The Blacksmith: A Highlander Romance (The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 38) Read online

  “Ye sound downright brokenhearted,” said a deep voice from behind her. She spun around. The shoulder of the very mortal-looking ghost was leaning against the opening of the tunnel with one of his ankles crossed over the other, the toe of one boot resting on the ground.

  With so little color visible, it was no wonder she’d mistaken him for the statue. Only a tiny line of red ran through the concrete-gray tartan that draped around him in the more ancient-styled kilt. Though the ruffle on the front of his shirt was white, the grey wool of his short jacket had hidden it. And the sash of tartan draped over his shoulder had blocked her view of his dark brown hair that waved against his neck and down to his shoulder. The cap had hidden the rest.

  She couldn’t contain her glee at finding him again. “So, you’re not a ghost.”

  He bit on the corner of his lip briefly. “Not anymore, nay.”

  She laughed to be polite, but since he couldn’t have known what she was talking about, she explained what she’d seen across the park.

  “Auch. Now I understand.”

  “Then why did you say you weren’t a ghost anymore?”

  He cocked his head to one side and looked at her with one eye closed. “Would ye truly care to know?”

  “Of course.” She swung her bag off her shoulder and grabbed the zipper in one movement. “Do you mind if I take your picture while we talk? I need to get some shots of authentic Scotland, and you look just about as authentic as it gets.”

  “As it happens, I’m in just the mood to do a good deed, now that I’ve met ye...” He turned his head as if listening for her to give him her name.

  She smiled at the pick-up line. “Jordan.”

  “Kerry Mather, at yer service.”

  She pulled her camera up, but the telescope was still on it, so she had to change it out. “You can keep talking while I get my camera ready. You were telling me about being a ghost. You know. Before.”

  “Auch, was I? Well, it’s completely slipped my mind now.” He unfolded his arms and she stopped him with an outstretched hand and a panicked gurgle.

  Very smooth, Jordan. Very smooth.

  “Can you fold them again. And hold that position? The bright green moss on the tunnel is great. It will bring out the red of your tartan, so I’d like it in the shot, too. If you’ll just give me a second…” She lifted the camera and wasted no time, popping off shots like the sun was going down. And through it all, he stood patient and willing, even when she asked him to look off in the distance so she could repeat the same angles she’d just hit. “Wow. That was terrific,” she said, long minutes later. “I can’t thank you enough for indulging me.”

  “Certain I am that ye can.” He unfolded his long limbs and started walking toward her with one of those flirty looks in his hazel eyes. “Ye can repay me with yer own time, aye?”

  Jordan coughed. “Okay. Looks like I owe you—if we round up—about five minutes.”

  “Done!”

  They laughed together. He pointed to the path, then fell into step beside her as they continued toward the river. She couldn’t help glancing at her watch.

  “Auch, now. Dinna be timing me just yet, lass. I’ll let ye ken when I’m ready to collect my seven minutes, aye?”

  She rolled her eyes to let him know what she thought of his flirting and his math. However, she didn’t have anything pressing at the moment, and she already had some pretty awesome shots to examine when she was back at her rented flat, so she went along with it.

  “I assume you’re from around here,” she said.

  “Auch, aye. Once upon a time, mind.”

  “It’s just that you look so much like that statue…”

  “My ancestor, no doubt about it.”

  “They really fought with pans?”

  He nodded and gave her a quick family history of how his predecessors were all big burley men, all smiths.

  “Smiths? I thought you said your name was Mather.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Blacksmiths. Kerry Milton Mather, the smith from here in Brechin, was the first to go into battle wielding his large fry pan as a shield. For he knew just how impossible it would be for his enemy to run a blade through it, or a cannon ball for that matter. If the truth were known, he might have been in a great hurry when the fighting broke out. At any rate, the pan did spare his life.

  “Later, his son, Kerry Mather the Younger carried that same pan into every skirmish he ever entered, including those that began the first Jacobite Rebellion.”

  “That had to be the name I read on the statue.”

  “I would assume so, aye. For he was the first to take up the Jacobite cause.”

  Since she wasn’t terribly familiar with the local history, she struggled for something intelligent to say. “So you’re a descendant.”

  “Aye. And my name, too, is Kerry Mather—Kerry Moffat Mather.” He gestured to his kilt. “It is the Moffat tartan I wear. Fither’s pan, Mither’s clan, as it were.”

  “You don’t seem too happy to have a hand-me-down name.”

  “Auch, nay. On the contrary. It is my forefathers who wouldnae be pleased. Ye see, I’ve yet to prove myself as they had. I’ve yet to return victorious from battle with the frypan in my hand.”

  “Would you care for an American’s opinion?”

  His eyes crinkled, like the idea amused him. “Certainly.”

  “I think our parents’ opinions—or in this case, an ancestor’s—is highly overrated. Especially someone who has been dead and buried for centuries. In my case, if I followed my mother’s advice, I’d be stuck in Iowa for the rest of my life, like she is.”

  He nodded and frowned, nodded and frowned, like he was working through the idea. Then he stopped walking and shook his head. “Would ye care for a Highlander’s opinion of yer American opinion, then?”

  She laughed. “Certainly.”

  “If ye could so easily suggest such a thing, that our ancestors are dead and buried, and therefore their opinions should be of no consequence, I suspect ye’ve spent too much time watching Scotland through a lens and seeing it not at all.”

  That took her back. She believed she appreciated the country a lot more than most. Since the poor man looked worried, however, like he might have gone too far, she had to let him off the hook.

  She put her hands on her hips and teased him with an exaggerated, “Oh, yeah?”

  He grinned and mimicked her. “Auch, aye.”

  “Well, I have three days left. Do you think you might be able to show me this Scotland I’m not seeing? I’ve got to take a ton of pictures, too.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “As it happens, I have a pair of days myself. And aye, if ye’ll promise an open mind, I can assuredly help ye find it, Jordan…uh…”

  “Lennox.” She held out her hand and he took it, then pressed her icy cold fingers between his warm palms. “Thank you,” she said, “for warming my fingers, too. You’d think it was October in Scotland.”

  He looked worried again. “‘Tis October, nay?”

  “It is. And it’s five o’clock. What do you say I treat you to some fish and chips and we save the hunting for tomorrow?” She wiggled her camera with her other hand to show what kind of hunting she was talking about.

  “Fish and chips will surely warm us both, Jordan Lennox.” He gestured to the far side of the street and the businesses down the way.

  They hurried across and started down the sidewalk again. The only problem was, he’d forgotten he was still warming her fingers. But how could she complain about a man holding her hand who looked like the poster-laddie for the charming country that was Scotland.

  He thought she didn’t appreciate what was right in front of her?

  Boy, was he wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They found a restaurant that boasted the world’s finest fish and chips. Her tall companion acted as if the sign should be trusted, so Jordan went along. She had the impression he was just as clueless as she was, but she wasn
’t willing to let Kerry Mather out of her sight to look for a more reputable looking place.

  They both ducked into the restrooms first thing. She wanted to make sure her nose wasn’t bright red from the cold. And since it felt a little numb, she had to make sure it wasn’t dripping down her face without her feeling it.

  Kerry still wasn’t out by the time she emerged from the antique little bathroom. While she waited, she prayed he hadn’t gotten away from her again. A couple of men eventually came out of the hall, laughing. Kerry came next, looking pretty pleased about something. She didn’t want to know what.

  A suddenly-attentive waitress led them to a table in the back and made cow eyes at the Highlander while she listed the specials—twice. He barely looked at her, which was flattering considering he watched ever little move Jordan made.

  Of course, it was only fair. She couldn’t stop watching him either. The modestly-sized chair pretty much disappeared beneath him, and the table looked small and low, like a kid’s table. It was like having dinner with a very fit, very handsome NBA player.

  She took off her cute grey rain hat and set it on a chair. He dragged the plaid cap off his head and stuffed it into his sporran while she averted her eyes. With his dark hair exposed, he was even more handsome—a fact that wasn’t lost on anyone else in the little restaurant. Kerry, however, didn’t seem to think the attention was anything out of the ordinary and returned every smile sent his way without comment.

  As she watched him, she noticed that when he was only smiling to be polite, his mouth rose at the corners, but his high cheekbones stayed where they were. When he smiled at her, the waves rippled all the way up to his eyes. Was he doing it on purpose? Was this his flirting smile?

  His eyes were a tie-dyed swirl of bright green, brown, and yellow that seemed to shift when he blinked. He had slashing dark eyebrows that were the most serious detail about him. His nose was large but narrow, and it matched the one on the statue. Apparently, it had been passed down through the generations along with a penchant for pounding horseshoes.

  Speaking of shoes, the fish was the size of one of Jordan’s. The pile of thick-cut fries could have filled her hat. By the time she’d eaten a third of her meal, he’d finished his—with the kind of gusto Americans never dared show for their food—and he eyed her plate as if expecting the fish to come back to life.

  “I’m stuffed,” she said and pushed her plate forward. “Would you like to finish mine?”

  “And gladly,” he said, eagerly trading plates. “I must thank ye again for procuring the meal. I shall do my utmost to prove myself worthy of it.”

  “No problem. My employer is covering my costs, which includes taking a local model out to dinner.”

  “A model what?”

  “A model model. Someone who poses for photographs. They usually get paid better than just a fish supper.”

  “Two fish suppers,” he said with a grin, then took a large bite. While he chewed, he pointed at her chest with his fork. “What do ye call this coat. I have seen them often, but I vow this looks quite fetching on ye.”

  She looked down at the black jacket she hadn’t taken off since she’d landed. “It’s called a pea coat.”

  “I remember sailors used to wear such coats.” His gaze traveled up the buttons, around the collar, and to her face. Then it jumped from her lips to her eyes. He seemed embarrassed to be caught staring at her and dropped his attention to his food again. “Forgive me.”

  She chuckled. “What for?”

  “For staring. Ye might say studying people is a long-established habit now. It would be nigh impossible to break.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m having the same trouble.”

  A fresh grin spread across his face, and he went happily back to making the fish and chips disappear.

  ~ ~ ~

  The meal was so pleasant Kerry had nearly forgotten where he was. Food on his belly was so welcome, so familiar a feeling it was as if he’d never gone without. Though, strictly speaking, he’d had no stomach a’tall these past centuries, so there’d been no hunger to appease. But from time to time, some bloke would wander across his path at Culloden, while stuffing something or other in his gob, and the memories of hot food would tease at him.

  Speaking of teasing…

  The curious American sitting across from him was charming in both manner and aspect. She had warm brown hair that only came to her chin, and even warmer brown eyes with large black centers. Her lashes lowered onto her cheeks when considering her answers, but she looked him in the eye when she spoke.

  A forthright lass she was, and confident—as if she were comfortable as could be on Scottish soil, sifting easily through his dialect, though she had no hint of an accent about her.

  In truth, she made him feel remarkably comfortable considering how far he was from his own place in time.

  “Ye’ve been to Scotland before,” he stated, then shoveled another bite of fish between his teeth.

  “Why? Does it show?”

  “Most lasses who are new to the country have a nervous, excited look about them, as if they’re trying to memorize every detail.”

  She patted her bag. “Well, I do take a lot of shots, so I don’t have to worry about remembering.”

  He gave her a wink and a sidelong smirk. “But ye’ll remember me, will ye no’?”

  “Aye, laddie,” she chuckled. “I will at that.” She handed one of those credit cards to the waiter and turned her attention to the clock on the wall. “Not much daylight left,” she said to herself.

  “Then ye’d best punch the clock for today, aye?”

  “Punch the clock?”

  He felt his face warm with embarrassment. “Is that not how ye say it? To leave off working?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Some people punch a clock. Lucky for me, and sometimes not so lucky, I get paid by the shot. Tomorrow, I plan to be very lucky.” Her eyes widened and she swallowed awkwardly. “I mean, I hope to take some shots of you that prove to be lucky.”

  “I ken what ye meant, lass. But remember, when all is said and done, ye still owe me those twenty-seven minutes.”

  “Twenty-seven, now? I thought it was five.”

  He leaned back in his seat and looked at her through half-lowered eyelids. “As an American, I’m fair to certain ye’ll understand the accumulation of interest.”

  She bit her bottom lip while she considered. “What is that, about 400% in about an hour?”

  “Aye. But I’ll suspend it while ye sleep.”

  They both fell quiet as the fellow who came to clear their dishes away seemed in no hurry, as if he hoped to hear more of their conversation. As soon as he gave up and left, Kerry leaned close and laid his hand upon the lass’s. “I will confess, I have been shot before. But on the morrow, I expect it to be much more pleasant an experience.” He lifted her hand and brushed it ever so lightly with his lips before returning it to the table.

  Unfortunately, the impulse to kiss her hand was a mistake, for the other patrons embarrassed the lass with a collective sigh. In response, she stuffed both hands into her deep pockets where he could no longer get to them.

  “Been shot before, huh?” Though she kept her voice low, she looked him over with no shame at all—except for a faint blush to her cheeks half-hidden by the black and white checkered scarf still wrapped around her neck. It looked as threadbare and insubstantial as cheesecloth. “And now that you’ve confessed, I’ll expect to hear what you really charge for an afternoon of modeling.”

  “I wouldn’t hazard a guess—”

  “Three hundred?”

  “Three hundred what, lass?”

  Her eyes widened briefly. “Oh, no. I forgot. I was thinking U.S. dollars, not pounds.”

  “Three hundred pounds?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kerry ducked his head when he realized every face in the restaurant had turned in their direction. To a pair of older women whose eyes were fairly bulging from their skulls, h
e said, “Sorry to disappoint, madams, but I’m no gentleman of the evening, no light-kilt for hire.”

  Though they gasped and sputtered at him, they grinned as they turned away, confirming he’d read their thoughts aright.

  He chuckled and turned back to a red-faced Jordan. At least she was still there. “Pardon me, lass. They were beggin’ for a tease. Embarrassing ye was not my intention, aye?”

  Apparently, she hadn’t been paying strict attention and waved away his apology. “Don’t worry about it.” With both hands out of her pockets again, she stared at her fingers and toyed with the edge of her napkin, all that confidence gone. “I, uh… I hadn’t planned to…” She sighed and lifted her gaze to meet his. “Maybe you’d better give me your hourly price. Three hundred dollars is only a little over two hundred pounds, and that’s about all I can afford.” Her eyes widened. “Please tell me three hundred isn’t your hourly rate.”

  “Ye wish to pay me hundreds of pounds simply to pose for ye—”

  “I know. It’s probably not worth getting all dressed up like this, but… Shooting you might really make this trip a big success for me. Even if it’s just for an hour or so.”

  “An hour or so.”

  She gave him the most winsome smile, like a wee pup hoping for a treat.

  He shook his head. “I will give ye my price, lass. And if ye cannae agree to every term, ye must find another model, aye?”

  She sighed and nodded, as though she expected to hear something she could never afford. But she forced another smile, folded her hands over the front of her knee, and waited. They sat at right angles to each other, so close that their knees would have knocked had she not sat sideways in her chair. He lifted his chin to avoid staring at the short hem of her skirt.

  Thankfully, her legs were covered with thick black stockings that went all the way up to… Well, they at least covered what the skirt did not.

  “I will allow ye to shoot me to yer heart’s content on the morrow. And in return…ye shall feed me a traditional Scottish breakfast, share a simple afternoon picnic, and feed me supper at a place of yer choosing. If ye should weary of my company at any point, ye need only say so and our bargain will be at an end. No feelings hurt. No further obligation.” He finished off his pint and pushed the glass away. “What say ye, Jordan Lennox?”