A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1) Read online

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my critique partners Jody Vitek, Joyce Proell and Dylann Crush, as well the ladies of my annual writing retreat, JL Wilson, Kathleen Nordstrom and Terri Schultz, for their valuable input in creating a world and mission for this new series. Also thanks to Nancy Schumacher for her editing and input.

  Dedication

  For my beautiful daughter

  Your endless creativity and originality bring me so much joy every day. Though I could never dream of creating worlds

  with the depths of detail you have,

  you’ve provided me with all the inspiration

  I need to bring a character

  with all of your conviction

  and determination to life.

  Chapter 1

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Present Day

  “You owe me two hours and twelve minutes of my life.”

  Brontë Hughes plunked her purse down on the low coffee table, the weight of which sent the rickety ancient table as well as the coffee mug on top of it shuddering.

  Well, good, she thought as she dropped into an empty armchair with a testy huff. She shouldn’t be the only one…or thing with the shudders. With that vivid reminder of how she’d spent the past couple of hours, Brontë glowered at her supposed best friend Aila Marshall who picked up the cup and sipped with a guileless stare.

  “Twelve minutes?” Aila asked with a doubtful look over the rim.

  “And twenty-four seconds give or take.” Brontë drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Timing it was the highlight of my afternoon. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  Aila snorted into her coffee and set it down. “Come on. It couldn’t’ve been so terrible. It was only a lunch date.”

  “Only a lunch date? Oh no, my friend. ‘Lunch date’ infers a meal taken over the unspoken, yet universally accepted time frame of one hour. One,” she emphasized, holding up a finger. “I was a verbal hostage for more than two. I couldn’t even get a word in to make an excuse to get out of there.” With another scowl at her friend, she added, “On top of that, my dear and usually reliable friend forgot to call in my emergency excuse. Or could it be you didn’t actually forget?”

  Aila’s guilty gaze meandered around the green room of Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum Theatre where they both worked. The scabby painted brick walls and rough wood plank floor offered none of the eye-catching appeal of the crimson velvet and ornately scrolled and gilded plasterwork of the main auditorium. As show time was hours away, there were few other members of the cast or crew to offer diversion or reprieve, so Aila’s contemplation returned to her soon enough. She lifted a shoulder, then her mug and asked in her soft, lilting brogue, “Ye want a coffee?”

  Resisting the urge to bang her head against the table between them, Brontë settled for rubbing her eyes before staring at her friend. Disbelief clashed with frustration and a dash of hurt. “Why? Why would you abandon me to such torture?”

  “To be fair, I had nae idea Del was such a bore.”

  “You live in the flat next door to him,” Brontë pointed out. “How could you not know?”

  “He always seems so sweet and shy when I meet him in the halls or on the lift.

  I’m sorry. Really.” Aila wrinkled her nose and shook her head in denial. “Ye know what? I’m no’ sorry. If ye’d swipe right of yer own free will more often, I wouldn’t have felt compelled to set ye up on a blind date at all.”

  “And as we can all see blind dates always turn out so well.” Brontë threw up her hands and went to the narrow refreshment counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. A few more crew members had arrived and were doing the same. She nodded her greetings and made small talk as she added generous amounts of cream and sugar to the brew. A ginormous Caffe Mocha with double whip would have suited her better. She deserved a sweet treat after what she’d been through. Or a potent drink. When she returned to her chair, her temper was still simmering. Hotter than the coffee. “Dating apps are bullshit. You know that, right? Every guy I’ve ever met on one only wants to use me for sex.”

  One of the male cast members nearby overheard the comment and smirked. Their current show of Cyrano de Bergerac was a touring production making a three-week run at the Lyceum with its own cast, so Brontë hadn’t learned everyone’s names yet. She only knew him by the part he played, that of Christian de Neuvillette, and the certain reputation among the female cast he carried along with him.

  She pursed her lips and told him tartly, “You know it’s true.”

  With a grin, the player — in oh-so many ways if the rumors were correct — conceded the point with a nod.

  Aila, too, inclined her head. “Maybe we should use them for sex instead.”

  “I’m available anytime,” the actor interjected with a wink.

  Brontë laughed, more at the general folly of men than his offer. In truth, the actor — as handsome and charming as he was — knew about as much about women as the clueless character he portrayed if the gossip around the theater were true. She leaned closer to Aila. “I might actually be tempted…not by him but by the idea in principle, if I could be guaranteed that they knew how to do it well.”

  “Good point.” Her friend chuckled and eyed the hot actor with open consideration. “What sort of percentage of… er, triumph do ye think ye’d get?”

  Brontë snorted with a shake of her head. “I don’t know. Maybe two percent?”

  “That high?”

  Together they laughed again and Brontë finally relaxed a notch. “Why bother with men at all? In the big picture, we don’t really need them. The majority of modern battery-operated alternatives offer a better guarantee of satisfaction. It’s right on the box.”

  Aila choked on that. “My, ye’ve really surpassed yer normal levels of cynicism.”

  “It’s not cynicism. It’s experience.” And failure. And a whole lot of other things. A heavy sigh lifted her shoulders. “Face it, I have better odds of tripping over the perfect man while walking down the street than I do of finding him through an app.”

  “Ye’re working under the fallacy that a perfect man exists.”

  “I don’t mean perfect perfect,” Brontë clarified. “I mean perfect for me. If I wanted a boyfriend, that is. Which I don’t.”

  Liar.

  She pushed away the inner denial.

  “Even if I did, I don’t want whatever it is that qualifies for dating these days. I’d want something lasting. Something real.”

  “Here we go again.” Aila groaned and downed the rest of her coffee. “Bloody hell, Brontë. Those diaries might as well be fiction for all they count for. Probably are, truth be known.”

  Brontë didn’t need to ask what Aila was referring to any more than her friend had needed help in deciphering her cryptic statement. However, the events detailed in her great-grandmother’s journal weren’t fiction. According to her grandmother, they were historic fact. Facts that had spawned Brontë’s imagination and anticipation for falling in love since she was a girl. Unfortunately, those same facts had also elevated her expectations to unreasonable levels leaving her disappointed in the male species time and again.

  Jake, though…

  Well, she’d truly believed he was different. Until he wasn’t.

  “Listen, I ken we’ve been blowing sunshine up each other’s cooch for a while now,” Aila continued. “But bottom line, nae man’s going to gallop in on a white horse and sweep ye off your feet.”

  Though she forced a laugh, the veracity of the statement disheartened Brontë. “Hey, I’m a modern woman. I don’t need to be swept.
I’d settle for a nudge.”

  Her friend scrunched her lips and shook her head in a decisive jerk in the negative. “Doubt ye’ll even get that. Accept it. I have.”

  Aila’s current boyfriend — known after a bottle of wine as Mr. He’ll Do For Now — worked as a driller on an offshore oil rig. Three weeks on, two weeks off. The truth, if that’s what Aila was after, was that her friend was happier during the three weeks he was gone than when he was home.

  From Brontë’s point of view, settling for less wasn’t any better than waiting for more. She didn’t want ordinary. She wanted extraordinary. Pushing for it, unfortunately had pushed Jake right out the door…and through someone else’s.

  “There’s no such thing as Mr. Right.”

  “I know that.” Sadly, Brontë did. The truth soured the twenty-first century dating scene for her. “Which brings me back to my point. Blind dates? Apps? Why bother at all?”

  “Brontë…”

  Snatching up her purse and coffee, Brontë rose to her feet and turned away. “I’ve got some hems to fix before showtime and you’ve got a prosthetic nose to see to, don’t you?”

  “Ye’re going to end up bitter and alone,” Aila called after her.

  “I already am,” Brontë sang back as she left the green room.

  A trio of dresses waited for her, needing to be repaired and delivered to the proper dressing rooms before the curtain went up. She’d best get to it. Besides the work would prevent her from dredging up thoughts and memories best left buried.

  The narrow hall to the costume shop was congested with the arrival of what looked like the balance of the numerous cast and crew. They clustered at the doorways to the various dressing rooms, laughing and talking with those within. Brontë weaved and bobbed through them, accustomed to the overcrowding.

  All the same, she managed to slam right into someone along the way. Her coffee splashed up on to her chest, neck and the underside of her chin. With a gasp, she stiffened and dropped the cup and her purse as well. The large bucket tote tipped to the side and expelled its contents like a volcanic eruption.

  “Crap.”

  A comforting hand touched her arm as she swiped away the dripping liquid. “Och, yer pardon, lass. Are ye well?”

  Though her near ancestors were Scottish, Brontë was American by birth. Born and raised in the heart of New York City. Despite the fact that she’d been in Edinburgh for almost a year now, had spent several more in London prior to that, and had been raised hearing it, the coarse Scottish accent employed by most of the male gender sounded as sweet as honey to Brontë’s ears.

  Even from older men like Sean Connery or the touring play’s set director.

  Now — though Connery would’ve been even more delightful — the set director looked at her with a touch of concern that shadowed the amusement normally twinkling in his pale blue eyes. Pushing back his flat wool cap, he scratched his balding head and looked her up and down. “Ye dinnae burn yerself?”

  “No, I’m fine, Donell.” Someone threw a towel at her and she dropped to her knees to wipe up the few drops of coffee that hadn’t been absorbed by her clothes. “Just a little wet. No, you don’t have to…”

  Donell squatted beside her with none of the crackle and pop from his aged knees that she’d expected. His ruddy cheeks creased with a jovial smile that stretched his lips. “’Tis a problem of my own making, I’ll be helping to fix it.” He gathered up some of the contents of her purse and tucked them back inside the bag, then twisted to corral the runaway tubes of lipstick, gloss and balm rolling down the passage.

  “Thank you.” Brontë smiled. She hadn’t had much interaction with the quirky old man but liked him on sight. Though with his wool cap, plaid shirt and worn work pants she’d always thought him better suited to a centuries old tavern with a neat pour of whisky in one hand rather than to the theater scene.

  “No’ at all, lass.” He rounded up the last stray items and stood as she did. She presented her purse to him with the handles stretched apart like a trick or treat bag.

  Hands full, he hesitated. “Ye ken, I might be able to assist ye wi’ yer problem.”

  “You have, Donell. Thank you.”

  “I meant yer other problem.” He nodded his head back toward the green room and she winced.

  “You heard that?”

  “Couldnae help but.” He nodded, graciously ignoring her flush of embarrassment. “Dinnae fash yerself, lass. There’s much about life that often enough needs a helping hand to see it to rights.”

  Amusement lifted her lips. “You have a handsome, eligible son stashed away biding his time and waiting for someone like me, do you?”

  His grin widened, folding wrinkles into deep creases. “As ye said son rather than grandson, I’m e’en more inclined to offer my assistance.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve decided to lay off blind dates for a while. Any dates, as a matter of fact,” she said as politely as she could manage. “Relationships haven’t been kind to me lately.”

  Donell nodded, his expression thoughtful. “There nae much kindness of late. No’ only in relationships but in the world itself. ’Tis only going to get worse, I fear.”

  Great pep talk.

  Brontë held her open purse out farther. She wasn’t leaving without her new Jeffree Star lipstick. “Well, thanks ag —”

  “There was a time when consideration and compassion for one’s fellow man meant something,” he continued. “When a gentleman treated his lady like a treasure and not a prize.”

  His words brought a pang of melancholy to her heart. Words so similar to one another yet in that context infinitely contradictory. Having once been a prize, she wondered what it might be like to be the treasure instead. With a sigh, she offered Donell a shadow of a smile. “Sounds rather nice. I guess we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

  The mischievous grin was back on Donell’s face and the twinkle returned to his eye. He finally dumped his handful of retrieved goodies into the purse. “Sometimes what we want isn’t always what we need. Ye ken?”

  A shout announcing an hour until curtain sounded down the hall before Brontë could answer and he lifted his head. “Mayhap an old-fashioned idea needs an old-fashioned solution, aye?”

  “Sure.” With a nod, she passed him by and continued down the hall toward the costume shop. Reaching the door, she turned to look back but couldn’t spot the odd little man in the crowded passage.

  Old-fashioned solution? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  Chapter 2

  The silky stroke of her grandmother’s cat, Willow, as the feline wound its way around her ankles welcomed Brontë home the instant she stepped inside the house she shared with her grandmother in Leith northeast of Edinburgh. The warm greeting was countered by the pinched face of Granny’s nurse, Miss Broomhilda…er, Broomfield, as if she’d been lurking the foyer ready to pounce on the opportunity to bolt the moment Brontë got home.

  “She insisted on waiting up for you, so she’s in her chair.” The surly nasal tone was at odds with the sparkly makeup and bright pink hair Broomfield sported. That outward representation of fun and liveliness had been part of the reason she and her grandmother had chosen the young woman for the role of senior daycare provider and happenstance nurse if medical assistance were needed.

  They’d both been severely disappointed by reality.

  That happened a lot in Brontë’s world.

  “She’s watching the telly, right enough, though she’s pretending to be asleep.” The nurse scowled down the hall separating them from the living area.

  Brontë said nothing, but merely nodded. She’d fake sleep too if it meant an escape from Miss Broomfield’s ever-charming company.

  With another foul look, the nurse grabbed her purse and left with a bang of the door. Scooping up Willow, Brontë went through to the living room where her Granny Violet was parked in her wheelchair in front of the telly as promised. Indeed, she looked as if she were dozing
with her chin against her chest and eyes closed.

  She bent to kiss her forehead gently. “You can stop pretending, you sneak.”

  “Is she gone?”

  A soft chuckle escaped her. “Yes, the wicked witch took her broom and left. What are you doing awake? You should’ve gone to bed hours ago.”

  Violet snorted. “Likely what pissed the lass off. Couldn’t have a proper chat with her boyfriend while I was awake.”

  If the cantankerous nurse managed to keep a boyfriend while Brontë failed to make it past a year in her best-case scenario, she knew she was in trouble. “I’ll look harder for a replacement,” she promised.

  “No need. I’ll be right as rain and out of this contraption soon enough,” Violet said with a grin. “Then we can give the wee bitch the bloody boot, aye?”

  Brontë clucked her tongue with a smile. “Language, Granny.”

  Her grandmother snorted again. “That’s the least of what’s passed through my mind these last few weeks. I won’t be sad to see the backside of her.”

  Neither would Brontë. Violet had lived in this house most of her life. She’d been raised here and returned after her husband Peter Graham died, to live with and care for her own widowed mother, Hyacinth. Hyacinth’s husband had died storming the Normandy beaches on D-Day. Despite the loss, the house had always been filled with life and laughter for as long as she could remember up until these past few weeks when Violet had fallen down the stairs and broken enough bones to be confined to a wheelchair. The cheerful domesticity she and her grandmother once shared would be a welcome reprieve from Broomfield’s sour scowls and sniped conversation.

  “Why are you still awake then if not for the pleasure of her company?”

  “I wanted to hear about your date.”

  Stifling a groan, she dropped the cat in her grandmother’s lap. “That certainly could have waited until morning.”

  A moue of disappointment puckered the older woman’s lips. “So not well then?”

  “Understatement of the century.”