Page 26 of Not Quite a Scot


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Chapter 11

Finley’s rooftop was no fancy penthouse garden on the Upper East Side. It did have two ancient lawn chairs and a rickety quasi-table. He escorted me to my seat and joined me opposite the small wooden bench, then poured us each a glass of whiskey.

When he passed me my drink, our fingers touched. It seemed as if sparks flickered from the simple contact. This was all wrong. I was supposed to be pursuing my photography and learning things about Scotland, not having rooftop trysts with the kind of man who broke hearts as a sport.

Well, that wasn’t fair. If there were hearts being broken, the women were partly to blame. They should have known better. Not even the most naïve female on the planet could convince herself that Finley Craig was boyfriend or husband material.

The whiskey, though I sipped it slowly, burned in the pit of my stomach. Gradually, the warmth spread outward to my limbs. I rested my head on the back of the chair and looked at the sky. So many stars. I never saw the sky like this in Atlanta…or even New York for that matter.

Far below me, the town slept. Portree was a gem of a place. I loved it already. “What does the name mean?” I asked.

“It’s pronounced Port Righ, which translates as king’s port, but in older documents, it’s Port Ruighe, or sloped harbor, so take your pick.”

“I like the second one,” I said. “Do you speak any Gaelic?”

“Only the occasional word or phrase. It’s a wee bit difficult to learn.”

“I’m sure it must be.” The signs I’d seen on my way to the island were written in both English and Gaelic. As far as I could tell, there was little point in common between the two.

After half an hour or so, Finley refilled his glass. I still nursed my drink. I didn’t like feeling out of control. Between Finley and the alcohol and the beautiful night, I was in danger of floating off into space.

“Are you asleep over there?” he asked with a smile in his voice.

“Almost.” Might as well be honest.

“We’ve talked way too much about me. Tell me what a Duchess does when she’s back home in her native land.”

I took another sip of whiskey. “I have a degree in interior design.” I said it bluntly, waiting for him to criticize.

“Why did you choose that?”

“Well, I suppose it’s because I respect beauty in all its forms. Beauty adds meaning to life. It can also make life bearable.”

“So you help wealthy Georgia debutantes decorate their mansions?”

The over-the-top stereotype made me smile. I wasn’t ashamed of my debutante days. “That’s part of it.” I didn’t tell him more for fear he would think I was bragging.

“Scotland is beautiful. Is that why you came?”

Again, I equivocated. “One reason, yes. Though beyond the beauty, there’s magic, I think. History, tragic and triumphant. A land torn by war and built on the blood of its people. Hayley and Willow and I wanted to experience that for ourselves. As an outsider, you probably understand that.”

“Aye. The hills here are old and wise. Progress is slow and measured. The natural world is a resource to be cossetted and not crushed.”

“Will you ever move back?”

“I doubt it. At least not until my father is gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and bowed his head. “I don’t expect you to. It’s a long, ugly story, and it’s late. You need to go back inside and go to bed.”

“What about you?”

He turned to face me, though I couldn’t read his expression in the dark. “Is that an invitation, lass?”

The unaccustomed alcohol had lowered my inhibitions. Finley was a rare, fascinating creature. I wanted to wallow in him. At the last second, I found my good sense. “Not at all. Just a question.”

“You go first. I’ll be down in a bit.”

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