Hawthorne House, Scotland
"I'm here, Maggie," Richard said.
Her slumberous half-sleep shattered abruptly at the sound of his deep voice. Maggie blinked once, stared at the darkened ceiling, blinked again at the black walls, the sight of darkness enshrouding her uplifted hand.
Her blindness always shocked her first thing in the morning.
Or was it morning? Her internal clock was so confused by the transatlantic journey that she had no idea what time it was, and she’d taken off her watch. It might be afternoon, the sun streaming in to touch her face, outlining all her faults and flaws. Even those were now fading like the memory of a photograph once loved and now rendered faint with age. Strange, that of all the faces she could no longer remember, her own might be the one she missed the most.
She felt for the edge of sheet, reassured herself that she was covered, at least the damning sunlight would not expose any figure flaws. She smiled and turned her head toward his voice, forced herself to confront this post coital melancholy.
They’d called her Mad Maggie in Egypt. She'd no fear of entering blackened caves, of descending stone stairs to catacombs built into sandstone hills. She'd brushed away scorpions that had embedded themselves in her boots, or the odd beetle clinging tenaciously to the side of her tent. Among her peers, mostly men, she'd won respect. They’d treated her as an equal, a woman with nerve, tenacity, and courage that matched their own.
Right now she was terrified.
Sex had always been one of those things that hadn't mattered much, an activity she’d engaged in to satisfy Tom when he was in the mood. She'd offered the use of her body the way she'd given a guest a glass of wine. When she came, it was with delight and surprise. When she didn’t, it didn’t concern her that much.
She’d never considered herself one of those women men lust after. In Egypt, she’d been thrust into the role of sister or buddy.
This, however, was different, and it was not just her blindness. She felt exposed now as she’d never been, even walking around half-naked in front of Tom.
Richard knew her as Tom never had.
She'd always felt strangely sad after making love with Tom, as if she'd withheld something from him deliberately. Now, she knew what it was. It was something rooted not in flesh but in emotion, a meeting not of bodies but of wills. Or minds, perhaps.
Maggie had sensed Richard's vulnerability, his need as acutely as she'd felt her own. She'd wanted to soothe him, to ease him, to offer him comfort and love. In the end, when she'd lifted herself to him, grasped him with nails and muscles, and screaming out her release, she'd given herself as his lover, totally, unconditionally, wholeheartedly. A generosity of spirit she'd never before felt, let alone bestowed on another person.
She’d wanted him almost as much as she wanted her sight. Wanted, unwisely, to break through that shell of reserve surrounding him. She wanted to know him, to be honest with him, to tell him she knew who he was, but that the role didn’t fascinate her as much as the man.
Such honesty was a dangerous thing, and such thoughts should be summoned only when drunk or drowsy.
Not here, not now, while she waited for him to effortlessly hurt her.
He didn't speak, merely lifted himself from the chair by the window and walked to the bed.
He should run from this room and have Harold make her reservations back to the States. However, Richard didn’t know whether he was honorable enough to banish Maggie, although it might have been the wisest course. He had the feeling – and it was not precognition as much as it was common sense, coupled with a thorough knowledge of himself – that he would have been more content if he'd never met her.
Richard sat on the edge of the bed, and traced his finger along the skin of her arm. She shivered and withdrew it, which made him more bold, inserting his hand beneath the sheet to touch the warmth of one plump breast.
"Good morning, Maggie," he murmured, before kissing her gently. "Did you sleep well?"
They'd slept the night away, curled into one another.
He'd seen her restless, preparatory for waking, wanted her to know he'd not abandoned her after they'd made love. In fact, and it was a truth he'd keep from her, he'd studied her as she slept, wondering what it was about this woman that enticed him so much, and made him want to smile as he kissed her.
“I did,” she said softly. “And you?"
“Immensely well, thank you."
He'd cradled her in his arms for hours before moving silently to the chair. Now he picked up her hand, brushed his lips against her knuckles.
“Shall I order you breakfast?"
She turned her hand, pressing her fingers against his mouth.
“What are my choices?"
“I’m sure we can scare up an American breakfast, if you wish,” he said, allowing her fingers to trail across his face. She had the most delicate touch, one that moved him in some indescribable way.
“Or a Scottish one?” she asked.
“Indeed,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her again. When he pulled back, he traced her lower lip. “Or you might have me."
She smiled, an expression of such loveliness that he was compelled to kiss her again.
“I’ll have Richard, please,” she said, opening her arms to him.
Perth, Scotland
“Lucy wants to go punk, darling, hold on to your hat.”
Anne placed her cell phone in her pocket, sighed, and walked into the bedroom of their hotel suite.
Billy looked over at his wife, carefully moved his glasses from the tip of his nose and blinked at her. He was seated in their bed trying to get warm, waiting for his breakfast, attempting to become involved in a presentation made by a very eager and earnest young employee at his firm. He did wish the young man who'd submitted this voluminous PowerPoint presentation had been less creative. He insisted upon using what he called Four Squares, to distill complex ideas into abbreviated bullet points. The result was that Billy didn’t have any notion what the hell the young man was trying to recommend.
“Punk?" Billy asked. “She’s six.”
“Evidently they’re starting early," Anne said, smiling. She picked up Billy’s wig from the bureau and shook it, much like a dead rat.
Were they really fooling anyone with him pretending to be Richard?
“She also wants a tattoo.”
“Like hell!” He sat up.
“A sentiment I’ve already conveyed, darling.”
“Damn, Anne." Billy stared off into space, the proposal forgotten, the image of his daughter’s face coming into focus. She’d just had a birthday; she still didn’t have all her permanent teeth.
“What about the lot of them, Anne? Is Malcolm a mass murderer now, David a transvestite? Is the baby rotating her head on her neck? What the hell’s happening to my children?"
“We can’t keep them in a bubble, Billy."
She threw off her robe and began to dress in two pieces of silk that no one in their right mind would consider underwear. He could watch her all day, dressed or naked. She had the most glorious body.
“Malcolm wants to be an artist, David hasn’t decided what he wants to do, and the baby isn’t even a year old. There’s plenty of time.”
“I don’t like it."
“I can’t say I’m thrilled about Lucy’s idea, honey, but I wouldn’t worry about it."
“It’s a lack of parental responsibility, Anne, that’s what it is.”
“Since we’ve been gone only two days, honey, I doubt it.”
“I feel foolish pretending to be Richard."
“Just a few more days, honey. Just to get the jackals off the scent."
Billy put the laptop on the pillow and sat on the edge of the bed. To hell with breakfast; he’d make plans to be gone from here before they sent the cold, congealed mess up anyway.
“You can’t say you haven’t enjoyed this time, honey,” she whispered, a sultry voiced invitation that took his mind momentarily from the ruin of his children’s lives.
“Anne,” he began, but she only smiled at him, that unusual American smile that cautioned him not to be such an old fuddy-duddy. “Anne,” he said again, but she continued across the bed on her hands and knees dressed in nothing more than those scraps of black silk.
What was he going to do with her?
“Billy,” she whispered, pulling down the comforter, taking away his laptop, then wiggling into place on top of him with delightful abandon.
Well, maybe a few more days.
Hawthorne House, Scotland
This holiday did not release Richard from his duties. By ten, he’d finished dictating the last of the day's correspondence, answers to questions posed by school children, tactful responses to those who envisioned themselves entertaining royalty. A few business inquiries involving the firm he'd founded took more time than the others. Harold would have the letters transcribed and this afternoon they’d be on his desk for signature.
The email he handled himself, answering those from friends. Everything of an official nature, he sent to Harold’s inbox.
Richard was, despite his workload, acutely conscious of the passing of time. He wanted to be with Maggie. He'd come too close to wanting to stay in her bed all morning, all day, and bury himself in the warmth of the blankets and her.
She might prove a dangerous obsession.
It was better, early on, to establish the rules of their relationship. He told himself that as the hours passed and he remained cloistered in his library, wishing he was with her.
Inverness, Scotland
Richard and his new mistress were shagging their way through Scotland, a metaphorical act for what had been done all these hundreds of years to Scotland.
Fiona MacDonald watched the news religiously for days, trying to find where Richard could be. She'd emailed her new friend, but Celeste didn't know, either.
Very well, she'd wait and she'd watch, and when it was time, she'd act.