His Lass Wears Tartan (5 page)

“Stay close—ya’ll be needed soon to carry bags to their rooms. Go now and get a biscuit from Putney for your troubles.” She closed the guest-only front door against the bite in the wind. Though the spring equinox had passed months ago, an unusually chilly spring lingered. The sky’s display was overcast one minute with the sun breaking through the next, but it was always more blustery than still. But she was not giving up the possibility of a decent week for the guests.

The babble of voices harmonizing with the clink of thin china made Rogue turn around. Typically, guests to the castle came in pairs, lovestruck brides or anniversary partners surrounded by immediate family and friends, and the romantic haunted castle theme brought a steady source of international couples.

This writer event piqued her interest with the idea of meeting a soiree of creative folks. She was in awe of people who could imagine whole other worlds and put characters to paper. She hoped these Americans would be interested in talking about their home cities. Rogue had been teased by her aunt more than once for harassing guests with too many questions about the quirks and sayings in the Western world. A yearning inside wanted to know ... more. The States seemed like a cornucopia of miniature countries linked between two oceans, and she found it fascinating. Accents varied from northern Maine to southern Louisiana, making understanding her guests not always easy.

A year ago, she’d spent a delightful few months in Olympia, Washington, at Aunt Baillie’s bookshop, Pen & Pages, living upstairs with Sally and her delightful young daughter, Casie. More than once, Rogue found herself sauntering slowly through the crowded Olympia Farmers Market; she’d nearly overdosed on pounds of ripe Rainier cherries, peaches, and a variety of apples during her stay. One Saturday, they shopped for hours in the crowded Capital Mall, thoroughly mesmerizing Rogue with the abundance of shops and food tastes under one roof. A glimpse of her aunt’s hometown gave her a tiny taste of what she saw in American movies, and she wanted more.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. Rogue paused her step and watched Jonathan stride down the east stairs, regal in motion, dressed all in black, drawing attention to his tanned face and striking beard. He’d released his hair, the wild, dark waves now decorating his shoulders and a few strands in front of his face. Rogue’s heart skipped a beat as she watched a less trimmed Rhett Butler of the twenty-first century hold court with his phone against his ear.

He caught her looking and spoke a bit louder. “Let me call you back,” he said before shoving the phone in his pocket. “Ah, princess, indeed, you waited for me. I am truly touched at your purity of service.” He pressed a manicured hand to his heart.

Rogue stiffened as her body betrayed her with a rising warmth. “I dinna realize you were not already at tea, Mr. Olson.” Rogue denied herself the delicious feel of his stare by looking away first from the brooding face now inches away from her own.

“Only fashionably late, my dear, but first a more pressing issue took my attention. Business may beckon me twenty-four/seven, but your voice is like a siren’s song to my heart.”

“Your arrogance precedes your charm, sir.” She refused to step back and give ground, yet she could smell a citrus scent, feeling the heat from his body this close.

His lips tightened as his eyes flashed. Jonathan moved slowly, deliberately, as he circled around her, appraising her dress. “Excellent,” he whispered. He stopped a degree to the right of where he started, forcing her to turn her head to face him.

Rogue made fists with her hands, trying to control an unnatural response to touch him, the air surrounding her, thick with testosterone. “What?” The question came out stiff, foreign.

“You.” His warm breath caressed her cheek, making her blink. She waited for him to continue. Nothing. She raised an eyebrow and waited for him to elaborate.

“Despite your fears, you may find my predilections somewhat old fashioned. The truth is, you would be a breath of fresh air in Hollywood.” His words poured smooth like a fine whiskey. “A runaway phenomenon of singular quality,
bonita
. The stars would whisper your name above the city lights.” He leaned closer. “I’d love to discuss your exquisite face and melodic voice soon. ’Tis a rare, precious combination.” The last syllable again blew air against her face.

Wanting to lean against a support of some kind, a chair back, a side table, as her knees suddenly weakened, Rogue felt entrapped by the man. She couldn’t remember breathing as he finished his sentence. Her eyes moved across his facial features, soaking in each detail until her gaze caught a glow of lights sparkling behind him. Rogue blinked and the intense moment passed.

Jonathan took a step back before folding into a deep bow. “I look forward to our week together,
ma chérie
. But for now, I must make arrangements with my people.” He turned and disappeared into the tearoom.

Feeling like she struggled for air under a warm tropical sea, Rogue took a shaky breath, hungry for oxygen. Her fingers tingled as she released her clenched fists, letting the blood rush through.
The bloody man’s a hypnotist; his tone lulls a woman out of her senses.
A bloody gorgeous man.

Part of her wanted to shake her head clear like her Scottish wolfhound, Diva, after coming in from a drenching rain. Those piercing eyes still glowed in front of her, and she savored the vision.

“Where have you been?” Aunt Baillie walked up next to Rogue.

“I, uh,” she hesitated, startled at her aunt’s abrupt appearance.

“Come on, you need to introduce yourself.” Baillie fluffed her hands in front of her as she ushered Rogue into the room full of people.

Scrambling for mental balance, Rogue couldn’t resist as her aunt shoved her to the front of the room. Conversations stopped, and she made a brief speech of welcome and being at their service, but Rogue had no control of her senses. Jonathan stood in a back corner, his outfit of dramatic black pulling at her, a magnet to hot metal. She heard her words come out choppy and more by rote than gratitude or conscious thought. She quickly ended with a deep curtsy and excused herself. Avoiding her aunt, she ducked out the other doorway. Had she actually heard a deep, resonate chuckle in her haste to flee?

The sanctuary of the kitchen enveloped Rogue in warmth and familiarity. She rushed to the sink and ran cool water over her shaking hands. Why did she feel exhausted? Grabbing a nearby hand towel, she wet a corner of it and wrung out the moisture. Dabbing the wet coolness to her forehead and neck slowed her breathing.

“Is there something ya be needing, Rogue?” Putney stood solid with her hands on her hips. Her worn cap sat on her head with damp curls poking out of the ruffle.

“No, uh, not really, I just ...” Her answer was interrupted as Aunt Baillie came into the room.

“Are you all right?” She stopped in front of her, grasping her shoulders. “You looked in pain out there in front of the guests.”

There was no possible way of explaining herself to Putney and her aunt when she barely understood any of these feelings herself. The man’s very presence sucked reality out of her and replaced it with a tingling sensation, a vibration starting within her soul, making her body weak. Had he mentioned Hollywood and her in the same sentence? She stood silent, blinking, and shrugged.

“Will you be able to help me get the guests to their rooms?” Like someone snapped out of a trance, Rogue nodded, and together, they headed back into the parlor.

With the last guest settled for the moment, Baillie caught up with Rogue and slipped her arm in hers. “Dinner’s in a couple hours.” Baillie leaned in close. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“That Mr. Olson is rather striking, don’t you think, in a melancholy sort of manner.”

“I, uh, hadn’t really noticed, Auntie.” A moment passed. “Please excuse me.” Her voice strained, breathy. “I need to check on Dougal.” Rogue extracted her arm before lifting her skirt and dashing down the hallway.

The typical silence in this part of the castle late in the day broke with bits of chatter and conversations from the writers dressed for dinner. Rogue fidgeted in the tight corset underneath the more formal, deep purple gown, her hair styled on top of her head, tendrils of curls tickling her neck. She’d spent more time than usual applying different makeup, trying some of the tips Rafael constantly pushed at her during visits. Her dresser top looked like an explosion of colorful shadows, paints, and various brushes from the girls.

What possessed her to splash and flash tonight, though, confused her. Jonathan had snapped open something dormant inside her, a fluttering tingle with no rational basis. How did he do that? Merely standing close to the man sent her into a whirlwind of unusual, breathtaking feelings.

Her heartbeat increased as a group came around the corner; a tightening in her chest made it difficult to speak, let alone breathe. Clearing her throat, she said, “Welcome to your first dinner at Baillie Castle. We’ve prepared a delicious four-course meal of Scottish fare for you this evening. I hope you’ll enjoy.”

Rogue turned and led the people into the impressive room, transporting them back in time to the days of knights and banquets. The enormous wall-length fireplace heated the room, with three lighted candelabras dotting the middle of the table, which was covered with thick, white embroidered linen, the Baillie crest in the center. On the other wall, a large ancient tapestry hung, the threads faded in color but the hunting design still visible.

In one corner, the glow of the flames reflected on a polished suit of armor. The dark wood paneling created an intimacy despite the massive room. Each place setting contained eight utensils and two china plates, with a hand-scribed name card.

Rogue smiled, listening to the compliments and squeals of the guests. Everyone had his or her phone out snapping photos and selfies. She propped herself against the doorway, watching them survey the room before settling into their appointed seats. A few immediately noticed the elaborate carvings in the chair armrests, slightly raised lion heads beautifully detailed.

But not everyone had arrived as yet.

“Such a beautiful hostess, my dear.” Jonathan stood extremely close; she could feel his warm breath on her bare neck.

“I, I’m just here to ensure everyone arrives for dinner, making sure I havena lost any guests on their journey through the castle. I won’t be staying.”

“My loss, indeed. Deeply regrettable.” He sighed. A fresh, minty scent overpowered his overall scent of leather and cologne.

He placed his hand on the small of her back, and a poker of heat shot through her. He eased around and stared into her dark eyes. “I always assumed love at first sight was but a fantasy, imagined by common folk for their pitiful entertainment and written about by lesser authors. Perhaps I am truly adrift in this time and mesmerized by your features.”

“Pardon?” Rogue said, stepping aside as the last writer moved through the opening. What was this devil talking about? Her body tensed, and she couldn’t decide whether to flee or stand her ground and find out what this flasher of words was trying to say.

“Indeed, though my stay at the castle this time will be brief,” the man practically purred, “I have come to value the unexpected treasures around me.” He bent at the waist in a passionate bow, front foot pointed, flipping his knee-length dress coat behind him.

Curtsying, she watched him stand to his full height and give a saucy wink before turning away into the room.

Rogue slid back into the darker hallway and pressed up against the cold stone in relief. She was flushed with a strange physical longing, a hunger created a trepidation in her soul. She dotted her damp upper lip with her handkerchief as she listened to the soft chatter in the room. Catching her breath, she pushed away from the wall.
How does the man affect me this way?
Why did she feel so weak? Just because Jonathan was gorgeous in a shady, mysterious way and dressed in regalia like she did, she shouldn’t lose her head about him.

Sliding into the busy kitchen, Rogue poured herself a cup of tea. Her fingers trembled, and she stared off in the distance.

“Can I get ya a bite to eat?” Putney stood in front of Rogue, her face flushed from the heat of the oven, her hands tangled in her apron.

Rogue looked up. “Hmm?”

“Ya look far, far away, lass. Could be a certain young man on your mind?”

She nodded slowly at Putney. If she only knew.

The cook stepped over to the wide granite counter, tearing pieces of Romaine lettuce and placing them centered on each salad plate. An assistant scooped a ball of pâté and placed it on the lettuce, adding three crisp slices of toasted baguette.

Rogue swirled her skirts back and forth, creating waves from the heavy material. “I feel enchanted tonight, Putney. Like I should be dancing at a ball.”

Chuckling, Putney filled two silver trays with the finished appetizers. “Yes, ’tis true, I’ve always thought ya were beautiful meself since ya came here as an untamed wee one.” Putney moved back to the oak table and started the next course. “And I see you’ve enjoyed a wee bit more of the makeup on yourself tonight.”

“Ya noticed?” Putting her hands to her warm face, Rogue giggled. “Does it look all right?”

“Aye, the girls would be right proud of you, all their efforts starting to bloom on such a lovely young face.”

Rogue pulled her phone from a hidden pocket in her dress. “Wonder where they are tonight?”

“Shall I take a photo of ya on the phone thingie ya have there?”

Nodding, Rogue bounced over to the cook and showed her where to press the button when she was ready. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and smiled at a memory of Jonathan’s wicked wink as Putney clicked the phone a few times.

Rogue snatched it back and stared at the photos. “Thank you. I canna yet get accustomed to taking photos of myself as the girls do.” Using her thumbs, she clicked away. “I’ll send a copy to T-Cup and Rafael.”