Destined for Doon (2 page)
Instead, Duncan let his hand drop from my arm. His posture stiffened as his gaze refocused in the vicinity of my right earlobe. “The queen has tasked me with bringing ye back to Doon.”
The queen?
The absence of his touch left me feeling ice-cold. Goosebumps covered my arms as I crossed them over my chest. “You mean Vee?
My best friend?
”
“Aye. She has need of you.”
She
needed me? And the unspoken truth — he didn’t. He was here only because those were the orders he’d been given. The hope that’d been welling up inside of me froze. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”
Shadows from the flickering candle shifted across his face, making it impossible to read. “She’s well. She requires your assistance is all. I’ll explain when we’re underway.”
It was probably a best friend thing. She wanted a confidante or someone to keep her grounded despite her recent ascension to royalty. The reason didn’t really matter because if she needed me, I would go. However, since Prince MacCrae was
only
following orders, I didn’t have to make this easy for him.
“Now’s not really the best time.” I let my shoulders rise and fall with my words. “I’ve got a lot of stuff going on.”
Duncan stepped closer so that I had to lean backward ever so slightly to see his face. Through tightened lips, he said, “It’s
not a request. I’ll throw you over my shoulder and drag ye back if I have to.”
“You came all this way to threaten me?” I took a cautious step back and flicked the switch near the door. The overhead lights hummed to life.
He clamped his eyes shut and sighed. “No.”
When he looked at me a moment later under the unforgiving lights of the dressing room, he appeared older. Deep worry lines formed creases above the bridge of his nose and at the corners of his mouth. Purplish crescents accentuated the baggy skin under his eyes making me wonder when he’d last slept. Most noticeably, the easy grin that seemed to be an integral part of his persona was gone, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d left it on the bridge next to my heart.
Threading his fingers through his dark hair, he said plainly, “Look, I dinna like it any more than you. Do ye think I’d be here if I could’ve avoided it?”
The question was obviously rhetorical. Everything from the deep frown he wore to his awkward posture indicated he could barely stand being in the same room with me. Not that I could blame him. I promised him that we could be together in the modern world and then tricked him into returning to Doon alone. At the time, I believed it was the right thing to do.
Almost like he’d been eavesdropping in my head, he said, “Ye made your choice and I swore to respect it. I
promise
as soon as we get things sorted out, I’ll return you to your life and you’ll never have to see me again. My queen says I’m to beg you, if need be.”
I wouldn’t make him beg — he’d been humiliated enough. My best friend wanted me to come so nothing would keep me away. Not even the animosity of the prince who was once mine. “Okay.”
Duncan hoisted his duffel over his shoulder. “Good, then. We’ll leave right away.”
“No.” I stepped to my dressing table to tidy my things. “I’ve got one more performance tomorrow afternoon and then I’m free.”
From the reflection in the mirror, I watched the corners of his mouth pinch downward, hardening his face. I braced myself for an argument, but rather than fight me, he agreed with a single nod.
Before I could fully absorb the implications of our arrangement, the knob on the dressing room door rattled, shattering our awkward truce. Duncan’s hand instinctively reached for his sword, and when it came up empty, he clenched it into a fist.
The rattling quickly escalated into pounding. Each reverberation caused Duncan to tense a bit more — like a windup jack-in-the-box. If I didn’t intervene, he would likely spring forward, rip the door from its hinges, and use it to pummel the person on the other side.
Dreading what was about to unfold, I hurried to the door and twisted the knob to release the lock. Bracing it with my body, I edged it open. Through the gap, I saw Weston’s salon-perfect blond locks and his narrow eyes with their faint traces of guy-liner. When he realized I wasn’t alone, he quickly replaced his scowl with an overly wide smile that revealed high-end veneers. He leaned against the door, forcing me to give way.
“There’s my diva!” Weston glanced from me to Duncan. His expensive smile never faltered as he sauntered into the room and snaked his arm around my hip. “Who’s this, babe?”
My heart pounded against my ribcage as Duncan coiled into what I recognized as his Highland warrior stance. For a moment I worried he would clobber Wes like an opponent in the coliseum ring back in Doon. Fortunately, he seemed to reconsider. Raising himself to his full height — a full head
above his adversary — he stepped forward with regal grace. “I am Duncan Rhys Finnean MacCrae, Third Earl of Lanarkshire. You may call me
Lord
MacCrae. And you are?”
“I’m Weston Ballard, lord and artistic director of this theatre. And Kenna’s boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
That was
so
not true. Well, maybe a little bit. After a couple of miserable dates, during which the company started referring to us as
Keston
, I broke it off. Dating Wes had been a mistake, a pathetic attempt to get over Duncan after months of agony. But I quickly found I had no stomach for being wooed — at least not by him.
At the B-word, Duncan’s smile froze. He blinked at Weston while he absorbed that little relationship bomb. I’d heard Wes do this multiple times — especially where other guys were involved. He loved to exaggerate circumstances to make himself appear important.
Wes pulled me closer so that our hip bones jabbed against one another. “Who
is
this guy, babe?”
“Just an old friend from Scotland.” My heart hitched in my chest. As if Duncan could be “just” anything.
Duncan’s smile warmed slightly. “Not
that
old.” It was an obvious dig at the fact that Wes was in his twenties — practically an old creeper compared to the eighteen-year-old prince.
Wes bared his freakishly white teeth. “That’s right. You’re barely out of diapers.”
Before things could get any more testosterone-y, I stepped between them. I just needed to keep the peace with Wes for one more show. Was that really so much to ask?
Flashing Duncan a threatening smile, I explained to Wes, “He came to surprise me.”
Weston’s free hand captured my face. In a deceptively gentle-looking caress, he dug his index finger into the flesh
under my chin and forced my head to turn until we faced each other. “Is that so?”
If it hadn’t been for Duncan’s presence, I would’ve broken Wes’s hand. He was being a jerk on purpose and his actions bordered on abuse. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed Duncan’s murderous scowl. Obviously, he’d noticed the inappropriate behavior as well. He took a fraction of a step forward, his smooth Scottish brogue heavy with subtext. “Aye. We go
way
back.”
Since childhood . . . which I hadn’t realized until recently.
Releasing my face, Wes leaned toward me and nuzzled my neck like Snuffleupagus. With an affected and no doubt rehearsed nonchalance, he asked, “Where are you staying tonight, mate?”
That was a good question. All too aware of the way Duncan’s hands clenched into fists, I subtly twisted away from Wes’s face. Under the pretext of straightening up, I slipped his grasp to pick up a sock lying at my feet.
Considering the question with an elegant tilt of his head, Duncan mused, “I suppose I’ll stay at the local inn.”
“Duncan is staying at my place.” It tumbled from my mouth before the thought had finished forming. He didn’t know this world, and even if he hated me now, it was my job to protect him until I could get him home. I wasn’t about to let him out of my sight, not even to sleep.
Wes grabbed my arm and spun me around so that we faced the corner with our backs to my newly declared houseguest. Leaning in, he hissed in my ear, “Babe, you haven’t even let
me
spend the night, and
this guy’s
gonna sleep over?”
“Wes” — it took every ounce of effort not to glance toward Duncan to see if he overheard and had a reaction to Weston’s
innuendo — “he doesn’t know Chicago. I’m not letting him stay in some random motel — ”
“So put him up at the Hilton,” Wes shot back, showering my neck in spittle.
“No. I didn’t ask him to come, but now that he’s here, I feel responsible for him.”
“Okay.” Wes’s fingers dug into my arm, to hurt me or brand me, or maybe a bit of both. “But I’m coming too.”
Keeping the discomfort my “boyfriend” was inflicting from coloring the casual tone of my voice, I replied, “Duncan and I will be talking old times. You’d be bored.”
The pain increased. A muscle in Wes’s cheek ticked as he said through gritted teeth, “I’m not letting you go without me.”
I felt Duncan’s heat at my back as he stepped closer. His scent filled my senses, flooding me with a sense of safety in spite of the present situation. In a lethal voice, Duncan growled, “Tha’s exactly what’s going to happen,
mate
. Mackenna and I are going to her flat and you can go wherever the devil it pleases you. As long as it’s no’ with us. Now unhand the lass.”
With one last pinch, Wes let go. As he stepped back, he had the audacity to look hurt. But I wouldn’t waste one speck of empathy on his smoke and mirrors. I was
so
done with him.
However, in case I had any illusions about what the future held with a certain Scottish prince, Duncan lifted his hands and said, “You need not worry for your girlfriend’s sake, mate. I wouldna so much as lay a hand on her.”
I
f Sondheim is to be believed, and I see no reason why he shouldn’t be, size matters — at least when telling lies. Letting Duncan believe I was Weston’s girlfriend seemed harmless enough for the moment . . . or at least better than the alternative — confessing that I was still crazy in love with the boy from the bridge and getting shot down because he hated my guts. As soon as I found the right time, I would tell him the truth.
With unsteady fingers, I fumbled to unlock my studio apartment. When the bolt finally cooperated, I opened the door with a flourish, followed immediately by a sense of panic. Little molehills of clothes were strewn about the floor, exactly where I’d shed them before collapsing into bed. I hurried inside, scooping up jeans, undies, and bras while making a joke about it being the maid’s day off, then flipped on the desk lamp. Low lighting seemed better than the overhead considering the state of my humble abode.
Duncan stepped into the room, set his duffel by the door, and surveyed the area the way a lieutenant inspects his new
quarters. I knew from my extended stay in his kingdom that he kept his chambers tidy. My style tended to be clutter bordering on chaos. Dirty clothes erupted from the hamper in the corner. Makeup and hair stuff littered my desk/dressing/dining room table. Dishes were stacked in the shallow sink next to the tiny fridge and second-hand microwave that perpetually smelled of burritos. Next to the kitchenette, there was a small bathroom that I’d thankfully cleaned the previous morning. At the opposite end of the room, an unmade full-size bed, dresser, and free-standing wardrobe took up the majority of the space.
It took Duncan all of about five seconds to take the grand tour. “This is your home?” His flat tone gave me no clue how he felt. Or if he even cared at all.
I glanced around the room feeling slightly defensive about my dwelling of the past ten months. It wasn’t paradise, but it was — Who was I kidding? Even by Eliza Doolittle standards it wasn’t loverly or anything that could be fixed with an enormous chair. It was merely where I crashed. Not home. I didn’t even have a TV. Not that I’d gone medieval or anything, but there’d been an ill-timed resurgence of fairy tales on television, both scripted and reality shows. You couldn’t channel surf these days without bumping into a freakin’ prince.
An old tissue stained with red lipstick lay in a crumpled ball on the floor next to the wastebasket. I snatched it up and threw it away. “I’m not here very much.”
Duncan paused to inspect the small shelf above the desk/dressing/dining room table. That particular spot housed my new obsession, little replicas and postcards of Scottish castles. Although I still enjoyed my theater memorabilia — posters and playbills of
Wicked
,
Into the Woods
,
RENT
, and other faves — my shelf of Scotland made me feel most alive. When I looked
at it, I felt the misty breeze with its faint hint of heather, transporting the melody of bagpipes from across the ocean.
I watched uneasily as Duncan picked up a replica that looked suspiciously like Castle MacCrae. It wasn’t an exact match, but close enough. Before he could read too much into it, I offered, “That makes me think of Vee. I can hardly believe she’s a queen.”
Then, desperate to change the subject, I said, “Seriously, Duncan. Lord MacCrae, Third Earl of Lanarkshire — what was that about?”
He shrugged, his dark eyes lacking the wry spark I associated with him. “I didn’t lie. Veronica cautioned me about using the title of prince, so I used one of the other ones.”
“You’re a prince and an earl?”
“Among other things.”
And I was the girl who’d discarded him like one of my lipstick-blotted tissues. Hopefully returning to Doon would give me the opportunity to make up for that mistake. If I could prove to him how sorry I was, maybe he would forgive me. And then . . . I wouldn’t allow myself to dream about what came after — at least not yet. “Are you hungry?”
He shook his head and set the miniature castle back in its spot. “Nay.”
Under other circumstances, I’d have dragged him halfway across town for the best — make that second-best — pizza on the planet. Over dinner I would’ve asked a million questions about his journey over the bridge, what he thought of the modern world, and helped him decide what to do and see while he was here. But it was late. I was exhausted and secretly thankful that there was no reason to prolong the awkward evening.