The Legend of Lady MacLaoch (14 page)

“So ye don’t think that’s what should be done with this land?” he asked.

“No, it is, but . . . ” I said, momentarily at a loss for words. I remembered the original plans. “What about your gardener? He has plans for this land—you can’t be serious about taking my advice!”

MacLaoch simply shrugged one shoulder. “Ye have the education and have studied the natural plants of Scotland—why would I argue with ye?”

“Yes, but—”

“Ms. Baker, if my head gardener looked at a piece of land as ye just did, I’d let him do as he pleased as well. Ye have a passion for this land, so why should I deny ye? Now, there is the walled garden I think ye should see, and then my driver will escort ye back to the inn.”

He surprised me with his generosity. The authoritarian way he had said it, I had no doubt that that piece of land would indeed be saved for study.

“Who will you have study it? Will you have it open to a local university?” I asked as we walked along, and then, just because I couldn’t resist, I added, “Or will it be open to only those of MacLaoch bloodlines?”

“Ah, good question. I think it’ll be open to everyone,” he said honestly, and then added, “except for Minorys.”

“That seems reasonable,” I mocked.

“Aye, and
Minarys
, even though they dinnae exist.”

“Ha ha,” I said dryly, coming around to that line of argument once more. “Then how do you explain me?”

“Oh,” he said, as a low rumble of a laugh escaped him, “that, Ms. Baker, is a loaded question.”

“Oh, really?” I asked. “And how is that? And you can’t use the line of argument you used earlier, about Iain Eliphlet getting on a ship and—”

“Ms. Baker,” the chieftain interrupted. He lifted the latch on the next garden, letting us into another breathtaking place.

The garden’s walls rose up, creating a private oasis. Walks covered in climbing roses anchored the central area—the outer areas were filled with splashing fountains and lush plantings.

I temporarily forgot about our conversation. “If your head gardener made this, maybe you should let him do what he wants with the wilderness area.”

“Come now, Ms. Baker, are ye having second thoughts?” he said as his eyes seemed to find a not-so-secret joy in my awe.

“No. I just think that he’s incredibly talented.” Forgetting myself, I wondered aloud, “He’s not single, is he?”

MacLaoch stopped suddenly and turned, laughing. “Ye know, he is. Shall I introduce ye to him?”

“I was just kidding,” I said, catching up to him and walking past, my cheeks warm. My eyes fixated on anything but the chieftain’s smiling face.

“Aye,” he said, following. “Ye know what Freud said about jokes?”

“No,” I called over my shoulder and came to rest by a man-made bubbling brook, the bench invitingly open next to it.

“I dinnae know either, but it has to do with jokes being versions of the truth.” He took a seat on the bench, one arm stretched across the back. “Though I should warn ye, he’s not been with a woman for some time—since his wife died. I think he’s fairly lonely, so he’ll not object to meetin’ ye.”

“Very funny,” I said. “Sounds like he’s over twice my age, so no thanks.”

“Aye, so now ye discriminate against age?”

“Only when death is an immediate concern.”

“Aye, so ye are looking for someone younger.”

“I—” I caught myself. “Wow. You’re good, you nearly had me distracted enough to forget that we were arguing about the Minory-Minary scenario. I still think you are wrong.” I continued walking.

Entering the quiet and deep shade of a rose-entwined walkway, MacLaoch caught up to me. “Your Iain Eliphlet changed his name by a simple letter either by mistake or by purposeful intent to avoid the law.”

I turned to face him as he approached, closing the distance between us, his whisky gone, in the shadowy dusk, the roses fragrant and blooming above us, dangling lazily from their perch. “Mr. MacLaoch—”

“Rowan,” he said softly.

“Rowan,” I said, feeling the pleasant weight of his first name, very aware of his broad warmth filling the air directly in front of me, “if it was as simple as you say it was, then why didn’t your clan find him?”

“Luck or chance. A simple oversight.”

“Or perhaps,” I said, making my point, “that single letter makes all the difference in the world. A single letter changes things like the words
read
into
reed
, the action of understanding the written word into a plant. Or in this case, two different families.”

“Let me ask ye this, how is the research on Minary going? Finding much?” he asked.

“Not yet, but—”

“Because it doesn’t exist beyond Iain Eliphlet, does it?” he said, cutting me off again.

“That’s not true. I haven’t explored all the avenues yet,” I said, not wanting to divulge that it was indeed going nowhere.

“Stubborn, aren’t ye?”

“Not as stubborn as you.”

“I’ve had a few more years of practice than ye,” he said, good-naturedly.

“More like a decade more,” I mumbled, thinking he sorely misinterpreted my age.

“Decade? Ye think I’m a decade older than ye?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, “is it more like two?” It had gotten so dark I could barely see the outline of his face.

“Och! Two? Now ye really ha’ wounded me. Unless ye are just on the other side of eighteen.”

“I’m much older than eighteen—add ten years and you have my age. Which makes you what I thought you were, thirty-eight.“

“Aye, ’tis close. But no, I’m—”

“Older?” I asked.

MacLaoch just laughed, a low chuckle in the darkness that told me I was wrong, that he was indeed younger. But how much younger, I didn’t know—he acted and moved like a man who had experienced the world, who had seen the underbelly of life and knew how to deal with it. He carried the responsibilities of a man twice his years, and no doubt had the stories to prove them.
The MacDonagh brothers would agree,
I thought.

“Come.” I felt his hand slide down my arm until it clasped my own. As it had been the night before, the chieftain’s hand was warm and strong, and it steered me left and right along the pitch-black path back to the castle. We barely spoke, each of us no doubt concentrating on not tripping. Really, I was mostly occupied by the skin-to-skin contact I had with the chieftain. My body hummed with a light energy, excitement induced by the simple touch of clasped hands.

We emerged from the darkness of the gardens and crossed the river of tears. A car idled on the road opposite us. MacLaoch released my hand, but not before his fingers trailed along my palm. At the car, he opened the back door for me. “Have a good evening, Ms. Baker. Until Monday.”

“Thank you,” I said and settled into the backseat.

On the drive out, I noticed the research documents that MacLaoch had given me earlier sat on the seat next to me, as did the invitation. I placed them on my lap and replayed the later portion of the evening with him, the wilderness area, and the playful banter that seemed such a contrast to the man I had first met. I thought of him holding my hand once more—to feel the heat against my skin made me light-headed. The car turned out onto the main road and sporadic street lamps cast a sulfuric orange glow against the night. Suddenly, a large wall broke the forest up to my left. A wall that looked just like that of the garden we’d last been in.

“Excuse me?” I said to the driver. “Is there more than one walled garden here?”

“Aye, no, miss. Jus’ the Walled Garden there.”

“Oh,” I said, “and is it accessible to this road?”

“Aye, yes, miss. Tha’ is how the head gardener gets supplies to an’ from tha’ garden.”

My mind rolled over the simple fact that the garden was easily accessible to the main and well-lit road.

I smiled to myself. Of course, if the MacLaoch chieftain had asked his driver to meet us here, he wouldn’t have had an excuse to hold my hand all the way back to the castle.

CHAPTER 20

T
he next day at breakfast, Carol presented me, with a squeal, with invitations from two high-end dress stores to come in and “sample” their dress collections. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I knew I didn’t have the money for whatever it was.

“What I really need is a good secondhand store or something like that,” I told her.

You’d think I had said pigs could fly by the look Carol gave me.

“Och, do ye really think he’d have you buy your own dress? For gosh sakes, child, those two stores have credit with the MacLaoch estate, I’m sure o’ it. Ye will not be needing tae spend a dime.” She beamed with pride. It seemed that this gala was just as big a deal as I had assumed.

Even though I needed dresses, jewels, and the lot, I couldn’t—not with my gigantic pride—allow the MacLaoch to drop that kind of cash on me, someone he’d just met. But I had only one alternative.

The call, I knew, was not going to be short if my mother answered the phone. It was late in South Carolina and the gods were with me when my father answered the phone. Sighing with relief, I dove into the standard pleasantries about my trip and how things were going back home before I sprung my money question on him.

“Oh. Sure.” He sounded a little confused. “Well, how much do you need? A couple hundred?” Then I heard my mother in the background.

“Is that your son on the phone? Is he asking for money again? You tell that boy—”

I could hear my father cover the mouthpiece a bit. “No, it’s your daughter.”

“Cole?” The other line picked up, and I was talking to my mom. “Why do you need money, Nicole Ransome? Are you hurt? Do you have a place to stay?” Then she said to my father, “Honey, boot up your computer and find your daughter a place to stay. Cole, where are you?”

“Mother, stop, I’m fine. I just need money for some dresses.”

A big, fat, giant pause. I could almost see them swapping glances on the other side of the Atlantic. Their ever-casual jeans-loving daughter wanted dresses.

“Let me explain,” I said, then did. In detail, so they’d understand the full ramifications if I went in any of the clothes I’d brought with me.

“How much do you need?” my mom asked.

“Well . . . the exchange rate isn’t in my favor and nice things here are really spendy, so with shoes, jewelry, and two dresses, I need at least a thousand dollars.”

I held my breath.

“Honey. No. How much do you
need
, n-e-e-d.”

“Mother, really, I can’t do with less. It won’t go very far. The MacLaochs have offered to pay,” I said, as if there had been more than one MacLaoch who had offered to pay. “But I think—”

“Nicole Ransome Baker,” my mother admonished, “you are going as your family’s representative, and you will not humiliate us. You will get the best damn dress you can find—and hell, buy three! I can’t believe my Cole is going to a ball!”

“Gala,” I corrected.

“Oooh, Cole! This is wonderful, I wish I could be there!” my mother squealed, obviously forgetting herself.

“We will transfer a thousand, Cole—” my father tried to say.

“If you really think that a thousand will be enough, with this exchange rate and the quality of the dress she will need, I’m divorcing you,” my mother interrupted with a threat she had lobbed often at him in their thirty-year marriage.

I heard him sigh. “Well, I know when I’ve been out numbered. Cole, my dear, I love you, have fun, and whatever price your mother comes up with will be fine. Even if we don’t actually have the money, I’m sure your mother will find it.” He signed off.

“Well, so how much do you need?” my mother asked.

I ended the call a bit later, after much time spent talking my mother down—she was ready to re-mortgage the house and farm for me.

With money transferred, I set out to peruse the selections at the two shops I’d received invitations from. The invites were standard-looking, preprinted invitations—the only personal touch was my name across the top. I envisioned that everyone on the fund-raiser gala list had received one.

Downtown Glentree started a block away from Will and Carol’s, continued down the hill for five more, and extended back up the hill behind the B&B for another five. I made my way, avoiding puddles, to the first shop. Its front window was well lit, and the two older women I could see through it were in what I was fast learning was the standard professional wear for Scottish women in the service industry: wool skirt, cardigan, and no-nonsense pumps. Though the one woman had a bit more flair: she was wearing a blouse.

As I walked in, they were heatedly discussing something that had just happened and seemed to involve two mannequins that were naked. Both women held garments in their hands.

“Hi there,” I called when they didn’t acknowledge me.

They both jumped in surprise. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” the one in the blouse said, gripping her chest.

She turned from me and spat at her associate, “Purple, Lily. Really, don’t even think of putting the brown one up.” She turned back to me. “I’m so sorry about that! Welcome, are ye seeking a special dress for a special occasion, dear?”

“Yes, I am, I received your invitation this morning and thought I would come by to see what you have.”