The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance) (7 page)

He was smiling to himself now as he closed the gap on
Fiona. Already he was taking a bit more interest in the details of the land he enjoyed so much, and rediscovering the pleasure of learning. Perhaps even discovering it for the first time, as he had not been noted for his unbridled keenness for learning in school.

He was whistling a jaunty tune as he caught up with the guide, who was busy answering questions about history from the woman walking beside her.

“I say, isn’t that St. John’s wort?” he asked the woman enthusiastically, pointing to the small yellow blossoms growing on the slopes beside them.

T
he woman stopped to examine the flowers, mumbling something about bird’s foot trefoil and the common mistake of lumping together all yellow-flowering plants. Colin made a vague sound of interest and smoothly took her place beside Fiona, who looked at him suspiciously.

“I didn’t pick you for the botanical type,” she said guardedly, apparently not oblivious to the switch in travelling companion.

“There’s always so much to learn,” he responded cheerily.

“Which is no doubt why you are here today,”
she said dryly, clearly not convinced of his motivations. Then again, neither was he, really.

“I told you, I find you interesting,” he said affably, not at all put out by her tone. “And I wanted to hear more of what you have to say.”

“Excellent,” she said, smiling this time. “Because right now I have a lot to say about the view from this ridge, and some historical events that happened just below here. So bear with me, please.”

At this she stopped and turned around, allowing the group to straggle up to join her in a line along the ridge. Below them on the slope, the silver line of a stream cut through the open heather to join a larger river in the valley bottom. Clumps of woodland interspersed with moorland where hardy sheep were grazing. It was all very bucolic and picturesque, but not exactly the landscape that Colin would have chosen to give a speech about.

But Fiona rose to the occasion, describing the Jacobite rebels who had ridden down the valley toward Fort William, and the English troops who had marched back in retaliation. Somehow she made the scene feel vivid and real, bringing history to life and capturing the romance of long-lost times. She went on to quote from her favourite poet, who had described the same scene with obvious sympathy for the local youth who fell fighting the English.

“I could start to take your anti-English comments personally,” he told
Fiona quite cheerfully as they started walking again. “I’m definitely picking up on some pro-Scottish undercurrents to your discourses.”

“Pro-Scottish doesn’t have to be seen as truly anti-English,” she pointed out. “I’m sure that we could make fine neighbours.”

She flushed awkwardly at her own words, and quickly went on. “Anyway, we should have our vote soon enough.”

“And then what will it be?” he asked conversationally. “Will we foreigners have to leave our lands and flee for the motherland with our tails between our legs?”

“We aren’t going to elect a Robert Mugabe,” she informed him while he struggled to remember if that was the name of an African dictator or some forgotten poet. He decided on the former.

“And if you were elected?” he went on, deciding that it was safer to avoid her comment entirely.
“What would you say to us English invaders?”

“That you are welcome to stay as our guests,” she replied, pausing for breath as the trail became steeper. “We aren’t threatening to evict anybody.”

She placed a certain emphasis on her last words, for reasons that he couldn’t fathom. He gave up trying, deciding to take it as a positive sign instead. “So that means that we could be friends then,” he said. “There isn’t some inherent and unbridgeable gap between us.”

She looked at him sharply. “Yes, there is, Colin,” she said, giving him a strange pleasure to hear his name slipping naturally from her tongue. At least he had made some sort of impression on her. “We come from totally different worlds. And from what I’ve heard about you, you like to keep it that way.”

There was a sting in her words that was wasted on him. The fact that she had heard of him from other people seemed to suggest that she had been asking about him, which was definitely a sign of interest. As to her implied accusation of class consciousness, he found it natural, having grown up with it.

“It is nice to be able to entertain friends and guests without paparazzi from
Hello
magazine popping up from behind bushes,” he said with a shrug. “And why stand in line to eat second-rate food at McDonald’s when I can afford more peaceable surroundings and better fare?”

It was hard to find fault with his logic, he thought, but
Fiona rolled her pale eyes and looked at him as if he were particularly thick. “It isn’t about whether you eat at McDonald’s,” she said crossly. “But your posh clubs and restaurants wouldn’t even let the likes of me in, so you hide yourself away from the real world, from how the rest of us live. You exist in a sort of bubble.”

This time he thought about her words a moment before replying. “We all have our bubbles, in a way,” he suggested. “You have as well, in your academic circles of history and literature. You are as far removed from reality as I am, seeing everything through your sentimental filter of how things used to be, not how they are.”

Her eyes clouded over as she scowled at him. “I know more about the real world and how most people live than you could ever imagine,” she told him in a low voice. In a louder voice she went on, callin
g out to the group behind her, “Make sure you stop to notice this Scottish harebell as you pass.”

She smiled at the others and Colin was afraid that their conversation would end here, but she looked up at him again. “
And I don’t exclude the likes of you from my world.”

“I think you do,” he said lightly but firmly.
“Whereas I don’t. And to prove it, let me take you to dinner at my club.”

She snorted and shook her head. “And be some sort of exotic curiosity, a native on exhibit?” she asked scornfully. “No thanks. You know I’m not welcome in that world with my accent and background.”

“With your education, you might get away with it,” he offered, realising too late how insensitive that sounded. He hurried to correct his mistake. “In any case, I wouldn’t be all that welcome in some of your pubs either, with my accent and background. This class-consciousness works both ways.”

“Of course you’d be welcome,” she snapped irritably. “Hostility is now reserved for rival football clubs only.”

“If I’m so welcome, show it,” he pressed, a challenge under his light tone and smile. “Let me invite you to dinner in a place of your choosing.”

For once she seemed to have no reply as she thought about his words.
“Why are you doing this?” she blurted suddenly. “Is this some sort of prank?”

He was taken aback. “Of course not,” he said, his surprise registering in his voice. “I would like to get to know you,
that’s all. Just a chance to speak together.”

“We’re speaking together now,” she said churlishly.

“Yes, but you’re about to make another one of your speeches, aren’t you?” he replied. “I can tell, because you are only half-listening to me. Which is rude, by the way.”

She sent him a dark look. “Not as rude as monopolising a tour guide for personal reasons and preventing her from concentrating on her work,” she informed him. “If I say yes, will you leave me in peace for the rest of this walk?”

“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you,” he said airily, grinning broadly. “So it’s a date?”

“One dinner,” she specified sternly. “
And I’ll choose where.”

“How will I contact you?” he asked, not willing to let her slip away. “And when?”

She looked distracted. “Pick me up at the One-Winged Duck,” she decided. “How about this Friday after work?”

He was unrepentant as he asked, “What is after work for you?”

She made a face. “Let’s say six o’clock, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Six o’clock Friday it is,” he said triumphantly, not even bothering to check if he had other plans. They could wait.

“And now leave me alone,” she commanded firmly. “No more questions until the end of the walk.”

“None, your honour,” he replied meekly, quickly considering the option of leaving the walk right now and returning home for a hot midday dinner. He decided that this might give
Fiona the wrong impression.

So
instead he saluted Fiona cheekily and allowed himself to drop back among the others, ready to subject himself to another few hours of history and botany with this fairly intense bunch. He wondered if he had ever put in this much effort just to get a date and decided that he hadn’t. But there was a new lightness to his step and his heart as he listened patiently to a mirthless man explaining the difference between two types of heather. He was actually willing to learn things in his pursuit of Fiona. She had to be special.

Chapter Five

Late on Friday afternoon Fiona dropped Livingstone with Sarah at the Glen Murray Inn.  The dog was already comfortable with Sarah and seemed more than happy to be let loose in the back garden, which was guarded by a much higher wall than the cottage.

“You should have suggested meeting here!” her friend protested.
“And introduced me to your fancy new friend.”

“Too close to home,”
Fiona said with a sharp shake of her head. “He might guess where I live. And what if he saw Livingstone? I figured that Braeport is more neutral ground. I don’t want him tracking me back to the Dog House.”

“So it will have to be his place, not yours,” Sarah said with a saucy wink.

“Not going to happen,” Fiona said firmly. “I agreed to the date just for his education, to bring him out of his bubble.  Consider it part of my task to open the people of the region to their own culture. In this case, real life.”

Sarah merely grinned. “You won’t stay completely immune to his charms forever,” she predicted. “From what I hear, he’s fun company. And even you must get a bit of a rush from being the focus of those eyes.”

Fiona looked at her with a sardonic grin. “I don’t have forever,” she said logically. “His curiosity in interacting with the other half isn’t going to last that long, just like in that Pulp song “Common People.””

“We’ll see,” was all that Sarah would say, obviously happy to cling to her ideal of Colin as an irresistible charmer. “I reckon that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. You might as well
partake of a slice of upper class life while he tastes what it’s like to slum it. Have you decided where to have dinner?”

“The Old Wharf,”
Fiona replied promptly. “Fish ‘n chips.”

There was a loud thump as Sarah banged the pint glass she was drying on the bar top. “Tell me you’re joking. You have a rich bloke ready to pay for your meal and you’re suggesting fish ‘n chips?”

“Best in the region,” Fiona pointed out stubbornly. “And it’s a nice evening to eat outdoors.”

“On wooden benches with picnic tables,” the barmaid protested. “You can do better than that.”

“That’s the point,” Fiona explained patiently. “I want him to see normal life. Get his fingers greasy for once.”

“I’m sure they have fish and chips in his clubs and restaurants,” Sarah said, clearly unimpressed. “They just don’t use beer batter, but some fancy wine batter instead or something. You’re wasting a good opportunity just to make a point that he won’t remember. I don’t think you’re about to change his ways in one dinner.”

“I don’t want to change his ways. I just want to open his eyes a little. And get him off my back.”

“And just maybe find yourself on your back?” Sarah couldn’t resist asking slyly, pulling her hand back from
Fiona’s irritated slap. “Really, why not? He’s sexy and fun and even up-and-coming historians must have hormones. Couldn’t you use some up-and-coming?”

Fiona
sent her a bleak look. “He’s not my type. Yes, he is hot, I agree. But I need more than just a hot body and attractive face to win me over.”

Sarah shrugged. “Then forget about the winning over and just have fun. You deserve it.”

“You sound like a shampoo commercial,” Fiona said testily.

It was Sarah’
s turn to flick her with the end of a tea-towel. “Well, you can at least let him buy you a fancy dessert or after-dinner drink or something.”

“
I can’t imagine that we’ll have anything left to say to each other by then,” Fiona said doubtfully. “I still have no idea what he’s so keen to talk to me about in the first place and we really don’t have enough in common to have involved discussions.”

“You d
on’t have to be comparing notes on history,” her friend said dryly. “Opposites attract. You can both introduce each other to new things. That’s how it works, you know.”

It was the s
econd subtle reference to some sort of academic snobbery, Fiona noted uneasily, hoping that people didn’t really see her that way. She was by no means elitist in her view on people or in her background, but it might be possible that she had spent so much time in the hallowed halls of academia that she was losing her perspective on things. Maybe this date was a good idea after all, to get her away from her research and writing.