The Accidental Scot (5 page)

Max caught up with her and they plodded along in silence. At her door, as he opened his mouth to tell her good night, he sneezed.

“Bless you,” she grumbled.

He coughed, not able to stifle it.

“Are you okay?” She wore a troubled frown.

“I'm fine.” But he sneezed again.

Her expression deepened into concern, looking much like she had over her dad earlier.

Max reached around and opened the door for her. “Stop worrying. I'll see you in the morning.”

“I'm not worried,” she snapped. “It's just we have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“I'll come by and get you at the pub,” she reminded him. “You might as well ride with me to the factory. Save petrol. Save the planet, and all.”

He sneezed again. “Sounds good.”

“Are you sure you aren't getting sick?”

“I'm great.” He stepped off the porch. “See you in the morning.”

But, he suddenly realized, he didn't feel great. Burning the candle at both ends this past week, plus jet lag, plus cold wet feet this morning and his breezy kilt, had finally caught up with him. He felt achy. He dragged himself back to the pub and fell into bed. But his sleep was fitful. He just couldn't stop shivering.

*   *   *

The next morning, with extra coffee in hand, Pippa stomped her way up the pub stairs, grumbling. “I can't believe I have to go looking for him. He should be waiting at the front door for me.”

Granted, they hadn't agreed to meet on the main level, but she'd assumed she wouldn't have to rouse the Yank from his bed. “Does MTech want to do business
with North Sea Valve or not?” She knocked on Max's door.

No answer. She peered down the hallway at the loo, where the door stood wide. “Where is that skiver?” She knocked again, and heard a groan.

P
ippa cracked the door open and saw Max twisted in his blankets with his arm over his eyes. He groaned again.

“Are you ill?”
Stupid question.
Of course, he was sick. Hesitating only a moment, Pippa crossed the threshold, walked to his bed, and laid a hand on Max's forehead, like Freda had done to her when she was a little girl. “You're burning up.”

He didn't open his eyes. “I feel bad. . . .”

“I know. Your fever's high.”

“No,” he croaked. “That I might've infected your father last night. I didn't know I was sick. It came on suddenly.”

“Och. Good grief. You mustn't torment yereself.” Did Max have the Highland flu? Regardless, she needed to bring his fever down.

“But,” he argued, “I could've made things worse for him.”

Max was a decent man to worry about her father, especially with the Yank as sick as can be.

She straightened his covers. “It's Da's bones that are the problem. They aren't healing as they should. Other than that, his constitution is as strong as a Caledonian ox.”

“Good.” Max sighed and rolled over.

“Listen, Yank. I think you have the Highland flu. Fine one minute, on your back the next.”

“Lucky me.” He tried to smile but failed.

She grabbed an extra quilt from the cupboard and laid it over him. “I'm going to run to Bethia's to get some medicine. You stay in bed.”

He gave a derisive laugh. “Like I could go anywhere.”

As Pippa rushed down the stairs and out the door, she rang up the factory. “Bonnie, I'll be late this morning.” She thought about Max's pallid coloring and high fever. “Scratch that. Let everyone know I'm out today. If necessary, I can be reached by mobile.”

It took her only a few minutes to arrive at Bethia's, get the herbal tincture, and run back to the pub with the covered goblet. She didn't bother to knock this time.

“Max?” She gently shook him awake. “I've something for you to drink.” She held it close to his mouth.

“God, no. It smells awful. And I shouldn't be able to smell a thing.”

“It's Bethia's version of Tamiflu.” Pippa eased the goblet closer. “It really works.”

He shied away from it. “Shouldn't I take real Tamiflu? Don't you have a doctor in town?”

“Aye, I told ye we did. But Doc MacGregor is still in Edinburgh with his da.”

“Let me lie here and die quietly then,” Max moaned.

Pippa gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Don't be such a baby. I promise ye'll feel better in the morn. Now drink up.”

“You first,” he said.

She pinched her nose and pretended to take a sip. “Yummy. Yere turn.”

She helped Max sit up. He took the goblet and drank it all, only sputtering twice.

“There.” She adjusted his pillow and blankets, settling him as comfortably as she could, considering how lousy the Highland flu can make a body feel.

A few moments after Max lay back down, the furrow between his eyebrows relaxed and he fell into a deep sleep.

The Highland flu had been all but eradicated from these parts by an annual shot. Everyone here took it very seriously. Pippa's own mother had died from the Highland flu the week after Pippa was born, her immune system zapped during the long labor.

Pippa picked up Max's room—his jeans, the god-awful sweater from last night, and a polo. She had no idea what possessed her, but she held his shirt close and inhaled. Even lying there, helpless as a run-over otter, the man was overwhelmingly beautiful. But life had shown her that beautiful men were usually jerks. She stepped into the hallway to call her father about Max before he heard it elsewhere. News, especially bad news, traveled fast in Gandiegow.

When Da picked up, Pippa made sure to speak with a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “Da, Max has come down with the Highland flu.”

There was a long silence before her father exhaled. “Did you get the remedy from Bethia?”

“Aye. He's taken the first dose.”

“Good.” Da sounded concerned but satisfied. “Daughter, ye're not to worry about me today. Freda called and she'll be by to warm my soup.”

“Aye.” Pippa rolled her eyes. If Freda was known for anything, it was for peddling her soup.

“I shan't expect you back tonight either,” Da added. “Stay with the lad and make sure he's comfortable.”

“But—”

“I mean it, daughter. Don't leave his side.” Even though her da wasn't quite himself, he still had the wherewithal to order her about. “We both know how serious the Highland flu can be.”

“Yes, Da.” Pippa never knew her mother but her father still carried a torch for her . . . even after all these years. It must have been some love that they'd shared.

Her father broke in to her thoughts. “The whole village is watching out for me. I don't want you to worry about our Max McKinley either. He's a strong lad. We've come a long way in treating the illness. Stay with him tonight and he'll be better by morning.”

Pippa agreed, hung up, and went in search of a cot for herself to put in Max's room. She found one in the storage area of the basement and dragged it back up the stairs. Max was still sleeping. She set her phone alarm for two hours and pulled out the massive stack of financial papers on NSV.

At some point, Deydie stopped by with a plate of scones and oolong tea.

“I thought ye'd be needing some refreshment. Would you like to stretch yere legs for an hour? I'll sit with him.”

Pippa glanced over at Max. “No. I'm good.”

“Well, he better get well soon,” Deydie said gruffly. “If he perishes, it might ruin Christmas.” She stopped suddenly as if remembering how Pippa's mother had died.
She cleared her throat, then diverted her attention to the sick man, regarding him with concern for a long moment. “I'll fresh-kill a chicken for the Yank. My healing stew will be just the thing to get him back on the mend.”

“What about the quilters who are coming for the retreat?” Pippa asked.

Deydie shook her head, her wrinkles jiggling. “No need to worry about the lad being contagious, lassie. We're just hosting a quilt guild from Glasgow. They would've all been vaccinated.”

“But you'll check all the same?” Pippa asked.

“Aye. I'll call before I wring that chicken's neck.”

Deydie said her good-byes and was gone. Pippa ate two of the warm scones and then got back to NSV's financials. Freda stopped by with an extra sweater and Pippa's favorite quilt. Bethia brought more tincture and instructions. When the time came, Pippa woke Max and had him drink another goblet. Then she put away her papers and pulled her chair close to listen to him breathe.

Sometime later, she heard footsteps ascending the stairs. She scooted away and struck a nonchalant pose. Deydie traipsed in with the promised chicken stew, which smelled of vegetables, protein, and goodness. The old woman didn't stay long, whispering she had to get back to the final preparations for the quilting retreat.

Pippa gently woke Max and helped him into a sitting position. He seemed weaker than earlier, but Bethia had warned her to expect that. Pippa fed him his stew. Poor Max seemed too tired to talk.

“Good” was his only word.

“Better than Bethia's medicine?” She reached for the
new goblet. “Which brings me to the bad news. It's time to take some more.”

He offered her a weak smile and drank all he was given. She had him settled and asleep within minutes.

Just as she sat back in her chair, a phone rang, the sound coming from the armoire. What if his family was checking up on him? Pippa found his coat and dug his mobile from the pocket.

“Max McKinley's mobile,” Pippa said.

“Put McKinley on,” a woman barked with no salutation.

Pippa agreed with what she'd heard about American women—very abrupt. “Mr. McKinley is indisposed.”

“What are you talking about? He won't be too indisposed to talk to me. Who are you?”

“Scullery maid,” Pippa snapped. “Who are you?”

“Miranda Weymouth. His boss.”

Pippa stopped short. Her women's intuition kicked in. Something in the other woman's voice sounded possessive, making Pippa think that Max and this Miranda might be involved.

I'm such an idiot!
Some part of Pippa had been—
what?
—hoping Max was single and interested in her? God, she needed to get a grip.

“I need to talk to McKinley
now
,” Miranda commanded. “Where is he?”

“In bed,” Pippa purred. Och, she shouldn't have, but the flotsam on the other end of the phone infuriated her.

“Get him up,” Miranda demanded. “I need to speak with him immediately!”

“I don't think so.” Pippa was as calm as the eye of a
hurricane. “Mr. McKinley is deathly ill. I'll have him call ye in the morning . . . if he lives.”

With a huff, the line went dead on the other end.

Pippa leaned back and gazed at her patient—handsome Max McKinley. He was a heartbreaker for sure. All innocence with his boy-next-door charm. How could the McDonnell have gotten it so wrong and think this one could be trusted? Da's injury must've short-circuited his gift. If Max was involved with a woman such as Miranda Weymouth, then that was a huge mark against him.

Darkness fell over Gandiegow with daylight scarce this late in the year and this far north. Pippa expected that any minute a ruckus would break out in the pub below, but it stayed surprisingly subdued—no music, no loud voices. She slipped out of the room to see what might have happened.

Downstairs, there was a fairly large crowd, but they were eerily quiet. Bonnie was behind the bar tonight.

“What's going on?” Pippa asked.

Bonnie tipped her head toward the stairs. “They heard about the Yank.”

Taog sat on the barstool. “How is he?”

“Sleeping.” Pippa glanced up as if she could see through the floorboards.

Monty cut in, acting defensive. “It's not that we give two shakes about an outsider, it's just we don't need one to die on our watch. It'd be bad business for Gandiegow.”

“Och, Monty,” Pippa admonished. “Ye calloused ole soul. I'll tell Mary and she'll take a frying pan to your sorry head.”

“He's not a bad lad,” Murdoch said quietly to the crowd. “He helped Taog and me settle the CNC machine.”

Quiet rumbles of conversation rolled across the floor.

“I better get back upstairs to check on him.” Pippa turned to go. “Thank ye all for keeping the noise down.”

She hiked up the steps and settled herself beside the Yank. Not long afterward, she heard the pub patrons leave and Bonnie close up early for the night.

Pippa roused Max and gave him more of the nasty drink. His color looked better and he seemed a bit stronger. Bethia said she could stretch out the doses now. Pippa retrieved an extra quilt from the armoire for herself and fixed her bed. When he was asleep, she pulled her cot next to him, only so she'd be close if he needed her, of course.

After turning off the lamp, she lay down and stretched out one hand to feel if he was warm enough. She thought Max was out cold—until he grasped her hand and squeezed it. She was stunned. Too stunned to speak. Too stunned to pull her hand away. His touch electrified and warmed her middle. She'd held hands many times in her life, but none of those had been so . . . thrilling.

Even though he was totally out of it, holding hands with Max McKinley felt like coming home to a roaring fire after a chilly day at sea. With their hands entwined, her body relaxed to its very core.

She should've pulled her hand away, because as comforting as his touch was, it made her feel like a traitor to her community—sleeping with the enemy, sort of. Instead, she held on tight. No one need know. Hell, Max
didn't even know. Which was perfect. In minutes, she fell asleep, too.

In the morning, she woke slowly, opening her eyes and turning toward Max's bed . . . only to find he was gone! Alarmed, she scrambled off her cot. Just then the door opened and Max stood in the entry with two mugs.

“Why are you out of bed?” she said sternly. She took in his change of clothes and wet hair. “And freshly showered, too?”

“I feel great.” He thrust a mug in her direction. “You were right. There's something miraculous about those nasty drinks you forced on me.”

She took the warm cup while giving him her best chief engineer glare, under which many a man had buckled. “Back in bed, McKinley.”

He cocked his head, as if he took orders from no one. “Normally, I'd be at your service, especially when the request comes from a woman as enticing as you.”

Her stomach gave a jolt, melting into a warm and exciting mixture of goo. Apparently, her weaker side liked a man who couldn't be bossed around. Or it could be how he said
service
and
enticing.
No matter. She was a mass of hormones right now.

He held a hand to his forehead. “I'm fine. The fever's gone.”

She sucked in a deep breath and squashed down the effect he had on her. She pointed to the bed. “Lie down. Now. You have to be careful with the Highland flu, Max. I mean it. If you don't rest, you'll get worse. Fatally worse.” That's what had happened to her mother. “Besides, it's Bethia's orders. If you stay in bed today and keep warm, then tomorrow you may venture out.”

He stepped farther in. She could easily see he was feeling better.
And perhaps randy?
His gaze traveled up to meet hers. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate all you did for me.”

“'Twas nothing.”

He sauntered over, and the closer he came, the more nervous Pippa felt. Suddenly she was nattering away.

“The whole village helped, really. Bethia and her tincture. Deydie killed you a chicken. Taog and Murdoch made sure the pub stayed quiet for ye last night.”