The MacGregor Grooms (12 page)

“It can’t work. It was fine as long as we just wanted each other. As long as it was that simple.”

“There’s nothing simple about the way I want you. And if you felt that way, why are you crying?” He reached out, his big hand painfully gentle, to brush a tear from her cheek. “I’m holding your heart, too. I won’t hurt it.”

“You can say that, you can believe that because of what you come from. Your family is so lovely, so loving. Mine’s empty. It’s a name, it’s a way of living.”

“You’re not your parents.”

“No, but—”

“And neither of us are exactly the same people we were when we met, are we?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, gripped her forearms. “No, no, we’re not.”

“We’ve already started to make compromises, to build something together. We’ve already let each other in, Layna. We didn’t notice it right off because it was right. It was just right. I love you.” He cupped her face gently. “You can look at me and see that.”

“Yes.” It thrilled, and it terrified. “I want you, too, so much. But what if it doesn’t work, if I can’t make it work?”

“What if you walk away now and we never try?”

“I’d be back where I thought I wanted to be.” She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “And I’d be incredibly unhappy. I don’t want to walk away from you, or from us.”

Joy shimmered just under his heart, and his lips curved. “Then take that walk with me.” He closed his hand over hers, linked fingers. “We won’t always want to go in the same direction, or at the same pace, but we can end up where we both need to be.”

She looked down at their hands. So different, she thought. Hers narrow, his wide; hers almost delicate, his so strong. But look how they fit together.

“I’ve never been in love.” She lifted her gaze, looked into his eyes. “I could always stop it. It never interfered, because I wouldn’t let it. But I couldn’t stop it with you. It made me so angry, so unsettled that I wasn’t able to just step back and say that’s far enough. But it’s not far enough.” Her fingers tightened on his. “I want to go a lot farther.”

He lifted their joined hands to his lips. “No one mattered before you. Marry me. Let’s make a life together.”

“I think we’ve already started to.” She brought her free hand to his cheek. “It just took a while for me to realize it’s exactly the one I want.”

“I’d say that’s a yes.”

Her smile bloomed. “I’d say you’re right.” She laughed when he scooped her off her feet and spun her in circles.

“Let’s tell the family.” D.C. kissed her, hard and long, then spun her around again. “It’ll do The MacGregor good to see he can’t maneuver all his grandchildren into taking the matches he picks out for them. Not my type,” D.C. said. “Hah!” And kissed her again.

Inside, Daniel wiped a tear from his eye.

From the Private Memoirs

of

Daniel Duncan MacGregor

Seasons come and go more quickly after a man reaches an age. Spring moving to summer so fast you hardly see the tulips bloom before they fade away again. Without family, without the love of them, the passing of time would be a kind of loneliness.

I’m a man who’s never lonely.

I’m grateful for that fact every day of my life. For the fine woman who’s spent all these passing seasons with me, for the children we raised, the babies those children gave us. And I realized—better than most, I think—that when a man’s been given such gifts, he’s responsible for caring for them.

Just yesterday I stood in the church where my oldest son married and watched his son meet his bride. Seasons pass, and generations with them almost as quickly. I know what my boy felt watching his boy take that next step in life. The pride, the bittersweet loss, the hopes for the future.

Well, I could have told my Alan he’s no need to worry about the future of D.C. and Layna. I’d chosen them for each other, hadn’t I? Not that we’ll mention that outside the hearing of a few select ears. My grandson can have his smug belief that he did the deed all on his own. He’ll be a better man for it, I imagine.

A fine couple they made, the prettiest of pictures as they exchanged their rings in candlelight, D.C. looking more than a bit, I’m thinking, like his grandfather did sixty years back, and Layna elegant with the MacGregor tartan on her dress and the MacGregor veil over her golden hair.

The babies they’ll make for me—well, for their grandmother, of course. She’s already making noises about it. The woman has no patience.

Now that we’ve seen them off on their honeymoon, and seen the bond between them, we’ll leave them to start to build their life together.

Today I walked on the cliffs with my Anna. Below us the sea tossed, as restless as ever, and above, the sky was a clear summer blue. I felt the wind on my face and Anna’s hand in mine.

Many’s the time we’ve walked that walk together.

From the cliffs I could see the house we’d built. Some call it a fortress, or a castle. And it’s some of both those things. A bold place it is, made of good native stone, with proud towers and strong lines and the crest of my clan over the front door. A man doesn’t forget his roots.

But most of what it is is home. The place Anna and I fought our battles, made love—and our children. Where we raised them and watched them grow. It’s a home we share still, though the children have children, and some of them have children of their own.

Thanks to me, of course.

I’m happy to have set those who belong to me on the right path. Home and family. Whatever a man, or a woman, makes in this life, that is the base, the foundation of everything else.

So where are the rest of my great-grandchildren, I’d like to know?

Not that we haven’t made some progress there, but a man can’t live forever. Not even a MacGregor. I’ve seen five of the children of my children wedded now. And the babies I—that is, Anna—frets for are coming along. We have four bairns to fuss over, and two more on the way. And a joy they are to us—if only they’d visit more often.

But children must have their own lives, after all. That’s what I’m seeing to. In my own fashion.

I’m arranging for young Duncan—the second son of my lovely Serena and our handsome Justin—to
make his life. Oh, the lad thinks he has one, and just the way he wants it, too. Sailing up and down the Mississippi on his gambling boat, free as a bird. Oh, a clever boy is Duncan Blade, and a charmer as well. He runs the
Comanche Princess
with a steady hand, for there’s good business sense behind that quick, sly smile. And woe to the man who sees only a pretty face and crosses him, by God. The boy carries MacGregor blood, after all.

No prim, shy miss would do for him. He needs a woman with grit, someone with sass. And I’ve just the one.

All I’ve done—to respond to those who would call me a meddler—is put them together for a time. Just as I did the boy’s mother and father so many years back. Makes me sentimental to think of it. And it’s like a circle closing, isn’t it, to give my daughter’s son the same opportunity?

We’ll see what he does with it.

And if he doesn’t do it fast enough, why, I believe Anna and I might enjoy a few days on the river. I’m a gambling man myself.

Part Two

Duncan

Duncan Blade played the odds. Whether they were long or short didn’t matter, as long as he knew them, and the pot was rich enough.

And he was a man who liked to win.

Gambling was in his blood, both from the MacGregor Scot and the Comanche Blade. Nothing suited him better than running the
Comanche Princess.
That in itself had been a gamble. His parents had dealt in hotels, of the stationary sort, all of his life. Atlantic City, Vegas, Reno and more. The riverboat had been Duncan’s dream, one he’d conceived, planned and nurtured. He understood his family trusted him to make it work.

He had no intention of disappointing them.

From the docks in Saint Louis, he stood, hands tucked in his back pockets, and studied his true love.

The
Princess
was a beauty, he mused, with long, graceful lines, wide decks and fussily fashioned railings. She had been built to replicate the traditional riverboats that had once steamed up and down the river, carrying passengers, supplies—and gamblers. Her paint was fresh and blindingly white, her trim a hot and sassy red. Beneath the charm was power. And along with the power was luxury.

Duncan wanted his passengers relaxed and happy. The food would be plentiful and first-class, the entertainment top of the line. Cabins ran from cozy to sumptuous. Each of the three lounges provided stunning views of the river.

And the casino … well, the casino was, after all, the heart of it all.

Passengers paid for the ride—and for the chance to win.

The
Princess
would sail from Saint Louis to New Orleans, with stops along the way in Memphis and Natchez. Those who chose to stay on board for the full two weeks from north to south and back again wouldn’t be bored. And whether or not they disembarked as winners, Duncan knew they’d have gotten their money’s worth.

For now, he had the anticipation of another run. Around him, crew worked to load cargo and supplies in the blistering July heat. He had paperwork to do, details to check, but he wanted to take this moment to watch the action. On board, more crew members were swabbing decks, freshening paint, polishing brass and cleaning glass.

The
Princess
would sparkle by late afternoon, delighting the passengers who streamed up the gangplank.

Everything was in place. Almost.

Behind the amber lenses of his shaded glasses, his deep brown eyes narrowed. The new headliner he’d contracted had yet to show. She was now nearly twenty-four hours late. And if she didn’t make it within another four hours, they’d be preparing to sail without her.

Annoyed with having his enjoyment of the moment spoiled, Duncan pulled the flip phone out of his pocket and once again called Cat Farrell’s agent.

He paced the docks as he waited for the connection, his strides long and loose. His looks bespoke his heritage—tall and dark with dark gold skin, eyes of deep brown heavily lashed and lidded, and the straight black hair of his Comanche ancestors. His face was narrow, sculpted with high, sharp cheekbones and a long straight nose. The mouth was firm and full, and given to quick smiles.

But he wasn’t smiling now. “Cicero? Blade. Where the hell is my talent?”

Brooklyn jangled through the receiver as Cicero whined an answer. “She ain’t there yet? Hey, I’m telling you, the kid’s reliable. Something slowed her up, that’s all. She’ll be there, and she’ll knock you out, I guarantee.”

“Pal, you guaranteed me she’d be here yesterday at noon. She’s got her first performance tonight. Don’t you keep in touch with your clients?”

“Sure, sure, but Cat … well, she goes her own way. Worth every penny you’re paying her, though. More. You got her while she’s climbing. Give her another year, and—”

“I don’t give a damn about next year, Cicero. I deal in the now. And right now I don’t see your client.”

“She’ll get there. She’ll get there. Look, your brother liked her fine. She blew them away in Vegas.”

“My brother’s a lot more tolerant than I am. You get her here—in one hour—or I start by suing your butt off for breach of contract. And then I’ll get nasty.”

Duncan disconnected on the resulting sputters, slipped the phone back into his pocket and started across the docks toward the boat.

His brother Mac had indeed approved of Cat Farrell, Duncan thought. And he trusted Mac’s judgment without question. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so quick to take his grandfather’s additional glowing recommendation of her and hire her without an audition.

She looked good, damned good, he thought, bringing the image of her photo to his mind. Sleek and sexy—and the demo tape Cicero had sent him proved she had a voice to match.

But that wasn’t doing him any good if the bloody woman didn’t show.

The teenager striding toward the gangplank caught his attention. Battered jeans, lopsided backpack, scarred tennis shoes. A zebra-print baseball cap was pulled low over her forehead and round-lensed dark glasses were perched on her nose. He let out a sigh. It was a pity, he thought, that kids didn’t have more of a sense of fashion.

He lengthened his stride to cut her off before she could board.

“Sorry, honey. You can’t go on there. No passengers until after three, and you’ll need your parents with you to get on.”

She shifted, stood hip cocked, and tipped down the little sunglasses with one finger. He felt a quick jolt seeing the eyes behind them. They were a pure and piercing green, with a thin shimmer of gold circling the pupils.

Put a few years on her, Duncan thought fleetingly, and the eyes alone would drop men to their knees. To his amusement those eyes skimmed up, down, then up again before latching on to his with a bold arrogance he couldn’t help but admire.

“And who would you be?”

It should be illegal for a female to have a voice like that before she turned twenty-one, Duncan decided. All that husky promise belonged in a ripe and experienced woman. “I’m Blade. She’s mine,” he said, with a jerk of his head toward the boat. “And you’re welcome to come back when you’re legal, darling.”

Her lips curved with the same easy arrogance she carried in her eyes. “Want to card me, Blade?
I’ve got my ID in here somewhere.” She reached around to pat her backpack. “But since we’re running a little behind, why don’t we skip it? I’m your headliner, sugar.”

She stuck out her hand as his eyes narrowed. “Cat Farrell. And I was twenty-five last month.”

He could see it now, he supposed. If he used his imagination. The eyes should have tipped him off. But there hadn’t been a dusting of freckles across her nose in the photo, and there had been a wild waterfall of deep red hair. He couldn’t see a trace of it now, and wondered how she’d managed to stuff it all up under the ugly cap she wore.

“You’re late.”

“Got hung up.” She flashed a smile. “I shouldn’t have let Cicero talk me into that gig in Bakersfield. Missed my flight, had to reroute. Pain in the butt. Listen, I’ve got a cab back there full of my stuff. You want to take care of that for me? I’ll go take a look at the setup.”