Meet Me in Scotland (11 page)

Earlier she'd slunk off to bed like a whipped pup, her ego taking a beating from Dominic's rejection. She stuck her head out the window now. She'd been charting her cycle since coming back to Gandiegow, and she was ovulating this very minute. Ripe. Ready.

The view out her window spoke to her, giving her hope, rejuvenating her. Tonight anything was possible.

Many times she'd woken Dominic up in their bed the way she had in mind now. If he wouldn't come to her, she'd just go downstairs to him. Then, while he was still half-asleep, she'd guide him back to their bed and have her way with him.

She shut the window. Quietly, she snuck down the stairs, making sure not to make a sound. With all the lights out, she had to be extra careful not to trip and alert her husband of the impending booty call.

At the doorway of the storeroom, she slipped off her
cotton nightgown and walked through, naked. With no windows in the room, it was pitch-black. She made her way to where she'd seen the pile of quilts, and reached out to caress Dom's crotch.

It was hard but it wasn't Dominic. “What the . . .” She held on to a large potato. She yanked her hand away. “Damn it.”

The storeroom walls closed in on her. Utter loneliness descended into her being. On its heels came fear, which instantly turned into a crushing panic. And with it a memory so strong that she dropped to her knees.

Running into her parents' room, expecting to find her father home from the sea, but the room had been empty. A terrible storm raged outside, so much so, Claire knew not to leave their cottage. She waited for hours for her mother to return. Later, she'd found out why Mama had been called away. She and the others had been told the terrible news—fourteen fishermen had died that night when the
Rose
sank. Changing Gandiegow and their lives forever. Her mother had returned, but Claire never saw Papa again.

A sob slipped from Claire. It felt as gut-wrenching as if it had happened yesterday. With so many families devastated by the accident, the town couldn't help them. Mama had to move them to London for work as Eleanor Hamilton's housekeeper. At eleven, Claire had believed her life was over. But then Emma had been there. They'd become everything to each other. Claire still felt like an outsider in the outlanders' world, but Emma seemed to understand and eased her pain. She owed so much to her friend.

Claire sniffed and wiped away her tears as she stood. Everything would be okay. Emma was here with her
now. And Dominic wasn't a fisherman; he hadn't drowned tonight. She willed herself to breathe steadily.

“But where is he?” she said to the potatoes and the empty storeroom.

The answer came to her in a flash and her temper flared.
The pub.

Anger and jealousy burned behind her eyelids, red and hot.

She stomped out, snatching her nightgown from the floor as she passed. “The women of Gandiegow had better keep their oven mitts off my husband. Dominic belongs to me.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Emma roared awake—literally. A Hoover—no, an army of Hoovers—rumbled in the adjacent bedroom and down the narrow hallway. She jumped out of bed and opened the door.

Deydie ran over her foot with the infernal vacuum cleaner. The old woman shut off the machine and looked contrite. “Sorry, lassie. Impromptu quilt retreat. We just got word that Cynthia from Iowa Star Quilts can pop in for a long weekend to teach the Top Method of Foundation Paper Piecing.”

“Paper what?”

“Paper piecing. It's a great way to make detailed quilt blocks. Aye, it's a lot of fun.” Deydie grabbed Emma's arm. “Run to Claire's now and get us some scones. We've no time to stop for breakfast. My Caitie put a notice on the Internet and thirty women will be coming on the chartered bus from Edinburgh this very evening. It's a lot of stress for me ole bones, but I'm right happy to be doing it. Come now. Hurry.” She shoved Emma toward the door.

She only took a moment to slip into her Dolce &
Gabbanas. Whoever said small-town life was quiet and lazy had apparently never stayed in Gandiegow.

Deydie leaned out the door and shouted to her, “And tonight I'll be giving ye your first quilting lesson. I have a plan. Aye, I do.” When Emma glanced back, the ancient woman had a secretive smile on her wrinkly old face.

“What plan is that?” Emma hollered back.

The old woman pointed a gnarled finger at her. “Scones. Go on with ye now.”

Emma hurried along, first worried about what Deydie might be up to, and then upset she'd left Claire in the lurch by sleeping in. Another of Claire's rules rang in Emma's head:
The scones wait for no one
.

But Emma's main preoccupation and worry this morning was that she could still feel Gabriel on her lips, assaulting her in the most delicious way. She had to admit that from the day she'd met him, she'd wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his kisses. She'd known even back then that his pheromones made her a little dizzy. But she'd imagined his kiss to be engaging and tender; in real life, his kiss had been demanding and consuming, and she'd gone from surprised to on fire in two seconds flat. To have his body crushed up against hers was the most passionate experience she'd ever had. In that moment, she wouldn't have cared if he'd stripped her naked and made love to her against the wall for all of Gandiegow to walk by and see.

Though it was bitter cold this gray morning, she unzipped her jacket to cool off. She had to put the steamy Gabriel MacGregor out of her mind. That kiss had been a fluke. He had even apologized for it, looking so terribly sorry to have kissed Egghead Emma. He must be pretty hard up here in this small town—his options not what he was used to in the big city. She would've felt sorrier for him if she wasn't already sorry for herself; that kiss had
been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her in her whole, unsatisfying life.

At that, she made a deliberate effort to switch off all thoughts of him and put her thoughts on Claire.

Emma wondered if Claire and her lingerie had gotten lucky last night. Of course she had. Claire always got exactly what she wanted. Always.

When Emma arrived at the restaurant, everything looked under control. Another woman was there, helping, taking orders. Claire stood at the cash register, waiting on a couple of fishermen wearing black wellies.

“Sorry I'm late,” Emma said, stepping behind the counter.

“Don't fash yourself over it.” Claire had dark circles under her eyes, confirmation that the lingerie had worked.

Emma didn't approve of Claire manipulating her husband. But if Dominic and Claire had worked things out and were back together, then bully for them.

The fishermen left, and Claire lit into her. “Why didn't you come back last night? I didn't know where you were until this morning, when I came down to warm the ovens.”

“I assumed you were
busy
with Dominic.” Emma raised an eyebrow to get her meaning across.

“I wish.” Claire grabbed a rag and wiped down the counter, not meeting her eye.

“What do you mean,
I wish
? What happened?”

“You mean what
didn't
happen.” She looked up, and this time Emma saw the rawness of rejection in her eyes.

Emma had the childish urge to say
Told you so
. Instead she wrapped an arm around her friend. “Are you all right?”

“What you do think? I miss my husband and I want a baby.” Claire crumpled. “And I have no idea where Dominic slept last night. He wasn't here. He could've
been in any woman's bed. I checked the pub, hoping he was drinking alone, but he wasn't there.”

“Did you see if he went to Gabriel's?” Emma hoped that's where he'd gone.

Claire's face lit up. “Yes. That has to be where he was.”

Emma gave her a squeeze. “What can I do to help? I mean with the breakfast crowd.” Then, “Oh, damn. Deydie needs me to bring scones over to Thistle Glen Lodge. A retreat is coming this evening.”

“So I've heard.” Claire grabbed a pastry box and started filling it. “Moira stopped by to tell me. And stayed,” she added. She looked up at Emma. “Stop feeling guilty. It was just a wee morning rush.”

“I'm a terrible friend,” Emma said.

Claire rolled her eyes and filled an insulated carafe with coffee. “Only if you don't help me make Dominic fork over some sperm.”

“You know I can't. This is between you and him.”

“I know, I know. Don't worry. I've come up with a foolproof plan. Just you wait and see.” Claire shoved the box and carafe at her. “Here, get these to Deydie before she takes her broom after you.”

*   *   *

Dominic took the money from the last customer and thanked him. The lunch crowd had been a tad larger today. He pulled out the receipts and scanned them.

With the sudden quilt retreat this weekend, the restaurant's fate didn't look nearly as grim as yesterday. Maybe there could be a stay of execution; maybe they wouldn't have to pull up and move back to Glasgow or Edinburgh and work for someone else. “If only the town would support the restaurant more.”

If he could hold on to the few regulars he had and grow them little by little, and no more retreats were canceled, Pastas & Pastries might just make it. Maybe in
three to five years, if things kept improving, he could give Claire what she wanted.

Claire.
God, how would he appease her in the meantime?

The restaurant stood empty, with tables that needed to be cleared. He grabbed a rubber container and bused each one. Using his hip, he pushed open the kitchen doors.

And froze, coming close to dropping all the dishes.

Claire bent over the sink, with her backside to the door, her buck-naked ass facing him. She turned around. From her fiery red hair to her bare feet, the only cloth she wore was an apron. When she shifted, one of her big, luscious breasts fell out.

He set down the dishes and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Oh God.”

“No, it's just yere lusty wife. Come over here and give me and the girls a squeeze.” She jutted her chest out to emphasize which girls she meant.

He took a step toward her, then another, but when he lifted his foot the third time, he stopped midstride. It took everything in him to utter the next words. “No, Claire. No baby. Not yet.” He breathed heavily. “Why can't you understand? We've got no money for a babe.”

Claire untied the apron from around her neck and let the front flap fall. She spilled out, and he almost fell to his knees.

“You're too damn beautiful for your own good.”

With a sly grin, she reached behind her to undo the tie at her waist. He licked his lips in anticipation. He had to have her. He took another step toward her.

But when he did, he saw the look of triumph cross her face. She had him by the balls and she knew it. Normally, he didn't mind being weak for his wife. But more lay in the balance than making love to her.

“Dammit, Claire, I love you,” he yelled. He gestured
to the kitchen. “But this isn't going to happen. The restaurant isn't standing on its own legs. It's still a babe.” As he said it, her face fell, and her pain devastated him. Her seductive tricks were much easier to sidestep than her eyes welling with tears.

“Dammit,” he muttered, stomping from the room and straight out the front door, not caring about the cold weather outside.

Claire had done it. Made the decision for him. He would stay indefinitely at Gabe's. The farther away he stayed from Claire and her raw emotions, the better.

*   *   *

Claire pulled herself together and tied the front of her apron back up. She wouldn't fall apart. She came from stronger stock than that. The Douglases were a clan of warriors. She held her head high and made her way to the steps heading up to the flat.

She'd just have to pull out the big guns. “I love you, too, you big idiot. I didn't want to have to do this to ye,” she said to the walls while ascending the stairs. “Ye'll not like it one bit, either.”

It was one thing to be in Glasgow, where she had to take care of herself. But she was home now and Gandiegow had her back. It was time to bring them into the fight.

G
abe drove the Land Rover over the hill to the old factory that sat less than a mile out of Gandiegow. He hadn't gone into the restaurant this morning because he couldn't face Emma. He'd been a cad last night, kissing her the way he had, and he was a coward this morning. Instead, he'd called Lachlan McDonnell and told him to expect him after morning office hours at the newly dubbed North Sea Valve Company.

The McDonnell
,
as he was known, was a renowned engineer for these parts, and had decided to give new life to the sixty-plus-years-empty factory and turn it into a budding enterprise for the town. It was a tall task, but Gabe could see the genius of it. The North Sea was right outside Gandiegow's doorstep, and with the North Sea oil fields growing like they were, an oil-valve company close by was perfect. At Gabe's first glimpse of the factory, though, he thought the McDonnell would definitely have his work cut out for him. The building was ancient, with missing windows here and there. The roof could use a few shingles in spots and seemed to slope oddly on one side. Gabe pulled into the parking lot and retrieved his toolbox from the back of the Land Rover.

He walked into the factory, confident that working
with his hands was just the thing to keep his mind off how he'd taken advantage of Emma's sweet lips last night. Of course, he'd left a note on the surgery's door, explaining where he was today, along with his mobile number in case he was needed.

The McDonnell
met him inside and pounded him on the back. “So good of you to come. I really need the conveyor motor up and running today. Are you up for the task?”

“Aye.” Gabe knew nothing about making valves, but he knew a hell of a lot about repairing motors and engines. Working at the factory today was just what the doctor had ordered: an afternoon of being useful.

The McDonnell
led him through the double doors to the factory floor. The place was a mess, but it looked grand to a mechanic like him. “Here it is. If you need anything, Ross and Ramsay are just over there.” At that the McDonnell
left him with the crippled conveyor.

Three hours later, Gabe lay on his back under the motor, sweating. The motor had seized up and he'd done everything in the book to get her back in working order. He grabbed the wrench near his head and ratcheted down a bolt. For the hundredth time, he told himself he wasn't hiding out from Emma. He just needed time to get his head screwed on straight after last night's debacle and before seeing her again.

Gabe's hand slipped and the wrench cracked his knuckles. “Dammit.”

“I heard that all the way over here,” Ross said. Ross was one of the fishermen, brother to Ramsay, whom Gabe had dehooked the other day. “Did you break anything, Doc?”

“Nay. Just my pride.” He put the wrench on the bolt one more time and torqued it. “So, Ross, are you going
to give up fishing and work at the factory when she's up and running?”

“Fishing's in my blood. Ramsay might, though, as clumsy as he is.”

“Och, brother.” Ramsay stood in the middle of the room with a piece of molded sheet metal propped on his shoulder. “We can go outside and settle once and for all who's the clumsier of the two.”

Gabe shook his head at these lads, who were always blustering for the position of top Scot, though Ross was older by a year.

The McDonnell came up beside Ramsay. “Back to work, lads. There's too much to do for all this chitchat.”

Gabe agreed and grabbed another bolt. He'd had a sleepless night and it was all Emma's fault. He must really be hard up, because he couldn't stop the replay in his mind—pushing her up against the wall, kissing her, possessing her. Why in blazes had he caved and sought out her lips? He was a man with principles now, not some horny wanker.

He put his mind back on his work, grateful he had something to occupy him. This job was doing triple duty. It helped keep his mind off Emma and built up his social capital with the natives, and, hell, he loved working with his hands.

Unfortunately, that thought brought him full circle back to the reason he'd come here today.
Emma
. He shouldn't want to get his hands on Emma Castle. And see what magic he could work there.

“It's four o'clock,” the McDonnell said. “Put your tools down. It's time to go home and clean up.”

“If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stay and work,” Gabe said.

The McDonnell shook his head. “Nay. It's all hands
on deck. The quilters from Edinburgh will be here shortly. They'll need every one of our strong backs to get their things to the quilting dorms.”

The quilting dorm. Emma. Gabe wondered if she had anywhere to go tonight. But he had to stay out of it. Emma's sleeping arrangements had nothing to do with him.

*   *   *

Emma sat in Claire's parlor and was in no hurry to get to Quilting Central. When she'd returned with the scones that morning, Deydie had been too busy to talk but promised to get with her later. Emma had a bad feeling about it.

Claire came out of the loo. “Get a move on, lassie.” She looked too calm and confident for a woman whose world was crumbling all around her.

“What are you up to?” Emma asked, watching her friend closely.

Claire flipped her hair. “Don't worry yourself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I have everything under control.”

A shiver, and not a good one, traveled up Emma's spine.

“Come now. The ladies of Gandiegow are expecting us to attend their retreat. I don't want to let them down.” Claire handed Emma a box filled with goodies for the quilting ladies.

“Fine.” But they would talk about this later.

They arrived at Quilting Central just as the Edinburgh ladies were trooped in, several of the village men hauling luggage behind them.

Emma stepped inside and saw Gabriel lingering on the other side of the room. “What's he doing here?”

Claire gave her a sly grin. “What's that tone I hear? Are you crushing on poor Gabriel?”

“Rubbish. Proper Englishwomen do not crush.”

“Are proper English women supposed to blush when they are lying through their teeth?”

Emma turned away from Claire, taking her blazing-hot cheeks with her. “Where do you want this box?”

Claire pointed to the table where the other food had been laid out. “After all the women are gathered, Father Andrew, our Episcopal priest, will kick off the retreat with a prayer. He's over there by the fire. He's new to town, too.”

Father Andrew was young, in his late twenties, with sandy blond hair. He was talking with Rhona, Gandiegow's only schoolteacher. Emma wondered how he was faring, being new to town, too.

Deydie waddled over to them and took Emma's arm. “Good. I'm glad ye're here. How are you with straight stitches?”

“Pardon?” Emma asked.

Bethia joined them. “Emma, how are ye adjusting to life in Gandiegow? It's a far cry from London, but we have loads to offer.”

Emma opened her mouth to tell her that she was only here for a visit, but Deydie yanked her arm, wanting her attention.

“Yere straight stitching? With a machine?” Deydie pointed to one of the sewing machines on the table.

Bethia cleared her throat.

Emma felt like a doll being tugged back and forth. “My straight stitches are fine, I guess. Claire's mom taught me how to sew.” She eyed the old woman cautiously. “Why?”

“Good, good.” Deydie broke into a smile, which was almost as frightening as her scowl. A terrible gleam of mischief played in her eyes. She leaned around her to speak to Bethia. “I have an idea.”

Emma saw her wink at Bethia before she spoke again.

“We're awfully busy with the retreat,” Deydie hedged. “Christmas is coming up faster than a rising tide.”

“Nay, Deydie,” Bethia warned.

Deydie bobbed her head up and down. “We need you to take care of something for us, Emma.”

Bethia shook her head.

Deydie went on. “We're going to put you in charge of the Gandiegow Doctor quilt—the top of it, anyways,” she added.

“No.” Emma shook her head more emphatically than Bethia. “I don't plan to be here long enough to make a quilt.” She looked over at Gabriel and saw he was staring back at her. She turned away, really blushing now.

She couldn't make something for him. Especially a quilt. It was too personal. Too intimate. Nessa used to say, “Quilts are love made tangible.” But Emma couldn't wrap her mind around Gabriel wrapping himself in a blanket she had made for him. A comfort to him on cold winter nights. Would he be reminded of her? Would he remember her fondly? Or would he hide the quilt away, not wanting to think about the kiss they'd shared last night, the one he felt he should apologize for. A kiss that caused regret in him instead of a smile. Emma's face heated more. She would most certainly burst into flames if she didn't set the ladies straight right now. About sewing, anyway.

“When I said I know how to sew, I meant little things—darning socks, a throw pillow, a simple blouse.” Emma waved a hand toward all the craft and creativity going on. “Not anything like all of this.”

Rhona broke away from Father Andrew and joined them. Moira, too, the same woman who had helped Claire with the breakfast this morning.

Moira gazed at her shoes. “We'll help you with the quilt.”

The gray-headed Rhona was more direct. “No one in this town gets away with not being connected to Quilting Central in one fashion or another.”

Emma peeked over at Gabriel one more time and felt panicked. He might be considered perfection on so many levels. “But if I made the Gandiegow Doctor quilt, it wouldn't be nearly good enough.”

Deydie patted her arm a little roughly. “It'll be good enough.” Emma waited for her to add
for an outsider
.

But what Deydie said was, “For
him
.”

“But—” Emma tried.

“We need ye, lass. Ye and Claire.” Deydie grabbed Claire's arm, as well. “Ye see, with this retreat popping up like a winter storm, we'll not have time to finish the quilt for the doc.”

“It's a tradition, dear.” Apparently, Bethia had bailed on Emma and gotten on board with Deydie. “The first Christmas a doctor is here, he gets the Gandiegow Doctor quilt as a present.”

Deydie pulled her closer. “Straight stitches is all ye'll need. Nothing harder than sewing the pieces together. Simple as gooseberry pie.”

“I'm not a quilter,” Emma argued. “And there's nothing simple about gooseberry pie.”

“Ye'll be a quilter by the time we're done with you” Deydie cackled. “Moira will be your teacher.”

Moira gave her a sheepish smile. “Aye.”

Emma turned to Claire. “You have to help, too. I'm not making it alone.”

Claire grinned like the kid who'd gotten out of chores. “Good luck with it. I'll not have time to help ye. I have the scones, the restaurant. But you enjoy yourself.” She patted Emma on the back.

“Clairrrre.” Whining wasn't becoming of a lady, but Emma did it, anyway.

Deydie harrumphed. “Ye'll not be alone in it, lass.” She motioned to the whole room. “You have all of us.”

At that, Father Andrew cleared his throat and the room went silent. “Everyone, if we could all bow our heads.”

Emma bowed her head. It was a prayer about loving work with loving hands, eloquent and to the point. When he finished and the room resounded with an
Amen
, she looked up and saw Gabriel glance at her.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, turning away.

Claire shook her head. “You can't cuss in the Church of Quilting.”

Deydie pulled Emma over to a machine and pushed her into the chair. “I'll get ye started. It's important you make the seams exactly a quarter inch. Ye'll use this special presser foot as yere guide.” She gave her a scrap of fabric and showed Emma how to position the foot up against the edge to get the seam the right width.

Emma stared at the pile of blue-and-white-print fabrics cut into pieces beside the machine next to her. She felt overwhelmed and caught in Deydie's web.

“Surely there's someone else,” Emma tried one last time.

Deydie smacked her on the back good-naturedly. “Ye'll do just fine, lass.”

Emma knew what the old woman was doing, but she didn't know her well enough to make the accusation.
You want this quilt screwed up because you don't like your new doctor.

“'Tis easy.” Deydie took the pieces and arranged them in a block. It was pretty. “Sew these together. Then make another random block.” She shook her finger at her. “Don't try to make a pattern with the blue prints. We want this quilt to be scrappy.”

Yeah,
Emma thought.
A mess. A clear message to their doctor that he doesn't deserve anything better than their scraps.

Deydie looked up then and hollered, “Not there, Ailsa.” She turned back to Emma. “Ye've got everything you need. Moira, watch her.” And the old woman rushed off.

Great.
Emma stared at the blocks and for a moment thought about leaving. Not just Quilting Central, but Gandiegow altogether. Fast, before the quilting ladies could tackle her. She looked up and found Gabriel gazing at her intently. A warm flush came over her, perhaps a full-on flood. It settled into her unmentionable areas—probably just like it had with all the other women before her who had fallen for his charms. He had the power to melt a woman's underthings right off her. She gave him a weak smile and picked up the first pieces of fabric. If the women of Gandiegow didn't care how this quilt turned out, then Emma wouldn't, either. “Jolly well, then.” She started sewing.

Slower than a purposeful turtle, Emma stitched that first seam, keeping the quarter-inch foot squarely on the edge. When she finished, she held up the two pieces, now sewn together, and inspected them. “Not bad for a beginner.”