Some Like it Scottish (3 page)

“Aye. Right.” Relief spread across his face. He stopped in front of a two-story stone building reverberating with noise and turned to her, that glint in his eyes restored. “You do know, don't ye, that The Fisherman is a pub?”

“Sure.” She hadn't known until that moment, but she certainly wasn't going to let on now. She walked ahead of him, worrying if she'd get any sleep with it being so loud. The Alaskan bush had been quiet, and once she'd gotten over the worry of being mauled by a bear, she'd slept like a baby.
A baby with one eye open all night
.

Before going in, she glanced up at the building one more time. Hopefully, there was a separate bedroom upstairs and she wouldn't be relegated to sleeping behind the bar. She opened the door to the establishment and went inside.

The place was packed with wall-to-wall Scots, mostly men. There were all different sizes of them, from the tall, lean types, to the boxy weightlifters, to a few beer guts.
But every one of them was as rugged as the bluffs that hung over the town.

Ramsay put his hand on her shoulder and shouted to her. “The steps leading upstairs are over there behind the bar.” He pointed to where a very buxom blond woman was pouring shots. “That's Bonnie.”

Bonnie had a lot going for her—a tight T-shirt stretched over double-Ds, red gloss on full lips, and men gathered around her like flies to bait.

“I'll introduce you,” he said.

But when they stood before Bonnie, Kit could see the other woman's hackles go up and her talons come out. She sneered while Ramsay made the introductions; the man didn't have a clue. Ramsay stood so close to Kit that she could feel the heat coming off him. And whenever anyone tried to squeeze by, he bumped into her back. None of which Bonnie missed. She looked ready to start a catfight, but this kitten wasn't interested in making trouble.

“It's nice to meet you.” Kit presented her hand.

“I don't think so.” Bonnie grabbed a bottle, poured a dram, and shoved it toward Ramsay, all the while keeping her eyes on Kit. “I hear from Maggie that ye've come to steal away all of our men.” The other barmaid gave a commiserating nod.

Hell.
Kit had hoped to head off some of this posturing. She had planned to offer her services pro bono to a few local women, to build up goodwill in the community.
Too late now.
Even the sweet-faced young woman nursing a Coke at the end of the bar was giving her the evil eye.

Ramsay leaned down and spoke in Kit's ear. “Just so ye know, Maggie's my sister-in-law. John's wife. She has
two younger sisters.
Unmarried
sisters, Sinnie and Rowena.”

Kit got it. Gandiegow wasn't going to turn out to be smooth sailing—by any stretch of the imagination.

Kit hollered back to Ramsay. “I'm ready to go to bed.”

There was a sudden hush, her declaration hanging in the air. Bonnie set the bottle down so hard on the bar that the drinks in front of the two customers in either direction shook.

With her face hot, Kit stammered, “I mean, I'm tired. I want to get settled in.”

Ramsay, unfortunately, rested his hand on the small of her back and guided her. Was he crazy? Bonnie looked ready to dive over the bar after her.

As they made their way to the narrow steps leading up, Kit wondered if it was too late to call John and get the other brother to drive Kit around Scotland. Ramsay was clueless. And his warm hand on her back wasn't helping.

Bonnie's eyes followed them and her scowl deepened. “Watch yereself, Ramsay,” she said.

But Kit was pretty sure it was directed as much at her as it was at him. She felt certain it'd only been her first glimpse of the summer to come. Gandiegow might look beautiful from the sea, but she was going to be a bitch to deal with.

R
amsay followed Kit behind the bar, toting her bags for her. Hell, Bonnie was right. He'd better watch himself. The matchmaker hadn't turned out to be the battle-ax that he thought she'd be. She was young, spirited as a colt in spring,
and gawd help him
, beautiful. He tried to focus on her flaws and not her arse as he followed her up the stairs.

Kit Woodhouse believed in all that bull she was trying to sell, too.
Matchmaking.
Complete bollocks. But he had come up with a surefire plan to get out of this misbegotten scheme of hers. He'd surely given more forethought to his plan than the ruddy matchmaker had given to hers.

His first idea hadn't worked—trying to talk her out of this crazy notion of hers of
matchmaking here in Scotland
. Of course, she hadn't listened. But camping over the rambunctious pub would certainly change her mind. He needed her gone. Sooner rather than later.

He glanced up.
Aw, hell.
Those jeans. Her bum. Her hips swaying from side to side. Gawd, he had no right to enjoy her backside as much as he did. The matchmaker had fit nicely in his arms, too, as he carried her to the dinghy, her clinging to him like a barnacle. He liked that
he was bigger and stronger than she was. The tough guy. The man.

Aye, he'd better watch himself.

And he'd better remember that Kit Woodhouse Matchmaker was out to ruin Ramsay's plans. Before he'd been saddled with her, he'd been confident that he'd be able to come up with the final bit of money to buy ole man Martin's boat in time. Ramsay could and would bust his arse to make it happen. But if he didn't get rid of the matchmaker, his dream would be postponed once again. He resented the hell out of being stuck
driving Miss Daisy
. He would just have to make her miserable enough to get her to leave.

At the top of the stairs, he reached around her and opened the door to the room. “The loo is down the hall.” He dropped her bags inside and turned to leave.

She was right there, her five-foot-barely-nothing blocking his path.

He tried to step around her.

“Wait.” She dropped a hand to his chest like that would stop him.

The earnestness in her eyes did, though.

“We need to go over my itinerary first. Before we do anything.”

“I'll come for ye at eight.”

A skirl of a bagpipe broke out downstairs.
Right on time, just as arranged
.

She slumped. “Can you make it nine?”

“At nine the day's half gone to us fishermen.”

She rolled her eyes. But then a roar of laughter drifted up the stairs as well.

He grinned.
The plan is working
. “Suit yereself on the
time we leave.” He didn't say good night but left her to settle in on her own. On the way downstairs he tried to put her worried eyes out of his mind. He had to, or else he wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done next.

As he hit the bottom step, Bonnie gave him a look. She'd probably been counting the seconds he'd been upstairs with the intruder.

Ramsay motioned to Coll, who had just stepped out of the kitchen. “Pour me a dram, will ye?” He sure as hell didn't want Bonnie fixing him a drink. It would give her another chance to rag on him. The bagpiper ended his tune, which gave Ramsay an opportunity to shout to the room, “How about a dance contest?”

Everyone whooped and hollered, exactly as he'd hoped.

Ross, his brother, pounded him on the back and yelled over the noise. “Ye'll not beat me at the sword dance.”

“No,” Ramsay said. The sword dance didn't make enough noise. “I was thinking more along the lines of clogging.” He pulled Thomas, one of the fishermen, from his barstool and set him on his feet. “Show them how it's done.”

Thomas yanked up his brother, Lochie, as the bagpipes came to life again. The brothers stomped and shuffled to the beat as the rest of the bar patrons clapped.

Ramsay looked up at the ceiling and hoped their upstairs guest was getting an earful
and a clue
. He didn't care if she wasn't the old crone he'd expected. The matchmaker wasn't wanted here, and the sooner she realized that and left, the better.

*   *   *

Kit lay in the dark with her pillow clamped on her head as the noise reverberated through her overexhausted body and traveled up until it banged against her temples.
If she didn't know any better, she would've sworn that the later it got, the noisier it became downstairs. Didn't these people sleep?

Something else bugged her. Ramsay's presence remained in the room, although he'd only stepped in far enough and long enough to drop her bags and run. But he was still here all the same.

It wasn't easy being a sex-deprived matchmaker.

He wasn't her type anyway. She wanted smooth, sophisticated security from a man. She didn't need sexy and rugged. She had plans. Big plans. In ten years' time, she'd be done paying for her sisters' educations and would've bought back their home, the sprawling estate that had been in her father's family for generations. Kit would not veer from her goals, not even for a little self-indulgent fun. Like having a fling with her red-blooded polar opposite—Ramsay. Besides, he was her chauffeur. The number-one rule in matchmaking:
Never mix business with pleasure.

The phone beside her vibrated. She shoved the pillow off her face and checked her e-mail.

“Crap.” Something had come up with Art MacKay, one of her potential bachelors. He could only meet first thing tomorrow morning, and then he was going to be away for a while. She'd have to rearrange her schedule, but she'd make this work; Art was one of the wealthiest men on her list.

She wrote him back with a time to meet and hoped Ramsay was a go-with-the-flow type of person. If he wasn't, he'd better learn to be. Matchmaking was a fluid business, and they'd be stuck together for the next three months.

The noise downstairs thundered on. She climbed out of bed, dug an eye mask out of her carry-on bag, and then wrapped the pillow around her ears. After she
snuggled under the quilt and right before she drifted off to sleep, she had the strangest thought: She couldn't have a fling with Ramsay—this bed wasn't big enough for the both of them.

*   *   *

Kit heard knocking and her name. But everything was black. She heard the door open.

“Wake up, Your Majesty,” a very male voice said. Then a prolonged, “Ummm.”

She pulled the mask from her eyes. Ramsay stood in the doorway, holding a tray. But his eyes weren't on her face. He was focusing on her chest.

“What?” She glanced down. “Ohmigod.” She snatched the edge of the sheet and yanked it over herself. Her nightgown had shifted to the side and one breast was nearly exposed.

“What are you doing in my room?” Her pitch sounded close to a wail.

The rogue leaned in the doorway and shrugged, grinning at her embarrassment. “It's ten. In my defense, I did knock and call out first. Then I tried to call you. Did you shut your phone off? It went straight to voice mail.”

“Crap. My battery. I should've plugged in the phone last night.”

He smiled at her expletive and walked toward her with the tray. “Breakfast?”

She pulled the sheet up farther. “Out.”

He set the tray on the nightstand.

“What is that smell?” She glared at the offending tray.

“Dig in. It's pickled herring and haggis. A right proper Scottish breakfast.” He took one of the mugs from her tray and sipped.

Her stomach came close to revolting. “Can you take
the tray out of here? And can you leave, too?” She grabbed the other mug with her free hand.

Ramsay leaned back against the wall again, as if he was just settling in. “I looked at your detailed itinerary. There's one appointment you don't have on there.”

She took a drink of tea, then set the mug back down. The food looked inedible. “The plans for today have changed anyway.”

“Aye, they have.”

What was he talking about? He didn't know about Art and the rearranged schedule.

Ramsay smirked at her. “The quilting ladies are gathered at Quilting Central. They want to meet you right away.”

“I'd like to, but there's no time. We have more pressing matters. This morning is our only chance to catch Art MacKay before he leaves.”

Ramsay didn't look happy to
catch
anyone. “Lass, have you not heard the storm raging outside?”

No, she hadn't. She was barely awake.
She'd hardly gotten any sleep
. She swung toward the window, still clutching the sheet to her breasts. Rain and wind battered the window. “So?”

“It's not safe to take the dinghy to the SUV.”

“Oh.” She'd been reduced to monosyllables.

“Now, get dressed.” He eyed her like he expected her to climb from the bed and dress while he watched. “Ye don't want to get on the wrong side of the quilters.” He gave her a devilish grin like he definitely knew something that she didn't. He remained there.

“I'm not getting out of this bed until you vacate the premises.” She clutched the sheet like a lifeline.

“Oh. Aye. Yes.” He turned for the door, but then spun
back around like he remembered something. He stopped and scanned down the length of her sheet. By the smile on his face he looked as if he was imagining all sorts of wicked things.

“What is it, Ramsay?” she said with exaggerated patience.

He lazily brought his gaze back up to her face. “That sheet won't do. Ye'll give the
wrong impression
. Make sure ye're dressed appropriately. Something more professional than what you have on now.”

That's when it registered what
he
was wearing and she dropped her death grip on her sheet. Up top, he had on a crisp white long-sleeved T-shirt pushed up to the elbows. Down below, he sported a khaki-colored utility kilt.
A kilt.
She looked farther down to a nice set of knees and heavenly muscular calves. On his feet he wore army boots and thick black socks.
Holy smokes.
He looked even more masculine today than yesterday. How could that be possible? If she was being honest with herself, it kind of took her breath away.

Maybe
kilt
should be added to her must-have list for the Scottish bachelors. Hell, all of her bachelors.

She straightened her shoulders, feeling vulnerable while he towered over her. “That's not exactly what I had in mind when I asked you to ratchet up your attire.”

“Oh?” He looked down at himself, seeming perfectly puzzled and looking as innocent as the mug in his hand.

She knew he was messing with her.

Then understanding dawned on his rugged features. “I know the problem. I forgot the best part.” He set the mug on the floor and pulled a cap from his back waistband, slipping it on his head. It was a chauffeur's hat. And he looked absolutely ridiculous in it.

She laughed. “Lose the hat and you'll be fine.”

He smiled back, and she liked it. Maybe a little too much.

“Now, shoo, so I can get dressed.”

For a second he stood there, grinning, like he wouldn't leave for all the sheep in Scotland.

“Out,” she commanded again.

“Okay, okay. Whatever you say, boss. You American lasses sure like to tell men what to do.” Ramsay pulled the door closed behind him.

“You forgot this blasted tray.”

But he was gone. She took the tray and set it outside her door. She found her adapter, plugged in her phone, and wrote Art MacKay an explanation and an apology. She grabbed a quick shower and did exactly what Ramsay suggested—dressed professionally for the village quilters in a black tailored pantsuit. She grabbed her day planner, shoved it into her waterproof carrying case, and headed downstairs with the awful tray.

Ramsay stood when she came out of the kitchen—her breakfast now deposited in the trash. He picked up his rain slicker and headed toward the door.

“Wait.” She grabbed his arm—one of the strong arms that had carried her over the water last night. “Is there a store in town where I can buy a pair of wellies, too?” She shivered—with what might have been regret. With her own wellies, she would have no excuse to cling to him again.

“Aye, ye're right. I can't be lugging ye back and forth from the boat. I think ye hurt my back.” He rubbed his backside like he was in terrible pain.

She rolled her eyes. “Poor, fragile, wee man.”

He shoved his arms into his slicker. “You don't have
time right now to shop, but the General Store has them. I'll point it out on the way.”

She pulled the hood up on her trench coat. From the sound of the storm, they were going to get wet.

When she stepped outside, she found she was wrong. She wasn't going to get wet; she was going to get drenched. A gust of wind hit her and she fell back into Ramsay.

“Whoa.” His arms came around her and he spoke in her ear—loud enough to be heard over the storm and close enough that it made her shiver. “I've got you. But ye have to be careful, lass.”

“I can see that.” The town sat right on the water's edge with the retaining wall serving as the boardwalk. With the sea churning violently, the waves crashed onto the walkway. One misstep or rogue wave, and a girl could be pulled out to sea before she had the chance to say
Ramsay, save me.

He righted her but held on to her arms as he guided her down the boardwalk through the village. She wanted to ask him about the quilting ladies, to prepare herself, but the gale-force wind prevented it. They passed several buildings, but she didn't get a good look at their facades. Her whole focus was set on getting to safety. It would've been smarter to have stayed at the pub.

Ramsay stopped her in front of a building. “Here.” Still holding her arm, he reached around and opened the door. The wind caught it and it flew open. Ramsay pulled her back into his hard chest again. She felt a little like a ragdoll, the way he manhandled her. But for some reason, she really didn't mind. He guided her inside, pulling the door closed behind him.