Finding Fraser (30 page)

I’d just pulled one out of the shelf that
looked promising: A HISTORY OF BOOK-BINDERIES IN SCOTLAND, when someone walked
right into my personal space. I shuffled back to get out of the way, before
looking up into the eyes of Jack Findlay.

He was carrying a book in one hand and was
wearing a cardigan—and a kilt. It was a dark green and navy plaid that
cut nicely over his narrow hips and down to just above the knee.

And before I knew what was happening, he’d
wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.

Twice.

One on each cheek.

With the second kiss effectively right on
the corner of my mouth. I found myself completely speechless.

He smelled so good—like wind and wood
smoke and ink. Not even a whiff of machine oil.

“I can’t believe you came, Emma,” he said,
stepping back with his hands still clutching my arms. “I am so happy to see
you.”

“I was just—hunting for books,” I
babbled, when I found my voice at last. “But look at you! You look great! How’s
the foot?”

A strange light dawned in his eyes and he
dropped his hands hurriedly and stepped back.

“Oh, of course, hunting for books, right,
right. It’s a bookstore—that’s only natural. What a coincidence!”

Honestly, as an embarrassed babbler, he had
me totally beat.

Finally he acknowledged my question and
pointed down at his feet. He wore a heavy boot on one foot, complete with the
hilt of a dagger peeking out above his wool sock. The other foot didn’t look
quite as dashing.

“Still in the walking cast, as you can see.
I thought it would be off by now, but it’s taken its time healin’.”

There was a long, awkward silence, where we
both tried not to look right at each other and instead listened to the cashier
regale her friend on exactly how drunk she had become the night before.

“Well,” he said at last, “I’d better …”

As he spoke, I suddenly caught sight of a
poster on the pillar behind him with a picture of his face on it. “A reading…”
I interrupted. “You are here to do a reading, then? Is your new book done
already?”

He shook his head. “It’s done, or nearly,
but not out yet. This is a reading for the one that came out last year.”

“The one about the dragon bones?”

He sighed and held up the book in his hand.
“That’s bane, not bone. It’s not about dragon bones. It’s a Scots legend,
re-imagined.”

“Um, okay.” I glanced at the poster again
and then up at the clock. “Weren’t you supposed to start fifteen minutes ago?”

He flipped through his book nervously. “Ah,
yeah—just waiting to see if the crowd would—ah—grow any
larger. But, as it hasn’t, well … See you sometime, aye?”

His voice trailed away has he turned and
walked toward the front of the large, open area behind us. I could hear the
girl at the desk, still on the phone, shrieking with laughter and assuring her
conversational companion that “Yeah, she really were that drunk.”

I hurried after Jack as he walked down the
aisle between the chairs set up for the event.

At least fifty chairs.

In them, sat three people. Including me. And
judging from the smell, the guy hunched in a chair at the back may well have
been out with the cashier the night before. He had long, dirty hair, and his
beard was actually braided and fastened with a yellow rubber band. I recognized
him right away as the man who had directed me here in the first place. His dog
was asleep beside him on the floor.

The man himself was out cold.

I took a seat about half way along the right
hand side, out of scent-distance from the panhandler and far enough up so that
it would make the room look a little more … occupied.

Jack stood up at the front of the room by a
podium with a microphone attached. He took a deep breath and then squared his
shoulders and stepped in front of the podium.

“Uh—thanks for comin’, everyone. I’m
here tonight to read from my last book, BANE OF THE DRAGON-LAIRD. So—ah—if
no one has any objection, I’ll jes’ read a selection from the first chapter.”

The old lady sitting in the front row on the
other side of the aisle waved her hand at him. “Ach, Mister Findlay—a wee
moment before ye begin?” She set her large handbag down on the seat beside her
and using her cane, pulled herself to her feet.

“Aye jes’ wanted ye to know I loved this
story. It’s even better than the last one, lad. Well done. Well done.” She
beamed at him like a fond auntie.

Jack gave a little half bow. “Thank ye,
Missus McCarthy. I’m glad ye liked it. Is there any part you’d ‘specially enjoy
hearin’ tonight?”

The old lady waved her cane, having settled
back down in her seat. “Nae, nae, laddie—ye jes’ go on and read the bit
ye chose fer us. I’ll be delighted wi’ whatever ye read, son.”

Jack set the book on the podium, and gave a
last hopeful look toward the front of the store.

No one else appeared.

“Right, then,” he said, and pulled a pair of
glasses from his pocket. “Here goes.”

He cleared his throat. “Sleet slashed across
the cast iron sky and collected in tiny glass pebbles around the body at his
feet. He knelt carefully, the …”

The old lady suddenly made a loud Scottish
noise at the back of her throat.

“Ye know, lad, I’ve only jes’ thought of
it,” she called out from her spot in the front row. She waved her copy of the
book at Jack. “What about the bit where he meets the peasant girl in the rain?”

Jack closed the book with his finger marking
the place he’d been interrupted. “Ah—all right, then, Missus McCarthy.
Shall I finish this bit first?”

“As ye like, as ye like, pet. It’s on’y—ye
did ask the question. Go on, go on, finish this bit first, o’course.”

He nodded and cleared his throat again, a
little painfully to my ear. “He knelt carefully, the …”

“Because it’s the sexy bit, innit? All yer
books have a little rumpy-pumpy, aye?”

Jack sighed and flipped through the pages.
“I’ll jes’ read it now, since you are so looking forward to it, shall I?”

“If ye like, pet.”

The panhandler at the back awoke with a
snort. He looked around blearily and focused on Jack, who was still flipping
through pages at the front.

“I hear yer next book is about the Wallace,
lad,” he yelled from his seat at the back. “Dozzat mean yer acquainted with
that there Gibson fella, then?”

“Aye—tha’ Gibson fella, he’s a sexy
one, too,” added Mrs. McCarthy.

Yeah, things went pretty much downhill after
that.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Jack said,
afterwards.

I’d let him buy me a pot of tea in the shop
next door, and we sat at a small table in the back, cups steaming.

“It wasn’t so bad,” I said. “You sold a few
copies, and …”

“Two. I sold two copies. One of them to you,
which, with your financial situation, I should force you to return.”

He closed his eyes and breathed in the steam
from his cup. Eyes still closed, he said, “Take it back. They’ll give you your
money. The mercy buy doesn’t apply when you weren’t even expecting to find me
here.”

I nudged his arm with my hand and his eyes
opened. “Look, you made sales and a few new fans today. Your discussion with
that man on the flaws in Braveheart was fascinating. I had no idea there were
so many historical errors in that movie.”

“He was a drunk, Emma.”

“Okay, I did know that,” I admitted. “After
his racist rant awhile back …”

“Not the actor. The man at the reading was a
drunk. He was just here for the refreshments. He did know his movie trivia
though …” His voice trailed away, and he tapped one finger lightly on the table
as we sat in silence.

“Right,” he said at last. “Let’s talk about
you. Sounds to me like you’ve found your Fraser. So—mission accomplished
for the blog?”

I could feel myself blushing. I fought it
down. “Yeah—no—I don’t know,” was all I could manage.

He smiled. “Oh. Sore subject? No need to be
embarrassed. It seems to me you deserve a little happiness, after all ye’ve
gone through to get to this godforsaken country.”

“Don’t say that. It’s an amazing place. I
love it here. Did you read the post about the stone cairns?”

“Aye. That I did. And the truth is, I do
hope ye keep at it—the writing, I mean. You’ve a flair for storytelling.
Those cairns are a bit before my era, though I’ve done my time at plenty o’
Historic Scotland sites. I’ve more of a Middle Ages focus, I guess, so when I
read your post, I learned something, and enjoyed it, too.”

“Hamish told me he thinks the pre-historic
monuments are good for nothing except pulling down.”

“Ah,” he said, looking pointedly at
something in his cup. “It’s Hamish, is it? So he’s the one, then? Ye’ve hardly
been postin’ to yer blog at all since ye’ve made his acquaintance.”

I felt strangely tongue-tied again. “He’s—yeah,
he’s pretty wonderful,” I said. “And anyway, I am still blogging. It’s just
been slower since my laptop was stolen.”

He grinned wryly. “Hmm. I don’t know about
that. It seems these days the content leans more toward a paean to the country
than it does a description of your fella. Your fan base certainly seems to be
demanding more details. I reckon they are ready to marry you off to the man.”

I snorted. “My sister is convinced that I’ve
made them all up, just to show her that someone out there thinks I’m not crazy.
Which—I would have, if I’d thought of it. But they’re just … I dunno …”

“Living out their dreams vicariously?” he
finished.

I nodded.

He fell silent a moment, and we both sipped
our tea.

“As long as you have found your dream,
Emma,” he said, at last. “I mean, commenters aside, it’s your dream that’s
important here.”

I looked up at him, but as soon as I did, he
dropped his eyes. “Well, anyway,” I said, hurriedly. “We’re supposed to be
talking about you. This is your event. Look at all the amazing books you’ve
written.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Each one has had its
struggles, no doubt about that.”

“Well, it doesn’t show. I’ve been borrowing
your books from the library and enjoying every one.”

“Really?” His eyes lit up.

I traced my finger over the silhouette on
the cover of my new book. “Yep. And what about that old lady? She has to be
your biggest fan. Do you know her lips were moving when you read her favorite
sexy bit aloud? She’s obviously committed the whole passage to memory.”

He allowed himself a half smile. “She
literally is my biggest fan. She’s president of the Scottish chapter of my fan
club.”

“See? I didn’t even know you had a fan club!
I will join the American branch, for sure when I get home.”

“There is no American branch. There’s just
the Scottish branch, and I’m pretty sure Mrs. McCarthy is the only member. But
thanks for the thought.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m with Mrs.
McCarthy. I like the sexy bits, too. Except …”

“Except …” His face took on a look I
remembered. From the time he was trying to walk on a freshly broken foot. I
mentally punched myself in the head a few times.

“Nothing—it was fantastic, really. I
can’t wait to read the whole thing.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “It’s okay,
you don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s not that big a deal, really.”

He opened his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean to make something of nothing. It’s just—I don’t know. Hearing
how wonderful the book is doesn’t sell copies, you know? There is something I’m
missing. Something that I’ve not managed to capture jes’ right. I’d like if a
few more people wanted to read my books than just the sum total of the Scots
fan club, aye?”

“I get that.” I thought for a minute and
then plunged ahead. “I mean, I haven’t read this book all the way through,
obviously. And I know your stories take place in an historical context where
things were different. But I’ve kinda noticed that your heroines are always so
perfect. Like, too perfect. They are gorgeous, they are sexy, they’re great in
bed, and—well, like this one tonight was even a fantastic hunter. So
they’re—not really human. The one you read in the book tonight is a
goddess. But in the end, he still has to rescue her.”