Meet Me in Scotland (10 page)

She kept her head down, blowing on her stew, waiting for the blush to leave her cheeks. She liked holding his hand for those brief seconds. And if God were truly watching, He wouldn't appreciate how her body had warmed at Gabriel's touch and how fuzzy her brain had gone while Gabriel said the short prayer.

She peeked up at him. The man was way too
good-looking for his own good. He glanced over and caught her staring—again. He didn't chastise her this time, only smiled.

He tore off a piece of bread. “So, what should we discuss during our feast?”

“There's no love lost between you and the quilters of Gandiegow.”

He dipped his bread in the stew. “Wow. How does it feel to twist the knife deep in that open wound?”

She smiled and shrugged. She was only speaking the truth.

He didn't seem to hold it against her. “I have no idea what I've done to them, except not be from here. You know that small-town thing where they don't accept outsiders.”

She reached out and patted his hand good-naturedly. “It's worse than that, Gabey.”

“Oh?” He gave her a little frown. “And don't call me
Gabey
.”

“Only if you quit calling me
P
rincess
.”

“Deal. Now, what have I done to make all of Gandiegow treat me like I have the plague?”

She grinned. “They consider you an outlander.”

“Are ye sure they didn't say Lowlander? That I am,” he said.

“I'm sure. Deydie said it plain and clear.”

He gave her a derisive bark. “And what about you, Ms. London England, the true outlander? I'm surprised they haven't strung you up yet.”

She buttered her bread with superiority. “I have connections. I have Claire.”

“Claire? I've known her forever, too. I'm practically married into the family,” he said.

“Ah yes, right. But for some reason they've decided that I'm one of them.”

“God's teeth, these people. I just don't understand
them. Dominic isn't faring too well with them, either. Did they say anything about him? He has a stake in this town with the restaurant and all. Do you know where he stands?”

“I don't know.” She took a bite of stew and changed the subject, not ready yet to talk about Claire and Dominic. “Do you have big plans for Christmas?”

She thought it was an innocent question, but Gabriel looked even more unhappy about the inquiry than he had talking about the strange ways of the people of Gandiegow.

*   *   *

Gabe sat there a little stunned. What was it with Emma Castle that she could ferret out the two points of contention he had with his father? Not going into the ministry as his father had wanted was one, and Christmas was the other. She certainly had a way of tearing open one's soft underbelly and exposing the deep issues. She was either a gifted therapist or a psychic.

“Are you heading home to Edinburgh to see your father?”

There, she did it again. “Nay.” Gabe didn't know what to say, if he should tell her anything.

“Are you all right?” She touched his arm, and it warmed him. “Gabriel, did I say something I shouldn't have?”

He liked the way she said his name and didn't really mind the concern in her eyes. It looked sincere.

“I'll probably be staying here for Christmas. I am, after all, Gandiegow's doctor.” But it was more than that.

She took a second to rub his arm soothingly and then took her hand away. The sympathetic smile she gave him said she knew he wasn't telling the complete truth.

He took a sip of tea and then put the cup down.
What the hell?
“My father and I get along fine on most things
but are at odds when it comes to Christmas,” he finally confessed.

She shook her head. “How can that be? You're both religious, right? He's a pastor, and you say grace.” She stared at his hand for a long moment, as if reliving their hands joined in prayer.

“My father observes the old ways. Traditionally in the Church of Scotland, Christmas is celebrated very quietly.”

She put her spoon down and leaned closer. “Really?”

“Aye,” he said. “My father would argue that nowhere in the Bible is Christmas celebrated or even mentioned, even though the New Testament covers the thirty-three years of Jesus's life and then another thirty or so years after his resurrection.”

“Interesting. I've never given any real thought to the holidays from an academic or historical standpoint.”

“That's not even to mention how my father abhors the commercialism of Christmas.” He took a bite of his stew.

“So, where do you stand?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I want to go all out for Christmas. As a kid I saw others celebrating it in a big way and I wanted that, too. Now I can.”

She smiled at him. “Still a kid at heart?”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling back. She was easy to talk to when she wasn't taking a bite out of his ass. “How's your food?”

“Delicious. Thank you so much.”

They chatted easily for the rest of the meal about their lives, little stories—nothing big and nothing to do with the Russos. If Emma wasn't going to bring up Claire and Dominic, then Gabe decided he wouldn't bring them up again, either. Who was he to muck up their truce and spoil their pleasant evening together?

When they finished, she cleared the table while he filled the sink with water. “I'll just leave these to soak and do them later.” He pulled down two wineglasses. “Merlot?”

“Yes, that sounds good.”

As he poured the wine, he thought about other evenings spent with other women. Normally, he would've worked out in his head how to take things to the next level. With Emma, he was just enjoying her company. It didn't mean that he didn't think about seducing her every other second; he just wasn't acting on it.

He handed her a glass. “To what should we toast?”

She looked a little sheepish. “A place for me to spend the night?”

Holy shite!
He spilled his wine down the front of his shirt.

C
laire lay draped across the bed in her hooker red peekaboo lingerie. A few strings of ribbon covered her crotch and stars barely hid her nipples. Dominic would undoubtedly peel those off with his teeth. She'd blown the budget at A Slip of the Tongue. She shouldn't have, with their finances the way they were, but guilt be damned. This was an investment.
One baby to order.

She glanced at the clock again. Surely Dominic had wrapped things up downstairs by now. He loved it when she put her slut on. She repositioned her legs, making sure his favorite part was the first thing he saw when he came through the door.

Twenty minutes later, she was done waiting. She grabbed the whip out of the second bag and went in search of her absent husband.

Downstairs, she found him disinfecting the tables and chairs in the grand dining room. He hadn't seen her yet, so she cracked the whip.

He jumped, knocking over a bucket of bleach water. She smiled and waited. She loved it when his eyes came alive for her.

He only glanced in her direction for a moment, as if she was wearing nothing more than a dirty dish towel.
He knelt down and mopped up the spilled water. “Dammit, Claire, you scared the shit out of me. Get some rags and help me clean this mess up.”

She flinched but forced herself to recover. Bigger things were at stake here than her pride.

“Dominic,” she purred. “You've been naughty.” She cracked the whip again. “Come here, sweetheart, so I can make you pay.”

He growled at her. “Forget it, Claire.” He grabbed an old tablecloth behind the bar and spread it over the mess. “I've work to do.”

“Yes, there's work to do,” she said, humming with sexuality. “Upstairs between my legs.”

“I'm not giving in,” he said resolutely to the floor. Finally, though, he turned to her.

Then she saw it—coolness. No, frigid-cold ice. Not a trace of desire in his hard beautiful eyes. Dominic's frown spoke of frustration. And a heaping dollop of stubbornness.

“Go to bed, Claire.” He bent over the watery floor.

Her tough-girl act faltered. “But ye'll be up later, right?”

He only scrubbed the floor harder.

She stared at him, bewildered. In times past if she'd so much as grinned at him in that special way, well . . . Dominic would've been finishing up with her by now, bent over the nearest table. She peered down to her near-naked breasts.

“Ye let me down,” she muttered to them. “We'll just have to try harder next time—that's all.”

*   *   *

Emma grabbed a dish towel and mopped up Gabriel's shirt and chest. His hard chest. She licked her lips. “You'd better get that T-shirt off or Dr. Who will be ruined. Do you have any club soda?”

He pulled his shirt over his head and she almost collapsed into the nearest chair. That hard chest gave way
to a six-pack. She remembered the dish towel in her hand and blotted away at his naked chest, pretending not to notice how gorgeous he was. Her cheeks felt as bloody red as the wine.

He stilled her hand, holding it against his chest with her only inches away from him. “I'm good,” he said.

“Yes,” she had to agree. She looked into his hooded eyes and for a second didn't mind at all that he'd captured her. Then she remembered how easy it was for him. A few come-hither glances, a few charming words, a few smiles, and women fell at his feet. Well, not Egghead Emma. She was much too smart to be lured in. She let go of him and stepped away.

“Right.” He backed away, too. “I'll just go find another shirt.”

She rummaged through his cabinet for club soda but didn't find any. Next she went to his restroom, looking for shaving cream. She found some and rushed back to his shirt and covered the stain with it.

He came back into the room with a sweater covering his beautiful chest. “What are you doing?”

“Your shirt might be saved. We need to get this in the washer now in hot water.”

“Here, in the hallway closet.” Sure enough, behind the pocket doors was a stackable. “How do you know how to deal with stains?”

“Well, this princess has played hostess to tons of Mum's parties. Just some tricks of the trade. Plus, Nessa, Claire's mother, made sure I knew the basics.” She held herself up straight. “I can take care of myself. I even know how to darn socks.”

“Is that so?” He looked intrigued, but then a devilish grin came over his face. “Care to take some work home with you?”

“Not on your life.” She dropped the shirt in the washer. He added soap and turned it on.

It was surreal. First the two of them had worked on dinner together and now the laundry. What was next—putting clean sheets on his bed?

She blushed and rushed back to the kitchen.

“About your sleeping arrangements for tonight . . .” he reminded her. “I have a solution.”

She bet he did.
A girl gets a little at loose ends on where she's going to sleep, and Gabriel is right there with a solution. His warm body in his big bed.

She turned away from him and put her hand up. “Forget I ever said anything. I'll figure out something.”

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw him reach over and take one of her curls. He pulled it gently, not hurting her, but just enough that she turned toward him.

“I've got a place for you to sleep tonight.” He twirled her hair around his finger. “Before you get on your high horse, though, it's not here with me.” He dropped her lock of hair. “Come. Let's get your coat.”

Outside, the air was calm but so very cold. He'd given her no more clues about where he was taking her. Also, he was acting the true gentleman, which was at complete odds with the Gabriel of the past. But she hadn't changed; she was still Egghead Emma. She couldn't expect him to put the moves on her. Besides . . . she didn't want him to anyway. Not at all.

Gabriel led her to a one-and-a-half-story bungalow with a sign out front that read
THISTLE GLEN LODGE
.
The metal sign was a Nine-Patch quilt block
.

“It's one of the quilting dorms,” he explained. “Next door is the other one.”

That sign read
DUNCAN'S DEN
and had a Fish and Tackle quilt block in shades of green-and-brown plaid.

“Duncan's Den is a strange name for a quilting dorm, isn't it?” she remarked.

“Nay. Duncan was one of the locals who recently passed away. This was his house. He donated it to the Kilts and Quilts retreat effort.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling dumb.

“It's okay. You couldn't have known.” He opened the door to Thistle Glen Lodge
and waited for her to come inside.

She walked in and found the entry decorated in a cheerful yellow-and-blue plaid. The pillows on the window seat were fashioned with a coordinating yellow-and-blue floral print. “Very feminine.” She touched the curtains.

“After we get you settled, I'll leave a note at the restaurant for Claire to let her know where you are, in case she wonders.”

“She has my mobile number,” Emma said.

“I'll do it, anyway.”

Gabriel pointed for her to go down the hallway. “You should have everything you need. I know the ladies keep extra toothbrushes and paste in the linen closet.”

Emma gave him a questioning look. “And you know how?” Did he crash one of the quilting retreats?
And host another pajama party?

“I stayed a couple of nights here when I first arrived.”

She frowned at him, unable to help the images of naked quilters running their hands over Gabriel's six-pack.

A slight blush colored his cheeks. “I know what ye're thinking, Emma. The floors were being refinished at the doctor's quarters. And, no, there wasn't a retreat going on at the time. Just like there isn't now.”

A veil fell over them. They'd been alone together for the whole evening, even shared a couple of intimate
moments—if she'd read them correctly. But now the air between them became sexually charged and she was pretty sure she wasn't reading this one incorrectly. He tilted his head a little to one side. She gazed at his lips. Possibility rested there. She worried . . . no, hoped . . . no, bordered on panic that he might kiss her.

She stepped back and bumped into the hall table, and plopped down with her bum resting on the top. “Are you sure it's okay with the ladies that I stay here?” she squeaked.

He took her hand and pulled her back to her feet. “Ye're safe with me.”

Which was pretty much saying he wasn't attracted to her, and she was imagining all sorts of scenarios that only existed in her mind. The magic was gone.

“Thanks.” She smoothed down her slacks, not meeting his eyes.

“I'll drop by Deydie's, too, to explain what ye're about. Now stop worrying.”

“Thanks for thinking of this,” Emma said awkwardly, waving a hand vaguely at the dorm, as he walked to the door and left.

*   *   *

God, he'd almost kissed her. Gabe leaned against the front door, wanting to bang his head against it, but that would only summon her back to him. And he'd barely escaped. His evening with Emma had gone from pleasant to as awkward as a first date. She made him feel like a gangly teenager—before he'd learned his way around a woman.

He probably just needed to get laid, plain and simple. But he couldn't without breaking his promise to himself. The next time he took a woman to bed, he would be committed to her and only her. There were no halfways, no gray areas, no rationalizing a little nookie to get him through, and he knew it.

Suddenly the door opened and Emma stood inches
from him, his gloves in her hand. She looked shocked. She opened her sweet lips to say something, and that was all the encouragement he needed. He stepped inside and pinned her against the wall and kissed the hell out of her. He even tangled his hand in her hair to keep her where he wanted her. His pent-up frustration fed on her lips. He expected Little Miss Prim and Proper to protest and put up some resistance, but instead she melted into him, letting him do what he wanted, letting herself become part of him.

He shoved himself away from her, breathing hard. “Ah hell, Emma. I'm sorry. I never . . .” He grabbed his gloves from her clutched hand and fled into the night.

What is wrong with me?
Emma Castle wasn't even remotely the kind of woman he wanted.

The old Gabe must've resurfaced to grab onto the first piece of ass he saw and liked. He knew the kind of lass he wanted to settle down with: either a girl from the country or one from a small town. One who was sweet, shy, and unsophisticated. Hardworking, strong-loving, without emotional baggage. He knew it was old-fashioned, even archaic, but he wanted to be laird of his own castle, with a woman beside him who understood that he needed to be
the man
. He didn't need a strong woman, like Emma Castle; he planned to be strong enough for the both of them, whomever he ended up with.

He pulled on his gloves and tramped through the village.
Damned old habits
. He'd have to try harder to be a better man.

He rushed to Quilting Central to let them know that he'd put Emma up at the dorm for the night. He'd taken some liberties by stowing her there and he knew it. He just needed to talk to the quilting ladies and square it with them. But when he got to the expansive building on the boardwalk, all the lights were out. In the distance
across the cove, he could see Deydie's lights were off, as well. As he walked in that direction, he pulled out his pocket notebook and ripped out a page. He would slip an explanation under Deydie's door so she'd know about Emma when she woke in the morning. It probably wouldn't stop the tongue-lashing he'd get from Deydie, but he hurried to her cottage, anyway.

It was after eleven when he dropped off the note. He quickened his steps to the restaurant, and at least one light, thankfully, was still on. Relief flooded him. He needed someone to talk to about what had happened with Emma. Surely Dom would tell Gabe what he'd already diagnosed about himself: It'd been some time since he'd been with a woman; that was why he'd kissed Emma the way he had. Dom would probably prescribe an adult magazine and time alone to fix the problem.

Gabe quietly let himself into the restaurant but didn't see anyone. Surely Dom wouldn't have left the lights on. Gabe headed toward the storeroom.

Inside he found Dom lying on a pallet of quilts on the floor. He was flipping through a cookbook.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” his foster brother cursed.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Gabe said. “You should be upstairs with yere wife.”

“Sod off.” Dom went back to his book.

Gabe wandered over to a bushel basket of onions and picked one up. “Hiding out here is not helping yere marriage, brother.”

“You talking it to death isn't helping it, either.” Dom slammed the cookbook shut. “Turn off the lights on your way out.” He pulled the North Star quilt over his large frame and closed his eyes.

It looked ridiculous, Dom lying on the floor like some
dog. “Come back to the doctor's quarters with me tonight. You can have the spare bedroom.”

Dominic rolled over and cursed. He pulled a potato out from underneath his back and hurled it across the room, nearly hitting Gabe's shoulder.

Gabe took one more crack at reasoning with Dom. “You must be breaking several health codes by pretending to sleep next to the food ye're planning to serve . . .”

That got his attention. Dominic sat up and huffed loudly. “Fine. I'll go back to the damn doctor's quarters with you. But you'd better not keep me up all night with your incessant talking.”

*   *   *

The bedroom felt stuffy. Claire threw back the covers and climbed out of her husbandless bed. She opened the window and gazed at the moon. It looked like a big cheese pizza, the yellow hue accentuating the craters, with the cheesy reflection bouncing off the water like a ball.