Mad About Plaid (4 page)

At first, Ian hadn't trusted himself to speak.

The firelight behind her offered him a very detailed silhouette of her body beneath the thin cotton.

Nothing grandmotherly about that nightgown now.

It was so thin he could make out the shape of her underwear and see the two little bows sewn onto the hips. Jesus. He scrubbed a hand down his face. She was like some goddamn gift, standing there. Her brown hair hung in long disheveled waves, the light making a halo around her head. It was messy, her hair. In an after-sex kind of way. She had a smooth complexion, save for the purple bruise on her cheekbone, the prettiest damn mouth and the sweetest, most innocent eyes he'd ever seen.

And he was just standing there like an idiot, staring at a
married
woman.

That cooled him down considerably and he pulled his gaze away from the sexy-as-hell peep show.

The steady thud of footsteps on the stairs beyond the library gave him the excuse he needed to get the hell out of there. "Excuse me, Mrs. Brooks, I believe that's Hamish coming up with your bags." With barely a glance her way, he strode from the room before she could utter a reply.

In the hallway, he drew in a deep breath.

What the hell was wrong with him? His heart was pounding like a drum.

At the head of the stairs, he met Hamish and reached for the battered set of black luggage before Hamish could even clear the landing.

"Thank you, lad. I vow there's bricks in those sacks. I'll bring up the rest."

Exasperation blew through Ian like a frigid wind and he halted. "There's more?"

Hamish cocked his head, his eyes going curious at Ian's overreaction. "Aye. Just a handbag and that muddy sack and cap. Fran cleaned them up. You take that on along. I'll bring the rest."

Chapter 4

Lucy hurried to her room, hoping her interaction with Ian MacLaren would be extremely limited. She wasn't at all confident she could handle herself around the hunky Innkeeper. Before she knew it, she'd be throwing herself at him for the sexy accent alone. Or any number of reasons, really.

She leaned against her door.
Get a hold of yourself, Walker.

With a groan, she grabbed the tartan afghan from the back of the chair, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She paced, biting her lip. For a moment, for just a brief blinding moment, Lucy thought she saw interest in his gaze, but then he couldn't seem to get out of the library fast enough.

Ian MacLaren needed a good review and nothing more. He wasn't interested in her that way. And why should he be?

Why should it even matter?

She was Mrs. Brooks, after all

The knock at the door made her jump. Her fingers clenched tighter around the afghan, knowing it was him and angry at the somersaults going on in her belly. She answered, and stood back as Ian entered with her bags.

"Now that you're up and about," he said, "I'd like to move you to one of our guest suites."

"Oh. No need. This room is fine." Lucy wanted to wince as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She was pretty sure Riley would have preferred the guest suite. She could tell by the way the muscle ticked in his jaw that he wasn't happy with her reply. Oddly, it gave her a nice shot of satisfaction. Revenge for him making her all hormonal.

"The east wing isn't really ready for guests right now, and—"

A man poked his head into the room. "Here's the rest of yer things, lass." He took a tentative step inside, glancing speculatively from her to Ian, as he set her handbag, backpack, and the ridiculous cap on the dresser. "Ye had these when Ian brought ye in. Fran cleaned the sack there."

"You're Hamish, right?"

"Aye."

"I appreciate you getting the car and my things."

"No trouble. Glad ta help. I'm just sorry for yer trouble." He eyed her bruise and then winked at her. "If ye dinnae mind me saying, yer still a bonny sight."

Pleasure blossomed inside her. She was such a sucker for a nice compliment. "Really?"

"Oh, aye. As bonny as a spring day."

Her grin deepened, and she caught Ian in a slight eye roll at the exchange. She had to bite her lip to keep from making a face at him.

"It's long past supper," Ian interrupted her and Hamish's moment. "But if you'd like anything before bed, I'll be happy to bring something up…"

"I'm fine. What about the room?"

There was that tick again. Lucy wondered why it brought her so much satisfaction. Maybe because he was so aloof and proper that riling him in some small way was like a victory for girls everywhere.

He answered slowly and deliberately. "By all means, the room is yours. We want your stay to be as comfortable as possible. I look forward to seeing to your needs personally."

Their eyes locked.

Men like him don't make double entendres to girls like you
, her inner voice reasoned. It was she. Yes, she, the weak and obviously hard-up impersonator, who took every word out of his mouth and turned it into something carnal.

Okay, so maybe Gram and Kate and even Riley were right. Maybe she did need a man.

"I expect Mrs. Brooks would like to unpack." Hamish broke the silence.

Lucy let out a grateful breath and smiled at Hamish, realizing how much she did want a shower and her own clothes. "Yes, I would. Thank you."

Hamish gave her a friendly nod and then left the room behind Ian.

With Ian gone, the tension eased from her shoulders and she busied herself with unpacking. She'd have to put a lid on her attraction, that's all there was to it. After all, her crushes on men who were so far out of her league that she'd have to juggle watermelons on a unicycle, naked, just to get noticed were nothing new. Everyone always said she dreamed big. She could handle it.

Once she was showered and dressed for bed, Lucy pulled out the journal Riley had given to her and got down to business. Shower pressure and hot water, that stayed hot, were major points. And the castle, what she'd seen so far, was gorgeous, easily fulfilling every fantasy she had of Scotland. As she wrote, her thoughts turned to Ian, who also fulfilled every fantasy she ever had… Go figure. But this time, instead of shoving those thoughts aside, Lucy allowed herself to indulge a little. No harm in that. It was her vacation.

After writing some very personal thoughts about Ian, she closed the book, deciding to give Riley an abridged version. The original version she'd keep for herself.

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight.

Lucy turned off the light, slid into bed, and let the soft patter of rain lull her into peaceful sleep.

When Lucy woke later to use the bathroom, she found the bathroom light didn't work. The water wasn't working either. And upon return to her room, she discovered none of the lights there worked either.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and rain continued to fall, hitting the window in a soft but relentless barrage. Standing barefoot, in cotton boxers and thin T-shirt, Lucy felt the chill in her room. She ran her hands over her bare arms, unsure of how to proceed. Should she wake Fran and Hamish? Ian? She chewed on her bottom lip and then jumped back into the warm bed. She was a city girl used to constant lights and movement. Sure, she loved nature, and she practically worshipped the Scottish countryside, but tonight it gave her the creeps.

Then she heard the sounds; thuds overhead as though someone was moving furniture. She sat up. Before she could even talk herself into a reasonable explanation, a dim light appeared under the crack of the door followed by a dark shadow. As the light receded, her mind raced. The doorknob held her gaze. She imagined it turning.

Why did she have to imagine
that
?

Images of horror films filled her mind. Oh, God. She was stuck in a haunted castle in the middle of nowhere. Hamish and Fran, they were nice, maybe too nice. And Ian, he could be a stand-in for the devil himself.

Get a grip, Walker
.

Annoyed with her overactive imagination, Lucy threw back the covers and tiptoed to the door. The cold brass handle sent goose bumps up her arm. With a deep breath, she clicked open the door, wincing at the tiny sound, and looked into the hallway.

No one there. That was good. Then the thuds from above came again.

After several minutes of pacing her room while the eerie sounds continued, Lucy finally had enough. Scenarios played out in her mind. And one stood out above all the others. It might be an elaborate plan to make her think there was a ghost at Balmorie. It seemed every castle and old home she'd read about had a resident ghost, and it made them immensely popular with tourists.

Whatever it was, she knew if she didn't find out now, she'd spend the next week terrified to go to sleep. Mustering her courage, she stepped into the hall. As she passed a table with two silver candlesticks, she swiped one, impressed by the weight of it. Her weapon of choice, should she need it, was a good one.

The steps leading to the third and fourth floors were curved, steep, and very narrow, made of the same gray stone as the castle. The walls closed in as she went. Old iron sconces were still attached to the stone giving her a glimpse into a long forgotten past when the way would've been lit with glowing, eerie flames.

Before the last step, she paused.

A long darkened corridor spread out before her, smelling of damp stone and dust. She could make out large pieces of furniture shoved along the corridor walls and covered in cloth. With a deep, courage fortifying inhale, she stepped over the last step.

And tripped.

"Ow—" Lucy bit back the outburst and recovered her balance before she went sprawling. Once she righted herself, she flipped her hair back over her shoulder.

The thuds came again.

Crap.

Major doubt started to sink in. Come to think of it, maybe she should go back. What was she thinking anyway, playing Scooby-Doo? This was a job for Riley, not her. As she took a step backward, a hand clamped hard over her mouth from behind, and jerked her into the shadows.

Lucy screamed against the hand and struggled, fear racing like lightening down her limbs. But she was no match for the vise-like arm that encircled her waist. Her feet dangled off the ground as she was held up, against a solid chest.

"Stop struggling, will you?" a familiar voice growled against her ear.

He didn't remove his hand, and Lucy's heart pounded so fast, she couldn't seem to take in enough air. Her breath was heavy and labored, almost frantic.

A curse of realization came from behind her. The hand was removed quickly, but the arms that held her remained. "Mrs. Brooks. What are you sneak--doing up here?" he whispered.

Oh, thank God, it was just Ian.

Oh.

It was Ian.

Her panic turned to a strange combination of irritation and excitement. His warm breath against her cold skin sent all sorts of interesting, tingling sensations over her skin.

But then his words sunk in and she stiffened. "What am I doing?" She gripped the candlestick tighter.

"Quiet, lass," he commanded softly. "You heard the noises, too?"

"Great deduction there, Sherlock. Why else would I be up here?"

"You should have woken me or Hamish."

She struggled against his embrace. "Well, maybe you should give your guests the proper procedure for dealing with intruders or ghosts. Get off of me," she hissed.

He released her suddenly as if only then just realizing he still held her.

Lucy stumbled forward and then whirled on him, blowing the hair from her face as her eyes fell on his lips as they slowly spread into a lopsided grin. "What are you smiling about?"

And then she noticed he wasn't wearing a shirt. Or shoes. Just cotton pajama pants hung low on his hips.

Broad shoulders. Flat abs. A hard, cut body. His hair was tousled from sleep. He looked adorable and sexy and manly. And dangerously unpredictable. She could even see faint a line of black hair that traveled from his belly button down to his... Lucy jerked her gaze back up as butterflies swarmed in her belly.

She never should have read those
What's Under Your Kilt
jokes on that Scottish web site. Those bagpipe and Nessie analogies swam through her mind, making her face burn.

One of Ian's eyebrows lifted as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. His arms crossed over his chest. Oh, he knew alright. Smug bastard.

Lucy straightened her twisted shirt, blotting out all thoughts of ole Nessie and the jaunty bagpipe tune whistling in her head. "Look, I heard the noises. They were keeping me from getting to sleep, so I came to see what was happening. And if this is some sort of plan to make me think there's a ghost, think again because—"

"You think this is a trick?"

She meant to answer, but the thuds came again. Instantly, they turned toward the sound, somewhere far down the hallway.

"Stay here." It was a command, and he didn't wait for an answer.