Kiltless In Carolina

by Ashantay Peters

  Table of Contents

  Kiltless in Carolina

  Publication Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Also Read

  Thank You

  Kiltless in Carolina

  by

  Ashantay Peters

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Kiltless In Carolina

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Ashantay Peters

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2016

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0700-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Judy Jarvie for her help with all things Scottish, and for daring me to write outside my comfort zone. Thanks!

  Chapter One

  “We’re not asking much. One extended weekend spent with your family. You’ve made the two-hour drive from Charlotte to the Highland Games before.”

  Isla McAllister eyed her mother. “You know I’m not into the Scottish scene.” She held up her hand. “No, wait. I don’t need the heritage lecture again. Just, please, no.” She’d had her ancestry force-fed since birth almost thirty years ago, with tartan ribbons threaded through her crib. Even her stuffed toys had worn plaid.

  “Perhaps you were too young to appreciate those trips to Gran’s old home.”

  “You mean the ones featuring gray skies, cold rain and no Nessie sightings?” Zip, though Isla had taken multiple boat tours with a bag of breadcrumbs clutched in her small hand. She should have used raw fish for bait instead, or shortbread. Could be Nessie had an unfulfilled sweet tooth.

  Her mother’s lips thinned. Next her eyes would narrow. Isla recognized the signs and braced herself for the familiar words her snarky side wished to accompany with lush harp strings.

  “My mother wants you with us. This may be the last year she’s able to attend the Southern U.S. Highland Games. Gran’s heart attack—”

  “Was ten years ago. She’s healthier than any of us.” Given her dad’s affection for imported Scottish sausages and Robert the Bruce ale, she worried more about his longevity than Gran’s. “Her nickname isn’t Selkie for nothing,” Isla said. “She outswam the high school varsity team’s captain last month.”

  Still, her mother had a point. This year she’d give in and attend the Games—after token resistance, of course. Letting her mother win too soon would suck later.

  “We just want this weekend to be our special family gathering. Who knows what could happen or how long we’ll have each other.” She cast a glance from the corner of her eye. “I mean, you’ll be married someday soon, with your own bonny wee bairns.”

  Her face brightened. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss the new Bachelor’s Sporran Event this year.”

  Sheesh. How had she forgotten? Her maternal parent lived to match her only child with a nice Scottish boy. Preferably a clean cut one who’d just arrived from up a tree on the Isle of Skye. No way. Not after her engagement to Scottie the Ginger-haired Bastard went the way of salmon hurrying back downstream after laying their eggs. Did salmon make a round trip? She had no idea.

  She leveled a look at her parent. “If I go, I won’t camp out with you guys. Gran’s snoring raises the roof after a few tots of “fine auld malt whiskee frum hooome.” She rubbed her ears in remembrance. “Plus, no way I’ll shower with cold water or depend upon electric and water hook-ups available to a select few. Using portable latrines is bad enough. Camping out in the North Carolina mountains? No way. Not even in summer.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. I can’t believe you’re our child.” Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know where we went wrong. Celtic dance classes, harp instruction, and remember your lovely spinning wheel? Dad treasures the vest you knit him with your homespun wool.”

  Before their big relocation to the States, her maternal grandparents had lived in Edinburgh, not the countryside, but the facts hadn’t dimmed her mother’s rapturous support of all things rural Scot. The vest was moth-eaten, lumpy, and had shrunk two sizes. Unless the sausages and ale were at fault?

  Pulling herself back on track, she focused on striking a bargain. “Deal breaker, Mom. Nearby hotel or nothing.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’ve made a reservation.” Her mom tucked her tongue in her cheek. She stopped smiling and followed with, “The best room I could get is ten miles away. Lucky I called at the beginning of last year’s Games right after they’d had a cancellation.”

  Checkmate. Ah, the final nail in her coffin of defiance. Her mother had held an ace up her tartan for over a year. Time to raise the blue and white flag of the Homeland. Her tripe was cooked.

  She’d lost round one, but with her own lodging, would have a bit of control. Even if her family butted in before the Opening Ceremony and Parade of Tartans began. If lucky she’d meet a sexy, dark-haired man to help keep her bed warm.

  Luck, hell. She’d make something happen.

  ****

  “I need your help, Graeme.”

  So what else was new? Graeme MacKay raised his gaze to his brother, Liam, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Well, come in, then. What’s got your shorts in a twist this time?”

  “No need to jump on me. This problem is not my fault.”

  This time. “So what’s wrong and why do you need Big Bro’s help?”

  “It’s the Highland Games.”

  Of course it was. The one place Graeme avoided and with good reason. His former fiancée danced there every year. Graeme knew it’d be impossible to avoid Caitriona. Vibrant auburn hair, a dancer’s body, grace and strength, and a personality more fitly named Caillic—hag in Gaelic. He shuddered. There had to be a portrait like Dorian Gray’s hidden somewhere in her apartment.

  “Sorry. I’m busy that weekend.”

  “Graeme. I haven’t given you the dates.”

  “You know I’m done with playing the traditional stuff. Can’t remember the musician’s cues. Fusion music is my gig.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted you to pipe.” Liam snorted. “You want to avoid a certain woman who shall remain unnamed.”

  Yes, Cait did hold a rather strong resemblance to Voldemort.

  My request comes from Kenzie.” He leaned against the doorframe. “She, ah, has a cousin who doesn’t want to sit alone while we, you know, hang out. We need your help.”

  He meant entertain the cousin while they screwed like bunnies on an experimental love drug in the pup tent. No, he wouldn’t want to watch, either. Some kink was fine, but he’d rather participate. Not with another woman who thought the sun rose and set on Scotland’s shores, though. Nope. Done. Not cutting into that haggis pouch.

  He bunched
his dark wavy hair into a ponytail, securing it with a thin leather band. “No.” He squinted, pretending he didn’t notice Liam’s hangdog look. His sibling often faked woebegone; his having perfected said expression by age four.

  “If I do this,” he said, ignoring his brother’s flash of hope, “it’ll cost you. Dearly.”

  Little brother swallowed, his Adam’s apple wobbling quicker than a fast time change. Liam straightened. Cleared his throat. “Okay. What are your terms?”

  “Two, no three things.” He settled back, determined to lull his brother into complacency by starting low. “You pay all my expenses, and I mean all of them. Spending money up front, and I don’t eat cheap.”

  “You don’t drink cheap, either.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. Include a bottle of seventeen-year-old Balvenie.”

  Liam nodded but kept his worried appearance. Graeme relished his upper hand, as any older brother would.

  “Those expenses include a nearby hotel room. And I do mean close by.”

  They both knew hotel rooms were impossible to find during the Games, but his little bro had contacts. He’d find something to keep Graeme from the campground’s cold showers and colder ground.

  “Two, no promises to the cousin. Dinner only. Don’t tell her about—” he hesitated, “—Cait. I’m not looking for a pity fuck. Got it?”

  “But you haven’t even seen—”

  “Not interested.” Not Liam’s business if Graeme changed his mind.

  Liam raised his hands in a surrender pose. “Fine.” He muttered.

  Graeme rubbed his hands together. “Three. The band needs a Bodhran player. You fit the bill. I want a six month commitment.”

  He hadn’t thought his sibling would turn white but he did. “Band practice will cut into my gym time. And Kenzie won’t like my being gone so much.”

  “Bring her along. The fiddle player’s wife would like company.”

  “Kenzie may not want to come and hang.”

  “So don’t bring her. Not my problem. We need a Bodhran and I mean you.” He rubbed his hands over his head, dislodging his neat ponytail. Impatiently jerking off the leather, he shook out his hair.

  “Look, I understand you enjoy the caber, and you’ve moved up in the rankings. But fooling around with poles almost twenty feet long and weighing 175 pounds is not a sane endeavor for a man who makes his living with his hands.”

  “Shit. Talk about ham-stringing your own little brother. Dad would give you a slap upside the head.”

  “Dad’s not here, is he? Those are my terms. No substitutions.”

  He paused, his words echoing between them. Dad wouldn’t be attending the Games this year. Not from his still fresh grave.

  They didn’t speak for a few moments, each lost in thoughts about the father they missed, and the mother who grieved.

  Liam straightened and stepped forward with his hand extended. “Accepted.” He grinned. “Kenzie will agree as I’m doing this for her. I hope you’ll loosen up and change your mind about the cousin. Your pride will screw you some day.” He fled, yelling a final comment over his shoulder. “You need to get laid, bro.”

  “My cock does just fine without your favors, little bro.” His answering yell relieved him, though the door slamming after he yelled “cock” told him his parting shot had largely gone unheard.

  Graeme sighed. Since Dad’s passing, Fiona MacKay had morphed into Super Matchmaker. She’d be on the Highland grounds, watching and plotting, picking out likely candidates to push at him, as if turning thirty-one meant he had to marry before his dick fell off.

  He could always fake an end run using the cousin. If she were willing and had a brain, he’d bring his personal pipe out to play, but not if she wore a stitch of tartan. No way. He’d had his last Highland screw. Guarandamnteed.

  Chapter Two

  “What do you mean, I don’t have a reservation? My mother pre-paid. Here’s the confirmation.” Isla tapped her fingers on the marble counter, the unhelpful clerk on the other side her sole solution to death by camping.

  “It appears your reservation was cancelled yesterday afternoon. A refund has already been issued.” The blonde woman who wore the Saltire Scot flag pin and greeted her with a generous smile had lost her warmth. “Perhaps you weren’t informed?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had a last minute cancellation?” She knew the answer without another word spoken. She’d died and was on the express elevator to roughing it hell.

  “I’m sure you could find something in a bigger town or along the Interstate. Although I’ve been told hotels are totally booked up to fifty miles away. You could try South Carolina or Tennessee.” She smiled while delivering the unwelcome news. “We’re popular this time of year.”

  Her face brightened to high beam, but her pleasure appeared to be directed at whoever stood behind Isla. “I’ll take the next person.”

  Isla blocked the line, unwilling to step away from any opportunity. “A cot. How about a cot? You can set it up in the ballroom or even a supply closet. I don’t mind using a public bath. Anything, please.”

  A quick frown flashed on the clerk’s face. “No.” She manufactured a smile better resembling a grimace. “Sorry. Next?” This time her sparkling-eyed, blushing happiness looked real.

  Isla turned to see what had caused the turnabout. The man behind her was tall, dark and, if the look in his eyes was any indication, either pissed or an A-one asshole. Maybe both.

  Not that he should have complaints. Based on his t-shirt’s slogan: “Kilts. Because balls like these don’t fit in trousers,” things always went his way. Although he wasn’t in a kilt, he’d probably be donning one soon, if only to give said balls a rest from the skintight jeans gloving his ass. Standing over six feet tall, his long dark hair fell around his shoulders. His broad shoulders stretched his tee-shirt material to the max. A sharp gray gaze met hers, and the color reminded her of her youthful unconsummated voyages to find Nessie. High cheekbones gave his narrow face character. Her gaze landed on his full lips, which thinned as she watched. Too bad. At first glance he fit what she’d hoped for in a weekend only hotel roomie.

  “Mind moving? I’ve got no patience and it sounds as if you have no reservation,” he said. “Why don’t you use this time to find accommodations elsewhere?”

  Isla threw back her shoulders and straightened to her full five foot nine inches. “I know my mother didn’t cancel the reservation.” She leaned closer to him, hoping her breath mints had worked. “Would you consider letting me have the room? I’ll pay you double rate.”

  “No go. I won’t leave my pipes in the car.” He turned his attention to the fawning clerk. “My name is Graeme MacKay. My brother Liam made the reservation.”

  “Oh, so you’re the big brother?” The clerk’s smile grew. “Liam asked me to watch out for you. We love him and are happy to do anything for him. Lucky we had a last minute cancellation.”

  Pipes. Of course. He’d have to be a bloody piper. She should have known. And affiliated with Clan MacDonald, no less. Next time she saw Ronald at the drive-through, she’d tell him to get a new set of relatives.

  Isla composed herself for another effort and lightly touched Mr. Handsome’s arm. He glanced at her hand, which she dropped like a scorched scone. “A cot in your room? I promise to be quiet as a mouse.”

  “No cots available, ma’am,” the clerk said. “All out.” She cleared her throat. “And there is the hotel policy of not allowing strangers to share a room.”

  “Right.” The bitch’s tone pissed her off. Like this hotel had never had two strangers on a business trip hooking up for a night or three. She held out her hand. “Isla McAllister, nice to meet you. So now we’re no longer strangers and can share a room.”

  He accepted her handshake, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. “I was told I’d have a king-size, not two queens. Oh, and I use the whole bed.”

  She just bet he did. The tossing and tumbling his aged whiskey vo
ice brought to mind wasn’t innocent. A vision of his sweaty body slapping against hers made her gulp.

  “I can buy an air mattress at the nearest sporting goods store.” Her voice squeaked. She swallowed before saying, “I’ll double, no triple your room rate. Please.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. He blinked. She hoped. His eyes narrowed. Her hopes crashed and burned. She knew he’d say “no” before he shook his head.

  She shuffled to the side, shoving her overnight bag with her foot. Now what? Someone had cancelled her reservation, and she knew it hadn’t been her mother.

  A few of the clerk’s words lodged in her consciousness. Wait a minute. Last minute cancellation? A favor to the bad wolf’s brother? That jerk had taken her room! She looked back at the clerk, ready to do battle, then slumped. Good luck proving her contention with a clerk who currently experienced an orgasm if her dilated pupils and short breath told the true story.

  Isla panted, too, understandable given her confrontation. Absolutely normal under the circumstances.

  ****

  Graeme felt a small sense of remorse long enough to make an offer he immediately regretted. He turned toward the woman he’d verbally decked. “Look, I have to be at the grounds soon, but could I buy you a drink at the bar? Say, ten tonight?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got nowhere to sleep thanks to you. At ten tonight I’ll likely be searching for an open room.”

  “Thanks to me?”

  “I’m ninety percent sure, no, no, make it ninety-nine percent sure your brother finagled my room. For you.”

  “I’d apologize but we don’t know the truth, do we?”

  The black-haired fireball with green eyes sparking with anger tossed a frown at the blonde clerk whose looks, unfortunately, reminded him of Cait. “As I said. Ninety-nine percent sure.”

  He shrugged. “Not my problem.”

  She growled, but in a soft, breathy way that made his pipe, AKA most sorely neglected dick take notice. He raked his glance over her in a way he knew worked well for picking up women. Tall, the height he liked, with a pale, smooth complexion, hair he wanted to mess with his hands, and real woman curves. He’d thought Cait too thin, and his mouth watered thinking about the package before him. Ms. Fire and Ice.