Some Like It Scot (9 page)

He wondered if she knew, given how long it had taken her to speak up for herself, and her childhood mate, how strong she truly was. But he'd heard it, in her tone. Seen it, in her eyes, the set of her jaw. She might have taken awhile to leave the cocoon, but he was witnessing the birth of the butterfly, right in front of his eyes.

How on earth was he going to keep her from wanting to fly away? Could his heart and moral conscience stop her from seeking her freedom, if she did?

“W
e're quite the pair, aren't we?” Katie said, meaning to sound wry, but sounding rather wistful, instead.

Her gaze shifted to their joined hands, but she didn't pull hers away, though she knew it was well past time to start squaring her shoulders, and distancing herself from him, physically and emotionally, in preparation for what came next. But now that they'd talked, that he'd shared some of himself, of what was going on with him and what he faced when he returned, it was harder to separate and compartmentalize her emotions like she knew she had to. Perhaps, like her, he was finding the contact between them grounding in some way. Telling herself that she was only keeping her hand in his in order to soothe him was a lie even she couldn't make herself believe.

“It took a lot of courage to do what you did today,” he said, sounding both admiring and perhaps a bit wistful himself.

Yep. It wasn't going to be easy, walking away from him. He was compelling to her on many levels, their lives intertwining as they were, in ways both interesting and a bit fantastical.

“After watching you in the church,” she said, “I don't think it's a lack of courage that's keeping you from telling your people to take their ancient marriage law and shove it.”

He chuckled, and she liked the natural, vibrating warmth of it. His deep voice reflected his broad, sturdy build, his wide, strong hands. And legs that were hewn like tree trunks, she noted. How was it she hadn't noticed all that leg earlier? Well, she had, perhaps, been a wee bit distracted by other things. But now that she was noticing…damn.

She tried to casually shift her gaze away and up, toward the rear window, somewhere, anywhere, but directly at him. She had no business noticing, much less feeling that ping of attraction, no matter that even his knees were pretty damn sexy. How was that possible?

She sighed.

“We'll figure it out,” he said, mistaking the sigh for something else.

She wasn't mistaking it, though. That sigh was coming from a deep, deep well. A well of unfulfilled…things—lots of things. Lust, for one. Lust, unsated needs, and every delicious thing that went with that combination.

Needs she was not going to be fulfilling with Graham MacLeod. On his island. Or in the backseat of the limo. There would be no slaking of needs, no pursuing lusty thoughts. It was the time for taking action to get her life in gear. Not the time to see if she could get a little action with her very own Scottish hunk.

Though, now that she'd thought about it, she had to admit, it was damn tempting. In fact, her palms were sweating. Just a little.

No. No, no, no. They'd had an interesting conversation, and she'd been quietly intrigued, and surprisingly comforted by him. But that couldn't deter her from what she knew she had to do—and what she knew she
couldn't
do. And that was go to Scotland. Or allow him to believe she was going to be the one to solve his problems. He still had time. Not much, but some. She had to tell him immediately, so he could move on. Maybe his friend—Roan was it?—maybe he'd found other candidates. Graham could go track them down. What were the chances that at least one of them would be more than happy to run off to some small island off the coast of Scotland with a guy that did the kind of things for a kilt that shouldn't be legal?

So…why can't I be that person
? What, really, was stopping her? It wasn't like she had a finite amount of time to kick-start her new life. Not like the deadline he was operating under. Would it be so wrong to just…go for it?

No. Stay focused
.

She really couldn't allow her little voice to subvert her anymore. She'd been subversive enough for one day, following the urgings of that very same little voice. Since she'd given it reign, it seemed it was turning into a much bigger voice. Quite the nag, in fact. A big, fat nagging voice that was prodding her to consider—truly consider—that maybe she should run off with Graham. After all, other than using one half of her honeymoon tickets, what options did she have right then in the immediate future? Even that solo honeymoon would come to an end.

Her time on, what had he said it was called? Kinloch? That was an open-ended invite. Definitely a place no one would ever know to look for her.

“Katie?”

She looked from their joined hands, to his face. He really had such a good face, didn't he? It was rugged, chiseled even, with the tiniest hint of a cleft in his chin. Or was that a scar? Either way, it was sexy as hell. Dangerous, even, a little bit. There was nothing remotely dangerous about Blaine. Graham, on the other hand, made her body vibrate a little when he smiled. Or laughed. Or…breathed.

The thing that really got her? Not the sexy cleft, or the sexier knees. It was his eyes. He had such—contemplative, yes that was exactly it—contemplative eyes. They weren't exactly a color. Gray, kind of, except when he was really looking at her and all intense, then they were almost…lavender. That wasn't even an eye color, was it? But with that dark, wild hair of his, and dark slashy eyebrows, they were almost…spooky. Ish. Like he could look at her and see into her…and beyond her…all at the same time. He was part warrior, in build, and part poet, in expression and thought.

She shook her head, and realized she was staring at him, at his eyes, and—

“I willnae allow anything to happen to ye, Katie,” he said. “Trust that, if naught else.”

That voice, deep and solid, but somehow gentle and confident all at the same time. And that accent. Seriously with that—swoonable.

“I-I can take care of me,” she said, hearing the unsteadiness in her voice, but unable to do anything about it. Likely he'd just blame it on her unstable emotional state. Her perfectly understandable unstable emotional state. He didn't have to know he was the cause—mostly—not the fact that she'd just run out on her family, and Blaine, the best friend she'd ever had. Any second, despite being a sane, rational, overeducated adult, she was pretty sure the earth was going to swallow her whole, or the sky was going to shoot down a lightning bolt to strike her dead. Surely, at the very least, something earth shattering, life rendering, was going to happen.

It certainly had always felt that way before, whenever she'd even contemplated letting the little voice take over.

But, instead, she was sitting in the limo. With Graham. And there was a whole new life—well, okay, not a life, or a future even—but certainly a new adventure. And time. Precious time. To figure out what her future was going to be. She'd help Graham achieve his goals. And she'd figure out what her new goals were going to be.

Win-win, really.

“I know ye can take care of yourself. I just witnessed as much,” he said. “I'm only sayin', we're not going forward independent of one another. The legal union may be in name only, but there are all kinds of bonds, Katie. So I'm givin' you mine, in my word.”

“I—” She didn't know what to say. Neither did her little voice, apparently. Silence from both sides. “There's a lot still, that we need to—”

“Discuss, I know. I'm simply—thank you for being willing to have that discussion. When we get to Kinloch, you'll see. And you'll know. And then you can decide. I realize the timing of this, given your own situation…” He broke off, and sighed, and she could see that he felt truly torn in what he was asking of her. “I won't abuse your goodwill, and your generosity. That much I can also promise.”

Her heart was pounding, as she stared into his eyes. How had this day, a day of both dread and exhilaration, led her to this moment, with a complete stranger? A stranger who made her feel safe, and secure. Her mad Scot. How was it even possible? How was it even sane?

She'd have to figure out how to shield herself from his influence. She needed to stand on her own feet, form her own educated opinions, and make her own choices. She'd broken free. She had to move forward. Not sideways. And certainly backwards.

But, right that very second, as long as she was aware of all that…would it really cause any long-term harm if one of her first independent decisions was to indulge in a few moments of this? His strong, broad hand covering hers. Those kind, steady eyes shoring up her own defenses. The confidence in that chin, the strength in those broad shoulders.

Those oh-so-incredibly well built, muscular legs.

Who knew a skirt on a guy could be so damn hot?

“Thank you,” she replied, hearing the hint of huskiness threading through her voice. Sheesh. If he had any clue the thoughts that were running through her mind, he'd begin to wonder if maybe he was the one making the giant mistake. He was consoling the poor, crazy, runaway bride and she was wondering—again—what he was wearing under that kilt.

Clearly she was suffering some kind of post-traumatic stress. She had killed a wedding, after all. It wouldn't be that farfetched.

Her hand trembled a bit in his, and he lifted it between them. She experienced the oddest sensation as he looked from their joined hands to her eyes. It didn't make any sense, the feeling that there was, indeed, a very powerful connection between them. One that went far, far deeper than any solace or emotional haven he may be momentarily providing. But it was there, for her, anyway, pulsing beneath the surface. She recalled his raw exclamation in the chapel. What she felt was every bit as primal and intense as that. What was going on?

“We'll figure it out,” she said finally, her thoughts and emotions a complete jumble, as were her intentions to leave him at the airport and strike out fully on her own. As long as her hand was in his, she was having a hard time thinking straight.

Her fingers had stopped trembling, but her breath tightened in her chest as he shifted his hand and she thought he was breaking the…connection they were sharing, for lack of a better way to describe it. It was ridiculous, that the very
thought
that he might break the connection had her holding her breath. Especially since she'd hoped he'd be the one to do it, because she clearly could not. But it wouldn't explain the anxiety that spiked inside her, or the unexplained certainty that if he broke the bond, it would somehow prove an irrevocable action.

She had well and truly lost her mind.

Instead of pulling away, he shifted his hand so their palms mated together, and drew their joined hands closer to his chest.

Suddenly it seemed like there wasn't enough air to breathe, and not enough space between them. Or was there too much space between them? Her head was swimming, and it was hard to put her thoughts in any rational order. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, regroup. She wanted to think, to be in control. It was the whole point, wasn't it? But, once again, she did none of those things.

Only it wasn't because of external pressures, and certainly not for the greater good of her family, Blaine, or even McAuley-Sheffield. There wasn't even a particle of a thought about any of them in her head at the moment—which, she supposed, should be seen as some kind of triumph…but she was too busy being avidly intent on her sudden connection to her mad Scot to find much reward in the realization.

The moment between them extended, and her heart began to pound more rapidly. Her pulse felt like a live wire, twitching beneath her skin, plucking at her most sensitive spots.

His eyes were like deep pools of lavender-gray that had gone all turbulent and stormy. Not with anger, but with a ferocity that only served to further heighten every sensation she was experiencing. Gone was the man who had helped calm her nerves in the prayer garden. Returned was the wild Scot who had stood inside the chapel of her ancestors and claimed her as his own, much as his own ancestors might have done in centuries past. He came from a place that was somewhat uncivilized given their adherence to an ancient clan law, a place still strongly connected to the Celt and Gael roots that her grandfather had spoken about the few times he'd tried to teach her about her ancestors.

Up close, she saw how truly rugged his features were, the lines that fanned out from his eyes and bracketed his mouth, proving he either smiled and laughed often, or, more likely, given his island home, spent a great deal of time outside. The idea of him living in such elemental surroundings, the very idea of what kind of man that type of life must have forged, only added to those raw, visceral undercurrents.

It was a scar, she saw, not a cleft, that divided his chin. She had to curl the fingers of her free hand to keep from reaching out and tracing its grooved, jagged path.
Insane, insane, insane
. The word echoed like a litany inside her head, ironically her only proof that she was anything but. Surely a truly insane person wouldn't be aware of their own lost grasp on reality, right?

Her attentions moved to his mouth, and it was hard to stay focused on that rational train of thought. She'd heard lips referred to, in fiction, as being chiseled, but hadn't quite been able to picture it. Until now. For as rugged and wind-hewn as his face might appear, his mouth was perfectly etched as if from marble. She'd seen his lips curve in a smile, widen in laughter, and knew them to be inviting and warm, but, at the moment they looked as if they had indeed been carved from granite.

His hair was shaggy and long by any corporate standard, even one such as McAuley-Sheffield, which still retained at least a modicum of its earthier connections to the more bohemian style of sailors and captains of the sea. Perhaps not anyone on the payroll, but certainly a familiar enough sight haunting the office hallways as they came in to discuss the details of their new racing slew or transatlantic yacht. Looking like they'd just rolled out of their hammock and slid their feet into a pair of Tevas, yet quite likely carrying a discreet card in their wallets containing offshore account numbers in the Caymans, where they had funds enough to purchase entire fleets of original, one-of-a-kind designed McAuley-Sheffield crafts.