Some Like it Scottish (5 page)

He pointed toward the steps, picking up her luggage. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” She walked past him as if she were the flagship of the fleet
.

And he got a whiff of something girly, citrusy.

The sprite must've used some spritz. She smelled damned good, and he didn't mind following her down the stairs. She glanced back and caught him taking her in with his eyes, and his nose. He was male and weak when it came to damned attractive females who smelled good enough to devour.

But she better enjoy these few moments of glory, besting him and his raging hormones, because he planned to wipe that uppity smirk off her cute little face. She wouldn't be the one in control for too much longer. Because when they got on the road, he'd make sure to let her know that all of her plans were about to unravel.

Kit stopped and turned. “Oh. I almost forgot.” She ran up the stairs. Seconds later, she was back with her wellies, grinning like she'd caught the largest fish.

He shook his head. “Those'll look nice with yere pretty dress.”

“Was that almost a compliment I heard?” She patted his arm. “I didn't take you for a fast learner, Ramsay.”

“Ah, lass, haven't ye heard? A blind squirrel comes across a nut every now and then. Even in Scotland.”

Amusement danced through her eyes. He felt satisfied that he was the one who had put it there. Then she went and did it—shot him a genuine smile.
Aw, hell
.

“Are you going to put on those boots or are we going to stand around here all day yabbering?” he groused.

She frowned.

That's better.

Fascinated, he watched as she used her opposite foot to slip out of her flimsy slipperlike shoes.
Shoes not fit for the wilds of Scotland.
She glanced up and caught him watching. He turned away and busied himself with the luggage.

They walked to the dock in silence. When they got to the dinghy, he pulled the dry life vest off his seat and handed it to her. He wouldn't ask why she feared the water. Or poke fun at it, either. Fear of the water was wise. A healthy respect for the sea was a good thing.

Kit looked surprised at his gesture. “Thanks.” She didn't say any more but put the vest on. She motioned to the packed boat. “What's all this?”

“Supplies,” he said. “In the Highlands, you have to be prepared for anything.” He'd added a sleeping bag, extra blankets, and food. “Maggie fixed some sandwiches for the road, in case we get hungry.”

“That was nice of her. I'll have to thank her when I get back.”

“You do that.” Ramsay couldn't tell Kit the crap Maggie had spewed at him while she'd piled food in the ice chest.
The matchmaker is ruining everything for Sinnie and Rowena. They'll never get a husband with her around.
The truth was that Sinnie and Rowena probably needed to quit listening to Maggie and start leading their own lives. He loved Maggie because he had to, but damn, she was a pitbull, thinking every unattached person in town had to be married. But he was happy as a clam with his freedom. And he suspected if left alone, Sinnie and Rowena would be, too. Sinnie was quiet, but Rowena had a mouth on her. Maybe Kit should take them back to the States with her when she left and find them husbands there so Maggie would shut the hell up and quit talking
him to death about it. He was pretty sure Maggie was still holding out hope that he'd take one of her sisters off her hands. Hell would freeze over first.

Kit went to step into the boat herself. He reached out and grabbed her hand, steadying her. Her eyes widened, looking like two full moons on her pretty face.

“Don't look so surprised, Ms. Woodhouse,” he said. “Fishing you out of the water is more work than I'm willing to do today.”

Her cheeks turned pink. “Well, thank goodness for your lazy tendency.”

“Here.” He took one of her hands and placed it on the gunwale. “Grab the seat with yere other hand for a smoother ride.” He glanced out to the ocean; it was choppy. He wasn't going to worry like an old woman, but he knew this short trip would be rough on the matchmaker. “Hang on, okay?”

She nodded.

He stowed the rest of her luggage and climbed into the boat, too. She stared out at the sea and then back to him with a leery expression, her eyes almost pleading with him to not make her go. Her white knuckles gripping the boat backed up his suspicions. For her sake, maybe they should've waited until the ocean was less angry.

He shot her a wink, following it up with a calming smile. “Try to enjoy yereself.”

She guffawed as he started the motor and pulled away from the dock.

She kept her eyes glued on him. He couldn't help himself—he gave her a soft smile to let her know all would be okay. Infinitesimally, she relaxed—not completely, but at least he didn't worry that she would have a nervous
breakdown before they reached the SUV. Her gaze didn't leave him the whole time, which, surprisingly, was fine with him.

It didn't take long to get to the tie-off post and the SUV. He jumped out and secured the boat. Even though she had her wellies on, he snatched her out and held her in his arms.

She latched her arms around his neck as if he were her anchor. But her words said otherwise. “What are you doing?” She wiggled her boots. “I bought wellies.”

“It's rocky here. I would hate for you to lose your footing and get yere pretty dress wet.” Aye, he was acting the sappy fool, but he blamed it on how good she smelled. “I'll let you down on the mud so you can get your boots all dirty. Would that make you happy?”

“Yes.” But the frown on her face suggested using her boots wasn't the problem. Perhaps he frazzled her the way she did him.

He put her on the grass instead and went back to unload the dinghy. While he packed the SUV, she changed back into her girly slippers, plugged in her smartphone, and then pulled out her map. He took a page from her book and changed from his wellies back into his army boots.

“Are we headed to McGillivray's sheep farm?” he asked as he stowed the sleeping bag on top of their things.

“Yes, the sheep farm is our first stop. It looks like it should take us an hour or so to get there.”

Now that he wasn't holding her in his arms and close enough to take in her damned perfume, or wherever her good smell came from, he realigned his brain and focused on his plan. He climbed in the SUV and they were off.

He wondered if she would be talkative on the road, now that they knew each other a little better. But when he glanced over at her, her eyelids were drooping. For a moment, his convictions wavered. But he couldn't allow her to keep him from taking on extra jobs so he could buy his boat. He waited until she looked fast asleep, her head back, resting on the seat, her eyes closed. Then he steered into the first pothole he saw.

She jumped. “What the—”

He hit the next one.

“Oh!”

“Sorry. The road's a bit bumpy.” He gave her his most innocent smile.

“Bumpy, my ass,” she murmured, pinning him with a murderous glare.

For a second, he visualized that lovely arse of hers and how it had filled out her jeans to nigh on perfection. But he banished the thought. He had plans to see through to the bitter end. No matter what.

He toyed with enlightening her with how it was going to be. He wasn't going to make it only a bumpy ride; he was going to make this a ride she'd never forget.

*   *   *

Kit forced herself to stay awake the rest of the way to Here Again Farm. Two statues of multicolored sheep sat on either side of the sign. The sheep and the wrought-iron gateway made for whimsical guardians to the farm.

“Well, this is quaint.” She imagined that any one of her clients might think so, too.

Ramsay gave a noncommittal grunt and drove through the entryway.

On either side of the lane, sheep grazed in lush pastures. The fence corralling the ewes and the rams was a
crisp white as if newly painted. So far, the sheep farmer was scoring well in her eyes. They rounded the top of the hill and on the other side sat a castle.
A castle!

“Oh, my!”

“It's just a ruddy old estate. It's nothing to write home about.” When he said
about
, it came out like
aboot.
For some reason that had her smiling as much as the castle did. She noticed that the more she smiled, the more Ramsay frowned.

They pulled in next to the other vehicles—three identical Range Rovers with the Here Again logo on the sides. As she was storing the map, she saw out of the corner of her eye a man come out to greet them. She had to take a second look. He had on plaid knickers and a matching wool cap. His black short-sleeved T-shirt was pulled tight over bulging muscles. She glanced over to get Ramsay's reaction.

“The bluidy lord of the manor ought to be on the golf course instead of a sheep farm. What a fool.” Her chauffeur got out, leaving the door open, and stood there, peering over the top at the man.

She stepped out and her potential client lit up, grinning from one big ear to the other.

He quickened his pace and reached out to her. “Sir Ewan McGillivray.” He grabbed her hand and held on. “And ye're the lovely Ms. Woodhouse.” The man put an arm around her and pulled her to his side like a newly acquired possession.

Kit would've sworn she heard a feral growl from the Scot leaning over the top of the SUV. She leaned away from McGillivray and confirmed Ramsay's scowl.

She carefully unlatched herself from the wealthy bachelor and introduced her chauffeur. She had to hand it to
Ramsay; he recovered quickly, walking over to shake the man's hand, too, with a pleasant smile plastered on his face.

“Come inside and we'll have tea,” McGillivray said.

“Nay.” Ramsay pointed toward the sheep they'd just passed. “
Ms. Woodhouse
here is anxious to inspect yere flock. She wants to go directly to your fields.”

That made McGillivray beam. “Aye, right. I adore a woman who can appreciate sheep.” He grabbed her upper arm and squeezed it.

Ramsay growled again.

She extracted herself from McGillivray and forced a smile for the both of them. “I'll need my day planner so I can take notes. Ramsay? Can I see you for a moment by the SUV?”

He gave her a cheeky grin. “Why, of course,
boss
.” He sauntered to the passenger side and opened her door for her.

As she leaned into the car, she hissed at him. “I don't need to see his sheep.”

“Would ye rather have him undressing you with his eyes or talking about his flock?” Ramsay gave her a matter-of-fact eyebrow-raised expression.

“I— I . . .” Well, he had her there.

“Besides, you must make sure the sheep farmer knows his stuff and is good enough for yere money-lovin' debutantes.” Ramsay,
the cad
, reached in, pulled out her day planner, and dropped it in her hands.

“My clients are not—”

He cut her off, nodding toward McGillivray. “And if I were you, I'd make certain straightaway that this one knows ye're not up for sale. By the way he's checking out yere arse, I'm afraid he's already trying to size you for an
outfit that matches his own.” Ramsay pushed her toward the fashion-challenged bachelor.

“Come.” McGillivray pointed to the gate. “You'll see our sheep. Then we'll go to the barns so ye can witness the operation from there, too.”

Kit hurried to catch up with McGillivray, knowing Ramsay was right. She would have to set this potential client straight. “Mr. McGillivray?”

“Ye must call me Ewan.” He scanned her body, as if he were indeed taking her measurements.

“Ewan. I wanted to tell you about my clients,
your prospective brides
.” She glanced back. Ramsay and his long legs were catching up with them.

“It's too early to be talking about matrimony. Don't you think, McGillivray?” Ramsay's tone held the perfect mixture of camaraderie, authority, and persuasiveness.

Ewan's eyebrows crashed together in thought. Finally, he nodded in agreement. “Aye. You haven't even seen my prize ewes and rams yet.”

He opened the gate and they all went through. Not even three feet into the field and something squished under Kit's Bella-Vita flats.

She looked down at her once yellow footwear. “Oh, shoot.”

“No, that's shit,” Ramsay corrected, straight-faced, those eyes of his dancing.

She glared at him, but he didn't waver.

McGillivray beamed unapologetically. “Ye get used to it. It's all part of being a sheep farmer.”

Kit would have to warn her clientele about the perils of the pasture.

McGillivray rattled on about his acreage, heads of sheep, and every detail of the operation. He was a sweet
man and Kit could think of two of her clients who would be perfect for him.

“Ah, now, there's my prize ram.” McGillivray pointed. “He's one hell of a stud with a pizzle the size of a hammer. Look at that scrotal circumference. It's greater than forty centimeters.” Suddenly, the man looked up at Ramsay and guffawed. “We call him Ramsay. That's your name, isn't it?”

Kit laughed—not only because of the coincidence, but because Ramsay looked more horrified than angry.

McGillivray turned. “Come, I'll show you the others.”

As she walked by, she couldn't help but rub it in. “Come on, stud.” She patted Ramsay's arm. “Be grateful he didn't ask to compare your pizzles.”

Next, they went into the sheep shed. If she thought the sheep poo was thick in the pasture, that had been nothing. The shed was a carpet of excrement. The farmer explained how the shed was on skids. Every year, they'd pull the sheep shed to a different area, leaving that naturally manured spot for their garden. It was all interesting, but she hadn't come here to get Old McDonald's tour. She gazed down at her shoes. They were ruined. The smell of damp wool, sheep bodies, and poo was almost too much for her nose to bear.