Echoes of Edinburgh (8 page)

A grin twisted her lips. “What am I supposed to do now? Is it tradition to fall on my knees and kiss the ground?”

“Nope. We spit on it,” he said. “For good luck. It's only a superstition. Humor me. Play along and do it for fun.”

“Right. I'll bet you say that to all the girls.” Moving closer, she stood above the iconic emblem, studying it.

Her sense of humor tickled him. “No other girls, Shelby love.”

Shelby turned her head so fast he thought she'd pop something in her neck. “What did you call me?”

“Um, Shelby love. Sorry, it just slipped out.”

The smile she gave him was a bit shaky but lovely as ever. “No reason to be sorry. Daddy used to call me that.”

“Well, then, maybe I should find another nickname for you. Like I said, I don't want to trespass on any personal boundaries.” Maybe calling her the same endearment as her father wasn't the most romantic thing in the world. No guy could compete with something like that.

“I don't mind,” she said, her tone soft. “Not at all. In fact, I really like it. Especially from
you
, Harry.”

His pulse thrummed. That was all he needed to hear. “So, feel like spitting?” He rolled his eyes. If she spat, it'd be on him.

“Now, Harry, really. Do I
look
like the type of girl who goes around spitting?”

“Not sure. You grew up on a horse farm. Horses spit, don't they?” Brilliant. How could he compare her to a horse, thoroughbred or not? While listening to his idiocy, she'd been working her jaws. Shelby positioned herself above the Midlothian Heart and spewed a wad of spit worthy of a tobacco-chewing major league baseball player. It landed smack in the middle of the heart. What a woman. “Excellent! Let's give you the grand prize and call it a day.”

She laughed. “My job here is done. Your turn.”

“And prove my aim inferior? No, thanks. Maybe next time.”

Shelby slid one hand down to a slim hip and gave him a saucy grin. “Chicken?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Competitive are we?”

“I guess you bring it out in me.”

“Fine, then. Watch and learn, Miss Harmon.” He did love a challenge. Although Shelby worked with numbers for a living, she seemed fairly adept at reading him. Either that or she worked with enough men to understand how their minds worked—as much as any woman could. That thought sent an unexpected arrow of jealousy through him. Straddling the sidewalk above the Midlothian, he shoved those thoughts from his mind and prepared to aim. A few seconds later, his effort landed beside hers. “Bull's-eye.”

“Well, I guess that's one way to swap spit.”

Harrison almost doubled over with his laughter.

Shelby's cheeks flamed. “I only meant, that's something my dad used to say. I mean, well, when…” She waved one hand in the air and turned aside. “Oh, never mind.”

“I could definitely get used to having you around, Shelby love. Time to keep moving along, though, since there's a lot more to see. Let me tell you more about The Royal Mile.” Taking her gently by the arm, Harrison guided her to one side of the sidewalk, away from other tourists. “Where else can you walk a mile and see a long-extinct volcano with a castle perched on top”—he waved his hand toward Edinburgh Castle overlooking them—“the highest courts in the country, the National Parliament and Royal Palace, churches, shops, and restaurants?”

“I'm glad I have you to show me around,” Shelby said, sounding more serious. “I could have joined a tour group or something, but...”

Time to voice his educated guess. “Your turn to fess up. Admit it. You were prepared to bolt from Edinburgh after handing over that envelope to Pops, weren't you?”

Shelby lowered her gaze as if afraid he'd see the truth. “But I'm here
now
.”

He lifted her chin with one hand. “I'm very glad about that. As the Scots say,
bide
. Stay longer if you can.” The words rolled over his tongue before he could think them through, but maybe it was another one of those “God things.” Spurred on by a desire to never let Shelby go, he lowered his tone and prepared to deliver one of the most persuasive speeches of his life. “Stay in Edinburgh until your airline ticket says you have to go back to Chicago. But, most of all, stay because you
want
to. With me. I want to get to know you better, Shelby, and I hope you feel the same way about me.”

In her eyes, he glimpsed a vulnerability she'd kept well hidden. “My assistant practically pushed me out of the office to go home and pack for this trip, you know. Helen's twice my age and loves to give me motherly advice. She told me I needed to get some color in my cheeks and experience...other things.”

“Other things? Like what?” Thankful she hadn't turned him down cold, he lightly skimmed the pad of his thumb over her cheek.

She blew out a deep sigh, full of…longing? Regret? “Like
life
, Harry.”

New resolve filled him. No matter how long Shelby stayed in Edinburgh, he'd make their time together count. “In that case, come with me. Let's go peek in some more windows. You never know what we might find.” When he offered his arm, she curled her fingers around it and gave him an incredible smile, one he'd commit to memory. If it was possible, his heart turned over in his chest. He'd never experienced anything quite like it.

Venturing inside St. Giles Cathedral, they found the original angel with bagpipes statue for which the restaurant was named. Then they continued to stroll the streets, poking in and out of shops and stopping in the Writers Museum, the Museum of Childhood, and the People's Story Museum.

At one point, Harrison threw coins in a street musician's open guitar case and then twirled Shelby under his arm in an impromptu dance. Carefree and happy, she tossed back her head and all that gorgeous hair tumbled over her shoulders. Harrison longed to touch the strands to see if they were as soft as they looked. Longed to hold her in his arms.

Oh yeah, he was in trouble. Big,
big
trouble.

 

****

 

Walking in a small park in the late afternoon, Harrison smiled as Shelby dropped onto a bench and kicked off her shoes. They bandied about theories concerning Robert and the woman he might have left behind when he went to war. When talking with Shelby, Harrison had started referring to her as “Kentucky Woman.” They finally reached the mutual conclusion: that's all they'd remain—theories—unless Robert decided to confide in them.

Shelby surprised him by taking hold of his hand and saying a brief prayer for Pops. He liked how she'd also adopted the nickname.

As they talked about random things, Harrison soaked up her words, the sound of her voice, and her laughter like a man in need of life-affirming sustenance. When she swung her legs back and forth, he admired her long legs and the nails of her toes painted with pale pink polish. She made him laugh with her stories. He admired how she'd pitched in and helped with the menial chores while growing up at Harmony Lane—mucking stalls, feeding and exercising the horses, and shoveling hay...or anything else. The affection in her voice for the staff at her childhood home ran deep and strong. She told him she'd only been home once since her father's death, the memories almost too much.

Lord, give her Your peace
. All in His perfect timing. Shelby would eventually heal.

When she asked him to tell her about his childhood in Alabama, Harrison stressed his natural drawl since she seemed to like it. She laughed and asked questions and seemed to enjoy hearing his stories and memories. He could feel his heart slowly opening to let Shelby in. Was he nuts to feel that way about a woman he'd only known a couple of days?

If not for the examples in his own family, he might think he was indeed crazy. His mom and dad had been college sweethearts. Dated four years, got engaged, and married within three months. Before them, his maternal grandparents met and married, all within the span of three weeks. His dad's parents had known each other from the time they were kids and married at a young age. Strong, solid marriages, all of them. Sure, they'd had difficulties along the way, but what couple didn't face challenges? Unlike so many people he knew, they hadn't given up at the first sign of trouble. From their example, he'd learned that you pray, you communicate, and together you find the
joy
in the midst of life's rough patches.

Grandma Reed told him she'd prayed for his future bride from the time he was born. He might need to give Grandma a call soon. She'd adore Shelby. He only wished his mom could have known her. He'd never liked, never appreciated the nickname “Harry” before. Coming from Shelby, it sounded much more of an endearment instead of the usual irritant.

Yes, he was officially captivated. Problem was, he didn't know what to do about it.

“But You do, Father,” Harrison whispered under his breath as Shelby stood up from the bench and held out her hand, waiting.

Lead the way
.

 

 

 

 

10

 

At the Pie Maker, a short time later, Harrison ordered a haggis pie for them to share for supper since neither of them was very hungry after their heavy lunch.

“This is quite tasty,” Shelby said.

She took another bite and encouraged him to do the same. The moment was the most romantic she'd ever shared with a guy—staring at each other, chewing, and saying things with their eyes if not their lips. Right. Time for a serious dose of reality.

“I'm impressed,” Harrison said. “Not many women would be so brave. Men, either, for that matter.”

Shelby cleared her throat. “Why? What exactly
is
haggis?” She held up one hand. “Wait a minute. Strike that. Maybe I don't even want to hear the answer.”

Elbow propped on the table, Harrison leaned his chin on one hand. His eyes held a mischievousness she was beginning to recognize and really like. “Why, it's made from nothing but wonderful things. Suffice it to say some fully grown men can't eat it.”

She swallowed down the last part of her bite. “Eat it or stomach it? There's a difference.”

“Stomach it, then, if you want to get specific.”

“Well,
you're
eating it,” she said, sectioning off more of the pie. They'd adopted the British manner of holding their utensils—knife in right hand and fork held upside down with the left—and she laughed as she fumbled a bit. “Is that like that silly ‘real men don't eat quiche' thing? If so, that's ridiculous.” Crossing her eyes, she put another bite in her mouth, making a big show of savoring it.

“True, but I have an iron stomach,” he said. “You see, haggis is a Scottish specialty made from a mixture of a sheep's or calf's heart, lungs, and liver combined with suet, onions, oatmeal, and seasonings. Traditionally, it was boiled in the stomach of the slaughtered animal. But you can rest easy because these days it's usually prepared in a sausage casing.”

Shelby gulped and willed her stomach to behave. “Good to know. Thanks.” Maybe that was enough haggis for a lifetime. Grabbing her water glass, she took a good long drink, eyeing him above the rim of her glass. Finished, she lowered her glass to the table with more force than intended. “I'm learning you can be a wicked man sometimes, Mr. Reed.”

“For the record, how do you feel about roundy-roundy rides?”

Harrison's thought process fascinated her. “You mean like the Tilt-A-Whirl? Why? Are you planning on feeding me haggis pie and taking me to an amusement park?”

“Maybe another time. I want to learn everything I can about you, Shelby love.” His words thrilled her, but gave her pause at the same time. No man had ever taken such an intense interest in her—ever. Was Harrison hoping for a summer fling? A fun romp together in Edinburgh, and then a mutual parting to return to their busy lives, never to see one another again? If that was the case, she'd need to set him straight. But no, that kind of thinking was ill-founded. For one thing, he'd taken her to church. He prayed. He obviously respected her. Everything about him impressed her as a man committed to living not only a moral life, but life as a practicing Christian. As much as any man she'd ever met, he demonstrated strength of character and solid faith.

“So, how do
you
feel about roundy-roundy rides?” she asked when the silence between them grew long. She could tell his thoughts were miles away.

He finished his haggis and pushed aside the plate before downing his own glass of water. “Take me high in the air and toss me around all you want on a roller coaster or whatever, but keep me on the ground and spin me around a few times? No, thank you.”

“I don't know,” she said. “Roundy-roundy rides don't bother me, but give me a juggling clown, and I'm all freaked out. Sends me running from the Big Top every time.”

Instead of laughing, he shook his head and graced her with that incredible smile. “
You
make me dizzy, Shelby. But only in the best way possible, I assure you. Here. Try a tattie.” Picking up another plate, Harrison held it out to her while she attempted to calm her racing pulse. “It's a potato scone, grilled with lots of butter and salt and cut into quarters. Very tasty. And these are neeps.” Plucking one, he put it on her plate.

“So, basically, these are potatoes and…?”

“Turnips,” Harrison said. “See what you think.”

“I'm hoping they'll help chase down the haggis. And keep it down.” Shelby shoved a tattie in her mouth, hoping her stomach would agree.

 

****

 

Harrison strolled purposely slow, setting the pace on the way back to Shelby's hotel, delaying the inevitable good night.

“I think this caricature captures the essence of us, don't you?” Shelby ran a light finger over the drawing as they walked the last few blocks toward her hotel. Twilight had descended upon them, bathing Edinburgh in a lovely glow, as beautiful as the woman beside him. In a moment of weakness, he'd given in when one of the street artists near the Parliament buildings called to him to have their drawing made together. The way Shelby looked at it now, he'd have paid ten times the price.