The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance) (9 page)

“Fine, then we can order right away because I’ll have what I always do.”

“And I will follow your excellent lead,” he said affably, allowing her to order.

Soon they were seated at a wooden table by the window, overlooking the low-tide sea and the stark hillsides rising far across the water. They received a few curious stares, but their immediate neighbours were a bunch of rowdy teens who took no notice of them, providing Colin and
Fiona with a slight bit of privacy.

“Well, now you can judge me on my expert views of fish, chips and local ales,”
Fiona said, bringing the conversation back to where it had ended. “What other subjects do you want to hear me rant about?”

Colin stretched his shoulders and settled back against the hard wooded bench. “Let’s start with your strong views on the English in Scotland,” he said, obviously not afraid of controversy. “Are we invaders and colonisers, best to be disposed of?”

Fiona looked at him warily. “Historically? Politically? Now? Or on a more personal level?”

He tilted his head.
“So many ways to skin a cat. You’re right, let’s skip the historical-political commentary, which I think I can divine, and move right to the personal. Your opinion of the well-heeled Englishman choosing a home in the Highlands.”

“In
general or you in particular?” she asked, wondering if he was looking for a fight.

“Since you ask, I’ve noticed that you seem to have well-formed views on me already,” Colin commented mildly, still sounding amused rather than offended. “Now, should I be flattered that you were curious enough to investigate my reputation? Or are you drawing on your pre-formed views of the idle rich, of which you take me to be the quintessential example?”

Fiona chose her words with unusual care, not wanting to sound completely prejudiced. “I disapprove of elitism and snobbery,” she began cautiously.

There was a twinkle in his blue eyes as he regarded her, obviously not perturbed by what she might say. She found herself wondering whether this was a sign of supreme confidence or whether he simply didn’t care what she thought and was merely entertaining himself.

“So do you find me a snob?” he asked curiously, nodding with a smile at the waitress as she brought them each a pint of ale from the local brewery. “Slainte,” he proposed as a toast, winning a smile from Fiona.

“I hear that you don’t mix and mingle much,”
she accused him, ready to pursue the subject and to give voice to all of her misgivings about the man seated across the table from her. “With the locals, I mean. That gives you a certain reputation for elitism, sticking to clubs where only the select few can join.”

His eyes studied her merrily over the rim of his pint glass as he took a sip. “
And you don’t find your academic circles elitist?” he challenged her as he placed the glass back on the table and leaned forward. “Not everyone can enter those hallowed halls or grace the conferences and lecture podiums you haunt.”

Fiona
scowled. “But you can fight your way there, regardless of your birth station,” she argued stubbornly. “You can get there on your own merit, and anyone can try.”

“Anyone can try to become rich,” he countered.
“And might have better chances at that than at reaching academic success, if you aren’t born a young Einstein.”

“Rich, maybe,” she conceded reluctantly. “But I think the class snobbery still would persist. Nouveau-riche isn’t the same as old money, is it?”

“They don’t do a blood test at club entrances,” he teased her.

“Or listen to your accent and immediately classify you?” she retorted.

“And how did you decide that I belonged to the upper crust?” he asked pointedly. “You didn’t perchance use my accent to classify me?”

She took a sip of beer, realising the truth in his words. They all still used accents to classify each other, rich and poor. “I didn’t need to,” she said after a moment. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“And you are content to judge me by my reputation?” he asked. “Not very scientific for a researcher.”

“Fine, then,” she said. “I’ll go right to the original source. How would you describe yourself?”

He shook his head with a tut-tut sound. “Now, that’s too easy,” he objected. “Besides, you’d say that my views are quite biased, as I’m fairly partial to the person being studied. You’d have to ask what my peers think of me. They know me best.”

“And they wouldn’t want to answer my questions,” she replied. “They’d think I was an investigator for one of those gossip rags you despise. So let’s start with your family. Are you their bonnie wee
bairn, the apple of their eye?”

He laughed. “If you ask my father, I’m an incorrigible lay-about and a great disappointment,” he told her lightly. “
My mother defends me only so that she can argue with him, as bickering is their preferred lingua franca. In this respect I give them a lot to talk about. But as far as my old man is concerned, I spend most of my time in the dog house.”

Fiona
looked up sharply at his words, wondering if his choice of image was simply a coincidence or if he was testing her somehow. She hid behind her pint glass again.

He was smiling at her. “Don’t look so shocked,” he reassured her. “It isn’t as if he’s cutting me off my inheritance or anything. He just feels that I should be more diligent and focused. More like you. I’m sure that you have made your parents more than proud.”

Fiona avoided the invitation to speak of her own life, returning to his words. “And in what was he hoping to see you apply yourself so industriously?” she asked. “Do you work?” She had to admit to herself that she had assumed he was idle, having never heard a job mentioned in relation to his name.

“You needn’t sound so surprised,’ he said, trying to sound offended. “I do have an occupation of sorts.”

“Besides entertaining people?” she said in an accusatory tone.

“Am I doing a
good job?” he asked immediately.

She found herself smiling. “I meant hosting most of English society to parties and country weekends.”

“And I am more concerned about whether I’ve managed to keep your interest. But I see that you’re a celebrity rag reader after all,” he sighed. “But yes, apart from that important function, I run the Highland Trust, which helps to fund various projects of social significance.”

Fiona
was impressed. “That sounds like a worthwhile cause,” she said with a raise of her eyebrows. “Why doesn’t that please your father?”

“It really isn’t that impressive,” he said dryly. “So don’t use my little
resumé to change your opinion of me. My family started the fund and I just follow along with whatever they normally did. You know, rather like the Queen attending the same annual functions.”

Fiona
felt her rising esteem of Colin halt where it was. So it wasn’t a job he took too seriously, she decided, but at least he wasn’t trying to make himself sound grander than he was. “So that was why you were at the opening of Mackenzie House?” she asked, suddenly putting it together.

“Guilty as charged,” he said, watching her face for a reaction. “And because there was nothing else going on that evening.”

He was unrepentant but honest, and waited patiently for Fiona’s response while the waitress brought them baskets of steaming chips and plates of battered fish.

Fiona
waited until the waitress had left before dowsing her chips with vinegar and looking sharply at Colin. “Maybe your father is right,” she acknowledged grudgingly.

“Bon appé
tit,” he said cheerfully, nodding at the fish. “It smells lovely. So my father was right about my profligate spending at my best mate’s wedding? Or is this about the unwise purchase of a vintage motorcycle?”

She sent him an impatient look. “He was right that you seem to take everything lightly. Nothing upsets you or even irritates you, including my pre-formed judgement of you. Everything is just a joke to you.”

He took a bite of his fish. “Delicious,” he said with appreciation. “You seem to see this as a character flaw.”

“There you go again,”
Fiona pointed out in exasperation, waving her fried potato at him with so much vigour that it flew off the fork and would have stained his expensive shirt had he not caught it deftly in the air.

“You see, cricket may be seen as a posh sport but it leaves us prepared to handle fast food,” he quipped.

Fiona tried to hide her embarrassment. “That’s what I mean,” she muttered. “Always a flippant response, like you never take anything seriously.”

He put down his knife and fork and regarded her with a sigh. “Perhaps I’m just happy,” he suggested. “It makes one less likely to fly off the handle, if I may use that image. You aren’t trying to
suggest that being happy makes me superficial, are you? Or do you really think that being irritated by petty details makes a person more profound?”

Colin had an irritating way of making her opinions seem misguided. “You have to take some things seriously,” she insisted stubbornly.

“You mean besides golf and tennis and skiing?” he asked with an innocent look, ready to duck if any other culinary items came winging his way.

She glared at him. “Really, what do you take seriously?
Anything? What can actually make you angry? And I want real-life examples.”

Colin seemed to be thinking hard. “What has
bothered me lately?” he repeated, frowning slightly while he munched thoughtfully on a potato wedge. “Well, I’m not too impressed by people who don’t own up to their mistakes. I accept that we are all human and all that, but it seems a bit cowardly not to assume responsibility for it. Scottish valour and whatnot. My lifestyle may not impress some people, but at least I own up to it.”

Fiona
’s heart sank, although she respected his words. “Are you thinking of something in particular?”

He shrugged. “Oh,
there’s just been a few problems with a dog lately, breaking and entering, if you will. And we have reason to think that the dog owner is aware of the damages caused but hasn’t bothered to show up or apologise.”

Fiona
twisted her napkin under the table. “So what are you going to do about it?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, it’s not important,” he said airily.
“Just a growly-sounding note to remind them to behave a bit, a slap on the wrist. I was just trying to find the most recent example of an event that has caused me distress in my daily life. I acknowledge that I lead quite a protected life compared to many, sheltered from most of the small inconveniences.”

There would never be a better moment to admit to her guilt in the dog case, but instead
Fiona found herself reaching for her beer, unwilling to see Colin’s warm eyes turn cold and harsh against her. She should have done it when they first met, when she had less to lose.

“I suppose if
your happiness and protected lifestyle makes you good-natured, it isn’t all bad,” she said with a forced smile, drinking to wash away the bitter taste that his words left in her mouth.

“Now back to you,” Colin said brightly, obviously not picking up on her uneasiness. “What do you take seriously? Or would it be shorter to ask what you don’t?” His voice was as teasing and light-hearted as ever.

“Ah, you have preconceived notions of me as well,” she pointed out, glad to move the subject along. “Because I’m an academic, you think I must take everything seriously.”

He laughed. “No, I worked that one out for myself. Let’s just say you show
a certain intensity in most subjects.”

“So I don’t know how to have fun?” she demanded hotly.

“There you see,” he said mildly. “Taking this all very seriously, aren’t you?”

Fiona
frowned. “It’s because I care about things,” she justified herself.

“So by that logic, I must be careless.” His blue eyes were trained on hers, challenging, curious.

Fiona stared back. She could see how easily he might charm somebody, have them start to feel close and special, and then stroll away, not noticing. “Yes,” she ventured. “I’d say you probably are careless about some things at least.”

“Do you mean that I’m lacking passion?” he asked.
“Apart from my pastimes, of course. And I could get quite passionate about this fish, I have to admit.”

Fiona
ignored his light asides. “Well, if you are passionate about things you tend to be sensitive about them, easily hurt or upset, or at the very least argumentative.”

His eyes twinkled with humour. “Ah, then you are certainly passionate,” he told her.
“Although I never doubted it.”

“But does that have to exclude frivolity?” she continued, starting to wonder at how personally she was taking what was, in the end, merely a general discussion.

“By definition, I think the answer would have to be yes,” he answered with no pity. “Frivolity means not serious. So you do lack frivolity in your life.”

Fiona
tried to keep her tone bantering as well, but it was hard to hide when she took offense. “I’m not frivolous about my work,” she said grudgingly. “But there is more to my life than my work. Although not so much right now, I admit.”