Scot of My Dreams (7 page)

I had been twelve, close to thirteen, when my mother and I left the neighborhood where I grew up. Relatives had been initially kind and then exasperated when my mother took a temporary situation and showed every sign of making it permanent. We moved from house to house to house until we had exhausted our welcome with both family
and
friends.

It was a time I didn’t like to remember.

Drowsily, I closed my eyes and courted sleep. I wondered what it would be like to want someone with the kind of passion Carlotta had for her new husband. Even when I was her age, I had never been that open…certainly not with the opposite sex. I’d lost my virginity at eighteen, but that was more of a rite of passage than any grand love affair.

Now that I was a full-fledged adult, I spent my days mostly with women. We welcomed the occasional male customer at the shop, but those men were usually retired guys who came in with their wives. Even if I wanted a relationship, passionate or otherwise, I didn’t know where I would meet someone.

I wasn’t a drinker, so bars were out. My church attendance could best be described as High Holy days. Most of the guys I had gone to high school with were either married or happily single. And a few already divorced.

Love had always seemed like a made-up fairytale to me. Like the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of marriage in general, but I had never pictured myself in that scenario. Honestly, I didn’t know much about men except what I learned early on. Even when you loved them, they could walk away.

I was almost asleep when the memory of Bryce MacBrae floated into my consciousness. Everything about meeting him had been exhilarating. His smile. The way he walked. That wonderful man-scent of warm skin and the outdoors and a hint of aftershave.

He appeared to be kind, patient, and loving with his sister and his great-uncle. And he’d been friendly to me. I thought he was one of the good guys. But unfortunately, we had nothing in common.

* * *

The following morning, I was woken at seven by a whisper and a hand on my shoulder. When I opened one bleary eye, Carlotta beamed at me. Beside her with his arm around her waist was a handsome guy who had to be her husband.

“We’re leaving,” she said. “We take a cruise on Loch Ness today. Have to catch bus. Thank you, Señorita Willow. Thank you for the room.”

Her husband nodded, his hot-eyed gaze lingering on his bride before he managed to look at me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. “For you, Miss Willow. Is from our country, España. A charm for good health and fertility and long life.”

I sat up and rubbed my face. The small silver medallion was pressed with the image of a dove and a rabbit on one side and a mountain on the other. I wasn’t sure I wanted an explanation for the trifecta. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad I could help.”

The newlyweds beamed at me. Apparently when you were barely twenty, you could have sex all night long and still be up at seven in the morning raring to go. They tiptoed out the front door, leaving me to drag my aching body up the stairs and into bed. The sofa in the lobby was a torture device.

I missed breakfast. Nothing short of Eggs Benedict on the White House lawn could have coaxed me out of my snug nest. The high school group was loud on their way out, but they were three floors below. With my pillow over my head, I barely noticed.

Finally, I admitted defeat. The sun was shining for the second day in a row, which might be some kind of a record. I would hate myself if I spent one of my precious days in Scotland lounging on the top bunk of a shared room in a second-rate hostel. Not only that, but even though I dreaded the task, I needed to think about finding new accommodations.

Half an hour later, I stepped out the front door, covering a yawn with my hand. According to a brochure I’d found in the vintage wooden phone booth in the lobby, there was a pottery studio nearby. Just the thing I needed. Culture. Local color. And a way to get some exercise and clear my head.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that I had the evening to look forward to…dinner with Bryce. I hummed as I walked, feeling unusually mellow despite my uncomfortable night. I may have even blushed as I thought about the Spanish couple frolicking in my room while I lay downstairs dreaming about a sexy laird.
Whew
…

Fortunately for my vivid imagination, the potter’s was less than two miles away. I stumbled upon it in no time. The building was a converted cottage, a one-level, whitewashed building with a thatched roof. A tiny circle of smoke curled overhead, telling me that the artist was in residence.

Over the door was a hand-lettered sign that read
Thistle and Thorn
. In the window, a similar placard said
Open
. Charmed and curious, I lifted the latch and stepped inside.

There was something elemental about working with your hands. In my job I touched people everyday: I washed their hair, massaged their scalp. When I was finished, I could see the results of my work.

It was a stretch, perhaps, to call what I did
creative
, though I did take pleasure in improving a client’s appearance and thus increasing his or her confidence. I didn’t spend my days finding solutions to world peace. But I did provide a needed service.

Still, I envied artists of any kind. The power to create something of beauty from raw materials was magical to me.

The potter, a man about my age or possibly a bit younger, lifted his head when I walked in. “Hello,” he said, his smile friendly. “Feel free to look around. And to ask questions.”

I nodded, eyeing the layout of his shop. One half was where he worked at his wheel. He was surrounded by shelves of unfired pieces. The other side of the room was arranged artfully with displays of his work.

Wandering slowly, I went from spot to spot, studying the various designs. The prices were steep but not unreasonable for the quality of the work. I coveted an entire set of dinnerware edged in delicate thistle, the background gray-blue. I rarely entertained, so it would be impossible to justify a purchase like that even if I had unlimited funds.

I decided, though, that I did want something to take home as a souvenir. If I picked an item that was small enough, I would be able to transport it on the plane in my carry-on. The pottery was sturdy.

Faced with too many choices, I took my time. The potter worked away at his wheel, almost as if he had forgotten I was there. I envied him the peace and quiet of the place. For a moment, I could barely remember my life back in Atlanta.

I’m not sure I could have put it into words, even with Hayley and McKenzie, but Scotland felt like home. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, but it wasn’t so farfetched to think that one of my long-ago ancestors might have emigrated from here to the mountains of north Georgia.

The Highlanders had always been a breed apart, their reputation for fierce independence appealing to someone like me, who had carved a life for myself in the midst of hardship. As difficult as it had been to leave my business in the capable hands of my group of stylists, I had a sinking suspicion that it would be harder still to say goodbye to Scotland at the end of my month’s adventure.

Shaking off the dismal anticipation of a day still well into the future, I debated my options. Small vases were nice, but I rarely took the time to buy flowers. I liked the butter dish, but again, it would sit in my cabinet unused most of the time.

Then I spotted what I thought was a trivet. I supposed it could be used for that purpose, but on closer inspection when I picked it up, I saw that it had a hanger on the back. The piece was circular, about five inches in diameter, probably meant as a wall decoration. The image painted on it was beautiful: blue hills stacked one on top of the next, the ubiquitous heather in the foreground.

In the distance stood a familiar building.

I turned to the potter and held up my find. “Is this a real location?” I asked, suspecting I already knew the answer.

“Aye,” he said, his hands covered in wet clay. “It’s Dunvarstone Castle.”

“I thought it might be,” I said, my heart beating rapidly.

“’Tis an impressive castle,” the potter said. “But it’s not open to the public. Ye can walk nearby, though…and get some lovely pictures.”

I knew I had found my souvenir. The price tag said £15, which by my rough calculations was about thirty dollars. Not cheap, but also not beyond my budget. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been twice the price. I knew I had to have it.

Once I paid for my purchase and waited for the proprietor to tape it up, I was beginning to get hungry. “Is there anywhere to eat around here?” I asked, taking the bubble-wrapped package and tucking it in my tote.

The potter nodded. “If you follow this road about half a mile, you’ll stumble upon Hodden. It’s not so much a village as a wide spot in the road. But the post office doubles as a wee store, and you can buy a sandwich or a mutton pie.”

“Thank you. I may be back another day. You have some beautiful things here.”

It was already after one o’clock. I had lingered longer than I intended in the interesting shop, and now I was starving. Thanks to the potter’s guidance, I found the crossroads that was Hodden. Ten minutes later, I climbed a small hill behind the store and sat down to enjoy my lunch.

The beef pastry was hot and fresh. I ate it slowly, enjoying the breeze and the warm sunshine. Again I thought about my two friends. I missed Hayley and her propensity for organization. Even though McKenzie and I butted heads at times, I missed her wicked laugh and her unquenchable optimism.

Though to an outsider it might appear we three women had little in common, we understood each other on a deep, almost spiritual level. We had shared a playpen back when such things were commonplace. We had learned to read and to write and to multiply together.

Then came a big gap in time when we’d lost each other. But our relationship had eventually come full circle, aided and abetted by our mutual love for the stories of
Outlander
. We had read the books over and over and had seen every episode of the television series at least three times. Studying Jamie Fraser, his expressions, his words to his ladylove, had consumed our leisure hours.

We were bound together by our devotion to a man who had been conjured up by a talented writer and a creative television crew. What would Hayley and McKenzie think of Bryce? Would they see him as intriguing as our imaginary hero, Jamie?

I finished my meal and tucked the trash in the outside pocket of my pack. It was getting late. If I wanted time to primp—and maybe take a nap—I’d best be heading back to the hostel.

* * *

By five thirty that evening, I was a wreck. Why had I ever said yes to a date with Bryce MacBrae? Though I had chosen to wear the nicest of my travel outfits, my simple cotton dress and T-shirt were ordinary at best.

Fortunately, I had the skills to gild the rose. My hair cooperated, feathering over my forehead and around my ears like it was supposed to. I carefully applied mascara and eye shadow to make my hazel eyes look smoky and mysterious. Normally, I wore clear lip gloss, but given the situation, I pulled out the big guns: a deep berry-colored lipstick that was non-smudge, in case a girl happened to get kissed. Not that I was thinking about kissing. I wasn’t. Not much. But after all, since I had found my sexy Scotsman in the first week of my Scottish adventure, it seemed only fair that I get to kiss him at least once.

I stared in the mirror of the communal bathroom and tried to study my reflection impartially. I was having a good hair day. That would be a plus except for the fact that a lot of men liked long hair rather than short when it came to a woman’s crowning glory. Sadly, not something I could change at the drop of a hat, even if I wanted to.

My cheekbones were probably my best feature. My grandmother used to tell me they were movie-star cheekbones. As a kid, I was never sure what that meant, but I knew it was a good thing. They were high and pronounced. I might have lost a pound or two since arriving in Scotland, mostly from all the walking and the unexciting food.

I pinched my cheeks and smoothed my eyebrows. I hadn’t primped this much since the local neighborhood paper ran an article about my beauty salon. I wasn’t accustomed to getting “gussied up” anymore. Most evenings I was so tired after work, all I wanted to do was go home and watch
Jeopardy
.

Despite my dithering, the hands on the clock continued to move. At ten ’til six I knew I had to go down to the lobby. I wasn’t expecting Bryce to climb four flights of stairs and knock on my door.

Though I was early, Bryce was earlier. I saw him immediately, standing at ease near the front door. He spotted me and smiled, coming to meet me in the center of the room. “You look beautiful,” he said. “I’ve made reservations for six thirty. And I forgot to ask, do you have any strong dislikes when it comes to food?”

“No. I’m easy to please.” I stared at him and tried to catch my breath.

He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“You’re not wearing your kilt,” I blurted out. He was clad in a dark tan blazer over navy slacks. His white button-down shirt was open at the collar. He looked amazing, but I was still a bit disappointed.

Bryce took my arm and steered me outside. “I wear that old kilt when I’m out ranging around on the estate, because it’s comfortable. But I wouldn’t wear one to a casual dinner. Nor would most men in Inverness. Now, a fancy occasion—that’s another story.”

“I see.” Of course his explanation made sense. This wasn’t eighteenth-century Scotland. We were living in a new millennium. A thoroughly modern society.

Too bad.

Bryce had brought his beautiful car again. It smelled of leather and luxury. Unfortunately, Inverness wasn’t all that far away. I wouldn’t have minded taking a long drive with the laird. Anywhere at all.

Over dinner, he charmed me with his easy conversation and his sly sense of humor. “You know a lot about me,” he complained. “But I know very little about you. Tell me why you came to Scotland.”