Some Like it Scottish (4 page)

Relief swept over her that they'd made it through that harrowing experience. She pushed her hood back,
expecting to see a few elderly women waiting. But in the very large open room filled with tables and sewing machines was a crowd, both young and old, men and women alike. Was the whole damned town here? The room went silent. She turned to Ramsay, questioning him with her eyes.

He shrugged, looking too innocent. He reminded her of Bridget, her youngest sister, when she was up to no good. Kit wondered if he'd arranged for all these people to be here. And by the scowls on their faces, this wasn't a pleasant meet-and-greet
.

Ramsay pushed her toward them with a light shove, but she felt like he was throwing her to the Scottish wolves. She could've sworn she heard him say
good luck
under his breath.

Stalling, she unzipped her coat and slipped out of it, trying to buoy herself before speaking. She smiled at the crowd. “That's some storm, huh?”

They didn't say a word but looked at her as if she were a caged creature for them to gawk at before they started poking her with sticks.

“Hi, everyone.” She put her hand up in salutation. “I'm Kit Woodhouse.”

Bonnie stood and slammed her hands on her hips. “We all know who you are.”

Not you again.

Ms. Big Boobs stuck out her chest. “They all know, too, and why you've come. To steal our men.”

“Aye,” said an anonymous female voice from the crowd.

“Steal them
and
give them away to American lasses,” Bonnie corrected.

The crowd grumbled.

An old woman, a few inches shorter than Kit, and
older than Old Mother Hubbard, stood up and lumbered over to her. “I'm Deydie McCracken. A quilter here.” And apparently one of the town's elders. By the scowl on the old woman's face, she wasn't here to welcome Kit. She looked ready to forcibly pitch Kit back out into the storm.

Deydie positioned herself in Kit's space, delivering the fiercest glare she'd ever experienced.
Up close and too personal
. “We want to know what your intentions are with the lads of Gandiegow.”

Kit opened her mouth but didn't get to answer.

Deydie shifted to address the group. “We all know that our village is male-heavy. There aren't enough lasses to go around.”

Another woman stood. She had piercing blue eyes and long dark hair, which was plaited into a braid slung over her shoulder. “But we still have single women here. Good girls like my sisters.” She motioned to the two beet-red women beside her. “Why should we let
her
bring more women to our town?” She pointed at Kit.

Ramsay leaned over her shoulder and whispered into her ear. “That's Maggie, John's wife. My sister by marriage.”

Deydie cleared her throat. “It wouldn't hurt to bring fresh blood into the village.”

“Aye,” said several male voices from the back of the room. They had to be the fishermen of the town, gathered at the back wall, all wearing those ugly, but necessary, black wellies.

Deydie spun on Kit but kept her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “But if ye bring these lasses to Gandiegow, and I remind ye that you haven't been given permission to do such a thing, then those girls would be
expected to raise their bairns here amongst us. We'll not be letting ye take our lads away to America with you. Do ye hear?”

Several of the older women nodded their heads in agreement. Bonnie gave a loud harrumph. Maggie looked nonplussed and her sisters looked defeated.

This is a nightmare.
Kit moved closer to the crowd, though facing the storm outside seemed the safer choice.

As alienated as she felt, she wanted to tell them she'd come in peace. Nothing like this had happened in Alaska. There had been a few hardheaded bachelors, but never a community ready to crucify her for just pulling into town. She better do something before the lynching began.

She nodded to Deydie and put her hand up to get their attention. “I assure you, your concerns are unfounded.” She made certain to give Bonnie and Maggie eye contact. “I have no plans to take any of your men away from Gandiegow. In fact, I won't be pairing them with any of my clients from the U.S.”

“What?” said one of the fishermen from the back wall. Indeed, the fishermen looked ready to rebel. There was a low-pitched rumble as they groused among themselves.

Kit held her hand up for silence. “I only want to base my operation out of Gandiegow because the town is centrally located for my recruitment needs.”

“Why?” Deydie said. “Our lads aren't good enough for ye?”

More rumbles rolled out from the back. Even the females were getting into the heat of it. Kit wondered whether they would pull out the tar and feathers next.

A brilliant idea popped into her brain. One that should
appease the majority of the crowd. She'd planned to host her mixers in either Edinburgh or Glasgow. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Kit put her hand up once again. “But what I would like to do is to have my mixers right here in your town.”

“What's a mixing?” asked Deydie.

“A
mixer
is where I bring the men and the women together. That is if Gandiegow can accommodate such an event.” This would be Kit's out.

Deydie's eyes took on a shrewd gleam. Kit got the feeling that the negotiations were just beginning. “Ye would have to make it worth our while.”

And Kit felt her checkbook being cleared of its balance as well. “What do you propose?” Reward never came without risk.

“Aye, we can accommodate this mixing thing, as ye say. We have the restaurant's grand dining room. Right, Dominic and Claire?”

A couple in the middle of the room waved. “There's plenty of room,” the strawberry blonde said.

“We'd be happy to cater it,” the dark-haired man beside her agreed.

“Yere American lasses can stay in one of the quilting dorms,” Deydie said.

“For a fee, of course,” Kit mumbled under her breath.

Deydie proved her wrong, though. “The lasses can stay free on one condition.”

“And that would be?”

The old woman grinned. “They would all have to sign up for a quilting retreat.”

W
hat?
Kit valued quilts—especially the one that had been her grandmother's—but she doubted her clients knew very much about the craft. “I don't know if any of them can sew.”

Deydie bobbed her head up and down. “We'll teach them. Won't we, ladies?”

Several
ayes
went up from the crowd.

What had Kit gotten herself into? Even more pressing, what had she gotten her socialite clients into?

Kit knew the rich well, having grown up wealthy. She had been setting up her friends on dates since boarding school, because she had a knack for seeing who belonged with whom. Up until her father died, she had matched people for free. But to finish college and to help support her family, she began charging for her services. And her friends willingly paid. Word spread and Kit's reputation as a reliable matchmaker had grown, as did her client base. But what would her clients think now?
Quilting?

“You sign up all your lasses for a retreat and we'll make sure they have the
mixing
of their life.” Deydie stuck out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

For some unknown reason, Kit turned around to get
Ramsay's reaction. Or maybe it was his approval. But what she found was that he was frowning, looking extremely unhappy at how this had turned out.

So he's no help
.

Kit glanced at the crowd, wishing for at least one friendly face, but the only face not glowering at her was Deydie's, so she took the old woman's hand. “We have a deal.” Her checkbook, though, would be hurting after paying for all her clients to come to the retreat.

Deydie gave her a snaggletoothed grin. “In twelve days' time.”

“What?” Kit dropped her hand, realizing the other shoe had fallen.

“Yup, that's the deal. The first retreat is in twelve days. And every time you bring your lasses over the pond, we'll give them a quilting retreat.”

Kit sighed. “What else?”

Deydie grinned at her. “Those bachelors ye're rustling up? They'll need to stay at the other dorm. Of course, we'll have to charge ye for them. Heatin' that dorm don't come cheap.”

“It's summer,” Kit argued for the sake of reason.

“Then call it overhead.”

“Fine. Let me know how much.” Kit had already made the other concessions; why not this, too? “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. McCracken.”

“Call me Deydie, or I'll take my broom to ye.”

Kit thought she might be serious. “
Deydie
it is.”

The old woman motioned to the room. “We better get cracking if we're going to make this happen. Caitie, draw up the contract and get it to the matchmaker.”

“Yes, Gran,” said a woman with an American-Scots accent who had a young boy beside her.

As if the meeting had been adjourned, everyone stood and cleared out. The fishermen grabbed a couple of scones before they huffed to the door, looking angry and disappointed.

Ramsay nudged her from behind. “A friendly bunch, aren't they? Are ye ready to leave Scotland yet?”

Kit spun around. “So it's you that I have to thank for this ambush. You certainly didn't warn me.”

He definitely had a glint in his eye.
The devil
. “I don't know what ye're talking about.”

“Sure you don't.”

Ramsay left her without another word, heading for the refreshment table, acting almost as if she'd ceased to exist.

He was the only person she knew in town, and he was treating her like a pariah. That little voice in the back of her mind said,
I told you so. You should've thought twice before coming to the land where warriors were invented.

Kit glanced over at the head
warrioress
as she spoke with a group of women. Deydie looked as happy as a seal who'd caught a thrown fish. And why shouldn't she? She'd taken Kit to the cleaners and had gotten exactly what she wanted for her town. This whole debacle had only added to Kit's workload and troubles.

Deydie broke away and came back over to Kit, towing the woman who had the American-Scots accent. “Ye need to meet my granddaughter, Caitie Buchanan.” The old woman gazed over at her proudly. “The Kilts and Quilts retreat was her idea. She's a smart one, my Caitie.”

“You can call me Cait.” She extended her hand. “It's nice to meet you.” She seemed truly friendly, with no hidden agenda. “This is my son, Mattie.” The two
restaurateurs joined them, plus another couple. “This is Claire and Dominic Russo, and Emma and Doc MacGregor.”

Kit shook their hands one by one, putting names to faces and noticing that Emma was well into her pregnancy, her belly filling out her maternity blouse. The two couples looked to be close friends.

“We'll get together soon to discuss menus for the quilt retreat,” Claire said, smiling and glancing at her husband. “Come by the restaurant anytime.” The four of them wandered off together.

As if she couldn't help herself, Kit glanced over, searching for Ramsay, and found him pouring himself a cup of coffee. He caught her staring and his eyes locked with hers. She saw a hint of something—craftiness?
Surely not.
She'd pegged him as the brawny bear, not the fox with cunning and intellect. Then he plastered a smile on his face.

Cait turned to where she looked. “What do you think of our Ramsay?”

Not willing to curse in front of this seemingly nice woman, Kit flipped open her day planner. “I'll need a few details about the retreat.”

Inside her planner was a laminated photo of her grandmother's antique quilt, the picture she kept with her at all times, her talisman. Usually, it centered her, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ramsay join two other men—fishermen by their wellies, and undoubtedly his brothers by their outward similarities. Ramsay crossed his arms and glared at the one who looked to be lecturing him. The other brother stood by and grinned. If she had to guess, Ramsay was doing his damnedest to get out of transporting her all over Scotland, but he wasn't succeeding.

At that moment, he speared her with a glower. She
wasn't intimidated. She responded with a sweet smile and a curt wave. He clenched his teeth and turned away. You're stuck with me, buddy, she thought to herself.

Cait cleared her throat. “Yes, the retreat.”

Deydie leaned into Kit and peered over her day planner. “What's this? Did you make this quilt?” She snatched the photo away, examining the picture.

“It was a family heirloom.” But it was no longer in her family. It had been promised to Kit as a little girl and displayed in a glass case in her bedroom while she was away at college. But then, when everything had gone to auction to pay the creditors, her grandmother's quilt had been tagged, numbered, and sold, leaving Kit heartbroken. It had been the only thing in their family home that had held any real value for her. Their house was gone. The quilt was gone. But the memories remained.

The old woman handed the photo to Cait.

“It's beautiful.” Cait returned it to Kit.

The subject wasn't closed yet to Deydie. She openly scrutinized her. “Do you sew or do you just matchmake?”

Kit smiled at her. She liked this direct and bossy woman. “I know how to sew.” Kit had been roped into learning. When Bridget, the youngest of them, needed costumes for
The Sound of Music
, all three of the sisters had worked together with the rest of the drama club. By the time Bridget was singing “My Favorite Things,” they had mastered the basics of laying out patterns, cutting fabric, and using a sewing machine.

“But can ye quilt?” Deydie asked eagerly.

Cait put her hand on her grandmother's shoulder. “Ye're badgering.”

Kit smiled and shook her head. “No, it's fine. I've never quilted, but I'd love to learn.”

Deydie smacked the table nearby. “Well, damned if I won't teach ye.” She hopped up and went to the bookshelf.

Ramsay sauntered over to Kit. “The storm has let up. If you want to get on the road today, now's your chance. I'll come to the pub and get you when I'm ready.”

Kit checked her watch. It was too late to meet up with Art. But they could get started with the other bachelors on her list.

Cait wrote down her phone number for Kit. “Call me when you get time so we can discuss the details of the retreat.”

Deydie was still thumbing through pattern books when Kit told her goodbye. She grabbed her trench coat and left.

Ramsay was right; the storm had blown over. Kit stopped at the General Store and met the clerk, Amy, who had a sleeping baby in a playpen behind the counter. The young woman was friendly and helped Kit pick out and buy her own pair of ugly black wellies. She hurried to the pub.

Twelve days wasn't much time to convince a group of bachelors that they needed her. And it wasn't much time to plan the mixer and make all the travel arrangements for her clients to come to this quiet corner of Scotland. Kit thought about the raucous scene at the pub the night before.
Maybe not so quiet
.

While in her room, she packed her notes and readied her suitcases. She thought about making a few phone calls while she waited for Ramsay to arrive, but stretched out on the bed instead to rest her eyes. It had been a long, noisy night and a trying experience at Quilting Central with the Gandiegowans.

Next thing she knew, there was someone pounding on
her door. She felt disoriented and couldn't quite lift her eyelids. She heard the door open.

“Are you sleeping again? I leave ye alone for one minute and you pass out. Are you a narcoleptic?” Ramsay was too perky for her right now. “What's wrong? Didn't ye get enough shut-eye last night?”

Kit groaned, feeling half dead. She rolled onto her side and opened one lid. “I know we have to go, but can't I rest for one more minute?”

“Nay. Another storm is preparing to roll in. It's now or never.” Ramsay picked up her brush and tossed it onto the bed with her. “Fix yere mane. I can't take you out with you looking like a wild sprite.”

His comment was probably justifiable, but couldn't he have mercy on her and leave the
near dead
alone?

She clutched the brush to her and sat up. “Give me a second.”

He looked down at her business pantsuit. “I personally like the rumpled look.” He scanned the length of her again, stopping this time at her breasts. “But don't you have something a little less masculine?”

She examined her wrinkled clothes. She was disheveled from the rainstorm and her forty winks. “I'll change into another suit.”

He shook his head and
tsk
ed. “It won't do. Don't ye own a dress? The
lairds
you want to sign up for yere database will be turned off by this.” He motioned to her person. “Don't take offense, lass, but ye look like a wee boy. If we were stopping at my cottage, I'm afraid my nephew would think I'd brought home a lad for him to play with.” His eyes danced with mischief.

It wasn't professional of her, but she threw the brush at him and barely missed his gorgeous head. She'd feel bad
later for her behavior. Right now, she looked for something else to lob at him.

He didn't even blink. “Och, are ye sure ye don't have a wee bit of Scot in ye?” He'd poured on the brogue extra thick. “Ye're sure acting like a spoiled Scottish brat.”

“Out.” She barreled toward him and bulldozed him from the room.

*   *   *

Ramsay stood outside her door, grinning. He'd had a rotten day so far, but baiting the matchmaker and getting a reaction relieved some of the disappointment he felt toward his village and his kin.

He still couldn't believe that Gandiegow hadn't run her out of town. Especially after he'd worked them up into a frenzy. But he had to hand it to Kit; she had pulled that mixer idea out of her backside and saved herself. If he wasn't determined to dislike her so much, he no doubt would feel a smidgen of respect for her fast thinking. And her business savvy.

He knocked on her door. “How old are you anyway?”

She swung the door open. “None of your business.”

He stared at her, captivated. Her summer dress was yellow—the top half hugging her breasts with the bottom half flaring at her hips. How could it both show a little cleavage and be modest at the same time? he wondered.

He took a step back and grabbed his chest. “Oh. My. Gawd. Ye
are
female.”

The straps on the yellow dress were the width of his kilt belt and the length of the dress came down to the tops of her kneecaps. He had the urge to bend down and worship those nice little knobs for knees, maybe with his hands, even better with his mouth. She looked sweet with
her shoulder-length hair barely touching the skin of her shoulders. Her heart-shaped face and soft smile drew him in. She didn't look like the shrewd businesswoman he knew her to be; she could be the lass from the cottage next door. His chest beat hard, but he sure as hell couldn't let her know he was affected.

She put her hands on her hips and blinded him with a withering scowl. “You really need to brush up on your etiquette, Mr. Armstrong. A compliment was in order. Go to my website; I'm saying this with all seriousness. If you don't work on your manners, you'll never find a woman who will have you.”

Yep. There she was. The matchmaking shrew was back.

“Ye better bring a jacket. Yere breasties will get cold here in the Highlands without one.”

She huffed and turned, muttering to herself, “A girl gets all dolled up and nothing.
Nothing
.” She came back with a white sweater and a forced smile on her face.

He took the sweater from her and opened it.

She gaped.

“I can be a gentleman when it's called for. Come now, step inside.”

She slipped her arms in and his world shifted. Suddenly, he felt like he was doing more than helping her with her sweater. This wasn't his granny or his aunt before him. Dressing Kit didn't feel innocent in the least. With her back to his chest, it felt cozy, plain and simple. Though “cozy” didn't come near to describing the lust-filled waves crashing through him. Since he had met her, they seemed to be having a lot of these intimate moments. He thought about how nice it'd been earlier when he'd pulled her to his chest, when she'd almost gotten blown away with the storm.