Sealed With a Kiss (29 page)

‘That’s an easy mistake to make. The paths are similar.’ He stepped aside, letting Kate walk down the path to the dark-red front door of the cottage. ‘You’re
soaking wet. You need a hot bath and a fire.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ She was trying to maintain her mantle of frostiness, but he was being so kind, and thoughtful, and . . . well, all the things she’d
thought
he
was.

‘Look, I’m bone-dry under this.’ He indicated his long, waxed huntsman’s coat. ‘You go in, I’ll make you a drink and get the fire going, while you jump in the
bath.’

Holding the door handle, Kate hesitated. The trouble with living alone – despite the joys of being able to live in chaos and eat toast in bed – was that there wasn’t anyone to
be nice to you. ‘Okay. Only because I’m freezing, and you offered.’

He looked at her, half-laughing, half-frowning. ‘What other reason could there be?’

She opened the door and stumped in, her eyes narrowed, thinking to herself: how about because I thought you were a genuinely nice person and it transpires you’re not?

Good as his word, after closing the three soaking-wet dogs in the hall, where they would do least damage, Roderick packed her off to the bathroom with a huge glass of whisky and set to building
the fire.

For the second time that day Kate lay neck-deep in bubbles, musing.
The trouble is he’s so bloody gorgeous
. He actually took her seriously, which was something Ian had never done.
He was clever, sharp and – she closed her eyes, allowing herself a luxurious moment of remembering – if one kiss could have that effect on her, she could only imagine what he’d be
like in bed. She smiled to herself. The whisky was going to her head. None of that mattered, if he was on a secret mission to populate the island with lots of miniature Maxwells and perpetuate the
family line. She remembered the night he’d rescued her, saying, ‘I don’t make a habit of scooping up stray girls and bringing them home to my lair.’ Huh! Sodding Roderick.
Fiona’s words echoed in her ears: ‘He does the broken-hearted loner act with every single “Girl Friday” he hires.’ She climbed out of the bath, wrapping herself in the
slightly damp towel from earlier.

She ducked past the sitting-room door – closed, thankfully – ran upstairs to the bedroom, pulled on some pyjamas and found her fluffy dressing gown. She loosened her hair and found
herself applying a sneaky coat of lip gloss and mascara. The bath had left a rosy glow on her freckled cheeks. ‘Not bad, for a commoner,’ she said, sticking her tongue out at herself in
the mirror.

‘Perfect timing,’ said Roderick, emerging from the sitting room as Kate came down the stairs. ‘I’ve got the fire going. D’you want a
top-up?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’ve dried off the dogs – there were a couple of old towels in the kitchen. I assumed they probably belonged to Willow?’

Kate grimaced inwardly. They were her favourite towels, a going-to-university present from her grandmother. Admittedly they were now rather ancient and faded, but still. ‘Oh, yes,
they’re Willow’s towels,’ she lied in agreement.

Not only had Roderick lit the log fire, but he’d replaced the tea-lights in the little candleholders that were dotted around the room. Kate stood by the fire, hands wrapped round her
whisky glass, admiring the sparkly darkness. Everything looked better by candlelight, even arrogant-pig bosses with ulterior motives. He was sitting on the couch, long legs outstretched, T-shirt
showing off muscular arms that were tanned all year round from working on the estate. His hair had crinkled in the rain and a dark curl was falling over his forehead. Not that she was looking,
obviously.

He patted the space beside him on the couch. ‘Come and sit down. I won’t bite.’

He’s a horrible aristocratic bastard who is using you for his own gains, Kate reminded herself, as she sat down beside him. And you’re having a year off men. And you want a normal
relationship with someone who loves you for yourself, not your bloody reproductive potential.

Unfortunately she misjudged her landing – two hefty glasses of malt whisky on an empty stomach having gone straight to her head. And now she was sitting beside him, and his hard thigh was
right up against hers, and she could smell a hint of sandalwood in his aftershave, and he was turning and looking at her and . . .

‘Kate.’ A vein was jumping in his cheek. He looked down, into his empty glass. ‘I want to ask you something.’

Oh, help. Here it comes. She curled her nails into her palms, closing her eyes.

‘You’ve done so much for Duntarvie. You’re like a breath of fresh air.’

Kate opened her eyes and flicked a look sideways. Roderick was looking at her, and a lopsided smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. Oh, for goodness’ sake. He was bloody gorgeous.
Perhaps being a brood mare wasn’t all that bad. But he’d probably have a bit on the side, called Araminta or something equally posh, and she’d have to live in the scullery and
hide when visitors came. Or something. The whisky was really having a terrible effect on her brain. Her muddles were all worded.

‘I wanted to offer you—’

‘Yes! I know I ought to say no, but sod it!’ She felt the room swirling around her. This was a bit like living in one of Susan’s abstract paintings. ‘I’ll live in
the kitchen. It’s nice in there. And Araminta need never know I exist.’ She hiccupped gently.

‘Kate?’ He put out a hand to steady her. ‘Who’s Araminta?’

‘Your wife. Or girlfriend. I can’t remember which.’

‘I don’t have either.’ Even through the whisky haze, Kate could see that he was completely nonplussed. ‘I wanted to offer you a job. A proper job, here on the
estate.’

‘Of course you did.’ Kate blinked hard, twice, and sat up.

‘A job,’ he repeated. ‘What else?’

She took a deep breath. ‘But I already have a job.’

‘You’re living in this cottage and supposedly working as a Girl Friday. You should be giving Jean a bit of a hand with some admin and chasing up some of the workmen at the cottages,
not managing the entire project and trying to find ways to market the estate and boost the island’s economy.’

Kate sat up, feeling a little bit pleased with herself. ‘When you put it like that, I sound quite efficient.’

‘You are far too hard on yourself, Kate.’ He leaned across, pouring another measure of whisky into her glass. ‘Do I take it, then, you’d be interested?’

‘Yes, please.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Do I have to wear a suit?’

‘No, please don’t. Muddy jeans are perfectly acceptable.’ Roderick looked at her pyjama-clad legs. ‘Maybe not dressing gowns, though. Shall we drink to it?’ He
clinked his whisky glass against hers and took a sip, not taking his eyes off her. The fire crackled, but the room was silent.

‘Cheers.’ Kate was horrified that another second and she’d probably have leapt on him. Thank the Lord he’d thrown a metaphorical bucket of water over her, by offering the
job. A proper job! Here, on this island, which felt more like home than home had ever done. She slurped the rest of her whisky, which seemed to be going down much faster now that she’d
developed a taste for it. And bloody Fiona could bugger off now – she couldn’t be accused of hanging on Roderick’s coat-tails and living in Bruar Cottage with a part-time job. Now
she would be part of the estate, the fabric of the island. God, she was drunk. The room was spinning slightly, and every so often she felt herself hen-pecking as she dozed off for a split
second.

‘You have very nice arms,’ she said, reaching out a finger and running it along, smoothing the hairs on his forearm.

‘I think it’s bedtime, don’t you?’ Roderick stood up, changing the subject, extending a hand to Kate. ‘Before you do something you might regret in the morning. Or I
do.’

It took a few moments for her to register what he’d said, and even then she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard right.

He pulled her up from the depths of the sofa. ‘Come on, you. Upstairs.’ He slipped an arm round her waist to steady her, and then propelled her upstairs to the bedroom. Thankfully
she was dressed for bed, so it was a simple case of climbing through the muddle of books and coffee cups and sliding, blissfully, under the covers. He leaned over, brushing the hair from her
face.

‘Watch it, Roderick Maxwell,’ she mumbled, half-asleep. ‘I’ve got your measure.’

Kate was walking Willow, who was on a lead this time, and trying to subdue her hangover with fresh air. She’d avoided her island friends since her run-in with Fiona,
suspecting their motives, realizing she had nobody to confide in who wasn’t close to Roderick.

‘You look like death,’ said Susan.

‘Thanks.’

‘I haven’t seen you for a few days and you end up looking like something the cat dragged in. Have I missed a night out?’ Susan fell into step alongside Kate, walking along the
estate road and back towards their houses.

‘A night in – and no. Willow ran off yesterday on her walk, and Roderick did his Sir Galahad bit,’ she scowled, before continuing, ‘and I got soaked, so he fed me the
whisky I got as a present from Jean and Hector.’

‘I think we need a cup of coffee with this story. You busy?’ Susan shifted the huge armful of twigs she was carrying and they walked back to the cottage. They pulled off their boots,
leaving them in the back porch, where they joined a mountainous heap of shoes, work boots and wellingtons.

‘Is there a reason for the giant pile of twigs?’ Kate was trying to keep the conversation topics general. She still felt a bit prickly, even though her logical mind kept telling her
that it was Fiona who was not to be trusted.

‘I’ve had an idea for a painting. I knew there was loads of hazel up by the big house, so I left the children with Morag for half an hour, so I could go and collect them.’ She
opened the kitchen door. Morag was sitting at the table reading the local paper, a sleeping baby Mhairi in her arms. ‘Where’s Jamie?’

‘Here I am!’ said a little voice, from the hall. Kate turned round to see a paint-splattered, very pleased-looking Jamie, hand-in-hand with Jean.

‘I think someone has his mummy’s talent for art – look at these.’ Jean helped him to fan the paintings across the floor to dry.

‘Sweetheart, they’re gorgeous.’ Susan leaned down, kissing him on the smudged nose. ‘D’you fancy a wee rest while we talk about boring grown-up stuff?’

‘
Thomas the Tank Engine
?’ Jamie’s silence was bought with a kiss, a biscuit and a DVD.

‘Right,’ said Jean. ‘I was only popping in on my way past, to see if Susan needed anything from the supermarket. But I’ll maybe stay for a wee cup of coffee, if
there’s one on offer?’ She sat down at the table, looking over Morag’s shoulder, the two friends poring over the announcements page.

Sensing that Mhairi was about to stir, Susan scooped the baby from Morag, curling her into the crook of her arm. She settled down in the rocking chair to feed her, eyes half-closed, head against
the colourful crocheted blanket that covered the cushions.

‘I’ll make us a drink.’ Kate filled the kettle, gathering mugs from the draining board and measuring out spoonfuls of coffee into the cafetiere. The friendly muddle of Susan
and Tom’s kitchen reminded her of Emma and Sam. She really ought to call and see if Emma was feeling any better. Morning sickness was badly named – poor Emma seemed to feel dreadful the
whole time she was awake, but she was so happy to be pregnant that she didn’t care. Of course she had Sam: a genuine, straightforward man who loved Emma for what she was. Unlike Roderick, the
shit, muttered Kate, under her breath. Mind you, she’d been stupid enough to think that the laird of a Scottish estate would be genuinely interested in someone like her.

‘So,’ said Susan, one eyebrow raised in amusement, ‘apparently Kate spent the evening drinking whisky with Roddy and now she’s dying of a hangover. We want details,
madam.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. Willow ran away, Roderick rescued her, I was soaking wet, he lit the fire while I had a bath, we had a glass of whisky, I went to bed.’ Kate rubbed
her chin. ‘At least that’s all I can remember. It is a bit hazy.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Morag.

‘You know what it’s like, if you have a drink on an empty stomach? Well, I had three. One minute I was having a bath, the next Roderick was putting me to bed.’

Susan’s eyes were wide with excitement. ‘Ooh, yes?’

‘Ooh, nothing.’ Kate’s tone was resolute. ‘There is not, and never will be, anything going on between me and the laird of Duntarvie estate.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Jean, ‘I thought with Fiona well and truly off the scene, there was a chance—’

‘Nope.’ Kate almost snapped her reply.

‘Have I missed something?’ said Morag mildly. ‘You get on well, you’re both single, and we all know what happened in the snug at the firework display . . .’

Susan cackled with delight. ‘And we’ve all seen the way you look at each other. If it’s not you sneaking looks at him, it’s him sneaking looks at you.’

‘Sizing me up, more like.’ Kate gave a hollow little laugh. ‘After all, he’s got to find someone to carry on the family line, hasn’t he?’

‘What?’ said Jean and Morag together.

Kate stood up, gathering the mugs, stalling for time. She was horrified to realize that her vision was blurred with tears.

‘Kate?’ Morag had joined her by the sink. She put a hand on her arm, her voice concerned. ‘What is it?’

‘Roderick is the Laird of Duntarvie. He’s from a different world. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like me, even if . . .’

‘We are talking about the same Roderick Maxwell here?’ Morag laughed, despite herself. ‘The same man who mucks in and works at the fishery and the wood-yard? The one who spent
his overdraft on a Hogmanay party? Roddy’s not one for airs and graces.’

‘His overdraft?’ Kate was dazed. ‘You’re joking? After I spent ages working out the financing for the cottages? I could murder him.’

‘Sorry, but could we get back to the “even if” bit, please?’ said Susan.

‘Fiona found me the other night before she left. She told me Roderick needed someone to produce an heir for Duntarvie. She had quite a lot to say about his behaviour with women. And . .
.’ she paused for a second, gathering the nerve to confront them, before the words tumbled out in a rush, ‘that you all turn a blind eye, and that he’s only interested in finding
someone to have his children.’