Must Love Highlanders

by Patience Griffin Grace Burrowes

  This time, both dogs rose, circled in a C, and the other plopped down over her legs, trapping her.

  Oh, crud! Without the dog barrier, Hugh could stretch out and touch her.

  Could she get her feet loose without anyone noticing—man or beast?

  For a long time, she didn’t move. She lay barely breathing, trying to decipher the different noises in the night. The dogs were both snoring. She was sure the master had gone to sleep, too. She took her chance.

  By millimeters, she pulled her feet free and began to scoot to the edge of the mattress. So slowly in fact, it might turn morning before she made it out. She kept her senses tuned to the opposite side of the bed. Just as she was about to lower her feet to the floor and slip away, a strong hand reached over and gripped her thigh.

  “Who are you?” he growled, more feral than any dog in the vicinity. “And why in the deuce are you in my bed?”

  She bit her lip to keep from squeaking, but then finally spoke. “It’s me, Sophie.”

  “Sophie?” He sounded completely clueless. “Sophie, who?”

  “Sophie Munro.”

  As she heard him groping for the lamp on his side of the bed, the hand gripping her thigh held on tighter. The light came on.

  “Amy’s friend?” she added, like she wasn’t sure Amy was really her friend or not.

  He glared at her as if the Loch Ness Monster had crawled into his bed.

  And that’s when the quilt slipped on his side of the bed. The brute was naked.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  “How did you get in here?” Hugh held on to the woman beside him. It registered that her skin was soft and warm, but he could see only bluidy red. “What do ye want?” He slightly shook her leg.

  She pushed at his arm. “Let go of me!”

  It was one thing for him to be holding on to her. It was quite another to have her touching him back. He let go and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and making sure the quilt kept him covered.

  She averted her eyes anyway.

  “Tell me why ye’re in my bed.” He noticed his hounds had ratcheted themselves up against her as if protecting her from him! Gads! “Wallace. Bruce. Come.” He pointed to the floor beside him.

  The Wallace whimpered, and she wrapped her arms around them. “Stop being a bully.”

  “Good God.” He glared at her and then at his animals. “Biscuit?”

  Both dogs’ ears popped up. They jumped off the bed and ran to him, sitting by his feet at attention.

  “Close yere mouth, lassie. In fact, close yere eyes while ye’re at it. I’m not decent here, and I’d like to be.”

  When she turned away from him, he grabbed his boxers off the chair and slipped them on. His dogs were still waiting, so he pulled two biscuits from his jeans pocket. “Here, ye disloyal bastards.” For a moment, his eyes searched her backside, trying to outline the body that lay beneath her cotton nightgown. Aye, he remembered Sophie. She was as appealing now as she had been back in the summer. He felt the same instant attraction. Maybe stronger. But he couldn’t think about her that way now.

  The reflection in the picture windows shifted, catching his attention. Sophie was staring back at him, her mouth shaped into an O. She’d been watching his every move. She seemed particularly interested in his lower half.

  “Did ye get an eyeful, lass?”

  Her eyes shot up to his. Her teeth caught her bottom lip. For a second, they stared at each other, before she averted her gaze. She squared her shoulders and faced him, that exposed look gone.

  “I’ve seen hundreds of naked men.”

  He grabbed his jeans off the chair and slipped them on. “Hundreds?”

  “Aye.” She waved her hand like she was airbrushing him. “Nothing new there.” But her cheeks were bright red, and he’d bet his best weaving machine that he’d been her first.

  With her facing him, he could now take in the terrain under her shift a bit easier. She was perfectly proportioned, but maybe not as breasty as he’d like. Her nipples budding against the fabric of her nightgown did intrigue him more than he wanted them to.

  “Put a robe on,” he growled.

  She clutched the quilt up to her chin. “I didn’t bring one. I was supposed to be here alone.”

  He snatched up his discarded flannel shirt and tossed it to her. “Here.”

  She caught it. “Turn around first.”

  “You just ogled my naked arse, and ye’re ordering me to turn around over a couple of perky nipples?”

  She clutched his shirt to her chest, blushing red all the way to her cheeks.

  And because he could be a son of a bitch sometimes, he went ahead and scandalized her further. “I’m not lying when I tell you I’ve seen plenty of naked women, hundreds even.” If magazines counted.

  Goldilocks glared at him, a bit of a stare-down, but he held his ground. In the end, he won, too. She gave him her back while she slipped his shirt over her nightgown.

  His shirt swam on her, and the strangest thing happened—something quite uncomfortable shifted in his chest. He had the awful urge to beg her to come closer, stand before him…but not like one of his dogs. He merely wanted her near enough that he could touch her.

  His oversized bedroom was abruptly much too small and cozy. “Follow me,” he said.

  She cleared her throat with a little, “Ahem.”

  “Could you put a robe on?” she said shyly.

  She was sweet, and her embarrassment was damned attractive. He shook his head exaggeratedly, as if he were a man whose patience had been tested.

  “A little man chest bothers ye, after a hundred naked men?”

  She donned her gumption like it was his shirt. “I’ve seen more than enough men, thank you very much.”

  Aye, me. He opened his armoire and pulled out a T-shirt and slipped it on. “Better?”

  “Much,” she said. “Come, Wallace. Come, Bruce. The master has something to say.”

  His damned hounds lumbered after her bare feet. Those two disloyal bastards needed a long visit at obedience school, at least when it comes to remembering who gives the orders around here. “The upper solarium is to yere right.”

  For a moment, he stood in his room alone and felt that everything had changed.

  He padded into the solarium after her, as bad as his dogs, and found the Wallace and the Bruce beside her with her feet curled under her on the sofa. Making herself at home.

  She stifled a long yawn.

  He stayed standing, hoping to reestablish that he was indeed the master of his castle. “Now, tell me why ye’re in my house.” And why you were in my bed.

  She screwed up her face, and the place between her eyebrows pinched together. “Because you hired me to be here?” Her voice held a heaping dollop of attitude.

  “I what?” he said incredulously.

  She popped up. “Wait here.” The dogs went to follow, but she put her hand out in the stay position. A moment later, she was back. She thrust a piece of paper at him. “There. In your own words.”

  He looked at the email. “What is this?” He scanned all the way down. “I—I…”

  “Amnesia?” she provided. She looked quite pleased with herself, perched again on his couch, taking the stance of a vindicated woman. Vixen.

  He bore into her with his eyes, quite deliberately, so she would shrink under his gaze. She didn’t. He pointed the paper at her. “I’ve never seen this before in my life.”

  That did the trick. She withered a bit and uncurled her feet, setting them on the floor. “But—but that means that I’m…”

  “Trespassing?” he finished, giving her the smuggest look he could conjure. “Aye.”

  Friggin’, frackin’, fuck. Sophie’s mama wouldn’t approve of her swearing, not even in her thoughts, but—damn! Emma, her therapist, had prepared her for a lot of different scenarios, but being caught in Hugh’s bed—with her half-dressed and him completely naked—hadn’t been one of them. Neithe
r her mama nor Emma had told her how to handle seeing a gorgeous man’s full-monty reflection in the picture windows either. Oh, my! Sophie fanned herself, though there was a chill in the room.

  Delayed, she jumped to her feet, more embarrassed than she’d been in her whole life. “Sorry.” She’d have to pass Hugh to make a run for it, but there was no helping it. She didn’t make eye contact, but put her head down and started for the door.

  “Sophia.”

  His deep burr curled and hugged her given name soundly, too intimate for late night, too much for her senses. It made her pause as each syllable registered low in her middle. As she tried to slip past, Hugh grabbed her arm gently.

  “Ye needn’t tear out in the middle of the night, lass.”

  His breath hit her cheek. Her arm tingled where he held her. She wanted to go up on tippy-toes and find out what it would be like to kiss him.

  He must’ve read her mind, for he dropped his hand and stepped away.

  Great! Rejected once again by the insufferably gorgeous Hugh McGillivray.

  “Come.” He stepped from the solarium.

  For a second, she wondered if he had been speaking only to the dogs, for they trotted after him.

  He stuck his head back in. “I mean you, lass.”

  She followed and found him retrieving an old-fashioned skeleton key from a little basket that hung by the room next to his. For a second, he gazed upon the key and then determinedly shoved it into the opening and turned the lock. He pushed the door wide, flipped on the light, and stood back for her to enter.

  The room was large like Hugh’s, but not decorated in masculine tones. This room was all pink and floral—rose wallpaper, a gingham bedspread, rose motif pillows, and a matching sage afghan across the bottom of the bed. The Wallace and the Bruce slipped past Sophie and circled the room reverently.

  “Whose room is this?”

  Her eyes fell to the key grasped in his hand. The key shook with a slight tremor.

  “It was my sister’s.” He frowned like he wanted to back out of the room and pretend he’d never unlocked the door.

  Sophie knew all about his sister—falling through the ice on the loch, the drowning—the reason he’d gone to live with Amy and their aunt when he was twelve. His parents had been so distraught that Aunt Davinia had rescued him from his family’s grief. Amy had said Hugh took a long time to recover, but he finally learned to laugh again, the two cousins having grand times together.

  “Isn’t there another room?” Sophie couldn’t stay in this room. “Anything will do.”

  “Nay. After my parents…” he trailed off, but then changed tracks. “All the rooms have been cleared for redecorating. There’s not another bed in the house. None, except mine and Chrissa’s.” His voice caught on his sister’s name.

  She touched his arm.

  He jerked away as if her hand could scorch. “Stay. The room’s just going to waste.”

  Chrissa’s bedroom looked regularly maintained, not a speck of dust anywhere.

  Sophie couldn’t go back to his warm bed, and she certainly didn’t want to sleep in a room that caused him pain.

  “Good night,” he said abruptly, leaving the key on the dresser. He was gone.

  The Wallace and the Bruce looked conflicted.

  “Go on now. Go sleep with the master.”

  They each gave her one more worried glance and then trotted from the room.

  For a long moment, Sophie stood in the middle of the floral paradise—perfectly feminine, perfectly preserved. When the quiet had thoroughly settled over her, she pulled the sage afghan from the bed, left the key on the dresser, and stepped into the hallway. She walked over to Hugh’s closed door and laid a hand on it, worrying about the grief that she’d dredged up in him. But she didn’t knock, knowing he didn’t want comfort.

  She sneaked down to the parlor to the loveseat in front of the fireplace. She wished now the dogs had stayed with her for company. When she lay down, the puzzle still remained—Amy had suggested that she housesit, but who had written those emails?

  And more important, what would she do now?

  Morning came too soon. Hugh rolled over and swore, because last night he hadn’t slept well. All he wanted to do this morning was to have a lie-in. But it was Sunday. And light was pouring into his room. “What the…?”

  He sat up. The window overlooking the loch is uncovered? It was never uncovered! Why had Sophie pulled back the drape? The view was more than he could handle. Especially in the dead of winter!

  He stomped to the window and yanked the curtain closed. While he was there, he pulled the drape on the Munro as well.

  He fell back into bed, but he still had the same problem as he’d had last night. His bed smelled like the woman who slept in the room next to his, and he still didn’t know how she’d ended up here.

  The Wallace began to whine, and like clockwork, the Bruce started in, too.

  “Good God!” The woman and beasts were out to get him. “Can’t a man get any rest in his own house?” Maybe he’d let the dogs out and leave them in the cold for a good long while. That would teach them to drag him out of bed early. Even better, maybe he should put them in with Sophie and she could deal with their morning routine.

  Hugh rolled out of bed again, went to his dresser, and pulled open the top drawer. He stared in disbelief. Lady things stared back—lacy, sexy bits of intrigue and color. With one index finger, he scooped up a turquoise thong that was erotic to look at, and soft to the touch, and didn’t exactly match who he thought Sophie Munro was. He dropped it back into the mix and slammed the drawer shut. He opened the second drawer only to find bras and wool socks. The bras ranged from black to brightly colored, and he slammed that drawer as well.

  The Bruce whined loudly this time.

  “I’m trying, dammit. I can’t verra well take ye out with naked feet.” Hugh pulled open the third drawer and found women’s jeans on one side and sweaters on the other. “What the hell is going on here? Sophie has certainly made herself at home.” Had she decided to move in forever? In the closet, two dresses were hanging, while his shirts had been pushed to one side. He found his socks, skivvies, and other folded clothes thrown into a basket and deposited at the back of the closet. “Good God. Is nothing sacred?” He dug out a pair of socks for himself and quickly dressed. All the while, he groused loud enough to their adjoining wall to make sure his houseguest woke up.

  Out in the hall, he was surprised she hadn’t come out to see what the ruckus was all about. Why was the lass still abed? Had she had trouble sleeping, too? He decided to leave her be and deliberately passed her doorway without another glance. Downstairs, the leashes weren’t hanging by the back door where he’d left them yesterday. He searched the kitchen first and then went to the parlor to see if Sophie had left them there.

  Hugh didn’t find the leashes, but found Goldilocks on the loveseat fast asleep. He would’ve liked to have had a few seconds to gaze upon her longer, but the Bruce and the Wallace wanted her attention. Each of them nudged her and licked her face.

  “Off with ye,” she laughed, coming awake. She sobered quickly when she saw Hugh, tugging the green afghan around her.

  “I’m glad ye’re awake, Sleeping Beauty. Yere loyal servants would like to relieve themselves, but their leashes have gone missing.”

  Sophie made an O with her delectable lips and reached around her, shoving her hand into the sofa cushions. “They’re right here.”

  Hugh adjusted the pillows in the wing chair. In this house things were always put back in their place. What he’d seen of Sophie so far screamed disorder. Her tussled hair, her skewed nightdress, and the chaotic emotions she brewed up in him.

  He took the leashes from her. “The room abovestairs wasn’t to yere liking?” He should’ve been more polite—say good morning first, before starting the interrogation—but the woman had disrupted his sleep.

  The hounds jumped up on either side of her, acting as if they were Yorkie pu
ps, trying to crawl into her lap. She hugged them to her.

  “Down, you two,” he said.

  The dogs didn’t budge.

  Hugh gave the command again, pointing to the floor this time, and they both hopped off and sat in front of him, obediently. Now, if he could only get the woman to obey him, too.

  “I suggest while I walk the lads that you toddle upstairs and ready yereself for church.”

  “Church?”

  “Aye. The place with the pews and the preacher.” He snapped a leash on each dog. “I don’t know what ye heathens do along the northeast coast, but us God-fearing Scots in the Grampians go to church on Sundays.”

  “Pretty cheeky for this early in the morn, Hugh,” she countered, rising.

  “On our way to the kirk, we’re going to discuss how you came to be in my bed.”

  She momentarily anchored her hands on her hips…until she apparently realized her nightgown wasn’t nearly covering her perfect little breasts and that Hugh was an opportunistic bastard, feasting his eyes on her.

  She snatched up his flannel shirt from the loveseat and huffed from the room. “Ye would think that a man who owned a castle would be more of a gentleman.”

  “Hurry up now,” he called after her. “Dress warmly. We’ll leave in the next thirty minutes.” He laughed openly as her grumbles continued up two flights of stairs.

  The Wallace had wiggled his way under Hugh’s hand, and Hugh hadn’t even realized the mutt was there. The dog looked up at him with consternation.

  “I know, lad. I shouldn’t be throwing petrol on the fire.” The Bruce head-butted his other hand, wanting attention, too. “But I can’t help myself. There’s something about that lass when she’s throwing flames.”

  Sophie didn’t take the full thirty minutes to dress. After Hugh’s brisk walk with the dogs down the lane and back, he found Sophie in the kitchen making tea. She was wearing a vintage wool dress with a million buttons up the front. On her feet she had an old-fashioned pair of lace-up boots. She was a woman out of time and en vogue—classic, a woman from the past, but one who could walk the runway of a London wool-revival fashion show. Hell, he could hire her to be one of the lasses to model his woolens. Her long blond hair cascaded down one shoulder, making Hugh want to run his hands through the golden strands. He had many impure thoughts—that he shouldn’t have, especially right before church—so he stepped into the kitchen, making himself known.