Tall, Dark and Kilted

by Lizzie Lamb

  ‘That’s better. I thought you’d lost your sense of humour,’ he murmured against her hair. Then he held her at arm’s length and grinned, his cobalt eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Well, come on. Put me out of my misery.’

  For one crazy moment, Fliss thought he was asking her to rip his shirt off, throw him over the island unit and make love to him. Although she schooled her features, her expression must have given her away because he threw his head back and laughed uproariously.

  ‘Engaging as that thought is, I actually meant - tell me all about your day of triumph. Isn’t this the moment when you say: I told you so - the therapy centre is going to be a great success.’

  ‘I told you so; the therapy is centre is going to be a great success,’ she parroted, applying the brake to her runaway senses. ‘I’m booked up for the next two and a half months. Right up to the time you return from the Far East.’

  ‘Show me. Then, if you still want to ravish me on the granite worktop I’m all yours, but I think it would be bloody cold and uncomfortable when there are sofas and beds going begging in the house.’ As intended, that made her laugh and the awkward moment passed. He looked into her face, clearly sensing something else was bothering her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Murdo. He looked positively stricken over the viral. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but what’s the deal with him and your sister?’

  ‘Simple. When Isla was growing up she hero-worshipped Murdo. Then, when she was about fifteen, the Urquhart cousins - bloody fools - started teasing her, calling her Mrs Murdo, the Factor’s wife. Telling her that she’d marry him and give birth to a ginger haired brat every year until she was too old and raddled for any other man to want her.’

  ‘Nice one.’ The Urquhart cousins sounded a load of trouble and Fliss hoped never to make their acquaintance. ‘And I suppose she was at an age to take that sort of thing to heart?’

  ‘Absolutely. So for the last five years she’s been giving him the run-around, wanting him; not wanting him. Murdo’s waiting for her to grow up but he won’t wait forever. In fact, I think she’s just used up the last of her nine lives with him.’

  ‘The YouTube viral, you mean? I’m surprised that you took it so calmly,’ she began, anxious to know what his take on it was.

  ‘When I first found out I was furious and then I realised that was exactly the reaction Isla wanted. I figured that, by not acting according to plan, I’d spike her guns. Obviously, the viral and bringing you up here as a honeytrap - not to mention resurrecting the therapy centre against my wishes, were her way of paying me back for grounding her and Cat.’

  ‘It all seems a bit Machiavellian and over the top, even for her. Why does she do these things?’

  ‘Because she can?’ Ruairi shrugged. ‘Papa spoiled her and Cat rotten. Luckily, I’ve been able to reverse the damage with Cat, but Isla - well, she’s a completely different matter - out of control and out of hand.’

  ‘I found out about the viral just after we’d been on the island and have been stressing over it ever since,’ Fliss confessed.

  ‘Because you knew about it, but didn’t say anything to me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now it was out in the open she felt better.

  ‘Let me put your mind at rest. I’ve known about it for some time - it’s not exactly something that Isla could hope - or even want to keep secret. I was waiting for the right moment to play my ace. I think my timing was bang on, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, anxious to explain herself fully so there were no further misunderstandings. ‘You see, I decided - no matter what had happened between you and me, I couldn’t grass them up.’

  ‘Rest assured, Fliss, I wouldn’t expect you to betray a friend - even two as undeserving of your loyalty as Cat and Isla.’ Her relief was palpable and he must have felt it, because he changed the subject and held out his hand. ‘Come on, show me your appointment diary, Angus says it’s almost full.’

  Leading him into the drawing room, she made him sit on the yellow brocade Knowle sofa and placed the diary across his knees. With her kneeling at his feet, Ruairi turned over the handmade pages and ran his finger down the list of names. As she waited for his judgment, she spent a pleasurable few moments studying the way a shaft of amber light streamed through the west facing windows and touched his dark hair, how his eyelashes curled down over his sunburnt cheeks and a tuft of dark hair poked out of the neck of his t-shirt.

  ‘Very impressive Miss Bagshawe. I’m detecting the hand of Angus in this roll call of the best families in the highlands?’

  ‘You should have seen him. He was a complete star. Twisted arms gently up backs and applied velvet thumb screws. He worked his little cotton socks off today.’

  ‘Big cotton socks, surely, in Angus’s case?’ Ruairi closed the diary and handed it back to her. It was tooled in the finest leather and slightly cumbersome; it slipped out of her hands and landed at their feet. ‘Butter fingers. Let’s hope you do better with your clients.’

  ‘Usually the best hands in the business,’ she said and held them out for inspection.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Ruairi pulled her towards him so that she was kneeling between his knees. ‘As you know, many Highlanders believe in Taibhsearachd or Second Sight.’ Regarding her seriously, he turned her hands over and searched her palms as though the future lay there. Then he traced slow circles on the sensitive skin at the base of her wrists with his thumbs, his eyes on her as he waited for her reaction to the rhythmic stroking of her erogenous zone.

  ‘L - like Nurse McLeish?’ Fliss stammered.

  ‘She certainly knows how to do spooky,’ Ruairi was suddenly serious, ‘and her predictions usually come true.’

  ‘A baby within a year,’ Fliss mused. ‘I wonder whose’

  ‘Well, as long as it’s not Cat or Isla’s I don’t really mind.’

  ‘She certainly came over all fey when Iona was born, made my blood run cold and shivers run down my spine.’ The slow circling of her wrists now moved down to her palms and was having much the same effect. She marvelled at his composure when every nerve in her body was zinging. ‘You were saying - about second sight?’

  ‘Well, if I had the sight, I would know what your reaction would be when I did this.’ Swiftly he changed places so that she was sitting on the sofa and he was kneeling at her feet. ‘Then this,’ he pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘And finally, this.’ He pushed her gently down onto the sofa and then bent his head towards her.

  His kiss was soft and tentative. Closing her eyes Fliss surrendered to it, breathing in the warm scent of his skin. She heard a sensuous moan, but it took several seconds before she realised she was the one who’d made it. A more physical reaction followed close on the heels of her moue of surrender as Ruairi pulled her close, deepened and prolonged the kiss. A current of electricity crackled between them and triggered a sort of madness in her. Weaving her fingers into his thick dark hair, her tongue found his lips and boldly pressed them apart. Then the tenor of their kisses became more urgent and this time it was Ruairi who gave a deep cry of such longing that a delicious charge surged through Fliss on hearing it.

  ‘Fliss. My God - stop.’ Briefly, he put her from him and sat back on his heels, evidently feeling that it fell to him to call a halt before things got out of hand. He ran shaky fingers through his hair and struggled to bring his breathing under control. Fliss looked back at him, knowing her eyes were shining, her hair tousled, and her lips bruised from their furious kisses.

  ‘I don’t want to stop,’ she replied with a confident brazenness that surprised her. ‘Do you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  He swung her knees up onto the sofa, laid her on her back and placed a cushion under her head. Hooking his hands under her knees, he pulled her forward and then joined her on the sofa, his pelvis thrust against the soft curves of her body. His breath snagged as he whispered against her ear: ‘Is this what you want, Fliss? If you’re unsure, now would b
e the time to call a halt.’

  He paused in their lovemaking long enough to tip her chin up. She opened her eyes, sighed and laid two fingers against his lips.

  ‘I want you more than I have ever wanted any man in my whole life. Can’t you tell?’ She knew it was time to be honest with each other. Even if nothing - apart from the success of the therapy centre, had been resolved. Life couldn’t always be orderly and organised, she realised that now. Sometimes a leap of faith was required. She felt ready to take that step with Ruairi - and without looking down to check that a safety net was in place to catch her when she fell.

  ‘Then - it’s what we both want,’ he responded huskily.

  His hand, which had been holding her chin, slid down the column of her throat and came to rest on the row of pearly buttons that fastened her low-cut camisole. Bending his head, he kissed the line his hand had just traced; and then, slipping his hands underneath the hollow of her back, tilted her pelvis upwards and closer to him. Fliss caught his hair in her fists and pressed his face into her breasts, throwing her head back and exalting in her ability to make this proud man want her. She was so lost in the power of his lovemaking that when he raised his head and sent one last, questioning look before unfastening the remaining buttons, she felt bereft. However, the feeling was fleeting as Ruairi’s lips soon found the warm hollow of her clavicle and then continued downwards.

  In command, he raised his head and looked into her face, as though he needed to be doubly sure before their lovemaking passed this point. Wordlessly, Fliss took his hand and laid it on her breast, her look establishing there was no going back. Ruairi pushed the fine material of her camisole aside and his lips found her nipple, which was pushing up against her cotton bra. He grazed it with his teeth through the material and then pushed her bra cup aside, revealing her breast in all its glory.

  ‘Christ, oh Fliss …’ His warm mouth covered her nipple and he murmured something indistinct against her skin. She held his head and urged him closer to her breast, encouraging him, willing him not to stop as his hand slid along her thigh.

  Then - a sound. A different sound

  For long seconds, neither of them registered what it was, or where it was coming from. Then Murdo repeated his call.

  ‘Ruairi. Ruairi? Do you read me? Over.’

  Dazed, they glanced towards the kitchen where Ruairi had left his gilet. With a regretful sigh, he rolled off Fliss, scrambled onto his feet and fetched the two way radio, muttering about wanting to throw it in the deepest part of the loch.

  ‘This’d better be an emergency,’ he said, assuming the mantle of Laird of Kinloch Mara and answering Murdo’s call. ‘Hi, Murdo. What’s the problem?’ His eyes stayed on Fliss’s face as he knelt down by her side, reached out and cradled her breast. Fliss turned her face into the back of the Knowle sofa, closed her eyes and revelled in his touch.

  ‘One of Mitzi’s guests has had too much to drink and hit the gate post on the north drive with his Merc. The police are here but he’s refusing to be breathalysed. In fact, he’s already pushed Callum McDonald into the wee moat that runs under the bridge. Over.’

  ‘Damn. Can’t you deal with it, Murdo?’ Then, evidently remembering he was responsible for everything that happened on his land, he pulled himself up sharp. ‘Okay. I’ll be there in five minutes.’ With that, he hung up and clipped the walkie-talkie onto his belt.

  ‘Trouble?’ Fliss asked unnecessarily, propping herself up on her elbows - very much aware of her nakedness.

  ‘No more than to be expected with Mitzi’s crowd.’ Drawing a dark mustard cashmere comforter off the sofa, he covered her with it. ‘Nothing for you to bother yourself with, Fliss. Wait there, I’ll be back. Fifteen minutes - tops.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘It’s a promise.’

  He bent lower and kissed her hard on the lips before drawing apart with extreme reluctance. She caught his yearning look and desire squirmed like a beguiling serpent in the pit of her stomach.

  Ruairi sprinted through the hall and out of the house like an ardent lover.

  And for the first time in her adult life, Felicity Amelia Bagshawe did as she was bidden.

  Chapter Thirty One

  A tap on her bedroom door woke Fliss the next morning.

  She stretched out languorously - then remembered the humiliation of trying to maintain her seductive pose on the sofa until it dawned on her that Ruairi wasn’t coming back. After that, a sleepless night wondering what she’d done wrong and why he’d got cold feet. And finally, the realisation that she’d been a fool to drop her guard and show how much she wanted him.

  There it was again. Knock, knock, knock.

  ‘Fliss. Can I come in?’

  ‘Go away.’ She pulled the covers over her head and wished Ruairi Urquhart half way to Hell - or Heathrow.

  ‘Please may I come in … I’ve got breakfast and an apology.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? Just. Go. Away.’ The door opened a crack and Ruairi entered bearing coffee and toast on a tray. Fliss gave him and the breakfast a scathing look. Sitting up in bed, she pulled the duvet higher so that only her eyes were visible. She hoped they were sparking with anger and sending out the message that things had changed since last night.

  ‘It’s the best I could rustle up in the circumstances. I’ve spent all night with that fuckwit - sorry - Hugh Auchinloch in A&E having the gash on his head treated, and insisting that he give a blood sample to the police.’ Lowering her fourteen-tog yashmak Fliss registered that he was wearing yesterday’s clothes and in need of a good shave.

  ‘You smell of - whisky,’ She wrinkled her nose. So, while she’d been languishing on the Knowle sofa getting colder by the minute he’d been knocking back the uisge beatha with his irresponsible friends.

  ‘That’s because Auchinloch threw the contents of his hip flask over Murdo, Callum and me in a drunken fit - like we were ghosts and he was exorcising with holy water. Although in a way it was holy water; a twenty five year old single malt from his family’s distillery near Spey Bridge,’ he made a feeble joke. ‘The eejit.’

  His use of the archaic word made her smile.

  Plainly emboldened, Ruairi edged further into the room, put the tray down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. He handed Fliss a cup of very strong coffee and toast on a plate. She drew her knees up to her chin, making sure the spaghetti thin straps of her nightie didn’t slip off her shoulders and give him the wrong idea. She wouldn’t be going down that particular road this morning - thank you very much. No matter how sexily crumpled he looked or how much her body yearned for his touch.

  ‘Apology?’ She sensed a distance between them that hadn’t been there last night. As if he was already thousands of miles away in Hong Kong and back on the money-raising slog amongst ex-pats.

  ‘Yes, another one. I hope you didn’t … wait too long for me.’ His pause showed he felt awkward about last night. ‘By the time I was able to get to a pay phone - the mobiles don’t work round here, as you know - it was late. Very late. I couldn’t get the picture of you …’

  ‘Lying on the sofa waiting for you?’ Like an eejit, she felt like adding. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I gave it fifteen minutes - realised you weren’t coming back - and then got on with tidying up the therapy centre.’ Pride made her hide the truth that she’d languished on the sofa for more than an hour.

  ‘Fifteen minutes?’ It was plain he thought she should have waited a bit longer before giving up on him.

  ‘Give or take. I could hardly just lie there - now, could I?’ She blushed at the picture she must have presented, hips tilted at an inviting angle and her breast exposed - albeit underneath the cashmere comforter.

  ‘No. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you’ve said.’

  During the ensuing silence, Fliss drank her bitter coffee and hid her expression behind the mug. Bleak-faced, Ruairi looked out of the window obviously regretting his impulse to visit her, and searching for a
suitable exit line.

  ‘This was a bad idea.’ He rubbed his hands over his stubble and then raked his fingers through his hair - a tell-tale gesture which, she was beginning to realise, meant he was on the back foot and unsure of himself. Getting up, he put his mug on the tray and then turned to face her. ‘We never seem to get a clear run at this. At us - do we?’

  ‘There’s always something or someone in the way,’ she agreed, her froideur beginning to melt in the face of his discernible regret.

  ‘Story of my life.’ He gave a mocking smile and pulled the cuffs of his rugger shirt down over his knuckles as if he was suddenly chilled. And in a blinding flash, Fliss understood. As Laird of Kinloch Mara, his life was as curtailed by duty as hers was by lack of opportunity and poor prospects. It was hard for either of them to break free.

  The Laird and the Therapist.

  It sounded like a salacious headline in a Sunday red top, but there was more to their relationship than that. Last night, they’d made a connection beyond the physical and they both knew it. Hugh Auchinloch’s drunken accident had probably saved them from making complete fools of themselves and starting down a road that could only lead to heartbreak.

  The Therapist and the Laird.

  Fliss sensed what it must have cost this proud man to come to her bedroom. Not as many men would have done - to pick up where he’d left off last night - but to explain and apologise. And she’d thrown his apology back at him. He’d taken the first step, now it was down to her to swallow her pride and reach out to him this time.

  ‘I think,’ she began and slowly lowered the duvet, ‘that I fancy the Full Scottish up at the Big Hoose with Jaimsie playing a reel on the terrace outside the dining room. Not, The Laird’s Lament, mind; something livelier - that Strathspey reel he often plays in the mornings when I watch you beating the bounds with Murdo.’