Bad Boys In Kilts

by Donna Kauffman

  Sighing in regret, for that and the fact that her wonderfully rejuvenating shower was over, she stepped carefully out of the tub and grabbed a couple of towels. Heck, as many of those as she’d gone through already, maybe she could repay him by doing laundry for the rest of the night.

  Which led her completely inappropriate thoughts circling back to him, and wondering what he was doing right that moment. Wrapped in another towel, slung low on those lean hips? Or still in the shower, with all that hot, sudsy water running down his chest, over that flat belly, only to get all hung up on—Jeez, Bree.

  She wrapped her hair in one towel and used the other to dry off. She had to stop thinking about him like that. Really, she did. In a few minutes she’d be facing him again and she couldn’t afford to be distracted by ... well, by anything other than sincerely thanking him for his help and offering to somehow repay him for his selfless kindness. She could not be thinking about the way that towel had clung so precariously to his lean hips. And she definitely couldn’t be thinking about how those soaking-wet boxers had clung to, and indecently outlined, every inch of his anatomy. Some inches more indecently than others.

  She tried, and failed, to remember him as the crazy man she’d initially believed him to be, wildly gesticulating at her and looking so fierce. Instead, all she could remember was him turning to her in the middle of a deluge, extending his hand ... and grinning. Her heart had literally skipped a beat. There he’d stood, mostly naked, long hair plastered to his neck and shoulders, grime and grit streaked across his wet and gleaming torso, with lightning dancing about the skies and thunder rocking the ground beneath their feet. All things considered, that smile should have made him look even more visceral and wild ... and it had. But not in a way that had made her want to run screaming into the night. Quite the contrary.

  He was completely different from any man she’d ever met. A rough-hewn Scot, tucked away far out in some rural landscape, doing heaven knew what to get by for a living. A man who, at the first sign of danger, had run straight at it without thought to his own safety or comfort.

  Those wet boxers flashed through her mind again. She really had to stop that. And she would. Any second now.

  Leaving her hair wrapped in a towel, she reached for the pile of clothes he’d brought. The first thing she noticed was how soft they were, well worn and laundered. Without thinking, she buried her nose in the soft cotton. Yes, it smelled like home. No artificial scents, just the aroma of fresh, clean air. He’d dried these outside, she’d bet on it, just as her mother had, and as she had, as well. Stupidly, it made her eyes well up. God, she missed her old life. The slow pace, the peaceful surroundings, the people who all knew your name and cared about you as one of their own.

  She was just tired, she told herself, sniffling back the tears and putting the pile of clothes back down. She shook out the t-shirt and slipped it on. The shoulders were halfway down her arms and the hem fell past her hips. His broad chest and well developed shoulders and arms flashed through her mind. She rubbed the soft cotton on her skin, imagining him in this shirt, pulling it over his head and—

  Right, right. She was stopping.

  She pulled on the drawstring pants, then had to roll them down a couple of times on her hips to keep them up. The ends trailed past her feet, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. The fabric was too loose and soft to be rolled up. She pulled on the thick socks and found herself relaxing into the soft comfort the clothes brought to her. It was too steamy in the bathroom to need the sweatshirt he’d given her, but looking down at the way the t-shirt hung on her bare breasts and detailed the very erect nipples she was sporting at the moment ... she yanked the hooded sweatshirt over her head anyway. Or tried to. She’d forgotten about the towel wrapped around her hair. A minute later she was in a straitjacket of towel, hair, sweatshirt, and drawstring.

  So, naturally her erstwhile savior and host chose that moment to knock. “Beef stew okay with you?” he called through the door. “I’m afraid the menu is limited.”

  Bree’s response was a muffled grunt.

  There was a pause, during which she managed to make things worse rather than better. Turning in circles as she fought with the sleeves and snarled hair, she managed to bang into the towel cabinet.

  “Is everything all right?”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. At what point had her life gone from a Hitchcock movie to a Laurel and Hardy filmfest? Straining her neck in order to find a breath of available air, she called out, “I’m stuck.”

  She heard him fumble with the door. “Are you decent?”

  Now she did laugh. Asked the man who had just spent the past hour running around quite indecently, she thought. “Yes,” she managed.

  Her face was completely swallowed in towel, hair, and sweatshirt, so she felt him enter the room, rather than saw him.

  “Here, here,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder to still her movements. His touch made her jump, but not so much in surprise as in ... well, as in she really didn’t need to go there, now did she? Bad enough she was standing in his bathroom, wearing his clothes, and feeling every inch the naked woman she was beneath them, too. Then there was the fact that she had no idea what he was wearing ... or not, as the case may be. More images she definitely did not need went floating through her mind. And to top it all off, he was touching her with such gentle confidence. Using those beautiful hands of his.

  “Hold still.” He tried to turn her with his hands on her shoulders, but she was so tangled, he opted to steer her around with his hands on her hips. She swallowed a little moan when he held her hips square, then tugged her a little closer. She could only hope he assumed it was the discomfort she was in, not the fact that his mere proximity was tangling her suddenly reawakened libido into far more complex knots than this sweatshirt-hair-towel combo could only hope to achieve.

  “You’ve made quite a nest of it,” he said, almost more to himself than to her. “See if you can slide your arm down a little—no, no.” He stopped her movements by taking hold of one arm, then sliding his hand from wrist to bicep. If he had any clue what havoc his touch was wreaking with her senses ...

  He tugged a little. “Okay, I have hold of the towel and the shirt. All you have to do is move your hand a little and—”

  She slid one arm free, and that gave her just enough wiggle room to get her other arm extricated. Suddenly loose, the sweatshirt tugged at her snarled hair even more as the towel fell mercifully to the floor. “Ouch,” she said, wincing as she grabbed for the sweatshirt.

  He did, too. “I have it now. Ye’ve only to hold still.”

  She did as he asked, trying hard to keep her restored line of vision aimed anywhere but at his chest, which was mere inches away. It didn’t matter that he had on a t-shirt now. Her memory was quite fine, thank you very much, and incredibly detailed, as it happened. He worked to untangle the wet strands from the drawstring that ran through the hood of the sweatshirt. She found she was more than willing to let him toy with her hair as long as he wanted to. He was very gentle and she was rather enjoying the view, no matter what she told herself. She’d given up trying not to stare. It’s not like he cared, or knew where her thoughts were going anyway, right?

  “Och, but you have a horse’s mane, that ye do.”

  How flattering. That was one way to cure her of her wandering imagination. If only it had worked. “Sorry to be such a pain.”

  “Dinnae worry,” he said, in that smooth burr of his. “No extra charge for the second rescue. And I didn’t have to risk drowning in anything but terry cloth and hair this go.”

  She felt her cheeks heat a little. “Not that you’ll believe this, but I’m generally a very self-sufficient woman.”

  “Oh, I pass no judgment. You’ve had a hard enough time of it.”

  “You have no idea,” she murmured.

  His hands paused for a moment, then continued with the mission. “There,” he pronounced, freeing her from the sweatshir
t string. “All is good. Though it might take you a wee bit to get a comb through it.”

  She took the sweatshirt from him and their gazes locked for a moment. “It’s usually a bit of a nightmare. I’m used to it.”

  He said nothing, just held her gaze, that slight half-smile of his playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s quite lovely, really. Worth the effort, in my book.”

  She was so caught off guard by the compliment she wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d said it directly enough, with no real overtones, save that hint of a smile. Whatever the case, the moment ended when he broke eye contact to reach down and scoop the towel off the floor.

  “I—uh, thank you,” she stammered. Oh yeah, she was smooth. Dined with royalty, no problem. But couldn’t untie her own tongue in the presence of a hot Scot. “I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me. If there is anything I can do—”

  “Just come out by the stove and settle in, warm up. If stew is all right with you ... ?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be glad to help do ... whatever.”

  He cut her off with a real smile. “Grab a comb and follow me. I have a feeling I’m going to have the easier job at my task than you will with yours.”

  She found a comb, scooped up her dirty clothes, and followed him out to the main room. After insisting, he reluctantly let her take her things to the laundry room and load the washer. As she tossed his muddy things in as well, then added soap, she realized she was smiling. In spite of the earlier, harrowing drama, she was, to be quite honest, very content with her situation at the moment. Though not intentionally, it appeared as if she’d stumbled across exactly what she’d been looking for when she’d raced out of Edinburgh this morning, and driven headlong into the highland mountains, wanting only to get as far away from civilization as possible.

  Well, she’d accomplished that. She’d landed in an alternate universe of sorts, where no one knew her name. No one cared what she did for a living. No one cared if she ever wrote another word. At least it felt that way at the moment.

  It should have given her pause at the very least, stuck with a strange man in the middle of nowhere, cut off from everyone, not a soul knowing where she was. But it was that very notion that had her smile warming to something approximating an actual grin.

  A taste of true freedom. At least for now. And for now, a taste was enough. More than she’d thought possible.

  She recalled following him out of the bathroom and down the hall. Her gaze had been drawn to the jeans he was wearing ... and how he was wearing them. Long, lanky legs that she happened to know were very nicely defined. His t-shirt had fallen in a straight sheet from his broad shoulders, left untucked at the waist. His thick hair was drying in long waves that reached well past his shoulders.

  As alternate universes went, she found herself thinking the view from this one was pretty spectacular ...

  And she couldn’t help but wonder just how long she could play at being Alice in her new little wonderland.

  Chapter 6

  Tristan paused at the door to the mud room and watched her for a moment, undetected. She looked completely ridiculous swallowed up in his shirt and pants. Her hair was a snarled mess. But she was smiling as she started the washer on its cycle, and seemed relaxed and content. And for whatever reason, that settled something inside of him. He wasn’t used to having company and was generally quite satisfied with that status quo. So why the thought of having her here didn’t bother him quite so much, he couldn’t say. Especially given that she’d been nothing but trouble thus far. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

  She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, but her smile didn’t falter as she closed the lid on the washer and turned to him. “It was the least I could do, trust me.”

  “Stew is heating. Why don’t you come sit by the stove, warm up.”

  She picked up the sweatshirt and comb and followed him back to the living room. Jinty looked up from where she’d settled in the middle of the room. She thumped her tail, but went back to the chunk of rawhide Tristan had given her to calm her down. He motioned to the chair closest to the peat stove. “Here,” he said, shifting the chair and accompanying footstool so they angled closer to the warmth of the fire.

  “Thank you.” She sat and went to work on untangling the snarls.

  He watched for a moment, knowing he should make himself scarce and give her some space ... but not particularly motivated to do so. “So, what sent you out into a raging storm in that little buggy of yours? Or did you get caught unawares?”

  She paused for a moment, and he could see the mental debate she waged. So ... there was more to the story then, as he’d thought. As it was, he was having a hard time matching the calm, seemingly level-headed woman who sat before him, with the panicked, borderline hysterical woman who’d been trapped in her own car an hour earlier. Perhaps she simply didn’t do well under pressure, but his instincts were telling him otherwise. And the silent debate she was waging backed that theory. He sat on the end of the oak-plank coffee table and waited for her response.

  “I definitely got caught unawares. But, I—my life has been a little crazy of late, and I was just trying to, um, you know, get away from things for a little while. I was still struggling to learn the whole shifting left-handed thing and driving on the wrong side of the road—then the storm just whipped up, with the wind and everything, and right in the middle of it a sheep jumped in front of my car and I lost control. Anyway, as I said, I’ve been a bit frazzled of late, and I certainly didn’t handle the whole situation as well as I otherwise might have.” She’d gone back to picking at the knots in her hair with the comb during her little speech, the most she’d spoken since they’d crossed paths.

  And she carefully hadn’t looked at him once, he noted.

  So, she had been running from something. From her “crazy life.” But it wasn’t any of his business what that crazy life entailed. At least she wasn’t the hysterical twit he’d thought her to be, and he should just be thankful that she’d be out from underfoot by morning.

  As it happened, he didn’t feel quite like that. It made him think back to what Brodie had been teasing him about earlier today. Which now seemed a lifetime ago, given everything that had happened since. Thing was, he did like his life out here. He enjoyed the solitude and serenity. Not that he minded the village and the bustle and noise. On occasion. For very limited periods of time. He wasn’t a hermit, but he didn’t like to be in the throng of things. Nothing wrong with that. Out here he was left to his own devices, the king of his domain. He enjoyed dealing with the tenant farmers and handling their issues, as they were few and far between and generally left him plenty of time to herd the sheep, contemplate the world, and sketch and paint to his heart’s content. If anything, he’d always assumed others would be jealous of his lifestyle, not the other way around.

  Only Brodie had had one point. Companionship was something he missed. Specifically that of a female nature. But that was where things got tricky with the life he’d carved for himself. About the only female who was compatible with it, or would ever be, was Jinty.

  Just then, his guest winced as she picked at a particularly bad snarl and he was reaching for the comb before he thought better of the gesture.

  “No, that’s okay,” she said, automatically shifting away from him. Not alarmed, but not exactly comfortable, either.

  He slipped the comb from her hands anyway and shook his own unruly mop. “I happen to have some experience with this and there have been more than a time or two when an extra pair of hands and someone with some patience would have come in handy.”

  She did glance up at him then, a hint of a smile on her lips. “You are blessed with more patience than I, and I can’t blame that on ulcer-inducing stress or killer fatigue,” she said, then apparently realized she’d let a little too much slip. But she didn’t look away.

  He held her gaze, and found himself imagining how he’d draw her. Pastels, maybe. Charcoal first, t
hough, to get the feel of all those sharp angles. He wondered if her face was always so lean, almost hard at the edges, or if it was a result of that stress and fatigue she’d just mentioned.

  He realized he could have continued to stare into those eyes, questions upon questions coming to his tongue, for an endless period of time before tiring of the view. So he nudged her shoulder and said, “Shift around, sit on the hassock here. Let me get the worst at the back.” He pushed the padded footstool that sat between her chair and the coffee table more squarely between them. “You face the fire and let me work on the knots.”

  “You’ve done more than your share, and I’m already intruding on your hospitality. I—”

  “Humor me. I don’t often have company out here. It’s just me and my sheep.” As if sensing her exclusion, Jinty took that moment to thump her tail on the floor. Tristan laughed. “And my girl, Jint. But she’s not much for chatting. If you’d like to repay me, not that you need to, but I wouldn’t mind the conversation.” He looked back at her—and realized he didn’t know her name. He switched hands with the comb and stuck his right one out. I’m Tristan, by the by. Tristan Chisholm.”

  Instead of making her feel more comfortable, however, his overture made her go completely still. She stared at his hand, then at him. She glanced past him, taking in the room, looking for or at what, he had no idea, then finally back to him. “I’m Bree,” she said, finally looking back at him and taking his hand in a quick shake.