Page 13 of A Time & Place for Every Laird (A Laird for All Time #2)

Hugh looked at her expectantly when she got into the car. Waiting, she knew, for some comment on his transformation. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction and wasn’t in the mood for any of his nonsensical banter. She was too angry with him. Angry that he had played her so well. Angry that he made her make a comparison between him and her Matthew.

Angry that Hugh looked so damned good.

“Hae ye nothing tae say?”

he prompted.

“Secretary?”

He shrugged in that irritating way he had, making Claire grit her teeth even more. “I had tae say something tae explain why ye took charge, why I dinnae carry any funds on my person.”

“If you had asked, I’m sure I could have come up with something better than that. I’m a pretty smart person,”

she said, shifting Goose into reverse.

“Most women think they are.”

“Like most men think they’re funny?”

she asked snappishly. “I could tell you got a kick out of that.”

It took Hugh a few moments to work through her words. “Do ye nae like the way I look?”

It wasn’t so much a question as a tease. He was fishing for the compliments that Claire was certain had followed him throughout his life. “You’ll do,”

she said shortly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of something more. “I doubt anyone would recognize you now.”

But they would remember him. Claire was beginning to think that if they wanted to get by unnoticed, shaving off all that hair was the worst thing they could have done. Looking as he did now, any red-blooded woman they crossed paths with would be able to describe him thoroughly, right down to those slashing dimples. Ugh! Claire mentally slapped herself.

“I’ll do?”

“You look fine,”

she allowed. “Good, even, and I’m sure you know it. But don’t worry that I’ll fall in love with you like all the other lasses. You’re not my type.”

“Yer type?”

“You know, like Matt. My husband, Matthew. You saw his picture. You’re, like, his polar opposite.”

Claire pictured her husband in her mind, clinging to the image. Indeed, Matt was completely different. He’d been blond, god-like. Always laughing. He was nothing like this dark, brooding Scot except that they were both tall and fit. “You might think you’re all that, Hugh, but times have changed. William seemed to like you though,”

she added, hoping to shock him. To regain the upper ground. “The way he was petting you, I think he wanted to take you home and keep you forever.”

Hugh shrugged dismissively, denying her the moment. “He was much like any man’s valet.”

Claire rolled her eyes irritably and shoved a white, fast-food bag at him. “Just eat your food.”

If Hugh was disgruntled by her lack of fawning, he didn’t show it as he looked in the bag and pulled out a paper-wrapped item. Opening it, he sniffed it tentatively and took a bite, chewing a couple of times with a grimace. “What is this?”

“A hamburger. Eat it.”

“It has nae flavor at all. Terrible. Get me something else.”

“You do realize that we are supposed to be on the run here, right?”

she sniped crossly. “We can’t afford to waste time stopping for a sit-down meal. We’ll find something later.”

“I hunger now.”

“Hugh, just stop.”

But he wouldn’t. Even the near desperation of their situation couldn’t stave off his hunger, and finally Claire pulled into a gas station with a mini mart and parked, commanding him to wait. Moments later, she emerged with an armload of candy bars and chips, dumping them in his lap. “There! Bon appetite.”

“What is all this?”

“Food. Junk food,”

she said sharply as she got them back on the road. “You said you were hungry, so eat.”

Hugh picked through the colorful pile, finally settling on the bright orange wrapper of a KitKat bar. He fumbled with the wrapper for a few moments—Claire was inwardly smiling at his efforts, not volunteering the knowledge that the new plastic wrappers could be torn from only one direction—before finally he got it opened.

Picking up the candy bar, he studied it for a moment before intuitively snapping off one section. Looking over her shoulder before she made a lane change, Claire caught Hugh taking that first bite. He chewed once and stopped, his eyes wide. He chewed again and once more paused.

Puzzled, Claire frowned. “What is it?”

“’Tis cocoa.”

“Yeah? Well, most of that is. What about it?”

Hugh looked down at the pile in his lap. “But ’tis sweet and …”

He shook his head, clearly puzzled.

“Of course, it is. It’s chocolate.”

Claire drove for a minute while Hugh took another bit, slowly chewing as if he were savoring each moment. “Okay, give. How is that so different from what you’ve had?”

“Our chocolate is liquid. We drink it,”

he said distractedly, his focus remaining on the bar as he broke off another section. “’Tis exceedingly bitter, and though we add cane sugar or honey tae it, I ne’er tasted it like this. What is it?”

“A candy bar. A KitKat, specifically. Smooth creamy milk chocolate and crisp wafers,”

Claire said. “Everything a growing boy needs.”

“And this one?”

he asked, holding up one of the others.

“A Twix. Cookie covered with caramel and chocolate.”

“And this?”

“Almond Joy. My personal favorite,”

she added. “Coconut, almond, and chocolate.”

One by one, she told him what they were, and one by one, Hugh worked his way through the pile. He unabashedly gloried in each bite, savoring each one with greater groans of delight until he was moaning with exaggeration as he bit into a Milky Way.

The amusement bubbled up in Claire until she was laughing aloud. Her anger gone, she shared in his joy. It was like watching a child experience Christmas for the first time.

“I already hae so much obligation tae ye,”

he teased as he finished off the last of the candy. “But for this I owe ye my greatest debt of gratitude. ’Twas most delicious. Thank ye, Sorcha.”

Hugh lifted her hand to his lips and Claire’s laughter faded away. His lips pressed lightly to the back of her hand before he turned it, pressing a kiss to her palm. Claire glanced at him, seeing the humor mixed with true sincerity in his blue eyes. He was just trying to be nice, she knew that, but at the same time the feel of his hand against her, the feel of his lips tracing a tingling path across her hand was anything but friendly.

Pulling her hand away from him, Claire curled her nails into her palm and turned back to the road. “I didn’t expect you to eat all of it. All that sugar will probably give you a stomachache,”

she warned. “I suppose I should have explained that beforehand because …”

“Because I hae nae the intelligence tae deduce that for myself?”

Hugh’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping irritably in his jaw. “Please hold. I fear I cannae tolerate yet another slight upon my intelligence from ye. What hae I done tae make ye think me dull and unlearned?”

Claire gaped at him for a moment. “Well, you … I …”

“Ye hae made assumptions,”

he said tersely. “Ye maun hae some basis for them. Are my countrymen known for their weak minds in this time?”

“No, but … well, Hugh, you have to admit then when you first got here …”

“Ye judged me by my appearance alone then.”

Claire flushed. Hadn’t she told herself that she was stereotyping him even as she was doing it? “In my defense, you weren’t exactly the picture of refinement when I met you. The hair, the beard, the kilt. The blood,”

she drew out the word with emphasis. “You looked and kind of acted like a big brutish Neanderthal with rocks in his head.”

He hadn’t really, Claire thought, looking back on the events of the previous day. In fact, other than some flashes of irrational—if somewhat justified—behavior, Claire thought he’d handled himself fairly well, even to the point of reasoning out some of the same nuances of their situation as she. “So I take it that 1746 wasn’t exactly the Middle Ages?”

“Nae at all. Sophistication was a hallmark of my generation. I hae had occasion tae join the courts of Germany, France, and Venice,”

he said haughtily.

“You’ve been to Venice?”

she sighed out enviously. “I would love to go there. Is it as beautiful in person as it is in pictures?”

“Ye’ve nae seen the world for yerself and ye think me the barbarian?”

Shrugging apologetically, Claire tried for some justification. “I know about the Age of Enlightenment in the eighteenth century and all that, but when you talked of war and clans, I guess it was easy to lump you in with the stereotype. To be fair, history might have tilted against you more than is justifiable.”

Hugh just shook his head in disgust. “And yet I hae sat amongst and was welcomed by the greatest thinkers in Europe.”

“Like Joe the Blacksmith?”

“Yer attempt at humor willnae soften my ire,”

he responded, staring stonily out the window with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Who, then?”

“I doubt ye would know of them,”

Hugh said, shouldering the door with a yawn. “Though one of my friends, Francois-Marie Arouet, did write voraciously about everything. He dabbled in politics and philosophy. He even wrote a few plays, but I doubt any of that flummery stood the test of time. Mayhap ye hae heard of Frederick. He was a king, after all.”

“King of what? The hill?”

“Prussia.”

“Prussia?”

Claire gaped at him until a horn sounded, recalling her attention to the road ahead of her. “You knew the king of Prussia?”

“I dinnnae sleep much last night. I believe I will try tae nap now.”

Claire knew he was toying with her now. That he was dangling bait before her to lure her curiosity. Well, it had worked. It seemed there was much more to Hugh Urquhart than met the eye. She thought about how he had avoided answering her questions the previous day, and now wondered at what amazing tales he could have told.

“You can’t sleep now! Not with a lead-in like that!”

Claire said. “I have to know, how does a braw Scottish man like yourself become a world traveler?”

“Another time,”

Hugh denied, closing his eyes.

“That is so not fair,”

Claire grumbled as she stared at the road ahead of her, the sun setting against the mountains at the horizon. How had she so completely misjudged Hugh, she wondered? How could she have not, another part of her brain argued? Given the way he had been dressed, the blood and grime, and his practically unintelligible use of the English language, what other conclusion should she have come to? In her fear, should she have taken the time to ask after his education and experience beforehand? Should she have asked for a resume of his lifetime accomplishments?

Yes, she had jumped to conclusions, but who wouldn’t have done the same? Given the events of the past two days, with each moment being more unbelievable and fantastic than the next, Claire thought that overall she was handling everything fairly well. Really, she was sitting in a car with a man who had been born almost three hundred years ago and she wasn’t freaking out at all!

Claire decided that, in the big picture, she deserved a gold star.

A big, shiny, 24-carat-gold star.