“I never …” He leaned toward me. “I never gave you those letters to try to manipulate you into thinking this was all your mother’s fault. I take full responsibility for my part.”
“She still is to blame, too, though,” I muttered. How was I to face her after this?
“Robyn, I hurt your mother more than I realized. I think she was just trying to protect you from the same. Don’t judge her too harshly.”
“There wasn’t a time when I was little that you weren’t there for me or good to me. She had all the evidence in the world that you weren’t going to break my heart like you broke hers.”
“Until I took a job that meant leaving Boston,” he reminded me. “I think she saw that as the beginning.”
Huh.
I hadn’t thought of that.
His perspective on it soothed the burn of my emotions.
All evidence suggested that the man my father had become was a very good one. A compassionate one. Kind. And fair. I wanted to get to know him.
I guess that meant my mind was made up.
“I want to try,” I admitted. “To have a relationship with you.”
A slow grin spread across my father’s handsome face. He looked so boyishly happy, I couldn’t help but return his smile. “Really?”
I chuckled. “Really.”
He reached out a hand, and I shyly lifted my own. Mac clasped it in his. “Thank you. It’s more than I deserve.”
“Stop. If this is to work, I can’t keep blaming you, and you can’t keep blaming yourself. We’re moving on.”
“We’re moving on,” he repeated.
My dad looked down at our hands, and he tenderly rubbed his thumb over the top of mine. “How long can you stay?”
“I’m allowed to stay as long as six months, but if I need to stay longer, I’ve got that whole dual citizenship going for me … I’m here until we catch the fucker who stabbed you.”
“You don’t need to. I don’t expect it.”
“I don’t care how many years have separated us, some asshole stabbed my dad. And I’m going to make sure we find him.”
He grinned. “You grew up fierce. I’m so very proud of you.”
My chest ached at his words. They were words I’d longed to hear from him for so long.
“Come to the ceilidh with me this Saturday?” Mac released my hand but sat up straighter in his chair.
Surprised by the abrupt subject change, I asked, “What’s a ceilidh?” He pronounced the word cay-lay.
“It’s a social. We gather at the Gloaming and we drink and eat and dance to Gaelic folk music. There will be bagpipes and tartan and haggis. It’s Scotland vomited up into one big room.”
I laughed. “That is a charming description.”
“Och, it’s a good laugh. The council asks Gordon to host it every year to celebrate the anniversary of Ardnoch becoming a royal burgh.”
“And what is a royal burgh?”
“A town founded by or granted a charter by the Crown. It was abolished in the ’70s, but it used to be a big deal. Ardnoch was founded around a thousand years ago but became a royal burgh in the 1630s, and that’s what the celebration is for. In actuality, it’s just a bloody excuse to spend council money on a giant piss-up.”
I chuckled, but I wasn’t sure Mac was ready for a raucous social event that involved Gaelic dancing. “Should you be attending a ceilidh?”
“I’ll stay seated most of the time,” he promised. “I just need a wee breather from this castle. A night out and some good company. I want you to come and meet the locals. Get a better sense of the place.”
It actually sounded fun. “What do I wear?”
“Something bonny. Everyone gets dressed up for it.”
Considering I’d only brought casual clothing, I’d have to find a store or express online shopping. Maybe Lucy might be able to help me out. “Okay. I’m in.”
Mac’s eyes warmed. “Good.”
A little while later, after chatting over sandwiches Mac had called down to the kitchen for, he walked me to his door, even though I told him not to.
“I need to keep exercising,” he assured me.
“Just don’t push yourself.”
“I won’t.” As he opened the door, he looked down at me, serious. “I’d like you to think about moving into the castle. I’ve already talked to Lachlan, and he’s fine with it. It’s better than paying out money for that caravan.”
“I can’t afford Ardnoch,” I joked.
“You know we wouldn’t let you pay a thing.”
“Mac, I don’t know.” Thinking about my trashed trailer, I did have to wonder if it might be safer here.
“I know you like your independence. But please think about it. For me.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
As I was making my way downstairs, I spotted Lachlan talking on the gallery with actor Marci Robbins. It was then that I made up my mind about staying at the castle. As per usual, I tried not to react to seeing a famous person. It was the first time I’d seen Marci, a British actor with multiple awards under her belt and a reputation of greatness few achieved. She was a class act from head to toe. In her late sixties, she’d aged with grace. She had the kind of bone structure and full lips that meant she’d always be pretty. But even more impressive was her ability to master the most complicated characters and always give a unique performance. For the first time, I felt truly starstruck.
I dragged my eyes from her to Lachlan so I wouldn’t react to her presence. He looked up from chatting with Marci, saw me approaching, and his face closed down. Without even a nod in my direction, he turned to his guest and murmured something that made her laugh.
I walked past, stiff and outraged.
He’d completely ignored me.
That rude son of a bitch.
What a moron I was to have even let his mouth near mine.
As for living under the same roof, well, I was sorry to disappoint Mac, but it would be a cold day in hell.
20
Robyn
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I veered between awed and disconcerted.
Never in my life had I ever looked this glamorous. Most of my twenties had been spent in uniform for work or barhopping in jeans styled with a cute top. Yes, I’d worn a prom dress senior year, and on the rare occasion I was invited to a wedding, I’d put on a dress. Nothing like this, though.
This was red-carpet worthy.
A huge part of me liked that I could still surprise myself. I’d never felt this overtly sexy before. Since arriving in Scotland, I’d experienced hurt, anger, confusion, fear, frustration, and I’d felt bruised, vulnerable, cautiously optimistic, and emotionally drained. I’d worn a detective’s hat, an abandoned daughter’s shield, and a literal and metaphorical pair of boxing gloves.
A sexy dress to feel nothing but sexy in was a nice change of pace.
Still, I worried I was overdressed for a ceilidh.
Or underdressed.
My legs looked particularly long in the short dress I’d borrowed from Lucy, and they had a shine to them because Jazelle from the salon had smoothed on some kind of oil. “The dress is too short, right?”