Sweet Christmas Kisses (131 page)

"Uh...thank you."  Lucy finished writing her description of the cherrywood wardrobe, then checked its dimensions and added those to the notebook as well.

As transparent as Aileen's harmless little matchmaking ploys were, one thing she'd said was true.  This house was beginning to feel like home, and the elderly ladies already felt like family.  Knowing that she wouldn't be here with them for Christmas, with a beautiful live Christmas tree and crackling fires in the fireplaces, already made her feel nostalgic and sad.  And she hadn't even left yet.

But there was no way she could get back to the States on the fifteenth, wrap up her life there, and make it back for the holidays. Even then, what could she do here for a career, in a tiny village...in the middle of nowhere?

It was an enticing dream, but it just wouldn't work.  And it was foolish to wish for something that could never be.

****

The light switch at the bottom of the third floor staircase was apparently broken.

Brodie led the way up the dark, narrow steps to the top landing, then felt along the wall for a switch. The light of a single, weak bulb hanging over the stairs barely penetrated the dark shadows.

"So this is the third floor I've been hearing about," Lucy said dryly. "I'll bet the servants just loved it up here."

"They probably did, actually.  Those who could find a career in service had a good roof over their heads and decent food."  He found another light switch on the opposite wall, that illuminated a long hallway to the right flanked on each side by four doors. "That wasn't the case with everyone, back then."

To the left, what must have been a sitting area was piled with an assortment of bed frames, bureaus and tables.  Beyond that, an open doorway revealed a small kitchen.

Somewhere up here a window must have been left open, because a chilly breeze whistled down the hallway.  A stronger gust of wind ruffled the pages of a yellowed calendar on the wall and a sudden bang echoed up the stairs from below.

Lucy clutched her clipboard to her chest and peered uneasily down the dimly lit stairs.  "Was that the door we just came through?"

"Maybe.  I'm going to take a quick walk-through up here and find that open window before we do anything else."

She stayed at his heels as he went down the hall, opened each door and turned on the light inside.  "Wow.  Aileen was right," she murmured.  "Just look at all of this stuff."

The rooms had probably all served as bedrooms, save for one cramped bathroom, but now they were filled with furniture draped in sheets, crates stacked to the ceiling, and old trunks. The furniture could easily fill another house or two the size of Rosethorn.

At the door of the eighth room, she could feel a strong breeze whistling under the door.  Inside, they found clothing racks covered in sheets and even more boxes crammed into the space, though an area in the center had been cleared, and a thick ring binder lay open on a card table.

"Look," Lucy said, running a finger down a page filled with neatly written entries.  "This is Maeve's handwriting.  She was cataloguing the vintage clothing in here."

Other tabbed pages were marked Household furnishings.  Silver.  Crystal.  Tapestries.  Jewelry.  China.  She flipped through the pages, but none of the other sections had been completed.

"So you've got a start, then." He grinned at her.  "Now, it should only take five years instead of ten to go through all of this stuff."

She carefully lifted the corner of one of the sheets, exposing what appeared to be a 1920's flapper dress covered with tarnished sequins and a bedraggled ostrich feather drooped over one shoulder.  "This place needs a curator.  How would I ever know about all of this?"

"Researching could become quite a hobby."  He pulled back the cover on another clothes rack, revealing what appeared to be a collection of genuine fur coats pungent with the scent of mothballs.  "But if you're just planning to sell it all off, the better auction houses would employ experts on fine art, collectibles and such."

Sell it off sounded so...so crass.  So mercenary.  Her accountant brain told her that an auction was the financially logical way to go.  The intelligent choice. 

Her heart rebelled at the thought.

But even if she chose to keep the property, how could she ever pay the inheritance taxes that would surely follow?

She wandered over to a large carton by the window.  The fine print on the label affixed to the top read Georgiana Elizabeth Campbell, dresses. 1803-1856.  "Just look at this, Brodie.  There's not one box or carton I wouldn't want to carefully examine before even considering offering it at auction.  I don't mean because of the monetary value.  It's like my family story waiting to unfold.  This is going to take forever."

"Or, ye could close your eyes, go downstairs and pretend ye never saw it," he teased.

"A teacher of 18th century literature wouldn't believe anyone could do that."  She wandered into another room, where eddies of dust swirled up from the floor.  She sneezed.  "Do you know anything about Scottish inheritance law?"

"Aye, a wee too much.  My grandparents passed on a couple years ago, and a bachelor uncle I barely knew."

"I'm so sorry."

"My mother had a hard time over losing them, of course.  And then because her brother died intestate, the legal problems were enormous.  Plus, the taxes were a major hit.  At least my grandparents had been gifting the maximum amount each year and set up a trust years before they died, which helped."  He looked up at the single bare light bulb in the center of the room.    "Ye need brighter light bulbs if you'll be working up here.  I'll go get some."

She looked up from an old treadle sewing machine.  "That's all right--I can do it later."

But he'd already gone down the hall and clattered down the wooden steps. A moment later she heard pounding. Rattling of a knob, then another loud bang.

"Are you all right?" She hurried to the top of the stairs and peered down into the gloom.

"The door slammed shut.  It's jammed again, and the doorknob was so loose it just fell off in my hand."  He muttered something under his breath.  "I don't suppose ye have a screwdriver and torch in your pocket."

"A flashlight?  No.  Maybe there's one up here."  She glanced around the landing area, then looked into the little kitchen, where an antique refrigerator with a cylindrical compressor on top sat in a corner, and a jumble of old dining room chairs and end tables filled most of the room. The dusty cupboards and drawers were filled with kitchen odds and ends, but no flashlights.  "Hey--I did find a candle and some matches, though. And a kitchen knife."

She carefully descended the stairs and handed him the knife, then lit the candle and held it up.  "Will this help?"

"Some."  He worked at the inner lock mechanism with the knife, then threw his weight against the door with his shoulder.

It didn't budge.

He leaned farther back and tried again.

"Can you kick it open? Maybe the latch assembly will break."

"Maybe if it was new.  But this looks like it's solid brass and made to last."

"Oh."  She sat down on the fourth step up and held the candle on her lap.  The warmth of the little flame warded away some of the chill, but it was definitely getting colder up here.  "Maybe a little kick?"

"And splinter an oak door older than your great-great-gran?" He reached for the mobile in his back pocket.  "If Sorcha or Aileen were on the other side, maybe we could work together and get the door knobs back on each side--at least enough to get this thing open."

He speed dialed a number.  Waited.  Then dialed another.

 She held her breath, hoping. Then she sighed.  "I guess they did leave. And if they have their cell phones, they would've turned the ringers off."

"They never go out at night."  He looked at her in surprise.  "And they're both afraid to drive if there's any chance of snow.  If one of them has to go somewhere, I take them."

"They went to hear a choir in the village."

He snorted.  "That's a first."

"I think Aileen...um...thought we would have a romantic evening if they were away."  She felt a blush crawl up into her cheeks.  "I keep telling her that we're just friends, but she refuses to believe it."

"Ahh."  The candlelight flickered and danced, highlighting the angles and planes of his lean, handsome face. He propped a foot on the second step, rested a forearm on his thigh, and looked up at her with a enigmatic expression, his eyes darkening. "Just friends."

A jolt of awareness shot through her at the intimacy of this small space. 

How very close they were. 

Her instincts told her that if she were to make the smallest move, he would take it from there.  Just one, innocent kiss.  Would that be so wrong?

He seemed to be following her unspoken thoughts, because he slowly lifted a hand and grazed her cheekbone with his fingertips, then threaded them into her hair and drew her closer.  "I'm finding it very hard not to kiss ye," he murmured. 

Every time he'd touched her--in a purely innocent and casual way--she'd felt shivers race through her; an elemental reaction she'd never felt with anyone else.  If he didn't kiss her now, she knew she was going to forever wonder what she'd missed.

Her gaze drifted involuntarily to the sensual curve of his mouth.  "Then kiss me.  Now."

She leaned forward and rested a hand against the swift, strong beat of his heart, then brushed a tentative kiss against his lips.

That was all it took. His reaction was instantaneous. 

Still cradling her head in his hand, he wrapped his other arm around her waist to pull her even closer.  He kissed her back with gentle intensity, then almost imperceptibly deepened the kiss until heat rippled through her veins and her heart sang. 

It was if she'd waited all her life for this man, and this moment...

And then suddenly he pulled away and their eyes locked for a long, frozen moment.

She knew the shock in his expression had to match her own.

"Oh, lass." His voice was low and rough.  "I wasn't expecting that."

"Nor I," she echoed.  "Wow.  Maybe we shouldn't--"

From somewhere downstairs came Maxie's excited barks signaling the arrival of familiar people, and Brodie gave a rueful laugh. "Apparently the choir wasn't that interesting."

"And maybe it was for the best."  She touched his cheek, wanting to experience that incredible kiss all over again.  Knowing it would be a mistake.

Their eyes met again, filled with emotions and desire that wouldn't ever be met.

Then Brodie speed-dialed Sorcha's phone and they waited in silence for help to arrive.

After kissing Brodie on Friday night, Lucy resolved to keep her distance.  It was the mature, practical decision, when she knew she'd be leaving for the U.S. after the Christmas party.

Her resolve last all of twelve hours--the space of one sleepless night and an endless morning of trying to accomplish a laundry list of tasks and accomplishing nothing.

When he showed up for lunch looking even worse than she felt, she knew he'd come to the same conclusion.

Aileen looked between them both, a smug smile tilting the corner of her lips as she cleared their untouched luncheon plates.

"So ye didn't like my lunch?" she scolded. "You'll be seeing it all again at supper, then. Twas my mum's recipes.  Haggis, neeps and tatties."  She winked at Lucy.  "It's vegetarian haggis, dearie...I figured ye might like that better than the real thing."

The mashed potatoes, mashed turnips and mound of something brown--looking rather like a loose mound of unformed meatloaf--had smelled delicious, but Lucy had only managed to push a corner of the potatoes around her plate.  Her stomach had tied itself into a tight knot the moment Brodie walked into the kitchen. "It looks wonderful, Aileen.  I just wasn't hungry."

"Would ye be wanting a slice of my apple pie, then?"

Sorcha lumbered to her feet and took her plate to the sink.  "Rest yourself, Aileen.  I'll serve it."

She cut three thick slices and plopped one in front of everyone, then set a pitcher of warm custard sauce on the table. 

"Ye missed quite a concert last night," she grumbled as she poured a lake of creamy custard over her pie.  "Ten singers and not one could carry a tune in a bucket. You'd think just one of them could get it right."

Brodie laughed. "Sounds memorable."

"My memory will be of trying to get Aileen to slip out with me. She seemed contented enough to listen, but then she's half deaf."

"I took out my hearing aids." Aileen smiled.  "It was better that way.  So, Lucy, what did you think of the third floor?"

Lucy felt a flicker of embarrassment at Aileen's knowing look.  "I thought I could easily compile a list, but you were both right.  There's an unbelievable amount of stuff up there.  I'm not even sure where to start."

Sorcha chuckled.  "Maura felt the same way, and she lived here all her life."

Lucy gamely started in on the pie, but even with a splash of custard it tasted like sawdust in her mouth.  After a few bites, she pushed it aside. "I'll put a cover over it and eat it later, if that's okay.  I should get back to work."

"We'll take care of it and the dishes, too.  You go on."

Lucy nodded her thanks and headed for the library with Maxie at her heels.  The peacefulness of the room usually seemed to help settle her thoughts, but this time they kept spinning through her brain instead.  Maybe going on a long walk would be better...

Brodie entered the library with a pensive expression and shut the door behind him, then walked up to her and rested his hands on her shoulders.

The warmth of his hands washed through her like a gentle, comforting balm, and she realized just how much she'd missed him since they'd been together on the staircase last night, lost in that exquisite kiss.

"I want to apologize," he said.  "I let myself get out of hand.  And if I now make ye uncomfortable here, I can head back to Edinburgh."

Thunderstruck, she stared up at him.  "That...that isn't what I want.  Not at all."