Now here I was, doubling on a wicked Harley-Davidson with Temptation himself. Already I could imagine the two of us taking long walks on a storm-washed beach. Or listening to classical music in a cozy room while I edited my photographs and Finley smoked a pipe. The image made me chuckle. Willow and I thought Hayley was naïve, but I was something far more dangerous. I was a dream weaver. A teller of tales.
Rarely did I allow anyone to see that side of me. Not even my two best friends. My imagination had kept me company during long years as an only child. Whenever I was sad that my parents weren’t around, I invented cousins and exotic aunts and uncles who whisked me away for weekends in Paris. Or long summer vacations at a cottage on the coast.
Without warning, Finley braked and put his feet on the ground, keeping us upright. I think I was practically asleep when the motorcycle crested a hill and we looked down on the lights of Portree. The small town sat like an elongated bowl, sweeping down to the harbor. From our vantage point, I could see the waterfront and the line of businesses and restaurants where I had eaten dinner earlier. The facades were painted in colorful shades reminiscent of Rainbow Row in Charleston, South Carolina.
I wondered if Finley was planning to make good on his assertion that a fellow townsman could vouch for him. We wound down the hill at a sedate speed. Finley parked the bike and helped me off. I handed over the helmet and fussed with my hair. He insisted no one would bother my carry-on, but I wanted my tote.
When he held my elbow as we walked down a flight of stone stairs, I didn’t fuss. A broken ankle would be no way to start my adventure. Soon we were standing in front of a familiar building.
“They’re closed,” I said, pointing at the sign in the window.
“He’ll still be here cleaning up and doing prep for tomorrow.” Finley used his fist to drum a tattoo on the glass. Moments later, a man I recognized peeked out from a hallway at the back of the room and hurried to open the door for us.
Finley ushered me inside. “McKenzie, this chap is Hamish Doune. We’ve know each other for a decade. Tell her, Hamish. Tell her I have a respectable room to rent. Tell her I’m not a threat.”
The restaurateur was a giant of a man with big hands that, incongruously, held a bleached muslin dishcloth. He dried his fingers slowly, his gaze darting from Finley to me and back again. “A threat?”
I perched on a barstool. My legs were quivery. It had been a long day with no prospect of bed anytime soon. “I’ve rented Cedric McCracken’s house for the month. When I arrived, the place was a mess. Apparently, he forgot I was coming.”
Hamish winced. “Aye…the dementia. He’s gone to Glasgow, I heard. With his daughter.”
Finley had been right. Portree was a small town with no secrets. I nodded. “The cottage is actually unlivable at the moment. I’m sure I can find a heavy cleaning service…can’t I? Mr. Craig has offered to let me stay with him until the house is fit to be occupied.”
Without asking, Hamish poured three shots of whiskey and passed one to me before handing Finley a small glass. “Sláinte!”
Finley leaned against the bar. Hamish lounged in the doorway that led to the back. In unison, the two men tilted their heads and knocked back the liquor with a shudder and a sigh of appreciation.
I stared at the small serving of amber liquid. On many occasions I had ordered fancy cocktails in flawless French. In Paris. And not to boast, but I was somewhat of a wine connoisseur when it came to Italian vintages. I confess, though, that I had never particularly enjoyed hard spirits.
Hamish grinned, noting my ambivalence. “Try it, lass. There’s none like it for miles. This is my private stash. For VIPs only.”
Finley only smiled, raising my temperature and making me dizzy.
With the two men staring at me, I could either plead abstinence or be rude or drink the damn stuff. With a quick prayer for luck, I downed the whiskey and thumped the glass on the bar.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then a nuclear warhead went off in my stomach. It had been several hours since dinner, so my belly was empty. Hamish’s whiskey was potent stuff. My eyes watered. My face turned red. I felt a little queasy.
“Very nice,” I said primly.
Both men roared with laughter. I merely held out my glass and said, “One more for the road?”
Hamish blinked. Finley glared. “Don’t you dare. I’m not carrying you up to the guest room.”
Even Hamish turned red this time. He frowned at Finley. “Don’t go propositioning the lass. She’s a visitor to our fair isle. We must treat her with care and respect.”
Hamish looked at me, his expression cajoling. “Forgive him, lass. He has a bit of the devil in him, but there’s no finer man on Skye. Finley doesn’t take in tourists on a regular basis, but if he’s offered you a room for a few nights, it’s an invitation with no strings attached. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”
Chapter 6
Most of my reservations melted away. “Thank you, Mr. Doune,” I said. That means a lot.” I turned back to Finley who once again leaned indolently against the bar. “I’d kill for a bed,” I said, being entirely honest. “May we go now?”
Finley straightened slowly. Here in Hamish’s restaurant, I was seeing my rescuer properly for the first time. His broad forehead, classically handsome nose, and strong jaw created a face that was stunning masculine and completely unforgettable.
I think his eyes were my weak spot. Coal-black lashes framed blue irises the shade of pure sapphires. A woman could be hypnotized by those eyes if she weren’t on her guard.
Perhaps he was fair-skinned at birth, but he had clearly spent a lot of time in the sun, as his skin was golden brown. Around those remarkable eyes were tiny white crinkle lines, which told me not only was he outdoors a lot, but that he laughed. Often. Somehow, I found that hard to believe. With me, Finley Craig had been intense and moody and more like judge and jury than friend.
His hair was thick and shiny black, like a raven’s wing. It was too long to be short, but not long enough to make a statement. Like the man, his hair was an enigma.
Hamish took pity on me. “Ye sure you don’t want one more drink? Jet lag can be a real pisser. You’re dead on your feet, lass. Another shot will send you off to dreamland for sure.”
I stood up carefully, feeling the unaccustomed alcohol swirl in my stomach. “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Doune. But I’ll pass. I didn’t have the chance to tell you earlier. The seafood this evening was amazing.”
“I thought I recognized you. Ye had the table in the corner, right? And Lara waited on you?”
“Right on both counts. How do you remember all that?”
“It’s my restaurant…my livelihood. I make it my business to take note of who comes and goes. Ye’d be surprised at who drops in now and again thanks to our Finley.”
“Hamish…”
I sensed a clear note of warning in Finley’s voice, though I had no idea why. “It was lovely to meet you,” I said, shaking the big man’s hand. Then I turned to Finley. “I’m exhausted. Do you mind if we go?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. This stop was for your peace of mind.”
The two men thumped each other on the back in a quick semblance of a hug—the way men do—and then we were on our way.
It was all I could do to make it back up the steps to where the motorcycle was parked. If I hadn’t lingered in Inverness, if I had driven straight to Skye, I would have found out about the cottage many hours before now and might possibly even have snagged the last of the available rooms at the hotel.
If ifs and buts were candy and nuts…
It was too late now. My adventure was starting out inauspiciously, but things would look better in the morning. Fortunately, Finley’s house was not far away.
We cut through an alleyway onto a narrow road that accessed the hill behind the restaurant. The view overlooking the water would be spectacular in the daylight, but it was well and trul
y dark by now. Nestled in a small copse of trees sat a house that looked as if it had emerged straight out of a fairytale.
Perhaps at one time it had been two separate dwellings. The current home crept up the hill as if the builder had not known where to stop. The old whitewashed structure had glass panes that were off kilter and window boxes filled with pansies.
I fell in love with it on sight.
Finley gave me no time to linger. He ushered me inside and immediately went to light the small pile of wood and kindling that had already been laid in the hearth. Soon, the fire flickered and popped, giving off an unmistakable scent that took me back to winter evenings in Switzerland.
My parents would never have tolerated anything so messy as real burning logs, even if such a thing had been practical in Atlanta or Manhattan. But on ski trips, I remember sitting around the fire and drowsily listening to the grownups talk about the day’s runs.
“Are you hungry?”
Finley’s words startled me. I’d been lost in thought, far away from this small Scottish gem of a town.
I nodded. “I could eat. Nothing much. Maybe some milk to offset that whiskey.”
He led me through a narrow hallway into a kitchen that looked as if it belonged in one of the dormitories at Hogwarts. Finley put a hand on my shoulder. “Sit.”
While he prepared our snack of popcorn and hot chocolate, I rested my head on my arms. The surface of the rough-hewn table was hard but smooth, as if generations of schoolchildren had breakfasted in this very same spot.
I managed to eat half of my popcorn and drink all of the warm beverage. My eyes were so heavy I could barely hold them open.
Finley took pity on me. “I’ll save the tour for the morning,” he said. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall over.”
I wanted to make a snappy comeback to throw him off his stride. I was rapidly discovering, however, that Finley was not easily rattled.
Suddenly, a thump against the door on the opposite side of the kitchen caught Finley’s attention. He jumped up, turned the knob, and backed away as a good-sized blur of fur and energy burst into the room. The dog was a beauty, with long droopy ears and a playful disposition.
My exhaustion forgotten for the moment, I crouched by my chair and laughed out loud when the puppy launched itself in my direction and licked my face enthusiastically.
“Down, girl. Sit. Stay. Cinnamon!” Finley tried, but to no avail.
“Oh, she’s a beauty,” I said. “And she’s not hurting anything…are you, love?” The animal recognized a kindred spirit and allowed me to cuddle her without protest. She even looked at Finley soulfully as if to say, This lady gets me.
“She’s an English cocker. Her paws may be dirty,” Finley warned. “She’ll ruin your pants.”
“Oh, pooh. They’re only pants, aren’t they, baby girl?” The dog was warm and affectionate, and I found myself with tears in my eyes for no other reason than that I was a little bit homesick. I kept my head down and my attention on the pup so Finley wouldn’t see my distress.
By now, I should have been tucked inside my charming Scottish cottage with my belongings neatly put away in an antique bureau and a pot of hot tea on the stove. Instead, I was stranded in a stranger’s house with nothing to look forward to tomorrow than the unexciting prospect of tracking down a cleaning crew and a tow-truck for the car.
Finley whistled. Cinnamon hung her head.
A second whistle, and the dog abandoned me.
“She stays in my office when I’m away or if I have company. Otherwise, she has the run of the house,” Finley explained.
I sniffed and managed a watery smile. “Don’t exile her on my account. I like animals. I was never allowed to have any growing up, and now my housekeeper has allergies, so I still don’t have a dog or a cat. I’d love for Cinnamon to hang out with me as much as she wants.”
Finley stared at me, his gaze narrowed. “I can’t figure you out, Duchess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you travel with enough luggage for a visiting head of state, you don’t mind if a dog ruins your couture clothes, and because of an employee’s issues, you choose not to have a pet you desperately want.”
“Hilda’s not just an employee,” I protested. “She’s been with me for almost a decade. She was one of my babysitters when I was growing up. After I left for college, my mother kept her on as a maid, and once I returned to Atlanta and settled into my own place, Hilda came to work for me. Not having a pet is a small sacrifice, believe me. Hilda and I go way back.”
“I see.”
I wasn’t sure that he did. What did it matter? Finley and I were ships that passed in the night. As soon as I had a working vehicle and a livable accommodation, I was out of here.
Without further cross-examination, my host led me out of the kitchen and up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. I could swear Finley’s home didn’t have a single right angle anywhere. The walls and floors and staircases moved drunkenly in all directions. However, the place was rock solid.
Too bad it didn’t have some of the moving staircases from the Harry Potter books. No telling when one would come in handy in this house.
The guest quarters were reassuringly normal, at least the ones to which I was assigned. I surveyed the bed. It was generous for a single person, larger than the twins back home but not exactly a full size or a queen. The coverlet was made of heavy brown cotton embroidered with Celtic symbols in green and lavender.
On the hardwood floor, woolen rugs lay scattered here and there. The single window was shuttered for the night. Cinnamon nuzzled my leg with her head as if seeking a nod of approval.
“This is lovely,” I said. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
Finley shrugged, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “No bother at all. We have a reputation to uphold here on the island. It wouldn’t do for word to get out that old Cedric stranded a pretty American tourist and no one came to her rescue. I’ll go get your bag off the back of the bike. Feel free to explore the facilities. I think you’ll find everything you need.”
While Finley was gone, Cinnamon and I made our way into the small but charming bathroom. The tank for the commode was high on a wall with a pull chain for flushing. A white, enameled cabinet hid towels, toothbrushes, and various other amenities. A tiny, blue glass vase on the sink held a single pansy. The place was spotless.
I doubted Finley was the kind of man to scrub floors, so he must have a housekeeper. Perhaps that person could direct me to someone who would be able to attack Cedric’s house. “Well, Cinnamon,” I said, “I guess you’re stuck with me for a day or two.”
Finley returned with my carry-on bag as I spoke to the dog. He grimaced. “Don’t get your hopes up. I don’t know which is the bigger challenge—getting your car out of the ditch or having someone tackle that house. Both problems will probably require patience.”
“I can be patient,” I said mildly. Staying with Finley wasn’t exactly a hardship. I didn’t want to be a burden. “And perhaps if I can get the car fixed, I should simply clean the house myself. It’s not all that big.”
“Don’t be daft,” he said, the grimace turning into a frown. “You’ve no supplies or equipment. It would take you days. And besides, do you really want to spend your vacation on your hands and knees?”
My eyes widened. I blinked and swallowed. Finley went stock still as a tide of red rushed from his neck to his face when he realized what he had said.
He backpedaled quickly. “Cleaning the floors, I mean.”
“I know what you meant.” My muttered response did nothing to ease the awkwardness. We stood on either side of a soft, cozy bed. He was a man. I was a woman. To be painfully honest, it had been far too long since I had met anyone as fascinating as Finley Craig.
Cinnamon lay on the floor with her head on her paws, her gaze darting back and
forth between her master and me. Dogs were sensitive creatures. Did she understand that all was not well?
Finley stared at me for the longest time. At least it seemed that way. Had his thoughts wandered down the same dangerous path? He nodded curtly. “I should go. You need your sleep. There’s no rush in the morning. You’ll find toast and fruit in the kitchen whenever you wake up.”
“Thank you.” I picked at the edge of the coverlet, wondering how many tourists he rescued each month and how many propositioned him in return. Bad girl, bad McKenzie.
“Is there anything else you need?”
I could think of quite a few answers to that question, but I settled for the most socially acceptable one. “My pajamas are in a suitcase in the trunk of my car. Do you have something I could wear to sleep in?”
Chapter 7
The red in his neck deepened. “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Give me just a moment. I won’t bother you again. I’ll hang a shirt on the doorknob. Goodnight, Duchess. Come on, Cinnamon.”
“Oh, please let her stay. I’d enjoy her company.”
I could swear the dog understood every word. Cinnamon rubbed against my legs, her tail wagging enthusiastically.
Finley hesitated. “I’ll need to take her out soon.”
“Can it wait until I’ve showered? I’d be happy to do the honors. I won’t forget, I promise.”
“If you’re sure. You’ll need to put her on a leash when you go out. The harness is on a nail beside the kitchen door. She’s stronger than she looks. If she gets loose, I’ll be half the night finding her.”
“I’ll be careful, I promise. Goodnight, Finley. Thank you again for everything.”
When he left with only a brusque nod of his head and closed the door behind him, I sank into a chair and exhaled slowly. Cinnamon laid her head on my knee. Stroking the dog’s ears absentmindedly, I wondered if I had the energy left to get in the shower. On the other hand, I’d been traveling all day and that bed was clean and sweet smelling. The sheets had been dried in the sun. It was hard to fake that scent.
Not Quite a Scot Page 4
