A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2)

by Angeline Fortin

  It was a different path than the one marking her entrance. She’d arrived at the imposing main gate closest to the village. While lacking a portcullis and with the moat filled in, the battlements still provided a daunting welcome, though nothing in comparison to Derne’s. Working her way past each sentry questioning her purpose, her journey had taken her through a great hall bearing a hushed, solemn atmosphere a librarian would relish. The dog’s progress then had been muffled by woven rugs. Layers of tapestries depicting various wars, nothing like the lighthearted bucolic scenery of those she’d admired on the tour of the new castle, covered the stone walls. The eyes of a few centuries of Campbell ancestors peered down at her from gloomy oil paintings on her way to the steward’s office.

  Upon entry or exit, it was oppressive. Aila took another deep breath this time inhaling the crisp autumn air and lifted her face to the sunshine, wishing she could express her relief as openly as Rab. She followed Elliot through the postern gate set in the wall with a silent wish that she had agreed to stay at the inn. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to spend even a day…

  “Wha-a-a-t the actual fu…” She modified her exclamation under Elliot’s astonished eye. “Hell.”

  Behind the old fortress stood a partially built grey stone castle.

  Not a plan.

  Not even a groundbreaking, but the beginnings of a gothic revival manor-slash-castle she was all too familiar with. Aila glanced over her shoulder at the medieval eyesore behind her and back to the foundations laid out before her in disbelief. The castle she knew wasn’t supposed to have been begun until almost fifty years after the first duke died.

  The first duke. The one who had gifted some unknown member of the Clan Boyce with a reward that had prompted generations of questions and, most recently, a ravaging of one Betsy Boyce’s Inveraray home.

  That duke.

  Not this.

  Three turns, Donell had said. Three. And that’s precisely what she’d done. However, there was no way it had delivered her to the proper time. Had he been mistaken? How was she supposed to solve the mystery if the original source was long dead?

  Or had he done it on purpose? No tricks, he’d assured her. How naïve she’d been to believe him. That auld man deserved more than a blight upon him. He deserved a…a…

  Elliot’s cheery tones interrupted her thoughts. “Ah, here is Lord Keeley.” Keeley. He’d said that before. Why did it sound familiar? “He is a builder managing the project while the architects are in London. I will leave you under his supervision.”

  No tricks? Ha!

  Aila rolled her eyes to the heavens as a hazel-eyed glare she’d recently been subjected to settled on her once again. Again with a fierce frown to accompany it.

  “Absolute unadulterated fuckery.”

  * * *

  “Euphemia Keeley! Ye cannae be climbing there, sweeting,” Finn yelled to his daughter for what seemed the twentieth time in the past hour alone. His warning had approximately the same effect this time that it’d had the other times he’d employed it. None. He wiped his hands over his face and tried to focus on the detailed plans spread out on the table before him. And ignore the girl’s progress.

  She wasn’t in any real danger. The dozens of stonemasons working around the site weren’t moving and placing stone today so there was no chance of her being crushed or climbing the scaffolds. He’d had them disassembled while his crew worked on mortaring the foundation stones they’d worked these past months to set in place. If Effie were hurt, her screams would sound decidedly different than her carefree shouts. He had no clue where Niall was.

  Or what trouble his son might be getting into this time.

  Let them be and get to work, Finn scolded himself. Not like they could go far in a village the size of Inveraray. Or much trouble they could find beyond beleaguering his already frayed temper. He’d lost an hour’s daylight searching for his offspring when they’d wandered off earlier. His friend Ian hadn’t thought they needed to be tracked down. Then again, Ian’s son Fergus was but a toddler incapable of serious mischief. Ian insisted they were merely having fun. As one does.

  As one does.

  Och, but he’d made an arse of himself earlier. Ian had made certain to point it out as if Finn weren’t well aware. Venting his frustrations with his wayward children on that young woman had been unfair. He owed her an apology. Not that he knew who she was or where to find her to deliver one. He’d never seen her in the village before. Not many visitors had come around during his time here. Given the growing power of the Campbells and the duke’s clan seat here along with the new jail and court that would soon open, the town was fast becoming an administrative center for the county, and the number of people traveling in and out of the area would increase.

  For now, despite the harbor for boats to land, there was a limited network of roads. Regardless of her colorful language, the woman had been dressed like a lady and ladies traveled by carriage. The nearest road capable of accommodating one was nearly forty miles away.

  There was no way she’d carried her trunk so far and still managed to look as fresh and bonny as a spring morning. Och, some gentleman he’d been, not to relieve her of her burden. She’d left him out of sorts with her frigid glare and frosty words.

  He’d deserved each one. He’d been an arse overcome first by irritation and then by…

  Finn cleared his throat. At any rate, an apology was definitely in order.

  He forced his attention back to his work. “MacDougall! Dinnae lay it on so thick. Fill the gap, mon, dinnae cover the whole stone. What the…?”

  A large black and tan dog sniffed at his feet. A rather familiar…

  “Ah, here is Lord Keeley.”

  Finn’s head jerked up at the quavering voice of Derne’s clerk, but the rest of the man’s words were drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears as his gaze landed on the woman at Elliot’s side. The same buzzing that had filled them when she glared up at him in the village.

  “Absolute unadulterated fuckery.”

  The words fell from her lips much as they had earlier, leaving him torn between amusement and astonishment. The crude language carried no malice. In fact, they lost any hint of vulgarity in her sweet, husky brogue. At least his children were out of earshot this time.

  “As one does, aye?” Finn forced his gaze away from the sharp-tongued lass and landed them upon the junior steward. “Who is this woman, Elliot?”

  A name. A name to put to that bonny face and pert tongue.

  “Your pardon for the interruption, my lord.”

  “There are nae more lairds in Scotland,” he growled, hating the way the fellow continually twitched at the sound of his own name almost as much as he hated the reminder. It cut through his heart with a searing pang of loss as it did each time it was mentioned. “Or have ye no’ heard?”

  Derne’s unfortunate aide shifted from foot to foot before directing Finn’s attention back to the woman with a raised hand. “This is Mistress Marshall. Misters Adam and Morris have sent her to assist you in whatever way you have need.”

  Assist him?

  The lass lifted her chin a notch to stare him down, not an ounce of quavering in her eyes. Though he’d derided her on the matter earlier, she was pure Scotswoman, that much was evident. There was pride in her stance, a set to her jaw, and fire in her sapphire eyes to rival the proudest lasses he knew. Or had ever known.

  It was a look he hadn’t encountered in some time, an echo of days past. All confidence and arrogance. These days most bore expressions of defeat, the pride beaten out of them. Long, thick lashes of the pitchest black surrounded her eyes, making for a stark contrast against her fair, freckled cheeks. Her fine arching brows and hair drawn back into a loose twist at the base of her neck were as brilliant as a fox’s rich fur.

  Hers was a natural beauty that needed no artifice to enhance. Her delicate features lent her a spritely air. A fey vulnerability. Or they would have if it weren’t for those bold ey
es filled with challenge and daring enough to arouse. Seduce. He had no doubt she was as much a vixen at heart.

  And that he had no time for.

  “I have nae need of an assistant.” He turned his back on the pair lest he continue to stare. “Send her back.”

  Chapter 6

  Send her back.

  Up until the moment the words passed his lips, Aila had been in full agreement with the notion. Donell’s three turns of the time portal hadn’t delivered her to the right time. By the look of things, she was fifty or more years too late. These weren’t the conditions she’d anticipated in seeking out the mystery prize. These certainly weren’t the people she needed to find success. Staying on would be an exercise in futility. She’d be much better off spinning the dial on the device to take her back to the proper year. Better yet, go back home and wash her hands of the nonsense.

  She should have…bloody hell, she would have if she didn’t hate being told what to do. If it wouldn’t mean giving Finn Keeley the satisfaction of winning the point.

  Och, Finn Keeley. Lord Finlay Keeley. It finally connected why it sounded so familiar. This was the man mentioned in her history book along with the architects of the castle now in its infant stage. That it was the name that made it click rather than seeing him provided evidence on just how far artists in this time went with their liberties. He looked nothing like the pale, bewigged man in the picture. He was far more vivid in real life.

  Manly and obstinate.

  It didn’t matter.

  “I’m no’ going anywhere.”

  Aila crossed her arms over her chest, not giving an inch as his attention turned back to her. His eyes flared in surprise, then narrowed.

  “I dinnae need ye here.”

  “Misters Anton—”

  “Adam,” Elliot softly interjected.

  “—Adam say ye do,” she corrected without a blink.

  His uncompromising glare hardened a fraction more. He meant to intimidate her to his will, but Aila had seen far worse than him in her life. Any number of her mother’s boyfriends were meaner looking, and she’d wager, nastier in general. None of them, however, had sent her pulse racing like this. She hated this man’s effect on her even as she thrilled at the attraction.

  Donell’s words rang like a dare in her mind. A spot of fun, they tempted. A spot of fun.

  Elliot cleared his throat. “Er…I’ll…er…let the two of you work out the details.”

  “There’s nothing to work out,” she responded, though he’d already scurried away.

  “Nay, there isnae. Ye’re leaving,” Finn ground out, his brogue low and throaty.

  “I’m staying.”

  He inched forward, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, the heat radiating from his body. Her indignant inhale wilted into a shaky gasp.

  “I dinnae need an assistant, lassie. Nae matter what the Misters Ashton have to say.”

  “Adam.”

  His eyes raked over her, head to toe. Assessing male eyes had never ruffled Aila. Wolf whistles or suggestive comments were countered by crisp sarcasm, a sweeping glance punctuated with clear dismissal meant to wither the male bravado. She never lost her composure.

  Visibly, at least.

  This was one of those rare moments when she could only hope she maintained poise enough to disguise the clamor of lust within. Need such as she hadn’t known in years — if ever — pulsed through her. Forget the mission, the treasure. Hell, forget anything Donell had said except that last bit about having fun. For the first time in a long while, pure excitement coursed through her veins. The thrill of feeling alive zinged through her. That alone was an adventure she should embrace.

  Ergo, she needed to stay. For the time being, at least.

  “I can assure ye, I’m perfectly capable of doing whatever the job entails.” She sold the lie with hands on her hips, chin jutted out. He groaned low in his throat and turned his face to the sky. His Adam’s apple bobbed and she could see the veins on his neck pulsing. Rapidly. The sight left her breathless, so much so that she nearly lost her train of thought. “I’m clever. Quick. It willnae take long to bring me up to speed.”

  “Up to speed?” His chin dipped until his stare met hers once more and she hoped to see it there. Know if he felt the pull she did or if she was projecting her own lust upon him. She saw only confusion…and frustration, though not the sort she wished to see. “I’ve a decidedly motley bunch to supervise already. I dinnae time to deal with ye.”

  Aila glanced around the construction site. To the last, the workers had stopped their labor to watch her interaction with Finn. Even off to the side where a rag-tag encampment was arranged — to house them all, she assumed — men stood outside the tents or by their fires in silent observation. Curiosity was the word of the day, it seemed.

  “Let me be plain,” he added. “I have nae need a woman in this worksite. Our progress has been slow enough as it is.”

  “Ye think because I’m a woman I cannae do the work?”

  Her heart sank. Why had she thought he would be any different from the majority of men she knew? Men like Kyle might live in a bygone era in their beliefs, but this man lived in a true era gone by. Given the response her fictional position of architectural assistant had garnered from the castle guards, servants, and Derne, as well as Finn’s friend Ian, it only made sense that Finn, too, would suffer the same mentality when it came to a woman’s proper place in this time. Even knowing that, she was disappointed in the discovery.

  She turned back to Finn with pursed lips. “Regardless, I was hired to do a job and I intend to do it.”

  “Listen, lass.” Running a hand through his already tousled tawny hair, he shook his head. “I’m sure ye’re well-educated and capable. With a reputation to maintain now that their father has passed, neither of the Adam brothers would have dared send ye otherwise. Alas, these men here dinnae need the sort of distraction ye represent.”

  “I hardly think that my presence…” Her words trailed off and she did a head count of their audience. Not a woman among them. Not one.

  Oh, that kind of distraction. Offense in the name of all womankind suffused her. Aila stifled the urge to lecture each one of them on twenty-first century standards of workplace harassment. She could want a man with the force of a thousand suns and never hint at it while on the job. It would be a trial to maintain that perfect record if she were acting as Finn’s assistant, nevertheless she was willing to put her willpower to the test. And so should they. It would hardly help her chances of staying if she insisted that men were perfectly capable of keeping their dicks in their pants.

  “Aye, now ye understand the problem.”

  Aila turned back to him in time to see his gaze snap back up to her face from whatever level it had drifted downward to. A few moments ago, that look would have satisfied a measure of her curiosity, now it pricked with annoyance. “Is the problem truly yer men, Mr. Keeley? Or is the problem that ye’re the one who would be distracted?”

  Finn drew a sharp breath, his eyes darkening beneath heavy lids before they fell to her mouth. Taken aback by the sudden pool of heat between her thighs, Aila’s inhale was far more shaky. She ran her tongue over her tingling lips and swore she heard a low growl in response. It may very well have been the dog. Whatever prompted it — his anger, frustration — he’d been caught in the vortex of lust, too.

  Reckless, indeed.

  “Can I pet yer doggie?”

  The sweetly piped inquiry barely registered, but the tug at Aila’s skirt was more effective. She wrenched her gaze away from Finn, doing her best to regulate her breathing as she turned her attention to the little girl tentatively stroking Rab’s ear. The dog was loving it. Eyes closed in bliss, he leaned toward her.

  “His name is Rab.” Aila squatted down on her haunches until she was eye level with them both. She stroked a hand over the dog’s head with an encouraging smile for the girl, ignoring as best she could the hot eyes still watching her. “He l
ikes ye.”

  A shy smile showed the child had the same gaps in her teeth as her brother. “I like him, too.”

  “Yer name is Effie, aye?”

  The girl nodded, following Aila’s lead to pet Rab. “How did ye ken?”

  “I heard yer Da say it earlier.”

  Da.

  Aila closed her eyes at the regretful reminder. This incredibly sexy man had children. Children who would have a mother. She had no place lusting after a married man.

  Awash with regret, she climbed to her feet. This wasn’t the right place for her in any sense of the word. Logic said leave, and Aila knew she should listen to that voice, faint though it was. She flicked a quick glance to Finn, knowing it would be foolish to stare at him for long lest logic suffer defeat to sentiment.

  “Ye’re correct, Mister Keeley. Ye clearly dinnae need any help here,” she forced the words to form. She turned to leave on wobbly knees knowing she would miss out on perhaps the most devastating physical experience of her life when she left this place.

  “Where are ye going?”

  Aila glanced back over her shoulder, hopeful that she didn’t appear as crestfallen as she felt. “Leaving, as ye ordered.”

  As decency demanded.

  The perma-furrow on Finn’s brow became more of a trench. “I’m fair certain I heard ye say earlier that ye’d have nae man telling ye what to do.”

  “Nae arse of a man,” she clarified, inwardly cursing herself as her blood warmed once more as he cocked his head to study her.

  He took a step in her direction while she silently pleaded for him to keep his distance. “That might be the first time someone dinnae include me as one of them. An arse,” he explained as she stared mutely. “Ye’re doing as I asked, ergo I maun no’ be an arse of a man. Ye’d be one of the few no’ to think so.”