Not Quite a Scot Read online

  When Finley started to move, I closed my eyes. Seeing him was too much. How did couples ever survive this stripping away of pretense? Man and woman. Yin and Yang. I wanted to scream and dance and run naked into the storm. My climax hit me with the force of the boulders that had crashed down the hill.

  One moment I was straining for the peak, the next, I was falling through fire, each cell in my body exploding with joy.

  The room was quiet after that. I cried a little bit when we were done. Thankfully, I don’t think Finley noticed.

  He kissed me softly, our lips clinging as if unable to give up one last connection. I felt the muted force of his personality like a soft, familiar blanket. Security. Peace. Sometime later, without speaking, he got up and went to the bathroom. I wanted to freshen up as well, though I wasn’t sure my legs would work. I felt the same sense of disorientation that occurs after a tragedy, only in my case it wasn’t a tragedy at all. Simply a jolting realization that my life would never be the same.

  I was almost certainly falling in love with Finley Craig.

  Even as I named the truth that filled me with wonder, I grieved. If Finley wanted a woman in his life on any kind of regular or permanent basis, he’d had plenty of opportunities. He was over thirty-five. Women were drawn to him wherever he went. The female sex was ripe for the picking, yet Finley was still single. And apparently very happy in his bachelor state.

  When he came back from the bathroom, he added more wood to the fire. Dragging the sheet around my shoulders again, I crawled out of my comfy cocoon. “I think I’ll take a shower,” I said. And maybe cry like a baby because I had let myself get too close.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Water will be getting cold. Power’s off.”

  I nodded. How had I not noticed? Even with forlorn daylight sifting into the room, none of the lamps were lit. I had specifically left a small light burning in the hallway. Now, the corridor leading to the bedrooms was dark.

  Why wasn’t Finley talking? We’d committed the unpardonable sin. He and I together had created a morning-after-the-night before with no place to go. Literally.

  Once I managed my escape to the small, dated bathroom, I wrapped a towel around my hair to keep it dry and managed a brief lukewarm shower. I was counting on the fact that after I was dressed I would feel better.

  When I finished cleaning up, I heard the front door of the cottage open and close, along with Cinnamon’s excited barking. Clearly, Finley was taking her out. Perhaps it was my imagination, but from the vantage point of the tiny window high on the wall over the tub, it seemed as if the rain might be slowing down. I hoped so. Not only was the extreme weather endangering lives, it was making things impossibly awkward for Finley and me.

  When I was fully clothed and had pulled myself together, I felt marginally calmer. I found Finley in the kitchen scrambling eggs on the propane stove. “Have a seat,” he said. “These are almost ready.”

  I loved scrambled eggs usually. Right now, the thought of it made my stomach heave. Nevertheless, I forced them down. We had tea, but no toast. Leftover scones were a stale substitute that served the purpose of keeping our hunger at bay.

  We ate our meal without saying a word. I was a relative novice at this type of situation. I had counted on Finley’s sophistication to handle the small talk. Maybe he was always like this in the mornings.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand the tension any longer. “What are you thinking about?” I asked, cringing inwardly as the needy question left my lips.

  He shrugged, stirring his tea with far more attention than the task warranted. “The storm seems to be waning. I want to get back to town and assess the damage. Without phone and internet, Cedric’s house might as well be on the moon.”

  “A bit of an overstatement,” I said, “though I think you’re right. You and Cinnamon should go while you can.”

  His head jerked up, dark red staining his cheekbones. Narrowed eyes glittered with displeasure. “If you think I’m letting you stay here, you’re insane. You’ll move into my house,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

  “Don’t be daft,” I said. Sometimes the Scots’ expressions were the best. “I’ve paid the rent here for an entire month. Obviously the cottage didn’t cave in overnight. I’ll be fine.”

  “Duchess…”

  The warning note in his voice didn’t faze me. I was fighting for my life, scared to the bone. Twice in my life, I’d let sex cloud my judgment about men. You might argue that both those times had been a product of immaturity. I was much older now. Wiser.

  I could see from his implacable expression that he would drag me out of here over his shoulder if need be. “Fine,” I conceded. “The music festival is over. I’ll make a reservation at one of the hotels. Will you handle contacting Cedric’s relatives to tell them about the damage to his house, or do I need to do that?”

  Leaning his chair back on two legs, he studied my face. “What are you afraid of, McKenzie?” Whenever he dropped the Duchess and called me by my real name, I knew he had gone from teasing to being straight with me.

  “I can’t move in with you, Finley. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You may be loaded, Duchess, but it also doesn’t make sense to pay for a hotel room for several weeks when I have a perfectly good guest room going empty.”

  “Are you offering to accommodate a tourist, or asking me to share your bed?” I had nothing to lose at this point. And I needed to know.

  “I’d say that’s up to you. Can’t we play this by ear?” He examined my face as if he were trying to see inside my head. It was messy in there. No visitors allowed.

  “If I move to your house, will you let me hang out with you in your workshop?” I asked. I hadn’t known I was going to say that. The subject had been rolling around in the back of my brain from the beginning.

  His walls went up. I saw the moment it happened. His face lost all emotion. “I offered you a guest room, Duchess, not free reign.”

  I wasn’t deterred by his brusque tone, because I was beginning to see that his bark was worse than his bite. “Don’t you know that when a man is mysterious, a woman invents all kinds of implausible stories about him?”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “You should concentrate on your original plan. You’re here to see the island. You can do that using my place as a base.”

  “Would you be interested in playing tour guide?” I goaded him, looking for a response, though I wasn’t exactly sure what it was I wanted.

  “No, Duchess. You pointed out early on that you’ve traveled the world over. I think you’ll be fine on your own when it comes to exploring Skye.”

  If I had been a different kind of woman, I could have lured him back into bed in front of the fire. Not only did I lack the necessary skills for that kind of light, sexy invitation, I sensed that Finley was impatient to leave the cottage. I didn’t know if it was the situation with me that was causing his restlessness or if he was truly concerned about his house and his adopted hometown.

  Either way, I knew he was right. I couldn’t stay here. For one thing, I had a severe case of cabin fever. Though Portree was not exactly the big city, at least there would be distractions from the storm.

  As for my relationship with Finley—I was in too deep to walk away, even if I had wanted to. In the days to come, I would play tourist while the sun was up. And when darkness fell, I had a pretty good idea of where I would spend my nights.

  Chapter 22

  We left Cedric’s house just after four that afternoon. The skies were still heavy and dark. The rain had slowed to little more than a drizzle. My plan was to drive my rental car and follow Finley back to Portree. Unfortunately, when we went outside to load my things into the vehicle, we found it mired in mud. The force of the rain and the two thousand pounds of metal had not played nice with each other. Only a tow truck would be able to extract me from my predicament. I had no choice but to join man and dog in the rugged Jeep.
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  Even with four-wheel drive, the steep, ill-kept drive was treacherous. We bounced and rocked our way down to the main highway. Neither of us spoke during the trip. I sensed Finley had things on his mind.

  The silence didn’t bother me. I was busy thinking and rethinking my situation. It would drive me crazy if I spent every waking moment trying to understand my host. The healthiest course of action would be to carry on with my vacation as I had planned.

  What happened behind closed doors when the sun went down would begin spontaneously…organically…or not at all.

  We found the town battered but not seriously damaged. Elsewhere in the Highlands had not been as fortunate. We heard of a major landslide and a road closure near Ullapool. The river in Inverness had overflowed its banks in several locations. Most worrisome was the news that a small village on the banks of Loch Ness had been hit hard with flooding.

  I recognized the name. Drumnadrochit. It was the location my friend Hayley had chosen as her home base. Even though I was breaking our pact by not waiting until nine, I powered on my phone and left a message. I found that Willow had done the same, including me in the group text.

  Sitting on the front steps of Finley’s house, with Cinnamon beside me, I felt a wave of homesickness wash over me. I missed Willow and Hayley. They would ground me and keep me from doing something stupid. Wouldn’t they?

  Or perhaps I was all wrong. Maybe the two of them would tell me to jump into this thing with Finley as wholeheartedly as if it had a future…to throw caution to the wind. All those clichés about diving in headfirst and living a passionate life.

  At the moment, I wasn’t passionate about much of anything. I’d let the storm and a one-night stand cloud my vision. If I were going to fall in love this month, it was going to be with the Scottish Highlands, and more specifically, the Isle of Skye.

  We ended up in town for dinner. Hamish himself greeted us. “Plenty of tables to choose from,” he said with a grimace. “No’ much of a crowd tonight.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Still goin’ around with this carnaptious auld devil?”

  I grinned at him. “Carnaptious?”

  “Aye.” Hamish translated without being asked. “Grumpy, bad-tempered. Irritable. Carnaptious.”

  “Well, if that’s the definition, then yes.”

  Hamish chuckled. “Have a seat then. I’ve some prawns so fresh, they’ll flirt with your mother.”

  The proprietor must have been bored. He pulled up a chair and lingered at our table while we ate. The food, like last time, was astonishingly good. Hamish was a self-taught chef, no fancy culinary institutes in his pedigree. His mother and grandmother were both excellent cooks and had nurtured Hamish’s love of food and local dishes in particular.

  Afterward, with our stomachs full, Finley and I made the climb back up the hill to his house. Tonight there was no urge to linger by the waterfront and enjoy a late summer evening. Everything was wet. Plus, I don’t think we were in the mood for chitchat.

  It had been a long tiring day, and neither of us had slept well the night before. I was still mentally scrambling for what my answer would be when Finley invited me to his bed. He took the wind out of my sails when he made it clear that there was to be no repeat of our early morning tryst, at least not tonight.

  When we reached the front porch, he unlocked the door and stepped aside so I could enter. “I’ll take Cinnamon out,” he said. “Then I’m going to work in the shop for a couple of hours. I’m in the middle of a big project, and I got behind this week.”

  Though I was ridiculously hurt, I smiled. “Sounds good. I think I’ll have an early night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As I prepared for bed, I wondered if the sex this morning had spooked him as much as it had me. Surely not. Sex was just sex where guys were concerned.

  At nine o’clock, I turned on my phone and was relieved to see a message from both my friends. Hayley assured us she was okay. Seeing tangible proof that Willow and Hayley were physically close to me, relatively speaking, was a huge comfort.

  It occurred to me I could join either one of them for the three weeks I had left in Scotland. They were most likely well settled in at their respective lodgings. How would I choose?

  * * * *

  After a night of deep, restorative sleep, I was up and ready early. In the kitchen, I found an empty cup in the sink, but no other signs of Finley. I told myself I didn’t care. My itinerary was back on track. I was excited to see what the day had in store.

  Finley had offered me the use of the Jeep until the Cedric’s rutted lane dried out enough to rescue my rental. I knew how to drive a stick, but maneuvering on the steep hills of Portree was a challenge.

  Once out on the open road, I felt much more comfortable. The sun shone bright and warm again. I wished I had the top down on the Jeep. With my pale skin, it was probably for the best.

  The first stop on my itinerary was a return visit to Mealt Falls. Taking new photographs of the dramatic cliff with its free-falling torrent of water would challenge my photography skills in terms of the brilliant light and harsh shadows. I didn’t let it deter me that a large bus had pulled up just before I arrived.

  I was an island in a sea of chattering tourists. I didn’t mind. The day was spectacular. The brilliant blue of the ocean reminded me of Finley’s eyes.

  When I was satisfied that I had captured what I needed, I drove on. At the northernmost end of the island, where the winds whipped across the open moor on the promontory, I paid the small entrance fee and visited the Museum of Island Life. Museum was a loose term. Someone had preserved half a dozen crofters’ cottages with traditional thatched roofs. I wandered among the various buildings, studying exhibits about farming implements and domestic life and the rigors of existing so very far away from what my contemporaries and I would call civilization.

  It was almost jarring to see the handful of cars parked nearby. Without those, I could easily imagine a woman with three or four children at her knee, all smiling as her fisherman husband brought home the day’s catch. Or maybe the two of them farmed together, battling the vagaries of the weather to survive.

  When I walked back to the Jeep, I climbed in and sat for a bit without starting the engine, gazing out to sea and thinking. There was nothing between me and the horizon but water. Lots of water. To me the ocean was beautiful and awe-inspiring. What must it have been to an islander two hundred years ago?

  Did they see the mysterious depths as an enemy to be bested? Or was the water as familiar and ever-present to them as the skyline of Atlanta was to me? I had the luxury of jets and trains and cars to undergird my wanderlust. The Scots who inhabited these modest, almost claustrophobic cottages were trapped by their circumstances. In sickness and in health, they had only each other.

  When my stomach began to growl, I headed on my way. The road curved now, back in the direction I had come, though I was a good distance from Portree. I picked a pleasant spot to pull off the highway and climbed out to have my picnic. With the wind, the logistics were difficult. I sat down on a convenient rock and made do.

  I’d picked up some modest supplies in the village. The peanut butter and crackers were more than enough to satisfy me. Food came a poor second to the day’s adventures.

  Inevitably, I thought about Finley. I’d left him a note as a matter of courtesy and indicated I probably wouldn’t be back for dinner. I wasn’t pouting or trying to make a point. All I was doing was what he had suggested. Making the most of my vacation.

  I was glad I had waited for nice weather to do this long loop of the island. I hugged the west coast now. Next on the list was a visit to Dunvegan Castle, purported to be the oldest continuously inhabited castle in all of Scotland. Dunvegan was the clan seat and stronghold of the McLeod chieftains—and had been for over 800 years.

  Though there were many beautiful and romantic castle ruins in the Highlands and throughout Scotland, Dunvegan was a well-cared-for gem. I followed the tour
guide from room to room, trying to memorize the snippets of history she shared in her thick accent.

  In the large dining room, animal trophies stared down from their vantage points high on the walls. Glass-topped cases held smaller treasures. I spent time reading hand-lettered explanatory index cards whose ink had faded over the years. While our guide was answering questions, I spoke to the older man who stood at attention in the doorway.

  I surmised his job was to spot any would-be thieves. He was friendly enough when I approached him. An enormous window at the end of the room near him looked out over the inlet bracketing one side of the castle grounds. The old panes of glass were wavy, though, making it hard to focus my camera lens. I wanted to get an atmospheric shot of the shallows where lichen-covered rocks protruded.

  To my surprise, the quasi-guard seemed quite sympathetic to my struggles and offered to lift the window so I could position the camera and shoot without interference. As soon as he did so, a welcome breeze swept into the room. On this August afternoon, the rooms were stuffy despite the thick castle walls.

  When the house portion of the tour concluded, we were invited to linger and explore the grounds. The Dunvegan gardens were lush and colorful. The scent of newly mown grass mingled with the unmistakable fragrance of warm weather blossoms.

  Even though my Atlanta summers were far more humid and sweltering, there was something familiar and universal about the buzzing of bumblebees and the twitter of birds. A few large trees offered welcome shade. I sat down beneath one of them on a concrete bench and closed my eyes. Had the bench been a tad more comfortable, I might have taken a nap.

  When I returned to the graveled parking lot, I was yawning. The little village was barely more than a mile away. I’d been told there was a B&B there with a restaurant that served local seafood. I made it a point when traveling to seek out the charming, quirky places that had a passion for homegrown or home harvested, as in the cold waters around Skye. Hamish’s establishment was one of those, The Lonesome Shepherd another.