But she was still flustered. He didn’t look nearly as together as he’d looked that morning. He was still in his kilt but he’d chopped wood; he’d been drinking beer with the men; he’d joined the tug-of-war teams. He looked dishevelled and tired and frayed, like a Scottish lord coming home after a hard day at battle.
‘You’ve got a splodge of toffee apple on your cheek,’ she managed, a trifle breathlessly, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand and grinned.
‘I’ve had a very good time.’
‘Not like Manhattan, huh?’
‘Not the least like Manhattan. I’ve never had a day like this in my life.’
‘Do you want supper?’
‘Are you kidding?’ He was standing in the doorway looking big and tousled. His long socks were down at his ankles, his legs were bare and there were grass stains on his kilt. And his hair had hay in it. He looked…he looked…
Cut it out, she told herself desperately. Don’t look!
‘I’ve been judging the cooking,’ he told her, still with that grin that had her heart doing those crazy somersaulting things she didn’t understand at all. ‘They made me honorary adjudicator, which means I’ve tasted scones, plum cakes, sponge cakes…you name it, I’ve tasted it. Some of it was truly excellent.’
‘What makes you a judge?’
‘It’s the kilt,’ he told her wisely. ‘Anyone wearing a kilt like this has to know a lot about cooking. A lot about everything, really. That’s why they have the House of Lords in England.’
‘Sorry?’
‘If you’re a lord then you get to be an automatic Member of Parliament,’ he told her. ‘I read it somewhere. I haven’t figured out whether it applies to me or not, but I guess inheriting earldomship must make me wise in some respects.’
‘Like in judging scones.’
‘That’d be it,’ he told her, and all of a sudden they were grinning at each other like fools. The atmosphere had changed and it was somehow…
Different.
She hadn’t felt like this since Rory had died, she thought, and suddenly she felt breathless. Traitorish?
No. Free. It was like a great grey cloud, which had settled on top of her for the last two years, had lifted and she felt…extraordinary.
‘You don’t mind that Marcia’s coming?’ he said, and she caught herself and forced her stupid, floating mind back to earth with a snap.
‘Of course I don’t. This is your house.’
‘I should have told you.’
‘There was no need. There’s plenty of room. And as I said, I can always move out.’
‘I don’t want you to move out…yet.’
Good. Great. She thought about it and wondered if she was being entirely sensible.
‘I need to go,’ she said a trifle uncertainly, rising and moving toward the door.
‘To America?’
‘Not tonight.’ She managed a smile but the frisson of something different was still in the air and she felt strange. This was crazy. This man was engaged to someone called Marcia and she’d have nothing to do with him after she left here. But today… Today he’d made her smile and he’d made everyone here smile, too. She was under no illusions as to how sad a day it would have been for everyone if Hamish hadn’t been here, but he’d bounced around the fair having fun, charming old ladies, eating too many scones and toffee apples, looking fabulous in his kilt. He’d given the locals something to talk about, something to smile over, and even when he left in a few weeks, even though he’d sell the castle, today had been a gift.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
‘Thank you?’
‘For today. Everyone loved having a laird for the day.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
‘Really?’
‘It was,’ he said.
And there it was again. Bang. Like in the comics, she thought a little bit helplessly. Wham, bang, zing, splat.
‘Good night, my lord,’ she said simply, and he put out a hand and took hers. And winced.
The gesture had been a friendly good-night touch, but as she took his hand in hers and felt its warmth, touched his strength, she also felt something else.
‘Ouch,’ she said, turning his palm over. And then she saw his palm and she repeated the word with feeling.
‘It is a bit,’ he confessed, but she was no longer listening.
‘Oh, Hamish, your hands. You dope. You blistered them with digging and then to use the axe…’
‘We earls aren’t wusses.’
‘You earls are dopes,’ she told him. ‘I might have known. Angus was just like you. You know, we had to dress his oxygen canister up in tartan so he could go to his last fair without feeling like a wuss.’
‘I don’t have an oxygen cylinder,’ he said, startled, and she shook her head in disgust.
‘Not for want of trying. Hamish, these are awful.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she said uneasily. ‘I’ve been trying to ignore them all day.’
‘Right. Ignoring them why? Waiting for your hands to drop off?’
‘My hands are not going to drop off.’
‘There’s ten blisters on this hand,’ she said, hauling it closer to get a better look. ‘And there’s a splinter in this one. And another. You great dope. I’ll ring Kirsty.’
‘Kirsty?’
‘My sister,’ she said, exasperated. ‘This needs medical attention.’
‘I’ll wash it,’ he said, as if granting an enormous concession. ‘That’ll fix it.’
‘It won’t fix it.’
‘If you tell me how bad it is one more time, I’ll cry,’ he said, like it was a huge threat, and she blinked and stared up at him in astonishment.
‘Really?’
‘Um…no.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’
‘I won’t. I have an aversion to the pastime.’
‘Well, don’t stick near me, then,’ she told him. ‘I cry all the time. Just looking at these makes me teary. You great hulking hero.’
‘Hero?’
‘Axing away with all of these.’ She was examining each blister, searching for more splinters, and the thought of him chopping wood, doing it to make the old ladies smile… That’s why he’d done it, she thought. She’d thought he’d done it because it had seemed fun but now, looking at these hands, she thought he’d done it because that’s what she’d asked him to do. Create a diversion from Angus’s death. Give the locals something else to think about it. He’d eaten scones, he’d chopped wood, he’d placed every eye on him and he’d made people smile.
‘Please, don’t cry.’ He sounded so scared that she stared up at him in even more bewilderment. His face was set, and he was backing away. But she had hold of his hand and she wasn’t letting him go anywhere. He was a dope but he was a great, gorgeous dope and he’d done this because she’d asked him to. Therefore-at great personal sacrifice-she’d choke back tears and be businesslike.
‘I’m not crying,’ she said, trying to sound exasperated and not emotional. ‘Sit.’
‘Sit?’
‘I’ll clean them and I’ll pull the splinters out. And then I’ll put on iodine and we’ll see how much of a man you are. You don’t cry, huh? Iodine on these will be a real truth test. Iodine would make an onion howl all by itself.’
So he sat in the old rocking chair in front of the range, his free hand soaking in a bowl of soapy water she’d
