What Lies Between (30 page)

Progress toward my goals was going smoothly of late. I jittered with excitement at getting closer to holding onto Glenbroch, but apprehension still scraped at me and fear of breaking the upward swing wouldn’t bugger off.

Tonight presented the perfect opportunity for someone to sabotage my efforts.

Henry’s warning about letting Ben provide the food and preparation rang in my mind. He had predicted that letting an enemy close had only one outcome: disaster. I was counting on him being dead wrong.

I escorted Maggie on a tour of the house to show off Jenna’s expert decorating plan, which Ben’s staff had executed perfectly. The house was beautiful. Jenna had created an elegant and inviting environment with a color scheme of bronze, cream, and peacock blue. Her penchant for candlelight warmed the house, from the sconces glowing in the hallways and public rooms to the old silver candelabra adorning each table. 

Ben had hired valets to park the cars down by the steading. He also worked with the caterer, who followed Jenna’s menu directions, to provide silver serving ware and large round tables to fill the dining room. The front of the room near the large bay window had been cleared to serve as a dance floor when the ceilidh band entertained after the meal and ceremony.

Pete had allowed the caterers to use his vegetarian haggis recipe as an alternative to the traditional menu of haggis, neeps, and tatties. Those few guests who, like me, wanted veggie haggis could have it. My other special request was for garlic-roasted Brussels sprouts, as well as steamed broccoli for those who didn’t care for sprouts. Dessert was a choice of lemon sponge or Jenna’s sticky toffee pudding. It would be a grand feast.

The areas that Ryan had opened to guests were the main sitting room, dining room, kitchen, library, and game room. He also opened two of the bedrooms, but no one was staying over as we weren’t geared up for overnight guests yet. Most of the house was complete with only finish work left. We’d be set for final inspection in a little more than a month. And then we’d have thirty days before the season opening on the first of April. If we achieved twenty percent more bookings and hit no more budgetary snags, I could fend off John’s attempt to take Glenbroch. It was nearly time to celebrate.

The sound of bagpipes pulled me out of my thoughts and drew me to its source in the main sitting room. A piper in full regalia stood near the window. A long, traditional plaid hung across his shoulder, and a black, domed, ostrich feather hat perched perilously on his head. He sported a heavy, woolen kilt with a clan pin clasped in its material and diced stockings in what I would have described as a harlequin pattern. Maggie would likely approve.

His red cheeks puffed as he blew into the set of bagpipes slung against his shoulder. They must have been over three feet tall. I remembered him saying he was planning to play the Great Highland Bagpipes. These pipes lived up to their name; this was an utterly massive beast of an instrument.

“Warming up,” he said, as the pipes gave a mournful exhale.

I drew closer as the pipes quieted themselves. “Gorgeous woodwork.”

“Rosewood.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, glad that some bits of research had stuck in my brain. Each pipe looked like it was made from rings of lighter and darker woods. Although beautiful, these pipes were originally meant for war, to drive fear into the enemies’ hearts. Ear-splitting in such a small space, the pipes could blow out the windows. I had no doubt that hearing several pipers coming down a glen playing their baleful warnings, and knowing the pipers would be accompanied by a mass of Highlanders wielding claymores and dirks, would have struck terror in the hearts of any who had meant to bring a challenge.

As I turned to leave the room while I still had my hearing, Bethanne entered with Henry close behind. She wore a long gown of silk charmeuse, her hair swept up in loose waves. Between us we looked like a sprig of holly: me in my emerald green, the MacKinnon tartan elegantly draped over one shoulder, and Bethanne in her crimson creation.

“Where is Ben?” Bethanne yelled, as the piper had begun once again. “Have you seen him?”

It was all I could do to contain a shocked expression; she had spoken to me without her voice dripping in anger.

I tilted my head toward the hall. “Out there. Too loud.”

“Both of you look beautiful, by the way,” Henry said once we were in the hall.

“Thank you. And yes, Bethanne, you look stunning,” I said, hoping to encourage her neutral behavior, but I meant it. She did look beautiful.

She turned to me, an annoyed expression set hard on her face. “No! We look like Christmas exploded. I’ll sit on the other side of the room and then maybe no one will notice.” She turned toward Henry. “You’re sitting with me.”

Bethanne hoisted up the skirt of her dress and stalked down the hall.

Henry shrugged his shoulders. “So I’ll be sitting with Bethanne,” he said, and turned to follow her.

“I guess you will indeed.”

At least she wouldn’t be where I had to look at her, and Henry could keep an eye on her.

The piper interrupted my thoughts. I had forgotten he was still there.

“I’ll go ahead and get myself to the reception room.”

“Good idea,” I replied, following him out of the room, eager for guests to arrive. I could scarcely wait to see Glenbroch filled with women in their finest gowns and men in their handsome dress kilts.

Maggie stayed long enough to cluck and shake her head at every man wearing plain cream or white stockings before she scooted back to the pub.

The
sgian dubhs
tucked into the top of the men’s socks caught my fancy. Could those tiny knives cut someone or were they only decorative? Had anyone ever pulled out a sgian dubh at a Burns Night celebration and used it on a guest?

Ben found me, offered his arm, and I accepted. He led me into the library.

“Ellie, I have to say this . . . you are so beautiful tonight, even more than you always are. You know that, aye?”

I looked him up and down, doing my best to appear unfazed, but his words, the sound, the gentle tone, the melodic accent, nearly made me lose my balance. Thoughts crashed together in my mind as I took in Ben in his formal attire. I couldn’t help but like him as a person even though I shouldn’t, and then when he looked so handsome—it was a lot of work to keep him at arms-length. I managed a polite and neutral stance. “We look coordinated.”

A pin at the lower side of his kilt sported the head of a boar in its center, the clan motto circling around its edge. Tassels decorated his sporran, which was accented by fur and silver. An ornate black handle topped the sgian dubh tucked into diced stockings accented with garter flashings.

The way he’d looked in his casual Highland wear that first week had practically overwhelmed me, and then I thought I’d seen him at his most handsome at Hogmanay. Tonight he’d outdone himself. The black waistcoat fit perfectly over his athletic body, his crisp white shirt close against his broad chest. And the way he was looking at me . . . Ben MacIver, no matter the look he sported, came in one version: tall dose of trouble. I cast my eyes away to catch my breath.

So much for neutral.

“I prefer the green ancient MacIver tartan to the modern pattern.” It was unlike him to make small talk unless it was in a bantering way.

“You have something on your mind? What is it?” I asked.

“Right.” A shy smile appeared and vanished just as quickly. “You got my email, didn’t you?”

Frustration flared in me at the reminder, and I bit back my angry response. 

“I didn’t want to fight my father about giving the Address to the Haggis.”

Have you ever fought your dad on anything?

“It doesn’t thrill me to have John heading the honors in my home. It’s like I’m sanctioning what he’s doing, as if the MacIvers own Glenbroch already. He shouldn’t even be here.”

Even as I said the words, they sounded ridiculous. Of course the MacIvers should be here, and it would have been ill form if I had excluded them. To say nothing about the fact Ben had funded the night.

“If it’s any consolation, he’s good at it, and entertaining. It will enhance your reputation in the community’s view for them to see you graciously allowing him this honour.”

Grumbling under my breath, I had to concede he was right. Still, was this only the first of many concessions to the MacIvers tonight?

“Is there a reason you don’t want to look at me? What’s the problem? Do I look like a silly shop souvenir?” he asked, his voice edged with irritation.

Shaking my head, I said, “I have the house, all of this, on my mind, that’s all,” I said, gesturing to the room’s surroundings. “You look very nice.”

Ben left to tend to his help in the kitchen, and I poured myself a dram of whisky to settle my nerves, taking several calming breaths.

“A true whisky drinker? Thought your interest was for show.”

I turned to see John MacIver entering the library. Eyeing him, I lifted my glass and swallowed what remained before setting the empty glass onto the table. “I’ve come to appreciate a dram occasionally.”

“You must look like your mother. You don’t look much like Gerard. Hardly enough that I can see you’re a MacKinnon.”

I stared at him, wondering where this was going.

“There was a time when Gerard and I would get into a load of trouble on Burns night, always had some scheme going. But that was a long time ago, and everything has changed since then. He’s gone, and if you insist on running this place, Glenbroch will be gone as well. It deserves to continue, to be a destination, and provide jobs for people in the area. You need to understand you are putting at risk everything the MacKinnons worked for over many generations, and you’re affecting more people than yourself. Rather selfish, don’t you think, to run it into the ground?”

His eyes chilled the room, and I swore the flames in the fireplace nearly died. I had to stand my ground.

“You don’t have the best reputation around here for thinking of the community. The bottom line is I’m not going anywhere. I know you’re behind what happened to my gate, my computer, the inspector. Those kinds of tactics tell me you are lying and you’re
not
convinced I will fail on my own power. I shake you up enough that you feel you have to sabotage me to win. Although you’re a coward and get other people to do your dirty work for you, like Bethanne.”

His face tightened and I was convinced my claims were right. I would deal with both him and Bethanne soon enough.

John’s eyes bored into me. “You’re as daft as they come. You let your emotions blind you.” He wheeled around, his kilt flaring up, revealing surprisingly muscular, impossibly white legs.

“And you don’t!” I shouted. He paused but didn’t turn back.

I poured another dram. I hated to admit it even to myself, but his words affected me. The prospect of losing Glenbroch terrified me, but winning wasn’t a short-term, one-season effort. I would have to keep the estate going for years, decades. A hard future lay ahead. And what did he mean I was blind? Blind to what?

John rose and made his way to the front of the full room to give the Address to the Haggis. If I could forget what a despicable man he was, I would have to confess he was dashing in his kilted finery. Scots words slid effortlessly off his tongue, and although it was hard for me to catch some or understand them when I did—what exactly is a
sonsie
face?—I could scarcely help but be charmed. I forgot for a magical moment he was one of the most black-hearted people I had ever known . . . but it was a short moment.

John snatched the dirk from the piper’s sheath and raised it high above his head, a menacing scowl spreading across his face.

My heart nearly stopped short.

With tremendous flourish, he stabbed the haggis through. I recoiled in my chair as he lifted his eyes to mine, his implication clear. I broke his stare and saw Anna looking my direction. Her look was one of concern, and I returned it with a weak smile, hoping the protective steel in her eyes held the power Ben claimed it did. I had looked up the MacIver clan motto—
I will never forget
—and clearly John lived every breath of his life by it.

Lifting my glass robotically at the toast to the haggis, again to the chef, and then to the piper, I didn’t look at John again. I refilled my glass with Old Pulteney and finished it off, knowing better. But this was my night in my house with the whisky I had chosen, and I was wearing a beautiful dress. I would do what I wanted.

“Would you be interested in taking a whisky tour sometime?” Ben asked, settling into the chair next to mine.

“Maybe.”

Why did I say that?

I changed the subject. “I think I drank too much. I need to load up on food and soak up some of the whisky in my system. Good thing it’s my party and there’s a ton of veggie haggis. You know, I’m thinking I might be ready soon to get my own collie. I’ve been working with Jazz, and I need to get my own dog.”

Ben smiled, and it slowly became clear, after a long delay in my brain caused by my whisky intake, that he found my abrupt change of topic amusing. “Jazz serves as stud for a few of the females around. I think there should be a couple having litters fairly soon. My mother could get you sorted.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now, could you refill my glass?”

Ben filled an empty goblet with water, handed it to me. “Have a couple of these and we’ll have a dram later.”

I downed the water and looked up from my glass. Ben’s eyes bore the same haunting quality I had seen in them for the first time on Skye.

Just then the bagpipes let out a mournful wail, and the piper marched behind the haggis back to the kitchen, the knife still embedded. They would cut up the haggis and dinner would be served soon.

The realization penetrated my foggy brain that I was beyond a good buzz. I needed to focus on the food, on anything, other than Ben.

I scarcely ate my dinner even though I spent plenty of time pushing it around my plate. I was on edge and the whisky was loosening my emotions and my judgment. I could feel its effects, but it was too late to do a thing about it.