Inverness, Scotland
Brian Donnelly was the perfect companion for a woman suffering from second thoughts.
He littered the air with extraneous facts as if he was a tour guide on a bus filled with history buffs.
"Hawthorne House was built in the valley just beneath Donleigh Craig, miss. To the west, a burn ambles through the sloping ground. To the east, atop a steep hill, sits the ruins of Lindencuden Abbey. The cathedral dates from 1391, and although it was destroyed by fire in the fifteenth century, the central tower still stands, as well as an exposed choir aisle and several perfectly preserved tombs."
Maggie had no idea whether Brian was referring to a guide book as he drove. If he wasn't, he’d missed his calling. He was very good at spicing his speech with enough personal details to keep her attention from wandering too much. She was torn between berating herself for crossing the ocean to spend time with a stranger she'd known less than a week, and wishing she’d learned more about Scotland.
Whenever Maggie had left for Cairo, she’d resigned herself to being wedged into tiny sardine-like seats along with scores of determined pyramid and mummy-seeking tourists. The ten flights she'd made had been crowded, endless, and punctuated by the wails of crying babies, and unwillingly overheard conversations, the 747 equivalent of a Central American bus.
She’d always steeled herself for the humiliation of having to go through customs and security, the endless hours spent standing by her suitcase waiting for another official to paw through her clothes. She'd learned not to complain or question; it only delayed the lengthy process. Her eyes had always been gritty with fatigue, her ears popping, nerves jangling. Jet lag
was among the best of her symptoms.
When she finally got to the dig site, she craved the endless silence and solitude of an empty Egyptian tomb.
This journey, however, had been unlike any trip she’d ever taken.
The plane had been private and luxurious. From the moment the limousine had picked her up at her townhouse, to refueling in Gander, Newfoundland, she’d been bemused at both the speed, the luxury, and the silence, in which everything had happened.
The recliner where she’d sat for most of her journey swiveled, its buttery soft leather designed for maximum comfort. A table in front of her felt like wood, the overhead vent gushed air at just the right temperature. Soft strains of Baroque music saturated the cabin, interspersed only by the delicate voices of her two attendants, a woman and a man, both slavishly attentive to the point that Maggie wished she could eat or drink more than she did, just to please them.
She was tired, despite having taken advantage of the bed aboard the plane. She'd found herself waking every few minutes, as if terrified the plane would fall from the sky without her attention. She'd been equally dismayed by how hard the engines must work to keep the weight of the plane aloft, considering the private bedroom, a bathroom with a working shower and what amounted to a living room with a large television and stereo system.
Once they landed in Inverness, she'd cleared customs and security in two minutes, the officials entering the plane rather than her having to disembark.
When they were done, she’d been escorted down the ramp by the same warm voiced male who’d accompanied the customs officer. He described the chilly day with an insouciance that Maggie was far from feeling.
For the next two hours, despite the heat blasting into the rear of the car, and Brian’s voluble travelogue, she felt frozen, damp and cold. No doubt the combination of a response to the wintery climate and to her sudden fears.
“We’ll be here now,” Brian said, slowing the car. “This is Hawthorne House. A grand and great place it is,” he added. "The stone is red on a summer day, but now it looks nearly black, what with the wet and all."
Their feet crunched on an icy path, Brian's arm steadying her from car to door. Once inside, Hawthorne House reminded her instantly of her grandfather's home in Missouri, a cavernous structure with wood floors and massive, hand-carved furniture. Old houses seemed to have a particular smell, something reminiscent of candle wax, lemon oil, and mildew kept at bay.
Hawthorne House had the same smell, and a solid echo as she walked across the wooden floor.
Her grandfather’s house had boasted a clock of indeterminate age, a sentinel in the hallway marking the passage of hours and quarter hours with a deep throated bong. Maggie smiled as she heard the hour being signaled now.
How long had it been since she'd thought of that clock? Not since her grandfather died and it had gone to a cousin. Strange, how a memory can be triggered by a scent or a sound.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Gransted, in a gesture as delicate as the touch of a firefly, took Maggie's hand and lay it atop her arm, guiding her through the Great Hall.
"It's where the laird used to call the clan together," she said, in a voice that sounded like Brian's, a tint of burr flavoring it. “The table is big enough for a sit down dinner for fifty, I'm told. Not that we entertain much anymore. But still, it's nice to know we can, if we wish. Now, there's a step here, mind, a little one, on account of the floor being a bit uneven. One of the Duke of Cumberland's troops led a horse through the hall in 1745 and they've never got around to fixing it."
The room they entered a few minutes later was much smaller than the Great Hall, a deduction Maggie made because their voices didn't echo.
"Now, you'll sit here, and I'll make you a cuppa, and the finest scones you ever did eat. And here's Betsy, to make friends."
Betsy turned out to be an inquisitive feline, not shy about investigating the presence of a stranger in her midst. Maggie moved aside to let Betsy curl into the corner of the hard sofa.
She heard a slight screeching sound, the huff of material being arranged, and felt a chill added to the already cold air.
"I've just opened the window a bit, to clear out the room. The sun'll warm the place straight away."
Were all the Scots as hardy as Mrs. Gransted? Did they never get cold?
A guide book her mother had read warned her about the winters in Scotland. Maggie could attest to the author's accuracy. It wasn't just cold, it was the color gray cold, the kind that reminded her of her tongue sticking to an ice cube. Cold that turned her skin a bluish tinge.
She smiled and wished the housekeeper would close the window, but Mrs. Gransted left the room before she could ask. Maybe it was just as well, since it would probably have been impolite - or weak - to ask.
The stuffing of the couch was hard, the upholstery a shorn velvet, its nap worn but soft to her fingers. Betsy was the warmest thing in the room, climbing into her lap, and conceding to share her body heat with Maggie.
The room smelled of cold, cinnamon, and ginger, making her wonder if there was a potpourri jar nearby. In a matter of minutes, she heard Mrs. Gransted return.
"I'll get Betsy off there, miss," Mrs. Gransted said, "so you'll be free to drink your tea." Before Maggie could protest that Betsy was acting as a warm blanket, the cat was gone.
Mrs. Gransted bustled about, moving the small table so she could reach it, giving her a crystal bell with which to summon her, and informing her of each action.
"Well, himself will be here shortly, I heard in the kitchen. There's a place not far where the helicopter lands, so as not to disturb the trees and such. You'll be fine until then?"
"Wonderful, thank you."
"Then I'll be off. I’ll take your luggage to your room, and light a fire there for later. Ring for me if you've a need to."
"I will. I promise. Thank you for everything."
Maggie smiled a perfectly polite guest smile, trying not to feel bereft when deserted by both Mrs. Gransted and Betsy. It was one thing to feel adventurous when about to embark upon a strange and novel journey, another to feel the same way when exhausted from it.
Now, the minutes ticked by too loudly. Twice, she thought she heard the sound of a helicopter, but the wind was blowing so hard it might have been that, instead. She finished her tea, replaced the cup on the tray, and folded her hands on her lap, reminding herself that this is where she’d wanted to be, in Scotland, in the middle of the Highlands, in a strange house, waiting for a man she barely knew.
Dear God, had she lost her mind?
In the silence of the room, with only the rattle of the curtain rings and the howl of the wind as company, she chastised herself for feeling lost and bereft and lonely, for acting like a child when she'd been a successful woman in a man's world.
She’d drink her tea and wait for Richard, and not think of anything, even sex.
"Hello, Maggie Carlisle,” Richard said.
She'd worn the saddest smile he'd ever seen, seated there on the ancient davenport, the faded bronze of the piece a perfect backdrop for Maggie's peach and cream beauty.
She rose and extended her hand to him. He took it between his own, feeling the chill of her skin.
A curious state had fallen over him during the flight from Andover. He'd wanted to call ahead and have her sent away, with his apologies and some fabricated excuse. He'd wanted to change his mind, and become sane once more. Yet when they'd seen the massive stone curtain walls of Hawthorne House and their flanking towers, his favorite place in Scotland had seemed somehow even more warm and welcoming.
Maggie was here, standing before him with a tremulous smile slipping from its tentative mooring, and her hand icy in his.
"No," he murmured softly, abandoning her hand as he reached out and plucked the sunglasses from her face. He tossed them on the table.
"You have beautiful eyes, Maggie, don't hide them."
"It's easier for people sometimes."
"Not here. It's easier for me without them. How was your flight?"
"Sheer opulence, of course. I've never known anything like it."
"I'm pleased you enjoyed it. May I join you?"
She smiled and moved aside so he could sit beside her.
"May I pour you another cup?" he asked, picking up the pot.
"Thank you, no, I'm afraid your tea took the enamel off my teeth. Not that there is anything wrong with it," she hastened to add, as if afraid that she'd offended him. "I'm used to a blander version, that's all."
"I secretly agree," he said, “I prefer coffee. We have that, or something stronger, however, if you'd care for some good Scots whiskey."
"My stomach still thinks it's almost time for breakfast. I don't think I'll take the chance."
"I've planned an early night, in deference to your journey. Is that acceptable to you?"
“Actually, the thought of bed seems delightfully hedonistic now."
He studied her in the silence, wondering what it was about her that had captivated him enough to bridge an ocean and his security detail’s displeasure.
Maggie felt right, a thought so puerile that he shook his head in disgust. Maybe she didn't possess a rightness as much as a directness. Her personality had been stripped to its essence, the pure Maggie, without artifice or prevarication. Candor and forthrightness, she had that in abundance. But it was something else that he could not quite define. Quite possibly, it was her courage. He didn’t know many women who could accept her situation with such perfect grace. Nor could they accomplish what she had, traveling across the world without a word of self-congratulation, as if being blind were no more than an inconvenience.
"Your house, it's very old, isn't it?"
"It was built in 1640," he said, studying her closely, again reveling in the freedom to do so.
With any other female of his acquaintance, it was important not to show too much interest, evince too much curiosity in case it was misconstrued as something more personal and promising. With Maggie, he could study her with a latitude that was quite wonderful, if a little discourteous.
"Is this one of your restoration efforts?"
"No, Hawthorne House has had good stewardship over the years. It wasn't allowed to go to ruin."
"And no ghosts?"
He chuckled. "I can't promise you that, Maggie. Every person in Scotland has a story to tell, or a sighting of some mysterious beastie."
"Thank you for inviting me."
"Thank you for being here." A throwaway comment he must have said ten thousand times. Yet this time, he wished the words rang with more sincerity. He wanted to tell her how well he felt now, how perfect it was to sit in this particular room at Hawthorne House and watch her smile.
The sun’s winter rays shining through the stained glass panels added gilt to her hair and bathed her face with iridescent color. He watched her, wondering if she knew how badly he wanted to kiss her.
"Shall we dispense with Mrs. Gransted and let me lead you to your room?"
When he stood, captured her hand, and pulled her to her feet, she didn’t demur.
"Maggie." Her name was no more than a breath.
He pulled her into his arms, and she came to him without reservation.
When he extended his arms around her, she took a single step, brushing her shoe against his, the fabric of her skirt pressing against the cloth of his trousers. Her arms rested outside his. Their choreography was so delicate, so fluid that he noted it. A ballet of the senses.
One of her hands fluttered to his neck, trailed around it, a thumb brushing his skin while four fingers trailed at his nape, feeling the growth of his hair. It was an oddly arousing touch.
His hands pressed against her back, bringing her gently forward until not a breath could slip between them.
He kissed her.
Two months had not dimmed the memory. Nor had it made their kiss something more than it had been. This was all he could have wished for, and more.
A faint sound was enough to call him back to himself, and remind him that they were in a public parlor and could be interrupted at any moment.
He let her go.
She touched her lips with two fingers, as if to mark the spot they'd kissed.
He knew, suddenly, why he'd brought her here. Why he'd braved exposure and scandal. It wasn't just passion he felt but something more. He wanted to know her like a friend. He also wanted to protect her, and create an oasis of such perfect safety that she'd never again wear the look she'd worn when he'd entered this room.
Instead of telling her that, instead of explaining that he couldn't give her anything she deserved, could only take, he stepped back.
Yet she would never know how close she came, Maggie with the sunlight in her hair and the sparkle in her dear eyes, to being led to his room, instead of her own.