alastair gave her hand over to Brodie, who quite eagerly took it in his own, anxious to declare himself to her and begin their new life together.
His gaze went back to Bree. He wanted that. He wanted to declare his commitment to her. Only not here. He wanted to do it outside, on the land he’d also committed himself to. He wondered what Bree would say about taking their vows high up on their rocky bluff. A small, intimate gathering, with just his brothers, their wives, her parents perhaps, standing in attendance. They could celebrate all night in the village afterward if she wanted to.
He listened as Brodie and Kat repeated their vows, unable to tear his gaze from Bree’s. And he realized he’d marry her in the middle of a crowded train station if that was what she wanted.
His hands stopped trembling. His palms stopped sweating. The only thing that mattered was that she say yes. All he had to do was ask her. She chose that moment to wink at him.
Simple, really.
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