Not Quite a Scot Page 12

  He saw my face and motioned. “Let me in!”

  I fumbled with the latch twice before my trembling fingers conquered the mechanism and the door swung wide. The rain was coming sideways now. I jumped back as Finley lurched over the doorstep and stumbled inside, dropping his blanketed load in the process.

  With a bark and violent shaking, Cinnamon expressed her disapproval for the indignity to which she’d been subjected. I knelt beside her. “Poor baby. You’re wet and cold.”

  Finley wiped a hand across his face. “I wouldn’t get too close if I were you,” he warned. “She got away from me when I tried to put her in the Jeep and now she’s muddy. I wiped off what I could, but she’s not exactly fit to be inside.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let me get the fire going again, and she can sit by the hearth to dry out.”

  “Do I merit the same offer?” He smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  My pajamas were thin. My robe was in the bedroom. With my hair tied up in a scraggly knot on top of my head, I found myself at a distinct disadvantage. Finley might be wet and windblown, but at least he was fully clothed.

  I folded my arms across my breasts. “What are you doing here, Finley?”

  He shrugged out of his heavy rain slicker and hung it on a peg beside the door. “I was worried about you. The roads are virtually impassable now, and the authorities are issuing warnings about landslides.”

  I understood what he meant. Much of the landscape was not forested. The green hills had little in the way of root systems to keep the earth in place under conditions like these.

  “As you can see, I’m fine. You shouldn’t linger if it’s that bad. You and Cinnamon need to get back to town while you still can.”

  I was proud of my speech. Even in pajamas, I gave him my best I’m-in-control imitation. The fact that my words were all a pile of pooh was irrelevant.

  Luckily for me, Finley ignored my posturing. He squatted in front of the fireplace and began stacking wood with economical movements that told me he knew what he was doing. Soon the crackling and popping of a roaring blaze filled the room with sound and color and warmth.

  Poor Cinnamon must have worn herself out earlier. She was already asleep, curled up with her tail wrapped around her nose. The wretched dog had abandoned me. I could have used a distraction.

  “I’m serious, Finley,” I said. “You need to go if it’s that bad.”

  He stood and wiped his hands on his pant legs. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  Well. What was I supposed to say to that?

  When I stood there, mute, he came to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Duchess.” He kissed my forehead. “I did want to make love to you last night, but when you brought up Vanessa, it made me angry.”

  I slipped my arms around his waist and let him hold me closer. “I know. I was wrong to mention it.”

  His big frame tensed. If he still felt this much emotion for the woman who had betrayed him, I’d be a fool to get involved.

  He shook his head. A mighty sigh rumbled through his chest. I felt the steady ka-thud of his heartbeat, more rapid than it should have been.

  “You’ve misunderstood, McKenzie. I didn’t want to make love to you because you reminded me of Vanessa. I wanted you in spite of the physical resemblance. There’s a big difference.”

  I flinched inwardly. Did Finley have a type? Being linked in any way with the woman who had been so manipulative of son and father made me uncomfortable. “I understand.” I think.

  Though staying in Finley’s embrace would be a lovely antidote to the day’s solitude, I eluded his embrace. Physically. Mentally. “I was almost ready to go to bed when you arrived,” I said. “Thanks to Mrs. Clark, the guest room is ready. Make yourself at home. Do you really think we’re in any danger here?”

  As a change of subject, it was clumsy. Finley gave me my space. He shrugged. “Cedric’s cottage has been on this mountainside for decades. So probably not. Though I never underestimate Mother Nature.” He grimaced. “I don’t suppose you have any decaf, do you?”

  “Sorry. No coffee at all. I could make you some herbal tea.” Even as the words left my mouth I had to laugh. “You’re not exactly the herbal tea type, are you?”

  He cocked his head and stared at me with those deep blue eyes. “I could be persuaded. If you promise to join me.”

  I chewed my bottom lip. “We need to back up a few steps,” I said quietly. “Last night told me that neither one of us is ready to…well, you know…”

  He winced. “I’m sorry I said what I did. I was being a jackass. Maybe I do have some old baggage to sort through. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “I believe you, Finley. I do. Let’s hit the restart button. Okay?”

  “Fair enough. I’d still like that drink.”

  While I measured out the loose tea leaves and found matching pottery mugs in the cabinet, Finley pulled the second rocking chair by the fire adjacent to mine. Nothing was going to happen tonight. Why was I still as jittery as a teenager en route to the prom?

  I added one sugar to my cup and three to his. The man had a sweet tooth. I’d noticed as much in the brief course of our acquaintance. When I handed him his tea, he wrapped his fingers around the warm crockery and sat down with a sigh.

  “How are things in Portree?” I asked, joining him by the fire.

  “My place is fine. Unfortunately, there’s already flood damage in town, and it will only get worse.”

  “But we’re on an island. The ocean doesn’t flood.”

  “No. You’ve seen the way the town sits, though. It’s a funnel. The rain is falling so hard, so fast, that as it rushes down from the higher ground, it’s creating rivers or waterfalls, whatever you want to call it. We’ll have a lot of cleanup ahead.”

  I knew the word we didn’t include me. Finley was a permanent resident of Portree, part of the town. He would pitch in with his fellow citizens to do what had to be done. I envied him in many ways. I’d never had an opportunity to try the small-town lifestyle. It seemed charming and peaceful, but would I enjoy it long term?

  Finley finished his drink and set his cup on the floor. Then he ran both hands through his hair and sighed. “I don’t know what it is about you, Duchess. I feel as if I’ve known you a lot longer than I really have.”

  I nodded slowly. “Maybe it’s because I’m someone from home, and we have a background in common.”

  “I don’t think so.” He stood and poked the fire, then straightened and rested one arm on the mantel. In profile, his features were strong and masculine. I could imagine a Renaissance artist wanting to paint or sculpt him.

  “Does Scotland really feel like home to you?” I asked.

  He grimaced. “In some ways.”

  “But not all.”

  “No.”

  “Do you ever plan to go back? For good, I mean?”

  He crouched suddenly in front of my rocker, his hand on my knees. “You ask a hell of a lot of questions, Duchess.”

  “Sorry.” I wasn’t really. It seemed like the thing to say. From this angle, I could see a silver thread here and there in his dark, glossy hair. Finley was no callow youth. He was a man. And he carried with him a man’s hurts.

  I touched his cheek tentatively, almost expecting him to bat my hand away. “I’m not a spoiled heiress, Finley. At least I don’t think I am.”

  His grin lit a spark in my belly. “I’m pretty clear on that now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I googled you last night. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you’ve singlehandedly done all the interior design work for every Habitat for Humanity house that’s been built in the state of Georgia for the last four years.” His grin faded, replaced by a sober regard that made me antsy.

  He had me boxed in, physically. I stood up abruptly and escaped to the other side of
the room, tidying things at the sink. “It’s no big deal. It’s a way to use my training, and I don’t need to get paid for the work. So it’s a win-win for everyone.”

  “Ah, Duchess.” He followed me easily. There wasn’t much room for retreat in this tiny house.

  When his arms came around me from behind, I stiffened. I wanted this too badly to botch things a second time. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Hugging you?”

  “Doesn’t that seem kind of personal?”

  “You don’t like hugs?”

  Come to think of it, I didn’t. Except with Willow and Hayley, I wasn’t very good at physical affection. Even now, my heart raced and my forehead was damp. Finley surrounded me with his presence…his scent, his touch. I felt him tall and warm at my back. His strong arms held me firmly. I knew I could break free if I wanted to. That wasn’t the problem.

  My dilemma was wanting so much more. Calmly, I dried my hands on a dishtowel and turned around. “Hugs are okay,” I said, searching his eyes for the answers to questions I hadn’t even asked yet. “I think with you I prefer them this way.”

  I pressed a fingertip to the center of his bottom lip. When he trembled, I was torn between astonishment and euphoria. He wanted me.

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moving noticeably. “Whatcha doin’ there, Duchess?”

  It had been a very long time since I felt such a rush of sexual hunger. I wanted to gobble him up. “We may be trapped here forever,” I said softly. “Wouldn’t that be terrible?”

  He kissed my nose. “Awful, Duchess. Impossible, maybe.”

  “People in times of crisis have to survive the best they can.”

  “True.” He shuddered when I nipped his chin with my teeth.

  I was playing a game that wasn’t fair to either of us. “Tell me to stop,” I said breathlessly.

  He bit my earlobe. “Stop.”

  “That was about the most unconvincing command I’ve ever heard.” Was I using Finley because I was scared to be alone? Or did this odd and unexpected connection have a future?

  His voice came out muffled because he was kissing every inch of my neck. Only the collar of my pajama top stopped him. “I’m sorry for what I said yesterday,” he groaned. “Forgive me, Duchess.”

  “You’ve already apologized,” I pointed out, though I couldn’t help being gratified by his groveling.

  “I need you to know I mean it. When I take you to bed it won’t be what I said.”

  “Fucking?”

  He put his hand over my mouth, clearly not amused. “I said I was sorry. I want to make love to you, McKenzie. But not tonight. I need you to know that when it does happen it means something more to me than a quick roll in the hay. So while we’re stuck here with each other, let’s see how far we can get.”

  Chapter 19

  He charmed and disarmed me. I cocked my head. “Are we dating, Finley? Is that it?”

  “Under the circumstances, I think ‘dating’ is the least of what we’re doing.”

  “We could have a slumber party in front of the fire.”

  I saw him go still. “Are you serious?”

  “Why not? We’d have Cinnamon as a chaperone. And this room is so warm and cozy now, those two bedrooms are not at all appealing.”

  His slow, lazy smile made my toes curl in my wooly socks. “I like a woman with a plan.”

  “What if I go brush my teeth while you drag the mattresses in here? Then after that, the bathroom will be all yours.”

  “Works for me.”

  When I watched him leave the room, I exhaled a big whoosh of air. I was playing with fire, no doubt about it. Ruefully, I thought of all the beautiful nightwear I owned back in my condo in Atlanta. I loved feminine silks and satins and lace. For Scotland, though, I had chosen practical over pretty.

  Oh, well. He’d already seen me now in my unexciting pj’s. At least I could brush my hair and add a spritz of scent at my wrists and anywhere else it might be discovered.

  In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. The glass was old and mottled, with a crack across the top left corner. “What are you doing McKenzie? Be smart about this.”

  I often gave myself pep talks before important occasions. Seldom, though, did I have such an urgent need to throw caution to the wind.

  Ten minutes was more than enough time to take care of my bedtime routine. I stayed an extra five, for no other reason than to see if I could stop shaking. It worked. Mostly.

  When I returned to the other room, I gaped. Finley had made quick work of his assigned task. He’d situated both mattresses in front of the fire so that our feet would stay toasty warm. He had transferred all the sheets and blankets and tucked them neatly in place. The only thing that surprised me was the four-foot no-man’s-land between the two mattresses.

  He gave me a terse nod and disappeared into the bathroom with his backpack.

  I knew I didn’t have long to make a decision. Did I want to keep boundaries in place, or did I want to fool around with Finley?

  In the end, I chickened out. I left the mattresses as they were.

  When Finley reappeared, he grimaced. “I have to take the dog out. We’ll be quick.” He reached for his rain slicker, put it on, and pulled up the hood.

  For once, Cinnamon was not visibly eager to explore the outdoors. She went with Finley, but they were back in no time, both of them soaked and miserable. Finley used the old blanket to dry the dog. Cinnamon reclaimed her spot on the hearth while Finley shook water droplets from his coat and put it back on the peg by the door.

  At last, he approached the fireplace. I had claimed the mattress on the left. He removed his shoes, took off his belt, and crouched to slide under the covers.

  I turned on my side to face him. “How long have you had her? The dog, I mean.”

  Finley yawned and stretched. “A year and a half. She was six weeks old when I bought her.” He turned to face me. “Do you really want to talk about my dog?”

  His blue eyes were shadowed. I had turned off all the lights, so our only illumination was from the fire. I studied his face, trying to decide what it was about him that drew me so strongly. He was an interesting contradiction: part artist, part entrepreneur. Unflinchingly masculine.

  His sexual appeal was overt. I’d seen more than one woman at the dance last night giving him the eye. Though he was friendly and charming, he carried himself with reserve. I wondered if anyone in Portree knew the real Finley.

  “Maybe you should ask me questions,” I said, conceding defeat. He would tell me only as much as he was willing to tell, no matter how many times I pressed him.

  He mimicked my position, sprawling on his left side to face me. “I suppose this is old hat to you…slumber parties and all.”

  “My first one,” I said simply.

  “You’re kidding.” His eyebrows shot to his hairline.

  “It was the whole ‘mingling with riffraff thing,’ remember? Slumber parties were far too bourgeois for my parents. They’d send me on supervised play dates at the Met in New York. Or enroll me in continuing ed classes at Emory in Atlanta. Free time was not a highly valued commodity in our household, especially not free time that involved playmates who weren’t ‘our kind of people.’”

  “So how did you escape growing up as an unbearable prima donna?”

  “I probably was as a kid,” I said honestly. “Fortunately, when I made it to high school, our curriculum included modules of volunteer work in the community. Those classes were a requirement, so my parents couldn’t quibble over it. Seeing how the other half lived shocked me and made me a better person, I hope.”

  Finley’s gaze was drowsy, his eyelids heavy. Sexual tension lingered just off stage, but we were both tired. Added to that was the ever-present noise of the storm. “I didn’t expect this,” he said.

  I searched his face, confused. “Spending the night here?”

&nbs
p; “I didn’t expect you.” The words were flat and not altogether flattering.

  My insides curled into a tight wad of hurt. “The rain will be over sometime, Finley. After that you won’t have to worry about me anymore.”

  Why did relationships have to be so messy? Finley’s past was an emotional wreck. Mine was less dramatic but equally disheartening. Wasn’t love supposed to be easy and fun? I knew dozens of girls in college who slept their way through entire rugby teams and never gave it a second thought.

  Yet here I was, drawn to a gorgeous, moody, complicated man and quite unable to tell him I wanted a vacation fling.

  Maybe that was the problem. I wanted more, and it was hard to lie convincingly even to myself.

  I saw his eyes close, so I swallowed my disappointment. It was for the best. This entire situation was artificial. The secluded house. The violent storm. The proximity that neither of us had engineered deliberately. I had belatedly kept to my travel itinerary, and Finley was simply being conscientious about looking out for a friend.

  Sighing quietly, I let sleep drag at my limbs. Having Finley nearby, no matter our emotional state, was reassuring on a visceral level. He might inadvertently break my heart, but I would come to no physical harm as long as he was with me.

  I dozed after that, fitfully and restlessly. Between those rare moments when I slept deeply, I was aware of Finley rising to add wood to the fire and of him peering out the window by the door, his back to me as he stared out into the black night.

  Sometime after four, a thunderous crash jerked us awake. I know I cried out, because I heard the panic in my own voice. Finley touched my hair. “Don’t move. I’ll see what happened.”

  He disappeared into the back of the house. Cinnamon roused at the noise, too. She lumbered over to my mattress and lay down between me and where her master had been sleeping. I petted her absently, my ears straining for sounds of Finley.