Not Quite a Scot Page 7

  Finley didn’t appear to pay much attention to clothes…but then again, he didn’t have to. Whatever he wore, whether black leather or gray wool or a simple navy T-shirt, suited him. This evening it was old denims and a button up shirt in cream with a tiny black check.

  Now that I was no longer wearing heels, the difference in our heights was magnified. He was a tall man and had a long stride. With Cinnamon straining at the leash, I had to walk quickly to keep up. Unlike last night, I was full of energy. I loved the Scottish summer of a warm day followed by a cool night. The climate was invigorating.

  Or maybe it was the company.

  As we rounded the first bend in the road, we halted where Cinnamon and I had stopped the night before to look at the view. “Have you always lived in your current house?” I asked. I had questions aplenty, but also doubts about how forthcoming Finley might be. He seemed in a mellow mood at the moment, so I decided to satisfy my curiosity.

  He squatted to praise Cinnamon for not chasing after a rabbit. “Good girl.” Glancing up at me, he nodded. “Pretty much. When I first came out here from the States, I had been camping out in the used car I bought in Edinburgh. I had a nest egg to start my business. Didn’t want to blow it on lodging. When I made it as far as Portree, something about the place caught my imagination.”

  “So you bought a house?”

  “Who’s telling this story? You or me?”

  “Sorry.” I kicked at a stick and put my hands in my pockets.

  “I saw an ad in the window of one of the pubs in town. It was from an old guy who needed help in exchange for room and board.”

  “And you accepted.”

  “Aye, I did. The arrangement suited us both. I was young and strong and didn’t mind fixing broken furniture and appliances, doing outside chores, cutting back trees…anything like that.”

  “Where is he now?”

  I saw his shoulders tense the slightest bit. I only noticed because I was above him.

  “He died. Four years ago. Left his crazy old house to me. I couldn’t accept, of course. The authorities found a daughter down in England. She hadn’t seen the old man in a decade. Didn’t even make it north for the funeral. The solicitors contacted her and explained the situation. She sent a letter abandoning all claim to the estate.”

  “Why?”

  “I suppose she had a falling out with her father. And she probably knew there were debts.”

  “So that’s how you became a Scottish landowner.”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  I sensed there was more he wasn’t saying, but I let the subject drop in favor of a more pressing one. “You mentioned something about helping me meet Scottish men?”

  Finley groaned. “I’m starting to regret it now.”

  “No take-backs,” I teased. “I’m going to be living in a remote house all alone, so my social life will need all the help it can get.”

  “Fine. I know several single blokes who would be more than happy to meet you. I’ll throw together something for tomorrow night. Hamish has a big room he rents out upstairs over the restaurant. He’ll give it to me for no charge since it’s a weeknight. Some drinks, a wee bit of food and music, and we’ll be good to go.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, incredulous. “Are you actually going to organize an entire event for me?”

  “Not really organized.” Finley’s lazy smile was at my expense, no doubt. “More of an impromptu ceilidh. Around here we love our parties. And while we’re on the subject, I need to know your parameters.”

  “Parameters?” I parroted the word.

  “You know. Age. Height. Weight. I already know he has to be a Scotsman. You made that abundantly clear.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, but Finley didn’t back down. Had I insulted my host by taking him out of the running? Was he actually going through with this idea? Or was it all an elaborate scheme to pull my leg? “I don’t have parameters,” I insisted. “Well, maybe age. I’m thirty-two, so anything from thirty to forty-five would be acceptable.”

  “Duly noted. What about red hair? Your Jamie Fraser crush has red hair, doesn’t he?”

  “I’m not looking to meet a Jamie Fraser clone,” I insisted. “All I’m interested in is finding someone who is Scottish, a gentleman, and fun to be with. Not that I’m expect him to entertain me 24/7. I’m here in the Highlands to expand my horizons. A bit of romance on the side is merely the icing on the cake.”

  This was an odd game of chicken we were playing. Finley pretending to pimp me out to his friends at a party, and me giving every appearance of agreeing. One of us had to back down. Unluckily for Finley, I was as stubborn as they came. If he was going to perpetuate this ludicrous idea, then I sure as heck would let it ride.

  I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he admitted he’d only been yanking my chain. That would be priceless.

  We turned for the stroll back up the hill. Though we hadn’t gone far, the air held a noticeable chill now. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. The prospect of staying in Cedric’s damp, cold house was not appealing at all, especially now that I had made myself at home with Finley and Cinnamon.

  Nevertheless, I’d be moving out very soon. Maybe even tomorrow evening if Mrs. Clark and her daughter were miracle workers.

  In Finley’s kitchen once again, I felt a sudden awkwardness. He’d never mentioned the blond and gorgeous comment again. Now I had waited too long to push for an answer. I was very conscious of infringing upon his time and his good nature. Plus, I didn’t want to be teased anymore about the party full of eligible men. “I think I’ll head upstairs,” I said.

  “So soon?”

  We both glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even nine. “I’m sure you have things to do,” I said, the words stilted. “And I want to write a few postcards I picked up today.”

  I was not imagining the level of sexual tension in the room. It was as if our bodies were carrying out a seductive conversation that had nothing to do with politeness or social propriety.

  Finley was right. I did know when a man wanted me. And there he stood, only an arm’s length away.

  Poor Cinnamon had been consigned to the study again. Without the dog to run interference, now it was just Finley and me. I found myself getting all hot and bothered. My pulse rate accelerated. My breathing fractured. My hands were cold as ice. “Goodnight,” I muttered, as for the second time I prepared to leave.

  “Don’t go.”

  The words were hoarse. I was almost certain Finley hadn’t meant to say them. They were sincere. Not teasing. Not condescending.

  I took my time answering. Because it was important I get this right. “Why would I stay?”

  The table was between us. Nice and strong for whatever antics humans might think up to do. Finley lifted one shoulder in a graceful, masculine shrug. “We’ll drink together. Up on the roof. How does that sound? You’re all about fitting in and learning the local culture. You need to know and love whiskey.”

  A smile tugged at my lips. “That’s all it takes to be a Scot?”

  “It’s a start.”

  I didn’t know what we were doing. Well, I did know we were flirting, but I didn’t know why. Finley had some sort of chip on his shoulder about me. I, on the other hand, knew that this dark angel, this leather-clad bad boy had the power to derail my trip to Scotland.

  Still, it was only a drink between acquaintances. No harm in that. “Okay,” I said. “A drink sounds nice.”

  Finley grabbed a bottle of amber liquid and a couple of glasses. Then he led me on an excursion up through the various levels of his whimsical house. When we reached the attic, he lowered a set of stairs. “Up you go.”

  It was uncomfortable shimmying up the ladder and knowing his eyes were on a level with my butt. He was carrying stuff, so maybe he was too preoccupied to notice. In the attic, the air was noticeably cooler. There wasn’t much insulation and vents on either end let in
the night air.

  “One more climb,” Finley said.

  This time he went first. The ladder was straight up, not on a slant. At the top, Finley reached up and pushed at a storm-cellar type of door. It creaked and groaned but finally flopped to one side. Now I could see stars.

  “Doesn’t it leak in the rain?” I asked as I looked up from below.

  “Sometimes. Hold on.” Finley disappeared only to return a few seconds later without the whiskey and glasses. He extended his arm in my direction. “Come on up, Duchess.”

  Chapter 11

  Finley’s rooftop was no fancy penthouse garden on the Upper East Side. It did have two ancient lawn chairs and a rickety quasi-table. He escorted me to my seat and joined me opposite the small wooden bench, then poured us each a glass of whiskey.

  When he passed me my drink, our fingers touched. It seemed as if sparks flickered from the simple contact. This was all wrong. I was supposed to be pursuing my photography and learning things about Scotland, not having rooftop trysts with the kind of man who broke hearts as a sport.

  Well, that wasn’t fair. If there were hearts being broken, the women were partly to blame. They should have known better. Not even the most naïve female on the planet could convince herself that Finley Craig was boyfriend or husband material.

  The whiskey, though I sipped it slowly, burned in the pit of my stomach. Gradually, the warmth spread outward to my limbs. I rested my head on the back of the chair and looked at the sky. So many stars. I never saw the sky like this in Atlanta…or even New York for that matter.

  Far below me, the town slept. Portree was a gem of a place. I loved it already. “What does the name mean?” I asked.

  “It’s pronounced Port Righ, which translates as king’s port, but in older documents, it’s Port Ruighe, or sloped harbor, so take your pick.”

  “I like the second one,” I said. “Do you speak any Gaelic?”

  “Only the occasional word or phrase. It’s a wee bit difficult to learn.”

  “I’m sure it must be.” The signs I’d seen on my way to the island were written in both English and Gaelic. As far as I could tell, there was little point in common between the two.

  After half an hour or so, Finley refilled his glass. I still nursed my drink. I didn’t like feeling out of control. Between Finley and the alcohol and the beautiful night, I was in danger of floating off into space.

  “Are you asleep over there?” he asked with a smile in his voice.

  “Almost.” Might as well be honest.

  “We’ve talked way too much about me. Tell me what a Duchess does when she’s back home in her native land.”

  I took another sip of whiskey. “I have a degree in interior design.” I said it bluntly, waiting for him to criticize.

  “Why did you choose that?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s because I respect beauty in all its forms. Beauty adds meaning to life. It can also make life bearable.”

  “So you help wealthy Georgia debutantes decorate their mansions?”

  The over-the-top stereotype made me smile. I wasn’t ashamed of my debutante days. “That’s part of it.” I didn’t tell him more for fear he would think I was bragging.

  “Scotland is beautiful. Is that why you came?”

  Again, I equivocated. “One reason, yes. Though beyond the beauty, there’s magic, I think. History, tragic and triumphant. A land torn by war and built on the blood of its people. Hayley and Willow and I wanted to experience that for ourselves. As an outsider, you probably understand that.”

  “Aye. The hills here are old and wise. Progress is slow and measured. The natural world is a resource to be cossetted and not crushed.”

  “Will you ever move back?”

  “I doubt it. At least not until my father is gone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and bowed his head. “I don’t expect you to. It’s a long, ugly story, and it’s late. You need to go back inside and go to bed.”

  “What about you?”

  He turned to face me, though I couldn’t read his expression in the dark. “Is that an invitation, lass?”

  The unaccustomed alcohol had lowered my inhibitions. Finley was a rare, fascinating creature. I wanted to wallow in him. At the last second, I found my good sense. “Not at all. Just a question.”

  “You go first. I’ll be down in a bit.”

  “Suddenly you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  He cursed, the words a combination of Gaelic and English. “I have a hard-on, ye daft lass. If I go downstairs with you, we’ll end up in your bed or mine. Is that what you want?”

  His blunt speaking flooded my face with heat. “Of course not,” I muttered. “I barely know you.” I fled with the sound of his mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

  * * * *

  The following morning, I awoke to another note on the kitchen table:

  Don’t try to move to Cedric’s house today. Even if the ladies finish cleaning, it will be late. We have the party tonight. Tomorrow morning you can shop for provisions and get settled in at your new place.

  Rain is on the way, so you should get in some sightseeing today. I’ll be working, but be ready to leave the house at seven. Wear something that shows a bit of skin. The lads will like that.

  I read the words three times before crumpling the paper in my hand. My host was high-handed, bossy, and way too inclined to have his own way. The infuriating thing was he was right. About all of it. So to fly in the face of his orders—thinly veiled as advice—would serve no purpose at all.

  Mumbling to myself, I gobbled down a light breakfast and hurried back upstairs to finish getting ready. If the weather was about to turn ugly, I should get out and about with my camera.

  It felt good to have transportation again. And luggage. And all my things. I’d be driving only in the daylight, so there should be nothing to worry about. I packed a tote with water and snacks and a guidebook, and set out. I had a couple of options. Since I was going to be on Skye for an entire month, I could use today to get my bearings with one big, long looping drive around the island. Without stops.

  On the other hand, I could begin closer to home. According to my book, there was a famous waterfall not far from town, fifteen miles maybe. Mealt Falls at Kilt Rock sounded like an auspicious place to start my month of Scottish photography.

  The day was picture perfect. Blue skies, abundant sunshine. It was hard to believe more rain was on the way, but I knew that blustery weather was the norm here. Fortunately, I had no problems navigating the winding road. Now I could see everything I had missed the day I arrived.

  Though I hoped it wouldn’t be a faux pas, I stopped by my rental house to meet Mrs. Clark and her crew. Already they had made a dent in the considerable job. I thanked them profusely and made arrangements to pay when they were done. With the sun on my face and Cedric’s house beginning to look a bit more palatable, my spirits lifted.

  My month in Scotland had gotten off to a rocky start, but I would soon be back on track.

  Though I kept stopping for photographs, I eventually arrived at my destination. It was late in the season. Even so, a handful of tourists milled about in the small car park. I grabbed up my camera case and locked the vehicle. I planned on being extra cautious today. I didn’t want to create any situation from which I might have to be rescued.

  The waterfall over the Kilt Rock formation was breathtaking. It plunged at least fifty feet into the ocean below. Beyond the falls, dramatic headlands carved by centuries of wind and water jutted against the sky.

  I was in heaven.

  Quickly deciding what lens to use, I changed it out and readied my camera. An iron railing set back from the edge a few feet was a clear attempt to keep foolish tourists from accidentally falling. It was the same the world over, but I hoped the safety feature wasn’t going to interfere with my shots.

  I realized right
away that the polite thing to do was wait my turn. There was one spot where the falls could be framed to best advantage, but everyone had the same idea.

  My patience paid off in the end. One group at a time piled into cars, and soon, I was all alone. I knew it wouldn’t last. This was a very popular place. In the meantime, I was going to take advantage of my good luck.

  Back in Atlanta, I’d practiced changing out various lenses and filters. I was now able to move from one to the other rapidly. I wondered if it were possible to take a bad picture under such circumstances. Here I was, standing at an overlook of one of the most impressive waterfalls I had even seen, and there was nothing to mar my enjoyment or my view.

  I was almost finished shooting when I noticed a single yellow wildflower clinging to the grass at the edge of the cliff just beyond the guardrail. There was actually enough room for an adult to crouch on the grass there, but to do so would be suicidal. Even the thought of it made my stomach curl.

  Debating my options, I set about to capture the shot without plunging to my death. I could see the headlines now: Foolish American tourist dies in search of a flower.

  What I wanted was a shot with the flower in the foreground and the magnificent waterfall softly blurred in the background. Framed with the ocean and the sky, the green cliffs would be even more powerful and impressive.

  The problem was vantage point. Both the waterfall and the flower were on the same plane. I studied the situation, trying to call up my faint memories of geometry. At last I decided it might work.

  Unfortunately, the ground was still muddy from early days of rain. I was going to get very dirty, but I was determined not to leave without this one picture.