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Chapter 13
Putting a hand to my throat, I grimaced. “You said to show some skin. Is this dress too much?”
He swallowed visibly. “Well, it depends.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“For a casual summer ceilidh, it’s perfect. If you’re feeling shy tonight, though, I think you’re in trouble. Every unattached Scotsman in a twenty-five-mile radius will be drawn to you like bees to honey. With that southern accent and magnolia complexion, not to mention a dress designed to give a man ideas, you’re a walking, talking fantasy.”
“I should go change.” His assessment made me nervous. I hated being the center of attention.
“Don’t you dare. You told me that you and Hayley and Willow came to the Highlands to meet your own versions of Jamie Fraser. Tonight, you’ll have all the available guinea pigs gathered in one place. ’Twill be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
I frowned, shifting from one foot to the other. The inside of my cheek was raw where I had bitten it. I was starting to sweat even though it was perfectly pleasant outside. “I think you’re making fun of me.”
He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. We’re going to dance the night away, McKenzie. I want you to enjoy yourself. They’re a welcoming group. You’ll have a wonderful evening.”
* * * *
Beside the entrance to Hamish’s lovely seafood restaurant was a second door that opened to a narrow flight of stairs. The tight space smelled vaguely of onions and fish. Despite first impressions, when we made it to the second floor and into the room Finley had described, I was enchanted.
In every window on the street side, single candles flickered in tall glass hurricane lamps. The walls were plain white plaster, the floor polished hardwood. I was fairly certain the boards beneath my feet must be over a hundred years old. It was hard to fake that kind of patina and wood grain.
At the far end of the room, a small band tuned their instruments. I saw three fiddles, a set of bagpipes, a guitar, and a small harp. To one side, a queue had already formed at the cash bar. Though we had arrived a few minutes early, the large room was filling rapidly.
As it turned out, I was right. Finley had been pulling my leg. He’d made me believe he was going to throw a party just for me. This ceilidh was a regular event. It was also the perfect opportunity for him to introduce me to his friends.
On one side of the room an enterprising carpenter had installed open wooden cubbies, the kind we used in kindergarten back home. As I watched, the women tucked away wraps and purses. It must be a very trusting crowd. Some even ditched their shoes. I wasn’t much of a dancer at all, much less barefoot, so I kept my flats right where they belonged.
Along the wall opposite the cubbies, tables were lined up end to end bearing finger foods. When my stomach growled loudly, Finley chuckled. “What if I go stand in line to grab us drinks and you fix yourself a plate?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Don’t leave me.” The roomful of strangers was intimidating despite my fairly extensive social life back in the States. I knew the rules on Park Avenue, New York, and in Buckhead, Atlanta. The Isle of Skye was something else again.
“Then what first? Food or drink?”
“Food please,” I said meekly.
Fortunately for my blood sugar, we managed to gobble down fish and chips and shortbread cookies before we were interrupted.
Finley looked up as a rotund man in his early thirties approached us with all the linear precision of a torpedo. “Here’s number one,” Finley whispered.
For a moment I didn’t understand. And then it became clear. Now was the part of the evening where Finley trotted out a series of eligible Scotsmen. I smiled pleasantly as the stranger joined us.
I could swear Finley’s eyes danced with laughter as he made the introductions. “McKenzie, I’d like you to meet my friend Tom Nickelson. Tom is a leading authority on genealogy. His specialty is the family histories of the Highlands.”
“How interesting,” I said politely. Tom was at least half a foot shorter than I was, even with me wearing flats. His broad face was shiny with perspiration, and he smelled like the stairwell.
Finley continued the formalities. “Tom, old buddy, this vision is McKenzie Taylor. She’s here in the Highlands for a month vacationing. We haven’t managed to make it to the bar yet. I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you would accompany her.”
“Well, of course I will,” Tom said, seemingly unfazed by the fact that I looked like his older, taller sister. “Come along now.”
I shot Finley a murderous glance over my shoulder, but the expression on his face was bland innocence. After that, I lost sight of the only person in the room familiar to me.
Tom dragged me in his wake, making the crowd part from the sheer force of his determination. We must have looked like a tugboat pulling the Titanic. When we finally reached the bar, I was out of breath. Somehow, Tom finessed us to the front of the line.
I glanced apologetically at the men and women behind us. They rolled their eyes, clearly used to Tom’s antics.
“What’s your pleasure, Ms. Taylor?” Tom asked.
