Love is a Battlefield

It takes a real man to wear a kilt. And a real woman to charm him out of it. Games of Love, Book 1 It might be modern t...

Author: Morgan Tamara

88 downloads 930 Views 1MB Size Report

This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is wrongfully on our website, we offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below!
Report copyright / DMCA form

DOWNLOAD PDF

It takes a real man to wear a kilt. And a real woman to charm him out of it. Games of Love, Book 1 It might be modern times, but Kate Simmons isn’t willing to live a life without at least the illusion of the perfect English romance. A proud member of the Jane Austen Regency Re-Enactment Society, Kate fulfills her passion for courtliness and high-waisted gowns in the company of a few women who share her love of all things heaving. Then she encounters Julian Wallace, a professional Highland Games athlete who could have stepped right off the covers of her favorite novels. He’s everything brooding, masculine, and, well, heaving. The perfect example of a man who knows just how to wear his high sense of honor—and his kilt. Confronted with a beautiful woman with a tongue as sharp as his sgian dubh, Julian and his band of merry men aren’t about to simply step aside and let Kate and her gaggle of tea-sippers use his land for their annual convention. Never mind that “his land” is a state park—Julian was here first, and he never backs down from a challenge. Unless that challenge is a woman unafraid to fight for what she wants...and whose wants are suddenly the only thing he can think about. Warning: The historical re-enactments in this story contain very little actual history. Battle chess and ninja stars may apply.

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B Cincinnati OH 45249 Love is a Battlefield Copyright © 2012 by Tamara Morgan ISBN: 978-1-60928-763-4 Edited by Linda Ingmanson Cover by Kendra Egert All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: February 2012 www.samhainpublishing.com

Love is a Battlefield Tamara Morgan

Dedication

For my husband, who refuses to wear a kilt but is my hero just the same.

Chapter One

Lady Lovelace’s Ball

What the ballroom lacked in authenticity, it more than made up for in effort. The room was dim, lit by a chandelier that struggled valiantly to appear as though it were made of candles and not the plastic, glass and filaments that so effectively shattered romantic illusions, watt by watt. The music, which was not the string quartet it purported to be, floated up from a CD player someone had the foresight to hide behind a swatch of flowing white gauze. And the attendees of the ball, present in a horrifyingly unbalanced ratio of females to males, were dressed in silks, satins and feathers designed in painstaking detail to recreate the best scenes in a BBC period drama. “Kate, have you seen that woman over by the piano?” asked an ethereal young woman whose alabaster skin was in keeping with the evening’s tone. Her voice was just right too, the low vibrations sweeping underneath polite murmurs and the sound of the music with fluid grace. Kate peeked over her shoulder. It was Lady Lovelace, the grand matriarch of their little community, wearing yards of puce satin like she owned the color. No amount of persuasion on Kate’s part had been able to convince the woman that not everything from the Regency era needed to be preserved. “She’s the one hosting tonight’s ball,” Kate explained. “Why?” “I think her hair is purple. From here, it looks like a really dark brown, right? Get closer. I swear to God, it’s actually deep purple. Like you get at one of those free beauty schools—or if you let Prince do your hair.” Kate choked on a laugh. “I don’t think Prince does his own hair.”

Love is a Battlefield

She whirled her friend away from Lady Lovelace, searching for something that might captivate her interest for a few more minutes. From the way she kept wandering around, poking her fingers into the custard tarts and looking out the gymnasium windows, her friend obviously wasn’t enjoying the evening. In fact, Jada was downright bored. And when Jada was bored, she was dangerous. Kate should have known better. A monthly ball put on by the Jane Austen Regency Re-Enactment Society wasn’t exactly her friend’s idea of a rocking Friday night. Jada was better suited for nightclubs, where history never lasted longer than the first round of martinis. “So, are we going out after this?” Jada asked as if on cue, indicating the ballroom floor. Despite the elaborate preparations, there wasn’t much to see. Two male members of their historical preservation group—the only two male members—were struggling through the steps of the waltz with a pair of ladies covered in flounces, but no one else even bothered trying to dance. “I don’t think so.” Kate took a glass of punch labeled with a sign ordering them all to pretend it was ratafia. “I promised to help clean up after the ball, and I was planning on going into the bookstore pretty early tomorrow to get some work done.” “Really? That’s your excuse? Cleanliness and productivity?” “What time is it, anyway?” Kate resisted the impulse to check her wrist. There were no watches allowed here. No Visible Modern Conveniences—that was rule number eight, right after No Real Names and right before Male Guests Require Cravats. Although the rules occasionally felt like an attempt to wrest any last bit of fun out of the JARRS group, Kate loved the entire charade. There was something

www.samhainpublishing.com

7

Tamara Morgan

about the way the women in the group bonded—in a longing, wistful, romantic way—that brought a smile to her face. It was silly. Silly and longing and wistful and romantic, and she couldn’t help it. No matter how much her sensible parts rebelled, there always remained the lingering feeling that if she squinted her eyes just so, or if she focused on the stays that forced her spine into a straight line, she could spend a few minutes in a time that appealed to the grandiloquent corners of her heart. A touch of the real historic England, right here in modern-day Washington state. Not that any of that was going to happen tonight—not with one of the men’s Nike sneakers flashing white underneath the lights of the chandelier and Jada snorting with mirth as she emptied a fifth of vodka into the punch bowl. “Seriously, Jada?” Kate reached over and checked her friend’s generous hand. “Lady Lovelace put a lot of work into the party tonight. The least we can do is be respectful. She probably spent hours taking all the crusts off those cucumber sandwiches.” Jada’s dark eyes flashed in a glimmer of mischief Kate had long since come to recognize and dread. “I think you’ll find the spirits are about to become extremely necessary.” “Why? What have you done?” “I haven’t done anything.” “Jada,” Kate warned, but she didn’t have a chance to say more. A scream from a short, rounded woman in a turban brought all attention to the door. “We’ve got crashers!” the woman cried. Vodka. Crashers. Jada doubled over in laughter… Kate spared only a quick, pained glance at her friend before turning her eyes toward the door, where four young men were in the process of making a rather dramatic appearance. Dramatic. That was one word for it.

8



Each man looked as though he’d stepped right out of the pages of a Regency novel, but not the Jane Austen variety. Oh, no, they were from the juicy kind— the ones full of rakes and midnight trysts. The ones that proudly boasted Fabio’s well-waxed torso and windblown mullet. All four men were dressed in painstaking detail, complete with small clothes that outlined every inch below the waist and cravats that might have been tied by a foppish hand straight from the past. Their hair was pomaded into gleaming locks, and each man bore a grin that demonstrated how well he knew his worth. They were handsome. They were debonair. They were perfect. They were trouble. “Jada, this better not be what I think it is,” Kate hissed. But it was. Correction. It was worse. The young men moved through the room, whisking up women old enough to be their mothers into impeccable waltzes. They twirled and turned, spun and swept over the floor. If the squeals of delight were anything to go by, the women loved it, eating up the chance to move around the ballroom floor on delicately shod feet. But Kate knew better. The only men she knew who could dance with so much grace and fill out a pair of pants like that were not interested in dancing with the ladies—at least, not unless the ladies in question carried fistfuls of dollar bills. Jada moved to the hidden stereo, while Kate got stuck in a sort of suspended animation. She wanted to stop Jada—knew exactly what was coming—but she always froze at moments like this. The world would keep moving, pushing her sluggishly through, and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop it. Watch and cringe. Clean up the mess afterward. It was the story of her life.


9

Tamara Morgan

One of the young men made a beeline for her and grabbed her waist in a masterful move that confirmed her worst fears. There was one huge erection pressed up against her, and although she was wearing a rather low-cut gown, she doubted she had very much to do with it at all. The music took a turn for the worse. Loud, thumping beats replaced the soft Haydn strains, and Kate could see she wasn’t the only woman in the room held captive by a pair of well-tailored, masculine arms that seemed at odds with the sudden bumping and grinding underneath the tight, tan breeches. “Oh. My. God,” Kate cried as soon as her partner released her. In a single fluid, practiced movement, the man ripped the breeches away from his body, helped along by a panel of snaps tailored for immediate release. There was nothing of the Regency about the blue spangled thong that was suddenly the only thing separating Kate from the hard rod of her dance partner’s livelihood. The stripper—he could be called little else now—tore off his jacket and cravat in another consummate move, tossing the clothes casually aside. A few gasps from across the room indicated Kate wasn’t the only one getting such personalized attention. The strippers weren’t the least bit disconcerted as they moved toward the middle of the room together, resting their hands casually behind their heads and rocking their pelvises up and down in time to the music. The line of erections bounced joyfully underneath the ballroom lights, the synchronized slapping of cock on balls keeping the beat with alarming precision. “Jada, you’d better get them out of here—and fast.” Despite herself, Kate let out a giggle as a pair of women finally gained their bearing and marched over to the stereo. “You might want to go too. Oh, no! Wait, though—look at Lord Hampton. He’s covering his wife’s eyes! He’s physically holding her back to keep her away from the ballroom floor.”

10



Jada howled with laughter, clutching her stomach. “The punch,” she managed between breaths. “Encourage them to have some punch. It’ll calm them down.” “Oh, Jada,” Kate cried, still half choked with laughter herself. “You’ve really done it this time.” “It’s more action than most of these women have seen in months. They’ll thank me for it. Just you watch.” Jada offered a cheerful pat on Kate’s butt and turned to the ballroom floor. With two fingers placed in either side of her mouth, she let out a whistle better served on a football field. “C’mon, boys! This show’s over. Let’s go grab that drink I promised you.” In a practiced theatrical bow, all four of the men swept out of the room, pausing only to pick up the garments that littered the floor, a clear view of eight chiseled ass cheeks making grander a departure than Kate was certain she would ever witness again. Female voices rose behind her, bringing with them a wave of piercing aspersions on Jada’s character. Kate’s character. The character of her mother, and her mother before that. Kate took a deep breath and turned to keep back the tide. It had been a mistake to invite Jada. Her friend had warned her it wasn’t her style to sip punch with a bunch of tepid old ladies, but Kate had pressed her. This stuff mattered to her. Didn’t that mean it should matter to her best friend too? Unfortunately, she’d forgotten that Jada never did anything without a bang. And this time, she’d added a bump and a grind.


11

Chapter Two

A Maiden’s Penance

Kate pulled open the door to the coffee house with more animation than the poor antique portal could handle. It creaked on its hinges and crashed against the outside wall with a loud splintering sound. Several customers taking in the afternoon over expensive cups of green tea and gluten-free scones stared up at her. Kate winced. “Sorry.” “Kick it once or twice,” the barista suggested with a laugh. It was Jada, looking, as she always did, as though nothing short of homicide could ruffle her. “It might make you feel better.” “You know what would make me feel better?” “Coffee?” “You, forced to apologize to every single person whose night you ruined yesterday.” One of Jada’s perfectly immaculate eyebrows rose. Kate sighed and rolled her eyes. They both knew that would never happen. “Okay, and a coffee. But do you have any idea how long I spent soothing all those women’s palpitations last night?” “Oh, Kate, you should be focusing on a different kind of palpitation altogether. What you should’ve done is left the old hags to themselves and come out with me and the boys.” Jada held out a giant white mug, a thin wisp of steam lifting enticingly from its surface. “You can’t be held responsible every time one of them gets their muslin drawers in a twist.”


Kate plopped onto a stool upholstered with a worn batik print and tossed a thick manila folder on the counter. It contained notes. Lots of them—several months of JAARS event planning that was now her sole responsibility. “It’s a nice sentiment, Jada, but I don’t think those boys would have been able to palpitate much. I don’t think I have the right equipment for that. Where did you find them, anyway?” “Craigslist.” Jada shrugged. “They were very nice. We went dancing afterward.” “Did they at least put their clothes back on?” Jada smiled, a mysterious pull at her lips that would have captured Leonardo da Vinci’s fancy. “For a little while, they did. We had a great time.” Kate eyed her doubtfully. When it came to Jada, “great” was definitely a relative term, unless it was rated on the international scale of Highly Inappropriate Activities Kate Will Surely Regret. She would forever bear the scars—and the tiny sheep tattoo on her foot—to prove it. “It was a good show, I’ll give you that,” Kate offered, glancing down at her foot with a slight smile. “But it wasn’t very nice of you to walk out on the ball and leave me with your mess. I know you think it’s silly, but I like those people, Jada. I like the group.” “Was anyone hurt?” “No.” “Did anyone cry?” “No.” “Did anyone laugh?” “Maybe.” Kate gave a reluctant laugh of her own. “I know you wanted me to get along with all those old biddies,” Jada said, wiping down the counter. She winked at the customer on the stool next to Kate, a


13

Tamara Morgan

middle-aged man trying hard not to look like he was following their every word. “But I’m not really into costume play unless there are handcuffs involved.” Kate shot some of the coffee—hot and scalding—out her nose. Although Jada was her best friend, there were fundamental differences between them that would never be fully bridged. For one, Kate lacked the youthful stamina necessary to go to clubs five nights a week and still rise out of bed with perfect hair. She was fond of fripperies like cameo brooches and vintage dresses and Saturday nights with a good romance novel. And there Jada stood, brazenly sporting a tight pink T-shirt that proclaimed, I may have lost my virginity, but I still have the box it came in. “You could have saved us both a lot of trouble and said ‘no’ when I invited you to the ball,” Kate pointed out. “You forget sometimes we can’t all waltz through life like it’s a carnival game.” “Then you shouldn’t hang out with a bunch of sitting ducks,” Jada bantered, right on beat. “Well, you’re making up for it, anyway. I’ve been handed down a punishment.” Jada leaned in on one elbow. “That sounds promising. What is it?” “We’re going out in search of land.” “Land?” Jada wrinkled her nose. “Like Columbus?” “Don’t blame me. It’s your fault. Lady Lovelace has officially put me in charge of this year’s Fauxhall Gardens event. It’s our big fundraiser of the year.” Big was the objective, anyway. In the past years, the event had always turned out to be a typical Jane Austen Regency Re-Enactment Society meeting, but extended over two days and with a few lectures thrown in. Kate had other plans. She wasn’t just going to name it after the Vauxhall Gardens, a somewhat scandalous gathering place for all the lords, ladies and pleasure-seekers of 1810s

14



London. She was going to recreate it, right down to the Chinese pavilion, paper lanterns and fireworks displays. There was no better way to capture all the romance and intrigue of the era than with a social event like that one—and the bigger and more elaborate it was, the more likely others would begin to take the JARRS group seriously. Take her seriously. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Jada scoffed. “No. It doesn’t sound bad.” Kate rapped her knuckles on the manila folder. “But when you have ten very opinionated women trying to plan a single event for the past five months, the result is a whole lot of conflicting ideas and nothing accomplished.” “So you need land?” “A venue for the event—big enough to hold a guest list of about a hundred attendees and on a budget that’s practically nonexistent. Oh, and I have four weeks in which to do it.” Jada pursed her lips. “And you can’t just phone it in?” Kate shook her head. Even if she could do a half-hearted job, she didn’t want to. Sure, some of the women in the JARRS group acted as though the wanton ways of the modern world existed solely to cast them into decline, but in all, they were simply a group of people who loved history. People who loved something that was honest and good in a world that moved too quickly and with too many sparkling blue thongs in the backdrop. She’d been part of the group for years. Originally, she’d joined thinking it was a Jane Austen book club, but she’d quickly learned it was much, much more. It was a celebration of the Regency era and all the things that went into it. The food. The books. The art. The clothes—oh, yes, the clothes. There wasn’t a woman alive who didn’t feel transported the moment she donned her best pair


15

Tamara Morgan

of long, satin gloves and saw her breasts bubbling over one of those low-necked, puff-sleeved gowns. Bras and jeans just couldn’t compare—which was why Kate avoided them wherever possible. And Jada, for all her faults, knew how much Kate loved it. “All right,” Jada agreed, snapping her towel at the manila envelope. “You know you can count me in. But this land explorer is going to require liquid reinforcements before the day is through.” “You mean like a big tankard of grog?” Jada laughed. “As long as it’s got an olive in it, I don’t care what it’s called.”

The afternoon sun blazed in full force as the two women slid into Kate’s car, an outdated black Cadillac that looked as though it moonlighted in funeral processions. Jada ran her hand over the dark wood grain that made up most of the interior paneling and sighed. “I swear it’s like you’re trying to actively repel men.” “It’s just a car. Besides, I’ll have you know older Cadillacs are a very good investment.” “Unless you’re seventy-five years old or sporting a diamond-studded grill, I think you wasted your money.” Jada shook her head sadly. “I looked into horse-drawn carriages,” Kate said as she pulled the car onto the freeway. “But the maintenance is a bitch.” She was only half joking. If she thought for a minute she could get away with a footman in full dress and a rackety brougham, she’d be the only homeowner on her block to convert her garage back into a carriage house. She pulled the car up to the first location listed in the painstaking hand of Lady Anne, the JARRS secretary and Lady Lovelace’s daughter. It was a city

16



park situated a few blocks off the freeway, popular among street artists and people who didn’t clean up after their dogs. One look at the rusty, ominously swinging play set, and Kate didn’t even need to get out of the car. “No way.” She shook her head. “I don’t care if the city will let us use it for free.” The second location was perfect. A popular wedding venue, it was nestled in the rolling five acres of a privately owned mansion-for-hire. The lawn sloped in perfect waves of greenery, and a pavilion stood in the middle of the grounds, flanked by fountains and marble statues. She could practically see the dinner tents pitched along the edge of the lawn, lanterns hung in all the white lattice work in an exact emulation of the real Vauxhall Gardens. “Five thousand a day, and it’s available for the weekend,” the proprietor offered proudly. Kate almost had to pick up her eyes from the ground. Ten thousand dollars for two days? She had one-fifth that amount of money to plan the whole thing, and that was with a generous infusion of her own savings—which, as a bookstore manager, she couldn’t really afford. “We’ll get back to you,” Jada promised, steering Kate back toward the car. “Don’t look back, Katy-did. A flock of honest-to-God doves just landed on the lawn. It’ll break your heart.” She looked anyway. The doves looked back, a perfect array of white and gray feathers set against the green lawn, their beady eyes mocking. “I suppose ‘there will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere,’” Kate said with a sigh, quoting Jane Austen and ignoring Jada’s look of intense warning. Her friend hated when she did that—said it made her sound stuffy. “What’s next on the list?” “Some state park called Cornwall. It’s down by the river.”


17

Tamara Morgan

“That sounds promising. But it’s probably going to have to be the last one for today.” “Good call,” Jada agreed. “Especially since we’ll need to stop by your house before we go out for drinks. Honestly, did you even do your hair this morning?” Kate’s hand shot to her head. She’d done little more than wash her face and run her fingers through her longish dirty-blonde hair before heading out the door that morning. It didn’t take a professional stylist to realize the only thing saving her from a state of complete offensiveness were a few lingering curls from the hasty updo she’d managed for last night’s ball. “It’s not my fault,” she protested. “I had to go into work very early to get caught up on inventory.” “You look like my granny’s crazy neighbor—you know, the one who escaped from that religious compound twenty years ago? The one who has eleventy billion cats and thinks pants on women are the devil’s work? Honestly, I get the historic clothes you wear for your Regency ladies, but you really need to update this…” She waved her hand in Kate’s direction and sighed. “Forget it. What you need is a man.” Kate reached for the crystal pendulum that hung from her rearview mirror and swung it in Jada’s direction. It missed, but that didn’t stop her hand from following in its wake and smacking her friend on the arm. “Jada, I didn’t invite you so you could lecture me on my attire and love life. I’ve already told you, I’m perfectly happy with the state of both of them.” Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. Her style was a trifle outdated, and there were times when the pearls she’d come to wear as a standard part of her wardrobe felt more like a noose than a piece of elegant jewelry. But she liked the way the flowing twenties-style dress she was wearing made her feel—like she was one chiffon shift away from reaching a state of bliss.

18



And the love-life issue—well, best not to think too hard about it. She didn’t ask for a lot out of the men she dated. A little chivalry. A touch of elegance. And if he happened to have the last name of Darcy or Knightly or Wentworth, then so much the better. At first glance, Cornwall Park was a plot of land undeserving of its title, not much more than an expanse of tall weeds marking a gravel parking lot. As she stepped out of the car, Kate could see nothing even remotely appealing about it. There were no trails, no children’s play areas, not even a patch of grass for an impromptu picnic. “Oh, Kate, this is the best park ever,” Jada murmured. Kate turned and followed the path of Jada’s gaze, which was riveted on a pair of figures in the distance. Two massive, hulking figures. Two massive, hulking figures about to— “Jada, watch out!” Kate cried. She ducked behind her friend, using the taller woman’s size as a shield against a giant sledgehammer that was suddenly whistling through the air, metal and wood flying in a perfect arc of attack. They were going to be killed. In the middle of the park. On a beautiful, sunny day. Except the weapon whirled in a few complete rotations before landing a hundred feet away from them, and there was a span of about thirty seconds in which a more intelligent woman might have taken an opportunity to flee. But Jada hadn’t flinched—not even to bat an eyelash. Kate stood up, looking around with quick, furtive glances that made her think of the way her cat, Gretna, reacted after a particularly spectacular fall. “Did you use me as a human shield?” Jada cried.


19

Tamara Morgan

Kate had always imagined she was the type of person who would be a survivor, the one person to get out of a burning building in time or find something to eat in all the post-apocalypse debris. She’d just never realized cowardice was going to be her path there. She laughed. “You’re so much taller than me, Jada. I can’t help it. I look to you for protection.” “Protection, my a—wait. Never mind.” Jada cut herself off and nudged Kate with her hip, indicating their would-be assailants. “Two of the finest specimens of manhood I’ve ever seen are heading this way. Why the hell didn’t we fix your hair before we got out of the car?” Kate ignored the remark and narrowed her eyes as the figures approached them. Jada was right—this pair could only be described with a word like “manhood”, though the term might be more appropriate when combined with adjectives of a pulsating nature. They walked with slow, confident steps and all the latent masculinity of farmhands of a bygone era. One of the men still held a sledgehammer, which he’d tossed casually over his shoulder as Jada might her long black hair. The other one looked bowlegged, a misplaced cowboy in the Inland Northwest. “What are they doing?” Jada straightened and stuck out her chest, her breasts a beacon for the men to follow in case they got lost along the way. “Who cares?” Kate opened her mouth to retort, but as the figure with the sledgehammer drew closer, she found herself echoing the sentiment. They were standing before sex come to life. The man in front of them was contained within a solid mass of muscles so tight and so taut, he looked like he might break out of his skin at any moment, his body molded as though he’d stepped off the covers of a romance novel only to spring to six foot, throbbing life.

20



Except this man left any number of barrel-chested cover models in his dust. Short, dark hair, dark eyes, a rich skin tone that hinted at an Asian heritage—it was a powerful combination even without the muscle definition. His face was full of smooth lines and perfect symmetry, the high slopes of his cheekbones set off by a close-cropped head that only accentuated his features. He had a rough patch of stubble all along his jaw and chin—a testament to the masculinity that pounded through every part of his body. He wore a pair of black athletic pants and a fitted gray T-shirt that skimmed plane after plane of muscular flesh. From where she stood, Kate could see he sported a tattoo of black stripes extending across his biceps and up into the sleeve of his shirt, an alternating series of zigzag lines and dots. And those forearms. Kate almost swooned. There was something about a solid pair of forearms, muscles intertwined with ropy veins, flexing and twisting with each twitch of the fingers, that made her want to rub herself all over a man. “Well, hello,” Jada cooed, her own thoughts obviously taking a similar course. “We’re so sorry—we didn’t mean to interrupt you.” “This area is clearly marked,” the man said, dropping the hammer to the ground with a heavy thud. He pointed to a perimeter set up with rope and a few stakes. It was hardly the stuff of high-security enforcement, but Kate got the message. The man with the hammer makes the rules. His friend, a scruffy blond whose neck was the same width as his head, came up behind him and interrupted with an easy smile. “Don’t you mind Julian here. I just killed him in the hammer throw, and it always makes him pissy when he loses.” As if to punctuate his statement, he slapped a meaty hand on his friend’s back.


21

Tamara Morgan

Although the blow could have felled a tree, the man named Julian didn’t even sway, his gaze unwavering from where Kate stood. She cursed inwardly. Why hadn’t they done something with her hair? “Is there something we can help you with?” Julian asked. “We don’t normally get a lot of visitors,” the blond man offered, his exuberance almost palpable. He offered them a wink. “And you’re not dressed for normal park activities—you know, running, jumping jacks, yoga…” “Throwing giant weapons through the air?” Jada interjected, her head tilted. “It’s the hammer throw,” the blond explained. He puffed up as he spoke, his chest filling with air and adding a visible swell to a body already heaped with them. “Next to the caber toss, it’s my strongest competition. I promise you’ve never seen a real man in action until you’ve seen him hurl a tree across an open field using nothing but the strength God gave him.” “God and a few well-placed anabolic steroids, you mean,” Jada teased, perfectly at ease with herself even in the face of such a behemoth of a man. Kate had yet to even find her tongue. Or air. “Not at all,” Julian said firmly. “The SHS is strictly regulated—our guys don’t use any performance enhancers. We just work hard.” “I’ll bet you do,” Jada said. Julian looked at her with a quizzical expression, as if he didn’t quite understand the degree to which she was turning on the charm. “So what does SHS stand for, anyway?” Jada added. “Slow, handsome savages? Super-human strength?” “Scottish Highland Society,” Julian offered, his smile forced. “The hammer throw,” Kate said aloud, realization dawning. She’d seen the Scottish Games on television before. All those men in plaid skirts, flexing

22



muscles and showing more leg than she would on a third date—it was an incredible sight. Jada laughed out loud. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re the least Scottishlooking man I’ve ever seen.” With his features and tribal tattoo, Kate was inclined to agree, but she kept her mouth shut. The way he stared indicated it wasn’t a topic he took lightly. “There’s more to it than an accent and red hair,” the man’s friend offered in a warm tone, calling their attention back to him. “Now, since no one intends to do any introducing around here, allow me. The name’s Michael. Michael O’Leary. I’m not a Scot, either, so if that’s a problem, we can go ahead and settle it the oldfashioned way.” “The old-fashioned way? I sure would love to hear more about that.” Jada moved forward like her body was propelled by a series of coils. “Well, now, that’s top secret,” Michael confided, leaning forward until his eyes were almost parallel with Jada’s chest. “But I can tell you it involves a pile of hay, a fifth of whisky and a willing woman.” “A willing woman?” “A Scottish staple. As vice president of the local SHS, I assure you the women must always be willing. And they usually are.” “I’ll bet. My name’s Jada, by the way.” She nodded at Kate. “My friend, Kate. We’re here to take a survey of the park.” Oh, right. The park. Kate had completely forgotten their errand. “Do you guys practice here very often?” She gestured over the fields. “It’s not very…scenic.” Julian followed her arm, taking in the scrub brushes and weeds without blinking. “We’re pretty much the only ones who ever use it.” He shrugged. “But if you’re worried about a few weeds, there’s an open grassland out by the bluff.”


23

Tamara Morgan

“Maybe you should show her the bluff,” Jada suggested. Kate kicked a rock at her. “What? You’re always saying how much you love dangling precipices. Kate loves things that dangle.” The man didn’t even bother to register Jada’s remark. “There’s a second parking lot through that way that connects to the bluff,” he said, pointing back the way they’d come in. He looked Kate over, taking in her appearance from top to bottom, lingering on the soft-soled satin flats she’d pulled on before leaving the house that morning. “You may want to drive.” The day was already hot, the late July sun causing beads of sweat to break out on Kate’s brow, but she might as well have been nearing the center of hell the way every last bit of her body heat came rushing to the surface, embarrassment and full-bodied pleasure coming together as one. She wasn’t used to such a concentrated amount of attention from a man like this one. “C’mon, Jules, escort the lady,” Michael prodded. His own gaze swept appraisingly over Jada, though his eyes definitely didn’t linger on her feet. “We were about done practicing anyway.” To Kate’s surprise, Julian nodded and took a few long strides across the field. When she didn’t immediately follow, he turned back and swept her a huge, ironic bow. “Will you allow me to escort you?” “No, thanks.” She was willing to give Jada a little alone-time with her new friend, but not if that meant inviting mockery and condescension. Even from a man who looked like him. Julian put an arm out, crooked at the elbow. Kate looked at it curiously. “What?” “It’s fine. I’ll take you. There’s a shortcut if you cut through the field, but it’s steep.” She didn’t move.

24



“I don’t bite, I promise. Take it.” She took his arm. It wasn’t her fault—there was such a level of command in his voice she couldn’t help but comply. It was what she did, following orders, falling into line. At least this one came with the full pleasure of the man’s touch. Even as her mind told her it wasn’t a good idea, her body registered the hot, hard surface of his forearm on a purely visceral level. What could it hurt? “Is your friend always like that?” Julian asked as they walked away, falling easily into conversation. He’d shortened his strides to match hers and held his arm firmly out to the side to provide her with a better support system. “Who?” she asked, still flustered by such close contact with this domineering yet strangely gentle man. “Jada?” He looked down at her with both eyebrows raised. Kate fought the urge to inform him she wasn’t normally this inane. She really had been around men before. And she really could talk and walk and think at the same time. “If you mean inappropriate and obvious, the answer is yes,” she said, trying for a light, teasing tone. She suspected it fell a little short of her goal. Still. It was progress. “When we were in college, she once flashed a pair of priests just to see what their reaction might be.” “Michael’s often tempted to do the same,” Julian deadpanned. Kate smiled. She could almost believe it. “So…what was their reaction?” he asked. “The priests?” She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Well, the young one seemed like he wanted to cry, but he couldn’t look away. The older one smiled and shook his head. But, you know, now that I think about it, I don’t think he looked away, either. You could hardly blame him. Jada is rather mesmerizing.”


25

Tamara Morgan

Julian gave an abrupt and appreciative laugh, the rumble starting low in his belly and working up through his broad chest. It was all the more powerful because of its suddenness, resonating through her own body and drawing them closer together, a symbiosis of sound and sensation. “Jada doesn’t mean half the things she says, though,” Kate said, warming to the topic and to the man. It was sometimes difficult to explain her friend to people meeting her for the first time. Jada did take some getting used to—she was a woman who not only embraced life by the horns but rode it, bucking and charging like Lady Godiva through the streets of Coventry. And to someone like this, well, she probably seemed silly. They both probably did. “Most of it’s for show,” she added. “It usually is,” Julian said cryptically. He pointed over a small rise to where a collection of trees broke up the severity of the land. “That’s where the park starts to get better. There’s a big, open field the state park workers take pretty good care of and some ruins from an old stone mansion that used to be there. I played in it a lot as a kid.” He seemed sincere—human, almost. She craned her neck to look up at him, but it was difficult to read anything in his face. If his body was as hard as a rock, his expression was even more so. But she found herself wanting to know more about him. His life. His childhood. It seemed almost surreal he’d had one. “You grew up here, then?” she asked. He let go of her arm as they entered the small copse of trees, the only trail leading in too narrow to permit them both side by side. She tried not to notice the way her body shivered the moment he let go, like it had been deprived of an integral source of heat. “Yeah. You?”

26



“No. I’m from Seattle originally. I left as soon as I graduated from high school. Couldn’t get away fast enough, you know?” “No, I don’t know.” His words were firm, but there was a kindliness about them. “I’m close to my family. I hate leaving them.” “Do you leave a lot?” “More than I care to.” “Military?” It made sense. He looked like he could single-handedly take down a village. “No,” he said with a soft laugh. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, considering I throw hammers for a living, but I’m really very peaceable.” Kate nodded and refrained from pressing further. It was obvious he enjoyed his reticence, and that was fine with her. For all her practice in Regency small talk, she was never very good at engaging people she barely knew—and she sincerely doubted Julian cared to discuss the appropriate number of flounces on a debutante’s gown. They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked through the trees. Although Julian didn’t insult her by looking back to make sure she was keeping up, he did hold one or two branches up and out of the way until she passed through. His painstaking care put her at ease in ways it probably shouldn’t have, but Kate comforted herself with the thought that Jada was only a shout away if her instincts proved wrong. “Most people don’t know about this trail. You have to be pretty careful through here, but I think the view is worth it.” “I know it doesn’t seem like it, considering I’m wearing a dress,” Kate said, repeating his words with a laugh, “but I’m tougher than I look. A traipse in the woods isn’t going to kill me.” “No, but that might.”


27

Tamara Morgan

They’d emerged from the line of trees when Julian stopped abruptly. Kate hopped forward over a large tree root, hoping to see what he was indicating, but he lifted her up and into his arms before she even got both feet off the ground. “What the…?” He swept her off her feet. Her head spinning, Kate realized Julian had pulled her up against him, cradling her body so they were face to face, his arms providing the perfect frame to keep her aloft. One of his forearms—one of those forearms—tucked underneath the back of her thighs, bare but for her thin silk shift dress. His breath came short and fast. “I told you to be careful,” he said, his voice coming out in a whoosh of air. He nodded his head behind him, where the ground broke off into a straight drop to the river below. “One stumble and you’d have been launched over the edge.” “Oh,” was all Kate could manage. He still hadn’t put her down, and her own breath wasn’t functioning very normally. He held her easily—lightly, as though he could stand there all day with his arms wrapped around her, watching as the sun set over the Spokane River. But if he took any pleasure in holding her close, the emotion was buried far below the surface. Typical. Kate was literally swept into a man’s arms and still unable to bring forth even a hint of a smile. A bird flew overhead, its warning caw snapping Julian back into action. He took a few quick steps away from the cliff’s edge before depositing her on the ground, his hand briefly touching the small of her back to ensure she was steady on her feet. But she didn’t feel steady. Not on her feet. Not anywhere. This man was strong. He was strong and hard all over—marble, chiseled to perfection and placed on an altar right there for her to worship. It would be easy to do, to worship this man, placing herself at his feet and waiting for a benevolent smile. She shook herself. What was she thinking? A

28



little dangerously dark stubble and a crooked smile, and she started weaving dreams out of thin air. But she was Kate Simmons. She did what she was told. She fell in love with fictional characters. She lived in a world of her own making because the real one simply couldn’t compare. Tearing her gaze away, she busied herself in looking around the other half of the park. It was just as worthy of her adoration—possibly even more so. In front of them spread a huge open space in the shape of an oval, large enough to hold two or three football fields end to end. No one had made an attempt to fill the space with anything other than grass and the natural wildflowers—this time of year mostly lacy white yarrow and bright yellow blanket flowers—so the result was both simple and breathtaking. The bluff’s edge was fenced off by an expanse of rough wooden beams, and on the opposite side of the field sat a second parking lot bordered by a series of large boulders. Julian was right. The real draw was the ruined mansion located on the far end of the field. She turned to him. “That’s where you played?” He nodded. Kate couldn’t imagine anything better. The foundation, once the base for a large castle-like building with twin spires on either end, was still fully intact. The top floors had long since crumbled, leaving jagged piles of heavy gray stones everywhere, some still a story high. She could see precipices and little caves, hiding spots for treasures or even a game of hide-and-seek. Her own childhood hadn’t held any of this magic. Here, disarray reigned with a heavy hand, and Mother Nature obliged. Kate’s house, in comparison, had been an ordered box of beige carpets and soft pink walls. Throw pillows covered every horizontal surface, but they were not to be touched by little girl hands. Nothing in that house was to be touched by little girl hands, but playing


29

Tamara Morgan

outdoors had been equally out of the question, unless it was on the tree swing in the backyard and her father was on hand for the photo opportunity. “It’s perfect,” Kate said, clasping her hands together. And it was. There was space enough for all the tents and walkways she envisioned. The JARRS ladies already had a string quartet booked for Friday and Saturday nights, and caterers had been instructed as to the exact menu planned: thinly sliced ham and plenty of sherry. During the day, they were going to have a few lectures from local history professors, a Jane Austen book reading and booths set up selling many of the gowns and accoutrements that made the Regency era so much fun. And it was all set for the weekend of August sixteenth—Georgette Heyer’s birthday. The grandmother of the Regency novel, and one of Kate’s favorite authors of all time. “It is perfect,” Julian agreed softly. Kate turned to find his eyes trained right on her backside. For a brief moment, she thought he was talking about her, and a warmth flooded her breasts and belly at the thought of being so objectified and appreciated by a man of his caliber. But she was mistaken, as always. As soon as she turned around, Julian began walking toward the parking lot without a second glance. “We should go back this way,” was all he said. Kate nodded and caught up with him. Julian walked beside her, but there was a large gulf between them. Something had shifted, and he no longer felt compelled to offer her his arm or jump forward to save her from stumbling over a stone. Which she did. Twice. “Well, hey there, you two,” Jada called as soon as they moved into view. She and Michael were seated on the hood of Kate’s car, a large indentation spreading

30



out from under Michael’s body, which must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. “What did you think of the lay of the land?” Jada waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “It’s exactly what we need,” Kate replied, ignoring Michael’s deep chortle. He jumped off the car, and Kate was glad to see the hood bounce up underneath him. “It’s a state park, right, so it’s free to use?” “Technically, yes. It’s a non-reservable public space, so everyone has access to it,” Julian said. “But no one else ever comes here.” Michael waved his friend off. “It’s yours for the taking. The SHS does its annual event here every year, and some of the guys use it for practice, but we don’t own it. It’s a first come, first served sort of set up.” “Katy-did,” Jada interrupted, her mouth pulled down at the corners, a clear signal she was bored with the conversation. “I went ahead and took the liberty of inviting these gentlemen to join us in partaking of a few libations this evening.” “She means drinks,” Michael added helpfully. “I don’t think…” Kate began, looking sideways at Julian. It was obvious what Jada was angling after, and Kate was well-versed in her role. Entertain the friend, keep him happy while Jada laid on the charm. Normally, it didn’t bother her to be typecast as the distraction, but she’d never attempted it with someone like Julian before. “Sure,” Julian said with a shrug. He leaned back against the car and crossed his arms like it was a matter of supreme indifference whether they stayed there or got on a plane to Monaco. “You boys wanna meet us at Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint in, say, an hour? They make a mean martini. Nice and dirty.” Jada growled for good effect.


31

Tamara Morgan

The men exchanged a glance. This time, Kate had no problem reading Julian’s expression—Jada couldn’t have chosen a less appropriate location than a martini bar for a pair of men dressed in athletic gear and sporting hands the size of small boulders. These men were not James Bond. They were the Hulk. They probably guzzled barrels full of ale. Or grog. “Fine,” Julian said, almost as though he were agreeing to a root canal. “We can meet you there.” “Well, I guess I’ll see you,” Kate said awkwardly, trying to ease the suddenly overwhelming pressure in her chest. She tried to make a quick escape to the car, but Julian stepped ahead of her. He pulled open the driver’s side door, offering her a small smile as she slid into the seat. “Drive carefully,” he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I will,” she managed to say before he closed the door behind her. “Holy shit, Kate.” Jada got into the seat next to her, rubbing her hands together like a villain from a silent film. “Did you see the way that man looked at you?” She watched him move away. “You mean like I’m barely capable of walking on my own two feet?” “Oh, Katy-did. You have no idea.” Jada leaned over and turned the ignition, since Kate’s hands were ineffectively immobile, sweaty palms sealed at ten and two. “Like he was going to take his hammer and clobber you before dragging you back to his cave.” “What?” “In a good way, honey.” Jada smiled and patted Kate’s leg reassuringly. “In the best possible way ever.”

32


Chapter Three Cúchulainn’s Might

“Let’s not go yet. I need a few more throws.” Julian reached down and picked up the rustic hammer he’d left on the ground. It could hardly be called a hammer, really. A long, roughly hewn pole of wood attached to metal ball nicked with use, it was the standard instrument for the hammer-throw event. He’d been using this particular one for years, and he loved the way it rested in his hand, the way it made him look and feel, an ancient warrior who knew his own strength every time he held it. Four or five more throws should do it. Adrenaline—not the result of activity, for once—pounded through his body, making it difficult to clear his thoughts for longer than a few seconds at a time. “Whatever you say, Jules. But don’t take too long—I need to grab a bite before we get all gussied up for the night. I swear, I’m so hungry I could eat a leg of the lamb of God. All four of ’em, actually.” Julian didn’t doubt it. Michael could put away more food in one afternoon than a whole family could in a week—and almost all of it was protein. They’d once come across a rafter of wild turkeys out here on the practice field, and Michael had chased one of the damn animals around for a full hour, armed with his hammer and driven by grand visions of a turkey roast right on the edge of the parking lot. But wild turkeys proved a little smarter than their domesticated counterparts, and they’d ended up eating at a hospital cafeteria instead. Three broken toes from the misplaced blow, the doctor had said, and lucky for Michael it hadn’t been worse. The hammers weighed sixteen pounds each.

Tamara Morgan

“Food later,” Julian commanded. His stomach was the least of his concerns right now. He strode across the field until they reached their throw point, flexing his free hand, the sore muscles sending a flood of feeling up his arm. The tension was familiar, comforting. Michael was right behind him, dogging his footsteps and his thoughts. “I haven’t seen you act like this since you had a crush on that waitress at the steakhouse in Phoenix. You must really like this Kate girl, eh?” Julian paused. “She seemed nice.” She did seem nice, and Julian didn’t mean the way the curve of her ass shaped the pale orange fabric of what looked an awful lot like a nightgown, or the way her thighs were so cool to the touch when he’d stopped her from running right over the edge of the cliff. At least, that wasn’t all he meant. “You shouldn’t have encouraged them, though,” Julian added. “If they’re going to start showing up here on a regular basis or trying to use the park for themselves, it’s going to cut into our practice time. We can’t afford to be distracted right now, Mikey. The Games are in a month.” “I’m not the one who agreed to drinks,” Michael pointed out, picking up his hammer. “Besides, that one was awfully small. You think she’d be able to do much in the way of interrupting? You could probably snap her in two.” Maybe not snap but bend. In a variety of different positions. “Not everything can be measured by size,” Julian muttered. “That remains to be seen, my good fellow.” Michael winked. “My size has always been a good indication of my worth.” Julian gave him an obliging laugh, but the sentiment behind it didn’t go very deep. There were a lot of things he needed to focus on right now, the hammer throw being one of them. A woman like that—high maintenance down to her

34



very shoes—was exactly what he tried to avoid before one of the Highland Game events. Hell, she was the type of woman he avoided almost all the time. A man who followed the bagpipe like he did had no time for clinging. Dress, women or anything in between. “One drink,” Julian vowed, more to himself than to Michael, whose attention had wandered to the curve of his own bicep. Julian had agreed to the evening without even thinking about it, a purely natural reaction to a beautiful woman flushed all over with nerves, embarrassment, pleasure—who knew for sure? All he cared was that it was some sort of emotion that stirred in his gut and piqued his interest. To have turned her down would have been tantamount to kicking a puppy. He nodded firmly. Yes. A puppy or a little baby kitten. Julian was a lot of things, but he was never cruel to animals. A few kids had gathered on the far end of the field, straddling their bicycles and looking at the pair of them with large, expectant eyes. They’d become regulars of a sort, neighborhood children who stopped by a few afternoons a week to see if any of the SHS members were out practicing. This time of year, the kids were almost guaranteed to find someone—Julian, Michael, any of the other guys who lived in the city—since the local chapter of the Scottish Highland Society used this space quite a bit. The kids were going to be surprised when they showed up in a few weeks to find the entire field transformed into a carnival of human might, athletes from all over the country gathered to dance and compete, whisky and good cheer flowing. Although he’d seen almost every city’s version of the Scottish Highland Games, the Spokane one was Julian’s favorite annual event. It was where he’d first been introduced to the sport, the place he’d come every year with his mom


35

Tamara Morgan

and stepfather, a brawny Scotsman who taught Julian everything he knew about being an athlete. “Throw it already!” one of the kids yelled. Julian waved at them with a grin. “Okay, but stay very, very far back.” He loved the way a child’s eyes opened in rapt wonder when he landed a good throw, like he was hurling the giant hammer of Thor. Like he might actually be the god of thunder. It was so easy to get lost in this sport. Crowds of people came, eager to watch something barbaric and rustic, something so timehonored he could almost imagine himself standing in Scotland a thousand years ago, fighting for the right to lead a clan of warriors to victory. Or on the beaches of Guam, where he’d been born, an ancient Chamorro warrior about to prove his might with the throw of a single spear. He picked up the hammer. Rotating his shoulders and swinging his arms over and around his head allowed the hammer to pick up speed, each revolution pulling harder on his muscles until it was all he could do to maintain his grip. He focused his line of vision on a tall yellow weed a few hundred yards in the distance and released both the hammer and a roar that cut through the air. A few screeches of delight from the nearby children indicated he’d put on a good show. Michael’s low whistle indicated he’d put a good distance on the hammer too. “A few more feet and you might be able to beat Kilroy this year,” Michael murmured. Julian scowled. The throw was a good one, but Duke Kilroy wasn’t his favorite method of measurement. Julian had always done well in the hammer throw and weight throw competitions, but he was still a good dozen feet away from even touching Kilroy’s record. It wasn’t until recently he’d begun placing in the major competitions. He’d always been a bit smaller than the other guys—

36



leaner and more focused on precision than power—and he’d finally reached the right balance. The wins, complete with prize money, came more easily now. Except when Kilroy was there. The bastard always managed to edge him out, and always with an entourage of cameramen right there to capture it. Ego and idiocy, wrapped up in a golden package of hair and teeth. Michael stepped forward to take his own turn, and Julian watched appreciatively as his friend planted his feet in a firm stance and let loose the hammer. Michael always had more muscle behind the throw than Julian did, but he could never quite get the right discharge, and his hammer tended to lose some distance on the angle. “If I do get a few more feet, I’ll be putting you to downright shame,” Julian said with a laugh as they went to retrieve the hammers. “Maybe you can try your luck at the sword dance this year. I think the same teenage girl wins every time. Maybe you can give her a run for her money.” Michael offered a few country dance steps and a hearty laugh, surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size. They threw a few more times until the muscles all along Julian’s shoulders burned from the effort. As they walked off the field, he waved good-bye to the kids, stretching as he did. “We’re going to be late,” Michael said. Behind them, the sun was dipping to the horizon, splaying streaks of orange and pink in all directions. Julian sat and pulled off his shoes, a pair of cleats that helped him grip the turf and keep his balance, before checking his watch. Michael was right. He still needed to stop at his apartment to grab a shower and change, and Michael did have to be fed, or he’d start snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. It would be rude to show up late, but maybe that would put Kate on her guard and


37

Tamara Morgan

save him from having to decide whether or not she was worth pursuing. His body screamed yes, but his reason said no. “Well, we’ll just have to be late, then, won’t we? Besides, we don’t want to look too eager.” “’Course not, bro, but a couple of girls like that? In a fancy bar? They’re gonna be covered in men like a shithouse in flies.” Julian reached over and punched his friend’s arm. He might not be sure what he was going to do about that woman yet, but he definitely wasn’t leaving her to his friend’s crudity. “Nice, Michael. Classy.” “Thanks, bro. It’s all part of my charm.”

“Oh, shit. Are those dueling pianos?” Michael stopped on the sidewalk outside Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint, a downtown two-story building with a sleek black exterior broken only by the flashing neon sign of a martini glass. Julian cocked his head. He could hear the thunderous pounding of a chord, followed by a lighter, musical tinkling. “I’m going to go with yes.” “We’re really going in there?” Michael stilled him with one hand and surveyed the building doubtfully. Julian couldn’t blame him. They were used to bars that served beer by the pint, ones that had union stickers plastered all over the walls and urinals caked with years of other men’s piss. A man’s bar, where the only pianists were the ones that existed in stale, dirty jokes. “Dude, I know those chicks were pretty hot, but I think we should call it a night and get up early for practice tomorrow.” Michael gave Julian a pointed look. “This is where men go when they’re too wrapped up in their girlfriend’s tampon strings to remember where their balls are.”

38



Julian refused to rise to the bait, even though his friend was right. An early bedtime and an extra practice would have been a better plan under any other circumstances. But as he’d been getting dressed, he’d realized that, more than anything, he had to go meet Kate and see. Harold, his stepfather, always said that when it came to the right woman, opportunity didn’t knock or ring the doorbell—it battle-rammed in with a good, old-fashioned chunk of wood. Julian had been fourteen at the time, and the double entendre hadn’t been lost on him. Everything at that age had somehow been related to his cock. Harold, though dead these six years, hadn’t been wrong about anything in Julian’s life. Not the Games. Not women. None of it. Opportunity was tightening in his groin, and Scottish Games or not, he needed to see this thing through. He was willing to discover what Kate might offer him, if that shy smile and heavy breathing meant what he thought they did. Hopefully, she’d understand that for the next month, the Games came first. No matter what. And he’d be damned if he’d go into a piano bar alone. Julian offered a wide grin and slapped Michael on the back. “What? You? Fearing for your manhood? Whose balls are in question now?” Julian strode inside without looking back. His friend would follow. Julian might be able to resist the bait, but Michael wouldn’t. Not on an issue as important as the size or placement of his testicles. The bar itself was on the second floor, and the entryway contained only sleek marble pillars and a winding staircase leading upstairs. It was all very neat, simple and classy—a lot like Kate, actually. It was crowded, with a line heading almost all the way down the stairs, most of them women in short, glittery dresses and shoes that looked like they could be used as murder weapons.


39

Tamara Morgan

He avoided the curious stares and got in line. Hopefully, it would move quickly. They were already pushing the limits of making a fashionably late entrance. “Julian Wallace and Michael O’Leary? Hell must have gone and froze over.” The bouncer at the top of the stairs waved at them, his arm a meaty appendage that Julian would recognize anywhere. It was Eric Peterson, another Scottish athlete. He was a burly six-and-a-half-foot bear of a man who sported a Mohawk and several faded tattoos along his neck, arms and legs. He didn’t do much in the professional circuit, mostly local Games a few times a year, but Julian had known him for years. They’d done their first weight toss together back when they were thirteen. “You’re the last two I’d expect to see here. Come on up!” Julian and Michael moved clumsily up the side of the stairs, muttering apologies along the way. He felt like a third-grader taking cuts in the lunch line, but no one said anything. Oversized friends had a way of compelling people to silence. It was funny, though—as much as Peterson glinted with steel and menace on the outside, Julian knew for a fact the man wouldn’t hurt anyone. He had two little girls at home and had been known to don a tutu and crown for a tea party on more than one occasion. “I didn’t know you were working in security,” Julian said, taking Peterson’s proffered hand and shaking it with considerable force. Michael went straight for a huge bear hug. “Oh, you know. I gotta pay the bills somehow. Both Sammy and Pris are in ballet this year—you know how much that shit costs?” “Er…a lot?”

40



“Let’s just say if this keeps up, they may not get to go to college. But what can you do? They cried.” Michael and Julian nodded knowingly. Feminine tears were so much more powerful when they came from tiny eyes. “So, I hear you’ve got the coordinator spot this year,” Peterson said, changing the subject. “Can I put in a request right now for a bigger closing ceilidh? Last year, they ran out of single malt before most of us even finished the ceremonies. That was one dull party.” “I’m already on it.” Julian laughed. Although running the administrative side of the Games had never been a goal of his, he’d been elected to the position of local SHS president last year after the other candidate injured his back. It was mostly a nominal title, since the Spokane members were pretty laid back and didn’t adhere to the monthly meetings, but it did mean he was in charge of coordinating the Highland Games this year—a much bigger task than he’d anticipated, and one that was already cutting into his schedule. But hard work and obligation had never stopped him before. “I’ve managed to convince the Rockland Bluff Whisky executives to come up for the events,” Julian added, not even trying to hide the pride in his voice. It had taken months of phone calls and negotiations, but he’d done it. “They should be bringing plenty of samples with them.” Peterson nodded. “Good. Good. They coming up to look at anyone?” “Hell, yes, they are,” Michael interjected. “They’re coming to see Jules.” Peterson gave a low whistle. For most people, the SHS was a hobby, a passion. Making a living from it was almost impossible, since the Games ran only a few weekends out of the summer, and the prize money wasn’t always enough to even cover travel expenses. During the season, Julian spent most of his time on the road, driving


41

Tamara Morgan

between different cities hosting SHS Games, mailing whatever money he managed to win home to his mom. To make up for it, he had to spend the winter somewhere in the southwestern states, where construction jobs were easy to come by and the pay was high. Julian always tried to come home to Spokane for a few extra weeks during the Games to spend time with his mother and sisters and to refocus his energies on what mattered. This year, he’d taken a whole month off. He needed it. In addition to doing all the planning for the local Games, he was on the cusp of getting a life-changing sponsorship. A few smaller whisky companies and local businesses offered product placement commissions for the top athletes, but Rockland Bluff Whisky was recognized around the world as the leader of single malt Scotch. Nike and golf. Home Depot and Nascar. Rockland Bluff Whisky and the Scottish Highland Games. It was a simple equation. Even one tiny logo on Julian’s Highland formal would set his mom and sisters up for years. No more construction jobs. No more long winters away from home. It was the culmination of everything he’d ever worked toward. But Rockland Bluff didn’t offer their sponsorships lightly, and Julian knew for a fact that Kilroy had had his eye on it for years. When it came to media attention and putting on a good show, Kilroy had him beat. Julian was man enough to be able to admit that. “Good luck,” Peterson said, shaking his head in awe. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” “So, you guys want in?” Peterson thumbed over his shoulder to the dimly lit interior of the bar. From where they stood, they could see a dozen or so tables, men and women conversing over candlelit lanterns.

42



“If it’s not too much trouble.” Julian gestured to the line. “But I hate to step in front of all these people who’ve been waiting longer than us.” “Aw, Jules. Always the gentleman.” Michael laughed. Peterson leaned in. “Between you and me, there’s plenty of room in there. I’m making ’em wait a little to up the ante. Adds prestige, you know, gives me a little street cred.” He lifted the velvet rope with a laugh and gave them a wink. “Have a good time, boys. Drink a cosmopolitan for me.” It took a few moments to get acclimated to the sounds and lighting in the bar. Julian’s only experience with dueling pianos was an old cartoon featuring Daffy and Donald Duck, and it turned out the real thing was much more refined—and loud. The pianists sat opposite one another, two shining baby grands back-to-back, one glossy black, the other a pearly white that sparkled under the lights directed at the stage. Half the time, the players tried to pick up on the tune the other musician was playing. The rest of the time, they simply tried to out-speed and out-volume one another, so the result was a crashing and chasing cacophony of sounds. The pianists sure looked like they were having fun, sweat dripping over their flying fingertips. Julian could appreciate the sentiment behind it. It was, after all, just another kind of competition. Despite the background distractions, it was easy to spot Kate and her friend. They weren’t, as Michael had ominously foretold, surrounded by men. Instead, they were seated at a round table near the back, where the music wasn’t quite as deafening, both of them sipping delicately at something with a piece of fruit floating in it. “You came!” Kate smiled up at him as they approached, and Julian had to remind himself to smile back. Flash teeth and relax. Laugh and flirt. The serious, competitive warrior he was on the field had a tendency to take over even when


43

Tamara Morgan

the situation didn’t call for it. And this situation, with a woman like that looking up at him with genuine pleasure in her hazel eyes, most definitely didn’t call for it. She was everything he didn’t know he found attractive in a woman, with a small and delicate build, a nose that turned up just a little at the tip and the kind of softness that normally put him on his guard. Cute but not obvious. Quiet but not shy. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say she brought out his territorial instincts, but there was a definite urge to protect and serve. So he smiled, pleased to find it didn’t feel quite as forced as he expected it to. “Sorry we’re late. Michael wanted to do his hair.” Michael, whose longish, wavy hair almost always looked like it had been lifted straight off the pillow, grinned widely. “What can I say? I’m a vain man.” The women scooted their chairs to make room for them. Julian sat next to Kate—so close he could smell her slightly floral perfume. She was still wearing the tiny slip of a dress from before, but she’d allowed her brownish-blonde hair to fall down in soft waves almost to the middle of her back and changed to a pair of gold sandals with bands going halfway up her calf, winding and hugging her flesh in ways that seemed almost indecent. He had a hard time looking away. If it was possible to slap sex on a pair of legs, she’d done it. “Do you guys want something to drink?” Kate asked, dangling one of those perfect legs close to his own without even seeming to realize what she was doing. Her friend, Jada, on the other hand, leaned over the table, angling to give both him and Michael a clear view down the top of her bright red dress. “I’m going to bet you two are Scotch men. Neat?” He let Michael argue the finer points of ice in a drink with her. Jada was the type of woman Michael lived for—flashy, obvious. Julian had dated those types

44



of women before, usually when he was on the job down in Arizona or on the road for the Games. For all their superficial trappings, women like that made great companions for the short term. But right now, a one-night stand was the last thing on his mind. His body was definitely warming for something a bit softer. A bit more real. He turned to Kate. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.” She shrugged, and the thin strap of her dress fell along the gentle curve of her shoulder. He watched it, mesmerized. “A few minutes. It’s not a big deal. There was a blues singer on before the pianos started.” “Oh, it’s too bad we missed it.” Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry about this place. It’s probably not your thing, pianos, is it?” Julian laughed. People always took one look at him and assumed the worst. “I’m a large man, Kate, but that doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian. A little jazz isn’t going to kill me.” “You never know. Jada is her own force of nature, and I thought maybe you guys got caught up in it against your will. Lord knows she’s made me do one or two things I regretted later.” Julian’s pulse picked up, and he leaned forward. That was a topic he could warm to. “’Like what?” Kate shook her head firmly. “No way. I’m going to need a few more drinks before those secrets start spilling.” “She’s being modest,” Jada interrupted, watching them both with a smile. “Kate here once drove an entire rugby team off the road. Their van tipped over into a ditch.”


45

Tamara Morgan

“They deserved it!” Kate declared, her eyes dancing. “Don’t believe a word she says. They were trying to cut in line after the rest of us had been waiting for hours to get through a single lane of traffic. I just blocked them from doing it, and they drove themselves off the road. What’s the point of driving a nice big Cadillac if you can’t use it for good?” “Did you stop to see if they were okay?” Julian asked, amused. “They didn’t really tip over. It was more of a gentle lean. You should have heard all the cars in line, honking their approval. I felt like a superhero.” “A vigilante in a Cadillac.” Julian laughed. “Like the Green Hornet,” Kate agreed. Julian settled back in his chair, taking in the scene with a deep breath. There was a gentle ferocity to Kate he hadn’t been expecting. He liked it. “So, you run cars off the road when you’re mad, you grew up in Seattle and you wear pretty shoes. What else should I know about you?” She blushed and lifted one of her feet, examining the appendage as if seeing it for the first time. “You think my shoes are pretty?” “Well, they’re not very functional, that’s for sure.” He fought the urge to rub his hand over her leg to double check how well that footwear was working out. “But nice. Definitely nice.” She toyed with the stem of her glass, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you. But I’m not sure what else you want to know. Birthmarks? Employment history?” “Good call, Kate,” Jada said from across the table. “Always start with birthmarks.” “How about what it is you want Cornwall Park for?” Julian offered. He doubted he was going to get anything about birthmarks out of her. Yet.

46



She blushed and played with the edges of her cocktail napkin. “It’s this group I’m part of. A historical preservation society—kind of like your Scottish Games, I guess? We do a big annual event, and we need a place to hold it.” “Historical? Like what?” “Umm…Regency. Jane Austen type stuff—the nineteenth century. We wear pretty elaborate gowns, and we do lectures.” Her leg tapped a nervous beat, inching closer to his own. Julian nodded. An academic he was not, but he knew enough of history and women to know what she was talking about. Waist-cinching underthings. Thighhigh stockings held in place with ribbons and silk. A group of women doing Regency playacting—he could get on top of that idea. “That sounds interesting,” he managed to say without giving away the sudden loss of blood in his brain, which was coursing hot and thick toward his groin. “But isn’t that all indoor stuff?” “Well, we hold balls and tea parties, and those are all inside.” She chose her words carefully and watched after each one for his reaction. “But I’m hoping to recreate this big, elaborate outdoor garden thing. And Cornwall Park is the perfect place for it.” “You’re doing this all by yourself?” “Sort of. It’s for the whole group, but I’m in charge of this particular event. It’s a long story, but I’m basically being punished for some…er…misbehavior on Jada’s part. I’m excited to do it, though. You probably think it’s silly, but—” Her leg brushed against his. He reached over and rested a hand on her knee, stilling her nervous movements. “Don’t do that. It’s not silly at all. Recreating history and honoring the past is important.” He grinned down at her. “I should know. I do it in a skirt.”


47

Tamara Morgan

He hadn’t yet let go of her leg, unable to pull the pad of his thumb and fingers away from the soft skin. Like before, her leg was almost cool to the touch. “I’m sorry,” she said so softly it was almost a whisper. But her gaze was direct, and she didn’t pull her leg away. “For what?” “I’m so used to people making fun of the Regency group that I get weirdly defensive. If I’m not stammering about it, I’m usually up on a soapbox preaching the superiority of my ways.” He nodded. “I get it. I used to get a lot of flak for the Scottish Games when I was younger, but I don’t anymore.” “Of course you don’t. Who would dare?” She cocked her head and raked her gaze over him, appreciation and awe glinting warmly in her eyes. His internal body temperature jumped several degrees. She softened her tone and added, “That’s not a fair comparison. You have extreme powers of intimidation. I don’t.” Julian finally released his hold on her leg, allowing himself to take in the curve of her thigh where it met the hem of her dress, which fluttered higher as she shifted. All of it—the dress, the skin, the promise of what lay farther up— writhed with silken sensuality. “Oh, you have powers too. Believe me.” “And how about you?” Jada called from across the table, her voice overloud and wholly unwelcome. Just when things were starting to get interesting. “What about me?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and draping one arm casually over the back of Kate’s. It wasn’t an embrace, precisely, but it could easily become one.

48



“I was asking Mr. O’Leary here what it is he wears under that kilt of his. Boxers? Briefs? Nothing but what the good Lord gave you? He’s curiously mum on the subject, and I’m dying to know.” Julian laughed. No matter who they talked to about the Highland Games, it always came around to the subject of kilts and the requisite gear underneath. Girls. Boys. Old ladies. They all had to know. He blamed Mel Gibson. “A warrior never tells,” was all he would say. The truth would only disappoint them. “Why don’t I get us all the next round?” He pushed back his chair and nodded at the two almost empty glasses on the table. “What are you drinking?” “Vodka tonics,” Kate replied. “But you don’t have to. We can get them.” “It’s no problem.” It wasn’t. Stepping away from the table seemed like a good idea. If he’d come here to confirm or deny his attraction to this woman, the cues were pointing overwhelmingly to confirmation. Which was a problem. The bar was crowded with many of the glittery dresses he’d passed on the way in, but the bartender was a woman, which placed Julian right at the top of the queue. He shook his head when she plopped her white towel on the counter right in front of him and asked what he wanted. “I’ll wait my turn. I’m not in a rush.” The bartender shrugged and moved to the woman next to him, who thanked him warmly. He turned and leaned against the bar, his shoe hooked on the foot rail. It was a good vantage point to watch the table. Jada was practically sitting in Michael’s lap, laughing at something he’d said. Kate seemed to appreciate the joke too, though she was more intent on the music than the conversation, one of her hands tapping in time to the beat. As if feeling his gaze, she looked up and smiled before returning her attention to the music. He could have watched her for hours.


49

Tamara Morgan

So, of course, he turned away. “Cool down, Jules,” he muttered, inspecting the marble bar, black and sleek like the rest of the place. It helped, the detached urbanity of it all. This wasn’t his world, and it wasn’t the right time to get swept up in it. Not until he had that Rockland Bluff sponsorship firmly under his sporran could he devote more time to all the things he’d been neglecting for the past decade. His mom. His sisters. His love life. They were all important, he wouldn’t deny it, and he wanted nothing more than to go sit across from that woman and find out more about her sense of vigilante justice and Regency undergarments. But it would be foolish to throw it all away now. His turn came, and he ordered drinks for the table—vodka tonics for the women and plain beer for he and Michael. He easily held two glasses in each of his hands as he headed back toward the table. Where things were apparently heating up. Jada had jumped up from the table and had a hand on either hip, glaring down at Michael as though he’d wronged her a thousand times over. Kate held her lower lip captive with her teeth, looking at Julian anxiously. “What’s going on?” He set the drinks on the table and studied their faces. “What happened?” “Your big, dumb jock of a friend here called Kate a psycho.” Jada pointed an accusatory finger at Michael, who held up his hands in mock surrender. As if on cue, the piano music picked up, a suspenseful and low thrumming sound holding them all in a state of suspension. The music shifted. “No, he didn’t.” Kate sighed. “Calm down, Jada. All he said is I’m crazy if I think Julian’s going to back down.”

50



“Back down from what?” He wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed, but he felt his heartbeat pick up, an automatic response to the sudden change in the air. He couldn’t help it. He was able to sense battle like other men sensed desperation. “Your Highland Games. Did you really have it set for the weekend of August the sixteenth? In four weeks?” “Ye-es,” he said carefully. “Why?” “That’s when my event is planned,” she said, her shoulders sagging a little. “I knew this was too good to be true.” A strong surge in his stomach made Julian long to comfort her, but his sense of caution was stronger. “Can’t you just reschedule?” “It’s an important date,” Kate said softly. “You probably wouldn’t understand. It’s…sentimental.” Michael snorted. “Sentimental? The word isn’t even allowed on the playing field. It’s about the might, baby. The brawn. The balls.” “Oh, I’ve got your balls right here.” Jada leaped forward and grabbed at the crotch of Michael’s jeans. Michael howled in a combination of outrage and pain as Jada latched on, her aim true. Julian winced in sympathy. Never one to condone unnecessary violence against men or women, especially in public nightclubs, he tried to pull Jada away as gently as he could. It would have been easy to forcibly eject her from the scene, but things hadn’t progressed that far. At least Michael was still breathing. Kate’s soft voice behind him stilled his movements. “She’s just trying to prove a point. She’ll let go in a second.” “I don’t have a second!” Michael howled. “She’s ripping the bloody things off!”


51

Tamara Morgan

Julian was never more grateful than when Peterson came up behind Jada and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. He had a feeling everyone was exaggerating the severity of the issue. “Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to release this man’s testicles.” The note of authority in his voice registered better than Michael’s howls, and Jada immediately released her hold and stepped back. Michael bent over double, rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clutching his balls with more tenderness than they’d probably seen in years. When he looked up, his eyes streamed with moisture. Not tears—not from a man like him. They were drops of pure pain, spilled right from their most primal source. “That bitch is crazy,” he panted. “You’re going to have to leave,” Peterson said stonily. “You and your friend. We don’t allow attacks of a sexual nature here.” He continued holding Jada back with one hand, as if she might attack again. Julian, for one, was glad. He angled his body behind a chair just in case. Kate moved stealthily behind him, picking up their purses and things, murmuring repeated apologies to the still-bent Michael. “I’m so sorry, Julian,” she said under her breath. “I’m not quite sure what got into her. Too much vodka, probably. She’s very protective of me.” “So it seems.” He scrawled his phone number and full name onto one of the cocktail napkins littering the table and pressed it into her hand. “You don’t have to call, but I’d like it if you did. And I’m sorry about Cornwall Park. Maybe I can help you find somewhere else.” She looked at the piece of paper and then back up at him, her eyes glinting with sparks of green around the center. “You can what?”

52



“I’d like to help. I know some good places around here.” “But Cornwall Park is a good place.” “Well, it’s obviously already taken,” he said slowly. “You’ll have to find another venue.” “Um…I’m sorry. I don’t remember discussing the subject. You don’t own it—it’s a public park. You said so yourself.” The pianos stopped, and a round of applause broke out around them. Julian felt himself swirling in the sounds, unable to look away as Kate flushed with emotion. “You’re joking, right? I mean, the SHS has been there for years.” “Look—can we talk about this later?” She laid a hand on his arm. It was a simple gesture, light and innocent, but the sensations it evoked were anything but easy. His body stirred, and all the fight in him melted into a pool of acquiescence. He wanted nothing more than to feel that hand moving up his arm, twining around his neck. He wanted to take the hand in his own, press it and promise it whatever it asked. For a brief and frightening moment, he thought he might give up Cornwall Park for it. For her. It scared the shit out of him. Sorry, Harold. He sent up a silent prayer. Battering ram or not, this was the moment of retreat. He was going to have to quash the warm feeling in his gut before it took hold. He was going to have to play the Highland warrior card. He pulled away and allowed his face to change into its natural, stony front. “We can talk all you want, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s not a whole lot else to discuss.” Kate’s face fell, and his stomach fell with it. Remembering their discussion from before, he hammered in the final nail. “I guess you’re just going to have to move your silly little book club somewhere else.”


53

Tamara Morgan

His words had the opposite effect than he’d imagined. Her eyes didn’t fill with tears, and she didn’t storm off in a huff. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and Julian realized with a chill that she was moving her Cadillac to the center of the road. “Excuse me? What did you say?” Michael, Jada and Peterson all looked up. The room stopped, and everyone in it might have looked up too. Julian couldn’t tell. “That there is nothing to discuss.” He was resolute. He had to be. “After that.” She clenched her teeth as she spoke, and her entire body stilled. “About my little club,” she added. Julian chose his words carefully, calculating them to hit like perfectly landed blows. Michael and Peterson stood there, watching him, counting on him. Those two men practically were the SHS. He was the SHS. Years of dedication to history and tradition had taught him if there was one thing the Scottish never did, it was give in to the British. And no woman’s touch would ever be able to change that. “Let’s not pretend we’re talking about the same thing here,” Julian said coolly. He aligned himself next to his friends, all three of them straightening as one. “You’re talking about dressing up and reading some old books with a few of your friends. I’m talking about a major athletic event that’s been going on for centuries. You and I both know all that Jane Austen stuff is fluff. Romantic fluff.” “You got that right,” Peterson muttered. Julian had no idea if Peterson knew what was going on, but the man had his back anyway. Warriors. Friends. That’s what they did. “It’s not fluff, but it is romantic.” Kate busied herself with shoving her arms into a white sweater, but Julian didn’t miss the expression on her face. Pain.

54



Anger. He knew them well. “Jane Austen is worth serious study if only because men knew how to behave back then.” Jada nodded. “In a more gentlemanlike manner,” she added. Julian gave a bitter laugh. Gentlemanlike. He knew all about women’s fanciful notions of a gentleman. He knocked on their front door with ten dozen roses and a white horse. He gave up his land for a chaste peck on the cheek and declarations of undying love. But Julian knew a real man stood up for himself and protected his own. He fought for what was his. “I’m sorry,” Julian said, “but you’re wrong. The only thing that makes the nineteenth century the least bit romantic is that it was the first time men and women starting having sex from behind. All that romance had nothing to do with tea and ball gowns. It was about hard, dominant, mind-blowing sex.” Kate’s eyes widened and her face paled. She couldn’t have reacted any stronger if he’d smacked her across the cheek. “That’s offensive.” “No, Kate, it’s true,” Jada interjected. “I was reading on the subject the other day. It had to do with issues of hygiene.” “Exactly.” Julian nodded, barely even recognizing himself as he shot out the words. “Give a woman a bath, and every man suddenly wants to be hitting it doggy-style. That’s your romance.” Kate stared at him as Peterson and Michael shook with muffled laughter behind him. Julian almost got caught up in the hilarity of the moment himself. It was absurd—he’d just betrayed every minute of the polite upbringing his mother had worked so hard to instill. In a dueling piano bar. Over a tract of land. With a


55

Tamara Morgan

woman he wouldn’t mind having hard, dominant, mind-blowing sex with right that minute. But he didn’t budge. Kate came closer, the top of her head just reaching his shoulder, not the least bit dismayed to find herself at a physical disadvantage. “You may be big and you may be strong, but that doesn’t mean you get to make all the rules.” “I just did.” “No. All you did was confirm my original suspicions—I thought you were different. I thought you were nice. But you’re just like every other man I’ve ever met. It’s all fun and games until you don’t get what you want—but no worries. If there’s one thing that’s easy to do, it’s push Kate Simmons out of the way. She doesn’t matter. She’s easy to walk all over.” His resolution wavered. “That’s not what I meant.” “Yes,” she said quietly, her voice and gaze trained on him with intense concentration. It was more effective than if she’d been shouting at the top of her lungs. “It was.” He splayed his hands helplessly. What else was there to say? She was right, and he felt like the biggest jerk in the world for saying it, but he’d already made his decision. The Games came first. “We’ll go.” She grabbed Jada’s arm and pointed her friend toward the door. “But don’t think that means we’re done here.” He wished rather than believed that to be true. Before they were out of earshot, his friends finally let loose a loud whoop, half war-cry, half hilarity, and wholly inappropriate for the time and the place. Kate heard it and turned to stare at them. For a second, he thought the flash of emotion that crossed her face was bringing her close to tears.

56



He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was as though she were memorizing every last detail of their triumph, savoring it to chew up and spit out later. Julian stopped, suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding. He recognized that look, because he’d worn it himself a few times. On the battlefield. Facing down an enemy. It was how wars began.


57

Chapter Four

Removing the Kidskin Gloves

“Call him.” Kate blinked sleepily. She hadn’t even realized Jada was still there. Jada had come over painfully early considering what time they’d returned home from Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint the night before. That was the downfall of having a friend who got up at four o’clock every morning for work. To Jada, sleeping in until eight was a disgusting display of slovenliness. Kate had answered her door that morning to let Jada in when she came knocking, but she’d stumbled back on the couch and fell into a catnap without offering her friend so much as a “hello”. “How long have you been here? What time is it?” “I’ve been watching you sleep for about an hour. You know, for all the crap you have in here, your house is really clean. I had no idea you folded your underwear.” Kate bolted upright, pulling her hand-knit afghan around her. “You spent the morning snooping in my underwear drawer? Jeez, Jada. I had no idea your life was that boring.” “My life isn’t boring—yours is. That’s my point. Call him.” “And say what? ‘Gee, thanks for the drinks last night. Sorry you acted like an insensitive jerk and we had to cut it short’?” Jada flopped onto the couch next to her. It was a stuffed, purple velvet Victorian piece—all intricate carvings and very little comfort. It matched the rest of Kate’s furniture, a hodgepodge of vintage pieces she’d found at antique stores


throughout the years—more sentimental than functional. Her dining room table was missing most of one leg, a stack of old hardback copies of Nancy Drew books keeping it from toppling down altogether. “Oh, I don’t know. How about, ‘Your dark and brooding ways pierce straight to my quivering womb’? Or, ‘You know, I’d love nothing more than to cast these Regency women to the wolves and watch you and your friends run around that park in short skirts’?” Jada crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “This shouldn’t be a tough call to make.” Kate sighed. She knew what Jada was thinking—gorgeous men. Big logs. Kate had been dreaming of almost the same thing for most of the night— gorgeous man. Big log. She got up and stretched, padding her way into the kitchen to start the water boiling for her French press. “I’m not going to call him. I barely know the guy, and most of the time he sat there with a frown on his face.” “Yeah—and you know what he was doing the rest of the time?” Kate colored. She did. Up until the argument, she’d been almost convinced Jada was right—Julian did want to take her over his shoulder and have his way with her back in his cave, pressed up against the cold rock wall, his body supplying all the heat she’d ever need. She shivered, even though her old, poorly insulated house was already growing hot for the day. “You heard him,” she said, slamming the cupboard shut and forcing her mind to clear of the erotic images that had fueled so many different dreams during the night. “He assumed his event was more important than mine and that I’d give up my plans for his. Did you see the way he took over the drink order and tried to tell me where to go? Controlling—that’s what he is. Like I don’t already have enough of that in my life.”


59

Tamara Morgan

Jada gave a sigh, casting her eyes up to the ceiling. “Oh, I do love a masterful man.” “You call him, then.” She poured some coffee grounds into the bottom of the canister, spilling most of them all over the counter. Jada stepped in and took over, directing Kate to a stool at the kitchen island. “What was he thinking? Opening your car door and buying you drinks. The nerve.” “He laughed at me, Jada, and after I told him how important the group is. It’s one thing when you make fun of the JARRS—it’s another when a guy like that does it, and in front of his friends, no less. You’ve earned the right to mockery after fifteen years of friendship. I don’t owe that man a thing.” Jada finished preparing the coffee and set an empty cup on the counter in front of Kate. “No, you don’t. But wouldn’t you like to? Just imagine how he’d exact payment.” She gave a little shimmy for good effect. Kate rolled her eyes. Owing that man anything was too dangerous to even contemplate. He was like the Scotsmen of old, stealing cattle all along the border and celebrating his victories with home-brewed whisky and arms full of bosomy women. Being indebted to him would be akin to being an insect pegged against a board, wriggling helplessly under the gaze of those dark, piercing, unreadable eyes. It was a bad idea every way she looked at it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d come across a man who went so wholly against her ideals of gentlemanly behavior. She’d always sought out mild-mannered, professional men. Gentlemen. Men who knew the difference between champagne and sparkling wine—who treated her not like an object of lust or derision, as the situation called for it, but like someone to be cherished from every angle.

60



Kate was a romantic. She knew that. Too many years spent reading historical novels and watching her parents exist in a farcical marriage in which neither party respected the other had taught her to appreciate a different type of man than the ones who existed today. She wanted grand, sweeping gestures that indicated a lasting commitment. She wanted a slow courtship in which her mate couldn’t help but be taken in by her fine eyes. She wanted… Well, she wouldn’t know for sure what it was until she found him. But Julian Wallace—mocking, domineering Julian Wallace—wasn’t it. That much she knew. Her reaction to him was purely physical. Carnal. Not nearly enough to found a romance for the ages. And that was all she wanted. A romance that could be written in the annals of time. Was that asking so much? “I still don’t see what calling Julian will accomplish. I don’t want to date him. I want Cornwall Park.” Jada plopped her forehead down on the counter in mock exasperation. “Invite him over, Katy-did. Use the gifts God gave you to get what you want. A little shake here and a pout there, and it’s yours.” “No way. It would never work.” “Who are you kidding? I saw him practically having sexual relations with your leg last night. If there’s any man in the world you could make bow to your charms, he’s it.” “You think?” Doubt furrowed her brow. “I don’t think. I know. Trust me. Reading male cues is the one thing I’m excellent at.” It wasn’t a good idea on so many levels Kate lost track of them all. It was wrong to try to manipulate a man that way. It was wrong to try to have anything to do with Julian again. In fact, she should drop everything now and sever the ties with him for good.


61

Tamara Morgan

For good was an awfully long time. Her stomach gave a queer flip that not even the scent of fresh coffee could appease. “Okay. I’ll do it.” Jada gave a cheer and clapped her hands. “That’s my girl! Oh, and while he’s here, will you please find out for me what they wear under those kilts?”

Kate had never been happier to get an answering machine in her life. Of course, she’d rehearsed her lines several times. More than rehearsed. She and Jada had spent the morning making a flowchart outlining Julian’s possible responses and what Kate might say in return. It was several pages long. Okay, ten pages long and covered in a spatter of coffee from when Jada spilled hers in a peal of mirth. The directives for delivery were Kate’s favorite parts. “Can’t wait to see you” should be uttered in throaty, breathless tones. “You’ve been very, very naughty” had to carry a hint of the sultry in order to come off right. And right before she left Kate to her own devices, Jada had scrawled something about the size of the haggis being the measure of a man across the bottom of the last page. Kate laid the pages across her bed, hoping to draw strength from them. Nefarious seduction wasn’t exactly her normal line of work. But when she finally got up the nerve to call, he didn’t pick up. Instead, she got an answering machine message in that low, rough voice of his. Sorry, I’m not in right now. Please leave a message. Short. To the point. This wasn’t a man who played games or beat around the bush. He was a warrior in the most time-honored sense possible. He came, he saw, he conquered. Kate tried to figure out which step they were supposed to be on right now.

62



And then she promptly forgot all her lines. “Yeah, hi. Julian? This is Kate. Kate Simmons. From yesterday?” She winced as she faltered over her own name. “So, I was wondering if you might be interested in talking over our…disagreement. I think maybe we can work something out. At least, I hope so. I get home from work tomorrow around five, so any time after that would be good for me.” She pressed a thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose. This wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped. All the words they’d written across the pages were cascading into an unreadable jumble of letters and punctuation marks. She hurriedly gave him her address and phone number. “Um, and I can’t wait to see you,” she added. The words were not breathy. In fact, she may not have taken in a single breath during that whole call. Crap. Foot, meet mouth. Head, meet wall. Kate clicked off the cell phone with a fierce stab, throwing herself on the bed, flowchart and all. There. It was over and done with. All she had to do was turn off her ringer and let him leave her a message in return. But the phone was still in her hand when it started ringing. The numbers flashed before her eyes. He was calling her back. No games. No nonsense. “Hello?” she asked tentatively. “Kate? It’s Julian.” She responded with a squeak. It was all she could manage. Her tongue had suddenly turned into a sponge, soaking up every last bit of moisture in her mouth. It was one thing to plot out a man’s seduction in the middle of day with Jada giggling by her side. It was quite another to do it.


63

Tamara Morgan

“I got your message. I’m actually in the neighborhood right now. Is it okay to stop by this evening instead of tomorrow?” Kate looked frantically around her bedroom, but other than the papers lying around the room like oversized confetti, it was immaculate. Just like the rest of her house—right down to the underwear drawer. Jada was right. She needed a life. She forced her tongue to unstick from the roof of her mouth. “Yes, it’s fine.” “You’re sure?” “Of course. I’m just…lounging at home.” She nodded to herself. It was a good word, lounging. It sounded relaxed. Seductive. Like she was Doris Day, sipping cocktails in a silk nightie, waiting for her fluffy pink phone to ring. “I can’t wait to see you,” she added. “Yeah. You mentioned that.” The two seconds it took Julian to hang up the phone were the longest moments of her life. “Well, that was classy.” Kate rolled off the bed and gathered up all the papers, shoving them deep into the garbage, underneath her old copies of Architectural Digest and a giant wad of used tissues from when she’d watched Gone with the Wind last week. Jada had pulled out the outfit Kate was to wear for this meeting. It was a little black dress that had served as Kate’s default clubbing outfit in her early twenties. It was short. And tight. Something Doris Day would use to wash her dishes. “Forget that,” Kate mumbled. She shoved it back in her closet, way in the back, where all her fashion missteps went to die. The dress she had on, a simple white eyelet summer dress that skimmed the tops of her knees, would have to do.

64



A quick brush through her hair and a touch of lip gloss completed her look. She was on a time crunch, after all. She went to the living room and sat on the couch, crossing her legs and leaning casually across the back. Gretna watched her from the other end. “What are you looking at?” she asked the animal. “I’m practicing looking seductive.” Gretna was a tabby, big and rough and sporting one heavily scarred ear. Kate had him for years, ever since she’d first moved into the house. The people who owned it before her were the types who left their cat behind to either starve or find a new way of life. Gretna had been close to the former, all mangy fur and sharp claws. But she’d seen in an instant the potential that rested behind a few hundred dollars’ worth of vet bills and a lifetime supply of the fancy cat food the ads always showed being served with a snip of fresh parsley. A heavy knock startled them both. The cat handled his fear easily, transforming it into a casual grooming session, but Kate wasn’t quite as quick at the recovery. She smoothed her hands over her dress and swallowed, one deep breath moving her all the way to the front door to pull it open. “Julian!” she called brightly. But her next words—whatever they were supposed to be—died in her throat. It had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d seen him, and the fact that he was almost six feet of pulsating muscle had somehow escaped her memory. His stubble was a little more pronounced today, the shadow of his facial hair gruff and sexy in all the right ways. He wore a simple black T-shirt over faded jeans, not too different from what he’d worn the night before at the bar. The clothes fit like they were molded to his body, his hard pecs clearly visible through the material—his ass, Kate knew, a perfect symmetry of taut flesh. He didn’t even have to try looking good. It just happened. To complete the picture,


65

Tamara Morgan

his arms were crossed casually over his chest, a shopping bag dangling from one hand. “I brought a peace offering,” he said, holding out the bag. “You didn’t seem like the chocolate-and-flowers type.” She didn’t? Chocolate and flowers had been a staple on her first dates for as long as she could remember. It was practically tattooed across her forehead. She took the gift and ushered him into the living room, hoping he’d sit in one of the two royal armchairs that sat opposite the couch, since it would save her from the agony of deciding whether to sit next to him or not. So of course he sat all the way at one end of the couch, leaving ample room for both Kate and Gretna to settle in comfortably. She settled but not comfortably. Perched on the edge of the seat, which was as far as her sense of self-preservation allowed her, she realized how much she needed to get the thing reupholstered. “Open it.” Julian gestured toward the bag. Kate pulled out a toy package with a plastic window on the front. Inside was a small Jane Austen action figure, complete with a writing desk and a quill pen. The box bragged she had bendable limbs and real society manners. It was little. A novelty item. Nothing, really. But she felt the depth of the gesture as if he’d laid out an array of diamonds. He’d thought of her—of what was important to her—before she even called him. Probably while she and Jada were busy plotting ways to bring him down. Her first reaction was to burst into sobs. So she laughed instead. “I’ll have to get some GI Joe dolls so I can set up a whole scene.” She smiled. “Wartime Jane, with Napoleonic action. I bet she could take the Cobra.”

66



“But not Hawk,” Julian returned with perfect solemnity. “Jane could never take Hawk. He’s got Duke to cover him.” He leaned back against the couch and crossed one foot on the opposite knee in a perfectly masculine repose. “I don’t have nearly as much action-hero knowledge as I let on,” Kate confessed, setting the doll carefully on the table. She seemed right at home there. So did Julian. She scowled at her own thoughts. It was nerves. They were making her susceptible to all sorts of wayward emotions that had no place there. “I’m an only child,” she explained, leaning back and trying to keep the conversation light. “So it was all Barbies and rainbows and pink ribbons when I was growing up.” “I was the same way,” Julian replied. He laughed and added, “Not the pink ribbons, of course. But about not playing very much with action heroes. My mom moved here from Guam when I was a baby, and she never quite caught on to the American pop-culture craze while I was growing up.” “You don’t have any siblings, either?” “Two sisters, but they came quite a bit later. Later enough that my mom modernized and supplied them with plenty of Barbies and rainbows.” It was odd to think of this man with sisters and a mother. It made him more human—turned some of the dark to a light that filled the room. And he hadn’t looked disparagingly at her shoes once. “Do they throw hammers and trees too?” she asked, smiling softly. Julian gave a low laugh. “No. My mom makes a mean mince and tatties at one of the food stalls, but my sisters are way too embarrassed by it all to acknowledge me in public.” “Teenagers?” “Like you wouldn’t believe.”


67

Tamara Morgan

“Give them time. I remember once refusing to go to the mall with my dad unless he took off the socks he had on underneath his sandals.” Both she and her mom had been adamant about that. “Did he do it?” Kate smiled, remembering. “No. He put on a fanny pack and a Hawaiian shirt, and then made us spend all day together as a family. I don’t think my mom talked to him for a week after that.” Her dad’s small rebellions were always like that, and once Kate had seen how upset her mom had gotten, she’d started wearing a fanny pack too. In every picture of her at age thirteen, she was smiling widely, her hand resting possessively on the red nylon bag. “I’ll remember that. The surefire way to infuriate a woman is to put on a Hawaiian shirt.” Kate shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. I don’t think there’s anything you could wear that wouldn’t look like it was made for you.” The words slipped out before she realized what she was saying, and she had to sit on her hand to keep from clapping it over her mouth. “I mean—” Julian leaned in closely and shook his head, a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth. “No way. You can’t take it back now. What else do you think about me?” Kate paused. This would be a good place to start stroking his ego and get her seduction underway, and goodness knew there were a dozen compliments that could roll off her tongue. His raw, animal magnetism. The way he could make a woman feel like she was the only person in the room. The unique blend of Guam and Scotland that made him stand prouder and taller than anyone she’d ever met. How soft his lips looked, and how very much she wanted to feel them against her own.

68



But she couldn’t do it. Not with that glittering look in his eyes. Not when she felt so out of control. “Thank you for the gift,” she said evenly, taking a deep breath. “It was a lovely gesture, but you didn’t have to.” He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. I’m glad you like it.” A silence descended over the room, broken only by the contented purr of the cat, which remained lodged in the corner of the couch. “Listen, about last night. I wanted to apologize—” Kate leaped up. “Can I get you a drink? I have wine, beer, water…” He looked up at her with an unreadable expression. “Sure. Whatever. Beer is fine.” She practically ran off to the kitchen. Kate had no idea what to do with all this heady conversation and gifts and apologies—they were most decidedly not in her plan of action. Last night, Julian had been overbearing and rude, using his friends as a shield for mockery. He’d wanted Cornwall Park, and he made it very clear he would use his brawn to get it. Based on what Jada said, the best idea was for her to pay him back in kind, except instead of brawn, she was supposed to use beauty. And brains. Crap. Somewhere in there, she’d forgotten to take brains into account. She peeked out the doorway. Julian sat there looking completely at ease, not at all like a man who was worried about losing his land to a silly little woman. He looked like a man who knew what he wanted and always got it. Because he was big. Because he was strong. Because he was gorgeous. He was playing her. Like she was playing him. But he was doing it better.


69

Tamara Morgan

She stormed back into the kitchen and opened two bottles of Heineken, tossing the caps into the sink with a tinny ring. Her whole life she let other people make the rules and set the course. She always tucked her shoelaces back into her bowling shoes before dropping them off at the counter. She was constantly working double shifts at the bookstore because one of her employees needed time off for a date or day at the beach. And she went home to Seattle for almost every holiday out of the year because that’s when her mother and father felt the heavy burden of their lackluster marriage the most. Kate wanted to come in first for once. She wanted to matter. She wanted to win. This time, when she resumed her place on the couch, she was careful to sink lower into the cushions, not stopping until her thigh was inches from Julian’s. Her dress even had the good fortune to creep up until her whole thigh was exposed, and she just let it, her skin flashing brazenly in the warm space between them. “Thanks.” Julian took the beer but didn’t drink it. He fiddled with the label until Kate was settled, without so much as a second glance at her leg. “Will you let me apologize now?” “No, I won’t.” Kate ran her fingers through her hair and gave her head a toss. She flashed him a smile and licked her lips invitingly. “I’m inclined to stay mad at you right now.” “You are?” He shifted away from her—not enough to increase the distance between them, but enough so Kate’s confidence wavered. “Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned,” she pointed out, her eyebrow arched. At least, she thought it was arched. How did Jada manage to make it look so easy? “I don’t understand. Have you been scorned?”

70



Kate sat up straight and furrowed her brow. Sure, she was a little out of practice, but she’d never had such a hard time seducing anyone before. All a woman had to do was show up—wasn’t that Sexual Chemistry 101? “Well, yes, last night at the bar. There were words. Inappropriate ones. I was definitely scorned.” “I know you were. That’s why I’m apologizing.” Kate caught a quiver of a smile at the corner of his mouth, a chip in that cool façade. “But I’m not accepting it.” She waggled a finger at him. “Therefore, I remain scorned.” He reached forward and grabbed her finger, setting his beer on the table in one smooth move. His hand was rough, the texture of hard work and honesty. “And what am I supposed to do about that?” She widened her eyes and gulped—a reaction that wasn’t completely faked. His hand moved up hers, little prickles of sensation following everywhere he touched. It suddenly seemed very difficult to determine who was seducing whom. “Nothing,” she whispered as his hand reached her arm. His fingers grazed lightly over her forearm, the little hairs standing up in anticipation of his arrival. She licked her lips. “But I might be persuaded to let you make it up to me.” He traced the path of her tongue on her lips with the warm pad of his thumb, his hand cupping her neck and pulling her closer. This time when he shifted, it was in her direction, so close she could have moved a tiny bit and found herself entirely ensconced in his lap. “I think that sounds like a great idea.” His words came out in a warm tumble of breath and heat. His lips hovered above her own, so close, so inviting— The phone rang, a shrill break that cleared Kate’s head at once. She sat back with a jolt. That wasn’t the sound of her cell phone—it was her land line. A


71

Tamara Morgan

number used only by telemarketers, her mother and Jada. Telemarketers never called on Sunday, and her mother never called after cocktail hour. Jada, on the other hand, would keep trying until Kate finally picked up the phone. It was a rule they had to prevent the untimely consumption of Kate’s potentially dead body by a starving Gretna. “I have to get that,” Kate apologized. Julian flashed a smile—one she was rapidly becoming to associate with him. Small and private. Almost too quick to catch. Meant only for her. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep.” Her phone, a vintage 1920s contraption that brought to mind the telephone Mrs. Martin always used to call the police when Timmy had, once again, fallen down the well, was tucked in a cozy alcove off the kitchen. A door and a seat turned it into a private phone booth designed for her. “Your decades are ridiculously out of order,” Jada had protested when the instrument first arrived. “If you really want to be historically accurate, you shouldn’t have a phone at all. Or penicillin. Or tampons.” “Jada, you’re missing the entire point of my aesthetic,” Kate had protested. “It’s not the details of history. It’s the idea, the impression.” She’d snorted in reply. “You need help, Kate.” But the privacy of the booth came in handy, especially in moments like these. Kate slid onto the brocade cushion and picked up the receiver, a black porcelain mouthpiece she had to hold right up to her lips. “Jada, we have a situation.” “I know. I left my purse there this morning.” “Not that,” she hissed, cupping the receiver with her hand. “He’s here. Now.”

72



“Damn, that was fast. How’s it going? Is he eating out of the palm of your hand? Ready to slay dragons and bestow on you the rights to all his royal lands? No—don’t tell me! He’s getting ready to plunder your booty!” “Those are pirates, not Scotsmen. Besides, it’s all gone backwards.” “He’s not falling for it? You must be doing something wrong. Are you wearing the dress?” Kate kicked at the wall in impatience. “No, Jada. Stop! Listen. He’s somehow turned everything around—I think he’s seducing me.” Jada let out a low whistle. “Clever. Damn clever. I didn’t see that coming— he’s better at this than we thought. Okay, you definitely need to get in control of the situation. Option A, you hang up the phone right now, rip off your clothes, saunter in there and tell him where he can lick it.” “Ja-da!” Kate muffled her laugh. “No? Okay, Option B, you say to hell with all this park stuff and go enjoy that big hunk of man love.” “That’s it? That’s your sage advice? Jada, it was your idea for me to seduce Julian and get him to back off the land in the first place.” She heard the shatter of a full beer bottle hitting the floor. The sliding door to the alcove was ajar, and it moved easily underneath her palm as she jumped out to find Julian standing in the middle of the kitchen, a puddle of amber liquid pooling at his feet. This was not part of the plan. He didn’t look at all like a man about to give in to her feminine demands. He looked…furious. “Julian… I…” She didn’t know how to continue, so she walked forward with her hand outstretched, hoping that small bit of human connection might give her the words. “It’s not what you think.”


73

Tamara Morgan

He backed away from her as if she might burn him with her touch, and the look he gave her was one she would never forget. Like she’d risen from the dead—or from an underworld that was much, much worse in its eternal consequences. “This is a game to you? This whole time—all of it? You’re playing a game?” “No, it’s not a game. It’s Jada, she…” The words sounded lame even to her own ears. “Oh, I see. It’s one of those many tricks your friend makes you do. How flattering.” Kate felt as though she’d been slapped. Her face burned and her ears rang. “It’s not what you think,” she repeated. Julian kicked at the broken shards of glass. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. You tried to get your way, but it didn’t work. That’s all there is to it. I’m glad I know what you are now, before things went any further. Thanks for the beer and the good time, but I’m out of here.” He stopped when he caught a glimpse of a stack of papers on the kitchen island. They were the invitation mockups for the Fauxhall Gardens. She and Jada had been looking them over earlier—years ago, it suddenly seemed. Julian picked one up and waved it around. “This party of yours isn’t going to happen, so you might as well give up now.” “Give that back.” Kate jumped forward to grab it out of his hand, but she slipped in the pool of beer and went careening right into the kitchen island. She was about to fall into the shards of glass when one of Julian’s warm arms wrapped around her waist.

74



She could hear a string of muttered curses as he placed her gently down on the ground, a safe distance from the kitchen island. But he didn’t look at her once, and his hands didn’t linger for a second longer than they had to. Without another word, Julian shoved the crumpled invitation in his pocket and stalked out the door, leaving Kate sitting on the floor next to a spreading puddle of lukewarm beer and feeling sorrier for herself than she had in a long, long time.


75

Chapter Five A Scottish Rogue

Julian pulled into the parking lot of the tiny tailor shop and pounded on his brakes, gravel crunching under the weight of his Ford F-250. He was about to leap out of the cab and slam the door to complete the effect, but he saw his mom’s car parked a few spots down. Relaxation settled over him, and he found his legs were perfectly capable of functioning in calm, walking mode. In the whirlwind of activity over the last few days, he’d forgotten she mentioned meeting him here this morning. “Julian!” she called as he pulled open the door, the tinkling of bells heralding his arrival in the small, twenty-by-twenty space that was the only location in the entire city capable of properly sewing and fitting formal Highland dress. “Hey, Mom.” She jumped up from her chair and gave him a hug, her arms not quite able to circle all the way around him. It was good to see her. So far, he’d been spending most of his time at the sparse apartment he kept for his stays in town. He’d been meaning to visit his mom’s house, but fate, in the shape of Kate Simmons, had intervened. That was the one thing he’d been trying to avoid. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by Kate in the first place, and now it seemed his mom had been the one to pay the toll—a fact that was reinforced by the tears gathered in the wrinkled corners of her eyes. Julian suddenly felt all the guilt of the world come crashing onto his shoulders, an Atlas playing catch with the gods. He should come home more. Send money more. Do more. Be more.


“You look well,” his mother gushed, clearly thinking none of those things. “But you always do. So much man in there.” She pointed at his chest and beamed. She was a short woman—half Japanese, half Chamorro, almost as wide as she was tall—but that didn’t stop her from the ceaseless activity that had characterized her for as long as Julian could remember. As a young kid, it had been twelve-hour nursing night shifts that kept her moving. When he was older, his mother’s marriage to his stepfather, Harold, had allowed her to cut back her work hours, but she’d thrown herself into raising his sisters instead. Julian didn’t think he’d ever seen her sit still for longer than a few minutes at a time. “Mom, I think you should go on a vacation,” he said suddenly, motioning for her to take a seat before settling next to her. It sounded like Irina, the tailor, was busy in the back room with another client. This time of year was always busy for her. “A vacation? Isn’t that what this is? Seeing you?” Julian’s stomach fell heavily, guilt creeping along the edges. “I meant something fun. Just for you. Like that boat we talked about before.” He’d been on her to go on one of those old-lady cruises for years. She could play bridge and flirt with old men carrying crates of Viagra onboard—Lord knew she deserved it, having a son like him to look after. “Oh no, Julian. Not me.” “It’s not like I’m asking you for thousands of dollars to fund a band or something, Mom. Or telling you I’m giving up the Games and taking monastic vows. All I want is for you to do something for yourself for once.” She offered an ambiguous smile. “And what about your sisters? Or the house? You’re a sweet boy to say so, but I’m doing fine. Now, if only you’d transfer some of that concern to a nice girl—”


77

Tamara Morgan

Julian held up one of his hands. “Fair enough. Subject dropped.” The last thing he wanted to start discussing this morning was women. Women who caused him to lose sleep and precious practice time. Women with deep-seated impulses to lie and manipulate. He got up and started pacing the waiting room, scanning the different plaids on the walls. Irina kept a swatch of every tartan she’d ever worked with, overlapping them until the entire space was almost completely wallpapered in them. Yellow, blue, green and red stripes of all colors filled the walls, a patchwork of history and tradition. He fingered a deep red plaid crossed with a slate blue, the Wallace family tartan, the woven wool heavy and comforting. A man couldn’t wear the rough plaid and not be aware of every single movement, the weight of history wrapping around his waist and forcing his chest to swell with pride. There was nothing like a kilt to set men to rights and women aflame. It was the unofficial family motto, one that Julian had learned from his stepfather long before most boys knew what it meant to ignite a woman’s passions. It was one of the many things he’d loved about his mother’s husband. Bright, bold and sprouting hair from almost every inch of skin, Harold had been exactly what a shy, awkward, fatherless boy of ten had needed. Harold had given Julian his first kilt that year, when he was still so young and far from convinced that there was anything about the colorful plaid that didn’t signal “kick me in the ribs until my internal organs bleed”. The fabric had hung down to Julian’s painfully knobby knees, the white shirt billowing around him and making him look like an elf in giant’s clothes. “They’ll murder me,” Julian had whispered then, standing next to Harold, who was also in full dress and beaming with the pride of it all. Whereas Harold had looked as though he’d stepped right out of the Highlands, the big, hairy

78



sporran hinting at the male prowess hidden underneath, Julian looked ridiculous. He was a little island boy who’d never seen the ocean, the result of an island girl’s one-night stand with a tall, handsome navy officer. His heritage was written in the planes of his face and the color of his skin, and until then he’d never been able to feel a physical connection to the warrior culture that had bred him. Harold breathed might and power and confidence. With a tweak of Julian’s ears, which stuck out painfully far from his recent buzz-cut, his stepfather gave him the oldest and most paternal advice known to humankind. “Man up and own it.” With a wink and a laugh, Harold had added, “Stand with your legs at least a hip’s width apart and keep that chin held high. Women will fall in your wake. I guarantee it.” And they had. That weekend, Julian’s first ever visit to the Scottish Highland Games, every single girl over the age of sixteen had fallen immediately to her knees, squeezing him with affection and declarations of “adorable!” All those breasts pressed against him were soft, pliable and warm—and they had changed him. It was one of those pivotal moments of boyhood when he realized there was much more to the world than backyard forts and bicycle races. There were boobs. And they were wonderful. There was more too. Women dancing the fierce, practiced steps of the Highland Laddie became a line of bouncing parts. Hair, skirts, breasts. The men with veins outlined on their forearms and necks were fierce barbarians one moment, demonstrating superhuman might on the playing field, only to be transformed into regal idols fit for feminine adoration the next. Over the next few years, Julian came to learn the whole thing was one big, pulsating orgy waiting to happen.


79

Tamara Morgan

The key to becoming a part of it was the kilt. And when that kilt was paired with a unique coloring that added a hint of mystery and individuality, it only greased his entrance into this enticing, feral world. He’d stolen his first kiss at a Scottish Highland festival. It had been a hasty, wet affair he’d known needed a little work. When he’d confessed the entire escapade, Harold patted him on the back and promised many more untold delights in the magical mystery that was woman. God, he missed that man. He’d been gone six years, and Julian still didn’t know who was suffering the most—his mother, his two sisters or the little boy who occasionally peeked out from underneath his own rough exterior. “If it isn’t my two favorite Scots,” the tailor called out, interrupting his reverie as she emerged from behind the dark curtain separating the storefront from her workspace. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Irina was tall, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, thin wire glasses seemingly stapled to a face that was composed almost entirely of angles. She was the kind of woman one would have expected to turn out impeccable suits that cost more than most people’s cars. She should have known nothing about kilts and everything about European design—but she could work a man in a skirt like no one else. The client Irina had been attending emerged out from the curtain behind her. There was a slight swagger to his steps, and he carried an almost palpable aura of antagonism. Julian stopped. He recognized that antagonism. He’d known Duke Kilroy as long as he’d known Peterson and Michael. They’d been something of a brat pack back then, four young men learning the ways of the Highlands—only Kilroy had failed to learn the most valuable lesson of all. Honor.

80



Julian forced the smile on his face to freeze there for as long as he could possibly hold it. “Kilroy,” he said, nodding. Duke Kilroy’s own face was held in a mask of barely concealed hostility. “Wallace. What a pleasant surprise.” Julian tensed. There was nothing pleasant about being caught in a confined space with that man. “And Mrs. Wallace,” Kilroy called. He grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips and offering her a dazzling smile Julian knew worked well on women of all ages. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since last year’s Games. My mother had hoped to see you at her Christmas party this year. You couldn’t make it?” His mother smiled politely but didn’t respond. Julian had to bite his tongue to accomplish the same level of outward calm. All of them knew his mother hadn’t received an invitation to Kilroy Hall for this Christmas or any other holiday event. Duke and his family had made it patently clear over the years the Wallace family wasn’t quite up to their caliber— not even fit to wash the precious marble steps leading up to their twenty-acre estate. Julian refused to look away from Kilroy’s cold blue eyes. One more word. Let the bastard say one more word against his family, and Julian would have him running faster than the French at wartime. Irina, always cool and diplomatic, intervened. She brushed past Kilroy and focused her attention on Julian’s mother. “Well, are we fitting you for a sash today, Chika, or just your fine, strapping son in his kilt?” His mother laughed and turned away from Kilroy, effectively dismissing him from her presence without another thought. She had power, his mother. She might be small and she might not have even a hundredth of the Kilroy wealth, but she had power.


81

Tamara Morgan

“Oh, Irina. I couldn’t possibly. No one cares what the little old lady serving up the haggis wears.” “Thank you, Duke. I’ll call you when your kilt is ready.” Irina’s voice was kind but firm as she ushered him to the front door. Not even Kilroy’s pig-headed crudity could keep him in a room against Irina’s iron will. But of course, the man had to get the last word. “Looking forward to seeing you at the practice field, Wallace. It’s always such fun when you’re in town. You’re the only one who can come close to my record. But then, neither you or your dad was ever able to beat it, were you?” As if Julian needed a reminder. Kilroy had broken the record in the hammer throw—one hundred eightyseven feet—back in his early twenties, outstripping Harold’s standing by a good twenty feet. Julian knew full well it was his responsibility to get the family title back. If not for Harold, then for himself. Losing to Kilroy—every single damn time—was excruciating. It would have been easier to bear if Julian thought for a minute Kilroy cheated or manipulated the judging. But Kilroy just won. He was always a little bit stronger, a little bit more successful. And a complete and utter asshole in the bargain. Even now, he refused to leave the shop. He lingered in the doorway like he had a God-given right to oversee everything Julian said or did. “A word, if I might, Wallace?” Julian scowled but followed Kilroy outside the shop. There was no use delaying it. Kilroy would track him down one way or another. Kilroy leaned against the brick wall, his arms crossed. “It’s quite fortuitous we met like this. I’ve been meaning to stop by.” “Good for you.”

82



“I thought maybe a beer or a few practice throws could get us on good terms again. We might be able to reach an accord, you and I.” “I doubt it.” “But you haven’t even given me a chance—always so hasty. Don’t you even want to hear my proposition?” “Cut to the chase, will you?” Julian wasn’t in the mood to put up with Kilroy’s oiled jocularity. “I always liked you, Wallace. Never a man of many words. Well, I’ll have out with it, then. I have twenty thousand dollars with your name on it.” “Do you?” Julian didn’t allow a glimmer of emotion to cross his face, though his stomach flipped at the casualness with which Kilroy dropped the figure “How nice for both of us. I don’t suppose the bank considers it legal tender if you’ve defaced it, do they?” “Oh, it’s legal, all right, and it’s yours for the asking.” “And what, exactly, am I asking?” Kilroy’s lips contorted into a curl of self-satisfaction. “You’re asking yourself if playing in this year’s Games is really that important to you.” “And I know the answer to that question. It’s yes.” A resounding yes, which beat in his heart loud and strong. Kilroy gave a short laugh. “C’mon, Wallace. Who do you think you’re kidding? You have a chance—a very, very remote one—of beating me. And even if you do win, the prize money is five thousand dollars. Hardly enough to set a man up in the style to which he is accustomed, don’t you think?” “You and I both know this isn’t about the prize money, Kilroy. Get to the point. I don’t want to keep Irina waiting. It’s rude.” “You’re right—it’s not about the prize money. It’s about money, period. I have it and you don’t. I’ll tell you what. I’m feeling particularly generous after


83

Tamara Morgan

seeing what a fine figure I cut in my Highland formal. Name your price and it’s done.” The temptation was there, especially with his mom so close by. The whole reason Julian worked so hard was to give her a better life, to bring her up into a more comfortable sphere. And there was nothing illegal about stepping down from the Games. There were a lot of things Kilroy might be angling after— putting on a good show for Rockland Bluff Whisky to get the sponsorship for himself, keeping the competition limited to ensure his reigning title or even painting Julian as the fool. Hell, it could have been all three. But Julian couldn’t do it. No figure was large enough to lay his honor on the line. He was so close to getting the money he needed, and without doing it on Kilroy’s filthy family dime. “See you at the Games, Kilroy,” Julian replied. He turned on his heel and stalked back into the shop, glad when the door stayed firmly shut behind him. He seethed with a thousand emotions, none of which he allowed to rise to the surface. All that showed was a smile for his mom, who placed a gentle hand on his arm and beamed. “Well, Irina, Julian here needs a new kilt for the ceremonies—he’s running this year’s event, so we can’t have him coming out looking like an orphan.” “Should be a good show, if you’re in charge. You’ve always had a good respect for the traditions.” Irina nodded toward Chika. “Will you be joining us?” His mom laughed and waved them off. “Jules hasn’t needed me to help dress him since he was three.” Julian stepped up onto the platform in front of the tripod of rectangular mirrors. Little copies of himself continued on in an infinite pattern, each one scowling and tense. He forced himself to smile as Irina moved effortlessly around him, grabbing pins and measuring tape and eyeing him closely.

84



“You’ve built up quite a bit.” She nodded at his shirt and watched as he lifted it over his head, nothing but professional interest in her eyes. There was a time, in his teens, when standing before this cool, efficient woman had been the height of fantasy. She’d known it, of course. There were certain things a boy could never quite hide from the woman who measured his inseam. “All muscle, I think. But you need to relax or the measurements will be off.” She nodded again, this time toward his jeans. He pulled them off. “Sorry, Irina. I’m a little wound up.” He tossed the pants to her, and the perfectionist in her promptly began folding them. As she did, a crumpled piece of paper floated to the ground. Kate’s invitation. He forgot he’d pulled the same pair of pants on that morning, too tired from a night spent mostly staring at the ceiling to care much about his attire. “Is this important?” Irina asked, picking it up and pointing it at the trash can. Julian furrowed his brow. “It might be.” He took it from her, flattening it out and scanning the contents. It was simple, a beige rectangle with fancy lettering, swirly lines everywhere and the silhouette of a couple dancing across the upper right hand corner. It was pretty basic—one of those things women liked to have for weddings and tea parties. As if a tea party was the slightest bit more important than the Scottish Highland Games. He’d been prepared to admit his wrongdoing. It went against every one of his grains to talk to a woman the way he’d talked to Kate at the bar the other night, but he’d let his anger and yes, he was willing to admit, a little machismo, get in the way of his better judgment. So when he went to her house, he’d had a peace offering in hand—an apology prepared and ready to go. She didn’t know


85

Tamara Morgan

him very well yet, but he rarely said or did things he didn’t stand behind onehundred percent. So apologizing wasn’t something he made a regular habit of. But then she’d shown up at the door to her house wearing the flimsiest dress he’d ever seen, all soft white waves and ruffles. He’d thought it was part of her charm, the way she exuded easy femininity, the way the bare strip of her thigh flashed only when she wasn’t aware of her own majestic movements. Now he knew better. She’d been playing a game. Playing him. He had few requirements for his relationships with women, but among them honesty and sincerity were at the front of the line. A lithe body draped in an ultra-feminine dress and floating with the light scent of cherry blossoms was not. He didn’t care how hard his body protested. And it protested. Hard. He turned the invitation over. “You should go, caro,” Irina said with a smile. She wrapped the plaid around his waist and began sticking pins along the hem. At his inquiring look, she added, nodding at his hand, “To that party.” “I wasn’t invited,” he muttered. The back of the invitation had a few words scrawled along the bottom. Flora Folio. It was probably the name of the printer— Kate must have been getting ready to print and send her invitations. And Cornwall Park’s address was right there, looking him in the face. She was that sure of herself. Irina tsked and whisked the kilt away from his legs. “No? Pity. Maybe it would help you relax. You’re wound tighter than a virgin’s backside.” Julian choked as he pulled his clothes back on. “What did you say?” She ignored him, clicking back into businesslike efficiency. “Your kilt will be ready for the final fitting in two weeks. You’ll be a masterpiece—no one makes

86



my work look as good as you.” She pulled back the curtain and started chatting amiably with his mother, looking back only briefly to offer him a wink. He didn’t move, his mind working fast. A virgin’s backside. There was potential there—quite a bit of potential, actually. He shoved the invitation back in his pocket and joined his mother and Irina, waiting politely for them to finish talking before heading out the door. The warrior inside him itched for a fight—not the fierce clan battles of Scotland or a battle of honor against a neighboring village maga’lahi warrior on a remote Pacific island, but something petty and small. Something that would sneak underneath a certain woman’s skin and cause her to itch and writhe without any way to alleviate the discomfort. And he knew how he was going to do it.

“You look awfully pleased with yourself,” a small, feminine voice said. Julian looked up to find his sister, Beth, leaning in the doorway of their mother’s kitchen, watching him eat oyako-don like it was the first meal he’d had in a week. His mom always made the traditional Japanese egg-and-chicken rice bowl in the weeks leading up to the Games. The dish had been Harold’s favorite. He’d always said the protein provided a man with everything he needed to fight and to fuck—though that last part was offered in a low undertone meant only for Julian’s burning ears. “That’s because I am pleased with myself, little sister.” It had been a few days since he’d visited the tailor, and things were definitely looking up. He stood and gave her a hug, but she disentangled herself with a frown. She was fifteen, the age when affection ruined the painstaking effects of teenage angst. She was a beautiful girl, with his same skin tone, her eyes a lighter shade


87

Tamara Morgan

of brown and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, but her hair was cut at a cross angle to her face, and she had so much eye makeup on she might have been an eighties pop star. He wondered how much time she was spending alone at the house. “I haven’t seen you around the house very much. How are things?” She shrugged. “Fine, I guess.” “That’s it? Nothing new around here?” “What do you want to know?” Beth said. “Mom works a lot, as usual. And Nala is almost never here—she’s got a boyfriend now.” Nala was seventeen, apparently the age when affection came back in full force and attached itself to a teenage male partner. Beth hovered above the table, so Julian kicked out one of the kitchen chairs— the same black-and-brass upholstered ones that had been in his mom’s house for twenty years. The woman never updated a thing. Beth looked at it with a cynical eyebrow raised. Cynical and pierced. Julian wondered how well that had been received. The day he’d come home with his tattoo, a swirling traditional Micronesian pattern across his upper arm and back, his mother had cried. Even after he’d explained—told her it was the story of his heritage, an important reminder to honor all his warrior roots—she’d had to close her eyes every time she saw it for the following three or four years. “So, what—are you living here now?” Julian felt a twinge of guilt. His and Beth’s was not a particularly close relationship—he’d started following the Games ten years ago, when he was eighteen. They’d all expected him to move home for good when Harold died, but Julian always found some way to put it off. He needed more time training. He needed to spend a few long winters in Arizona, building up a savings cushion to

88



supplement the small life insurance policy Harold had left behind along with several years’ worth of medical bills. And now—now he was so close to the Rockland Bluff Whisky sponsorship it would have been ridiculous to cut back his SHS commitments. The money would be enough to let his mother quit working for good. To send both sisters to college with room to spare. “You don’t have to worry anymore,” Harold had said gruffly the day he’d married Chika in a little ceremony at City Hall, followed by a party at the local pub. It was a day that changed everything, when Harold bestowed their little family with his name and the good cheer that followed him wherever he went. Julian had never realized how much they’d struggled until that moment— financially and emotionally. “It’s my job to provide for you both now. That’s what a real man does, Julian. Provides. Remember that.” And he remembered. He remembered every time he sent a check home, and every time he lifted one of the weights to throw across the field wearing the bold Wallace plaid. But there were limits to his dedication. “Live in a house with three women?” Julian laughed off his sister’s scorn. “No thanks. I’m staying at the apartment until after the Games.” “And then?” Julian shrugged and returned his attention to his plate. That depended on a lot of things, not the least of which was finding a way to get Kate Simmons and her Jane Austen book club off his back and out of his mind. “You’re going this year, right?” he asked, almost as an afterthought. Although Beth and Nala had liked the Games well enough as little girls dressed in dancing shoes and with big, bouncing curls in their hair, it was an embarrassing spectacle to them now. Kate was right. Teenagers.


89

Tamara Morgan

“Well, you know…” Beth looked at her fingernails, which were painted a dark black. “I’d like it if you came.” Her eyes snapped up. “Oh. Okay, then. If you want.” She grabbed a soda from the fridge. “But I’m not wearing one of those skirts.” “Then don’t. It’s not for everyone.” He said the words seriously, a man who’d learned the hard way it took quite a bit of confidence to wear a kilt—and to look good doing it. He went home to his apartment not too much later. His mom had gone off to do something called Bunco, and his sisters retreated to their respective caves on the second floor of the house, leaving him sitting in the dated living room by himself, watching television on a ten-inch screen and feeling ineffective. It was difficult, sometimes, to remember they had lives that didn’t involve him, but that was to be expected when he spent so much time away. It was no one’s fault but his own. The night threatened to stretch ominously before him. It was still early—only about eight o’clock—and a quick check in his fridge revealed two lonely little beers. Two beers that wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover the feeling of deflation that was wrapping itself shamelessly around him like a pink, hand-knit shawl. One with lace around the edges. It was only natural—the feeling of deflation. It was the aftermath of making a debilitating blow to the enemy but not being allowed to watch while she fell, shrieking, to her knees. The debilitating blow had been accomplished that morning thanks to Flora Folio, the invitation printer. It hadn’t been hard to track them down. He’d waited a few days, of course, to make sure Kate and her little Jane Austen book club had time to put their order in. Let her think she’d won. That was the first tactic of any

90



good battle—silently retreat from the playing field, all the while crouching, taking tiny steps backward, never moving your eyes from the real prize. Then he’d paid the invitation shop a little visit. It was shameless. He’d gone in with Michael, both of them donning their most charming smiles. Julian wasn’t stupid. He knew what effect his physique had on members of the opposite sex. Highland athletes were one step away from football players when it came to attracting women. They had a tendency to fall in line at the sight of the first flexed muscle. Michael had immediately laid on his signature charm, which Julian never could quite figure out. “Ladies, we’re in need of your help.” The two women in the shop, a young college-age girl whose long, straight hair looked like it weighed more than she did, and a middle-aged woman with fingers dyed black from the printing press they ran in the back, melted into a single puddle of obliging hormones. Julian leaned on the counter and toyed with a display of fabric bookmarks, smiling with as much feeling as he could muster any time one of them looked his way. “My friend here is a man in love.” The bookmark stand went crashing to the ground. Both women pretended not to notice, listening with rapt attention as Michael wove a ridiculous tale of passion, betrayal and a secret marriage proposal no one could know about. The women devoured it, their eyes getting rounder and mistier with each word. The younger one occasionally shot wistful glances Julian’s way, like she wanted to comfort him for all the agony of the love he was trying so hard to endure in stoic silence. It took all the willpower he had not to haul Michael out of there on the spot. But it had worked—every last drop of sentimental overflow.


91

Tamara Morgan

He and Michael had brought a box of invitations with them, its contents based on an almost exact replica of the mockup Julian had taken from Kate’s house. But they were really Julian’s own creation, the result of hours of hard work with PhotoShop and his laptop. The plan was to switch out Julian’s box of invitations with the ones Kate had ordered. Michael convinced the women their box contained an enormous diamond ring and an even bigger cache of all Julian’s affections. They only needed Flora Folio to allow them to make the swap. “In the name of love,” Michael had pleaded. And like that, it was done. Kate would get his box instead of the one she’d ordered. Julian had hung one of the invitations he’d created on his refrigerator. It was a masterpiece of juvenile sabotage. He’d changed the location from the park to the local city dump. That part had been easy. The real achievement was the silhouette of a dancing couple in the corner. They weren’t dancing anymore. They were having sex. Doggy-style. Right there on an invitation to a Regency garden party, about to be sent out to several hundred old ladies who were fond of knitting and kittens. It was risky. Risky and devious and pure genius all in one. Laughing, Julian popped the top off one of the bottles with his fingers, the sharp edge digging underneath his nail. He wished Michael hadn’t abandoned him for the night to go on a date with some woman he’d just met. Julian wanted to celebrate. To rub his victory in Kate’s face—and continue rubbing until it covered her whole body, his hands working it in, slipping underneath the soft silk of her dress. No. He needed beer. Beer and television and maybe a cold shower.

92



He blamed some of his restlessness on the apartment. It was empty and a little sparse, but not in the modern New York loft sense. The obligatory couch, bookshelf and HD television set took up most of the space. The only thing that made it remotely his own was his stepfather’s tartan on one wall and a wood carving of a Chamorro latte stone on another. He liked the way the two pieces sat looking at each other, his two sides at perfect angles. It was the same feeling he recreated every time he put on his kilt and draped the tartan sash over the tattoo on his shoulder. It wasn’t at all like Kate’s house. Hers had practically oozed soft femininity, all her ridiculous romantic illusions stored in the twin dog statues guarding the fireplace and the vases full of flowers set all over the place. Julian swallowed the rest of his beer in one gulp. He had to get out of there. Just about anything would be preferable to sitting in his empty apartment with a quarter of a buzz and that woman on the brain. Julian reached for his jogging shoes and pulled them on his feet. They’d already trained pretty extensively that afternoon, but he could use a few more miles before bed. He was pulling on his T-shirt when the phone rang. It was probably Michael, stealing a quick call from his date to gloat he was about to get lucky. He had a tendency to do that whenever he knew Julian was sitting at home, getting the exact opposite. “I don’t care if this girl has three tits and a daddy complex. I don’t want to hear it,” Julian said as he clicked on the phone. “Um…I’m pretty sure the woman on the invitation only has two breasts. Though by the way she’s angled, I say daddy issues may be coming into play.” It was Kate. And she was laughing. God help him, he loved that she was laughing.


93

Tamara Morgan

“You got my message.” “Is that what you call defacing other people’s property? Funny. I always called it a misdemeanor.” “I was marking my territory.” He jumped over the back of the leather couch and settled across it lengthwise, one arm propped behind his head. He wanted to be comfortable for this. “You couldn’t pee on a big rock like the rest of the Neanderthals?” Julian laughed, triumph running through his veins like hot, molten pleasure. “Would that work? If I marched out to Cornwall Park right now and started peeing wherever I could, would I get to keep the areas I land on? I can tell you right now, Kate, I’m a big man, and I have big friends. You have no idea how much—” “This isn’t a pissing contest, and I don’t care how big your…bladder is.” Julian was more than happy to continue on in that vein, but he took a few deep breaths instead. This was supposed to be about getting results, not raising her hackles. He’d gotten too easily sidetracked once. She was beautiful. She was soft. And apparently, she had a good sense of humor. But she was also an obstacle to just about every one of the goals he’d ever set for himself. “I warned you I would win this.” Julian kept his voice level. “If you can’t handle my style of warfare, maybe you better go back to your land of the ladies and lords.” “Your style of warfare?” She made a cute scoffing sound into the phone. “You make it sound like you’re some big, tough warrior, but all you do is fight dirty. Like a girl.” She drew out the last word with as many syllables as possible, to the obvious amusement of someone in the background. Loud thumps of music and the tinkling of glass mingled with laughter in the background. “Invitations are replaceable,” she added. “Hang on a second, will you?”

94



The background sounds got quieter, and her breath picked up. “Sorry about that. Too loud. We’re celebrating.” “Celebrating?” “What? You think I’m so bad at the art of war I can’t counter a silly little attack on some fancy paper? Let me tell you something, Julian. It doesn’t take two hundred pounds of muscle and a checkered skirt to make a warrior.” He sat straight up. “What did you do?” “Oh, nothing. Yet.” She giggled. He wondered how long she’d been out celebrating. All that calm, cool poise on the outside—she’d never struck him as the type of girl to go out to bars and lose control. His groin tightened. There was a lot about her he didn’t know. That there might be layers of depravity, of wanton appeal… “Where are you?” The words came out before he could stop them. “I don’t know. Downtown somewhere? We’re at that bar where you can ride the mechanical bull. Jada’s ridden three times already, and she’s really good. You see, you have to open your legs super wide and—” Julian watched with a kind of detached interest as his arm reached for his keys and then his jacket. He had always had such control over his body—both on the field and off it. But this woman’s voice was enough to set it moving like a gun had gone off. “Have you ridden it?” he interrupted, his voice tense. “Oh, she rode it hard, big boy. Hard and fast.” Jada’s voice came onto the phone. “You can’t imagine the strength she has in her upper thighs.” He could imagine it. That was the problem. “Put Kate back on,” he demanded. “Nuh-uh,” Jada said with a laugh. “If you want her, you’ve got to earn her.” A few more screams of laughter reached his ears before the phone clicked off.


95

Tamara Morgan

Drunk dialing. He’d come so far down he was on the receiving end of a drunk-dialing episode—and he felt a little sad when it ended. Harold would have been ashamed of him. He could almost hear his stepfather’s voice telling him to man up and grow a pair. After which he would have grabbed himself liberally by the balls and given them a hefty tug. God, he missed that man. And he wanted more than anything else not to let him down. He bent over and tightened the laces on his shoes. That run sounded like a good idea right about now.

96


Chapter Six

A Ducal Interlude

Kate stood on Julian’s doorstep, a hot coffee and the day’s newspaper in hand, a sinking feeling of dread in her stomach. It was a mistake, coming here. She’d expected him to live at some frat house for athletes, empty beer kegs and giant cabers littering the front lawn. But this was a nice house in a family neighborhood. There were rhododendrons blooming next to the white picket fence, and the mailbox was painted a cheerful blue. She had to be at the wrong place. “Yes?” An older woman pulled open the door, and Kate had to swallow a laugh or she would have spilled the coffee all over herself. The woman was a diminutive Julian, much shorter and heavier-set, but with the same air of calm authority. The man lived with his mother. It was almost too good to be true. Too easy for her to tip the scales back in her balance. Because they were off balance. By a lot. She should have known something was wrong when she’d gone to pick up the invitations the other day. The women at the paper printers had sighed romantically and fondled the box as if it needed their adoration to survive. One of the women even took her hand and told her she was the luckiest woman in the world. She’d thought maybe they were rampant Jane Austen fans. Until, of course, she’d taken the invitations to Lady Lovelace’s house and they opened the box together.

Tamara Morgan

For the first time in her life, Kate wished she carried smelling salts or feathers that could be burned and waved under the woman’s nose. For a moment there, she’d even considered unhooking Lady Lovelace’s bra, the closest thing to loosening the corset strings she could come up with. “We are a historical preservation society,” Lady Lovelace had sniffled, lying at cross angles on her couch while her daughter, Lady Anne, practically passed out from laughing in the background. “Not one of those sleazy Renaissance Fairs.” Kate did her best to look contrite, but she had to hand it to Julian—he’d hit her where she least expected it. If there was one way to bring all her plans tumbling around her head, it was by making her look like a fool in front of Lady Lovelace. She was the one person who had the power to kick Kate out of the JARRS group for good. Not since the patronesses of Almack’s had there been such a formidable foe. But deep in her silly, feminine core, Kate couldn’t help but be pleased. The invitations demonstrated that Julian wasn’t dismissing her claim to the park. She was an adversary worthy of his attention—even if that attention meant he’d be slapping pornographic images all over their invitations. “I’m so sorry, Lady Lovelace. It’s just this guy—” “I don’t want to hear it!” Lady Lovelace had cried. “Oh, Mother. It’s a little misunderstanding,” Anne interrupted, her eyes crinkling with sympathy as they met Kate’s. “You know we can count on Kate to get everything straightened out. I’ll even help. I don’t know why you ever thought one person could do it all alone.” Lady Lovelace wilted into the couch. “How can I help, Kate?” Anne asked, the moment they left the older woman to a tonic and a weathered copy of Mansfield Park.

98



Kate liked Anne. With brown, curly hair that sprang from her head in all directions and a warm, inviting grin that spread over a slight snaggletooth, she didn’t look a thing like the librarian and Jane Austen historian Kate knew her to be. The two of them weren’t very close, but Anne was similar to her in age, and there always seemed to be a levity about her that made Kate wish they could spend more time together. This was certainly an interesting way to go about it. “You can help me exact revenge, if you’re up for it,” Kate had said. There was no use hiding it. She could have asked Anne to reorder the invitations and send them out, or double-check the supply list to make sure everything had been ordered and was scheduled for delivery. But that stuff was easy compared to besting Julian. And besting him had suddenly moved to the very top of her to-do list. Anne didn’t even question it. There were some issues that bonded women better than super glue. Pornography and revenge were two of them. “I’ve always found revenge to be a drink best served on the rocks,” Anne had said solemnly. So, drinks on the town with Jada it had been. Drinks, mechanical bulls and a plan of revenge so wonderful Kate hadn’t been able to resist coming by to deliver the news herself. But apparently, she was going to have to deliver it to his mother instead. “Is Julian here?” “No-o.” The woman looked her over curiously. “Is there something I can help you with?” “Do you know where I can find him?” Kate shifted from one leg to another. “I’m a…friend of his, and I have something for him.” “Oh, do you, dear?” Her entire mien changed, and before Kate knew what was happening, the woman ushered her into the house, her arm warm and


99

Tamara Morgan

insistent on Kate’s back. Masterful. This was definitely Julian’s mother. “Come on in. Sit down, sit down.” The woman sat across from her, appraising Kate without even pretending to hide it. “You’re so lovely,” she exclaimed. She didn’t seem to expect an answer and even smiled when Kate blushed and looked away. “I’m Chika, Julian’s mother. But you knew that, didn’t you?” “I guessed it. Is he going to be back soon?” She looked around the house. It wasn’t at all what she might have expected—no crumbling castles, no moors, no bagpipes or deer heads mounted over the fireplace. It looked…normal. Normal in a way that made her incredibly uncomfortable. It was one thing to sabotage this man from afar, visions of a handsome, steely face driving her to dastardly depths. It was quite another to sit with this kindly woman, childhood pictures littering the mantle with haphazard love. Chika cocked her head to the side, a picture of maternal benevolence. “He doesn’t live here, dear. Didn’t he tell you?” Crap. She’d looked up the address on the SHS website. It never occurred to her that it might be outdated. “Oh. I’m so sorry. We only met a few days ago, and I—” She rose, trying to cover her embarrassment. She should have known she wouldn’t be very good at this revenge stuff. After all, her days were spent trying to get people to buy more books. She cleaned her house every Saturday morning using earth-friendly products. And more than one Girl Scout had been sent to camp for free based on the number of cookies she bought every year. A pushover. A nice girl. That was all she’d ever be. “Sit down.” Chika’s voice brooked no argument. Kate sat. The pushover and nice girl inside of her couldn’t help it.

100



“I’m sure he’ll be by any minute,” Chika continued, this time with more kindness. “He usually visits after his morning practice. Now, how did you say you knew Jules?” Kate was saved from answering by the sound of the front door opening. From the near-rapturous flash across Chika’s face, she knew it was Julian. There was no need for her to look, to even acknowledge anything but a slight flutter of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. But, of course, she looked anyway. He filled the doorway, blocking the sun. A demigod in athletic gear, all sweat and forearms. As soon as he saw her sitting there, Julian smiled. It was a slow, catlike grin that flashed his even white teeth and made him look like he could land a gig for a razor commercial, an aftershave commercial or any other commercial that featured a man in his underwear preening in front of a mirror. “Kate!” he called pleasantly. He slipped his shoes off at the door and gave his mom a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before settling the full force of his solicitous attention on Kate. She looked down at her own feet, shod in black patent leather ballet flats, and felt suddenly crude. A line of footwear at the door indicated this was a noshoes house. She’d been so flustered, she hadn’t even noticed. Julian, the bastard, noticed everything—including the way she was eyeing her shoes. He swept forward with a ridiculously debonair grace and knelt at her feet, once again looking at them like he didn’t quite understand the motivation behind her choice of footwear. She scowled. It wasn’t complicated. She liked pretty, shiny things. Enough said.


101

Tamara Morgan

His mother seemed delighted, giving a small squeak of approval and settling herself in an armchair. “Don’t mind me,” she said, picking up a pair of knitting needles and burying herself in something red and plush. “You two carry on like I’m not here.” The grin on Julian’s face spread as he reached for Kate’s foot. The appendage acted of its own volition, gliding into his waiting hands like the wanton traitor it was. “Allow me,” he said in a low voice, his other hand slipping up along the back of her calf, his fingers tracing a pattern that seemed somehow programmed to compel her body into a state of liquid complaisance. He cupped the sole of her shoe, pulling it off her foot at the heel and working toward her toes. She watched, riveted, as he lifted the shoe away. His movements were slow and methodical, and he paused intermittently to allow a brush of his fingers to graze the low arch of her bare foot. Without even pausing for a breath, he did it to the other foot, this time running the rough pad of his thumb over the little sheep tattoo. “Cute,” he murmured. And then it was over, the physical separation complete and almost painful. His mother didn’t look up from her knitting once, and Julian rose, completely unfazed, to place the shoes near the door. Neither one of them seemed to notice the temperature in the room had risen at least ten degrees. Julian returned to sit next to her on the couch, leaning into the corner with his arms spread out along the back. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon after our last conversation. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Kate didn’t miss the pointed glance he cast at his mother, telling her to keep things polite. As if she could forget the woman was sitting there hanging on their

102



every word. Fine. She could hide behind pleasantries too. In fact, she’d been bred to it. Her own mother ate passive aggression for breakfast. “I have something for you.” She nodded toward the newspaper she’d brought, sliding it across the glass top coffee table toward him. He didn’t pick it up. “That was nice. Thank you.” He looked her over with narrowed eyes. “You look well. I’m curious—did you experience any saddle soreness after the other night?” Kate bolted straight up against the back of the couch, pressing her legs together as tight as they could possibly go. She’d worn a knee-length pencil skirt—a rather form-fitted one—to prevent any of the bruises dotting her inner thighs from showing. Only vague memories of riding the mechanical bull remained, but she distinctly remembered the pain the next morning. It was the throbbing pain of drunken folly. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said tightly, checking to make sure Chika was still intent on her knitting. No one, in all the history of the world, had ever been more so. “I used to ride horses all the time when I was younger, so I’m used to it.” “You rode horses?” Julian seemed genuinely interested. “That’s awfully rustic for someone like you.” “Well, it’s not like I was blazing any trails,” Kate confessed. “Riding lessons were part of my education in grace.” “That’s ridiculous. You can’t teach grace. You either have it or you don’t.” Kate laughed out loud. “Tell that to my mother. She was cursed with a daughter boasting not two left feet, but three or four. Most of my childhood was spent with her trying to hack the extra ones off.” Julian’s mouth turned down at the corners, but he didn’t say anything else. He just sat there looking calm. “So…don’t you want to see what’s in the paper?” she tried.


103

Tamara Morgan

“Not really. Why don’t you tell me about it?” Kate scowled. If he didn’t see what she’d done, the plan lost at least ninetyfive percent of its efficacy—not to mention her joy in delivering it. “You’ll be very pleased, I think.” “Oh, believe me, Kate. I’m already quite pleased right now.” He certainly looked it, the jerk. Only the worst kind of rogue would use his mother as a shield. And with such obvious delight. “It’s only that I’ve been feeling so bad about everything.” Kate tried for a syrupy-sweet voice, cocking her head at him with wide-eyed innocence and placing a hand on his thigh, which was hard and tense. That got his attention. He sucked in a sharp breath, low enough so only she heard it. “Oh?” “I’ve been practically drowning in guilt.” She moved her hand higher. “Guilt? Is that what you and Jada were drinking?” Kate started to laugh but forced herself to stop with a heavy cough. “I decided the only thing to do is to make amends. Publicly.” She let go of his leg and nudged the paper again. He took it this time, opening the pages and scanning the interior. He peered around the side, one eyebrow cocked. “I don’t see it.” “Page five. The sports page.” That was enough to get him going. He flipped quickly through, not stopping until he reached the thick middle section that highlighted both local and national sports scores. She gave him a moment to take it all in. It was, after all, a half-page ad. An expensive half-page ad, even with Jada’s ample cleavage discount. He didn’t emerge from the pages right away. In fact, he didn’t emerge at all, even when his knuckles grew pale with the effort of clutching the paper.

104



“Are you talking about the ad for the Games, dear?” Chika asked amiably. Kate whipped her head around to look at her. The woman was still furiously knitting and didn’t bother looking up. “I saw that this morning. It’s not exactly how I would have done the marketing, but it should draw an interesting crowd.” Interesting. Yes, it would definitely be that. It was a master stroke, if she did say so herself. The Scottish Highland Games, the ad read in big, bold letters, where big boys play in tiny skirts. DRAG yourself in for a good SHOW. The picture depicted a man wearing only a kilt, suspenders and a pair of thigh-high leather stiletto boots Jada professed a slavish jealousy over. The man was hugging a short, thick caber resting vertically against a wall, his leg wrapped around it like he was about to go for one heck of a splintery ride. Julian was not amused. Chika finally pulled her knitting down to her lap and looked over at Julian with mild amusement. “Jules, you ought to do something nice to thank this young lady. Lunch, I think. Why don’t you take her to that cafe over on Garland?” “Lunch?” Julian echoed. Finally, an action. A reaction. Apparently, a rather big one. After casting the paper to the side and practically leaping to his feet, Julian stomped all the way to the front door. He pushed it open with so much force it caused the front windows to rattle. “Outside. Now.” Kate looked nervously between Julian and his mother. “Er…inside is nice, I think.” His lips were drawn into a tight line, and his eyes smoldered with the fury of a thousand black holes. He didn’t move as he spoke. No, not spoke. Seethed. “What I have to say to you is not fit for my mother’s ears.” “But they’re fit for mine?”


105

Tamara Morgan

“They’ve been chosen especially for yours.” He stood there holding the door open for what felt like ten minutes, not moving, not making a sound. The only break in the heavy silence was the snap of Chika’s needles, which had picked up again at a frantic pace. Kate had no choice but to follow him. He waited only until the door clicked into place behind them before grabbing her by her upper arms. Pressing her up against the wall of the porch, he brought his head down to hers, closer and closer. For the briefest second, she thought he was going to kiss her, his breath coming short and fast, his entire body tense and hard against hers. Her own lips parted as he neared, and she arched her back to bring their bodies closer together. It was the only movement she could make, she rationalized, pinned as she was to the wall. It was either that or cower—and she wasn’t about to do that. Last week, perhaps. Last week’s Kate would have been horrified to see to what depths she’d fallen over a silly plot of land. This week’s Kate didn’t care. This week’s Kate really, really wanted to fight back. She forced her eyes to meet his and held them there. She and Julian were alpha dogs, one large and intimidating and sexy as hell, the other standing on a front porch without her shoes. With a sound halfway between a groan and a roar, he shoved himself away from the wall, balling his hands into fists at his sides. For the briefest moment, Kate thought that meant she won. “Just tell me this,” he asked, his voice strained from what must have been immense self-control. So far, he had yet to use even a single word that might have brought a mother to blush. “Was it your idea to turn this into a public spectacle, or was it Jada’s?”

106



The question wasn’t fair. First of all, the advertisement had been plotted under the influence of several martinis as well as one or two shots of tequila. It might have been the bartender’s idea, for all Kate remembered. Secondly, she was getting a little tired of Julian assuming she was unable to make a decision without Jada perched on one shoulder, prodding her along with a miniature pitchfork in her ear. She could very well play the villain in her own melodrama—it was a fact she was coming to delight in. “I’m capable of rational, independent thought, thank you very much. Jada didn’t make me do this—you did.” “I made you do this? Me? Everyone in Spokane is going to see this ad. You have no idea how fast word will spread—the SHS is a pretty small group of people. Athletes. Vendors. Sponsors. This could ruin everything.” Obstinate, obtuse man. That was the whole point. “You still don’t get it, do you, Julian? That first night, you made the mistake of assuming you could dictate my actions to me. My whole life, everyone has assumed the same thing. Kate’s small. Kate’s quiet. Kate comes from a good family.” She ticked her fingers off as she spoke. She could keep going for hours. Sweet Kate. Nice Kate. Call-her-a-whore-and-she’ll-make-you-breakfast Kate. She was tired of it. For the first time in her life, she was standing up for herself and for a project she cared about. It was the most fun she’d had in a long, long time. And her pleasure in it had absolutely nothing to do with her opponent. Making this man so angry he hovered over her, all righteous fury and passion, his body tense and hot and so close—that was hardly her objective. Hardly. “All you have to do is move to a different location, and I’m out of your life forever,” she added.


107

Tamara Morgan

“It’s a tea party, for Christ’s sake. You’re fucking with my livelihood over a tea party!” A silence fell over them both, heavy and full of pressure, like they were descending from an airplane too fast. Kate was the first to break it. “Don’t you dare call it a tea party again.” He took a predatory step forward, planting his leg between hers. “Tea party.” “Don’t.” “Tea.” He leaned in closer, almost whispering the words. “Party.” She thought for sure he was going to kiss her this time, and she had to force her hands to remain at her sides to keep them from winding around his body and holding on for dear life. She wouldn’t be the first to move. She wouldn’t. She won. He was the first to move, but it wasn’t at all in the direction she’d been hoping for. He whirled around and stormed back through the front door, moving so fast he was almost a blur to Kate’s slightly bewildered eyes. The door slammed, shooting a gust that blew her hair and clothes in a ripple of cold air. She stood there for a moment, blinking at the door, waiting for something to happen. “Uh, Julian? My shoes?” She wasn’t sure whether or not to knock. There was no graceful way to demand one’s footwear after that escapade. “Mrs. Wallace?” She turned at the sound of the large bay window overlooking the front yard being pulled open. She wasn’t able to see Julian from her place on the front porch, but she saw her beautiful Steve Madden shoes sailing through the air. They landed on the sidewalk, one making a scraping sound that was downright painful to her ears. “Tea party!” he yelled one last time before drawing the window shut.

108



With as much dignity as she could muster, her head held so high she might have been stargazing, Kate walked down the pathway to grab her shoes. She fingered the angry scuff mark with a frown. “You ruined them, you beast!” she yelled, shaking the offending item at the window. “I love these shoes.” “Do I detect a lady in distress?” a voice behind her asked. It was a cultured voice, each syllable carefully wrought. Kate immediately recognized the result of years of speech training. That too had been part of her childhood education in grace. She turned to find a sleek, red sports car idling almost silently in the street, the driver peering out the window at her through a pair of dark sunglasses. “I’m fine, thank you. Just…getting my shoes.” She held a hand up to her eyes to shield the glare from the car’s side mirrors. “Really, there’s no problem.” The car’s engine purred to a stop, and the man slid out. Kate knew in a moment he was one of the Highland athletes. There was a certain feral grace to all of them, like they had to knowingly contain their power and speed when consorting with the mortals. Plus, it was hard to imagine any man with such a perfectly triangular shape, all broad shoulders and tapered waist, not being some sort of powerhouse of human might. Ash-blond hair swept mischievously over the man’s forehead, and he had an almost cherubic smile, with soft, supple lips and a dimple in one cheek. His eyes were large, his nose a perfect slope, his clothing in keeping with the car he drove, tailored and immaculate. Kate was certain a more perfectly beautiful man had never before existed. It almost shamed her to be seen standing next to him. “I couldn’t help but notice your altercation with Wallace. I thought I might be able to help. The name’s Duke. Duke Kilroy. The third.”


109

Tamara Morgan

He grabbed her hand and bestowed a light kiss on its surface. In any other man, it would have seemed silly—theatrical, almost. But not him. From the top of his perfectly side-swept hair to his wingtip shoes, he was a born gentleman. Her heart, full of clichés and rainbows, fluttered. “I’m Kate,” she replied, mesmerized by the ice blue eyes that appraised her with painstaking calm. “But it wasn’t an altercation.” Not an altercation. A triumph. If they were keeping score—and they were— she was currently in the lead. “Well, Kate, I hope you won’t use Julian’s bad manners against all of us.” The man, Duke, flashed her a charming smile and leaned against his car. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” Part of her considered taking him up on the friendly overture. Absconding with Julian’s visitor would be a good way to get a little rub in before she left, and this man certainly looked like he wouldn’t be a hardship to travel with. But adult responsibilities beckoned on the horizon, and she had to get to work. “Thank you for the offer, but my car is around the corner. Besides, if you were going in to see Julian, I don’t want to keep you.” “Oh, it’s nothing that can’t wait. How about a cup of coffee? Or dinner? I hate to let you walk out of my life like this.” Again, she hesitated, chewing her lip in contemplation. It hardly seemed like a good idea, what with the Fauxhall Gardens to plan and all the energy she’d been expending on the Julian front. But Duke was smiling at her with such warmth, and there was such a benign air about him, she felt a profound urge to take him home and cook him a pot roast. Before she could respond either way, Duke gave a friendly wave toward the house. Kate could just make out Julian standing in the window, holding back the curtain and watching the exchange.

110



Seconds later, the curtain fell and the door pounded open. Julian obviously wasn’t happy to see her still standing there, but his walk was controlled as he made his way down the sidewalk. Too controlled—Kate could feel the power behind it from several feet away. “Is there something I can do for you, Kilroy? My mother wasn’t expecting the delight of your company.” “Oh, I was passing by,” Duke replied. “I saw the way you were treating this lady, and I thought I’d stop and see if I could offer my assistance.” He moved closer to Kate’s side, and she thought for a moment he might put an arm around her waist. But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled himself into a firm, upright position, all tensile strength that seemed like it might snap at any moment. Julian echoed the movements. It was like standing in front of a pair of elk posturing at the height of the rutting season. Kate laughed, trying to dispel some of the tension. “I’m sorry, Duke, but I think you’re laboring under a misapprehension. You’re supposed to be directing your anger at me. I’m the enemy—not Julian.” Duke looked her over with a sweeping gaze. He didn’t seem to think anything of her shoes—in fact, Kate sensed approval of all types. It was a nice change. “If you’re the enemy, then I think I want in on the war.” Kate couldn’t help it—she gave a girlish giggle. Nothing loosened her tongue and her resolve like a little urbane flattery. She was about to reply with an equally coy rejoinder when Julian stepped forward, pushing her back with one of his outstretched arms. “It’s nothing. She’s not your concern, Kilroy.” “I beg your pardon?” Kate’s spine stiffened in a bit of posturing of her own. “So that is which way the wind blows,” Duke murmured.


111

Tamara Morgan

Kate wasn’t done with her anger yet. “I’m nothing?” she asked Julian. “You’re currently the toast of the drag-show town, and you think I’m nothing?” He didn’t respond. Kate was all at once struck with the difference between the two men standing on either side of her. Julian, dark and his face set in an unreadable mask. Duke, fair and never once losing his charming smile. Julian muttering, “Don’t be ridiculous, Kate.” Duke adding, “Such a thing could never be possible.” It was like comparing night and day. Beelzebub and Gabriel. She’d have been lying if she said a thrill didn’t run through her at standing between the two of them, their hostility in her hands like clay she could mold any way she wanted. These were big men, strong and capable, and although she wasn’t deluded enough to think she was anything more than a pawn in an animosity that existed long before she ever came onto the scene, it still felt good to be the source of so much contention. Great women always caused strife. Just look at Helen of Troy. “Well, I’m sure it was lovely to meet you, Duke, but I’d better be going.” Duke grabbed her hand. “And about my offer for dinner?” Kate was about to politely demur when she caught a glimpse of Julian’s face. Flushed with displeasure and most decidedly set in a scowl, his expression offered a rare glimpse into the cogs and wheels of the industry behind it. He really didn’t want her to go with Duke. Consorting with the enemy suddenly seemed like a very good use of her time. “I’d love to!” she chirped, flashing Duke what she hoped was a dazzling smile. “Are you free tonight?”

112



Though a slight bit of shock registered on his face, Duke was much too educated in the ways of gentility to let the look linger. If not for her belief that this was a man who could handle any situation with aplomb, she’d almost feel sorry for him. He was about to get swept up in a situation that was growing rapidly out of control, a situation she wasn’t even sure she knew the ideal outcome of any more. All she knew was that she wanted to win, even more than she wanted Cornwall Park. Kate had never been the competitive sort before. It was easier to bury her nose in a book or hide behind Jada’s enthusiastic fervor for action and sex and grabbing life—or men—by the balls than to fight over something she didn’t particularly care about one way or the other. Competition was for people who were passionate, whose lives were so tied up in the outcome that it was all they could breathe or eat. Although she loved the JARRS group, she wouldn’t say she was passionate about it. She wasn’t passionate about anything. Twenty-six years of life on this earth, and she had yet to find anything that filled her with such vehement longing she’d sacrifice everything to get it. It was a sobering reflection. She and Duke ignored Julian as they made plans for the upcoming evening, but that didn’t mean Kate wasn’t acutely aware of him standing right behind her. He was silent and still, a perfect statue of righteous indignation. Before she left, she turned to Julian with a smile. “Would you care to join us? I’m sure Duke wouldn’t mind.” For a moment, she thought he was going to take her up on the offer. She could picture the three of them sitting together over dinner, hands hovering over the steak knives in case of any sudden movements.


113

Tamara Morgan

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Julian said coldly. “Unless there’s something you need, Kilroy, I’d appreciate it if you’d return to your hole. And Kate, you’ll be hearing from me.” His voice was so serious, she couldn’t help herself. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon?” she quipped. “And for the rest of my life?” Julian’s mouth quivered, but he turned and stalked back up to the house before she got the satisfaction of hearing him laugh.

114


Chapter Seven Duck Confit

“Why are we doing this, again?” Michael asked, climbing into Julian’s truck. He was decked out in black from head to toe—shirt, pants, shoes. He’d even thrown on a black knit skull cap for good effect. Julian laughed and looked down at his own attire, jeans and a white T-shirt. “It’s broad daylight, Mikey. And we’re not about to break into the National Trust.” “You said espionage. I distinctly heard espionage.” “Actually, I said reconnaissance.” “How is that different?” Julian pulled his truck out of the driveway and headed in the direction of the South Hill, one of the nicer areas of the city. Like most towns, theirs was one that valued high ground, and each block that increased in altitude was proportionate to the rising costs of the properties found on it. There were more country clubs up on the South Hill than apartment buildings, and, owing to the number of city council members who had private residences at the very top, the streets were always the first to get plowed in the heavy Spokane winters. Their destination, Kilroy Hall, put even the best homes on the Hill to shame. It was all masonry and ivy and enough rolling lawn to employ two full-time gardeners. “We’re going to look around, not do anything illegal—that’s how it’s different.” “But, ah, aren’t there security cameras up there? And what if Kilroy sees us?”

Tamara Morgan

Julian sighed. Michael, for all his attention to wardrobe, was not turning out to be a very good recon partner. “Mikey, you need to relax. Kilroy and I may not be the best of friends, but we’ve known the guy for years. I have connections. And I know for a fact he’ll be out tonight.” He didn’t tell Michael why he knew it or how he knew it. Or that Kilroy was probably sitting in the leather seat of his Lotus right now, pulling up to Kate’s house with some ridiculous and totally inappropriate gift like flowers or a diamond tiara. Except she’d probably squeal over the flowers. Have dozens of little Duke babies over the tiara. That’s what women did when faced with the Kilroy heir and fortune. Julian knew better. Kilroy wasn’t one to accept a turned-down proposal without a fight, and it was obvious some sort of plot was underway. Kilroy never “just happened” to be driving past his mother’s house in the middle of the day. The Wallace family lived and worked in an entirely different sphere than the Kilroy family—as separate as if Duke actually was the nobility of the land and Julian lived in a thatch-covered bovine refuge. But Julian didn’t care about that. All he cared about was figuring out what the bastard was planning and coming up with a big enough wrench to toss into the works. His phone rang. He tossed it to Michael without even looking at the Caller ID panel. “You deal with it. I’m not talking to any more of them.” “Them?” Michael didn’t make a grab for the phone. “The excited or the angry. It’s one or the other.” His phone had been ringing off the hook all afternoon. Half the callers wanted more information on the men in kilts show, and he’d long since stopped trying to explain the mix-up to them. He’d resorted to inviting everyone to come

116



and enjoy the event, stage wear optional. He didn’t know what else to do. There was either going to be a crowd of highly disappointed drag queens at the Games or one hell of an after-ceilidh. The other half of the callers were his fellow SHS athletes, not exactly pleased with the way their sport was being represented here in the Spokane branch. Kate had known where to hit him, that was for sure—right in the manhood. If there was one thing these guys didn’t mess around with, it was stiletto heels. They either belonged on women or staked into the heart of any man who dared question the virility of a Scotsman. Michael picked up the phone, listened for a few seconds, and promptly turned it off again. “Shit. She got us with that one, didn’t she? Shouldn’t we be doing some espionage over at her house instead? Playing peek-a-boo with a woman bedding down for the night is much more my style.” “If I so much as hear you went within ten feet of her house without my knowledge, I’ll take a caber and shove it so far up your ass—” Michael held up one of his hands, clad, of course, in a black leather glove, and laughed. “Message received, Jules. Save the tooth-baring act for Kilroy.” They reached the outer gates of Kilroy Hall, a wrought-iron barricade that wound all the way around the huge grounds of the place. Instead of pulling up to the front, Julian veered sharply to the left, taking the truck on a narrow track labeled with a sign that read Access Only. “Where are we going?” Michael asked, peering back toward the house. “Servants’ entrance.” “They have servants? With their own entrance?” “It’s not quite that formal. A friend of my mom’s works in the kitchens here. I used to make deliveries for them when I was sixteen or so, back when I worked


117

Tamara Morgan

at that grocery store. I hated it—I was sure I’d run into Kilroy, and it killed me to think he might see me anywhere other than the playing field.” Julian pulled the truck into a small parking lot near the back of the house, which rose up for four stories of pristine brick above them. They ivy was only in the front, only for show. Julian shrugged as he pulled the keys out of the ignition. “In all the time I delivered here, he never came down to the kitchens. It’s a safe place to start.” Michael tossed his gloves and hat on the seat of the truck and followed Julian into the house. Julian remembered it well. He’d never actually been in the upper portion—this was an estate modeled after the manors of old, when huge fireplaces in the basement served as a place to cook as well as to provide a makeshift central heating system. Of course, this kitchen was fully updated with Subzero appliances and granite as far as the eye could see. But the sentiment was the same. The kitchen was busy when they arrived. Two women, both in full chef attire with white coats and crisp caps on their heads, were intent on their work, and the scent of vanilla and potatoes filled the space with a welcoming air. He immediately recognized his mom’s friend, Yolanda. She greeted him with flour-covered hands and a kiss on his cheek, which he had to bend over to receive. She was a tiny woman—smaller even than his mom—but with an athletic frame despite her incredible touch with pastries. “Little Julian Wallace!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Have you come to bring me a box of produce?” Julian grinned and took a seat at one of the stools next to a huge kitchen island, nodding politely to the other woman standing over the stove. He didn’t recognize her, but that wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t been here in at least a decade.

118



He declined Yolanda’s immediate offer of milk and cookies, but Michael was more than happy to settle in with a snack. “Sorry, bro. The spying will have to wait. I’m so hungry I could eat a nun’s arse through the convent gates.” Yolanda promptly placed a large slice of cake in front of him, shaking her head, but with a smile lurking at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t have kids of her own, but she’d spent enough time with Julian and his friends as teenagers that he doubted anything fazed her any more. “Now, what’s this he says about spying? Little Julian, what are you up to?” “It’s about Duke, Yolanda. He came by the house today. He didn’t go in— just said he was passing by.” Of course, he didn’t mention Kate had been the primary reason for that. There was no succinct way to describe her or their current relationship. He’d tried to with his mom, and all he’d ended up with was a knowing glance and a wink. She obviously didn’t understand the delicate dynamics of their situation. “You know that’s not like him, paying morning visits, especially since he knows I don’t live there. Do you have any idea what he might want with my mom?” Yolanda’s and Julian’s eyes met. It wasn’t as unusual of a question as it seemed. When Kilroy had broken the record for the longest hammer throw, it had been Harold who was pushed out of the first-place position—a blow to the ego, certainly, but not entirely unwarranted. That was what the push and pull of battle was all about. One man came out on top and stayed there until another surpassed him. Alpha. Laird. Label it however you wanted—it was ingrained into each of them. Harold’s turn had come to an end, and although Julian had wanted to be the one to take his place, he’d still been a slightly scrawny youth back then, and


119

Tamara Morgan

everyone knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be ready to challenge Kilroy and get the title back in the Wallace name. It had taken years of training to get where he was today, thanks to mentorships with some of the best men out there, long hours of practice in adverse conditions and a one hundred percent commitment to the Games. But he was almost there, and Kilroy knew it. The question was, what was Kilroy planning to do about it? Yolanda pursed her lips, considering his question. “Sorry, Little Julian, but I don’t know much about Duke any more. To be honest, no one’s been around here much lately—not even me. Mr. and Mrs. Kilroy have been in Europe for the past few months, and Duke only got here last week.” “Is he doing much in the way of practice?” Kilroy had his own training field out near the back of the house. It was an incredible setup of hammers, double-weighted training cabers and a track. All he needed was a loch and a monster to go in it, and the entire setting would be perfect. “More than usual, now that you mention it. You know he always gets the competition bug when he’s going up against you. He hasn’t been around much, though. A lot of meetings with some guys in suits.” That didn’t seem too out of the ordinary. The exact nature of the Kilroy family fortune wasn’t something Julian cared particularly about, but he imagined there were quite a few men in suits involved in it. But it did seem odd the kitchen would be so busy and filled to bursting with baked goods if he was out wining and dining the investing elite most of the time. “So what’s all this, then?” “His highness has demanded five-star service,” the other woman replied. She stirred at something on the stove before turning her attention to Julian and

120



Yolanda with a wink. “He’s trying to impress a woman, if you ask me. Gareth’s up there setting table service for two on the terrace, and I’m cooking like we’re at the Ritz. Came in on my day off to do it.” Michael perked up at the mention of food, but Julian forced him to remain seated, one heavy hand on his shoulder. “He’s bringing her here?” The woman shrugged. “It’s not something he’s ever done before, but I can see why he might start trying it. A place like this…my food… The poor thing doesn’t stand a chance.” Julian screwed his mouth into a thin line. Kilroy was bringing Kate here? Where centuries of family money towered over them all, oppressive and tempting, the real fruit of Eden? “You said he wasn’t going to be here!” Michael hissed, though not very discreetly. Yolanda and the other cook very nicely went back to work, leaving the two of them sitting over the plate of cake. “I didn’t think he would be.” Julian obviously hadn’t paid enough attention when Kilroy and Kate had been making their plans. It was hardly his fault. He’d been too busy swallowing his pride and trying not to choke on it to notice anything else. “So let’s get out of here. The last thing I want is to be caught with my shorts around my ankles, shitting on another man’s lawn.” Yolanda choked behind him. Julian gave her a healthy wallop on the back before nodding his head toward the door. “If you’re afraid of Kilroy, then go. You can even take my truck. But I’m not leaving.” “Not even you’d go so far as to interrupt a fellow man on a date, Jules. It breaks all the codes.” “It’s Kate.”


121

Tamara Morgan

Michael cast a furtive look around the kitchen. “What? Where?” “Not here, you idiot. The romantic dinner for two. It’s with Kate.” Michael shook his head and returned his attention to his cake. “Jules, you tell me where to show up and what to do, and I’ll be there with bells on. But don’t ask me to understand what it is you’re doing anymore. You’ve got depths. Big, hidden ones.” Gareth came through the swinging doors then, a long, tapered lighter dangling from his fingertips. He was a tall, thin man with bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache that rendered his upper lip almost invisible, but he was every inch the butler in a suit and tie. It was a big departure from how Julian usually saw him, in red flannel and heavy Dickie pants. They went a long way back, the two of them. In addition to serving for the Kilroy family, Gareth owned an incredible expanse of forest in the wilds of North Idaho. He’d been supplying the cabers for the Games for years—cut and stripped right from his own land. “Wallace! I didn’t expect to see you for a few weeks yet. Did you want me to bring the haul in early?” He shook Julian’s hand with a fierce grip. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll bring the truck out and pick them up myself.” Julian liked the drive out there. It was one of the most beautiful places in the country, still largely untouched by industry or commerce, the horizon where the tallest evergreen trees touched the blue sky almost a perfect line separating two worlds. “Well, let me know what I can do to help. The Games are the highlight of my year. Harold would be proud of you.” “Actually, there is something you can do right now,” Julian ventured, ignoring the remark about his stepfather. The last thing he needed right now was a trip down memory lane. His focus needed to be the here and now. Kilroy and Kate, here. What he was going to do about it, now.

122



“What I’d like is to be a fly on the wall.” “A fly?” Julian pointed one finger straight up. It wasn’t exactly in his master plan to crash their date, and part of him acknowledged it as a bit of weakness that was far, far beneath him. But this wasn’t reconnaissance anymore. It had transformed into full-blown espionage. Gareth looked him over doubtfully. “I’m not sure you have a very discreet build. And you’ll forgive me for making assumptions, but you probably don’t want to witness Duke in the midst of wooing a lady.” Julian’s body went rigid, and the sulfurous taste of rage filled his throat. He definitely didn’t want to witness it. But that didn’t mean he had to sit down here and imagine it, either. Gareth shook his head and continued. “Although maybe you do. You certainly look like you could use a good laugh.” “A laugh?” He doubted it. That would be like laughing at a funeral. Or the scene where the villain has the hero’s heart clasped firmly in his hand and is getting ready to wrench it out of his chest. “Not a laugh, Gareth. But information would be nice. What do you say to me listening in on a little bit of that date up there?” “Wouldn’t work, my boy. Duke’ll smell you out like a rat in a garbage can.” “He won’t know I’m there. And if he finds out, I’ll handle it.” “And the lady? No offense, Julian, but it isn’t like you to be so intrusive.” Julian went in for the kill. “True. But did you know the woman Duke is having dinner with is trying to sabotage the Games?” Gareth didn’t even blink. “Consider it done.”


123

Tamara Morgan

The clothes were a little baggy, which was a new sensation for Julian. It had taken quite a bit of convincing to get Michael to give up his spy clothes, but the button-down black shirt and slacks were better suited for hiding in the backdrop than his own worn jeans. “God, you’re like a woman with these tiny little pants,” Michael complained, stepping out of the pantry off the kitchen, clad in only an undershirt and a pair of four-leaf-clover-covered boxer shorts. “No way I’m forcing my boys in there. They need room to breathe. To be free.” “Just so long as they stay out of the way, I don’t care what you do with them.” Julian surveyed himself in a large, gilded mirror. He felt ridiculous. “I still don’t see how this is going to work,” Michael complained. They returned to the kitchen, Michael taking advantage of his newfound freedom by stretching his bare, hairy legs across one of the stools. His legs were nicked with scars, one of his knees swollen with a joint problem Michael insisted would eventually go away on its own. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to send Michael up there, looking like this. Julian couldn’t think of a better way to ruin a romantic interlude. But he wasn’t here to ruin it. This wasn’t about Kate at all—at least, not directly. He was gathering information, discovering a few clues. Julian wasn’t so modest he didn’t think he’d figure in the conversation—they were, after all, his two biggest enemies. Catwoman and the Joker didn’t get together without the subject of bats coming up at least once. “I don’t know how it’s going to work, either. But I’m not about to let this opportunity escape.” Julian nodded toward Gareth, who’d loaded up a series of silver platters on a tray and was getting ready to head to the terrace with them. Cocktails, he’d assured Julian, had already been served, and he had no reason to think they’d

124



discussed anything other than the Kilroy collection of Staffordshire figurines. It was a topic Duke could talk about for hours. The configuration of the house wasn’t ideal for meal service, since it took several flights of stairs to get from the kitchen to the formal dining room. The opulence probably more than made up for cold soup, and it would be difficult to concentrate on eating anyway, what with so many portraits of stuffy aristocrats staring down at the table from their wallpapered heights. Kilroy and Kate were supposedly dining al fresco on a terrace off the dining room, where the sun had set and a calming twilight was settling in. Even Julian had to admit it was romantic. A wrought-iron balustrade was all that separated the cozy table service for two from the formal gardens off the front of the house. A seemingly endless array of geometric bushes and roses went off in the distance, a gravel path broken only by a cherubic fountain or two. There was a fish pond, Julian knew, farther out on the lawn. As teenagers, he and Peterson had once dropped a bag full of tadpoles into it, a prank that wasn’t nearly as productive as they’d hoped, since instead of goldfish, the pond was full of oscars, which promptly ate every single one of the creatures they’d collected. Gareth coughed discreetly at the open french doors to the terrace, walking through only when Duke made a gesture with his hand. Duke was, fortunately, seated looking out over the grounds, his back to the door. It gave Julian enough time to slip past one of the doors and conceal himself behind the fronds of a potted palm. Okay, not conceal, exactly. It would take a whole forest of palm trees to hide all of him. But it was enough to give him the illusion of anonymity, especially since the only light on the terrace was a large candle in the middle of the table. If Kate looked up, she might happen to see a tall, dark figure waiting by with a wine bottle in hand. Nothing more. One more servant among so many.


125

Tamara Morgan

“Cook has prepared duck confit for the evening. It’s her specialty.” “Thank you, Gareth,” Kate said warmly as Duke waved a dismissive hand. Julian was only able to catch her briefly in profile, since the back of Kilroy’s big, meaty head was blocking his view, but she seemed serene. Like she was enjoying a rich meal in a rich house with a rich man. Which she was. Gareth offered him a wink before stepping back into the dining room. He would wait, he’d promised, a few feet away, ready to take over at the first sign of disaster. “Your house and grounds are very lovely,” Julian heard Kate say as she took in the overwhelming array of culture and money all around her. “Do you live here…with your parents?” Julian thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice, and he couldn’t help his own smile from spreading. If she only knew the extent to which Kilroy lived off his parents’ wealth. The man hadn’t worked a real job a single day of his life. “Oh, no. Not at all,” Duke lied glibly, reaching out and placing a hand on top of Kate’s. “They live here with me.” “And what, exactly, is the difference, if you don’t mind my asking?” “I don’t mind at all. You can ask me anything.” Duke brought her hand to his lips. Irritation, mingled with anger and a little bit of disgust, flipped in Julian’s stomach. “My father isn’t well. All of this—the house, the properties in Europe, the business—have been passed down to me, and my parents spend most of their time taking in the healthy Mediterranean air. When they come to town, they stay with me, of course.” “Of course,” Kate murmured.

126



Julian waited for her to say something about her own family, but Duke didn’t ask, and she didn’t volunteer. He liked to think the silence that descended over the table immediately after was awkward. Awkward and heavy and totally working against Duke’s favor. “You know, I’m half tempted to beg permission to have my group’s event here,” Kate eventually said between bites of her dinner. Julian wished she would. It would solve quite a few of his problems, even if the idea of such proximity between his enemies wasn’t exactly comforting. “Not that you’ve offered, or that you should, of course.” Kate’s words were rushed. “I’m just saying…it’s nice.” He could hear the embarrassment in her voice—he’d recognize it almost anywhere. It was a sound he enjoyed, rendering her voice a half sob, as if she could barely believe her own audacity in some of the things she said. “I wish I could offer it to you,” Duke replied calmly. “But it would defeat everything if you gave up like that. Don’t you think?” Everything? What everything? Stubborn, relentless perseverance done solely to make his life difficult? Julian swatted at one of the leafy fronds in irritation. Both Kate and Duke looked up at the sound, but Duke merely said, “Is that you, Gareth? We could use more wine,” before returning to his plate. Kate, however, looked straight at him, not identifying him but definitely curious. Julian gave a low cough, his signal to Gareth they needed to make a quick switch for the wine service. But no Gareth stepped forward. He coughed louder. Still nothing. This was clearly not the masterminded plan he’d thought it was going to be. “Give it here, man. I’ll do it myself if you’re going to wheeze all over it.” Duke held out an insistent hand. At that moment, Kate sat upright in her chair. Julian didn’t need the glint of the candlelight or the sudden break in the clouds,


127

Tamara Morgan

revealing the rising moon, to tell him it was recognition that colored her face such a bright shade of red. He thought for a moment she might cry out or faint or do one of those awful things women from those Regency books of hers did for fun. But she didn’t. She actually leaned back and cracked her knuckles, her eyes never wavering from Julian’s form. “Yes, Gareth. Wine would be lovely.” There was a challenge in her voice that resonated with him as if she were spouting dirty pillow talk. “Why don’t you pour us some?” Julian stepped out from the palm tree so that he was standing only a few feet behind Duke’s chair. Without allowing his gaze to waver from Kate’s, he brought the wine bottle up to his mouth, gripping the cork with his teeth. He pulled the cork out with a flourish, full pirate style, and spat it to the ground below. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he took a hefty swig, a few rivulets of the expensive red wine dribbling down his chin. Before he could go any further with his demonstration, a pair of hands yanked him from behind. He could hear Gareth’s low hiss as the man grabbed the wine bottle from his hand and pushed him back in the direction of the dining room. Duke turned around at the sound of the commotion, but Julian was fully hidden by that time, and all he saw was a flustered Gareth holding the bottle, wine dripping off the edge. “What is wrong with you tonight?” Duke demanded. “Miss Simmons here would like some more wine.” “Of course, Mr. Kilroy. I beg your pardon.” Kate held her glass up with a smile, a one-sided toast meant solely for Julian’s eyes. A smarter man might use this opportunity to leave, to consider

128



himself out one of the battles, though still wholly invested in the war. But a smarter man wouldn’t have been caught in this situation in the first place, so it was a moot point. Besides, Julian was never one to back down from a contest, and that was precisely what Kate was offering him, leaning back in her chair like she was suddenly the duchess. Gareth tried to grab his arm and pull him away when he left the terrace, but Julian wouldn’t budge. “I’ve got this, Gareth,” he whispered. “I’ll take all the blame if I get caught. You can go back downstairs.” Gareth didn’t move right away, but Julian refused to back down. “On my stepfather’s honor.” They both knew it wasn’t a vow Julian made very often. With a shake of the head, Gareth eventually handed him the wine bottle and shuffled away. “You owe me, kid.” Slight murmurs of conversation wafted in through the open door. Kate leaned over the table, intensely interested in something Duke was saying, but every so often, her eyes moved to the dining room. She was looking for him. Well, he wouldn’t disappoint. Without any hesitation, he strode to the doorway and rested against one side, the wine bottle once again in hand. Kate saw him right away and redoubled her efforts at charming her dinner companion. “My friend, Jada, has been dying to know what it is you boys wear under your kilts.” She ran a finger over the edge of her wineglass and licked her lips. She was on high gallop, this woman. Having once been the recipient of the full force of her seduction techniques, he knew damn well how effective they were. If he hadn’t walked in to overhear her uncovering her plot on the phone with Jada when he’d gone over to her house, he had no doubt he would have given up Cornwall Park to feel her lips on his just one time.


129

Tamara Morgan

He was that weak. Watching her now, Julian noticed for the first time that Kate was dressed up. Up, as in she was aware of the social requirements of dating a man like Duke Kilroy III. Dress, jewelry, hair. It was all right there, smacking him in the face with its glittery perfection. As if feeling Julian’s sudden shift of attention, Kate crossed her legs, allowing one foot to kick deliberately in his direction. Silver heels, thin and delicate and completely unsuitable for anyone who intended to walk, glinted up at him, beckoned for him to run his hands along her calves, exploring the smooth lines of her muscles. She was mocking him. With her footwear. Kilroy didn’t seem to notice as he leaned over the table and offered up a disgustingly nasal laugh. “Well, now. What we wear under our kilts is a highly guarded secret we men don’t like to discuss.” Julian held back a snort. Kilroy wore support hose—the kind old ladies wore to weddings. Groin control, he called them. “I’m half tempted to show up at your little Games and sneak a peek.” Kate was practically purring at him. “I wish you could come.” Kilroy’s voice was filled with equal parts conceit and condescension. “But I know how you feel about the Fauxhall Gardens. I don’t want you to have to sacrifice something so important to you.” Kate looked straight at Julian. “What a gentlemanly thing to say. It’s a downright shame they didn’t put you in charge of the Games in place of that ogre.” Kilroy stiffened, his hand clasping the wineglass with sudden tension—a sentiment Julian shared. “That it is, Miss Simmons. That it is.”

130



“Speaking of ogres,” Kate continued, swiping at a few loose strands of hair. “How is it you know Julian? I find it hard to believe that a man like you would be on such good terms with him.” “We’re not on such good terms. Julian isn’t a nice man. I don’t think you should deal with him any more than you have to. I don’t know what sort of garbage he’s been trying to feed you, but the truth is I’ve held the record for the local Games for years, and he’ll stop at nothing to take it from me.” She laughed, tinkling peals full of mockery. “You make it sound like you guys are part of a plot to destroy the world or something. It’s just a game.” Duke didn’t say a word in response. Julian knew the feeling—he was probably struggling between a desire to be polite and a desire to shake her until she realized what this meant to them. The SHS wasn’t just anything. Why couldn’t she understand that? “So what do you mean, anyway, about him not stopping at anything? A Barry Bonds scandal? Cheating? Blackmail?” Her voice dropped ominously with each word. Duke steepled his fingers and looked off in the distance, his pause so dramatic it almost subdued the crickets chirping in the background. “It’s too soon to say. But all of those are possibilities when it comes to Wallace. Be careful with him. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Kate looked up. Julian hadn’t moved at all during their dialogue. He’d just listened. Watched. Tried to understand what it was Kate was attempting to get out of this evening. On the surface, it seemed like her goals were aligned with his—gathering information. Plotting. Deceiving. Manipulating. A few more days of this and Julian would hardly be able to recognize himself anymore. But she looked so at ease sitting there, sipping wine against the backdrop of the formal gardens,


131

Tamara Morgan

smiling charmingly and dangling that damn silver, high-heeled shoe from her polished toes, he wondered to what lengths she might go to make those romantic notions of hers last for more than a few balls and gardens a couple of times a year. “I don’t think Julian will hurt me, if that’s what you’re implying,” she said softly. “Then you don’t know him very well.” “Oh, I know enough. I know he’s overbearing and masterful. I know he cares about the Scottish Highland Games so much that common decency doesn’t even factor into his decision-making. And I know he’s very, very wrong if he thinks a few changes to my invitations and one of the worst attempts at spying I’ve ever encountered are going to stop me.” Duke whipped around then, but Julian was too quick. He’d seen the flash of mischief on Kate’s face and dove to the side, out of sight of the terrace. His breath came quick and heavy, and he half expected Duke to come stomping into the room, demanding to know what was going on. But the tinkle of Kate’s laughter and the clatter of china indicated their romantic meal for two was going to continue unabated for at least a few minutes more. He stood with his back to the wall, surveying the several-hundred-dollar bottle of wine in his hand. It was as old as he was, dressed in a label that was probably worth more than any item of clothing he owned. Even with a Rockland Bluff Whisky sponsorship and a win at the Games, he’d never be able to afford this kind of stuff. Any of it—the fancy dinner, the luxury car, the million-dollar view. One of the things he loved about the Highland Games was that every man was made equal on the playing field. Hard work, dedication and honor were the

132



only things that mattered, and they were accessible to everyone, no matter what his background. That was a real battle, where the odds were even from day one. Standing here, in a house built of old money and even older class, Julian felt his inadequacy for the first time, and it made him feel an unnatural surge of anger that had nothing to do with competition. The conversation in the next room was nauseatingly light, something about Kilroy’s car and a race along the autobahn. Julian waited for a few more minutes, thinking they might resume discussions of the Games or even him, but it seemed Kate had already dismissed him from her mind. He’d been a fool to come here in the first place. And Michael’s clothes itched. It was high time to leave them to their romantic devices. But before Julian walked away, he placed the bottle of wine carefully in the doorway and offered Kate a jaunty salute. She opened her mouth, as though she wanted to say something more, but he turned and glided through the silent dining room before she could get in another last word.


133

Chapter Eight

Highland Land League

If it had been Julian’s plan to strike fear into her silly, feminine heart, he’d accomplished his goals. For the past four days in a row, Kate had dressed herself every morning with painstaking care. Shoes, hair, dress, makeup. She could have been in a car accident and gone to her death without shame—even her pores were cooperating, and the morticians would have been amazed at her attention to detail. And all because she was certain she was going to turn a corner or peek her head up over a bookshelf at work to find him standing there, grinning at her, judging her. But apparently, he wasn’t a very dedicated stalker. Kate knew that for a fact. She’d checked around the little cafe where she’d agreed to meet Lady Lovelace and Anne, taking two unnecessary trips to the restroom to make sure he wasn’t posing as the waiter or as one of the large, leather-clad motorcycle gang members having scones over by the front window. He wasn’t there, just like he wasn’t in the break room at work, filling the water cooler in a gray jumpsuit or standing on her doorstep yesterday morning hoping to bring her the word of God. Look at her. That man was making her act downright ridiculous—and in all her years of adherence to the Regency Society and with her cat curled up underneath her Victorian furniture, she’d never once considered herself ridiculous.


“Don’t you look nice today,” Anne said with a smile as she slid into the booth. Lady Lovelace was right behind her, wearing a hat so large and floral it looked like someone had affixed a garden patio to her head. Of course she sat right next to Kate, pushing her into the corner of the booth with the hat’s brim. It bobbed and weaved ominously near Kate’s face. “I hope you’ve ordered the high tea,” Lady Lovelace said, her voice low with warning. “Yes, ma’am,” Kate felt compelled to answer. The cafe, Briar Rose, was known for its high tea, plates full of scones and clotted cream as far as the eye could see. It was also known for the women who ordered it, be-hatted and bedecked in English finery. This meeting hadn’t been her idea. After the date with Duke, Kate was more determined than ever to get Cornwall Park for their event, and the last thing she needed was Lady Lovelace’s hysterics trying to convince her otherwise. A smile twisted at the corner of her mouth. The date with Duke. She usually had Jada on hold for a post-mortem after all her first dates, and it took her friend’s rough sense of humor to pull Kate up from the still, brackish waters of the current dating pool. But she hadn’t even told Jada about meeting Duke or agreeing to meet him at his house for dinner. It broke all the rules, to meet a man on his own turf, but she’d done it anyway. And it was a good thing too. She now knew Julian for what he really was. Which was…what, exactly? Daring and reckless and comfortable with spying on an intimate dinner for two? When she’d first seen the dark figure standing beside the big tropical tree near the terrace, she thought he was a bodyguard of sorts—that Duke Kilroy wasn’t just a rich, pretty face, but a rich, pretty face that had some sort of


135

Tamara Morgan

importance to national security. But when she’d realized it was Julian, she’d almost grabbed her wineglass and hurled it right at his stupid grin. One of the first things Duke said to her, right after he whisked her into his marble foyer, slabs of pink, veiny rock pointing straight up to Heaven, was that she needed to watch her back around Julian. Not that she needed the warning— she would have worn a sign around her neck stating that very thing if she hadn’t already slipped her favorite cameo necklace on. She hadn’t thought to introduce Julian into the conversation at all, seeing as how they were supposedly on a date, but Duke seemed vastly interested in his movements. “We’re feuding over a tract of land,” Kate had said laughingly. There was no other way to explain it. She’d tried to elaborate on their predicament as Duke took her on a tour of the house. It was gorgeous, that place, an emulation of a stately English manor, right down to the portraits lining almost every wall. She doubted they were all his ancestors, even though he’d claimed kinship to the entire lot. In fact, there was a series of faces above the grand piano that looked suspiciously like the Romanovs. “But that’s absurd!” Duke cried, pounding out a quick rendition of chopsticks on the piano. “Yes, it is,” Kate agreed, still looking up at the portraits. That was Tsar Nicholas II’s mustache. She was sure of it. “We’ve often had the Games here at Kilroy Hall—in fact, I already told Julian he was more than welcome to use our grounds this year. I was on my way to his house to see if he’d made a decision about it yet. That is, before I was so charmingly interrupted, of course.” Kate spun. “What did you say?” “That you’re charming. I can’t remember the last time—”

136



“No, no. Before that. About Kilroy Hall.” He waved his hand as if the matter wasn’t at all important. But it was important—suddenly, nothing in the world seemed more so. She grabbed his hand and forced it to be still. “Say it again.” “There’s no reason why Julian should be making such a big deal of Cornwall Park, that’s all. I have all the equipment for the Games and more than enough space here.” He shrugged. “Now, shall I show you the library?” Kate nodded and followed, though without much enthusiasm. The prospect of the library in a house like this should have been enough to fuel her literary fantasies for years, but she couldn’t even summon up a glimmer of excitement. The bastard. Storming around like Kate was single-handedly ruining his career, waxing poetic about honor among men—and the whole time, he had this incredible place for the asking. And as if her resolution hadn’t been curled and set in that moment, Julian had the audacity to ruin her date. To eavesdrop and try to gain an even bigger advantage. Well, she’d shown him. “We’re obviously here to discuss the issue of the Fauxhall Gardens,” Lady Lovelace said ominously, forcing Kate’s attention to the task at hand. Great. More complications. It seemed the road was paved with them, sealed in a thick tar of irritation. A waiter came by with their tea, which was served on a platter the size of a coffee table. He fussed over them for a few minutes, making sure everything was in order. The moment he turned his back, Lady Lovelace grabbed some of the jams and floral-shaped pats of butter and slipped them into her purse, which


137

Tamara Morgan

Kate could have sworn contained a layer of plastic wrap smuggled in for just such a reason. “Things are progressing quite nicely,” Kate murmured, dropping a few sugar cubes into her tea and stirring it with the tiniest spoon she’d ever seen. “There have been…new developments.” “What I don’t understand is why there are so many problems with this.” After the incident with the invitations, Lady Lovelace had been keeping a rather strict watch over Kate’s handling of the affair. Kate couldn’t blame her. “What does this young man of yours have against the Jane Austen Regency Re-Enactment Society?” “He is not my young man,” Kate managed, her teeth clenched on the rim of the porcelain teacup. “Mama, it’s come down to a matter of principle now,” Anne interrupted. “Kate is only doing what needs to be done.” Kate flashed her a grateful smile. That woman had more patience in the tip of her little finger than Kate might hope for in a lifetime. Lady Lovelace was a great resource for all things Georgian and Regency, but the woman sometimes forgot she lived in the twenty-first century. And that made her very hard to talk to about anything other than the crafting of a fine lace fichu. “Isn’t there someone you can talk to? Or a permit to get?” “I looked into it,” Kate confessed. “It’s one of those places you can’t reserve but is free to use, so it’s all a matter of timing. Apparently, the SHS has been the only group using it for so long, people sort of assume they own it.” Kate had felt a twinge of guilt over that phone call. In terms of fairness, Julian did have more of a right to Cornwall Park than she did. But owning the land in fact and owning the land in machismo condescension were two entirely different things.

138



“And why are we fighting this so much?” Lady Lovelace asked with a heavy sigh. Anne, bless her heart, intervened. “Think of it as our own Jacobite Rising. Kate has everything in order—the tents, the food, the entertainment—but these Scottish ruffians are trying to foist her out with a Young Pretender. We’re merely playing the role of the English. It’s only natural, of course.” This was a language Lady Lovelace spoke well. She thumped on the table eagerly, causing the plates to jump and clatter, several biscuits finding their way to the floor. “That’s marvelous!” she cried. “Ought we to have a battle re-enactment at the Fauxhall Gardens? I’ve seen the Civil War groups do them before. They’re divine—all those guns and soldiers. Why, give me a man in a red coat—” Kate choked on a strawberry tart. “I don’t think Julian will agree to re-enact a mass slaughter—even in jest.” Lady Lovelace pursed her lips. “No? You think not?” “Anyway, it’s not exactly historically accurate, is it?” Anne pointed out calmly. “From a purely chronological standpoint, that is.” Kate nodded in agreement, forcing herself to look solemn. All she needed was a free rein over this plan. She didn’t care how many Jacobean analogies had to be drawn out and tortured in order to get there. Lady Lovelace pursed her lips. “You’re certain you can make it all work out? I’d take over the planning myself, but you know what the doctor said about keeping away from undue stress. Ever since that night of the ball—” She broke off, and Kate had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she would very soon regret.


139

Tamara Morgan

Anne gave her mother a reassuring pat. “There, there, Mama. Why don’t you go freshen up in the ladies’ room for a moment? Don’t you remember? They have those lovely lavender satchels in there. Very calming.” The older woman ambled off, grabbing two more pastries and shoving them deep in her purse before heading to the back of the cafe. She looked back at Kate, her eyes heavy with suffering and drama. Kate bit her cheek harder. “I’m sorry, Kate. You know what she’s like.” “I know she means well,” Kate agreed. Overbearing mothers weren’t all that foreign to her. She’d had to move across the state to get away from her own. “So, the newspaper ad didn’t go off as well as we’d hoped, then? Should I be doing something else to help?” “I’m not sure. The catering is all lined up and ready to go, and the lectures are confirmed. If it weren’t for this stupid park, everything would be falling into place.” “Well, take heart.” Anne laughed, patting her hand reassuringly. “At least my mom’s on board now that she thinks we’re waging a Jacobean war effort.” Kate dropped her head to the table, accidentally dumping the contents of her purse on the floor in the process. Her wallet, lip gloss, keys, breath mints, two romance novels and a crumpled copy of the drag-show ad went flying in every direction. Anne crouched to help her pick it all up, eyeing the ad with a smile. “How’d he take it, by the way?” Kate’s lips twitched. “He threw my shoes out the window.” “So we are getting closer, then.” “Closer, yes. But we’re going to need to step up our game. We’re going to need to think big.” “How big?”

140



Kate’s mind instantly traveled to the image of Julian looming in the background of her date with Duke, a few inches shorter than her dinner companion but so much larger in his general presence. He’d looked good dressed head to toe in black. Very Johnny Cash, but with a rusticity that was beginning to invade her every waking thought. Kate sighed. “Not just big, Anne. Huge.”

There were a few dozen tasks on Kate’s to-do list, which was laid out on her counter, a perpetual reminder there was more to her Fauxhall Gardens task than getting Julian out of her way. No fewer than five messages were on her answering machine, all requiring her immediate attention. Work was beckoning too—she’d been taking her managerial role a bit too lax lately, leaving the bookstore to run at the hands of a few semicompetent employees. Who was she kidding? Her entire life was falling by the wayside while she gallivanted about, having tea and crumpets and plotting her enemy’s demise. But when she got home that evening, a glass of Chablis in one hand and her to-do list in front of her, making phone calls and employee schedules were the last things on her mind. In order of importance, the priorities flashing through her brain were the vibrant white tent that would serve as the focal point of the Fauxhall Gardens, her cat’s sadly empty food bowl, and Julian standing at the bluff of Cornwall Park, wearing only a kilt wrapped around his waist. In her imagination, it whipped in the wind, threatening to billow off into the sunset like a scarf in a French film. She narrowed her eyes and took a generous gulp of the wine. Fine. Maybe that wasn’t the exact order of importance. Gretna and his hungry mews came first.


141

Tamara Morgan

Once the cat was fed and purring contentedly, Kate gave up the premise of work altogether. She might as well go out to measure the field at Cornwall Park. She still hadn’t determined exactly how to set up the layout, and the pyrotechnic guys had to have at least three hundred feet of empty space in order to put on the Friday and Saturday night fireworks displays. It was a good reason to go. Perfectly legitimate. Equipped with only a tape measure, some graph paper and a pair of flat gladiator sandals that had so many tiny buckles even her small fingers had a difficult time getting them on and off, she arrived at Cornwall Park. It was later in the day than when she’d been there before, the sun an orange ball starting to glow as it made its descent, and she could already tell how spectacular the park would be when lit only by the paper lanterns and the light of the full moon that was expected the weekend of the event. The entire place practically pulsed with romance, the sound of her car door breaking into the evergreen-scented air and causing a nearby flock of birds to take to the sky in a mad dash of wings. And then she saw the three other vehicles parked a few spots away, one of which was a huge black truck she recognized with an uncanny thump of her heart. She should have known Julian would be here. If something existed in opposition to her, he’d already claimed it, mastered it and stood around waiting for a chance to flaunt it. Kate’s hair happened to be held in place by a silver-beaded hair stick that would make very satisfactory holes in each of the oversized tires of that damn truck. But the hair stick was vintage, and it was fragile. Next time, she’d remember to pack an icepick.

142



Stealth had not been in her plans, but she adopted it all the same, peering at the vehicles without making a sound. The back of Julian’s truck was filled with assorted paraphernalia, including what looked like a giant box of beef jerky and two twenty-four packs of beer. Some tools and a tarp were back there too. She shook her head. The things men carried around in their trucks. Her own car had nothing more stored in it than an emergency blanket, a first-aid kit, some jumper cables and a fully loaded flare gun. Jada constantly made fun of her safety collection, but Kate had started driving before every teenager in the world had a cell phone. Her father had worked very hard to instill a healthy respect of dark, deserted highways. Kate crept around the vehicles to the main clearing of the park. Voices, male and inordinately pleased with themselves, rose up through the air. Four tents in muted shades of blue and green were set up in a crude semicircle around a single light source. Camping. They were camping in the middle of the park. Kate straightened. The situation didn’t seem quite right. There were still a good two weeks to go before the events. The men didn’t have a campfire lit, but two of them had found a way to jam a couple of hot dogs on a stick inside the glass of an old lantern. Kate recognized one of the men as the bouncer from Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint. The other man was a little bit smaller than the others but bore a strong resemblance to the bouncer. A behemoth in training, most likely. “Hey, Jules—you want a beer?” she heard Michael call. Michael stepped out of one of the green tents, liberally scratching his balls. So that was what men did when they went camping. Drank and played with themselves. Kate wasn’t sure what to do next. Instinct urged her to crouch next to one of the large rocks marking the periphery of the parking lot and watch to see what


143

Tamara Morgan

sort of plot they had lined up, but the risk of being caught was too great. What possible explanation existed that wouldn’t make her sound like a complete idiot? She decided it was best to leave—the mature thing to do, surely. But then Julian emerged from his tent, wearing nothing but a pair of athletic pants. Her vision tunneled like she was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, and she found her legs didn’t work quite as well as they used to. She already knew he was strong, that his chest was a hard-packed surface of muscles that radiated heat. But seeing, in this case, was more than believing. It was swooning, drooling, falling to the ground in a pool of hormonal bliss. He moved as though he were completely unaware of the effect he had on the atmosphere around him, as though he didn’t feel the way men, nature and the very air parted to make way for him. He displaced so much energy, it was as though he caused some sort of cosmic shift in the way the world was supposed to be functioning. His actions were simple as he bent to arrange a few supplies, but the way his body rippled was anything but. He was like a predatory animal, so attuned to its own form that it forgot how majestic and frightening it might appear to a bystander—to its prey. “Well, well, well. What have we here?” a low, masculine voice cooed directly into her ear. A hand grasped her waist. She whirled around with a start, the prey metaphor coming to an untimely truth. But before she could register the man behind her, she smacked her forehead against something hard and unyielding, pain splintering out like cracked fissures along her skull. Stars didn’t quite come dancing into her line of vision, but twinkling bits of floating light did. She sank to the ground with a groan.

144



“Oh shit,” the same voice said, the hand pulling sharply away. Her attacker turned to the group of campers and called out, “Dude—I think I killed some chick hiding in the parking lot.” “I’m not dead,” Kate muttered, letting out a noise halfway between a groan and mortification. She pressed her hand against her head, right on the hairline. Her fingers were slick with blood, and she could feel a huge welt growing already. “What did you hit me with?” “What happened?” Julian came jogging up. Kate couldn’t see much through the haze of pain and blood, but she heard his voice, felt the way the air suddenly shifted. “Kate? What the—?” She struggled to get to her feet, but Julian’s hand pressed down on her shoulder, forcing her back to the ground. His hand stayed there, warm and insistent. He was telling her what to do, as usual, but it was comforting to know he was there. Why did he have to be so comforting? Why did his simply being there have to make her feel so good? “McClellan? What happened?” “He hit me.” “He did what?” Julian roared, an honest-to-goodness feral sound that started somewhere deep underground and rumbled up through the entire earth. His hand lifted from Kate’s shoulder only to be planted firmly into McClellan’s nose, which looked a little as though it had been punched once or twice over the past few years. The impact made a sickening thud and sent the large man reeling backward. McClellan, to his credit, didn’t return the swing. “I didn’t hit her, man. She ran right into my hammer.” Julian leaped forward with another growl, but McClellan was ready for him this time and easily dodged the attack.


145

Tamara Morgan

“That’s ridiculous. No one runs into a hammer so hard it makes her bleed.” “I do,” Kate said with a sigh. She got most of the way to a standing position, but her head throbbed, and she was hit with a wave of nausea that threatened to upend the contents of her stomach—wine and scone. Julian grabbed her and put an arm—strong, solid and warm—around her waist. “Are you sure you should get up?” “The alternative is to sit here and bleed. So, yes.” “Do you want me to hit him again?” Kate laughed. And winced. “No. I did run into his hammer. But it wasn’t my fault. He scared me.” She looked over at McClellan, seeing him now without the element of surprise weighing her down. He still scared her. He was big in ways the other athletes weren’t, muscles and flesh all stacked up on top of one another to the point where he couldn’t put his arms firmly down at his sides or even stand up straight. He even wore a pair of those muscle-builder pants, all elastic and loose, colorful fabric. McClellan scowled. “She was skulking.” Kate opened her mouth. And then shut it. She had been skulking, and she didn’t particularly wish to dwell on it. “Oh, I think I need to sit down.” She moaned instead, turning her head so a few dramatic drops of blood splattered into the dirt. Julian promptly whisked her up into his arms and began carrying her to his truck. He was doing it again—taking over. But the way he lifted her and carried her like she was nothing more than a deliciously feminine slip of a human being reminded her very much of their first meeting. Before she’d realized he was her enemy, when he seemed like a sweet, caring man who might genuinely be interested in her.

146



She let herself enjoy the brief journey, her head pressed against the smooth plane of his bare chest, warm even in the cooling night air. She was so close she could easily kiss him, a quick press of the lips along the upper curve of his pectoral muscle. And she was perilously close to doing it, like a woman on a diet placed in the arms of a piece of decadent chocolate cake. But she didn’t. Blood, dirt and the crunch of McClellan’s nose as he snapped it back into place set an entirely different tone to the proceedings. Julian set her gently on the tailgate of the truck, amidst the beef jerky and tarps, her legs dangling over the edge. But he wasn’t the least bit interested in her legs. His face level with hers, he started poking at the wound on her head, exploring the cut as a chimp might search for nits. She bore it patiently, closing her eyes and trying not to imagine those hands moving in a less clinical manner across her brow. “I don’t think you need stitches,” he said in a voice of authority. Something rough wiped across her face, wafting a slight gasoline smell into the air. It was a rag—like the kind her mechanic used to check the amount of oil in her car. Kate wrinkled her nose and backed away. “What are you doing? Is that sanitary?” His easy chuckle shook the truck. “It’s clean. Relax. I’m not an idiot.” “You’re also not a doctor.” “I work with builders five months out of the year. I’ve seen my share of gaping head wounds. This cut isn’t going to kill you.” He waved the rag in front of her face. She had to admit it looked relatively clean, other than the blood now covering it. “And neither is this.” He dabbed at her head with it again, a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth. “What are you doing here, anyway? Spying on me?”


147

Tamara Morgan

“Very funny. As far as I’m aware, this is a public park, not a private residence—especially not a private residence where two people are having a date.” She cast a pointed look over at the group of men, all of whom were none too discreetly watching their conversation unfold. Kate snatched the rag out of Julian’s hand and jumped off the edge of the truck, using the side-view mirror to inspect her wound. He was right—it wasn’t going to kill her. But it was unsightly just the same, a giant blue goose egg crowned with a jagged line of drying blood. “You could have outed me at any moment,” Julian pointed out. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the truck as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “But you chose not to. I think that says a lot more about you than it does me.” “At least I don’t skulk behind potted plants!” “Right. You were skulking behind a rock. That’s better. Why didn’t you say anything?” “To Duke?” Kate forced herself to laugh and mirror Julian’s stance, even though her highly unattractive head wound put her at a slight disadvantage. That was a question she’d been asking herself for days. If there was one weapon that would help her put Julian in his place, it was Duke. Golden, gilded Duke, with his rolling lawn and fat wallet. But it had seemed wrong, somehow, to drag him into the fight. Duke wasn’t a man who resorted to spying and juvenile pranks. He was above it, floating like an effervescent god. “I didn’t want my evening to descend into a fistfight, that’s all,” she lied. “It’s too bad you didn’t stick around. We had such a lovely time after you left.” That was a lie too. After dinner, Kate cut the evening short. It had been growing too difficult to keep a serene, interested expression on her face after the altercation with Julian. Duke had been incredibly gracious about it, of course.

148



And he’d sent flowers the next day, a huge, gorgeous display of roses that still made her blush to look at. “How do you know I wasn’t there? Maybe I found a better hiding place.” It was possible. Unlikely, but possible. She’d thought of it at the time and had even granted Duke a kiss after he walked her to her car in case Julian might be on hand, watching. It had been performed as an act of pure rebellion, but she’d had to admit there was an undeniable allure to Duke’s kiss. He was a man who knew what to do with a soft pair of lips. She decided play the same cards now. “Shame on you, then. I had no idea you were such a Peeping Tom. Did you at least enjoy the show?” A scowl, dark and shadowy, crossed Julian’s face, but he didn’t speak. “I came here to take measurements of the park,” she said, pointing to the papers she’d dropped over by the rocks. “What are you doing here?” As if suddenly realizing the impropriety of standing there with the breadth of his chest flashing right in her face, he rummaged through his gym bag until he found a T-shirt to pull on. “Funny thing, that.” His words were muffled until the gray material came down over his abs. Kate was finally able to bring her full attention up to his face. “I was thinking over our past conversations, and something you said inspired me to action.” “This doesn’t look like action. It looks like…barbarism,” Kate said. It did too. She didn’t condone sleeping outside, in a bunk bed or in any hotel that boasted a number in its name. “We’re camping,” McClellan said helpfully, coming forward to grab a case of beer from the back of Julian’s truck. “She’s all right, eh?” “She’ll live,” Julian muttered. “Sorry about the nose, McClellan. I got carried away.”


149

Tamara Morgan

“No harm done. I’d do the same if you attacked my woman.” “She’s not my woman.” Julian looked as though he might want to punch McClellan again. McClellan’s gaze roamed over Kate’s entire body before he shrugged, dismissing her like he might an inferior cut of steak. She snorted. As if that man ever turned down anything to eat. “If you say so, Wallace. I’m gonna go pitch my tent.” Kate snorted again, louder this time. Drinking beer, playing with their balls and pitching tents. Man-camping was just plain classy. “Laugh it up Kate, while you still can. There are a few things you’re forgetting about going up in battle against a man like me. I don’t give up, but I fight fair. Not like you. You fight like—” “A girl?” Kate quirked a brow. “The English.” He laughed and gestured over the campsite. “One thing I’ve learned about history is that the English always underestimate how much it’ll take to get a Scot off his own land.” “So what? You’re going to stay here for two weeks, sleeping on the ground and not taking showers?” “Yep.” Kate was about two seconds away from stamping her foot at him. “But you can’t… It’s not…” Julian’s grin—the toothpaste-ad one—flashed white and menacing. “This is me, marking my territory. I told you I had friends. Big ones.” Size and strength. Always, he thought size and strength and pure, unadulterated masculinity trumped everything else. She suddenly wanted to grab the hammer from McClellan’s hand and try that crazy swing of theirs. Right into Julian’s foot.

150



“You’re not the only one who can sleep in a tent for a few days. I have friends too.” Julian’s laugh was deep and prolonged, equal parts hilarity and mockery. He didn’t stop for a full minute. All Kate could do was stand there and watch, tapping her foot in the dust until he had to finally breathe again. “It’s hardly the wilds of Scotland,” she pointed out. “For crying out loud— there’s a McDonald’s down the street. I can sit here as long as you can.” “Go ahead. I can’t stop you from staying, but we were here first, and I guarantee you we’ll be here last.” “What—are you going to lift us up and carry us off like the Sabine women?” He spread his arms, welcoming her to the park like a footman at the Ritz. “We won’t need to. Two hours. I give you two hours before you pack in and go home.” She narrowed her eyes. Julian obviously thought very little of her ability to see a task through to the end. On a dare, she’d once read the entire unabridged Moby Dick in a straight forty-eight hour stretch. A whole summer back in her teenage years had been spent trying to learn how to toss a card neatly into an upturned top hat. And who could forget the time she took up looming and almost forgot to eat in her quest to create a big enough textile to upholster a couch? Please. She could spend a few nights in this gorgeous park overlooking the river. It was a cakewalk by comparison. She turned to Julian, her face masked with as much firm resolve as she could muster. “You’re in for a big disappointment. I’m not leaving.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” “You know, Julian, your biggest mistake has always been that you underestimate me.”


151

Tamara Morgan

He flashed her another wide smile. “Well, Kate, it looks like we’re even. Your biggest mistake is that you assume I think about you at all.”

152


Chapter Nine A Lively Rout

She was tenacious. Julian would give her that much. True to her word, Kate had refused to leave the park. She’d phoned her reinforcements from across the field, refusing to even look over at the men’s camp while she waited for them to show. In fact, she’d been sitting there for two hours, waiting. It was growing cold— the evenings out here, with the wind carrying from river below, had a tendency to dip down in the fifties—and she was once again wearing something flimsy and decorative, white pants that skimmed the backs of her calves and a tiny green tank top that strained against a pair of breasts he knew damn well weren’t held in check by a bra. He’d felt much more of that body, supple and soft, than he’d been prepared to as he’d carried her across the parking lot. It was almost too bad McClellan hadn’t knocked her unconscious. At least then he could have called an ambulance to haul her away. “Shouldn’t we offer her a jacket or something?” Peterson sat next to Julian, his feet propped on a practice caber, both of them pretending to watch the stars. “No. We want her to leave.” “But she—” “No, Peterson.” Julian was firm. She was probably trying to win his men’s sympathy, all that skin shining under the moon like something out of a comic book. “She’s probably got a whole busload of girlfriends on their way over as we speak. It’s going to turn into a damn slumber party any minute. We’ll probably have to braid their hair and talk about Hannah Montana.”

Tamara Morgan

Peterson sat up a little straighter. “How many friends are we talking?” “I don’t know. Two—maybe three?” “Will there be pillow fights?” Oh God. Julian hoped not. There were limits to how far a man might be reasonably expected to restrain himself. “That woman who almost ripped Mikey’s balls off the other night will probably be here. You want to get in a pillow fight with her?” Peterson sighed and put a hand over his heart. “Hell yes.” Julian tossed an empty beer can at him. “What? You forget I’m a single dad. The only action I see these days is what Barbie’s giving up to Ken. And let me tell you, that chick is one big prude.” They all looked up at the sound of crunching gravel. A miniscule Miata pulled in right next to Julian’s truck, followed by a hatchback pulling a small trailer full of supplies. Light, feminine laughter filled the field more ominously than the sound of a tearing ligament. Julian had to put a hand out to stop Peterson from rising to his feet. “Don’t you dare help them.” Michael stepped up from behind. He was accompanied by Nick, Peterson’s younger brother and a budding young athlete with almost as many tattoos as his sibling. “Aw, c’mon Jules,” Nick said with a laugh. “They’re going to stay either way. We might as well have a little fun with it.” “Maybe it’ll throw them off the scent,” Peterson suggested. “You know, making nice and all that.” Julian kicked at the caber. He wasn’t convinced going within a twenty-foot radius of those women was a good idea. He’d lied when he said he didn’t think about Kate any more than he had to—the damn woman had the uncanny ability

154



to get under the skin like some alien in a sci-fi movie, shifting and worming her way closer and closer to his core, to where the muscles were no longer any sort of barrier worth a damn. Two weeks out here with that lot of feminine incompetency was almost too much to even contemplate. They probably didn’t even know how to light a match. She wouldn’t last. He’d stake the Games on it. Hell, he was staking the Games on it. “Fine. If you want to help them, go ahead. But I’m not moving.” McClellan joined the other three in trotting across the field. From where Julian sat, he had a pretty good vantage point. Jada stepped out of the Miata, looking like she was about to go clubbing with huge spiky heels already digging into the field and tearing up the grass. He didn’t recognize the other woman, but he liked her better almost instantly. She was dressed for actual outdoor activities and was pulling a large tent box out of her car with relative efficiency. Thank God one of them would know what she was doing. Kate was doing her best to ignore him, and Julian was doing his best not to notice. He busied himself setting up the portable cookstove they’d brought along with a cooler full of supplies. They’d already determined the men would work in shifts over the next few weeks so that they could continue to go to work and live regular lives, but the lure of outdoor adventure proved too strong for the first night. Julian imagined that as more men flew in for the event, their camp out would get even bigger. Male companionship—pure and easy—was what the Games were all about. All a man needed was a warm plaid to curl up in, a good piece of meat for his table and another man looking out for his back. Not—good God, were those women unloading a portable hot tub? Julian looked away. He couldn’t take this.


155

Tamara Morgan

Michael came jogging up, the smile on his face pretty much confirming Julian’s worst fears. “Jules, you’ve got to come see this thing. This is turning out to be the best idea you’ve ever had.” “Tell me it’s not a hot tub.” “It’s awesome—you put firewood in that little side heater with the coils, and it gets the water up to temperature. Peterson and I are going to start getting water to fill it. I figure I can haul it from the spigots at the entrance to the parking lot. You want to help?” “No. I do not want to help.” Michael shook his head with a rueful grin. “Suit yourself, buddy. But there are three gorgeous women over there with a hot tub, enough booze to start their own pub and a stack of pepperoni pizzas. Nothing you’ve got will compete.” Julian turned off the cookstove switch angrily. “Can’t you see what she’s doing? She’s bribing you over to the dark side with cheap beer and hot meat.” Michael winked and sauntered off to do the women’s bidding. He was right. Julian couldn’t compete. When he looked up, he could see Kate staring right at him, her embargo on acknowledging his existence obviously lifted. And she was laughing. He hated that she was laughing. It didn’t take long for the enemy camp to finish setting up, though Julian didn’t see one of the women lift more than an eyelash or a breast the whole time. They were apparently going to share a tent—a move, he was sure, designed to reinforce the fantasy of late-night pillow fights and make-out sessions. The hot tub was filled and warming up thanks to wood acquired by the sacrifice of one of their best practice cabers, and they’d all set up lawn chairs around a metal fire pit that crackled with heat and activity. It was practically an outdoor hotel.

156



Their own camp, which had seemed rugged and outdoorsy before the women had arrived, now seemed a little sad. “You could join us, you know,” Kate said. She’d come up from behind him, sneaking along in the twilight, a wood nymph hellbent on his ruin. She held out a mug, but he made no move to grab it. “It’s cocoa.” She pushed it closer. “What’s in it?” He grabbed the cup and gave it a tentative sniff. She laughed and sat, uninvited, across from him. Right on the ground, even though she’d changed into a skirt. Her legs settled demurely to the side, and she batted her eyes as if she didn’t sport a large, angry bruise along the edge of her forehead. Always ladylike, even battered and in the dirt. “Milk. Chocolate. Marshmallows. The usual.” When he didn’t drink it right away, she shrugged. “I figure at least two of us should remain sober. There are open flames, after all.” Julian had been thinking the same thing. If all his years attending Scottish Highland Games had taught him one thing, it was that when women, whisky, and water activities combined in any proportion, it almost always ended up as a story preceded by, “So, we’d had too much to drink…” “I’ll tell you what.” Julian sighed, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ll keep my side in line if you do the same.” Kate chewed on her bottom lip. “I’ll try. But Jada isn’t exactly easy to control.” They both looked across the field. The women emerged from the tent in their swimsuits—the dark-haired one Julian didn’t know in a simple one piece, Jada in a sparkling silver thing that was like a bikini with a thin strip of fabric connecting the two parts. Subtle it was not. But Peterson, Nick and McClellan seemed to


157

Tamara Morgan

appreciate the suit in the manner to which it was accustomed. Poor Michael just looked scared. “It probably won’t matter, anyway. My guys didn’t bring swimming gear,” Julian said, taking a sip of the rich cocoa and leaning back against a duffel bag. “We were hardly expecting an outdoor spa.” Kate choked on a laugh as the guys ripped off their clothes and jumped into the water, their naked parts hairy and dangling and flashing under the moonlight. “Seems they’re an inventive lot.” “You’re turning this whole thing into a joke,” Julian muttered, shaking his head. He slipped his jacket from his shoulders as he did it, tossing the item into Kate’s lap. “If you’re going to sit out here, you should at least cover up your arms. The mosquitoes are out in full force.” It was just a lightweight thing, and he was going to take it off anyway, but the grateful smile she gave him made it seem like he’d laid a treasure chest at her feet. He’d never be able to figure this woman out. If he tried to talk to her sensibly, she bristled like an alley cat. If he crashed her date or laid out pornography in front of her lady friends, she pulled out her wits and smacked them right on the table. Only a coat offered solely to prevent West Nile Virus turned her into an actual human being. And even then she snapped right back into battle mode. She crossed her arms, now swimming in black cotton, and nodded at the camp. “It wasn’t my idea,” she said. “Anne brought the hot tub. She’s a friend of mine from the JARRS group—a very supportive and outdoor-savvy friend, I’ll have you know. And her brother works at REI, so there’s plenty more where that came from. But in my defense, I only told her to bring camping gear. I certainly didn’t say a thing about all the luxury amenities.”

158



All the luxury amenities? Julian suddenly wished he’d taken better stock of the women’s supplies as they’d unpacked. They’d last a lot longer than he thought if there were chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne over there. He ran a quick but appraising eye over their side before laughing out loud. Outdoor-savvy, huh? Clouds of mosquitoes gathered around the lamps they’d left lit near the entrance of the tent, where the nylon hung gaping and open. Apparently, the lure of the hot tub overrode common sense. “It’s all fun and games until you realize how many bugs are crawling inside that open door of your tent.” Kate looked back between Julian and the tent, her lips thin and white with the sudden pressure of being wrong. She shoved her mug in his direction and stormed across the field. It was better than a movie, watching her rummage through her things until she came across a can of insect repellent so big it might have taken down an entire ecosystem. He had to struggle to keep seated while she covered the tent and all its surroundings with the killer spray before zipping up the doorway, undergoing a minute investigation of the ground and all its crawling contents before she was satisfied the job had been done properly. A quick word to the raucous hot tub party, and she stalked back across the field. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” There was a slight sneer in her voice—meant, Julian knew, to put him in his place. It was unnecessary. He was exactly where he wanted to be right now. “You’re right—you have a real skill with insecticides.” He waited until she was comfortably settled on the ground before adding, “Though you might as well have taken a bottle of lighter fluid and doused it over your sleeping bags. That stuff’s pretty flammable, and the wind picks up over the bluffs at night. You really aren’t good at this outdoor lifestyle, are you?”


159

Tamara Morgan

The look Kate sent his way was almost too good to be true. There was no way to capture the narrowed eyes, the furious blush, the slight part of her lips— no, that wasn’t true. There was one very good way of capturing those lips, and it involved his hand on the back of her neck, tilting her head up so he could explore all the softness of lips parted in passionate indignation. But, no. She was just a girl, and one who had only recently placed those lips up to an expensive glass of wine in a toast with his enemy. One whose motives in coming over with hot chocolate and a skirt couldn’t be designed to help him in any way. So he laughed instead. Loud and long and fully deserved. “Try not to burn down the whole park, will you? Then neither one of us will have anywhere to host our events.” The entire contents of a mug of hot chocolate splashed over his shirt, marshmallows clinging like wayward polka dots to his chest. The beverage had cooled considerably, so the intended effect—dramatic and decisive—fell short of its goal. Which only made Julian laugh that much more. “And you are not invited to our hot tub to clean up,” Kate muttered, turning on her heel and stomping away. For a moment, he thought the words meant she’d be joining the party across the way, where he could see Jada settling comfortably in Peterson’s lap and Nick, who he was pretty sure was underage, kicking back his fourth or fifth beer. To his relief, she bypassed the laughter and headed right into her tent for the night. But not, of course, before carefully extinguishing every light within ten feet of her liberally debugged comfort zone.

160


Chapter Ten

A Lady’s Complexion

Kate slept fitfully. She’d never camped in her entire life—the closest her family had ever been to roughing it was when she was a kid and they stayed at a hotel with only three stars attached to its name. First of all, it was cold. Even though Anne had brought her a sleeping bag she swore was designed for sub-freezing temperatures, the bare tent floor beneath Kate’s body seeped like ice up into her bones, and she felt like a ninetyyear-old woman with no body fat. So of course she’d been forced to wrap herself up in Julian’s light athletic jacket in order to stay even remotely warm, and his smell, the crisp scent of Irish Spring soap and fresh-cut wood, invaded her dreams, weaving in and out of her consciousness like a ghostly hand. Sometimes the hand wrapped right around her heart, clenching tight before releasing with an oddly-timed thud. Other times, it curled up heavily in the full weight of her breasts and right between her legs, throbbing with restless intensity. And then her portable alarm clock started ringing at five thirty, before the sun had even had a chance to do more than twitch a few feeble signs of life over the field. “Turn that thing off, Kate,” groaned Anne, her arm fumbling for the snooze button. Kate opened a pair of very groggy eyes and tried to stretch, but her body was so stiff she might as well have been frozen to the dirt. Her head pounded from where she’d been hit the day before, and her mouth felt like it had been scrubbed with steel wool.

Tamara Morgan

“Oh my God. People do this for fun?” She couldn’t see very much, either. The tent let in only a few rays of diffusive light, but from what she could tell, everything seemed to have shifted in the night, their sleeping bags and equipment collecting in the middle of the tent as though they, like their owners, needed to huddle for warmth. One owner, though, was nowhere to be found. “Where’s Jada?” Kate croaked. “Good morning, my lovelies!” Jada poked her head into the tent and beamed at them. She looked freshly washed and scrubbed, her hair pulled back in an immaculate ponytail and nary a line across her face. Kate promptly threw a dirty sock at her. “There better be coffee out there.” Anne sat up and stretched. “And food. I forgot how hungry I get when I’m camping. It’s all this fresh air.” “There’s coffee and pancakes and eggs,” Jada promised. “But there are also five very large, beautiful men. So don’t you dare come out until you’ve done something with that hair. And yes, Kate, I’m talking to you.” Kate pulled a face. In college, she’d had to put locks on her bedroom door to prevent Jada’s sunrise bliss from getting in the way of her rest. The woman had some sort of early morning disease that rendered her completely gorgeous and irritating before nine a.m., Pacific Standard Time. “You made breakfast?” “Don’t be stupid. I went to McDonald’s. Now get up—I’m serious. They’re getting ready to throw trees.” Anne scrambled into action, shooting Kate a single apologetic glance before pulling her own perfectly cute and curly hair back into a ponytail.

162



“Sorry, Kate. I’ve always wanted to see this. And if I’m going to be sleeping on the ground with you for the next few weeks, I’m taking my kicks where I can get them.” Kate pulled the blankets back up over her head. This wasn’t going to work. Two more weeks of late night hot tub sessions and early morning wake-up calls? She still had to get home, feed Gretna, shower, get dressed and go to work. Her lunch hour would be spent finalizing things with the florist, and she had to leave early for an appointment with a vintage milliner at two—the woman did amazing things with a feather and was planning on setting up a booth at the Fauxhall Gardens. And then she had to return here to sleep on the ground again, with all the bugs and the medicinal scent of apparently useless insect repellent spray, and only Julian’s casual, handsome mockery to comfort her. “I might end up burning this whole place down on purpose,” she muttered into the blankets. “What’s burning?” Jada stood above her, a brush and a washcloth in her hand. “Kate, did you touch those plants Anne told you to avoid? No—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what you were rolling around in last night. Just get up. I’m making you presentable.” Kate emerged from the tent about five minutes later, feeling a little bit more human thanks to a thorough face scrubbing with icy cold water and Jada’s cruel hand forcing her hair into two thick braids that hit her shoulder blades. That woman should have been a matron in a German boarding school. But the moment she saw the men standing on the far end of the field, Kate decided she didn’t regret the touch of primping. Anne wordlessly handed her a coffee in a to-go cup. “They’re amazing, Kate. Where did you find them, again?”


163

Tamara Morgan

“Right here,” she murmured. The men were lined up in a row, clad in shirts and shorts despite the crisp morning air. All of their attention was on McClellan, who balanced a huge, sixfoot tree trunk in his two hands. He squatted low to the ground, and Kate could see all those muscles that had seemed stacked on top of one another the day before being unfolded and put to good use. He braced the log against the side of his neck, which seemed an awful lot like a splinter hazard, and with a mighty, ancient roar, pulled up to a standing position, using the squat and his arms to propel the log up and out, forcing it to sail through the air. The vertical lift caused the log to flip top to bottom in a full rotation before hitting the ground with a heavy thud, and the weight of it reverberated in Kate’s feet, even from several hundred feet away. The cheers of the four other men indicated the throw was, indeed, as impressive as it seemed. Kate and Anne were shocked into an awed silence, but Jada gave a longing sigh. “You’ve got to wonder what else a man with that kind of strength can do.” “In my experience, the really strong ones don’t have the kind of stamina you’d expect,” Anne said, her voice perfectly grave. Jada nodded knowingly. “That makes sense. It seems such a pity, though.” Kate looked back and forth between the two women, neither one of them paying her the least bit of attention. It seemed she was in a magical place where the world set into motion before the sun came up, trees flew through the air, and meek, mild Anne revealed a sexual past that rivaled Jada’s. What on earth could be next? “Maybe you can tell us, Kate. Is stamina an issue?” That could be next, apparently.

164



Kate’s skin grew hot and prickly, and she found she couldn’t meet either Jada’s or Anne’s suddenly interested gaze. “I don’t know, thank you very much.” “Kate, we saw you head over to the enemy camp only to come back wearing his clothes. We were in a hot tub. Not blind.” Jada turned to Anne. “She never kisses and tell,” she explained, like a teacher to a particularly undereducated child. “Which is a damn shame. When you’ve got a man like that holding the bar, I imagine there isn’t a woman in the world who doesn’t wonder how he measures up.” “So how high is his bar?” Anne giggled, getting into the spirit of it and using her hands to hazard a few ludicrous suggestions. “Did he adopt the old straddle technique?” Jada asked, naming an old trackand-field high jump method. “Oh, no—don’t tell me! He was a Fosbury Flop!” “I’m not having this discussion with you two right now. It wasn’t at all what you’re imagining. Sometimes, you know, it’s about more than…” “The size of the bar?” Anne and Jada had apparently become the best of hilarious friends overnight, full of promises to torture and antagonize Kate. Life was getting rosier by the second. “So, are you going to sleep over in Julian’s tent tonight?” Jada asked, waggling her eyebrows. “Very funny,” Kate replied, making a face. Jada wasn’t happy until everyone was having sex. “I don’t intend to sleep with the enemy. Even I know that’s a one-way ticket to a bottle of poison and a dagger to the heart.” “You mean a sgian dubh,” Anne said. “A what?”


165

Tamara Morgan

“It’s the pretty little knife they tuck into their socks to slit throats and cut open boxes and stuff. Michael showed me his. That’s what you’d have to use to end your miserable, Romeo-less life.” Jada nudged Kate with a laugh. “See? Even Anne’s getting a look at the Scottish equipment.” “The sporrans are pretty interesting too,” Anne added. “Those little pouches that hang from the waist of the kilt?” Kate knew what she was talking about. She thought they looked like tiny leather shields, crafted to protect their vital man bits from a wayward blow. “Some of them are leather, but Michael and a few others use more traditional animal fur. Badgers, I think. They use their sweet little taxidermied heads as the flap to the pouch.” Anne frowned a little. She was one of those very good vegetarians—the ones that didn’t even eat eggs or marshmallows. “Oooh, did Michael show you his pelt, Anne?” Jada laughed. “Looks like I’m the last one to get to ride a Scotsman.” “I wish you’d ride them on out of here,” Kate muttered. She gazed out toward the parking lot, where the line of cars sagged uniformly under the weight of camping supplies meant to last both sides for weeks. “If we don’t do something soon, this is going to end in a stalemate. And then we’re done for. Forcible removal weighs very, very heavily in their favor.” Jada patted her on the head. “It’s really important you get this, isn’t it?” Kate spread her arms helplessly. “Of course it is! What else would all this be about?” Jada didn’t respond right away. Instead, she pursed her lips thoughtfully, looking her over with more interest than Kate cared for. “What else?” Jada finally echoed before snapping her attention back to the field.

166



“I’m going to work,” Kate announced with a resigned sigh. “I’ll be back around three. Which one of you is staying here today?” Anne spoke up. “I am. For a while at least. I might have one of the other JARRS ladies come by for a few hours so I can shower. You’d be surprised how many volunteered. They’re all on board with this, you know. The spot is perfect.” “So you don’t think I should give in?” All three of them turned to look across the field, where Michael was preparing to take a turn with the caber. Julian had said it wasn’t an event he himself participated in but that Michael was one of the best in the country. “Give in?” Anne gave a gusty sigh and watched as Michael jumped up and down, stretching his arms and legs to prepare them for the throw. Well aware that the women were up and watching, he even took his shirt off, his muscles dancing in an oddly burlesque parody. “No way, Kate. No freaking way.”

Kate expected to be greeted by a sea of faces when she got back to the camp early that afternoon. Disappointment niggled at her stomach when it turned out no one was there. She really wanted a friendly face. Work had been particularly grueling that morning since they were reshelving the nonfiction section, and her entire body had screamed in protest each time she lifted anything heavier than a mass market paperback. It seemed her muscles were unable to distinguish between sleeping on the ground and running a marathon, and she’d been looking forward to a little commiseration from her fellow campers. “Hello?” she called, peeking inside the tent.


167

Tamara Morgan

There wasn’t anything to indicate a hasty retreat or sneak enemy attack, so Kate relaxed. The unspoken rules—that someone must remain on site at all times—didn’t count if campers from both sides were missing. “Is anybody here?” she tried again, looking around and shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun. A few shouts of laughter from the other side of the park rang out. Kate couldn’t see over there unless she went around the parking lot or through Julian’s secret wooded path, but she noticed the box containing the volleyball net was missing. They’d probably set it up in the sandy patch over there—she remembered them having a serious discussion last night regarding the merits of women in small shorts and shirtless men jumping around together in the dirt. “It’s too bad we can’t play a game to determine the winner,” she muttered, picking up the empty box and tossing it with the rest of the supplies. “It’d be a great way to get all this over with.” Except she doubted there was a game on the planet Julian couldn’t win, unless it was something like chess or Scrabble. She was excellent at Scrabble. The campers had been smart enough not to leave a fire burning in either the pit or the hot tub warmer when they left to go play, but the water in the tub was still pretty inviting. Kate trailed her fingers in the water, sending a pattern of ripples from one end to the other. It would be like a hot bath. Relaxing. Soothing. Not the least bit private, but there were some sacrifices to be made in the great outdoors, after all. She changed into her swimming suit, a red-and-white polka dot, highwaisted bikini, and lowered herself into the water until it skimmed the tops of her shoulders. It was heavenly and exactly what she needed. She closed her eyes, leaned back and let the buoyancy take care of her troubles for a while.

168



“Next to leaving your tent door open all night, falling asleep in several feet of water must be the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard of.” Kate’s eyes sprang open to find Julian looking down at her. She sat up with a start, water splashing all over the sides of the tub and onto Julian’s white T-shirt. He didn’t back up right away, and the wet patch spread, allowing Kate to see the perfectly rigid form of his abdominal muscles underneath. Julian cleared his throat, forcing Kate’s still-groggy mind to focus somewhere else. The sky. That was a safe place to look. She blinked at it once or twice before realizing Julian was right—the sun was considerably lower than when she’d first gotten in the tub. Still, there was no way she’d been asleep for longer than ten minutes. Tops. “I’m pretty sure I’d wake up the moment I slipped under and stopped being able to breathe,” she scoffed. “I’m not arguing that,” he said with a laugh. “But you look like a lobster that’s been boiled alive.” Kate jumped to her feet, the water sluicing down as she looked over her body, horror quickly taking hold. Shoulders, arms and the generous display of cleavage the swimsuit offered were bright red, and she realized she radiated with a heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the water or Julian’s proximity. She pulled at one of the straps on her suit and peered underneath. The line between white happy normal skin and bright red damaged skin was perfectly straight and painfully obvious. Her face was tight too, and she could see the tip of her nose throbbing like Rudolph’s. “That’s gotta hurt,” Julian said. He didn’t sound the least bit sympathetic. “You should put sunscreen on before you go out in the sun.” “I know that,” Kate said through her teeth.


169

Tamara Morgan

“And you’re certainly not going to win over my men if you walk around looking like a mangled piece of meat. I don’t care how small your swimsuit is.” “It’s not small!” Julian looked her over, shaking his head sadly. “Yes, it is. Practically nonexistent. I think the sun’s gone to your head. Maybe you should call it quits before you lose a leg or get cancer or something.” “I’m fine,” Kate managed. But she wasn’t. She kept her teeth clenched to avoid any muscle relaxation in her face, a dam against the swirling mass of tears building up. It wasn’t the pain—of course she’d been sunburned before—so much as the humiliation. Of all the people who had to find her like this, it was Julian. Perfect outdoorsman Julian, who cared about her only as the woman who was derailing all his plans. Her face began to fall. “No. No way. Don’t you dare cry.” Julian took a step back, his hands upraised. “I’m. Not. Going. To.” Her breath shuddered with each word, and they both knew very well that was where she was headed. She wished he would go away. Her clothes, her shoes, her dedication to the JARRS group—they were a testament to her love of all things feminine. She liked feeling gentle and light and in control of the way she presented herself to the world. But that didn’t mean she was weak. That didn’t mean she broke down in tears because she wanted to. “Shit. Yes, you are.” And suddenly, his arms were around her. He held her lightly, with a gentlemanly attention to the placement of his arms. One wound around her waist and the other cupped the back of her head,

170



cradling her against him with an alarming degree of tenderness. She was still wet from the hot tub, her suit pressing a wet pattern into his already damp clothes. She shook with the effort of suppressing her sobs, but Julian didn’t chastise her for it. He didn’t do anything, really—didn’t speak and didn’t try to take advantage of their sudden nearness or her apparently miniscule swimsuit. He just let her cry, and she melted right into his kind embrace without regard for anything but a strong pair of arms and an overwhelming sense of rightness. It would be so easy to get used to this, to fall into a pattern in which Julian called the shots and she jumped into line at the first opportunity of getting near him. Swiping furiously at her eyes with the back of her hand, she sniffled and tried to regain her bearing. “I’m sorry. That was—” He stepped back and chucked her gently underneath the chin. “That was what I deserved, and I’m sorry I was such an ass. I’ve never had to worry about sunburn, but I’ve seen Michael blubber like a baby over a patch of red skin at least half a dozen a times.” Julian’s gaze seemed fixated on the burn at her chest, and Kate felt suddenly exposed to more than his ridicule. “Um…I’m going to go change,” she stammered. For once, her blush probably didn’t show all over her face. It was a small trade off. “Do you have something strapless to wear?” Julian asked suddenly, his voice catching in his throat. “Like…er…one of those little floaty dresses you always have on?” “Ye-es.” “Good.” He nodded. “Put it on. I’ll meet you over by my tent when you’re done.” Kate backed into her tent, somewhat dazed by the compassion in his voice. Julian being nice was more powerful than a thousand Scottish warriors on the


171

Tamara Morgan

field. It made her want to pack up and walk away. It made her want to come back only when he was ready to see her as so much more than his enemy. It would be so easy to let him win, to let him have the park. He’d take her in his arms, plant a kiss on her lips and promise to make it up to her. They could each attend the events that mattered to them, meeting up in the aftermath to explore whatever it was that made her body pound and her heart soar whenever he was near. It was practically laid out in front of her. All she had to do was say the word. All she had to do was stop fighting. Most of the men she’d dated in the past had loved that she didn’t fight them—on anything. Not where to go to dinner, not about the little quirks that irritated her, not even when it was or was not a good idea to end the relationship. Her last serious boyfriend had even commented on it, celebrating their six month anniversary with a toast to the easiest relationship he’d ever had. She couldn’t help but feel that Julian saw her the same way. She’d been fine as long as she was willing to fall in line with his plans, as long as she let him barrel over her with his claims of heroism and Scottish prowess. But the moment she stood up for herself—the first time she’d done so in as long as she could remember—she stopped being someone worth caring for. And that hurt. Almost as much as the growing suspicion that being cared for by Julian was something that mattered a lot more than winning the rights to the park. Kate rummaged through her bag until she found the pink, floral strapless dress she knew was in there. Jada had laughed when she saw it included in Kate’s camping suitcase, but Kate was never happier to see it in her whole life. Light cotton and loose comfort. She wouldn’t be able to wear anything else for days.

172



Half-afraid the others had returned and were waiting outside to witness her most recent folly in the wilderness, Kate took her time getting dressed, carefully setting the bikini out to dry and looking, unsuccessfully, for a salve to put on her burn. All she had was hand lotion, and she knew from experience that scented products and sun-damaged skin were not happy bedfellows. When she finally emerged from the tent, it was to find a camp still devoid of life, a cover placed carefully over the top of the hot tub. Kate glared at it. She’d be happy never to see that thing again. Julian was picking up some of the garbage that had gathered in the men’s camp, so he didn’t hear Kate until she stood right behind him. “Will this do?” she asked, holding her arms out to showcase the dress. She stopped short of giving a girlish little twirl. He barely gave her a second glance, damaging any remaining vestiges of Kate’s pride. “Yep. It’s fine. Come over here. We’re going to want to do this outside.” “Do what?” Kate busied herself looking around, but she couldn’t pretend not to notice the way her entire body reacted to his command. Warm flooding filled her abdomen, and she was suddenly aware of each breath she took. In. Out. In. Out. She was master of her own actions—her own thoughts. She just had to keep breathing. “This.” Julian held up a spray bottle and gestured for her to take a seat on the practice caber. He gave the bottle a few squirts, and the pungent scent of vinegar filled the air. Kate wrinkled her nose as far as the pain would allow. “Vinegar?” “Trust me. I told you I work in construction—in Arizona most of the time. You wouldn’t believe the burns some of those guys get. Blisters. Ooze. You’re barely pink in comparison. Now sit.”


173

Tamara Morgan

Kate sat. The moment her bottom touched the wood, Julian began spraying her all over with the vinegar, and she relaxed almost immediately. The droplets were like little gifts from the sky, cooling her skin and taking away the pricking sensation that covered every square inch. The only time he touched her was to lift her hair off her back, and goose bumps raised all along her spine at the double sensation of the liquid and his fingertips grazing the nape of her neck. His hands were light and moved with assurance. Forearms. Hands. Magic. She really needed to get control. “Close your eyes and I’ll get your front.” She was happy to obey. There was no way she could sit there and watch as he examined her all over. Few things were more erotic than the way a man’s eyes lit up when gazing at something he wanted, whether it was a plot of land with a scenic overview or a woman in a low-cut, strapless dress. And Kate didn’t think she’d be able to sit there and view firsthand what it was that shone more powerfully in Julian’s eyes. “Okay, you’re good.” He handed her the bottle as soon as he was done, and if he’d been examining her breasts, he gave no indication of it now. “You’re probably going to want to have Jada or Anne do this again in a few hours. You’ll barely even notice the sunburn tomorrow.” Julian turned to walk away, but Kate grabbed his arm to stop him. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It must bother you to help the enemy.” He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes dark. “You’re not my enemy, Kate.” Kate didn’t lift her hand from his arm while she waited for him to say something more. Words struggled on his tongue—she could tell by the way his jaw tightened and loosened in a rapid succession. But before he could speak,

174



voices rose up from the little copse of woods. Michael, Nick, Anne and Jada, with a volleyball under her arm, popped out from the trees, one at a time, laughing and triumphant. “What am I, then, Julian?” she asked. His voice was barely audible as he pulled his arm away and turned his attention to the new arrivals, but Kate didn’t breathe until the words reached her ears. “You’re a distraction.”


175

Chapter Eleven Weakening Lines

It should have been a perfect evening. The sky had been clear all day, so there was no moisture in the air. The night was crisp and clean, the scent of pine trees and roasting meat filling the camp and Julian’s lungs. After what was apparently an epic volleyball match lasting most of the afternoon, the campers were hungry, tired and sunburned, though not nearly to the degree Kate had been a few hours ago. The need for food and rest united them in a peaceful search for the necessary remedies—almost a whole side of beef and plenty of alcohol to wash it down. McClellan had even surprised them all by producing a guitar, an old battered thing covered in bumper stickers he kept in the back of his truck for just such an emergency. Any minute now and they’d all be holding hands and swaying to “Kumbaya”. Julian sat with them, but his mind wasn’t anywhere near the festivities. After a few hours of weightlifting at the gym earlier in the day, he’d returned to his apartment to find a message waiting for him. It was a courtesy call, from the assistant of a one Bonnie Horton, Vice President of Public Relations at Rockland Bluff Whisky. “We’ve received an update from the Scottish Highland Society,” a light, cheerful voice had chirped into the phone, “notifying Ms. Horton of the possibility of a change of venue. Her schedule is very tight over the coming weeks, and I will take this opportunity to remind you that we do need to be


informed of any changes to the itinerary immediately. Last minute surprises do not reflect well on the reputation of Rockland Bluff Whisky.” Julian had stabbed at the answering machine in irritation. The SHS hadn’t told them anything—he’d already discussed the situation with the regional director, and he’d placed the fullest confidence in Julian’s ability to make everything work. No, that call came from an entirely different quarter—Kilroy. Julian would stake his entire reputation on it. Apparently, the man had been playing the role of Tattle-Tale Number One. A visit to his mom’s house hadn’t proved very beneficial to his state of mind, either. He’d come in to find her sitting at the table paying bills, a stack to one side as high as her glass of iced tea. The moment he came in, she swept them all into her hand and out of sight, but when he asked her if she needed any help— he did have a small savings account, and she was welcome to every penny— she’d somehow turned the tables on him and ended up pressing a twenty dollar bill in his hand and convincing him to take his sisters out for ice cream. And what a joy that had been. They wanted the treat about as much as he did, even though he was a lot better at hiding it. It didn’t make sense. The girls had always looked up to him, if a little shyly, and his visits usually felt like a big vacation for all of them. This wasn’t a vacation. This was a visit to the dentist without Novocain. “What’s this I hear about a new boyfriend, Nala?” he’d asked casually over the chocolate sprinkles. “He’s just some guy from school, Jules,” Nala muttered, stabbing at her ice cream with a straw. “I don’t know why you have to be all up in my business. It’s not a big deal.”


177

Tamara Morgan

“That’s not what you wrote in your diary last night,” Beth called back in a sing-song voice. “You did not, you little worm!” “I did too! And if you don’t want me reading it, then you shouldn’t put it under your mattress. I bet you a thousand dollars Mom reads it too. What a lame hiding spot.” Julian had found himself nodding in agreement. That’d be the first place he’d look. Nala, in her infinite teenage maturity, retaliated by flinging her ice cream at the both of them and missing by a wide distance. In the end, Julian had to hustle them all out of the shop under the watchful eye of the proprietor, racing against a large glob of vanilla ice cream that ran down the inside of the front window. In short, he’d accomplished nothing that day. A return call to Ms. Horton ended up at her voicemail. His mom still had that stack of bills to attend to. And when he’d dropped them off, his sisters stormed up to their bedrooms without another word. “What’s with the mood?” Michael took a seat next to him and handed him a plate containing three hamburgers. Julian grabbed one. “It’s not a mood, Mikey. It’s life. Dude, is this thing even cooked all the way through? It looks like it’s barely dead.” “Eat it, Jules. Protein is more powerful when it’s raw and dripping with juice. Like all of a man’s meat.” He uttered a guttural roar for good effect. “We’ve got the fire going for the tub after dinner. You joining us this time?” “I don’t think so.” They were all well past the age when co-ed camping was novel, but something about their situation had turned them into a bunch of kids away from their parents for the first time. Everyone except him, that was. It wasn’t that he

178



was against having a good time—during the off season, he and the other construction guys would hit the bars six nights out of seven and consider themselves lucky if they fell asleep before the sun started rising. But this wasn’t the time or the place for such freeform fun. There was a reason they were all out here, and in the next few days, that would have to become patently clear. No one was solving anything by playing volleyball and eating undercooked meat. A glance over at Kate only reinforced his decision to decline the invitation. She looked miserable. The bruise on her forehead was at its full purple peak, a contrast to the pink skin that covered her upper half. She was wrapped up in a blanket against the cold that always followed a bad sunburn, and she looked about as happy to be there as he felt. He realized, with an oddly sinking sensation in his chest, that it was the right time to strike. She was down. He could end this tonight. “You go ahead, Mikey. I’ve got something else I need to do.” Michael followed the path of his gaze to where Kate sat. “Yeah, there is. It’s about damn time too.” “That’s not what I meant.” “Sure thing. If you say so. Hey, gang—eat up. Last one in the tub has to haul in the firewood.” With a wink, Michael rounded everyone up—everyone except Kate—and directed their attention to the pursuit of the flesh. Julian shook his head and tossed his food aside. The man had his back. That was never in doubt. Julian offered Kate a tentative smile from the other side of the circle. “And then there were two.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you ever get the feeling we’re playing camp counselor to a bunch of horny fourteen-year-olds?”


179

Tamara Morgan

Julian shuddered. “Can you imagine a worse job on the whole face of the planet?” “Yes.” Kate grimaced. “You could be a bookstore manager.” “I thought you liked your job.” He certainly liked it. The leap from bookish manager to sexy librarian was an easy one to make, at least in his mind. Kate waved her hand dismissively. “It’s all right. But it’s not exactly what I had planned for my life.” “What did you have planned?” Julian’s athletic career was such an integral part of who he was it seemed unfathomable to settle for anything less. Even the construction work was done with an eye to his goals. It kept him fit and filled in the financial gaps. “Bookstore buyer.” “How is that different?” “The buyer is the person who decides what books are put into the store, which authors to highlight and what’s going to be the next big thing. The buyer has power. The manager does what she’s told.” “So why don’t you do it?” She made a light scoffing sound. “It’s not exactly a position that opens up very often. I’m biding my time.” “Then open your own bookstore. That’s real power. You can buy whatever you want then.” Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she firmly shut it. “Scared?” Julian asked wryly. “Is it too far from those ridiculous, romantic ideas you have about what your life is supposed to be?” Before she could reply, he grabbed the bucket of sand and began tamping down the fire. A state park ranger had come by the day before, and although

180



he’d assured the campers he had no problems with them being out there, he was very strict about making sure they obeyed all the local fire-safety laws. “No witty remarks?” he asked as soon as he was done. He’d expected one of her usual barbs—they’d become one of his favorite parts of this strange game they were playing. The silence was a little unsettling. “I’m taking the high road. I hardly think you’re in a position to offer me professional advice.” He tensed. “Because I’m just some random athlete?” “Of course not. It’s because you know nothing about my life.” Like most of the things she said, the statement was laced with a challenge, a note of irritation around the edges. It was a challenge he was prepared to meet head-on. He got to his knees in front of her, the damp grass pressing into his jeans. “I know more than you think.” And he did. He knew more about this woman he’d met a few weeks ago than anyone he’d ever dated or had a relationship with. She was like one of her books, and although reading wasn’t a pastime he expended a whole lot of energy on, she was open to him in ways that only made him wish to learn more. Julian spoke slowly, testing her reaction with each word, gaining confidence as she listened, silent and still. “You use Jane Austen as a shield for real life, hiding behind your books and gowns instead of facing what’s right in front of you. You’ve got all your dreams contained in little ordered boxes, and you think keeping them there is your source of power. But your real power is right in front of me. You have such a soft, gentle presence, people think you’re easily swept aside—you think it, too. But there’s steel in there, and you have no idea how strong that makes you. Believe me, I’ve been trying to bend it for weeks without any luck. And I’m a pretty strong man.”


181

Tamara Morgan

A slight shock registered in her eyes, and Julian knew he’d hit home. “Can I sit?” he asked. She nodded and patted the ground next to her. Julian turned down the lantern before he sat, the darkness enveloping them in an almost private embrace. The stars twinkled at them, setting the tone even more. Even in a city as small as theirs, the stars were often lost in the lights of activity and the heavy fog of industry. Getting a few miles away from it all turned the amplitude of the skies up to eleven. “My mom was asking about you today,” he said, breaking the silence. She didn’t seem inclined to talk, which was fine with him. He needed to get through what he had to say, and conversations like these weren’t his strongest suit. But it was important—now more than ever—that she understood where he was coming from. “Did she?” Kate asked. A sheen of formality covered her tone, but Julian heard the wavering underneath it. “She seemed like a sweet lady. You’re lucky to have a mom like that. Mine is…well, she’s got her ideas about life, and it can be hard sometimes to get along with her if you think there’s any other way to go about living it.” “A woman with set ideas. Imagine that.” A choke escaped Kate’s lips as she fought a laugh. “So, what did she say?” Julian leaned back on his elbows and watched a group of bats flap overhead. He smiled. “My mom? Oh, she was asking whether or not you had proper shoes for camping. She seemed concerned about ticks.” Kate laughed out loud that time and leaned back onto the ground next to him. They weren’t touching, but there was a sense of intimacy about their repose, twin silhouettes for all intents and purposes alone in the world.

182



“I know for a fact that the high tick season here is almost over.” “You do, huh?” “Yep. That was the one thing I looked up about camping. I hate those little bloodsuckers.” Julian chuckled softly. He loved that no matter what dastardly depths they plunged into together or how much nature might be kicking her ass, Kate’s sense of humor remained intact. “Have I ever told you about my mom?” Julian suddenly asked. He couldn’t help but think that if she understood where his mom came from—where he came from—she might better understand how important these Games were to him and to his whole family. Sure, he’d admit it wasn’t exactly big of him to call her event a tea party, but no amount of persuasion would ever convince him the JARRS trumped the SHS. They weren’t even on the same scale—it was like measuring the scope of all those stars against the human heart. “Not really. What’s she like?” “She’s strong, like you,” Julian replied, thinking. “And she works hard. Too hard. My stepfather was a wonderful guy, and he was the reason I got into the Scottish Games in the first place. He died a little over six years ago, and she’s been on her own since then, taking care of my sisters. I try to help out, but—” He shifted to try to get more comfortable, but Kate must have taken it as manly reserve, because she reached out and laid a hand on his leg. He was wearing pants, but he could still feel the warm pressure shooting up from his thigh and spiking right into his groin. “You take care of her,” she said softly. He shifted again, trying to ignore how her sudden nearness had plunged them both in the soft, floral scent that followed wherever she went.


183

Tamara Morgan

“It was the only thing my stepfather asked of me his entire life.” Julian sat up, breaking some of the spell. He needed to have the full faculty of his thoughts for this. He’d been aware that this moment of vulnerability was ideal for making his case. What he hadn’t realized was the effect it would have on his own sense of equilibrium. The skies spun faster, keeping time with the increased tempo of his pulse, and the rest of him was very rapidly following suit. It was only a matter of time before he was completely out of control. He wanted her. She was woman and he was man. She was an incredible, soft, appealing woman, and he was a man whose blood burned at the very thought of her. It was as simple an equation as they came, and he wanted to put it to the test right then and there. But there was no way he was letting a few weeks of blood-pounding lust replace years of hard work. Kate sat up too, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. A strip of white skin indicated where her bikini top had protected her from the sun, and the sudden image of her sitting in the hot tub, completely relaxed, the tops of her rounded breasts floating at the water’s surface, rose unbidden to his mind. “Harold,” he said quickly, looking away. He imagined the man standing there right now, looking at Julian struggling to get control. He’d be laughing, that robust sound that shook him like a dirty, profane Santa Claus. “I beg your pardon?” “Harold Wallace. That was my stepfather.” “You took his name.” It wasn’t a question. “No. He gave me his name.” Kate didn’t respond, but he felt the sudden press of her fingers on his. Good—his plan was working. She held his hand, intertwining their fingers together, his rough with work and dirt, hers smooth but contained of a tensile strength that did crazy things to his imagination.

184



“Harold gave me a lot of things. He was the most generous man I’ve ever known. His name, his family crest, his passion for the Highland Games—those are a few of the things I owe to him. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the best gift he gave me was family. Before my mom remarried, she always struggled with things—with life—though I didn’t know it at the time. After Harold came along, I finally realized what it was like to have a mother who didn’t have to work twelve-hour shifts every day. For the first time in my life, she was there, and she was happy. And then my sisters came along, and—” Julian stopped. This wasn’t coming out right. He needed to focus on the Games, the money, the Rockland Bluff Whisky opportunity—not his personal sob story. Walking back through his history like this only brought him closer to that awkward, lonely boy he tried so hard to forget. That Julian didn’t exist anymore. Harold had buried him the first time the words, “Man up” crossed his lips. “You’re lucky he was able to give you that,” Kate said, squeezing his hand. “I never got a second chance at a family. My mom and dad were around, but they’ve never been around. Not in the parent-daughter sort of sense, anyway. For as long as I can remember, my closest family has been Jada. Jada and my books, and even though I know it sounds pathetic, it’s been enough for me to know they’re both always there for me. It’s why this JARRS event is so important to me, Julian. I know you think it doesn’t compare to your big, grand Highland Games, but—” Damn. She was turning things around again, flipping the certainties in his mind into a pile of mushy incoherencies. So he stopped her the only way he knew how. Cupping the side of her face gently with one hand, he leaned in and prevented the words from ever reaching his ears. He captured them all—words, breath, lips—with his mouth.


185

Tamara Morgan

And just like that, the entire campsite fell away. There were no sounds and no sensations other than the sudden tangle of hot, rushed breath and the fervent exploration of soft lips. The kiss wasn’t at all what he expected. From a woman like Kate—a lady to the core—it seemed almost wrong for so much fire to be contained by the brush of her tongue against his, back and forth, give and take. He’d expected a chaste kiss, a warm pressing of the lips, a spark of lust that could never be wholly realized. But she held nothing back. Open to him, returning his kiss with a passion and force that brought life to every part of his body, Kate was nothing at all like a lady. She was a woman. Before he was able to fully register the movement, she swung one of her legs over his lap, hoisting herself over his body until she was straddling him. It was a bold move, and one that might have been calculated to achieve maximum efficacy in gaining her own ends. But from the way her eyes opened wide, looking into his with adorable uncertainty, he knew she was as surprised by her actions as he was. She couldn’t control her lust any better than he could. The knowledge of it was his undoing. Her skirt had hiked up to the tops of her thighs, and his hands immediately gravitated to the exposed skin. He ran his palms up the back of her legs, stopping when he hit the edge of her skirt, his fingers unable to refrain from caressing the smooth surface of her thighs. She leaned closer, both her hands resting on his chest. The movement caused his hands to lift farther up the backs of her legs, until he was almost cupping her perfectly rounded ass. There was lace. He definitely felt lace. And silk.

186



They kissed again, and although it was deeper and longer than before, Julian forced his hands to remain still at the tops of her thighs. They would not be allowed to travel any higher, or to shift to the warm breasts pressed against his chest. They were camping, for Christsakes, and this woman sported lingerie better suited for a presidential suite somewhere expensive and luxurious. His entire body reacted to the contradiction of it all with pure, animal interest. She had no idea how close she was to being dragged into the woods and taken up against a tree. “I don’t want to do this here,” he murmured, lifting her off his lap and setting her to the side. Her mouth fell open in a perfect “O” of surprise as he rose to his feet. Almost as an afterthought, he took her with him, lifting her off the ground and hoisting her over his shoulder, caveman-style. She squealed and pounded feebly against his back, but his grasp was firm. Her ass was definitely exposed now, and he could see her underwear was white. Lacy. Silky. White. He hurried behind the collection of tents. There was no damn way he was giving the other guys a view of this. “Down you go.” He dropped her gently to the ground, allowing his hands to slide all the way up her legs, ass and back as she went—all of her cool to the touch. She looked up at him expectantly, her mouth slightly parted. It would be so easy to kiss her again. So easy to wrap his arms even tighter around her and do all the things he’d been dreaming of since he first saw her here in this park. To nuzzle at her neck, his tongue delving into the hidden nooks and crannies that made a woman’s anatomy so mysterious and perfect. To feel the soft, wet heat of her mouth against his once more, to possess her in the most primal way possible.


187

Tamara Morgan

But he couldn’t do it. Not here, and not like this. This kind of a woman deserved champagne and moonlit carriage rides. An English lord in a ducal manor. What Kate deserved was the full force of his attentions, and that was the one thing he couldn’t give her right now. So he grabbed her hand instead. “Come on. I want to show you something. The ruins look incredible at night.” Her breath still came short and fast, and a slightly dazed look in her eyes indicated he’d been too abrupt in pulling away. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” He wasn’t talking about the ruins. She eventually nodded and followed him, but he could see a line of worry across the middle of her brow. He wanted to do nothing more than to kiss it away, but one touch of his lips against that skin and the thin thread of resolve holding him back would slip entirely away. The sounds of the hot tub party disappeared as they walked farther from the encampment, even though the park wasn’t big enough to separate them entirely. He walked slowly, savoring the way her hand rested in his like it was the most natural thing in the world. They neared the ruins, scattering a few woodland creatures as they parted the cold, damp grass. Marmots, most likely. Or mice. Kate was probably afraid of mice—she seemed the type to squeal and run, needing a man like Julian to whisk her into his arms and away to safety. And he’d do it in a second. For as long as she wanted. But it wasn’t a mouse at all. “Oh, look, a garter snake,” Kate called softly, pointing to the swoosh of a short, wiry serpent making its way into the weeds. She stepped forward as if to get a closer look, but Julian held her hand firmly. He was not taking another step.

188



Not. Another. Step. She turned back in surprise. “What?” When he didn’t respond right away, she laughed, a series of girly peals. Girly, silvery peals that pinged against his ego like so many tiny stones. “Julian Wallace, are you afraid of snakes?” she demanded, a huge grin erasing the frown he’d caused moments ago. “Tiny, harmless garter snakes?” “Of course not,” he said gruffly. He tried to pull her back from the ruins, but she refused to budge. “That would be ridiculous. I’m afraid of big, poisonous rattlesnakes.” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “You are! You’re afraid the cute little snake is going to jump up out of the grass and bite you!” As she said the last words, she jumped forward and attacked him, pinching at his arm with her fingers. He didn’t scream or cower or do anything that might be used as blackmail against his manhood at a future date. Thank God. But he did take her firmly by the waist and carry her up to one of the higher peaks of the crumbled towers, where exposure to predatory birds rendered the area not quite safe for creatures of a more serpentine nature. She kicked and laughed the whole way, enjoying his discomfiture. Enjoying his weakness, the brat. He deposited her comfortably on a large rock and tried his best to glare her into submission, but even under the light of the still-waxing moon, he could see a glint of mischief in her soft, hazel eyes. She was like a mood ring that way. The mischief in her eyes sparked brown. Fury, he knew well, was a vibrant green. And passion was a warm, melting amber. He liked that color best. “I guess I know how to get you to leave camp now,” she said with a giggle, completely unaware of how easy it was for him to gauge her reactions. “I’ll


189

Tamara Morgan

charm the snakes with the flute I played in high school, calling them around me like the Pied Piper, and you’ll be on your way before I can even blink. What’s that saying? ‘Know thy enemy?’ How very perfect.” Julian shuddered. His fear of snakes wasn’t something he advertised, and it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of. He could handle many things in life—he had handled so many things. Give him a physical challenge, a starving polar bear to go up against or a whole ditch to dig with a pitchfork, and he had no doubt he would come out victorious. But snakes were wily. They slid around, unseen and silent, preparing to sneak in and attack when you least expected it. They hit the most vulnerable part a man didn’t even know he had. Even Achilles had a weakness. “You wouldn’t,” he challenged. Kate quirked an eyebrow. “No? Try me. Find a new venue and I vow to protect you from snakes for the rest of your life.” The rest of his life. The words wrapped around him like a warm plaid. But he fought the inviting lull of it. He wouldn’t let her win this way—easily, unfairly. It went against everything that made him who he was. “You know, there’s a reason why being a real Scotsman—why the Highland Games—is about brute strength.” He sat across from her on a smaller rock, balancing himself by placing one leg up against the side of the turret. “Oh?” She didn’t sound like she believed him. “Yes. It’s because throughout history the English have always had better weapons and more money. They never fought honorably. In order to even the playing field, the Scottish had to get big and mean and strong, using the one resource they did have.” “Which was really good genes?”

190



Julian gave a soft laugh. “No. Scotland. It was—and is—a harsh, barren place. Cold. Hard. It makes men out of boys, pushes a man’s boundaries so much further than he ever thought they could go. You have no idea how much more powerful that is than a musket or a line of red coats.” “But it’s not 1750,” she pointed out gently. “And you’re not Scottish.” “No. I’m not. And I’ve never been to Scotland.” A heavy pause filled the air between them that Julian knew he had to fill. This was it. His opportunity. “It was another one of the gifts my stepfather gave me,” Julian said. “An introduction to this way of life. That’s the best part about it—you don’t have to go back in time two hundred and fifty years or be born with a name like Wallace. You can earn it. I earned it, Kate. And I’m not going to dishonor Harold by giving it away now.” Kate’s legs, which had been swinging gently where they dangled from the rocky ruins, stopped. “I know what you want me to say, Julian. I’m not stupid.” “You have no idea what I want.” He didn’t even know that. “You want me to pack up my things and go. You want me to find a new venue. And you’re absolutely correct. It would be the right thing to do—the fair thing to do. You’ve been here for years, and your claim is older than mine. You’ve got more people coming to your event than I do. I don’t matter any more than a little bump in the road.” “That’s not—” She held up a hand, stopping him from continuing. “But you’re forgetting one tiny thing.” “What?” “Duke Kilroy III.”


191

Tamara Morgan

All of the intimacy that had been building between them vanished like a puff of smoke, that quick bit of ignition all it needed to lose its potency. Julian’s fists balled up at his sides, and his entire body tensed. “What about him?” “That warrior code of honor you’re always going on about? The need for you to prove yourself as a man? It’s not the virtue you think it is.” She rapped his head with her knuckles. “It’s turned you into an obstinate little boy.” He grabbed her by the wrist and stared right into her eyes. They were plain hazel now. “One date with that man does not make you an expert on my motivations. You have no idea what Kilroy is capable of.” “I know he recently made you an offer that would solve all our problems— yours and mine.” Julian released her arm and hopped down from the turret, his back to hers, his blood changing from hot to cold and back again until he felt like a victim of torture. The nerve of that bastard, recruiting Kate to his cause, using her to try to get Julian to forfeit from the Games. That Kilroy might have put his arms around her, whispered into the warm nape of her neck all his desires and plans for bringing Julian to his knees… That Kate might have let him. Laughed with him. A deep and shuddering breath shook his body, and he whirled around. “This whole time, is that what this has been about—Kilroy’s offer?” “Well, not all of it, but you can hardly expect me to pretend it doesn’t exist. You have to admit, Julian, it’s hard to ignore the easy solution when it’s standing right there, looking you directly in the face.” He offered Kate his arms to help her down, grabbing her around the waist and settling her to the ground below. But once she was firmly in place, he

192



severed all physical ties between them. He couldn’t bear touching her when she’d been so clearly branded by Kilroy and his manipulations. “If you think anything that has to do with Duke Kilroy is the easy solution, you’re in for a lot of heartache, Kate. That man is not everything he seems.” She didn’t move, her eyes narrowed as she studied him. He stood proud and tall—there was nothing in either his stature or his bearing he was ashamed for her to examine. He was true to his body and true to his spirit in all things. “You’re not everything you seem, either, Julian Wallace. That’s the problem.” A hundred retorts formed on his lips, but none more insistent than that he was hers for the taking—she could examine, ask, probe until he was a bleeding, pulpy mass of his former self. But of course he didn’t speak. And she was already halfway across the field, little more than a muddled shape in the darkness, by the time he was able to move again.


193

Chapter Twelve Youthful Passions

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell us about this guy before,” Anne scolded. All three of the women stood in a line, staring at the red sports car that had pulled into Cornwall Park’s lot with a contented purr. “What did you say his name was again?” Anne asked. She fanned herself lightly with her hand, dark hair fluttering in the breeze. “King?” “It’s Duke,” Kate hissed. “And don’t say it so loud. He’s coming over here.” Her feelings regarding Duke’s unheralded arrival that morning were a little mixed. He had impeccable timing on top of impeccable everything else, that was for sure. If there was one man who could force Julian to a point, it was this one right here, and he could do it with such attention for Kate’s comfort she’d hardly even feel a pinch of guilt. But the part of her, the soft, squishy part that wouldn’t stop replaying the kiss from several nights ago, wasn’t entirely happy to see him. “Kate!” Duke called, his arms outstretched. All the women sighed as he swooped in and grabbed her hand, bestowing it with a chaste peck before stepping back and admiring the line of them standing there. “It’s so lovely to see you again. Are you going to introduce me to your beautiful friends?” Kate made the introductions, smiling behind her hand as Duke provided each woman with the same grand treatment—a kiss to the hand, a flirtatious smile, the full force of his charm. They wilted, one by one, underneath the theatricality of it all.


“Please tell me you’ve come to demonstrate your support for the SHS,” Jada said with a sultry smile. “If there’s one thing we need more of here, it’s large men who know how to throw their weight around.” “Is that an invitation?” Duke laughed. “Honey, if you look as good with your shirt off as you do with it on, you’re invited to do anything you want to me.” “Okay, Jada. Down, girl.” Kate grabbed Duke by the arm and angled him away from her friends. “Can you give us a minute?” “Take an hour, Kate. Who am I kidding? Take three.” Duke gave a deep chuckle as he allowed Kate to lead him to a semiprivate place at the base of the ruins. The camp was growing in numbers—two more men had joined the enemy camp the day before, and they had three more JARRS members squeezed into their own tent—and it was getting more difficult to find privacy around here. Privacy, she was willing to admit, might be overrated in this particular scenario. So many people staying at the camp meant there was an increased likelihood that someone was around to prevent a little one-on-one Kate-andJulian time. And that could only be considered a good thing. She couldn’t trust her natural reaction when he was near. If he had pursued it the other night, she was absolutely certain she’d have let him take her, right there under the moon, feet away from the party in the hot tub. That was not like her. The most adventurous place she’d ever had sex before was the kitchen counter, and that had hardly been the erotic experience she’d expected. She’d found wilted pieces of lettuce clinging to her body for hours afterward. Julian had been right when he said her whole life was a testament to careful planning and calculated risks.


195

Tamara Morgan

And he was the biggest risk of all. Especially since she still didn’t know if it was her he wanted, or her acquiescence. “I like your friend, Jada. She seems…nice,” Duke said, bringing Kate’s attention back to the present. She shook herself and tried to focus on his wide smile. “Nice is one word for it. But I am curious about what she asked. Are you here to support the SHS?” He leaned closer, the scent of his spiced cologne washing over her. It didn’t seem quite right—the heavy, artificial smell out here in the great outdoors, but it fit him well. He didn’t belong out here either. “I’m here for you, Kate. Surely you know that.” She hesitated. “Well, I’m happy to see you, no matter whose side you’re on.” “Has Wallace been giving you any trouble?” Yes. A thousand times over, yes. Everywhere she turned, he was right there, never watching, precisely, but definitely oppressing. Whereas before she thought he displaced the air with each movement of his body, she now thought he sucked it all up, depriving her of the oxygen she needed to breathe. To think. “No,” she lied. “Julian is fine. Outdoor living is a bit more challenging than I thought it would be, that’s all.” Duke offered her a sympathetic smile. “You’re not made for a cot in the woods, Kate. You’re so lovely. You deserve a lot more.” A cot? Now that was a good idea—why hadn’t she thought of that before? That had to be more comfortable than the cold, hard ground. Duke watched her patiently, awaiting a response. It was obvious what he wanted to hear—a flutter of delight at his well-placed compliment, a girlish laugh—but she couldn’t quite muster one up. It was hard to accept flattery when

196



the skin was peeling off her shoulders like she was a bird during molting season, her bruise was now a brownish-yellow that seeped down her forehead, and her hair smelled like the campfire no matter how many times she washed it. Her bag of clothes was getting perilously low on options too, and she’d settled for wearing a pair of Jada’s workout shorts and a tank top. Hardly the stuff of romantic illusions. “What she deserves, Kilroy, and what she gets, are probably going to be one and the same. At least in the end.” They both looked up sharply. Duke had on a pair of aviator sunglasses, but Kate had to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun with her hand. Julian looked down on them from the top of the ruins, hopping down the rocks like an agile and highly stubborn mountain goat. Crap. She forgot he’d taken refuge up there—he’d been looking down on the camp in judgment and derision for days. “Wallace,” Duke called up at him congenially. “Good to see you again, though I see you’ve once again screwed everything up. Still not willing to take me up on my offer?” Kate looked at Julian expectantly. He had the power to end this. With one simple word, he could get her home and in her nice, cozy bed, Gretna curled comfortably at her feet and a glass of chardonnay in hand. “There was nothing wrong until you stepped out of your car. And I don’t need anything you have to offer, thank you very much.” “Listen, boys,” Kate interrupted. Of course Julian wouldn’t take the easy route. It went against his ridiculous code of honor to do anything less. She understood there was a certain level of sentimentality associated with the Games, but it wasn’t as though he didn’t have other options. Refusing to even consider Duke’s offer to use his grounds was just an excuse to continue on in his


197

Tamara Morgan

overbearing way. It was one thing to be masterful. It was another to treat another person’s thoughts and opinions as meaningless. Even Mr. Darcy eventually realized his insufferable pride wasn’t going to get him what he wanted. Julian had yet to budge even an inch. “As much as I’d love to watch you two pretend not to hate one another, I’m going home to change.” She turned to Duke with a smile. “You’ll still be here when I get back?” “Of course,” Duke said lightly. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” He reached out and touched a lock of her hair, which was sticky and coated in the sunscreen spray she’d put on earlier. “You don’t have to go, though. You really do look lovely.” Julian scowled. “She does not. She looks like she slept with her head under a kitchen sink.” Kate couldn’t help but laugh, and she waggled her fingers good-naturedly to them both as she walked away.

“I don’t need you to come take a shower with me, Jada. Shouldn’t you be…I don’t know, working or something?” Kate sat in her car, but she couldn’t pull away with Jada hanging on to the window for dear life. “Katy-did, there are a lot of things I will do for you, one of which is take the necessary days off for camping with that lot of manhood. But I expect a few things in return.” She pulled open the passenger door and got in next to her. “And one of those is information. Who is that gorgeous man, and where have you been hiding him?” Kate sighed and backed out of the parking spot. “He’s the man of my dreams, I’m afraid.”

198



Jada squealed so loud Kate slammed on the brakes. Kate’s head jerked backward and bounced on the headrest, her already battered body slumping like a rag doll against the seat. Jada wasn’t even fazed. “Oh. My. God. No wonder why you didn’t mention him before—it’s not like you to be all secretive. Katy-did, is this the real thing?” The real thing. A perfect man. Her Holy Grail of love. She’d been after the real thing for years, ever since she first realized that the love existing on the pages of her favorite books had the potential to become real in ways that dragons and ladies in waiting never could. That love could lift her up and away from the dreary ordinariness of life, to a place where she felt whole and loved and cherished. So far, she’d only been disappointed. If a man wasn’t extolling her virtues of subservience, he was usually lacking in other important areas. Like personality. Or personal hygiene. Duke brought all of her youthful fantasies of a perfectly heroic mate rushing back to the surface. He was handsome, he was rich and he had a kind of cultured manner Kate had never before encountered in real life. The compliments flowed like expensive wine, and he seemed more than willing to dash in to rescue her— and the entire JARRS group—from Julian’s evil clutches. “He’s perfect,” Kate said to Jada. It was the truth. “So?” “So, I’m sort of waiting for the catch, to be honest. We’ve technically only had the one date, but he sent roses, and he’s dutifully called or texted me almost every day. He’s thoughtful and considerate—” “And really pretty?” “Too pretty. Prettier than me, even. How am I supposed to compete with that?”


199

Tamara Morgan

Jada laughed and hooked her arm out the window. “You don’t compete with it, silly. You revel in it. Roll in it like a dog with a dead fish.” “Is this where you start hitting me with fish euphemisms?” Kate asked skeptically. She loved Jada to death, but all this time spent with her was starting to wear thin. Solitude was a necessary component of her daily life. Whenever she went home to Seattle or her parents came to visit her here, she made up appointments with imaginary people to get a few minutes to herself. Communal living wasn’t exactly her style. “I’ll restrain myself, Kate, for your sake. But tell me this—did you kiss him?” Kate shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes. Just a little one.” “Was it good?” “It wasn’t bad,” she hedged. And it wasn’t. By most definitions, it had been a good kiss. A very good kiss. The right amount of pressure. A touch of moisture but not too much. But that was the thing. She measured it in terms of pressure and moisture, like she was a meteorologist and Duke was a cold front. Kissing Julian had no such easy definition, and she couldn’t break it down or put it to words. His touch had taken hold of every single one of her senses and left her reeling long after his lips pulled away. He wasn’t like a storm at all—but she could safely say that he transformed her insides into one. “Are you going to go out with him again?” Jada pressed. “I guess so…if he asks.” When Jada looked over, her eyebrows raised, Kate sighed and added, “He’s kind of mellow.” “Mellow? What is this, 1972?” Kate laughed and tapped a disco beat on the steering wheel. “Okay, not mellow. Just gentlemanly. He’s very attentive and complimentary, and if you read all the signs, he’s definitely interested.” “And he showed up at the site today.”

200



“Yep. That too. But I can’t help feeling he’s a little detached.” Jada gave a horrified gasp. “Like maybe his equipment isn’t all there? Oh, dear Lord, Kate. Run. Run as fast as you can.” Kate laughed. “Not like that, Jada. I’m sure his man bits are in perfect working order. It’s only that there’s a fire or something missing there, you know? He’s interested, and he’s sweet, and he’s, well, perfect. But—” “But he doesn’t want to haul you off into the woods and ravage your body.” “He might. We don’t know each other that well yet.” That wasn’t the real problem, even if Kate would never say so out loud. The truth was that he wasn’t Julian. Julian, who fought so hard for the things he wanted but still hadn’t shown a glimmer of fight for her. Julian, who opened up and told her his whole life story only as a way to get her to back down from the land. Julian, who kissed her like he meant it. Oh, God, how she wanted him to mean it. “Don’t be silly, Kate,” Jada said. “There’s no need for you and Duke to know each other in order to want to know each other. If you know what I mean.” Kate blew out a long breath. Jada would never understand, so she had to give her something she could latch on to. “Let’s just leave it at the ‘it’s not him, it’s me’ scenario, okay? Maybe I’d just like to see a glimpse of fallibility in there or something. You know, like if he has a temper or webbed feet or is scared of snakes or something.” “Scared of snakes? Katy-did, where do you get such ridiculous ideas?” “It’s not ridiculous. Julian—” She stopped herself before she said more. Something about how vulnerable he’d seemed when he’d shuddered in the moonlight, fearful of garter snakes, struck her as deeply personal. He wasn’t a man who let down his guard very often, and his guard had definitely been down


201

Tamara Morgan

that night. She’d felt it, in the trembling fingers that clutched the back of her neck and the velvet mouth that melded with her own. “Julian what? You don’t mean…” Jada grinned in that uniquely malicious way she had. “It’s

nothing,”

Kate

stammered.

She

turned

the

wheel—and

the

conversation—sharply to the right. “I’m going to stop at the store before we get home, if you don’t mind. I think I owe Gretna at least three cans of cat food to make up for all the neglect. The poor little thing is starting to make friends out of my socks.” Jada didn’t offer an objection. Instead, she nodded and beamed, releasing a sigh and Duke’s name every couple of minutes to try to get Kate to react. Admirably, she didn’t.

202


Chapter Thirteen The Age of Chivalry

“Sorry, bro, but if this is the way things are going to unfold for the next week, I’m not staying around.” Michael lifted a weight in a bicep curl, grunting with the effort of it. They were working out at the camp site that day—Julian’s idea, since he was afraid to leave Kilroy here alone for any length of time. There was no telling what damage might occur. An hour and the whole place might be under new zoning laws. Half a day and Kilroy might even be able to turn it into a golf course. Julian also had to do something to keep the guys from making more trouble than was necessary. Michael and McClellan had been pouting because Kilroy stole their women. Jada, Anne, some new girl and Kate had been circling around him for hours, catering to his already enormous ego. Let them. Maybe they’d get off his back and distract Kilroy from his training for a little while. “Some sidekick you are,” Julian admonished between sit-ups. “You’re not going anywhere. You had no problem with the camping plan before Kilroy showed up yesterday, and you can’t abandon me now.” “Easy for you to say. You have your bitter hatred to nurse like a baby at its mama’s teat. I, on the other hand, haven’t been near a nipple for days.” “I say Kilroy has even less of a chance lasting out here than Kate,” Julian muttered. He meant it. Kilroy was a strong man, but he wasn’t a tough one. The

Tamara Morgan

guy had to wear gloves when he threw a weight or hammer, for crying out loud. Couldn’t damage the baby-soft skin of his palms. “Are you ready?” Kilroy asked from right behind him. Julian jumped to his feet and whirled around, always ready and about to say so. But Kilroy wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to Kate, who’d shown up with her shapely legs clad, for once, in khaki-colored shorts and a sensible pair of hiking boots. “You’re going hiking?” Julian asked, unable to resist, even though it was obvious no one was talking to him. “You surprise me, Kate. I didn’t think you had it in you.” There was an appreciative twist to her smile. “It’s walking. On dirt. You’d be surprised how adept I am.” “Well, take water. And a compass. Kilroy might look like a Boy Scout, but I doubt he could find his way out of hell with ten of the apostles as his guides.” “Very funny, Wallace.” A crease worked its way down Kilroy’s forehead as he tried to come up with a suitable retort. He didn’t get to one in time, though, and Kate’s lips quivered as she shot Julian a quelling look. Julian one, Kilroy zero. And then she took Kilroy’s hand in a nauseating display of affection. Damn. Maybe he wouldn’t keep score, after all. “It’s not very romantic for our second date, but Duke has promised to take me fishing when we get to the river,” Kate said. She added proudly, “We’re going to catch our dinner.” Julian broke into a full, rumbling laugh. The dam a few miles upland turned this part of the river into a tumbling fountain of rocks and waves. It would be

204



almost impossible to catch anything without a large net and a whole lot of patience. “Now that is something I’d like to see.” Kate leaned on one of her feet and cocked her head, surveying him casually. “Why don’t you see it then? Come with us—I’m sure Duke won’t mind. It’ll save you the trouble of putting on a dark cloak and hiding in the trees.” So that’s how it was going to unfold. She probably didn’t think he’d dare take her up on the offer—and common sense told him not to. Common sense was overrated. “I’d love nothing more,” Julian said, flashing his teeth. He took a step back, gesturing for the lovebirds to lead the way. Kilroy mumbled something incoherent, but there was no real need to hear his words. His expression was enough. “Um…aren’t you going to take fishing poles?” Julian asked when they started heading for the trailhead by the field’s edge. They carried nothing more than a water bottle and a pair of jackets Duke had tossed casually over one arm. “No need.” Kilroy sneered. “I’m going to teach Kate how to catch a fish by hand—it’s an ancient art passed down through generations of my family. My branch of the Kilroy tree is one-twentieth Spokane Indian, I’ll have you know.” “Kilroy, you astound me—you’re going to teach Kate how to tickle her trout?” Kate was several paces ahead of him, but Julian could still hear the halfstrangled choking sound she always made when trying very hard not to laugh. Kilroy, on the other hand, whirled around. “Are you disparaging my people?”


205

Tamara Morgan

“Well, yes, I think I am,” Julian admitted. “I imagine my people have been out-fishing yours for centuries. Especially since I doubt you’ve ever even seen a fish that wasn’t on a plate and covered in lemon sauce.” Of course, Julian had never—his people or not—done more than snag a few brightly colored fish eggs to a manufactured hook and cast a lure from a welltended bank. But if he couldn’t put on a better show than Kilroy down there at the river…well, he deserved the shame of it, that was all he’d say. The men tacitly agreed not to mention the matter again before they reached the river—otherwise, they wouldn’t get down there before the sun did. Julian played his role of third wheel dutifully, sauntering along down the hill behind them. True to her word, Kate did seem both able and willing to walk on dirt, albeit with a stumbling gait that made her look like a colt picking its way over the ground. At one point, Julian broke a branch off one of the trees that grew all along the side of the path and placed it in Kate’s hand. “It’s a walking stick,” he explained when she looked at it with an odd expression. “I know what it is,” she muttered before turning away. But she used the stick. A lot. There was a fork about halfway down the path, which had been carved into the slope at as much of a low grade as possible. One path led back up along the top of the cliff’s edge, a favorite running spot among most of the guys, since it offered a series of peaks and valleys that were tough on the quads. The other path continued all the way down to the water. Because it wasn’t used very often, it was overgrown and rocky, with brush obscuring some of the footholds. Julian had been down to the river only a few times before. Although most of his memories of the Scottish Highland Games had to do with Cornwall Park, he’d never spent so much time in the area before. Camping here, in the weeks

206



leading up to the event, was turning out to be a pretty great idea. There was something about sleeping under the stars that made him feel connected to the sport in a way he didn’t know existed. He’d heard of jockeys sleeping in the same stalls as their horses in the nights leading up to the Kentucky Derby, but it had always seemed like one of those old wives’ tales generated to sell more tickets and mint juleps. It made sense. The park was more than a few acres of scenery to set the backdrop to activity. There was history in the land, in the packed dirt where he slept. So many feet had walked there, run there, pushed themselves to the limit there. Except now there were other footprints to contend with. Like Kilroy’s wingtip impressions, which kicked up dust and filled his mouth with the taste of grit and oil. And Kate’s feather-light tread, which was so soft he rarely heard it coming—but was still able to leave marks like a deep bruise that never materialized on the surface. “It’s lovely down here.” Kate stood at the water’s edge. “I imagine it’s pretty amazing in the spring when the water is high.” “I’ve never been down here in the spring,” Julian confessed, even though he wasn’t sure the remark was directed at him and not at Kilroy, who stood looking regally out over the river, one leg resting up on a rock like he was about to teabag its hard, gray surface. “It’s better this way,” Kilroy announced. “You can’t fish when the water is high—you have to be able to wade in. Are you ready for your lesson?” “Why don’t you two demonstrate how it’s done, and I’ll watch from the nice, dry land?” Kate suggested. She crouched down to the water’s surface and dipped a hand in before promptly pulling it back out. The river was fed right


207

Tamara Morgan

from the mountains, and even under the full heat of the afternoon sun, it was chilly. “No way. I was promised trout tickling. We’re not leaving until someone hands me a fish,” Julian interjected. Kate shook her head, belligerence in the narrowness of her eyes. “Once again, Julian, not everything in this world is about you. One might even argue you are the least necessary person standing on this riverbank.” “One might argue that, if one hadn’t practically begged me to join her,” Julian replied, matching her mocking tone with one of his own. They both looked up at the sound of a splash. Kilroy had stripped off his shirt and jumped into the river, dipping his head in the water and whipping his hair around like he was in a shampoo commercial. Kate sighed—a sound Julian wished was accompanied by an expression, because he couldn’t tell if she was as irritated as he was, or if she was doing the adult equivalent of drawing Kilroy’s name in her notebook with little hearts and swirls. “Shall we?” Kilroy held out a hand, which Kate stared at for a brief moment before taking off her shoes and socks and joining him in the water. Goose bumps broke out on her legs and arms, and it was all Julian could do to keep his gaze on the flow of the water and not travel right to her chest, to see how well the rest of her body responded to the cold. He shed his own footwear and stepped into the water up to his calves. His legs contracted with the sudden change in temperature, but he welcomed the sensation all the same. It was something solid and concrete to take his attention away from the fact that Kilroy was standing right behind Kate, his arms around her waist and their bodies close as he tried to demonstrate the slicing action it took to catch the fish. “That’s not how you do it,” Julian grumbled.

208



That was another solid thing to concentrate on. The fact that Kilroy was an idiot. Kilroy didn’t say a word—he simply took a few steps backward and cracked his knuckles. With one swift karate-chop action, his hand hit the water’s surface with almost no splash before rising up again just as fast. Julian had to admit it— he half thought the bastard would come back up with some wriggling, slimy fish, which he would then toss to the bank before catching so many more he’d put Jesus’s multiplication skills to shame. But there was nothing but a few drops of water and a low curse. Julian laughed and took a few steps forward, scanning the water for signs of life. A few flashes of silver indicated it might not be impossible to catch something after all, though he’d be damned if he’d try to duplicate Kilroy’s attempts. Patience and perseverance—those were the keys to taming any part of nature, whether animal, mineral or human. All he had to do was stay strong and silent, and the prey would come to him. “Do you honestly think it’s going to swim right into your hand?” Kate asked, watching him with interest. Julian laughed. “This is how it’s really done outside of Hollywood. If you can get the fish stuck next to a rock and reach under its stomach, giving it a little rub makes it all dazed and adoring. Like cats.” He grinned. “Or women.” “Oh, you’re such a connoisseur of all things masterful, aren’t you? Fifty bucks says Duke can catch a fish before you.” Kilroy heard the boast and swelled accordingly. “Double it, Kate. I almost had one of the little suckers.” “You hear that? The man wants us to make it one hundred—unless you’re afraid, Julian?”


209

Tamara Morgan

Julian felt the nibble of a fish on his forefinger, but he didn’t move. So quietly it was almost a whisper, he said, “Care to make it really interesting?” A flicker of color in her eyes indicated Kate knew exactly what he meant. They could play for Cornwall Park. They could play for victory. “Done.” With a huge kicking splash at him, she got out of the water, taking any of his chances with the fish along with her. Julian couldn’t help but acknowledge the blow with a smile. She wasn’t one to make winning easy—though she was damn good at making it fun. Although Julian was acutely aware of Kate seated on a large, flat rock near the path’s entrance, sunning herself like a turtle, he focused all of his attention on the water. He moved to stand several yards upriver from Kilroy and his ridiculous slicing movements, squatting into a crouching position to keep as close as possible to the shallow bottom along the edge of the river. The lowering sun beat down on his back, an odd sensation next to his nearly numb lower half, but the warring sensations felt right for the situation. Kate and Kilroy. Kate and him. Julian couldn’t help but feel that her journey down to the water’s edge with his nemesis was all part of a show designed to irritate him. It was working. “Did we remember to bring flashlights?” Kate called. It might have been a few minutes later, or it might have been an hour— Julian had been so intent on the movements of the fish that he lost all sense of time. When he turned to the sound of her voice, he noticed the sun had made considerable headway through the sky. “I didn’t bring any,” Julian admitted. “Maybe Kilroy and his people have a solution for that too.”

210



“Very funny.” Kilroy stomped out of the water, obviously giving up for the day. Julian was about to join him when felt a tickle on his big toe. Looking down, he noticed a fish exploring the rocks at his feet. He didn’t move, didn’t bother even to breathe. He crouched down as silently as he could, his hand making almost no splash as it entered the water. With the flick of his wrist, he shot out his fingers, not exactly gripping the animal but getting far enough underneath it so that it flew a few inches out of the water. He had it. But it promptly fell back in and swam away as fast as its fins would go. Kate laughed from the riverbank, where she’d watched the entire attempt. “I’m glad I don’t have to depend on either one of you to be my provider. We’d have all starved about five days ago.” Kilroy grumbled, but Julian gave a good-natured shrug and climbed back on to the bank. “I’ll have you know I’m exceptional at making grilled cheese sandwiches.” “So, what now?” Kate asked, looking back and forth between the two of them. Fortunately, Kilroy had put his shirt back on, leveling the score between them. “No fish means no dinner—and no one wins the bet. I’m disappointed in you both.” “Next time, Kate. I promise.” Kilroy reached over and patted her head. It looked awkward and forced. Even Kate thought so—Julian could tell by the way her eyes met his and crinkled around the edges, laughter tugging at her lips. “Technically, you should have to participate in your own bet,” Julian pointed out. He couldn’t tell if they were joking or seriously discussing a solution for their problem. Either way, he was game. There wasn’t an activity on this planet


211

Tamara Morgan

he wouldn’t love going head-to-head with that woman over. “We should think of something else.” Her eyes narrowed. “Like what?” Kilroy shifted and sighed. “What are you two talking about?” “We’re determining who’s the better man,” Kate said. She looked around as if searching for inspiration. “But it can’t be strength-related, because that’s not fair.” “And I don’t do trivia,” Julian added. Kate grinned. “Eating contests are definitely out.” Julian laughed, and he used the moment to draw closer to her. His voice low, he added, “I can think of one thing we’re both pretty good at.” She caught his meaning, her face diffusing with color. That was a challenge he could promise not to back down from. For a long time. “Are we ready to head back up, Kate?” Kilroy interrupted, checking his watch with poorly concealed irritation. He hadn’t heard that last part. “I’ll walk her home,” Julian announced. Both Kate and Kilroy looked like they wanted to fight him on the issue, but he stood taller and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe he hadn’t been able to catch a fish with his bare hands, but he knew what kinds of things he was capable of mastering. Kate was one of them. She had to be. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up without doing something about the way she made him feel—like he was powerful and powerless at the same time. Like he wanted to fight with everything he had and give up everything that mattered just to feel her body next to his. They both must have sensed how willing he was to back up his words, because Kilroy turned with a muttered curse, offering one last time to take Kate

212



back up to camp. She shook her head wordlessly, not drawing any closer to Julian but not pulling away either. It was a small victory but one he was happy to accept. “What’s your big plan?” Kate asked as soon as Kilroy crept off into the distance. “You ruined my date, you have no fish to offer for dinner and it looks to me like you still aren’t willing to accept Duke’s offer. How is this any different from where we were last week?” Julian sat on a large, flat rock, big enough to hold the two of them, and gestured for her to join him. She did, though perched so far from him it hardly counted. “I totally could have had that fish,” he said, ignoring the question. This was Truce Rock. He wouldn’t say or do anything to piss her off while they remained on it. They could at least have this moment. “Five more minutes and I was there.” She let out an exasperated noise, almost like a kitten’s cry. “That’s hardly the point here, is it?” “And what is the point?” She moved closer and nudged him with her hip. “You’re stubborn and annoying.” “This is true.” He’d been called a hell of a lot worse in his lifetime, and there was just enough playfulness in her voice to make him feel like he’d just been complimented. “But I’m stubborn and annoying, and you’re still here. What does that make you?” The tight smile she offered him was unreadable. She could have been hiding a huge grin. She could also have been stopping herself from saying something she might regret. Julian’s ability to discern the difference disappeared the


213

Tamara Morgan

moment one of her hands reached up and traced the outline of his tattoo where it peeked out from under his sleeve. “You’re also a bit of a mystery,” she said, ignoring his question. “What does your tattoo mean?” Lots of people showed an interest in his tattoo. Few cared to hear what it actually meant to him, and it was a subject on which he would have gladly spoken for hours. Especially if Kate kept moving her finger over his skin while he did it. Her touch was feather-light and brought with it a prickling sensation that did strange things to his concentration. “It’s a traditional Micronesian thing,” he explained, his voice low to keep it from faltering. “Each part of it represents some of my heritage and beliefs. Like right there, up higher on my shoulder, you can see the coconut leaves. Those are for warrior strength. The latte stone in the middle is shaped like a rook, since I’ve always loved chess. Here at the bottom, there’s a band of alternating squares and lines—that one is a protection against danger.” Her lips quirked even as her hand continued exploring. “What kind of danger could you possibly need protecting from?” He grabbed her pointer finger and stilled it. “The kind of danger that looks like you.” Color rushed into her face, and she pulled away, her words stilted as she tried to cover her sudden discomfiture. “So, which is more important to you? The Scottish warrior or the Chamorro warrior?” It was a good question. Normally, he’d offer a flippant reply, boasting of just how strong they both were, battling inside him in a constant quest for supremacy. But he didn’t feel very strong at that moment, so he was betrayed into telling Kate the truth.

214



“Sometimes I think I hide behind them both. Sometimes I think I’m afraid to just be me.” She leaned in and pressed her lips against his upper arm, right where the protective band formed the base. The soft and almost innocent sensation of her mouth on his skin erased any abilities the band might have had to save him. Protection, his ass. He’d never been so defenseless in his life. “What about yours?” he asked, changing the subject and pointing at her foot. The boots covered everything, but he remembered the fluffy little sheep that peeked up through all her strappy shoes. She shrugged. “It’s nothing. A dare. Jada dragged me to the tattoo shop and bet me I wouldn’t do it. So I did.” “You sure don’t back down from challenges, do you?” “No, it’s not that at all,” she insisted, shaking her head. “It was more like I didn’t have the courage to do it on my own or the strength to say no.” That wasn’t true. Julian had taken Kate’s measure almost from the start, when they’d first met about half a mile straight up that cliff side. She had courage. She had strength. It was what he liked about her. It was also what made it so hard for him to shift the conversation back into non-neutral territory. “Can I ask you a question?” “Yes. Does that count as your question?” “Nice try, Kate.” He shifted so he was facing her. Her hair was pulled up in a serviceable ponytail, but a few tendrils had sprung free, framing her face and making her appear much younger than she really was. They made her look vulnerable too—a sentiment Julian was rapidly coming to share. It was all he could do not to brush her hair away, kiss every freckle on the slight tip of her nose. He needed to get all his faculties in place, not wound up in the intoxicating


215

Tamara Morgan

presence of her. “I was actually wondering… Do you think it’s possible for two people to enjoy each other’s company even when they’re fighting on opposite sides?” “Possible, yes. A good idea?” She took a deep breath. “I’m not so sure.” “You speak from experience?” “It’s in all the books, Julian. It never works out.” He shook his head. “Always with your books taking the place of real experience. Don’t you ever just let yourself fall into the moment and feel it?” “That’s what I’m doing right now,” she said quietly. “But it doesn’t change our situation, does it?” Caution warned him away from the precipice they faced. “Okay, then. Give me some examples from your books. Who fought for one another?” “Romeo and Juliet did it,” Kate pointed out. “But…” “But?” he prodded. “They died.” “Bad example,” Julian said. “Pick a different one.” “Heathcliff and Catherine.” “I don’t know those ones. But let me guess—they both died too?” She laughed softly. “Just Catherine. Heathcliff wandered around in despair for the rest of his life.” That seemed about right. “Did they at least get a chance to fix things first?” “Oh, he came around eventually, but by then it was too late. He missed his window. He broke her heart.” She scooted closer, and it was in that moment Julian knew they weren’t talking about her fictional characters at all. He wrapped an arm over her shoulders, a simple gesture but one that carried much more meaning than if he’d

216



pinned her to the rock and done all the things his body longed to. She leaned in closer, her head resting gently on his shoulder. It felt right. “So tell me how I can fix this before it’s too late,” he murmured into her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. “Tell me how I can make it through the window.” “Do you know how many times in my life I’ve stood up for something that really matters to me?” A hard knot grew in his stomach. This was where he’d hoped to lead the conversation, but now that they were here, he would have done anything to turn away from it. He was crashing headlong into the abyss, and there was no way out. He just wished he knew how long he’d keep falling before he hit bottom. “Not once. Not for anything,” Kate continued. “This is the first time I’ve been able to look a situation straight in the eye and demand something for me.” She lifted her head and, despite her words, her eyes were not at all demanding. They were searching for something. For him. “Your Jane Austen group matters that much?” His throat felt raw and thick. Why did this have to be the one thing that hinged their entire relationship? Why now? “I’m not talking about the group, Julian. I’m talking about a different battle altogether. I’m talking about you and me.” “I can’t!” He shot up from the rock and her embrace. He knew what she was asking, and it wasn’t fair. His words echoed through the river canyon, repeating themselves in an agonizing parody of his desperation. He turned away, unable to face her as he closed the window with absolute finality. It was too much—he couldn’t sacrifice


217

Tamara Morgan

a lifetime’s worth of work for a chance at love. He wanted to more than anything else in the world, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel strong enough. Not for this kind of sacrifice. Not even for her. “Kate, I will do almost anything to make this right, but you’re asking for something that’s just not possible right now. It’s too important. Why can’t you understand that?” She came up from behind, turning him with the gentle pressure of her hand. For one moment—an uplifting second in which he thought the world might somehow be right again—it seemed she was going to give in. But she just offered a watery smile and asked him to walk her back to camp. So he did. Not touching. Not talking. Further from the finish line than ever before. He wasn’t able to do anything more than put one foot in front of the other. And even that came at a price.

218


Chapter Fourteen Best Served Cold

Snakes. Everywhere Julian turned, he felt the slip of serpentine skin against his, heard the rush of slithering bodies against the wall of the tent. He’d dreamed of them before too. Snakes and Kate, all wrapped up into one, twining around his body, Medusa in reverse. One of the dream snakes slid across his hand, and his fingers automatically came down around it, the lithe, muscular body whipping in a frenzy at being trapped. Part of it—the tail, the head, he couldn’t tell—struck him across his thigh like a powerful whip. The pain subsided quickly, but the impression of it lingered in his muscle, suddenly grown hard and tense. Julian sat up, his heart pounding. He hadn’t had a dream like this, one that made him break out in a cold sweat, since he was a little boy. They’d come often when he was younger. Sleeping spirits, his mother had called them, though they’d felt so real he’d thought it was useless to call them sleeping anything. This one felt real too. He looked down at his hand, which was still clutched in a tight fist. And then he blinked. Once. Twice. There was a snake still there, a real, slithering creature frantic to get away. Julian bit back a hoarse yell. Without thinking, he hurled the snake as far away from him as it could go. It fell softly into a pile of ten or twelve more of the beasts, heads and tails woven together in a mat of scaly, restless reptilian bodies.

Tamara Morgan

Shit. His breath came short and fast, restricted across the breadth of him by an invisible band that wrapped tighter and tighter, like an anaconda squeezing its prey. The haze of sleep combined with the sudden spike of adrenaline fogged his thoughts, and all he could think about was escape. The blue nylon walls pulsed in the erratic beat of his heart as he surveyed his escape routes. One small zippered doorway. Protected by the snakes. They started spreading out through the tent, and even crouched against the back wall, Julian was within arm’s reach of at least half of them. Shutting his eyes against the sight and wishing he could do the same to his ears, Julian flipped his sleeping bag over the biggest pile and darted for the door. He could feel the snakes trying to escape from under the bag—his bare feet pressed down, the squelch of their flesh spreading under his weight. Huge, racking shudders shook his body as his fingers fumbled with the zipper. One snake seemed to make a last-dash lunge for his bare calf as he finally got a grip on the zipper and yanked at it. Its teeth didn’t make an impact, but as the blunt head bashed against his leg, he felt a weak, quivering sound leave the base of his throat. And then air. Air and space and distance. He breathed. And shook. As Julian’s head cleared, a dull throbbing started at his temple. The beat was strong and fast, a militant cadence that sparked red in his line of vision and in his blood. Snakes. No one knew about his fear of snakes. No one. It was a closely guarded secret he nursed all the more because of how long he’d gone not giving it voice.

220



Peterson hated heights. Michael panicked over small spaces. Only Julian had been able to hide his weakness. From everyone except Kate. She knew. It was gray out, the early morning mist not yet burned away by the sun. Only Michael was up, stretching his limbs as he got ready for a jog. Shifting bodies—human ones—in the tents indicated they would soon be joined by the others. “You okay?” Michael asked, bent over his shoe. “You lit out of there like a priest caught with his shorts down.” “How long have you been up?” His voice worked. No cracking. It was strong. Michael shrugged. “Quarter of an hour? I’m going for a run. Want to join me?” It was a good idea. He could leave the site, let someone else go in with the intent to wake him and discover the snakes. Let them dispose of the writhing mass of bodies. He looked down at his feet, realizing his shoes and socks were still in the tent. “No, thanks.” Julian took a few cautious steps. His knees wobbled, and he stomped both legs on the ground to try to get them to work properly. “Has anyone else been up? Kate?” “Nah. All’s quiet over on the dark side. You sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine.” The words came out through gritted teeth. “Go. Run.” Michael shrugged and gave a few fist pumps before heading toward the road. Julian waved him off amiably, but the moment Michael was out of sight, he sank to his knees and let himself rest there. For just a minute—just enough to get


221

Tamara Morgan

his bearings and recover the full use of his voice. The second he was sure it was back and wouldn’t betray him, he let it out. “Kate!” He didn’t give a damn who he woke up. Springing to his feet, he called again, “Kate, I mean it! If you don’t get out here in five seconds, I’m coming in to get you.” There was no mistaking the command in his voice. Exactly four and a half seconds later, she emerged from the tent, muffled voices and hissed threats following behind her. She sure looked like she’d been asleep—he’d give her that. She wore a pair of tight black leggings that hugged her curves and left little to the imagination. Thick socks covered her feet, and his jacket—the one she still hadn’t returned— hung from her frame. Her hair was tousled, and her eye makeup had smudged along the upper lids of her eyes, giving her a seductive, smoky look he almost thought might have been the work of several hours of preparation. She yawned and looked up at him through confused, sleepy eyes. “Did you really think that would work?” he growled. Her eyes snapped open. She was awake now. “What?” “You heard me.” He could barely hear himself over the pounding of his blood, filling his head and all of his senses, pouring into a fissure that split him almost in half. To think he’d been up most of the night, unable to do anything other than picture Kate as she trudged back up the hill, defeated and broken—his doing. His damage. When all the time, she hadn’t been defeated at all. She’d been plotting her next steps.

222



“Was this plan B? Was this your backup if you failed to get your way last night?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Plan B? It’s five o’clock in the morning, Julian. What is going on?” “I know I’m not perfect,” he said, his voice tight. He stepped closer to her, but instead of giving him the advantage he thought it would, her proximity only made his chest clench. “I know I hurt you yesterday, and I’m sorry for that. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the way I’ve handled this entire situation, and I knew you would be mad at me. Possibly forever. But I didn’t think you could be so cruel.” “Cruel?” She blinked, her shoulders coming up in a question. “I may be a lot of things, but no one has ever accused me of being cruel.” “The snakes were cruel,” he said quietly. He looked back at his tent. He hadn’t taken the time to shut it after his narrow escape, and it looked like the reptiles—the still-living ones, anyway— were taking advantage of the open door and slithering into the tall weeds in the field. He felt his stomach lurch. Anger. It was anger. “Snakes?” She peered around him, following his gaze. “Oh, Jada,” she whispered. Julian felt as though a caber slammed into his gut, but he stood on his feet. And he didn’t look away—didn’t even blink. “You told Jada?” Kate shook her head, stepping back, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. “No—I mean, yes. I mean…it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” “Thank you, Kate,” he said, measuring each breath carefully, as though he’d been allotted only enough to get him through this moment. “You just made this a hell of a lot easier on me.”


223

Tamara Morgan

She gave a small squeak of protest, but Julian didn’t turn back. He steeled his jaw and his entire body—and he walked right into his tent, reached in and grabbed his footwear. There were still a few snakes, both living and dead. But for the first time in his life, he realized there were worse things than a simple, debilitating bodily fear. There was love. There was betrayal. There was Kate Simmons.

“What do you mean you’re packing up?” Jada barred entry to the tent with her hands on her hips, her stance wide. “Kate—we’re coming out ahead here. In case you failed to notice, we’re about to get this little park of yours once and for all.” Kate pushed her way underneath Jada’s arm and started shoving clothes into her gym bag. She used a lot more force than was necessary, but she’d recently discovered that the only way to keep herself from bursting into tears was to keep moving. She didn’t even stop when half a dozen earwigs scurried out from underneath a dirty shirt. “Kate, stop and look at me.” Jada crouched in front of her. “You need to calm down. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” That did it. Kate did stop, and she did look up at Jada, but she did not calm down. “Nothing? You think that was nothing? You didn’t see the way he looked at me. It was like I’d murdered his mother or something.” “Exactly,” Jada soothed. “He went ballistic. He’s on the edge. One little push and poof.” “Poof, what?” “Poof, you win.”

224



Kate stopped her packing for a moment, her hands shaking. She’d felt many different things in her life to cause such a reaction. Fear. Nerves. Embarrassment. But this was the first time she could attribute the energy coursing through her body as anger. “This isn’t winning. This is the exact opposite—and you had no right to interfere like that.” Jada sprang to her feet, her movements quick and graceful. She didn’t look the least bit perturbed by their conversation, a fact that only fed Kate’s heightened state. “I was just trying to help. Yesterday, you wanted the park. You came back from your little ménage à date almost in tears because you didn’t get it. So I called that guy I dated last year—you remember, the snake handler with the lisp?” She remembered. Jada used to call him Jake the Snake right to his face, even though his name was Steve. That was so like her. Blazing right ahead, oblivious to how her actions affected other people. And this affected Kate. Big time. “You just don’t get it, do you? I don’t want the park. I want Julian to give me the park.” “How is that different?” It was different—so much so that she’d been ready to step aside and finally end all this. Kate fell to her bottom, resting her back against the side of the tent. All the anger flooded out, leaving nothing but emptiness in its place. When she looked up, it was to see a glimmer of real concern flash over Jada’s face. “What is it, Katy-did? What did that bastard do to you?” She offered a weak smile. “Nothing. That’s the problem. That man is a warrior, Jada, right down to his toes. He fights for the things he wants with so much passion it makes the rest of us look like silly wastes of life.” Except he wouldn’t fight for her. She wasn’t enough to tip the scales—he’d made that very clear last night. Down there on the riverbank, she’d realized it


225

Tamara Morgan

was ridiculous to keep pretending to care anything for Duke, or even for the stupid park, and she’d been prepared to give it up. All of it. The only thing she needed in return was for Julian to be willing to do the same for her. And he wasn’t. He’d turned away and said “thanks, but no thanks”. She knew in that moment that a line had been crossed. Julian was okay with quiet, complacent Kate—he might have even been falling for her. The problem was, quiet, complacent Kate was no longer okay with her. “All that warrior stuff—hot, right?” Jada winked. It looked forced. “It has nothing to do with hot or not,” Kate replied. She didn’t do her usual thing and offer Jada an obligatory laugh. Supportive-friend mode would have to wait. Indefinitely. “It has to do with me realizing just how little I fight for anything.” “So what? You’re going to go all Xena on us and challenge Julian to hand-tohand combat for the park instead?” “No. It means I’m telling you I don’t want your help with this one, Jada. No more snakes. No more interference. I need to do this on my own. My way.” Even though she had no idea what that meant. While one half of her wanted to go home and lick her wounds alongside Gretna, the other half kept inserting whispers and ideas and demands. Because if she was suddenly willing to stand up for herself, didn’t that mean finding a way to get the one man she wanted more than anything else in the world?

226


Chapter Fifteen Throwing the Gauntlet

The last thing Kate expected that day at work was to find a solution staring her right in the face. A cheerful, freckled solution that she recognized as one of the regulars who frequented the high fantasy section. “Oh my gosh, you guys should totally use the Knights of Mayhem grounds,” the woman, Naomi, gushed. Naomi wore a loose peasant skirt and tank top, her short brown hair styled in the type of pixie cut Kate always admired but feared she could never pull off. “We’re not kicking off our fall season for another few weeks, so it’s empty right now.” Kate leaned against one of the bookshelves, her elbow knocking off the better part of a row of Nicholas Sparks books. They could wait. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s generous of you and all, but a few of the more academic members of our JARRS group are kind of uptight about anachronisms.” Naomi shrugged. She’d been coming to the bookstore for as long as Kate had been manager there, and had even hosted a book club a few times. Although Kate had always known the woman was a member of the local Renaissance Fair, they’d never really broken down the employee-customer barrier to talk about it. But Naomi had caught Kate on the phone with the Parks Department discussing the finer points of the creepy city park she and Jada first visited. “We re-enactment groups have to stick together, you know?” Naomi laughed and started scooping up the books, shelving them in a completely random order. “I mean, I’m gonna have to run it by Stuart, our president, first,

Tamara Morgan

but anything that earns us money or gets exposure is good. We’ve been struggling a bit lately. And no offense, but I’ve done some charity work at that park you’re talking about. Seriously—you’d have to do a grid search for dirty needles before you could use that place. It’s gross.” “You’re sure it wouldn’t be a problem?” It all seemed too easy. For the past few weeks, every bit of her energy had been wrapped up in Cornwall Park. In Julian and all his honors and obligations. It had been so easy to lose herself in being near him that she’d almost forgotten there was a whole other world out there, where people were nice and simple and didn’t require you to give up a piece of yourself in order to feel loved. “Oh, yeah. It’s pretty awesome too.” Naomi lifted a huge backpack and pulled out a scrap of paper to jot down her number. “We have outbuildings and restrooms and a jousting field. Oh, and a battle chess board that’s really sweet, though I bet you guys won’t need that. You don’t strike me as a competitive crowd.” Kate took the phone number being offered, crushing both it and poor Naomi’s hand in her grip. “Did you just say battle chess?” “Geez.” Naomi pulled back her hand and shook it off, laughing. “You have some strong feelings about chess. You one of those grandmasters or something?” “No,” Kate replied, her voice sounding like an echo to her own ears. “But I’m pretty decent at it.” And she was pretty decent at it—much more so than throwing trees or hammers. A vision of Julian’s tattooed bicep flashed in her mind, the intricate black patterns that told his life story right on his skin. The latte stone transformed into a rook. Because he loved chess. There was something they were both good at. There was a way to meet on a level playing field.

228



Her heart picked up, and for the first time that day, she felt like she might be able to fix things. “Did you say you guys are hurting for funds right now?” Kate asked. She turned the woman around and started pushing her gently in the direction of the back office. “Because I think I might know of something that can help.” “Oh, yeah? That could be cool. What were you thinking? Renting the space? Setting up a booth?” “Better,” Kate said confidently. “I’m thinking a showdown. A fight to the finish. And as much publicity as we can drum up to witness it.” And maybe, if she was lucky, a second chance at love.

Julian and Michael sat in Irina’s shop, awaiting their final kilt fittings. They hadn’t spoken much since their run that morning—it had taken Julian all of five minutes to catch up, thanks to the breakneck sprint that had taken him as far from the camp as possible. When they’d returned, the snakes were gone and so was Kate, but the animosity he felt toward both of them lingered in the air. Julian hadn’t had to say a word—no one dared cross the invisible border. The entire day had continued along in a stone-faced stalemate, and that was okay with Julian. The less said about their situation, the better. At least until he had an idea of what to do next. Michael leaned back in his chair and placed his arms behind his head, a poor pretense at being casual. “What’s the plan?” “The plan?” Julian stared at the carpet, a swirled pattern of brown and blue that seemed to go on into the floor forever.


229

Tamara Morgan

“Cornwall Park. Highland Games. Rockland Bluff Whisky. A tent full of women who refuse to leave. Any of it ringing a bell?” Julian scowled. “Oh, it’s ringing. Loud and clear. But I don’t see you guys coming up with any bright ideas. It’s not just my event, you know.” Michael sat up. “Fine. You want me to run point? Peterson, McClellan and I will have Kate down on her knees and crying for her mother in five minutes. Tops.” “That’s not funny,” Julian muttered, but he looked at Michael out of the corner of his eye. His friends were good, loyal guys, but the testosterone ran hot and fast with all of them. He’d seen Michael and Peterson once tackle a man for insulting Michael’s mother and her choice of bedtime companion. And even though it went against every single one of their codes to harm a woman, they had ways of intimidating others that didn’t require physical violence. Kate was his problem. “The real trouble is that you’ve been tiptoeing around the issue on pink ballet slippers.” Julian didn’t take the bait. “Pranks will just make her mad. You’re like a cat playing with your toy. Don’t play with it, bro. Eat it.” He took the bait this time, hooking his catch with a quick right jab, the sound of fist and bones coming together almost a symphony to his ears. “Feel better?” Michael asked with considerable aplomb. He reached down and pulled off one of his socks, using it to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. “Much better, thanks.” But he didn’t feel better. Not really.

230



Irina, to her credit, didn’t say a word when she emerged from behind the curtain to call Julian back. She’d spent far too many years catering to a highly masculine clientele to question the flow of blood and poor hygiene habits in her waiting room. Julian did feel better once he was in full Highland dress, though, comforted by the soft white linen of his shirt against the Wallace plaid that was draped over his shoulder and held in place with a large, solid metal wreath-shaped pin. The kilt rested at the knee, fitted around the waist and ornamented by a heavy leather sporran. There was so much movement in the kilt—so much freedom to swagger and stomp as the mood dictated. He had a formal tuxedo jacket and some of the more ornamental items like the flashes that hung down like tassels from his socks, but he typically wore them only for ceremonies. He liked it better without them. This was the Julian who competed and fought. This was the Julian who won. “It looks good, caro,” Irina murmured, stepping back to view her handiwork. Julian nodded curtly. Although she was right and the new kilt fit like a charm, he didn’t really care how he looked at that moment. He only cared how he felt, and that was like shit warmed over. He knew he’d come very close to breaking Kate’s heart last night when he’d chosen the land over her. He just didn’t realize he’d placed the same power in her hands. He was about to remove the kilt when Michael burst into the room, holding out Julian’s phone like it had some sort of disease. “It rang three times, so I finally answered it. Sorry, Jules, but you’re gonna want to take this one.” A heavy sense of foreboding landed like a thud in his stomach. Something was wrong. His mom. His sisters. Kate. “What is it?” he barked into the phone, louder than he intended.


231

Tamara Morgan

“Julian?” He dropped to the chair with a thud, noticing with a grimace that both Michael and Irina had abandoned him. Chickens, the pair of them. “This better be you calling to give up your claim to the park, Kate, or I’m hanging up the phone. What else could we possibly have to say to one another?” “I know you hate me right now, but I need you to listen for one minute.” He didn’t hate her—that was the problem. He wanted nothing more than to take back everything he’d said and done to hurt her. Forget her unfair demands. Forget the Games. Forget the snakes. Forget his promise to Harold to take care of his family. He closed his eyes. There were some things a man simply couldn’t forget. No matter how much it killed him to do it. “I’m listening.” Even through the poor reception on his cell phone, a relieved sigh hit his ears. “I might have found a way to fix all this.” “This?” This what? There was no “this” that could contain the roiling mass of his emotions. “Don’t worry. I’m only talking about the park situation,” she said, and there was a hitch to her voice that wrenched in his gut. “Can you bring a few of the guys and promise to meet me tomorrow?” Even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he shrugged helplessly. How much longer were they going to draw this out? “Is this you asking me or Jada asking me?” “It’s me, Julian. Just me.” Before he could say anything, she hurriedly gave him an address and directions to some place he’d never heard of to the north of town. He didn’t have

232



anything to write on, and he wasn’t about to prolong the conversation any more than he had to, so he committed the numbers to memory. “Thank you for this. I promise it’s nothing bad. In fact…I think it might make things a lot easier. On both of us.” He hung up the phone, blowing out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and caught a glimpse of himself in the endless array of mirrors. The man looking back at him was one he recognized from years of Highland Games, a man who didn’t do anything the easy way unless he had to. But right now, easy seemed like a pretty nice alternative.

Kate sat at a table at the fairground meeting hall with Lady Lovelace, Anne and a few representatives from the Renaissance re-enactment group, including Naomi, who seemed to have so much energy she couldn’t sit still for five minutes at a time. As Naomi had promised, the Knights of Mayhem had a permanent structure on several acres of wooded land—a venue that put anything Julian or Kate dreamed of to shame. Throughout their twenty years as an organization, they’d replicated an entire old English village, right down to free-range peacocks and taverns that served home-brewed ale. While the accuracy might have been a little off, both Naomi and Stuart, the man in charge, assured them they could move either the JARRS or the SHS venue in at the last minute and still remain somewhat true to their respective eras. “I don’t know,” Lady Lovelace waffled, tapping her fingers on the table. Kate and Anne shared a glance. The entire drive to the meeting, they’d been heralded with Lady Lovelace’s exact thoughts on the Renaissance Fair. The thoughts were not, despite the Knights’ generous offer, very favorable.


233

Tamara Morgan

“Historical re-enactment at its worst.” Lady Lovelace sighed. “A pulsing orgy of breasts and shafts.” Looking around the room, the walls covered with photographs of previous fairs, Kate could see where she got that impression. Wenches and knights were there in abundance, complete with breasts and shafts. But even though there were a few images of parties in full swing, Kate would hardly call them orgies. She doubted Lady Lovelace knew what that word meant outside of 1815 England. “We’re trying to set ourselves up as an academic society,” Lady Lovelace explained. “This just all seems so…campy.”’’ “We understand that, Mrs. Lovelace,” said Stuart. He was a short man but a powerful one, despite a soft-spoken voice. Naomi told Kate he was the one who took on the role of the monarch in their weekend re-enactments, and she could see why. He was one of those people with so much inherent kindness that doing anything to upset him just seemed cruel. “Lady,” she corrected snidely. Apparently Lady Lovelace didn’t agree with Kate’s assessment. “Lady Lovelace. I apologize.” He smiled and laid a hand over hers. “The truth is that we need you and the publicity you can bring in. People aren’t into historical preservation like they used to be, but this plan of yours might be enough to save us all. I can’t tell you how much it would mean to us.” Lady Lovelace sat up a little. “That is true. We can bring you something no one else can.” The Scots, that’s what. Kate was more than happy to let Lady Lovelace assume she’d devised the whole plan, but the truth was that none of this would work if Julian and his men failed to show up. She should have explained herself more

234



clearly over the phone. She should have let him know that this was to help them both—that she was making one last attempt to reach out. But even that might not have been enough. She slunk to the bottom of her chair, doing her best not to steal a quick peek at her watch. The last time she checked, they were ten minutes late. They weren’t coming. “Speaking of that, ah, do we have any idea when the opposition will get here?” Stuart asked, looking to Kate. She shook her head mutely but was saved from responding by the sound of heavy footsteps drawing up to the doorway. It was a sound that could only belong to several oversized men clomping their way through the halls. Kate had never heard anything so wonderful in her entire life. “I hope we’re not too late.” Julian’s voice was strong as he came through the doorway, leading his men, all of them full of swagger and self-supremacy. Kate felt her entire body rising up in her seat at the sight of so much unquestionable male confidence. Even if Julian refused to actually look at her. “You must be the Scottish battalion,” Stuart said, beaming. He gestured widely. “Come in. Sit down, sit down. We’ve been waiting for you.” Stuart reminded Kate very much of a magnanimous king welcoming his prodigal knights. Julian chose the seat directly across from her, even though he had yet to acknowledge her sitting there. Michael, Peterson, McClellan and Nick followed suit. They dwarfed and outnumbered them all, and only Naomi and Anne seemed to appreciate them as they were due. It had only been a few days since Kate had seen Julian last, but she felt immediately warmer just being in his presence. He was dressed simply, as he always was, the stubble across his lower jaw perhaps a bit darker than she remembered. He looked more at ease than he’d been in a long time, perfectly in


235

Tamara Morgan

control of the situation even though there was no way he could have known what was coming. “We’re not exactly a battalion, but thanks for having us all the same,” Julian said, falling into his role as leader quite naturally. “Now. Does anyone care to tell us what’s going on?” He finally looked over at Kate, his eyes snapping, one eyebrow raised. All her body heat radiated to the surface, and only Anne’s hand pressing firmly on hers kept her from launching herself over the table to greet him more properly. “It has been brought to my attention that your two groups are in need of mediation,” Stuart began, his voice soft. “From what I understand, you both want the same venue for the same weekend and are unable to reach a fair consensus. Does this sound about right?” Kate nodded, watching Julian and the other guys react to the scene. Although Peterson and Michael exchanged glances, Julian didn’t move other than to cross his arms and sit back in his chair. If he was surprised or upset or feeling anything at all, it certainly didn’t appear so on the surface. Cool and calm and in command, no matter what the situation. “What I’ve been asked to propose is a final battle between the Scots and the English. One with rules and a fair outcome. Winner takes all—in this case, Cornwall Park and a whole lot of great publicity.” Lady Lovelace, caught up in the moment, clapped her hands excitedly. “A duel!” Julian’s jaw clenched—Kate could see the tick of it from across the table. “What kind of a duel?” “Battle chess,” Stuart said. “Live-action battle chess right here on the Knights of Mayhem fairgrounds.”

236



Kate had seen a Renaissance group on television do one of them before. The chessboard had been painted on sixty-four giant squares of wood that fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, which the group on the show packed up and took with them all over the country. The queen sat in a throne overlooking the entire board while her opponent stood on the other side. The opponent varied depending on where they were, though it was usually another member of the royalty or even a volunteer from a crowd of historical buffs and overstimulated teenage boys. The pieces, all of whom were part of the show, wore full costume and had both a winning and a losing move choreographed out. The game could last for hours, depending on how elaborate the moves were as each piece fell. Kate’s favorites had been the pawns, dressed up in fool’s garb like a row of little satiny Yoricks. It was silly, as far as olive branches went. It didn’t make up for Julian turning her down or for Jada filling his tent with snakes. But it was what she had to offer. Just let it be enough. Her eyes met Julian’s as the idea exploded throughout the room. Although everyone started talking at once, even Lady Lovelace gurgling with excitement as the challenge was laid out on the table, it felt like it was just the two of them in the room. “How many reporters are we talking?” “Great exposure for all of us—” “An unprecedented number of attendees—” “I want to carry a battle axe. Do I get to carry a battle axe?” Julian and Kate remained silent. He looked straight at her, an inquiring lift to one brow, what might have been a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. She stared back at him, trying to hide the fact that her heart raced in unbidden circles around her chest.


237

Tamara Morgan

The battle-chess match would involve a lot of people and a lot of last-minute preparation. It required the coordination of all three groups. But in that moment, she needed Julian to know that the challenge was for him alone to accept or deny. Accept it, Julian, she wanted to scream. Accept me. But she didn’t. If they had any chance at all, this needed to come from him. “We’ll do it.” Julian’s words were barely audible among the voices clanging about in the room, but he let them sit there for a moment all the same. By the time everyone caught on, his face had broken into a grin that Kate could feel all the way down to her toes. “I don’t think you realize it, Kate, but I’m an exceptional chess player.” He inclined his head in a slight bow, and Kate lost all track of the rest of the conversation. Details, dates, times—they were all there, buzzing about and falling into place. But she didn’t hear a thing other than the heavy pounding of her own heart and the roar of blood in her head. Unless she was very much mistaken, Julian Wallace, the unmovable warrior, had just agreed to meet her halfway.

238


Chapter Sixteen Battle Cry

“Gareth called again,” his mother announced the moment Julian walked through the front door. “I think it’s important.” Julian dropped the gym bag he’d been carrying and stepped out of his shoes. Guilt pinged in his stomach, and it was only by focusing all his attention on his feet that he was able to successfully avoid both it and his mother’s eyes at the same time. Of course he owed Gareth a phone call. He also owed half a dozen calls to other vendors and the crew in charge of setting up the platforms and tents for the Games. He was ignoring them on purpose. “I’m not feeding you until you give me an explanation.” Mothers. They knew just where to hit the hardest. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she and Kate were in some sort of collaboration to end him. “It’s not a big deal,” Julian offered, even though it was. Once again, he was losing sight of the things that were supposed to mean the most. “Gareth is probably wondering where he needs to drop off the cabers, and I don’t want to call him back until I know the answer. We’ve got three days until the Games, and right now there’s no place to call home.” “I thought you fixed that,” Beth said. “Nala said you were going to do some Dungeons and Dragons role-playing stuff to figure it out. Please don’t tell me I have to go, Mom. It’s so embarrassing already.”

Tamara Morgan

Only the top of Beth’s head was visible above the back of the recliner. Julian reached down and gave her hair a quick tussle. “It’s not D&D, brat. It’s chess. Perfectly nerd-free.” “Is everyone going to be wearing costumes?” she asked, swatting at his hands. “Of course.” Beth made a scoffing noise. “Nerd-free, my ass.” “Elizabeth Wallace, you watch your tongue.” True to teenage form, Beth grabbed her book and stormed away, muttering something about families and the end to all social aspirations. “What’s with her lately?” Julian asked as he pulled out his phone and ran over the list of missed calls. Just a few of the reporters he’d contacted about the upcoming chess game and the sheepdog demonstrators, it looked like. Nothing from Rockland Bluff Whisky. Nothing from Kate. “She misses you.” Julian’s whole body tensed until he realized it wasn’t Kate his mother was talking about. She meant Beth. She meant the family. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. “No way. She hasn’t missed me since she was five years old and I moved away from home for the first time.” “Julian, you are so like your stepfather, sometimes I have a hard time believing you don’t have his blood.” Julian beamed. Until his mom swatted him on the head. It stung with reproach. “You’ve been so busy with all your planning and practice, you’ve been a ghost around here. You used to come home to spend time with your family. This year, it’s all about whisky and winning.”

240



“I come home whenever I can,” Julian protested, knowing it was a weak excuse. “I’m here now, aren’t I? And where’s Beth? Up in her room, as far from me as possible. Nala too. She’s the real ghost around here.” “The real ghost around here is Harold. Jules, you need to put that man to rest and move on with your life.” “But—” “And call Gareth back. I taught you better than that.” With those words, his mom walked away, leaving him standing once more, alone in the living room. He sank into the couch, head in hands. Things were supposed to be getting better. They had a plan of action for getting Cornwall Park. They had a huge number of news reporters coming out to the battle-chess match, a fact that Rockland Bluff Whisky couldn’t help but notice. Kilroy had become all but invisible over the past few days, and Julian had to assume he was holed up somewhere, doing some last-minute prep work to try to win the Games. But something was missing—and he knew damn well what, or rather, who, that was. It was funny. If someone had asked him a few weeks ago how he felt about sharing a campground with that lot of Regency-obsessed women, he would have been full of snide remarks. Now that he was back in his apartment, he actually missed Kate more than he’d ever thought possible. He missed her grumpy frown in the morning. He missed her gallons of bug spray. He missed knowing that even if the two of them weren’t exactly on the same side, she was only a stone’s throw away and game for a fight. She still is, he reminded himself. Even after all that had happened between them, she was still game for a fight. He’d had no idea Kate had so much ingenuity inside her. The battle chess was a stroke of genius—for both their


241

Tamara Morgan

sides. They could save face. They could play chess. It was fair all the way around, and it didn’t hurt that chess was one of the many things Harold had taught him. A man’s game, he’d always vowed. All logic and wee phallic chess pieces. Julian also knew, deep down, that it meant Kate was beginning to understand what the Games meant to him and how important it was that he finish this first. Then they could try all over again. Then maybe they had a chance.

As they pulled into the Renaissance village the next morning in preparation for the chess match, Julian was almost ready to lay down his sword and let the JARRS group have Cornwall Park. The fairgrounds were amazing. Sherwood Forest, as it was aptly named, sat back from the highway by several miles, and there weren’t any buildings or houses for as far as the eye could see. The Knights of Mayhem owned the space, since the land had been donated years ago, and they’d been building on the site for years. Like a real village, it had started as a small collection of buildings in the center. As the years progressed, it had expanded outward until what they had now was a concentric ring of circles, each containing more specialized vendor stands and performance areas, including a jousting ring and a public square. To the back of the village there was a large expanse of field which was almost the exact size of the space they used for the Highland Games every year. Except instead of booths or the materials the SHS used, there was an enormous wooden structure Peterson informed him with awe was a real, working trebuchet. “These people must have a lot of money,” Peterson said, shaking his head. Most of the guys had gathered in this back field, surveying what might very well

242



be their home for this year. Julian tried not to think what that said about his men’s faith in his chess abilities. “Do you think they’d let us use the trebuchet?” Nick added. “I mean, if we do end up here? We could add a whole new event. Haggis flinging.” Michael puffed his chest up and boomed a hearty laugh. “Who needs a piece of machinery for that? I fling my haggis whenever I get the chance.” In all honesty, Julian could easily see them performing here just as well as at Cornwall Park. They were all dressed in full battle mode in their athletic gear— not quite the formal wear they donned for the ceremonies, but kilts in their respective plaids and, for most of them, T-shirts or other clothing that was loose enough to allow them freedom of movement. Michael wore the same Metallica shirt he’d been wearing to the Games for years, and Nick went without one at all, though he’d strapped a pair of leather bandoliers across his bare chest out of respect for the ladies. It held a few dirks that could easily be pulled out for battle. The dirks were his weapon of choice for the game. It had taken some hashing out, but they’d eventually decided to let the men, or women, as the case may be, determine their own attack moves. Each participant had winning and losing steps planned, and depending on how Julian and Kate—the kings on each team—played the game, they would act out their role accordingly. “Have you decided the positions yet, Jules? Because I’ll tell you right now, I’m not gonna be a pawn.” McClellan’s arms crossed his chest, and his leg tapped restlessly underneath his kilt. “I want to be a rook, at least. A knight would be even better.” “You can’t be a knight. Reggie and I are the knights,” interjected another man. Jacob, Julian realized when the man cracked his knuckles ominously.


243

Tamara Morgan

Julian sighed. The men circling him seemed to be pulsing with some unnamed discontent. “Well, some of you have to be the pawns,” he said. “Pawns,” McClellan explained with painstaking slowness, “are for sissies. I’m not going out there to act like a sissy in front of a crowd of people expecting pure manly might.” Julian gave a low chuckle and shrugged. “Well, Mikey here’s going to be the queen. If he’s not complaining, I don’t see why the rest of you feel justified.” He was greeted by the obligatory round of guffaws, but Michael coughed before it got too far, raising one of his hands and silencing the crowd like a Biblical figure of old. “Laugh if you will. But I brought this claymore…” “A claymore?” Julian asked. “I said you could bring a signature move to the board—not an arsenal. You do know this is a family event?” Michael waved him off and winked, turning his attention to the other athletes. “I’ll keep it safe, bro. No worries here. Anyway, it’s this Celtic replica my cousin Jennings had lying around. He used to keep it in a glass case with all his other antique crap, but now it’s mine. Queen? Please. No queen would carry this shit.” He grinned and swung his arms over his head like he was getting ready to toss his hammer. “I’m going to wave it over my head, like this, and then take the other guy out at his knees. Then I’m going to stomp on his neck as he falls to the ground.” Michael was so earnest in his movements, Julian had to laugh. “Dude, you’re joking, right? Kate’s team is going to be made up mostly of little old ladies wearing fancy gowns and crying into handkerchiefs. You’re

244



going to pretend to snap a grandma’s neck with your steel-toed boots? In front of her whole family?” Michael shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, it is battle chess. We have to put on something of a show. Give the people their money’s worth.” Julian imagined the shocked look on Kate’s face when he brought his men in full Highland dress, a mixture of authentic weapons and replicas in their hands. This was her idea, but he was really warming to it. It was going to be great. He nodded his consent. “See, McClellan? Why don’t you use your hammer and improv it? I’m sure you’ll think of something awesome. In the heat of battle and all.” “Be the pawn,” McClellan nodded, considering the plan. “The pawn with the shot put. Or a caber. All right, Jules. I’ll do it. But if you sacrifice me to one of those old ladies and I have to go down on the end of a knitting needle, you’re going to owe me. Big time.” As if on cue, the town crier came running past them, a blur of blue velvet and heraldic embroidery,

calling

out the

hour

and announcing

the

commencement of the live battle-chess match. “Men, to your weapons,” Julian called, getting into the spirit of it. “We’re wanted on the field.” “Wait,” Michael called, holding up a hand. “We need to discuss one last thing.” Julian forced a patient look on his face. “We don’t want to miss this, Mikey. It’s kind of a big deal.” “The shorts.” “What shorts?” Julian was instantly wary.


245

Tamara Morgan

“You know what shorts I mean, Jules.” Michael looked around the group of men, all of them sharing knowing looks Julian wished he could ignore. “I think we need to show these people what being a Scottish athlete is all about.” He reached under his kilt and pulled down his boxer shorts with a flourish, but they caught on his heavy work boots, and he ended up standing there with them pooled around his feet. It didn’t seem to matter to him. “Let’s do this old-school style,” Michael announced, nodding his head knowingly and admiring his own underwear. No way. Not at a public venue. Not with reporters coming. Not when every single member of the Knights of Mayhem and the Jane Austen Regency ReEnactment Society had invited their extended families. “Let’s vote on it!” one of the other men cried. “A vote!” Julian prided himself on his leadership abilities and his skill at calling men into line. But when every single hand except his shot up with a hearty roar, he realized this was one area in which he had no authority. “All right, guys, you win. Let’s do this.” It was go full commando or go home.

The Scottish team moved as one toward the throne tower at the center of the village. In the first ring outside the center, there were mostly vendor booths and displays. An apothecary stand had several ropes hanging from the beams across the top. From the looks of it, there were garlic bulbs, dried herbs and various soaps for sale.

246



Taverns were there too, windowless buildings that smelled of yeast and hops. There was also a clothing shop, which featured everything from New Age jewelry to more authentic costume items, though it looked to be closed up for the battle-chess event. Two outdoor cookeries were visible, one boasting an open fire pit, the other a brick-like oven from which the smell of roasting meat could already be detected. A fortune teller’s tent and a blacksmith’s shop filled the rest of the space, which would have been really cool except it contained a wall of weapons very clearly marked NOT FOR SALE. The outer circle of the village contained the entertainment district. Julian hadn’t had a chance to walk the entire perimeter yet, but he knew it had a longhouse, a mud pit, the battle-chess board, an open-air theater and various carnival games—all of which had been opened for the event and were crowded with people. It was amazing that all this had come together in just days. Julian tried not to think what that meant in the grand scheme of things, that when people worked together rather than locking in head-to-head battle right from the start, they could accomplish almost anything. He and Kate had wasted an awful lot of time—time that could have been better spent locking something else entirely. That was going to change. Starting right now. Julian took his place at the left end of the chess grounds, a series of squares painted onto a giant wood platform in a familiar alternating pattern of black and white. Stuart had arranged to borrow a set of portable bleachers from a local high school, and they’d been delivered and installed the night before. The seats were already packed with spectators, many of whom were topped by foam crowns and waving giant foam maces. Stalls had been set up on either side of the chess board, and beer wenches were selling their wares with cheer.


247

Tamara Morgan

Despite his outward calm, the number of people in the audience set him back. The number and the variety. Close to two hundred people were there already, anxiously awaiting the battle like it was ancient Rome and the Colosseum was the only entertainment across three continents. The game didn’t even start for another half hour, and more people were pouring in the gates, handing over ten dollars a ticket to see the spectacle. Their costumes were incredible, to say the least. He’d thought his group was pretty authentic in their kilts, but they had nothing on the rest of the people there. The Renaissance folk were everywhere, men in their signature tights and women in hot, heavy dresses that must have been uncomfortable in the muggy August heat. A few ladies in lighter gowns—most likely Kate’s people—milled about with fans and lace. And breasts—oh, the breasts. It seemed no woman’s costume, Renaissance, Regency or anywhere in between, was complete without a low-cut neckline that seemed to defy both gravity and anatomy. Perfectly rounded mounds of flesh appeared everywhere they turned, femininity on display for the entire world to see and appreciate. Michael and Peterson took in the sights with a calm, knowing air, but Nick looked about to pass out from the glory of it all. “Julian?” It was Kate’s voice. Tentative. Unsure. He turned. “Kate.” Admirably, he kept his gaze on her face, even though a quick glance indicated she hadn’t been the exception to the dress code of the day, her breasts rising out of a delicate white gown, quivering with each breath she took. It was similar to what the other Regency ladies wore, a light ivory dress that was tight across the chest but fell all the way down to the ground, gently flowing over the curves of her hips. The dress was long enough that she had to loop the train over

248



one of her arms, and Julian could see the tips of a pair of white satin shoes underneath. From a fabric yardage standpoint, it should have been a modest dress. It wasn’t. And while he could have spent all day examining the cut of her gown and the lines of her body underneath it, he knew the sudden pounding in his chest had more to do with simply being here with her. It was the first time he was seeing Kate on her own turf, so to speak, dressed up in the costume that gave her purpose and meaning in the same way his kilt did for him. Her own restraint proved much weaker than his. Her eyes, sparkling amber, roamed every inch of him, from the tips of his heavy combat boots to the fitted black button-down shirt he’d donned for the occasion. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, and Julian relaxed even more. Reading this woman was like reading a book. No, it was like reading a Playboy magazine. Every one of her erotic thoughts flickered in her eyes and in her full lower lip. His groin stirred, and he forced himself to focus on a spot a few inches above her head. If she was going to spend the next few hours looking at him like that from across the chess board, there was a very good chance he would get slaughtered out there. That was not part of the plan. Despite everything, he was still there to win. “I came to see if you needed another body.” She flushed the moment the words left her lips, and the appreciative look in her eyes deepened. “For your side of the board, I mean. Naomi and a few of the Renaissance guys volunteered to help you out if you needed it. I wasn’t sure if you could get all sixteen spaces filled.” Emotions stirred within his warrior’s chest. She needed to stop looking at him with her eyes half-closed in a sultry, bedtime stare. She needed to cover up


249

Tamara Morgan

that pair of breasts he imagined as being pure silk against his tongue. She needed to stop making it so damned difficult to finish what he started. He willed his blood to cool and his pulse to slow the only way he knew how—by becoming defensive. “We’ve got it covered. I’ve told you before, this whole thing hasn’t been about me. It’s about these guys too.” Her face fell, and Julian rushed to assure her. “We’re good. I promise. You look incredible, by the way.” Unable to help himself, Julian leaned in and ran his fingers over her collarbone. The thin slope there was so exposed, so gentle and soft, and he followed it, leading up to the side of her neck. He didn’t stop until he reached her cheek. She turned her face into the back of his hand, and they stood for a moment, not speaking, but communicating more than he was prepared to. It was a mistake—making contact like that. He knew all too well that the moment he touched her, he lost his ability to think rationally. As much as it pained him, he took a step back. It was only temporary, he assured himself. Just a few more days. “Thank you,” she said softly, her fingers rising almost involuntarily to her cheek, where his touch had been just moments before. “You don’t look too bad either—all of you, I mean. I had no idea the kilts would make you guys look so…” “Manly?” She laughed. “Intimidating.” Julian’s throat thickened. “This is going to be okay, isn’t it? We’re going to be okay.” Kate smiled shyly at him, and her breasts rose up and down in rapid succession. She must have had much better control over herself than he did, because she merely extended her hand like a Regency lady of old.

250



Julian took her hand in his own. She squeezed warmly. “May the best man win, Julian,” she said. Before Julian could return the sentiment, the event’s emcee, a court jester in a harlequin pattern of black and red, called for everyone to take their places. Julian gathered his men to action with a lighter step than he’d had in days. Weeks. Years. Right now, it felt as if the best man already had won.


251

Chapter Seventeen Of Maces and Men

The hammer came down on Lady Lovelace’s foot seconds before a dirk was shoved into her breast. The woman gave a bloodcurdling scream loud enough to set a flock of crows flapping into the sky before falling to the black square with a thud. Applause rose up all around them, and a large man in a green kilt raised his hands to the audience in triumph. Two small jesters rushed onto the board like ball boys from a tennis court and helped Lady Lovelace to her feet before walking her to the sidelines. “I had no idea Lady Lovelace was hiding lungs like that,” Jada muttered to Kate. The pair of them stood side by side, still unmoved from their original royal positions at the head of the board. Giving Jada the queen position had been the first step in forgiveness. They weren’t there yet—Kate wasn’t sure how to be Jada’s friend without letting the woman run roughshod over her life—but she was trying. And that was what mattered. “I’m a little disappointed I had to sacrifice her,” Kate said, offering Jada the smile she’d been angling after. “I was dying to see what her killer move might have been.” “I have it on good authority there was a ninja star nestled next to her left breast,” Anne said. Kate and Jada both looked over at the bishop, but Anne just smiled mischievously. “What? I saw her put it there before the starting bell.”


Kate looked across the board to where Julian was making a quick survey, planning his next move. He held his chin thoughtfully in one hand, the other arm bracing it as though he were a statue of some great collegiate thinker. It wasn’t a difficult distinction to make, Julian and statue, man and stone. Both of them were so perfectly molded, crafted with such painstaking detail. He was resolute and imperturbable, the occasional flash of muscular leg the only thing that made him seem alive. Well, that and the glances he kept throwing her way, a mixture of appreciation and triumph that indicated he thought he had this game completely under his control. Except he had nothing of the sort. She hadn’t been lying when she said she was good at chess—she was, and she had every intention of walking away from this game victorious. Julian may have been finally willing to offer her a compromise, but that didn’t mean she had to roll over and hand him the win. She had some pride, after all. But then he winked at her. Lord help her, when a man could wink and not look like a used car salesman but some ancient archer who could shoot a flaming arrow right to her core, there was no longer any hope for escape. No escape. No surrender. And that was fine with her. There wasn’t anywhere on the planet she would rather be than squaring off to this man over a chess board. They were matching wits and witticisms—and enjoying every minute of it. They were equals. And when it was all done, Kate knew there was every chance they could be a lot more than that. “Are you going to make your move, my lady, or do you need me to read you the rules again?” Julian made a gallant bow as he spoke, drawing her attention back to the task at hand.


253

Tamara Morgan

She smiled, playing the game with him. “I didn’t know the Scots could read. Does it help you lull the sheep to bed at night?” The crowd laughed appreciatively, and Kate found herself enjoying the sound of it. Her forays into public speaking had never been terribly successful in the past, but there was something about this setting that filled her with confidence. These were her kind of people, entertained by what she had to offer. It was exhilarating. “Nothing is as easy to read as your strategy,” Julian returned. “Like a true Scot, I’m already five moves ahead of you.” “And walking right into my trap. Queen’s rook, forward five paces. Engage the knight.” The rook, one of the younger women from the JARRS group, beamed. She strode forward and withdrew a flintlock pistol, aiming it directly at the knight’s chest. The woman was at least one foot shorter and seventy-five pounds lighter than the knight, but she didn’t falter from her path. Instead, she cast a look over her shoulder at Kate and called to the crowd, “It is not size but black powder that wins a war,” before pretending to fire at the man. The crowd roared as one as the knight—a large man in a yellow kilt and a billowing white shirt—staggered. He pretended to make a heroic gesture for the mace that hung—all spikes and terror—at his waist, but the young Regency lady “fired” again, this time sending the warrior to the ground with a heavy grunt. Kate had to hand it to these guys. For all the animosity that had been flying for the past few weeks, they were certainly ready to forgive all for a few sharp objects and a good show. Gameplay continued. The temptation to fell pieces just to see the theatrics was strong, but as the minutes ticked by, Julian grew less and less animated, all

254



his concentration screwed up in the movement of the pieces across the board. Kate forced her own mental energy to match his. After a few minutes, the resounding thud of yet another three-hundredpound Scottish warrior hitting the ground was answered with the thunderous call of an overhead storm. The metallic tang of ozone filled the air, and rain, which had been threatening the crowd since they’d arrived that morning, sprinkled lightly around them. Kate caught Julian’s eye, but he didn’t seem to notice the elements. She should have known. A little rain wouldn’t stop him. He was unyielding—even if it meant holding his ground when a bunch of men with highly conductive items stood in a thunderstorm. Kate was suddenly grateful for her own discreet weapon, a cute little pearl-handled derringer strapped to her upper thigh with a leather garter. It was very maverick of her. She loved it. “Go ahead and quit, English,” Julian announced as the rain picked up and Kate shot a few anxious looks around. “Save yourself the humiliation.” It was tempting. A few spectators gathered up their things and ran for one of the fairground outbuildings, and the news crew they’d managed to get to cover the event moved quickly to get their gear packed up and out of the rain. The rest of the people stayed put, but most of them had umbrellas that popped into action and made the bleachers look more and more like they belonged at a high school football game. She wasn’t leaving until he did. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Too bad. If there’s one thing you should have learned by now, it’s that I don’t quit. Not when I want something.” “And what is it you want?’” Her pulse picked up as Julian let the question fill the space between them. It hadn’t been asked for the crowd’s edification.


255

Tamara Morgan

“I want you on your knees before me,” she said, her eye twitching as she strove to keep the sudden rush of heat from showing on her skin. “Give me time, Kate. Give me time.” Without even blinking, he raised his voice and called, “King’s pawn forward one.” Kate let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, her legs suddenly unable to bear her weight. Hopefully, this would end soon. Julian had just opened up his queen, Michael, for attack. She paused before calling out the next move, and she could feel the crowd and all the pieces on the board straining to hear what she would do. Fat drops of rain spattered in her hair, which had been pulled up in a loose knot, and dripped down her face. The timing of the rainstorm wasn’t very good. The cold wasn’t an issue, but the gown she wore had several layers that might easily get bogged down if they stayed out there much longer. She surveyed the board. She had seven pieces remaining. Julian had eight. If they quit now, they might have enough time to reassemble the group tomorrow, even if that felt kind of like letting a hot bath sit out for a few hours only to find tepid water upon returning. The game wasn’t likely to contain nearly as much charm for another day—and the news crew certainly wouldn’t be happy at the thought of coming back. A flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by the heavy rumble of thunder, confirmed it. Kate tried to get Stuart’s attention, but he was chatting animatedly with one of the news reporters, monopolizing every last moment of air time he could. From across the board, Julian coughed loudly, awaiting her turn. Kate had no doubt he’d keep playing all through Armageddon, but she had a board full of ladies to look out for. Feathers and lace didn’t fare well in a downpour.

256



But when she turned to see if he might be willing to capitulate, all thoughts of a peaceful intermission came screeching to a halt. Julian stared at her with a suddenly intent gleam in his eyes, his forearms flexing as he pulled them across his chest. Kate sucked in a deep breath. They’d gotten along so well since the game started, frivolous laughter dispelling some of the tension that had been mounting between them. And then out of nowhere, he started looking at her like that, all sexy and possessive—like they were standing in a dimly lit bedroom. Alone. Certainly not in front of a crowd this size and with every eye focused on the two of them. “I think we should call the game,” Kate whispered to Jada. It had nothing to do with that look. It was the rain. The rain. “Oh, no you don’t, Katy-did. You stay put. We are about to win this.” Jada fingered the handle of her ornate epee, a complement to the Musketeer tunic she’d worn over black tights and a sports bra. “Two more minutes of this weather and he’s going to hand you the win.” Kate didn’t like the tone of her friend’s voice. It was her interfering voice. “He’s not going to quit over a few drops of rain.” “Oh, I think he might,” Jada said knowingly. Julian turned and whispered something to Michael, who promptly kicked at the back of the knee of the man standing next to him. The man, slightly leaner than the rest of them, buckled and howled. “Sorry, man,” Kate heard the injured man say with a sheepish grin. “I can’t help it.” He offered Kate a wide wink, and a few of the other guys laughed appreciatively. Julian glowered even more. Kate looked around, confused. “Am I missing something?”


257

Tamara Morgan

Jada snickered and nodded at her chest. “Undergarments, apparently.” Horrified, Kate glanced down at her dress. The rain had turned the white, filmy material, so beautiful when it wove in and out of the breeze, into little more than a wet tissue clinging desperately to her bare breasts. “Ja-da!” Kate moaned. Trust her friend to let her stand there in front of a crowd of several hundred people—news cameras standing by—with her nipples standing out at full attention. “Don’t you dare.” Jada reached over and grabbed Kate’s hand before she could cover herself and scamper away into the wooded copse a few enticing feet away. So close. And yet so very, very far. “You can’t make a big deal over it now. Everyone is looking. Just stick those babies out and see how fast you can win this game.” Kate groaned, knowing Jada was right. Not about the winning-the-gamethrough-nudity bit, but the part about not drawing any more attention to herself than she had to. Anne, standing to her other side in a decorously dark green dress, offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure they can’t see anything from the stands,” she promised. Kate closed her eyes. God, she hoped not. “King’s bishop to engage the pawn. Attack.” It wasn’t a very smart move, sacrificing her bishop and opening her queen to a side attack. But she needed a temporary distraction. The crack of a whip and the oddly sonorous sounds of screaming and overacting kept the attention of the players and spectators long enough for Kate to take a better survey of her escape routes. The rain was letting up, unfortunately, a slight mist now instead of a downpour. Enough moisture to keep her saturated but not enough to call the game.

258



Julian’s move was next. He looked at her as though she’d planned the weather solely to cause him physical pain, as if he was the one on full display. His eyes bored into hers, leaving a smoldering path she could almost see in the air. She felt it too, the burning sensation not so much painful as uncomfortably hot, even under the layers of wet, clammy clothes. He wasn’t the only one suffering out here. Even though Kate wished every last person on this chessboard far away, she drank in the desire she saw in his eyes. She tasted it. It swirled within her gut and forged a path through every nerve ending, taking hold more effectively than the worst kind of poison. Because instead of nearing death, her body was soaring higher and higher, triggering a chain of reactions she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to come down from. “King forward one,” Julian announced, taking a purposeful step in Kate’s direction. “King forward one,” she echoed. She took a step in his direction too, not even bothering to look at the board. Only a few squares separated them, but neither one thought of attack. “What are you doing?” Julian asked. His tone was harsh, but not once did his gaze stray anywhere below the neckline. An odd time to play the gentleman. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was going to rain.” “So grab one of those flimsy little wispy things all the other ladies wear.” “A shawl, Julian. It’s called a shawl.” “I don’t care what you call it. Put one on.” His voice grew tight, and the volume lowered to ominously dangerous tones that sent a spark of sensation up Kate’s spine. It was the sound of raw need. “And walk off the board? Does that constitute a forfeit—is that what you want?” She fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest. It would have been


259

Tamara Morgan

the more appropriate thing to do, but Jada’s advice rang in her head. She was gaining ground here—maybe not on the battle-chess field but definitely somewhere. “That’s not what I meant.” Kate tilted her head to the side, confidence gaining with each additional drop of rain on her chest. This was it. “What did you mean, then?” When he didn’t answer, she added softly, “If you don’t want me exposed and dripping wet, what are you prepared to do about it?” Julian’s hand—the one without the hammer, a normal human appendage save for the calloused fingers that made Kate’s heart pound—rose and fell again limply to his side. He looked like he had something more to say. But he didn’t say it to her. Instead, he turned to his men with an almost lion-like growl. “That’s it. We’re done here!” he roared. “Mark the places. We’ll finish tomorrow. Michael, you’re in charge of making the arrangements.” Without another word, he grabbed Kate by the arm and dragged her from the board. And though it might have just as easily been the weather, a thunderous sound not unlike that of a crowd breaking out into applause followed behind them.

260


Chapter Eighteen Among the Rushes

Thank God for the Knights of Mayhem’s commitment to authenticity. The small lean-to Julian pulled Kate into had no modern amenities like electricity or light. It was the lack of light that saved him right then—an age-old riddle. If you couldn’t see a pair of perfect breasts straining against an invisible sheer of white cloth, did they really exist? Kate stepped out from the back shadows of the small building, close enough that she was a shimmering vision of white before him. The details of her anatomy might not have been all there, but the outline—curves and long, soft limbs—was more than visible. “So,” she said, her voice heavy with meaning. “So,” he echoed. She drew closer, her dress rustling the hay-covered floor. Julian couldn’t do much more than let her. He hadn’t planned beyond this moment. Out there on the chessboard, his brain had frozen, all thoughts except those related to her increasingly exposed form getting shoved down. Deep down, filling his balls and his cock until they practically took over. The lean-to had been his body’s idea, and he knew exactly what it was saying now. Get woman safe. Make woman mine. His body wasn’t exactly the most articulate of creatures. She laughed, so softly that at first he thought it was his imagination. But then her voice, light and teasing, swept over him. “You seemed pretty angry out there. Is it because you were losing?”

Tamara Morgan

“I wasn’t losing,” he growled. But it was true. Maybe he hadn’t been losing the match, but he was definitely losing something. His control. “So you weren’t mad and you weren’t losing. Care to explain why you forcibly removed me from the board?” She stepped closer, her hand outstretched. “I think you know why.” “I want to hear you say it.” Julian had always prided himself on being a man of action rather than a man of words. Anyone could say the right thing. Anyone could form his lips around the right syllables. Few ever got the chance to show exactly what those lips could do, especially to a woman like Kate. Even plastered with rain, she was stunning, her natural beauty so much a part of her he doubted anything—even the passing of time—would ever touch her. He reached out to grip her wrist and felt her heartbeat right on the surface, her pulse fast. Her breath came in short bursts that made it difficult to think of anything but heavy panting and low moans. “I want to hear you say it, Julian,” Kate repeated, but she didn’t pull away. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “No one can have you but me.” With that, he laid a gentle kiss right on the delicate pulse in her wrist, savoring the way she reacted, going limp seconds before she caught herself and pulled away. “That’s a rather uncivilized way to put it.” He dropped her hand and stepped back, even though all of him screamed to do the opposite. A large part of him—the uncivilized part—wanted to yell. Yell and further mark the territory he wanted so much to claim as his own. Those breasts, that woman. He didn’t care if a thousand rains fell on them a thousand

262



times, soaking her skin in beaded drops of moisture he could lick off, one by one. He just wanted her. “Kate, I—” He heard her kiss before he felt it. It came as a soft whisper of promise, a whoosh of breath before her lips met his. They were both damp from the rain, but neither one of them was cold. Body heat and the heat of passion joined as one, and any shivering that came from their sudden nearness had nothing at all to do with the temperature. Her mouth was as silken as he remembered, her lips parted and open to him, making it easy to take her as softly or as roughly as the mood dictated. His mood dictated both, and she met him each time, allowing him to call the shots but giving back as much as he gave. She was the first to start exploring beyond the kiss, her hands tracing a bold pattern up his arms and down his sides to tug at the buttons of his shirt. Cradling her in his arms, he laid her down in the bed of straw, avoiding the rakes and other tools propped up against the side wall. There was enough space in there for one person to lay spread out among the rushes. Both of them together required him to brace himself above her, the entire length of his body against hers. His cock, throbbing with an urgency that threatened to rob him of all rational thought, pressed up against the warm vee at the juncture of her thighs. Her dress had wound up around the tops of her legs, her skin an odd combination of clamminess and heat against his own, which burned feverishly. She’d strapped a leather band to one of her legs, and he ran his finger just under the edge of it, enjoying the way she shivered under his touch. But then he hit warm metal and pulled away, leaning down for a closer look.


263

Tamara Morgan

“It’s my secret weapon,” Kate said with a throaty laugh. She ran her hand along his and reached under the band to pull out a tiny pistol exactly the size of her palm. She held it playfully out of his reach and brought the end of the barrel to her pursed lips, a light breath of air echoing over the top as though she’d just fired. “You can’t have it.” Julian grabbed it from her and chucked it unceremoniously at the wall. “Good thing it’s not what I want.” Their eyes met. “What do you want, Julian?” “I want you. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Called the rain?” Conjured the weather. Bewitched the land and the spirits. Wound her way into his soul. “No. But I was definitely winning before it got here.” Julian laughed, a deep rumble that started in his stomach and spread through his chest and limbs. He allowed himself to savor it before dipping his head down to explore her mouth, which curved in an inviting grin. Laughter wasn’t something he was used to when seducing a woman. They moaned, yes. They writhed, sure. But Kate—she laughed. Her legs opened to allow him to settle more comfortably against her. He nibbled gently along the edge of her lower lip, his tongue making tentative explorations of her mouth. She kissed him back hungrily, her arms winding up and around his neck, pulling him down until there was almost no part of them that didn’t touch. “You’re soaked,” he murmured against her mouth. “You are too.” She pushed him back and expertly popped each button from his shirt, not ripping, exactly, but working with speed and force. Her hands, cold but sure, ran along his stomach as she untucked his shirt. Her thumb followed the same path, running along the upper band of his kilt. Julian groaned.

264



With one deft movement, he shed his shirt and tossed it to the side. Kate’s gaze roamed over his bared chest, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride in his body. It was function that built him the way he was, hard work as both an athlete and on the job, but he felt more vain at that moment than if he’d spent months sculpting himself in the gym. For you, he wanted to whisper. All for you. But her hands moved down to embrace the backs of his thighs, those cool palms running up under his kilt. Forget pride. He just wanted more. He flipped her before she got too far. She squealed as he adjusted their bodies so he lay supine on the rushes, scratchy against his back but adding a sweet, grassy scent that only heightened the rest of his senses. She straddled him, her legs wrapped around his midsection, and his eyes had adjusted enough to the light that he could very clearly see the transparent material of her dress, still damp, still clinging. Her hands explored his chest and abdomen, her fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, half teasing, half torture. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” she asked, her words tumbling out alongside her heavy breath. Julian didn’t answer. He just lifted his arms so his head was resting in his hands, letting her look and touch and lean forward to kiss any part of his body she wanted. And she did, her tongue tracing a pattern along his neck and shoulders that almost mimicked his tattoo. When she lifted herself up to gaze at him again, he almost lost control. She was a vision on top of him, the sleeves of her dress slipping over her shoulders, a long curl of hair dipping down her shoulder and over one of her breasts. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” he echoed. He lifted his arms to run them up her legs, which still straddled either side of his body. Everything


265

Tamara Morgan

about this woman was so soft and curved, a perfect contrast to the way his cock felt right now—hard and rigid and straining for control. His hands suddenly felt the need to be everywhere, and he traced the line of her legs up to her ass, moving quickly up her waist and to her breasts. A slight tug was all it took to get her dress to fall the rest of the way down her shoulders, her breasts, as perfectly rounded and pink as the rain had promised, right there for him to capture as his own. And capture them he did, with his hands, running his thumbs along her nipples until she moaned, the heavy flesh resting perfectly in his cupped palms. Drawing her closer to him, he took one tip in his mouth, almost losing himself on the spot. She was like pure liquid silk, and he flicked and nipped at the rigid nub until she writhed against him, her body moving against his erection in an exact imitation of the more intimate dance his whole body strained for. His mouth continued moving hotly over her breasts until he began working a path upward, nipping along her neck and kissing the edge of her mouth as he pulled himself into a sitting position, both his arms cradling her against him. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, his breathing heavy. It wasn’t a great time to stop, but he would if she said the word. He wasn’t going to wreck his chances with her again. “I’m still the same man I was when we first met. I fight and I like winning and I make mistakes. I’m not perfect, Kate. I’m not like you.” She pulled away a little, but it was hard to read her eyes in the dark. Please don’t let her say “no”. Please let me be enough. “I’m not perfect, either,” she confessed. “But I like fighting too. And I like winning. And if this is a mistake, there’s no one on earth I’d rather be making it with than you.” That was good enough for him. He was about to capture her mouth in another kiss, but she was too quick. Deftly and with purpose, she reached for his

266



legs, running her hands under the kilt and up his thighs, blazing a trail straight toward his cock. But she stopped abruptly and pulled back, her eyes wide. “Holy crap, Julian. Are you wearing any underwear?” Julian laughed, even as her hands whisked under his kilt again to ascertain for sure what was under his kilt. Her hand found his bare cock and grabbed it, her thumb rubbing over the tip with smooth efficiency. “A true Scotsman never wears anything under his kilt,” he managed to say, jerking against her hand. She smiled mischievously, her lips tilting at one corner. “But what if it was windy out there?” She choked. “Or cold?” “It’s not cold,” he said, his voice muffled as he kissed along her collarbone. “In fact, I would argue that it’s very, very hot.” He pulled at her hips then, pressing the vee of her legs against his groin. “Hot,” she murmured. “Very.” There was no doubt in either of their minds where the rest of their actions were headed. Julian reached into his sporran and lifted the flap. The contents were simple and always the same. Money. ID. Condoms. “Tell me you do not have condoms in there,” Kate said with a low laugh against his ear. He pulled the little package out with a flourish. “Another Scottish secret.” She snatched it out of his hand and busied herself rolling it along his length, her movements swift and sure. The moment the condom was secure, he took charge of the situation. A few more seconds of her hands moving efficiently over his cock, and he’d be putting himself to shame. Kate squealed with delight as he grabbed her around the waist and placed her once again back against the rushes. He ran his hands along her legs, higher


267

Tamara Morgan

and higher until he reached her panties, which were damp with slick, warm moisture, a testament to her passion as much as his throbbing erection was to his. Pausing only to sweep his thumb along the inner lining, releasing a gasp of pleasure as he rubbed against her clit, he pulled the panties down as quickly as he could. Julian barely registered that they were as white, silky and lacy as he remembered—and still so out of place for the setting. He didn’t give a damn. There was too much of her to stop now. The small lean-to was filled with the sounds of her pleasure, the feel of her skin against her gown, the scent of her perfume and the raw earthiness of sex. “You have no idea how incredible you are,” he murmured, brushing the hair from her face, pausing for just a moment to savor the sight of her underneath him. She tried to turn her head away, but Julian held firm. “I mean it. You’re everything, Kate. Everything.” She arched her back, grinding into him and causing all his gentlemanly reserve to plunge into a deep, dark hole he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to find again. “I promise—I can be a lot more.” There was no holding back after that. The moment he entered her, the sensations all around him exploded into a whirl, and he no longer knew what commanded his attention the most. All he knew was that when she latched her legs behind him, bringing him pounding into her with the deep, hard thrust he’d been trying to hold back, the control was one hundred percent hers. Her kisses matched each plunge he took, both of them growing more insistent as their movements reached a frenzied pace. What was left of his self-possession told him to slow down, to make the moment last for as long as possible, but there was no turning back. She rocked against him, releasing a whimper he caught with his mouth, her body arching up

268



against him as she came. They fit together so perfectly, he felt each pulsating wave that started in her belly and washed over the rest of her almost at once, holding him tighter and tighter until he released his own orgasm with a hoarse yell. As the last of the passion died away, he rested his forehead against hers, bracing himself by his elbows so he didn’t crush her with his weight. She shifted slightly, but kept her legs linked behind him so that their bodies remained intertwined, their clothes a puddle of fabric wrapping their midsections. “I think I’m beginning to like the Scottish way of doing things,” Kate said with a sigh, the first to break the warm silence. He kissed her eyelids before pulling away. “I guess the English aren’t so bad, either.” She looked adorable, lying there, flushed all over with the heat and glow of satisfaction. “No, we aren’t,” Kate agreed with a laugh. She rolled over and kissed his neck, right where it tapered down to his shoulders. She let her lips linger there for a while, her breath warm and comforting. “You can have it, you know.” Julian smiled lazily. “I thought I just did.” She slapped him lightly on the stomach, her hand lingering there awhile too. Fingers traced the lines of his abdomen, moving down lower and lower. Then stopped, just short of his cock, which was twitching with both exhaustion and renewed interest. “I meant Cornwall Park. It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t want it.” He stopped, waiting for the punch line or caveat. But her fingers picked up again, running up and down his muscles in a careless, soothing pattern. He grabbed her hand, forcing her to look at him. “What do you mean?”


269

Tamara Morgan

Her head nestled against him and he felt her smile. “I mean I’ve finally realized how silly we’ve been. I don’t care about the land, Julian. I care about you.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, and it was too dark to see much anyway, but he knew she meant it. His arms wrapped around her tighter. He couldn’t speak. “If you want your public spectacle, you can have it,” she continued. “We can finish the game, but if you really want to win, I don’t mind making it a little easier on you.” “I don’t need you to make it easy on me,” he said gruffly, though there was no malice in it. “I was close to winning.” She laughed, short and loud. “You were not. I was killing you out there.” “Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe you were.” “But I can throw the game, if we’re planning on finishing.” She waved around the lean-to. “I find I have a bit of a soft spot for this old Renaissance Fair.” “You don’t have to quit. We can see it through to the end.” He nuzzled at her neck, his fingers moving toward her breasts, still bare and within reach. At this point, he didn’t care about the land, either. “I don’t like to think of it as quitting. It’s sacrificing for the good of the many—besides, this way we can both start moving things into our spaces. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got irate vendors demanding all sorts of answers. We can call this my charitable and utilitarian act of the year.” He gave an exaggerated groan and covered his eyes. “You mean to tell me that after all this time, the only thing I needed to do to get you to give me the land was sleep with you?”

270



Kate laughed. “You mean to tell me that after all this time the only thing I needed to do to get you to sleep with me was play dress-up?” He rolled her to face him, and all the laughter died from his lips. He cupped both sides of her face and ran the pad of his thumb along her mouth. “No. You didn’t have to do anything. I’ve wanted you from the moment I first saw you.” She tried to look away, but he kept his arms firm. He brought his lips gently to hers, their kiss this time lacking any urgency. It was sweet and soft. Perfect. “I lied,” Kate said the moment the kiss ended, their bodies entangled all over again, naked limbs no longer wet or clammy—just intertwined until it was difficult to tell where one of them ended and the other began. “About what?” “I’m still willing to throw the game tomorrow, but there are three conditions.” He quirked an eyebrow. “You can’t add conditions after we’ve already decided.” She ignored him. “One. If I find you’ve placed any bets on the outcome of the chess match, I’m calling the gaming commission and reporting you.” Julian grinned. “Done. What’s two?” “Two. You have to let me go out with a grand exit. I don’t want to lose my street cred.” “You have street cred? Who with? Crossing guards and Boy Scouts?” She punched him playfully on the arm. “Hey, it’s my intelligence I’m laying out on the altar, here. Let me have a little pride.” “Fine. You will emerge with your glorious head held high.” “Excellent. Now, on to three.” “I can’t wait.” “Three. You have to do that to me again.”


271

Tamara Morgan

A growl escaped his throat. “Right now?” “Yes, please.” So he did.

272


Chapter Nineteen At Battle’s End

Kate and Julian snuck out of the lean-to a few hours later, when Kate was dry and tousled and smelled a little bit like a stale cowboy. The plan was simple. Reschedule the match. Go home. Act normal. Once their events were over and done with, they could focus on what came next. It wasn’t going to be easy, Kate knew that for sure. They’d existed so long in this strange, militant world they created that it would be hard to figure out the real details of life between them. Work. Play. How many different kinky costume combinations they could pull out of their respective closets. But they could do it. The hardest part was already over. “You could come back to my place,” Julian offered. They were trying to make a run for the parking lot, hidden by the line of trees surrounding the village, but he was making it very difficult to do any kind of motion that allowed her to remain standing. “We can deal with all this work stuff tomorrow.” She wasn’t going to lie—her whole body wobbled in agreement. A strong pair of arms wrapped around her waist while she slept seemed like the perfect finish to a long, emotional day, and the smile lurking just at the edge of Julian’s mouth indicated that if they went anywhere near a bed, he’d continue to ravish each and every one of her senses until she no longer knew how many toes she had. She looked down at her bare feet. Ten. She had ten toes, and there was straw sticking out between the littlest ones. Her shoes had disappeared among the rushes somewhere alongside the derringer. They were a small sacrifice to make.

Tamara Morgan

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” she said. “We both have a lot of work to do.” That was an understatement. The Fauxhall Gardens were in two days, and she’d promised Lady Lovelace a detailed timeline of events. Julian, she was sure, had to do much of the same. “And tomorrow?” he’d asked. His persistence caught in her throat. “Let’s just get through the weekend for now. You go throw hammers and roar like a beast, and I’ll go help educate the masses. We can swap war stories after.” “I don’t roar like a beast.” Kate giggled. “Yes, you do.” Julian swatted her playfully on the behind, but she made a dash for her car and slipped behind the wheel before his powers of persuasion could take any more hold over her than they already had. There were still several other vehicles in the parking lot but none belonging to anyone she knew. Everyone had probably gone home to rest. With any luck, Stuart and Michael handled the details of the rescheduled chess match so she could do some resting of her own. As she pulled her car out, she saw Julian standing to the side, his hand raised in farewell and a foolish grin on his face. Rest would be difficult. The memory of his hands all over her body, and his words, soft and sweet, were going to make it hard to relax ever again.

The next day, the sky over Sherwood Forest was bright blue, the kind that was so vibrant no cloud dared show a single cumulus puff on either horizon, and the sun was gearing up to bore a hole through even the darkest sunglasses. Kate,

274



however, wore a heavy red dress and carried an even heavier shawl. She’d promised Julian. No white gowns. At least not in public. She’d been up almost since dawn, helping to get the second day of battle chess set up and organized. It was a small price to pay for the day before. She wouldn’t take back a single drop of rain, a single word or touch she and Julian had shared. Kate looked around, taking in the scarcity of spectators—about a quarter of the previous day’s numbers. The news cameras had gotten all the coverage they needed for their story the day before, and most of the JARRS and SHS supporters were busy getting ready for the weekend. She was glad. The crowds suddenly seemed like an intrusion—a blockade. The fewer of them the better, and the faster they could all move on. “Is Julian here?” Kate asked Michael, who she found demonstrating his manliness for a few of the Renaissance people. The task consisted mostly of chest thumping and a liberal gesticulation of a man’s most vital bits. He grinned in the wide way that indicated he was well aware of what had gone on the day before. “I thought maybe you’d know. You two lit out of here faster than an Olympic runner with hemorrhoids yesterday.” Kate blushed and scurried away, opting to try Peterson instead. She found him by one of the concession stands, holding a bag of cotton candy and two little girls, who were dressed from head to toe in pink tulle. Kate had seen them in the crowd the day before, waving a pair of wands and rooting for her kilted opponents. Today they seemed to have shifted loyalties and were looking at Kate with adoration in their bright green eyes. “Are you a princess?” the smaller one asked, the “s” sounds coming out in an adorable lisp.


275

Tamara Morgan

Peterson nodded at Kate quickly, mouthing the words “pretty please” with the look of a well-harassed man. “Why, yes I am. Princess Kate. Pleased to meet you.” She added a curtsy for good effect. “No, you’re not!” the older one shouted through a gap in her front teeth. “A real princess doesn’t curtsy. We’re supposed to do it to you!” Kate leaned in and whispered, “Well, don’t tell anyone, but I’m still in training. I forget the rules sometimes.” It was explanation enough for the girls. They nodded solemnly and promised not to disclose her ineptitude to her people. “It’s okay. Cinderella didn’t know how to be a princess right away, either. You have to practice,” the older one said. “Maybe your Prince Charming will help you,” added the other. Kate snapped back to attention. “Speaking of Prince Charming…have you seen him?” “You mean Kilroy? Last I saw, he was over talking to Jada. I think he’s looking for you too.” Kate shook her head firmly. That was one Prince Charming she suddenly found she could do very much without. “Not Duke. Julian.” As she spoke, it dawned on her that Duke hadn’t made an appearance the day before. She hadn’t invited him to play on her side, and it wasn’t at all surprising Julian hadn’t either. It was odd that he’d bother showing up for the second day. “Do you know why Duke might be here?” Peterson shrugged. “I should be asking you that.” One of the little girls cried and mentioned something about a promise of riding a pony, so he was only able to offer an apologetic smile before turning

276



away. “Sorry, Kate, but you know all about the royal demands. But you might want to find Kilroy, eh? He looked a little p-i-s-s-e-d o-f-f, if you ask me.” “Daddy! That’s a bad word!” the girls cried in unison, obviously delighted in their ability to recognize hidden profanity. Kate laughed and waved them off, although a heavy feeling took over her stomach. She really ought to find and talk to Duke. As much as she hated confrontation, she owed him an explanation. It was unfair to treat him so callously—up until a few days ago, she had, after all, contemplated him as a serious candidate for her hand. But all the comparisons she’d drawn before, when Duke had outshone Julian as the golden example of all her lifelong dreams, were gone. Vanquished by the best orgasms of her life. No. It was more than that. Julian was warm and real and honorable in ways Duke could never be. She hugged herself as she headed off in the direction of the stables. And he wanted her. He’d even been willing to embrace that dreaded “c” word, compromise, to get her. Kate had read way too many romance novels in her lifetime not to know that was the sign of a real man. “Kate, there you are,” Duke called warmly. He stood with Jada, both of them searching the grounds—presumably for her. “Yeah, Kate,” Jada said slyly. “There you are.” Kate swallowed a groan and tried to send an imploring look Jada’s way. The last thing she needed was for Jada to start dropping sexual innuendos into the conversation before she had a chance to explain things to Duke. “Duke here has been looking everywhere for you. I was about to tell him to try looking in the storage area over at the edge of the park. There are a few little shacks over there I hear a few people like to hide in. You know, to get away from the rain and all.” “How nice of you, Jada. You’re always so selfless. So kind.”


277

Tamara Morgan

“And you, dear Kate, are always so forthcoming.” Jada flashed Duke a dazzling smile and patted his arm sympathetically. “You call if you need anything, okay? I want you to know I’m always available to appreciate a man of your build.” With a wink, Jada sashayed away, but not before sending Kate a look of pure delight. It wasn’t hard to interpret. The woman wouldn’t rest until all of Kate’s sexual escapades were laid out on the table and examined for accuracy. Not this time, though. Kate was willing to accept Jada as she was, but that didn’t mean she had to fall under her command anymore. She didn’t need the crutch. She was enough on her own. As soon as they were alone, Duke tried to lean in and offer Kate another one of his chaste pecks. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed back, just catching an irritated compression of the lips before he put a smile in its place. This wasn’t going to be fun. “Listen, Duke. Can we talk?” she asked gently. “Of course, Kate. You know I’m always here for you.” They walked behind the stables out of view of the chessboard. She made sure to step out of his arm’s reach, feeling the full force of his size for the first time. He wasn’t exactly antagonistic in his bearing, but there was a definite steeliness there, and if she was honest with herself, she had to admit she knew almost nothing about this man other than where he lived and what he drove. “About that,” she began, twisting her hands together. She’d never been very good at this part. “I think you’re a great guy and all, but I’m not sure I want you to be there for me, you know?” “Oh, I know you’re one of those women who enjoy their independence. Don’t worry. I haven’t come to try and tell you how to play chess or handle your business or anything.”

278



“Why are you here?” she found herself asking, even though he hadn’t grasped her meaning at all. He flashed a smile and brushed some dust from his sleeve. “I have good news, and one more favor to ask before everything is settled. Cornwall Park is yours. I’ve directed all the SHS contractors to move the supplies and outbuildings to Kilroy Hall. Almost everything is being set up and getting ready to go as we speak.” “Wait, what?” Kate’s head spun. Duke looked like a little boy proud of himself for peeing right on target for the first time in his life. What any of the Cornwall Park stuff had to do with him was beyond her. “Why would Julian do that? We already agreed—” Duke laughed softly and reached out a finger to run along the side of her face. She shivered under his touch. “He didn’t do anything. Since you’ve been so good as to keep him distracted and out of my way, I’ve been able to take over most of his responsibilities and get things situated right where I want them. You have no idea how much help you’ve been.” “Help?” Kate echoed. “Sure.” Duke shrugged. His hand dropped, and he inspected his nails casually. “You played your part to perfection, and I fully intend to reward you. Cornwall Park is yours for the taking. It is what you wanted, right?” “I didn’t ask you to do that!” Kate hissed. “You had no right—” A snorting sound from inside the stalls made Kate jump. She looked around nervously, but no one was anywhere near. They must keep horses here during the tourist season. “You didn’t seem to mind taking what I had to offer the other night,” Duke replied calmly. His voice held a low, sultry tone that brought to mind the brief


279

Tamara Morgan

kiss they’d shared. In the full light of day, facing him, it was hard to imagine what had compelled her to such extremes. “That was different,” she managed. “Why? Because you thought it would make Wallace mad?” “Well, yes. But now—” “Look, precious. All I need is for you to keep him out of my way for the rest of the day. That’s all I’m asking. Draw the game out for as long as possible, and then take him out for a celebration or something. Do this one little thing for me, and I promise to make it worth your while.” Duke’s voice dropped significantly. “I have no problem seeing my side of this through to the end. You’re not such a bad-looking woman, you know.” The horse made another noise, a loud bang that prompted Kate into action. She backed away, disgusted, her hands up as if to ward off not just Duke but the enormity of what he was saying. “It won’t work. There’s no way Julian’s going to let you move his entire event without his permission.” Duke laughed, long and loud and in a way that made Kate feel like she desperately needed a shower. “If you and I are going to get along, you’ll need to learn I don’t need anyone’s permission to do anything.” Kate, filled to bursting with equal parts anger and disgust, contemplated the merits of hurling a large piece of manure at Duke’s smug face. But then she saw him. Julian. Emerging from the stalls, fury contorting his face into a maelstrom of emotion. “Wrong. You’ll need my permission if you think you’re going to walk away from here without at least one broken leg.” Instead of looking horrified at being found out, Duke merely smiled and squared off to meet his enemy. Kate wished she had half his nerve. The quick

280



glance Julian spared her was enough to make her long for her mother— something she hadn’t wanted since she outgrew the monsters under her bed. She started to take a tentative step backward, but Julian interrupted before she even got her foot off the ground. “You stay put.” Adrenaline surged through her at the domineering command in his voice, causing her hands to shake and her stomach to heave. Sure, Julian had been right about her from day one. All her life, she’d carried with her an image of what her ideal suitor looked like, and Duke’s fancy car and expensive dinner had fit the picture to perfection. She’d let herself get blinded by the glitz of it all, by the way he fit into her ordered little boxes. It was her mistake letting him into her life in the first place, and she was willing to own it. But she didn’t deserve the tail end of Julian’s wrath before she even got a chance to explain. He was supposed to be on her side now. They were allies. They were lovers. They were friends. “Were you eavesdropping on us?” Kate demanded, her hands moving to her hips and her spine straightening. Julian shot her a look of pure irritation. “It’s not eavesdropping if I actually uncover a plot.” “A plot? What are you talking about?” “Me, Kate. I’m talking about me and my entire life. What you and Kilroy have done matters.” He turned to Duke, his voice low, his body tense as he took a predatory step forward. “I can’t believe I was so stupid to think for a second that you’d backed off. That you might let us fight this out honorably.” “I can believe it,” Duke replied suavely. “I only had to dangle something pretty in front of your face, and you lost track of everything else. Like a baby. Or a woman.”


281

Tamara Morgan

Kate sucked in a breath. If Julian didn’t hit him, she might take on the task herself. “Neither one of you gets to make the rules anymore,” Julian said, his voice and body taut. “I’m done with the lying and the manipulating. From here on out, it’s my way or—” “Kate! Julian! Where have you two been? The game is about to begin.” Stuart came at them from the side. Clearly oblivious to the tension that held them all in check, he grabbed Kate by the arm to lead her toward the main area of the fairgrounds. “Give us a minute, Stuart.” The command in Julian’s voice was unmistakable, but it had no power over the smaller man. Stuart cast a benign gaze over the two Scottish athletes and chuckled. “Clear the nonsense up later, will you? There’s someone here from the Historical Times magazine hoping to do a feature piece on our little battle and the Highland Games. They heard about us on a national news spotlight. This is incredible.” “Historical Times?” Kate asked, looking around, bewildered. “That’s great, but—” “No, no,” Stuart interrupted, gesticulating wildly at Julian until he had no choice but to follow. “No buts. Just look natural. And smile.” Kate could do neither of those things. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Duke flash a triumphant grin and move off in the direction of the parking lot. Julian’s look was anything but pleased, but they’d come within sight and sound of the crowd, and there was nothing more he could say. The imposed silence didn’t seem to please him at all. This time around, Julian was an intimidating foe on the board. He wasn’t angry in the same way she’d seen him before, when emotion and fury made him

282



swell with something almost like pride. This was different. His face was shadowed, and it went deep enough that it made him look mean. Even Jada noticed it. “Geez, woman,” she said wonderingly. “What did you say to wind Papa Bear up so much?” Kate ignored her, her heart thumping heavily as Julian called out the first move. It was the exact one they’d plotted the day before, when losing had seemed like such an easy sacrifice for her to make. She hesitated. It wasn’t easy now. He hadn’t given her a chance to explain. So she called out her move. “King’s rook forward three. Check.” The crowd applauded her choice, which was a good one even to the eyes of those not familiar with the logic of the game. In fact, the only person who seemed at all surprised or upset by the move was Julian. It wasn’t in the plan. But then, Kate was learning that the best-laid plans were sometimes more dangerous than walking into a crowded street, eyes, ears and heart closed. Julian hid his flicker of emotion and moved himself forward one space. It was the only move he could make, even though it brought him the one way he obviously didn’t want to go—closer to Kate. She maneuvered to the side. “Was this all part of your plan too?” Julian asked in a low voice. “Abject humiliation on the battlefield?” “Are you going to let me explain?” she hissed back. “You’ve done nothing but make excuses since I met you.” “And you haven’t listened to a single one,” Kate shot back. “I’m sorry about the snakes, Julian, but I didn’t do that—and I didn’t tell Jada. She guessed it, and if I’d known for even a second what she was going to do, I would have stopped her.”


283

Tamara Morgan

He moved another piece closer to them both. The piece very kindly pretended to ignore their argument, which they both struggled to keep in the undertones of the game. But it seemed reminding Julian of that particular weakness wasn’t a very smart move. He flushed darkly and scowled. “Excuses and distractions. At least tell me this—did you know what Kilroy was up to?” She softened. “No, Julian. He used me as much as he used you. I had no idea.” His glance was sharp, and he looked closely at her eyes as though trying to read them as he might a piece of particularly complicated text. He gave no indication of what he was searching for—or if he’d found it. But she hoped he had, because it was all she had to give. “King backward one,” Kate announced, bowing slightly as she stepped away. There. The pieces were arranged in such a way that he was in complete control. One move and he could have her in checkmate. Another and Kate had only to make one step to do the same. She gave him the power. She gave him the choice. “I have a lot to apologize for, Julian, but so do you. This is just a game, and the Highland events are too, no matter what your stepfather might have told you when you were a little boy. And until you realize it, I’m not going to play anymore.” She wasn’t going to play. She wasn’t going to plead. And she most certainly wasn’t going to cry. If he wouldn’t even wait to hear her side of the story before tossing her away, once again showing her just how high she ranked on his ridiculous list of priorities, he deserved none of them. And so he ended it. With a face as reserved and immobile as the day she’d first met him, Julian took the victory she laid out for him. His move brought her

284



to the ground by one of his bishops, who carried a broadsword and shouted “Off with her head!” with an enthusiasm neither she nor Julian seemed to share. Kate had to get on her knees and place her head down in order to grant him access to her neck to make the false beheading. Little pebbles on the board ground painfully into her shins, the position so much more humiliating than she’d imagined. She couldn’t see anything but her own legs or hear anything more than the triumphant cry of a crowd being given a great show. She was wholly at the mercy of her captor—and of Julian. Both of them were trying to cut off the parts of her that mattered the most. Her head and her heart. And she was on her knees, letting them. She’d been a fool to think she could change him. Julian Wallace cared only about getting his stupid way, and the second he thought she was going to prevent him, she no longer mattered. He was no different than the first day they met. And she, crashing down from the heights of her own folly, was no different either. By the time the bishop helped her back to her feet and promised to kill her any other time she might wish it, Julian was nowhere to be seen. “It seems we have a winner!” Stuart shouted from his place at one of the thrones at the head of the chess board. “In a masterful sweep of intellect we didn’t know they had, the Scottish barbarians have triumphed! Let it be recorded in the annals of history that the English bow to the northern might!” Kate nodded and smiled and said all of the things that were expected of her. She was good at things like that—the mechanical answers, the benign replies. It was, after all, what a real Austen heroine did when her world was falling apart.


285

Chapter Twenty A Man’s Game

Julian’s face stretched into a wide grin. It had been that way for an hour, and the strain of it was about to shatter him into a thousand little pieces. “I have to say, it’s very generous of your family to host so many of our people,” Bonnie Horton said, sipping a glass of lemonade. The Rockland Bluff Whisky representative looked over Kilroy warmly. “You’re sure it wouldn’t be easier to let us stay at the hotel?” They sat on the terrace at Kilroy Hall, looking over the formal gardens and watching as a hired crew did most of the work setting up the Games. They were the crew Julian had chosen, and they were setting up the tents, booths and platforms according to a plan he’d devised weeks before. But they were doing it at the wrong location, and they were taking orders from the wrong man. “Oh, no, Bonnie. We love having you here.” Kilroy returned her gaze with equal warmth. He’d angled his chair to exclude Julian from most of the conversation after Julian had barged in, unannounced and unexpected, in the middle of their little tête-à-tête. Kilroy was doing everything he could to gain the upper hand, even leaning over the table like he had secrets he was dying to unfurl to the efficient, blonde woman sitting on the other side. “Plus, this way you’re on hand to watch us work, and you can make any last-minute changes you think are called for.” Julian sat back in his chair and let the two of them talk. Since he hadn’t arrived until Bonnie and Kilroy were already the best of friends, and he was still largely uninformed about what, exactly, Kilroy had told her about their situation,


it was all he could do. Listen and learn and wait. And pray he didn’t look a tenth as foolish as he felt. “That’s very generous of you.” Kilroy smoothed his hair and cast a disparaging look over Julian. “Bonnie, let me tell you this up front. I’m making it my personal mission to ensure Rockland Bluff gets the spotlight it deserves here. I’m not happy until you’re happy, and that’s the most important thing.” “Oh, we’re happy,” Bonnie said with a laugh. This time, she turned to Julian. “I have to hand it to you, Mr. Wallace, you had us worried for a while, but that battle-chess match you orchestrated with the Jane Austen people was a stroke of genius. Your little historical feud has been a big hit with the national news. We’ve already received several calls about it, and that’s before the Games have even started. It’s incredible exposure for all of us.” “The news should continue saying good things,” Julian offered. He gripped the drink in front of him and forced his smile even wider. “We won this morning.” No victory had ever felt worse. He’d taken no pleasure in watching Kate fall or in walking off before she had a chance to take tighter hold over the last of his emotions. But it was what he had to do. “You won?” Julian gave a curt nod. “I’m not sure I understand. I thought the winner got to take the original venue. If you won, why are you setting up here?” Bonnie looked between the two of them, a question in her eyes. Julian didn’t try to answer. This was Kilroy’s lie. Let him weave the sordid tale. “I’m afraid that’s my doing, Bonnie,” Kilroy said.


287

Tamara Morgan

Julian raised his glass in a one-sided toast. The truth. This would at least be interesting to hear. “Cornwall Park worked fine for the Games in previous years—just ask Julian. He’s a big advocate for the rough-and-tumble ways of the past. But that park has always been a little…rustic for my tastes. If we’re going to bring the Rockland Bluff name into it, we want to make sure it reflects your standards, not just our own. Class it up. You understand.” Oh, Julian understood. Kilroy wasn’t comparing his estate to the park. He was comparing himself to Julian. Sell Kilroy Hall, sell Rockland Bluff Whisky on putting the sponsorship in the Kilroy name. It wasn’t very subtle. “Is that so?” Bonnie asked Julian. He nodded. There wasn’t much else he could do at this point. Arguing would make him look petty and inefficient. And murder, he imagined, would be one of the many things that didn’t reflect well on the Rockland Bluff standards. “Whatever works for you boys works for me, I guess. Now, with your permission, I’d like to invite a few more reporters for the opening events, ones I’ve worked with in the past and trust to make a big splash. I’m not making a formal offer of sponsorship to either one of you at this time, you understand, but I’m sure we all know we can benefit from leveraging the media even more.” “That sounds great, Bonnie,” Kilroy oozed. “And the woman will be joining you, of course.” Julian set his glass down on the table so hard Bonnie almost jumped out of her seat. “The woman?” he asked. “Sure. The one from the Regency group—what was her name?” “It’s Kate,” Kilroy supplied, when it obvious Julian wasn’t going to. “Kate Simmons.”

288



“Yes, that’s it. She doesn’t have to do anything, of course, and I don’t even think she needs to be here the whole time. But we want a few shots of her during the ceremonies, and maybe one of her and a few of the other English ladies watching you compete. To show there’s no hard feelings. That it was all in fun.” “But she has her own event this weekend,” Julian said. His voice sounded like an echo, as though it was being uttered from the end of a very long, empty tunnel. Bonnie waved her hand and stood from the table, dropping her napkin delicately to its surface. Kilroy and Julian rose at the same time, and she laughed with delight. “Such manners. You Scottish athletes are always so full of charm. I can’t wait until we get one of you on our team. Now, you will let me know what time Kate arrives tomorrow, won’t you?” “Of course,” Kilroy said. He took Bonnie’s hand and gave it a kiss, but Julian drew the line at such theatrics, even when she looked at him expectantly, awaiting his salute. He took her firmly by the hand and shook it instead. “Well, I’m glad to hear you boys have it all under control.” With that, Bonnie walked away, leaving Julian alone with Kilroy. It was the moment he’d been waiting for. He’d planned on having a rational and intelligent conversation with Kilroy, starting with an uppercut to the jaw and followed by several jabs to the gut. But Kilroy had been anticipating such a move and hid himself behind the table. The coward. “So you’ll call her, right?” Kilroy asked. “Ensure she makes an appearance?” “No.” “Don’t be stupid, Wallace. I get it—you’re mad. I beat you at your own game and with an elegance of style you’ll never be able to duplicate. But if you blow this now, neither one of us has a chance at that endorsement.”


289

Tamara Morgan

Julian shrugged. He wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of a single glimmer of emotion. “Then neither one of us has a chance. There’s still a championship to win and a record to break. That’s enough for me.” “Is it?” Kilroy scoffed. “The way I see it, you’ve got nothing. The record is mine. This win is as good as mine. The sponsorship is well on its way to being in my hands. And Kate, well, a gentleman doesn’t like to brag, but…” Julian’s fist found its way into the table, the heavy teak splintering at the site of impact. “Don’t you dare say another word.” Kilroy tsked and waggled his finger in Julian’s nose. It was all Julian could do not to grab the digit and snap it in two. “I was merely going to thank you for making it so easy for me. She’s been delightful to have around.” “In that case, you call her.” Julian turned to leave. He wasn’t going to stand here and listen to any more of this. He could almost feel the foundation of everything he’d ever known and ever believed crumbling beneath his feet. It transformed walking and talking and even breathing into a challenge. He had to stay focused and keep moving, or he’d fall, just like the rest. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Kate—he did. Julian had too much history with Kilroy not to believe him capable of deep measures of manipulation that fooled them all. But the fact of the matter was Julian had let himself get lulled into a state in which he had no real control. He’d been distracted by Kate, by her belief that the Games were just that—games, and not what his entire life had been built upon. If he was being really honest, he’d go so far as to say he’d lost sight of who he was and where he came from, and Kate seemed to think that a fair sacrifice for him to make. That was the worst part of all.

290



“Now, Wallace. Don’t be hasty—” “I mean it, Kilroy. I’m willing to let this whole underhanded theft of my event slide. And you know why? Because unlike you, I’m willing to put the SHS above my own ego. Hell, I’ll even share the Rockland Bluff sponsorship with you, since you’re willing to sink so low to try and get it. But I am not—I am not— going to call Kate. If you want her, then you get her.” Julian didn’t take the time to enjoy the way Kilroy’s eyes got wide and his nostrils flared, sure signs he’d finally gotten to the bastard. Although the last thing Julian wanted to do after that meeting was chat and smile some more, he had no other real choice. Too many people were hard at work setting up for the next day. A trolley of harps was being wheeled out the back of a truck, and he could hear a piping band practicing in the distance. Everyone had last minute questions and congratulations, needed a hand or simply wanted to talk about past Games. Kilroy might have hijacked the coordinator spot from Julian, but these were still his friends, and they were still counting on him. He’d just finished helping set up the mud pit for the tug-of-war contest when he recognized a familiar flash of red flannel near the parking lot. “Gareth!” he called, striding forward, genuinely pleased for the first time that day. “It’s good to see you. Have you come to drop off the cabers?” Gareth took his hand quickly and released it just as fast. “Why the hell haven’t you returned my calls?” he demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.” Julian winced. Gareth was practically part of the family, and he’d already gone above and beyond the call of duty by letting Julian eavesdrop on that ridiculous date between Kate and Kilroy. His mom was right—he had been raised better than this.


291

Tamara Morgan

“I’m sorry, Gareth,” Julian said, rubbing the back of his neck. “To be honest, I didn’t want to call, because I knew what you wanted. And now that the land dispute is over—” “To hell with your land dispute. You can’t tell me you okayed Duke taking over like this.” He gestured over the field, and Julian’s gaze followed. It wasn’t ideal. But it was what they had. “Of course I’m not going to say that,” Julian muttered. “But it’s done now, and it’s too late to turn things around. If I’d have known what was going on, I might have been able to stop it. But no one—” “Tried to warn you?” Gareth snorted. “Bullshit. That’s why I was calling you all that time. Everything’s been heading this direction for days now, even the advertisements and radio spots. First it was the tents, and then the platforms, and now the food is here. You’ve been the only thing missing. You’ve been too busy chasing down Rockland Bluff and riding that media wave of yours to think about anyone but yourself.” Julian felt each of the words like a rap of a ruler on the knuckles, which smarted all the more for being true. “I know I have. But I’m here now, and I can fix this.” “Can you? I have my doubts, kid. I hate to say it, but I’m disappointed in you.” Julian frowned. There was a certain amount of censure he’d take from Gareth—the man was like a father to him, and he’d known him for years. But there should be a limit to what a man was expected to endure on what had to be the worst day of his life. “I’ve been working on this for years. Years, Gareth. Everything I’ve ever done is culminating right here and right now. The SHS, the sponsorship, the men. If this doesn’t work out, I’ve got nothing left. Do you understand that?

292



Nothing. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that I’m not going to let you down.” Gareth laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced his gaze to meet his. “Jules, you’re a good kid, but if you think that’s what I’m talking about, you’re ape-shit dumb, just like your stepfather.” Julian brushed off Gareth’s hand and took a deep breath. It was one thing to insult him. It was another entirely to bring down his family. His hand balled into a fist. “Say that again, Gareth, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t even thought those words. Harold was the Scottish Highland Games. He still is.” But Gareth laughed, throwing his head back. “Jesus, Jules. You’d think Harold Wallace was a god the way you go on and on about him. We all liked him, sure. He was always ripe for a good time, and a more dedicated athlete you’d have been hard-pressed to find back then. But he’s no more Scottish than you or me. Or any of the guys, really.” “What?” “Oh, I know he fed you all those stories. Growing up in the Highlands, the Wallace family legacy, the time-honored ways of being a man and providing for the family. But that was all they were. Stories.” Gareth stopped when Julian did little more than blink a few times. “He did provide for our family. He saved us.” “He was born in Pittsburgh and picked that tartan of yours out of a catalog,” Gareth said softly. “He was good to your mom, I won’t deny that, but more often than not, she had to do a hell of a lot of supporting him. There were those five years he couldn’t hold a job longer than a few weeks at a time—and it just about killed him when she had to start dipping into the saving’s account she built for you kids over the years. The only thing Harold had was the Games, and he did


293

Tamara Morgan

what you’re doing right now. Turned it into more than it is. Became obsessed. Lost sight of the real goals.” It wasn’t possible. Julian flashed through his childhood memories, fishing out the ones that contained Harold, his mom, the SHS. They were jumbled and so closely tied to his emotions he couldn’t lay them out in a line straight enough to make any sense. “You were such a shy, skittish thing back then,” Gareth continued. His memories seemed to be perfectly intact. “If you ask me, he was trying to give you something to hold on to. A frame, so you knew which way to grow.” “Up. I grew up.” “That you did. And you did it damn well. But Harold wasn’t a god, and the Scottish Games aren’t everything. If you want to make a go of this as a career— and I’m not saying you shouldn’t or can’t—you’ve got to get your head out of Harold’s ass and back into the real world. You’ve been living for far too long in a house built of cards, and it’s about to come falling down. But you’re too stubborn to realize it.” Gareth shook his head a few more times before walking away, but Julian couldn’t do much more than stand there with a dazed expression on his face. It felt like his internal organs had been ripped out, one by one, laid out on the ground for everyone to poke and prod. Except no one was around but him. Everyone else was busy working. Living their lives. He looked at the hustle and bustle of the booths being erected around him and, for the first time, saw it for what it really was. A game. Make-believe. A sad little boy’s attempt to cling to something he thought mattered. Kate had been right.

294



He’d accused her of living in a fantasy world, of building up her ideals until they were so large and overblown she’d become almost a caricature of herself. When all along, the caricature had been him. He pulled out his phone and shuffled through the list of contacts until he found the number he was looking for. This was it—his one phone call to free himself from a prison of his own making. Fight or flight. Sink or swim. Up or down. Love or lose. He pushed send. “Hello? Irina? I need your help.”


295

Chapter Twenty-One Throwing the Weight

The first time she’d arrived at Kilroy Hall, Kate had been swept away by the magnitude of everything. The house was big and the grounds were bigger. Everything inside announced the kind of wealth that went way beyond the surface—not just a gilded setting, but a solid gold one, built to impress and awe. But none of it could have prepared her for the spectacle of the Highland Games taking place all along the back lawn. “This is amazing,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The woman leading her through the stands and booths looked around as if seeing it for the first time, her blonde hair bobbing in time with her head. Bonnie Horton, her name tag read. She’d greeted Kate at the front door, walking her through the publicity requirements with a cold efficiency that made her feel silly and overdressed by comparison. “Yes, the guys put on a pretty amazing show. You’ve never been to one of these before?” No, she hadn’t. Given Jada’s penchant for robust men in tight outfits, it was a wonder she hadn’t been dragged to Scottish Games all over the country. It was certainly on her radar now. To be fair, the men in kilts weren’t the only spectacle worth ogling—and they were worth it. A main thoroughfare had been set up through the center of the lawn, surrounded on either side with food stands and little shops selling everything from Celtic jewelry to history books. At one end of the grounds, a stage had been set up using a series of wide planks, a banner overhead


encouraging all the patrons to drink more whisky. Bonnie informed her it was where the dancing competitions took place, but for now, it held a bagpipe band, accompanied by a drummer who bounced across the stage, setting the pace for the entire scene with his lively beat. The athletic area was set up on the other end, a huge open space that looked like a track-and-field arena that hadn’t evolved in two hundred years. Piles of hay, huge stone boulders and the large cabers Kate had come to recognize were placed off to one side, awaiting use over the next few days. The program in her hand indicated that each event had its own time slot and weight class, which was further divided into pro, amateur and both men’s and women’s events. It was a little overwhelming, to be honest. In fact, the more Kate explored and exchanged friendly greetings with the men and women milling around in a combination of traditional Scottish dress, outlandish plaid-inspired drag and plain street clothes, the greater a sense of guilt settled in her stomach. The Fauxhall Gardens were set up and underway over at Sherwood Forest, and as proud as she was of how well everything had come together, it paled in comparison to the scope and magnitude of this. “I appreciate you taking the time to come down here,” Bonnie said, directing Kate toward a crowd of people and cameras set up around an open pavilion decorated in muted tones of red and gold—the two colors that made up the bulk of the whisky people’s marketing campaign. “Yes, well—” Kate said uncomfortably. There had been an envelope slipped under her front door when she got up that morning. Inside was a single piece of white notepaper, the words scrawled hastily across it in blue ballpoint pen. Please come to the Highland Games today. 10 am. Wear your Regency gown. You were right, and I need you. Julian.


297

Tamara Morgan

It was the shortest and least romantic love letter she’d ever received—almost rude in the way it commanded her. But even though it was so far removed from the epistolary novel she’d always envisioned her life someday becoming, she’d immediately clutched it to her chest, bawling and clucking like Emma Thompson as Elinor Dashwood. Julian needed her. She’d shown up wearing the dress she had made for the weekend, a muchtoo-expensive blue figured silk gown with a bodice so tight she couldn’t move her arms any higher than a few inches. Ribbons in a darker shade of navy fluttered casually at her high waistline, which was drastically reduced from its normal size thanks to the stays she wore underneath. Anne had pulled them so tight Kate had been forced to hold on to the bedpost, not unlike the heroines in all the best period pieces. But Julian hadn’t been there to greet her. He was nowhere in sight, and she was being shown around the grounds by a brisk whisky representative who didn’t seem to realize how limited Kate’s current range of motion was. “Things are about to get started,” Bonnie said, gesturing at the stage. “I’ll have you stand up there and smile, and then we’ll take a few dozen photographs. After that, if I could get a few candid shots of you watching the first event, we should be set. You’re really going to be helping these guys out— whichever one we end up choosing for the sponsorship.” “Sponsorship?” Kate asked, but Bonnie shushed her with her hand. The labored honk of ten bagpipes rose up through the air, signaling the start of the Highland Games. Kate felt herself being moved along to the center stage, where she was expected to stand next to the professional athletes. Never before had she felt so dwarfed in size, yet so huge in presence. Each man towered over her, outweighed her and put her simple gown to shame with

298



their medallions and sporrans and tassels hanging from every available surface. Some of the men were old, some were young and many of them had a weathered ruddiness to their faces that made it difficult to age them at all within a twentyyear time frame. But despite their overpowering sizes, they each stepped back and made way for her to take her place, one man even removing his dark green tam and holding it reverently to his chest as she walked past. Seconds later, the men did it again, parting like an obliging Biblical sea. Kate didn’t need to look up to know it was Julian they were making way for. She heard his sharp intake of breath at finding her standing there. He was followed by Duke, but Kate barely registered the other man’s presence, even though everything about his bright yellow and red plaid and gold accessories proclaimed him a sight to behold. It wasn’t a sight she cared for, and besides—no other man could come close to looking as perfect as Julian did just then. Like the rest of the men, he was dressed in his full gear, from the plaid that draped over one shoulder to the ornaments that kept everything in place. But with his regal bearing and solemn gaze, he came across as an entirely different sort of man. Not rough, not barbaric and not any of those adjectives she’d been slinging at him for the past few weeks. He looked stately and elegant, the leader of a pride of lions, chosen for his superiority in every way possible. No other animal dared to come close to him—not out of fear, but out of respect. Their eyes met. There was a reserve to Julian’s gaze, a thin veil that used to make her think he was as unreadable as an ancient Hindu text. But he wasn’t. That was the look he wore when emotions were struggling to rise to the surface and he was doing everything within his power to keep them submerged.


299

Tamara Morgan

He took his place at the center of the group—too far to make it possible to converse but close enough that Kate registered his every movement. She had no idea how famous people did this sort of thing regularly. Being so much in the public eye restricted what she could do and say. Julian stood within arm’s reach, and she still had no idea what she was doing here—why he’d asked her to come at all, unless he too just wanted her to smile for the pictures. A heavyset man stepped forward and began talking into the microphone, weaving a tale of tradition and honor that brought rallying cries to the lips of the crowd with almost every other word. Kate paid attention to none of it until the man at the podium yelled out, “Let the Games begin!” and everyone broke into a loud cheer. Cameras flashed, and the men stomped their feet on the platform with heavy boots and even heavier bodies, jarring Kate right out of her reverie and almost off the side. But a warm arm grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back. Julian. “Don’t leave, Kate,” he said, his voice a low whisper that tickled at the base of her neck, fluttering her hair and sending jolts of pleasure straight down her body. “Stay until the hammer throw. Please.” “Photo time!” Bonnie chirped, coming forward and clapping her hands. She had Duke by her side, and Julian stepped away the moment the other man came into view. The timing couldn’t have been worse, but there wasn’t very much she could do about it. This was what she’d been told to do. Smile big and feed the reporters the necessary lines. Bonnie arranged the three of them in a studied pose, Kate in the middle, flanked on either side by her duo of masculinity. She immediately gravitated toward Julian, Duke’s spiced cologne tingling her nose with unpleasant memories and turning her stomach with nausea.

300



The reporters took about twenty photos, until Kate’s lips were so tired of being pulled into a smile she probably looked a bit like the Joker. The only thing she wanted was to get out of there and find a quiet place where they could talk, where they could begin to rebuild the connection she felt deep in her heart. But before she knew what was going on, Julian had run off in the opposite direction, and she was left standing there with Duke. “I knew I could count on you, Kate,” he said with a grin. “You’re one hell of a good sport—I didn’t think you had it in you. You should be here for the big moment. They’re announcing the sponsorship after the hammer throw.” Kate stared at him. “What is this sponsorship everyone keeps talking about?” Duke laughed so loudly he drew the stares of curious onlookers. “You really don’t know?” Michael came up beside her then, scowling dutifully at Duke and offering Kate his arm. “C’mon, Kate. Jules wants me to make sure you get to the hammer throw in time.” But Kate snatched her arm away and looked up at Michael expectantly. “In time for what? And what is this sponsorship everyone keeps mentioning—is it like a job? Like a real athletic sponsorship?” Duke’s nostrils flared, and Kate was pretty sure she’d just insulted the man. Good. “Yeah, Kate,” Michael said kindly. “A real athletic sponsorship. Think Nike but for the Scottish Highland Games.” “And Julian is trying to get it.” The words were not a question, and they were said more to herself than anything else. Understanding began to spread through her stomach and into her throat. It didn’t feel very nice. In fact, it burned.


301

Tamara Morgan

This whole situation was looking increasingly like more than just a game— like maybe it was as important as Julian had been trying to convince her since the beginning. And she’d done nothing but put up obstacles and belittle his dreams the whole time. A lesser man would hate her. For all she knew, Julian did. “Wallace and I are both up for it,” Duke interjected. “It’s been all but decided that the winner of this year’s hammer throw is going to walk away with the contract.” Michael shot him a quelling glance and turned Kate away, helping her to take halting, hobbling steps in the direction of the athletic field. They passed a group of cute little girls in plaid skirts and black vests, leaping in time to the clapping beat of what looked like their mother. As soon as they were well out of Duke’s hearing range, she turned to Michael. “He never said anything,” Kate whispered. She had no idea so much of Julian’s life was tied up in this particular event. In all their conversations and in all their confrontations, it had always been about honor and the superiority of man. Never about what Julian, the normal human being, might need or want. “Of course he didn’t,” Michael said with a rumbling laugh, not the least bit fazed that Kate’s entire worldview was shifting on its axis. “If you ask Jules, the Games are about the men—all of them, how we come together to make a team, how we heave and roar and triumph. The sponsorship means a lot to him, but he always puts the guys first. Well, he used to, anyway. I think someone else might be taking over that role.” Before she had a chance to ponder the meaning of that statement, Michael added, “Besides, a Scot never takes the easy road. Why take the beaten track when you can move ass-first through the brambles?”

302



“Um…because it makes more sense?” Because there was a chance, however small, that she might have listened? Because they could have saved themselves— saved her—a heartache she was afraid gaped so wide and open there was nothing big enough to fill it? Well, nothing except the one man she’d ever met with enough honor and dignity to put the rest of the world to shame. “Not to Julian it doesn’t,” Michael said, adding cryptically, “A man never knows what he’ll find in those brambles. Could be a burr stuck to his balls. Could be something a hell of a lot sweeter.” Kate didn’t know how to respond, but they’d reached their destination, so she didn’t have to. They were at a field set off from the spectators with the kind of fence they used at ballparks. A black piece of wood marked the throw point, an open grassland for hundreds of yards in a sixty-degree-angle all around it. “Listen, I’m going to park you right here. Don’t move, will you? The hammer throw starts in about ten minutes, and I’ve got to get warmed up. You should be able to see everything from here.” “And Julian wants me to watch—to see him win?” Kate’s head swam. There was too much going on around her. The excited crowd. The heat. The sponsorship. The fact that she was almost in danger of needing someone to loosen her stays. “Sure, Kate. Whatever. Just don’t move.” She didn’t. She didn’t know what else to do. Getting back to the Fauxhall Gardens suddenly seemed like the least important thing in the world.


303

Chapter Twenty-Two Buckskin Breeches

Julian stood in front of the mirror, cursing at the white piece of cloth in his hand. “Can’t I just tie it in a knot?” “No, Jules. That’s what the poor people did. You’re supposed to make it look all tall and fancy.” Nala reached around and adjusted the stupid thing—a cravat, she called it—until it forced his chin to rise at least two inches above its normal position. “I look ridiculous,” he muttered. “No, you don’t!” Beth interjected, clapping her hands excitedly. “You look like a real gentleman from that play Mom and I went to see a few years ago. You just need a top hat.” “I’m not wearing a top hat.” “But—” “It’ll look so—” Julian held up a hand and shook his head at his sisters, who were taking far too much delight in this whole thing for his peace of mind. “No hat. I’m done being your Ken doll. If this isn’t good enough, then I’m backing out of the whole thing.” They all knew he would do no such thing. His pants felt like nothing more than a pair a tan-colored tights, his feet had been shoved into a pair of boots that reached almost up to his knees and his shoulders were stuffed into a tuxedo-like jacket that hung way longer in the back than any item of clothing had a right to


do. But from the way Nala and Beth kept sighing and swooning, he knew he looked good. It was enough. It had to be. He lifted a debonair eyebrow at the mirror’s reflection. “Shaken, not stirred.” “Oh, God, Jules. You are such a dork.” Beth hid her face in her hands. “But a dork who’s going to win the lady’s hand, right?” he asked anxiously. “Only if you get out there and do it already,” Nala said confidently. She put both of her hands on Julian’s back and pushed. “Now go. She might have left by now.” He turned back only to give his sisters a warm thank you, which they promptly covered by screaming at him to leave before he made them both the laughingstocks of the entire world. How they were going to compete with him for that title, he had no idea. But right now, he would have walked out the kitchen doors of Kilroy Hall buck naked if he thought it would get him that much closer to Kate. She was here. Despite all the awful things he’d said and done, she was here, and he wasn’t letting her leave until he had a chance to tell her how he felt. He’d had a very long conversation with his mother that morning, comprised mostly of the little truths she’d been keeping from him for so long. Everything Gareth had said was true, his mother confirmed, and more. She wasn’t the poor little widow Julian thought she was, and her years of hard work had formed a comfortable cushion for the family. She’d been happy in marriage, but she was finding just as much happiness alone. She’d simply never had the heart to break down all Julian’s youthful illusions about the man who gave him so much. At least, not until now. Harold might not have been the man Julian thought he was, but he’d been a good man. He’d been an excellent husband and an even better father. All his


305

Tamara Morgan

mom wanted, she’d said firmly, was for Julian to have a chance to be those things, too. And they both knew who he wanted to help get him there. He moved across the grounds quickly, surprised at the range of motion the Regency garb allowed him. Tartans and plaids blended into the background as he searched for one figure, elegant and iridescent among so much blaring Scottish fanfare. “Have you seen—?” he started to ask a woman holding a squalling baby in one hand and a bagpipe in the other. The woman’s eyes grew wide when he loomed into view, and her mouth fell open in what he hoped wasn’t ridicule. “The other one? You two sure make a fine pair, don’t you? I think she’s over by the hammer throw. It’s about to get underway.” Julian thanked her warmly and moved off in that direction, even as his heart surged within his chest. Kate was getting ready to watch the hammer throw—his hammer throw. It wasn’t difficult to spot her in the crowd. Even with so many people here to watch—much more than any of them had anticipated—there was an aloofness to her that couldn’t belong to anyone else. It was impossible for another woman to come even close to her beauty as she stood there in the green lawn, her low-cut gown a rich blue that almost matched the one of his plaid, sweeping wide circles every time she moved. As Kate came even more into view, he slowed his pace and tried to remember all the things he wanted to say. He could see the other guys in the distance, all of them getting ready to participate in what was expected to be the biggest event of the weekend. Kilroy’s record-setting throw from so many years past was already marked on the field, and they were gauging the distance with their eyes and their egos.

306



Let them. The real prize was standing right here. “Kate,” he said. She whirled and caught her foot on the edge of her dress, falling almost completely into his arms. He wrapped himself around her and felt an overpowering urge to keep his arms in place, to refuse to sever the physical ties until she became the pliant, passionate woman he knew she could be. But that wasn’t what he wanted. So he righted her and stepped back, allowing her to take in his attire with as much hilarity or mockery she felt she had a right to. She offered neither. “Julian? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be warming up for the hammer throw.” “I know,” he replied softly. “But you can’t… But you aren’t…” “I can and I am.” He crooked his arm at the elbow and offered it to her. “I hear there’s an incredible ball going on across town. I was wondering if you’d allow me to escort you there.” “Julian, don’t. I won’t let you.” He quirked a brow. “Do I look like a gentleman to be trifled with?” She took in his apparel from top to bottom, her gaze lingering on the tight fit of his pants and the full width of his shoulders contained in the dark, heavy fabric. Each part of him came to life when her eyes hit it, starting with a pricking sensation that felt like a body awakening from sleep and melting into fullbodied, blood-pounding lust. “You look…” “Ridiculous?” Julian asked, a smile on his lips.


307

Tamara Morgan

She shook her head firmly, the ringlet curls over her shoulder bouncing as she did. “Gorgeous. And you know it.” His blood heated up even more. “But I’m not letting you do this. Michael told me about all of it—the record you’re trying to break and the sponsorship you’ve been trying to get. There’s no way I’m letting you toss all that aside for a silly ball.” A wave of pleasure washed over him at her words, and the physical separation suddenly became too much. He reached out to pull her forward into an embrace, not wanting to crush either of their clothes but not really giving a damn when something silk and floral fluttered to the ground between them. “I’ve never let you tell me what to do yet,” he said, smiling into her hairline. “What makes you think I’m about to start now?” “Because this matters to you,” she said, her voice muffled. It sounded thick— he hoped it was with emotion. The good kind. “Therefore it matters to me.” “I’m glad.” And he was. “But you have to believe there is nothing I want more right now than to take you to that damned ball of yours. I’ve heard about nothing else for weeks.” He felt soft laughter shaking her body, all her delicious, rounded parts quivering in response. “But this is your life, Julian. Your passion.” “No, Kate. You are.” He brought his lips to hers in a soft kiss, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck to bring her closer to him. Her arms wound around his back, and she let loose a low moan when he slipped his tongue past her lips, exploring the warm recesses of her mouth without a thought for the crowd gathered mere feet away.

308



The crowd, however, didn’t do the same. Applause broke out around them, accompanied by catcalls and the vulgar appreciation that could only come from so many people wearing skirts and drinking too much whisky. “Photo opportunity?” a clipped voice asked. Before Julian could respond or pull away, a camera flashed. His first response was to growl in irritation, but Kate laughed and laid her hand gently on Julian’s cheek. Bonnie stood behind them, a cameraman at her side ready to snap again. “I have to say, Mr. Wallace. This is not exactly the sort of show I was expecting from you.” She looked pointedly out toward the hammer-throw field. Julian hugged the suddenly stiffening Kate close by his side. “Not a word out of you, got it?” he whispered. “Nothing you’re about to say is going to change my mind.” Louder, and with more authority, he turned to Bonnie and the slightly bewildered cameraman. “I regret to inform you, Ms. Horton, that I’m withdrawing from the Spokane Games and from Rockland Bluff’s consideration. I’ve got a pressing matter of business to attend to.” Bonnie laughed. “You bet your buckskin breeches you do. As of right now, I’m happy to offer you a contract with Rockland Bluff Whisky. And as your first order of business as our official spokesman, I’m sending Randy here with you to that little ball of yours. I want him to capture all the ladies eating you up and the pair of you waltzing across the dance floor like there’s no tomorrow. Is that understood?” Kate let out a whoosh of excitement beside him. “Really?” Bonnie smiled at her. “Yes, really. Your boyfriend here has everything we want. He’s charming, he’s an amazing athlete, he’s a man of upstanding honor and he looks damn good in that get-up of yours.”


309

Tamara Morgan

Kate wrapped a possessive arm around Julian’s waist and pulled him close, sizing up Bonnie with narrowed eyes. “And the Spokane Games?” Julian asked, inordinately pleased with Kate’s reaction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the players gathered at the edge of the field, watching them. Michael pumped a fist in the air, and Peterson shook his head with a rueful grin. Kilroy had disappeared. Julian was happy to let him. He had everything he wanted right here. “There are always more Games, Mr. Wallace, and much more whisky to peddle. Now go. Dance. Make us both look good.” With a wink, she sauntered away, pulling the cameraman along with her. “I’ll send Randy on ahead. You kids take your time.” “We should probably go if we don’t want to miss any more of the Fauxhall Gardens than we have to,” Julian murmured into Kate’s hair. “You’re really coming with me?” Julian nodded. He planned on accompanying her for as long as she’d let him. “Does that mean I win?” Kate teased, her head angling up for a kiss. Their lips touched, and the crowd roared its appreciation. His heart roared it too. “No, Kate. It means we did.”

310


About the Author

Tamara Morgan is a romance writer and unabashed lover of historical reenactments—the more elaborate the costume requirements, the better. In her quest for modern-day history, she has taken fencing classes, forced her child into Highland dancing, and, of course, journeyed annually to the local Renaissance Fair. Her long-lived affinity for romance novels survived a B.A. degree in English Literature, after which time she discovered it was much more fun to create stories than analyze the life out of them. Tamara lives in the Inland Northwest with her husband and daughter. She can be found online at www.tamaramorgan.com or, much more often than is good for her, on Twitter at @Tamara_Morgan.

She has a deft hand with banana flambé…and a touch that sets his body on fire.

Unnatural Calamities © 2011 Summer Devon

Janey knows all too well she looks a wreck. What hard-working chef wouldn’t, operating on three hours of sleep? Stuck in a dull Connecticut town, taking care of her beloved niece, Rachel, Janey spends her days looking for a job and her nights working high-end catering gigs. Just her luck, she runs into Mr. Perfect two days past her designated laundry day. And she’s just found out her niece is passing her off as “Mom” to avoid the embarrassment of admitting her real mother, Janey’s identical twin, is serving time. Despite Janey’s questionable fashion sense and the juicy gossip about her checkered past, venture capitalist Christopher Dunham finds himself drawn to her spark. And warmed by her obvious affection for Rachel, so like what he feels for his own daughter. When sexy, way-out-of-her-league Toph offers her a business loan, Janey can’t believe her long string of bad luck with bad boys has come to an end. At least, until a blast from her sister’s shady past turns up the heat on their attraction. And sets off a chain of events that could snuff out the flame just as their love starts to come to a boil… Warning: A comedy of errors, mistaken identity, poor girl meets rich guy, kidnapping at gunpoint, and hot handcuffed sex in a hotel bathtub—and that’s all before lunch. Enjoy the following excerpt for Unnatural Calamities:

Janey tucked the phone onto her shoulder so she could rummage through the refrigerator’s vegetable drawer. She glared at the slippery mushrooms. “I’m tired of this discussion. It’s a school night, Rach, so the answer is no. You have to come home for dinner.” “Jaanneey. We’re working on homework.” “You will be home in five minutes or you will be grounded. No swim team. No debate team. No band. No Gilbert and Sullivan. Heck, no school. I will force you to watch television for three days straight. Nothing but Cartoon Network.” “Jaaaaannnnnneeeeeey.” “Okay, listen. I’m coming to haul you out of the fabulous Cynthia Dunham’s fabulous father’s fabulous house. You will be ready. Do you hear me? I’m leaving here in five minutes to get you. Understand?” Silence. “Well?” Silence. Was Rachel finally turning into a sulky teenager? Janey had been waiting for this moment for years. She held her breath. Silence. “Rachel Carmody. I am talking to you.” “Oh, whoops. Hi. Sorry, I put the phone down for a second ’cause Mr. Dunham was talking to me. He said he’ll give me a ride home. We’ll be leaving in about five minutes. Will that be okay?” Janey sighed with relief. “Yes. Great. See you soon.” But really, on the other hand, what was America’s youth coming to? Fourteen years old and her niece barely managed a decent whine, much less allout rebellion. Janey and her sister, Penny, had turned into teenagers soon after they hit double digits. Ten-year-olds with attitude. Twenty years later, Penny still had the ’tude.

Janey chopped up an onion and dumped it into a pan. Of course, Rachel’s clean, wholesome life was probably her form of rebellion. Poor Rachel had to grow up fast with Penny as a mother. Janey herself had only faced the entire grown-up scene when Rachel needed her, usually on weekends when Rachel stayed in her apartment while Penny partied. Then, after Penny was busted last spring, Janey faced even bigger changes. Like moving to this stultifyingly dull, way-too-wealthy suburb of Penny’s. No, no, Janey had to give Penny credit for renting the semi-converted apartment over the garage. Even self-absorbed, spacey Penny must have figured out West Farmbrook was the best way to get her daughter the education she deserved. Public schools in West Farmbrook were more hoity toity than private schools in the real world. But God almighty, let Janey count the ways she hated West Farmbrook as a place to live. She counted as she dismembered the green pepper. Thump. One. Thump. The thin, chic mothers who stood in closed little circles at the one and only PTA meeting she’d gone to, and gave her the weirdest looks. Two. Thump, thump, thump. The tennis club. Three. Thump, thump. She grabbed another pepper and continued her list. The lack of any kind of life outside the PTA, the soccer team, the lacrosse team and the swim team. Four. Thump, thump. The commute to reach any kind of life other than the PTA, soccer, etc. A half-hour drive, no buses, of course, to any of Janey’s friends and her various jobs and even a decent movie in the center of the city. No sidewalks. Thump, thump.

She tossed the peppers into the pan and began to clean up. Libra-girl time— rants had to be followed by a counter-balancing “the place could be worse” viewpoint. The great schools. Right, did that already. And at least Margaret Hamilton, a talkative stay-at-home parent of another nerdy girl, was friendly. She provided some companionship and gossip and even better, had an older daughter, a college student, who loved to babysit on the nights Janey worked. A car door slammed. Then another car door. Oh damn—no, darn and blast the child, she was not alone. Janey rubbed her hands on the stainless steel sink. Someone had told her that got rid of the stench of garlic. She didn’t exactly feel like a toad the few times she met up with the fabulous Cynthia, but she didn’t feel she came across as the right kind of grown-up. The slight narrowing of the well-groomed Cynthia’s blue eyes made Janey wish she had better posture or wore designer clothing or didn’t cut her own hair. Rachel had said that Cynthia’s mother had been a model or something. And Cynthia’s father sounded even worse. “He has buckets of money and is a mover and shaker of massive proportions,” Rachel had solemnly told her. “Sounds like a sumo wrestler.” Janey had snickered, which had somehow offended Rachel. Janey had deftly changed the subject of the two near-perfect Dunham households by asking, “So what do you guess a dance called The Mover and Shaker should look like?” The two of them had ended up boogeying, moving and shaking, around the tiny kitchen. Give Rachel a chance to sing or dance and she tended to forget everything else.

The door flew open. Rachel and Cynthia thumped into the small apartment shrieking with laughter, as usual. They skittered down the hall to Rachel’s room. “Hey, you puny, lily-livered, young rapscallion, how many times do I have to tell you to close the door?” Janey called after Rachel. She went to shove the door shut. “Excuse me?” The man she’d almost slammed the door on smiled. Perhaps the most gorgeous eyes she’d ever beheld stared down into hers. Deep-set brown eyes. Heavy lidded, with the hint of laugh lines at their corners to add character. “Is that puny, lily-livered thing a line from a play?” he asked. Her examination shifted to the smiling mouth again. The rest of his face had character too. His body was nothing to sneeze at either. Too bad he appeared to be fairly prosperous, unlike the men she’d had the instant hots for. He wore a gray suit and burgundy tie instead of the usual greasy jeans her hormones sang out for. “Um. Well. It’s a thing. An insult thing. A Shakespeare insult page on the net. The ah, Internet. We. Um. So.” She held out her hand and smiled brightly. “You must be Mr…ah.” Fabulous? Mover and shaker? She felt fairly moved, and not just because he’d scared the bejeezus out of her. Despite the tie, he was not bad. No, indeed. She could almost hear Penny’s whisper. “It’s a TD&H, hon. Go ferrit.” Tall, dark and handsome. Except in Penny and Janey’s past men, the “h” stood for hellish, horny, heavy-metal, Harley or ham-handed. Penny still liked bad boys. Janey had given them up years ago, about the same time she stopped smoking and a few years after she stopped drinking too much. The TD&H shook her hand. “Toph Dunham. Cynthia’s father.”

“I’m Janey Carmody. Nice to meet you. But have we met?” She was certain she’d seen him before. Hard to imagine she’d forget Mr. Dunham. “Perhaps the first day of swim practice about a month ago? That’s the one time I gave Cynthia a lift this year.” “Ah. I slept through it. I usually do.” She made a face. “Not my favorite time of day.” She could not stare at him any longer without giving the impression she was brain damaged, but she didn’t know where else to look. Uh-oh. Maybe at her burning dinner. She ran to the stove. He sniffed and gave a wide, bright smile. “Smells delicious.” “Scorched,” she said, staring gloomily at the veggies. “I’ll tell Rachel it’s Cajun-blackened tofu.” “Well,” he said, too loud and hearty. “I hate to lure you away from your feast, but how about I spring for a pizza? I mean, we could all go out.” Janey hesitated. “But it’s a school night.” “Yes, true. But the kids must eat. Come on. What do you say?” Mr. Mover sounded like some kind of cheerleader. Unfortunately it was a small apartment, so the girls had heard his jovial invitation. The veggies went into the fridge. She’d eat them for lunch for the next couple of days.

Loving him could be an adventure that gets her killed.

Defy the World Tomatoes © 2010 Phoebe Conn

Darcy MacLeod’s Army brat childhood drives her to sink roots as deep as the plants with which she works. As part owner of a nursery/gift shop in Monarch Bay, she’s well on her way to her dream. Though she’s haunted by the lingering fear that her one chance for true love has come and gone. When Griffin Moore asks her to landscape his sumptuous new estate, she’s entranced by the internationally renowned pianist’s air of mystery. Yet as she is inexorably drawn into his bed, her instincts tell her that secrets lurk behind his sophisticated mask. With her carelessly styled hair, grubby overalls, and hands that see more dirt than an earthworm, Griffin finds Darcy a refreshing ray of light in his shadowy world. His globe-trotting concert schedule makes him the perfect Interpol informant—and makes a permanent relationship too dangerous to risk. Their passion rivals the music of the great classical masters, but even as Darcy dips a toe into Griffin’s extravagant world, darkness reaches out to strike a dangerous chord. And Darcy must fight to keep her second chance at love—and her lover—alive. Warning: Contains meddling friends, high adventure, down and dirty sex, and a couple who make beautiful music together—in bed and out. Enjoy the following excerpt for Defy the World Tomatoes: Griffin waited for Darcy in his driveway. “I don’t mean to shock you, but unlike most men, I actually enjoy reading directions. Let’s go on out to the terrace. I’ll read the notes with the diagrams, and you can assemble the kite. It’s

shaped like a dragon with a long, notched tail. It’s very colorful. I hope you like it.” “It’s your kite,” Darcy reminded him, but when he pulled it out of the package, she couldn’t help but be impressed. “Start reading, I want to see this thing in the air.” “First we have to unroll it.” “All right, I’ll hold the tip of the tail while you walk backwards, and that ought to do it.” “Hey, I thought I was giving the directions here.” “Sorry. I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Darcy promised. “Well, not all the time, I hope.” Griffin soon had the dragon stretched out across the terrace. He checked the directions again and sorted through the accompanying dowels. “These go in the head and wings. Do you see the slots that hold them?” “Slots?” The dragon was red and breathing orange flames. Darcy felt along the sides. “They’ve got to be here somewhere. This is your kite, after all. Why don’t I read the directions while you attach the dowels?” “Don’t complicate things. Just get busy.” Darcy raised a hand. “Let me see that diagram.” Griffin stepped beyond her reach and hid it behind his back. “Come and get it.” “No way. You’re the one who wants to build the kite, remember?” “An excellent point.” Giving in, Griffin knelt beside her. “Maybe they didn’t sew this one together correctly at the factory.” He was mere inches away and studying the kite’s construction rather than tormenting her. His lashes made shadows on his cheeks, and he was quite appealing when he was in a playful mood, but none of it seemed real to her. It

was all just a trick, and he probably wouldn’t stop until he’d convinced her that she actually wanted to move Defy the World clear out of town. Then she grew curious. “Why do you need a recording studio if you’ve stopped rehearsing?” “Later. Here we are, the slots open on the other side. Hand me the first dowel.” Darcy slapped it into his hand. “Tell me.” “Let’s get the kite in the air first.” Griffin slid in the dowels, then attached the string. He stood and shook out the kite, then looked up at the cloudless sky. “Is there some trick to getting this thing in the air?” he asked. “You’ve never flown a kite?” Darcy stood and moved out of his way. “I began playing the piano at five and just looked up a couple of months ago. There’s a whole lot I’ve missed, including the art of kite flying.” Darcy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but she imagined he must have been a very serious little boy indeed. “You need to run while you let out the string, and the wind will carry it aloft for you.” Griffin looked around to judge the distance. “If I stay on the terrace, I shouldn’t be in any danger of falling off the bluff.” “Go for it,” Darcy encouraged. She watched him cross the terrace in an easy lope and when he turned back into the breeze, the kite bounced upward. “That’s it, just let out the string.” Griffin fumbled with the reel, then caught it and laughed when the kite rose steadily into the air. The wind whipped the dragon’s long tail and serrated wings, pushing it higher. “Wow, it looks like a real dragon, doesn’t it?” he shouted.

“It sure does. Now just move back a little and keep letting out more string.” She raised her hand to shade her eyes, then walked across the terrace to where she could observe Griffin as well as the brightly colored kite. She remembered the kids who had played in the high school band as being rather nerdy. Not that she’d been Miss Popularity, but at least she hadn’t always had her nose in a book. With Griffin’s looks, no one would have ever called him a nerd, but it saddened her to think he must have missed out on a lot of the fun of growing up. “Is this all there is to it?” he asked. “Not really. The wind can shift and send a kite right into the ground, or into a tree. The power lines are buried underground up here, but usually they pose a threat too. Then, if there are others flying kites, your string can become tangled in theirs and send both kites plunging to earth. “Depending on the wind conditions, flying a kite can be frustrating, or like today, just plain fun. Let it go up as high as you’d like, but remember you’ll have to rewind all the string when you bring it down.” “I’ll keep it in mind. Why don’t you come here and try it?” Here we go, Darcy thought, but the prospect of having him wrapped around her wasn’t all that unappealing. She moved to his side and gradually took control of the string. To her infinite dismay, however, he stepped back out of her way. “Now, tell me why you need a studio,” she prompted, as much to distract herself as to discover his intentions. Griffin moved up behind her and began to rub her shoulders. “You look rather stiff. Does this feel good?” His touch was light but sure and incredibly soothing. “Christy Joy said you’d have great hands.”

“Did she?” Griffin chuckled. Darcy hadn’t meant to pay the compliment out loud. “Please don’t tell her I said that.” “I’m going to be tempted, but maybe we can work out something.” “Do you expect a bribe?” Darcy felt a strong tug on the string and released a bit more. The kite was way out over the bluff now and dancing against the sun. Griffin leaned down and nibbled her right ear. “Stay for dinner. I bought a roasted chicken. You eat those, don’t you?” Darcy felt his breath on her cheek and couldn’t recall his question. “Chicken?” she mumbled numbly. Griffin kissed her left ear lightly. “Yes, do you like them?” He was wrapped around her now, and as snugly as she had imagined—no, hoped. She relaxed against him, and he began to trace teasing circles around the tip of her left breast with his right hand, while his left crept slowly down her stomach toward the sweet spot between her legs. His hips were pressed against her back, and there was no mistaking the intensity of his desire. “This is what you had in mind all along, isn’t it?” she nearly moaned. “Do you blame me?” Darcy dipped her head. She supposed this was simply his usual routine. He would be in town for a few days to give a concert, and if he wanted to connect with a woman, he would waste no time in going about it. Even better than a sailor with a girl in every port, she bet he had women all around the world eagerly awaiting his return. “Darcy? What was his name?” Startled, Darcy turned to look up at him. “Whose name?” “The man who broke your heart.”

Enfolded in his embrace, Darcy could not recall any of the other men she’d known. “Griffin Moore,” she breathed out softly.

Love is a Battlefield

Love is a Battlefield

Love is a Battlefield

Love is a Frenzy

Love Is A Risk

Battlefield

Love is a Perfect Place

Love is a Perfect Place

Love is a Distant Shore

Battlefield

Battlefield

Battlefield

Battlefield

Battlefield

Battlefield Earth

Love is Murder

Love Is Darkness

Love Is Snowblind

Love Is Lovelier

Love is Elected

Love is Murder

Love Is the Enemy

Love is the Bond

Love Is AnImaginary Number

Love Is the Bond

Love Is for Ever

Love is Fear

Love Is Elected

When Love Is Blind

Love Is the Beginning

Love is a Battlefield