My Scottish Summer

by Connie Brockway

  Iain shifted her in his arms, adjusting her weight while he traversed a stony turn in the path. “Over the years a great many people have gone searching for the Matheson jewels. When I was twelve, I had a notion to find them myself. I spent a year searching every nook and cranny of the castle. I didn’t find a trace of them.”

  “You didn’t have the clues that Adair Matheson left in his journal. With them, I am confident we shall find the jewels.”

  “It will be interesting to see that journal.”

  The path led directly to a thick wooden gate in the stone wall that stretched along the perimeter of the castle. When they reached the top of the cliff, she said, “I think I might manage to walk from here, if you would like to put me down.”

  “There is no need to take the risk.” Iain smiled at her, warm and genuine, a smile fashioned by God to tease any poor mortal female who wandered into his path. “You are as light as thistledown.”

  She resisted the urge to argue with him. Again. Her cheeks burned when she thought of how easily he had incited her temper. The man had the most infuriating way of ambushing her normally dependable emotions. She was not the type of woman who allowed emotions to rule her. Slow and steady, that was her motto. An archaeologist could not rush through a site without the risk of missing something important. She had always been well suited to her career. Until now, she hadn’t even realized she possessed the capacity for a quick temper.

  “Are you feeling all right, Professor? You’re looking a little flushed.”

  She forced her lips into a smile. “The wind.”

  Thick black lashes lowered as he looked down, his gaze sweeping over her. Although he didn’t touch her, her skin tingled as though he had brushed his hands over her breasts. “You’re cold.”

  Strange, she should feel cold. Her clothes were soaked, the breeze was cool. And yet the cold didn’t penetrate the odd warmth he conjured within her. As they approached the gate that opened into the sunken garden of Dunmarin, it opened. Rose marched onto the path, followed by three other ladies. They paused when they saw Ann and Iain.

  “It looks as though you’ve been fishing, Iain.” The lady to Rose’s right lifted the glasses that hung from a gold chain around her neck. She peered at Ann through the lenses, her blue eyes filled with humor. “And you’ve caught yourself a mermaid.”

  “Aye, the fishing has never been better.” Iain grinned at Ann, then looked at Rose. “Have you organized your bridge ladies to come hunt for us, Gram?”

  “We were going to take a look about before we started our game. Just to be sure you were all right. Although I knew there was no real reason to worry. Ann is far too sensible to get into any real trouble.” Rose patted Ann’s hand. “Still, you look as though you have taken a soaking.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I did.” Ann glanced at Iain, expecting him to reveal the rest of the embarrassing story. Yet he merely grinned at her, apparently content to keep his own counsel.

  Rose turned to her friends. “This is the young lady I have been telling you about. Ann Fitzpatrick, I would like you to meet three of my dearest friends. Deirdre Fraser,” she said, gesturing toward the lady who had made the mermaid comment. “Beatrice Brodie, and Joanna Shaw.”

  Each lady expressed her pleasure at meeting Ann and she returned the favor. Short and thin, Joanna looked to be close to Rose’s age, if not a little older. Beatrice looked to be in her late sixties. She also looked as though she enjoyed desserts more than exercise, a direct contrast to Deirdre, who looked as though she thrived on activity. Ann guessed Deirdre was the youngster of the group. She supposed the woman was in her late fifties or early sixties, although she could have been older and simply fought the battle against age better than the other ladies. Deirdre was also the only one of the group who had not allowed her hair to fade into gray, wearing her light chestnut locks in an elegant twist on top of her head. Deirdre was the type of woman who had been a notorious beauty in her youth and intended to maintain her looks until she died.

  “You’ve lost your shoe.” Beatrice winked at Ann. “Just like Cinderella when she left the ball.”

  “Now I would wager there is an interesting story behind that shoe,” Joanna said.

  “Well, I…” Ann hesitated, reluctant to betray the story behind her shoe, and her own negligence.

  “Her foot became caught in a crevice. We had to leave the shoe behind,” Iain said, quietly dispatching the curiosity Ann could see in four pairs of eyes.

  “You better get out of those wet things before you catch your death,” Rose said.

  “Aye. Until later, ladies,” Iain said, before leaving Rose and her friends on the path.

  “You didn’t tell them that I was a hen-wit,” Ann said, when Iain carried her into the house.

  “Your behavior was hen-witted, not you, Professor.” He grinned at her. “And I saw no reason to add to the gossip.”

  After carrying her down miles of corridors, up two flights of stairs, and down another wide corridor, Iain set Ann on her feet in the hall outside her bedchamber. “Here you are. Safe and sound.”

  Ann curled her bare toes into one of the sapphire roses stitched into the thick wool of the carpet that ran along the center of the oak-lined floor. She felt like a child who has just been returned after managing to get herself lost in the woods. “Thank you, for everything.”

  “It was my pleasure.” He looked at her, a whisper of a smile curving his lips. “I am looking forward to this treasure hunt, Dr. Fitzpatrick.”

  Ann stared at him. The last thing she wanted or needed was Iain Matheson poking about in her expedition. He had the most alarming way of turning her brain to mush. “I didn’t realize you intended to stay for more than a day or two.”

  “I intend to stay for as long as it takes to solve this mystery. It has been plaguing my family for over two hundred years. It is only natural that I would want to be part of your quest.”

  “Yes. Of course.” It was his home and his family treasure. She had no authority to ban him from searching for the lost Matheson jewels, even if she wanted to banish him from the island for as long as she was here. Since he was going to insinuate himself into her expedition, she would have to manage her reaction to the man.

  Now that she realized how easily he could stimulate her sensibilities, she would be better prepared to handle these wayward emotions, she assured herself. She certainly had no intention of allowing a silly attraction to a scoundrel spoil the chance of a lifetime.

  “When you change, would you mind meeting me in the library?” Iain smiled at Ann, one of those smiles designed to add a beat to a woman’s heart. Her own heart was racing too hard to notice. “I am anxious to take a look at Adair Matheson’s journal.”

  “Of course.” Ann turned and walked into her room with as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn’t much, considering the state of her clothes. Her wet jeans chafed with each step she took. Each step made her feel like a drunk on New Year’s eve, since she wore an inch-high heel on one foot and nothing on the other. Still, she forced her shoulders back and her chin high.

  She only wished she didn’t feel his gaze. Without looking, she knew he was watching her. His gaze tingled along her spine, as though he were running his fingertips over her skin. As much as she resisted the pull, she could not keep from glancing over her shoulder. He was still standing in the hall, staring at her, a slight smile on his lips, a curious expression in his dark eyes. He looked at her as though she were some rare breed that he had never before encountered. She turned away from him and closed the door, appalled at the heat simmering in her cheeks. The attraction would pass, she assured herself.

  She had an excellent chance of making what could be one of the most significant archaeological finds in history. And with it, she could give her great-grandfather the recognition he deserved. Nothing would keep her from solving the mystery that had led him to disaster.

  3

  Iain stood near one of the French doors in his library, wat
ching the rain drift across the rose garden. The weather could change in a heartbeat on Dunmarin, which was nestled in the Atlantic just north of the Isle of Skye. It was one of the things he loved about this place—unpredictable, when so much in life was not. The fragrance of the sea and mist mingled with the scent of flowers from the garden, filling his every breath.

  Beyond the cultivated expanse of the garden, with its neat beds of perennial flowers and rose bushes, stood the tall trees of a wood that one of his ancestors had planted. Mathesons had lived on this island for more than seven hundred years, and each generation had left a mark. Still, it was the very nature of the island that had always fascinated Iain.

  In the distance, beyond the influence of man, the rugged slopes of Ben Alainn rose to embrace the sky, its peak dissolving into the mist as though it reached into another realm. Heather grew wild upon the rocky slopes, spreading like a lush purple quilt over the ground. Although he had houses in other parts of the world, this place was the one that always drew him back, where he always felt at home. His mother had told him it was because his soul had returned here time and time again.

  His Highland blood allowed Iain to accept the possibility of past lives, just as he accepted the possibility there was more to the world than what could be seen and felt. He had been raised on tales of myth and magic, and all of his life he had believed there was more to the tales than simple imagination.

  Although a sound did not betray her, Iain sensed the moment Ann entered the room. His skin tingled as though he stood naked in a summer storm. He turned and found her standing near the large claw-footed desk across the room. His gaze met hers. The attraction sizzled through him in a wave of heat that swept from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

  He stared at her, stunned by the sensations gripping him. It was the same as it had been that first time he had looked at her photograph, an odd familiarity, as if he had known her all of his life, as if she had always meant something special to him. It had been a very long time since he had felt an attraction this powerful. Now that he thought of it, he could not remember ever being hit with such force, as if a strong wind had snatched him up and set him down hard, leaving him dazed.

  Although she was pretty—her cheekbones well defined, her nose slim, her face an appealing oval—when compared to the women he usually dated, there was nothing exceptional about her looks, except perhaps her eyes. They were beautiful, pale blue irises surrounded by a darker blue, the same color as the dark blue sweater she wore. Her hair was lighter than it appeared in photographs. Now that it had dried, he could see it was a light brown threaded with gold. The thick tresses fell in soft waves against her shoulders. Even as he tried to analyze the attraction she held for him, his instincts understood.

  Indecision had never been one of his vices. He knew what he wanted when he saw it. He wanted Ann. In fact, he had wanted her from the very first moment he had looked at her photograph. He had a strange feeling he had wanted her even before he had known her name. He had dated some of the most beautiful women in the world, and not one had attracted him as this pretty schoolteacher from Chicago did.

  Ann held a soft-sided briefcase against her chest, as though it were a shield. She was looking at him as though she were alone with a lion and she wasn’t quite certain if he was hungry. What would she say if she knew just how hungry he was? What would she do if he crossed the distance between them and took her into his arms? Would her soft lips part for him if he kissed her? Would she slide her arms around his neck and hold him close against her?

  The virulence of the desire pumping through his veins astonished him. It took every ounce of his will to maintain a thin veneer of civilized man, when all he wanted was to claim the female in his company.

  Iain had no idea how long he stood staring at her, entranced by the spell spinning around them, finally broken when Ann looked away. She stood for a moment dragging air into her lungs, as though she had spent too long underwater. She felt it too, the same violent attraction. He knew enough about women to recognize desire when he saw it. It burned in her eyes when she looked at him. He could also see that the attraction she felt for him scared her half to death.

  “I brought the journal. And a few things I thought you should see.” She set the leather briefcase on the desk, her no-nonsense tone spoiled by the blush riding high in her cheeks.

  Ann stepped back when he drew near, as if she were afraid she might get burned if she stood too close. He smiled at her. “Relax, Professor, I’m not going to bite. There is no reason to be frightened of me.”

  “Frightened?” She parted her lips as though she were going to say something. Yet it took another second for the words to flow. “I am certainly not frightened of you. There is no reason why I would be frightened of you.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” He stepped around the desk, allowing a safe cushion between them. “We will be working together for perhaps the entire summer. In that time I hope we can become friends.”

  She glanced down at the floor. “Friends. Of course.”

  Friendship was just one thing he wanted from this woman. He opened the top drawer of the desk, pulled out a blue folder, and handed it to her. “Before we get started on the journal, I want you to see this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A report. I think you should sit a moment and take a look at it.”

  She did as he suggested, her face revealing her curiosity as she sat in one of the leather wingback chairs near the desk. Iain sat on the edge of the desk in front of her while she opened the folder.

  Ann glanced at the photos, then looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I did some research about you, Dr. Fitzpatrick.”

  “Research?” She stared at him as though he had suddenly sprouted horns and cloven feet. “You had someone follow me?”

  “I wanted to make certain you were who you said you were. If you look through the file, you will see there is nothing of a personal nature in it. It reveals no more than a job application might. Please take a look at it.”

  Although she looked doubtful, she glanced at the report, lifting each page as though it might leave stains upon her fingers. When she turned the last of the three pages, she looked up at him. Although he expected to see anger in her eyes, she surprised him by merely looking curious. “Why did you show this to me?”

  “I have always held honesty in high regard. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t let you know that I had done some research about you, after you contacted my grandmother. On more than one occasion a reporter has tried to insinuate his or her way into my house. I wanted to make certain you were who you said you were.”

  “I can understand your concern.” Ann drew her shoulders upward, as though she were cold. “Since we are being so honest, I should tell you that I did a little research into your family as well.”

  Iain cringed inwardly when he thought of all the articles that had been written about him over the past few years. “I hope you keep in mind, not everything that is printed is necessarily true.”

  Although Ann did not believe everything she read, particularly when it was written in a newspaper built on the gossip surrounding wealthy celebrities, when a man kept showing up in those newspapers with one famous woman after another, she certainly had to believe there was some amount of truth to the stories that followed him. It shouldn’t matter to her. She could not possibly think of Iain Matheson in romantic terms, not unless she completely lost her mind.

  She glanced down at the folder that outlined her nice, orderly, boring life. She and Iain Matheson resided in two completely different worlds. She taught archaeology. He ran a multibillion-dollar corporation. Her father was a retired aerospace engineer. His father was the earl of Dun-marin. She lived with her grandma Evie in a lovely 109-year-old Victorian house that Evie’s grandfather had built. When he was not gallivanting around the globe, Iain lived in a huge 700-year-old castle on this remote Scottish island, an isl
and his family owned. She had never in her life indulged in a casual affair. His liaisons were emblazoned across the pages of supermarket tabloids. Different worlds. Yet as much as she wanted to crush it with all of the logic at her disposal, she couldn’t deny the attraction he held for her.

  She set the folder on the desk and walked to the open French doors, needing to put some distance between herself and the maddening Highlander. The sound of rain pounding the stone terrace filled up the silence stretching between them. Although she kept her gaze fixed on a small statue of a sea lion just off the terrace, she could feel Iain’s gaze upon her. Any thoughts of romance were insane. Yet here she was imagining what it might be like to feel his arms around her, his lips upon hers. “Your personal life is really of no concern to me. My only interest here is in finding the Celtic cross that was hidden along with the Matheson jewels. I need the cross to continue my great-grandfather Owen’s work.”

  Ann heard him approach behind her. Her heart pounded so wildly, she was afraid he would hear it and recognize just how vulnerable she was when it came to this irrational attraction. Although he did not touch her, she sensed him standing close behind her, his warmth radiating against her, tempting her to turn toward him. She crossed her arms over her chest and sought some focus, some means to escape the need swelling within her. Yet she could not run and hide, no matter how frightening the sensations he evoked within her.

  He rested his hands on her shoulders, his palms warming her through the soft navy blue cotton of her sweater. With gentle pressure he coaxed her to turn to face him. What she saw in those dark eyes startled her so completely, she forgot to breathe.

  No man had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now, as though she were not merely beautiful, but the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her life’s experience had not prepared her for the potent masculinity of a man such as Iain Matheson. He was a man who had toppled the Hollywood marriage of America’s sweetheart. A man who made a practice of dating women who made a living by convincing all the mere mortal females of the world that they too could look divine if they only used a certain brand of lipstick. She was just one of those mortal females.