Sophie, red-faced, slipped off the couch and went to the writing desk in the corner. A rectangular lamp sat on top. She grabbed a book, sat down, and turned on the lamp.
“Good night, dear.” Aunt Davinia, who didn’t seem at all surprised to see Sophie in front of the bright light, waved to her.
Sophie glanced up for only a second. “Night, Aunt Davinia.”
Hugh should’ve felt bad for accosting Sophie a moment ago, but he couldn’t work up any regret. He wanted to go back to her, rub her back, fondle her hair, or something. He needed to keep touching her, but instead he followed Davinia into the hallway.
“Auntie?” he called.
“Yes, Hugh-boy. What is it?”
“I need to know something. Is there anything else that ye’ve done? Tell me now if ye and Amy are done conniving.”
Aunt Davinia laughed heartily and walked away.
Sophie had her eyes glued to some book, but her focus was all on the Laird when he came back into the parlor. He went to a stack of magazines, grabbed one, and stretched out on the loveseat, his legs hanging off. The air was rife with sexual tension, or with Sophie’s wishful thinking; it was hard to tell which.
The Wallace and the Bruce wandered into the room and took up residence at her feet. Those two dogs knew a lot about how to keep a lass company. Sophie planned to talk to Emma about dogs, wondering if they had the therapeutic qualities that she suspected they had. And maybe ask Emma about kissing. Between the hounds at her feet and Hugh’s expert lips, Sophie had been doing remarkably well without her therapy lamp all day.
After a while, Hugh left the room and came back with a tray. He didn’t say a word, but set a bowl of leftover soup in front of her, soda bread, and a cup of choco, acting like he didn’t want to disturb her reading. He ate in front of the fire with the Bruce and the Wallace staring at him—the beggars.
The soup, the warm parlor, and the comfortable companionship made Sophie feel at home. She yawned as Hugh cleared her bowl and spoon from the writing desk.
“What say ye, lass? Are ye ready for bed? It’s been a long day.”
“Aye.” She switched off her lamp. “I believe my lovely trek through the woods has worn me out.”
“Come then.” He offered his hand. “Let’s get you off to bed.”
As she placed her hand in Hugh’s, she wondered if he would kiss her good night.
Side by side, they walked up the wide staircase together with the Bruce and the Wallace right on their trail. He didn’t stop at his sister’s door, but followed her into his room. The dogs jumped on the bed and curled up on either end.
Sophie had forgotten about her clothes strewn all over his floor. While she scooped them up, Hugh closed the door. Had he changed his mind about where he was going to sleep? Her stomach came alive with butterflies doing cartwheels. She waited to see if he would pull her into his arms. But he went to his closet, dug around in the bottom, and retrieved blue plaid pajama bottoms.
Oh. But she still had hope. There was still time for him to make some kind of overture.
Instead, he walked to the door. He hesitated as he exited, but didn’t look up. “Good night, Sophie.” He closed the door behind him.
She felt stupid for thinking he might try to seduce her. She felt even stupider for still hugging her dirty clothes. Damn him! She threw her bundle at the hard oak door. The Wallace and the Bruce frowned at her…or at least that’s what it looked like.
Well, Hugh may not want to crawl into bed with her…and he may have decided on no more kisses, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to keep Sophie Munro from sleeping with the Laird tonight.
Chapter Five
* * *
Hugh changed in the loo down the hall and went back to Chrissa’s room. He stood in the doorway for a long moment. He didn’t know what had possessed him to give up his own bed and say he would sleep in here. Like a warrior going to battle, he heaved himself over the threshold, shut himself in, and went to Chrissa’s closet. He pulled down the stack of quilts that he’d slept on as a grieving lad and made himself a pallet. He didn’t want to stop to examine his feelings. He was a grown man now, and he could do this. He shut out the light and lay on the floor next to his dead sister’s bed.
He stretched out, looking up at the dark ceiling for a long time, pretty sure that falling asleep would be a futile exercise. He should go downstairs and have a whisky. He could sleep on the damned loveseat like Sophie had done last night. He rolled onto his side.
As if he’d conjured Sophie up, the bedroom door opened and then quietly shut. She tiptoed toward him and softly felt the outline of his back. He didn’t speak, anticipating what she would do next, but he got it wrong. She lay down behind him, wrapped one arm around his middle, and curled into his back.
The spoon.
Hugh let out the breath he’d been holding. The spoon grabbed the top quilt and hogged the blankets. He laid his hand over hers, squeezed it, and fell fast asleep in her comforting embrace.
Sophie woke in the morning, sandwiched between two warm bodies—neither of the bodies were Hugh. His dogs were cuddling her. They must’ve grabbed their chance when Hugh had gotten up. She couldn’t blame the hounds. She’d been pretty brazen herself, having the audacity last night to snuggle up to the Laird.
She wasn’t sure he even knew she’d been there. He’d never said a word, but had held her in his sleep while she held him. Even though she’d slept on the floor, she felt rested this morning, thoroughly snuggled, like a well-loved quilt. She stretched, rolled over, and threw her arm over—she had to glance up to see—the Wallace. Neither dog budged. A pair of black hiking boots appeared in her lazy-morning line of sight.
The boots’ owner cleared his throat.
She glanced up and saw a kilt—rust-colored with green and blue lines. If the Wallace weren’t dead to the world, she’d be able to scoot closer to peer underneath. It would serve the Laird right. He’d tried to cop a feel under her sweater last night. Not that she was complaining or anything.
“Are ye going to lie in all day or are ye going to hurry off to the wool mill before Willoughby locks ye out of his workroom?”
“He wouldn’t dare,” she said. “I have connections. I know the Laird.” She cranked her head a little more to the side, but still couldn’t be sure what—if anything—he had on under there.
“Well, lass, now that’s where ye’re wrong. Willoughby told me not thirty minutes ago that if ye weren’t there soon, ye’d be shite out of luck. I may be the Laird of this clan and owner of the wool factory, but Willoughby carries the keys to his own workroom.”
“Damn.” She shoved at the Wallace, but made no headway, getting only a doggie grunt from him.
“Wallace, move,” the master said.
The Wallace slowly rose, took two steps, and collapsed. But it was enough room for Sophie to get to her feet.
She gave the Laird the once-over and then whistled through her teeth. “Why’re ye wearing yere colors?”
“It’s what I wear to the mill.” He tapped his watch. “You have ten minutes, if ye plan to be working there today, too.”
She hurried past Hugh. “Fine. Will you drive me? So I won’t be late?”
“I’ll be waiting downstairs.”
Sophie put on a white sweater with her Munro tartan skirt. When she got to the kitchen, Hugh had a cup of tea waiting and a bag in his hand.
“It’s yere breakfast. Mrs. McNabb will bring our lunch to us later.”
“Thank you.” She took the sack and hurried out the door to his Mercedes SUV as the sun was peeking over the horizon.
Hugh drove her to the wool mill while she inhaled her cinnamon raisin scone and scalded her mouth on the tea.
“It’s delicious,” she said around a bite.
Hugh only nodded. He didn’t mention last night, and she didn’t either. He pulled up to the building farthest from the road.
“He’s in there. If he hasn’t locked the door already.” Hugh had la
ughter in his voice, but he gave her an encouraging smile. “Go on now. I’ll stop by with yere lunch later. Ye can tell me how it goes.”
“Thanks again,” she said, feeling reluctant to leave his smile, but pulling herself from the car.
“Sophie?”
“Yes?”
“Good luck!” With his eyes dancing, he toasted her with his travel mug.
Sophie ran inside and met Willoughby at the door. Sure enough, he had the key in his hand, ready to lock her out.
“Ye’re late,” the old man said.
“No. I’m right on time.”
“Well, I didn’t think ye’d make it.” He sounded disappointed. “I’ve a lot of work to do. Don’t have time for the likes of ye.”
Why hadn’t she brought an extra scone—some little thing with which to butter up the old man?
“Well, I’m here,” she said cheerily. “Ready to make my first kilt.”
“Not so fast,” Willoughby said. “I’ll have to see some of your handiwork first before I’ll let ye be touching the tartans with the scissors.” With a gnarled hand, he pocketed the key in his old tweed jacket. From inside the coat, he withdrew a thick piece of wool tartan and a needle. He thrust them at her. “Make three evenly spaced pleats.”
Sophie claimed a small table and plain ladder-back chair for herself. Willoughby shuffled over to a narrow table that had to be fifteen to twenty feet long. A large bolt of a dark green tartan with a muted aqua blue and royal blue sat at one end.
“Stop staring at me and get busy,” he grumbled.
“Aye.” What a cheery instructor.
Sophie laid out her length of fabric on the table and grabbed the pins off the windowsill. She went to work, marking evenly spaced pleats and sewing them into place. She should’ve asked Hugh this morning if he’d strip out of his kilt so she could check to see how the stitching was done.
She smiled at the image and let her mind wander. How nice it’d been sleeping with Hugh last night. And before that, his nakedness in the reflection of his picture windows had been pretty wonderful, too.
Willoughby coughed. “Are ye done yet? We don’t have all day.”
Sophie walked her pleats over to him. He scowled at her as he snatched the fabric away, but his expression changed to confusion as he examined the woolen.
“That don’t mean a thing,” he muttered to himself, shoving the pleated piece back in his inside pocket. “Get up here and start rolling out the tartan. The Laird needs a new kilt. And ye’re going to make it.” He said it like that would show the new master for off-loading her onto him.
No! She wanted to protest. She didn’t trust that her first kilt would be good enough for Hugh. What if she screwed it up?
But if she backed down from this order, Willoughby would throw her out of his workshop for good.
“Fine.” She stepped up to the counter. “Eight yards, right?” She began spreading out the wool, wondering if Willoughby was impressed that she knew how much fabric was in a kilt. “I assume this is the McGillivray Hunting tartan.”
“Aye.” He pointed to a corner where bolts had been stacked. “The modern McGillivray Hunting tartan,” Willoughby corrected. “Magnus, me brother, finished weaving it yesterday.”
She ran her hand over the quality wool. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad ye can appreciate craftsmanship. My brother may be an arse, but he does weave the finest tartan in all of Scotland.”
His voice held pride, and as he instructed her on how to measure and mark the pleats, his voice became less rough, and she heard the passion for his craft in his words.
At noon, Hugh knocked on the jamb, making Sophie and Willoughby look up from their work.
“Lunch,” he said. “Willoughby, do ye want to join us?”
“Nay. I have to complete all the things yere lass kept me from this morning.”
Sophie ignored that the old man had lumped her and Hugh together with his yere lass.
“I’ll be back soon,” she said.
“Don’t hurry,” Willoughby answered gruffly. He didn’t really look angry with her, now that she was getting to know him.
Hugh grabbed her coat and helped her into it. Sophie savored his closeness, allowing a second to breathe him in. She could pretend for this moment that she was his lass, couldn’t she?
He walked her out, and as they made their way through the compound, he pointed out the various buildings of the wool operation, starting with the exhibition hall.
“We’re a sheep-to-shawl operation,” he said proudly. “We do sheep-shearing demonstrations here, but mostly the shearing is done at my cousin Ewan’s sheep farm down the way.”
“Nepotism?” she kidded.
“Aye, I’m happy to say. Most of our families have been here in the village of Lalkanbroch and have been working at McGillivray’s House of Woolens from the beginning. And will continue to be here for generations to come, if I have any say about it.”
“What about outsiders? Do ye welcome them?” Sophie’s village of Gandiegow could be pretty closed-minded when it came to outsiders moving in.
“Absolutely. We’re expanding things here. I have visions of Lalkanbroch becoming an artisan community. I’ve been working to bring in a potter to set up shop here.” He pointed to a funny little green building among the stone cottages. “After that, I’d like to see about getting a basket-maker and an artist here as well.”
They passed the building with the waterwheel, and he explained how it provided only a fraction of the energy needed. “We rely mostly on conventional electricity. Though, I strive to keep the old ways alive as much as possible. My father and mother worked hard to preserve the Victorian-era wool mill operation, maintain its authenticity. I’m trying to carry on the tradition. That doesn’t mean that some modernization hasn’t had to take place. We still have to compete to sell our woolens.”
They toured several buildings, and Sophie couldn’t help but revel when he’d lay his hand at the small of her back and guided her along. Everyplace they went, the Laird gave her a thorough explanation of each process. He was passionate about what he did, and she couldn’t imagine that he’d spent so many years away—or that now that he was home that he would ever leave this place again.
They finally made it to his office in the middle of the complex. Once inside, Hugh settled them at a small conference table in the corner, pulling up two chairs. Sophie retrieved warm meat pies and tea from a picnic basket.
“Compliments of Mrs. McNabb,” he said.
Would he bring up last night now? Would he at least bring up how the other bedrooms in the house were coming along? She opened her mouth to ask about the sleeping arrangements, but he jumped in first.
“How are ye getting along with Willoughby?” Hugh asked. “I think he’s taken quite a shine to you.”
She gave him a half frown. “That’s a shine?”
“Aye. He actually let ye stay in his workshop, for one thing. It took Mrs. Bates two years to pass his pleat test before he’d let her sew the buckles on his completed kilts. His damned pleat test is the reason I haven’t been able to hire someone to take over…someday.”
Sophie was getting a clue as to why Willoughby would be reticent to have her or anyone else there. He saw her as a threat. She’d have to assure him that she had no intention of taking his place. She was going home soon.
One week. It just didn’t feel like it was long enough.
Hugh’s office made an interesting comment on the man who occupied it. Five bolts of various tartans were propped in the corner—from muted hunting plaids to the Royal Stewart tartan. A mound of folders and paperwork sat on his desk. And the man across from her was staring back at her.
“What?” Sophie asked. “Do I have meat pie on my chin?”
“Aye.” He reached over and wiped away a bit of gravy from the corner of her mouth. The gesture was very intimate, but not as intimate as what he did next. He stared into her eyes for a long moment.
&nb
sp; He broke the spell, looking away. “I have to get back to work. Can ye make it to the workshop on yere own?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll leave the auto for ye for later.” He tried to hand her the keys.
She waved him off. “I’ll walk. ’Tis not that far.”
“I’ll be here until late,” he said. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“But—”
The phone on the desk rang, and he reached for it. “I have to get this.” He turned his back, and their companionable lunch was over.
Sophie grabbed her coat and left. When she got back to the workshop, it was locked. She peeked in the windows, but didn’t see the stubborn Willoughby with his key on the other side. She wandered into the building next to the kiltmaker’s. Inside, she found what could only be a small café. Three women and two men sat at a table having lunch. One of them was Magnus, Willoughby’s brother.
“Excuse me,” Sophie said. They’d stopped eating when she’d walked in. “Do you know where Willoughby might be?”
Magnus harrumphed. “Doing a dance with the devil, for all I care.”
The oldest woman playfully smacked Magnus’s arm. “Don’t mind him. They’re feuding again.”
“Here, come sit with us,” said the youngest of the three women. She was dark-haired and petite. She scooted over and made room for Sophie. “We can get Elspeth to ladle up a bowl for ye in the kitchen.”
“No, thanks. I already ate.” With the Laird.
The first woman made the introductions. “I’m Hazel, this is Taffy, and this is Lara, the babe of the group. This one is my husband, Harold, and of course, ye know Mr. Grumpy Pants here, one of the wool brothers. If ye’re looking for Willoughby, he probably has gone home for a wee nap.”
Magnus harrumphed again and muttered, “Lazy bum.”
Taffy rubbed Magnus’s arm this time. “Be kind, luv. He’s much older than you, and he needs his nap to make it through the afternoon.”
Must Love Highlanders Page 17
