Some Like It Scot

by Donna Kauffman

  Clearly she was suffering some kind of post-traumatic stress. She had killed a wedding, after all. It wouldn’t be that farfetched.

  Her hand trembled a bit in his, and he lifted it between them. She experienced the oddest sensation as he looked from their joined hands to her eyes. It didn’t make any sense, the feeling that there was, indeed, a very powerful connection between them. One that went far, far deeper than any solace or emotional haven he may be momentarily providing. But it was there, for her, anyway, pulsing beneath the surface. She recalled his raw exclamation in the chapel. What she felt was every bit as primal and intense as that. What was going on?

  “We’ll figure it out,” she said finally, her thoughts and emotions a complete jumble, as were her intentions to leave him at the airport and strike out fully on her own. As long as her hand was in his, she was having a hard time thinking straight.

  Her fingers had stopped trembling, but her breath tightened in her chest as he shifted his hand and she thought he was breaking the…connection they were sharing, for lack of a better way to describe it. It was ridiculous, that the very thought that he might break the connection had her holding her breath. Especially since she’d hoped he’d be the one to do it, because she clearly could not. But it wouldn’t explain the anxiety that spiked inside her, or the unexplained certainty that if he broke the bond, it would somehow prove an irrevocable action.

  She had well and truly lost her mind.

  Instead of pulling away, he shifted his hand so their palms mated together, and drew their joined hands closer to his chest.

  Suddenly it seemed like there wasn’t enough air to breathe, and not enough space between them. Or was there too much space between them? Her head was swimming, and it was hard to put her thoughts in any rational order. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, regroup. She wanted to think, to be in control. It was the whole point, wasn’t it? But, once again, she did none of those things.

  Only it wasn’t because of external pressures, and certainly not for the greater good of her family, Blaine, or even McAuley-Sheffield. There wasn’t even a particle of a thought about any of them in her head at the moment—which, she supposed, should be seen as some kind of triumph…but she was too busy being avidly intent on her sudden connection to her mad Scot to find much reward in the realization.

  The moment between them extended, and her heart began to pound more rapidly. Her pulse felt like a live wire, twitching beneath her skin, plucking at her most sensitive spots.

  His eyes were like deep pools of lavender-gray that had gone all turbulent and stormy. Not with anger, but with a ferocity that only served to further heighten every sensation she was experiencing. Gone was the man who had helped calm her nerves in the prayer garden. Returned was the wild Scot who had stood inside the chapel of her ancestors and claimed her as his own, much as his own ancestors might have done in centuries past. He came from a place that was somewhat uncivilized given their adherence to an ancient clan law, a place still strongly connected to the Celt and Gael roots that her grandfather had spoken about the few times he’d tried to teach her about her ancestors.

  Up close, she saw how truly rugged his features were, the lines that fanned out from his eyes and bracketed his mouth, proving he either smiled and laughed often, or, more likely, given his island home, spent a great deal of time outside. The idea of him living in such elemental surroundings, the very idea of what kind of man that type of life must have forged, only added to those raw, visceral undercurrents.

  It was a scar, she saw, not a cleft, that divided his chin. She had to curl the fingers of her free hand to keep from reaching out and tracing its grooved, jagged path. Insane, insane, insane. The word echoed like a litany inside her head, ironically her only proof that she was anything but. Surely a truly insane person wouldn’t be aware of their own lost grasp on reality, right?

  Her attentions moved to his mouth, and it was hard to stay focused on that rational train of thought. She’d heard lips referred to, in fiction, as being chiseled, but hadn’t quite been able to picture it. Until now. For as rugged and wind-hewn as his face might appear, his mouth was perfectly etched as if from marble. She’d seen his lips curve in a smile, widen in laughter, and knew them to be inviting and warm, but, at the moment they looked as if they had indeed been carved from granite.

  His hair was shaggy and long by any corporate standard, even one such as McAuley-Sheffield, which still retained at least a modicum of its earthier connections to the more bohemian style of sailors and captains of the sea. Perhaps not anyone on the payroll, but certainly a familiar enough sight haunting the office hallways as they came in to discuss the details of their new racing slew or transatlantic yacht. Looking like they’d just rolled out of their hammock and slid their feet into a pair of Tevas, yet quite likely carrying a discreet card in their wallets containing offshore account numbers in the Caymans, where they had funds enough to purchase entire fleets of original, one-of-a-kind designed McAuley-Sheffield crafts.

  She doubted Graham sported such a card in his wallet. He’d claimed to be the wealthiest of men, but not necessarily by count of the almighty dollar. Or British sterling, she supposed, in his case. Rather than be put off by the distinction, it drew her more fully into the circle of…whatever spell it was he was weaving around her. Perhaps he wasn’t human at all, but some kind of Celtic faery.

  If Celtic faeries came in the form of six-foot-plus rugged hunks in a kilt, it would explain a lot. And she’d be quite willing to believe if it got her own questionable sanity off the hook. But the idea that the man would go so far out of his way to act on the convictions of his beliefs to take care of his people was intensely attractive to her.

  She had no business being attracted to anyone. Her wedding might have been a complete sham, but she still had a number of things to work out, before even thinking about someone else. But she was thinking of someone else. A very specific someone. Her eyes widened as she watched that someone shift ever-so-slightly closer. Like some invisible beam was pulling them toward each other, that neither had the power—or, okay, inclination—to resist. Was he really—did he think it was remotely appropriate to—she was wearing a wedding gown for God sake. Surely he didn’t intend to—and she certainly wasn’t prepared to allow him—

  “Katie,” he said, with a fair bit of gravel to his tone, which only engraved that accent of his even more deeply into her psyche. If that’s what she was calling it at the moment.

  “Yes,” she whispered, as breathlessly as any helpless heroine who’d ever traipsed across a windswept moor toward her certain doom—and was perfectly happy to do so if it meant one last, swooning moment in the arms of the ruggedly handsome, but impossibly, untamable Scottish hero.

  “Rest stop, just ahead.” The direct voice of the driver injected a cold shock of reality into the otherworld that the rear compartment in the limo had become. “Should I pull in?”

  “Uh”—she cleared her throat, more than once—“yes,” she managed, sounding choked. “Please. Good idea.”

  She would have tugged her hand free then—surely she would have—and damn the irrevocable consequences her fantasy-saturated brain had dreamed up. But his grip actually tightened and held her in place.

  Just like that, she was back in the netherworld. Helplessly stranded on the moors, but not trying too awfully hard to look for an escape route.

  “It’s no’ just me,” he said, a hint of earnest wonder in his tone. Possibly a bit of worry, as well. Maybe more than a bit. She chose to focus on the former.

  “Is it?” he asked. “Ye do feel it?”

  She could only stare, rooted to his gaze, his touch. He reached up then, and brushed his blunt fingertips softly across her cheek.

  “Do ye, Katie?” he urged, sounding every bit as confused as she felt.

  “I-I don’t know what I feel,” she said, which was partly true. She felt like pressing her cheek against the work-roughened fingers stroking her soft skin. She felt like pullin
g the palm of his hand down and placing it over the hummingbird speed pulse of her heart.

  He brushed his thumb across her lips, making her shudder as a sharper sensation of pleasure arrowed straight through her. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back as he pressed harder on the softest part of her lower lip, and clenched her thighs together against the sudden, very insistent ache that bloomed there.

  The instant she shut her eyes, his finger still caressing her lip, she was suddenly, and very intensely assaulted with vivid images of two bodies, passionately entwined, limbs twisted in linen sheets, skin sheened with sweat, as the man—beautifully sculpted, perfectly naked—pistoned himself into the woman beneath him, her long, slender legs wrapped around his hips, blond hair spread out on the mattress beneath her.

  That was no random mental scenario she was dreaming up. It was far too vivid, filled with sights, sounds, scents…happening right in front of her—except it was only in her mind, and not for real. Or was it? It felt real, sounded real…she wasn’t making it up. It was as if the entire thing had been put directly into her brain, like a memory of something that had already happened, something she was simply recalling.

  The man in her vision started to climax, arching his back, groaning, his voice so deep and guttural it made Katie gasp. When he rolled off the woman, Katie gasped again. The woman was her. The man was Graham. Only neither of them looked exactly…as they did. But it was her. And him. Only…different.

  “Katie?”

  She snapped her eyes open and the vision vanished.

  Of course it did. And of course it had been her, with Graham. She’d been the one to think it up, hadn’t she? It might not have felt that way in the moment, but maybe she was in some kind of subconscious denial of how badly she was wanting the man presently stroking her bottom lip.

  And leaning his head closer, she realized, as her own eyes widened.

  “You do feel it, then?” he said, his voice barely more than a dark whisper. “No’ only me.”

  The town car pulled off the interstate, and the slow swerve pitched Graham slightly forward, and her back. She realized their hands were still linked when he tightened his grip, pulling her forward to keep her from falling backwards. Only to lean her back slowly and follow her down.

  She should be stopping him, squirming, pulling away, telling him to knock it off. She’d just been an almost married woman. But that was ridiculous. He’d been there. He knew the whole thing had been a sham.

  Still…who made out in the back of a limo wearing the wedding dress bought for another man? Even if the man was just Blaine?

  “Miss?” the driver’s voice intruded. “We’re here.”

  “Graham—we shouldn’t—”

  He immediately pulled back and tugged her upright. “I’m sorry,” he said, steadying her, then abruptly letting go of her hand. “I—I dinnae know what came over me.”

  “No, no, don’t apologize. I…” She stopped before she said something even more foolish—like he shouldn’t apologize because she’d wanted it every bit as much as he did.

  He was still looking at her, but his expression, for once, was shuttered. “Was I alone in that moment? Be honest with me, Katie.”

  Lie, she told herself, knowing it was the wiser course. Even as she knew she couldn’t. He’d asked her, several times, while she was having heart palpitations and sex dream visions, if he was the only one feeling it. He’d just wanted to know if she was feeling the same urge to kiss. Didn’t he? Because it wasn’t possible that he’d been experiencing the same out-of-body—but totally in body, her body!—sensation she had. Was it?

  Some latent sense of self-protection finally, mercifully kicked in and she shook her head. “I don’t know what that was. But I can’t—we can’t—it’s…” She shook her head, then tucked her hands around her waist and hugged herself as she turned to look out the passenger window as the driver pulled alongside a low stone building. A rest stop. She was going to go into a gross, highway rest stop, in a twenty-thousand-dollar wedding dress. Her mother would die.

  Of course, it had been her mother who’d ordered the dress that Katie’d never wanted in the first place. Her mother wasn’t there, was she? Nor would she ever know what had happened in, to, or with the dress.

  Feeling almost jubilantly emancipated by the very thought—and clearly clinging to any thought that had to do with the part of her life she fully understood…and not the inexplicable, hormone-laden insanity that was the present moment—she shoved the door open and slid her slippered foot out. Then looked back at Graham. “It’s been a long day. I just need some time. To sort things out.”

  “Of course,” he said, lifting his hand as if to dismiss the subject between them, his expression even more shuttered, if that was possible.

  As she looked at him, it was difficult to believe just moments ago they’d shared…whatever the hell that had been.

  As she reached over to haul the length of train up to her lap, so she could turn and slide the rest of the way out of the limo without tripping over it and face-planting on the pavement, he said, “I’m—I was simply curious. I won’t speak of it again.”

  His quietly spoken words pulled her right back in. She paused, and looked over her shoulder, but she didn’t say anything. Frankly, because she wasn’t sure what to say. That she’d touched him, felt some really weird connection to him, then closed her eyes and imagined them writhing naked in some big, ancient bed? Right. It was clear he was flummoxed by whatever was bothering him. But it was probably just guilt overcoming on to her after promising things would be just business between them. She was sure there was no way it could have anything to do with the same stress-induced, feverish sex scenario that had played out inside her own mind.

  “I need to get inside to change,” she said, rather abruptly, but she had to do something. Anything. “So we don’t miss our flight,” she added, though she was once again questioning what her best course of action should be. She’d been all decided on going with Graham. Only…maybe that wasn’t the wisest move if she truly did want time and space to sort through things. Whatever their connection was or wasn’t, one thing was clear: they were both feeling it. That could only spell one thing. Danger, danger.

  “Do ye need any further assistance?” He gestured. “With the dress, or whatnot?”

  She shook her head. “But—my suitcases are in the trunk. The outfit I was going to wear when we left the reception is back in the dressing room, so I’ll need to dig something out to wear.” Another thought occurred to her. “My purse. My phone, cards, all of it, back in the dressing room.” She barked a short, humorless laugh. “Probably just as well. I do not need to see what kind of calls and messages are being left on my phone. I imagine the only thing still valid in my wallet is my driver’s license—and that’s only if Father hasn’t figured out how to revoke that, too.” Her eyes widened further. “Crap. That means I don’t have identification.”

  “Passport?” Graham asked.

  She had to stop and think for a moment, then sighed in relief. “With our travel documents, in the valise in the trunk. Oh, thank God.” It only took a moment for her to also realize that Blaine’s passport was in that same valise, and his clothes were all neatly packed back there, too. Well, she could always send the limo back to the church. Or to the Sheffields’ home. She doubted Blaine was going to need it right away.

  “Good,” Graham said. When she started to slide out again, he added, “Just hold there for a moment.” He opened his door and got out, then came around…and lifted her straight out of the car into his arms. “No need to ruin the dress.”

  There was a sudden burst of clapping from behind them. They turned to find a trio of college age coeds, grouped together by their SUV, cheering and clapping for them.

  “That’s so romantic!” one girl gushed.

  Another threw a wink at Katie. “Your new husband is one hot Scot.”

  The last of the three sighed and held her hand to her chest. “Your d
ress is stunning, and that outfit…” She fanned her face as she looked quite openly at Graham.

  Who, Katie could see from her close vantage point, was actually blushing just a little. It surprised her when he gave them a brief smile and salute. “Thank you,” he said, then carried her around to the rear of the town car, and the trunk that had already been popped open.

  “Oh my God!” one of the girls squealed. “Did you get a load of that accent?”

  Katie didn’t bother correcting their assumption either. It seemed easier to let it go. “You can put me down,” she said, so only he could hear. “I need to get in my suitcases.”

  “And ruin the show?” His smile grew, but that bit of a blush was still there.

  He let her slip to her feet, but took the train balled up in her arms from her. “Allow me.”

  Embarrassed, she thought, but still gallant. She could have told the coeds he was every bit as swoonable as they thought he was.

  “Should we send the car back with your—with Mr. Sheffield’s luggage?” he said, noting the number of bags arranged neatly inside the trunk.

  “What?” she said, still distracted by him. “Oh.” She peered inside the trunk to point out which were hers. “Hmm. These are all mine. I guess Blaine’s hadn’t arrived yet.”

  His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t comment.

  “I’m not as high maintenance as this would indicate,” she assured him. “If it were up to me, I’d go with a duffel bag and a backpack.”

  “It was no’ up to you? It was your honeymoon, was it no’?”

  “No,” she said, “it was no’.” His brow lifted a bit at her mocking of his accent, but she smiled at him, and the amusement was immediately returned if the light in his eyes was any indication. Thank goodness he has a sense of humor, she thought. He could appear quite stoic, she realized, but that steady, focused exterior hid a very complex and thoughtful man. At least that’s what she was coming to understand about him.