Chapter 8

“So…” Grant’s mother stood beside the MacDaras’ housekeeper, Miss Lydia Higgins, who was more like family, quite grandmotherly in fact. Arms crossed and fingers drumming atop her sleeve, Sarinda gave Miss Lydia a smug look that Grant knew all too well. “So, Ramsay and Ross tell me we’re about t’meet the one woman who could quite possibly tame this braw beastie son o’ mine. Can ye believe that, Lydia?”

“Is that so?” Miss Lydia replied in a singsong tone that grated on Grant’s nerves. “Then it’s a good thing we decided to take Joanna Martin’s group off her hands again today. She can spend the entire day with Grant and start teaching him to heel.” She poked Grant with her elbow and gave him a serious scowl. “Don’t screw this up, boy.”

He was too tired for these two and their teasing games. He’d left Joanna’s bed but a scant hour or so ago, and barely made it back to the park in time to shower and don fresh clothing before Joanna and her tour group arrived for their second full day at Highland Life and Legends.

Both Sarinda and Miss Lydia, on the other hand, were obviously looking forward to spending time with their special guests again today and had taken the opportunity to clothe themselves in the period dress of Highland women ready to go about their daily chores—yarn dyeing, in fact. They had a full day planned for the Alverest Knitting Chicks and Textiles Club and in Grant’s opinion, they looked entirely too damned pleased with themselves and the plot they’d cooked up betwixt them.

“That’s quite enough, thank ye.” Grant raked his still wet hair back from his face and secured it into a tangled ponytail knotted at the base of his skull. “I’m in no mood for either of ye nor yer infernal nettlin’. The both of ye need t’find someone else t’poke.”

“Dinna use that tone with me, boy. Ye ken good and well how to speak to yer mother.” Sarinda stretched as tall as her petite, barely five-foot frame allowed and gave him a look that still had the effect of making him tighten his buttocks in preparation of getting his arse tanned.

As if reading her son’s mind, Sarinda continued, “I’d sooner take a switch to yer arse now than I did when ye were a wee’un, aye? ’Tis time t’pay the piper for the song that kept ye dancin’ ’til the wee hours of the mornin’.” She shook a stern finger at him, but delight sparkled in her pale blue eyes. “Dinna be pissy with me because ye’ve had no sleep.” Sarinda chuckled and nudged Miss Lydia with her elbow. “He was the same way as a lad. If the boy didna sleep, the devil himself couldna get along with him.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Miss Lydia said. She looked at Grant and nodded. “A lot.”

Carolina Adventures’ compact black shuttle bus pulled through the main entrance of Highland Life and Legends, easing through the sliding electronic gateway of black iron bars centered between two medieval towers. A kilted security guard held the bus at the checkpoint for a brief moment while he spoke to Joanna through the driver’s window, then pointed to a parking area reserved for VIP guests.

“Thank the goddesses,” Grant said under his breath. At least now, Máthair and Mistress Lydia would have someone other than himself t’keep themselves entertained.

“Mind yer manners,” Sarinda said with a stinging pinch of the tender flesh of Grant’s underarm.

“Dammit, Máthair!” Grant jerked out of her reach and strode across the cobblestone greeting center of the bailey to the curb, where the bus had come to a stop and sat with lights flashing to warn of passengers exiting the vehicle.

Glaring back at the still grinning women, Grant pointed them toward the bus. “If the two of ye can see fit t’be civil, come help me properly greet our guests and get their day started.”

The sliding door to the bus opened and the Alverest Knitting Chicks and Textiles president, Hazel Abraham, was the first to emerge. “Step lively, ladies,” she called back up into the bus, then turned and winked at Grant. “We’re already running quite late this morning.” She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “And we’ve all got a pretty good idea as to why. The rooms in the bed-and-breakfast aren’t exactly soundproof.”

Grant pretended not to hear Hazel’s comment, smiling politely as he helped each lady step off the bus. The last Knitting Chick in line was Georgetta. She grabbed his hand with the strength of a man and shook it. “Holy Moses, you shook the house last night, and Joanna looks like she’s been rode hard and put up wet. Good job, son!”

Grant grit his teeth and held his breath to keep from groaning out loud. Damned old women. Coarser-talkin’ than any bunch of warriors. If they had kept up that banter during the short ride from the bed-and-breakfast to the park, Joanna would be in a mood for certain. He steeled himself and looked up into the bus. Joanna was the last one on board.

She sat in the driver’s seat with a large travel cup of coffee clutched to her chest. She’d slicked her hair back, its usual fiery red coloring a deep, rich burgundy this morning since it looked to be quite wet. She’d twisted it to the top of her head in a messy bun with dark curling tendrils framing her face and throat. She wore a pair of black sunglasses so large that the upper half of her face was hidden. Her pale cheeks and lips attested to the absence of even the slightest makeup, and the holes in her ears were a dead giveaway that she’d forgotten her earrings in her haste to get dressed.

Grant peered closer, eyeing her oversized black shirt and the loose black lounge pants she wore. Although he was no expert on this century’s form of women’s clothing, there was a distinct possibility that she had her sweatshirt on backwards.

Grant couldn’t help but smile. Aye. He’d done well by his lady. He held out a hand to help her disembark and waited. “Good mornin’ t’ye, lass.”

Joanna took a long gulp of coffee, then hugged it back to her chest. Slowly, she looked down at him from the top step of the bus. All he could see in the ebony lenses of the glasses were his twin reflections, but he could tell by the tilt of her head and the hard line of her lips that a storm was brewin’.

Joanna took hold of the safety rail and eased down the steps. When she reached the bottom, she looked up at him, cocking her head as though studying his face. “Have you any idea what it’s like to be trapped in a bus with seven old women who haven’t had sex in twenty years or more and are determined to relive ‘the wild nasty,’ as they so grossly called it, through you?”

“I canna say that I do,” Grant said with a glance back at said women impatiently milling about on the sidewalk. “But I do ken verra well what it’s like t’be nettled and fretted with first thing in the mornin’ after a verra short night.”

He gave Joanna his most understanding smile, took her hand, and steadied her as she stepped off the bus. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but instead he hurried her around her tour group, shielding her from them by placing his body between her and the chattering mob of nosy hens. He came to a stop in front of his mother and Mistress Lydia. “Ye ken m’mother, but I dinna believe ye’ve met our housekeeper, Mistress Lydia Higgins.” He fixed both his mother and Miss Lydia with a warning, narrow-eyed look that he prayed they’d take to heart. “Mistress Lydia—this is Mistress Joanna Martin.”

Miss Lydia bobbed her head and smiled. “Good to meet you, young lady. I’ve heard lots of good things about you.”

“Oh really?” Joanna turned for a brief moment and aimed her sunglasses at Grant in what he was certain was a warning glare. Without another word, she turned back to Miss Lydia. “It’s good to meet you too, thank you.”

“Good. Now that we all know each other well enough, we best be on with it.” Sarinda beamed at Joanna while nodding at Miss Lydia. “Miss Lydia and I have a full day planned for your group of ladies. Don’t we, Miss Lydia?”

“Absolutely!” Miss Lydia took Joanna’s hand, pumped it up and down briefly, then held on tight, patting the back of it as though consoling an ailing friend. “Wool cardin’. Spinnin’. Batchin’ up the dye out of local plants. Weavin’ the material in a particular pattern. Just about every step they’d be interested in except for shearin’ the sheep.” Miss Lydia glanced over at Grant and smiled while still patting Joanna’s hand. “And Grant’s going to see to it that you have a fine day at Highland Life and Legends while we’re making expert cloth makers out of your ladies. He tells us the only time you’ve really been here at the park is when you’re working. High time you discovered the more relaxing side to the sights we have here.”

Joanna extricated her hand from Miss Lydia’s grasp and folded her arms across her waist, her coffee cup hugged against her middle. She faced Grant, aiming her sunglasses at him again with disturbing accuracy as though centering him in her sights.

“Really,” she said in a cold, deadly tone.

I wish she’d remove those damn glasses. ’Tis like looking down the barrel of a gun. Grant nodded, bracing himself for the backlash that Joanna’s tone warned was imminent. “Aye. ’Twas quite the surprise t’myself as well. Máthair and Mistress Lydia took it upon themselves t’plan this fine day.” It might be cowardly, but at least now Joanna would ken that he had nothin’ at all to do with whatever the women had planned. He’d choose cowardice every time when it came to the plottin’ of women who knew him entirely too well.

Joanna didn’t acknowledge Grant’s confession or if she did, her reaction was hidden by the impenetrable black plastic of her huge sunglasses. She turned back to Sarinda. “I really can’t let you accept full responsibility for this bunch, Mrs. MacDara. Not for an entire day of their tour.” She jerked her head toward the chattering seniors, who were gradually inching closer so they wouldn’t miss a single tidbit of the conversation. “I know you handled them yesterday, but I don’t think you realize what you’re getting into, taking them today. They’re a real…handful.”

“Call me Sarinda, child,” Grant’s mother insisted while sparing a knowing glance first at Miss Lydia and then at Grant. “And I’ve put the fear o’ the gods and the sting of m’switch into four boys that I raised to men and one girl child that I’m still molding into a strong young woman. I think I can handle seven mature ladies hell-bent on havin’ a fine time afore they go to their graves.”

Grant inwardly groaned, but bit the inside of his cheek and remained silent. ’Twas too damn dangerous to speak with this many women about. He’d ne’er survive it.

Sarinda grinned. “ ’Tis all settled then. Off wi’ ye now.” She stepped forward and poked a finger into the center of Grant’s chest. “Take yer lady o’er to a fine breakfast at the inn. Mabel’s got a fresh batch of parritch made and some hot bannocks just waitin’ to be buttered and smothered with Master Ted’s fresh clover honey. He had an early batch this spring and saw fit t’give it to us.”

“Aye, Máthair.” Grant nodded obediently and held out his hand to Joanna. “Come, lass. Let us be about the day.” And escape afore these plotting females think of any other ways to torment us, he added to himself.

Joanna turned without a word, ignored Grant’s hand, and took off at a brisk pace across the round cobblestoned meeting area that served as the hub for all the streets and avenues at the front gates of the park.

“Ye best hurry and catch her, boy. Appears she’s as sweet as yerself when she’s no’ had enough sleep.” Sarinda shooed her son away with both hands as she joined Miss Lydia and the other ladies.

Aye, we’re a match all right. A few broad strides easily brought Grant to Joanna’s side. As they walked, the silence between them grew heavy, taking on a life all its own. Grant rolled his shoulders against the prickling sense of doom settling all around them.

“Are ye vexed wi’ me for some reason?” He didna wish t’ask the question, but battles were easier when faced head on—even so, he swallowed hard and braced himself for whatever she answered. He couldna imagine what he’d done wrong, but ye ne’er knew for certain with women—or at least that’s what his newly married brother Alec had told him.

Joanna remained silent. She picked up her pace and turned up the short brick-covered street housing all the food and concession establishments at the park.

“So yer just tired then?” Grant forced himself to keep his voice calm, frustration building as Joanna continued to ignore him. Why the hell was she no’ talkin’ to him? “Are ye a wee bit hungry? Is that the problem, or have ye merely not had enough of that godforsaken muckwater ye fancy so much?” He hadna been around the woman first thing in the mornin’ that much. Usually, their paths didna cross until well into Joanna’s day. She’d seemed fine yesterday morning, but mayhap today was different since she’d had no sleep. Or maybe she was a wee beastie at the start of the day and yesterday morning’s decent mood had been a strange rarity. He could live with that. His little sister, Esme, was just the same.

“It’s coffee. Remember? Not godforsaken muckwater just because you don’t like it.”

Thank the gods. The woman speaks! “Aye, I remember.” Grant held open the heavy oak door to the inn. “And ye’ve got the right of it. I canna stomach the stuff, but Alec’s wife calls coffee the black nectar of the gods.”

“I’m definitely on the black nectar of the gods’ team.” Joanna yawned and selected a corner booth. She slid into the seat, swooped her sunglasses off, and tossed them to the table. She covered her face with both hands and massaged the inner corners of her eyes with her fingertips.

Ahh…his sweet lady was bone-tired. That was it. The poor lass’s red-rimmed eyes with bluish shadows smudged beneath gave testament to her lack of sleep. No wonder she’d worn the dark glasses. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I apologize for yer weariness, but…” He paused and lightly traced slow, lazy circles across the silky back of her hand. “In my mind, ’twas well worth it.”

Joanna managed a faint smile. “It was worth being a bit drag-assy for a day.” Her gaze dropped to the table, but not before Grant spotted something quite troubling in her eyes. “I’m just not so sure it was worth all the other repercussions.” She gently eased her hand out from under his, then leaned back on the bench and stared down at her lap.

“What other ‘repercussions’?”

“I shouldn’t have let it happen. None of it. Not the woods and definitely not my room. There’s too much at stake here.” Joanna waved down the girl prepping the heavy wooden tables of the dining room with roughly woven napkins, wooden platters, and heavy rustic silverware. She held up her travel mug. “Could I have a refill on coffee, please? Black. Strongest you’ve got.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The waitress, dressed as a Highland bar wench, hurried back to the kitchen.

“What the hell are ye sayin’?” Grant cleared his throat and lowered his voice as a small group of early-morning tourists filed into the restaurant. “What repercussions?”

“Personal and professional repercussions,” Joanna said in a whispered hiss as the waitress appeared out of nowhere with her coffee.

“Can I bring you a scone, some parritch, or something else for your breakfast?” The young waitress smiled at Joanna but her gaze kept darting over to Grant as she preened closer to him, arching her back and flaunting the low, rounded neckline of her long dress. “What can I get for you today, Mr. Grant?”

“Nothing for me, lass, thank ye.” Grant restrained himself from shooing the girl away. It wasn’t the waitress’s fault that Joanna had just as good as told him t’go straight t’hell.

“Just coffee for now, thanks,” Joanna added.

“Tell me what you mean.” Grant grit his teeth. When he’d left Joanna’s bed that morning, he’d felt more alive than he had since before the damned goddesses destroyed all his hopes and dreams. He’d felt lighter and filled with anticipation. Like a weight had been lifted and he’d been made whole again. Now the weight was back, bearing down and threatening to crush him.

Joanna stared down at her cup, gripping the handle in her right hand and rubbing her thumb along the black rim of the lid. “Have you ever heard the saying ‘Don’t dip your pen in the company’s ink’ or ‘Don’t shit in the same place you eat’?”

“What the hell is yer meanin’?” Grant took in a deep breath and held it. He must not raise his voice or lose his temper. ’Twould no’ be fair to Joanna to cause a scene—especially if he hoped to rid her mind of whatever foolishness was givin’ her pause about the fact that she now belonged to him—and he belonged to her.

“You and I have a professional relationship. Carolina Adventures is also trying to get a permanent year-round contract with Highland Life and Legends. How do you think it looks for me to be sleeping with one of the board members?”

“I dinna give a damn how it looks.” Grant pried Joanna’s coffee out of her grip, set it aside, then scooped up her hands and held them tight between his. “ ’Tis no one’s business but our own,” he added.

“You know better than that. You can’t take a crap around here without everyone knowing what color it is. Small-town gossip is faster than high-speed internet.” Joanna finally looked up at him, her green eyes dark and sad. “And I don’t want your family thinking I’m a slut. I don’t usually do what we did yesterday with men I don’t know all that well. I mean…I know I know you, but I don’t really know you. You know?”

“Yer no’ makin’ a bit a sense. Like hell ye dinna know me. We’ve been flittin’ about each other like moths to a flame for nigh on a year and a half now—almost two. Ye canna tell me that ye didna think last night was a possibility—destiny even.” Grant slowly exhaled, the tension easing just a bit. She wasna angry with him. She was concerned about gossip. Thank the stars above and the fires below. “And my family willna think ill of ye. They’ll just be glad that I’m easier t’live with, ye ken? They’ll more than likely thank ye.”

“And that’s another thing.” Joanna’s voice dropped so low, Grant had to lean forward to hear her. Her reddish-blond brows knotted together as she fixed him with a sad but determined look. “I’ve heard rumors. About…about…what an asshole you can be. Sorry—but that’s what I’ve heard. And there’s been talk about your moodiness. I can’t…” Her words drifted off and she broke eye contact, staring down at the table. “I can’t go through a relationship even close to that again.”

She pulled her hands out of his and flipped them in the air. “That is, if you were planning on a relationship. But then, there I go assuming.” She shrugged and managed an unconvincing laugh. “Maybe you just wanted to get laid. In that case—we’re all good here. Right?”

“I didna want t’just ‘get laid.’ ” A heavy, sick weight knotted in Grant’s chest. He couldna explain his outlook on this century to her, his “moodiness” as she’d called it—not yet. He fisted his hands on the table, wishing he could make her understand. “And we are not ‘good’ here. We’re a hell of a distance from good.”