Follow the Tour
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Excerpt:
Fling (n.): “Vigorous dance” (associated with the Scottish Highlands), from 1806.
“Period of indulgence on the eve of responsibilities,” first attested 1827.
Chapter One
Moraig, Scotland, 1843{/H1}
All the world hated a hypocrite, and William MacKenzie was no exception.
But
today that trouser-clad hypocrite was his brother, James, which made it
a little hard for William to hate him like he ought.
As
James sauntered to a stop beneath the awning of Moraig’s posting house,
his laughing gaze dropped to William’s bare knees and then climbed
northward again. “If you’re trying to make a memorable impression,” he
sniggered, “all that’s missing is a good breeze.”
“You
are late.” William crossed his arms and tried to look menacing. “And I
thought we agreed last night we would share this indignity.”
“No,
you agreed.” James shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and
offered up a shite-eating grin. “I listened and wisely withheld a formal
opinion.”
William bit back a growl of frustration.
For Christ’s sake, he knew well enough he looked like a fool, standing
in the thick heat of early August, draped in the MacKenzie plaid. And
there was no doubt he would be teasing James unmercifully if the reverse
were true.
But today they were both supposed to look like fools.
And James had a far better set of legs.
As
though summoned by his brother’s fateful words, a ghost of a breeze
stirred the wool that clung to William’s sweat-moistened skin. He
clapped a hand down over his sporran, ensuring the most important parts
remained hidden. “You live in Moraig, just as I do,” he pointed out to
his errant brother. “You owe it to the town to help me make a proper
impression for the reporter from the London Times.”
“Oh,
aye, and I will. I had thought to say something properly memorable,
such as ‘Welcome to Moraig.’ ” James raised a dark, mocking brow. “And
we shouldn’t need to put on airs. The town has its own charm.”
“Well,
the tourists haven’t exactly been flocking here,” William retorted,
gesturing to the town’s nearly empty streets. Hidden in the farthest
reaches of Scotland—far enough, even, that the Atlantic coast lapped at
its heels—the little town of Moraig might indeed be charming, but
attempts to attract London tourists had fallen somewhat short. If
William had anything to say about it, that was going to change, starting
today.
The only problem was he should have said it a half hour ago.
He
took off his Balmoral cap and pulled his hand through hair already damp
with sweat. While he was willing to tolerate looking like a fool in
order to prove Moraig was the perfect holiday destination for Londoners
seeking an authentic Highland experience, he still objected to having to
look like one alone. “We’ve an opportunity to get a proper story
printed in the Times, highlighting all Moraig has to offer.” He settled
the cap back on his head. “If you have an issue with the plaid, you
could have at least bestirred yourself to put on a small kilt.”
James burst out laughing. “And draw attention away from your bonny knees?”
As
if in agreement, a series of catcalls rang out from a group of men who
had crowded onto the sidewalk outside the Blue Gander, Moraig’s inn and
public house.
One of them held up his pint. “Lovely legs, MacKenzie!”
“Now show us your arse!”
William
scowled in their direction. On another day, he might have joined them
in raising a pint, but not today. Moraig’s future was at stake. The
town’s economy was hardly prospering, and its weathered residents
couldn’t depend on fishing and gossip to sustain them forever. They
needed a new direction, and as the Earl of Kilmartie’s heir, he felt
obligated to sort out a solution. He’d spent months organizing the
upcoming Highland Games. It was a calculated risk that, if properly
orchestrated, would ensure the betterment of every life in town. When
David Cameron, the town’s magistrate, had offered to invite a reporter
up from London, it had seemed a brilliant opportunity to reach those
very tourists they were aiming to attract.
But with
the sweat now pooling in places best left unmentioned and the minutes
ticking slowly by, that brilliance was beginning to tarnish.
William
peered down the road that led into town, imagining he could see a cloud
of dust implying the arrival of the afternoon coach. The very late
afternoon coach. But all he saw was the delicate shimmer of heat,
reflecting the nature of the devilishly hot day.
“Bugger
it all,” he muttered. “How late can a coach be? There’s only one route
from Inverness.” He plucked at the damp collar of his shirt, wondering
where the coachman could be. “Mr. Jeffers knew the importance of being
on time today. We need to make a ripping first impression with this
reporter.”
James’s gaze dropped once more to William’s
bare legs. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt of it.” He leaned
against the posting house wall and crossed his arms. “If I might beg the
question . . . Why turn it into such a circus? Why these games, instead
of, say, a well-placed rumor of a beastie living in Loch Moraig? You’ve
got the entire town in an uproar preparing for it.”
William
snorted. “Sunday dinners are enough to put this town in an uproar. And
you know as well as I that the games are for their own good.”
Though, God forbid his nolly-cocked, newly married brother lift a hand in the planning.
Or be bothered to put on a kilt, as it were.
William
could allow that James was perhaps a bit distracted by his pretty wife
and new baby—and understandably so. But given that his brother was
raising his bairns here, shouldn’t he want to ensure Moraig’s future
success more than anyone?
James looked up suddenly,
shading his eyes with a hand. “Well, best get those knees polished to a
shine. There’s your coach now. Half hour late, as per usual.”
With
a near groan of relief, William stood at attention on the posting house
steps as the mail coach roared up in a choking cloud of dust and hot
wind. Scrawny chickens and stray dogs scuttled to dubious safety before
the coach’s barreling path, and he eyed the animals with a moment’s
concern, wondering if perhaps he ought to have tried to corral them into
some hidden corner, safely out of sight.
But it was too late now.
A
half hour off schedule. Perhaps it wasn’t the tragedy he’d feared. They
could skip the initial stroll down Main Street he’d planned and head
straight to the inn. He could point out some of the pertinent sights
later, when he showed the man the competition field that had been
prepared on the east side of town.
“And dinna tell the
reporter I’m the heir,” William warned as an afterthought. “We want him
to think of Moraig as a charming and rustic retreat from London.” If
the town was to have a future, it needed to be seen as a welcome escape
from titles and peers and such, and he did not want this turning into a
circus where he stood at the center of the ring.
As
the coach groaned to a stop, James clapped William on the shoulder with
mock sympathy. “Don’t worry. With those bare legs, I suspect your
reporter will have enough to write about without nosing about the
details of your inheritance.”
The coachman secured the
reins and jumped down from his perch. A smile of amusement broke across
Mr. Jeffers’s broad features. “Wore the plaid today, did we?”
Bloody hell. Not Jeffers, too.
“You’re
late.” William scowled. “Were there any problems fetching the chap from
Inverness?” He was anxious to greet the reporter, get the man properly
situated in the Blue Gander, and then go home to change into something
less . . . Scottish. And, God, knew he could also use a pint or three,
though preferably ones not raised at his expense.
Mr.
Jeffers pushed the brim of his hat up an inch and scratched his head.
“Well, see, here’s the thing. I dinna exactly fetch a chap, as it were.”
This time, William couldn’t suppress the growl that
erupted from his throat. “Mr. Jeffers, don’t tell me you left him
there!” It would be a nightmare if he had. The entire thing had been
carefully orchestrated, down to a reservation for the best room the Blue
Gander had to offer. The goal had been to install the reporter safely
in Moraig and show him a taste of the town’s charms before the games
commenced on Saturday.
“Well, I . . . that is . . .”
Mr. Jeffers’s gaze swung between the brothers, and he finally shrugged.
“Well, I suppose you’ll see well enough for yourself.”
He turned the handle and then swung the coach door open.
A gloved hand clasped Mr. Jeffers’s palm, and then a high, elegant boot flashed into sight.
“What
in the blazes—” William choked on his surprise as a blond head tipped
into view. A body soon followed, stepping down in a froth of blue
skirts. She dropped Jeffers’s hand and looked around with bright
interest.
“Your chap’s a lass,” explained a bemused Mr. Jeffers.
“A lass?” echoed William stupidly.
And not only a lass . . . a very pretty lass.
She
smiled at the men, and it was like the sun cresting over the hills that
rimmed Loch Moraig, warming all who were fortunate enough to fall in
its path. William was suddenly and inexplicably consumed by the desire
to recite poetry to the sound of twittering birds. That alone might have
been manageable, but as her eyes met his, he was also consumed by an
unfortunate jolt of lustful awareness that left every inch of him
unscathed—and there were quite a few inches to cover.
“Miss Penelope Tolbertson,” she said, extending her gloved hand as though she were a man. “R-reporter for the London Times.”
He
stared at her hand unsure of whether to shake it or kiss it. Her
manners might be bold, but her voice was like butter, flowing over a
body until it didn’t know which end was up. His tongue seemed wrapped in
cotton, muffling even the merest hope for a proper greeting.
The reporter was female?
And not only female . . . a veritable goddess, with eyes the color of a fair Highland sky.
Dimly,
he felt James’s elbow connect with his ribs. He knew he needed to say
something. Preferably something that made the ripping first impression
he’d planned.
He raised his eyes to meet hers, giving himself up to the sense of falling.
Or perhaps more aptly put, a sense of flailing.
“W-welcome to Moraig, Miss Tolbertson.”
Penelope fought to keep her expression neutral.
It
wasn’t as though she hadn’t been teased for her stammer nearly every
day of her life, the merciless jeers from Brighton’s summer visitors
bending her but never quite breaking her.
Instead of
delivering a witty retort—which experience foretold would only emphasize
her infirmity—she forced herself to smile pleasantly at the man who had
just delivered the insult.
Whoever he was, he looked
very much like the penny-dreadful version of a Highland warrior, with
his dark, windswept hair, bulging biceps, and endlessly looped plaid. Of
course, the penny dreadfuls didn’t make her stomach contract in quite
the same nervous fashion.
And impressive or no, she had little patience for a person who thought it fun to mock a lady’s stammer.
She
tried to push away the stirrings of self-doubt such things always
brought. Her sister, Caroline, who’d married Moraig’s magistrate last
year, had always sought relief from her childhood demons by swimming.
But Pen had retreated from her tormentors with words—books and poetry
and newspapers. Eventually she had uncovered a talent for putting her
words on paper, probably because they became so tangled on her tongue.
With that discovery, the anxieties about her stammer had finally begun
to subside.
She did not enjoy having them rekindled today.
She
turned her attentions to the more familiar gentleman standing in wait.
“It is good to see you again, Mr. MacKenzie.” She smiled at her sister’s
handsome friend and pushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “I
must say, it is much warmer than it was d-during my last visit.”
“You’ve visited Moraig before?” the rude Highlander interrupted.
“Yes,”
Pen said patiently. It seemed he was bound to either repeat questions
already answered or else struggle to keep up with the conversation. She
framed a gentle smile to her lips, the kind that made people nearly
always underestimate her. “As I just said.”
She would
have liked to ignore him but suspected it would be a close to impossible
task, given that he seemed nearly twice the size of most men. Her gaze
scooted lower, to the thick, muscled calves peeking out from beneath the
folds of fabric. She was used to her share of bare legs, growing up in
Brighton as she had. But she wasn’t used to legs that looked like this.
She
schooled her cheeks against the flush that wanted to claim them. She
would not blush like an adolescent schoolgirl. After all, she was an
independent, modern woman, even if her tongue sometimes became a bit
tied. She had boldly negotiated this position with the London Times—the
first woman reporter they had ever hired. She had a job to do here, and
she needed to do it well. It did not matter what a brawny, belted
Highlander thought of her.
It mattered only what she thought of Moraig and what she chose to write about it.
In
contrast to the village idiot, James MacKenzie’s green eyes sparkled
with mirth and intelligence. “Miss Tolbertson is David Cameron’s new
sister-in-law. I was fortunate enough to take dinner with them when she
visited over Christmas,” he explained to the befuddled giant. He cocked
his head, studying her. “I must say, this is quite a surprise, Miss
Tolbertson. Cameron told us to expect a reporter from London, but he
didn’t say it would be you. Don’t you work for the Brighton Gazette?”
She
nodded, pleased he had remembered. Then again, a female journalist was
enough of a novelty she supposed it might be a difficult fact to forget.
“I did. But I’ve just b-been awarded a position with the Times and
moved to London.” It was the first job she’d ever applied for.
Foughtfor. Though her initial work with the Brighton Gazette had been
enjoyable, she couldn’t help but feel her experience didn’t quite count,
not when it was the newspaper her father had once founded. “This is my
first formal assignment,” she admitted. And even if her brother-in-law
had helped procure it, she felt a driving need to make sure it went
well.
“A decision we can only hope serves us both
well, given our hopes for a positive outcome for Moraig.” James gestured
to the man standing beside him. “May I present William MacKenzie. My
brother, and occasional Highland warrior when the circumstances call for
it.”
Pen turned back to the perspiring behemoth and
studied him with greater interest. This was James MacKenzie’s brother?
She could imagine now seeing some resemblance there, in their shared
height and dark hair, but the Highlander was far broader about the
shoulders and chest, and his scowling features lacked the easy
handsomeness of James’s welcoming smile. Then again, Pen could allow she
looked little like her sister Caroline, who was tall and brunette.
Only their penchant for impropriety identified them clearly as sisters.
She tried to smile. “P-pleased to meet you, Mr. MacKenzie.”
Confused
brown eyes swept her from boot to bonnet. “I dinna understand. You are
saying you are the reporter we’ve been expecting from London?”
No
matter his slow pattern of thought, the deep swell of his voice made
her heart shift into a less-than-ladylike pattern. She couldn’t
countenance the reaction. Despite the impressiveness of his calves, he
was none too handsome about the top. His face was as broad as his chest,
lacking even a dimple to soften the stark impression of masculinity.
His nose was slightly hooked, as though it had been broken once and left
to set however it wished.
And there was clearly not much going on between those ears.
“Yes. I am the reporter,” Penelope said, still smiling through her clenched teeth.
“But . . . I’ve never heard of a female reporter.”
Penelope
sighed. Perhaps he had belted his plaid too tightly this morning.
“Perhaps not in Moraig, b-but I assure you, the world is a bit larger
than this.” Of course, most people outside Moraig had never heard of a
female reporter either, but she didn’t think it a worthy enough fact to
point out. There ought to be more female reporters.
And she intended to prove herself an excellent one.
The
coachman chose that moment to bring her valise. He held it out to
William MacKenzie, but Penelope snatched it and hefted it against her
chest.
“I c-can manage my own luggage,” she said,
perhaps a bit more forcefully than was needed. But the bag held her
notebook and her pencils, the very tools of her trade, and this
MacKenzie didn’t seem the brightest of souls. Should her things be
misplaced or mishandled, she would have a devil of a time finding
replacements in a little town like Moraig.
The Highlander scowled. “It seems wrong.”
A
flare of irritation uncurled in Pen’s stomach. “I assure you, I am a
very c-capable j-journalist.” She winced to hear her words begin to jam
up. Her stammer always worsened when she was agitated, which was one of
the reasons she tried so hard to maintain a calm, serene demeanor. But
something about this man’s bumbling presumptions and his bare, flexing
calves made it difficult to keep her thoughts focused.
He shook his head. “No, it seems wrong, a lady carrying her own bag to the Blue Gander. What will people think?”
“Oh, I do not p-plan to stay at the Gander.”
William
MacKenzie’s head jerked back, and his blue feathered cap fell off his
head. “But . . . how will you report on its suitability for tourist
lodging if you don’t actually stay there?”
Pen
narrowly avoided rolling her eyes. Did he even understand what half
those words meant? He’d clearly not applied himself to the understanding
of the earlier bits of the conversation. “As your b-brother said
earlier, I am Mrs. Cameron’s sister.” She spoke slowly, so he would be
sure to understand. “I had thought to s-stay in their home.”
William
MacKenzie stared at her, a dumbfounded expression on his broad face.
Clearly she had taxed the limits of his imagination.
And he had taxed the limits of her tolerance.
She
turned to James MacKenzie, knowing that there, at least, there was a
spark of intelligence she could rely on. “Mr. MacKenzie, might I b-beg
upon your assistance? I had not written ahead of the timing of my visit.
I had hoped to surprise Caroline, you see.”
The
younger MacKenzie chuckled. “I’d be happy take you to Cameron’s house.”
He gestured her forward but wisely made no move to relieve her of her
bag. “And if a wee bit of surprise was your hope for the day, I’d say
well done.” A crooked grin split his face. “I don’t believe I’ve ever
seen my brother rendered speechless before.”
A veterinarian and infectious disease researcher by training, Jennifer McQuiston has always preferred reading romance to scientific textbooks. She resides in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband, their two girls, and an odd assortment of pets, including the pony she promised her children if mommy ever got a book deal. Jennifer can be reached via her website at
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