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

by Angeline Fortin

  Finn managed a grim, uncomfortable nod and stifled the urge to punch his friend for his blatant matchmaking as he shifted in the portal to let Ian pass.

  “Dinnae muck it up,” his friend paused to murmur under his breath. “If ye can manage that, gi’ two thumps on the floor so I ken ye’re no’ in need of rescue.”

  Finn did punch him then, a half-hearted slug to the shoulder. He also made a point of leaving the door open as Ian strolled down the hall with a chuckle. He’d not have his life ruled by the whims of his oldest friend.

  Nay, nor would he be ruled by the whims of his cock.

  The door would stay open…unless Aila chose to close it.

  The crackle of the fire and a dog’s elongated yawn when he was nudged off the bed were the only breaks in the silence as he watched her put the bed in order. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence so much as it was expectant. He was incredibly aware of her, the way her slender arms swept back and forth and her palms skimmed the bedding as she smoothed away the wrinkles. Erased the evidence of their torrid night. The sway of her skirts as she shifted from foot to foot. If he were to sidestep to the left, he imagined he’d achieve a delightful perspective from which to view the swell of her cleavage when she bent to tuck the sheet at the foot of the bed.

  He stayed put, content to enjoy the view from his current angle. The simple pleasure of domestication long absent in his life. The pleasurable indulgence of smoldering desire before it ignited into a consuming blaze.

  He’d always longed for moments like these. The realization straightened his spine. The awareness of why he’d never have them was a hard nudge to remind him of his purpose.

  “With my bairns nae longer underfoot, I had a productive day,” he said, breaking the silence as he squatted to pet her dog, who’d sprawled out before the fire. “Thank ye for taking the position.”

  “Keeping ye free from distraction, ye mean?” Aila cast a knowing smirk over her shoulder as she finished straightening the bed. “Out of sight, out of mind?”

  That would have been nice. Alas that wasn’t the case when it came to the most conspicuous distraction of them all. Not that he would admit to it.

  “Aye, and they tell me they had — and I quote my son — ‘a most educational day,’” he said, determined to negate her bedevilment, be it by misguidance or blatant lie. “He said ye went to the mill?”

  She faced him, head cocked to one side. Her lips quirked ever so slightly as if she knew what he was about. “We did. Mr. Boyce was cleaning today so we’ll return tomorrow to watch him work.”

  “They will enjoy that.” Silence prevailed. “The weather has been decent. For both work and for their enjoyment.”

  “Aye, it has.”

  “Ye’re doing well in yer new position, then?”

  Her lips pursed then eased once more, though not into the smile he’d been hoping for. “Well enough.”

  Social pleasantries exhausted and no invitation for anything more intimate, conversation or otherwise, Finn gestured to the door. “Shall we to supper?”

  At the mention of the word, the dog scrambled to his feet and dashed out the door. With a nod, Aila stepped into the hallway then locked the door after he closed it. She was close enough for him to catch a trace of her intoxicating scent, and he had to stifle the urge to lean in for more. Perhaps close enough to kiss her neck.

  Och, she’d been as plain as day about her desire the previous night. He knew her to be bold enough to be forthright on the matter if she wanted him still. He could only hope she hadn’t had enough of him. He hadn’t had nearly enough of her. Despite the way he’d leapt upon her that morning, the gentleman in him prohibited him from asking outright.

  As he followed her toward the stairs, Finn berated himself as he had before, for taking up a position behind her. She was bewitching as a will-o’-the-wisp and just as likely to lead him astray.

  He could have sworn she did it on purpose.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, she paused, her expression more somber and far less teasing than he’d anticipated. “May I be honest with ye?” At his nod, she hesitated as if reconsidering before continuing. “Yer children are in desperate need of structure.”

  “Structure? I dinnae ken what ye mean.”

  “A schedule. Schooling. Discipline.” She ticked off the points on her fingers. “Nae offense, but from what I can see, ye spoil them rotten.”

  The criticism stung. “They’ve had a troubling few years. If I’ve coddled them…”

  “Ye have. Right to the brink of making annoying little blighters of them.”

  “Now see here —”

  “Dinnae get me wrong, Finn.” She softened the interruption with a beseeching look. Stepping forward, she took his hand. “I like them, I do. They’re inquisitive and engaging children. But they’re inquisitive, engaging, and bored children with nae outlet for their creative minds other than to think up the next bit of trouble they can make.”

  Finn jerked his hand away. “They’re well-behaved enough.”

  One fine, coppery brow rose in dubious response. “Are they really?”

  With a gruff snort that denoted neither denial nor agreement, he walked away. He hadn’t made it to the first of the statues lining the passage before she caught his arm, forcing the gentleman in him to stop and face her.

  “I’m no’ trying to be cruel or overly critical here.” The flickering candlelight played over her features. Shadows prevented him from reading her expression well, though he thought he saw more concern than censure there. “What I saw today are two children who have zero restraint and nae reason to behave themselves. What is the consequence for their errant behavior? They assure me there are nae repercussions when they misbehave.”

  They had said that?

  A frown tugged at his brow. “Would ye have me take a cane to them?”

  Her fine eyes widened then blinked…hard. The warm spot on his arm where her hand had been resting cooled in a flash as she yanked it away. “Ye mean beat them? Gah, nay! I’m nae monster. Geez, mon, I’m talking about structure. They get away with everything because they know they can. They need rules with consequences should they be broken. Withholding a favorite toy or treat, putting them in time out.”

  “Time out?”

  She shook her head. “My point is, ye need to lay down some rules and challenge them.”

  “Challenge them? To what?” He doubted she was talking about a duel.

  “To learn. To grow.” She threw up her hands with a huff. “I dinnae ken, I’m nae expert and I’m hardly in the position to tell ye how to parent. But I think deep down they’re bored by days with nae purpose. Get them a tutor who will fill their heads so full of information, they willnae have time to think of new ways to misbehave.”

  Staring down the hall, Finn considered her advice. In attempting to protect his children, had he in some way failed them? Truth was, he’d had a tutor for Niall up until just over a year before, and had intended to send him off to school in another year or two as he had been at that age. Things had changed when his wife died.

  “In the months following the battle at Culloden, Lobsterbacks raided towns and estates in an attempt to find and punish anyone suspected of Jacobite sympathies. A purification of the Highlands, they called it, to take our way of life from us. Much as ye said last evening.” He paused, wondering at himself for exposing so much. “They came to Rossmore while I was still away. My wife suffered at the hands of one of the officers.”

  “Suffered?”

  “She soon discovered she carried the bastard’s spawn.” Aila’s eyes widened with understanding. Before she could repeat the sympathies she’d offered before, he continued on to make his point. “My wife killed herself rather than subject our family to that shame. I wisnae there to stop it, nor was I there to comfort my grieving bairns. It would be fair to say that when I had the chance, I overcompensated for my absence and aye, coddled them…perhaps more than necessary.”

 
; “Finn.” Her soothing hand rested on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  The faces of the jury of statuary judged him. And perhaps found him wanting.

  For not acting fast enough? For waiting so long to secure vengeance?

  God knew, he judged himself often enough for his failure to protect his wife, for his failure to exact his revenge.

  And of late, for letting his focus and determination fade away in favor of one particular Titian beauty.

  “I dinnae tell ye to gain yer sympathies, lass. I did so to provide an understanding of my bairns’ unbridled behavior,” he told her. “I confess I had come to see the same truths as some ye pointed out, but this has been a long road I dinnae ken how to travel. Perhaps with a proper tutor…”

  Finn let the thought trail off and considered Aila in a different light. Niall and Effie had openly enjoyed their day with her. They were the happiest he’d seen them in months.

  “I can see where yer mind is going, so before ye even think to ask, dinnae.” She sniffed, a short snort of humor. “I’m nae tutor.”

  He arched a brow to deny the accusation. “Who said I was going to ask?”

  Another knowing look. “Ye might ask poor Mr. Elliott. He might appreciate being liberated from the oppression of Derne’s rule.”

  He offered a soft grunt in response and absently considered the first in the line of statues, a knight of about the thirteenth century, if he placed the style of the armor accurately. “My bairns tell me ye put a name to each of these stone atrocities today.”

  She turned to the sculpture with pursed lips. “A perfect example to prove I’m nae scholar. We did nae research to determine who they are. We simply made up silly names to pass the time.”

  “And?”

  “Meet Sir Clanksalot.”

  Silly indeed. A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He gestured to the next in line, this one a heavily robed fellow with a long, reproachful face. “And this one?”

  “Lord Doom and Gloom.” She offered a near smile — the first he’d seen from her — and a shrug. “Did I mention the names aren’t terribly original?” Strolling past him, she pointed at each statue as she went. “Here is the Dread Pirate Roberts, the Earl of Misery Upon Misery, Sir Clinksalot and nay, he’s nae relation to Clanksalot.” Her dog sniffed behind the armored figure, most likely intent on a mouse. Aila pulled him out and waved him down the hall as they continued. “That’s Baron Von Snarly there with the pointy beard and lopsided mustache, and this is the Bishop of Morose-shire. As ye can see, for the most part the children believe them to be a dour lot. I dinnae disagree with the assessment. The rest go along those same lines, except for this fine fellow.” She stopped to pat one on the shoulder with a twist of her lips. “Behold the King of Ridiculousness.”

  That one was royally absurd, he had to agree. A sixteenth century soldier with an extravagant neck ruff that winged out over an armor chest plate. He wore a short cape that covered one arm. His ballooned trousers were short enough to show off his garters while a detailed, and impressively large, codpiece jutted from the folds.

  “His Majesty has a finely turned leg.”

  Her lips compressed. “That’s what stands out to ye? Literally stands out?”

  A chuckle bubbled up in him and he let it go. Next thing he knew, a husky giggle joined his. By God, if Aila was bonny at any other time, she was dazzling in good humor. Her smile brought a weakness to his knees and a clench to his heart.

  If he hadn’t acknowledged it before, in that moment, Finn knew he was in serious trouble.

  Chapter 15

  “Now scoop up a handful,” Boyce instructed the children, who obediently filled their hands with the flour that came out of the edges of the two grinding stones. “This is called the grist.”

  “It’s warm,” Effie observed as she rubbed the ground oats between her hands. “Why?”

  Curious and ready to learn. Aila hoped Finn would take her advice to heart and engage a teacher for the children. They hadn’t had the chance to talk more about it the previous night. Over another meal of smoked salmon and turnips, boiled this time instead of mashed, conversation between Finn and Ian had centered around letters from family received that day, and the building of the castle and what more could be accomplished before winter set in. Not much more had been said.

  Certainly, it hadn’t been brought up when she’d opened her bedroom door around midnight to find Finn there with his fist raised as if to knock. He hadn’t, but Aila welcomed him in with a kiss, glad she didn’t have to wonder whether a knock on his door would have ended in an invitation or rejection. Once again under the blanket of darkness — a maid had come to bank the fire Ian had built up for her leaving nothing but the faint glow of embers — she and Finn had tangled among the sheets.

  Not a word spoken, but a night of sex worthy of the record books. He’d learned and remembered what she liked most. Things she’d hadn’t been aware of herself. What made her moan, what made her scream. What drove her to the brink of ecstasy beyond any she’d ever known. She let out a shaky sigh and tried to soothe her pounding heart. She forced her attention back to the lesson. The miller explained that the grist was warmed by the heat created by the grind of stone against stone.

  Aye, she knew all about friction and the heat it generated. With a shake of her head, she admonished herself to let it go. Residual lust had no place here with the children and Boyce in attendance.

  “’Tis no’ flour just yet, mind ye,” Boyce continued. “There’s an elevator wi’in this shaft that carries the grist above and into a trough where an auger turns it until it is cool and dry. Then it’s pushed into the bolter that separates out the chaff.”

  “What’s chaff?” Niall asked.

  “The chaff are the husks, stems and such in there. See?” He helped them sift through the grist in their hands, showing them the bits to be weeded out, then offered to take them above to watch the bolter. Niall and Effie raced upstairs well ahead of the miller who followed at a much slower pace.

  Aila winced in sympathy for the poor man. He seemed so worn out upon their arrival, she’d offered to come back another day. He’d insisted they stay with the claim that they raised his spirits.

  A moment later, the children ran down the stairs once more with Boyce doddering after them. “Aye, that’s it over there. The flour comes down that chute to be bagged.”

  Niall peered up the chute. “Can we do that?”

  Boyce rubbed his jaw with exaggerated skepticism. “Och, I dinnae ken. How are yer skills wi’ a needle and thread?”

  The lad looked highly offended. “Sewing? That’s women’s work.”

  Like father, like son. Aila was about to explain the error in his way of thinking. To her surprise, Boyce beat her to it. “There’s nae such thing as women’s work, lad. I’ve stitched up every bag of flour to leave this mill myself. Even long before my wife passed. It is my job and my responsibility. Many a man takes on the duties ye claim to be for women.”

  Niall’s face scrunched with doubt. “Like who?”

  “Sailors, for example. Each one of them must ken how to sew. No’ only sails, but clothing,” the older man explained. “I’d wager yer father had a valet at some point? A gentleman who cared for his clothing and such?”

  “Duff,” Effie piped in. “He used to live with us at Rossmore Castle before.”

  “Aye, there ye are.” Boyce nodded in approval. “And no’ sewing alone. His Grace has a fancy French chef to cook for him.”

  “A man to cook for him?” Niall once again voiced his qualms with an expressive face.

  “Aye, a man. Look at me, I’m a man, am I no’?” Both children nodded at the miller’s question. “Yet, I no’ only sew. I cook for myself. I clean my home and launder my clothes. Wi’ or wi’out a woman by his side, a man needs to ken how to take care of himself.”

  “Amen to that,” Aila muttered under her breath. “Thank ye, Mr. Boyce, for providing a much-needed lesson on that subj
ect.”

  He offered a genial smile then clapped his hands. “Now who wants to fill one of the bags?”

  The children jockeyed for position as he showed them how to ready the bag and turn the handle on the chute to start the flow of flour. Effie had the honor and a flash of metal accompanied the ground oats out.

  “What is this?” Boyce’s question rang with feigned surprise. “Did ye see something there?” He closed the chute, reached into the bag, and withdrew an object covered with flour.

  “What is it?” both children chimed.

  “Why, I dinnae ken.” Boyce maintained his contrived confusion as he dusted it off and held it aloft. “Why it’s…it’s…”

  “Treasure!” Niall shouted and grabbed at it while Effie clasped her hands to her heart with wide astonished eyes glued to the necklace.

  “A treasure!” Aila sighed dramatically. “How exciting! May I please see it, Mr. Boyce?”

  “Now, see? Mistress Marshall asked politely and she’ll be the one to see it first.”

  Aye, she’d asked politely. Not only to set a good example for the rambunctious boy but to check herself from snatching it out of his hands. Boyce hadn’t yet mentioned the necklace that morning. She’d been afraid he’d forgotten about it and she’d have to find a way to bring up the subject again.

  Instead, he placed it into her hands.

  “What have we here?”

  * * *

  To be honest, Aila wouldn’t have the smallest regret if she never saw Mr. Derne again. As he didn’t frequent the servants’ hall, she’d thought she’d be lucky in that regard. Boyce looked even less enthusiastic than she to find the steward at his door. He caught her eye and directed a pointed look at the “treasure” in her fist with a shake of his head. She slipped it into her pocket before she turned to face the beast.

  “Good morning, Mr. Derne.”

  Rab, who’d been dozing in a patch of sunlight by the windows, leapt to his feet with a sharp bark that was reduced to a low snarl when she chastised him. Not that she blamed him, Aila felt similarly inclined. He took up position between her and the steward, wary and grumbling.