Cathryn Parry - The Sweetest Hours

CHAPTER THREE

MALCOLM STRODE BESIDE Kristin in the early darkness, his mood matching the light. Snowbanks lined the sidewalk. It was so frigid cold outside that the hard-packed snow crunched underfoot, and his breath made puffs of air as he walked.

They’d left the mill building and were cutting through the middle of what passed for a downtown—a New England-style town green surrounded by shops, shuttered tight, and old homes, typical of the region. It reminded him of the remote village in New Hampshire where he’d first been sent to prep school as a boy, which only depressed him further. He hunched his shoulders in his coat as they passed through a section of street without lamplights. Malcolm pulled his torch from his pocket and turned it on.

“You carry a flashlight with you, too?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Everyone should.” If trouble warranted it, the heavy barrel could double as a weapon. He never went anywhere without considering the security implications.

She showed him her flashlight. Smiling sheepishly, she said, “Not everyone understands it, but a person has to protect themselves.”

Something they agreed on. Still, he thought of his sister who was about Kristin’s height, though slighter. He couldn’t see her bashing anyone over the head with a piece of metal. Too bad.

“Did somebody teach you to carry that?” he asked her.

“Yep, my brothers.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah...will they be present this evening?”

Passing beneath a streetlight, he noticed the dimple form in her cheek. “We may be blessed with their presence, yes.”

Lovely. At least his luck was predictable.

Within another block, they were at her family’s house, a multistory, clapboard Victorian. They climbed a set of stairs to a big wraparound porch. Stamping her feet to warm them, Kristin pulled a key from her coat pocket.

“You have a key to your sister-in-law’s home?” he asked.

“I live in the apartment upstairs. My brother and sister-in-law own the house, and I rent space from them.”

Interesting. Living here was safe, he supposed. “You have a short walk to work.”

“I do.” She smiled at him. Her hair was tucked inside her beret, and she looked...pretty. The fur from her collar framed her face, and her soft, green eyes gazed up at him. It made him ache.

He had too many secrets to keep from her. He only hoped he endured the night without incident. If he kept himself aloof from her and did not let himself care about her or her predicament once he left, then he would do fine.

“I have one thing to ask of you, George—please don’t hold me responsible for what my family might say or do tonight,” she pleaded, her hand on the doorknob.

He blinked. “Why? Are they likely to string me up because I’m with you?”

“Not you. They like strong, silent types.”

Is that what he was? In any event, nobody would think well of him once his handiwork was made known. Kristin certainly wouldn’t.

A gust of cold wind blew by, and he hunched his shoulders against the frigid temperature. “What are the risks tonight, then?” he asked.

“Me. I’m the risk. I’m bringing someone to a family event.” She choked out a laugh, and then glanced at him helplessly. “Trust me, they would love to pair us up. And it turns out the whole clan is going to be here, not just Stephanie and Lily. So, could you please back me up—make it clear that we’re work colleagues only?”

He stared at her. There were so many things ahead that could go wrong—so many potential traps she didn’t even know about. But he could only fixate on one thing.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” She shivered. “I am happily single.”

For some reason he liked that response. He smiled at her. “Then we’ll be happily single together.”

She seemed relieved. Nodding, a look of grim determination on her face, she opened the door. “One more thing,” she said, turning to him. “If you don’t like the haggis, then you don’t have to eat it.”

“I’ll be certain not to. You can count on that.”

She smiled at him, and something in his chest pinged. This wasn’t good. He was getting drawn to her despite himself.

There was a reason he’d done his best to keep his distance from her during the afternoon. But now here he was entering her private home, and it was too late to back out. “May I ask why your family is having a Burns Night? All these years I’ve lived in this country, and I don’t think anyone has ever invited me to one. It’s not well-known outside of Scotland.”

“Meet my family, and I’m sure they’ll tell you why it’s important—well, important to me, at least.”

The door was creaky, so she threw her hip into it. With a rattle of glass and a squeak of hinges, they stood inside a warm kitchen. That distinctive odor of tatties and neeps—potatoes and turnips—hit him, and he wrinkled his nose. He also noted sheep—haggis—mixed in, and he grimaced.

He’d been following behind Kristin, but she was immediately whisked away by a female rug rat. She was a shrimp of a girl, a ginger, with the wildest red hair and a smattering of freckles that he’d not seen in ages. Such a combination usually only existed on his home island.

The ginger rug rat was wearing a kilt that clashed with her features. A bright red Royal Stuart tartan, displayed outside almost every tourist shop on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. He was having difficulty not chuckling aloud, so he squeezed his lips between thumb and forefinger.

“George Smith?” a woman asked him. He didn’t answer right away; it wasn’t registering that she was speaking to him. When it did occur to him, he turned abruptly.

And looked down. She was a shrimp of a woman, too, to match the shrimp of a daughter. Black hair, flashing eyes, and wearing a chef’s white top, checkered loose pants and kitchen restaurant clogs.

That was a relief—she was a professional. Thus, it was unlikely he would be poisoned.

The lady chef grabbed his hand and pulled him into a small butler’s pantry off to the side. And then she shut the door behind them.

Inside, with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and rows of spices and jarred dry goods arranged on shelves, she grabbed a bottle of whisky—single malt—from a top ledge and unscrewed the cap. “A word with you, Mr. Smith,” she said, pouring them each a wee dram.

Solemnly she handed him a glass. “I know you’re an out-of-town guest, a work colleague to Kristin, but I am telling you, they are going to crucify her in there. And if you don’t support her—or worse, if you join in on the laughter and the insults—then I will personally see you pushed into a snowbank. Do you understand?”

“I...”

“Of course you do.” She smiled sweetly and raised her glass to him before slinging back the shot.

“Whoa!” she said. “That waters the eyes.”

“Er,” he said, still holding the glass of whisky, “I thought this was Kristin’s family celebrating a Burns Dinner?”

“Sure, but they’re not always an easy crowd, and definitely won’t be tonight once they figure out what kind of food I’m feeding them.” She shivered. “Trust me, I’ve known this bunch forever. Kristin was my nap partner in kindergarten. She kept me laughing so much, I never got my sleep. We were always in trouble.”

“Kristin has how many brothers?” Were they big? How many stone did they weigh?

“It has taken me weeks to find a decent haggis recipe,” she said, ignoring him, “and then, importing the ingredients and testing it in my kitchen.” She poked him in the chest. “It’s taken me a while to crack the code and make it palatable. The rest of them likely won’t touch it, but you will. You will at least try to like it for Kristin’s sake. Do you hear me?”