and “eyes put in with a sooty thumb”—thick black lashes round eyes you expected to be blue but that were instead a surprising deep green. With his hair worn long enough to brush his collar, disheveled and beard-stubbled, he looked not only rakish but mildly dangerous.
Alarm tingled up her spine at the sight of him, and she wiped sweating palms on the sides of her embroidered jeans. She shouldn’t have let him come.
Then he saw her, and his face lit like a candle. In spite of herself, she felt a huge, idiotic smile break out on her own face in answer, and without stopping to think of misgivings, she ran across the room, dodging stray children and luggage carts.
He met her halfway and swept her almost off her feet, hugging her hard enough to crack her ribs. He kissed her, stopped, and kissed her again, the stubble of his beard scraping her face. He smelled of soap and sweat and he tasted like Scotch whisky and she didn’t want him to stop.
Then he did and let go, both of them half breathless.
“A-hem,” said a loud voice near Brianna’s elbow. She swung away from Roger, revealing Gayle, who smiled angelically up at him under blond bangs, and waved like a child going bye-bye.
“Hell-ooo,” she said. “You must be Roger, because if you’re not, Roger’s sure in for a shock when he shows up, isn’t he?”
She looked him up and down with obvious approval.
“All that, and you play the guitar, too?”
Brianna hadn’t even noticed the case he had dropped. He stooped and picked it up, swinging it over his shoulder.
“Well, that’s my bread and butter, this trip,” he said, with a smile at Gayle, who clutched a hand to her heart in simulated ecstasy.
“Ooh, say that again!” she begged.
“Say what?” Roger looked puzzled.
“Bread and butter,” Brianna told him, hoisting one of his bags onto her shoulder. “She wants to hear you roll the r’s again. Gayle has a thing about British accents. Oh—that’s Gayle.” She gestured at her friend in resignation.
“Yes, I gathered. Er…” He cleared his throat, fixed Gayle with a piercing stare, and dropped his voice an octave. “Arround the rrruggged rrrock, the rrragged rrrascals rran. That do you for a bit?”
“Would you stop that?” Brianna looked crossly at her friend, who had swooned dramatically into one of the plastic seats. “Ignore her,” she advised Roger, turning toward the door. With a cautious glance at Gayle, he took her advice, and picking up a large box tied with string, followed her into the concourse.
“What did you mean about your bread and butter?” she asked, looking for some way to return the conversation to a sane footing.
He laughed, a little self-consciously.
“Well, the historical conference is paying the airfare, but they couldn’t manage expenses. So I called round, and wangled a bit of a job to take care of that end.”
“A job playing the guitar?”
“By day, mild-mannered historian Roger Wakefield is a harmless Oxford academic. But at night, he dons his secret tartan rrregalia and becomes the dashing—Roger MacKenzie!”
“Who?”
He smiled at her surprise. “Well, I do a bit of Scottish folk-singing, for festivals and ceilidhs —High Games and the like. I’m on to do a turn at a Celtic festival up in the mountains at the end of the week, is all.”
“Scottish singing? Do you wear a kilt when you sing?” Gayle had popped up on Roger’s other side.
“I do indeed. How else would they know I was a Scotsman?”
“I just love fuzzy knees,” Gayle said dreamily. “Now, tell me, is it true about what a Scotsman—”
“Go get the car,” Brianna ordered, hastily thrusting her keys at Gayle.
----
Gayle perched her chin on the windowsill of the car, watching Roger make his way into the hotel. “Gee, I hope he doesn’t shave before he meets us for dinner. I just love the way men look when they haven’t shaved for a while. What do you think’s in that big box?”
“His bodhran. I
Alarm tingled up her spine at the sight of him, and she wiped sweating palms on the sides of her embroidered jeans. She shouldn’t have let him come.
Then he saw her, and his face lit like a candle. In spite of herself, she felt a huge, idiotic smile break out on her own face in answer, and without stopping to think of misgivings, she ran across the room, dodging stray children and luggage carts.
He met her halfway and swept her almost off her feet, hugging her hard enough to crack her ribs. He kissed her, stopped, and kissed her again, the stubble of his beard scraping her face. He smelled of soap and sweat and he tasted like Scotch whisky and she didn’t want him to stop.
Then he did and let go, both of them half breathless.
“A-hem,” said a loud voice near Brianna’s elbow. She swung away from Roger, revealing Gayle, who smiled angelically up at him under blond bangs, and waved like a child going bye-bye.
“Hell-ooo,” she said. “You must be Roger, because if you’re not, Roger’s sure in for a shock when he shows up, isn’t he?”
She looked him up and down with obvious approval.
“All that, and you play the guitar, too?”
Brianna hadn’t even noticed the case he had dropped. He stooped and picked it up, swinging it over his shoulder.
“Well, that’s my bread and butter, this trip,” he said, with a smile at Gayle, who clutched a hand to her heart in simulated ecstasy.
“Ooh, say that again!” she begged.
“Say what?” Roger looked puzzled.
“Bread and butter,” Brianna told him, hoisting one of his bags onto her shoulder. “She wants to hear you roll the r’s again. Gayle has a thing about British accents. Oh—that’s Gayle.” She gestured at her friend in resignation.
“Yes, I gathered. Er…” He cleared his throat, fixed Gayle with a piercing stare, and dropped his voice an octave. “Arround the rrruggged rrrock, the rrragged rrrascals rran. That do you for a bit?”
“Would you stop that?” Brianna looked crossly at her friend, who had swooned dramatically into one of the plastic seats. “Ignore her,” she advised Roger, turning toward the door. With a cautious glance at Gayle, he took her advice, and picking up a large box tied with string, followed her into the concourse.
“What did you mean about your bread and butter?” she asked, looking for some way to return the conversation to a sane footing.
He laughed, a little self-consciously.
“Well, the historical conference is paying the airfare, but they couldn’t manage expenses. So I called round, and wangled a bit of a job to take care of that end.”
“A job playing the guitar?”
“By day, mild-mannered historian Roger Wakefield is a harmless Oxford academic. But at night, he dons his secret tartan rrregalia and becomes the dashing—Roger MacKenzie!”
“Who?”
He smiled at her surprise. “Well, I do a bit of Scottish folk-singing, for festivals and ceilidhs —High Games and the like. I’m on to do a turn at a Celtic festival up in the mountains at the end of the week, is all.”
“Scottish singing? Do you wear a kilt when you sing?” Gayle had popped up on Roger’s other side.
“I do indeed. How else would they know I was a Scotsman?”
“I just love fuzzy knees,” Gayle said dreamily. “Now, tell me, is it true about what a Scotsman—”
“Go get the car,” Brianna ordered, hastily thrusting her keys at Gayle.
----
Gayle perched her chin on the windowsill of the car, watching Roger make his way into the hotel. “Gee, I hope he doesn’t shave before he meets us for dinner. I just love the way men look when they haven’t shaved for a while. What do you think’s in that big box?”
“His bodhran. I
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