Authors: Donna Kauffman
Bad Boys In Kilts (22 page)
“Och, but you have a horse’s mane, that ye do.”
How flattering. That was one way to cure her of her wandering imagination. If only it had worked. “Sorry to be such a pain.”
“Dinnae worry,” he said, in that smooth burr of his. “No extra charge for the second rescue. And I didn’t have to risk drowning in anything but terry cloth and hair this go.”
She felt her cheeks heat a little. “Not that you’ll believe this, but I’m generally a very self-sufficient woman.”
“Oh, I pass no judgment. You’ve had a hard enough time of it.”
“You have no idea,” she murmured.
His hands paused for a moment, then continued with the mission. “There,” he pronounced, freeing her from the sweatshirt string. “All is good. Though it might take you a wee bit to get a comb through it.”
She took the sweatshirt from him and their gazes locked for a moment. “It’s usually a bit of a nightmare. I’m used to it.”
He said nothing, just held her gaze, that slight half-smile of his playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s quite lovely, really. Worth the effort, in my book.”
She was so caught off guard by the compliment she wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d said it directly enough, with no real overtones, save that hint of a smile. Whatever the case, the moment ended when he broke eye contact to reach down and scoop the towel off the floor.
“I—uh, thank you,” she stammered. Oh yeah, she was smooth. Dined with royalty, no problem. But couldn’t untie her own tongue in the presence of a hot Scot. “I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me. If there is anything I can do—”
“Just come out by the stove and settle in, warm up. If stew is all right with you ... ?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be glad to help do ... whatever.”
He cut her off with a real smile. “Grab a comb and follow me. I have a feeling I’m going to have the easier job at my task than you will with yours.”
She found a comb, scooped up her dirty clothes, and followed him out to the main room. After insisting, he reluctantly let her take her things to the laundry room and load the washer. As she tossed his muddy things in as well, then added soap, she realized she was smiling. In spite of the earlier, harrowing drama, she was, to be quite honest, very content with her situation at the moment. Though not intentionally, it appeared as if she’d stumbled across exactly what she’d been looking for when she’d raced out of Edinburgh this morning, and driven headlong into the highland mountains, wanting only to get as far away from civilization as possible.
Well, she’d accomplished that. She’d landed in an alternate universe of sorts, where no one knew her name. No one cared what she did for a living. No one cared if she ever wrote another word. At least it felt that way at the moment.
It should have given her pause at the very least, stuck with a strange man in the middle of nowhere, cut off from everyone, not a soul knowing where she was. But it was that very notion that had her smile warming to something approximating an actual grin.
A taste of true freedom. At least for now. And for now, a taste was enough. More than she’d thought possible.
She recalled following him out of the bathroom and down the hall. Her gaze had been drawn to the jeans he was wearing ... and how he was wearing them. Long, lanky legs that she happened to know were very nicely defined. His t-shirt had fallen in a straight sheet from his broad shoulders, left untucked at the waist. His thick hair was drying in long waves that reached well past his shoulders.
As alternate universes went, she found herself thinking the view from this one was pretty spectacular ...
And she couldn’t help but wonder just how long she could play at being Alice in her new little wonderland.
Chapter 6
T
ristan paused at the door to the mud room and watched her for a moment, undetected. She looked completely ridiculous swallowed up in his shirt and pants. Her hair was a snarled mess. But she was smiling as she started the washer on its cycle, and seemed relaxed and content. And for whatever reason, that settled something inside of him. He wasn’t used to having company and was generally quite satisfied with that status quo. So why the thought of having her here didn’t bother him quite so much, he couldn’t say. Especially given that she’d been nothing but trouble thus far. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
ristan paused at the door to the mud room and watched her for a moment, undetected. She looked completely ridiculous swallowed up in his shirt and pants. Her hair was a snarled mess. But she was smiling as she started the washer on its cycle, and seemed relaxed and content. And for whatever reason, that settled something inside of him. He wasn’t used to having company and was generally quite satisfied with that status quo. So why the thought of having her here didn’t bother him quite so much, he couldn’t say. Especially given that she’d been nothing but trouble thus far. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, but her smile didn’t falter as she closed the lid on the washer and turned to him. “It was the least I could do, trust me.”
“Stew is heating. Why don’t you come sit by the stove, warm up.”
She picked up the sweatshirt and comb and followed him back to the living room. Jinty looked up from where she’d settled in the middle of the room. She thumped her tail, but went back to the chunk of rawhide Tristan had given her to calm her down. He motioned to the chair closest to the peat stove. “Here,” he said, shifting the chair and accompanying footstool so they angled closer to the warmth of the fire.
“Thank you.” She sat and went to work on untangling the snarls.
He watched for a moment, knowing he should make himself scarce and give her some space ... but not particularly motivated to do so. “So, what sent you out into a raging storm in that little buggy of yours? Or did you get caught unawares?”
She paused for a moment, and he could see the mental debate she waged. So ... there was more to the story then, as he’d thought. As it was, he was having a hard time matching the calm, seemingly level-headed woman who sat before him, with the panicked, borderline hysterical woman who’d been trapped in her own car an hour earlier. Perhaps she simply didn’t do well under pressure, but his instincts were telling him otherwise. And the silent debate she was waging backed that theory. He sat on the end of the oak-plank coffee table and waited for her response.
“I definitely got caught unawares. But, I—my life has been a little crazy of late, and I was just trying to, um, you know, get away from things for a little while. I was still struggling to learn the whole shifting left-handed thing and driving on the wrong side of the road—then the storm just whipped up, with the wind and everything, and right in the middle of it a sheep jumped in front of my car and I lost control. Anyway, as I said, I’ve been a bit frazzled of late, and I certainly didn’t handle the whole situation as well as I otherwise might have.” She’d gone back to picking at the knots in her hair with the comb during her little speech, the most she’d spoken since they’d crossed paths.
And she carefully hadn’t looked at him once, he noted.
So, she had been running from something. From her “crazy life.” But it wasn’t any of his business what that crazy life entailed. At least she wasn’t the hysterical twit he’d thought her to be, and he should just be thankful that she’d be out from underfoot by morning.
As it happened, he didn’t feel quite like that. It made him think back to what Brodie had been teasing him about earlier today. Which now seemed a lifetime ago, given everything that had happened since. Thing was, he did like his life out here. He enjoyed the solitude and serenity. Not that he minded the village and the bustle and noise. On occasion. For very limited periods of time. He wasn’t a hermit, but he didn’t like to be in the throng of things. Nothing wrong with that. Out here he was left to his own devices, the king of his domain. He enjoyed dealing with the tenant farmers and handling their issues, as they were few and far between and generally left him plenty of time to herd the sheep, contemplate the world, and sketch and paint to his heart’s content. If anything, he’d always assumed others would be jealous of his lifestyle, not the other way around.
Only Brodie had had one point. Companionship was something he missed. Specifically that of a female nature. But that was where things got tricky with the life he’d carved for himself. About the only female who was compatible with it, or would ever be, was Jinty.
Just then, his guest winced as she picked at a particularly bad snarl and he was reaching for the comb before he thought better of the gesture.
“No, that’s okay,” she said, automatically shifting away from him. Not alarmed, but not exactly comfortable, either.
He slipped the comb from her hands anyway and shook his own unruly mop. “I happen to have some experience with this and there have been more than a time or two when an extra pair of hands and someone with some patience would have come in handy.”
She did glance up at him then, a hint of a smile on her lips. “You are blessed with more patience than I, and I can’t blame that on ulcer-inducing stress or killer fatigue,” she said, then apparently realized she’d let a little too much slip. But she didn’t look away.
He held her gaze, and found himself imagining how he’d draw her. Pastels, maybe. Charcoal first, though, to get the feel of all those sharp angles. He wondered if her face was always so lean, almost hard at the edges, or if it was a result of that stress and fatigue she’d just mentioned.
He realized he could have continued to stare into those eyes, questions upon questions coming to his tongue, for an endless period of time before tiring of the view. So he nudged her shoulder and said, “Shift around, sit on the hassock here. Let me get the worst at the back.” He pushed the padded footstool that sat between her chair and the coffee table more squarely between them. “You face the fire and let me work on the knots.”
“You’ve done more than your share, and I’m already intruding on your hospitality. I—”
“Humor me. I don’t often have company out here. It’s just me and my sheep.” As if sensing her exclusion, Jinty took that moment to thump her tail on the floor. Tristan laughed. “And my girl, Jint. But she’s not much for chatting. If you’d like to repay me, not that you need to, but I wouldn’t mind the conversation.” He looked back at her—and realized he didn’t know her name. He switched hands with the comb and stuck his right one out. I’m Tristan, by the by. Tristan Chisholm.”
Instead of making her feel more comfortable, however, his overture made her go completely still. She stared at his hand, then at him. She glanced past him, taking in the room, looking for or at what, he had no idea, then finally back to him. “I’m Bree,” she said, finally looking back at him and taking his hand in a quick shake.
The lack of a last name was so blatant it had to be intentional, but he let it go. She was a woman alone, after all, and it might have been simply a cautious move on her part. But it was harder than he’d have thought not to dig. His curiosity, now piqued, was only growing.
“Turn,” he told her, deciding it better to let her dictate the course, if any, of their conversation. She hesitated, but when he smiled, did as he asked. He started working on the ends of her hair, his mind going a million miles a minute. For a man who lived in, and cherished, peace and quiet, it was taking an enormous amount of restraint to allow the silence to continue between them. Surprisingly, she broke it first.
“I—I really do apologize for ... well, everything. You’ve done so much and, I just ... you really don’t have to do this.”
“I dinnae mind,” he said, never more sincere. “As I said, other than the occasional annoying visit by one of my brothers, I lack for company on a regular basis. So if I have to rescue a fair maiden in order to have a dinner companion, well ...”
She made a sound that could have been a laugh, but it was so soft he couldn’t quite tell. “Seems an extreme measure,” she said, then added, “Just how far are we from the nearest town?”
Ah, so she was thinking of her safety, out here alone with him. He could, of course, reassure her all he wanted, but she’d either believe or not. He’d have to let his actions speak for him. Which made him work to hide a grin. At the moment, his actions had him playing with her hair and sporting the definite beginnings of a hard-on. Not exactly keeping a safe and respectable distance.
But what an amazing mane she had. Snarled, wet, it didn’t matter. He wanted to sink his hands into it, to turn her to him and see if he could spark life all the way into the depths of those wary eyes of hers. He wondered what the fair Bree would say if she had any inkling of his thoughts.
“Glenbuie would be closest,” he told her. “About a half-hour from here. My brother owns the pub there, Hagg’s. Another runs our family distillery, located on the far side of the village from here. My oldest brother is presently turning our crumbling family manse into a bed and breakfast, in hopes of keeping it from disintegrating entirely.”
She said nothing for a few minutes, so he continued to work his way through her hair. Then, finally, she asked, “And you?”
So ... she wasn’t as impervious as she appeared. Good to know. He was growing less impervious by the moment. Noticing things he had no business paying attention to, like the way her slender neck curved into shoulders that she held so carefully square. Or the way she kept her spine stiff and straight, as if she dared to allow herself to relax for one brief moment, something terrible might happen. Gone was that momentary peace he’d noted earlier, when she’d thought herself alone in the mud room.
“Aye, I tend to the family flock. I also tend to the needs of the farmers who lease out our grazing property. But their needs are minimal. Mostly I have the run of the land. Jinty and I, anyway.”
“It sounds quite ... solitary.” She didn’t say it in a condemning way. In fact, she sounded almost ... wistful.
“Aye, that it ‘tis. But I enjoy it. I fancy myself an artist from time to time, though no’ so much of late. I seem to have lost my muse.”
Now she did snort, but added no commentary.
He found he couldn’t let that one pass so easily. “What? Is it me being an artist you find so unbelievable?”
“No, not at all,” she immediately said, clearly not wanting to insult him. “It was a self-directed comment, trust me.”
“Have you lost yours as well, then? What is it that your muse inspires in you?”
She held her tongue, but he was patient. She’d proven to have curiosity and he doubted it was her nature to be silent and withdrawn, as when she let her guard down, she was quite personable, even if only for a moment here and there. Those were glimpses of the real Bree—he’d bet on it.
“I’m a writer,” she said, then almost held herself even more rigidly than before, as if waiting for an unseen blow.
He frowned now, unable to imagine what about the written word would inspire such trepidation. “A journalist?” he asked. Perhaps she’d written some volatile political piece or something.
“No.” She didn’t elaborate. When he didn’t press, but simply returned to his task, she said, “Do you read much? Novels, that sort of thing?”
“No’ so much novels, no. I enjoy history, books on art, farming, business.”
She seemed to take that in. “Newspapers? Periodicals?”
She wasn’t a journalist, so he wondered why that mattered. “The local village puts out a paper every Saturday, but otherwise, no’ so much. My world is here.”
She took that in, but added nothing. He finished with the section of hair in the back and paused. “Why do you ask?” It couldn’t be helped. He had to know. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”
She turned then, looking over her shoulder at him. “Why do you ask that?”
He smiled. “Why do you deflect the question with a question?”
She said nothing, but twin spots of color bloomed quite becomingly in her cheeks.
“If you’ve someone after you and I’m giving you shelter, perhaps I should know about it. That’s all. Not that I’d turn you out,” he assured her. “But being prepared is half the battle.”
“I didn’t run away from any one person.”
“Ah,” he countered, holding her gaze, keeping his tone light. “But you do admit you’ve run.”
She started to turn away from him, hide herself once again, as he was certain she’d been doing instinctively for some time now. Just as he was certain it was not her nature, and that in doing so, it had taken quite a toll on her. How he understood this, he couldn’t pinpoint, other than that her eyes, her expression, spoke to him in a way that communicated more clearly her thoughts than others could with a whole dictionary of words at their disposal. Yet again, his fingers itched to grab pen and paper and begin trying to capture all that she was so silently, and yet so loudly, communicating to him.
“Does the name Bree Sullivan mean anything to you?” she asked, quite bluntly and abruptly, her tone both confrontational and somewhat wary at the same time.
“Mean anything in what way?”
“You’ve not heard of it, then?”
“Other than from you, no, I can’t say that I have.”
And in that instant, her shoulders slumped a little, the stiff line of her spine softened. She dipped her chin and if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he saw her jaw quiver a little. As if she was fighting tears, or some other wave of emotion.
“Hey, there, come now.” Gently he took her shoulders and turned her to him. When she wouldn’t look up, he used a gentle finger beneath her chin to coax her into it anyway. Her eyes were huge and glassy wet, her face so clearly weary and spent. “The day has taken a toll on ye, hasn’t it, luv?” he said gently. “And here I’ve been badgering ye.” It was clear there was far more involved than that, but he felt bad now for pushing, he who so prized his privacy. “Let me get some warm stew into you—then you can crawl in and sleep until you don’t need any more.”
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