Sweet Christmas Kisses (124 page)

She sank back in her chair as a deep sense of exhaustion washed through her.   "Is...is there a place where I could rest for a bit?"

"Sure and there is, Miss.  It would be yours, now."  Sorcha nodded toward a closed door at the far end of the kitchen.  "The upstairs was remodeled years ago into four rooms with private bathrooms, for the tourist trade. Just like a hotel. All of them are all spoken for, but Maura's rooms are--were--down here.  With her weak heart she had trouble with the stairs, ye know, and she wanted to be close for the arrival of guests."

"I have so many questions.  There's just so much I don't know."

"Take a little rest, now.  There'll be time enough for all that."  Sorcha pinned her with a piercing look. "You're quite blessed, you know, coming into a good business like this.  And the house itself has been in your family for over two-hundred years."  

Lucy took a long swallow of tea.  "It's all just so...unexpected."

"It's your heritage, dearie.  I hope ye'll love it like Maura did, bless her soul."

At a sound by the back door, Sorcha looked over Lucy's shoulder and smiled up at someone who had stepped inside.

"You can be sure she dinna plan on that."

The familiar deep, masculine voice sent prickles up Lucy's arms, and she slowly rose to face the cold stare of the man who had helped herd the sheep off the road on her way here.  "Wh-what are you doing here?"

He ignored her and met Sorcha's gaze instead. "She plans to head right back to America.  But then, what American would care about the history of this land?  Or her blood family?"

Sorcha paled at his harsh tone, her lower lip trembling.  "Och!  It canna be true."

Guilt and regret rushed through Lucy on a wave of rising panic and she reached for the back of her chair.  Just this morning she'd thought her fear of driving here was her greatest obstacle.

Now she was apparently on the verge of booting elderly ladies out on the street and becoming branded as the second coming of the wicked witch of the west.

"Just ask about her, Sorcha." He shrugged, turned on his heel and opened the door to walk out.  "Though she might find it a wee bit harder than she thinks."

Back in his cottage, Brodie threw another log on the fire to ward off the mid-November chill, sending a little fireworks display of sparks up the chimney.

Then he grabbed his mug of hot chocolate and strode back to the desk he'd placed dead center in front of the fireplace when he first moved in, and forced himself to sit down.

It had been a symbolic gesture, this placement of the massive, ornately carved oak desk, reaffirming his bright-eyed resolve to complete the first draft of his textbook without letting anything or anyone stand in his way.  But it hadn't worked.

He'd been here nine months.  Nine long, frustrating and unproductive months, with only three months left to go and then he'd have to go back to the university.  As a failure.  Just what he needed to build his reputation and his career, when any number of bright-eyed post-docs would be circling his field for possible openings.

In the days of typewriters and reams of paper he would have been buried in an avalanche of crumpled paper snowballs by now--proof of his inability to focus, much less produce.

The hard drive of his old Mac neatly saved and hid the history of his daily frustration, though the survival of the laptop itself was a true miracle after many a temptation to heave it straight into the fire.

Would it have been any different if he'd simply stayed in Edinburgh, holed up in his apartment to write?

But there, he'd figured the memories of Trisha's abrupt departure for America six months earlier would simply stoke his anger and render him unable to think straight.  She'd planned her get-away for some time, apparently, arranging to file for divorce, filtering away funds while he'd still been hoping for counseling and reconciliation.

He snorted in disgust at his naiveté as he powered up the computer and switched on the desk lamp.

No, she'd hated Scotland.  She'd felt marooned here, or so she'd said. He suspected she'd had far loftier dreams of wedded bliss and grandeur when she'd first seen his family home, and the reality of life as a young professor's wife in a city apartment had delivered a death blow to her expectations. 

He knew it was good fortune that their relationship was over and done with, before they'd started a family and then faced lifelong complications after that.  There was no way he wanted her back into his life. So why was he still re-hashing the past?

He shuffled a stack of papers.  Drummed his fingers on the desk, willing those thoughts out of his mind...but oddly, the face he saw was Lucy's instead. 

She looked oh, so much like Trisha, with her flashing green eyes, delicate features, and that creamy pale complexion with a scattering of fine freckles over her nose.  They even had the same gleaming mass of dark, wildly curly hair.

Seeing her out in the middle of nowhere, on that single-track road through the moor, had been like encountering a vision rising out of the mist. With the impact of a fist to the gut, the unexpected apparition had reminded him once again of the turmoil and pain Trisha had left in her wake.

He could only hope Lucy would be on her way soon, and not stick around as a constant reminder of his past. She would only make his writer's block worse.

At least Lucy wasn't his problem to deal with.  She was here at Maura's request, and she probably planned to grab whatever she could and run.  She'd already made it clear that she wanted nothing more than to get back home.

He'd been unforgivably rude to her this evening, blindsided by her physical resemblance to Trisha. But maybe if he was helpful, he could help expedite her business and speed her on her way.  She would get what she wanted, leave, and then he would be able to buckle down to work.

He had only three short months left of his sabbatical, and he needed to hit his stride and finish the book he'd started, or his reputation--and his career--at the university would be in ruins.

He smiled, leaned back in his chair, and watched the pulsating embers on the hearth.

Lucy Davis had just gained herself a right hand man.

Lucy sat up with a start, blinked, and stared at her unfamiliar surroundings as the last vestiges of her disjointed dreams faded.  The lowering sun had sent soft lacy shadows across the quilt on the four-poster bed when she'd come into Maura's old room to rest for just a few minutes before facing her uncertain future.

Now, a soft, misty morning rain was falling outside the windows.  In the distance she could hear a rooster crowing and lambs bleating, and the aroma of fresh coffee drifted underneath the bedroom door.  Had she really slept all night?

She stumbled into the adjoining bathroom and eyed the deep, claw-foot bathtub with longing, then splashed cold water on her face and finger-combed her disheveled, shoulder length hair in the mirror.  Her luggage was still in the rental car, so this would have to do.  Let the inquisition begin.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the kitchen.

Sorcha and another elderly lady sat at the table, both pairs of eyes rising to study her as she walked in.  Where Sorcha was hefty and solid, the other woman was tiny, with fragile bones and a cloud of snow-white hair. "Um...good morning," she said.  "I only meant to rest a moment, but..."

"Traveling is wearing on a body," Sorcha said briskly.  "The other guests came in late last night and have gone already--off on their bikes to the north.  If you've a mind to eat, breakfast is still laid out in the dining room. They preferred coffee, so there's still some in the pot."

The other woman gave her a warning look, then turned to Lucy with a gentle smile.  "I'm Aileen Reid.  Do join us, if you'd like.  I imagine you have a lot of questions."

Lucy poured herself a cup of coffee and joined them at the table.

"Sorcha was right.  You're the spitting image of our Maura." Aileen reached over and patted her hand. "It's so good to meet you, dear. And a bit of a surprise, too. The solicitor didn't say a word about you coming."

"Not that he would," Sorcha snorted.  "We haven't heard from him since Maura's funeral.  We've just all gone on as before, keeping the place going.  It's what Maura would have wanted, so it would be ready f-for..."

Her voice caught, then trailed off as she looked down at her mug of tea.

"She died of a massive heart attack," Aileen added quietly.  "She'd had heart troubles all her life, and she was getting weaker.  She always said she hoped her niece would come from America someday...and that you might fall in love with Scotland and decide to stay."

"Then why didn't she write me?" Confusion welled up in Lucy's chest.  "I would have come, but my mom refused to talk about her family.   I didn't know I had any living relatives here."

Lucy had figured out the likely cause of that family rift long ago, but loyalty to her mother meant it wasn't something she could share.

Aileen lifted a bony shoulder.  "A sad thing, when families disagree. Maybe the solicitor will have more answers for you."

"I hope so.  About the man who came into the kitchen last night..."

Sorcha nodded.  "That would be Brodie MacLaughlin."

"He's the professor?"

"Right. He's on a sabbatical from his university, writing some sort of important textbook.  Burns the midnight oil, he does--I think he's got only three months to go."

"He doesn't seem particularly sociable, for someone who teaches."

"Poor lad," Aileen murmured, exchanging a quick look with Sorcha.  "His wife left 'im, ye know. He's been through all kinds of troubles. We see him pacing along the shore many a night, pining for all he's lost."

"Really." He'd seemed more surly than sad, coupled with a good dose of rude.   His ex had probably developed some common sense.

Aileen nodded vigorously, her silvery curls bobbing. "This can be a lonely place for a handsome young man like him, lost in his thoughts."

 Given the twinkle in the old lady's eyes, it didn't take much to sense a set-up, but the enticement couldn't be less appealing. 

Not after discovering just last month that her equally handsome ex-fiancé Todd had been expertly cheating on her, and she'd been too gullible to catch on. 

Right now, men were very, very low on her list.

"I...would love to talk with you both later, but I have an appointment with the solicitor this morning and I'd better go.  He said he'd be going down to London this afternoon for a few weeks, so I can't miss him."

Sorcha smiled serenely.  "We'll look forward to our next chat, dear.  Drive safe."

****

After fetching her suitcase and carry-on from the rental car, Lucy took a quick bath, dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, leather boots and a cranberry wool sweater, and pulled on her Marmot rain jacket.

The mist had changed to a steady light rain, turning the deeply rolling hills and loch into a monochromatic panorama of silvers and grays.

She shuddered as she rounded the car, remembering the narrow roads and blind curves she'd traversed yesterday...then stopped in her tracks.

The front tire was flat.  Totally, indisputably flat.

She shoved her purse into the front seat of the car and hunted for a button or trigger to open the trunk.  Or was it called a boot, here?

After several false tries it opened, but there didn't seem to be any sort of tire changing equipment inside.  Bracing her hands on the car, she sighed in frustration.

"Leaving so soon?"

Brodie's deep, gravelly voice unaccountably sent a little shiver dancing across her skin. 

She turned wearily to face him.  "Flat tire.  And I didn't think to check the trunk before I drove off the rental lot.  Aren't they supposed to make sure these cars are set to go?"

"You'd think so."  He bent low to search the trunk, lifted up the carpet and revealed an empty well where a spare ought to be.  "Bad luck."

"I've got to get to an appointment with the solicitor in the next village, before he leaves town." She lifted her hands in frustration.  "There's so much I don't know--I'm really at a loss, here.  Is there a car I can borrow?"

"The ladies will be off to Inverness in the car they share." He glanced over at the black sports car parked by the cottage, then gave her a dubious look.   "Have you driven one of those?"

"I don't even know what it is."

"1970 Spitfire."

She was pretty sure she should feel a sense of awe, given the soft smile he directed at his little car.  "Are...you a collector?"

"Not at all, but it's worth more to me in sentiment than book value.  It was my grandfather's." He turned back to her and chuckled.  "It's not an automatic, and the gears are a wee bit cantankerous.

"There was no way I'd dare drive such a treasure." The rain started falling harder, and Lucy's heart sank.  "Would there be a bike somewhere?"

"Not for going so far in this weather." He waved her towards his car. "I'll drive."

"Really?"

Her shock must have been all too evident, because a faint smile lifted a corner of his mouth, revealing a deep slash of a dimple and laugh lines at the corner of his eyes. 

"Yesterday I had to deal with a...difficult situation, and I expect we got off on the wrong foot, lass.  It's no' my business what ye do with this place, or whether ye choose to stay.  I can hardly leave a damsel in distress now, can I?"

The narrow single-track road to the next village traversed steeper inclines and sharper turns than she'd driven the day before, and he took them at a speed that made her stomach dance and her breath catch in her throat.

"Y-you don't ever worry about meeting someone head-on?" she managed after he'd rocketed over the last hill and dropped into the small commercial area of the next village. 

In this village, as in most of the other small ones she'd seen up here, weathered gray stone buildings crowded the road, leaving little space for pedestrians or parking.  Several cars were parked with two of their tires up on the sidewalk to leave space for through traffic.