Must Love Scotland (22 page)

She had four condoms left and intended to use every one before she got on the plane tomorrow. There’d be no rotating this inventory, no buying fresh provisions in anticipation of the next floral convention, either.

Megan lingered in the shower, then climbed into bed, appropriating Declan’s side. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, had been up early hoping for Declan to return from the milking, and needed a good night’s rest before traveling.

And thus she was fast asleep when Declan saved his last spreadsheet and came up to bed less than ninety minutes later.

For the first time, Declan MacPherson resented his heifers. He’d fallen asleep beside Megan, when his intention had been to wake her with gentle kisses of tender parting, to love her unforgettably, to entrust to his body all the arguments and pleas he hadn’t been able to make with words.

“You’ll be late for milking,” Megan said, sitting up and brushing her hair out of her eyes in the early morning gloom. “I fell asleep.”

“So did I, damn it all,” Declan said, seeing by the clock that he was already fifteen minutes behind, and that meant cranky cows, at best. “Meggie, I’m so sorry. I want—”

They came together with desperate passion, no words, no pausing to savor or tease, no finesse.

No fiction that they’d have another two weeks, or even two hours, to enjoy each other’s company.

“I’ll miss you,” Declan said as he joined their bodies. “When I go out to milk, when I’m in the fields, when I’m getting blind, stinking drunk at the Hare, I’ll miss you.”

Megan met him with her hips and tried to increase the tempo. “Don’t get drunk, Declan. There’s nobody to drive you home, and I’ll worry about you.”

When her loan closed, he’d get drunk right here in his own home. “Don’t worry, Meggie. Everybody around here knows me, and they’ve seen me through bad patches before. Let me know when you’ve arrived safely home.”

He was home, inside her, in her arms.

“I’ll text, Declan, and you’ll let me know…”

Megan just started crying, and loving the hell out of him, and it was the best, saddest, most loving and heartbreaking sex Declan had ever had. He got to the milking parlor thirty minutes late, hungry, tired, and ready to curse in two languages at any cow or dairyman who gave him trouble.

An hour later, Megan appeared at the door of the milking parlor as the last shift of cows was ambling into their stanchions.

“You’re leaving,” Declan said, hitting the button that would deposit feed before each heifer.

She nodded and went back out into the morning, Declan at her heels. He wrapped her in a ferocious hug, and she held him with equal ferocity. Around him, the hills and fields were clothed in morning joy, sunlight turning the damp valley sparkling. The cows and sheep in their pasture grazed contentedly, and Hector sat on a fence post having a wash.

Morag stood by her car, which was already facing down the drive. Declan had put Megan’s suitcase on the porch before he’d left for milking, and the ladies had apparently wrestled it into the car.

“Morning, More,” Declan said. He got a disgusted huff in return, which was what he deserved.

“Get this over with,” Morag said, “or I’ll change my mind and leave the two of you to find somebody else to indulge your stupidity.”

Declan draped an arm across Megan’s shoulders and walked with her toward the barn. “Morag’s cross when she hasn’t eaten. She’ll be civil enough with you.”

“Morag means well.” Megan said nothing more, the time for
I’ll miss you
’s clearly having passed.

Declan held her in a long, tight hug, kissed her one last time, and stepped back. “Safe journey,
luaidh mo chèile
.” He’d spoken in Gaelic, the better to protect his dignity, because Morag was right: Letting Megan leave was the stupidest thing he could possibly do.

So he kissed Megan one more time.

And then he let her go.

“Declan wouldn’t want you to cry,” Morag said miles later. They were speeding south, Edinburgh airport getting closer by the minute.

“Declan wouldn’t tell me what to do,” Megan countered. “Not ever.”

“And you weren’t clever enough to
ask
him what to do,” Morag said, “so here I am, watching two hearts break when they ought to be planning a wedding. That’s all right, then.”

“Like you would ever ask anybody else what to do, Morag Cromarty?”

A smile bloomed, such as Megan hadn’t seen from Morag previously—a little sad, a lot sweet.

“Spot-on, there, Megan Leonard. And look at me now. I have all the independence I could ever want. I can throw pots twenty hours a day, if I prefer, and sometimes I do. But sometimes, I’d rather not have quite so much independence.”

“Sometimes, I hate my flowers,” Megan said, though she’d never admitted such a thing before—not even to herself. “Sometimes, I want to throw them all over the altar, like my mother once did.”

Morag shot her a puzzled look. “Was your mum a florist?”

“Flowers were her hobby, her sustenance and comfort. My dad was passionate about his work, Mom was passionate about her flowers. I get my love of flowers from her.”

The connection felt different now, though, not so much a bond, but more of a blind allegiance? A path of least resistance against a maternal love that had encouraged blossoming and growth in all manner of flowers, but not as much in an oldest daughter.

“I get my love of pots from the pleasure I took in smashing one when I was eight,” Morag said. “The pot was as plain and ugly as I felt I was. My Uncle Donald loved that little pot, though, and told me if I broke his favorite, I had to make him a pretty new one. That was it. From the first time I sat down at a wheel, my little hands glorying in the feel of wet mud, I was gone.”

The villages were coming closer together, and on the horizon, a silver airplane climbed into the sky.

“We’ve plenty of time,” Morag said, “but you’re thinking: Declan has finished the milking, he’s thrown the hay, he’s in his kitchen, eating his porridge standing up, nobody but a cat for company.”

“The cat died.” And all over again, Megan was assailed by grief, a huge, undifferentiated grief that encompassed her parents, her sister, her youthful ambitions, and most of all, Declan.

“Hughey was an old bugger,” Morag said. “One of the barn cats will move in, and he’ll become an old bugger too.”

What was the female equivalent of an old bugger? That’s where Megan was heading, into old buggerdom.

“Morag, I love Declan. I never told him I loved him because I didn’t want to put that burden on him.”

“He told you,” she said, accelerating into thicker traffic. “That’s what the Gaelic was.
Love of my life
. Never heard him call anybody else that, never been called that myself.”

The buttered scone Megan had made herself eat did a backflip in her belly. “He called me that?”

“My Gaelic is conversational, at best, but I know what I heard. And don’t tell yourself they were just words. When a man like Declan loves a woman, he doesn’t expect her to throw in with a life of hard work, uncertainty, and cow shit.”

“Sheep shit, too.” And flowers, and organic honey, and arguments over hot sauce, and a pet lamb, and… everything wonderful ever there was.

“I need to make a phone call, Morag. An urgent phone call.”

“Nothing stopping you,” Morag countered, fishing in the bag for a scone. “Put some butter on this, would you?”

“No, I need to make a phone call right now. What time is it?”

“Look on your phone, love.”

In Maryland, it would be very early. Too damned bad. Megan hit a few keys, and put the phone to her ear, and had to wait three endless rings for somebody to pick up.

“I am not yet at my desk. Do you know what time it is?” Mike Cochrane growled.

“I do, on two different continents, and I have a favor to ask.”

“Yes, I can pick you up at the airport. BWI or Dulles?”

Huh?
“Not that kind of favor. Well, sorta that kind of favor. You need to pick up some flowers for your secretary.”

“I already did that. She wondered if I’d been diagnosed with a serious illness.”

“Then pick up some flowers for your girlfriend, Mike. This is important.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. Fortunately for you, my mom likes those long, dramatic flowers with the funny name.”

“Gladiolus, from the Latin word for sword, and they symbolize strength of character. My character’s not feeling so strong, Mike, so listen carefully, and do exactly as I say.”

“I am leaving on my honeymoon this afternoon,” Niall groused into the phone. “Julie is almost done packing, and whether to plant heather or raspberries on the back nine isn’t exactly what’s foremost on my mind, MacPherson.”

Thank God that Niall and Julie planned to start their honeymoon with a night in Glasgow before heading off to Skye.

“You have the next fifty years to think those thoughts,” Declan said, “while I have only until Meggie’s loan closes to rearrange my life.”

Julie said something in the background, and a pause ensued, during which Declan assumed the phone had been muted, or perhaps some kissing was going on.

“Julie says I’m to humor a fool in love,” Niall said. “Meet me at the Hare in an hour.”

“Thanks, Cromarty. Drinks on me, and give Julie a kiss for me—another kiss.” Declan hung up before Niall could answer.

It took Mike Cochrane walking into the flower shop and handing his phone to Dixie Miller, and Dixie putting the phone on speaker, but Megan had her staff meeting while Morag ate three scones and tapped her fingers against the wheel at a car park near the Edinburgh airport.

Cochrane fell into the role of bad cop, playing the guilt card with exquisite sincerity, while Megan bludgeoned her staff with the prospect of lost dreams, and opportunities snatched away. Dixie and Tony had been legitimately busy, and admitted to becoming engaged, but Megan was relentless, and Cochrane turned out to be a surprisingly effective wingman.

“You were absolutely ruthless,” Morag said when Megan ended the call. “Who would have thought a florist could be such a hard-ass?”

“This matters, Morag, and Declan likes my ass.”

“Declan, poor sod, likes all of you. Time to go?”

“Please. Warp nine, Mr. Sulu.”

“MacPherson, you cannot be serious,” Niall said, but his tone was wondering, rather than incredulous. Declan had his attention, which was saying something when the man was packed to leave on his honeymoon.

“I’m dead serious,” Declan replied. “The farm is in excellent financial health, because I’ve been lucky, and I’ve made some good guesses.”

“The harder I work, the luckier I get,” Niall muttered, staring at the spreadsheet Declan had passed him. The Hare was quiet today. Mary was curled on a sofa beside the fireplace, dreaming of whatever lambs dreamed of.

Declan was dreaming of the future. “A handshake will do, Niall. I’m not in any rush to close the deal, but I am in a rush to get my kilted arse to Maryland.”

Behind Declan, the door to the Hare opened, and some customers came in. If they were neighbors, they’d eavesdrop, but Declan didn’t particularly care who overheard this discussion.

Niall glanced over Declan’s shoulder, then his gaze went back to the spreadsheet. “You’ve been getting quietly rich, you bastard.”

“Not rich,” Declan said. “Solvent. One change in the regulations governing organic farming, and I might have to start over, get a new herd, triple what I pay the vet, or entirely redesign my milking parlor. Some new virus comes through, and I lose all my sheep. Farming is damned tricky to do well, and I’ve simply been enjoying a good patch. Now is the time for what I propose.”

Somebody scraped a chair back, somebody else ordered sandwiches at the bar. All Declan could think was that Megan was already on her way home, already somewhere over the North Atlantic, and getting farther from him by the second.

“You’re offering to sell me the farm and accept equity in the golf course as half the payment?”

“Basically. I need enough cash out of the farm to get Megan her second shop. Bank loans are all very well for those who need them, and my farm has benefited from its share, but I want to offer Megan another choice.”

Niall set the spreadsheet in the middle of the table, and again glanced around at the mostly empty room.

“That farm has been in your family for centuries,” he said. “You hated the thought of even leasing me fifty acres to expand the golf course not long ago, and now you’re ready to cut and run? Should I be worried about you, MacPherson?”

For God’s sake, it wasn’t complicated.

“The farm is the legacy I’ve inherited, Cromarty. That’s important, I’m grateful for it, but my focus now is on the legacy I can pass on. I’ve spent too much of my life farming for the ghosts of MacPhersons past, and not enough putting hot sauce on my chips. If Megan will have me, then I can start a new legacy in a new land with a woman who’s worth a damned sight more than a manure pit and some cranky heifers.”

Morag sat down across from Declan and took a sip of his beer. “Get out your hanky, Niall.”

“Megan got off all right?” Declan asked, though he’d hoped her plane would be indefinitely delayed.

“Ran into a bit of a problem,” Morag said, helping herself to one of Niall’s chips. “You might want to have a look behind you, Declan.”

Declan did not look behind him. He instead took a discreet sniff and caught a glint in Niall Cromarty’s eyes. A hand settled on his shoulder, then two arms slid around his neck.

“I could not leave you, love of my life,” Megan said. “I could not get on that plane and l-leave you.”

Declan had her in his lap in the next instant.

“You didn’t go,” he said, grinning stupidly, ecstatically. “I’m selling the farm, Meggie mine. Or trying to talk Cromarty into buying it. He’s addled, though, being newly married.”

“Don’t sell the farm, Declan,” she said, cuddling into his embrace. “Please don’t sell the farm, because I just made arrangements to sell my flower shop.”