He frowned in return. “Just that—you can set your mum’s mind to rest regarding us having it off.”
I let the euphemism go without comment because a nasty suspicion was forming in my mind. “You mean birth control?”
“Aye.” He tried to pull his book out from under my hand but I clamped down even harder. The ugly suspicion was fast turning into a full-fledged nightmare.
“Iain, are you trying to tell me you think I’m using some form of birth control?”
He stopped trying to peel my hand off his book and went very still. “You aren’t?”
Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god. Oh. God.
“No, I’m not. I don’t need to because you had a vasectomy, didn’t you?” He looked horrified at the thought of such a thing. “No, I haven’t.”
“But you said so!”
“I never did!”
“Oh my god! Iain, that night after dinner… the wild-flower night… didn’t we have a talk about this? About the need for condoms and such? And didn’t you say something about not having any more children after your operation?” Iain’s face was a picture of shock, but it was nothing to what I was feeling. “I was talking about my gall bladder, lass! You asked about my scar!”
“But you mentioned not having any more children after that—”
“Aye, because my wife ran off with the bleedin‘ MP!”
“An MP!” I stared at him in unabashed horror. “What on earth were you doing telling me about your wife and an MP when we were supposed to be talking about birth control?”
He looked just as horrified as I felt. “If you’ll remember, love, neither of us was particularly coherent. I thought you were asking about my wife and why she left me.”
I jumped off his lap. The dogs jumped up with me, confused by the sudden shouting. He was right, but that was neither here nor there. Oh, god. “So you haven’t had a vasectomy?”
“No. You’re not taking those pills? Or using one of those contraptions?” I felt like crying. “No, I can’t take birth control pills, they play merry hell with my hormones. And I didn’t bring anything else because I didn’t think I’d be jumping into bed with the first man I clapped eyes on. Oh my god, Iain, what are we going to do? I’m too old to have children—I’m thirty-seven! You’re forty-seven! And I’ve only known you a week!”
I’m afraid I was wailing by the last bit. Iain was taking things in a much calmer manner than I was, but then, it wouldn’t be him in the maternity ward trying to push seven pounds of baby through an opening that fit snugly around the cause of the whole problem. “Calm down, love, we’ll sort through this. When’s your next time due?”
I stopped pacing around the dogs and did a quick bit of mental calculation, then burst into tears. Luckily for our peace of mind there was an all-night pharmacy only an hour’s drive away. We had that do-it-yourself pregnancy test home and in use before you could say Jock McRobinson .
After the big baby scare turned out to be nothing but a scare, things settled down for a few days. Iain and I quickly established a comfortable routine. We’d go off together in the mornings, me trailing around after him as he did his morning chores (ostensibly I was helping him, but we both knew I was more of a hindrance than a help), then out to the fields with Mark, or off to do work on an outbuilding, or taking care of the animals, or a million other things that life on the farm required. I particularly enjoyed the lambs. Unlike their elders, the lambs were a joy to be around, frolicking, romping, butting each other, and never once stampeding me. I started naming my favorites, something that made Iain roll his eyes, but I ignored him. He was just a grump over the lambs.
The balance of the working day was less pleasurably spent. We’d make lunch together, sometimes under the disapproving eye of Mrs. Harris, sometimes blissfully free of her presence, and then I’d go to work on my laptop while Iain went back out for the afternoon’s chores in the fields. Dinner was always an adventure for the first few weeks. I’d had limited exposure to home-cooked English fare, and none to Scottish food. So dining a la Harris was an experience, and not necessarily one I looked forward to.
Iain was a sheep farmer. He raised sheep. He sold some off for slaughter, some for breeding stock. Naturally lamb and mutton would be a large part of his diet. But I didn’t understand why, after the first dinner that featured lamb, dead sheep were present at every meal for the next three nights.
“Surely you buy or barter for some other type of meat?” I asked him.
“Aye, love, I do. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering if you normally have lamb four nights in a row.” Iain looked thoughtful for a minute. “Now that I think on it, we have been having lamb a fair bit. You might want to mention it to Mrs. Harris.” Me? Speak to Iain’s disapproving char? If I couldn’t even bring myself to speak to him of important subjects—the love of my life, the man who made me whole—how on earth was I supposed to chastise the woman who viewed me as a wanton temptress bent on dragging Iain’s good name through the mud?
Speak to her? I didn’t think so!
“Iain, I can’t. She’s your help.”
“But you’re here now.” He pushed back from the table and grabbed his mac in preparation for bedding down the animals. “Just tell her what you’d like her to cook, love. She probably isn’t aware you don’t care for lamb.” A little light bulb went off over my head. How could I be so dense? Of course she knew I didn’t eat lamb, she was there that first night when I confided my guilty secret to Iain.
I mulled over the issue while I did the dishes. Surely Iain’s comment proved he expected me to be around for a while. Surely it indicated he had faith in me and trusted me beyond that of a mere friend. So why was I having such a hard time picturing myself ordering Mrs. Harris around with confidence?
“Because you’re a boob, that’s why,” I told myself as I drained the last of the wash water out and dried my hands off on a soft, worn linen dishcloth. “If you had a brain in your head you’d realize that the very act of him asking you to take care of things demonstrates his confidence in you.” Slowly I convinced myself that was what he had meant. The light of battle dawned within me that cold evening. Iain had placed his trust in me, and if he wanted me to speak to Mrs. Harris, then by god, I’d speak to her!
I had to wait two days before she returned for her four-day shift. During those two days I raided Iain’s freezer and cupboards, and spent long hours studying and assembling glorious, lamb-free dinners, with leftovers consumed for lunches the following days. It was a very happy time. We were frequently silly, alarming the dogs once or twice with our hijinks on the carpet before the fire, glorying in being alone together.
But the entire time I waited with growing trepidation for Mrs. Harris to return to her duties. I was out with Iain the day she arrived, but once we returned I had the opportunity to speak with her. Girding my loins with the remembrance that Iain counted on me to de-lamb the weekly menu, I bearded the lion in her den—the kitchen.
“Mrs. Harris,” I began pleasantly, a list of Iain’s favorite nonsheep dinners held behind my back. “Iain has asked me to speak to you about supper for the upcoming four days.”
Her jaw dropped. “He’s done what?”
“Iain asked me to plan the suppers with you. It seems he doesn’t care for lamb four nights in a row.”
“He’s said naught of it to me!” Mrs. Harris was a big woman. Not big as in fat, just big. All over. She reminded me of a football player—all beefy arms and no discernable neck. So when she huffed her chest out and adopted an offended look, I took notice. I backed up a step or two and waved the list in front of me.
“He’s mentioned one or two dishes that he particularly likes. I thought we could start with a steak and kidney pie for tonight. I took the liberty of pulling out a round steak and a beef kidney from the freezer for you.”
“And you’ll be eating them yourself, then, won’t you?” She harrumphed and turned her back on me, and commenced scrubbing down the kitch
en table that I had just cleaned. I’m sure she took up a layer or two of wood with the vigor by which she tackled it.
I knew full well I had no power with Iain’s char; I couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do, and she knew I knew it. I couldn’t fire her, I couldn’t punish her, I couldn’t even reprimand her. But I could take a leaf from Iain’s book.
When a man and his dogs herd sheep, they do so by narrowing the sheep’s options until the sheep “choose” to go the way the shepherd wants them to go.
I’d simply have to do the same with Mrs. Harris.
I made a show of taking down the battered cookbook that resided next to a bag of oatmeal. I could feel her steely gaze on my back as I hummed my way through the cookbook.
“Mushy peas,” I murmured to myself. “He’ll want mushy peas as well. Let’s see, Guinness Stew, Lancashire Hotpot, ah, here it is.” It was too much for her. I could see her fighting the urge to ask, but it didn’t take long before she caved. “And just what do you think you’re doing with that book?”
I manufactured a look of surprise on my face. “Why, finding the recipe for Steak and Kidney Pie, of course. Iain expressed a particular desire for it.” I hoped she wouldn’t notice my fingers crossed behind my back. “So he shall have it. Since you don’t feel you’re up to the challenge, I’ll make it for him.” I smiled pleasantly and returned unconcernedly to the cookbook, waiting for her response.
It took her three minutes—three long, agonizing minutes—to speak up again.
“Have you ever made Steak and Kidney Pie?”
“Hmmm?” I feigned confusion. “Why no, I haven’t. But I’m sure I won’t muck it up too badly. It can’t be that difficult.” She tched . “You’ll make a right hash of it, that’s what you’ll do. I suppose I’ll have to change my plans, then, if it’s what MacLaren wants.” She snatched the book out of my hands and stuffed it away in the cupboard, muttering to herself about the inconvenience of some people, never thinking of others, only making work for those who toil to make an honest wage.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to push her just a wee bit more. “I’d be happy to help, if you need assistance. I’m told I have a light hand with pastry—” The words had barely slipped out of my mouth when she spun around and glared the hair right off my head. “Ye’U be making no pastry in my kitchen!
MacLaren’s done with my pastry for more than ten years now, and that’s what he’ll be getting tonight.”
She nodded to push home her point and stalked out of the kitchen bristling with indignation. I smiled nonetheless. It was my first lesson in food warfare, and one from which I learned well.
There were many other lessons I learned in those first few weeks while I was adapting to life in Scotland, not the least of which was how not to stare at a man wearing a kilt. Now, next to the sound of a burly Scottish sheep farmer speaking, the only other thing guaranteed to turn my knees to pudding was the sight of a man in a kilt. I knew I wasn’t alone in this keen appreciation of kilted men, because I’d seen the glazed look in other women’s eyes around kilted men. I knew that glazed look; I’d worn it often enough.
Some claim it’s the sight of men’s knees exposed where they are traditionally covered that makes kilt-wearers titillating, but that theory doesn’t hold water, not really. Anyone who’s been to the beach has seen men wandering nearly naked. I can take or leave your average Joe in a Speedo, but toss a kilt on him, and he’s instantly captivating.
A few days after my triumph over Mrs. Harris, Iain and I were out picking up a few groceries when I spotted a man in a kilt leaving the store. Iain thought my immediate fascination was amusing.
“I don’t understand it,” he said, shaking his head as he loaded grocery bags into the trunk of his car. “It’s just a kilt, love.”
“Yes, that’s it, it’s a kilt! It’s so… mmrrowrr!” He rolled his eyes and made a rude comment.
“Oh, you’re just jealous. I bet you don’t even have a kilt!”
“Aye, love, I do.”
My jaw hit the ground. “You do? You have a kilt? A real one? One for your clan?”
He nodded and held the car door open for me.
“So why don’t you wear it?”
He frowned. “It’s for special occasions, and even then I don’t wear it. I always feel as if someone is going to peek underneath.”
I snorted. “How do you think women have felt wearing skirts over the centuries?”
He gave me a jaded look. “It’s not the same, love.”
“How’s that?”
“Your arse isn’t hanging out there bare as the day you were born.”
“There’s a nifty little invention called underwear that you might want to investigate.”
He looked horrified at the thought. “You don’t wear pants under a kilt, love!”
“You don’t?”
“No. It’s not done, not by a proper Scot.”
“Ah.” It turned out that although some men do don undergarments, in Iain’s set—the manly set—it wasn’t the thing to wear undies with your kilt. I imagine it was something along the hair shirt line of reasoning: Wool on bare flesh is good for you! Made me itchy just thinking about it, but think about it I did. I wanted badly to see Iain in a kilt.
I began to plot accordingly.
Chapter Seven
Two weeks after I arrived at Iain’s house, I lay in bed very early one morning and listened to Iain breathing. It was a relaxing thing, listening to someone breathe. Very calming and peaceful, and given a drowsy just-woke-up state, almost meditative. For some reason, from the very beginning of our relationship, I woke several mornings to find myself lying on top of him. I was embarrassed about this at first, assuming he would see it as some sort of a not-very-subtle hint that I wanted to play, but he reassured me that he was aware I was asleep when I rolled over and plopped myself on top of him.
I’m sure a psychologist would have a lot to say about my nocturnal behavior, but since it didn’t bother Iain—and he could still breathe when I was flaked out on top of him—I wasn’t too worried about it.
So there I was in the middle of November, lying on top of him very early one morning, listening to him breathe and wondering just how my life was going to play out. I had settled quite comfortably into Iain’s life, and that worried me. I was worried because it seemed just too perfect, too easy. I went to England, met a man, and whammo! I was living it up in rural Scotland with the love of my life and no cares in the world. Even to me, it was almost too unreal to be true.
But I was real, and Iain was real, and we were really there, together, and happy.
At least I assumed Iain was happy, he certainly seemed so. He just never said anything about how long he expected me to stay on. Blast those quiet alpha males and their lamentable lack of communication skills!
By the time the dark outside had lightened to a rare clear sunrise, the issue had taken on monumental status in my mind. Drat the man, he was making me insane! I had given him as much time as I could to allow him to explore his feelings for me, but damn it, it had been two whole weeks, and if that wasn’t long enough for him to know how he felt, then he could just sit right down and figure it out!
I took a deep breath and released my death grip on his chest hair, reminding myself again that I had promised to give him time, and time I would give him, as long as I was still there to have any time to give. However, there was one issue about which I could and would pin him down.
“Iain,” I said a few hours later as I tried to avert my eyes from the sight of him laying grilled tomato on his plate. It was Sunday, and Sunday to Iain meant a traditional fried breakfast. Anyone who has never seen an English fried breakfast should count themselves lucky. Just being in the same room with one can raise your cholesterol to a dangerous level. “I’d like to talk to you.” He stuck his head in the refrigerator. “Do you fancy mushrooms this morning?”
Ugh. Not for breakfast, thank you. “No, but if you’d like them, brin
g them out and I’ll fry them up once I’m done with this sausage.” I was manning the sausage and fried egg section of the Aga. Iain had control over the fried bread and tomato grilling operations. He emerged from the refrigerator with a handful of mushrooms while I flipped out a couple of eggs for him and started scrambling two for myself. I will admit to one very great advantage to being on a farm—for the most part, the food was exceptionally fresh. Iain and the nearby farmers all had an exchange program wherein they would trade food products amongst themselves. Pork came from a neighbor’s farm, beef from a friend in the next town, and fish came from periodic fishing trips, or swaps with other friends.
Iain had a few chickens of his own for eggs and the occasional stewing chicken, and a goat that provided the best goat’s milk I’d ever had. The only thing I was surprised to find was a lack of a vegetable garden, but he told me later he didn’t have time to maintain it, so he just bought his veggies at the local farmer’s market, or was given them by friends.
“I want to talk to you about my passport.”
He looked up from slicing mushrooms. “What about your passport?”
“I’m going to be kicked out of the country in a little over two months.” He didn’t look very concerned about the thought of me being sent off, blast his eyebrows. “Why is that, love?”
“Because I’m only allowed to be here three months without a visa. Then it’s bye-bye Kathie.”
“Ah.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. I waited, holding my breath.
Would he? Was this the time he’d declare his undying love for me? My heart sang a happy little song as he slowly turned to look at me, his brow furrowed in thought. Life as I knew it ceased until he opened his rugged and manly but extremely adorable lips.
“Do you think bacon or ham?”
Bacon? Ham? Breakfast ? I stared at him, my jaw hanging down around my knees. Bacon? Ham? That’s all he could think about? His stomach? When I was on the verge of being torn from his arms and escorted out of the country, never to be seen again?