Page 4 of An Allusive Love
Lord Stanfeld refused to travel to the Highlands, but he agreed to bring his Scottish wife to Glasgow several times a year for a family visit and to discuss business. Once their son, Gideon, was born, the two families had taken an annual summer trip to the town so the MacNaughton cousins would know their English kin. Since the old earl’s death, their cousin Gideon had assumed the earldom, and Ian had taken over the business trips for Calum.
“Ian’s no’ been successful finding a replacement for the supervisor. He hadn’t thought his absence would be extended like this, especially with a new wife.” Brodie busied himself with a piece of bread and another slice of meat but kept a side eye on his grandfather. “We hoped, perhaps, Ian could come home for a while. Let Lachlan stay in Glasgow. I can accompany you when needed for the chief’s duties.”
Calum scowled, his thick brows pulled together. Peigi laid a hand on his arm. “Ye willna be getting any grandchildren from a couple who are separated.”
“Hmmph!I suppose that’s true enough.”
“Weel, that’s settled then.” Brodie moved swiftly to the next subject. “And I’m happy to announce that we have signed a thirty-year lease on the building along the Water of Leith. By next year, we’ll have another mill in Edinburgh.”
“And after thirty years?”
“First option to buy or lease for another thirty.”
“Saints and sinners!” bellowed Calum. “Excellent work, lad. Excellent work. Time for the good scotch.” He peeked at his wife, who rose with a sigh.
“I’ll leave ye both to yer whisky,” she said as she moved toward the door. “Dinna overdo it. Ye’ll have plenty of time to drink with yer grandsons at the end of the week.”
“Just a wee swallow,mo chridhe,” Calum said with a wink. “Just a wee swallow while we finish talking business.”
*
Brodie strode overthe sandy hill, between the shrubs of yellow gorse, the chain on his sporran a softchinkto the rhythm of his stride. He’d wanted to walk, take in the smells, the sights, the sounds he’d missed the past month and a half. New grass scented the air and cushioned his step. Spring flowers in late bloom danced at his feet. A hawk soared overhead, spotted a chattering rodent, and dove for its supper. He enjoyed travel—new places, meeting people—but this was his home. His foundation. Space. After a week away, he longed for the rugged mountains dotted with pine and the pastures of bleating sheep and ambling cows.
He thought of relatives and ancient Scottish surnames that had been forced to relocate. There would never be anything as beautiful as this country. But so many families had been cast out in the past decades. Large landowners had eliminated the small farmers, turning their property into sizeable blocks for grazing cattle, then sheep. Leases weren’t renewed, rents were raised, or only cash accepted. The clans had shrunk in size as people were forced out of homes occupied for centuries. Some had relocated to the coast as crofters and fishermen or emigrated to Canada or America. If his Aunt Maeve hadn’t married a rich Englishman, the MacNaughtons might have endured the same hardships. Instead, their clan thrived, along with any smaller clans that had joined with them, including Kirsty’s family, the MacDunns.
He made his way back to the path and around the bend, where a cluster of buildings came into view. His gray deerhound lumbered up to him, its long, shaggy tail wagging lazily. Brodie bent to scratch behind the dog’s ears and suffered several wet licks. The hound had been a gift from his grandfather a couple of years ago, but it preferred Kirstine’s company. She had taken care of the dog when Brodie had travelled to Glasgow last year, and he’d never been able to lure it back.
“How ye doing, Charlie?” The dog howled and thumped its tail in response. “I’d rather wake up to her face than mine too. Can’t blame ye.”
He entered the small courtyard and scanned the property. The cottage was about a hundred years old, with a thatched roof and lime-washed stone walls. The old blackhouse, a long double-walled structure built of flat rocks, held the livestock. Several other, smaller stone buildings were scattered behind the house.
With a crack of his knuckles, he knocked on the heavy planks.
“Weel, if it isna Brodie MacNaughton.” Mrs. MacDunn, a plump woman of average height hailed him from the open window with a tight smile. The shutter slammed shut, and she met him at the door. A white kertch covered her flour streaked, dark brown hair. She adjusted the worn brown shawl pulled over her striped green and tan gown.
“Kirstine, ye have a visitor,” she called to her daughter, wiping wet dough from her hands on her apron. “So, ye’ve returned home, I see.”
Her tone was polite but lacked warmth. Brodie got along well with Mr. MacDunn, but something had changed Mrs. MacDunn’s attitude toward him several years ago. Around the time Kirstine turned seventeen. It wasn’t his fault that her daughter had turned down two suitors. Sure, Kirsty had asked his opinion. Sure, he had made it known that neither man was good enough for her. But she’d been a grown woman of eighteen, then nineteen, and made up her own mind.
Kirstine peeked over the loft, then scrambled down the ladder, her skirt in one hand. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, Ma.” She grabbed Brodie’s hand and pulled him back outside. “She’s in a foul mood today. We’re best away from the cottage.”
As Kirsty pulled him along, that strange stirring in his belly returned. He tried to quell it, recognized it as the early signs of a new romantic involvement. This was his best friend. And he needed her. If they went down that path together, he might lose one of the people most important to him. Women seemed to come and go in his life, but Kirsty was his constant support, his rock.
She threaded her fingers through his as they ambled down the lane. The touch of her skin sent a warm jolt through him… excitement and disquiet at the same time. Not a good combination.
Chapter Two
Altering Aspirations
Merciful heavens!Howshe had missed him. Earlier that day when he’d pulled her from the ground, Kirstine had wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him full on the mouth. She hadn’t, of course. Yet… Brodie had turned a spill from a pony into a moment of passion. The first between them.
Kirstine had recognized the moment he’d realized it, sensed the shock when he reached out and fingered her hair. His touch made her skin dance. She’d held her breath, her insides quaking, as new sensations rippled through her body. Then the eejit pony had snorted, and the hunger in Brodie’s dark blue eyes faded. So, she’d ran to calm her own pounding heart.
“What did ye want to talk about?” She settled into their usual comfortable pace with fingers entwined and arms swinging between them. “It sounds important.”
Kirstine wore a champagne walking dress with apricot trim and a sash that she’d sewn herself. An old London fashion magazine,La Belle Assemblée, had been passed around between the local girls. Though the sketch had been several seasons old, it was still much better than the outdated clothes the villagers wore. Her free hand fingered the apricot lace scallops along the collar. Her mother had scoffed at the high waist and lower neckline, declaring the English fashions had no place for working folks. Good sturdy clothes were fine enough unless there was a service or a cèilidh. There hadn’t been a sizeable gathering since Hogmanay, and those New Year festivities had been months ago. Kirstine was ready for some amusement.
“I stopped at the Thistle on my way home from Edinburgh,” he began, swinging her arm back then forward, “and ran into Lachlan on his way to Glasgow.”
