What Lies Between (12 page)

I swallowed, but the lump in my throat didn’t loosen. “Why wouldn’t you be?” My words came out grainy, salted with what might be a silly hope.

“Among many reasons I have, I can think of one very good one.”

His steady gaze didn’t waver, and I recognized, there in his eyes, the substance of what must be in mine.

Having a relationship hadn’t warranted much consideration these past few years. In truth, I simply hadn’t met anyone who inspired me to want one. And I wouldn’t be with someone simply to not be alone.

I did have a tiny hope that someone in the world existed who I could get giddy and crazy about, who could make me feel a little out of control—but could also be the person I could talk to, hang out with, and trust with all of me, over time.

Whatever this was with Ben, it was just easy enough and maddening enough—magical if I dared admit it—to inspire me to believe that maybe a relationship had a place in my life.

Ben must have read my thoughts; his eyes darkened to that deep blue that made me want to forget what I was doing and run off with him. Sometimes I was just a girl who wanted to experience love—a desire so unreachable it felt alien. But I knew it came from deep within, from a small part of me that had managed to survive unbroken. Still, I couldn’t ignore the bushelful of challenges waiting at the end of this tour, and I was at risk of losing my head. . . . and the estate.

Someone told me once I had an optimistic view of life. I laughed and said I was the most cynical person I knew and didn’t trust anyone or anything. This person said that the most dangerous lies are the ones we tell ourselves, and that I was a liar. Maybe I was.

Maybe I am.

What difference did it make? Distrust was the devil I knew . . .

Pushing myself to my feet, I wedged irritation into my voice. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

He frowned at me, then amusement eased his face. “You’re thrawn, determined to keep me where you want me—no closer, no farther. You want to believe you can control this. I get it. But life doesn’t work that way. You don’t have as much control as you think. None of us do. We don’t get to call all the shots.”

“What
this
are you talking about?”

“And that’s my point.” He crushed the empty plastic bottle, screwed its lid back on, stood up, and called to the group, “Time to move on. We still have a lot to see in half a day.”

Shayne looped her arm through Todd’s. Li chatted with Ben. Karen and Bill trudged in silence. Content to be left to my thoughts, I trailed behind. My mind whirred, warning me that getting involved would ruin the budding friendship with Ben and indulging in more would never work out because it never did. I couldn’t afford a mess, and I wouldn’t risk losing Glenbroch due to distraction.

At the same time, was I a fool for not taking a chance?

7

_B
en returned us to Portree and announced the group had a couple of free hours to rest and shop. Taking advantage of the down time, I headed to my room to catch up on still-missing sleep before meeting up with the group for dinner and a community
ceilidh
, an evening of traditional Scottish music and group dancing. Ben had explained the ceilidh was more for tourists than for locals, but a fair number of folks in the area came out for it. I looked forward to the evening as it was likely Glenbroch would host a ceilidh from time to time, and it sounded fun. It was about time for some fun.

The band’s kilted accordion player instructed the gaggle of milling travelers to form circles of six for our lesson in traditional Scottish dance. Shayne and Todd paired up. Don, from another tour group, offered to partner with me and I accepted. Ben extended his hand to Li.

Don grabbed my forearm instead of interlocking elbows and whirled me around with enough velocity to lift my feet from the ground. Pointing at the other dancers, I yelled over the crowd and boisterous music, “Elbows!”

He shot me a goofy smile and grabbed my arm again on the next whirl. In the slow motion rhythm of a disaster well underway, my arm slid free of his sweaty grasp. Careening in a dizzy spiral, I slammed a body to the ground, then ricocheted off the wall and landed on the person lying on the floor. The room continued to spin with no sign of slowing down. A masculine grunt sounded beneath me as my vision began to clear.

“If you wanted to lay your body across mine, you could have just asked.” A familiar Scottish brogue accented the voice.

Of course it’s Ben I pinned to the floor.

With my body lying across him, his earlier comment out on the Quiraing that I didn’t control as much as I thought replayed in my mind.

Ben’s muscles tensed against me, but he didn’t try to move, the rise and fall of his breath so near it warmed and cooled my neck. If I lifted my head, his mouth would scarcely be separated from mine.

Why couldn’t I let myself do what I wanted?

“I need to get up,” I whispered, as if he were holding me to the floor.

“Help her up!” Shayne demanded.

“All right, all right,” Todd responded.

Hands slid under my shoulders and jerked me up in an ill-conceived extraction attempt. Todd’s awkward grab and yank placed my knee directly in Ben’s groin, bull’s-eye confirmed by the loud protest from beneath me. Ben took hold of my arms and lifted me off his body, climbing to his feet with a long groan.

“Smooth, Todd.” Shayne shook her head in disapproval and peered into my face as I held onto the edge of the bar top. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Not sure about Ben.”

“The guy will live. That terrible man who was flinging you around, what was his problem?”

“I’m sorry. I must be more careful,” Don said, appearing behind Shayne’s shoulder. “I guess I got carried away.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” I hadn’t minded crashing into Ben, to be fair.

Before Shayne could give Don her thoughts on his lack of grace, Todd grabbed her arm and spun her back onto the dance floor. Don found another victim and hit the floor sporting the same moves.

“I didn’t think a ceilidh could be this dangerous.” Ben’s eyes sparkled as he added, “What did I say about control, or lack of it? No matter what we do, some things cannot be avoided.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a completely random accident,” I replied. Warmth crept up my face as I realized I was further proving his point, even though it could hardly be my fault I had landed on him.

“Think what you like.” His eyes studied me. “But in my mind it wasn’t random that you ended up draped over me like a
feileadh-mor
.”

Seeing my scrunched brow, he added, “You see there, the traditional, long plaids that some of the local men have wrapped round and it forms their kilt. You’re local too now. And as a local it would be good for you to learn to appreciate whisky. Tell you what, I bet I can find a whisky you love in three tastes. If I do, you owe me a dance.”

“I won’t like it.” I wasn’t at all convinced my evening should be spent tasting whisky. “I’ve tried it, and I hated it. Just saying.”

“If it wasn’t a Scotch whisky—and a single malt at that—then you’ve not had whisky at all. It’s the water of life here for a reason. We take it seriously and we know how it’s supposed to be made. You’ll see it’s only a matter of finding the right one.”

“What if I don’t like any of them and your mission fails?”

He raised his brows, his eyes emboldened with a cocky edge, obviously expecting victory. “Then you escape having to dance with me.”

“I think I’ll sit right where I am and won’t drink or dance at all.” A sparring mood suited me at the moment.

He ran his hands over his face, fatigue rimming his eyes. “What fun is that for someone as competitive as you? You know you want to prove me wrong. I’m away to get the whiskies. Drink them or not.”

He was wrong. I might want to spar with him but I didn’t want to win. Losing appealed to every part of me. It was merely a bonus he looked downright reckless in a kilt. If he didn’t work at Glenbroch and I’d never see him again, this would be easy. Whether due to my dizzy, whirling wreck earlier, or this beautiful, enigmatic island, a wee bit of recklessness was stirring in me. Could my heart leave it at that?

Ben returned with three tiny curved and stemmed glasses.

“First, we have a Balvenie. This one is a Speyside, non-chill filtered, aged seventeen years. Before you ask, it means when these whiskies are cold, they’ll look like they have bits floating in them or look off, but those bits enhance the taste, in my opinion. People who don’t know their whisky get their knickers in a twist because they think it’s spoilt.” He held the glass out for me to take. “But you, miss, will learn to drink your whisky like a local, bits and all.”

I breathed in the dark amber liquid, swirled it around, watched it cling to the side of the glass. The warm elixir slid into my mouth, soft and easy, and lingered where it fell.

“Good, now let the flavours express themselves.”

The whisky’s heat lay like lambswool across my prickly nerves. “It’s not bad.” Ben was right. I hadn’t had whisky before if this was what it was meant to be.

“Good. That’s encouraging. You didn’t spit it out. Next is a Highland malt from Wick, Old Pulteney, aged seventeen years as well. Smooth but with a wee bit more strength.”

This whisky was beautiful—an odd word for me to use, but I could have stared at it all night. The dram was the color of candlelight reflecting against fall leaves, warm and rich and golden. It left a velvety burn on my throat. Ben splashed a touch of water into my glass. This time, with the added water, the warmth languished on my tongue, gentle and buttery. I liked this one, almost loved it, but determined to play it cool. “Nice.”

“That’s it? Nice?” he asked with a bemused expression. “You’re a tough critic. Right, okay. Well, this next one is my wild card and a bit of a selfish choice. It’s a single malt from the Isle of Mull, Ledaig, aged ten years. I’ll start you off with a touch of water in this. I think it’s needed.”

This whisky laid out a completely different vibe. It looked like lemonade, innocent and refreshing, and I downed a large swig. A mistake. It burned even with the water. The taste remaining in my mouth was like sucking air straight from a fireplace flue. “Smoky,” the only word I could choke from my burning throat.

“Aye, that would be the peat. This whisky is milder than some of the island malts. If this is hard for you, stay clear of those, or acquire the taste slowly.” He laid all the glasses in a row. “Do you fancy any of these, or have I failed?”

He wouldn’t get the satisfaction of winning too soon. “I think I’ll have to taste them again. I’ll let you know.”

“Carry on, then. I’ll get myself a pint.”

I slid the Old Pulteney over to me, dropped another spot of water in, and tasted it again. Closing my eyes, I was curled up close to the fire at Glenbroch, wrapped in a soft, woolly blanket, with a book, and a dram of this smooth potion.

“Have you decided then? Is there a winner or will you be sitting on the sidelines all night?” Ben said as he set his pint on the table.

“Just because I don’t dance with you doesn’t mean I’ll be on the sidelines.” Holding the glass to the light in some sort of unspoken toast to what I didn’t know, I threw it back in one swallow. “This one is cozy and snug on a blustery autumn night.”

Skirting the table, I sat down near Ben and leaned back against him. “You win,” I whispered in his ear. I had definitely found my free-for-all mood.

He turned his face into my neck, his exhale falling warm on my skin. His body tensed against mine.

“By the way, thanks for breaking my fall,” I said, pushing away to return to my seat.

He took hold of my arm before my slightly sodden body could get moving. “You say that as if I had a choice.” His eyes were heavy with the same raw look he’d had when we played pool. “There are worse things than having your body on top of mine.”

Where was my witty comeback? I didn’t have one. There
were
many worse things than having my body on top of his.

“You owe me a dance.”

“You’re right, I do, but the band is between sets. It’s only DJ music,” I replied.

“We’ll make do.” Nodding to the DJ, he took my hand and pulled me into his arms and onto the floor.

The DJ spun up a romantic song, not at all what I expected.

“It’s as if you knew I would end up right here, with you,” I said.

Ben said nothing, his expression confident and relaxed, his movements so graceful I wondered if he had danced from an early age. He held me firm and solid, the warmth and light pressure of his hands flaming and confusing my body. I stepped on his foot, tripping him and throwing both of us off-balance. He caught himself and pulled me closer to stop my fall. His swift, sure protection, more than politeness, cracked open another layer of my heart, only a hairline fracture, but . . .

“Sorry, I . . . it’s the whisky,” I murmured.

More people filled the dance floor, crowding the small space. Someone shoved into my back, knocking me into Ben, who must have seen it coming. Holding me steady, he didn’t miss a step, moving me masterfully across the floor. He twirled me through the crowd to the edge, holding my gaze in his.

“Ellie . . .” Frayed edges of emotion unraveled in the two syllables of my name. “I have someth—” His words couldn’t find their way free. He cleared his throat and frustration creased his forehead. “Not here. Can we leave?”

Whispering into his neck, almost wishing he didn’t hear, I answered, “Yes.”

He took my hand and spirited me out the side door. “I’ll go back through the front and grab our jackets. Wait here.”

A moment later he was back; he helped me on with my jacket, then laid his around my shoulders. “The cold is no bother for me. My skin is native.”

This was the Ben I had met at Glenbroch.

“Would you like to go to the bay and take in the blue moon before others head that way?” he asked.

“Sounds perfect. Planned to take your advice to see it tonight, anyway.” I tried to sound casual, for what and for whom I had no idea.