He reached out and tugged at her hair, dark, with those red highlights, silky in his hand.
“You need to know...” He hesitated. That accent thickened, slipped through the way it had when he told stories about his misspent youth, about pranks he pulled on the nuns at school, or that field trip to a monument in the Scottish Highlands.
He leaned in with that half-smile, as if sharing a secret.
“You need to know that I don't usually kiss a girl on the first date,” he whispered.
She couldn't help it. She burst out laughing, the first time in a long time. Oh God, she needed that, she thought. Laughter.
First date?
It had been a long time since anyone had used that phrase, at least since she was in high school and that first date had been to the movies with her brother and his girlfriend as chaperones.
They hadn't been to the movies, but it had been a helluva first date. Still, she couldn't resist.
“What about Julie Hennessey?” Old conversations, safe territory.
He shook his head. “Ah, Julie Hennessey. She was a forward lass, a good second date.”
“Had her way with you, did she?”
“Before I knew what happened.”
“That quick?” It hadn't been quick between them, Kris remembered. So much for youthful inexperience. She'd take the longer version.
“Aye, youthful lust.”
“Back seat of Anne's car?”
He frowned and shook his head. “The back room at Will's father's shop.
“The smell of grease and burning rubber, a sure way to a girl's heart. What about Dickie Simson?”
“She claimed that she never told him about it. But I suspect he knew. That would explain some of the citations he wrote me up over the years—revenge.”
“And five children later,” she added.
“As I said, she was a very forward lass. There was a bit of a hurry-up to their wedding.”
She gave him that look. He shook his head.
“I had been gone for over a year.”
“Threw you aside, did she? Heartless wench.”
He shrugged. “We took different paths. Hers was with Dickie.”
Her loss, Kris thought.
Then he had been off to university, then the military. Ironically, the same path James of Montrose had followed centuries earlier, according to what Vilette had told them and the little that was known about a young boy from Scotland taken in by Isabelle's family.
“You're going back.” The laughter was gone now.
Her eyes were that dark color, deep blue, filled with shadows.
“Aye,” he said, his voice low, the teasing gone. “I need to do this.” And he needed her to understand.
“There are things that were left unfinished.”
