A Highlander's Obsession

by Vonnie Davis

  He met her several feet from the large dining table. His hands reached for hers and brought them to his lips. Quick kisses warmed her knuckles before he pressed her palms to his muscled chest. “Are ye all right, leannan?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  She looked toward the bank of windows and blinked away tears, surprised there were any remaining after her crying jag earlier. Creighton’s caring nature was her undoing, especially after the particularly nasty phone conversation with Alex. She should have kept her phone turned off and tucked away in the drawer, but the guilt for all she’d done and said had prompted her to turn it back on and answer his next call. Their conversation had not been pleasant in the least.

  Creighton brought one of her hands to his lips again and bestowed a kiss to her palm, and her insides fluttered. “Will ye tell me what troubles ye? Please dinna tell me I’m the cause of these tears. Miss Effie said ye and yer fiancé had words when he found out I sent flowers. I only wished to bring ye happiness, not pain. Never pain, luv.”

  She couldn’t look at him and retain control. Tears pooled and she cleared her throat. “Gram shouldn’t have mentioned it. Some things are private.”

  “Aye, I ken yer meaning. Me first concern is ye. Whether or not ye’ve broken up with the American is yer choice, and I’ll respect it. Although, if ye dinna, be forewarned I’ll be after ye to change yer mind.” His thumb stopped a traitorous tear as it escaped, his touch featherlight for such a large man. “Are ye okay with how things are?”

  Was she? “I’m not happy I hurt Alex, but I’m relieved to be out of the engagement. I’ve only recently admitted to myself our relationship wasn’t the healthiest. He often frightened me.” Why had she divulged that? Her gaze connected with his. Perhaps he hadn’t heard it.

  His eyes glowed golden and a growl rumbled. “Has he hurt ye, lassie?” A muscle bunched in his cheek. “Was he rough with ye? Ask any member of me clan. I dinna allow domestic violence of any kind. So, I’ll ask ye again, was he abusive?”

  “Verbally, yes.” She shook her head. “Not physically. Well … he shoved me against the wall a few times.”

  His hands tightened on hers. “And ye allowed this? Ye dinna skelp him with a frying pan?”

  To her surprise, a giggle burst forth. “No. Although, that thought has crossed my mind a time or two where you’re concerned.” How easy it was to tease him, even with all his scowls and attitude. He seemed to be a fair and kind person beneath his gruff exterior.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned in to whisper, “I’m thinking it would merely be a love tap.” He bestowed a kiss on her neck, below her ear, and her insides quivered. “Besides, me head is wondrously hard, just ask me mum.”

  “Seems your mum is a wealth of information. Ainsley told me to ask her about the curse.”

  “Ainsley? Ye spoke to Ainsley and ye didna faint?”

  She pulled back from his embrace. “Why would I faint? You told me I had nothing to fear from the ghosts here, that they were friendly.”

  He nodded, his eyebrows still furrowed. “Aye, the ghosts are harmless. Although they do appear at the worst times. What did Ainsley say about the curse?”

  So, there was a curse of some sort. Paisley loved reading about curses in Greek mythology and medieval lore. Perhaps she’d make time to speak privately with Fiona, to hear all about the mysteries surrounding the Matheson family. She pushed her glasses farther up her nose and made eye contact. “The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you.”

  His warm fingertips swept down the side of her face again. The man loved to touch and, heaven help her, she enjoyed it. “When the Highland wildflowers bloom in the spring, I’ll pick ye the most beautiful bouquet ye’ve ever seen.”

  Would she still be here in the spring? Now that her engagement was over, her life was in flux. As angry as Alex was, he probably wouldn’t hold her job for her. Her stomach growled. “I’m starving. What is Cook serving today?”

  “Shepherd’s pie and drunken lass on the green.” He chuckled when she lifted her brows. “No need to look so disgusted. Drunken lass on the green ’tis merely a salad of wine-marinated chicken breast and a wine-soaked pear and goat cheese on a pile of romaine greens.”

  “Sounds fabulous.”

  “I have meetings after lunch. Mum thought she’d take ye and yer grandma to town to visit some of the shops. Colleen is planning another cowboy-movie night fer this evening. And I aim to hold ye in me arms fer every gunfight and horse chase that flashes across the screen.”

  “Sounds like the Mathesons love to schedule their guests’ time.”

  He pierced her with a long look. “Ye are more than a guest, Paisley. Much more.”

  * * *

  “You look better today, Gram.” Paisley was pleased to see color back in her grandmother’s cheeks, and her usual bounce in her step.

  “I feel much better. I had no idea it would take me five days to recover from our long flight here.” She preened in front of a mirror, fussing with her hair. “I do not want to get back on an airplane for a long time. If ever.” Slipping a couple of bangles onto her narrow wrist, she spun toward Paisley. “How long did you and Creighton stay up after the John Wayne movie marathon last night?”

  “A couple hours. Ronan and Bryce had a few drinks with us. The three of them together are a sight to watch. Each one tries to outdo the other. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.”

  “So you enjoyed yourself?” Gram pinned a silver heart to Paisley’s red sweater.

  “Yes.” Her cheeks heated. She’d enjoyed their alone time too, after Ronan and Bryce went to bed. Creighton kissed her senseless over and over before he’d finally said good night.

  “I enjoyed the little shops Fiona took us to yesterday, didn’t you? They were very quaint. I wish I’d have gotten that blouse I saw in that little boutique. You know how I love anything in pink. Maybe I’ll have her take me back in a day or so, and I’ll splurge. Well, shall we head downstairs for lunch?”

  As soon as lunch was over, Paisley and Gram bundled up for their ride to Iverson Loch Estate. Gram was as eager as a bee in a florist’s window, and just as noisy with her constant chatter from the backseat of the Land Rover. Creighton indulged her many questions and from time to time winked at Paisley, who sat in front with him.

  The road they traveled ribboned around hills shrouded in mists. Mountains gently rolled intimately against one another and, at times, abruptly jutted toward the blue sky as if they meant to hold a private conversation with God. Paisley smiled at her musings. It appeared the Scottish Highlands were just as arrogant as the Scot sitting next to her.

  “If ye don’t mind me prying, Miss Effie, what are yer plans for the estate?” He turned onto a smaller road and drove slowly across a stone arched bridge that spanned a stream full of flowing chunks of ice. He braked at an iron gate and thumbed a code into a panel on one of the stone columns.

  “Well, if the house is as habitable as you say, we might stay on for a few months. Maybe longer, right, sweet pea? I’m still coming to grips with the fact that I own an estate in Scotland. My inheritance was so unexpected.”

  Creighton’s gaze flicked to his rearview mirror. “Really? Malcolm swore up and down ye had arrangements made with an American oil company to allow them to drill on yer property and in yer segment of Mathe Bay.”

  Gram laughed. “He doesn’t know me very well, does he, sweet pea?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do ye mean?”

  Paisley shifted in her seat so she could look at both of them. “My grandmother is known in our part of the country as a staunch environmentalist. She’s started several petitions and railed at many public meetings against developments that would endanger the environment.”

  “Is that the truth?” His dark gaze searched Paisley’s face.

  “Hon, you should see me wave a picket sign.” Gram pressed her bony wrists together and rested them on Creighton’s shoulder. “I’ve been hauled away in handcuffs
five times. I’m known as ‘Jailbird Granny.’ ” She snorted. “No way in hell would I get in bed with an oil company.”

  He became very quiet, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

  As they drove, a stone structure came into view on a rise beyond a little lake. Gram pointed. “Is that it?”

  “Aye, this is Iverson Loch Manor. Loch implies small lake, which is what ye have here.”

  Gram’s hands came together in a silent clap, her face beaming with delight. “Oh, sweet pea, isn’t it beautiful? Even with Mother Nature’s winter starkness, this is breathtaking.”

  A three-story stone house with four turrets and an attached four-car garage perched regally on a slight rise. About a hundred feet below, a small lake rippled in the breeze. The lake was rimmed by bare trees and pines on the far side; on the edge facing the house, brown grass and bushes were neatly trimmed. A gazebo occupied a flat area of ground between the dwelling and the lake. A small dock extended from the loch’s rocky banks.

  “The turrets on this house are different than the large one at Matheson Lodge,” Paisley observed, smitten by the romanticism the oval projections evoked.

  “Aye. These turrets are one story high with a pointed roof. They’re really extensions of rooms, although Angus had one partitioned off for his wife, who fancied herself a poet. She called it her writing tower. I was a teenager when she died. Ol’ Angus was never the same afterward.” Creighton’s hand covered Paisley’s, their fingers entwining. “Our turret at the lodge is a defensive tower built centuries ago for a fighting advantage. There’s a stairway to the round top on which there are crenellations and parapets from where our ancestors fired weapons.”

  “Like when the Vikings attacked?” Paisley blinked several times. Where had that thought come from?

  Creighton eased the SUV to a stop and turned off the ignition. His dark eyebrows drew into a V. “Aye. What do ye ken about the Vikings?”

  Her fingertips touched her temple where a dull headache announced its arrival. “Not much. The Vikings would have come to this land hundreds of years before the tower was built. I don’t know what made me mention them.”

  “Your Norse ancestry, no doubt. While Paisley’s father, my son, is Scottish, her mother is Danish.” Gram slid to the end of the seat and pointed to the four people lined up in strict formation. “Who are they?”

  “Your staff.” Creighton opened the door. “Hold on, Miss Effie. I’ll help ye down.”

  “Staff?” Gram’s gaze flitted from the four adults to the man who had his hands around her waist. “Can I afford a staff?”

  Creighton chuckled. “Aye, ye can afford a small staff. I’ll introduce ye.” He escorted Gram and Paisley to the line of wooden-looking uniformed servants. “Miss Effie, ye’ve already met the housekeeper, Isobel Erskine.”

  Isobel bobbed a quick curtsey. “Ma’am.”

  “How nice to see you again.” Gram stepped forward, her arms outstretched to hug the woman and quickly drew them back in response to the housekeeper’s scowl. “Did I just commit a faux paus?”

  “ ’Twill take ye a while to learn our ways. We do not hug our servants, no matter how much we trust and value them.” Creighton escorted them to the second female, young with a ruddy face. “This is Mary Kate Matheson, the cook.”

  “Oh?” Gram chirped. “A relative, Creighton?”

  “Yes, a cousin. Mary Kate has a reputation as an excellent baker. Old Angus was lucky to hire her last year.”

  “Then I shall count myself doubly blessed if she stays on to cook for me.” By the deep blush that quickly spread over Mary Kate’s cheeks and the way she averted her eyes, the young woman was quite shy. No doubt Gram would worm her way into the cook’s heart in no time.

  Creighton waved a hand toward a man in black tails. “The butler and chauffeur, Hamish Sinclair, whom ye already know.”

  “Yes, the expert golfer. I’d toss you a wink, but I suppose that would earn me another scowl.”

  Hamish chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Creighton shook his head a couple of times. “And Tom Weston, the groundskeeper and horse groom.”

  “Nice to meet’cha, Tom. I love what you’ve done with the place,” Gram purred.

  “Pardon?” His blond unibrow rose.

  Creighton wrapped his arms around both Gram and Paisley’s waists. “May I present the new owner of Iverson Loch Manor, Effie Iverson Munro, and her granddaughter, Paisley Munro. Both are under my protection and I expect all manner of kindness and courtesy extended to them.”

  A small chorus of “Aye, Laird” punctuated the chilly air.

  “Ladies, I have some errands to run in town. I’ll be back to pick you up after tea, around five.”

  Isobel and Hamish turned to escort Gram into the house while Tom hurried off toward the stables. Mary Kate bustled to a side door, shooing two cats away before she entered.

  Creighton’s arm tightened around her waist. “Paisley?”

  “Yes.” She shifted her gaze from her grandmother to his face. He leaned in and sweetly kissed her. No tongue this time, just a gentle massaging of lips. The chaste kiss was no less potent than previous ones when he ravaged her mouth.

  A slow, sexy smile creased his cheeks. “Enjoy yer afternoon, leannan.”

  “You never did tell me what leannan means. You mentioned it was an endearment.”

  His lips made the briefest of contact with hers as his warm hand cupped her cheek. “Yes, it is. It means sweetheart, or me beloved.” Dark eyebrows rose for a fraction of a second. “Speaking of love”—his gaze dropped to her feet—“I love the red ankle-strap stilettos yer wearing. I’ll have fantasies of them the rest of me life.” He picked her up and swung her around once before kissing her again and setting her on her feet.

  Evidently, the playful side of his nature wasn’t restricted to his niece and brothers. He certainly made a fine sight sauntering to the Land Rover. A slow smile spread when he turned and caught her watching him. I am so in trouble with this guy.

  Grams lips were pursed and her palm over her heart when Paisley walked through the door. “Oh, sweet pea, that man is so taken with you. We can’t leave until we see what might develop. With that controlling Alex out of the picture, there’s no reason why you can’t find your soul mate.”

  “Soul mate? Gram, you should have been a romance writer.” Creighton wasn’t her soul mate. The man was probably just lonely, living in such a remote area.

  “You know, I might just give that a try. Just think, Effie Munro, erotic-romance author pens ‘hawt’ stories from her beautiful Scottish estate.”

  “Ma’am.” Effie jumped at Isobel’s sudden intrusion. “If you’re ready to see the manor house now, I’ll begin the tour. Follow me, please.”

  “Certainly.” Gram rolled her eyes at Paisley. “She’s a sour one,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth as she turned to follow the housekeeper.

  Isobel stood in the middle of a room to the right of the foyer. “This is the parlor. Master Angus received most of his guests here.”

  The large room had brown wallpaper covered with hunting scenes, complete with horses and hounds chasing foxes through brush. Brown, leather furniture and massive wooden tables further darkened the room. Heavy tan drapes blocked the sunlight. A worn Oriental carpet graced the floor.

  “Mercy, this room reeks of testosterone.” Gram slowly turned, her index finger tapping her chin. “Know what I’m thinking, sweet pea?”

  “Tell me it’s not rose wallpaper.” Hadn’t Gram gushed over it every day since they’d arrived at the lodge?

  Her face beamed with one of her patented wide smiles. “Oh, great minds think alike. Yes, rose wallpaper just like in my bedroom at the lodge. Ivory sofas flanking this stone fireplace.” Both wrinkled hands gestured as she spoke. “Pink Queen Anne chairs. Ivory drapes and swags, kept open to let in the sunlight. Plants. This room needs plants.” She scowled at the carpet. “And this ratty ol’ rug needs to go.”

  “Ma�
�am, surely you aren’t thinking of getting rid of Master Angus’s things?” The housekeeper reverently ran a hand over a worn leather chair, so well used it bore the imprint of someone’s body. Angus’s perhaps? Isobel sniffed as if the odor of rotten eggs had sauntered into the room. “Pink chairs? Oh, I think not.” The housekeeper’s rigid stance and stern expression would have intimidated most people, but Gram wasn’t most people. She was a feminine force that sped through life driving a satin steamroller.

  “I think I’ll keep the masculine wooden pieces and paint them white.”

  The housekeeper gasped.

  “They’ll make a nice contrast to the more feminine furniture I want to buy for in here.” Gram unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off, then handed it to Isobel along with her scarf, subtly reminding the housekeeper who her new boss was. Paisley took off her heavy coat and laid it across the woman’s outstretched arms.

  “What do you think, sweet pea? Shall we keep the coat of arms over the fireplace?”

  Isobel harrumphed, her face growing more pinched as it reddened degree by slow degree.

  “Gram, maybe we should talk about our decorating ideas once we’ve seen the entire house.” By Isobel’s reaction, she’d show them the front door long before Creighton returned. The housekeeper’s protectiveness of this house might create some problems.

  Tea was served promptly at four and, per Gram’s gushing suggestion, was enjoyed in the solarium. She’d deemed this space full of tan wicker furniture and palms, orange trees and climbing roses in large terracotta pots, her favorite of the whole house. Ferns and begonias hung from the rafters. An angel waterfall held a place of honor in the corner, its tinkling and gurgling a relaxing balm to one’s nerves.

  Isobel set antique china and an ornate silver tea service on the wicker coffee table. There were tiny cucumber sandwiches, cooked asparagus, and sliced egg on pumpernickel and open-faced smoked-salmon sandwiches, arranged on a three-tier dish. Aromas of fresh-baked tea cakes with lemon-butter frosting tempted Paisley’s sweet tooth, as did a couple other sugary concoctions.