Not Quite a Scot Read online

  As a parting shot, I hoped it expressed my utter lack of interest in him and his activities. I might be on the lookout for a Scotsman like Jamie Fraser, but I wasn’t going to settle for a poor imitation. Never mind that in Outlander, Jamie was gruff and rude to Claire on more than one occasion. Only when she deserved it, though.

  I put my host out of my mind and set off on foot to explore the small town of Portree. Finley was right about the lack of rooms. I checked at one hotel to make sure. The desk clerk’s apologetic smile reinforced the truth. With the music festival in town, there was nary a bed to be had.

  Would my cleaning ladies be able to finish Cedric’s house in a single day? The place was in bad shape. Sadly, I wasn’t at all confident that my host wouldn’t toss me out on the street if it took too long for me to move on. He struck me as the kind of man who liked to spend time alone.

  At the waterfront, I wandered aimlessly, strolling around the concrete wharf. With a small pair of binoculars I kept in my jacket pocket, I amused myself reading the names of the various boats docked in the harbor. LadyBird, SeaLily, Pride of Portree. Apart from Skye, there were dozens of islands west of where I stood, not all of them inhabited.

  Unlike Skye, there were no bridges to access the Outer Hebrides. It was the car ferry or a puddle jumper. I’d been warned that the ferry was unreliable, not because of staff or vehicles, but in light of the changeable weather. Wind or rain could and did derail many a travel plan.

  I wasn’t too worried. I first wanted to spend at least a week at my rental house settling in and creating my nest. After that, I would make a point of exploring the entire island. Once those goals were ticked off the list, maybe I’d consider spending a few nights farther afield.

  It was amusing, in a way, that on the Isle of Skye—where I felt a million miles away from home—there were still mysterious bits of Scotland even more remote. Places with names like Iona, Eigg, Mull, and Uist. The Gaelic language and the old religions still thrived in many of those places. Because of my fascination with all things Scottish, I think I could live on a tiny, remote island, at least for part of the year.

  Finley called me Duchess, for reasons I had yet to decipher. To be fair, the nickname carried some validity. I was accustomed to luxury. My condo back in Atlanta had been featured in magazines. Still, I didn’t need all that to be happy. Days like today filled me with content. I was a citizen of the world. Though I had traveled widely, there were still places to go and people to see.

  When my stomach began to growl, signaling the dinner hour, I toyed with the idea of staying in town to prove a point. I didn’t have to rely on Finley’s largesse. I was an independent woman.

  On further reflection, I knew I’d be cutting off my nose to spite my face. There was no good reason not to go back. I anticipated the delivery of my new rental car. I needed my suitcases from the trunk of the old one. And I very much wanted to spend the evening with Finley.

  Chapter 9

  I ate shepherd’s pie alone.

  Finley’s note on the kitchen table was short and direct: The food is hot. I’ve gone to get your car and your things. Be back soon.

  Tamping down my disappointment, I served myself a generous helping of the casserole, poured a glass of milk, and sat down to my supper. The meal was astonishingly good. Except for my seafood meal last night, I’d not been overly impressed with Scottish cuisine up until now. Finley’s housekeeper, though, was a culinary queen. The chunks of chicken were moist and savory. The broccoli and carrots and potatoes were neither crisp nor soggy. Even better, Finley’s unseen employee had managed the perfect ratio of vegetables to meat. And the crust…oh, the crust! Golden brown. Flaky. My stomach did a high five. I’d have to walk a few extra miles this week to offset the rich, calorie-laden treat.

  By seven, I had finished my meal and tidied the kitchen. Still no sign of Finley nor Cinnamon. Clearly, the man didn’t trust me around his dog.

  At seven thirty, I began to juggle anger and worry.

  At seven forty-five, the back door opened along with a flurry of wind-driven leaves and a galloping spaniel. “You’re back,” I said. Wow. My conversational expertise had dried up entirely. I wasn’t immune to the spark of sexual interest between Finley and me, but it was pretty clear that neither of us was interested in pursuing the attraction.

  My host shrugged out of a light jacket and tossed keys on the kitchen table. “These are your new ones. I parked the car right outside. Pretty much like the one you had before, except this one is black.”

  My first rental had been a dull beige, so that wasn’t altogether a bad trade. “How did you get out there?” He surely hadn’t walked.

  “Hamish gave me a lift. He owed me one for dragging his sorry hide home to his wife one night in June when he closed down the bars. He had just been told the little woman was expecting, and the news made him a wee bit agitated.”

  I grinned, imagining the enormous Hamish quaking at the thought of a tiny baby. “Please thank him when you see him again.”

  Finley nodded. He must have been starving, because he rummaged in the fridge for the shepherd’s pie and held it up like a prize. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  “Would you like me to heat it for you while you wash up?”

  “I know how to use a microwave, Duchess. But thanks.”

  Again, that sharp edge telling me not to overstep unseen boundaries. His sarcasm lit the fuse of my temper. “Is it me in particular you dislike? Or simply having your routine disturbed?”

  If I thought plain speaking was going to rattle him, I was way off course.

  At first, he said nothing. He simply busied himself heating a plate of food, gathering cutlery and a napkin, and popping open a beer. When he had his meal prepared to his satisfaction, he sat down and stared at me. “Stay or go. Don’t hover.”

  I wanted badly to walk out of the room and leave him to his lonely meal. The only thing stopping me was a contrary inclination to do the exact opposite of what he wanted. Plus, I was curious, damn it.

  Pulling out a chair with exaggerated care, I sat down and watched him eat. He attacked his food with single-minded relish. Did he only get home-cooked meals once a week when the housekeeper came?

  The thought of Finley eating peanut butter sandwiches on cold, wintry evenings made me sad, which was ludicrous. Not every single man was helpless. Most of them enjoyed their lifestyles, despite the lack of services a wife might provide.

  Though I loved to cook, I vowed then and there not to let myself be swayed by sympathy for a very happy bachelor. Finley Craig didn’t need apple pies from me, nor warm cinnamon rolls on a chilly Highland morning.

  As I watched him eat, I held my tongue, expecting him at any moment to answer my question. Either he had forgotten what I said or he didn’t intend to respond, so I tried again. “Have I done something to offend you?” I asked. “You seem to be a reluctant Samaritan at best. Tell me. I really want to know. Is it my imagination, or do I annoy you in some way?”

  With a sigh, he finished his last bite, wiped his mouth, and drained his beer. Twisting the brown glass bottle between long masculine fingers, he studied me. “Aye. You do. It’s not your fault. I’ve not had a good experience with women like you.”

  “Women like me?” I frowned.

  He clarified. “Blond. Gorgeous. Loaded.”

  In another circumstance, part of that description might have been complimentary. The grimace on his face took away any pleasure in the first two adjectives. My stomach churned. I’d never been dismissed quite so succinctly. “I see.”

  “I doubt ye do, lass. It’s my problem. Not yours.”

  I shoved back from the table and stood up, righting my chair as it wobbled wildly. “Thank you for retrieving my rental car. Good night, Mr. Craig.” My throat was tight and my eyes burned. I’d often been judged and found lacking by people in my life, but Finley’s derision stung badly.

  Before I could sto
rm out of the room, he grabbed my wrist. “Don’t run, lassie. I’ll behave.”

  “Why should I stay where I’m not wanted?”

  Our eyes met, his bright blue gaze locking with my brown, wary one. Absently, he rubbed the back of my wrist with his thumb, as if he’d forgotten he was holding me. “Don’t be coy, McKenzie. You’re a sophisticated woman. You know when a man wants you.”

  Oh, lordy. My throat closed up and my thighs clenched. Arousal, hot and sweet, flooded my abdomen. “Is that what this is?” I challenged him, wanting the truth. Needing confirmation.

  “It is, and it’s not. I’m far past the age where I act on every hormonal reaction to a woman’s smile.”

  “How reassuring.” Confusion and hurt made me snappy.

  “Sit down, McKenzie. I’ll tell you my sad tale, and maybe it will keep both of us from doing something stupid.”

  I let myself be persuaded…mostly because he was spot on about wanting to do something stupid. For a dollar, I’d consign old Cedric’s house to the garbage collectors, and I’d hole up here in Portree with the fascinating but apparently unavailable Finley.

  He released my wrist. I subsided into my chair and wrapped my arms around my waist. My chest still hurt the same way it used to when my father criticized my report cards or my friends.

  “I’m listening.” I wasn’t prepared to cut him any slack. The man was a beast. A gorgeous, sexy, almost-but-not-quite adorable beast. He had bruised my feelings.

  I sensed that he already regretted what he had said. The hour was late, the kitchen shadowy. Neither of us moved to turn on the lights. Cinnamon snoozed in the corner, apparently unconcerned that her master was a horse’s ass.

  To keep from staring at my companion, I let my gaze drift around the old-fashioned kitchen. A small photograph on the wall caught my eye. In it, a teenage boy had his arm around a much younger girl. There was a strong family resemblance between the two. What I zeroed in on was something very familiar about the picture. Behind the two teenagers was a neon marquee recognizable to everyone in the developed world. The photo had been taken in Times Square. Although the Craigs might have done some traveling overseas, I didn’t think that was the case in this instance.

  Finally, the thing that had niggled at my subconscious for a full day now made sense. Finley’s accent was a little different than most of the people I had met. A certain way of phrasing things. “You’re not Scottish at all, are you?”

  I felt betrayed and embarrassed for reasons Finley had no hint about. How could he know I was in search of my own Jamie Fraser?

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “No. I’m not. Is that a problem?”

  “Of course not,” I lied. “I’m merely surprised. You don’t sound American, not exactly. Then again, you don’t talk like your neighbors either.”

  “I’ve lived here a decade. ‘Tis not surprising that I’ve picked up some of the lingo.”

  Ah, life wasn’t fair. Hadn’t I learned that lesson a hundred different ways? I’d come to Scotland for a great adventure and in search of a man who was romantic and dashing and different. Instead, Finley was just another American. Expatriate or no, he wasn’t my hero.

  “I should go,” I said. “And leave you in peace.” Oddly, I didn’t move.

  Finley’s intense gaze seemed to settle on the rise and fall of my breasts as I breathed deeply. “A man doesn’t like admitting his mistakes.”

  “Then don’t,” I said sharply. “I’m not trying to drag secrets out of you. Believe me. I have my own problems. Feel free to keep your twisted past private.”

  He laughed out loud. And oh, the transformation. Grumpy Finley was a gorgeous hunk of man. Smiling Finley was lethal. I actually caught my breath. If a woman could spend the next fifty years making the man light up like that, she’d be darned lucky. It was hard work, but the results were magical.

  Leaning his chair back on two legs, Finley laced his hands over his flat belly. “What problems could you possibly have, Duchess? Other than a rat-hole of a house and a wrecked car…both of which are temporary.”

  “Money doesn’t buy happiness,” I pointed out primly.

  “But it’s way ahead of what’s in second place,” Finley said. My host shook his head. “Are you telling me you aren’t happy?”

  I’d never really thought about it in those terms. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He held up his hands. “Fine. You’re happy. I get it. Let’s back up. Tell me why you came to Scotland.”

  “You have to promise not to laugh.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  Now, that sounded American. “Have you heard of a television show called Outlander? Or even the books?”

  Finley winced. “Lord, yes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He pointed to the photograph I’d been studying earlier. “My baby sister, Bella, is a full-fledged Outlander fanatic. She’s five years younger than I am and a voracious reader. She knows the books inside and out and has seen every episode of the show half a dozen times. Her dearest wish is to move to Scotland and live with me.”

  “So why doesn’t she?”

  “Bella is a brainiac. She’s has two Master’s degrees in English Literature and Medieval Studies and is working on a PhD in European History.”

  “So she can move here with you…”

  “That’s the plan.” He shrugged. “We’re close now, but as a big brother I let her down a dozen ways growing up. She excelled, and I was the screw-up.”

  “You don’t strike me as a miserable failure.” That was the closest he was going to get to a compliment from me tonight. He was the kind of man who drove women to make fools of themselves. Handsome and charming and bad to the bone. I knew instinctively to be on my guard around him, in the same way I knew that the German Shepherd down the block from my condo in Atlanta was to be given a wide berth.

  Finley, oblivious to my soul searching, shook his head. “I was kicked out of a dozen prep schools in the northeast before Bella was eight years old. My father took a belt to me on a regular basis, but somehow, it never helped. When Bella was old enough, she would sneak into my bedroom at night and try to convince me to study. I was a lost cause. My counselor said my IQ was too high, and I wasn’t being challenged in school.” His laugh held little humor. “The truth is, I was a punk-ass adolescent who needed to be taken down several notches.”

  “Did that happen eventually?”

  “Not really. It finally occurred to me that if I didn’t get into a good school and make something of myself, I’d be living under my father’s roof forever. That was too dismal a prospect to endure. I eventually graduated from the last of the prep academies, got accepted at the university of my choice, and spent the next six years turning my life around. I finished with an engineering degree and an MBA. Bella cried her eyes out when I was done.”

  “She sounds like a very special person.”

  “Aye, she is. Enough about Bella. Why the Outlander question?”

  It was my turn to wince. “My two best friends and I are much like your sister in our Outlander obsession. We came to the Highlands together for a month, but split up so we could have our own adventures.”

  “That seems odd…doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all. We’re each staying at various places in the area. We’ll meet up again before going home. In the meantime, we wanted to immerse ourselves in Scotland…to become locals, if you will.”

  “I see. And what does this grand scheme have to do with Outlander? Other than location.”

  For half a second I searched for a believable lie. This man already held a poor opinion of me. No doubt, the idea of searching for true love would reinforce his notion that I was a lightweight. What the hell; I wasn’t going to apologize for who I was. I’d spent a lot of time with my shrink learning to step out of my parents’ shadows and expectations.

  So I told him the truth.


  Chapter 10

  With every bit of storytelling wizardry I could muster, I gave Finley a synopsis of the first Outlander book. “So you see,” I said, “my friends and I are here to walk in the steps of Claire Randall.”

  “A fictional character…” He seemed dubious.

  “Fictional, yes. Yet real in that she embodies emotions and experiences that are universal for women. We can’t go back in time, of course, but we set some parameters for our adventure.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.” He was definitely interested. I could see it in those brilliant blue eyes.

  “For the next month, we’re going tech-free. Except in dire emergencies, no cell phones, no Internet, no Facebook. You get the drift.”

  “And if you need to contact your friends?”

  “Every night at nine o’clock we turn on our phones and check for messages. If any of us has a problem, we text 9-1-1.” I didn’t mention the fact that I’d be using my computer and my photo editing software to work on my photography. I wouldn’t be online, so that activity met the letter of the law.

  “How does the Jamie Fraser fellow fit into all this?”

  Damn. The man had been paying attention. “Well, um…”

  Finley rolled his eyes. “You want to fall in love with a Scotsman—right?”

  I stared at him and lifted my chin. “I’m open to the idea. So, yes. Searching for romance and Mr. Right wasn’t a crime the last time I checked.”

  “Not at all.”

  His expression was grave. I had a hunch he was laughing at me on the inside.

  “Go ahead,” I said glumly. “Make fun of me. I can take it.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I think I can help.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I found myself taking a brisk walk with my host and a very well-behaved Cinnamon. After Finley dropped his conversational bomb at the kitchen table, it became clear that the puppy was ready to be taken out. At my request, Finley had waited for me to run upstairs and change clothes. He’d already carried my suitcases to my room. It took a matter of moments to grab a pair of jeans, top them with a mauve linen tunic and gold chain, and slide my feet into espadrilles. I was so sick of wearing that white pantsuit I’d probably shove it in a closet for the duration of the trip.