Scot of My Dreams

by Janice Maynard

  I gulped. “The laird?”

  She frowned. “Aye. Mr. Dunbar is the Laird of Dunvarstone.”

  I sat down hard on the side of the bed when my knees gave out. I wasn’t ignorant. I knew that a Scottish laird was not the same as an English lord. But none of that mattered right now. “Seriously,” I said with as much urgency as I could muster. “I’m not comfortable going down to lunch in a borrowed bathrobe. Or any bathrobe for that matter.”

  Apparently, my tone of voice got through to her. She pressed her lips together. “Very well. I’ll see if the lady of the house has something for you. Wait here, please.”

  She swished out of the room and closed the door firmly behind her. I had gotten off on the wrong foot already, though that was nothing compared to realization that I had just smudged mud on what might be an antique coverlet. Holy hell.

  I must have dozed off for a few minutes, because I jerked upright sometime later at the sound of the housekeeper’s return. Damn jet lag. I stood up so quickly my head spun. Mrs. Argyle’s eyes widened when she observed the bed. “Plenty of wash to be done, I see. Kindly change clothes young lady, and I’ll get started.” She handed me a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry about the bed.”

  At last she thawed enough to give me a smile. “We’ll lay the blame at Brodie’s door. That overgrown pup is a menace.”

  I knew better than to answer that. Ducking into the antiquated bathroom, I stripped down to my undies and wriggled my way into the jeans. The waist was fine. The legs, however, were about four inches too short. I was going to look ridiculous—but still several notches better than if I had scuttled downstairs wrapped in terrycloth.

  I did my quick change in under four minutes. Even so, when I reappeared, Mrs. Argyle vibrated with energy, her impatience palpable. “Come along, Miss Ryman. I’ve soup on the stove, and I don’t want it to burn.”

  We reversed our circuitous route through the castle, ending up in the kitchen this time. “May I lend a hand?” I asked, feeling awkward and socially inept. I was blue collar, not blue blood. I found myself caught firmly between my meeting with a gorgeous laird and the certainty that I belonged in the kitchen.

  She shooed me out of her way. “Nonsense. It’s lunch, not a dinner party. Go on into the dining room and chat with the family.”

  It was going to be difficult to make a graceful entrance wearing borrowed clothes. But Bibi didn’t leave me much choice. Luckily for me, the dining room was unoccupied except for an old man in a wheelchair. He glared at me when I walked in. “Har’ ben an gay ther lange.”

  I gaped at him. “Um…”

  A young woman appeared to save me, her resemblance to Bryce unmistakable. She was slim and pretty, but she had sad eyes. “Hello,” she said. “My brother told me you were in here. Sorry about Brodie.” She turned to the old man. “We have company today, Uncle Horatio. You need to speak proper English so she can understand you.”

  He bristled visibly. “I don’t like the English,” he said. This time his enunciation was perfect.

  I gave him my best smile. “American, not English.”

  “I don’ like them either.”

  Fortunately, Bryce walked into the room and intervened. “Get over yourself, old man.” He bent and kissed Horatio’s forehead, softening the command.

  When Bryce looked at me, I knew my earlier reaction had not been an aberration. Everything in my body went haywire, like a Geiger counter in the presence of radiation. My palms got sweaty, my mouth dried, and my stomach did a free-fall maneuver that left me breathless. Mortifying.

  “Hello,” I croaked.

  He looked me up and down. “I see Bibi found you some things.”

  The young woman took a seat at the table. “They’re mine.”

  Bryce held out a chair for me. “Now that we’re all here, I’ll make the introductions. Willow, this irascible gentleman is my great-uncle Horatio MacBrae, my grandfather’s younger brother. And the lady of the house is my sister, Abigail. Uncle and Abigail, may I present Miss Willow Ryman.”

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” I said.

  Abigail shook her head. “Not at all. I’m happy to have a new face at the table. All the men ever talk about is the castle. How to fix it, how to run it, how to pay for it…”

  “Abby.” Bryce’s glare was unmistakable. He didn’t want to talk about private matters in front of an outsider.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Okay, okay.”

  Mrs. Argyle interrupted the awkward moment. Though the meal was simple—toasted cheese sandwiches and homemade tomato soup—she served as if it were a state dinner. We dined off china and sipped water from crystal goblets.

  Conversation dwindled in favor of eating, but partway through the meal, Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Willow, pardon me for asking, but Bibi said your dress was almost ruined. Who goes walking in nice clothes? Did no one tell you the terrain can be rough?”

  Even Bryce and Horatio seemed interested to hear my answer.

  “Well, um…” I was caught off guard by Abigail’s blunt curiosity. “You’re right, of course. The dress was nothing fancy…just what I wear to work. I didn’t want to spend a lot of money on new things.”

  “Are you Amish? Or super religious? You don’t own a pair of jeans?”

  “Abigail!”

  Bryce’s frown didn’t faze his sister. She simply stared at me until I was forced to come up with an answer.

  Chapter 8

  What the heck. I was never going to see these people again. I might as well be honest. “No,” I said. “I don’t. Own any jeans, that is. I used to…until I was in middle school. But you see how tall I am? I took a growth spurt early. I heard all the jokes. My favorite one was ‘giraffe girl.’ I didn’t let it bother me too much until one day when we had a substitute teacher. She thought I was a boy.”

  Abigail winced in sympathy. “That must have been awful.”

  “I wore my hair short and I was flat-chested. It honestly never occurred to me that my androgynous wardrobe could be misleading. The whole class thought it was hysterical. I didn’t. From that day on, I wore nothing but dresses. I suppose it’s become a habit.”

  Bryce’s stare made me want to fidget, but I managed not to. His gaze lingered on the discrete swell of my breasts beneath the borrowed T-shirt that was one size too small. “You’re a beautiful woman, Willow, whatever you wear. And my sister is being rude. Scots have always prided themselves on being individualists. If you want to explore the Highlands in a dress, that’s your prerogative.”

  “Perhaps we could talk about something else,” I said.

  Abigail nodded. “Of course. You might as well know that I’m the family basket case. My husband died in Afghanistan three years ago. When I had a nervous breakdown, Bryce took me in. Uncle and I are his charitable causes.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Bryce stood up and raked his hands through his hair. “You are such a brat, Abby.”

  She blew him a kiss. “But you love me.” She grinned.

  The deep affection between the two siblings was unmistakable. Clearly Bryce MacBrae was a man who didn’t shirk his responsibilities. Unlike my own father who had walked out when I was a kid.

  The day lost its savor suddenly. I stood as well. “Thank you for lunch. I’m sure my things must be ready by now. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go check with Mrs. Argyle and then be on my way.”

  Bryce scowled at his sister. “See what you’ve done. You’ve made her uncomfortable.”

  “No, really,” I said. “This has been lovely. But I need to get back to the hostel.”

  Horatio had remained silent during the meal. Now he added his two cents’ worth. “Ye came to Scotland to learn about the land, didn’t ye lass? Young Bryce should give you a tour of the castle…tell ye the history. Dunvarstone is his heritage.”

  I sensed there was a hidden agenda behind the old man’s suggestion, because Bryce was visibly pained at the idea. “No, no,” I said. “A
ll of you have things to do. I’m going to leave now.” I said it as firmly as I could, but I might as well have been talking to myself.

  Abigail stood and steered her uncle away from the table. “The two of us nap after lunch,” she said. “Bryce loves all that history stuff. Give him a chance, Willow. I hope I’ll see you again.” She wheeled the chair through the door and disappeared with her uncle.

  In their absence, the room was quiet.

  Bryce looked at me and shrugged. “Would you like a tour?”

  All I had to do was say no. But I didn’t want to. I was really hoping that Bryce didn’t want me to say no either. “I’d love one,” I said, only slightly breathless.

  Perhaps he’d been expecting a refusal, because his sudden smile warmed me down to my toes. “You may be sorry,” he warned. “I can get carried away when it comes to history.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Mrs. Argyle interrupted our little moment. “Here’s your things, Miss Willow. Still warm from the dryer. I believe they’re good as new, if I do say so myself.”

  I took the jumper and top from her, amazed. She had worked miracles, even mending the small tear. “Thank you so much.”

  “’Twas my pleasure. There’s a cloakroom just outside that door over there if you’d like to change.”

  I did. I really did. Wearing borrowed clothes made a woman feel vulnerable. I needed all the armor I could muster to deal with Bryce. I glanced at him. “Give me three minutes,” I said.

  He nodded, his eyes gleaming with good humor. “I won’t start without you.”

  The words were prosaic, but I knew he was flirting with me…and I liked it. Willow Ryman, small salon owner from Georgia. And Bryce MacBrae, Laird of Dunvarstone. Hayley and McKenzie would never believe it.

  * * *

  Bryce took my elbow and led me down a narrow hallway toward the opposite side of the castle. “We’re only using a quarter of the space. The rest of it is shut off to keep expenses in check.”

  “I can understand that.”

  He unbolted a heavy oak door and ushered me through. Immediately, the air was mustier and damper. Bryce flipped a switch. The massive light fixture overhead, constructed as a tier of concentric iron circles, came to life. At one time it must have held candles. Now the small bulbs were electric.

  I turned, suppressing a gasp of amazement as I surveyed the room. We were standing in a gigantic dining hall. The walls were painted green, perhaps to better display the hunting trophies and other embellishments, such as an intricate three-dimensional coat of arms and a tattered flag sealed behind glass.

  Bryce walked me around the room, allowing me to look my fill. The enormous table and chairs in the center were dwarfed by the dimensions of the space. The table could easily seat four dozen people.

  “You promised history,” I reminded him.

  He leaned a hip against a display case as I bent to examine its contents: one fragment of a lady’s lace handkerchief, a piece of broken crockery from the time of Bonnie Prince Charlie, a boar’s tooth suspended from a leather neckpiece.

  “There are castles all over Scotland, as I’m sure you know,” he said. “Dunvarstone is neither the grandest nor the biggest nor the most famous. Truth be told, we have our share of skeletons in the closet.”

  I wrapped my arms around my waist and rubbed my arms. “I want to hear it all,” I said. “This is amazing.”

  He had donned a corduroy blazer over his shirt for our proper lunch. Now he shrugged out of it and draped it around my shoulders. Instantly, I was engulfed in the fleeting warmth from his body and the scent of his skin.

  His hands lingered on my shoulders for a fraction longer than necessary. “I’m sorry it’s so cold in here. Imagine what it’s like in December.”

  “I’m fine. Really. Go on. You haven’t told me anything yet. I want to hear the juicy stuff.”

  Bryce chuckled. “The castle has been in my family for over six hundred years. The main structure is late medieval, but, of course, subsequent generations added sections. Miraculously, nothing of note was ever consumed by fire or destroyed by invading armies. We’ve had scholars and archaeologists here multiple times to study the building and to carry out small digs in the courtyard.”

  “How did it survive when so many others are in ruins?”

  “Aye, well that’s where the dark side of our history comes into play. You know about Culloden, of course?”

  “Not a lot. Only that the clans were slaughtered by the English. I plan to go to the battlefield. It’s close to here, right?”

  “Very close. In fact, the English seized Dunvarstone Castle and used it as a command post to launch their offensive.”

  “But what happened to your ancestors? Obviously they lived, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “That’s the thing. The English came in the night and surrounded the castle. They knew that if any of the MacBraes slipped away, they would immediately go and warn the gathering clans that the English were close. So all of my family and the servants were locked in the cellars until the fighting was over. Eventually, once the battle was done and it was clear that the clans would no longer be a threat, the English released the captives here at the castle and left.”

  “So in a way, your ancestors were fortunate not to get killed.”

  “They didn’t see it that way. Their honor was besmirched. Not only had they not fought alongside their countrymen, but rumors circulated that the laird at the time had made a devil’s bargain with the English to spare his holdings and his life.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Aye. As a boy I used to dream about what it was like…all those clansmen gathered in one place, ready and willing to pit themselves against the greatest army in the world.”

  “A perfect fantasy for a young man. You’re very lucky to have such a heritage…and to have this place.”

  He didn’t answer me. Instead, he took my arm. “That’s enough history for one day. Come out in the garden with me.”

  Chapter 9

  Though I was fascinated with the castle, I was happy to get outside and into the sunshine. Even wearing Bryce’s jacket around my shoulders, I was chilled to the bone. How could any building be so cold in August?

  When I removed the borrowed clothing and handed it back to its owner, Bryce tossed it onto a bench. “Let’s walk,” he said.

  I agreed happily. My fascination with the laird made me self-conscious. If we were walking, I didn’t have to look him in the eye.

  Given my height, it was unusual for me to have anyone tower over me. Bryce didn’t exactly tower, but at six-three or six-four, he did manage to make me feel small and delicate—no easy feat.

  It was a silly reaction on my part. Maybe my gut response went back to the days when a woman chose her mate based on his physical ability to best an enemy. Suddenly, all I could think about was Jamie Fraser, my fictional crush from Outlander, and how he would do anything to protect and defend the love of his life.

  Now, here at my side was a man easily the physical equal of Jamie. Bryce was a sophisticated, clearly highly-educated man of the world, in many respects nothing at all like the eighteenth-century Highlander I had come to know and love. But both men had a fierce intensity I found wildly attractive and appealing.

  The fact that Bryce wore a kilt with such easy confidence was my Kryptonite. It shouldn’t have mattered. When my friends and I arrived at the train station in Inverness recently, we saw a guy in a kilt playing the bagpipes, hoping to solicit donations from tourists.

  I’d barely glanced at him. So it couldn’t be only the tartan around the hips of my host that was making my heart pound and my hands shake. It had to be something else. Something big. Something preordained.

  Maybe this was the moment. Perhaps I had traveled across an ocean to find my one true love. Maybe Hayley and McKenzie weren’t so goofy after all.

  Without warning, I stumbled over a hidden root. Bryce grabbed my arm to steady me. Despite the warmth of his
fingers on the bare skin of my arm, the momentary misstep was enough to jerk me back to reality.

  What was I thinking? Had somebody laced my luncheon drink with crazy juice? I was about the farthest thing from a romantic on the planet. I knew full well how difficult it was for a man and a woman to sustain the passion of a lifetime. My parents had barely made it a decade before bills and shouting matches and general dissatisfaction with life convinced my father to walk out.

  Unfortunately, my mother was never a strong person. She’d been woefully unprepared for life as a single parent.

  I had learned hard lessons at an early age.

  Why was I letting Hayley, McKenzie, Outlander, and this incredible country get inside my head? I knew who I was. I had made a life for myself that meant I would never have to lean on a man for support—emotionally, financially, or otherwise. I couldn’t let vacation madness entice me into doing something foolish.

  “I need to go home now,” I said. “Thank you for lunch and the tour.”

  Bryce pulled up short. “Was it something I said?”

  His self-deprecating question was offered with a smile.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist. “Of course not. I’ve taken up far too much of your day. First I ruined your fishing. Then I invaded your home. It’s time for me to leave.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He lowered his head towards me.

  In a split second, I knew he was going to kiss me. The sun was hot on my back. I felt dizzy and alive and at the same time confused. Maybe this was all a dream.

  Just when I thought the moment would never end, Bryce cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’ll get the car,” he said. “And bring it around. You can meet me out back where we came in with Brodie. I’m sure he’ll want to say goodbye. But be careful—I haven’t had time to bathe him yet.”

  When we stepped inside the castle, Bryce disappeared and the spell was broken. I found my raffia tote in the kitchen. After thanking Mrs. Argyle for her help, I said my goodbyes, including one to Brodie, who actually managed to seem repentant. Quite a feat for a dog.