He looked down. Blackie, crouched by his feet, swung his head up, staring intently into his eyes with almost preternatural intelligence.
It was crazy. It would never work.
It was his only chance.
Nolly’s Black did not win the Great Hebrides Sanctioned Trial. He didn’t even finish. But the crowd gathered there that day would never forget his farewell performance. One minute the spirited little dog was sitting atop the knoll while the northeast gate beneath opened and twenty stupid sheep bustled in, and the next he was peeling off at a dead run toward the northwest corner of the field. He didn’t look back once, never doubted his handler or his directions.
When he came to the end of the field, he cleared the fence with a grace that left the spectators gasping and rising to their feet. The black-and-white Border collie shot along the dirt path, heading for the auto park. Only when he came abreast of a tall blonde woman wearing a “Kiss My Thistle” T-shirt and heard the long rising blast of the cutting whistle did he stop and show confusion.
He herded sheep, not leggy Americans. The directions came again, this time the down whistle, curt and decisive. It was enough for Nolly’s Black. He cut in front of the woman and crouched, eyeing her with all the power at his command. The woman shuffled to a halt, regarding the dog uncertainly. The audience stood in the stands, binoculars raised, as Dev Montgomery broke from the line and ran down the knoll heading for the bottom of the pasture.
The girl took a step, Dev whistled, and Blackie came in on a crouch, flat and intimidating. The girl hesitated; the dog moved cautiously forward. The girl made a gesture that even at a distance the crowd could read as part embarrassment and part annoyance and started to move around the dog. A long falling whistle sent Blackie scuttling to cut off her escape. By now Dev had vaulted the fence and was racing along the path. The girl turned and saw him, stood irresolutely for a minute, and then, with a defiant lift of her chin, marched to meet him. Blackie stayed put.
Whatever Dev Montgomery said to her, no one in that crowd was ever to know for sure. Donnie McGill, who later claimed to be instrumental in the odd, sensational courtship of the Laird of Oronsay and his lady, asserted that Dev asked her one question: “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Whatever his question, Toni’s answer was clear. She flung her arms around his neck.
The crowd went wild.
CONNIE BROCKWAY
Award-winning author Connie Brockway s books appear regularly on best-seller lists, including USA Today and the extended New York Timed list. An avid traveler, animal lover, and history buff, Connie considers writing historical—and now contemporary—fiction the best of all possible careers.
Her next book is The Bridal Season, a romantic romp set in Victorian England. It will be available in November of 2001.
Sinfully Scattish
PATTI BERG
Acknowledgements
Tons of appreciation to Maggie Crawford. Without her, I wouldn’t have gotten to take such a delightful trip to Scotland, a land I have fallen in love with and hope I can someday visit for real. And many, many thanks to Michèle Bidelspach for the eleventh-hour editing of this sinful little romance—and for loving it so much!
1
Lust. Seduction. Sin. At last, everything Emily Sinclair had been searching for was only a few footsteps away, just behind the thick stone walls of an ancient Scottish fortress.
The last one off the tour bus, she ambled across the emerald green lawn and up the cobbled garden path. While others talked about the riotous purple and yellow flowers that surrounded them, it was only the Gothic castle that caught Emily’s eyes. It loomed over her, its dark turrets and spires a menacing yet majestic display of grandeur, unlike anything she’d ever seen.
Amazed by the unexpected opulence, she drew in an awe-inspired breath and with wide, wonder-filled eyes walked through the first of several archways that led to the formidable stronghold. She’d never dreamed Dunbar Castle would be so… so unfairytale-like. Nor had she ever imagined it would be so… perfect.
“Our beloved castle, unlike others in Scotland,” the tour guide said, “is not rich in glorious tales of Bonnie Prince Charlie feasting in our great hall or Mary, Queen of Scots slumbering in one or more of our bedrooms. Nay, Dunbar Castle canna boast about its lineage of heroes or braw warriors because, if truth be told, honor and virtue have not run rampant within our crenellated walls.”
A definite understatement, Emily thought, especially if the incredibly wicked tales she’d heard in the village pub this afternoon could be believed.
“While other castle tours give visitors a glimpse into history with talk of war and political intrigue and possibly offer a few brief tales about a headless ghost or hauntings by a Green, Grey, or maybe a Pink Lady, we prefer to give our guests a fascinating taste of our castle’s infamous past.”
Infamy. Insatiability. Indulgence. That’s exactly what Emily wanted to hear about, but the docent’s voice came across as barely a whisper at the back of the gift shop, where the tour of the castle’s interior began. Getting stuck behind forty-three other castle visitors would never do, Emily decided, and squeezed through the crowd for a better vantage point
Not for the first time she wished she was five-foot-ten rather than five-foot-two—a height she achieved only by stretching on her tiptoes when being measured. She pushed past elbows and backpacks and emerged at the front of the group just as Gillian, their guide and the woman who’d driven them here from the quaint Highland village of Dunbar, led them through an impressive stone hallway lined with ancient tapestries and shining armor.
“Please follow me and remember, no food, no drink, and no cameras, flash or otherwise.” The black-haired, blue-eyed beauty in a green-and-blue tartan jumper winked. “Black Andrew, our first laird—who, some say, still watches everything that goes on in and around the castle—would not approve.”
No one mentioned tape recorders not being allowed, but just to be safe Emily kept hers hidden in the pocket of her blazer, and made sure her right side stayed fixed on Gillian so she could catch every intriguing word the young woman uttered in her soft, rolling burr.
“Andrew Dunbar was born in the thirteenth century. He was a very wealthy merchant who bought—and oftentimes took—whatever he wanted.”
“You called him Black Andrew,” one of the tourists said. “Why?”
“For his temperament, of course. And for the color of the blood that ran through his veins.” Gillian grinned, obviously enjoying her tale as she led them up the circular stone staircase to the top of the keep. “It’s said that Black Andrew lured puir wee lassies from the village to his… bed, and he had many, many beds within the castle walls. Then, when he tired of the lassies, he’d bring them here.” She turned her palm upward and gestured at the scenery around them. “Bonnie, isn’t it?”
It was magnificent. Emily shaded her eyes from the sun peeking through the early evening clouds and surveyed the ruins of the nearby abbey and its graveyard, the serene pastures where woolly, long-horned Highland cattle grazed, the cultivated pastures they’d been told were planted with barley, and the rolling green lawn that stretched from the castle to the placid, dark blue loch. It was hard to believe that anything wicked had ever happened in these pastoral hills, but she was very glad it had.
“If Black Andrew was tired of the women,” one of the female tourists said, “why did he bring them up here?”
Gillian strolled toward the stone parapet and looked down, down, down at the ground below, as did every tourist, even Emily. “To kiss them heartily.” She smiled mischievously. “To whisper sweet nothings in their ears. Then he’d lift them in his big, strong arms, and… fling them over the side.”
A few women gasped. One slapped her hand to her chest in astonishment. The man standing next to Emily smirked as he shook his head, obviously not buying any of this. Emily didn’t know if it was true or not, but it made for great storytelling, and that’s exactly what she was looking
for.
“I’ve heard tales,” Gillian said, “that even though the women’s bodies were shattered in the fall, each died with a smile on her face.”
Black Andrew must have been quite a man, Emily thought. An attentive lover who believed in pleasing a woman, almost till her last breath. Andrew was a dying breed; at least that’s what her somewhat limited experience with lovers led her to believe. For good reason, business—albeit a sexy business—was her only concern anymore.
“Tell me,” a timid tourist asked, raising her hand slightly, “do the women Black Andrew killed haunt the castle?”
“Nay. He made their last days on earth such pleasurable ones that they had no reason to hate their killer or to come back and haunt the halls. Black Andrew is our only ghost, doomed to walk the earth until a Dunbar laird marries and lives happily ever after. He’s been dead for eight centuries now and, sadly, still haunts the halls and the abbey.”
With that bit of information dished out in a bubbly tone, as if the mostly American group visited haunted castles every day, Gillian headed back down the stairwell, a flock of attentive sightseers following behind.
“I heard Black Andrew had a bedroom hidden behind a secret passage,” Emily said, catching up with Gillian. “I heard the room’s magnificent, that the ceilings and furniture are gilt, and that the bed is draped in velvet, satin, and far.”
“I’ve heard those tales, too, but if the room exists, I haven’t seen it.”
Too bad, Emily thought. A secret room, especially one with a lascivious past, where unspeakable bliss took place, would provide the perfect backdrop for one or more pages of her next Sinfully Delicious cookbook. Already she could see something decadent, like Seduction, a frothy concoction of white and dark chocolate mousse capped with a swirl of rich ganache. The luscious dessert would float in a kaleidoscope of raspberry and dark chocolate sauces and be presented atop an antique gold platter nestled amidst the rumpled pillows and satin sheets on Black Andrew’s bed.
And the caption: The allure of silken smoothness and sublime pleasure tangled in a mysterious web of.…Seduction. She’d follow that with a tantalizing tale of sinful delights, leaving out, of course, the sordid endings to Black Andrew’s many romps. This new cookbook would definitely be another best-seller.
However, she’d have to get access to the secret room before she could photograph anything, a difficult task, indeed, since this tour was the closest she’d been able to get to the castle or its owner in three months of trying. Colin Dunbar, the current laird, was elusive, not to mention rude. He’d ignored every one of her letters and all of her phone calls. What he didn’t realize was that she could be just as determined as he was difficult.
This tour might last only an hour, and an audience with the laird was not on the itinerary, but she didn’t plan to leave with the rest of her group. She planned to find the enigmatic heir of Dunbar Castle and photograph the interior of his home—something that had never been done before.
She might be short, but she was extremely tenacious—and in business she always got what she wanted.
At the moment, however, she settled for being a regular tourist, gawking at the magnificence of the furnishings and antiquity as they passed through the great hall and moved on to the chapel, where the wives of the lairds had prayed for their husbands’ fidelity—“An impossible feat for a Dunbar male,” Gillian said—and finally entered a massive, high-ceilinged room paneled in dark walnut with a floor of flagstone.
“It was in this very room—the game room—that Black Andrew played chess with the devil,” Gillian told them. “It’s a tradition that has continued through the ages, although successive lairds have often chosen different games.”
Fascinating, Emily thought, as she studied the room, wondering what dessert would be most appropriate here. Blissful Victory? Hmm, not a bad name; not a great one, either; but oh, what fun she could have creating an incredibly decadent yet playful dark chocolate confection to photograph atop the ornate billiard table. Naturally she’d drape something sinful over the table. A lacy corset. A silk stocking. Maybe a pair of men’s white dress gloves, an ebony walking stick, and a long rope of luxurious pearls.
There were any number of terrific photo backdrops in this room, which was a mishmash of centuries and styles. A scattering of elegant Louis XVI furniture sat on a colorful oriental carpet in front of the long and narrow windows that looked out across the loch. In one of the corners was a table set for chess with baronial chairs on either side, and at least an eight-foot-long plush black leather sofa rested in front of a fireplace so big she could drive her rented car inside.
Emily couldn’t help but wonder what games the current laird played in this room, on that sofa, and if he played with the devil, his wife, or with puir wee lassies from the village. Surely he was just as wicked as his ancestors, the men in the portraits Gillian was pointing to now.
“Which one’s Colin Dunbar?” a tall, buxom blonde asked. She wore three-inch red spikes, as if she needed any extra height, a tight, low-cut white tank top, with a lacy red bra underneath, and even tighter jeans. She’d been silent throughout the tour, as if she found the legends and history of the castle boring, as if she’d come here for one reason only—to see the castle’s owner. Of all the nerve!
“Our current laird is a private man,” Gillian told her. “You’ll not find his picture here.”
“Too bad.” The blonde sighed. “Is there any chance we’ll get to see him?”
Emily’s ears perked up.
“Unfortunately,” Gillian said quite emphatically, “he likes his privacy.”
Darn!
“Are there any portraits of Black Andrew?” the woman who’d clapped her hand to her chest earlier asked. “I’d love to know what it was about him that was so fascinating to women.”
“Our first laird lived long before portrait painting was fashionable, I’m afraid. But it’s said that Alexander Dun-bar, the man whose painting hangs above the fireplace, could have been his ancestor’s twin.”
The blonde stepped between the portrait of Alexander and Emily, as if she were invisible. Most people were courteous and realized that Emily didn’t have X-ray eyes that could see through their backs. The blonde, however, was anything but courteous. Emily stared at the woman’s tanned shoulder blades for less than a second, then took two steps to the right and gazed up at the gilt-framed portrait that had caught everyone else’s attention. Her jaw nearly dropped to her knees. The man was absolutely gorgeous! Sexy and gorgeous! Wickedly gorgeous!
“He was a swarthy fellow with hair as dark as the night,” Gillian said about the man in tall boots and riding attire, sitting astride a magnificent black stallion. “And even in the painting it’s hard to miss the intensity of his eyes.”
Or the color, Emily thought. The same deep, fathomless blue as the loch outside. Mesmerizing. Hypnotic, as if one brief glance from the man could make you his forever, could make you do anything he asked, make you even do things he didn’t ask, and enjoy every moment of it.
His half smile was magnetic; his lips were slightly parted and glistened in the beam of sunlight the painter had swept across his face, making Alexander look as if he’d just licked them, as if he’d just kissed a woman and wanted more. A lot more.
“Castle records tell us that Alexander had a special bed made for him by craftsmen in France,” Gillian said.
“Special?” Emily asked, immensely curious. Immensely enthralled. “Why?”
“He was too tall for any of the beds in the castle, even the bed that Black Andrew reputedly… used, Alexander ordered a bed that would comfortably accommodate a man of his height—for you Americans, that was about six-foot-five. Dunbar lairds have been quite tall ever since, and I daresay they’ve all looked quite similar.”
“How lovely.” The bosomy blonde moved so close to the portrait it looked like she wanted to climb right into Alexander’s arms. The woman was obviously on the make, and more than likely she planned to sne
ak away from the group to find Colin Dunbar herself.
Well, Emily had first dibs on the laird. Once her business with him was successfully completed, the blonde could have him. She wasn’t interested in anything more. Sex, as Emily knew all too well, wasn’t one-tenth as satisfying as hard work.
“And now, if you’ll accompany me to the gift shop, you may sample our very own Dunbar whisky.”
“What about the arched hallway?” Emily asked, wanting to see the place that held nearly the same intrigue for her as Black Andrew’s secret bedroom. “Won’t we be seeing it?”
“I’m afraid the arched hallway isn’t on this tour. If you’d care to come back to Scotland on Halloween, we give a special ghost tour. It’s quite exclusive. A two-hour exploration of the castle dungeon and, of course, the arched hallway… the place where the wife of each laird is said to have been buried or, I should say, walled up alive.” A grin touched Gillian’s face. “Wives have always been expendable at Dunbar Castle—after they’ve delivered an heir, of course—and mistresses have always been plentiful.”
Again she smiled, definitely enjoying her job. “Now, to the gift shop.”
Emily wanted to hang back, then slip away from the group when no one was looking and hide in the game room, but she’d seen the minuscule security cameras and alarms. The current laird had taken every precaution to keep trespassers from violating his space, to keep his treasures from disappearing.
Obviously Colin Dunbar trusted no one. Tourists couldn’t picnic on the grounds or browse on their own, the way she’d done at other castles in Scotland. Sightseers couldn’t even drive their own vehicles to the castle. Instead they were herded into a cramped bus and driven nearly three miles over a rutted, winding road, through a towering gate set inside a tall and thickset stone fence, to the castle grounds. It would be a long walk back to the village once she accomplished the first part of her mission, but it would be worth it.
My Scottish Summer Page 8
