Page 16 of A Time & Place for Every Laird (A Laird for All Time #2)

The third day of freedom

Daylight streaming in through the huge plate glass windows that served as the walls of Robert Mitchell’s waterfront home woke Claire early the next morning, and she rolled over to look at the bedside clock. With a sigh, she flopped onto her back, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

The windows had been too dark the night before for her to appreciate the views the house offered, and Claire did that now as she climbed out of bed, sighing over the beauty of the sound. The day was overcast—no surprise there—but it wasn’t raining. The sun was even bravely trying to pierce the cloudy barrier that separated them. Dressing, Claire left the guest room she had assigned herself and peeked into the one she had given Hugh, only to find him gone and the bed neatly made.

She wouldn’t blame him if he left her now. And perhaps it would be better for them both if he did. Clearly there was a mutual physical attraction between them, but under the circumstances it would be foolish—insane, even!—to throw caution to the wind and … well, let nature take its course. It wasn’t something she wanted, Claire told herself firmly. She had told herself she wouldn’t second-guess her decision, but it was fear for her personal wellbeing that prompted her to do so now. It was the fear of something much deeper. Something infinitely more dangerous.

Something that had kept her tossing and turning all night.

On top of that, he was a duke. To borrow an exclamation from Hugh, a bloody duke. No doubt he was used to bowing, scraping, and complete obedience. If he thought to expect as much from her, Claire knew she was the wrong girl for him, hands down.

So, he would just have to accept that theirs was purely a business relationship. Her business was to keep him safe and then get on with her life. Period.

Going downstairs, Claire called his name but received no response. She moved into the kitchen. Her voice rang hollowly in the empty house. The kitchen looked untouched.

A frown furrowing her brow, Claire took the empty pot from a small countertop coffee maker and went to the sink to fill it. Through the window, she could see Hugh sitting on a large driftwood log near the shoreline. While the pot filled, Claire watched him as he sat motionless, staring out at the water.

Turning away, she filled the coffee maker, setting the filter in place and measuring out the coffee, all the while mentally scolding herself, trying to talk herself out of doing what she knew she was going to do. Trying to remember that it was all just business.

With a sigh, Claire knew she was doomed to failure. Her resolution was undone within minutes of its conception.

Because underneath all of his bravado and teasing, Hugh was hurting. She could see the signs in his body posture as easily as she had heard them in his words on the ferry the previous night. Under all the swagger he had put on, under all the arrogance, he was just frightened … as much as he hated to confess such a thing. He might hide it beneath humor, but it was there and Claire’s heart ached for him. That pain was what had softened her to him in the first place. She knew what it was like to be suddenly alone and scared. At least she had had her parents to run to, someone to find some comfort in if she needed it. Who did Hugh have? Just her. And every fiber in her being was urging her to give solace where she could.

It was gray and dismal, Hugh thought as he stared out over the waters. The desolate beach was strewn with driftwood and rock, one thrown onto the sand by the rough waters, another smoothed flat as a result of the same. The water of this Puget Sound was vast and turbulent, with shades of blue turning to gray as the waves peaked and dropped. In the distance, he could see the dark shadow of land at the horizon and closer another band of land jutted into view. The whole of it was bathed in rugged beauty.

It wasn’t home but it was a good imitation. Just sitting there staring out over the waters as the sun had risen over them had put a balm on the aggravation of another sleepless night. Another sleepless night wondering what he would do. What he could do. So far, his only thought had been to assure his continued freedom and return to his homeland.

But what then?

Hugh felt for the medallion lying beneath his shirt over a heart aching with loss. Even glossing over his life the night before had been difficult, though in the end he had felt all the better for it. What would his sisters think of his disappearance? Would they think him taken in battle? A prisoner of war? With his rank, it might have been a likely consequence if he had been captured. They might have negotiated for his return. Would the Sassenach’s denial of his capture lead to only more distrust and further hatred?

A gravelly crunch sounded behind him, and Hugh turned to find Sorcha solemnly watching him. Taking the mug she held out to him, Hugh shifted to the side in a silent invitation for her to join him. She did, and for a long while they simply sat in companionable silence, sipping their coffee. Hugh knew why she was there and her silent support was just one more thing to be thankful for. “This place reminds me of home.”

“I was hoping it would.”

“One could look out the windows of Rosebraugh and see a comparable view.”

Sorcha offered no response, and that restraint somehow prompted him to continue. “As I said, my home lies east of Cromarty, where the Moray Firth meets the Cromarty Firth. Beyond ye would see the North Sea.”

Hugh swept his hand before them. “Across the south sutor, I could see land beyond. More of Scotland, just as ye see that land from here. Thank ye for bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sorcha fell into silence once more before asking, “So should I be calling you ‘your Highness’ or ‘your Grace’ or something like that now?”

“Nae,”

Hugh said softly. “I hae many regrets for those words. My sense was overcome by my … ”

He let the word fade away. He had many regrets in general. There was little need to point them out one by one or he might inadvertently voice his regret that he hadn’t been able to take her in his arms as he wanted. Her rule had manifested itself as something of a challenge to his manhood. Even now he could feel the warmth of her body next to him, and the rekindled desire called for him to gather her close and feel that heat pressed against him.

Hugh thrust away the temptation, forcing himself to remember that she didn’t want him or at least wouldn’t welcome him in that way. “Regardless, everything that made me a duke vanished long ago.”

Years of training and aristocratic hauteur clearly were not enough to mask the pain in his voice when it came to speaking of his loss, because Sorcha hesitantly asked, “Are you doing all right?”

“As well as can be expected,”

Hugh responded with a dismissive shrug. “My decisions plague me. I hae put ye in serious jeopardy, and that cannae be forgiven. If they determine that yer helping me, they will come after ye, will they not? There will be nowhere left tae run.”

Sorcha shrugged as well, though her veil of nonchalance was not as practiced as his. It was an easy thing to see that she had her worries as well. “Let’s worry about that later.”

“I ken now that there is little I might accomplish on my own,”

he reluctantly admitted. “But tae protect ye, we should devise some strategy, for they will unquestionably outnumber us.”

“They’ll have to find us first.”

Sorcha reached out and covered his hand with her own small one. Hugh looked down at her flesh, so pale against his own. Her protective caring warmed his heart and he enveloped her hand between his, but as if she had just realized what she had done, Sorcha drew her hand away and wrapped it around her mug. She looked blankly out over the water, again changing the subject, as was her wont. “They will have underestimated us on some level, Hugh. They’ll assume, as I did, that you are nothing but a savage. They’ll expect some rash, illogical behavior from you. Added to that, they will have to think—at least initially—that you are forcing me to help you. It gives us an advantage … two great minds on our side.”

“Ye have been a great comfort tae me these past days, Sorcha.”

“Anyone would have done the same.”

“I dinnae believe so. Sorcha …”

Hugh said her name as a request, and after a palpable internal struggle, she turned to look at him. Her fair skin was dewy in the dense morning air, the brisk air drawing becoming color to her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and fringed by dark lashes stripped of the artifice that had covered them in recent days. Still she was lovely. Reaching out, Hugh ran his fingers through the loose strands of her auburn hair, admiring how it shone so vividly red in the dim sunlight. There was so much to admire about her, her courage, her mind, and her beauty. She was like no woman he had ever known.

Having learned nothing the evening before, he caught her chin and gently guided her mouth to his.

The kiss was light and undemanding, but still he could feel her lips tremble beneath his. Stroking her chin with his thumb, Hugh parted his lips just enough to sample hers. She tasted delectably of salt, sweet coffee and cream.

Their lips clung a moment before she drew away and stared down into her coffee cup with a shaking exhale. He could see her chest rise and fall rapidly. What was she afraid of, he wondered? Sorcha had shown no fear of his person before, only understandable wariness. She was not afraid of their situation, as she should be; yet she feared this untapped passion between them.

The one thing that worried him the least.

“Perhaps it would be best after all if I left ye,”

Hugh said, holding up a hand to stall her interruption. “That way ye could turn yourself in, plead coercion, and get yer life back.”

“I won’t let you do that, Hugh,”

she said with a sigh. “I just … can’t for some reason. You deserve to get your life back as well.”

“What life do I have tae regain, Sorcha?”

he asked. “What is waiting out there for me tae replace the life I hae lost? I miss my home. My family. But they are long gone.”

Sorcha tensed by his side, and Hugh had to wonder what she was thinking. It took a long while before his curiosity was appeased.

“A-are you married, Hugh?”

There was something in her voice that made Hugh look at her, but she refused to meet his eye. He wondered what had prompted such a question. Would it please her to know that he was unattached as much as it pleased him that she was widowed? Not that he didn’t regret her loss, but he was inordinately glad she did not have a husband about. “I am nae.”

“Engaged?”

“Nae, I always found myself emphatically disengaged.”

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, Sorcha’s mouth softened into a slight smile to acknowledge his quip. “Would it trouble ye if I were wed, Sorcha?”

“No, I … No, of course not,”

she stuttered. “I was just wondering, the way you said that about your family.”

“Yet, ye were wed.”

She shot him another inscrutable look, her lips pressed firmly together, but Hugh continued doggedly on. “He was killed.”

Her eyes closed and she mouthed the word silently but did not respond. Hugh recalled the tiny portraits of the man on the mantle of her home. The ribbons and medals. And the folded flag. “He was a soldier, aye?”

Hugh pressed. “A warrior?”

Sorcha’s lips parted at that and she turned to look at him, her amethyst eyes glassy … and surprised. The shadow of satisfaction lit them then. “I like that. Matt would have liked that. A warrior.”

She paused, and Hugh feared that was all she would say on the subject, but after a moment she continued, her words whispered on the morning breeze. “Yes, Matt was in the Army. It was all he ever wanted to do, to serve his country …”

She drifted off into silence, staring out over the water beyond until Hugh was certain she wouldn’t reveal any more and he found that he sincerely wanted to know. To know her better. Sorcha was his only ally in this time. She was his only friend, and Hugh knew he couldn’t have asked for a better one. And as he began to know her better, it was easy to see that it wasn’t merely sympathy in her eyes when she looked at him. It was empathy. She understood loss.

“I met him my senior year of high school,”

she continued softly. Though Hugh wasn’t acquainted with the terms, he didn’t interrupt to ask. “His family moved here from Denver for his dad’s job. And that was it. We dated through that year and we both went to UW … the University of Washington. Matt was in the NROTC and was commissioned after we graduated. We went to Fort Carson for a while and a couple other bases before Matt was first sent overseas. I hated it, but it was what he wanted. So I came home and he went overseas, first to Iraq and then Afghanistan …”

Again Sorcha trailed off. It wasn’t difficult to know what came next but he was surprised when she continued, her voice laced with bitterness. “There wasn’t even enough of him left to fill the body bag. I-I never even got to look at him again.”

Those last words were choked as her throat tightened around them. “Everyone wonders why I do what I do now. That’s why. No one should have to lose someone like that and not even have one last moment.”

A single tear trickled down Sorcha’s cheek, and Hugh gently wiped it away. His heart ached for her, for the loss of a man she had clearly loved, and loved still. “I am truly sorry for yer loss,”

he offered. “How long has it been?”

“Three years,”

she answered with a sniff, and Hugh straightened in surprise.

Given her profound grief, he might have thought it a matter of months, perhaps a year. Three years? It was a lifetime to grieve, even for one so loved. Death and loss were a matter of rote in his time. People lived and died, often young and unexpectedly. They were mourned but life went on. Had things changed so much since then? Did everyone in this time wallow in grief and misery when there was life and living to be embraced? Hugh wanted to ask but struggled with the words lest he offend her.

“Is three years or more a common period of mourning in this time?”

he asked as gently as possible.

“No, apparently not,”

she answered with that same bitterness, swiping her hand across her eyes. “You’d think I’m the biggest aberration on the planet, the way everyone fusses about it. Everyone is on me about it, even Matt’s parents. I should get out more, meet more men, date, remarry, live a little, let it go, move on!”

The list went on until the anger in her voice rose in pitch.

“Why hae ye nae?”

Hugh couldn’t help but ask. It was something he simply couldn’t comprehend, but perhaps people in his time were more prosaic about life and death. “Nae one expects ye tae mourn forever, I’m sure.”

“Because I don’t want to!”

she bit out, turning to glare at him. “I was happy! I loved him! Do you think something like that comes along every day?”

Ahh, Hugh thought as he met her angry gaze. Her ire had darkened the amethyst to vivid violet. Now they were getting down to the bones of the matter. “I ken what it is,”

he said softly. “Ye’re afraid tae lose again and mayhap tae love again, aye? Ye’re afraid that that was the best life had tae offer ye.”

“Excuse me?”

Sorcha blinked up at him, shifting away from him on the log.

“Ye’re family is right,”

he continued. “Ye cannae hang on tae a ghostie forever. Dinnae be afeared of moving forward wi’ yer own life. I doubt yer Matt would have wanted ye tae wallow in misery for the rest of yer days either.”

Sorcha shook her head disbelievingly. “I’m sure I must have misinterpreted something in that nearly unintelligible brogue of yours.”

“I’m sure ye dinnae misunderstand,”

he returned. “Ye’re afraid, lass, ’tis nothing tae be ashamed of.”

“Really? This coming from the master of denial?”

she nearly sneered the words.

“Ye’re going tae turn this back on me?”

he asked incredulously. “I was only trying tae help.”

“I don’t need your help! I don’t want it!”

she shouted, jumping to her feet, her hands fisted at her sides as she glared down at him. “I can’t believe you of all people have the balls to try to lecture me about fear!”

Hugh ground his teeth, feeling his own temper flare at her scathing words. “Calm down now, lass.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

she yelled. “I’m sick of people telling me what to do, and who are you to think you have the right anyway? You can hardly admit that traveling through time hasn’t scared the shit out of you, and you’re going to lecture me on the subject of fear?”

His jaw clenched and worked as Hugh fought to keep his notorious Scots temper from erupting. “Sorcha …”

he warned in low growl.

“Claire!”

she corrected, shooting a finger toward him. “And you have no right! No right at all, after all I have done for you, to judge me.”

“I dinnae judge,”

Hugh denied the accusation, but by this time his patience was nearly at an end. He rose to his feet as well, towering over her, but Claire was either too brave or too angry to be intimidated by him. Bloody hell, but it all made sense now, and Hugh couldn’t stop the words from rolling off his tongue. “Nae, lass, it doesnae take a genius tae figure ye out. Any fool can see it.”

“Go to hell, Hugh!”

“Verra likely,”

he shot back. “But yer godly Matt willnae be there, will he? He’s a saint now, aye? That’s why there’s tae be nae touching, nae kissing. Ye dinnae want anything tae mar the purity of his memory.”

“How dare you!”

She accused hotly, her body trembling with rage. “I loved him!”

“Aye!”

Hugh shot back, looming over her. “And ye’ve got yer shrine tae him tae prove it tae everyone, hae ye nae? The pictures, the medals … Tell me, Sorcha, do ye pray tae him as well?”

Sorcha froze in shock for only a split second before her hand shot out and she slapped him across the face. Hugh’s head turned with the force of the blow and while at any other point in his life such a bashing would only have served to stoke his own anger more, for some reason Sorcha’s fair wallop seemed to knock the sense back into him.

Cheeks aflame with the sting of her blow, Hugh felt only remorse for his harsh words. “Sorcha … Claire,”

he corrected, “forgi’ my words. I dinnae …”

“Don’t, Hugh,”

she whispered shakily, holding up a hand to halt his words. “Just don’t.”