Not Quite a Scot

by Janice Maynard

  “My apologies, Duchess. Carry on.”

  Duchess? What did that mean? It sounded like sarcasm, but he didn’t even know me. I watched, incredulous, as he turned back toward his motorcycle and picked up his helmet. Dressed in black leather from head to toe, tall, slim-hipped, and probably bad to the bone, he exuded disgust.

  Then again, did his personality really matter in this situation?

  “Wait,” I cried. “I need help.”

  Chapter 4

  Reluctance oozed from his posture. I’d pissed off my one and only rescuer. Way to go, McKenzie.

  Summoning a conciliatory tone, I managed a smile. Though I was exhausted and cold and depressed because my trip was off to such a dismal start, I wasn’t about to let this sharp-edged stranger witness my weakness. “I’m renting a cottage for the month. It must be nearby. According to my directions, I’m on the right route.”

  “I should hope so. There’s only one main road here on the east side. Which cottage? What’s the family’s name?”

  “I corresponded with a Mr. Cedric McCracken. He sent a key. I picked it up at the post office in Inverness.” I reached in my pocket and extracted the small item as if physical proof would bolster my case. “See.” I held out my hand.

  “Hmph…”

  The utterly masculine response worried me. There seemed to be a lot he wasn’t saying. “Could you possibly take me there?” I asked, casting my pride to the wind. I believed a woman could and should be self-sufficient. This was a time to be realistic.

  “Aye. I’ll take you. At least you’re wearing pants. ’Twill make the trip easier.”

  The pants to which he referred so dismissively were Chanel and matched my jacket. “Thank you very much,” I replied, my tone grateful. “What should I do about my luggage?”

  “If it’s just the one suitcase, I’ll come back for it and tie it to the rear of the bike. That will do for a short trip.”

  “Um…”

  “What?”

  I sensed his irritation. Perhaps he was miffed at being kept out in the chilly weather when he could be home by the fire. “Three cases in the trunk,” I said. “Plus, my purse and carry-on. I can hold those two,” I said quickly. I wanted him to know I was a team player.

  “Three?” The word sounded strangled. As if he were trying not to laugh.

  “I’m staying for a month. I like my creature comforts.” It wasn’t as if I could pop over to the nearest Duane Reade for personal items.

  “You’ll have to figure out the suitcases on your own tomorrow,” he said bluntly. “I can tie the small bag behind us if you have your purse on your shoulder. You’ll need to hang onto me. The road up to the McCracken house is in bad shape.”

  “You know it?” That seemed like a good sign. At least I hadn’t rented a non-existent building from some scam artist.

  He nodded. “I’ve been in it a time or two. Not for a year or more, though. Let’s go.”

  Again, the impatience. Just my luck. The first interesting man I’d met in Scotland showed no inclination to shower me with attention and devotion. Where was a Jamie Fraser when you needed one?

  “Of course,” I said meekly. I wasn’t about to ruffle this man’s feathers. Though they were particularly gorgeous feathers, I’d be willing to bet that beneath all that supple black leather he wasn’t soft at all.

  I was prepared to fish for my belongings in the upended car. Before I could do it, my dark knight in shining armor hitched himself up and delved for what I needed. Where I had been clumsy and panting exiting the car, my mystery man made the whole exercise seem effortless.

  He handed me my purse without speaking and turned to fasten my carry-on above the back fender of the motorcycle. “That should do it,” he said. “Climb on. I don’t have a passenger helmet, but we’re not going far.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I don’t even know your name.”

  He fastened his chinstrap and slung a leg across the huge Harley. I knew zip about motorcycles, but I could read the logo easily enough.

  When he was ready—and me still standing nearby metaphorically wringing my hands—he shot me a look. “Finley Craig. Now get on the damn bike.”

  “Yes, sir.” Disgruntled, I put the strap of my purse crosswise over my chest. I didn’t want to risk dropping it. Gingerly, I mounted behind Finley, found the spots to rest my feet, and encircled his waist with my arms.

  Oh, my. He was a furnace, warming my chilled limbs and making me want to burrow against his back. Instead, I did just the opposite. I kept my spine straight and any cuddling tendencies to myself.

  My hands at his waist had a death grip on his leather jacket.

  “Hold on,” he said. He fired the powerful engine, and we were off.

  What happened next was difficult to describe. In some ways, it was like the wrenching sensation Claire Randall described when she stepped through a stone circle and vanished back in time. The world spun dizzily. With my eyes closed, I clung to my rescuer. The whole spine-straight thing was impractical at best. I rested my cheek against Finley’s back.

  All around me, the night was dark, the occasional lights in the distance no more than the blip of lightning bugs on a summer evening. Overhead, the twinkling stars blurred. Perhaps the planets halted in their orbits. Anything was possible.

  I have no idea how long the trip lasted. Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

  When we left the main road and turned up a narrow track, the motorcycle faltered momentarily. I heard Finley curse beneath his breath, the sound carried away on the night breeze.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked drowsily. If I had my way, we would have stayed out for hours riding the roads and absorbing the poetry of a wild Scottish night.

  “Potholes,” he said succinctly. “Ye’d best hold on tight. I’d not want to lose you.”

  I grinned, my amusement hidden behind his back. Those were the most romantic words any man had ever said to me. Accompanied by the frustration and disgust in Finley’s deep voice, no woman could possibly get the wrong idea. My rescuer was more of an anti-hero. Reluctant, at best.

  He wasn’t kidding about the road. Despite Finley’s care, the steep, unpaved track was getting the best of him. Every time Finley picked up speed, another pothole threatened to send us tumbling.

  At last we reached our destination. The low, thatched-roof cottage sat desolate. No welcoming lights. No curl of smoke from the chimney.

  I bit my lip hard, hoping the sharp pain would keep me from bawling. “I suppose they forgot I was coming today. Maybe someone had the date wrong.”

  “Hmpf.” Again the word that wasn’t a word, and yet communicated so much. He held my hand to steady me as I hopped off the bike. Then he followed suit. “Give me the key,” he said.

  I wanted to snap at him sarcastically. Something about bossiness and arrogance. At this juncture, I dared not alienate the only Good Samaritan who had come my way.

  When Finley fit the key in the lock, it turned immediately. I exhaled. I’d been holding my breath unconsciously. Following him inside, I bumped up against him when he stopped suddenly and muttered.

  “What?” I cried in alarm. “What is it?

  “The power’s not working. I imagine the old man forgot to pay the bill.” As I absorbed that unpleasant thought, Finley located a flashlight on a shelf beside the front door. The narrow beam of light brought a sigh of relief…right up until the moment I fully absorbed the state of my getaway cabin.

  Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. A container of half-eaten donuts sat on the kitchen table. The mouse droppings around the package were hard to miss.

  Swallowing a shudder, I followed Finley as he stepped gingerly around a pile of broken glass. The layout was simple. One large room contained the kitchen and living area. Beyond that were two small bedrooms with a connecting bath. The beds in each room were neatly made, but when I put my hand on the coverlets, the fabric was damp.

  “Well,
” I said, my throat tight, “this isn’t quite what I expected.”

  “The old man’s been forgetful of late. He must have gone downhill fast. He has a daughter living in Glasgow. I imagine she fetched him to look after him...at least that’s what I’ve heard. I’m sure she had no clue old Cedric had booked visitors.”

  “Only one. Just me.” And now here I was, stuck in the middle of a dark night in a dwelling that might as well have come straight out of a horror movie. “No worries,” I said breezily. “If you’ll give me a lift back to town, I’ll stay at one of the hotels and deal with all this in the morning.”

  We had returned to main living area. Finley stood, arms crossed, and stared at me. He trained the beam of the flashlight in my direction. “There’s a music festival in town this weekend. Every hotel room is booked, plus all the B&Bs. You’d have to drive all the way back out to the mainland to find accommodations.” He paused for what I could only assume was dramatic effect. “And you don’t have a car.”

  The man was only stating the obvious. He could have said it with a bit more sympathy. The taciturn, grumpy biker hadn’t even bothered to ask my name. Perhaps he thought there was no need, since he wouldn’t be hanging around.

  “Forgive me for asking,” I said, my tone syrupy sweet. “Do you have a suggestion for what I might do? I’m tired and hungry and disappointed and all out of answers.” I hadn’t meant to be quite so honest. The words tumbled out uncensored.

  Perhaps my unwitting vulnerability tapped into some latent chivalry on Finley’s part. For the first time, his posture relaxed. “I do. My house is large. It’s near the harbor, so you can walk most places. I’m listed in the B&B registry, though to be honest, I haven’t said yes to any guests for a long time. Playing host is a lot of trouble. Still, ye’re welcome to stay with me until you can make arrangements to have this place cleaned.”

  “Stay with you?” I parroted the words, my heart beating rapidly. Finley might not be the Loch Ness monster, but he was definitely an unknown quantity.

  When I hesitated, he rubbed two fingers in the center of his forehead as if he had a headache. “I’m an upstanding citizen, more or less. As soon as we get back to town, you can look up the website. If you want to call the bloke who owns the seafood place down by the wharf, he’ll vouch for me.”

  “I was there this evening. I have the phone number on the receipt, but I haven’t been able to get a decent cell phone signal.”

  Finley shrugged. “You’ve found it,” he said. His quick grin startled me.

  “Found what?”

  “The proverbial rock and the hard place.”

  He was a hundred percent correct. No woman in her right mind would try to spend a night alone in this grimy, unprepossessing dwelling. But most women also wouldn’t agree to stay with a man they’d just met. With no cell service, my only choices were to walk back to town or take a chance on Finley Craig.

  I lifted my chin, hoping he didn’t see my unease. “Would you answer a few questions for me?”

  “For you, Duchess, sure. Fire away.”

  “Why do you call me Duchess?”

  “It’s a nickname, that’s all.”

  Evasion pure and simple, but I moved on. “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Any children?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

  Long silence. “No.”

  My ruse was nothing more than a stall tactic. Finley might be lying to me with a straight face. Even so, I had to pretend to myself that I wasn’t about to do something utterly reckless. “How do you know all the B&Bs are full?”

  He shrugged. “There are a limited number of rooms to let on the island. You’d be surprised how often tourists make a spontaneous trip to Skye thinking they’ll land wherever the wind blows them. Unfortunately, those same wanderers often find themselves out in the cold. Literally.”

  I knew he was telling the truth about that. A friend of mine had warned me not to take lodging for granted. At her admonition, I had made sure to have all my plans in place before I ever left home. Unfortunately, the confirmation letter in my purse was little comfort in this situation.

  “Very well,” I said, my stomach doing odd flips. “I appreciate your kind invitation. Yes. I’ll stay with you tonight.”

  Chapter 5

  I found it difficult to read Finley’s emotions. Particularly when he was the one holding the flashlight. I frowned. “Have you changed your mind already?” He’d been silent for a good thirty seconds.

  “Not at all. I was merely pausing to admire the fact that you aren’t having hysterics about this crimp in your vacation.”

  I fought the urge to smack him. With my luck, I’d probably miss and throw out my shoulder. “First of all, this isn’t a traditional vacation so much as it is a change of venue for me. I want to feel at home here…as if I belong. When I travel, I enjoy immersing myself in the local culture.”

  “I see.”

  “Second of all…” I took a deep breath, perilously close to doing exactly what he said. A nice, big hissy fit would feel good right about now. Nevertheless, I held onto my composure. “Your lame compliment is demeaning to me and to women in general. Most of us are quite capable of dealing with unforeseen circumstances. Women are neither weak nor helpless. I’m grateful for your help, yes. Still, in a pinch, I could have managed fine on my own.”

  Oh, wow, McKenzie. Why not tell another big whopper and get struck down by lightning?

  “Duly noted, Duchess.” Fortunately, he didn’t call me on my B.S., though the dry note in his voice told me he saw through my bravado.

  Without further ado, he scooted me out the door and locked it. Then he handed me the key. It was warm from his hand. I wrapped my fingers around it, clutching the bit of metal until the edges dug into my palm.

  Earlier, when we arrived at the cottage, Finley had hooked his helmet around one handlebar of the bike. Now he picked it up and handed it to me. “Put this on.”

  “It will give me hat hair,” I protested.

  “Better than smashed skull hair.”

  I sensed that he wouldn’t be moved on this issue. Reluctantly, I eased the helmet over my head. It felt claustrophobic. I tucked the strands of my platinum blond, shoulder-length bob inside. In a few years, I would probably need help from a bottle. For now, the color was all mine.

  “Satisfied?” I asked.

  “That remains to be seen, Duchess.”

  Whoa. Even in the dark, I couldn’t miss the innuendo. I had a feeling the man didn’t even like me. Suddenly, sexual tension swirled in the misty air around us. “I have a name,” I said. “McKenzie Taylor.”

  He shrugged. “I like Duchess better. It suits you.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  He held out his hand. “Give me your purse,” he said. “It’s too far back to town for you to hold it.”

  Before I could protest, he lifted the tote over my head, secured the zipper, and wadded it up to fit beneath the bungee cords he had used to tether my carry-on. Though I winced at his careless handling of my big turquoise bag, he was right. It was miles back to town, and I would have been very uncomfortable.

  “What about you?” I protested. “You don’t have a helmet. I don’t want to be responsible for you if we crash.”

  His quick grin was a flash of white in the gloom. “I’m hardheaded as they come,” he said. “Ask anyone.” He mounted the bike and held out a hand to steady me as I performed the same maneuver.

  Instinctively, I slid my arms around his taut waist and nestled as close as I could. The provocative position gave me all sorts of ideas. I’d never been on a “hog” before.

  When the engine roared to life, I jumped and nearly fell off. Finley tried to turn his laugh into a cough. I wasn’t fooled. My cheeks flaming, I settled into my assigned spot, glad he couldn’t actually see me.

  What was he thin
king as we made our way back down the drive? A man with his looks probably spent many a day or night riding the roads with an available woman at his back. Maybe he barely even noticed me clinging to him like a limpet.

  Once we turned out onto the main road where the pavement was reliable, I relaxed a bit. Finley was not a novice. Unlike me, he was extremely comfortable on his bike. He wasn’t going to dump us in a ditch.

  It was impossible to talk as we sped along. That was fine by me. I had a lot to think about. I’d fantasized about this Scotland trip so many times that Willow was probably right. I’d set myself up for disappointment.

  On the other hand, I had already been rescued by a handsome Scotsman, so maybe my fantasy life and my love life were finally going to align, along with the stars. Now if only I could find someone a bit less grumpy and a bit more polished. Frankly, I’d never been drawn to the bad-boy type, though I could try to make an exception in Finley’s case.

  To be fair, I shouldn’t peg the man without giving him a chance. He might be an architect or a banker. I snickered, my cheek mashed against the warm leather on his back. Not likely. He exuded a raw sex appeal more suited to rock ’n’ roll or dark poetry or maybe even larceny.

  Two hundred years ago these islands had sheltered many a smuggler, some benign…others more vicious. Even now in the twenty-first century, bad men still walked among us. Still, my gut told me Finley Craig was a stand-up kind of guy. I had to believe that, or why else was I blithely letting him take me back to his lair?

  I was cold and tired and basically homeless, but I couldn’t feel too upset about my misfortunes. This evening was the most excitement I’d had in my life for far too long. I’d been a model daughter…a model citizen for that matter. People respected me and relied on me. My friends, even the ones who didn’t go as far back in my history as Hayley and Willow, knew they could count on me in a crisis. Never once had I done anything truly reckless.