Bad Boys In Kilts

by Donna Kauffman

  He was preoccupied as well, but only partly on the matter very literally at hand. Her ever so lovely and quite talented hands.

  She’d given him the opening he needed ... she wanted to stay. Now it was up to him to prove that her trust in him was well placed. He already knew he had the trust of his family and friends. He’d make this work.

  He groaned as she stroked him, thought his legs might not support him. Then she was kneeling before him and examining her handiwork quite up close and—“Dear God in heaven. You’ve eternity to stop doing that,” he said on a sigh of deep appreciation.

  Aye, he’d find a way to make this work, or die in the trying.

  Chapter 11

  Bree was flipping through the sketch pad she’d found on the floor when Tristan came back into the bedroom.

  “Alastair is here. You ready to go salvage—” He broke off when he saw what she had in her hands.

  “I don’t claim to know anything about art, but these are really amazing,” she said, then glanced up to find him looking rather guilty. “It’s okay,” she reassured him. “I mean, it surprised me a little. No one has ever drawn me before. Awake or asleep.” She flipped through a few more pages. “I wish I looked as good for real as I do in your eyes.” She looked at him. “It’s flattering. Embarrassing, kind of, but flattering. Were you going to show me?”

  “Probably. Maybe.” He entered the room and she handed him the pad with a laugh.

  “Well, at least you’re honest.” She smiled at him and could see he was clearly uncomfortable. “Stop worrying. If anyone understands sharing something they’ve personally created with someone else, it’s me. It’s like stripping down in public, thinking about other people actually reading my work. Have you ever shown yours? In public, I mean?”

  “No. I have my job to do here. This is just something I do for me.”

  She grinned. “There are days when I wish I’d kept mine in my desk drawer, too. And I’m the last person who should tell you to share your talent with the world.”

  His lips quirked. “But ...”

  She shrugged, smiled sweetly. “I’m just sayin’ ...”

  He returned the knowing look. “I hear you.” He tossed the sketch pad on the bed and took her hand. “Come on, let’s go see what we can salvage out there.”

  She sighed before she could stifle it. She really wasn’t ready to face her life again.

  He stopped immediately and pulled her close. “I know. I’m sorry you have to deal with it. And I’ll pay to have the canvas repaired—”

  “Please,” she said, waving away his concern. “I’m sure that’s the least of the problems with it. I had coverage, anyway.” She looked past him out the side window, but that view didn’t extend to the road out front. “I just ...” She just wanted to stay here, in Tristan’s farmhouse, with the stunning mountain and valley vistas right outside her door. She could understand why his creative talents were sparked by living out here. She had a feeling hers might be, too. She’d love the chance to find out.

  “We’ll deal with it,” he told her. “One step at a time. Car first. Then whatever comes next. It will all get done in its own time.”

  She smiled wistfully. “You’re so very pragmatic. I used to be. Somewhere along the way I lost that, lost my ability to focus on only the next thing. And instead I let myself get overwhelmed by everything all at once. It all seemed so beyond one person’s ability to manage.”

  “Didn’t you have help?”

  “My editor, my agent, a publicist. But I felt beholden to them, too. And they had other agendas as well.”

  “What about family?”

  “My parents are older, retired. I was a very late-in-life baby. When all the hoopla happened, they were hounded to the point of being in seclusion. I finally moved them all the way from Missouri to a private resort community in Arizona.” She smiled. “My dad actually loves it down there. He’s learned to play golf and almost has my mom convinced to join him. It’s turned out okay for them. The rest of my town, though they support their own, were happy to see me go, I’m sure.” She smiled a bit sadly. “I don’t want to do that to you or people you care about.”

  “One step at a time,” he told her, then kissed her on the corners of her mouth, before groaning a little and pulling her close for a deeper kiss.

  She was sighing when he finally lifted his head. “You’re just saying that because you’re enjoying the perks of having me here.”

  He slid his hands up her waist and ran his thumbs across her nipples, making her gasp. “You are perky, and I won’t deny I’m enjoying it. But I’m also a grown man who knows his surroundings ... and knows what he wants.” He nudged her chin up when she glanced away. “I want you to stay here. I want a chance to find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  He grinned. “How long we’re both going to enjoy you staying here.”

  She laughed. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “I know you might have a hard time believing it, given what you’ve been dealing with ... but sometimes it can be easy.” He took her hand, tugged her to the door. “Come on, Alastair is waiting.” He looked back over his shoulder. “One step at a time. Deal?”

  She couldn’t help it. He was like a Scots pied piper. And she wanted to follow him anywhere. “I’m trying.”

  “Wow. You get to look at this every day?” Bree topped the rocky outcropping, breathing a bit heavily. Even though she’d been out walking the moors of the loch with Tristan every day when he came in from the fields, she hadn’t gone out to run the sheep with him until today. She didn’t have her highland lungs quite yet, but for this view, she’d willingly work on it. She’d been here, with him, for two weeks now. It felt like a lifetime ... and it also felt like time was ticking way too fast. Not that there was any reason for her to leave just yet. But there was an impending sense of doom she couldn’t shake, though she’d done a pretty good job of pushing it to the background.

  That first morning, she’d contacted her agent, who, together with her publicist, had put the word out that Bree was stepping out of the spotlight to work in seclusion on her next release. Which, as it turned out, was actually, finally true.

  There was magic here. She’d felt it that first day, and it had only grown stronger the longer she stayed. She wasn’t sure if it was the utter privacy, the stunning vistas right outside her door ... or the cocoon of emotional security that Tristan had so effortlessly woven around her. For a man with an artist’s soul, he was incredibly well grounded. Just being around him extended that sensibility to her. She only wished she’d met him sooner, but perhaps the old adage was true: all things happened when they did for a reason. Perhaps it was only now, at this point in her life, that she would truly appreciate this newfound gift in her life.

  Tristan had talked with Alastair the morning they’d towed her rental car out of the gully. It had been a total loss, so rather than drag it into town and provide a trail for any diehard member of the media hell-bent on finding out where Bree had run off to—though she’d told no one, not even her agent—they’d tucked it away in one of the shearing sheds for the time being. She’d deal with it later. At the moment, she had no intention of going anywhere that required transportation. She was quite happily stranded and perfectly content to remain that way.

  Alastair and Bree had hit it off immediately—it was impossible not to love the old Scot. He was charming, and soon to be part of the Chisholm family when his daughter wed Tristan’s brother Brodie the following spring. He had vowed to keep her whereabouts and identity to himself, and made it clear that whenever the time came for her to surface, the village would rally around her and do their best to protect her privacy. They had little patience for rudeness, he informed her, and a great deal of respect for people’s right to lead their lives as they saw fit. The fact that Tristan was obviously sweet on her wouldn’t hurt her stock, either, he’d added with a wink.

  Alastair, along with two of Tristan’s brothers, Brodie an
d Reese—who threatened to show up every day, but who had so far left them to their peace—were every bit the shining knights Tristan had sworn they would be. Each had worked in their own way to assure her they’d watch her back and make sure she had the room and space to simply exist for the time being. Her faith in basic human kindness was making a remarkable comeback. She felt closer to the woman she’d been back in Mason, Missouri, than she’d ever hoped to be again.

  She hadn’t been into the village just yet, but Tristan had already warned her that while the world at large might be leaving them alone, the price to be paid would be having the village assume complete proprietary rights to their budding relationship once they came out. She assured him that small towns were small towns ... and that she rather liked the idea of being adopted into the bosom of his. Small fishbowls she could handle, because the underlying motivation was affection and respect.

  Which was what was making her so nervous. The longer she stayed, the more deeply involved she was becoming. Okay, who was she kidding? She was head over heels already, and every new thing Tristan introduced her to made her fall that much harder. It was scary how much this place suited her, soothed her, settled her soul. And how much the man himself did the same for her heart.

  Scary, indeed.

  Because something this good couldn’t last. It just couldn’t. She’d learned over the past year or so to stay perennially braced for the next wave to thunder over her. The minute she let her guard drop? Pounded straight into the beach.

  But as the hours turned to days, and the days to weeks, she wanted desperately to allow herself to believe her own personal paradise might stay intact.

  Tristan stood behind her and wove his arms around her waist. “I was thinking maybe we’d work up here sometime later this week. It’s getting a bit brisk, the closer we get to November, but if we time it for midday, it might be worthwhile.”

  He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, and she reveled in that shivery sensation that shimmered through her every time he touched her. “I’d like that.”

  He slid his hands under her shirt and skimmed them up over her breasts. She pretended to smack at his hands. “Right in front of the flock? What kind of example is that setting?”

  Tristan laughed. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve had to watch these guys mate for years. They owe me.” He nuzzled her neck, and toyed with her nipples. “If it bothers you, I’ll stop.”

  She leaned her head back against him. “Have I stopped you yet?”

  “Hmm,” he said, and she could feel him grin against her skin. He nipped at her ear. “Makes me wish I’d brought a blanket.”

  She smiled and tipped her face to the sun. “Me, too,” she said, sighing as he turned her in his arms. “Next time?”

  “You know I always like the sound of that.”

  Yes, she did. One thing she’d learned about Tristan was that he wasn’t afraid of asking for what he wanted, or making his needs known. He made her feel wonderfully desirable, and desired. And without being pushy or clingy, he made sure she knew where he stood. He wanted her here, wanted her to stay.

  He kissed the tip of her nose, then the corners of her mouth. “Will it bother you if I draw while you try to work?”

  “If we bring a blanket next time, I can’t promise either of us will get much work done,” she told him, getting better every day about telling him what she wanted, too.

  “I’m going to have to teach Jinty to fetch, that’s all there is to it,” he said. “She’d have the blanket here in no time.”

  Bree laughed. “And you tell me I’m the impatient one.” That was another thing she’d learned about him. The man enjoyed taking his time. It wasn’t taking her quite as long to learn that letting him was always a good thing for her.

  “So,” she asked, “am I going to be the subject this time, or are you going back to landscapes?”

  He’d given her carte blanche to go through his loft and she had marveled over the absolute power and drama of his work. Much to her dismay, he’d reiterated his lack of desire to show his work, but she felt it was a shame not to share his talent with others. So she’d tacked a few watercolors up in the corner of his loft that she’d sectioned off as her workspace. He hadn’t minded, so she figured maybe eventually she’d convince him to frame a few properly and hang them in the house ... and who knew—if that went well, maybe eventually Brodie would hang one in the pub, or Reese could mount one in the reception area of the distillery. Far too soon for her to be pushing him like that ... but the ideas were there anyway, in the back of her mind.

  He was trying to get her to narrow her focus, to worry more about her own needs than those of every other person on the planet. And he’d made remarkable inroads in a short time. So maybe she’d get him to expand his world just a teeny tiny bit and let others enjoy the fruits of his artistic labors. They were too stunningly beautiful not to share.

  “Maybe I want a chance to combine the two,” Tristan said. “Although you’re a lovely landscape all on your own.”

  She laughed and tugged his head down for a long, hard kiss. “You flatterer, you.”

  “I think you almost believed me that time.” He turned her back around so they could both look out over the pastures below. Jinty was barking and moving back and forth, keeping the strays in line. He propped his chin on her head. “So, what do you think? Are you game to try?”

  She knew he was talking about working up here, but she couldn’t help but expand that to include the life she was slowly embarking on here.

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, I am.” She thought about what it would be like, spending the occasional afternoon up here, working peacefully side by side. It was a way of life she could never have imagined ... and one she badly wanted a chance at keeping.

  She’d rediscovered herself here. She’d been writing longhand since starting back on the book. Not having to stare at a computer screen had also been freeing to her. She hadn’t intended to start at all, actually. Tristan had encouraged her just to relax and be, to walk the moors, settle in and not push herself. And maybe it was truly giving herself that freedom that had had her itching to get back to work. She’d been standing by the window in his loft the day the story idea had hit her, almost fully formed. Instinctively she’d grabbed one of his sketch pads and begun furiously making notes, getting down as much information as she could.

  She’d been both jubilant and emotional when she’d finally come up for air. She had begun to think that part of her was well and truly dead. She wasn’t even sure it was a good idea, but she was excited by it, and that was more than she’d had in a long, long time. She hadn’t said anything to Tristan about it, not wanting to jinx it until she’d looked at it again. Besides, it had only been one day, albeit a momentous one.

  But the next day when he’d headed out with Jinty, she’d climbed up to the loft and begun putting together a more detailed outline. Which had led to actually beginning to write the opening pages of the book. And that’s how he’d found her late that afternoon, sprawled in front of the window, with barely enough light to write by, but writing furiously, as if it might disappear on her if she didn’t get it all down right then.

  He’d flipped on the soft track lighting overhead and waved her to continue working when she’d startled at his sudden reappearance, long since lost to what time of day it was. She’d smiled at him, he’d winked at her. They’d celebrate later. Then he’d done the perfect thing ... he’d moved to one of his easels, and begun quietly working himself, sketching her. She should have felt self-conscious, and initially she had, but she was soon pulled back into her story, which was all but gushing out of her. And sharing that moment with him was celebration enough. Although the bottle of wine and bubble bath he’d drawn for them later that night had been pretty special, too.

  She sighed and tugged his arms more tightly around her waist. “What did I do to deserve this?” she murmured.

  He didn’t question the track of her thoughts—he rarely did.
They had a rhythm that was natural, easy. She cherished it already.

  “It’s no’ about deservin’,” he told her. “It’s about allowing yourself the right to live life as you please. On your own terms.”

  If anyone understood the value of that, it was the man currently holding her in his arms. And it was his innate strength that gave her the courage to voice her biggest fear. “I want to. But for a long time now, I’ve felt like I owe a lot of people for my success, that I had to somehow repay them for supporting my work so spectacularly. They just want more, and it should be flattering. It was flattering. But it was also enormous pressure. I didn’t want to let any of them down.”

  “Ye wrote them a good story, Bree. And they enjoyed it. Ye didn’t demand success, it came to you for work already well done. Ye may owe your publisher another story, but you dinnae owe them or anyone yer soul.”

  “They’d believed in me, and I didn’t want to disappoint.”

  He turned her in his arms, looked steadily into her eyes. “Who did you write that first book for? Not for them. They didn’t exist yet. You wrote it for you. And that’s the only person you should ever write for.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It can be. We’re proof of that, don’t ye think?”

  “I want to believe that. I truly do.”

  “Then take hold of it, and make it be what you want. You get to say. No one else.” He smiled. “Well, save for me, anyway.”

  She didn’t smile in return; instead, she grew more serious. “But what if—”

  “Och, Bree, ye can’t ‘what if’ yer life away.” He framed her face. “Do you want to be here? With me? Write your stories, enjoy your days?”

  “The nights aren’t so bad, either,” she quipped. But he wouldn’t let her dodge. Now he was serious, as serious as she’d ever seen him. “Okay. Yes. Yes, I want to be here. With you. And I’m excited about what I’m writing when I never thought I would be again. Yes, you’re right, I’m finally writing for me. But I am afraid. How petrifying do you think it is to know the whole world is going to judge the book, and me, and quite publicly. I’d think you of all people would understand. For the same reason you don’t share your work. You don’t want to be judged and found wanting.”