“It’s a bit of a hike,” Miles says, still looking out the door, hands thrust in his back pockets. He’s got one knee cocked, and he looks like a Scottish farmer surveying his land. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is, and I bite back a sigh as I turn to the fireplace.
Off-limits, I remind myself. And snobby and basically a fancy servant, 1,000% devoted to the palace. You want nothing to do with this entire thing, and Miles has a permanent residence in Royal Land. Don’t even think about it.
Maybe if I keep repeating that, it’ll be easier to ignore how my pulse is racing.
I can hear the door shut behind me, and even though the wind and rain are still blowing outside, the bothy seems a lot quieter now. My face is hot, and I’m not sure it has anything to do with the smoky fire I’m crouching next to.
Miles goes to the pile of quilts stacked near the fire, taking one and fluffing it out. I’m relieved when a cloud of dust and dead insects doesn’t come billowing out, but that relief is short-lived because he suddenly crouches down near me, draping the blanket over my shoulders.
“You’ll freeze,” he tells me, ducking his head. His hair is hanging over his forehead, the rain and the dim light making it look darker than normal, and a fat raindrop slides down and splashes my collarbone.
The rain isn’t that cold, but my skin feels too hot, and I jolt, scooting back a little, one hand coming up to clutch the blanket closed in front of me.
Miles lifts his head, his eyes very green and very close to mine.
Tea cozy. Shoe trees. The absolute opposite of your type.
Clearing his throat, Miles straightens up, dusting off his hands on his jeans again.
“It won’t last long,” he says, then waves at the door. “The rain, I mean. It . . . these things usually burn themselves out in a few minutes.”
He drops his arm to his side, fingers flexing, and is . . . is he nervous?
That’s almost weirder than me thinking he was cute, so I turn back to look at the fire, ironically hoping to find some chill there.
The rain keeps hammering down, the fire crackles and smokes, and for a moment, I wonder if we’re going to sit here in total silence until people eventually find us, dead, smothered by the weight of our own awkwardness.
Then Miles says, “Flora dated my sister.”
Surprised, I twist to look at him. “What?”
He’s standing near the door again, his hat in one hand, and he thumps it against his thigh a few times. “You asked about me and Flora. That’s ‘the deal’ with us. She was dating Amelia, the palace wasn’t ready for that, so they put it out that it was me. That Flora and I were . . .”
He looks over to the window, his hat still tapping against one long leg. “Anyway, that’s what happened.”
Turning back to me, he tilts his head down, probably because looking down his nose at people makes him feel more comfortable. “I’m obviously entrusting you with something important in telling you that.”
I hold up a hand. “Got it,” I say. “And I appreciate it.”
I’m not going to tell him I already knew Flora was into girls, since I can’t tell him about Flora and Tamsin, so I shift against the floor, pulling the quilt in around me.
“So this isn’t your first Fake Boyfriend Rodeo,” I say, and he glances over at me, brow wrinkled.
“You’ve done this before,” I clarify. “Pretended to date someone for the palace.”
In the dim light, it’s hard to tell, but I think he might blush as he suddenly becomes really interested in his shoes. “I told you,” he says. “The Montgomery family are courtiers. It’s what we do. My great-great-great-grandfather actually fought in a duel for Seb’s great-great-great-grandfather. Took a sword to the eye.”
I wince. “Gross.”
That actually makes Miles smile, though, and I’m reminded again that smiling is a good look on him. It takes some of the hardness out of that aristocratic face, makes him look softer and nicer. More boy, less jerk.
“The point is, there are certainly worse things I could be asked to do than spend time with pretty girls.”
I am not turning red.
I am not.
I turn away to poke at the fire with the iron rod Miles left lying by the hearth. “Are you saying I’m better than a sword to the eye?” I ask, and he chuckles.
The sound is warm and soft, and I swear I can feel it, dancing over the knobs of my spine. Oh my god, this rain needs to end soon.
“Maybe not better, but certainly not worse,” he says, and then I look at him, which is a mistake.
There’s no fighting it this time. Miles is not just cute. He’s hot.
And he’s looking at me in a way I don’t understand, or don’t want to understand because no, no, no, this is not a complication I need right now. Besides, I’m leaving in a few weeks anyway. Why start something that has such a fast expiration date?
Breaking the spell, I stand, letting the quilt drop back to the ground. I chafe my hands up and down my arms as I ask, “So that’s why you do it? Family tradition demands that if the palace says jump, you say how high?”
I wait for Miles to scowl at me, but he just leans back against the wall and sighs.
“They’re paying my tuition,” he says. “Seb’s family. They’re paying for me to go to St. Andrew’s next year.”
I don’t really know what to say to that. I knew Miles was really loyal to the Bairds—obviously—but I thought it was more about friendship than the whole courtier deal.
“And not just that,” Miles goes on, “but the apartment in Edinburgh? That’s on their dime as well. Plus last year, my mum was sick—she’s fine now—but it was serious for a while. She needed private hospitals, specialists, all that, and I think they paid her hospital bills.”
“Miles,” I say softly, and he meets my eyes. All of this has come out in the lightest tone, like he’s just casually relaying some information, but his gaze is serious.
“I just want you to understand,” he says. “I owe them . . . everything. Everything.”
Pushing off from the wall, he tosses his hat to the chair by the door. “That’s why I was such a prat to you that first night.”
“To be fair, you’ve been a prat basically the entire time I’ve known you,” I say, and Miles gives the littlest smile. His hair is drying a bit in the heat from the fire, and it’s curling, turning a deep-gold color, shadows playing over his high cheekbones.
“I have,” he admits. “And I’m sorry. Truly.”
Swallowing hard, I wave that off. Now is not the time to start becoming friends, not when I’ve just realized he’s super good-looking and there’s rain and firelight and just the two of us, miles from anyone.
But I still can’t help but say, “It’s not like you haven’t done a lot for Seb. You keep him out of trouble. Well, as much as anyone can, I guess,” I amend, and Miles nods.
“It’s a big job for one man.”
I look back at Miles. “I’m just saying, yes, they’ve done a lot for you. But it’s not like it’s a one-way street.”
He’s watching me again. He really needs to stop with that because my toes are curling in my boots, my heart jumping around, and my face is burning.
“Thank you,” he says softly, and then, maybe feeling as weirded out as I do, he moves to sit down in front of the fire, taking my discarded quilt and making a little pallet there by the hearth. He sits, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, and after a second, I sit next to him.
Not too close, of course.
We sit in silence, watching the fire for a while, before I plant my hands on the quilt, leaning back a little. “Do you think Glynnis had someone shoot out our tire?”
Miles laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a bit mercenary, ol’ Glynn.”
“Oh my god, please t
ell me you have called her ‘ol’ Glynn’ to her face.”
“I have not, as I enjoy having my tongue actually in my mouth and not mounted to her wall.”
Crossing my legs, I turn to face him more fully. “I will give you a million dollars if you do it,” I tell him, and he looks over, tilting his head to one side.
“A million dollars?”
“A million dollars or what I currently have in my wallet back at the house, which I think is, like, five pounds in your weird Monopoly money.”
“Tell you what,” he says, putting his hands down on the quilt to lean back a little, “I will call Glynnis ‘ol’ Glynn’ if you promise to drink a Pimm’s Cup. No, not drink, chug.”
I screw up my face, sticking my tongue out. “Blargh.”
That makes him laugh again, and I’m smiling back when I glance down and realize that our hands are nearly touching on the quilt.
Miles follows my gaze, and his laughter dies.
They’re just hands, resting there against the quilt. His, graceful, long-fingered, mine with chipped polish and an octopus ring on my pinky.
The rain is tapering off now, but I can still hear it drumming softly against the roof, and to my right, the fire pops and smokes. Over that, there’s the sound of my own breathing, a little faster than it was before, and I hear Miles sigh as the two of us just keep looking at our hands, only the littlest space between them.
We’ve been closer than this before. The other night at the ball, when we danced, there was a lot less space between our bodies than there is now. Hell, that day in the park, I was basically in his lap.
But those things were for show, and this . . .
This feels real.
His hand edges just a little bit closer, his pinky brushing mine, and that—that one tiny touch—sends a shiver of sparks racing through me.
Sucking in a breath, I go to move my hand closer.
The door flies open with a bang, and Miles and I leap apart so dramatically you’d think we’d just been caught together naked instead of touching pinkies. He actually makes a sound, this kind of startled yelp that I’d tease him about had I not cried out, “Nothing! Nothing!” when we bolted apart.
Ellie and Alex stand there, still in their tweeds, rain dripping off the umbrella Alex is holding over both their heads.
Alex frowns, but Ellie is looking back and forth between me and Miles, her arms folded over her chest.
“We saw the jeep on our way back, figured you’d be here,” Alex says, and Miles nods quickly, smacking his palms on his thighs.
“Yeah, yeah, good thing we were close.”
Smiling, Alex looks around. “This place is cozier than I remembered,” he says. “And nice work on the fire.”
Clearing his throat for what has to be the 8,000th time today, Miles turns to the fireplace, picking up the poker and tamping the flames down, moving ash over the still-smoldering peat. As the fire dies, so does whatever spell this place has cast over me, and I go to stand next to Ellie, putting the past few minutes out of my head.
“You rescued us!” I tell her, my voice bright, and her eyes narrow just the littlest bit.
“Rescued or interrupted?” she asks quietly, and I roll my eyes, gathering up my damp jacket and moving past her to Alex’s Land Rover, which, thankfully, has a roof.
Miles climbs in the back seat beside me, and as the Land Rover heads back toward Baird House, neither of us say anything.
And we both keep our hands firmly in our laps.
Chapter 30
I’m never going to get used to all the tea.
We’ve been back in Edinburgh for a couple of days now, and lately, everywhere we go, someone has tea to bring us. Sitting down at the palace? Have some tea. Meeting with Glynnis about wedding things? More tea, please. And now, even at the dress studio, there is tea.
I take the china cup from the smiling assistant, careful not to let it rattle in the saucer in case El hears it and snaps at me again. She’s been like that lately, quick to criticize anything I do that isn’t flawless. There’s a part of me that always wants to argue back, but another part wonders if this is just how she feels every day. Watched, judged, found wanting. Maybe it makes her feel better to get to do the same thing to someone else—I don’t know.
In any case, the tea cup doesn’t rattle even a bit, and I manage not to make a face when I take a sip, even though the tea is way too strong, way too hot, and way too unsweetened for my taste.
Mom and I are in a special fitting area in the back of the designer’s studio. No shops for the future king’s bride, of course. We get to go straight to the source, and from what I understand, these fittings are carried out like they’re spy missions or something. There were decoy cars when we left the palace this morning, one leaving from the front, the other from a back door near the kitchens. We weren’t in either of those, instead leaving about fifteen minutes later through yet another secret staff entrance, and we’d taken just a regular cab, nothing fancy. But all of us had worn hats and sunglasses, me and El in simple ballcaps, my mom in this hot-pink straw thing with flowers that probably drew more attention to her than if she hadn’t been wearing a hat at all, but such is Mom.
We still haven’t seen El’s dress, but that’s because she wants to save the surprise. Still, I can see a few sketches pinned to the wall of various wedding gowns, all of them looking fancy enough to be El’s, and I squint at one over my teacup.
“Do you have to wear sleeves?” I call out. “Like, are shoulders too scandalous for church?”
From somewhere in the bowels of the studio, El calls back, “It’s a surprise!”
“It’s a dress,” I mutter, glad she can’t hear me.
Mom can, though, and she reaches out with one leg, the toe of her shoe brushing my calf. “Be nice,” she says, and I set my cup on the little gilt-and-marble table next to us.
“I am being nice,” I tell her. “See, look.” I give her my best smile, the one that looks like I’ve been shot with a tranq dart, and Mom chuckles, shaking her head.
“You and your father, peas in a pod.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Then Mom leans over and pats my knee, her teacup and saucer balanced in her other hand.
“You’ve been a real trouper through all of this, darling,” she tells me. “I know it hasn’t been easy. The papers and the pictures and the ball. That boy.”
Right.
That boy.
Miles and I haven’t really talked since we got back to the city. We did one quick stroll down the Royal Mile for Glynnis, but both of us had kept our hands in our pockets, and we’d hardly said anything to each other besides random comments on the weather, the shops, anything that was completely neutral and boring.
The headlines over those pictures had read “MILES APART?,” so Glynnis is not exactly thrilled with either of us at the moment. But after that day in the bothy, faking things with Miles just felt too weird, and besides, I was heading home soon anyway. The pictures from the park and the ball had done their job—no one was talking about me and Seb anymore, and just yesterday, there had been blurry shots of Seb and Tamsin up in the Highlands, kissing. (The headline there was “SEB LANDS GLAM TAM!,” which was kind of a weak offering in my opinion.)
Luckily, I’m saved from having to talk about “that boy” with Mom by Ellie swanning back into the room.
Smiling, El gestures for me to stand up. “Your turn!” she says brightly, and I blink at her.
“For my dress?” I ask, and there’s a flash of the old Ellie in her eyes as she smirks at me and says, “What do you think?”
Stupid question, okay, but I wish I’d been a little more prepared for this moment. I’d thought today was all about Ellie, not me.
“Oh, how exciting!” Mom says, clapping her hands a little, and I give h
er a wan smile as I rise to my feet, trying not to wring my hands or fiddle with the hem of my skirt. I look okay today—I’d known better than to wear jeans and a T-shirt to a fashion designer’s studio, and had picked out one of the “outfit pods” Glynnis had made for me, choosing a gray high-waisted skirt with a black sleeveless blouse and a gray-and-white cardigan. Bright colors would’ve been too conspicuous. And trust me, when I’d realized I was picking out an outfit for stealth, I’d had a moment of wondering just when something like that had become so second nature to me. I’ve only been here a month, after all.
“Angus,” Ellie says, pulling me toward the back of the room, behind a heavy velvet curtain. “She’s ready for you!”
“I’m not sure that’s actually true,” I say, but the man she ushers me to is grinning at me. He’s got bright red hair, brighter than mine was before I came here, and he’s shorter than I am. Wearing a black ruffled shirt and a kilt in neon colors, plus the sickest pair of black patent leather boots, he’s exactly what I’d expect a famous Scottish fashion designer to look like. He’s not, however, who I would have thought Ellie would pick. Still, his smile is contagious, and when he takes my hands and holds both my arms away from my body, looking me up and down, I don’t even feel self-conscious.
“Oh, this will be a dream,” he says, his brogue heavy, the r in “dream” rolling over my ears like a wave.
The space here in the back of the studio is open and bright. The hardwood floors are ancient and scuffed, and the walls are exposed brick. There’s a long table against the back wall, covered in heaps of fabric, and I spot a few sketchbooks. There are also a few dress dummies standing guard, one of which is swathed in the Baird tartan, and I wonder if that’s part of Ellie’s dress.
And I really wonder what my dress will look like.
Sadly, there’s none of that this time, not even a hint of what colors we might be working with. Angus just measures me. And not just one time, either. He runs that tape measure out at least five times, checking and rechecking, making notes in a little notebook at his side. Occasionally he mutters to himself, but between his accent and the music blaring out of hidden speakers, I can’t make out what he might be saying.