Some Like it Scottish (12 page)

*   *   *

Kit woke up to an empty room and a hangover. She pulled her pillow over her pounding head and groaned—partly because her head felt like it'd been hurtled across the field like one of the heavy stones in the Highland games. And partly because she'd been an idiot. Adding insult to injury was that Ramsay had stayed out all night after he'd rejected her. He'd probably gone back to some Scottish girl's place and showed
her
a good time.

Embarrassment made her head throb more.
God, I propositioned my driver!
There was only one way to overcome such an awkward situation—amnesia.

Slowly she rose from the bed, trying to keep her head as still as possible. Her eyes focused on a piece of paper lying by the door. When she bent down to pick it up, her head hammered so much that she sank down against the wall.

She crawled back to the bed, taking the note with her, and lay down. The words were written in a thick scrawl.

Boss,

Stay put. I have an errand to run. I'll be back tomorrow to get you.

Ramsay

She had to read it through maybe ten times before she could believe it. And every time she read it, the angrier she got.

She stomped to the small bedroom window and stared out. She didn't expect him to be standing out there in the pouring rain, but still.
He'd left her?

Then it occurred to her that the Highland games were likely called off, as the fields were abandoned and the rain was coming down in sheets. Her prospects of finding new bachelors today slipped away as the rain lashed away at the window.

But she could at least get some work done while Ramsay was out gallivanting. She checked her phone but had no service. She went downstairs to see if she could get a couple of bars there. She still had nothing. She asked the old woman in the rocking chair.

“Och. The storm knocked out the tower. Ye'll have to wait for it to be fixed.”

“When will that be?” Kit asked.

The old woman looked at the watch dangling on her frail arm. “I expect by mid-July.”

Kit stomped up the stairs, imagining Ramsay's grinning face under each of her steps. Without cell service, she couldn't work. She retrieved her e-reader from her luggage and plopped on the bed. Seeking comfort food for her brain, she opened her favorite book. It soothed her like no other. But more importantly, it kept her from doing something stupid—like going out on foot to find her lazy, good-for-nothing chauffeur. She began reading from the beginning:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

T
he next morning, Kit woke slowly, feeling more rested than she could remember feeling in a long time. The sun radiated warmth on her face from the small window. Yesterday had been her first day off in years. Since the day her father died, she'd been
on
. Always working, always going a million miles per hour, always looking for an angle to improve their family's situation. But yesterday, she just
was
.

She stretched, rolled over, and opened her eyes. And jumped, tumbling out of the twin bed. “Shit.”

Ramsay grinned at her from the folding chair in the corner. “Is that how ye say
good morn
in America?”

She climbed back onto the bed. “Why didn't you wake me when you came in?”

“You looked peaceful. I thought you might be dead. I was only sitting here watching to make sure you were breathing.” He grinned at her chest.

She threw her pillow at him. “I have a bone to pick with you, mister.”

“Can we do it over breakfast?”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“Dress first. Talk later. A man can only take so much, lass.” He gave her a sideways glance, his eyes feasting on her camisole.

Her nipples were pushing against the fabric as if they were trying to get a better look at him, too.

“Fine.” She grabbed her suitcase and headed for the door and the bathroom down the hall.

“I'll be waiting right here,” Ramsay called after her.

“I'm sure you will,” she muttered.

When she got back, the bed was made, and the rest of her things were sitting by the door.

“What's going on?” The weather looked okay outside. Surely she could find a few men to talk to today on the last day of the Highland games.

“I have to get you back to Gandiegow.” He took her suitcase from her and left the room.

“Hold on.” She pulled him to a stop, not an easy task when the man was as solid as the caber he'd tossed the other day. When he turned to look at her, she slammed her hands on her hips. “I hired you to drive me all over Scotland.”

“Which I've done.”

“But I don't have the men I need.”

An odd look crossed his face, but he recovered quickly. “You have every man you need.”

“If you're speaking of yourself, you don't count,” she said.

He gave her that cocky grin that she'd grown so very used to. “Aw, that's where ye're wrong, lass.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The errand I ran yesterday was for you. I found your bachelors. Yere stables are full.”

She frowned at him. “With a bunch of jackasses?”

“Don't look a gift mule in the mouth. Have a little faith.”

“Who are these men?”

He sighed, clearly exasperated. “A man could die of hunger around you. Come. Feed me. And I'll tell ye everything you want to know. I promise.”

“Have a little faith, indeed,” she grumbled, grabbing her messenger bag and following him down the stairs.

They wrapped up a few scones and fixed a couple of coffees for the road. Ramsay refused to tell her anything until he'd eaten, which was after they were well on their way.

When he'd taken his last bite, she turned to him. “Spill it.”

“Open the glove box and pull out the paper in there.”

She did and found a list of names. “So?”

“Those are your bachelors.”

“You only got names? No phone numbers? No addresses?”

“Aw, lass, beggars—”

She finished for him. “Beggars quite often get screwed?” She rolled her eyes. “I have to vet these people. I can't have my clients hooking up with men I know nothing about.”

“Hooking up? I didn't realize you were running that kind of operation.”

“Ha. Ha. You know exactly what I mean. They need to sign a contract. I'm a legitimate business.” She looked at the paper more closely. “Davey, the whisky-maker, and Ewan, our sheep farmer, are on here?”

“Aye. They reconsidered.”

She waited, but Ramsay didn't elaborate.

“But I don't know the rest of these men.”

“Ye'll have to trust me. They're good blokes, every one. Besides,” he said, “what choice do you have?”

Well, he had her there. “You better not screw me on this, Ramsay.”

He shot her a wicked grin. “You certainly know how to turn a phrase.”

“You've got a dirty mind, Mr. Armstrong.” But kissing her chauffeur, basically jamming her tongue down his throat, and then propositioning him last night came back at her like gangbusters. She felt her cheeks burn red.

He glanced at her again and chuckled. “I'm not the only one with the dirty mind.” For a second his gaze fell on her lips.

“Hush. And drive.” She picked up the list again. Six names. This wasn't normally how she ran her business. But she was desperate. Deydie's unreasonable deadline and Kit's own unsuccessful attempts to find good Scottish men had backed Kit into a corner.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

He reached over and squeezed her hand, holding on a few seconds too long. “Ye'll pay me back.”

“Yeah, right.” But then she realized there was one way that she could return the favor. “Maybe I'll set you up with a nice American girl.”

“Nay.” He laughed. “Maybe ye'll ask me back to your bed when you're stone-cold sober.”

Her cheeks burned again. Her hand tingled where he'd touched her. And the voice in her head answered for her.

Maybe I will.

*   *   *

Ramsay had had all night to consider what to do about getting ole man Martin's boat. He could no longer in good conscience put all his energy into running Kit out of
Scotland. Hell, he was even helping her now. But he still had to get the rest of the money he needed to start his guided fishing business. He knew what had to be done, but it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. So he just wouldn't think about it until he got back to Gandiegow.

He glanced over at Kit, who was busy scribbling in her notebook. “What's the first thing we have to do when we get home?”

She snapped her head in his direction and gave him a funny look. “We? Home?”

“You know what I mean.” He didn't know why he'd put it that way, either.

“I'll probably need to talk to Deydie first to check out the quilting dorms.” She looked over at him. “I assume you spoke with my new bachelors about Deydie's requirement? That old woman is pretty creative with
my money
when it comes to more revenue for the Kilts and Quilts retreat. Charging the bachelors room and board will cost me, you know.”

“Aye.”

“And did you tell the bachelors the correct date?” she questioned.

“Aye, again. Eleven a.m., on July first. I read your itinerary.”

“Eleven a.m.? But the mixer doesn't start until seven. What am I supposed to do with them all day? I don't think Deydie will be willing to teach them how to sew.”

He shrugged. “Hey, I did my job. I found them. You keep them occupied.” But he frowned at his own words. He didn't want
her
to be the one keeping a group of horny bastards busy. “I mean, we'll think of something.”

“We better.” She went back to her list. “I have to find
out what my clients need for the quilting retreat. I have to check out the location for the mixer and plan refreshments.” She held up her notebook. “There's basically a hundred things that should've been done yesterday.”

“Then it's good we're going home,” he said, seeing her nod in his peripheral vision.

An hour later, they drove down the hill to Gandiegow's parking lot.

She looked over at him with a puzzled look on her face. “No boat ride this time?”

“Nay. The road's finally finished.”

She read the posted sign aloud. “Closed Community—No Cars Past the Parking Lot.”

“We'll have to hoof it from here.”

He helped get her things to the room over the pub and then walked her to Quilting Central. He didn't intend on going in but at the last second decided it was only right to make sure she made it in safely.

Deydie came at them like a freight train, waving a book. “I've got yere pattern right here.”

Kit looked at him like he knew what the hell Deydie was talking about. He backed away. When it came to Deydie, Kit was on her own.

*   *   *

“Excuse me?” Maybe Kit should've taken a few moments to readjust to life in Gandiegow before hurrying over here.

Deydie shoved the book at her, cracking it open to the page marked with a Post-it. She tapped a gnarled finger on the picture of a quilt. “This is the quilt I'm going to teach you how to make.”

Kit shook her head. “Oh, thank you, but no. I won't have time.” She looked at her wristwatch as if her
schedule was right there. “You've given me a deadline, remember? I'm going to have a tough time as it is getting everything done.”

“Rubbish.” Deydie planted her hands on her hips. “There's plenty of time. Plenty of grace. Plenty of creativity. You remember that, missy.”

Kit looked back to Ramsay as if he could convince Deydie.

He steadied one edge of the book, his eyes dancing with merriment. “Give it a go, lass. You don't need to sleep.”

Kit peered at the page with the red, white, blue, yellow, and black quilt.

“See? They're nautical flags,” Deydie explained. “The complete alphabet. A way for one ship to communicate with another.”

It really was intriguing, bright and beautiful. “It looks complicated.” It would probably take a year to complete, too. “Do you have something easier?”

Deydie shook her head, the bun at the back of her neck bouncing determinedly. “This is the one that ye're going to make.”

Ramsay laughed. “Deydie is the town bully.”

Kit had already figured that out for herself.

“Watch it, wee Ramsay,” Deydie warned. “My broom bristles have yere name written all over them.” She whooshed her arms as if whacking him good with her imaginary broom. She turned back to Kit. “I just know what's best for you, that's all. Come back this afternoon and we'll get you started. You can take Sophie's spot at the table. We're having a sew-in.”

Ramsay nudged Kit. “The quilters come here to work on their projects.”

She looked to him. “Who's Sophie?”

“One of our local lasses who married a few months back. She moved north with her new husband,” he explained.

She closed the book with the pattern in it and held it to her chest. “I have tons to do, but I'll try.”

“Do better than try,” Deydie said stubbornly. “Learning to quilt's important.”

Kit mentally rolled her eyes, but Ramsay was watching her so closely, he must've caught on.

Ramsay put his arm around Deydie's shoulders conspiratorially. “Kit has a lot of important business to take care of.” He said it as if Kit were the secretary to the Queen. Or perhaps the Queen herself. “Ye should let her get to it.”

“No,” Deydie said. “First she has to meet my quilt ladies. Or at least those that are here.” She motioned to a woman with gray braids wound around her head. “Rhona, git yere arse over here.”

Rhona smiled and pushed away from the sewing machine. As she did, Deydie gave Kit the rundown.

“Rhona has been Gandiegow's schoolteacher for thirty-two years. A fine teacher at that. But she's leaving us to move to Dundee to help her daughter with the new babies. Twins.” Deydie's voice cracked at the end, as if she was going to miss her longtime friend. But she cleared her throat to cover it.

Rhona reached them and filled in the rest. “The new teacher will be here by the end of the summer.” She stuck her hand out to Kit. “It's lovely to finally meet you. I didn't get to welcome you before.”

Kit shuddered, remembering her
warm
welcome here at Quilting Central days earlier.

Deydie pointed across the room. “And that's Moira over there.”

A man and a woman had their backs to them, standing next to the coffeemaker. As soon as Kit had walked into the building, she'd noticed them—the man sandy-haired and tall, the woman in a plum-colored dress belted at the waist. Their body language spoke volumes; they had some kind of connection.

“Moira, come here,” Deydie hollered.

When the couple turned around, Kit was surprised to see the white collar of the clergy on the young, nice-looking man.

Deydie smacked Kit on the back. “That's Father Andrew, the pastor of the kirk. We've only the one church in town. If ye're not Episcopalian yet, ye will be by the time that ye leave.”

Moira approached, her gaze lowered.
Very telling.
Moira was shy, but
shy
usually covered up tons of character. She had a nice face and long hair fashioned into a braid, which was slung over her shoulder. Father Andrew followed behind her with a pleasant, confident smile with intelligence showing in his eyes.

Kit got a pretty good read from the pastor's body language. He was both a little complacent and somewhat oblivious to how he felt about the bashful woman. As Deydie did the introductions, Kit made a decision. She would make Moira and the Episcopal priest her pro bono project. These two were a perfect match if ever there was one. She'd set these two up for free. It would spread some goodwill, plus be a way for her to give back to the community.

She shook hands with the couple and wondered when she could block out time to speak with them individually and begin working on their setup.

“Dammit, George,” Deydie hollered, making Kit jump. The old woman pointed to the elderly gentleman in the corner working on the longarm quilting machine. “I told you to wait until I was over there before ye started it up.” She waddled off at a fast clip.

“If you'll excuse us, too,” Andrew said. “Moira and I were just now heading over to her cottage to take some refreshments to her father and to sit with him for a while.” He lifted the sack and the to-go cup in his hand.