by L. L. Muir
His eyes narrowed even further. “Why?”
“Well. Um. It’s just…I feel like…”
His eyes dipped to her chest, then widened. She crossed her arms in front of her and he looked up again.
“I’m not interested in doing anything…stupid.”
He looked at the ceiling, then pointed at it. He was obviously referring to the way she’d confessed to sleeping with the ski bum.
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to go upstairs, okay? I just… I sleep alone every night, you know. And tonight, I just don’t want to. If you want to sleep on the red couch, I’ll sleep in the chair, okay? I mean, not that you’re not…” She gestured at his body, from shoulder to knee and back again. Then she shrugged. “You know what I mean. But I’m not interested in—Well, of course I’m interested in—”
“Lass.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll stay. And we won’t…” He pointed to the ceiling again and laughed. “And if ye believe ye can control yer hands, I will try to do the same so we can share the homely couch.”
“Homely!”
~
Dougal took the lass’s hand and dragged her into the wee library. The offended furniture had a fine deep seat and he spread himself along the back of it, then opened his arms in invitation. The lass smiled, turned her back to him, and lay down in his embrace.
He regretted it immediately and turned onto his back. The lass pulled a pillow between his arm and her face, wiggled her cheek against it, then settled.
“Hannah,” he whispered.
She ignored him.
“Hannah,” he whispered harder, but the lass said nothing. She was already asleep. “Ah, lass. Whatever am I to do with ye?” And after he thought for a moment, he whispered to Soni, just in case she might be able to hear him, or know his thoughts. “Whatever were ye thinkin’, my wee witch?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hannah woke in the morning more refreshed than she’d been in months. She was snuggled into the back of the rosebud couch with the lightweight throw over her. Dougal was gone!
She sat up quickly and her feet caught on a pile of pillows on the floor. Apparently, the couch hadn’t been as roomy as they’d hoped.
She smelled eggs and melted butter and grinned. He hadn’t left after all! In the kitchen, she found him standing in front of the stove with an apron over his incredibly long shirt. The kilt was missing, but he was just as covered without it.
If she’d had her phone close by, she would have taken a picture before he had a chance to stop her, because that was a sight she wanted to remember for a good long time. A gentleman cooking her breakfast.
What else should she call a guy who had every chance to take advantage of her and hadn’t? If he’d tried anything she probably would have popped him in the nose again, but he hadn’t known that.
He noticed her. “Good morn to ye, lass.” His gaze skimmed over her hair and she realized she must look a mess.
“Be right back.”
She fled for the rear stairs and didn’t go back down them until she’d brushed her hair and teeth and was dressed in clean clothes. A shower could wait until after breakfast at least—unless she caught him wrinkling his nose.
He was setting full plates on the table when she returned.
“Thanks for staying last night,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. “It seems silly now, in the light of day, but—”
“No need to explain, Miss Hannah—”
“Just Hannah, thanks. I mean, we’re not in the nineteenth century, right?”
He held out her chair and grinned. “Or even the eighteenth.”
“Right.”
When they were both seated, he took her hand and said grace. She barely got her eyes closed before it was over.
“Amen. This looks great. I’m sorry I slept through all the cooking. I could have helped do something. Maybe burned the toast for you.”
He waved away her comment. “I found the manual for the coffee maker. I hope it will do.”
She poured a cup and took a sip. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” She relished the way the morning light bounced around the room. It had seemed even brighter when she’d been a child, when the cupboards had been yellow. “The smell of coffee always reminds me of my grandpa. And the sound of an old-fashioned percolator.”
“I imagine the man is looking down upon ye now, hoping to inspire ye with a solution, aye?”
“Wouldn’t that be great?”
They ate in silence for a little while before he pushed his plate away from him and leaned his elbows on the table.
“Now that it’s light out, Hannah, and the boogey man is back under the bed, so to speak, there is something I must tell ye.”
Her appetite fled and she put down her fork. After a quick sip of coffee to brace herself, she sat back and waited for the bad news, which it had to be if he’d kept it from her last night because it would sound even more scary to hear in the dark.
“Okay. Tell me.”
“Deputy…uh…”
“Donny.”
“Aye, Donny. He is no friend to ye.”
“He’s more like a stalker, actually. It was bad in high school, but it’s been even worse since I moved back to Liberty.”
“Then ye know?”
“Yeah. I know.” She was so relieved there wasn’t worse news. After the disappointment of the night before, she just didn’t feel up to more bad news.
“And ye’ve done nothing to stop it?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about calling his wife. She knows, but she doesn’t do much to stop him.”
He took a hold of the outside edges of the table and gripped them like he was trying to keep the table from rising off the floor. “The woman kens her husband is sneaking into another woman’s house at night, to watch her while she sleeps, and she does nothing—”
“What?!” She didn’t remember standing, but her voice boomed against the rafters like it had come from her toes. “He does what?!”
Dougal carefully released a breath and held out the chair for her again.
She sat, but she didn’t think she’d be able to sit for long. “Did he tell you he’s been sneaking into my house?”
“Nay. Not in so many words. But I suspected he was up to something dishonorable. I suggested he might be doing such a thing and he didn’t deny it. I told him to leave and never return, that he’ll rue the day he does. But the truth is, lass, I’ll be gone from here soon. Either today or tomorrow. And there will be no man here to protect ye.”
She shook her head. “I can do it. Now that I know, I can take care of it. I’ve got my grandpa’s gun, just in case. But I’ll get a restraining order. I’m sure the sheriff will be interested to know why. His wife… He’ll lose everything.” She shook her head. “I don’t want him to lose everything. I just want him to go away.”
Dougal knelt on the floor beside her chair and used a napkin to wipe away the tears she didn’t realize she’d cried. He looked so utterly sweet, so silly, in his apron and long shirt. But it was his bare feet that charmed her the most.
It was a good thing he’d be leaving soon…wasn’t it?
His brow puckered. “How do ye feel about purchasing a dog?”
“I’ve thought about it a hundred times, but then I spend sixteen hours straight in the studio and worry I would neglect a pet.”
He grinned. “If that’s yer only objection, I believe ye might find a fellow who could make some noise when he was hungry, aye?”
She nodded, more excited by the second. “And make some noise when anyone came near the house.”
“Just so.” He resumed his seat and she warmed their coffee. He was frowning again. “And about yer grandfather?”
“What?”
“What do ye suppose he’s trying to say to ye this morning? Do ye feel any inspiration in yer bones?”
She looked out the window at the work shed. Twenty-foot-high, cinderblock walls. A red tin roof peaked just
over the large window of the upper floor.
He followed her gaze. “Yer studio?”
“Upstairs. Bottom floor is the work room. If you plan on wearing more than just a shirt today, you’d better get dressed. Because you, my fine young Scot, are going to make me those frames you promised while I paint a little. Then you can help me decide what to put in the yard sale.”
He stood and turned in a circle with his hands held out. “Ye’re sayin’ I might embarrass ye if the neighbors happened by…to see a man in an apron?
“You mean a man with no pants? Then yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For Dougal, the morning flew past like a bank of clouds hounded by a resolute wind. The work room was filled will all manner of wood working tools, many of them electric. A round, nasty-looking blade stuck up out of the center of a metal table, and he could hardly wait to see how it worked. But not, perhaps, with the lassie about. The large red button beckoned, but he was determined to wait.
Hannah pointed out the pile of wood she’d been using for the frames upon which she stretched her canvas. But there was another pile of all shapes and sizes, of pine, oak, walnut—that were covered in a thick layer of dust.
“You can do whatever you like with that. But I would like at least a dozen frames, if you don’t mind.”
“Auch, a small fee for the chance to play in such a place, lass. Ask for anything at all.”
She considered. “I don’t know. There might be a few pieces of furniture that need a little attention before I try to sell them.”
“Whatever ye might need, lass.” He eyed the red button again.
“Thank you.”
He turned to face her again and bumped his lips into hers. She’d apparently risen onto her tip-toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, but he’d interrupted her.
She gasped and froze.
He glanced down at the lips he’d very nearly kissed. But he couldn’t go after them again, not with the lass so embarrassed. So he gave her a wink and a chuckle. “I hope to be better prepared the next time.”
She forced a laugh and fled up the stairs to her sanctuary.
Next time. It hung in the air like a prayer. And he didn’t care who heard that prayer…as long as they answered it.
He bent his attention to the task of a dozen frames, and in but three hours, with the help of the clever saw in the center of the table, he was able to make Hannah twice as many frames as she’d asked for. Many of them were larger than Witch’s Mist, to show her he had great faith in her talent. But as he surveyed his pile of empty squares, he regretted he would not be there to see what finally became of them.
To chase away his regrets, he turned to the dusty pile and invited the spirit of her grandfather to send a bit of inspiration his way. Which, lo and behold, he did! After moving half a dozen boards from the top of the dusty pile, Dougal’s mind filled with an image that outshone all others he’d been toying with.
He only hoped Hannah would be half so pleased as he.
A large clock on the wall proved they’d missed the nooning hour, so he tossed a tarp over the secret project and banged on the stairs. “Hannah! Ye must eat! And so must I!”
He listened to the shuffling of her feet but waited patiently, for he had too much respect for an artist’s refuge to enter uninvited. Eventually, she appeared with a far off look in her eyes and a smear of spring green paint on her chin. It so delighted him, he decided not to tell her about it.
“A good morning, lass?”
She grinned. “Aye.”
~
The more time Dougal spent in the company of Hannah Garr, the more determined he was to help her, and not simply because doing so would ensure his meeting the prince face to face. He simply couldn’t understand what Soni expected him to do.
It wasn’t possible, in the current day and age, for him to eliminate her stalker in an honorable duel with swords. And he couldn’t pound reason into the man’s head either. No doubt the fool would draw his weapon and injure innocents in the process, and nothing was worth that risk.
A good dog would go far to solving the Donny problem, and keep the lass from being lonely until an honorable man came along to make her his wife. The help of a couple of honorable fellows and swift action had removed Hannah and her children from the reach of that nasty woman and her henchmen. But thus far, Dougal had done nothing substantial to help the lass. She was still in just as much danger of losing her home as she’d been before he came along. And, in fact, it seemed like the only danger present.
This Zilla woman would have no need to harm the lass if she believed the house and property would soon be hers. And Hannah herself had proven she was no weak miss when trouble snuck up on her…from behind…even in a dark kitchen…
As the pair of them sat in that same kitchen, silently eating the sandwiches she’d prepared, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d been deposited into her life.
Or had he?
Was there something he’d missed at the festival? Was it his attraction to the lass that had prevented him from seeing his true destiny? Was his boon lost to him?
Hannah returned her sandwich to her plate, her brows drawn together. “I’ve worn you out, haven’t I?”
He smiled and felt his own forehead stretch smooth again. “Nay, lass. I’ve just been wondering why…Fate…brought me to ye, if I canna find a way to change yer luck.”
She bit her bottom lip, blushed, and ducked her head.
“What is it, lass? What are ye thinkin’?” He tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted it, forcing her to face him.
She shrugged a shoulder but didn’t pull away. “I don’t know. Maybe God thought I could really use a friend for a couple of days, that’s all.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “for I am pleased to be yer friend, Hannah.”
She glanced at his chest and arms and got a wicked glint in her eye that made him catch his breath. “Lucky for me, you’re a friend with muscles.”
“Muscles?” He would rather she would find use for his lips.
“Yeah. Because some of the pieces up in the attic are pretty heavy.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hannah felt like a slave driver.
After Dougal had worked all morning on frames, she dragged him up into the dusty attic. She had him pushing furniture around and hauling boxes down two flights of stairs. He carried them out to the work shed, where she planned to hold the sale, or to the garbage cans, or to the back of the truck for the second-hand store, depending on their decided fate.
At the moment, he was examining a hinge on the small door of an end table while he waited for her to decide the fate of a box of knick-knacks.
It didn’t matter that he was happy to be of service, like he’d said a dozen times. She knew she was taking advantage of him, and she knew dang well she couldn’t pay him what his time was worth.
She wasn’t a slave-driver. She was a bully.
She pushed the box off her lap and brushed her hands together. “You know what?” She climbed to her feet. “I’m calling it a day.”
He frowned over his shoulder, “It canna be four o’clock yet, love.” He turned his attention back to the little door and completely missed the shock on her face.
Love? Was it such a common endearment in Scotland that he didn’t think twice about using it? Or had it been so long since she’d actually used the word, or heard any sort of endearment, she couldn’t just let it go?
She made her way through the mess to the one clear place to sit, an antique little bench with an odd extension off the side that helped men remove their boots.
“Dougal?”
“Aye?” He didn’t turn.
“When is that woman coming to get you?”
“Ye mean Soni?” He snorted. “She’s barely a woman, by the way. And she’ll come for me as soon as I’ve done all I can here. Tomorrow morning at the latest, though.” He looked around and found her on the bench. “Worn out, ar
e ye?”
She nodded.
He wiggled the door that worked just fine now, and without squeaking, and gave her a quick smile. “There is still much more I can do before the sun sets, aye?”
“I was just wondering…”
“Aye?” He closed the little door and finally gave her his complete attention. In four long strides, he closed the distance, then knelt down at the end of the little extension, like he was a shoe salesman ready to measure her foot, only closer. Much closer. “What do ye wish of me, Hannah?”
Did she dare? She had to. He’d be gone in the morning and she’d be left with regrets.
“I just wondered if you are better prepared now?”
He frowned, confused.
“You said that next time, you hoped—”
The quick but gentle press of his lips against hers cut her off before she could finish. The words next time had been constantly repeating in her head since he’d said them, and she realized they must have been doing the same to him. If she’d known they were going to bring such a quick and passionate response, she might have said them sooner, figured out how to work them into every conversation.
Without breaking the connection, he stood and pulled her to her feet. Then he stepped over the extension and moved them both, step by step, until her back was against the wall. How they got there without breaking their necks was beyond her, but she wasn’t about to interrupt the kiss to figure it out—not when he’d gone to so much trouble to keep their mouths together.
The wall was a brilliant idea, actually. He could kiss her as hard as he wanted without her tumbling off the back of the bench. And he did. Heaven help her how he did. Every time she got too far away from him, he’d sip at her lips until they locked again, consuming her like he believed she would be his last meal on earth.
Dizzy? Yes. For half a dozen reasons. But one of those reasons was that she needed to take a couple of deep breaths. So she finally pushed him back a little and turned her head to the side. Undeterred, his mouth went after her neck and she hissed at the flood of chills that poured over her.
