Page 68 of Scotlander

When they reached the point where (#SpoilerAlert) Jamie and Claire started undressing one another on their wedding night, she and Finn began fidgeting, clearing their throats, and basically acting like teenagers in Health class on How To Have Safe Sex day.

Willa broke first. ‘Well, this isn’t at all cringe.’

‘Nope,’ Finn agreed, using his forearm to open another bottle of alcoholic ginger beer he’d bolted down the stairs to find after the two of them had nearly died of mortification during the first of Claire’s many sex scenes.

Not that Willa was counting, (she was totally counting) but Claire had had more sex with her English and Scottish husbands in the space of . . . what was it, a few weeks? . . . than Willa had had in the past five years. And boy howdy did she want to have sex right now.

To disguise her discomfort she began to do what she always did when she was nervous. Talked to excess. ‘Their wedding was nice. Good percentage of candles. Our minister was better. And the sausage rolls. In fact, now that I think about it, from the angle they shot it? Their minister – vicar? Whatever – he looked like a satanist. But maybe he was trying not to stare at Claire’s boobs. Do you think it was spring or summer? I mean, that was a fair amount of cleavage on display. Four out of five stars for the kiss, but I think ours was totes better.’

What. The. Actual. Fuck. Was. Pouring. Out. Of. Her. Mouth?

Finn’s eyes shot to hers, then back to the screen.

Awesome. The old I’m-going-to-pretend-you-weren’t-talking manoeuvre. Cool, cool. She was down with that. She was down with all of this. Just because she’d masturbated to a picture of this guy before she’d met him, then flashed him, then freaked out when he’d accidentally grabbed her boobs, freaked out again for patronising her when, really, she’d deserved it, because, you know, first impressions are a thing for a reason, only for him to kiss her at their wedding as if he had actually wanted to, not to mention all of the mega-bonding in the pig pen earlier with actual tears and hugs and plans to save his family home, there wasn’t any reason to get bent out of shape. Who cared if he didn’t want to talk about the tingling feeling in her lips every time she remembered that kiss?

She did.

So she changed the topic. ‘On the flipside, maybe time-travelling women forced into a marriage of convenience with strapping young Highlanders deserve a bit of nooky.’

Finn gave her a wary side-eye, then, his attention caught by the absence of moaning, turned back to the screen. ‘Oh. Would you look at that.’ He was tipping his head as if the sight in front of him was something brand spanking new. ‘They’re talking. After sex.’

Willa made a vague noise. ‘Well, you know what they say, a bit of a chit-chat after the consummation of a clan-arranged marriage that saved the bride from certain death comes highly recommended.’

‘And you know this from personal experience?’

‘Oh, personal. Obvs.’

‘Shame.’ Finn stuck out his lower lip. ‘I was hoping I’d be your first.’

And then they both realised what he’d just said.

She said, ‘Ha, ha,’ and ‘Nice one,’ and ‘Sorry, bud,’ then really wanted to go and find a dark corner somewhere where she could curl up and die.

‘You’ve led quite the life.’ Finn grinned, then took a chug of his drink. Willa followed his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down the length of his sun-gold throat stubble. She forced herself to drag her eyes up to his lips, then to his eyes just as an orgasmic groan of pleasure burst from the tinny speakers.

Finn closed the laptop. ‘I think it’s getting a bit late, don’t you?’

‘Definitely.’ She faked a yawn. ‘Very late.’

He held the laptop to his chest but made no move to leave.

Her heart made an erratic oh-my-god-he’s-going-to-kiss-me beat. ‘You okay?’ she asked when he didn’t move.

‘Aye, I just—’ His blue eyes flicked across to meet hers. ‘Sorry about today. About including you in this mess. This is meant to be your holiday and I’ve pretty much ruined it.’

‘Finn.’ She was serious now. ‘I’m happy to help. Particularly as the whole Outlander thing—’ She pointed at the laptop, then flapped her hands at it while she tried to figure out exactly what to say, finally settling on, ‘I don’t really know why I’m here. Helping you makes me feel useful.’

As she spoke the words, the truth of them settled her. She was a producer. She made things happen. Correction. She made magic happen, never letting anyone know what was really occurring behind the scenes. Stroppy presenters. Truculent film stars. A real-life farmer fighting for the land that made him the man he was.

If she could do this – ensure the guests had the best immersive Jacobean experience possible – perhaps then the great, gaping hole that had nearly rent her in two when Val had died would begin to heal.

‘Thanks,’ Finn said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment earlier. ‘Well, then.’ He gave her a half bow. ‘I wish you goodnight, m’lady.’

She held out the sides of her onesie and curtsied. ‘M’lord.’

When she looked up at him, the intensity of his gaze seared through any protective layers she’d put in place. It was like wearing factor 10 sunblock in the desert.

She got the feeling that Finn, like her, was going through a personal metamorphosis. He thought he’d found his happy place at the Inverness agricultural college, but from what she’d seen? His happy place was here. And unless he did something, he would lose it.