Blame It on Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  “Make sure to take yere passport with ye, too,” Hugh said.

  Tuck believed the Laird wasn’t thinking clearly. “But the lass won’t be able to get up that early in the morning.”

  “I’m happy to do it,” Ryn said. “Anything to help out.”

  Tuck frowned at the Laird. “What will she do while I’m fishing?”

  Ryn rolled her eyes. “She’ll be fine.”

  Hugh chuckled. He must’ve thought the pretty Yank was endearing or something. “Sophie said you brought yere sewing machine with ye.”

  Ryn’s attitude melted away and a smile took its place. “I found it at a charity shop after I landed.”

  “Ye can sew at Quilting Central until Tuck is done. It’ll give you a chance to meet the quilters of Gandiegow.”

  “But—” Tuck tried again.

  Hugh’s raised eyebrow ended Tuck’s argument.

  Aye. Tuck got it. He was in Whussendale and the Laird’s word was law.

  Hugh turned his attention to Ryn. “We’re happy to have ye here in our wool community. If ye need anything for yere cottage, Tuck’s yere man. He’s agreed to deal with the cottage repairs in his spare time.”

  Ha! Spare time? The long list of repairs Hugh had given him was gathering dust. Holding down two jobs, in two villages with a drive in between, had kept Tuck plenty occupied. But he wasn’t complaining. Keeping his hands busy, kept Tuck’s mind from wandering into the dark corners.

  Guiding the American lass to Gandiegow was just another of his chores. He glanced over at her and assured himself she was just a temporary inconvenience. A verra tempting, good-looking, appealing inconvenience. But an inconvenience all the same. Her being here only added more to his long list of responsibilities.

  Suck it up, Tuck old boy. This is just more of yere penance.

  Tuck kept his head down and ate the rest of his meal in silence. When dinner and dessert were over, he excused himself. “I’ve an early morn.” He didn’t glance in Maggie’s direction or look to see if Ryn was ready to go. Let her stay here late…hell, all night! It was none of his business if she had trouble dragging her arse out from under her warm quilt in the wee hours of the morning. He stalked toward the door and his escape.

  “Walk Ryn back,” Hugh said.

  Tuck halted, and exhaled, getting his emotions locked down tight before turning back to the Laird. “Sure. Where’s she staying?”

  Hugh grinned. “In the cottage attached to yeres.”

  * * *

  Ryn stepped from the castle into the misting night air, which had been rain only an hour ago. But a lot could happen in an hour. During dinner, she’d centered herself once more and now her attraction to the kilted Scot beside her was gone. Or so she thought. As Tuck—sulky and put out— took his place beside her for the walk back to their cottages, Ryn’s nonsensical insides warmed and her emotions turned jittery with excitement.

  What was wrong with her? This walk wasn’t a date. A shallow, good-looking man was the last thing she needed. She’d scratched men like him—the bang-and-go type—from her list.

  Besides, Tuck didn’t want her any more than she wanted him. He saw her as a nuisance and an obligation.

  The jitters fled and her emotions sagged as a familiar feeling crept over her. She’d grown up a burden to her mother. A tag-a-long. Extra work. Never one to be fully cherished. Now once again, Ryn slipped into her role, a burden to someone new, and in Scotland no less.

  Man, this sucked.

  When they were no longer in earshot distance of the castle, she got up her nerve. “You know, you can drop the act.”

  He glanced over, not impressed.

  “Tell the truth,” she said more bravely then she felt. “You’re tickled pink to have me along for company.”

  He grunted in reply.

  She lobbed right back, “You certainly have a way with words.” His behavior was doing a nice job of helping her to tamp down her attraction to him. Or at least that’s the story she told herself.

  Yeah, I’m a big fat liar. Her weakness for good-looking men was legendary…her Achilles’ heel. Hell, maybe her whole foot and body, too! And at this moment, Tuck really shouldn’t be all that desirable anyway. Automatically, her head turned to examine his face. She didn’t need a sixty-watt bulb to make out his landscape in the partially clouded moonlight. Yes, he was still as handsome as before, and she hoped the added heaping-helping-of-grump would mar his perfect features…but it didn’t.

  Air huffed from her lungs, taking the wind out of her sails. She better tell him how it was going to be, this time without the sarcasm. But when she touched his arm to get his attention, he jolted to a stop, looking stunned. She pulled her hand back. “I’ll do my best to stay out of your way. Believe me, you’re the last person I need to be around.”

  He recoiled as if her honesty had burned. Now, because of her bluntness, she was stuck either explaining her past and all the times gorgeous men had wronged her, or let Tuck believe this was personal. Which it wasn’t. This was more about her than him. How did she always dig herself into these holes?

  “Listen,” she started, “allowing me to help return the van—as in doing this favor for Hugh and Sophie—is a small price to pay for letting me stay in their cottage.” Without their generosity, she’d be shit out of luck—no roof over her head and walking back to Edinburgh, whatever direction that might be.

  Tuck gave another grunt, but this one sounded less aggravated, and possibly could’ve been an aye…if run through a Klingon-to-Scottish translator first.

  Embarrassed and feeling awkward, she trudged away, leaving Tuck behind. To keep the ever-increasing mist out of her eyes, she pulled her hood tighter around her face. Protection against the weather. That’s what she told herself.

  After a moment, she heard something. Was he talking to her? She slung back her hood. “What did you say?”

  Never stopping his stride, he put his hands in his pocket and walked straight to her, maintaining eye contact. “’Twasn’t anything to do with ye,” he said quietly.

  “Then you’ll be happy to have my company?” She knew she was pressing her luck, but couldn’t help but push his buttons.

  He shrugged as if admitting nothing. “Do you know how to drive a manual transmission? Do ye have a map? Ye’ll have to drive to Gandiegow on yere own, ye know.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll use my GPS.” But first, she’d have to remember to charge her phone.

  “Ye’ll have to remember which side to drive on, too. Ye’re used to driving on the wrong side of the road.” He’d said it as if that was the reason why he was against her going.

  “I look forward to the challenge.”

  He sighed. Not in an I’m-so-glad exhale. Instead, he sounded defeated. “Then I guess I’ll appreciate your company on the trip back to Whussendale.” His voice held no convincing tones, only resignation.

  For a second she thought to dig deeper to see what was going on with him, but was afraid she already knew the answer—incredibly superficial. She’d bet her last dollar that he’d run out of his favorite hair gel, and Whussendale wasn’t exactly a stone’s throw away from a drugstore with his particular brand.

  The downpour from earlier returned. She was surprised he didn’t cover his head and make a run for it. She certainly wanted to. But instead she matched his pace, deciding to show him she was a badass, too. They trudged up the hill toward the wool mill and the cottages beyond.

  When they reached her door, Tuck nodded a goodnight and then walked the few paces next door to his half of the duplex…if she could call it that.

  Suddenly she was cold.

  * * *

  Tuck went into his cottage, shrugged out of his raincoat, and hug it on the hook by the door. He was grateful for the boot mat underneath which served as a drip pan. In the square mirror adjacent to the door, he caught his reflection and didn’t recognize himself. Not just how his hair looked a mess, but the pinch between his eyebrows made him look like a m
an who gave a damn. Which he didn’t.

  God, he was never surly. Or if he was, he never let it show—a lesson he’d learned in his youth. Surely his bad temper had to do with Maggie and the announcement of her moving to Whussendale. She’d put him off his game. Aye, there’d always been a chance of running into Maggie in Gandiegow, but only between the walk from the parking lot to the boat. But now, her close proximity would keep him ever mindful of what he’d done to their family.

  He took a seat at the table and couldn’t help but dwell on the lass next door. He wasn’t exactly upset with how things turned out tonight. He just didn’t need the problem of spending time with a bird like her. Ryn came with complications. Like being Maggie’s cousin.

  In spite of himself, he grinned. The fact she cut through his bullshit was overwhelmingly attractive. Unusual, too. Hell, he liked that part of her so much, that if he was giving her a score, he’d have to give her high marks for her straight talk and not tripping over herself to get his attention.

  His phone vibrated. He pulled it out and answered. “MacBride here.”

  “It’s Willoughby.” The wool mill’s ancient kiltmaker. “There’s no way I can sleep with the sink dripping as it is.”

  Willoughby went silent, and it wasn’t because he had nothing to say. Just the opposite. Tuck had been here long enough to know what the old man was about. To ask a favor from Tuck would be a sign of weakness. But tonight, Tuck was too tired—both physically and emotionally—to play tactical moves with the old guy.

  “I’ll be right there,” Tuck said.

  “Really? Ye usually whine a bit first that ye’re too busy.” Willoughby didn’t wait for a response but hung up.

  Tuck pocketed his phone, slipped on his coat, and picked up his toolbox by the door. If the old man had called after Tuck had removed his wellies and was settled in for the night, he might have argued with him first, a little. But really, Tuck didn’t mind spending time with Willoughby. He figured one day he’d be the old bachelor. And he hoped, if he got a little lonely, someone might be kind enough to share his company…even if it was over a dripping sink.

  Tuck walked out into the rain and the night gathered in around him, feeling as if not another soul was alive. Even the lights on in the various cabins just pointed out the truth. Tuck was a lone wolf. In the past, when he had suffered bouts of loneliness, they were purely self-inflicted. He was a roamer, a wayfarer, always restless, better at saying goodbye than sticking in one place for too long. He wasn’t raised to be this way, nor was he like this before he was seventeen. When Elspeth tore his heart out, it was like a switch had been flipped and he had turned into a person who was constantly trying to outrun the life that everyone expected him to settle into. A wife. A family. Nay, those ideals were given up long ago.

  Willoughby’s detached cottage sat on the far side of the horseshoe of dwellings, next to Magnus’s cottage, Willoughby’s brother. The walk was short, but gave Tuck time to anticipate the fine whisky that would surely be waiting, as he knew the old man would’ve poured it while calling. After the initial blustering, while Tuck fixed his sink, he and Willoughby would have a nice visit, something that had been happening every few days since Tuck had arrived.

  Willoughby opened the door at the first knock. “What took ye so long?”

  Tuck strolled in and handed his wet coat to the old man. “Here.”

  Willoughby motioned at the hook. “Don’t be cheeky. Hang it up yereself.”

  Sure enough, the dram sat on the table. Tuck could also see the tap was indeed leaking. “Do ye mind if I have a taste before the work is started?”

  The old man waved at him as if he couldn’t be bothered with such questions, all part of the act, but something seemed different about him tonight.

  Tuck sat his toolbox on the table, took a sip of the whisky, which warmed his insides, and then got busy fixing the faucet.

  Willoughby shuffled over and peered over Tuck’s shoulder while he worked. “Do ye have plans to ever marry?”

  Tuck twisted around and grinned at the old man. “I hope ye’re not asking for yereself. I like the lassies.”

  Willoughby swatted the air with an I’m-wasting-my-time-on-you manner. “So much cheek.”

  Tuck set his wrench down and grabbed a new washer to replace the old one. He didn’t meet the old man’s eyes. “I have no plans to ever marry.”

  “Why not? I see how the females of Whussendale are fawning over ye.”

  “Doesna mean a thing. Fresh meat is all I am,” Tuck answered, hoping this line of questioning was over.

  “The Laird seems happy with Sophie.” Willoughby went back to his chair and sat. “That Sophie is gifted when it comes to making kilts.” He sighed a ragged breath. “But she’s busy these days.”

  “Aye. I understand a quilting retreat is coming to Whussendale soon.”

  “A retreat,” Willoughby said absently. “What about ye? I only loved one woman.”

  Aye. The old man was in a mood tonight, but Tuck wouldn’t judge. “I hate to ask, but was that one woman yere mother?”

  Willoughby actually chuckled. “If I wasn’t so comfortable, I might come over there and kick yere arse.” He sighed again. “Nay. Beatrice was her name. We were young and in love. I never got around to making her mine. I was apprenticing with the kiltmaker at the time and I let that be more important than having a family of my own.”

  “Do you know what happened to her?”

  “She married another.” Willoughby paused, making Tuck look over his shoulder to check on him. The old man gazed off into the distance with a sad, almost heartbreaking faraway look. “I heard she died yesterday in Inverness.” His words embodied regret.

  As thought-provoking silence filled the room, Tuck finished tightening down the tap.

  “What about ye?” Willoughby finally said. “Have ye ever come close to marrying?”

  The old man had been honest with Tuck, so he told him the truth. “Once.” He put his tools away, concentrating on getting them in the correct spot, and not meeting Willoughby’s eye. It was one thing to tell the truth, but it was quite another thing to show your face while doing it.

  “She left me at the altar,” Tuck confessed. The single worst thing that had happened to him…until John’s accident.

  “Why did she leave ye?” Willoughby asked.

  Tuck closed the lid to the toolbox. “I need to get to bed. Early morn.” He downed the rest of the whisky. “I’ll see ye tomorrow.”

  With great effort, Willoughby pushed himself out of the chair. “Right. Tomorrow. Sleep well.”

  The old man was at the sink, checking the tap as Tuck let himself out.

  It rained steadily now, a peaceful rain. The same kind of rain, fifteen years ago, on the day of his wedding. Tuck and Andrew stood at the altar for an hour, waiting on Elspeth. Then another hour pacing while phone calls were made by her parents and his parents, looking for the lass. The memory filled Tuck with humiliation and emptiness, the first of many dreadful emotions that day. There’d been fear she’d had an accident, but when no such word came, Tuck thought she might’ve run off and that he’d never see her again, never know why she hadn’t come. Out of desperation, that night, he’d gone to Elspeth’s house, hoping to find her, but knowing it would only turn into an evening of commiserating with her parents. Tuck was shocked when her mother, drawn and sullen, had said Elspeth could be found upstairs in her room. Relief had Tuck tearing up the steps. He found her crying in her bed, but he was so happy she was okay. But then she told him the baby was gone. As she sobbed he held her, trying to comfort both her and him. Starting a family at seventeen wasn’t ideal, but he’d accepted his responsibility and was actually looking forward to being a father. But then the truth came out.

  She’d gotten rid of the baby…on their wedding day. A baby, she admitted, that wasn’t Tuck’s. She’d slept with her best friend’s brother while holidaying in France. Up until then, Tuck hadn’t allowed himself to question the timi
ng that he’d known in his heart was off. He’d believed her when she’d said it was their baby.

  He straightened his shoulders as if shaking off the past and trudged back to his cottage. He didn’t regret any of it. Betrayal and living a lie had made him into the man he was today. Not in the least bitter, as he was able to enjoy the company of women to its fullest. Actually, he’d become grateful that he’d learned an important lesson at such a young age. It wasn’t a bad thing to relive the past. Remembering it all, only shored-up his resolve to never take women and relationships serious again.

  His cottage lay ahead and he frowned when he saw someone standing on the porch, pounding on his door. The darkness hid her identity until he drew nearer and heard her whispered yell.

  “Tuck, wake up! It’s me, Ryn.”

  8

  “What are ye doing out here, woman?”

  Ryn shivered violently, knowing she must look terrible. “I knocked on the wall and you didn’t answer.” The only thing she wanted in the whole world was to go to sleep and stay like that forever. She shivered again. “The roof.” Her teeth chattered. “It’s leaking. Right over the bed.”

  “Oh, shite. The materials to do yere roof is coming next week.” Tuck turned the knob. “Just so ye know, I don’t keep my door locked. I wish ye would’ve just gone on in. Standing out here, ye’ll catch yere death of cold.” He went straight to the hearth, struck a match, and lit the readied stack of tender and logs. “Stand over here.” Next, he went to the rad and turned the knob to heat the room.

  She’d put on Sophie’s raincoat, but her pajama bottoms from the knees down were soaked. Her tennis shoes were beyond waterlogged.

  Tuck’s eyes followed to where she looked and he put out his hand. “Give me yere wet jacket.” Instead of waiting for it, he went to the armoire and pulled out a robe. “Take off those wet pants while I check on yere roof.”

  She shivered again, feeling too cold to actually respond. It wasn’t just the wet clothes and the cold temperature. She was one of those people who got cold when extremely tired.