Scot of My Dreams (20 page)

Abby and I met in the hallway at 6:15, mostly by chance. She was pale, too pale. I took her by the shoulders. “You look radiant,” I said.

“I know it’s foolish,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “but I’m scared.”

“Back in the States we have an old saying: never let them see you sweat.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Eww…”

“You know what I mean. It doesn’t matter if you have butterflies in your stomach. The trick is not to let them show. You’re the lady of the house and the hostess with the most-ess.” When she gave me a blank look, I laughed. “Another old pearl of wisdom.”

“If you say so…”

“Come on, Abigail. You need to make your entrance. Besides, I’m the one who ought to be worried. I’m an interloper. And I can’t even make a donation.”

We were halfway down the narrow stone stairs when she stopped and turned to face me. “Thank you, Willow.”

“For what?”

“For being calm and down-to-earth and making me feel normal again.”

“You
are
normal. Abby…” I trailed off, unsure of myself. Other than Hayley and McKenzie, I’d never had any really close friends. And my girls, H&M, didn’t count, because we were practically sisters.

Abby tweaked a fold of my skirt. “What? What were you going to say?”

“You could come visit me sometime. In Georgia. If you wanted to.”

Her face lit up with genuine pleasure. “I’d adore that, Willow. How fun. Of course, I’ve just accepted a new position. But when I have some time off.”

“Of course.”

Neither of us mentioned Bryce. Abby wasn’t slow. Despite noticing the sparks flying between her brother and me, it must have been obvious that our relationship was not likely to outlast the month.

I had promised Bryce I would enjoy the time I had left. So I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. I was about to go to a fancy ball with a gorgeous, sexy Scottish laird. Surely I could enjoy myself. My insides were in a knot, though. No amount of reassurances from Bryce could ease my distress. I hated being gullible, and apparently going into partnership with Evelyn was the worst thing I could have done.

Taking a deep breath, I told myself I owed it to Bryce and Abby not to let my grief and anxiety show. As far as the world was concerned, tonight, I was the luckiest hairdresser in the world.

* * *

That evening, for the first fifteen or twenty minutes of the soiree, Abigail and I hung together in the gardens. I don’t know if she was protecting me or the other way around, but we found comfort in each other’s presence. Bryce was nowhere to be seen. I suspected he was out front greeting each of his guests personally as they stepped out of their cars. It was exactly the kind of thing he would do.

I didn’t mind the reprieve. I barely knew what to say to him, particularly in the presence of several hundred of his closest friends.

The gardens were spectacular. A crescent moon hung low in the sky as if ordered by a prop master. White lights strung along the stone walls and in the branches of fruit trees lent an air of celebration. It was difficult to believe that not so long ago I had given Bryce a haircut in this very spot.

Though Abby might have skipped the last gala two years ago, her social skills weren’t at all rusty. She worked the crowd flawlessly, introducing me to friends from near and far.

I watched them watch her. On their faces I saw compassion, curiosity, even surprise. Followed by pleasure. I had been right about one thing. Abigail’s friends were delighted that she had come out of hiding.

I was particularly interested in one young man. He was older than me but younger than Bryce, and he never took his eyes off the woman in the green and gold gown. Curiously, Abby had not introduced us. I picked up a glass of wine to occupy my hands and approached him. “Hello. I’m Abigail’s friend, Willow Ryman. The gardens are beautiful, aren’t they?”

He dragged his attention away from Abby and smiled at me. “Aye, they are. You must be the Yank who’s been visitin’ the MacBraes. What do ye think of the Highlands so far?”

“I love it here. You’re very lucky.”

“Aye.” His gaze went back to Abby. “How is she doin’? Really, I mean.”

I fancied I saw yearning on his face, but maybe that was me playing Cupid. “Very well, I think. Grieving is a season, you know. If you’ll pardon the poetic license, Abby has faced the dark chill of winter, but she’s ready to step back into the light.”

“Are the two of you friends?” I asked the man as he continued to watch Abigail.

“We went out a few times. Before she married. But I was a selfish, callow lad at the time. Didna’ know what I had. Let it slip away.”

I let his confession hang in silence. I was neither a matchmaker nor a counselor. I had no idea if Abigail had any residual feelings for this man. It would be up to him to explore that avenue.

She found us right about then. A flush rose from her bosom to her forehead. “Roger,” she said. “I didn’t see you before.”

He didn’t call her on the white lie, but I suspected we all three knew she was dissembling. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Ye look like an angel tonight, Abigail. ’Tis lovely to see you again.”

Amazing. Could all Scotsmen handle that kind of romantic gesture with such style and flair? The guy was a natural. Roger was decked out in a very nice kilt, but, oddly, his spiffy clothing and pleasant smile didn’t give me even a twinge in my heart…or elsewhere.

Abby, on the other hand, was fluttering and blushing and laughing like an eighteen-year-old Southern belle making her debut. The chemistry between the two was palpable. I was happy for her, really, I was. If poor Roger had been waiting all this time, maybe there was the prospect of a deeper relationship based on a long friendship. In the course of the conversation, I picked up the fact that Roger and his family owned the next estate over to the west, beyond Culloden.

This was how things were supposed to work. Two people from similar backgrounds with similar interests and experiences building on those foundations to create a relationship. Unlike the handsome laird with a magnificent castle who had no point of reference with a now-penniless hairdresser.

“Excuse me,” I said, not that either of them was listening. “I’m going to take a look at the dinner table.” It didn’t surprise me that neither of my companions noticed my exit.

I had purposely not peeked inside the great hall since the day the workmen first arrived. I wanted to be surprised. And I was.

The grand space had been transformed from a somewhat cold, echoing chamber into an arena of light and sound and color. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine the lords and ladies of Camelot feasting and laughing and sharing bawdy stories of hunts and battles. No one agreed on the details of the Arthurian legend, but there was a goodly amount of evidence that the storied king hailed from Scotland. I decided to make it so. After, this whole trip was
my
fantasy.

Staying close to the wall so as not to impede the army of waiters, I scanned the room. It was magnificent. The huge hall reeked of history, centuries of lives birthed and extinguished within these castle walls.

Immediately inside the doorway, a small round mahogany table held a sparkling crystal vase. But not just any vase—the ornate piece was easily three feet high and two feet across. Shaped vaguely like a tulip, the faceted glass caught the light from the iron fixtures overhead and shattered it into a million tiny rainbows. A few of the guests had already deposited their donation checks inside.

The late medieval décor had been softened with colorful sprays of fresh native flowers that overflowed giant urns in the four massive hearths. As surreptitiously as possible, I strolled in front of one fireplace. Brodie sat there, unusually docile, his tongue hanging out…a small tartan scarf tied jauntily around his neck. I petted him wistfully. I was even going to miss the dog.

Casually, I snitched a blossom from the side of a display where no would notice and tucked it in my purse. When the flower was dry, I would put it inside my silver box from McKenzie. It would be the perfect memento of my time in Scotland, not that I needed a reminder. These days and weeks with Bryce would be burned into my memory.

More floral decorations adorned the chandeliers. Enormous Oriental rugs had either been rented or brought out of storage and now cushioned guests’ feet against the stone floor.

If I had not understood it before, I did now. Bryce and Abigail inhabited a far different world than the one in which I had grown up. Even McKenzie, whose family had deep pockets, couldn’t claim a heritage such as this.

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Here I was, little Willow Ryman from Atlanta, Georgia, smack dab in the middle of the climax of the Cinderella story. The parallels were impossible to miss. Minus the wicked stepsisters, of course.

By now, small groups of guests had begun to filter in and take their seats. On the broad oak doors that stood open wide, calligraphy seating charts directed traffic appropriately. I assumed I would be sitting at one of the smaller table scattered around the edges of the room.

The place settings were stunning. Abigail had explained to me that the Dunvarstone china was
only
two hundred years old. As if that made the set equivalent to the Chinet plates we Americans used for picnics. Not quite the same thing at all. The beautiful ivory pieces were rimmed in an intricate eucalyptus design with a thin gold detail.

The crystal was older still, priceless pieces from mix-matched sets over the years. Heavy silver cutlery and linen napkins completed the ornate layout. It was almost too lovely to put food on, but I was willing to try.

In the midst of my bemused exploration, Abigail appeared. She took my arm. “You’re sitting at the head of the table with Bryce and me.”

“Oh no,” I said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

She frowned at me. “You’re Bryce’s date…Remember?”

Ah. I had forgotten that silly subterfuge. “He was kidding,” I said. “I don’t think Bryce needs or wants to be tied to any one particular guest. He belongs to everyone tonight.”

“Don’t be absurd.” She forced me along with her. As we stood at the table, I read the place cards. Bryce was in the seat of honor, of course. Abby was on his left, Horatio on his right. My name was on Horatio’s right.

Still, I had not seen Bryce. My impatience mounted. Reluctantly, I grasped the back of my seat only to find out that the guest on my right was an elderly lady with a light purple rinse on her white hair. Actually, this reassured me. I already knew Horatio, and I was very comfortable with old people in general. All they wanted was someone to listen to their stories. I wouldn’t be required to make conversation with elegant, intimidating dinner guests.

A low voice startled me. “Willow…”

I spun around and put a hand to my throat. “Bryce.” He looked amazing. I wanted to throw myself into his arms. His formal kilt ensemble was exactly as Abby had described, but somehow she had not conveyed how the historic apparel would suit him so perfectly. How the jacket would emphasize his broad shoulders and powerful frame.

We were surrounded by a veritable army of party guests. Yet for the space of a hushed heartbeat, Bryce looked at me in such a way that I fell a little bit more in love with him. I sneaked a look at his bare knees. I imagined delving beneath the crisp pleats of his kilt to see what else was bare.

“You’re blushing, Willow.” His words stroked me like a physical touch.

“You look very handsome, Bryce.” I was proud of my calm, not-at-all-giddy compliment.

“And you, on the other hand, are stunning. All of the single chaps and some of the married ones are speculating about my American import. Red is definitely your color.”

“Are you comparing me to wine?”

He shrugged. “It would be an apt description. One sip and you make me forget my responsibilities. Half a glass and I can’t remember my name.”

I frowned. Alcohol in excess was bad for you. Everyone knew that. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the massive room and everything to do with the ticking clock. “You should take your seat,” I said, the words stiff. “The servers are waiting on you.”

Now
his
brows drew together. “I was trying to tell you how gorgeous you are tonight. I must not be doing it very well, or you wouldn’t look so sad.”

I lifted my chin. “Not sad at all. Merely hungry.”

For several long moments he stared at me intently. But finally, he took the hint. “By all means then, let’s eat.”

When he moved out of touching range, I exhaled. Crisis averted. I wasn’t about to create a scene in the presence of this crowd of Bryce’s friends. They had probably already made note of the fact that he was whispering with me when he was supposed to be carrying out his hosting duties.

At Bryce’s bidding, everyone was seated and the meal began. I gave top marks to the waitstaff. They moved like the proverbial well-oiled machine, their attention to each diner careful but not annoying. My water glass never fell below half-empty.

The menu was remarkable, though I barely tasted what I ate. I did sample the various wines. Imbibing helped dampen the misery about my news from the States. Since I rarely drank, I soon felt a pleasant buzz. My thin wrap was tucked inside my small clutch, unneeded. The alcohol warmed me from the inside out.

Horatio and I managed a few interactions. He was flushed and animated, clearly reveling in the evening’s pageantry. The lady at my other elbow was either shy or had some memory issues, as she tended to repeat herself. Nevertheless, she and I chatted about the food and the flowers and about her son, who was by all accounts a close friend of Bryce’s.

In between those conversations, I surreptitiously studied my host. Maybe I was prejudiced, but I couldn’t imagine any man looking more masculine and sexy in a kilt than Bryce did. He and Abby were laughing and talking, enjoying each other’s company. It warmed my heart to see the two of them so happy. There had been some talk of Bryce and Abigail’s parents returning from Italy for this event, but that hadn’t transpired.