Andrew gritted his teeth. “No, Kit. Moira and I are going to talk now. About Glenna.” He didn’t seem to care that he had an audience.
Pippa looked around for Glenna and saw her engrossed in conversation with a group of kids near the band. Good.
Kit didn’t budge, glaring at Andrew as if he was possessed or something. Pippa had never seen him like this either.
“What about Glenna?” Moira moved to face him.
Kit stepped to the side, but not too far away.
Andrew leaned closer, his anger fading. Now that he had the floor, he looked lost as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Put me out of my misery.”
Moira stared down at her clutched hands. “I’m trying to spare you. Don’t ye see?” she murmured. “I don’t want to burden ye with my responsibilities.” Grief and pain was covering every square inch of her face.
Andrew took her hands, unfurrowing them, and surrounding them with his. “We all have baggage, Moira. We all have pasts. Things we can’t change or have no control over.” His words were pure earnestness. “But still, people marry, become whole, heal by building lives together, clinging to each other. You know that’s exactly what I want to do with you.”
Moira stood there frozen, her eyes glued to Andrew’s thumb rubbing hers as if it was trying to persuade her to see his viewpoint, too.
“I don’t know,” Moira finally said.
Pippa thought that wasn’t much of an answer. But she shouldn’t judge. Andrew’s solution seemed like pie in the sky to her, too.
He moved abruptly, dropping her hands. “Fine. Then at least tell Glenna that this man”—he thumped his chest—“would gladly step in and be her father. That yere uncertainty has nothing to do with her. I love Glenna and I love you. Make a decision. Ye have until tomorrow.” He stomped away and out the door.
Tomorrow—the day of the auction.
“Wow,” Kit said, breaking the silence.
Moira only frowned down at her hands.
Wow, indeed, Pippa thought. Andrew had it bad for Moira. Pippa’s eyes drifted to the Yank standing at the back wall, where he was watching her. She didn’t dare wonder if Max had it bad for her, too. She had to keep her head in the game—the MTech deal, the auction, and getting her father well. She didn’t have room in her life for a man who would be leaving them soon and going back to his home in America.
The lights went down and the band started playing. Max pushed away from the wall and made his way toward them.
Ross nudged her, making her remember he was still there. “I’m going to say good night to Cait and Mattie, and then head home. John wants to get an early start on the boat in the morn.”
She nodded. “Okay.” But she couldn’t take her eyes off Max.
But it had to be because she was nosy—like the rest of Gandiegow—and not because she wanted to be near him. She wanted to hear what he’d said to prompt Andrew to take a stand.
She walked in Max’s direction, meeting him in the middle of the dance floor, which was filling up with townsfolk.
“What was that all about with Andrew?” she hollered above the music.
He surprised her by pulling her into his arms.
* * *
To hell with everyone watching. This would be Max’s last chance to hold Pippa close. God, she smelled good. He’d missed her body. He’d missed her.
“What are ye doing?” she sounded as breathless as he felt.
“Shhh,” he whispered in her ear as he swayed them to the upbeat music. “Don’t ruin it.”
She relaxed into him for a moment, but then reluctantly pulled away. “This isn’t a slow song.”
Max held on to her hand, smiling, and twirled her out, doing his version of the swing. Every few steps, he pulled her close again. He could almost forget everything when they were like this. Almost.
But his eyes followed to where a crowd of women were around Moira—a fortress—reminding him of how Gandiegow protected its own.
Pippa glanced in that direction, too. “Tell me then. What did ye say to Andrew to rile him so?”
Max didn’t feel it was his place to share Glenna’s feelings more than he already had . . . even though he knew he could trust Pippa. He twirled her in a circle, then pulled her near again. “There’s only so much yanking around that a man can take. Andrew reached his limit, is all.”
Unfortunately, the little voice at the back of his head took that moment to lecture him. “And you? What’s your limit, bonehead?”
Pippa’s eyes seemed to sparkle just for him. But she was engaged to Ross. Suddenly, Max reached his own limit, too. He dropped her hand and stood still. He’d been fooling himself that he might have her again. He frowned at her, the pain crushing.
Then he manned up and walked away.
Chapter Seventeen
Miranda arrived back in Gandiegow just in time before the auction to poke around the quilting place and figure out what tartan Max’s kilt would be. She was determined to bid on Max. Determined to win him.
She stowed her luggage and headed to Quilting Central.
When she walked into the building, it was packed. Damn. She had hoped to have the place to herself. But she guessed with the preparations for the auction, she should’ve expected this.
Maybe it would work in her favor. She could look through things and no one would notice. But the old woman who ran the place hobbled straight over to her.
“What can we do for ye?” Deydie didn’t wait for her answer, but handed her a stack of linens. “Put these on the tables.”
“All right. Let me slip my coat off first.” Miranda scanned the room, wondering where one might store the swatches Bonnie had told her about.
“Hang it over there,” Deydie said. “Tea and coffee is at the back. When ye’re done, come find me, I’ll give ye something more to do.”
As Miranda spread out the linens, she watched the people around her, getting accustomed to their language. There were two older women, twins, who were ridiculous, but reminded her of her great aunts, who had raised her. The matronly twins were at the next table over, bickering about the centerpieces. Old memories flooded Miranda. She’d been so embarrassed by Aunt Flora and Aunt Edna—one of the reasons she’d never brought friends home. Those silly old fools raised her to be sweet and soft, teaching her no skills at all to deal with the real world. Miranda gazed one more time at the twins. It was uncanny.
Maybe Miranda could ask these ladies about the swatches. She made her way to them.
“Ailsa, put the holly in here like this.”
“No, sister, the ivy goes in there.”
“Excuse me.” Miranda decided to play dumb. “What is this bachelor’s auction all about?”
Miranda kept her eye out for Deydie, but she was busy bossing around one of the younger women.
The one named Ailsa scooted closer. “We can tell ye all about it. We’re raising money for the McDonnell.”
Miranda stopped cold. “Lachlan McDonnell?”
“Och, sister,” Aileen said. “We don’t speak of it!”
“Speak of what?” Miranda asked.
“The accident,” Ailsa whispered. “We’re raising money to help pay for the specialist.”
These women were a treasure trove. Miranda considered whether she should share the news with Roger or not.
“And how will the auction work?” she prodded.
Aileen responded, “We’re going to put all of the young lads up on the stage, but with a curtain so that all you can see is their legs. It will make bidding even more fun to have some mystery to it, ye see.”
“Might that lead to disappointment, though?” Miranda prompted.
Ailsa pointed across the room. “Deydie has let all of our lasses look at the playbook.” She giggled. “If one of them really has her heart set on having a certain lad,
she just has to pick the right kilt.”
“How fascinating—can you show me?” Miranda only needed one glimpse to find Max’s kilt.
“Sure.”
Miranda followed the twins to a booklet hanging on the wall. She saw Deydie’s head pop up and the other woman, Bethia, look her way, too. Miranda held her breath. Ailsa pulled the booklet from its hook. Aileen flipped through it.
“See? All the lads’ tartans are here!”
“What are ye doing there?” Deydie yelled.
Miranda ignored her. “Which one is Max McKinley’s?”
Deydie and Bethia both descended on them.
Aileen flipped. “Armstrong, Baird, Craig—”
Ailsa pulled it from her hands. “It’s alphabetical.” She thumbed through the fabric.
And there it was: MCKINLEY, in bold letters.
Deydie reached them and snatched it away. “That’s only for the Gandiegow lasses.”
“We were just showing her the different tartans.”
“Sorry,” Miranda apologized sweetly. “I didn’t know. I never would’ve asked otherwise.”
Miranda slipped past them and grabbed her coat, smiling to herself. Once outside, she hurried back to the quilting dorm. It had been a most successful day. A most successful day indeed.
* * *
Deydie clutched the fabric book to her chest. “What the hell were ye two thinking?” She glared at the dimwit twins. “Oh, get back to work.”
Bethia laid a hand on her shoulder. “What are we going to do? I think she’s after Max McKinley.”
Deydie felt the same way Bethia did. They didn’t take well to outsiders, but Max wasn’t a bad sort of lad. Actually, he’d been a big help and didn’t complain much.
“Ye’re right. Max doesn’t deserve to be bought by the likes of her.”
Bethia shook her head. “We don’t have time to have a new kilt made out of a different McKinley tartan.”
“Aye. ’Tis too late,” Deydie agreed.
“And we won’t have enough money to outbid her for him.”
“I know that, too. I’m not thickheaded.”
“What are we going to do?” Bethia said. “Miranda had a look in her eye that said she wanted him, no matter the cost.”
Deydie grinned at Bethia.
Bethia glanced to either side. “I know that look. What are ye thinking?”
Oh, it was wicked. But it was perfect. Deydie pulled Bethia close and whispered in her ear. “I’ve got a plan. Ye’re going to put those herbs of yeres to good use.”
* * *
The time had finally arrived . . . the moment Max was dreading. Any way he looked at it, it was a helluva way to end his stay in Scotland.
He figured the only positive thing about tonight’s auction was the opportunity to win Pippa’s quilt. He was determined to have it, so he could take a piece of her back home with him to Texas. He’d taken a chance and asked Freda to do the bidding for him. He figured she was the only one in town who would oblige; everyone else would have a fit, and insist that Ross should have the quilt. Well, screw that. Max was getting the consolation prize. While he would have Pippa’s quilt to keep him warm at night, Ross would have her. The real thing.
God, Max felt ill.
The lights from another bus caught his window, shining as it made its way down the bluff. Good grief! How many women had Deydie invited to this blasted auction? There weren’t enough of them to go around. Max snatched the kilt off the bed and donned it. He didn’t feel as ridiculous in it as he had the first time, but damned near.
The sheet of instructions Moira had given him on how to dress—the socks with the flags in them, the sporran, and the whole nine yards of McKinley plaid fabric—lay on the bed next to the items.
With a growl, he crumpled the paper. If he had to wear a skirt, at least the rest of him would be warm. Max slipped on thick socks and the army boots he’d nabbed from Pippa on his first day at the factory. Then he put on a tan sweater instead of the white dress shirt Deydie had ordered him to wear.
He checked his watch. Deydie had yelled at them not to be late, but Max had just enough time to grab some hard liquor downstairs—artificial courage to face the evening ahead with some strange woman who would buy him and half paw him to death.
There was only one woman he wanted. She could paw him anytime, anywhere. And for the thousandth time in the last thirty minutes, naked images of Pippa plowed through his thoughts, whether he wanted them to or not.
He stomped out and marched down the stairs. “I’ll get ye a drink,” Coll said.
Max guessed it was written all over his face, but then noticed the rest of the room. He wasn’t the only bachelor in need of a drink. There were at least ten other be-kilted men sitting at the bar, including Ross.
“Sit, Yank.” Ross motioned to the stool beside him. “Have yereself a drink before we’re put on the market and sold off like so much Caledonian cattle.”
“Sure.” What the hell. Why not get schnockered with Pippa’s future husband? “I just keep telling myself that it’s for the McDonnell.”
“A good soul. But a bit misled.” Ross sounded as miserable as Max felt.
Coll came over and poured Max a drink and refilled Ross’s.
“Thanks.” Max waited until Coll left. “Why do you say the McDonnell is misled?”
“In his thinking.”
Max waited while Ross took another sip of his whisky and set his glass down.
“The McDonnell certainly has a way of reading people, true, but I believe he’s blind where his own daughter is concerned.” Ross sounded judgmental.
And Max immediately went on the defensive. “Pippa’s a little pigheaded, but that’s part of her charm.”
Ross shot Max a furtive glance, seeming to register his expression, and then went back to gazing at his drink. “Aw gawd, Pippa will make a terrible wife. I know it. Ye know it. The whole damned village knows it.” He paused as if waiting for Max to reply.
Max gripped his glass. If Ross felt this way, why in the hell would he marry her? If Pippa were Max’s wife, he’d cherish her, and be grateful for every waking moment they had together.
Ross gave a derisive laugh. “All these years, the McDonnell has acted as if he’s giving me a gift by saddling me with his shrew of a daughter for the rest of my miserable life.”
“Enough.” Max pushed away and stood. Ross had always seemed like a decent guy, but the whisky was making him a jerk. “Stop. Unless you want me to kick your ass. Nobody is going to speak about Pippa like that.”
Ross rose. “So ye’d take me on to defend Pippa’s honor?”
Max stepped closer. “Hell, yeah. You and the whole damned town.”
Ross dropped the frown and grinned. “It’s what I thought.” He clapped Max on the back and then sat back down. “Then I’ll just have to disappoint the McDonnell.”
“What?” Max’s adrenaline was still on high alert. “What are you getting at?”
“I love Pippa,” Ross said. He held up his hand, either to stop Max from punching him, or to stop him from interrupting. “But ye got to know that I only love her like a sister.”
Max collapsed onto his barstool, trying to process what Ross was saying and not quite succeeding. “How could you not be in love with her? She’s perfect.”
“Well, Yank, I’m not. And she’s not in love with me either. The McDonnell isn’t seeing things straight these days or he’d tell ye himself: Pippa fancies you, plain and simple.”
“Pippa fancies me?” As in really likes me? Could it be true?
“And you, well, ye have it bad for her, too.” Ross shook his head. “Poor bastard.”
“Is that another slam against Pippa?”
“Relax, Yank.” Ross reached over the bar and nabbed the bottle Coll had poured from. “More?” H
e didn’t wait for Max to answer, but poured.
Max didn’t drink it though.
Ross took another sip, no longer resembling a jerk. “Ye know we have another problem.”
Max had a lot of problems. Pippa had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. He was sick to death of giving her space. He wanted to close the distance between them. He wanted to work with her again. He wanted to touch her. He wanted everything with her. If Ross was right about her fancying him, why had she pushed him away?
Ross continued as if Max wasn’t in the middle of a crisis. “I said we have a problem.”
“Things could not be worse.”
Ross gave Max a pointed look. “I’m not sure what they’re up to, but Maggie let it slip that Deydie has let every woman in Gandiegow know who is wearing which kilt. I imagine it’s in case they have their sights set on one of us men.” He made an exaggerated shiver like a hag might bid on him and win.
“But I thought everyone would know anyway. Every clan has a tartan, right?”
“Nay. Every clan has several different tartans—you know, modern, hunting, and ancient. There are over four thousand tartans registered.” Ross pushed his drink away.
Max considered his kilt and wondered which of the townswomen who’d ogled him might have plans to get him alone tonight. And as he did, an idea jolted through his brain . . . or it could just be the whisky working on his inhibitions. “Let’s throw a wrench in their plans. Let’s switch kilts. We’re basically the same size, aren’t we?”
Ross grinned. “I guess being sold off to one person can’t be any different from being sold off to another.” He grabbed his glass and raised it. “Here’s to pulling a fast one on the quilting ladies.”
Max raised his glass as well. “To outsmarting Deydie and her coven.”
* * *
Quilting Central was abuzz while Pippa was all nerves. Everything was riding on tonight. She couldn’t stop thinking about Kenneth Campbell’s death, and standing over his grave at the top of the bluff. This damned auction was the only thing giving her own da a fighting chance.
The Accidental Scot Page 24
