The Great Scot

by Donna Kauffman

  “I can well imagine. Quite the restoration project. Brodie told me,” she added by way of explanation. “Which, I understand, is partly why you’re opening the bed and breakfast.”

  Dylan scowled. Didn’t his brother have anything better to do than flirt with Yankee lasses? The man was newly married, and shouldnae be consorting about. Of course Dylan knew full well that Brodie was naturally gregarious and equally affable with all who entered his pub, and totally besotted with his new wife. But that didn’t give the man license to spout on about personal family business with every straggler who wandered in the door, now did it?

  She glanced over at him. “You’re the oldest, right? The clan chief?”

  “Aye, that I am,” he answered absently, his thoughts momentarily diverted by the lecture he was plotting to deliver to all three of his younger brothers the first chance he got. It was one thing to nudge their lone, solitary sibling back into the land of the living, and, truly, he had arrived there some time ago now, but it was up to him when and if he chose to delve into a new relationship. They had no business tossing women in his path, no matter how well intended. Not that any lecture he delivered would likely stop them. Or any of the villagers for that matter. Bloody hell. He just wanted to be left alone to get the place into shape for his upcoming guests. Was that so much to ask? He looked at the smiling face of the woman before him. Apparently it was.

  “I can’t imagine what it’s like,” she went on, “being responsible for maintaining the collective assets of your entire ancestry.”

  “If ye only knew the half of it,” Dylan muttered. He stared at the crumbling heap, trying to see it as she must, and no doubt failing.

  He’d grown up inside those moldering walls, feeling the pressure of all those eyes staring down at him from the endless rows of portraits hung in every available nook and cranny, knowing very early on that no matter what he did during his lifetime, the place would never be restored fully. Though his grandfather, Finny, had done his best to maintain a positive outlook, the burden would overwhelm even the most optimistic of souls. He’d tried to teach Dylan how he focused only on the most dire of Glenshire’s maintenance needs, and no’ the whole pile at once, or it would drive a man mad.

  Unfortunately, Dylan had never been good at compartmentalizing. Perhaps he’d have been a better partner, a better husband, had that been the case. Perhaps he’d have better handled the sudden loss, too.

  He swallowed a weary sigh, knowing it was indeed a talent he still sorely lacked. Exhausting as his birthright was, he’d long since come to the conclusion that maintaining the physical remnants of the Chisholm clan legacy was still a whole hell of a lot easier than overseeing the human element that came along with the title of clan chief. Which was more truthfully why he avoided the latter on most occasions.

  “I know nothing about my ancestry,” she said, still taking the measure of the place.

  Her easy confession startled him out of his ponderous musings. “Never traced your heritage?” As unimaginable as his burden was to her, likewise he couldn’t imagine that kind of absolute freedom.

  “Nothing to trace,” she said with a shake of her head, causing her hair to dance a little in the early evening breeze.

  He generally wasn’t a fan of short hair on women, nor did he care much for that messy just-out-bed-look. Sleek and elegant, with an eye toward sophistication, had always been what turned his head. Not that it mattered. If she really was who she said she was, she wasn’t here to turn his head. Which suited him just fine.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, more as a polite response, so he was surprised to discover he meant it. He might envy her freedom a wee bit, aye, but at the same time, he couldn’t quite imagine not knowing where he came from, who his people were.

  She shrugged, smiled, her green eyes alight with a gleam that could only be described as impish. How was it he hadn’t noticed them earlier? They were quite striking, actually, enlivening her otherwise plain face.

  “Don’t be,” she assured him. “I didn’t tell you that to play on your sympathy, I was just trying to convey how otherworldly this seems to me.”

  He hadn’t forgotten she wanted something from him—his home, to be exact—so it would bode him well not to let her charm him in any way. He doubted that she’d forgotten for one second why she was here, and moreover, he was fairly certain despite her claim to the contrary, that this was all a rather calculated attempt to soften him up, or at least get him to let her linger long enough so she could make another sales pitch.

  “When I was younger, I used to make up stories about my family,” she went on. “But even on a really good day, I could have never come up with something like this.” She turned back to the house, but not before he saw something that looked like yearning in her eyes. “Would it—?” She broke off, shook her head.

  “What?” he asked, despite knowing he should end this now.

  “I was going to ask if I could at least look inside.” She waved a hand, silencing whatever his response might have been. “But I should let you get back to…whatever it was you were doing. I would say I’m sorry I intruded.” She glanced up at the house one last time and a smile stole across her face that snagged his attention in a way a pleading speech never would have. “But I’m not.” She pressed the card back in his hand. “If you change your mind, I’m going to stay in town tonight. Please contact me.” The sharp gleam returned to her eyes. “The lease agreement we’d offer would top whatever your guests would be paying. And we’d happily absorb the cost of relocating those who aren’t willing to reschedule until after we’re done shooting. Of course, it goes without saying the free publicity will likely keep you booked up for some time to come after the show airs.”

  He took the card without thinking. She was really something. And it hadn’t escaped him that she’d gotten her sales pitch in anyway.

  “Thanks again,” she said, then turned and walked back to her car with a last glance at the house, but not at him. He watched her, his attention split between being somewhat dumbfounded by her moxie…and the way her rolling gait made her hips sway in a manner that wasn’t remotely enticing, especially in the baggy khakis she wore, but had his full attention, regardless. Forthright and determined, if not overtly feminine. So why he found himself wondering just what the curve of her bum looked like beneath those shapeless trousers, he had no earthly idea.

  She paused just before rounding the front of her little car and looked back at him. “Oh, and thank you for the rescue earlier.”

  He lifted a hand, gave her a nod…and wondered at exactly what moment he’d lost his mind. Because it took considerable control not to issue the invitation that was presently sitting on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath, waiting to see what she’d say next, until she waved and climbed in her car without another word. And, on a short sigh, he realized he was disappointed.

  Maybe his brothers were right after all, he thought, watching her depart. Maybe it was time he got out, socialized a bit more. He’d been back almost two years now. But it wasn’t as if he wasn’t holed up out here, still wallowing in grief, much as they all suspected. There was simply too much work to be done to waste time frittering about in town. He’d get to that again. At some point. After the B & B was up and running most likely. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how. He hadn’t always been Dylan Chisholm, grudging clan chief and widower. Back in Edinburgh, he’d been Dylan Chisholm, stock trader, society darling, husband. Aye, and in that order, unfortunately. Of course, Maribel’s priorities had been laid out much the same. But that was nobody’s business but theirs.

  He was back now, that was all that mattered. And he took his role quite seriously. He hadn’t been in favor of throwing the doors of Glenshire open to paying guests, but he hadn’t had a better idea, either. So it had come down either giving it a go, or being the one to lose the family heritage after four centuries of steady ownership. So he was giving it a go.

  Dy
lan watched as Erin’s taillights disappeared down the drive, then turned his back on her and her interesting, if completely insane proposition, and trudged back into the house.

  Hours later he was still wedged under the sink, swearing quite creatively while trying to loosen an ancient, rusted-over pipe fitting, when the phone rang. He debated the relative merits of letting the machine pick up the call, but decided he could use the break. It was that or take the wrench to the entire project like a cricket bat.

  He made it out onto the third floor landing where the phone table was positioned for use by the guests who’d be put in the upper floor dormer rooms, and snatched up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Hallo,” he barked, then immediately followed with a slightly less caustic, “Glenshire, may I help you?” They’d been taking bookings for the past several months and he still had a devil of a time answering his own damn phone like the receptionist in a bloody hotel.

  “Ye can start by tellin’ me why you didnae at least give our lovely lass Erin here the chance to tell you how many bloom-in’ zeroes were goin’ tae be on that check you so blithely turned down. Ye foofin’ arse.”

  Oh, for Christ sake. Getting chewed out by his brother was about the last thing he was in the mood for at the moment. “I’m doin’ the work of ten men here and have little time for your dramatics, Brodie. Tell Ms. MacGregor that if she’d like tae lease the place in the fall or winter when bookings are slim, we’d love to reconsider. Now, if we want our guests to be able to take a piss while they’re stayin’ here, I need to get back to replacing the pipes in the loo.”

  “No need to get, well, pissy,” Brodie said, far more amused than abashed by his eldest brother’s outburst. Damn his perennial jovial heart to hell.

  “Glad I can entertain. If ye’d really like tae help, get Marta to take over the bar and get your foofin’ arse out here. Preferably with a wrench in your hand.” He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply. It wasn’t entirely fair to jump Brodie like that, he and Reese had pitched in more than their share when they could get away from their own businesses, as had Tristan, when they could drag him in from the fields. But Dylan wasn’t much in the mood to be fair and impartial at the moment.

  He stomped back into the WC, forcibly pushing aside any concern save the recalcitrant pipes he was trying to replace, and once again positioned himself beneath the sink. Only to find his thoughts wandering immediately to a pair of dancing green eyes and a lively, confident smile. Other than being a female, of which he’d seen few enough of late, there was nothing particularly fetching about the Yank. Ms. Baggy Bum, with that off-kilter gait and hair cut off all short and shapeless.

  He sighed and positioned the wrench back around the offending fitting. But when he bent his will back to the job at hand, it was exactly those khaki clad hips that refused to leave his thoughts. And then there was the way her mouth kicked up at the corners, as if she was in on some amusing bit of news of which he was the last to know.

  Frustrated by his inability to shut the Yank from his thoughts, he vented his ire a bit too heavily and snapped the corroded section clean in two, sending a spatter of rusty gunk spraying across his face and neck, and a stream of foul language spewing from his mouth.

  “My, my. Have a bar of soap handy? Looks like your face and mouth could both use a good swipe.”

  Dylan squeezed his eyes shut and worked mightily to keep his tongue under control as well. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Hallo, Mrs. Dalrymple. I didnae hear you come in. My apologies. These pipes are proving a wee bit of a test.”

  “So, I see. I rang, but with all the clanging and swearing going on, ’tisn’t a wonder you didn’t hear me. I didnae want to drag ye away from your work, so I thought I’d let myself in.”

  I just bet you did, he thought unkindly, not particularly sorry for the sour sentiment. Letitia Dalrymple ran the bakery in the village with her daughter, Sally. Letitia and her good friend, Doris, who, along with her husband ran the butcher shop just off the square, were two of the busiest bodies in Glenbuie. They’d formed a knitting club some time ago with several other women of their generation—more of a gossip club if you asked him—and no one in Glenbuie had had a moment’s peace since. He’d only had to deal with it for the past two years, and that with the added buffer of living way out here. Through a miracle of patience, Brodie and Reese handled the lot of them without much concern and he’d as soon leave them to it.

  But with all three of his brothers either newly married or about to become so, Letty and her cackling horde had set their sights on him. The puir widower Chisholm. Naturally Reese, Brodie, and Tristan found this highly amusing and did their best to assist the women in their endeavors whenever possible.

  Letty scooped a rag from his tool chest and dangled it over his head. He forced a tight smile as he took it and wiped it over his face and neck. “Thank you.” He shoved himself out from under the sink. At this point he’d have to tear the whole damn thing out, which he’d been afraid of, the cost of which he’d been hoping to avert with a few replacement parts. Why he’d thought anything he might do around here would actually save a few pounds, rather than cost him a whole pocketful more of them, he had no idea. It never seemed to work that way. Now he was out valuable time as well as money.

  He rolled to his feet and wiped his hands off on his pants. “What brings you out this way?” Other than just having to stick your nose into everybody else’s business, namely mine.

  Standing as she was in the hall, she cast her gaze through the open door opposite the loo and took a look about. There were two large dormer-style rooms up here on the third floor of the central section of the house. One dormer was ready for guests, but naturally the room Letty was examining still needed some finishing work. He hadn’t been planning on getting that one completed in time for the opening, but had to get the WC functioning as he had a party of four booked into the finished dormer.

  “It’s quite the mission you’ve undertaken here, Dylan.”

  “Aye, that it is.”

  “More than a man alone could hope to complete, but I see you’ve put yourself fully to the task.” She shifted her gaze back to him, and that dreaded look of affectionate concern clouded her expression. If there was one thing he hated more than the villagers poking their nose into his business, it was their collective concern over his bachelor status. Her bottom lip pursed as she tilted her head slightly and said, “I would imagine all the hard physical labor you’ve put into this place since your return has been somewhat therapeutic for you.”

  Here we go. “I suppose it has been,” he responded honestly, knowing his return home had been both therapeutic and cathartic for him. Just not for the exact reasons Mrs. Dalrymple assumed. “Is there anything specific I can do for ye?” he asked, striving to sound patient. He gestured to the broken pipe. “As you can see, I have my hands full, and with less than a fortnight until my first guests arrive, I—”

  “What did you think of that nice Erin MacGregor? Wasn’t she a breath of fresh air?”

  Dylan swallowed a groan, and perhaps a few more swear words as well. It was a vain wish indeed that the villagers would leave him alone. “She seemed very pleasant, but I—”

  “Pleasant? Why she seemed a wee bit more than simply pleasant, wouldn’t you agree?” She gestured to his face. “Ye’ve a bit of something still on your cheek there.”

  Sighing, Dylan shifted to look in the mirror, ignoring the rather frightful sight of himself as he dutifully cleaned off the rest of the splattered gunk. But it was hard to ignore the weary fatigue etched on his face. It was no wonder his sudden appearance had startled Ms. MacGregor so badly. Och, but he needed to rid himself of her image, and of the busybody, Letitia Dalrymple, and get back to the task at hand. “I appreciate you stopping by,” he said, turning toward the stairs, hoping she’d take the not-so-subtle hint.

  “Why didnae ye take her up on her offer? A man out here alone, under such an immense burden, and here she was, bright and lovely as
a spring day, offering you a solution to your woes.”

  Dylan’s gaze narrowed, but he refrained from asking her just exactly what woes she was referring to. “I appreciate your concern, but the bed and breakfast will open as projected and we’ll do just fine without her offer.”

  Letty was not so easily swayed. “She was such a bright young thing, don’t you think? With all the younger generation heading off to Edinburgh or Inverness, it was refreshing to have a lovely new face in town.”

  Dylan tried not to grind his teeth as he forced a smile. “Be that as it may, as you can see, I’m quite busy with the demands here. I’ve no time to have my head turned.”

  “Darling lad, every man has the time for that. You can’t lock yourself up in this monstrosity forever.” Letty placed a hand on his arm. “I know how difficult it must be, starting over. Why I was just telling Doris the other day how hard it must have been for you to come back here and start over all alone, having had such an exciting and fulfilling life end with such tragedy.” She patted his sleeve. “But move on we must. You canno’ pour all your heart into this place, Dylan. She’s a demanding mistress, aye, but she canno’ keep ye warm on the long winter nights. Dinnae close yourself off so. We’re all here to help, ye ken. We’ve only your best interests at heart.”

  Dylan briefly covered her hand on his arm, then gently freed himself from her grasp, trying to remind himself that she really did mean well. He just didn’t understand why it was that everyone assumed he needed a woman in his life in order to be happy once again. Not that he minded the concept. Someday. But when the time came, he’d like to think he could handle that particular endeavor on his own. Not as some kind of pathetic village project.