Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (36 page)

“Who is it?” he asked, moving up to the door.

“It's Peter, m'laird. I've brought 'em.”

Munro lifted the bar and pulled open the door. “How many?”

“Once they realized they'd be laboring fer a MacLawry, I couldnae keep 'em away,” the servant returned. “A dozen fer today. I could double that tomorrow, if ye wanted.”

“Let's see how the twelve do,” Murno returned. “Cat, I'll be back in a moment. Keep practicing.”

Peter managed a glance past him, a swift grin touching his craggy face. “I had occasion t'wear a gown once, lass. Laird Arran said I needed to move my hips more.”

“Shut yer gobber, ye heathen,” Munro countered, grabbing the footman by the jacket and towing him up the hallway. “Cannae ye see she's nervous?”

“I'd be nervous, too, if I had to put on proper attire fer the first time and act like a blue-blooded Sassannach or someaught.” Peter narrowed his eyes. “Ye mean to bring her to Glengask, then? But nae to hand her over to the viscount?”

“I'm nae handing her over to anyone. She's mine, Peter.”

“That isnae going to make Laird Glengask or the MacDonald happy.” The servant sighed. “Why is it when ye and yer brothers decide to wreak havoc, ye always throw me into the middle of it with ye?”

“Because we trust ye, Peter Gilling.”

“Aye, I ken that. Sometimes I think I should be a shiftier fellow, though. Someone nae fit fer mad adventures and beginning wars.”

Hiding his grin, Munro clapped the servant on the shoulder. “Ah, ye're too steadfast and trustworthy. A MacLawry, through and through.”

“I suppose so. It's a burden I have to carry.”

The dozen men outside were already pulling down the rubble at the rear of Haldane Abbey, separating stones that could be used again from the ones that would need to be carted away. They were polite enough to him, though he didn't have to be clairvoyant to catch the sideways glances and crossed fingers they sent toward the abbey every so often. The place had been rumored to be haunted for over a hundred years, after all, though neither he nor Cat had seen or heard anything they couldn't put to shifting timber and tumbled bits of stone.

“I reckon ye should put old Sholto Landers in charge, being that he and his
athair
were in the crew that built that pottery works fer yer brother. But then again ye may nae want him aboot, since his boy Sorley is set to marry Miss Bethia.”

Munro slowed. “Bethia Peterkin?”

“Aye. Owen said Sir Alpin called on Glengask a few days ago to announce the betrothal. Apparently he was worried, Sir Alpin was, that ye'd be angry aboot it.”

The image that came to his mind was a wicked tongue and a great deal of yowling. An evening's entertainment when he had nothing better to do. Those evenings, though, were gone now. And surprisingly enough, he hadn't even given them a second thought until this moment. Apparently he'd grown up without even realizing it. Only one lass kept his interest now, and he enjoyed her as much for the way she kept him on his toes as for the way she made him feel in bed.

“Are ye? Angry, I mean.”

Shaking himself, he gestured Peter to continue toward the tall, white-haired Scot currently jotting down notes on a much-folded piece of paper. “Sholto,” he said, offering his hand.

The older man stood up, wiped his palm on his jacket, and shook hands. “Laird Bear. It's aboot time someone made use of this old place.”

“Do ye think ye might be willing to meet with an architect and take charge of putting the abbey back together?”

Color touched pale cheeks. “Aye? Aye, I mean. I'd be honored.” He cleared his throat. “I thought ye might be a wee bit … angry over my Sorley winning Bethia Peterkin. He's made a good life fer himself, though. He went to school, and now he's a physician. He's—”

“I'm nae angry, Sholto. I reckon yer Sorley will be a good husband to Bethia. I lost her to the better man.”

Sholto seemed to grow an inch or two. “That's very kind of ye, m'laird. And I'd be pleased to meet with yer architect.”

“Thank ye. In the meantime, I'll be relying on ye to get this ruin ready fer restoration.”

“I'll see to it, m'laird.”

As Munro turned back for the front of the house, he caught one of the other workers making the sign against the evil eye and spitting, while several others had stopped working to stare up toward the second floor of the abbey. “What's amiss, lads?” he asked.

Immediately they went back to work amid a chorus of, “Good day, Laird Bear,” and “There's a chill in the air today. I reckon we'll have snow by the end of the week.”

Given the reputation of the place, he couldn't blame some of the lads for being nervous around it. He didn't feel it, of course; Haldane Abbey had been nothing but a place of blessings and surprises since he'd stumbled across Catriona MacColl. Even so, he sent a quick glance up toward the roofless second story as he left the garden. Nothing caught his gaze but the stack of lumber they'd left up there to keep the tarp in place.

When he returned to the kitchen, Cat was walking in a large circle, her steps overly cautious but better than the stomping she'd done when she'd first donned the walking shoes. Leaning back against the door frame, he took a moment to just look at her. Perhaps it was her sister who had the finer, more delicate features, the soft, honey-colored hair, and the trimmer waist that a man's two hands could span. But Cat … that flaming hair, those delicious curves, the stubborn determination to have the life she wanted—she shone brighter than firelight in his eyes, and he never wanted to look away.

For the first time, though, he wondered if he was the best choice for her. She wanted to learn how to be more refined, more of a lady, and he barely warranted the title gentleman. Perhaps Bethia Peterkin was the sort of lass he'd earned for himself, good for a tumble and not much caring about anything else. The thought of a lifetime of that made him shudder, but a few months ago that was the trail he'd been pursuing.

Even the idea that Torriden could help his wildcat better than he could made his jaw clench and sent ice through his chest, but God help him, he wanted her to be happy. “Cat,” he said, hearing the growl in his voice and trying to shove it back. “I need to ask ye a question.”

She lifted her head, the slight, amused smile at the corners of her mouth dropping as she looked at him. “What is it?”

“I keep … bringing ye things ye say ye dunnae need, making changes to the abbey ye say ye dunnae require, and now I reckon it's because of me that ye're wearing a gown and learning to walk in dainty shoes when I ken ye're happier in boots and trousers. I'm loud, I like brawls and punching things, and I only started reading Shakespeare's sonnets because ye said ye enjoyed them.” He swallowed. “Is this—am I—what ye want? Truly? Because if I'm nae the one fer ye, ye need to tell m—”

Halfway through his rambling she dropped the hairbrush she'd been carrying and strode toward him. She didn't stop until she yanked his face down for a hard, fierce kiss, tangling one hand into his rough coat and sliding the other around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet and pulling her close against his chest.

“All this time,” she muttered, in between kisses, “I've been thinking I'm only trouble fer ye, that ye felt obligated to take me in because ye were the one to find me. Ye're the only … person I've ever met who makes me feel like me, and be happy aboot it. Even my
athair
—he wanted to see a lad. I'm a poor excuse fer a lass, and I dunnae want to cause so much trouble fer ye, Bear.”

“Didnae ye hear me a moment ago?” he returned, setting her back on her feet but not releasing his grip on her waist. “I like trouble. I'm a damned Highlander when we seem to be a dying breed, and ye're a damned Highlands lass. Nae an excuse fer one.”

“We are a couple of misfits, I reckon,” she said, her dark brown eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Aye. And I want ye with me. If that's where ye want to be.”

Catriona nodded. “With ye is precisely where I want to be, Munro.”

He held her gaze. “Whatever happens.”

Her deep breath pushed at the already tight bosom of her gown. “Whatever happens. We stay together. And ye're nae making me wear this gown. I chose to try it oot. I've naught against dressing like a lass. I just never had a reason to risk embarrassing myself by attempting it, before.”

There. That was what he wanted. Her. As for the rest—his family, her family, her betrothed—they could stomp their feet and make threats and even expel them from the clan. If he had Catriona MacColl, he had everything he needed.

Finally he let her go. “Very well, then. Do ye still want to be in a gown, or shall we burn it?”

The grin touched her mouth again. “I want to be able to wear it withoot looking like a half-wit. Ye may like me as I am, but ye'd be the only one.” She put a hand over his mouth before he could protest that. “Ye cannae deny, both yer brothers have a notion of what sort of lass I am. If we're to stand before them—whether ye mean to cast them aside or nae—I'd like to be able to show them I'm nae some madwoman.”

For Saint Andrew's sake, he could understand wanting to be like everyone else. To not be noted for his size or the nickname he'd had since he was eight years old, to be able to walk into a proper soiree and not have every eye turn to look at him and wonder if he'd be tromping on everyone's toes. Oddly enough, the only time he didn't mind being called a giant was when she said it to him. “Then get back to gliding aboot the room, woman,” he said, with a grin of his own.

“I'd like to see ye look graceful in these things,” she returned, but resumed walking.

“I can ask yer sister to come teach ye,” he ventured after a moment. “I reckon she knows how to do all these lady things.”

She shook her head. “Nae. I … I'd like to surprise her, too.”

“Or
my
sister.”

“Stop it, Bear. I'll be happy to figure oot how to be yer version of a proper lass. Anything more is just looking for disaster to strike.”

Munro laughed. “Ye're already my version of a proper lass, lass.” He tilted his head, continuing to watch her appreciatively as she minced now from the table to the hearth. “I dunnae suppose ye ken how to waltz, do ye?”

“Nae.” She shook her head, shuddering. “Papa wanted to teach me, but I refused to learn the man's steps. I could imagine the sight I would be, asking some other lass onto the floor.” Her cheeks paled as she eyed him. “Why are ye asking me?”

He took a step forward. “Because I happen to be a fine dancer. At the Highlands fling, at least. But I'll teach ye to waltz, if ye dunnae mind me tripping all over ye.”

With a sigh that didn't quite disguise the abrupt shaking of her hands, she walked up to him and held out her arms. “Shoulder and hand, aye?”

“Aye.” He took her left hand and placed her right on his shoulder. “And I take yer waist, like so. Then we move clockwise and dunnae fall over.”

“Oh, as simple as that, is it?”

“I reckon so.”

If he'd ever doubted that she trusted him, the way she threw herself into learning both the waltz and how to walk like a lass in fine shoes proved that she trusted him now. And aye, he was proficient at the waltz, because when Winnie had begun complaining about her heathen big brothers not knowing anything civilized, Ranulf had hired a dance master to teach the lot of them. At the time he'd done all he could to balk, but at this moment, with this woman in his arms, he was grateful for the lessons. He loved Cat as she was, but that also meant he wouldn't embarrass her when she wanted to try something new.

And this, being with one woman, allowing himself to simply enjoy chatting and dining with and reading or listening to her read—it was all new to him, as well. He'd never thought an old kitchen could be home, but she'd made it so. She'd become his home, his peace, and his excitement with an ease he'd never looked for, and never expected. And now, he would never give her up. Even if keeping her meant giving up clan MacLawry and his brothers and sister and their spouses and bairns. If there was any way to avoid that, though, he might be willing to listen. If being a little less … himself would get him what he wanted, well, he'd begun to realize some things were worth changing for. Some lasses. One lass.

*   *   *

“Where did ye learn to braid hair?” Catriona asked, trying not to shiver in delight as Bear ran a brush through another section of her hair and began neatly plaiting it into a braid.

“Winnie. All three of us had to learn how to pin up hair fer her. I do a fair twisting bun, as well, if ye'd like to try that tomorrow.”

She sent a glance at the mirror, trying not to move her head as she did so. After two days the sight of herself in a gown still surprised her, but the original shock, the sense that she was doing something wrong, had subsided. With half her hair back in looping braids she actually looked … ladylike. The sensation was only surface deep, because on the inside she remained much less certain, but both for Bear's and her sake she meant to give it a try.

“Did ye see the snow on the mountains this morning?” she asked, twirling a green ribbon in her fingers.

“I did. It'll nae be long, now. I reckon I'll ask some of the lads to join me up on the roof here and see what we can do with that grand hole in the ceiling. Five pounds of snow will have the tarp doon here in the kitchen with us.”

That amount of snow would also have the lads giving up on construction for the winter, but she didn't say that aloud. Bear knew it as well as she did, if not better, since he'd grown up here. For the past two days, something else had been pressing at her more closely even than the weather, anyway. “Are ye surprised they've let ye be?” she asked.