Page 25 of The Story of his Highland Bride
“Fibber,” she teased, leaning over to nudge him in the arm.
“Well, maybe it looked a wee bit more like just a carriage without any horses, but me mind is doin’ its best to figure a lot of yer strangeness out, so ye’ll have to forgive it.” He looked a little shy, glancing down at the spot she’d nudged.
She laughed softly. “It’s forgiven, as long as you really did like it.”
“I think ye’ve a rare gift,” he replied earnestly, his hands reaching out to take hold of hers. “I ken there are plenty of men in this world who’d swear on their maithers that nay lass can weave a tale like they can, but the only stories I’ve heard that have stayed in here,” he pressed her hand and his to his heart, “have come from the mouths of women.”
She swallowed thickly, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat. “I guess some things don’t change, no matter what era you come from.”
Her chest tightened as she thought about Peter. He’d never wanted to hear what she’d written, never asked what project she was working on, never bothered to show any interest in her passion whatsoever, and always joked about when she was going to leave “this nonsense” behind and “get a real job.” At least, she used to think it was a joke. Maybe, if she’d made herself smaller, made herself less successful, he’d have been satisfied.
But you…her eyes stung with bittersweet tears as she gazed at Jackson. He seemed so excited for her, if a little confused. And the simple fact that he wanted to hear the rest made her heart sing.
“Did I upset ye?” Jackson scooted his stool forward, drawing one hand out of hers to brush one of the tears that had snuck onto Eloise’s cheek.
She shook her head. “The opposite.”
“I daenae understand. Why are ye cryin’ if ye’re nae sad?”
A strangled laugh escaped her throat. “I just realized something, that’s all.”
“What?” He cradled his palm against her cheek, his gaze flitting between her eyes and her mouth.
Hiseyes held a hunger that made her skin flame, stealing the breath from her lungs as it chased away the last of the anger she carried toward Peter. Peter wasn’t worth her anger; he wasn’t worth a single one of her thoughts, when there was a man like Jackson right in front of her. A man who barely knew her but seemed to care more than Peter had ever done, and she hadnevercraved that wet blanket the way she craved Jackson.
She longed to reply to him with, “How to get over a broken heart.” Instead, she lowered her gaze, overwhelmed by the intensity of his, and whispered, “That this was exactly what I needed. Writing this story with a pen and paper, detaching from my phone for more than two seconds, having someone around who wants to hear what I’ve written without any pressure… it’s exactly what I needed.”
“Isthata pen?” He picked up the Biro from the desk, eyeing it closely.
“You’re not going to snap it in half because you think I might curse someone with it, are you?” She stifled a laugh. “All it does is write, I promise.”
He furrowed his brow. “How?”
“The ink is already inside. Try it.”
Pulling a fresh sheet of paper toward him, he touched the nib to the virgin white and wrote, in cursive so elegant that Eloise wanted to frame it immediately, her name. His eyes widened with every letter and flourish, a boyish smile spreading across his face. It was the first time she’d seen him look anything but serious, and it suited him.
“This is… magnificent!” he cried. “Ye’ll have to tell me where ye found such a thing, so I can have one for meself. What is it made from? It doesnae feel like anythin’ I ken.”
Her heart fluttered and sank, all at once. “I’ve already told ye where it’s from. As for what it’s made of—it’s plastic. We use a lot of that in my time. Too much, really.”
He set the pen down and took hold of her face in both hands, gazing deeply into her eyes as though he was trying to find the truth within them. She’d told him everything, but she couldn’t make him believe it. Yet, as he continued to observe her in a way that made it feel like he was memorizing every freckle, every flaw, every feature, she thought she saw a flicker of acceptance in the narrowing of his eyes.
“So, this “pen” and this former betrothed of yers really are nae in this time?” he asked quietly. Thoughtfully.
Eloise arched a curious eyebrow. “I don’t know what the two have to do one with another, but no—neither are in 1701. Bothare back—or forward, I guess—in 2016.” She hesitated. “Does this mean you’re starting to believe me?”
“Impossible though it all sounds… aye. There are things that only the eyes can make ye believe, and I’ve seen enough of yer strange belongings to… at least try and understand that the impossible might be possible,” he said slowly, like he’d only just come to that conclusion. “The way ye speak and write, too. It isnae of our time, for if it was, I daenae think ye’d be here in this chamber right now. I think ye’d be—”
She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Please, don’t say what you’re about to say. Don’t ruin the good feeling I have, going on in my heart.”
“As ye wish.” He smiled. “Would it dampen yer good feelin’ if I said I was sorry that ye came from another time?”
“No,” she half gasped, wondering what he meant.
He leaned in closer, bringing his lips to her ear. “If ye were from my time, or I was from yers, I’d beat that bastard old betrothed of yers black and blue, until ye had yer satisfaction for the wrongs he’d done to ye.” His tongue flicked against her earlobe. “And when ye’d had yer satisfaction, I’d take ye home, and claim ye for me own, where there’d be satisfaction of a different kind for us both.”
Eloise had assumed that 18thcentury flirting would leave little to be desired, or that it would rub her the wrong way, but, asit turned out, she kind of liked how rough around the edges Jackson was. Maybe it was because, unlike some of the men back home, she fully believed he could protect her and defend her honor if he wanted to. She also knew hecouldclaim her for his own, right then and there, if he would just kiss her the way he’d kissed her the previous night.
