Not Quite a Scot Read online

  I walked to the far end of the viewing area, away from the waterfall. Then I gradually returned, keeping my eye on the brave yellow flower and the water in the distance. When I determined that the moment was right, I sat down in the goopy grass and eased one arm and shoulder past the guardrail. I still had three fourths of my body on terra firma. I looped one leg around a post as insurance.

  Anyone could drive up at any moment and ruin my effort. I was trying to hurry without being careless. After pausing to make sure the camera strap was securely around my neck, I leaned out as far as I could and craned to get the shot. The camera was heavy. I needed to support the camera with both hands, but I couldn’t do that and hold onto the post at the same time.

  Carefully, I let go and balanced the camera until I had a comfortable grip. I was in no danger of falling, as my leg was wrapped around the post. My right elbow was propped on the grass just past the guardrail. Really, it wasn’t risky at all.

  Peering through the lens, I felt excitement flood my stomach. This was a shot in a million. One tiny brave flower clinging to life with the powerful waterfall in the background. The sun beamed down on me, making me sweat. I was determined to take advantage of an opportunity that might never again be this perfect during the month I was here.

  Vertical. Horizontal. Haze filter. Polarizer. I must have taken a hundred shots. Maybe more. Unfortunately, my body was beginning to protest the awkward position. Even my yoga training couldn’t help the fact that my right arm was tingling.

  I hadn’t really thought about the ramifications of getting up. As I was pondering how to keep my camera safe while backing away from a sheer cliff and a deadly drop-off, I registered the sound of a car door and footsteps drawing nearer. Drat. My solitude was over. At least I had accomplished my goal.

  As I was easing back from the edge, a male voice intruded on my artistic introspection.

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  Chapter 12

  Finley. Of course. Why did he always have to catch me in compromising positions? I scooted my butt backward, wincing when pieces of gravel bit into my hip. “Take this,” I said, holding up the camera. “Be careful with it.”

  Without the heavy piece of equipment, it was a lot easier to grab the guardrail and lever myself to a standing position. I brushed off my pants and wiped my hands on my shirttail. “Thanks,” I said.

  When I looked up, his expression was thunderous. “Do you have a death wish?” he demanded. “Are you that reckless with your life?”

  “Oh, pooh,” I said. “I was perfectly safe. Don’t be such an alarmist.”

  He pointed to the red-and-white sign with the stick figure of a person tumbling off the cliff. “They put these warnings here for a reason.”

  “I wasn’t standing. I was sitting. And I was hanging on tightly. I got the most amazing pictures.” I wanted to dance around in celebration, but Finley didn’t share my enthusiasm.

  “Most tourists use an iPhone,” he pointed out, sounding grumpy. Was he pale beneath his tan? It was hard to tell.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your workshop playing with exhaust pipes and handlebars?”

  “It occurred to me I didn’t have much in the way of food in the house when you left. I stopped to pick up some meat pies and blueberry scones. I thought we might have a picnic.”

  I stared at him. “Why are you being nice?”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “Am I? Being nice, that is?”

  Nodding, I grimaced at the state of my clothes. “You are. Suspiciously so. My mother taught me to beware Greeks bearing gifts.”

  He saluted. “American, remember? Don’t be so paranoid. Maybe I wanted to take advantage of this beautiful day.”

  When a man offers a woman a picnic, he generally has one thing on his mind. Since I was starving, I decided to ignore the subtext and satisfy my hunger. At least the hunger that could be appeased with savory food and yummy dessert.

  I had yet to see a picnic table. Did they even have them in Scotland? “Where are we going to sit?”

  “How about the hood of your car?”

  It was a good choice given the state of the ground. I was already dirty though, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Still, the hood was warm from the sun and we had room to spread out the food between us. Finley had included a couple of apples as well. He pulled out a pocketknife and offered me one piece at a time as he cut them.

  “Good apple,” I mumbled. Something about having a man feed me fruit was almost as intimate as kissing. His hand to my lips…that kind of thing.

  Finley finished off the last slice and put the core back in the paper sack. “So what’s this obsession with thrill-seeking photography?” he asked.

  “You build motorcycles. I take pictures. I’d like to be good enough to have an exhibition of my work. It excites me. I thought about getting an MFA, but I like the challenge of figuring out things on my own.”

  “Are you any good?”

  Even with his sunglasses on, I could tell he was teasing. “I’m no Ansel Adams, but I’m getting there.”

  With my belly full and my artistic drive appeased for the moment, I leaned back on my elbows and closed my eyes. I’d covered my exposed skin with sunscreen earlier, so I let the hot rays soak into my face without guilt. Nothing felt as good as basking in the sun with the breeze lifting my hair and the sound of the ocean far in the distance.

  When I sneaked a peek beneath my lashes, I saw that Finley, too, was sun-worshipping. Except that he had reclined against the windshield and laced his hands over his flat abdomen. I studied him surreptitiously. His profile was classic; only a small silver scar on the bottom of his chin marred perfection.

  His hair was a deep, glossy black that shone in the sun. It was his lips that intrigued me the most. Full and sensual, they belonged to a man who lived life fully, in all its wonderful, messy extravagant emotional chaos.

  If I could have reached my camera, I would have photographed him exactly like this. I didn’t know what to make of Finley. He seemed full of secrets and contradictions.

  I wasn’t averse to the idea of a vacation romance. I’d wanted to meet my version of Jamie Fraser. Finley wasn’t it. Even so, it would be fun to have a companion occasionally as I explored the island.

  He slept now, deeply, peacefully. I wanted to reach over and unbutton his shirt…to feel his smooth belly and trace the ribs beneath his golden skin.

  My pulse raced. I’d rarely felt such an immediate physical attraction. In the beginning, when I assumed he was a Scotsman, there was some excuse for my fascination. But Finley was a plain old American. Not exotic at all. Should I let this zing between us run its course, or should I hold out for a real hero?

  He stirred and looked at me, his eyelids heavy. “What are you thinking about, Duchess? Your face is all flushed.”

  I sat up and put my hands to my cheeks. “It’s the sun,” I said. “I’m so fair-skinned I turn pink in no time.”

  “Hmpf.” He closed his eyes again.

  My explanation was only half the truth. I couldn’t exactly tell him I was fantasizing about undressing him. I reached for my water bottle and drained the last of it. “Shouldn’t you get back to work?” I said.

  This time he kept his eyes closed. “I never take a day off. This is nice. What’s your hurry?”

  “Well for one, I have to pee.”

  My honesty caught him off guard, and he burst out laughing. His humor at my expense made me cross. “It’s not funny. You can go anywhere. Back home we have trees and bushes in the great outdoors. There’s not much cover around here.”

  Finley sat up and wiped his eyes. “Ah, Duchess. You’re an original. Why don’t you hop back to Cedric’s place and use the facilities?”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “You are paying for it.”

  “True.” The longer he stayed, the more I was tempted to do something
far more stupid than hanging near a precipitous ledge and taking a photograph.

  “I’m going to leave now,” I said politely. If you’ll get off the hood of my car.

  He didn’t take the hint. “I’ll watch for other cars,” he said. There’s no one for miles around. Feel free to take care of business.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “With my luck, a busload of tourists would pull up at exactly the wrong moment. I’ll go back to Cedric’s. I need you to move, please.”

  He slid off the car and stretched, extending his arms toward the sky. “You’re such a spoilsport. I’ll head back. Promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Try not to put yourself in other dangerous situations. We have rocks and cliffs and bogs. Stay out of trouble.”

  His condescending attitude was a bit much. “I wasn’t in any trouble this time,” I said. “But thanks for the warning.”

  The sarcastic tone was impossible to miss, even for a deluded male. His jaw jutted forward. “You seem to attract trouble, Duchess. How are your knees, by the way?”

  Truthfully, they stung like the devil. I wasn’t about to admit that to him. “No worries.” I paused to remember my manners. “Thank you for feeding me. It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate it.”

  He grinned. “You don’t like accepting help, do you?”

  “I’m used to getting by on my own,” I answered, avoiding a direct answer. It was true. I wasn’t a Kardashian or anything, but around Atlanta, people knew who I was. A Southern heiress was so clichéd. Sometimes it felt as if I walked around with a dollar sign over my head. So maybe I overcompensated by making sure any success I had was my own.

  Finally, Finley straddled his motorcycle and donned his helmet. “I’ll see you back at the house,” he said.

  I nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  As he drove away, I jumped in the car and followed, though I turned off at the drive up to the McCracken place. Mrs. Clark greeted me with a frown. Maybe she thought I was checking up on her. When I expressed a dire need for the restroom, her expression cleared.

  The women had done an amazing job already. All the windows in the house were open to air things out, and the heat was running to take care of any lingering moisture. The beds had been stripped. The laundry, hanging on clotheslines, flapped in the breeze as it dried.

  Soon, this little cottage would be all mine. For weeks I had looked forward to my solitary getaway. Nothing but time and space on my hands to think and to exercise and to read books. It had sounded like heaven. And it still did; only now I felt a twinge of regret at having to move out of Finley’s house.

  I was only beginning to know him. When I moved up here on the hillside, I wouldn’t be able to use my cell phone per my agreement with Hayley and Willow, even if I could get a signal. Hopefully, Cedric had a landline that would be my connection to Finley and to Portree.

  After thanking Mrs. Clark again for her willingness to tackle such a big job, I headed back down the rutted track to the main road. For the rest of the afternoon, I was going to drive without stopping.

  I kept my promise to myself. Mostly. At times I simply had to pull off and take a picture through my open window. In some places the road skirted the edge of the island offering magnificent ocean views. Elsewhere, like the Quiraing, where a massive Jurassic landslip created strange and beautiful rock formations, the scenery was mountainous and impressive.

  There would be plenty to keep me busy for the month, though I hadn’t expected the island to be quite so devoid of people. If I were to keep my promise to my two friends and find an eligible Scotsman, it would have to happen in Portree, most likely. The other “towns” on Skye were little more than clusters of houses. Portree itself wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis.

  Even with an influx of visitors for the music festival, Skye was uncrowded and unspoiled. I loved it.

  Around four thirty, I finished my long loop of the island and headed back to my starting point. Finley was nowhere to be seen when I arrived at his house. I slipped up to my room for a quick shower. After drying my hair, I sat in front of a small vanity and used a bit of mascara to give some definition to my pale lashes.

  Deciding what to wear was surprisingly challenging. I’d brought plenty of clothes; that wasn’t the problem. I’d never been to a small-town ceilidh, so I didn’t know what to expect.

  After trying on and discarding three outfits, I settled for a dress. It was deceptively simple. When I put it on, it skimmed my body, hiding the extra curvy bottom I could never seem to fine-tune and emphasizing my narrow waist. The bodice was a halter-top. It fastened at the back of my neck with a single rhinestone clasp.

  Though my shoulders and much of my back were bare, my cleavage was respectably covered. The hemline hit right above my knees. I decided it was warm enough to go barelegged. I abandoned my favorite heels in favor of silver ballet flats that would be suitable for dancing. With a light, filmy shawl and a small clutch purse, I was ready.

  Ridiculously nervous, I went down to the kitchen at a quarter ‘til seven. There would be food at the party. A good thing, because my stomach was growling. The picnic with Finley was hours ago.

  I heard a noise behind me and turned to find my host staring at me, apparently gobsmacked. “Holy hell,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  Putting a hand to my throat, I grimaced. “You said to show some skin. Is this dress too much?”

  He swallowed visibly. “Well, it depends.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “For a casual summer ceilidh, it’s perfect. If you’re feeling shy tonight, though, I think you’re in trouble. Every unattached Scotsman in a twenty-five-mile radius will be drawn to you like bees to honey. With that southern accent and magnolia complexion, not to mention a dress designed to give a man ideas, you’re a walking, talking fantasy.”

  “I should go change.” His assessment made me nervous. I hated being the center of attention.

  “Don’t you dare. You told me that you and Hayley and Willow came to the Highlands to meet your own versions of Jamie Fraser. Tonight, you’ll have all the available guinea pigs gathered in one place. ’Twill be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  I frowned, shifting from one foot to the other. The inside of my cheek was raw where I had bitten it. I was starting to sweat even though it was perfectly pleasant outside. “I think you’re making fun of me.”

  He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. We’re going to dance the night away, McKenzie. I want you to enjoy yourself. They’re a welcoming group. You’ll have a wonderful evening.”

  * * * *

  Beside the entrance to Hamish’s lovely seafood restaurant was a second door that opened to a narrow flight of stairs. The tight space smelled vaguely of onions and fish. Despite first impressions, when we made it to the second floor and into the room Finley had described, I was enchanted.

  In every window on the street side, single candles flickered in tall glass hurricane lamps. The walls were plain white plaster, the floor polished hardwood. I was fairly certain the boards beneath my feet must be over a hundred years old. It was hard to fake that kind of patina and wood grain.

  At the far end of the room, a small band tuned their instruments. I saw three fiddles, a set of bagpipes, a guitar, and a small harp. To one side, a queue had already formed at the cash bar. Though we had arrived a few minutes early, the large room was filling rapidly.

  As it turned out, I was right. Finley had been pulling my leg. He’d made me believe he was going to throw a party just for me. This ceilidh was a regular event. It was also the perfect opportunity for him to introduce me to his friends.

  On one side of the room an enterprising carpenter had installed open wooden cubbies, the kind we used in kindergarten back home. As I watched, the women tucked away wraps and purses. It must be a very trusting crowd. Some even ditched their shoes. I wasn’t much of a dancer at all, much
less barefoot, so I kept my flats right where they belonged.

  Along the wall opposite the cubbies, tables were lined up end to end bearing finger foods. When my stomach growled loudly, Finley chuckled. “What if I go stand in line to grab us drinks and you fix yourself a plate?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Don’t leave me.” The roomful of strangers was intimidating despite my fairly extensive social life back in the States. I knew the rules on Park Avenue, New York, and in Buckhead, Atlanta. The Isle of Skye was something else again.

  “Then what first? Food or drink?”

  “Food please,” I said meekly.

  Fortunately for my blood sugar, we managed to gobble down fish and chips and shortbread cookies before we were interrupted.

  Finley looked up as a rotund man in his early thirties approached us with all the linear precision of a torpedo. “Here’s number one,” Finley whispered.

  For a moment I didn’t understand. And then it became clear. Now was the part of the evening where Finley trotted out a series of eligible Scotsmen. I smiled pleasantly as the stranger joined us.

  I could swear Finley’s eyes danced with laughter as he made the introductions. “McKenzie, I’d like you to meet my friend Tom Nickelson. Tom is a leading authority on genealogy. His specialty is the family histories of the Highlands.”

  “How interesting,” I said politely. Tom was at least half a foot shorter than I was, even with me wearing flats. His broad face was shiny with perspiration, and he smelled like the stairwell.

  Finley continued the formalities. “Tom, old buddy, this vision is McKenzie Taylor. She’s here in the Highlands for a month vacationing. We haven’t managed to make it to the bar yet. I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you would accompany her.”

  “Well, of course I will,” Tom said, seemingly unfazed by the fact that I looked like his older, taller sister. “Come along now.”

  I shot Finley a murderous glance over my shoulder, but the expression on his face was bland innocence. After that, I lost sight of the only person in the room familiar to me.