SBC Fighter: Tails Of Love Part 32

Or could she?

She honestly didn't know.

But she did recognize the need to get out of her room, pleasant as it was. A glance at her watch told her that the inn's pub would stil be open. She could sit at the bar, sip a pint of ale, and soak up the coziness until she was ready for bed.

As it happened, upon slipping downstairs and into the late night quiet of the lounge, a red-cheeked man in a tweedy jacket swung round in his chair and grinned at her the instant she stepped through the door.

"Ho, there's yourself!" He waved his dram gla.s.s in greeting. "I saw you went straight to the source today, what?

Wel -met, la.s.sie, wel -met, indeed."

Jil y paused, blinking.

For a moment, she thought he was the ghost. But this man wasn't kilted and was definitely solid. He also didn't have a see-through Jack Russel .

Even so, he seemed familiar and his words caught her off guard.

Then she remembered speaking with him at the Luss Post Office on the day she'd arrived. He'd suggested she stay at the Colquhoun Arms and, much to her relief, he'd also a.s.sured her that she'd find Alastair MacCol 's grave in the vil age churchyard.

"The source?" She started forward again, not sure what he meant.

"Why, young MacCol , of course!" He slapped his dram gla.s.s on the bar. "He's Alastair's grandson. I saw you with him on the strand, not far from his gal ery."

Jil y's heart sank and her legs went rubbery.

Tweedy beamed. He had no idea he'd turned her world upside down.

"His gal ery?" She stared at him, not caring if she sounded like a parrot. "The man I talked to runs boat tours."

"Och, don't we al these days!" The man chuckled.

"Ferrying visitors around the loch, weaving, or piping at hotel-sponsored ceilidhs, the summer tourist trade gets us through the winter."

Jil y nodded, unable to speak.

Her mouth had gone dry and she was beginning to feel sick.

"As for MacCol ..." The man leaned forward. "You know what they say"-he winked-"the apple doesn't fal far from the tree. Some hereabouts think he's more talented than his grandfather."

"So he's an artist?" Jil y could hardly get the words out.

"He's a driftwood artist." He spoke as if that made a difference.

"He makes animal sculptures out of driftwood. Horses, sheep, dogs, birds, you name it. Says the pieces he col ects speak to him, tel ing him what they're meant to be.

Then he sets to work."

Jil y swal owed. "I'm sure his work is . . . beautiful."

"Aye, so it is." The man reached for his dram, emptying the little gla.s.s. "You should stop by his studio. It's at the end of the road, across from the pier but a bit hidden behind the trees."

"I wil ." Jil y forced a smile.

She had no intention of visiting the gal ery. And she already knew where it was. Her grandmother had described its location to her.

No way was she going there.

What she was going to do was remember to listen better when people introduced themselves.

Looking back, she was sure Kieran mentioned his last name. But his dog's haggis attack startled her so much the name hadn't registered.

Luckily it did now.

Too bad the revelation made her feel so lousy.

Somewhere in the smal hours, just as Jil y final y fel into a deep sleep, Kieran sat bolt upright in his bed. His heart pounded, the sheets were twisted, and cold sweat damped his brow. He shoved a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock on his night table, not at al surprised to see that it was after two A.M.

Not that the time mattered.

What counted was that he'd remembered what was so familiar about Jil y Pepper.

It wasn't the girl at al .

Not real y, although now that he'd made the connection, he couldn't deny she had the same deep blue eyes and s.h.i.+ning, honey-blond hair. He suspected she'd also inherited the ful , round b.r.e.a.s.t.s though it was hard to tel beneath the jacket she always wore.

His gut clenched. How ironic that it was something else she wore that revealed her ident.i.ty. Margo Clare's locket was unmistakable. His grandfather had fas.h.i.+oned it for the woman, giving it to her as a token of his undying love.

She'd sworn to wear it always.

Then she'd left Scotland never to be heard from again.

"d.a.m.n." Kieran scowled and leapt to his feet, promptly stubbing his toe on a chair leg. "Owwww!" he roared, resisting the urge to kick the chair.

Limping around the darkened room, he glared at the blackout shades at his windows as he s.n.a.t.c.hed up his clothes and dressed as quickly as his throbbing foot al owed. Then he let himself out into the light summer night and strode straight across the damp gra.s.s to the smal studio that had once been his grandfather's.

He needed several tries to open the rusty-hinged door, but once inside enough of the night's luminosity spil ed through the windows to show him what he'd come to see.

His pulse racing, he went to where some of his grandfather's earliest paintings were propped against a wal . He knew which one he wanted. It was the only painting covered with cloth.

It was hidden from view, though he knew his grandfather had often lifted the cloth to peer at it. Something he'd done with increasing frequency in later years. The long hours he'd spent in the studio, mooning over the portrait, had never failed to break Kieran's heart.

But he'd understood.

Margo Clare had been the only woman Alastair MacCol had ever truly loved.

"d.a.m.n!" He cursed again as he found the painting and ripped away the cloth.

He stared down at the beautiful woman, scowling.

Her painted face smiled back at him. Poised, serene, and looking absolutely incapable of wreaking the kind of damage she'd done to his grandfather.

Kieran stepped back and folded his arms, his gaze focused on the painting. A true masterpiece, it showed the woman perched on a rock somewhere near the summit of Ben Lomond. She wore a blue dress and Jil y's locket glinted brightly at her throat.

She appeared about the same age as Jil y.

And she seemed-no, she felt-so alive Kieran would have sworn she real y was looking at him.

He narrowed his eyes at her, uncomfortable.

"Does Jil y know what you did? Did you ever tel her how you promised to return and then vanished into thin air? Did you laugh each time you received one of my grandfather's letters, begging you to come back to him?" The questions left his lips before he could catch himself.

He frowned.

Only crazies talked to oiled canvases.

He might be halfway to fal ing in love with an American he hardly knew, but other than that he was quite sane.

Sound-minded enough to regret das.h.i.+ng out without tossing on a jacket. He s.h.i.+vered and rubbed his arms, certain his grandfather's cluttered little studio was colder than an arctic winter.

Ignoring the chil , he pul ed the draping back over the painting. He'd seen enough. Jil y's locket was indeed the same one worn by Margo Clare.

But when he turned to leave, he also saw the lady was no longer wearing it.

She hovered in a shaft of soft light near the door, a mere s.h.i.+mmer against the night. Decades older, she was beautiful as before, and stil in her blue dress. And rather than glinting at her neck, the locket dangled from her outstretched hand.

Her eyes pleaded.

The s.h.i.+mmering light around her intensified as she drifted nearer.

It wasn't as you think.

The words rippled the air and lifted the fine hairs on Kieran's nape. But before he could blink, she vanished, taking the odd light and the cold with her.

Only clarity remained.

Something between his grandfather and Margo Clare had gone horribly wrong. And now-he was sure of it-he had a chance to make things right.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

CHAPTER FOUR.

"I knew I'd find you here."

The words came soft in the cool damp of the rain-misted churchyard. Rich, deep, and with enough burr to make Jil y's breath catch.

She froze. Kneeling beside Alastair MacCol 's grave with one hand braced on his headstone and the other about to shove her grandmother's locket into the wet mossy earth, left her in a vulnerable position to greet the man's grandson.

She swal owed, not ready to face him.

"Don't do it." He was coming closer. She could hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel path. The rustle of bracken and heather, sounds that let her know his dog bounded along with him.

"It's over, la.s.s." His hand settled on her shoulder, squeezing. "The locket is yours now."

That did it.

She shot to her feet and swung around. "What do you know of it?"

His gaze pierced her. "Not as much as I'd like, but enough to guess what you were doing."

Jil y glared at him, not liking the look on his face. "I wasn't doing anything," she lied, heart racing. "The locket dropped and I found it on the grave."

Haggis pushed between them, whining.

Kieran folded his arms. "See? Even he knows you're tel ing a tal one."

"My business here is my own." Jil y stood her ground. "I was about to leave anyway."

"I know." He looked equal y determined. "I went to the inn.

They told me you'd checked out."

"Then you'l understand I'm in a hurry."

Rather than answer her, he glanced at Haggis. The dog sidled over to him, deftly helping him block the path out of the churchyard. Unless she wished to fol ow Haggis's lead and lope through dripping underbrush.

Jil y frowned. "Just what do you want?"

A chance for us.

Kieran caught himself before he blurted the truth burning so hotly inside him. There were other things they needed to settle first. "Let's say I'd like to avert another tragedy."

She blinked. "A what?"

"I know you're Margo Clare's granddaughter." He watched her careful y as he said the words. "At least I think that's the connection."

The high color that flooded her face proved it.

"Then maybe you should just turn around and walk away."

She jammed a hand on her hip, the sudden glitter in her eyes making him regret his bluntness. "Leave me alone so I can see to her last wishes."