Mad About Plaid (3 page)

"Ian?" Fran prompted him.

"What?" He cleared his throat, realizing he hadn't answered her question. "She was hit by the pigeon I shot. Has a nasty bump on the head. Think she's fine otherwise. I'll call Finn to come check on her."

Fran's eyes narrowed. "I see. And how did all this come about?"

"Well, the plaid-loving lass was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Will you take care of her? Brooks should be here any minute, and I need to clean up."

"Aye, I'll see to it." Fran returned her attention to the oddly dressed woman. "Go on. I'm sure I'll find you in the front hall, wearing down the wood if I need you."

Chapter 3

A half hour later, after Ian placed a call to the local doctor, he paced the front hall, stopping to look at the ancient grandfather clock every thirty seconds. Its aged wood, black with time, had been polished to a high sheen. In fact, everything around him gleamed. The MacLaren crest, free from years of dust and grime, hung above the great stone fireplace and looked down upon a cozy sitting area arranged for conversation or a quiet read by the fire.

It still amazed him how far his grandfather had fallen after losing his wife, Ian's grandmother. Duncan MacLaren had slipped quietly into addiction, letting the house fall into disrepair, defaulting on loans and bills, and drinking himself into oblivion. And Ian hadn't known. None of them had. They'd been off fighting a war Ian wasn't sure would ever be won.

The writer was an hour late. Couldn't anyone be on time?

"Poor lass. Exhausted is what she is." Fran marched the offensive outfit past Ian and into the kitchen. He followed to see her dump the un-salvageable garments into the trash with a disapproving oath, then wash her hands in the sink. "I gave her one of your grandmother's old nightgowns to wear, but I'll take her up one of mine in a bit."

Ian stared out the kitchen window into the darkening evening. Fran's words barely registered. "Bloody hell. Where is the woman? She should have been here by now." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Never thought I'd want anything so over and done with."

Fran lifted a towel to dry her hands, but stopped suddenly and stood very still.

Instantly, Ian was by her side. "Fran, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

"Ian," she began, staring up at him with wide eyes, "perhaps our Mrs. Brooks is already here."

It felt like all the blood drained from his body in one blinding moment.

Fucking
hell
. Why hadn't the thought occurred to him? It had to be her. When she'd spoken earlier. Her voice. The accent. Hell, the Scottish clothes. Only a tourist would go all out like that.

A sour knot formed in his gut. "Goddamn it." He spun on his heel and strode from the kitchen, heart pounding, angry.

"Ian, wait!"

He paused on the stairs, his body taut. How had things gone so wrong already?

Fran folded her hands calmly in front of her apron, and Ian could see her mind at work. She'd been an expert at dealing with the emotional high and lows that plagued his grandfather. Now she was turning that expertise on him.

"Let her be, aye? The poor lass has had a trying day."

What he wanted to do was march right into that room and demand to know why she hadn't said anything—not that she could have, seeing as she'd been unconscious most of the time, but still. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"We've our first guest," Fran said, a rush of excitement filling her words. "She's here, Ian. This is it."

He grunted in response and then turned his attention toward the dimly lit second floor landing.

"Come have your supper. I'll be checking on the wee one later."

"She's not a bairn," he muttered as he walked down the steps.

"But she's as helpless as one at the moment." Ian rolled his eyes as he past Fran, and she slapped his arm with a tsk of disapproval.

"I'll ring Grace, just to make sure it's her," he said with a defeated sigh as he headed across the Great Hall. As he went, it felt like the weight of the estate was pressing down on his shoulders. They all needed this to work, needed some kind of income to support the house and the land, and the people who worked them. They needed a good review and a glowing article. They needed the American market. And now the best person to make that happen was passed out cold from a pigeon collision. Could it get any worse?

Lucy dreamed of a voice. A man's voice. A deep, sexy, confident voice. An angry, impatient voice. Then she dreamed of softness, of her Gram taking care of her, dressing her and talking to her in that flamboyant way of hers. It made her smile.

Then Gram's voice sounded Scottish. How funny, hearing Gram do impressions. But Grammy Lin was cool like that. Lucy told her to do Italian, but then the fun stopped, replaced by a persistent knocking that hurt her head and wouldn't go away.

"What?" The rough tone of her own voice woke her. Her eyes cracked open as the door creaked.

An older woman entered. "I brought you some supper, lass. Not too much after your ordeal, some barley soup, fresh bannocks, and tea." She set the tray on the table by the bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress to gently turn Lucy's chin toward the light. "Will be looking worse before it's better, I'm afraid."

Confused, Lucy pushed up with the woman's help and noticed the clean, threadbare nightgown, which buttoned at the neck and had ruffles around the collar. She had the momentary thought that she'd traveled through time and her secret wish of being like Claire from Diana Gabaldon's
Outlander
was coming true. But she knew she was just 'Being Lucy', as Gram would say. The dreamer.

"You were drenched when Ian brought you in. I feared you'd catch a chill if you stayed in those clothes," the woman explained. "It's a bit confusing, aye? Finn, that's our local doctor, was here earlier. Said you'd be fine."

"He did?"

"Aye."

Confusing wasn't the least of it. And, holy cow, her bladder was about to burst. "Um, is there a bathroom I could use?"

"Oh, of course. Right through the door there."

When Lucy came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, the woman busied herself with pouring a cup of tea. "Go on and eat now. You'd be surprised how clearer things become after you've had a good meal and some tea. It'll give you your strength back too. Put some color in those cheeks."

The kind woman reminded her of Grammy Lin, but without all the bold color and crazy personality. It was the eyes, filled with concern and encouragement, that had put Lucy's mind at ease from the very beginning.

Starving, she sat down and took a bite of the soup.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Laced with spices, heady broth, and chunks of grilled meat with barley, leeks, carrots and parsley. Lucy knew her food and she recognized homemade goodness when she tasted it. "Thank you. It's really good. So who is Ian exactly? You said he brought me here."

The woman's fingers worked her apron. "Well, it was Ian's pigeon that struck you in the face. Of course, it was all an unfortunate accident with you being in the woods when he felled the bird. Just what were you doing out there, if you don't mind me asking?"

With the food, Lucy's energy and clarity was indeed beginning to return. "My rental car ran out of gas," she said as she chewed. "Well, first I got lost. Then, it started to rain. I saw this house and took a short cut through the woods, then–" her spoon dipped into the soup, and then paused on its way back to her mouth. "This wolf-thing came at me... It must've jumped me, knocked me down or something."

"My, that's quite a story. You are Mrs. Brooks, aren't you?"

"Who?"

"Mrs. Brooks, from The Ambler. After you arrived, we rang Grace to make sure she picked you up from the airport. She gave us a description. Said you left right on schedule. Though, I don't know what she was thinking, letting you find your own way here. I knew Ian should have picked you up. Told him so myself."

Lucy's choked on her soup.

Fran patted Lucy's back. "We thought it was you, but I have to admit to being a tad worried. You hadn't a thing with you except those dreadful clothes, and—" her eyes widened in horror at the unintended insult.

"Oh, no really, it's okay. Trust me." She wouldn't have minded if she ever saw those clothes again. The woman gave an uncertain smile. "If you don't mind, though, my things are still in the rental car. It's parked a few miles from here on the road..."

The woman's face brightened, and she straightened. "I'll have my husband, Hamish, go up with a can of petrol and you'll have your things in no time. Just call me Fran. I'm the housekeeper and the cook. You'll be meeting Hamish and Ian soon. And don't you worry about a thing, Mrs. Brooks. We're going to do whatever we can to see to your comfort here at Balmorie." Fran did a short curtsy and then fled the room.

"But… I'm not Mrs. Brooks," Lucy admitted to the empty room, feeling guilty as hell.

As soon as Fran came back, she'd break the news.

After she finished her first Scottish meal, she got out of bed and inspected the small bedroom. The tall, arched window was her favorite thing in the room. It showed just how thick the stone walls were and provided a nice seat to gaze out into the night.

Curious to see more of the house and stretch her legs, Lucy stepped barefoot into the hallway. A little look-see wouldn't hurt, and she was the only guest here since the place wasn't officially open yet.

A faded Persian rug ran down the center of the hallway and polished dark wood peeked out from either side. The ceilings were incredibly high, a nice change from the low ceilings in her cramped apartment. Portraits lined the walls. One portrait in particular caught her eye. A man in Highland dress, his shoulder-length black hair pulled back. She found herself smiling up at the handsome Scot because it was the exact image she'd always had in her mind of a Highland warrior—tall, dark, with a strong face and a dangerous glint to the eyes.

It struck her how amazing it was that she was actually here. In Scotland. In an honest to goodness castle, staring up at an old portrait of a Highlander. How crazy was that?

Smiling, she went to the end of the hallway where large double doors opened to an enormous library. A fire in the hearth lit wall-to-wall bookcases. Leather couches and wide chairs made comfortable reading areas, and near the window was a large desk. Behind it, facing her, sat a man.

Lucy froze, surprise caught in her throat.

She hadn't expected to find anyone room and then that actual someone being so . . . attractive. Well, she'd found her Scottish hunk, hadn't she? And he was watching her with a steady, intense gaze.

Oh, boy.

The fire spit and crackled, echoing in the quiet room.

As heat crept to her cheeks, she crossed her arms over her chest, feeling exposed and silly in the childish nightgown. It wasn't exactly the image she'd hoped to make with the people of Balmorie.

"Feel free to borrow whatever you like," he said in a deep tone that held a faint Scottish brogue.

His steady scrutiny was disconcerting. Then something in his voice jarred her memory. Her eyes narrowed. "And you are?"

As he stood, she half expected him to keep growing. He was tall. And built. And she was a sucker for dark hair, blue eyes, and a nice five o'clock shadow. That stubble and those wicked looking eyes gave him a bad boy—a
very
bad boy—appearance. Lucy swallowed.

He stepped around the desk. "Ian MacLaren." His hand caught hers in a warm embrace.

Good Lord, he had to be at least six inches taller than she was, making him around six-foot-four.

Could he be anymore condom worthy?

The errant thought instantly set her face on fire. She suppressed the urge to look down and determine if he might be Mammoth Man material. Lucy squeezed her eyes closed. Gram and Kate were going to suffer for putting these thoughts in her head!

Feeling like a complete deviant, she withdrew her hand and found the nerve to introduce herself with the hope that the sooner she did, the sooner she could make a run for it. "Riley Brooks," the lie came out of her mouth so easily it took her a moment to realize what she'd done. Oh God. Crap. She wasn't supposed to say she was Riley, just her replacement. First Fran and now MacLaren. She was two for two. "But my friends call me Lucy," she added, feeling miserable.

Just put her in front of a fine, rugged male specimen and she'd lose every bit of common sense she had.

In her defense though, he was really, really fine.

His head dipped in a slight nod. "And what should I call you, lass?"

Dear Lord. He did not just call me lass.

But he had and her inner fantasy girl screamed in delight.

She wondered if he even realized how yummy he sounded. And the fact that he called her lass? Downright X-rated. No wonder she was acting like an idiot. A Scottish hunk, using Scottish words, in a Scottish castle. So not her fault.

"Lass," Lucy echoed, swallowing the lump in her throat. She had to get herself under control. "Just Lucy. Lucy is fine."