“I’m not wearing one.” And she wasn’t.
“Oh, God.” He thought he might hyperventilate. “Ye’re beautiful, lass.”
“Ye’re just hard up.” Her teeth chattered, and her arms were plastered down at her sides.
He kissed her. He couldn’t help himself—he was such a bastard to take advantage of her. But she kissed him back, melting into him as he held her tightly.
“Oh, Sophie, I don’t know what I would’ve done—” He broke off.
She shh’ed him. “It’s o-okay, Hugh. I’m okay.”
Fortunately, the way he was holding her kept her from seeing his face. Raw emotions coursed through him—anger, relief, gratitude, and terror. Gradually, the warm water left only joy where cold and upset had been. They stayed like that for a long while, until she wasn’t shaking nearly as much and he was feeling calmer.
Finally, he remembered his duty. “Let’s get these pants off of ye, too.”
“You f-first.” A bit of laughter was in her voice.
“Oh, God, don’t tell me that ye’re not wearing any skivvies.” He looked down, which was a huge mistake. Her wee perfect breasts were right there in his line of sight, and he was as hard as a rock.
“I’m wearing skivvies, as ye say. It’s just that, ye know, they’re a wee bit slutty.” Her cheeks were pinking up nicely, a good sign she was going to be fine.
He brushed her cheek. “Well, close yere eyes, lass, so ye won’t see me when I’m scandalized by yere underthings.”
He didn’t wait for her consent but undid her pants and pushed them down to her ankles.
“Step out.” His voice was hoarse with his face inches away from the black lace of nothing that she wore. And God help him, he put his mouth over the small V and gave it a worshiping kiss. Before he did more, he rose. “How are ye feeling?”
“Do that again, and I’d be damned near on fire.”
“Let’s get you dried off and warmed up under the quilts.” Keeping his boxers on, Hugh stripped out of his soaked shirt and pants, leaving them and Sophie in the running water while he toweled off. He dressed in fleece pants before grabbing two warm towels from the rack.
He turned off the shower, swaddled Sophie in the towels, and carried her to his room. For once, the Wallace and the Bruce weren’t on the bed, but were in front of the fireplace. The Bruce was lying up against the Wallace, licking his ear.
Hugh pulled back the covers with one hand while he set Sophie down. “Slip off those panties so yere bed won’t get wet.” He wanted to do it himself, but was pretty certain he wouldn’t be honorable in what he did next.
“My bed?” She looked at him incredulously. “Where are ye going?”
“Don’t worry, lass,” he chuckled. “I’ll be right back.” He went to the en suite and grabbed the other warmed towels and wrapped them around the Wallace.
He hurried back to the bed and pulled her into his arms, knowing the skin-to-skin contact was a good way to keep her warm. He tried not to think about her being naked, but she kept nibbling at his neck.
He looked up at the ceiling at the crack that had formed the year Chrissa died. It was past time to fix it. “I want to thank you.”
She stopped in mid-nibble. “For what?”
“For lying next to me these last several nights.” For helping him to remember his family in a good light.
She pulled away. “So ye were awake?” Her words were filled with hurt and disbelief. “The whole time?”
“Aye.”
She sat up, scooting away from him. “Ye pretended to be asleep, because what? I was too plain to have in yere bed?”
He pulled her back into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Calm yereself, woman.”
“I’m going home tomorrow,” she whispered angrily. “I don’t want to go home a virgin.”
“Nay. Ye’re staying here with me. I mean to make you my wife.” He’d made the decision subconsciously while she’d held him night after night. He couldn’t ever let her go.
The word virgin finally sank into Hugh’s brain. “Ye’re a what?”
Chapter Six
* * *
“Ye mean to make me yere wife?” Sophie’s voice was shrill. Water must still be in her ears. Or the chill had screwed with her brain.
“I’m finally going to do as Amy and Aunt Davinia bid me to do.” He looked confused—like he was saying one thing while puzzling over another. “They’ve nagged me to marry you for the last year, and now I will.”
An arrow pierced straight through Sophie’s heart. Not one of Cupid’s arrows either.
Something was very wrong with how she was feeling. She had liked Hugh even before she’d met him. Amy’s stories about Hugh and their misadventures as children and young adults had painted him in the most lovable light. When Sophie had seen him for the first time, she’d contracted a serious case of lust over him, though he’d been a prat.
Then somewhere along the line in the last week, she’d fallen hopelessly in love with Hugh McGillivray, the flesh-and-blood man. The real deal. Perhaps it had happened when they were isolated at the cabin and he’d shared his deepest, darkest secret with her so she would know she wasn’t alone in her pain. Or maybe while she’d been holding him night after night while he lay next to his dead sister’s bed. Hell, as hard up as she was, she’d probably fallen in love with him on the first night…when she’d seen him naked.
Shouldn’t she feel grateful to him that he’d given in to his relations’ hounding and had agreed to marry the unmarriageable Sophie?
Except she couldn’t marry him if he felt forced into it!
“Get me some pajamas,” she said coolly, pushing away from him. “I need my cell phone, too.” Being demanding was better than crying.
“Ye don’t need pajamas.” His voice was as hard as the ice on the loch should have been.
“I do. And don’t forget the phone.” She was going home—now. She wasn’t going to inflict herself on him any longer.
Hugh had a confused expression on his face as he rolled out of bed. He pulled his pajama top from the closet and retrieved her cell from the dresser. She wouldn’t look at the beautiful vase he’d given her. She wouldn’t.
“Here.” He left her with the things and went into the loo.
Sophie couldn’t tell him the truth. It was too painful. If only he wanted her for the right reasons!
She would not crumple into a heap. Not now. She started to call Mama, but no way did Sophie want to be stuck in a car with Mama questioning her all the way back to Gandiegow. Sophie pulled on Hugh’s pajama top and dialed the one person who wouldn’t badger her to death about what had happened and how she was feeling.
“Ramsay, it’s me, Sophie. I need ye to come and get me,” she said, starting to shake, and not from the cold either.
“Give me the address,” Ramsay said. “I’ll leave now.”
She gave him the directions and hung up. She looked up and found Hugh standing in the doorway.
“What’s this about?” he said roughly.
The dogs raised their heads and gave her a questioning stare. They all waited for her answer. She didn’t have the energy to speak. It had been a harrowing evening, and the depression was swallowing her and taking her words with it.
“Ye’re not going anywhere,” he said.
Sophie didn’t meet his eyes, but went to the dresser and scooped out her panties, laying them on the comforter. Hugh’s eyes flashed with desire at her slutty undies, but then his glare went icy cold in the next second.
She went to the third drawer and pulled out a turtleneck, jeans, and a sweater. She opened her mouth to tell him to step out of the room while she dressed, but he’d already seen all she had—maybe even seen to her very soul. She had a moment of gumption as she pulled his pajama top over her head like she was a snake shedding its skin. A new woman. Naked, but with a new determination. She silently dared Hugh to say something as she put on a warm turtleneck.
He glared a
t her with his hands on his hips. “What has got into you?”
“Nothing’s got into me.” Amy and Aunt Davinia would have to come up with a new woman for Hugh to wed. And bed.
But underneath it all…Sophie was amazed that during Hugh’s non-proposal—somewhere, somehow—she’d found her own worth.
She didn’t have to marry to feel like a whole person.
He grabbed her arm. “Talk to me, dammit. Don’t shut me out.” He paused for a second as if the answer had occurred to him. He dropped her arm and stepped back. “Do ye need time in front of yere lamp?”
The question knocked the air out of her.
She grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head, wishing for more—like a club to use on his thick skull.
He’d done her a favor with his last words, reminding her that she was damaged, defective, giving her just enough energy to go. She jammed all her clothes into her suitcase. She looked mournfully at the vase. She couldn’t keep it without thinking of him. She left the vase sitting on his dresser. As she wheeled her bag to exit, he stood in the doorway, blocking it.
“Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth.
But he was settling. He didn’t want to marry her. Maybe he thought it was time he tied the knot. Ultimately, he wanted to get married only because his family wished him to. The Laird may not love her, but Sophie had finally figured out that she loved herself.
She pushed past him. “Come, boys, walk me downstairs.” The Wallace and the Bruce followed her down the stairs, one towel staying on the Wallace until he hit the final step.
Sophie went into the parlor, wishing she could make a quick getaway, but Ramsay wouldn’t arrive for some time. She threw a log on the fire for the hounds, and then sat at the writing desk to do some light therapy as she waited.
The longer she sat in front of her lamp, the sadder she felt. She was going home defeated and would live with her parents for the rest of her life. The truth was, she would miss being at Kilheath Castle, miss holding the Laird while he slept.
She loved Hugh—there was no denying it—she only wished he loved her back. She wiped away a tear. And just in time, too.
Hugh brought a tray in and set it down on the coffee table.
“Eat,” he said. “Drink. Refuel.” He didn’t seem capable of full sentences.
Sophie turned off her lamp, unplugged it, and carefully wound up the cord. She put it with her other things by the parlor entrance before walking to the tray, all the fight gone from her. She grabbed a tart and the mug of tea.
He pointed to the loveseat. “Sit.”
She couldn’t relax as she had on her first day here, when she’d pretended to be queen of the castle. All those illusions had been vanquished. The dogs came to lie next to her as if they didn’t want to miss one second of her being there either. As the time ticked away, Hugh seemed to inch closer to her, also.
After a long while, he sighed heavily as if the fight was all gone from him, too. “Ye have to tell me what happened. Ye owe me at least that before ye go.”
A sharp rap sounded at the front door. For a second, Hugh kept staring at her like he hadn’t heard.
The knock came again, longer and harder. Hugh stomped off toward the foyer.
What could Sophie say to the Laird? He hadn’t asked for her hand. Even more glaringly, he’d said nothing of love.
Sharp voices from the hallway interrupted her regrets—having Ramsay fetch her had been exceedingly stupid. She certainly didn’t want punches thrown in her name. Ramsay was her friend, and nothing else.
She grabbed her luggage as she hurried from the parlor. The dogs popped up and followed. She found Hugh in the foyer, standing nose-to-nose with Ramsay.
“What’s this?” Hugh said to her accusingly.
“He’s my ride.”
Hugh wanted to punch the bloke in the jaw. He remembered him—Ramsay, Amy had called him. He was from Gandiegow, the same huge fellow Sophie had left with from the céilidh last summer. Where Hugh had acted the stubborn prat. He should’ve danced with Sophie. He should’ve made her his then.
He stepped into Sophie’s path. “Ye don’t have to do this, lass.”
The Wallace and the Bruce each rubbed up against her, also presenting their arguments as to why she shouldn’t leave.
Ramsay looked to Sophie. “What is it? Stay or go?”
“I’m ready.” She sounded sad, but determined.
The bloke grabbed her bag and her lamp. For a moment, Hugh thought Ramsay might give them a moment to say good-bye in private, but the bastard just stood there, waiting for Sophie to go out first.
Hugh reached for her, but she sidestepped him and fled into the night.
Ramsay shrugged. “The lass has made her decision.” And he was gone, too, closing the door behind them.
Hugh punched the wall, barely feeling the bruising of his knuckles. The dogs whined. The Wallace went to the door and scratched at the ancient entry, barking. The Bruce began to howl.
“Enough,” Hugh yelled, but it did no good.
“What’s all this racket?” Aunt Davinia said, coming in from the kitchen. “I stopped by to borrow some clotted cream for tomorrow morning’s scone and find this. Where’s Sophie?”
The dogs ran to his aunt as if to tattle.
She glared at him sideways. “What did ye do, Hugh-boy?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t do anything. I told Sophie she was going to be my wife, and she couldn’t be rid of me fast enough.”
He didn’t add that she’d left with another man. Not just any man. Ramsay and Sophie had a past. His Sophie! Hugh wanted to howl like the dogs.
Auntie snapped her fingers, and both beasts sat, as if turned to porcelain. She narrowed her gaze on Hugh. “So did ye tell the lass that ye’ve finally come to yere senses, that ye love her?”
“She didn’t exactly give me the chance.”
“No, ye didn’t give her a chance,” his aunt said. “She needed to hear it from you, how ye feel about her, the words from yere heart. What did ye do? Did ye just tell her how it was going to be? Of course that’s what ye did!”
She motioned to the Wallace and the Bruce. “Dammit, Hugh, she’s not one of the hounds. She wants to be asked. She wants to be wooed. She wants to be cherished.” Auntie shook her head with more disappointment than he’d ever seen from her. “Get off yere arse and go after her. Do it right now, for goodness’ sake.”
He started to argue. But, dammit, it didn’t matter that Ramsay might be a towering, warrior of a Scot, Hugh’s equal. Hugh had something greater going for him. He loved Sophie!
“Come on, Wallace. Ye, too, Bruce. We’re going after the mistress of the castle.”
Sophie cried silently in the darkness as Ramsay drove. As she’d expected, she didn’t have to explain anything to him. Ramsay was a good friend, and she hoped someday he’d find himself a good woman.
Back in home in Gandiegow, though, Sophie couldn’t dodge her mama’s scrutiny. Annie hovered and clucked, made her a cup of tea, and sat with her on the couch. At Mama’s insistence, Da came in and sat with them, too.
Sophie didn’t tell them anything, though Annie had tried every trick in the book to get her to spill it.
“Ye talk to her, Russ. She needs to tell us what happened so we can help her.” Annie patted her on the hand, and then glared at Sophie’s da.
Da leaned forward, giving Sophie a look of understanding. “Ye don’t have to tell us a thing. Ye only need to give me the nod, and I’ll give Hugh McGillivray a visit he won’t soon forget.”
Sophie loved these people, but she was done being their troubled daughter. “Nay. It’s not Hugh’s fault. It’s me.”
“What do ye mean it’s yere fault? Nighean, ye’re perfect,” Annie said.
Sophie considered hurling her mug at the hearth, but it was Mama’s favorite. “You and I know I’m far from perfect.”
Maybe it was time for some gut-wrenching honesty between her and her parents.
“I heard you and Da speaking before I left to housesit at Hugh’s.”
Her mother looked at her, confused. “About what?”
Da grabbed a fishing magazine from the coffee table and leaned back in his recliner.
Just as he was opening the pages, Sophie jumped in with both feet. “I heard you two agree that I was past my prime. Too old to find anyone. Too bossy.”
Da dropped his magazine, straightening back up, his attention on her. “What are ye talking about, hen? I never…” His voice trailed off.
Mama stared at Da, very serious-like. “No.”
The two of them burst out laughing, Annie clutching Sophie’s da.
“I don’t see anything funny here,” Sophie said. This day had gone from bad to worse.
Mama calmed a little and patted Sophie’s arm. “Ye got it all wrong. We were speaking of Deydie, not you.”
“Da, what’s Mama talking about?” Sophie asked.
Her father pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. He shoved it back into his pocket. “Yere mama and the other ladies of Gandiegow think ol’ Deydie and Abraham Clacher would make a fine couple. But, good grief, I don’t see it. That woman is too old and crotchety, and Abraham is too salty of a fisherman, for those two”—he chuckled again—“for those two to get married.”
“See, nighean, we weren’t talking about ye after all. Ye just misheard.”
Sophie didn’t have time to process the revelation as someone started pounding on the door. She went to answer it. Ramsay stood there, but then the Wallace and the Bruce tore past him in a blur and jumped on her.
They would’ve knocked her over, too, if two strong arms hadn’t caught her. It wasn’t Ramsay who had her either, and it wasn’t Ramsay who was scolding the deerhounds.
“Down, boys,” Hugh said. Ramsay had been shoved to the side.
Ramsay tipped an imaginary hat at Hugh. “My work here is done.” Then Ramsay was gone.
Hugh shut the door behind him, still holding on to her, keeping the dogs at bay—sort of. Based on the way he was holding her, he wasn’t letting go.
Must Love Highlanders Page 19
